power. No, not invisible—it seemed to take the form of the Patriarch—for at every turn the majestic figure stood and would not let him pass.
Madison's face was gray now as he walked up and down the room—there was his own revulsion, his abhorrence at the part he had played, a frantic, honorable eagerness to be rid of it; there were these others too who looked to him, the Flopper and Pale Face Harry; and there was—Helena! He did not dare to look at the misery in her face again—he was unmanned enough now.
And then Helena spoke.
"It—it seems," she said, in a low broken way, "as if—as if God did not want to pardon us—as if our repentance had come too late, and that there was no Eleventh Hour for us." Then, in passionate pleading, facing Madison: "God cannot mean that—it is we who cannot see. There is some way out—there must be—there must be."
"It begins and ends with the Patriarch," said Madison monotonously. "We can't sacrifice him—can we! What's the use of going over it again? It all comes back to the same point—the Patriarch."
"Yes, yes; I know, I know," she said piteously. "But think, Doc—think! See now, we just send back all the money and jewels—we know to whom they belong."
"Well, what reason do we give?" Madison said heavily. "The Patriarch is alive and well.
