Villiard took the one nearest himself. Dubarre took one also. Without a word they lifted the glasses and drank.
"Again," said Dubarre.
"You choose," responded Villiard.
Dubarre lifted the one nearest himself, and Villiard picked up the other. Raising their glasses again, they bowed to each other and drank.
The watch struck twelve, and stopped its silvery chiming.
They both sat down, looking at each other, the light of an enormous chance in their eyes, the tragedy of a great stake in their clinched hands; but the deeper, intenser power was in the face of Dubarre, the explorer.
There was more than power; malice drew down the brows and curled the sensitive upper lip. Each man watched the other for knowledge of his own fate. The glasses lay straggling along the table, emptied of death and life.
All at once a horrible pallor spread over the face of Villiard, and his head jerked forward. He grasped the table with both hands, twitching and trembling. His eyes stared wildly at Dubarre, to whose face the flush of wine had come, whose look was now maliciously triumphant.
Villiard had drunk both glasses of the poison!
"I win!" Dubarre stood up. Then, leaning over the table towards the dying man, he added: "You let her die—well! Would you know the truth? She loved you—always."
Villiard gasped, and his look wandered vaguely along the opposite wall.
Dubarre went on. "I played the game with you
