"How is it that you've come back—from the gates of hell?"
"Ferguson! It's you!" He broke into a peal of laughter, which spoke of pain, not pleasure. "But I've not come back! They're still stoking the fires!" He threw out his arms as if referring to the jeering mob, which pressed upon us. "Here are the attendant demons—can't you see them?"
I continued standing still, regarding him.
"It is Edwin Lawrence, as I live. Edwin—not Philip."
"Yes; not Philip—Edwin!" He laughed again. "Would you like to see the strawberry mark? It's there."
"What is this game in which you have been taking a hand?"
"It's a game of my own invention—and hers!" He made an upward movement with his hand. "It was from her the inspiration came. She named the stakes, framed the rules, started the game, watched the play—and with both eyes she's watched it ever since. Those eyes of hers! They never sleep, and never blink or wink, but watch, watch, watch all the time. They've watched me ever since the game began. They're watching now! She haunts and hounds me—into the train and out of it. She's here now—enjoying the joke. Hark! Can't you hear
