He saw the flames burst from the windows, and perhaps in that maddening spectacle suffered torture equivalent to some of the crimes he had committed. "Here, wife—hostess—fetch me that bottle from the second shelf in the corner cupboard. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. ‘Would you have me face my maker with that on my conscience? If I’d died, there’d have been no one to tell you, for your father would not have done. She must kill this man, or kill herself. “Does he live here?” he asked her presently. ” “Perhaps I don’t.
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