CHAPTER LXXIX.
THE LAST THROW.
While Arthur and Lawrence were conversing in the office of the latter, Abel Newt, hat in hand, stood in Hope Wayne's parlor.

His hair was thinner and grizzled; his face bloated, and his eyes dull.

His hands had that dead, chalky color in which appetite openly paints its excesses.

The hand trembled as it held the hat; and as the man stood before the mirror, he was straining his eyes at his own reflection, and by some secret magic he saw, as if dimly traced beside it, the figure of the boy that stood in the parlor of Pinewood--how many thousand years ago?
He heard a step, and turned.
Hope Wayne stopped, leaving the door open, bowed, and looked inquiringly at him.

She was dressed simply in a morning dress, and her golden hair clustered and curled around the fresh beauty of her face--the rose of health.
"Did you wish to say something to me ?" she asked, observing that Abel merely stared at her stupidly.
He bowed his head in assent.
"What do you wish to say ?" Her voice was as cold and remote as if she were a spirit.
Abel Newt was evidently abashed by the reception.