It held for the one that which the old prize above all things in the world--life; and for the other, that which the young set above life--love.
Life?
The Syndic did not doubt; the bait had been dangled before his eyes with too much cunning, too much skill.

In a casket, in a room in that house in the Corraterie, his life lay hidden; his life, and he could not come at it! His life?
Was it a marvel that waking or sleeping he saw only that house, and that room, and that casket chained to the wall; that he saw at one time the four steps rising to the door, and the placid front with its three tiers of windows; at another time, the room itself with its litter of scripts and dark-bound books, and rich furnishings, and phials and jars and strangely shaped alembics?
Was it a marvel that in the dreams of the night the sick man toiled up and up and up the narrow staircase, of which every point remained fixed in his mind; or that waking, whatever his task, or wherever he might be, alone or in company, in his parlour or in the Town House, he still fell a-dreaming of the room and the box--the room and the box that held his life?
Had this been the worst! But it was not.

There were times, bitter times, dark hours, when the pains were upon him, and he saw his fate clear before him; for he had known men die of the disease which held him in its clutches, and he knew how they had died.

And then he must needs lock himself into his room that other eyes might not witness the passionate fits of revolt, of rage and horror, and weak weeping, into which the knowledge cast him.

And out of which he presently came back to--_the house_.