"Fool!" remarked Mr. Smith.
He walked through the suite of handsomely-furnished rooms to see where Clarence was, because he could not have left the place, or he would have been met on the stairs.
In an inner apartment he saw a sight which startled, though it did not surprise him.
Mr. Smith was a man of the world, whom it was difficult to surprise, as it was part of his education and temperament not to exhibit emotion at anything.
Kneeling before a large mirror, his face pale and haggard beyond expression, was Clarence Holt.
In his right hand he held a pistol, and in his left a photograph of Elise, which he was kissing passionately.
It was a sad picture, and showed to what desperate straits drink and gambling can reduce their votaries.
Suddenly he dropped the picture and placed the muzzle of the pistol to his temple.
"God forgive me," he prayed, "and help the widow and the orphan. Elise, my darling, my life, my all, farewell."