"You're afraid to face me, you cowards!"
"Maybe. If you want to send any messages I'll transmit them."
Evan snatched at the chance. "I'd like to send a letter."
"All right." There was a pause while the speaker presumably found pencil and paper. "Go ahead."
Evan dictated Charley Straiker's address. "Dear Charl: I have cut loose. I have taken to the trail. You will not see me again. I leave everything I have in my room to you. It will not make you rich. With one exception. I want to send my least-bad picture to a friend. It's the one I call 'Green and Gold,' the view of the Square from my window in the morning light. There's a little frame that fits it. Write on the back of it—write—Oh, don't write anything. Wrap it up and address it to Miss Corinna Playfair. Take it to the steamboat Ernestina which will be lying at the pier foot of East Twentieth street on Saturday morning up to Nine-Thirty. Be good, old son. Here's how. Evan."
"Are you ready?" demanded the harsh voice unexpectedly close.
"Shoot and be damned to you!" said Evan.
He felt a little rim of cold steel pressed against his temple. With that touch all Evan's agony rolled away. After all, what was life but a jest? Thank God! he was not a coward!
The other man was still speaking—Good God would he never have done!—"I will give you the word." Then he began to count: "One, two, three——!"
Evan cried gaily: "So long, all!"