"Nothing—nothing. Believe me, nothing. I only want the refreshing breeze, that's all. I'm tired—worn out."
"Yes, you are truly tired," I said.
"What do you mean?" he cried.
"Your work."
"Work—what work?—who works?"
"Come with me," I said.
"HE SHRIEKED THE MURDERED MAN'S NAME."
Like a child he followed me to his studio. I opened the door. The portrait of Huntingdon rested on the easel. He saw it. The eyes he had painted pierced him to the heart, and the lips almost moved in accusation. He shrieked the murdered man's name and fell to the ground. He was dead!