had been graven there was succeeded by a look of calm and sinister resolve. “Beelzebub” had been floundering in the sea of improbity, holding by a slender life-line to the respectable world that had cast him overboard. He must have felt that with this ultimate shock the line had snapped, and have experienced the welcome ease of the drowning swimmer who has ceased to struggle.
Blythe walked to the next corner and stood there while he brushed the sand from his garments and re-polished his glasses.
“I’ve got to do it—oh, I’ve got to do it,” he told himself, aloud. “If I had a quart of rum I believe I could stave it off yet—for a little while. But there’s no more rum for—‘Beelzebub,’ as they call me. By the flames of Tartarus! if I’m to sit at the right hand of Satan somebody has got to pay the court expenses. You’ll have to pony up, Mr. Frank Goodwin. You’re a good fellow; but a gentleman must draw the line at being kicked into the gutter. Blackmail isn’t a pretty word, but it’s the next station on the road I’m travelling.”
With purpose in his steps Blythe now moved
