



Produced by Adam Buchbinder, Mary Meehan and the Online
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                           THE PACE THAT KILLS

                               A Chronicle

                             By EDGAR SALTUS


    "_Pourquoi la mort? Dites, plutot, pourquoi la vie?_"
    --RADUSSON

    CHICAGO, NEW YORK, AND SAN FRANCISCO
    BELFORD, CLARKE & COMPANY
    PUBLISHERS
    London: H. J. DRANE, Lovell's Court, Paternoster Row

    Copyright, 1889,
    BY EDGAR SALTUS.


    TO
    JOHN A. RUTHERFURD.
    NEW YORK, _June 10, 1889_.




PART I.




I.


"I wish you a happy New Year, sir."

It was the servant, green of livery, the yellow waistcoat slashed with
black, bearing the coffee and fruit.

"Put it there, please," Roland answered. And then, in recognition of the
salutation, he added, "Thanks: the same to you."

"H'm," he mused, as the man withdrew, "I ought to have tipped him, I
suppose."

He leaned from the bed, poured some milk into a cup, and for a second
nibbled at a slice of iced orange. Through the transom came a faint odor
of home-made bread, and with it the rustle of a gown and a girl's clear
laugh. The room itself was small. It was furnished in a fashion which
was unsuggestive of an hotel, and yet did not resemble that of a
private house. The curtain had been already drawn. Beyond was a lake,
very blue in the