Kendale listened with bated breath. To say that he was amazed, dumfounded, scarcely expressed his intense surprise.

Armstrong, his poor plodding cousin, to strike such luck as to be about to marry an heiress! It seemed like a veritable fairy story. Who would have thought the poor cashier would have known enough to play for such high stakes?

Almost as soon as Lester Armstrong had uttered the last word, he fell back upon his pillow in a dead faint.

"The end is not far," muttered Kendale. "I suppose it would look better to send a call for an ambulance and have him sent to the hospital."

He acted upon the thought without a moment's delay, and while the wagon was en route made a quick search of his unfortunate cousin's apartment, a sardonic smile of triumph lighting his face. And as he transferred the money to his pocket, a sudden thought rushed through his brain—a thought that for the instant almost took his breath away.

Like one fascinated, he looked down at the white face. "I could do it; yes, I am sure I could do it," he muttered, drawing his breath hard.

At that moment the ambulance wagon rattled up to the door. In another instant the two attachés entered the room.

"What is the difficulty?" queried the man, and briefly Kendale explained.

"It seems hardly worth while to take him to the hospital," said one of the men; "he would hardly last until we reach there. Still, if you insist—"

"Yes, I insist," he cut in sharply.

"What name is to be entered?" asked the surgeon.

"Clinton Kendale. He is an actor, and my cousin," he responded in a low even voice.

He watched them while they carried forth the unconscious man.

"My first test will be with the people of this house," he muttered, shutting his teeth hard.

Thrusting the money still deeper in his pocket, he walked boldly down the stairs, tapping at the door to the right, which he knew to be the living room of the family.

"I am going to give up my room," he said.

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