The police of Glengowra were very inquisitive about the affair of that night. The town was exceedingly quiet, as a rule, and the fact that two well-dressed men had been engaged at midnight in a deadly encounter was unique and fascinating to the police mind. There was no doubt in the town or village, for it was indifferently called either, that the two men had fought, and that jealousy was at the bottom of the encounter. But both O'Donnell and Lavirotte held impregnable silence on the matter. Neither would make any statement. Lavirotte said they might ask O'Donnell, and O'Donnell said they might ask Lavirotte; and it was known that no matter what may have occurred the previous night, the friendship of the men was now re-established. This last fact was gall and wormwood to the police. It was sheerly the loss to them of a golden opportunity. To think that the biggest crime which had been committed for years in the town should not be made the subject of a magisterial inquiry, was heartbreaking. What was the good of having crimes and policemen cheek by jowl, if they were not to come into contact? A policeman lounged all day about the door of Maher's hotel, affecting to take an interest in the cars and carts passing by, and in the warm baths opposite, and to be supremely unconscious of the existence of Maher's. Nothing came of this. Supposing each man should say his hurt was the result of an accident, there would be no evidence to prove the contrary, and the police would only get into trouble and be laughed at if they stirred in the affair. A fussy and blusterous Justice of the Peace made it his business to call at the hotel, see Maher, and impress upon him the absolute necessity of doing something. Dr. O'Malley absolutely forbade any "justices of the peace, policemen, or such carrion," entering either of the sick rooms. He said to the magistrate: "Don't you bother about this affair. I promise you, on the word of a man of honour, to let you know if either of the men is in danger of death, so that a deposition may be taken; and I promise you my word, as a man of the world, that if anyone goes poking his nose into this affair, one or both of these young men will have something unpleasant to say to that nose when they get about." This speech made the worthy magistrate extremely wroth. He stamped and fumed for a while, and muttered something about puppies, and left the hotel in dudgeon. Still later in the day the sub-inspector of the district, who was a friend of O'Malley's, and happened, by a miracle in which few will believe, to be a man of gentlemanly instincts and manners--called at O'Malley's house, spoke of the weather, the regatta, the price of beasts at the last horse fair, the desirability of building a pier for the fishing-boats in the cove, the hideous inconveniences of not being able to get ice in Glengowra in such roasting weather, the interesting case at the last Quarter Sessions, and finally, he said: "By-the-way, O'Malley, if you do know anything about what occurred last night on the Cove Road, and if you can do so without any breach of good faith, tell me what you know?" "I don't know all about it," said O'Malley, briskly; "and what I do know I am bound to keep to myself. The part of the case about which I am game to speak is the medical aspect of it, and of that I am free to tell you there is no cause to fear either of the men will die. Now, that is all you want to know, because you're a good sort of fellow; you're not more than a thousand years old yourself. Boys will be boys. Have a cigar." Thus the young sub-inspector left O'Malley's house scarcely any wiser than he came. In the phrase, "Boys will be boys," O'Malley had conveyed to him an unmistakable impression that the theory of the fight was the correct one, and at the same time he recognised the skilful way in which O'Malley avoided any breach of confidence. Directly opposite Maher's hotel were the warm baths, and a little to the right of these a shop, famous in the history of Glengowra, and called by the pretentious name of the Confectionery Hall. This title was ludicrously out of proportion with the appearance of the place. The "Hall," that is, the place open to the general public, was not more than twelve by fifteen feet. Here were displayed on a counter, presided over by a thin-featured maiden lady of long ago ascertained years, cakes of various kinds and sorts and ages, sweetmeats of universal dustiness and stickiness, ginger-beer, lemonade, and bottled Guinness and Bass. Sherry might, too, be obtained here in genteel quantities out of a cut-glass decanter, but the inhabitants of Glengowra had a national antipathy to the spirit known as sherry and when they wanted anything stronger than Bass or Guinness, they asked for whisky. Now, the great feature of the Confectionery Hall, as opposed in principle to a mere public-house, was that whisky could not be obtained at the counter. If a man wanted that form of mundane consolation, he was obliged to enter an inner penetralia, where not only could he have the "wine of the country," but an easy-chair to sit in and tobacco for his perturbed mind. Towards the close of the evening of the day following the occurrence on the Cove Road, two young men were seated in this cave of nicotine discussing the event of the day, nay, of the year. Both were out from Rathclare for the cool evening by the sea, and in order to enjoy the most perfect coolness of the sea, they had retired to this back room, which was heavier to the senses and less open to the air than the stuffiest back slum of Rathclare. Both had of course heard the great Glengowra news, and the great Dublin news of the day. It happened that one of these young men was in the employment of the State--to wit, the Post Office, and the other in that of a public company--to wit, the railway. "I can't make it out," said the Railway, "how it is that Lavirotte should have fought O'Donnell about Nellie Creagh, because a fellow told me that a good while ago--a couple of years, I think--when Lavirotte was over in London, he had made it all right with some other girl there." "I don't like Lavirotte, and I never did," said the Post Office; "but this I am sure of--that he had some great friend in London, and that his friend was not a man. Of course I don't wish this mentioned, and I tell you it in confidence. I remember his coming over here. We make up the bags from Glengowra at Rathclare, and when he came here first, and I met him and knew his writing, I saw a letter from him to a Miss Somebody (I will not tell you her name) in London, and this letter went two or three times a week." "Who was she?" inquired the others, inquisitively. "I won't tell. I have already told you more than I should. You must not mention the matter to anyone. I know you so long, old fellow, I am sure I may rely on you." "Well," said the other, "I don't want to seem prying. In all likelihood I shall never see Lavirotte or O'Donnell again. I am off next week." "I am very sorry to lose you; but you're sure to come back to see the old ground shortly." "I don't think I shall," said the other, carelessly. "It costs a lot for the mere travelling, and you know none of my people live here about. Anyway, when I get to London, supposing I am curious, which I am not, I can find out all about it; for I know an artist there who told me all about Lavirotte and the girl." "How on earth did you find anything out about one man in such a big place as London?" "My dear fellow, London is at once the biggest and the smallest place in the world. You have never been there?" "No, never." "Well, you see, most of the nationalities and arts and professions live in districts, chiefly inhabited by themselves; and when they do not, they have clubs and other places of resort where they meet. So that, in the case of Lavirotte, who was then thinking of being a figure-painter, but hadn't got the talent, there was nothing unlikely in his meeting other men of similar ambition, and so it was he came across there the artist I know, who happened to have a studio in the house I lodged in." "I have often looked at the map of London and wondered how it was anyone ever found out where anyone else lived, even when he had the address. But I cannot understand how two friends can fall across one another accidentally in such a tremendously large place." "You have never been in Dublin even, I believe?" said the Railway. "No, never," said the other. "Well, then, all I can tell you is, that if you walk from the College of Surgeons in Stephen's Green to the Post Office in Sackville Street three times a day, you will meet any stranger who may happen to be in the city." For a little while both men were silent. Then the Post Office said: "Well, as there is but a week between you and finding out all about this girl and Lavirotte, I may as well tell you, in strict confidence, that her name is Miss Harrington. I forget her address. She changed it often, but it did not seem a swell address to me. At first he wrote to her two or three times a week; but of late his letters have not gone nearly so often, although some one in London, I suppose this Miss Harrington, wrote him twice a week regularly. Within the past two months I don't think he has written to her at all." While this conversation was going on in the back parlour of the Confectionery Hall, the policeman, who had during the day devoted most of his attention to the vehicles passing in front of Maher's hotel and to the warm baths opposite, was relieved, and came over to the "Hall" for a small bottle of Guinness. It so happened that he had overheard, through the glass-door from the shop to the parlour, most of the conversation which had passed between the two friends. He heard the two friends rise to leave. Before the handle of the door turned he was out of the shop. In a few minutes he was back in the police-station. "Well, any news?" said the sergeant, gloomily. "I have heard something that may be useful," said the constable; and he detailed the conversation. "And we have found something which may be useful," said the sergeant. "After a long search among the stones we came upon the knife Lavirotte stabbed O'Donnell with. Here it is, with Lavirotte's name and O'Donnell's blood upon it. It will go hard with us if we can't get Lavirotte seven years on this alone."
In the vast pile of buildings owned by James O'Donnell in Rathclare, by day several hundred men were employed, by night several score; for the steam mills were kept going day and night, and got no rest from year's end to year's end, save from twelve o'clock on Saturday night to six o'clock on Monday morning. In the portion of the buildings devoted to milling operations most of the night-men were employed. In fact, so far as active employment was concerned, no men were engaged anywhere else in the place. There were, however, three watchmen for the other portions of the building. One of these was outside in the yard fronting the river, another was on the ground-floor of the granaries, and it was the duty of the third to wander about the upper lofts and corridors. Of late these men had been cautioned to observe greater vigilance. It was well known in Rathclare that the strong-room of James O'Donnell always contained a large sum of money, and sometimes a very large sum. The man whose duty it was to examine the lofts passed along the corridor leading to the private office. All was right, so far. He always made it a habit to pause and listen at the door of the private room; for if an attempt was to be made upon the safe it should be from this place. The man went on in a leisurely way, ascended the next ladder he met, strolled along the lofts, ascended another ladder, sat down on a pile of empty sacks, and lit his pipe. Smoking was not, of course, allowed, but then there was no one to see him. When he had finished his pipe he ascended to the top loft and walked all round from one end of the building to the other, pausing now and then to listen at the head of a ladder or at a trap-door, or to look out of a window into the deserted street below. This took a long time, for there was no need of haste. It was an understood thing among the watchmen that each should speak to the other two about once an hour. Thus it would be known each hour that all was well throughout the building. The watchman now began to descend. He went down more rapidly than he came up. It was quite dark, and the silence was unbroken save by the noise of the machinery and the swirl of the river as it swept past the wharf and quays and ships below, and whispered among the chains and ropes. The three men generally met in fine weather such as this on the wharf. It was pleasant to the two men, whose business lay indoors, to breathe for a few moments the cool air by the river. From the wharf no portion of the offices could be seen. They looked into the great quadrangle round which the granaries were built. When the three men had stood and interchanged a few words they separated, each of the two going in his own direction, the third man remaining on the wharf. The man whose duty lay on the upper floors passed into the large quadrangle, round which the granaries stood. At first he noticed nothing remarkable; but when his eyes fell on the windows of James O'Donnell's office he started visibly, and uttered an exclamation of surprise under his breath. The windows were full of light! What should he do? What could this mean? He had, of course, heard of the misfortunes which had fallen upon his master's house that day, but he made no connection between that fact and this extraordinary appearance. The warning against possible burglars was uppermost in his mind. Although he was nearly sure no one was then in that office for an honest purpose, still he resolved to proceed with the greatest caution, and give no unnecessary alarm. He went out on the wharf and told the other man what he had seen. They both agreed that it would now be useless to try and overtake their other comrade, and that it would be best for the two of them to go to the office at once and see how matters stood there. When they got indoors they took off their boots and proceeded cautiously to the foot of the stairs leading to the offices. Each carried a stout stick in his hand, and each man was physically qualified to take care of himself in a scuffle. They agreed it wouldn't do to get some more of the hands from the mill and proceed to the office as though they were sure of finding burglars there; for how could they tell that it was not the manager, or their employer himself, who had been obliged to come back owing to some urgent business? They crept cautiously up the stairs and found themselves in the corridor, upon which the office door opened. Here all was dark and silent. Here they were confronted by a difficulty they had not anticipated. If it should be that the manager or the proprietor had come back at this unseasonable hour, the proper thing would be, of course, to knock at the door and ask if all were right. But supposing there were burglars inside, knocking at the door would be simply to put them on their guard, and enable them to take up a defensive or offensive position before the others could enter: What was to be done? As if by a common instinct, the two men retired to the further end of the passage to hold a brief council. There was no means of escaping from that room except by this passage or the window. That window was not barred, and nothing could be easier than to get from it by a ladder or a rope. The first thing, therefore, to be ascertained was--did a ladder or a rope lead from that window to the ground of the quadrangle? It was then agreed between the two that one of them should go down and examine the window from the outside, while the other waited in the passage here and watched, the door until his fellow came back. One of the men descended to the ground-floor, got out into the quadrangle, and looked at the window, and the ground near the window. It was a dark night, and one could not see small objects distinctly. The man was not content with the evidence of his eyes alone. He stole over under the window, and placing his hand against the wall, walked forward and backward, ascertaining by touch that neither ladder nor rope connected the window with the yard. When he was satisfied on this point, he stole back to his companion and communicated the fact to him. So far all was well. They had not now to think of any means of exit but the one before them. Still it was not easy to know what to do. Now it occurred to them for the first time that it was not at all consistent with the belief burglars were at work that the gas should be fully ablaze. Although there never had been an attempt to rob the mill on a large scale, or by violence, and the watchmen had no personal experience of burglars yet, it was their business to know something about how that predatory tribe carry on their operations. It was not likely such men would attempt to force the door of a strong-room, made on the very best principles, with the light turned fully up. A dark lantern and silent matches were more the manner of the midnight thief than the great openness and defiance of gas. It must surely be someone connected with the business. It was well they had not made a fuss about the matter, and now it would be well that they should delay no longer to prove their diligence by showing they had observed the unusual fact of the gas being burning. Yes, there could be no longer any doubt their manager or employer was behind that door. There would be something absurd in the fact of two fine strapping fellows like them going up to that door in their vamps. It would show they had suspected someone was there who had no right to be there, and this might give offence. It would be best for them to put on their boots before knocking; besides, if they knocked as they were now, whoever was inside might think they had been prying. When they reached the open air they put on their boots quickly. Then it occurred to them that, as they were now quite certain it was someone belonging to the business who was in the office, it would never do for two of them to appear at the door simultaneously. The duty of one man was to be on the wharf, and of the other to be on the lofts or in the passages, and if they had no suspicion wrong was going forward, why should the wharfman desert his post? They, therefore, agreed that the loftman alone should go back and prove his vigilance by knocking and saying that he had observed the light. The two parted. The loftman, starting with his usual measured tread, crossed the quadrangle, entered the dark passages, ascended the stairs, and knocked at the door. Two minutes after he rushed out upon the wharf, exclaiming in an undertone: "Do you know who's there?" "No. Who?" "No one. Come back with me and see if I am right. I can't believe my eyes. There isn't a soul there as far as I can see, in the office or in the passages." The two men went back to the passage, entered the private office, found the gas at full cock, and the place empty!
Mr. O'Donnell, towards the close of that unlucky day, found himself once more in his comfortable home at Rathclare. Within twenty-four hours, the life of his only son, the hope of his age, had been placed in danger; and all the earnings of a long and laborious life had been scattered to the winds by one tremendous blast of ill-fortune. He was not a communicative or demonstrative man. He took his pleasures soberly, gravely, and with little exterior show of delight. Outside his business, which was large and engrossing, he cared for little save his wife, and son, and home. He had few wants, and a limited mind; but, like all men with few wants and a limited mind, he must have what he wanted, or life would not be worth living. He did not sigh or burst into exclamations when the bad news reached him. He was reading a newspaper at the time. He put down his newspaper, and asked his managing man, who brought him the news, to repeat his words. Then, merely saying, "That is very bad news," he took down an account-book, and, having looked at how his affairs stood with the bank which had failed, put up the book in the safe, walked out of his office, and took the train to Glengowra, where his son lay hurt, and where his wife was already in attendance on the injured man. Now, he was back once more in his home alone. His wife was to stay that night at Maher's hotel. In the present condition of his business affairs he did not feel himself justified in absenting himself from head-quarters. Up to this he had very rarely been separated from his wife, even for a day. He seldom left his native town for more than a few hours, except when he went away for a week or so and took her with him. He sat in the deserted dining-room all alone. He always carried in his coat-pocket a small memorandum-book, in which he had jotted down the net results of all his business transactions, so that at any moment, and in any place, he could see pretty well how he stood. He seated himself in a large easy-chair, and having pulled down the gasalier, took out this book, and sat silently consulting the pages for a long while. By this time he had received full information from Dublin. He knew now the case of Vernon and Son was absolutely hopeless. He was going over his book, not in the hope of finding out anything cheerful about his own affairs, but just merely to convince himself through his sight of what he was already convinced through his reason. When he had reached the end of the written pages, and had made a few figures with his pencil and arrived at a total, he tore out the page on which he had made this last calculation, and then carefully and delicately tore the page into little bits. He put down his pocket-book on the table at his elbow, and then sat for a long time arranging and re-arranging the fragments of the paper into various figures on the table at his side. When it was about eleven o'clock, a servant came and asked him if he wanted anything. No, he wanted nothing. They might all go to bed. When the servant had retired, he re-began his work with the fragments of paper. At twelve o'clock he seemed to have made up his mind that there was no good in trying any longer to arrange the pieces in a satisfactory way. He pushed all the bits together, swept them into his hand, and placed them on a tray, on which were some glasses, which he had not used. He took up the pocket-book again, and quietly tore out all the blank leaves. "These may be of use to someone else," he said. "They can never be of any use to me." He placed the blank leaves on the table, far in from the edge. "The books at the office will show how my affairs stand. This can interest no one. It was only on account of the money I considered myself worth, over and above my liabilities. I'll burn it;" and then forgetting that it was summer time, and that there was no fire, he threw the book into the grate, and rose. He felt in his pocket, and found that he had his keys. Then he went into the hall, put on his hat, and left the house. He took his way to his principal place of business--the vast storehouse, wharf, and steam mill all combined. He opened a small postern in the main gate, trod a dark flagged passage, and reached the foot of a flight of stairs that led to the chief offices. This he ascended, and having reached his private room, lit the gas. For a while he stood in the middle of the room, looking vacantly round him. The office was luxuriously furnished; and in the wall opposite to the table at which Mr. O'Donnell usually sat, and facing him, was the door of the strong-room. He could hear the murmur of the water as it went by, if the engines had stopped. But the engines were going on at full speed, making money now--making money now for whom? That morning these twenty sets of stones had been whirling round, and at every rotation of each stone he, James O'Donnell, was the richer. These stones were going round still, making money still; but for whom now? It was a dismal thing to stand there realising the fact that the fruits of his forty years' hard work, sagacity, enterprise, thrift had all been squandered by someone else--had all been squandered by this Vernon, in whom he had reposed implicit confidence; who was so pious, so sleek, so plausible, and yet had led him on into this horrible position. He sat down in his chair, and his eyes fell upon the door of the strong-room. He had destroyed his pocket-book; his interest in his own private affairs was at an end. From what he had heard there was no chance of his saving a sixpence out of his large fortune. Some other man would work the mill no doubt, for it would be a valuable asset in the affairs of Vernon and Son. It was hard to think of this fine mill, for which he had made the trade, and which he had built up from the foundation, passing away from him, now that he was too old to begin life again. In that strong-room opposite him there were the books. They were all in perfect order.Theyhad never been made the slaves of a false balance-sheet. They were the fair records of blameless transactions. Every line in them could be verified. Every shilling of expense could be accounted for. Soon, very soon, he knew not exactly when, strangers would come and examine these books, and go through all the vouchers, but they should find nothing in that strong-room of his except flawless records of honest trade--and---- The vacant look left his eyes. All at once an intense, eager light burned in them. He grasped the back of the chair, and rose stealthily, as though to avoid the attention of someone acting as sentinel over him, and who was half asleep. He stole noiselessly in the bright gaslight across the room. With elaborate caution he took the keys out of his pocket and fitted one to the lock. With a dull, heavy sound the bolts fell back. He drew himself a foot away, as though he expected that door to be pushed open, and something to issue forth and seize him and do him deadly hurt. He paused, breathing heavily. The door did not stir. He stretched forth his arm and drew the door towards him. It yielded slowly and swung out into the bright, handsomely furnished office, until it stood at right angles to the wall. Again he paused, and peered into the dark cavity before him. He seized the outer edge of the door and steadied himself by it, leaned against it slightly so that it swayed slowly to and fro a little. His face was now flushed and covered with sweat. His hands clutched the door feverishly, frantically. His knees trembled so that he seemed in danger of sinking to the floor. "It would be a fit ending to my life. My life is of no further use to me or to those I love, or to the business I have made, nor even would it be any use to those whom I shall not be able to pay. For although no one could work the business as well as I, if things had not come to this pass, I am too old now to work for others where I have so long worked for myself." He let go the door and stood unsupported for a while. "If they should find in the strong-room of James O'Donnell nothing but the unimpeachable records of his honest life, and his bones!" He seemed to gather strength from the thought. He drew himself up to his full height. The look of intense excitement gradually faded from his face. The tension of his hands relaxed, and he looked around with something like majesty in his gaze. He was a lion at bay, but indifferent. He walked up and down the room two or three times calmly, deliberately, as if he were disturbed by a thought greater than the hourly commonplaces of a busy day. He ran the matter carefully over in his mind. When in thinking of this deed first, and saying to himself his creditors would find nothing in that place but books, papers, and--he had paused at the word revolver. It was occasionally necessary for some of his clerks to carry large sums of cash a distance from Rathclare, and when doing so the messenger always took with him his revolver. The lock by which the strong-door was finally secured could be turned only from the outside, but there was a strong latch of three large bolts which caught and kept the door closed when it was slammed. There were two keys to this door, but he had made it a rule never to entrust the second to anyone in his employment. When unable to be at his office at ten o'clock in the morning, or at closing time in the evening, he had always given the key he now carried with him to his manager, and had it left at his house the same night. The second key he had hidden behind some books in a bookcase which he always kept locked. But the three bolts which kept the door fast during the working hours of the day could be shot back from the outside by means of a key, a duplicate of which the manager had. In the strong-room that night there was a sum in cash of more than two thousand pounds. If he went into that strong-room and used that revolver, the sound would, in all likelihood, reach the ears of no one in the place, and nothing would be discovered for several days, as no one would suspect the main bolts were not shot, since he had been seen to lock the safe that day, and no one else could unlock it. He made up his mind that, come what might, he would end his life where his fortune had begun, and where now his ruin was complete. And still he could not think of bidding adieu for ever to the scene of his life-long labours without one more look at the books which had been so honestly kept, and which he had hoped to hand down unblemished to his son Eugene. He took up a lamp which lay on one of the side tables, lit it, stepped into the strong-room, and drew the door sharply after him. There was a loud bang. The three bolts shot into their places. He was now in the strong-room with the records of his honest life, a revolver, his power of retreat cut off, and the determination not to survive the night of ruin. He had forgotten to put out the gas in his office.
The strong-room was about ten feet by fifteen, and no more than eight feet high. There were presses in it for the books, and an iron safe in which the cash and securities were kept. This safe, standing on tressels in a corner, was the one used by the house before the business expanded to its present dimensions. Upon it the old man set his lamp, and putting two deed-boxes one on the other, he placed them near the safe for a seat. Then he opened the safe, and taking out some of the securities it contained, placed them beside him. He adjusted his spectacles, and turned over the deeds and shares somewhat listlessly. The documents here represented a vast sum of money. Here were deeds on which he held mortgages, title-deeds, stocks, and shares. He did not undo the tapes. He knew them all by sight, when and how he had acquired them. This was the result of one speculation, that of another. In his will this and this were left for life to his wife, and afterwards to his son and his son's children. This and this and this were to go absolutely to his son. He went on thus through all the documents in the safe. There was no hurry. It was still many hours to daylight. If all were over with him before people were stirring, all would be well. He had cut off his retreat. He could not now get out of that room even if he wished it. He felt glad that he had come in here. This was a kind of antechamber to the other world. There was no going back now, and if he could derive any consolation from the contemplation of the past by the light of these records, he might do so without injuring anyone. Ay, these were for Eugene. What would be his boy's fate? No doubt he would recover from the hurt, for he was young and hearty. But then how would he get a living? All his life he had been used to good things, and looking forward to a career of remarkable prosperity. Now he was a beggar, an outcast from fortune. These properties and moneys had been intended for him. Now they would go to the greedy creditors of Vernon and Son. It was too bad that just at the very moment his boy had made up his mind to marry, everything should be swept away from them. For some years the only anxiety he had felt was that his boy should marry some good amiable girl, and settle down in Rathclare, so that he (the father) might feel that the successor to his business was at hand in case anything should happen to himself. He had not wished for money with the wife of his son. He had not wished for any social advancement. He was not a man who believed in family or society advancement. He wished his son to be an honest and prosperous trader in his native town, and when that sweet girl had been to their home a few times, he began to regard her as already his daughter. He had intended making her a wedding-present independent of what he was to do for Eugene. Here was what he had intended for her. These were the title-deeds of Rose Cottage, Glengowra, which would do the young people for their summer home. It was a famous cottage for flowers, and there was grass for a cow, and there was a paddock, and a little lawn, and a large garden. Just the thing altogether for a young couple in the summer time. Let him look at what the property consisted of. He read over slowly the recital of all the things that went with Rose Cottage, the measurements of the land, and so on, as though he were about to buy, and it was necessary to be careful. Then he folded up the paper softly, and tied it with the tape, and set it by him on the ground. He was not an imaginative man, but the few images which had visited him seemed all the more brilliant, because of their rareness. And one of the visions which had come to him lately, and which pleased him more than any other he had known for years, was that of Eugene and Nellie living in this Rose Cottage, and he and his wife coming out in the cool evening and having tea with them in the little arbour overlooking the sea. It would be strange and delightful, now that the vigour of his youth and the strength of his manhood had passed away for ever, to be the guest of his own son; to hear his son say, "Welcome, father," and to see this tall, fair girl, who had such bright and pleasant ways, tending to his good-hearted, kindly old wife, Mary. To see her placing the chair of honour for her, and making much of her, would be a thing to live for and enjoy. And then, later, there would be children who would call him grandfather, and, with their fresh young voices and gallant spirits, take away the feeling of toil and the weariness of years. What would Mary do? Mary, whom he had married long ago; and yet, now that he had come to the end of his life, it seemed but yesterday. He could see every event of their marriage-day more clearly than he could see what had happened yesterday; for his eyes had grown dim since then, and the magic charm of memory is that it forgets so well what it does not wish to retain. Bah! It would never do to think of those times, and of his old Mary left alone and poor upon the world. It would take the resolution out of him to think of her. It would rob him of his manhood to picture her destitute in the face of unsympathetic men. No. It would rob him of the last remains of vigour to fancy her standing alone and deserted, without a home or a meal. He had come into that room for the purpose of closing his life with his business career. Eugene was young and full of spirits, and had many friends, and would soon get something to do, and be able to give his mother a little, and to marry. He must not take a gloomy view of the future for those he was leaving behind. If he wanted to keep up his resolution he must think of the future he was losing in this great crash. It was of Eugene and Eugene's wife he must think. The fact that he could be of no further use to his son, or his wife, or his son's wife, was the thought to keep him to his resolution. If things had gone otherwise with him he could have made those young lives so happy as far as worldly gear was concerned. What further use was he on earth? Let him leave all at once. Why should he confront this trouble and disgrace--trouble unearned, disgrace unmerited? He took up the documents from the floor and replaced them all carefully in the safe. It was in this safe the money was kept. He pulled out the drawer containing it. A week ago he would have thought this a comparatively small sum. Now it seemed very large indeed. If it had been only so managed that this two thousand pounds could have been honestly saved from the wreck, it would have been sufficient to provide, in an humble way--but there! Let the thought go. Nothing could be saved--not a shilling. He closed the drawer, and then drew out the one next to it. This contained the revolver. The light of the lamp so fell that when the drawer was fully out only the barrel of the weapon was in the light. The old man stood looking at that glittering barrel. It was as though that barrel was a deadly snake slowly issuing from the darkness, and he was powerless to move, to avoid it. Once more all his strength forsook him. His face flushed, his limbs trembled; he clasped his hands convulsively. He drew back a pace and almost fell against the opposite side. He put his hand before his eyes and groaned. "Has it come to this with me," he said, "in my old age? Can it be possible, I, who never did a dishonest act, must fly from life because of the dishonesty of another?" He put his hand up to his neck and tore his shirt open. He dropped his hands, threw up his head and looked around him. "Great God! what is this?" The lamp was burning blue. His head was giddy. He was suffocating!
Suffocating? Yes; there could be no doubt about it! Up to this, James O'Donnell had forgotten that the strong-room was almost air-tight, and that the air required by him and the lamp was about what should have been exhausted since he entered the room. For years he had been familiar with the great safe, and it had never before occurred to him that to shut any man up in it for a lengthened period would be almost certainly death. Was he to die of suffocation, and under the circumstances of his present position? Already his thoughts were becoming obscured. There was the revolver gleaming at him from the drawer. But his thoughts had taken a circuitous route; and although he knew that a short time ago the revolver had formed the main portion of an important design, he now could not connect it clearly or coherently with that intention. He was altogether occupied with the thought of suffocation, and but partially able to concern his mind with any other idea. How would it be if he died here, and of the death that threatened him? How would it be? He could not answer. He did not know. He felt a tightness across his forehead, an oppression upon his chest. The tightness and the oppression were little more than uncomfortable. He had scarcely a pain. In fact, he felt a pleasant languor out of which it would be a decided inconvenience to raise himself. Then for a moment it came forcibly home to him that he was dying, and would die before succour of any kind could reach him. The motives which had led him to come there at such an hour, and which induced him to shut himself up and cut off all retreat, were now obscure. By a great effort he could dimly perceive that something was wrong with his business concerns. What was that? A noise without! A noise at the other side of the heavy iron door. Who or what could make a noise outside there in the private office at such an hour? It was within the duty of no one to be in his private office at this hour. No one could now be there for any honest purpose. The propinquity of the material sounds enabled them to appeal to his reason more forcibly than the murmur of the mill or the river, or the tumultuous, distracting echoes of disaster beating through his brain. All at once the sounds, his physical and financial position, converged and were focussed upon a single relic of memory. Long ago, in some book he had read of a famous cave called "The Cave of Dogs," somewhere in the south of Europe, where, when men and dogs entered together, the dogs were suffocated by the exhalation lying close to the ground, while the men, because of their greater stature, moved on unharmed. He knew at this brief moment of active memory the same substance which now threatened his life proved fatal to these dogs. If he now raised himself higher in his suffocating chamber, was there any likelihood of prolonging his life by seeking air as high up as possible in the room? It is true he had no great desire to prolong his life. He had by this time forgotten he had had any desire to destroy it. Yes, he would see if any virtue of life lay in the air above his head. He mounted upon the deed-boxes and thrust his head up. Now he had pains and a tingling sensation, but the dimness and dulness of the intellect gradually diminished. The noise was repeated without. What could it be? His mind had by this time become comparatively clear. He now knew he had come to that place for the purpose of destroying his life, with the intention of obliterating the world from his perception simultaneously with the destruction of his fortune. But what were those noises which again broke in upon his ear? Now he remembered. There was a considerable sum of money in cash in the strong-room. Some thieves had got scent of this fact, and were now in the outer place with designs upon the gold and notes lying in the safe? If these wretches broke in when he was dead and carried off the money, and his dead body was found later there (his head was so stupid, that he could not see exactly what the inference would be), would it not seem in some way or other that he had applied the two thousand pounds to his own purposes--given them to his wife or son, say--and then destroyed himself? Although he felt relieved from the suffocation he had endured in the lower air, he knew now that this relief could not last long, and that the air he now breathed would soon become as tainted as that which he had lately left. What should he do? To die in the midst of his commercial troubles--to die, leaving behind him an unblemished reputation, and to die the seeming thief of a paltry two thousand pounds, were widely different things. And yet he did not appear to have much room for choice, for should he continue as he now was and make no sign, he would, beyond doubt, die of suffocation; and if he made any sign and these men had the means to break in, and did break in before assistance came, they would no doubt sacrifice his life rather than forego their design of plunder. He paused for a moment in thought. Then, holding his breath, he stepped down, took the revolver out of the safe, and got up on the deed-boxes once more. "I shall sell my life dearly," he said to himself, "if they force that door." Standing bolt upright on the deed-boxes, he fixed his eyes steadily on the only means of ingress to that room. "It is not likely," he thought, "there are more than two or three of these ruffians, and I have six shots here. But how long will this air last? How long is it possible for a man to live on the eighteen inches more air I have gained since I mounted these boxes? For a man and--a lamp? I don't want the lamp. I have seen here all I desire to see. If they break in I will have no difficulty in seeing them, for my eyes will be accustomed to impenetrable darkness, while they must carry a light of some kind, which will enable me to make them out. I and the lamp. It is as though there was food in a ship for a certain time for two people. If the one dies the other will have the double share. If the lamp or I die now the survivor will have the double share. In this case the choice is easily made." He filled his lungs and blew down the chimney of the lamp. The darkness of the strong-room was now so intense that it was absolutely impossible to see any object, however large or however near. For all the purposes of sight the space enclosed by the four walls was an absolute void. The old man, of course, knew he was standing on two deed-cases in the strong-room of his business place; that he held a revolver in his hand; that there were burglars without and money within, and that he was threatened with suffocation. The question now was, whether they would succeed in bursting open that door before the rising tide of poisonous gas reached his nostrils. The lamp being now extinguished, and there being some ventilation to the safe, the deadly gas, which would be sufficient to destroy life, was rising at a greatly diminished rate. A little of the heavy carbonic acid succeeded in exuding through the lower portion of the slight spaces between the door, threshold, and jambs; a little of the pure exterior air infiltrated through the upper portion of the slight spaces between the door, lintel, and jambs. James O'Donnell had no means of knowing at what rate the deadly gas was now rising, or whether it had ceased to rise at all, or whether it was declining. It was not impossible, nay, it was not improbable, that the deadly vapour might rise no higher than it had stood when he put out the lamp. It would not do for him to make the least noise, for the gas might still be rising, and in case he made a noise the burglars might be scared away for a time, only to return when he had succumbed to the deadly vapour, break open the room, and so blast his character for ever. It was now necessary for him to stand bolt upright in that ebon darkness, with his eyes fixed on what he knew to be the position occupied by the door. Then, as soon as anyone opened that door, it would be his duty to fire, and to fire with as deadly an effect as possible, for he was an old man, no longer strong or active, and could not hope to succeed against even one man who would undertake such an enterprise, and the chances were there would be more than one in this. He had no means of computing time. In the disordered condition of his mind it was impossible to tell how the minutes went by. Now for some minutes the sounds in the outer room had ceased. Any moment they might be renewed. There would, of course, be a sound of hammering, although the sound would be very dull. He had once seen a burglar's hammer. It was made of lead, the face of it being covered with leather soaked in oil. The wedges used were always of wood. But no matter how muffled the blow, or how little noise the progress of the wedge made, the sound could not escape his ear. He took out his watch and listened to it. He counted the ticks, but found they conveyed no idea of time. The very sound of the watch confused his senses, and threw him into new perplexities. Holding the watch to his ear, and the revolver in his right hand down by his side, he stood motionless for what seemed to him a very long time. It was strange, but still he heard no sounds of hammering. Could it be that the first effect of the poisonous gas upon him had been to disturb his senses, and that the noises he fancied he heard had been the offspring of imagination? Ah! They were beginning at last. He caught the sound of their first attempts. He knew it would take a considerable time to break in that door, and mentally he groaned at the notion of delay in his present perilous condition. Suddenly he started as though he had been shot. The door swung open rapidly on its hinges. The full light of the office sprang with dazzling effect into the darkness where he stood. He was paralysed. "Seize him!" cried a voice from without. Then all at once, and before he had time to raise the arm in which he held the weapon, he was in the clutches of two men, who dragged him out ruthlessly into the glare of the office, and then started back from him. "It is the master himself!" James O'Donnell staggered for a moment, dazed by the gaslight and the perception that the men who held him were no burglars, but the watchmen of the place, and that behind the door, as it now stood fully open with the day-key in it, was the manager of all his business, Corcoran. When the watchmen made up their minds what to do they sent for Mr. Corcoran. He brought the key with him; and then all three, having taken off their boots, stole into the private office, and finding no clue there, the manager, with little hope of discovering anything, put his day-key into the lock, turned the bolt swiftly, and, to his astonishment, pulled open the door. His astonishment rose to perfect amazement when he found a man inside, and when that man turned out to be no less a person than James O'Donnell.