k more quickly and clearly, and the process brought
him a sort of cold calmness. Again his grief was thrust out of his
focus, and all his mental energy was concentrated upon his desire. And
he conjured up a succession of pictures of the tortures and sufferings
he desired for this villain who had so wronged him.

But the pictures were too feeble and wholly inadequate to satisfy. So
gentle was his nature, that, even stirred as he was, he could not
conceive a fitting punishment for so great an offense. He felt his own
inadequacy, his own feebleness to cope with the problem before him,
and so he sat brooding impotently.

It was all useless. And as the minutes slipped by his anger began to
die out, merging once more into the all-absorbing grief that underlay
it. He was alone. Alone! He would never see her again. The thought
chilled him to a sudden nervous dread. No, no, it was not possible.
She would come back. She must come back. Yes, yes. She was his
Jessie. His beautiful Jessie. She belonged to him. And the children.
She loved them. How she loved them. They were theirs. Yes, she would
come back. Maybe she would come back at supper-time. She would
understand by then. Because she was good, and--and kind, and--No, no,
Fate could never be so cruel as to take her from him.

He rose and paced the floor with nervous, uneven strides. He plunged
his hand into his coat pocket and drew out the letter again. He
re-read it, with hot eyes and straining thought. Every word seemed to
sear itself upon his poor brain, and drive him to the verge of
distraction. Why? Why? And he raised his bloodshot eyes to the roof of
his hut, and crushed the paper in one desperate hand.

Then suddenly he started. His pale eyes took on a furtive frightened
expression. He glanced fearfully round the room as though someone was
in hiding to surprise his inspiration. Yes, that was it. Why not? He
was not afraid. He was afraid of no one. Yes, yes, he had the means.
He must make the opportunity. She was his. No one else had a right to
her. It was justifiable. It was no more than justice.

He moved towards the inner room. He was less furtive now. His purpose
had startled him at first, but now he was convinced it was right. To a
man of his character his resolve once taken there was only one thing
to do--to carry it out.

He passed into the bedroom, and, in a few moments, reappeared. Now he
was bearing something in his hand. He held it carefully, and in his
e