n," he said, "but so badly written. '_My life is not
endurable longer, but I shall die happy in being of service to the
beautiful angel who was kind to me. Tell her she need not be in trouble
any more. I forgive Pavel Michaieloff, as my masters desire. I do not
wish my wife or my neighbors to know what I have done._'"

"This we have no right to meddle with," Brand said, thoughtfully. "I
will put it back where I got it. But you see, Edwards, you will have to
admit that you were aware this poor wretch was in communication with
some secret society or other. Further than that you need say nothing.
The cause of his suicide is clear enough; the man was mad when he came
to England with that wild craving for revenge in his brain."

Brand carried the paper up-stairs again, and placed it where he had
found it. At the same moment there was a sound of footsteps below; and
presently the police-officers, accompanied by the landlady and by
Gathorne Edwards, who had somewhat recovered his composure, entered to
hold their preliminary investigation. The notes that the inspector took
down in his pocket-book were brief enough, and were mostly answers to
questions addressed to Brand, regarding what he knew of the deceased
man's circumstances. The police-surgeon had meanwhile had the body
placed on the bed; he also was of opinion that the man had been dead
some hours. Edwards translated for the inspector the writing on the
paper found lying there, and said he believed Kirski had some connection
with a secret society, but that it was obvious he had destroyed himself
from despair; and that, indeed, the unhappy man had never been properly
right in his mind since ever he had known him, though they had hoped, by
getting him to do steady work and sure wages, to wean him away from
brooding over the wrongs that had driven him from his native country.
Edwards gave the officer his address, Brand saying that he had to leave
England that same night, and would not be available for any further
inquiry, but that his friend knew precisely as much about the case as
himself. Then he and his companion left.

Edwards breathed more freely when he got out of the house, even into the
murky atmosphere of Soho.

"It is a tragic end," he said, "but perhaps it is the best that could
have befallen him. I called yesterday at the shop, and found he was
there, and sober, though I did not see him. I was surprised to find he
had gone back."

"I thought he had solemnly