ests.

But never mind. It is nearly over now. I have come down to this quiet
water in the early morning to throw myself in. They will find me
floating here among the lilies. Some few will understand. I can see it
written, as it will be, in the newspapers.

"What makes the sad fatality doubly poignant is that the unhappy victim
had just entered upon a holiday visit that was to have been prolonged
throughout the whole month. Needless to say, he was regarded as the life
and soul of the pleasant party of holiday makers that had gathered at
the delightful country home of Mr. and Mrs. Beverly-Jones. Indeed, on
the very day of the tragedy, he was to have taken a leading part in
staging a merry performance of charades and parlour entertainments--a
thing for which his genial talents and overflowing high spirits rendered
him specially fit."

When they read that, those who know me best will understand how and why
I died. "He had still over three weeks to stay there," they will say.
"He was to act as the stage manager of charades." They will shake their
heads. They will understand.

But what is this? I raise my eyes from the paper and I see Beverly-Jones
hurriedly approaching from the house. He is hastily dressed, with
flannel trousers and a dressing-gown. His face looks grave. Something
has happened. Thank God, something has happened. Some accident! Some
tragedy! Something to prevent the charades!

I write these few lines on a fast train that is carrying me back to New
York, a cool, comfortable train, with a deserted club-car where I can
sit in a leather arm-chair, with my feet up on another, smoking, silent,
and at peace.

Villages, farms and summer places are flying by. Let them fly. I, too,
am flying--back to the rest and quiet of the city.

"Old man," Beverly-Jones said, as he laid his hand on mine very
kindly--he is a decent fellow, after all, is Jones--"they're calling you
by long-distance from New York."

"What is it?" I asked, or tried to gasp.

"It's bad news, old chap; fire in your office last evening. I'm afraid
a lot of your private papers were burned. Robinson--that's your senior
clerk, isn't it?--seems to have been on the spot trying to save things.
He's badly singed about the face and hands. I'm afraid you must go at
once."

"Yes, yes," I said, "at once."

"I know. I've told the man to get the trap ready right away. You've just
time to catch the seven-ten. Come along."

"Right," I said. I kept my fac