s really as dead as mutton, and that I can't prove it, my gorge
rises at the injustice of the whole affair. I used to feel bitterly
about that seven thousand eight hundred pounds; it seems a trifle now!
Dear me, why, the day before yesterday I was comparatively happy."

And Morris stood on the sidewalk and heaved another sobbing sigh.

"Then there's another thing," he resumed; "can I? Am I able? Why didn't
I practise different handwritings while I was young? How a fellow
regrets those lost opportunities when he grows up! But there's one
comfort: it's not morally wrong; I can try it on with a clear
conscience, and even if I was found out, I wouldn't greatly
care--morally, I mean. And then, if I succeed, and if Pitman is
staunch--there's nothing to do but find a venal doctor; and that ought
to be simple enough in a place like London. By all accounts the town's
alive with them. It wouldn't do, of course, to advertise for a corrupt
physician; that would be impolitic. No, I suppose a fellow has simply to
spot along the streets for a red lamp and herbs in the window, and then
you go in and--and--and put it to him plainly; though it seems a
delicate step."

He was near home now, after many devious wanderings, and turned up John
Street. As he thrust his latch-key in the lock, another mortifying
reflection struck him to the heart.

"Not even this house is mine till I can prove him dead," he snarled, and
slammed the door behind him so that the windows in the attic rattled.

Night had long fallen; long ago the lamps and the shop-fronts had begun
to glitter down the endless streets; the lobby was pitch-dark; and, as
the devil would have it, Morris barked his shins and sprawled all his
length over the pedestal of Hercules. The pain was sharp; his temper was
already thoroughly undermined; by a last misfortune his hand closed on
the hammer as he fell; and, in a spasm of childish irritation, he turned
and struck at the offending statue. There was a splintering crash.

"O Lord, what have I done next?" wailed Morris; and he groped his way to
find a candle. "Yes," he reflected, as he stood with the light in his
hand and looked upon the mutilated leg, from which about a pound of
muscle was detached. "Yes, I have destroyed a genuine antique; I may be
in for thousands!" And then there sprung up in his bosom a sort of angry
hope. "Let me see," he thought. "Julia's got rid of; there's nothing to
connect me with that beast Forsyth; the men