e was not noticed
enough to inspire dislike. But he was a man of positive opinion, which he
generally kept to himself. He had settled convictions, which he never used
to unsettle others. I had known him in his old home, Virginia; so perhaps
he felt more friendly toward me and talked more freely with me.

He was a man of a fine sentiment and a sensitive nature. He ought to have
been a poet instead of a clerical expert. He was intensely fond of
flowers, but never wore them. He used to say that it was heresy for a man
to wear a flower, and sacrilege for a woman to let them die on her breast.

When I told him about those Russian violets he seemed interested, but,
when I finished, astonished and grieved me by yawning in my face and
calmly stating that he considered the story trivial, far-fetched, and, in
short, stupid.

"There is," he said, "only one thing for us to do--have a drink and go to
bed--for the club closes in ten minutes." He ordered a small bottle of
wine, something I had never seen him drink, and talked in a light,
nonsensical strain, for him a most unusual thing. In telling the story I
had drawn out the little bunch of Russian violets and placed them on the
table. They were very much wilted, but the odor seemed stronger and
sweeter than ever. When we parted for the night I forgot the violets. The
next day, the twenty-ninth of December, I did not see John Hardisty,
although he was at his office and in the club that night, and insisted on
paying his account for December and his dues to April first. December
thirtieth he was at his office, where he remained until nearly midnight.
He went to his room, which was near the club, and was found by his
servant, early the next morning, the last of the old year, dead. He was
lying on the bed, dressed and at full length. His right hand clenched a
pistol with one empty barrel; gently closed in his left hand they found a
little bunch of faded violets--that was all.

Not a line, not a scrap of paper to tell the story. His private letters
had been burned--their ashes were heaped upon the hearth. There were no
written instructions of any kind. There were no mementoes, no keepsakes.
Yes, there was a little Bible on the candle-stand at the head of his bed,
but it was closed. On the fly-leaf, written in the trembling hand of an
old woman, was his name, the word "mother," and the date of a New Year
time in old Virginia when he was a boy.

There was money, more than enough to cau