t the
tackle-blocks come together. I belayed the rope to the second cleat and
set a half-hitch on the turns. Then I walked out of the museum and shut
the door.

"It had been very different from what I had anticipated. As I sat by the
laboratory table with my head buried in my hands, I shook as if I had an
ague; my skin was bathed in a cold sweat and I felt that it would have
been a relief to weep. I was astonished at myself. Twenty-four of these
vermin had I exterminated with a light heart, because the blow was dealt
in the heat of conflict; and now, because this wretch had been helpless
and unresisting, I was nearly broken with the effort of dispatching him.

"I sat in the dark laboratory slowly recovering and thinking of the
long years that had slipped away since the hand of this miscreant had
robbed me of my darling. Gradually I grew more calm. But fully an hour
passed before I could summon resolution to go back into the museum and
satisfy myself that the long-outstanding debt had indeed been paid at
last to the uttermost farthing.

"On Monday morning I withdrew from my bank a hundred pounds in notes,
which I handed to my landlord's widow--Mr. Nathan had died some years
previously--with a note surrendering the shop and house in Saul Street.
I emptied the safe and brought away such things as I cared to keep,
leaving the rest for Mrs. Nathan. Then I shaved off my ragged beard and
white mustache, set my Bloomsbury house in order, pensioned off the
sergeant-major (who was now growing an old man) and engaged a set of
respectable servants. When the last specimen was finished and put in its
place in the museum, my work was done. I had now only to wait quietly
for the end. And for that I am now waiting, I hope not impatiently.

"Something tells me that I have not long to wait. Certain new and
strange sensations, which I have discussed with my friend Dr. Wharton,
seem to herald a change. Wharton makes light of them, but I think and
hope he is mistaken. And in that hope I rest content; believing that
soon I shall hear the curfew chime steal out of the evening mist to tell
me that the day is over and that my little spark may be put out."

THE END

End of Project Gutenberg's The Uttermost Farthing, by R. Austin Freeman

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE UTTERMOST FARTHING ***

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