side when it drove round to its
house. Baumgartner described the incident with a callous relish, as
perhaps the most exciting in his long career; he was going on to explain
his subsequent return, in propria persona, and yet by stealth, when he
paused in the middle of a sentence which was never finished. And his
statement concluded as follows, in less careful language and a more
flowing hand:--

"I thought the fool had cleared out long ago. The day's excitement must
have driven him clean out of my head. I never thought of him when I got
back, never till I saw the damage to the dark-room window and missed his
clothes. I didn't waste two thoughts upon him then. I had my negative to
develop. A magnificent negative it was, too, yet another absolute failure
from the practical point of view, perhaps from the same reason as its
predecessors. South African mines may produce gold and diamonds (licit
and illicit!) but their yield in souls is probably the poorest to the
square mile anywhere on earth. Schelmerdine never had one in his gross
carcass. So there was an end of him, and a good riddance to rotten clay.
I have not thought of him again all night. I have thought of nothing but
this perhaps passionately dispassionate statement that I have made up my
mind to leave behind me. It has given me strange pleasure to write, a
satisfaction which I have no longer the time to attempt to analyse; all
night long my pen has scarcely paused, and I not conscious of a moment's
weariness of mind, body, or hand. Only sometimes have I paused to light
my pipe. I had made such a pause, perhaps half an hour ago, when in the
terrible stillness of the night I heard a footstep in the hall. My nerves
were somewhat on edge with all this writing; it might be my imagination.
I stole to my door, and as I opened it the one below shut softly. I
waited some time, heard nothing more, went down with my lamp, and threw
open the drawing-room door. There was my young fellow, not gone at all,
but sitting in the dark with one whose name there is no need to mention.
I do not wish to be misunderstood. It was all innocent enough, even I
never doubted that. But somehow the sight of that boy and girl, sitting
there in the dark without a word, afraid to go to bed--afraid of me--made
the blood boil over in my veins. I could have trampled on that lad, my
Jonah whom I had pictured overboard at last, and I did hurl the lamp at
his head. I am glad it missed