Man" by poor Tom o' the Gleam,
marking that also. Now, on this particular night, feeling that he had
done all he could think of to make business matters fairly easy to deal
with, he packed up everything in one parcel, which he tied with a string
and sealed securely, addressing it to Sir Francis Vesey. This parcel he
again enclosed in another, equally tied up and sealed, the outer wrapper
of which he addressed to one John Bulteel at certain offices in London,
which were in truth the offices of Vesey and Symonds, Bulteel being
their confidential clerk. The fact that Angus Reay knew the name of the
firm which had been mentioned in the papers as connected with the famous
millionaire, David Helmsley, caused him to avoid inscribing it on the
packet which would have to be taken to its destination immediately after
his death. As he had now arranged things, it would be conveyed to the
office unsuspectingly, and Bulteel, opening the first wrapper, would see
that the contents were for Sir Francis, and would take them to him at
once. Locking the packet in the little cupboard in the wall which Mary
had given him, as she playfully said, "to keep his treasures in"--he
threw himself again on his bed, and, thoroughly exhausted, tried to
sleep.

"It will be all right, I think!" he murmured to himself, as he closed
his eyes wearily--"At any rate, so far as I am concerned, I have done
with the world! God grant some good may come of my millions after I am
dead! After I am dead! How strange it sounds! What will it seem like, I
wonder,--to be dead?"

And he suddenly thought of a poem he had read some years back,--one of
the finest and most daring thoughts ever expressed in verse, from the
pen of a fine and much neglected poet, Robert Buchanan:--

"Master, if there be Doom,
All men are bereaven!
If in the Universe
One Spirit receive the curse,
Alas for Heaven!
If there be Doom for one,
Thou, Master, art undone!
"Were I a Soul in Heaven,
Afar from pain;--
Yea, on thy breast of snow,
At the scream of one below,
I should scream again--
Art Thou less piteous than
The conception of a Man?"

"No, no, not less piteous!" he murmured--"But surely infinitely more
pitiful!"

CHAPTER XXII

And now there came a wondrous week of perfect weather. All the lovely
Somersetshire coast lay under the warmth and brilliance of a dazzling
sun,--the sea was smooth,--and small sailin