"I know it," I answered sullenly.
"Only one reparation you can make. Your death can appear to be either accidental or natural—anyhow, provided that it is at once. You can have a week; after that, if you are alive, you will die an infamous death."
"I understand," I replied, rising as he rose. "Will you give my assurance to the Prince and the Emperor that ..."
"I am no tale-bearer, sir," he answered sternly. "The one desire now is to forget that you ever lived." And flinging these harsh words at me, he left me humiliated, ashamed, angry, and impotently remorseful.
Not another word should pass my lips. How should I die? It was not so easy as it seemed. A fatal accident to appear genuine called for clever stage-management, and I did not see how to arrange matters.
I applied for leave, and went to Berlin. There was one man there who could help me—old Dr. Mein. He was a bachelor recluse, an Englishman who had been naturalized, and in the old days he had been in love with my mother. It was she who told me the tale just before her death, when urging me to trust him should I ever find myself in need of an absolutely reliable, level-headed friend. I knew that he loved me for the English blood in my veins. I told him what I had to do; but at first did not mention the cause. He listened intently, questioned me shrewdly, and then stopped to think.
"You want me to murder you, or at least give you the means of murdering yourself?" he said bluntly.
"If you don't help me, I shall do it without you, that's all," I returned.
He paused again to think, pursing up his lips, and fixing his keen blue eyes upon me.
"I have loved you like my own son, and you ask me to kill you?"