As he lifted the weapon he remembered that he had not written to Frank. He sat down and wrote the letter that told Merry everything. The letter was given to Toots to mail, and then the professor locked himself in with the loaded revolver.
He walked the floor till he chanced to look in the glass once more and beheld his own reflection. Then he shook his head, saying:
“That is not Horace Scotch! It is a stranger to me. What a terrible thing it would have been if I had shot a stranger!”
He felt relieved to think he had escaped committing murder. He laughed softly, and then sat down on a rocking chair. As he rocked he hummed a light song to himself.
And thus he waited Frank’s appearance.
That night Toots assisted him to undress and get into bed.
“Yo’ mus’ be sick, p’ofessah,” said the colored boy, anxiously.
“You are mistaken,” said Scotch, wearily; “I am not the professor. I am an entire stranger. The professor is gone.”
Then he closed his eyes and seemed to fall asleep almost immediately.
Toots shook his head and retired from the room.