"I have a conscience," said the Saint. "What's your name, and what do you do?"
"Inwood. I'm a chemist and — a sort of inventor." The shabby man gazed apathetically at the cup of coffee which had been set before him. "I ought to thank you for saving my life, I suppose, but —"
"Take it as a gift," said the Saint breezily. "I was only thinking of our rails. I've got a few shares in the company, and your method of suicide makes such a mess. Now tell me why you did it."
Inwood looked up.
"Are you going to offer me charity?"
"I never do that. My charity begins at home, and stays on with Mother like a good girl."
"I suppose you've got some sort of right to an answer," said Inwood tiredly. "I'm a failure, that's all."
"And aren't we all?" said the Saint. "What did you fail at, uncle?"
"Inventing. I gave up a good job ten years ago to try and make a fortune on my own, and I've been living from hand to mouth ever since. My wife had a small income of her own, and I lived on that. I did one or two small things, but I didn't make much out of them. I suppose I'm not such a genius as I thought I was, but I believed in myself then. A month or so ago, when we were right at the end of our tether, I did make a little discovery."
The shabby man took from his pocket a small brass tube like a girl's lipstick case, and tossed it across the table. Simon removed the cap, and saw something like a crayon — it was white outside, with a pink core.