He welcomed the fact that away in the distance a storm had broken with the deep artillery of thunder, and that already heavy rain was swishing down on the city. It fitted into his half-maddened mood.
He shut the door. He walked quickly about the room, speculating as to the most effective place to be found outstretched. He had a decision and then, so that there might be no loop-hole for his father, sat down to write a final indictment.
Time fled away. He covered page after page of note paper, pouring out all his soul, making a great appeal for the right treatment of Graham and his sisters, and finally signed his name, having scrawled in his large round writing, "This is my protest."
The storm had come nearer. Outbursts of thunder rolled over the house followed by stabs of lightning.
He then deliberately placed himself on the chosen spot, cocked the trigger and put the cold barrel of the revolver to his temple.
There was a sort of scream.
Peter swung round, with his nerves jangling like a wire struck suddenly with a stick.
There stood his father, unable to form a sentence, his face grey, his eyes distended and his arms thrown out in front of him.