"To a question from the coroner witness said that she had never known the deceased to sleep with his door unlocked.
"Further evidence was called showing that deceased had evidently destroyed all marks and papers that might lead to his identity. The windows of the room had been carefully plugged up and two gas jets were turned full on.
"The coroner, in a few words to the jury, said that this was one of the many cases he had had to deal with of mysterious foreigners who met no less mysterious deaths in his district.
"From the evidence he should say that Mr. Gabriel was most anxious to hide his identity, and the evidence that he did not go out in daylight pointed to the fact that he went in fear of something. The deceased seemed to be of Spanish nationality, and the recent disturbances in Barcelona made one wonder whether this man was not a refugee or a member of one of the numerous secret societies, whose plans, perhaps, he had betrayed. It looked as though his fear had got the better of him at last, and that he had chosen death at his own hands rather than at those of his enemies.
"The jury, after a few moments' deliberation, returned a verdict of suicide. The body, if not identified by to-morrow, will be buried by the authorities.
"A curious aspect of the case is that the Mrs. Graham who discovered the smell of gas has disappeared. There is nothing to connect her with the tragedy, but her evidence might have thrown some light on the affair. We understand the police, are making inquiries as to the missing woman, who took the room she occupied only a week ago."
The affair is now one of London's unsolved mysteries. Personally I have, as I said, my fancies—the date of the cutting is ten days after my arrival, with Anna, in London—but it is no business of mine.
It is peaceful here in this little spring-coloured garden. The sun has just dropped down behind a bank of storm-clouds over the sea and the lights of Pendeen are flashing out. A tramp steamer, miles away and looking like a toy on the broad Atlantic, is ploughing her way down towards the Longships. Perhaps she is going to Bilbao, or even Corbo or Rozana. Above me a large bird is planing on outstretched motionless wings in the copper blue of the sky, and the moors around me look like masses of crumpled mauve velvet in the darkening twilight.
And I—I sit here and smoke a very excellent cigar and wonder if Fate will ever stretch out her hand again to pick me up and drop me again into the whirl of things.
I say to myself that I hope not—and know that I lie.