"You'll get six months for that," some one was crying.
But to the threat Mistrial paid no heed. He had crossed the rail, his hands relaxed, and just as he dropped straight down to the river below, he could see a policeman, his club uplifted, hanging over the fence, promising him the pleasures of imprisonment. Such was his last glimpse of earth. A multitude of lights danced before his eyes; every nerve in his body tingled; his ears were filled with sudden sounds; he felt himself incased in ice; then something snapped, and all was blank.
The next day a rumor of the suicide was bruited through the clubs.
"What do you think of it, Jones?" Yarde asked.
The novelist plucked at his beard. There were times when he himself did not know what he thought. In this instance, however, he had already learned of the disaster that had overtaken the Dunellen estate, and weaving two and two sagaciously together, he answered with a shrug.
"What do I think of it? I think he died like a man who knew how to live"—an epitaph which pleased him so much that he got his card-case out and wrote it down.
THE END.
By the same Author.
A Transaction in Hearts.
Eden.
The Truth about Tristrem Varick.
Mr. Incoul's Misadventure.
A Transient Guest.
The Anatomy of Negation.
The Philosophy of Disenchantment.