“‘What, a scoundrel you are!’ I exclaimed.
“‘Well, I don’t know,’ he answered; ‘there have been worse men. I never said a harsh word to a woman, and I never hit a man when he was down—’
“I blushed. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean to hit you,’ I responded.
“He took no notice.
“‘I like my wife,’ he said. ‘She is a good woman, and I’d do a good deal to keep her and the children from knowing the truth. Perhaps I’d kill myself even if I didn’t want to. I don’t know, but I am tired—damned tired.’
“‘And yet you deserted her.’
“‘I did. I tried not to, but I couldn’t help it. If I were free to go back to her to-morrow, unless I was ill and wanted nursing, I’d see that she had grown shapeless, and that her hands were coarse.’ He stretched out his own, which were singularly white and delicate. ‘I believe I’d leave her in a week,’ he said.
“Then with an eager movement he pointed to my bag.
“‘That is the ending of the difficulty,’ he added. ‘Otherwise I swear that before the train gets to London, I will swallow this stuff and die like a rat.’
“‘I admit your right to die in any manner you choose; but I don’t see that it is my place to assist you. It is an ugly job.”