So I tore my letter into small pieces with a vast satisfaction, and I was proceeding to tear also the luckless copy of the Gotham Gazette when I paused. I had not noticed that the fateful paragraph, begun near the bottom of a page, was continued on the next. Again I read:
“... when the nearest spectators could reach him to rescue him from his perilous position they found to their surprise that the man was dead....”
Quickly I turned over the page; then I gave a gasp, for this was the continuation:
“... to the world. The gallant captain had been imbibing not wisely but too well, and when aroused after some difficulty, claimed that he had a right to sleep there if he chose. It was only after much argument and resistance that he was finally persuaded to accompany an officer to the police station.”
“Of all the—”
Words failed me at this point. I plumped down on my chair and sat as if paralysed. And after all the captain was not dead—only dead drunk, and my brilliant effort to avoid marrying his widow had been entirely unnecessary. Then after all I was a fool.
Well, it was too late to find it out. At least I never went back on my word. I must go through with the other business.
“Anastasia Guinoval! Hum! maybe it’ll turn out all right. Time will show. Anyway—it will be a good chance to learn French.”
And with this comforting reflection I went to bed.
END OF BOOK I