"What is my punishment?" he asked of himself, after some soliloquy. "Social ostracism, perpetual poverty, interminable despair. Yet, after all, what have I done to deserve it? I've not been more wild than other fellows during the sowing of my wild oats, as old fogies term it. No; the simple reason for it all is merely because I'm a younger son. My brother has enough to keep him in luxury, whereas I had but a pittance at most, and upon it was expected to keep up appearances and spend it like other fellows. I've done so, and now am doomed to pay the penalty of poverty. Even death would be preferable to the life before me."
He halted, suddenly impressed by the idea. His face was pale and haggard, and in his eyes was a strangely intense look.
"Death! Why not?" he repeated in a hoarse whisper. "I have no longer any interest in life, therefore death would be the easiest means to end my difficulties. It would be all over in a moment."
Shuddering, he sank slowly into the chair, and resting his arms upon the table, buried his face in his hands.
"Yes," he muttered in bitter despair. "I've staked everything, and lost, through my cursed ill-luck. If I exiled myself it would be running away from my creditors, as if I feared them. No, by God! I—I won't do that; I'll choose the other alternative."
With a firm, resolute expression upon his grave features he rose, strode quickly across the room, and, unlocking a Japanese cabinet, took therefrom a tiny phial of colorless liquid.
Holding it up to the light, he gazed upon it with a curious smile of gratification at having the poison in his possession. Strange that a man should laugh when about to take his own life; yet such is frequently the
