"Yes, it is all over," he thought; "I throw up the cards. But I will not endure the disgrace of a public trial, the ignominy of a convict's life; and after that to come out of jail with my soul eaten out by long years of penal servitude, with the brand of a felon on my name. Oh no--not that! After all, a man has always one last privilege left him; he holds in his own hands the power of terminating his own miserable existence. Yes; I will kill myself, and have done with it all!" In the contemplation of suicide he became calmer. Now that he had determined on death, his terrible anxiety left him, and the heroism of despair supported him. "I feel a peace of mind at this moment such as has not come to me for many wretched months," he said to himself. "There is almost a pleasure in knowing that one has got to the bottom of one's cup of suffering, that there can be nothing worse to come." He meditated quietly for some time as to how he should take away his life. At last he came to a decision, and a strange smile lit up his face. "Yes, that is an admirable plan; now for the means of carrying it out. First, I must have a sovereign or so. I can pawn my watch. Now for the ballast." He glanced round the room. "Yes, that will do." He rose and collected several heavy leaden paperweights from the different desks in the offices and put them into his pockets. "That will be sufficient. Now I will go to Brighton. It is a glorious evening. I will smell the sea-air once more. I will have a last dinner at an hotel; and then at night, when the tide is high, I will throw myself off the pier; this weight of lead will keep me down. And the next morning my creditors may seize my body: they are welcome to it." At that moment a loud knock came at the outer door. He turned pale and nearly fainted at the sound. Was he to be balked of those last few hours of freedom which he had promised himself? Were these the officers of justice who had come to apprehend him? Once more the dew of agony burst out on his brow; he groaned aloud; then, summoning resolution, the desperate man approached the door. But it was only the postman, after all. "Idiot that I am not to have known the knock! but my brain swims to-night. A letter for me. What is this?" He read the letter slowly through; then he put his hand to his forehead. A revulsion of feeling had suddenly come to him that confused and stunned him. "Oh, merciful Heaven!" he said, "is this but a cruel trick of Fortune to tempt me with a vain hope? I had quite reconciled myself to death--and now this comes. Perhaps it is but a short reprieve, and its price will be all that agonising suspense again. No, let me die; and yet"--he glanced at the letter again--"surely I have here a means of escape. If I can but collect my scattered wits and recover my cunning, I can save myself. I can live, but it will mean crime again--always crime! Oh, is it worth it?"