Then the consul, impressed by the man's manner, said, in an almost respectful tone, "It is better that you should go on board the English steamer at once. I have arranged everything." The detective whispered something into the consul's ear, and then slipped out of the room quietly. Carew looked through the window at the fair tropical world without. He could see the busy quay, with its green trees waving in the fresh trade wind, and the breakers dashing upon the coral reef. Beyond that, between the blue sea and the blue sky, there loomed a dark mass. Carew knew that this was the vessel which was to be his prison, lying at anchor in the outer roads. He shivered; then turning to the consul said-- "Grant me one last favour before I go: let me have paper and pen. I wish to write a letter." The consul hesitated. "Give it to him," whispered Allen, who had been eyeing Carew intently; and Carew rewarded him with a grateful look. The writing materials were put on the table. He sat before them with his back to the spectators, and as he held the pen in his right hand, he placed his left elbow upon the table, stooping over it, his face buried in the open palm as if he were meditating deeply what he should write. And so he remained for quite a minute without writing a word. Once a slight tremor passed through his frame. After that he sat quite motionless. The detective again entered the room, followed by two officers of police. "Come, sir," he said, "we must go now," and he put his hand lightly on Carew's shoulder. As the hand touched him, Carew's elbow slipped, his head dropped heavily upon the table, face downwards, and from his left hand, which had been over his mouth, there fell on the table, and rolled slowly across it, a small empty bottle. He was quite dead! He had found a use at last for the poisonous drug which the Rotterdam chemist had grudgingly sold him. * * * * * "The prisoner has slipped away from us," said the detective; "but, after all, I am not sorry for it in a way, for there was good in the man." And so ended the misspent life of Henry Carew--a man by nature probably no worse than many of the most respectable-seeming among us. But he was morally timid; and such a one, however benevolent be his disposition, however opposed to vice be his inclinations, is the slave of circumstances, and is quite as likely to develop into a villain as a saint. A weak will is the devil's easiest prey. Arthur Allen's narrative will be given in his own words:--