“I went to her house to-day. I wanted to see her in her widow’s weeds; I wanted to see her eyes red with weeping over a grief which owed its bitterness to me. But she would not grant me an admittance. She had me thrust from her door, and I shall never know how deeply the iron has sunk into her soul. But--” and here his face showed a sudden change, “I shall see her if I am tried for murder. She will be in the court-room,--on the witness stand----” “Doubtless,” I interjected; but his interruption came quickly and with vehement passion. “Then I am ready. Welcome trial, conviction, death, even. To confront her eye to eye is all I wish. She shall never forget it, never!” “Then you do not deny----” I began. “I deny nothing,” he returned, and held out his hands with a grim gesture. “How can I, when there falls from everything I touch, the devilish thing which took away the life I hated?” “Have you anything more to say or do before you leave these rooms?” I asked. He shook his head, and then, bethinking himself, pointed to the roll of paper which he had flung on the table. “Burn that!” he cried. I took up the roll and looked at it. It was the manuscript of a poem in blank verse. “I have been with it into a dozen newspaper and magazine offices,” he explained with great bitterness. “Had I succeeded in getting a publisher for it I might have forgotten my wrongs and tried to build up a new life on the ruins of the old. But they would not have it, none of them, so I say, burn it! that no memory of me may remain in this miserable world.” “Keep to the facts!” I severely retorted. “It was while carrying this poem from one newspaper to another that you secured that bit of print upon the blank side of which you yourself printed the obituary notice with which you savored your revenge upon the woman who had disappointed you.” “You know that? Then you know where I got the poison with which I tipped the silly toy with which that weak man fooled away his life?” “No,” said I, “I do not know where you got it. I merely know it was no common poison bought at a druggist’s, or from any ordinary chemist.” “It was woorali; the deadly, secret woorali. I got it from--but that is another man’s secret. You will never hear from me anything that will compromise a friend. I got it, that is all. One drop, but it killed my man.” The satisfaction, the delight, which he threw into these words are beyond description. As they left his lips a jet of flame from the neglected fire shot up and threw his figure for one instant into bold relief upon the lowering ceiling; then it died out, and nothing but the twilight dusk remained in the room and on the countenance of this doomed and despairing man. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Difficult Problem, by Anna Katharine Green (Mrs. Charles Rohlfs)