"I think," said Andrew, hopefully, "that my estimate of the sacredness of human life is sufficiently high for your purpose. If that is the only point--" "Ah, they all say that until they join. I remember an excellent young man who came among us for a time. He seemed discreet beyond his years, and we expected great things of him. But it was the old story. For young men the cause is as demoralizing as boarding schools are for girls." "What did he do?" "It went to his head. He took a bedroom in Pall Mall and sat at the window with an electric rifle picking them off on the door-steps of the clubs. It was a noble idea, but of course it imperilled the very existence of the society. He was a curate." "What became of him?" asked Andrew. "He is better dead," said the stranger, softly. "And the Society you speak of, what is it?" "The S. D. W. S. P." "The S. D. W. S. P.?" "Yes, the Society for Doing Without Some People." They were in Holborn, but turned up Southampton Row for quiet. "You have told me," said the stranger, now speaking rapidly, "that at times you have felt tempted to take your life, that life for which you will one day have to account. Suicide is the coward's refuge. You are miserable? When a young man knows that, he is happy. Misery is but preparing for an old age of delightful reminiscence. You say that London has no work for you, that the functions to which you looked forward are everywhere discharged by another. That need not drive you to despair. If it proves that someone should die, does it necessarily follow that the someone is you?" "But is not the other's life as sacred as mine?" "That is his concern." "Then you would have me--" "Certainly not. You are a boxer without employment, whom I am showing what to hit. In such a case as yours the Society would be represented by a third party, whose decision would be final. As an interested person you would have to stand aside." "I don't understand." "The arbitrator would settle if you should go." Andrew looked blank. "Go?" he repeated.