“That’ll have to do,” he thought. “It doesn’t really matter it being a bit short.” He poured himself out a cupful of hot water for shaving. It was one of the advantages of living alone that he could shave in the kitchen if he liked. Curiously enough he paused after pouring out the water. “Shall I or shall I not?” he pondered. He examined his chin in the mirror. “I suppose I’ll do,” he decided, “it won’t be noticed in the gas-light.” Then he saw the water he had poured out. “Oh, well,” he thought, “perhaps I will, after all....” He took out his razor, one of the old-fashioned kind, stropped it carefully and lathered himself. While he was shaving he thought: “I wish I hadn’t told that boy Jones I’d send him to Clotters on Monday morning. Clotters won’t like it much....” Suddenly, and seemingly without any premeditation, he thrust the soapy razor into his throat, just above the windpipe.... § 7 At the Duke Street Methodist Schoolroom a select audience of eleven waited until half-past eight for Mr. Weston to deliver his paper on “Shakespeare.” “Perhaps he’s ill,” suggested Miss Picksley. “No, he’s not, because he was at school this afternoon. My brother’s in his class,” said one of the Gunter girls. “Where does he live?” “Kitchener Road ... 24 or 25 ... I forget which.” “Well, it’s not far away. Somebody might go round and see. He may have forgotten all about it.” “I’ll go,” said Mr. Sly, the treasurer. “I’ll come too,” said Miss Picksley, who had designs on Mr. Sly. “We’ll all come,” chorused the Gunter girls. “No, don’t,” said Miss Picksley. “We don’t want a crowd. It doesn’t look nice.” Through the refuse of a Friday evening’s marketing Mr. Sly and Miss Picksley walked to Kitchener Road. They did not mind the walk They did not even go the quickest way. At No. 26 old father Jopson was standing at the front gate with his monstrous goitre hanging down. “It must be 24,” said Mr. Sly, “because this is 26.” “Yes,” agreed Miss Picksley. She walked up to the porch of No. 24 and knocked. “Does Mr. Weston live here?” enquired Mr. Sly. Jopson nodded profoundly. “He must be out,” said Miss Picksley. “Do you know if he’s out?” enquired Mr. Sly. Jopson raised his eyes sagaciously. “’E’s in, ’cos I seed ’im come in couple ’v ars ago, an’ I bin ’ere or in the fron’-rum ever since.” “Perhaps he’s in the garden.” “’E don’t go in the gawden nardays.” “Lives by himself, doesn’t he?” “Yus, lives by ’imself.” “I’m sure he must be out,” said Miss Picksley. As unostentatiously as possible she peeped through the letter-box. (She was not quite certain whether this was really a ladylike proceeding.) “’E ain’t aout, ’relse I should ’a seen ’im go aout.” “His hat and coat are on the hall-stand, too.... Perhaps he’s ill.” “Try again. Maybe he was in the garden and didn’t hear the first knocks.” They tried again, but to no purpose. Eventually they went away in the direction of Cubitt Lane.