I went. I thought that he would sleep, and after a good night’s rest he would be reasonable. I’d take him to the doctor in the morning. I slept myself. It was past nine next morning when I woke. There was an envelope in the letter box. It was from Orchard. He inclosed the key of his set, and a little note in pencil. So far as I can remember, this is pretty much how it ran: “Not a bit of good, old fellow. Hopkins won’t leave me alone. He was in bed all the time--his own bed, under the window. I wonder you didn’t see him. He looked hard at me, and I knew he meant me to send you away. Not a bit of good trying to resist a man like that--a fellow who won’t drown! He’s making me hang myself; says he’s a firm believer in capital punishment. I murdered him, and I must swing for it. You’ll find me, if he leaves me alone, behind the kitchen door. I’m going to bring this note down, with the key, and put it in your letter box. Hope Hopkins won’t get it. I should like you to know the truth. Suicide is vulgar--hanging the most popular form of self-effacement. I dislike popularity, as you know. Hopkins reassures me; he says it’s only justice. He’s reading every word I write. Sell the sticks--if he’ll let you--and square up Mackary. Poor Miss M----, she was a little sweet on me. Clever girl! Wasted on a ‘good family trade.’” That was all. I know that the reference to Miss Mackary came last. She’s still at the shop in Bernard Street; you must come and have a couple of Queen Charlotte cakes. I went up. He was hanging, as he said he would be, behind the kitchen door. The door is half glass. As I pushed it back. I saw him gently swinging. You won’t believe it--I’m not sure that I believe it myself--but I’ll swear that as I put the key in the outer door I heard the long, wailing cry of a violin. * * * * * A good year afterward I was dining with the Prays at Kensington. There was another man there--a tiresome fool. The second Mrs. Pray has a knack of collecting stupid people--the sort of stupid people who are small somebodies in their particular line. This man had been abroad collecting rare orchids. His name was Hopkins. It is such a common name that, although I remembered poor Orchard at once, I never thought of asking him if he knew the Inn. Still, I brought the conversation round to it. After dinner, when Mrs. Pray had left us, I said to Pray: “There is a man called Jackson in your old set. And Kinsman’s gone--to the bad some say.” Hopkins pricked up his ears. “You are talking of the Inn,” he said, and mentioned my number. “Odd thing! I have a set in that very house. Top floor, right-hand side as you go up the stairs. Of course you’ve seen my name--Hopkins.” I could only look at him and nod my head. He filled his glass and carefully cut the end of a cigar.