‘And the paper?’ asked Simon Lock. ‘The paper,’ said Mr. Oakley, holding the strangely hidden document in his hand, ‘is double, as you see. On the inside it is filled with small writing, very small writing, and the signature is that of Featherstone. I have read it, and I have brought it here as a surprise for you--I hope a pleasant surprise. Hence what you were pleased to call my devilish merry humour.’ ‘Give it me,’ said Simon Lock briefly. His voice trembled. ‘Here it is, sir.’ Simon Lock took the paper, and began to read with difficulty. ‘Turn another light on,’ he said, and Mr. Oakley obeyed. CHAPTER XIV--FEATHERSTONE’S RECITAL And this is what Mr. Simon Lock read, while Mr. Oakley watched his master’s face. The calligraphy of the document was miraculously neat and small, and the thing had all the appearance of a declaration formally made: ‘Statement of me, Robert John Dalrymple Featherstone, made on the day before my death. (Here followed the date.) ‘This statement is intended to be perfectly plain and simple. I put down facts as they occur to me in the most straightforward possible way. I have never before in my life undertaken any sort of literary composition, beyond letters to acquaintances. My parents dying when I was a boy, and me being an only child, I have had no relatives; nor have I ever had an intimate friend. I do not know why I am at the trouble to write out this statement now. I only know that I am compelled to make it by an instinct, or an impulse, which overpowers my ordinary common-sense. It cannot be a matter of any importance that the world should understand the circumstances under which I am led to commit suicide. The world will not care. And, on the other hand, this statement may work harm, or at least annoyance, to one whom I love. Nevertheless I must write it. Everyone, perhaps, who commits suicide feels this tremendous desire to explain to the world the reasons of his act--that act for which there is no remedy, that act which he knows, if he is a Christian, must involve him in eternal remorse. ‘As I write I have a sort of feeling that what I put down may be printed in the newspapers. This feeling causes me to want to write unnaturally, in a strained and showy measure. I shall try to avoid this. All my life I have lived quiet and retired. This was not because I was modest. I am not more modest than other mediocre men. It was because I was shy and awkward and reserved by nature in the presence of others. When I am alone I feel bumptious, audacious; I feel like a popular actor. ‘But let me begin.