“I am sorry!” exclaimed Pocket, as they stood over the blank sheet of glass and gelatine; it was like looking at a slate from which some infinitely precious message had been expunged unread. “I’m not sure that you weren’t right after all; what’s water-tight must be more or less light-tight, when you come to think of it. I say, what’s all this? The other side oughtn’t to bulge like that!” He picked the broken plate out of the side that was already open, and weighed the slide in his hand; it was not heavy enough to contain another plate, he declared with expert conviction; yet the side which had not been opened was a slightly bulging but distinctly noticeable convexity. Pocket opened it at a word from Phillida, and an over-folded packet of MS. leapt out. “It’s his writing!” cried the girl, with pain and awe in her excitement. She had dropped the document at once. “It’s in English,” said Pocket, picking it up. “It must be what he was writing all last night!” “It is.” “You see what it is!” urged Phillida, feebly. But she watched him closely as he read to himself:— “_June_ 20, 190—.” “It is a grim coincidence that I should sit down to reveal the secret of my latter days on what is supposed to be the shortest night of the year; for they must come to an end at sunrise, viz., at 3.44 according to the almanac, and it is already after 10 p.m. Even if I sit at my task till four I shall have less than six hours in which to do justice to the great _ambition_ and the crowning folly of my life. I used the underlined word advisedly; some would substitute ‘monomania,’ but I protest I am as sane as they are, fail as I may to demonstrate that fact among so many others to be dealt with in the very limited time at my disposal. Had I more time, or the pen of a readier writer, I should feel surer of vindicating my head if not my heart. But I have been ever deliberate in all things (excepting, certainly, the supreme folly already mentioned), and I would be as deliberate over the last words I shall ever write, as in my final preparations for death——”. “What is it?” asked Phillida, for his eyes had dilated as he read, and he was breathing hard. “He practically says he was going to commit suicide at daybreak! He’s said so once already, but now he says it in so many words!” “Well, we know he didn’t do it,” said Phillida, as though she found a crumb of comfort in the thought. “I’m not so sure about that.” “Go on reading it aloud. I can bear it if that’s the worst.” “But it isn’t, Phillida. I can see it isn’t!” “Then let us read it together. I’d rather face it with you than afterwards all by myself. We’ve seen each other through so much, surely we can—surely——”