He turned into Burton Crescent, and stopped before a dark, untidy-looking house that stared forlornly on the ill-kept square in front. He had lived here for the last two years, a small bedroom on the third floor being the exact amount of luxury permitted him by his salary. The hall was in total blackness--no reckless jet of blue wasted on the hall burners in Burton Crescent--but experience had taught Barton to dispense with such facilities. He made his way upstairs, stumbling over a sleeping cat, that fled away into the darkness with a horrible scream. His room was poorly furnished, but saved from the usual deadly barrenness of such apartments by two large shelves crowded with books, a fine engraving of Burne-Jones's "King Cophetua," and one or two cheaper reproductions of well-known pictures. He locked the door behind him, and turned up the gas. He began to feel a little more collected. This excitement was contemptible--the wine must have gone to his head. He poured himself out a glass of water, and drank it off. The thing had to be faced here and now, in all its radiant possibilities, in all its cold reality. He sat down in the frayed arm-chair and filled his pipe with trembling fingers. McFadden had spoken the truth, of that he felt certain. The man might have been deceived, but Barton doubted it. He was no callow novice at the game to suck in an ordinary turf lie with such conviction. Besides, he had hinted that Burch had reasons for not deceiving him. Then there was the chance that the trainer himself had been mistaken; such a thing might happen, and, as McFadden himself had said, nothing was certain, the mare might be left at the post. He lit his pipe and began to smoke quickly, trying to see the thing in its right proportions. On the one hand, years of drudgery at the bank, mean sordid poverty, surroundings such as these--he looked round and shuddered--to lead to what? Who could tell? He knew that he had ability, but life was such a ghastly lottery. Handicapped as he was, without money or friends, what more likely than that he should share the fate of others, fully as able and ambitious as himself--men who had eaten out their hearts in the labour and disappointment of existence, while life floated past on golden wings mocking and out of reach? And on the other hand, a deliberate crime, a temporary theft; and then, either life itself, full-blooded, working, joyous life, with success and fame to light the road, or--he paused a moment--death. There was no other alternative. He got up and crossed the room to the battered deal dressing-table. Pulling open the drawer, he took out a small revolver, almost the sole legacy of his father, a cashiered major in the Army. Well, why not? His life was his own, there was no one dependent on him, no one who would ever regret his death, except, perhaps, the fellows at the office. If he chose to cast it into the scale against destiny, who had the right to question him?