“My dear David,”—wrote old Mr. Mottisfont,—“My dear David, I have just written a letter to Edward—a blameless and beautiful letter—in which I have announced my immediate, or, as one might say, approximate intention of committing suicide by the simple expedient of first putting arsenic into a cup of tea and then drinking the tea. I shall send Edward for the tea, and I shall put the arsenic into it, under his very nose. And Edward will be thinking of beetles, and will not see me do it. I am prepared to bet my bottom dollar that he does not see me do it. Edward’s letter, of which I enclose a copy, is the sort of letter which one shows to coroners, and jurymen, and legal advisers. Of course things may not have gone as far as that, but, on the other hand, they may. There are evil-minded persons who may have suspected Edward of having hastened my departure to a better world. You may even have suspected him yourself, in which case, of course, my dear David, this letter will be affording you a good deal of pleasurable relief.” David clenched his hand and read on. “Edward’s letter is for the coroner. It should arrive about a fortnight after my death, if my valued correspondent, William Giles, of New York, does as I have asked him. This letter is for you. Between ourselves, then, it was that possible three years of yours that decided me. I couldn’t stand it. I don’t believe in another world, and I’m damned if I’ll put in three years’ hell in this one. Do you remember old Madden? I do, and I’m not going to hang on like that, not to please any one, nor I’m not going to be cut up in sections either. So now you know all about it. I’ve just sent Edward for the tea. Poor Edward, it will hurt his feelings very much to be suspected of polishing me off. By the way, David, as a sort of last word—you’re no end of a damn fool—why don’t you marry the right woman instead of wasting your time hankering after the wrong one? That’s all. Here’s luck. “Yours. “E. M. M.”