It needed a particularly dry and dusty east wind, a Sunday dinner of exceptional virulence, a conclusive letter from Konk, Maybrick, Ghool and Gabbitas, his principal and most urgent creditors, and a conversation with Miriam arising out of arrears of rent and leading on to mutual character sketching, before Mr. Polly could be brought to the necessary pitch of despair to carry out his plans. He went for an embittering walk, and came back to find Miriam in a bad temper over the tea things, with the brewings of three-quarters of an hour in the pot, and hot buttered muffin gone leathery. He sat eating in silence with his resolution made. "Coming to church?" said Miriam after she had cleared away. "Rather. I got a lot to be grateful for," said Mr. Polly. "You got what you deserve," said Miriam. "Suppose I have," said Mr. Polly, and went and stared out of the back window at a despondent horse in the hotel yard. He was still standing there when Miriam came downstairs dressed for church. Something in his immobility struck home to her. "You'd better come to church than mope," she said. "I shan't mope," he answered. She remained still for a moment. Her presence irritated him. He felt that in another moment he should say something absurd to her, make some last appeal for that understanding she had never been able to give. "Oh! _go_ to church!" he said. In another moment the outer door slammed upon her. "Good riddance!" said Mr. Polly. He turned about. "I've had my whack," he said. He reflected. "I don't see she'll have any cause to holler," he said. "Beastly Home! Beastly Life!" For a space he remained thoughtful. "Here goes!" he said at last. II For twenty minutes Mr. Polly busied himself about the house, making his preparations very neatly and methodically. He opened the attic windows in order to make sure of a good draught through the house, and drew down the blinds at the back and shut the kitchen door to conceal his arrangements from casual observation. At the end he would open the door on the yard and so make a clean clear draught right through the house. He hacked at, and wedged off, the tread of a stair. He cleared out the coals from under the staircase, and built a neat fire of firewood and paper there, he splashed about _paraffine_ and arranged the lamps and can even as he had designed, and made a fine inflammable pile of things in the little parlour behind the shop. "Looks pretty arsonical," he said as he surveyed it all. "Wouldn't do to have a caller now. Now for the stairs!" "Plenty of time," he assured himself, and took the lamp which was to explain the whole affair, and went to the head of the staircase between the scullery and the parlour. He sat down in the twilight with the unlit lamp beside him and surveyed things. He must light the fire in the coal cellar under the stairs, open the back door, then come up them very quickly and light the _paraffine_ puddles on each step, then sit down here again and cut his throat.