Because it was cold in the dining-room, and the wind was howling, and there was a numb sensation in his hands. A funny dead feeling. The whisky, perhaps. But when he had turned on the gas, he forgot about it, and stood thinking, matchbox in hand, thinking out the new problem. It was difficult to think clearly. Then it exploded like that, when he put the match to it. He kicked it. Damned fool of a thing. Like John. It was John who was responsible for all this worry and fuss. John could go to the devil. He had fooled John before, and he would fool him again. Ha, ha! That was a cunning idea. Then they would say in the papers, "A great genius--a noble character--ha, ha!--'The Death in the Wood'--last work, imaginative writing"--ha, ha! _imaginative!_--and it was all true. But nobody would know--nobody would say so--because he would be dead. John wouldn't say so, and Margery wouldn't say so--because he would be dead. Mustn't say anything about the dead. Oh no! Must burn this silly confession. When he had had another drink. It was so cold. No more whisky--hell! "There's hoosh in the bottle still." But there wasn't. Who wrote that? Damned Canadian fellow. The Yukon. Port. There was some port somewhere. Port was warming. He fumbled in the oak dresser for the decanter, knocking over a number of glasses. Damned little port left--somebody been at it. Best drink in the world--port. Good, rich, generous stuff. Ah! That was good. One more glass. Then he would go out. Half-past eleven. Margery would be wandering down in a minute--would think he was drunk. He wasn't drunk--head perfectly clear. Saw the whole thing now. Dramatic end--drowned in sight of home--national loss--moonlight. No, there was no moon. Hell of a wind, though. A sou'wester--he, he! Poor Margery, poor Muriel, poor John! They would miss him--when he had gone. They would be sorry then. Good fellow, John. Good fellows--all of them. But they didn't appreciate him--nobody did. Yes, Muriel did. A dear girl, Muriel. But no mind. He would like to say good-bye to Muriel. And Margery. But that wouldn't do. Dear things, both of them. Drink their healths. The last glass. No more port. No more whisky. No cheese, no butter, no jam. Like the war. Ha, ha! First-rate port. He was warm now, and sleepy. God, what a wind. Mustn't go to sleep here. Sleep in the river--the dear old river. Drowning was pleasant, they said--not like hanging. Would rather stay here, though--in the warm. Only there was no more port. And he had promised some one--_must_ keep promises. Come on, then. No shirking. Head perfectly clear. What was it he was going to do first? Something he had to do. God knows. Head perfectly clear. But sleepy. Terribly sleepy.