Jones seated himself at the table. "Forgive me for asking, but may I assume that you believe in God, a life hereafter and in the rewards and punishments which, we are told, await us?" The musician closed his eyes. "Thank you," said Jones, who began to write: I, Angelo Cara, being in full possession of my senses and conscious of the immanence of death, do solemnly swear to the truth of this my dying declaration, which, I also solemnly swear, is made by me without any collusion with Keith Lennox. First; I firmly believe in God, in a life hereafter, and in future rewards and punishments. Second; I alone am guilty of the murder of Montagu Paliser, Jr., whom I killed without aid or accomplices and without the privity or knowledge of any other person. Jones, wishing that in his law-school days he had crammed less and studied more, looked up. "I cannot compliment you on your pen, Mr. Cara. But then, pen and ink always seem so emphatic. Personally, I prefer a pencil. Writing with a pencil is like talking in a whisper." It was in an effort to deodorise the atmosphere, charged with the ghastly, that he said it. The declarant did not appear to notice. His sunken eyes had been closed. Widely they opened. "The other side!" Jones blotted the declaration. "The other side cannot be very different from this side. Not that part of it at least which people, such as you and I, first visit. A bit farther on, I suppose we prepare for our return here. For that matter, it will be very careless of us, if we don't. We relive and redie and redie and relive, endlessly, ad infinitum. The Church does not put it in just that manner, but the allegory of the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting amounts, perhaps, to the same thing. 'Never the spirit was born, the spirit shall cease to be never.' That is the way Edwin Arnold expressed it, after the 'Gita' had expressed it for him. But probably you have not frequented the 'Gita,' Mr. Cara. It is an exceedingly----" "Cassy's lace dress is all torn. It was so pretty." He is in the astral now, thought Jones, who said: "She will have a much prettier one." But now again from the hall came that quick click and Cassy appeared, a little fat man behind her. Jones stood up. "How do you do. You know Mr. Cara. Mr. Cara wants his signature attested." The little man exhibited his gold teeth. "With a will that is not the way. I told this young lady so but she would have it that I come along." The young lady, who was taking her hat off, left the room. Jones fished in a pocket. "It is very good of you. Here, if you please, is your fee. The document is not a will, it is a release." As the novelist spoke, he put the pen in the musician's hand and, finding it necessary, or thinking that it was, for, as he afterward realised, it was not, he guided it.