“I knew that the man had spoken the truth. I was accustomed to lies, and had learned to detect them. I knew, also, that the world would be well rid of him and his kind. Why I should preserve him for death upon the gallows I did not see. The majesty of the law would be in no way ruffled by his premature departure; and if I could trust that part of his story, the lives of innocent women and children would, in the other case, suffer considerably. And, even if I and my unopened bag alighted at Leicester, I was sure that he would never reach London alive. He was a desperate man, this I read in his set face, his dazed eyes, his nervous hands. He was a poor devil, and I was sorry for him. Why, then, should I contribute, by my refusal to comply with his request, an additional hour of agony to his existence? Could I, with my pretence of philosophic freedom, alight at my station, leaving him to swallow the acid and die like a rat in a cage before the journey was over? I remembered that I had once seen a guinea-pig die from the effects of carbolic acid, and the remembrance sickened me. “As I sat there listening to the noise of the slackening train, which was nearing Leicester, I thought of a hundred things. I thought of Schopenhauer and Von Hartmann. I thought of the dying guinea-pig. I thought of the broad-faced Irish wife and the two children. “Then ‘Leicester’ flashed before me, and the train stopped. I rose, gathered my coat and rug, and lifted the volume of Von Hartmann from the seat. The man remained motionless in the corner of the compartment, but his eyes followed me. “I stooped, opened my bag, and laid the chemist’s package on the seat. Then I stepped out, closing the door after me.” As the speaker finished, he reached forward, selected an almond from the stand of nuts, fitted it carefully between the crackers, and cracked it slowly. The young woman in the white dress started up with a shudder. “What a horrible story!” she exclaimed; “for it is a story, after all, and not a fact.” “A point, rather,” suggested the Englishman; “but is that all?” “All of the point,” returned the alienist. “The next day I saw in the _Times_ that a man, supposed to be James Morganson, who was wanted for murder, was found dead in a first-class smoking-compartment of the Midland Railway. Coroner’s verdict, ‘Death resulting from an overdose of opium, taken with suicidal intent.’” The journalist dropped a lump of sugar in his cup and watched it attentively. “I don’t think I could have done it,” he said. “I might have left him with his carbolic. But I couldn’t have deliberately given him his death-potion.” “But as long as he was going to die,” responded the girl in black, “it was better to let him die painlessly.” The Englishman smiled. “Can a woman ever consider the ethical side of a question when the sympathetic one is visible?” he asked.