Some words escaped him when, after completing its examination, during which he found nothing he wished to be altered, he refolded it. He then sealed it in another envelope and wrote in a big, bold hand: "My Will-- Dudley Chisholm." As the names of his solicitors, Messrs. Tarrant and Drew, of Lincoln's Inn Fields, were appended to the document, there was no necessity for him to superscribe them. "All is entirely in order," he murmured hoarsely. "And now I have to decide whether to await my doom, or take time by the forelock." As he spoke thus, his nervous hand toyed with the little paper packet before him. The room was in semi-darkness, for the logs had burned down and their red glow threw no light. At that moment the turret-clock struck a deep note, which echoed far away across the silent Severn. A strange look was in his eyes. The fire of insanity was burning there. As he glanced around in a strained and peculiar manner, he noticed upon a side table the whiskey, some soda-water, and a glass, all of which Riggs, according to custom, had placed there ready to his hand. Without hesitation he crossed to it, resolved on the last desperate step. He drew from the syphon until the glass was half-full. Then he added some whiskey, returned with it to his seat, and placed it upon the table. With care he opened the little packet that had been hoarded since the days of his journey in Central Asia, disclosing a small quantity of some yellowish powder, which he emptied into the glass, stirring it with the ivory paper-knife until all became dissolved. Then he sank into his chair with the tumbler set before him. He held it up to the light, examining it critically, with a sad smile playing about his thin white lips. Presently he put it down, and with both hands pushed the hair wearily from his fevered forehead. "Shall I write to Claudia?" he asked himself in a hoarse voice, scarcely louder than a whisper. "Shall I leave her a letter confessing all and asking forgiveness?" For a long time he pondered over the suggestion that had thus come to him. "No," he said at last, "it would be useless, and my sin would only cause my memory to be more hateful. Ah, no!" he murmured; "to leave the world in silence is far the best. The coroner's jury will return a verdict to the effect that I was of unsound mind. Juries don't return verdicts of _felo-de-se_ nowadays. The time of stakes and cross-roads has passed." And he laughed harshly again, for now that he had placed all his affairs in order a strange carelessness in regard to existence had come upon him.