one of the
gables of the Temple gardens, said--

"That's where Mr. Williamson threw himself over, sir; he got out on
the roof, on to the highest point he could reach."

"He wanted," said Mike, "to do the job effectually."

"He did so; he made a hole two feet deep."

"They put him into a deeper one."

The officer laughed; and they walked round the gardens, passing by
the Embankment to King's Bench Walk. Opening the gate there, the
policeman asked Mike if he were coming out, but he said he would
return across the gardens, and let himself out by the opposite gate.
He walked, thinking of what he and the policeman had been saying--the
proposed reduction in the rents of the chambers, the late innovation
of throwing open the gardens to the poor children of the
neighbourhood, and it was not until he stooped to unlock the gate
that he remembered that he was alive.

Then the voice that had been counselling him so long, drew strangely
near, and said "Die." The voice sounded strangely clear in the void
of a great brain silence. Earth ties seemed severed, and then quite
naturally, without any effort of mind, he went up-stairs to shoot
himself. No effort of mind was needed, it seemed the natural and
inevitable course for him to take, and he was only conscious of a
certain faint surprise that he had so long delayed. There was no
trace of fear or doubt in him; he walked up the long staircase
without embarrassment, and in a heavenly calm of mind hastened to put
his project into execution, dreading the passing of the happiness of
his present mood, and the return of the fever of living. He stopped
for a moment to see himself in the glass, and looking into the depths
of his eyes, he strove to read there the story of his triumph over
life. Then seeing the disorder of his dress, and the untidy
appearance of his unshaven chin, he smiled, conceiving in that moment
that it would be consistent to make as careful a toilette to meet
death, as he had often done to meet a love.

He was anxious for the world to know that it was not after a drunken
bout he had shot himself, but after philosophic deliberation and
judicious reflection. And he could far better affirm his state of
mind by his dress, than by any written words. Lying on the bed,
cleanly shaved, wearing evening clothes, silk socks, patent leather
shoes and white gloves? No, that would be vulgar, and all taint of
vulgarity must be avoided. He must represent, even in a state of
symbo