mutton, and that I can't prove it, my gorge
rises at the injustice of the whole affair. I used to feel bitterly
about that seven thousand eight hundred pounds; it seems a trifle now!
Dear me, why, the day before yesterday I was comparatively happy.'

And Morris stood on the sidewalk and heaved another sobbing sigh.

'Then there's another thing,' he resumed; 'can I? Am I able? Why didn't
I practise different handwritings while I was young? How a fellow
regrets those lost opportunities when he grows up! But there's
one comfort: it's not morally wrong; I can try it on with a
clear conscience, and even if I was found out, I wouldn't greatly
care--morally, I mean. And then, if I succeed, and if Pitman is staunch,
there's nothing to do but find a venal doctor; and that ought to be
simple enough in a place like London. By all accounts the town's
alive with them. It wouldn't do, of course, to advertise for a corrupt
physician; that would be impolitic. No, I suppose a fellow has simply to
spot along the streets for a red lamp and herbs in the window, and
then you go in and--and--and put it to him plainly; though it seems a
delicate step.'

He was near home now, after many devious wanderings, and turned up
John Street. As he thrust his latchkey in the lock, another mortifying
reflection struck him to the heart.

'Not even this house is mine till I can prove him dead,' he snarled, and
slammed the door behind him so that the windows in the attic rattled.

Night had long fallen; long ago the lamps and the shop-fronts had begun
to glitter down the endless streets; the lobby was pitch--dark; and, as
the devil would have it, Morris barked his shins and sprawled all his
length over the pedestal of Hercules. The pain was sharp; his temper was
already thoroughly undermined; by a last misfortune his hand closed on
the hammer as he fell; and, in a spasm of childish irritation, he turned
and struck at the offending statue. There was a splintering crash.

'O Lord, what have I done next?' wailed Morris; and he groped his way
to find a candle. 'Yes,' he reflected, as he stood with the light in
his hand and looked upon the mutilated leg, from which about a pound of
muscle was detached. 'Yes, I have destroyed a genuine antique; I may be
in for thousands!' And then there sprung up in his bosom a sort of angry
hope. 'Let me see,' he thought. 'Julia's got rid of--, there's nothing
to connect me with that beast Forsyth; the men were all drunk,