ation; six envelopes, legibly addressed; six
postage-stamps; and that part of his preparations was complete. He
licked the stamps and placed them on the envelopes; took the notes and
inserted them in the letters; folded the letters and thrust them into
the envelopes; sealed the envelopes; and unlocking the drawer of his
desk produced a small, black, ugly-looking bottle.

He opened the bottle and poured the contents into a medicine-glass.

It had not been without considerable thought that Mr Meggs had decided
upon the method of his suicide. The knife, the pistol, the rope--they
had all presented their charms to him. He had further examined the
merits of drowning and of leaping to destruction from a height.

There were flaws in each. Either they were painful, or else they were
messy. Mr Meggs had a tidy soul, and he revolted from the thought of
spoiling his figure, as he would most certainly do if he drowned
himself; or the carpet, as he would if he used the pistol; or the
pavement--and possibly some innocent pedestrian, as must infallibly
occur should he leap off the Monument. The knife was out of the
question. Instinct told him that it would hurt like the very dickens.

No; poison was the thing. Easy to take, quick to work, and on the whole
rather agreeable than otherwise.

Mr Meggs hid the glass behind the inkpot and rang the bell.

'Has Miss Pillenger arrived?' he inquired of the servant.

'She has just come, sir.'

'Tell her that I am waiting for her here.'

Jane Pillenger was an institution. Her official position was that of
private secretary and typist to Mr Meggs. That is to say, on the rare
occasions when Mr Meggs's conscience overcame his indolence to the
extent of forcing him to resume work on his British Butterflies, it was
to Miss Pillenger that he addressed the few rambling and incoherent
remarks which constituted his idea of a regular hard, slogging spell of
literary composition. When he sank back in his chair, speechless and
exhausted like a Marathon runner who has started his sprint a mile or
two too soon, it was Miss Pillenger's task to unscramble her shorthand
notes, type them neatly, and place them in their special drawer in the
desk.

Miss Pillenger was a wary spinster of austere views, uncertain age, and
a deep-rooted suspicion of men--a suspicion which, to do an abused sex
justice, they had done nothing to foster. Men had always been almost
coldly correct in their dealings with Miss Pille