s."

Cavenaugh blinked and brushed the lapel of his coat. "I suppose," he
said slowly, "that every suicide is logical and reasonable, if one
knew all the facts."

Eastman roused himself. "No, I don't think so. I've known too many
fellows who went off like that--more than I deserve, I think--and
some of them were absolutely inexplicable. I can understand Dudley;
but I can't see why healthy bachelors, with money enough, like
ourselves, need such a device. It reminds me of what Dr. Johnson
said, that the most discouraging thing about life is the number of
fads and hobbies and fake religions it takes to put people through a
few years of it."

"Dr. Johnson? The specialist? Oh, the old fellow!" said Cavenaugh
imperturbably. "Yes, that's interesting. Still, I fancy if one knew
the facts--Did you know about Wyatt?"

"I don't think so."

"You wouldn't, probably. He was just a fellow about town who spent
money. He wasn't one of the _forestieri_, though. Had connections
here and owned a fine old place over on Staten Island. He went in
for botany, and had been all over, hunting things; rusts, I believe.
He had a yacht and used to take a gay crowd down about the South
Seas, botanizing. He really did botanize, I believe. I never knew
such a spender--only not flashy. He helped a lot of fellows and he
was awfully good to girls, the kind who come down here to get a
little fun, who don't like to work and still aren't really tough,
the kind you see talking hard for their dinner. Nobody knows what
becomes of them, or what they get out of it, and there are hundreds
of new ones every year. He helped dozens of 'em; it was he who got
me curious about the little shop girls. Well, one afternoon when his
tea was brought, he took prussic acid instead. He didn't leave any
letters, either; people of any taste don't. They wouldn't leave any
material reminder if they could help it. His lawyers found that he
had just $314.72 above his debts when he died. He had planned to
spend all his money, and then take his tea; he had worked it out
carefully."

Eastman reached for his pipe and pushed his chair away from the
fire. "That looks like a considered case, but I don't think
philosophical suicides like that are common. I think they usually
come from stress of feeling and are really, as the newspapers call
them, desperate acts; done without a motive. You remember when Anna
Karenina was under the wheels, she kept saying, 'Why am I here?'"

Cavenaug