t
window. Here was the dead body of a man.

It lay partly on one side, with the forearm beneath it, the cheek on the
floor. The eyes were wide open; the stare was not an agreeable thing to
encounter. The lower jaw had fallen; a little pool of saliva had
collected beneath the mouth. An overthrown table, a partly burned
candle, a chair and some paper with writing on it were all else that the
room contained. The men looked at the body, touching the face in turn.
The boy gravely stood at the head, assuming a look of ownership. It was
the proudest moment of his life. One of the men said to him, "You're a
good 'un"--a remark which was received by the two others with nods of
acquiescence. It was Scepticism apologizing to Truth. Then one of the
men took from the floor the sheet of manuscript and stepped to the
window, for already the evening shadows were glooming the forest. The
song of the whip-poor-will was heard in the distance and a monstrous
beetle sped by the window on roaring wings and thundered away out of
hearing. The man read:

THE MANUSCRIPT

"Before committing the act which, rightly or wrongly, I have resolved
on and appearing before my Maker for judgment, I, James R. Colston,
deem it my duty as a journalist to make a statement to the public. My
name is, I believe, tolerably well known to the people as a writer of
tragic tales, but the somberest imagination never conceived anything
so tragic as my own life and history. Not in incident: my life has
been destitute of adventure and action. But my mental career has been
lurid with experiences such as kill and damn. I shall not recount them
here--some of them are written and ready for publication elsewhere.
The object of these lines is to explain to whomsoever may be
interested that my death is voluntary--my own act. I shall die at
twelve o'clock on the night of the 15th of July--a significant
anniversary to me, for it was on that day, and at that hour, that my
friend in time and eternity, Charles Breede, performed his vow to me
by the same act which his fidelity to our pledge now entails upon me.
He took his life in his little house in the Copeton woods. There was
the customary verdict of 'temporary insanity.' Had I testified at that
inquest--had I told all I knew, they would have called _me_ mad!"

Here followed an evidently long passage which the man reading read to
himself only. The rest he read aloud.

"I have still a week