his way
to fortune with no help but his undaunted pluck, his tireless energy,
and his sterling integrity.

Newspapers apply to him now, and he writes long signed articles to
struggling young men, in which he gives the best possible advice as to
how to become wealthy. In these articles, he, in a burst of
glorification, cites the king, queen, deuce, and tray, the four aces,
and all that. He alludes tenderly to the nickel he borrowed and spent
for cigarettes as the foundation of his fortune.

"To succeed in life," he writes, "the youth of America have only to see
an old man seated upon a railing and smoking a clay pipe. Then go up and
ask him for a match."

A TALE OF MERE CHANCE.

BEING AN ACCOUNT OF THE PURSUIT OF THE TILES, THE STATEMENT OF THE
CLOCK, AND THE GRIP OF A COAT OF ORANGE SPOTS, TOGETHER WITH SOME
CRITICISM OF A DETECTIVE SAID TO BE CARVED FROM AN OLD TABLE-LEG.

Yes, my friend, I killed the man, but I would not have been detected in
it were it not for some very extraordinary circumstances. I had long
considered this deed, but I am a delicate and sensitive person, you
understand, and I hesitated over it as the diver hesitates on the brink
of a dark and icy mountain pool. A thought of the shock of the contact
holds one back.

As I was passing his house one morning, I said to myself, "Well, at any
rate, if she loves him, it will not be for long." And after that
decision I was not myself, but a sort of a machine.

I rang the bell and the servants admitted me to the drawing-room. I
waited there while the old tall clock placidly ticked its speech of
time. The rigid and austere chairs remained in possession of their
singular imperturbability, although, of course, they were aware of my
purpose, but the little white tiles of the floor whispered one to
another and looked at me. Presently he entered the room, and I, drawing
my revolver, shot him. He screamed--you know that scream--mostly
amazement--and as he fell forward his blood was upon the little white
tiles. They huddled and covered their eyes from this rain. It seemed to
me that the old clock stopped ticking as a man may gasp in the middle of
a sentence, and a chair threw itself in my way as I sprang toward the
door.

A moment later, I was walking down the street, tranquil, you understand,
and I said to myself, "It is done. Long years from this day I will say
to her that it was I who killed him. After time has eaten the conscience
of the thing