otive was denied him. It was a
sense of personal loss which had driven him out on to that canal path, a
murderer at heart. It was something of which he had been robbed, an acute
and burning desire for vengeance, personal, entirely egotistical. It was
not the wrong to the woman which he resented, had there been any wrong.
It was the agony of his own personal misery. He rose from his bed and
stamped up and down his little chamber in a fear which was almost
hysterical. He threw wide open the windows, heedless of a driving
snowstorm. The subdued murmur of the city, with its paling lights,
brought him no relief. He longed frantically for some one who knew the
truth, for Elizabeth before any one, with her soft, cool touch, her
gentle, protective sympathy. He was a fool to think he could live alone
like this, with such a burden to bear! Perhaps it would not be for long.
The risks were many. At any moment he might hear the lift stop, steps
across the corridor, the ring at his bell, the plainly-clad, businesslike
man outside, with his formal questions, his grim civility. He fumbled
about in his little dressing-case until he came to a small box containing
several white pills. He gripped them in his hand and looked around,
listening. No, it was fancy! There was still no sound in the building.
When at last he went back to bed, however, the little box was tightly
clenched in his hands.

In the morning he went through his usual programme. He arose soon after
eight, lighted his little spirit lamp, made his coffee, cut some bread
and butter, and breakfasted. Then he lit a cigarette and sat down at his
desk. His imagination, however, seemed to have burnt itself out in the
night. Ideas and phrases were denied to him. He was thankful, about
eleven o'clock, to hear a ring at the bell and find Martha Grimes outside
with a little parcel under her arm. She was wearing the same shabby black
dress and her fingers were stained with copying ink. Her almost too
luxuriant hair was ill-arranged and untidy. Even her eyes seemed to have
lost their lustre.

"I've finished," she announced, handing him the parcel. "Better look and
see whether it's all right. I can't do it up properly till I've had the
whole."

He cut the string and looked at a few of the sheets. The typing was
perfect. He began to express his approval but she interrupted him.

"It's better stuff than I expected," she declared grudgingly. "I thought
you were only one of these miserabl