“Aren’t you slightly melodramatic? Didn’t you sleep well?”
“I have not slept well since the day on which George Young went to
jail; his going murdered sleep. All night I lie in agony.”
“You were saying the other day how you longed for something to give
you sleep; here is something.”
The speaker took out of a waistcoat pocket a small, blue phial,
offering it to the old man on his open palm. The old man looked at the
phial and then up at the face of the person who offered it.
“What is it?”
“Mandragora.”
“Will it give me sleep?”
“If you choose; sleep which will know no waking.”
The two men exchanged looks, such strange ones; then the elder took
with tremulous fingers the phial off the other’s palm. Then, when he
had got it, he shut his eyes again. The younger, without another word,
passed on. I saw him leave the gardens by the gate which was at the
other end of the walk; I felt sure that he had not seen me. I
waited--if I could help it I was not going to lose sight of the phial
which was in the old man’s hand. Presently an empty Bath chair came
down the walk. The chairman, assisting the old man to enter, began to
draw him away. I followed. They stopped at what I recognized to be the
house in Belgrave Road which Mrs. Young had given me as Mr. Hutton’s
address. The old man entered the house leaning on the Bath chair man’s
arm. The chairman, coming out again, went off with his chair; he was
one of the unobservant sort; I doubt if he even noticed my existence.
I walked up the road, then back again. Twenty minutes had elapsed
since the old man entered. It was one of those lodging-houses in which
the hall door proper is never closed in the daytime; you have only to
turn the handle of the inner door to enter. I particularly did not
wish to give warning of my coming; I preferred to announce myself.
Turning the handle, I passed into the hall. I had noticed that the
Bath chair man had led the old gentleman into a room on the left.
After momentary hesitation I turned the handle of that room, and,
without any sort of ceremony, passed in. It was, as I had expected, a
sitting-room. There was a big arm-chair on one side. On this, propped
up by cushions, was the old man. I perceived, in an instant, that my
intuition had not been at fault--that I was only just in time. He had
a small, blue phial in his hand; the cork was out; he was in the very
act of raising it to his lips. I crossed the room, and it was in my
hand almost before he knew it. There was no label on the phial, but
one sniff at its contents was enough to tell me what it was.
“Do you imagine, Mr. Hutton, that by committing suicide you’ll escape
the consequences of crime? That when you stand before the Judgment
Seat you’ll be able to excuse yourself by pleading that you murdered
yourself because you had murdered another?”
He stared at me as if I were some supernatural visitant; his jaw
dropped open, his head fell back, he was one great tremble. I went on:
“When you allowed George Young to be sent to prison for the crime of
which you were guilty, you practically committed murder--you slew the
better part of him, his character and reputation; to say nothing of
the unceasing torture which you propose to inflict on him for fourteen
long years. Conscience has you by the throat; God punishes in this
world as well as the next; do you think this will save you from the
wrath to come?”