was proud of him and disposed to overlook his fault, but a glance at the
richly jeweled music-box decided me, and, as I said, I removed the old
man from this vale of tears. Having done so, I was a trifle uneasy. Not
only was he my father--the author of my being--but the body would be
certainly discovered. It was now broad daylight and my mother was likely
to enter the library at any moment. Under the circumstances, I thought
it expedient to remove her also, which I did. Then I paid off all the
servants and discharged them.

That afternoon I went to the chief of police, told him what I had done
and asked his advice. It would be very painful to me if the facts became
publicly known. My conduct would be generally condemned; the newspapers
would bring it up against me if ever I should run for office. The chief
saw the force of these considerations; he was himself an assassin of
wide experience. After consulting with the presiding judge of the Court
of Variable Jurisdiction he advised me to conceal the bodies in one of
the bookcases, get a heavy insurance on the house and burn it down. This
I proceeded to do.

In the library was a book-case which my father had recently purchased of
some cranky inventor and had not filled. It was in shape and size
something like the old-fashioned "wardrobes" which one sees in bed-rooms
without closets, but opened all the way down, like a woman's
night-dress. It had glass doors. I had recently laid out my parents and
they were now rigid enough to stand erect; so I stood them in this
book-case, from which I had removed the shelves. I locked them in and
tacked some curtains over the glass doors. The inspector from the
insurance office passed a half-dozen times before the case without
suspicion.