He had not led a specially evil life; he had not broken laws, but the
subject of Deity was not one which his scheme of existence had included.
When it had haunted him of late he had felt it an untoward and morbid
sign. The thing had drawn him--drawn him; he had complained against it,
he had argued, sometimes he knew--shuddering--that he had raved.
Something had seemed to stand aside and watch his being and his
thinking. Something which filled the universe had seemed to wait, and to
have waited through all the eternal ages, to see what he--one man--would
do. At times a great appalled wonder had swept over him at his
realization that he had never known or thought of it before. It had
been there always--through all the ages that had passed. And
sometimes--once or twice--the thought had in some unspeakable,
untranslatable way brought him a moment's calm.

But at other times he had said to himself--with a shivering soul
cowering within him--that this was only part of it all and was a
beginning, perhaps, of religious monomania.

During the last week he had known what he was going to do--he had made
up his mind. This abject horror through which others had let themselves
be dragged to madness or death he would not endure. The end should come
quickly, and no one should be smitten aghast by seeing or knowing
how it came. In the crowded shabbier streets of London there were
lodging-houses where one, by taking precautions, could end his life in
such a manner as would blot him out of any world where such a man as
himself had been known. A pistol, properly managed, would obliterate
resemblance to any human thing. Months ago through chance talk he had
heard how it could be done--and done quickly. He could leave a
misleading letter. He had planned what it should be--the story it should
tell of a disheartened mediocre venturer of his poor all returning