but the appearance of the jailer with the chaplain roused in him disgust
for the coming function at the Mont es Pendus. Disgust was his chief
feeling. This was no way for a man to die! With a choice of evils he
should have preferred walking the plank, or even dying quietly in his
bed, to being stifled by a rope. To dangle from a cross-tree like a
half-filled bag offended all instincts of picturesqueness, and first and
last he had been picturesque.

He asked at once for pencil and paper. His wishes were obeyed with
deference. On the whole he realised by the attentions paid him--the
brandy and the food offered by the jailer, the fluttering kindness of
the chaplain--that in the life of a criminal there is one moment when
he commands the situation. He refused the brandy, for he was strongly
against spirits in the early morning, but asked for coffee. Eating
seemed superfluous--and a man might die more gaily on an empty stomach.
He assured the chaplain that he had come to terms with his conscience and
was now about to perform the last act of a well-intentioned life.

There and then he wrote to Carterette, telling her about the vestry-books
of St. Michael's, and begging that she should restore them secretly.
There were no affecting messages; they understood each other. He knew
that when it was possible she would never fail to come to the mark where
he was concerned, and she had equal faith in him. So the letter was
sealed, addressed with flourishes, he was proud of his handwriting, and
handed to the chaplain for Carterette.

He had scarcely drunk his coffee when there was a roll of drums outside.
Mattingley knew that his hour was come, and yet to his own surprise he
had no violent sensations. He had a shock presently, however, for on the
jailer announcing the executioner, who should be there before him but the