He was quite without hope: even life itself, if it should be extended to him, had lost its charm--it could no more present to him the image of reality. As this reflection occurred to him, his heart burned again, and he asked himself why, if it were to bear on him like a burden, he should continue to endure life. Only the fear of what might succeed it could make it any way tolerable. Did he believe, then, that it was but the prelude to another existence? No! certainly not! For what reason, then, should he cling to it?
Such were the speculations that, almost in spite of his own will, shot through his fevered mind, over and over again, as he tossed restlessly on his pillow. He tried to shake them off, but they held to him, notwithstanding, with the grasp of giants. Thus, sweating with horror, he continued till near midnight: the burden then surpassed all endurance; and, muttering a blasphemous execration, he sprang from the bed, and staggered out on the floor.
As he came to a stand, he fell back against the toilet-table. He was about to raise himself, when his hand, in moving round the table, knocked against some extraneous substance, and he caught it up. It was a razor.
“’Twere a good thing, now, to end all,” he said.
Thus speaking, he drew the razor open, and raised it to his throat. He paused a moment, and then, with a perfectly steady hand, dashed the deadly blade into his flesh, and cut his throat right across. A loud yell rang in his ear, and he fell back a corpse.
On the evening following the suicide of Shedlock, shortly after dusk, the mild and benevolent Master Craftall, the partner of that ill-fated man, was sitting at the desk of his countinghouse, evidently in expectation of some visiter. He had not been sitting thus long, when a door behind him, leading into the street, was suddenly pushed open, and the visiter he had been expecting rushed in.
The stranger paused on his entry, and, previous to advancing into the chamber, closed and bolted the door. He then turned round, and confronted Craftall.
In the situation which he now took up, the light on the neighbouring desk, at which Craftall had just before been sitting, poured full upon him, and thus discovered his proportions. He was a tall man; and his figure (for, as he was habited in a long cloak, the precise fact could not be ascertained) appeared to be stout, and to correspond with his height. His features were sharp, and harsh; and his eyes, which were remarkably small, emitted a bright and unnatural lustre, such as might indicate a disposition to insanity. His years, judging from his appearance, might be about fifty, but, as he was now breathless, and, withal, seemed to be greatly agitated, he might look older than he was, and be really some five years younger.