move, walk about. That is the only thing
to save me for an hour or so.

Here I have been out, and am back
again; but the hot monotony goes on.

. . . .  How slowly the hours are going
by! The train must be in; and they must
have arrived. I shall carry this straight
into my bedroom now, and beside it I
place this little bottle, so convenient and so
handy. Lucky I bought it. Sweet little
executioner, too decent and genteel almost
for a felon like me. Was there ever such
impunity—to escape that richly-deserved
prison cropping, penal servitude, the
number, and the mask, and the twenty years!
Richly deserved! And yet have I not been
something of a poor victim, weak in his
own folly? Mercy, O, mercy for me! O
my sweet Dora! I must, I must break
through that resolution, and write
something—a word. Lost love. . . . But what
can I say? The wretched Othello, he
gave a sort of message—once—just before
he was about to——die.
                                  I pray you in your letters,
When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,
Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,
if or set down aught in malice: then must you speak
            .      .      .      .      .      .
Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought,
Perplexed in the extreme.

Yes, "being wrought," I say piteously,
let that be considered! Not that I dare
want mercy; why should it be given to
me? But who was ever so cruelly wrought,
tortured, wrung, hunted on to ruin and
death? Othello, poor soul!

I remember the night we were at the
theatre, and heard the unhappy wretch.
It seemed to be real life. O, sultry hours,
advance, advance, and end all! They must
have begun their play by this. Is it sinful
to wish them one last curse, that may
whelm them all together? But what have
I to do with sinners or sinful? Then let
the Judgment follow them, as it has
followed me—sharp, swift, eternal!

What! a cab clattering to the door!
Heavens! They are upon me at last!
Light is breaking in the cloud. All in
good time.

Now to get ready, and play my part with
some little dignity. Dignity! Fine dignity
indeed!. . . . No, it is only the banker.
. . . .  There, I have stolen in here again.
I cannot sit and talk with him. Neither
could I tell him. Much better wait until
both are present together, and to both
I can then tell all. They will go to
the window, I suppose, and call in some
one, or Mr. Bernard will send himself
for a policeman in a spiked helmet. How
little he knows. I don't want to baffle him,
or what they call the ends of justice. I
shall atone for all, never fear, but in my,
own way. . . . . O, some one send money!
let there be some miracle wrought, to save
my name from the felony! It may be
merged, though, in the wretched end. . . .
There! another cab. . . .  It must be
Bernard. He has arrived, and is coming up
the stairs. Now, now. Heaven compose me,
just for two minutes! Give me strength,
God of Heaven, whose laws I am about to
outrage! But there is, there may be,
mercy, and the world has dealt with me, O!
so hardly. Tell him all calmly; nothing
extenuate, like the wretched Othello; and
then, when he pours out his furious
reproaches, and turns to send for his police,
take this out; have it down in a second.
Tell him "I have deceived the senate."
No, no, indeed no; but choose that precious
moment to beg, beg for her. Dora, sweet
one; come in here, loved picture, in here,
next to this vile heart. Let them find it
there. . . . . How strange he does not
come up! Hark! There is his step at last.
Put this in my pocket—now, now for the
last scene .... or wait—better take it
at once—who knows what may interfere?
There. How strange—how horrible!
Judgment is signed, and signed for ever. Yet I
wouldn't go back. Yes, tap away at the
door. Come in, Mr. Bernard. What is
this? I cannot go to you—now—come in,
or it will be too late. The waiter; the
waiter with a note. But I have done with
notes. But whose hand is this—it seems
so dim. Why, not Dora's?

"Our cousin is dead, suddenly, from a
fall from his horse. You know what a
change that makes to us. Money, lands,
everything is ours and my darling's. O!
can you bear a surprise? But don't be
alarmed, or agitated. Think of what would
please you most! I started from Datchley
yesterday with Mr. Bernard. We travelled
all night. We are here. I am below,
waiting, waiting to fling myself into your
arms. May I come up to you?"

What is this? I hear her voice outside!
. . . . God Almighty . . . forgive . . .
forgive!

THE END OF FATAL ZERO.