and had ordered and drunk three glasses of cheap, fiery brandy.
As the moments passed his mood grew wilder and more somber.
``She has failed me!'' he exclaimed. He called for pen, ink and
paper. He wrote rapidly and, when he had finished, declaimed his
production, punctuating the sentences with looks and gestures.
His voice gradually broke, and he uttered the last words with
sobs and with the tears streaming down his cheeks. He signed his
name with a flourish, added a postscript. He took a stamped
envelope from his pocket, sealed the letter, addressed it and
laid it before him on the table. ``The presence of death
inspired me,'' he said, looking at his production with tragic
pride. And he called for another drink.

When the waiter brought it, he lifted it high and, standing up,
bowed as if some one were opposite him at the table. ``I drink
to you, Death!'' he said. The waiter stared in open-mouthed
astonishment, and with a muttered, ``He's luny!'' backed from the
room.

He sat again and drew the knife from his pocket and slid his
finger along the edge. ``The key to my sleeping-room,'' he
muttered, half imagining that a vast audience was watching with
bated breath.

The waiter entered and he hid the knife.

``Away!'' he exclaimed, frowning heavily. ``I wish to be
alone.''

``Mr. Meinert says you must pay,'' said the waiter. ``Four