God only knows how much I want to live and how I dread having to take my own life, but only for the sake of my people.  If I could only see them again it would be easier.  How did I ever fall so low!  God help me!  Is there nothing else for me but this ignominious death?  But I must save my people from knowing.  I am not using my correct name here, so it will be useless for any one to make inquiries.  A volume of poems will be found in my pocket.  I wonder if the Bishop would kindly post these to Miss B. Wilmer, Broken Hill, West Australia, but only telling her I died here, without particulars, and saying I have written these since leaving home.  Oh, why did I ever leave there, where love and all that is good and pure was lavished on me?

If it is possible, could I be buried in the sea?  Just placed in a coffin and dropped into the peaceful ocean, peace that I have not known for four years.  Please have this done for me.

I do not think I am committing suicide, rather I am being murdered by men who have none of the nobler feelings, ungenerous, unsympathetic and cruelly unkind.  The fact of my death will not affect one of those who ruined my reputation here, who deprived me of obtaining food, and a room to sleep in.  They have no more conscience so cannot feel remorse.  I will not sign my true name but only part of it.

Gordon Innes.

“He’s off his onion,” Stevens commented.  “The bally fool needs hard labor and raw feis.”

The consul grinned.

“Wait till you hear me read the document with the suicide note.  It’s as good as Marie Corelli.”

“All right, old thing,” answered Stevens.  “Fire the whole broadside!”

“No, no; I’m goin’ to spare you the whole official document.  It pretends to be a formal instruction to this beef-headed flunky, from his guardian, of a test to prove his mettle and gain experience to fit him for the highest posts of the diplomatic service by going round the bally world and doin’ other people in for their tin.  It is a yard long, and was undoubtedly written by the same dish-washer who wrote that doggerel on his shirt.  It promises him half a million sterling when he comes back to London after visiting Australasia, China, India, and other countries, and pickin’ up his tucker free as he goes.  Also, the shark is permitted to send back for coin at this date, and he must get married to a Tahitian.  He probably fixes it different in every country.  It’s signed, ’Your affectionate guardian, James Kitson, Baron Airedale of Gledhow.’”

“Whew!” spluttered Hobson, “the blighter has no limits.  Do you mean to tell me he gets away with that folderol?”