He leaned forward, peering down at the paper as though he did not clearly see; but he wrote slowly for a time, absorbed in thought.

In all the death scenes which our country knew in thousands during those years, I doubt if any more unbelievable than this ever had occurrence.  I saw the blood soaking all his garments, lying black on the ground about him.  I saw his face grow gray and his nails grow blue, his pallor deepen as the veins lost their contents.  I saw him die.  But I swear that he still sat there, calm as though he did not suffer, and forced his body to do his will.  And—­though I ask a rough man’s pardon for intruding my own beliefs—­since he used his last superb reserves to leave the truth behind him, I myself thought that there must be somewhere an undying instinct of truth and justice, governing even such as Gordon Orme; yes, I hope, governing such as myself as well.  Since then I have felt that somewhere there must be a great religion written on the earth and in the sky.  As to what this could offer in peace to Gordon Orme I do not say.  His was a vast debt.  Perhaps Truth never accepted it as paid.  I do not know.

There he sat, at last smiling again as he looked up.  “Fingers getting dreadfully stiff.  Tongue will go next.  Muscles still under the power for a little time.  Here, take this.  You’re going to live, and this is the only thing—­it’ll make you miserable, but happy, too.  Good-by.  I’ll not stop longer, I think.”

Like a flash his hand shot out to the weapon that lay near him on the ground.  I shrank back, expecting the ball full in my face.  Instead, it passed through his own brain!

His will was broken as that physical instrument, the brain, wonder seat of the mysteries of the mind, was rent apart.  His splendid mind no longer ruled his splendid body.  His body itself, relaxing, sank forward, his head at one side, his hand dropping limp.  A smile drew down the corner of his mouth—­a smile horrible in its pathos; mocking, and yet beseeching.

* * * * *

At last I rubbed the blood from my own face and stooped to read what he had written.  Then I thanked God that he was dead, knowing how impossible it would have been elsewise for me to stay my hand.  These were the words: 

“I, Gordon Orme, dying July 21, 1861, confess that I killed John Cowles, Senior, in the month of April, 1860, at the road near Wallingford.  I wanted the horse, but had to kill Cowles.  Later took the money.  I was a secret agent, detailed for work among U.S.  Army men.

    “I, Gordon Orme, having seduced Grace Sheraton, asked John Cowles
    to marry her to cover up that act.