could only live long enough, of increasing it to a certain sum, has impelled me to resist the disease by such palliative means as I could devise.  The one effectual palliative in my case, is—­opium.  To that all-potent and all-merciful drug I am indebted for a respite of many years from my sentence of death.  But even the virtues of opium have their limit.  The progress of the disease has gradually forced me from the use of opium to the abuse of it.  I am feeling the penalty at last.  My nervous system is shattered; my nights are nights of horror.  The end is not far off now.  Let it come—­I have not lived and worked in vain.  The little sum is nearly made up; and I have the means of completing it, if my last reserves of life fail me sooner than I expect.  I hardly know how I have wandered into telling you this.  I don’t think I am mean enough to appeal to your pity.  Perhaps, I fancy you may be all the readier to believe me, if you know that what I have said to you, I have said with the certain knowledge in me that I am a dying man.  There is no disguising, Mr. Blake, that you interest me.  I have attempted to make my poor friend’s loss of memory the means of bettering my acquaintance with you.  I have speculated on the chance of your feeling a passing curiosity about what he wanted to say, and of my being able to satisfy it.  Is there no excuse for my intruding myself on you?  Perhaps there is some excuse.  A man who has lived as I have lived has his bitter moments when he ponders over human destiny.  You have youth, health, riches, a place in the world, a prospect before you.  You, and such as you, show me the sunny side of human life, and reconcile me with the world that I am leaving, before I go.  However this talk between us may end, I shall not forget that you have done me a kindness in doing that.  It rests with you, sir, to say what you proposed saying, or to wish me good morning.”

I had but one answer to make to that appeal.  Without a moment’s hesitation I told him the truth, as unreservedly as I have told it in these pages.

He started to his feet, and looked at me with breathless eagerness as I approached the leading incident of my story.

“It is certain that I went into the room,” I said; “it is certain that I took the Diamond.  I can only meet those two plain facts by declaring that, do what I might, I did it without my own knowledge——­”

Ezra Jennings caught me excitedly by the arm.

“Stop!” he said.  “You have suggested more to me than you suppose.  Have you ever been accustomed to the use of opium?”

“I never tasted it in my life.”

“Were your nerves out of order, at this time last year?  Were you unusually restless and irritable?”

“Yes.”

“Did you sleep badly?”

“Wretchedly.  Many nights I never slept at all.”

“Was the birthday night an exception?  Try, and remember.  Did you sleep well on that one occasion?”