"What makes the sad fatality doubly poignant is that the
unhappy victim had just entered upon a holiday visit that
was to have been prolonged throughout the whole month.
Needless to say, he was regarded as the life and soul of
the pleasant party of holiday makers that had gathered
at the delightful country home of Mr. and Mrs. Beverly-Jones.
Indeed, on the very day of the tragedy, he was to have
taken a leading part in staging a merry performance of
charades and parlour entertainments--a thing for which
his genial talents and overflowing high spirits rendered
him specially fit."
When they read that, those who know me best will understand
how and why I died. "He had still over three weeks to
stay there," they will say. "He was to act as the stage
manager of charades." They will shake their heads. They
will understand.
But what is this? I raise my eyes from the paper and I
see Beverly-Jones hurriedly approaching from the house.
He is hastily dressed, with flannel trousers and a
dressing-gown. His face looks grave. Something has
happened. Thank God, something has happened. Some accident!
Some tragedy! Something to prevent the charades!
I write these few lines on a fast train that is carrying
me back to New York, a cool, comfortable train, with a
deserted club-car where I can sit in a leather arm-chair,
with my feet up on another, smoking, silent, and at peace.
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