For an instant he battled with an impulse to put it all back, hastily, guiltily, and abandon this desperate plan of suicide for ever.
But Miriam would smell the paraffine!
“No way out this time, O’ Man,” said Mr. Polly; and he went slowly downstairs, matchbox in hand.
He paused for five seconds, perhaps, to listen to noises in the yard of the Royal Fishbourne Hotel before he struck his match. It trembled a little in his hand. The paper blackened, and an edge of blue flame ran outward and spread. The fire burnt up readily, and in an instant the wood was crackling cheerfully.
Someone might hear. He must hurry.
He lit a pool of paraffine on the scullery floor, and instantly a nest of snaky, wavering blue flame became agog for prey. He went up the stairs three steps at a time with one eager blue flicker in pursuit of him. He seized the lamp at the top. “Now!” he said and flung it smashing. The chimney broke, but the glass receiver stood the shock and rolled to the bottom, a potential bomb. Old Rumbold would hear that and wonder what it was!. . . He’d know soon enough!
Then Mr. Polly stood hesitating, razor in hand, and then sat down. He was trembling violently, but quite unafraid.
He drew the blade lightly under one ear. “Lord!” but it stung like a nettle!
Then he perceived a little blue thread of flame running up his leg. It arrested his attention, and for a
