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headed and in his shirt-sleeves run out of a house and dash into an alley, pursued by a crowd of policemen and citizens who chanced to be in the vicinity, all joining with a will in the chase. The pursued ran like a deer, turned and doubled on his pursuers, and climbed fences, and went over low buildings into all sorts of out-of-the-way places to escape, but in vain. At every turn his pursuers increased in number, and he was constantly headed off and more nearly cornered. Several times a policeman raised his revolver to bring him down, but did not fire—for a wonder—lest he should hit somebody else; and as often the pursued would drive back his volunteer pursuers who were closing around him, by pointing at them a pistol, with one barrel of which he had just shot his ex-mistress through the head, and shouting to them to keep out of reach or he would give them the contents. Surrounded at last, he sat down in an area, placed his head against a fence, and putting the pistol to his head, sent a bullet crashing through his skull, before a policeman who was hard upon him could catch his hand. The doctor and myself were in the area in a minute more, and two men who had followed him in all his turnings were close behind us. The doctor stooped to raise the head of the miserable suicide, just as one of these men exclaimed, "He is dead as a mackerel!" "Hold on, doctor, don't touch him yet!" said the other, reaching out to prevent the doctor's hand falling upon him, and then turning to his friend, "I'll bet you $5 that he ain't!" "Done!" said the other. "Is he dead, doctor?" "Dead as the