Then again he would break into a short laugh, remembering the M. P. and his speech and poor Ffrench's stumbling, overwhelmed reply to it. When he heard the crowd shouting and hooting at the front, he went into a room facing the street and watched them through a chink in the shutter. He heard the red-faced farmer's anathemas, and swore a little himself, knowing his story was true.
"Tha shalt have all Haworth can give, chaps," he muttered, "an' welcome. He'll tak' nowt with him."
He laughed again but suddenly stopped, and walked back into the little office silently, and waited there.
At nightfall he went out of a back door and slipped through unfrequented by-ways, feeling his heart beat with heavy thuds as he went. Nothing stood in his way and he got in, as he believed he should. The instant his foot crossed the threshold a change came upon him. He forgot all else but what lay before him. He was less calm, and in some little hurry.
He reached his room and lighted the gas dimly only so that he could see to move about. Then he went to his desk and opened it and took out one of a pair of pistols, speaking aloud as he did so.
"Here," he said, "is the end of Jem Haworth."
He knew where to aim, the heavy thuds marked the spot for him.
"I'll count three," he said, "and then——"
He began slowly, steadily, but in a voice that fell with a hollow sound upon the dead stillness.
"One," he said. "Two!" and his hand dropped at his side with his weapon in it, for at the door stood his mother. In an instant she had fallen upon her knees and dragged herself toward him and was clinging to his hand.
