The man himself--the very soul of
him--seemed to be concentrated in them. Something formless and yet
distinct was visualising itself before me. It came to me as a
physical relief when a spasm of pain caused him to turn his eyes
away from me.
"You will find a letter when I am gone," he went on, after a
moment's silence. "I thought that you might come too late, or that
I might not have strength enough to tell you. I felt that out of
the few people I have met outside business, you would be the most
likely not to dismiss the matter as mere nonsense. What I am glad
of myself, and what I wish you to remember, is that I am dying with
all my faculties about me. The one thing I have always feared
through life was old age, with its gradual mental decay. It has
always seemed to me that I have died more or less suddenly while
still in possession of my will. I have always thanked God for
that."
He closed his eyes, but I do not think he was sleeping; and a little
later the nurse returned, and we carried him indoors. I had no
further conversation with him, though at his wish during the
following two days I continued to read to him, and on the third day
he died.
I found the letter he had spoken of. He had told me where it would
be. It contained a bundle of banknotes which he was giving me--so
he wrote--with the advice to get rid of them as quickly as possible.
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