Sentiment succeeded whimsicality. His old friends of theoffice—those were the men to benefit. What good fellows theyhad been！ Some were dead， but he still kept intermittently intouch with half a dozen of them. And—an important point—heknew their present addresses.
This point was important， because Mr Meggs had decidednot to leave a will， but to send the money direct to thebeneficiaries. He knew what wills were. Even in quitestraightforward circumstances they often made trouble. Therehad been some slight complication about his own legacytwenty years ago. Somebody had contested the will， and beforethe thing was satisfactorily settled the lawyers had got awaywith about twenty per cent of the whole. No， no wills. If hemade one， and then killed himself， it might be upset on a pleaof insanity. He knew of no relative who might consider himselfentitled to the money， but there was the chance that someremote cousin existed； and then the comrades of his youthmight fail to collect after all.
He declined to run the risk. Quietly and by degrees hehad sold out the stocks and shares in which his fortune wasinvested， and deposited the money in his London bank. Sixpiles of large notes， dividing the total into six equal parts； sixletters couched in a strain of reminiscent pathos and manlyresignation； six envelopes， legibly addressed； six postagestamps；and that part of his preparations was complete. Helicked the stamps and placed them on the envelopes； tookthe notes and inserted them in the letters； folded the lettersand thrust them into the envelopes； sealed the envelopes； andunlocking the drawer of his desk produced a small， black，ugly-looking bottle.
He opened the bottle and poured the contents into amedicine-glass.
It had not been without considerable thought that Mr Meggshad decided upon the method of his suicide. The knife， thepistol， the rope—they had all presented their charms to him.
He had further examined the merits of drowning and of leapingto destruction from a height.
There were flaws in each. Either they were painful， or elsethey were messy. Mr Meggs had a tidy soul， and he revoltedfrom the thought of spoiling his figure， as he would mostcertainly do if he drowned himself； or the carpet， as he wouldif he used the pistol； or the pavement—and possibly someinnocent pedestrian， as must infallibly occur should he leap offthe Monument. The knife was out of the question. Instinct toldhim that it would hurt like the very dickens.
No； poison was the thing. Easy to take， quick to work， andon the whole rather agreeable than otherwise.
Mr Meggs hid the glass behind the inkpot and rang the bell.
“Has Miss Pillenger arrived？” he inquired of the servant.
“she has just come， sir.”
“tell her that I am waiting for her here.”
Jane Pillenger was an institution. Her official positionwas that of private secretary and typist to Mr Meggs. That isto say， on the rare occasions when Mr Meggs’s conscienceovercame his indolence to the extent of forcing him to resumework on his British Butterflies， it was to Miss Pillenger thathe addressed the few rambling and incoherent remarks whichconstituted his idea of a regular hard， slogging spell of literarycomposition. When he sank back in his chair， speechlessand exhausted like a Marathon runner who has started hissprint a mile or two too soon， it was Miss Pillenger’s task tounscramble her shorthand notes， type them neatly， and placethem in their special drawer in the desk.
Miss Pillenger was a wary spinster of austere views， uncertainage， and a deep-rooted suspicion of men—a suspicion which，to do an abused sex justice， they had done nothing to foster.
Men had always been almost coldly correct in their dealingswith Miss Pillenger. In her twenty years of experience as atypist and secretary she had never had to refuse with scornand indignation so much as a box of chocolates from any ofher employers. Nevertheless， she continued to be icily on herguard. The clenched fist of her dignity was always drawn back，ready to swing on the first male who dared to step beyond thebounds of professional civility.
Such was Miss Pillenger. She was the last of a long line ofunprotected English girlhood which had been compelled bystraitened circumstances to listen for hire to the appallinglydreary nonsense which Mr Meggs had to impart on the subjectof British Butterflies. Girls had come， and girls had gone，blondes， ex-blondes， brunettes， ex-brunettes， near-blondes，near-brunettes； they had come buoyant， full of hope and life，tempted by the lavish salary which Mr Meggs had foundhimself after a while compelled to pay； and they had droppedoff， one after another， like exhausted bivalves， unable toendure the crushing boredom of life in the village which hadgiven Mr Meggs to the world. For Mr Meggs’s home-townwas no City of Pleasure. Remove the Vicar’s magic-lanternand the try-your-weight machine opposite the post office，and you practically eliminated the temptations to tread theprimrose path. The only young men in the place were silent，gaping youths， at whom lunacy commissioners looked sharplyand suspiciously when they met. The tango was unknown，and the one-step. The only form of dance extant—and thatonly at the rarest intervals—was a sort of polka not unlikethe movements of a slightly inebriated boxing kangaroo. MrMeggs’s secretaries and typists gave the town one startled，horrified glance， and stampeded for London like frightenedponies.
Not so Miss Pillenger. She remained. She was a businesswoman， and it was enough for her that she received a goodsalary. For five pounds a week she would have undertakena post as secretary and typist to a Polar Expedition. For sixyears she had been with Mr Meggs， and doubtless she lookedforward to being with him at least six years more.
