Mr. O'Donnell, towards the close of that unlucky day, found himself once more in his comfortable home at Rathclare. Within twenty-four hours, the life of his only son, the hope of his age, had been placed in danger; and all the earnings of a long and laborious life had been scattered to the winds by one tremendous blast of ill-fortune. He was not a communicative or demonstrative man. He took his pleasures soberly, gravely, and with little exterior show of delight. Outside his business, which was large and engrossing, he cared for little save his wife, and son, and home. He had few wants, and a limited mind; but, like all men with few wants and a limited mind, he must have what he wanted, or life would not be worth living. He did not sigh or burst into exclamations when the bad news reached him. He was reading a newspaper at the time. He put down his newspaper, and asked his managing man, who brought him the news, to repeat his words. Then, merely saying, "That is very bad news," he took down an account-book, and, having looked at how his affairs stood with the bank which had failed, put up the book in the safe, walked out of his office, and took the train to Glengowra, where his son lay hurt, and where his wife was already in attendance on the injured man. Now, he was back once more in his home alone. His wife was to stay that night at Maher's hotel. In the present condition of his business affairs he did not feel himself justified in absenting himself from head-quarters. Up to this he had very rarely been separated from his wife, even for a day. He seldom left his native town for more than a few hours, except when he went away for a week or so and took her with him. He sat in the deserted dining-room all alone. He always carried in his coat-pocket a small memorandum-book, in which he had jotted down the net results of all his business transactions, so that at any moment, and in any place, he could see pretty well how he stood. He seated himself in a large easy-chair, and having pulled down the gasalier, took out this book, and sat silently consulting the pages for a long while. By this time he had received full information from Dublin. He knew now the case of Vernon and Son was absolutely hopeless. He was going over his book, not in the hope of finding out anything cheerful about his own affairs, but just merely to convince himself through his sight of what he was already convinced through his reason. When he had reached the end of the written pages, and had made a few figures with his pencil and arrived at a total, he tore out the page on which he had made this last calculation, and then carefully and delicately tore the page into little bits. He put down his pocket-book on the table at his elbow, and then sat for a long time arranging and re-arranging the fragments of the paper into various figures on the table at his side. When it was about eleven o'clock, a servant came and asked him if he wanted anything. No, he wanted nothing. They might all go to bed. When the servant had retired, he re-began his work with the fragments of paper. At twelve o'clock he seemed to have made up his mind that there was no good in trying any longer to arrange the pieces in a satisfactory way. He pushed all the bits together, swept them into his hand, and placed them on a tray, on which were some glasses, which he had not used. He took up the pocket-book again, and quietly tore out all the blank leaves. "These may be of use to someone else," he said. "They can never be of any use to me." He placed the blank leaves on the table, far in from the edge. "The books at the office will show how my affairs stand. This can interest no one. It was only on account of the money I considered myself worth, over and above my liabilities. I'll burn it;" and then forgetting that it was summer time, and that there was no fire, he threw the book into the grate, and rose. He felt in his pocket, and found that he had his keys. Then he went into the hall, put on his hat, and left the house. He took his way to his principal place of business--the vast storehouse, wharf, and steam mill all combined. He opened a small postern in the main gate, trod a dark flagged passage, and reached the foot of a flight of stairs that led to the chief offices. This he ascended, and having reached his private room, lit the gas. For a while he stood in the middle of the room, looking vacantly round him. The office was luxuriously furnished; and in the wall opposite to the table at which Mr. O'Donnell usually sat, and facing him, was the door of the strong-room. He could hear the murmur of the water as it went by, if the engines had stopped. But the engines were going on at full speed, making money now--making money now for whom? That morning these twenty sets of stones had been whirling round, and at every rotation of each stone he, James O'Donnell, was the richer. These stones were going round still, making money still; but for whom now? It was a dismal thing to stand there realising the fact that the fruits of his forty years' hard work, sagacity, enterprise, thrift had all been squandered by someone else--had all been squandered by this Vernon, in whom he had reposed implicit confidence; who was so pious, so sleek, so plausible, and yet had led him on into this horrible position. He sat down in his chair, and his eyes fell upon the door of the strong-room. He had destroyed his pocket-book; his interest in his own private affairs was at an end. From what he had heard there was no chance of his saving a sixpence out of his large fortune. Some other man would work the mill no doubt, for it would be a valuable asset in the affairs of Vernon and Son. It was hard to think of this fine mill, for which he had made the trade, and which he had built up from the foundation, passing away from him, now that he was too old to begin life again. In that strong-room opposite him there were the books. They were all in perfect order. They had never been made the slaves of a false balance-sheet. They were the fair records of blameless transactions. Every line in them could be verified. Every shilling of expense could be accounted for. Soon, very soon, he knew not exactly when, strangers would come and examine these books, and go through all the vouchers, but they should find nothing in that strong-room of his except flawless records of honest trade--and---- The vacant look left his eyes. All at once an intense, eager light burned in them. He grasped the back of the chair, and rose stealthily, as though to avoid the attention of someone acting as sentinel over him, and who was half asleep. He stole noiselessly in the bright gaslight across the room. With elaborate caution he took the keys out of his pocket and fitted one to the lock. With a dull, heavy sound the bolts fell back. He drew himself a foot away, as though he expected that door to be pushed open, and something to issue forth and seize him and do him deadly hurt. He paused, breathing heavily. The door did not stir. He stretched forth his arm and drew the door towards him. It yielded slowly and swung out into the bright, handsomely furnished office, until it stood at right angles to the wall. Again he paused, and peered into the dark cavity before him. He seized the outer edge of the door and steadied himself by it, leaned against it slightly so that it swayed slowly to and fro a little. His face was now flushed and covered with sweat. His hands clutched the door feverishly, frantically. His knees trembled so that he seemed in danger of sinking to the floor. "It would be a fit ending to my life. My life is of no further use to me or to those I love, or to the business I have made, nor even would it be any use to those whom I shall not be able to pay. For although no one could work the business as well as I, if things had not come to this pass, I am too old now to work for others where I have so long worked for myself." He let go the door and stood unsupported for a while. "If they should find in the strong-room of James O'Donnell nothing but the unimpeachable records of his honest life, and his bones!" He seemed to gather strength from the thought. He drew himself up to his full height. The look of intense excitement gradually faded from his face. The tension of his hands relaxed, and he looked around with something like majesty in his gaze. He was a lion at bay, but indifferent. He walked up and down the room two or three times calmly, deliberately, as if he were disturbed by a thought greater than the hourly commonplaces of a busy day. He ran the matter carefully over in his mind. When in thinking of this deed first, and saying to himself his creditors would find nothing in that place but books, papers, and--he had paused at the word revolver. It was occasionally necessary for some of his clerks to carry large sums of cash a distance from Rathclare, and when doing so the messenger always took with him his revolver. The lock by which the strong-door was finally secured could be turned only from the outside, but there was a strong latch of three large bolts which caught and kept the door closed when it was slammed. There were two keys to this door, but he had made it a rule never to entrust the second to anyone in his employment. When unable to be at his office at ten o'clock in the morning, or at closing time in the evening, he had always given the key he now carried with him to his manager, and had it left at his house the same night. The second key he had hidden behind some books in a bookcase which he always kept locked. But the three bolts which kept the door fast during the working hours of the day could be shot back from the outside by means of a key, a duplicate of which the manager had. In the strong-room that night there was a sum in cash of more than two thousand pounds. If he went into that strong-room and used that revolver, the sound would, in all likelihood, reach the ears of no one in the place, and nothing would be discovered for several days, as no one would suspect the main bolts were not shot, since he had been seen to lock the safe that day, and no one else could unlock it. He made up his mind that, come what might, he would end his life where his fortune had begun, and where now his ruin was complete. And still he could not think of bidding adieu for ever to the scene of his life-long labours without one more look at the books which had been so honestly kept, and which he had hoped to hand down unblemished to his son Eugene. He took up a lamp which lay on one of the side tables, lit it, stepped into the strong-room, and drew the door sharply after him. There was a loud bang. The three bolts shot into their places. He was now in the strong-room with the records of his honest life, a revolver, his power of retreat cut off, and the determination not to survive the night of ruin. He had forgotten to put out the gas in his office.