The Moving Finger

Bertrand Saton leaned against the stone coping of the bridge, and looked downwards, asthough watching the seagulls circling round and round, waiting for their usual feast ofscraps. The gulls, however, were only his excuse. He stood there, looking hard at the gray, muddy water beneath, trying to make up his mind to this final and inevitable act of despair.He had walked the last hundred yards almost eagerly. He had told himself that he wasabsolutely and entirely prepared for death. Yet the first sight of that gray, cold-lookingriver, had chilled him. He felt a new and unaccountable reluctance to quit the world whichcertainly seemed to have made up its mind that it had no need of him. His thoughts rushedbackwards. "Swim out to sea on a sunny day," he repeated to himself slowly. Yes, but this Itwas a different thing, this The longer he looked below, the more he shrank from such adeath He stood upright with a little shiver, and began-it was not for the first time that day-asearching investigation into the contents of his pocket. The result was uninspiring. Therewas not an article there which would have fetched the price of a dose of poison. Then hisfingers strayed into a breast-pocket which he seldom used, and brought out a letter, unopened, all grimy, and showing signs of having been there for some considerable time.He held it between his fingers, doubtful at first from where it had come. Then suddenly heremembered. He remembered the runaway horses in the Bois, and the strange-looking oldwoman who had sat in the carriage with grim, drawn lips and pallid face. He rememberedthe dash into the roadway, the brief, maddening race by the side of the horses, his clutch atthe reins, the sense of being dragged along the dusty road. It was, perhaps, the onephysically courageous action of his life. The horses were stopped, and the woman's life wassaved. He looked at the letter in his han