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or four in the morning. It would be a simple thing to double
the dose; he would die in the night, and no one would sus-
pect anything; for that was how Doctor Wigram expected
him to die. The end would be painless. Philip clenched his
hands as he thought of the money he wanted so badly. A few
more months of that wretched life could matter nothing to
the old man, but the few more months meant everything to
him: he was getting to the end of his endurance, and when
he thought of going back to work in the morning he shud-
dered with horror. His heart beat quickly at the thought
which obsessed him, and though he made an effort to put it
out of his mind he could not. It would be so easy, so desper-
ately easy. He had no feeling for the old man, he had never
liked him; he had been selfish all his life, selfish to his wife
who adored him, indifferent to the boy who had been put in
his charge; he was not a cruel man, but a stupid, hard man,
eaten up with a small sensuality. It would be easy, desper-
ately easy. Philip did not dare. He was afraid of remorse; it
would be no good having the money if he regretted all his
life what he had done. Though he had told himself so often
that regret was futile, there were certain things that came
back to him occasionally and worried him. He wished they
were not on his conscience.
His uncle opened his eyes; Philip was glad, for he looked
a little more human then. He was frankly horrified at the
idea that had come to him, it was murder that he was medi-
tating; and he wondered if other people had such thoughts
or whether he was abnormal and depraved. He supposed he
could not have done it when it came to the point, but there

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