suicide pact was that?"
"Suicide pact?"
"Yes, Mr. Barth. Why couldn't you have settled for just one simplepoison, hm-m? The lab has been swearing at you all day."
"Uh?"
"Yes. At what we pumped from your stomach. And found in the girl's.Liquor, lots of that--but then, why aspirin? Barbiturates we expect.Roach pellets are not unusual. But aureomycin? Tranquilizers? Bufferin?Vitamin B complex, vitamin C--and, finally, half a dozen highlyquestionable contraceptive pills? Good Lord, man!"
"It was an accident. The girl--Julia----?"
"You are lucky. She wasn't."
"Dead?"
"Yes, Mr. Barth. She is dead."
"Doctor, listen to me! It was an accident, I swear. We didn't know whatwe were doing. We were, well, celebrating."
"In the medicine cabinet, Mr. Barth? Queer place to be celebrating!Well, Mr. Barth, you must rest now. You have been through a lot. It wasa near thing. The police will be in to see you later."
With this kindly word the doctor and his silently disapproving nursefiled out of the room.
The police? Julia, poor Julia--dead.
Now what? What should I do? I turned, as always, inward for advice andinstructions. "Folks! Why didn't you stop me? Why did you let me do it?And now--what shall I do? Answer me, I say. Answer!"
There was only an emptiness. It was a hollow, aching sensation. Itseemed to me I could hear my questions echoing inside me with a lonelysound.
I was alone. For the first time in nearly ten years, I was truly alone,with no one to turn to.
They were gone! At last, after all these years, they were gone. I wasfree again, truly free. It was glorious to be free--wasn't it?
The sheer joy of the thing brought a tightness to my throat, and Isniffled. I sniffled again. My nose was stuffy. The tightness in mythroat grew tighter and became a pain.
I sneezed.
Was this joy--or a cold coming on? I shifted uneasily on the hospitalbed and scratched at an itch on my left hip. Ouch! It was a pimple. Myhead ached. My throat hurt. I itched. Julia was dead. The police werecoming. I was alone. What should I do?
"Nurse!" I shouted at the top of my voice. "Nurse, come here. I want tosend a wire. Rush. Urgent. To my aunt, Mrs. Helga Barth, the address isin my wallet. Say, 'Helga. Am desperately ill, repeat, ill. Please comeat once. I must have help--from you.'"
She'll come. I know she will. They've _got_ to let her. It was anaccident, I swear, and I'm not too old. I'm still in wonderful shape,beautifully kept up.
But I feel awful.
Well--how do you suppose New England would feel today, if suddenly allof its inhabitants died?
--WILLIAM W. STUART
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