Because it was cold in the dining-room, and the wind was howling, and there was a numb sensation in his hands. A funny dead feeling. The whisky, perhaps. But when he had turned on the gas, he forgot about it, and stood thinking, matchbox in hand, thinking out the new problem. It was difficult to think clearly. Then it exploded like that, when he put the match to it. He kicked it. Damned fool of a thing. Like John. It was John who was responsible for all this worry and fuss. John could go to the devil. He had fooled John before, and he would fool him again. Ha, ha! That was a cunning idea. Then they would say in the papers, “A great genius⁠—a noble character⁠—ha, ha!⁠—‘The Death in the Wood’⁠—last work, imaginative writing”⁠—ha, ha! imaginative! ⁠—and it was all true. But nobody would know⁠—nobody would say so⁠—because he would be dead. John wouldn’t say so, and Margery wouldn’t say so⁠—because he would be dead. Mustn’t say anything about the dead. Oh no! Must burn this silly confession. When he had had another drink. It was so cold. No more whisky⁠—hell! “There’s hoosh in the bottle still.” But there wasn’t. Who wrote that? Damned Canadian fellow. The Yukon. Port. There was some port somewhere. Port was warming.