Two Fifty Eight

For days things had been going from bad to worse with Major Charles St. John Rowlandson of London. He had debts that must be paid at once. On a -L-50,000 life insurance policy, relic of a happier day, he had already borrowed nearly -L-7,000. And, worst of all, his policy would lapse entirely unless he could rake and scrape together -L-1,500 to pay an overdue premium by 3 o'clock one afternoon last fortnight.

At 2:30 p. m. Major Rowlandson made a last effort to pay off his creditors. He went to his solicitor, James Collins, tried again without success to borrow money on an invention for cutting steel.

"Well," said the Major, straightening his trousers, "I've played for high stakes and failed. Goodby, old boy!"

Out on the street once more, he hailed a taxicab, rolled down Pall Mall, past the sooty pile of St. James's Palace. The Major rapped on the window.

"I say, cabby." he called. "Can you see what time it is?"

The driver glanced at the Palace clock. "Yes sir, 2:58."

Almost immediately there was a bang in the back of the cab. The driver thought another car had backfired. At his destination he found the Major dead, blood streaming from a pistol wound in his head. There was a note on the seat beside him:

"Though we have been brought up to believe it's the coward's way, I disagree entirely."

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