windings of its plot. He enjoyed it immensely.
Afterwards he went home and made up the capsules.
He tunneled the white powder from a folded sheet of paper into the tiny gelatin cups, and then fitting the slightly larger cups that were the other halves of the capsules over them. It took him almost an hour, since he ruined two capsules, one squashed and the other softened by the moisture of his fingers, before he was able to complete two good ones.
When he was finished, he took the damaged capsules and the remaining capsules and powder into the bathroom and flushed them down the toilet. He did the same with the paper from which he had poured the arsenic and the envelopes in which he had carried it, first tearing them into small pieces. Then he put the two arsenic capsules into a fresh envelope and hid them in the bottom drawer of his bureau, under the pajamas and the Kingship Copper pamphlets, the sight of which brought a wry smile to his face.
One of the books he had read that afternoon had listed the lethal dose of arsenic as varying from one tenth to one half of a gram. By rough computation, he estimated that the two capsules contained a total of five grams.
He followed his regular routine on Wednesday, attending all his classes, but he was no more a part of the life and activity that surrounded him than is the diver in his diving bell a part of the alien world in which he is submerged. AU of his energies were turned inward, focused on the problem of beguiling Dorothy into writing a suicide note or, if that could not be contrived, finding some other way to make her death seem self-induced. While in this state of labored concentration he unconsciously dropped the pretense of being undecided as to whether or not he would actually go through with his plans; he was going to kill her; he had the poison and he already knew how he was going to administer it; there was only this one problem left, and he was determined to solve it. At times during the day, when a loud voice or the chalk's screech made him momentarily aware of his surroundings, he looked at his classmates with mild surprise. Seeing their brows contracted over a stanza in Browning or a sentence in Kant, he felt as though he had suddenly come upon a group of adults playing hopscotch.
A Spanish class was his last of the day, and the latter half of it was devoted to a short unannounced examination. Because it was his poorest subject, he forced himself to lower the focus of his concentration to the translating of a page of the florid Spanish novel which the class was studying.
Whether the stimulus was the actual work he was doing or the comparative relaxation which the work offered after a day of more rigorous thinking, he could not say. But in the midst of his writing the idea came to him. It rose up fully formed, a perfect plan, unlikely to fail and unlikely to arouse Dorothy's suspicion. The contemplation of it so occupied his mind that when the period ended he had completed only half the assigned page. The inevitable failing mark in the quiz troubled him very little. By ten o'clock the following morning Dorothy would have written her suicide note.
That evening, his landlady having gone to an Eastern Star meeting, he brought Dorothy back to his room. During the two hours they spent there, he was as warm and tender as she had ever wished him to be. In many ways be liked her a great deal, and he was conscious of the fact that this was to be her last such experience.
Dorothy, noticing his new gentleness and devotion, attributed it to the nearness of their wedding. She was not a religious girl, but she deeply believed that the state of wedlock carried with it something of holiness.
Afterwards they went to a small restaurant near the campus. It was a quiet place and not popular with the students; the elderly proprietor, despite the pains he took to decorate his windows with blue and white crepe paper and Stoddard pennants, was irascible with the noisy and somewhat destructive university crowd.
Seated in one of the blue-painted wall booths, they had cheeseburgers and chocolate malteds, while Dorothy chattered on about a new type of bookcase that opened out into a full-size dining table. He nodded unenthusiastically, waiting for a pause in the monologue.
'Oh, by the way,' he said, 'do you still have that picture I gave you? The one of me?'
'Of course I do.'
'Well let me have it back for a couple of days. I want to have a copy made to send to my mother. It's cheaper than getting another print from the studio.'
She took a green wallet from the pocket of the coat folded on the seat beside her. 'Have you told your mother about us?'
'No, I haven't'
'Why not?'
He thought for a moment. 'Well, as long as you can't tell your family until after, I thought I wouldn't tell my mother. Keep it our secret.' He smiled. 'You haven't told anyone, have you?'
'No,' she said. She was holding a few snapshots she had taken from the wallet. He looked at the top one from across the table. It was of Dorothy and two other girls,-her sisters, he supposed. Seeing his glance, she passed the picture to him. 'The middle one is Ellen, and Marion's on the end.'
The three girls were standing in front of a car, a Cadillac, he noticed. The sun was behind them, their faces shadowed, but he could still discern a resemblance among them. All had the same wide eyes and prominent cheekbones. Ellen's hair seemed to be of a shade midway between Dorothy's light and Marion's dark. 'Who's the prettiest?' he asked. 'After you, I mean.'
'Ellen,' Dorothy said. 'And before me. Marion could be very pretty too, only she wears her hair like this.' She pulled her hair back severely and frowned. 'She's the intellectual. Remember?'
'Oh. The Proust fiend.'
She handed him the next snapshot, which was of her father. 'Grrrrr,' he growled, and they both laughed. Then she said, 'And this is my fiancй,' and passed him his own picture.
He looked at it speculatively, seeing the symmetry of the clear planes. 'I don't know,' he drawled, rubbing his chin. 'Looks kind of dissolute to me.'
'But so handsome,' she said. 'So very handsome.' He smiled and pocketed the picture with a satisfied air. 'Don't lose it,' she warned seriously.
'I won't.' He looked around, his eyes bright. On the wall next to them was a selector for the jukebox at the rear of the restaurant. 'Music,' he announced, producing a nickel and dropping it into the slot. He traced a finger up and down the twin rows of red buttons as he read the names of the songs. He paused at the button opposite Some Enchanted Evening, which was one of Dorothy's favorites, but then his eyes caught On Top of Old Smoky further down the row, and he thought a moment and chose that instead. He pushed the button. The jukebox bloomed into life, casting a pink radiance on Dorothy's face.
She looked at her wristwatch, then leaned back, eyes closed rapturously. 'Oh gee, just think...' she murmured, sniffing. 'Next week no rushing back to the dorm!' Introductory guitar chords sounded from the jukebox. 'Shouldn't we put in an application for one of the trailers?'
'I was down there this afternoon,' he said. 'It may take a couple of weeks. We can stay at my place.
I'll speak to my landlady.' He took a paper napkin and began tearing careful bits from its folded edges. A girl's voice sang: On top of old Smoky, All covered with snow, 1 lost my true loved one, For courtin' too slow...
'Folk songs,' Dorothy said, lighting a cigarette. The flame glinted on the copper-stamped matchbook.
'The trouble with you,' he said, 'is you're a victim of your aristocratic upbringing.'
Now courtin's a pleasure, But partin's a grief, And a false-hearted lover Is worse than a thief...
'Did you take the blood test?'
'Yes. I did that this afternoon too.'
'Don't I have to take one?'
'No.'
'I looked in the Almanac. It said 'blood test required' for Iowa. Wouldn't that mean for both?'
'I asked. You don't have to.' His fingers picked precisely at the napkin.
A thief he will rob you, And take what you have, But a false-hearted lover Will lead you to the grave...
'It's getting late...'
'Just let's stay to the end of the record, okay? I like it.' He opened the napkin; the torn places multiplied symmetrically and the paper became a web of intricate lace. He spread his handiwork on the table admiringly.
The grave will decay you, And turn you to dust. Not one man in a hundred A poor girl can trust...
'See what we women have to put up with?'
'A pity. A real pity. My heart bleeds.'
Back in his room, he held the photograph over an ashtray and touched a lighted match to its lowest corner. It was a print of the yearbook photo and a good picture of him; he hated to burn it, but he had written 'To Dorrie, with
