The Governor was finishing his reply to the short speech of the
Surgeon-General. I heard him say: “The laws prohibiting suicide and
providing punishment for any attempt at self-destruction have been
repealed. The Government has seen fit to acknowledge the right of man
to end an existence which may have become intolerable to him, through
physical suffering or mental despair. It is believed that the community
will be benefited by the removal of such people from their midst. Since
the passage of this law, the number of suicides in the United States
has not increased. Now the Government has determined to establish a
Lethal Chamber in every city, town and village in the country, it
remains to be seen whether or not that class of human creatures from
whose desponding ranks new victims of self-destruction fall daily
will accept the relief thus provided.” He paused, and turned to the
white Lethal Chamber. The silence in the street was absolute. “There a
painless death awaits him who can no longer bear the sorrows of this
life. If death is welcome let him seek it there.” Then quickly turning
to the military aid of the President’s household, he said, “I declare
the Lethal Chamber open,” and again facing the vast crowd he cried in a
clear voice: “Citizens of New York and of the United States of America,
through me the Government declares the Lethal Chamber to be open.”

The solemn hush was broken by a sharp cry of command, the squadron of
hussars filed after the Governor’s carriage, the lancers wheeled and
formed along Fifth Avenue to wait for the commandant of the garrison,
and the mounted police followed them. I left the crowd to gape and
stare at the white marble Death Chamber, and, crossing South Fifth
Avenue, walked along the western side of that thoroughfare to Bleecker
Street. Then I turned to the right and stopped before a dingy shop
which bore the sign:

HAWBERK, ARMOURER.

I glanced in at the doorway and saw Hawberk busy in his little shop
at the end of the hall. He looked up, and catching sight of me cried
in his deep, hearty voice, “Come in, Mr. Castaigne!” Constance, his
daughter, rose to meet me as I crossed the threshold, and held out her
pretty hand, but I saw the blush of disappointment on her cheeks, and
knew that it was another Castaigne she had expected, my cousin Louis.
I smiled at her confusion and complimented her on the banner she was
embroidering from a coloured plate. Old Hawberk sat riveting the worn
greaves of some ancient suit of armour, and the ting! ting! ting! of
his little hammer sounded pleasantly in the quaint shop. Presently he
dropped his hammer, and fussed about for a moment with a tiny wrench.
The soft clash of the mail sent a thrill of pleasure through me. I
loved to hear the music of steel brushing against steel, the mellow
shock of the mallet on thigh pieces, and the jingle of chain armour.
That was the only reason I went to see Hawberk. He had never interested
me personally, nor did Constance, except for the fact of her being
in love with Louis. This did occupy my attention, and sometimes even
kept me awake at night. But I knew in my heart that all would come
right, and that I should arrange their future as I expected to arrange
that of my kind doctor, John Archer. However, I should never have
troubled myself about visiting them just then, had it not been, as
I say, that the music of the tinkling hammer had for me this strong
fascination. I would sit for hours, listening and listening, and when
a stray sunbeam struck the inlaid steel, the sensation it gave me was
almost too keen to endure. My eyes would become fixed, dilating with
a pleasure that stretched every nerve almost to breaking, until some
movement of the old armourer cut off the ray of sunlight, then, still
thrilling secretly, I leaned back and listened again to the sound of
the polishing rag, swish! swish! rubbing rust from the rivets.

Constance worked with the embroidery over her knees, now and then
pausing to examine more closely the pattern in the coloured plate from
the Metropolitan Museum.

“Who is this for?” I asked.

Hawberk explained, that in addition to the treasures of armour in the
Metropolitan Museum of which he had been appointed armourer, he also
had charge of several collections belonging to rich amateurs. This was
the missing greave of a famous suit which a client of his had traced to
a little shop in Paris on the Quai d’Orsay. He, Hawberk, had negotiated
for and secured the greave, and now the suit was complete. He laid down
his hammer and read me the history of the suit, traced since 1450 from
owner to owner until it was acquired by Thomas Stainbridge. When his
superb collection was sold, this client of Hawberk’s bought the suit,
and since then the search for the missing greave had been pushed until
it was, almost by accident, located in Paris.

“Did you continue the search so persistently without any certainty of
the greave being still in existence?” I demanded.

“Of course,” he replied coolly.

Then for the first time I took a personal interest in Hawberk.

“It was worth something to you,” I ventured.

“No,” he replied, laughing, “my pleasure in finding it was my reward.”

“Have you no ambition to be rich?” I asked, smiling.

“My one ambition is to be the best armourer in the world,” he answered
gravely.

Constance asked me if I had seen the ceremonies at the Lethal Chamber.
She herself had noticed cavalry passing up Broadway that morning, and
had wished to see the inauguration, but her father wanted the banner
finished, and she had stayed at his request.

“Did you see your cousin, Mr. Castaigne, there?” she asked, with the
slightest tremor of her soft eyelashes.

“No,” I replied carelessly. “Louis’ regiment is manœuvring out in
Westchester County.” I rose and picked up my hat and cane.