Stephen Masty
The young man intended to purchase my death and, presumably and in some manner carry it away so that I never would meet with it. Immortality, wealth, my beloved Jessica all rotated in kaleidoscopic vision before my eyes.

Editor’s Note: The following short story was left unpublished at the author’s death. Thomas Masty, the author’s brother, edited the story for publication here, where it appears for the first time.
I had been given, of late, to walking through the streets of Edinburgh at night. When my studies were completed for the day, and provided that a delicate bank-balance or my solitary nature kept me from seeking the company of my fellow students in one of the many public houses, I would often walk from my digs up the Royal Mile to the castle, and return by way of the Grassmarket with a clear mind, prepared for sleep. The night air in Edinburgh is always bracing and barring the frequent fog, the view from the castle of the New Town, with its twinkling lights and Georgian symmetry seemed a healthy respite from the tortuous winds and architectural disarray of those territories in which I maintained my lodging.
Thus it was on an autumn’s evening like so many other autumn evenings that I found myself smoking a cigarette and looking out over the Botanic Gardens to Princes Street and beyond. As I stood in the evening stillness, high above the relatively minor bustle of the last few taxis taking home the last few fares of the night, I saw a fellow a few dozen yards away engaged in what apparently was an attempt to climb atop the wall that formed the parapet, dropping off on its nether side to a distant outcropping of rocks and pavement. I had heard, at various times, of suicides,  » Read More
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