CHAPTER VIII.
Last Sunday a great misfortune occurred in our prison: The artist K., whom the reader knows already, ended his life in suicide by flinging himself from the table with his head against the stone floor.

The fall and the force of the blow had been so skilfully calculated by the unfortunate young man that his skull was split in two.

The grief of the Warden was indescribable.

Having called me to the office, the Warden, without shaking hands with me, reproached me in angry and harsh terms for having deceived him, and he regained his calm, only after my hearty apologies and promises that such accidents would not happen again.

I promised to prepare a project for watching the criminals which would render suicide impossible.