“But it’s impossible!” I cried.
“Why, no, Fritz,” he answered thoughtfully. “It’s not possible yet; it may become so. But if we can catch Rupert in the next day, or even in the next two days, it’s not impossible. Only let me have the letter, and I’ll account for the concealment. What? Is the fact that crimes are known never concealed, for fear of putting the criminal on his guard?”
“You’ll be able to make a story, sir,” James put in, with a grave but reassuring air.
“Yes, James, I shall be able to make a story, or your master will make one for me. But, by God, story or no story, the letter mustn’t be found. Let them say we killed him ourselves if they like, but—”
I seized his hand and gripped it.
“You don’t doubt I’m with you?” I asked.
“Not for a moment, Fritz,” he answered.
“Then how can we do it?”
We drew nearer together; Sapt and I sat, while James leant over Sapt’s chair.
The oil in the lamp was almost exhausted, and the light burnt very dim. Now and again poor Herbert, for whom our skill could do nothing, gave a slight moan. I am ashamed to remember how little we thought of him, but great schemes make the actors in them careless of humanity; the life of a man goes for nothing against a point in the game. Except for his groans—and they grew fainter and less frequent—our voices alone broke the silence of the little lodge.