"Yes, I am Henry Carew. I am guilty of all that I am accused of, and of more, and worse things. But I am glad, indeed glad—and little gladness has been my lot of late—to see you, Arthur Allen, standing there alive before me. There is one less crime on my soul. Yes, I am now happy; happier than I deserve to be. I am quite ready to pay the penalty of my sins."
There was a nobility in his countenance as he stood up erect, with none of the shrinking criminal about him. He felt as if he were out of the world already; he was free from petty fears now.
Then the consul, impressed by the man's manner, said, in an almost respectful tone, "It is better that you should go on board the English steamer at once. I have arranged everything."
The detective whispered something into the consul's ear, and then slipped out of the room quietly.
Carew looked through the window at the fair tropical world without. He could see the busy quay, with its green trees waving in the fresh trade wind, and the breakers dashing upon the coral reef. Beyond that, between the blue sea and the blue sky, there loomed a dark mass. Carew knew that this was the vessel which was to be his prison, lying at anchor in the outer roads. He shivered; then turning to the consul said—
"Grant me one last favour before I go: let me have paper and pen. I wish to write a letter."
The consul hesitated.
"Give it to him," whispered Allen, who had been eyeing Carew intently; and Carew rewarded him with a grateful look.
The writing materials were put on the table. He sat before them with his back to the spectators, and as he held the pen in his right hand, he placed his left elbow upon the table, stooping over it, his face buried in the open palm as if he were meditating deeply what he should write. And so he remained for quite a minute without writing a word. Once a slight tremor passed through his frame. After that he sat quite motionless.