"Right?" echoed Langholm, densely. "My first idea was—right?"
"You said you first thought it was I who killed—her husband."
"It couldn't have been!"
"But it was."
Langholm got back to his feet. He could conceive but one explanation of this preposterous statement. Severino's sickness had extended to his brain. He was delirious. This was the first sign.
"Where are you going?" asked the invalid, querulously, as his companion moved towards the door.
"When was the doctor here last?" demanded Langholm in return.
There was silence for a few moments, and then a faint laugh, that threatened to break into a sob, from the bed.
"I see what you think. How can I convince you that I have all my wits about me? I'd rather not have a light just yet—but in my bag you'll find a writing-case. It is locked, but the keys are in my trouser's pocket. In my writing-case you will find a sealed envelope, and in that a fuller confession than I shall have breath to make to you. Take it downstairs and glance at it—then come back."