The young man sprang to his feet. His face was bronze.
"It is of no consequence, my friend." He laughed softly. "Simply, the scheme appealed to me. It fired my imagination. I am, as you know, a dreamer.
"'If you can dream, and not make dreams your master,'" he murmured.
He walked over to the corner of the room, picked up his Inverness, and stood looking composedly down upon the figure which it had concealed.
"Salve, my friend! You go down the river tonight, wiser than all the kings of earth."
He slipped into his coat and turned toward Baggin, who had also risen.
"You will see that it gets into the morning papers," he said. "I could wish to write it myself," he added pensively, drawing on his gloves. "It has possibilities. So: 'Grayson a suicide. Great financier shows himself at the opera, bids the gay world good-night, and throws himself in the Thames. A flying rumour breathes money troubles as a cause for the tragedy.' Wait!" he fumbled in his breast pocket, "I'll write a note to pin to his clothes."
He scribbled hastily in his memorandum book, tore out the leaf, and handed it to his companion. "He confesses his sins and commends his soul to 'le bon Dieu.'" He laid a hand upon the door.
"You will leave me here—alone?" asked Baggin.
"But yes! Nothing can harm you from within, and you bolt the door from without—until the preconcerted signal. It should not be long now." He drew out his watch.