Stratton was silent for a few moments.
“Will he recover?” he said at last.
“Not in this world. The bullet lodged somewhere about the brain, and it has produced, by its pressure, this peculiar form of imbecility. The past is an utter blank to him, and it is only for a short time every morning that he has the power of expressing himself at all.”
“You feel certain that he will not recover?”
“I have had the opinions of two of our most famous specialists, and they say it is impossible. The man is, to all intents and purposes, mentally dead. Now, then, as an enemy, Myra has no cause to fear him.”
“None.”
“He can never trouble you or her for blackmail, even if he had dared, after what has passed; so I think he may be left out of the question altogether. You will not, I am sure, think of handing the man over to the police.”
Stratton was silent for a few moments.
“No,” he said at last; “it is impossible.”
“I thought you would feel like this,” said Brettison. “Let the poor wretch end his days in peace.”