“If only I had, Keith—if only I had!”
In his turn, Keith very nearly wrung his hands.
“Did you take anything from the—body?”
“This dropped while we were struggling.”
It was an empty envelope with a South American post-mark addressed: “Patrick Walenn, Simon's Hotel, Farrier Street, London.” Again with that twitching in his heart, Keith said:
“Put it in the fire.”
Then suddenly he stooped to pluck it out. By that command—he had—identified himself with this—this—But he did not pluck it out. It blackened, writhed, and vanished. And once more he said:
“What in God's name made you come here and tell me?”
“You know about these things. I didn't mean to kill him. I love the girl. What shall I do, Keith?
“Simple! How simple! To ask what he was to do! It was like Larry! And he said: