"You can't go too soon to please me," said I, gathering up the original manuscripts of the story and preparing to put them away in my desk.
"Probably not," it sneered. "I'll be glad to go too, but I can't go until that manuscript is destroyed. As long as it exists there is evidence of your having appropriated the work of another. Why, can't you see that? Burn it!"
"I can't see my way clear in crime!" I retorted. "It is not in my line."
Nevertheless, realizing the value of his advice, I thrust the pages one by one into the blazing log fire, and watched them as they flared and flamed and grew to ashes. As the last page disappeared in the embers the demon vanished. I was alone, and throwing myself down for a moment's reflection upon my couch, was soon lost in sleep.
It was noon when I again opened my eyes, and, ten minutes after I awakened, your telegraphic summons reached me.
"Come down at once," was what you said, and I went; and then came the terrible dénouement, and yet a dénouement which was pleasing to me since it relieved my conscience. You handed me the envelope containing the story.
"Did you send that?" was your question.
"I did—last night, or rather early this morning. I mailed it about three o'clock," I replied.
"I demand an explanation of your conduct," said you.
"Of what?" I asked.