"Don't talk about them yet, Winfield. Please don't—if—if—but never mind that now."
The man's face was contorted with passion, but he spoke quietly, almost coldly. Winfield shivered as he spoke, however. If ever murder burned in a man's eyes, it burned in Leicester's at that moment.
Directly they arrived at the club, he seized a pen and wrote rapidly, while Winfield remained near him smoking a cigar. Page after page was covered with Leicester's bold, clear writing; when he had finished he passed what he had written to Winfield.
"It's mean of me to bother you," he said, "but I'm quite bowled over. I hardly know whether I've set everything down exactly as it occurred. Would you mind reading what I've written and tell me whether I've made the whole affair plain?"
Winfield read the letter from the first word to the last.
"Yes," he said; "nothing could be more clearly stated. Nothing could be more plain or straight-forward."
"Thank you. I wanted to be sure I was in my right mind. I'll not trouble you with the rest of the letter."
Again he wrote; and this time it was evident by the look on his face that he was setting down what was only for Olive Castlemaine's eyes. As a matter of fact, he was pleading with her as only a desperate man can plead. He threw his pride to the winds, and prayed her mercy and her forgiveness.
"What time is it?" he said, when he had finished.
"Three o'clock," said Winfield, looking at his watch, "and I've had no lunch."