"No," he said, walking restlessly up and down the narrow room, "I'll take my medicine, but I won't involve anyone else. I'll make as good a fight as I can, and I won't skulk,--"
He was interrupted. There was a tap at the door, and immediately it was opened and a police officer stepped inside. He glanced from me to Clyde and picked his man unerringly.
"Mr. Clyde, I presume?"
Clyde nodded. "Yes. You want me?"
"Yes, sir,"--deprecatingly.
"You mean I am to go with you now?"
"Yes, sir,"--firmly.
Clyde smiled at me wryly. "I suppose I ought to know something of the etiquette of these affairs, but I am afraid I am not up. How about my personal papers? Will I be allowed to turn them over to you?"
"Certainly, unless the officer has a warrant for them," I said, with an assured air, intended to impress the officer.
Clyde took from an inner pocket a packet of letters, old and worn. "These are the letters that took me back from Lester," he said with a smile. "They were in the bag which I had left in my room at Houston. That was the only reason I went back that morning. If--well, if the time should come when you think best, give them to K. T., and tell her that I have carried them always. She will understand then,--"