"Don't say that, Rutton."
"It is so written, David." The man's smile was strangely placid. "After this night, we'll never meet. In the morning Doggott will ferry you over—"
"Shan't we go together?"
"No," said Rutton serenely; "I must leave before you."
"Without Doggott?"
"Without Doggott; I wish him to go with you."
"Where?"
"On the errand I am going to ask you to do for me. You are free to leave this country for several months?"
"Quite. I corrected the final galleys of my 'Analysis of Sanskrit Literature' just before I came down. Now I've nothing on my mind—or hands. Go on."
"Wait." Rutton went a second time to the leather trunk, lifted the lid, and came back with two small parcels. The one, which appeared to contain documents of some sort, he cast negligently on the fire, with the air of one who destroys that which is no longer of value to him. It caught immediately and began to flame and smoke and smoulder. The other was several inches square and flat, wrapped in plain paper, without a superscription, and sealed with several heavy blobs of red wax.