Wyatt hesitated.
‘There is a Dominican Foundation in the rocky valley of El Puerto in the north of Spain,’ he said. ‘I have been in correspondence with them for some time. I have been disposing of all my books this week. I realized when von Faber passed into the hands of the police that my campaign was ended, but –’
He stopped and looked at Abbershaw; then he shrugged his shoulders.
‘What now?’ he said.
Abbershaw rose to his feet and held out his hand.
‘I don’t suppose I shall see you again before you go,’ he said. ‘Good-bye.’
Wyatt shook the outstretched hand, but after the first flicker of interest which the last words had occasioned his expression had become preoccupied. He crossed the room and picked up the photograph, and the last glimpse Abbershaw had of him was as he sat in the deep armchair, crouching over it, his eyes fixed on the sweet, foolish little face.
As the little doctor walked slowly down the staircase to the street his mind was in confusion. He was conscious of a strong feeling of relief, even although his worst fears had been realized. At the back of his head, the old problem of Law and Order as opposed to Right and Wrong worried itself into the inextricable tangle which knows no unravelling. Wyatt was both a murderer and a martyr. There was no one who could decide between the two, in his opinion.
And in his thoughts, too, were his own affairs: Meggie, and his love for her, and their marriage.