“There was something glittering in there,” Sullivan resumed, “and on impulse I picked it up. Then I dropped the curtains and stumbled back to my own berth.”
“Where you wiped your hands on the bed-clothing and stuck the dirk into the pillow.” Hotchkiss was seeing his carefully built structure crumbling to pieces, and he looked chagrined.
“I suppose I did—I’m not very clear about what happened then. But when I rallied a little I saw a Russia leather wallet lying in the aisle almost at my feet, and, like a fool, I stuck it, with the bit of chain, into my bag.
“I sat there, shivering, for what seemed hours. It was still perfectly quiet, except for some one snoring. I thought that would drive me crazy.
“The more I thought of it the worse things looked. The telegram was the first thing against me—it would put the police on my track at once, when it was discovered that the man in lower ten had been killed.
“Then I remembered the notes, and I took out the wallet and opened it.”
He stopped for a minute, as if the recalling of the next occurrence was almost beyond him.
“I took out the wallet,” he said simply, “and opening it, held it to the light. In gilt letters was the name, Simon Harrington.”
The detectives were leaning forward now, their eyes on his face.
“Things seemed to whirl around for a while. I sat there almost paralyzed, wondering what this new development meant for me.