"Hasn't looked?"
"Hasn't read the damned things. She doesn't know how they expose him."
"Then, my dear fellow," I said, "you've got to tell her."
"Tell her?" he cried. "If I told her she would go and hang herself. No. I'm not to tell her. I'm not to tell anybody. She's got an idea that he's pretty well exposed himself, and, don't you see, I'm to wrap him up."
"Wrap him up——"
"Wrap him up, so that she can't see, so that nobody can see. That's what I'm here for—to edit him, Simpson, edit him out of all recognition. She hasn't put it to herself that way, but that's what she means. I'm to do my best for him. She's left it to me with boundless trust in my—my constructive imagination. Do you see?"
I did. There was no doubt that he had hit it.
"This thing" (he brought his fist down on it), "when I've finished with it, won't be Wrackham: it'll be all me."
"That's to say you'll be identified with him?"
"Identified—crucified—scarified with him. You don't suppose they'd spare me? I shall be every bit as—as impossible as he is."