The criminal forgets too much in the moment of action. It is a sort of stage fright. Rehearsed perfectly, however.... Not that the thing is not admittedly difficult. A button, a fingerprint, a drop of blood, the resources of the laboratory, the microscope, the spectroscope—oh yes, it cannot be said that there is not a deal to watch. And a memory, a chance association years afterwards, an attack of debility rendering the eyes subject to deceits—any one of these things may at any moment throw him into the hands of the law as a fate more merciful than that which he has not been clever enough to forestall within himself. Yes, there is much to consider; but then, as all the world knows, masterpieces of crime or what not, are difficult of accomplishment.
Ten words, then, on the morrow, and he would never dare....
But bah! I was not even sure! He could not be contemplating it, and I was vile to think it.... Still, prudence. I must make sure. Till then, nothing—not even these thoughts that ticked as if out of a tape-machine from my brain. To-morrow....
Yet, ah! I was sure for all that!
This red and green, this red and green!