“Do you know—do you know what he—I did,” he breathed. “You think you can bury—me—but—you can’t. I—I’ll tell you what I did—I strangled him—like that (he clutched my throat). I threw him out of the car. He—he tried—to stab me with—with my own jack-knife—he tried to cut the rope—but I can go too quick—up a rope—anyway—trailing—stalking—you see how I can come here when I must have that name. That is my name—it belongs to me—me—it does. Give it to me—or—or I—it’s your town as much as mine—I kept it from getting—disgraced you’re a coward if you’re a-scared of storms—I rode a storm—I did—and I tracked you here—you are—you’re a thief—you are! Give me my name—Tom Slade—I hunt for—that. I trailed it—I am Tomasso!”
I removed his weakening fingers from my throat and, standing, stroked his shoulders soothingly. Every part of him was shaking and he was breathing like a dog. He had to toss his head back to gulp out his excitement and he kept closing one eye in a nervous manner, most distressing to see.
“You must be quiet,” I said, “and get your wet clothes off. Shh— I’ll give you your name (for I thought it best to humor him) as soon as you do that. Hold up your arm—so; so I can get your coat off. Now sit down, quietly. There. It’s because you are tired—that’s all. Don’t think about anything, just....”
But he would not sit down, only laid his head upon the back of the great chair and sobbed like a baby. I made no effort to dissuade him for I knew that was just the effect of his exhausting tirade. I assumed, of course, that he had been talking nonsense....
Copy of cable despatch which I sent to Roy Blakeley on the fourth day following the incidents related in the last chapter.
“Tom Slade alive sick will recover am writing.”
Following is my last letter to Roy Blakeley, written at the little inn of Hans Twann above St. Craix village in Switzerland:
Dear Roy: