He got up.
“I ought to go,” he said.
“Must you?”
“Must!—Oh no! My time is my own, and always will be, I suppose.”
“You have thrown up everything?”
“What else could I do? The man who killed his own son! How could I stay in London, go among business men who knew me, talk about investments to clients? Suppose you had killed Jimmy!”
There was a long silence. Then he said:
“I’ve given up my name. I call myself Mervyn Denton. I saw the name in a novel I opened on a railway bookstall.”
She got up and came near to him quietly.
“This is all wrong,” she said.