“Hurt the fellow?” he asked, when I had done.
“No. He is reported all right this morning.”
His chin dropped on his deep chest. He seemed to be mediating, in a crestfallen sort of way; but I observed that his eyes wandered aimlessly about the room. Finally he said:
“Suppose I had killed him.”
“You did n't,” I replied shortly.
He covered his face with his shaking hands.
“It's the murder in my heart,” he muttered.
I could only look at him.
After a little he dropped his hands, leaned back on the pillow, and gazed at me.
“You're blaming me,” he said.