I remembered that certain steamer tickets had been bought, in order to carry out that deception which had after all been useless; I knew that those tickets must be in the possession of the dead man. With the cowardice of one who puts off what he knows to be inevitable until the last moment, I searched everywhere for them about the room—looking on the mantelshelf, and in a small new portmanteau in the inner room—everywhere but where I knew instinctively they must be. Then at last, when there was nothing else to be done, I turned to the man himself, and knelt beside him.
Even as I did so I raised my head, and listened. The night was very still and windless; there was not a sound anywhere about the house. But I had distinctly heard the scrape of a footstep on the landing outside—that, and the movement of some one against the door. I got up very slowly and stealthily from my knees, and suddenly blew out the candle; then I felt my way to the door of the room, and stood listening again.
There was a small lobby outside this room, and at the further side of it the door leading to the staircase. While I stood there, I distinctly heard some one pressing against the door: heard the heavy breathing of some one who was evidently striving to peer through the keyhole. I stood perfectly still in the darkness, and listened; heard cautious footsteps moving away from the door, and then with greater confidence going more loudly down the stairs. And I knew instinctively that the murderer had been there, and had gone away again.
There had been a sudden thought in my mind for a moment that I would follow him; would overtake him, and so, coming face to face with him, make him understand that I knew the truth. With that understanding there might have come the knowledge that I was his friend, who had suffered just as he must be suffering now, and who was ready and willing to help him. But that thought was gone as quickly as it had come; I felt that I should only be met with furious denials; I knew that I must keep my knowledge to myself for the present.
It was difficult work going back into that room, and standing there fumbling to get a light. But I accomplished it at last, and once more went upon my knees beside the dead man, and began to fumble dreadfully in his pockets for the tickets. They were easily found, because the man seemed to have nothing else of any value in his pockets at all; he had carried out what he had promised, in that he had destroyed all marks of identification. So with the tickets in my hand I sat down on a chair (still keeping him well in view, lest he should dreadfully come to life again), and thought about what I had to do.
I fitted the thing together like a puzzle. Murray Olivant on the sea, on board the Eaglet; Murray Olivant so far accounted for, for some considerable time at least. On the other hand, Murray Olivant here as an unknown man—dead by an unknown hand. The first thing to be done obviously was to get rid of the tickets. For the present I thrust them into my own pocket, meaning to destroy them at the first opportunity.
Then I went carefully through the rooms, to be certain that there was nothing by which Olivant could be identified. I found, as I had expected, that there was no scrap of clothing anywhere that was marked; everything was of that newer cheaper kind that he had purchased for the better carrying out of his trick. I had left the most dreadful task to the last; and that was to examine the knife.
I had not the courage to pull it out; I took the candle from the table, and bent down to examine it. It was a knife not unlike that which I carried; it had been well worn, but was a powerful weapon, of the sort carried by sailors. I looked at it carefully, and was relieved to find that there were no distinguishing marks upon the handle: it was a common thing, such as the boy might have bought for a few shillings, just as I had bought the one that was slung about my waist.
I had done all that it was possible for me to do, and I now prepared for departure. I extinguished the candle, and got to the door; stood listening for a moment, in the fear that that visitor of a little time before might have returned, and might be waiting. But there was no sound, and after a moment or two I opened the door, and peered out. No one there, and the house wrapped in silence.
Emboldened by that, I pulled the door wide, and stepped out, and closed it behind me. I turned to put my hand against it, to be certain that it was fastened, and recoiled with a cry. For there was a man standing there, flat against the wall at one side of the door, looking at me. It was Jervis Fanshawe.