"Tell me how you did it," I said.
"It was after I had talked to you, Charlie—when I spoke about a knife, you know—that I made up my mind how best it could be done. I bought the knife—a long way from here, where no one would be likely to know me—and I chose the very night of his coming here. It was a simple matter, after all. I came up the stairs, and knocked at the door; after a moment or two he opened it, cursed me for disturbing him, and went in, with his back to me. The knife was in my breast pocket, and I had my hand upon it; I could have done it then—easily. But I was afraid; I did not know where to strike. Then, when he came into the room, and I was there with him, he suddenly turned round, and asked me what I wanted. And courage came back to me. I stepped up close to him, and I said suddenly that this was what I wanted; and I drove it in with all my force. He stood staring at me for quite a moment, with that thing sticking in him—staring stupidly, as if he didn't understand what had happened. And then he laughed (or so it seemed to me), and dropped, and died. It was horrible."
"And then?"
"It suddenly occurred to me that I might need to come back here again; I must have that power, at least. I did not dare go near him; but I found that he had dropped the keys on the table, just where they are now. So I took them—and I went away."
I picked up the keys, and looked at them; I was thinking deeply. For now it seemed to me that I had to face a new problem: the problem of what this man Jervis Fanshawe would do. That he would not give himself up for the crime I was certain; but I wanted to understand whether he had determined, in the event of discovery, to shift the blame on the boy Arnold Millard, or on myself. I had suffered once for this man, twenty years before—had been drawn on to murder, practically at his bidding; I did not mean to play the scapegoat again. In the case of the boy it had been different; while I had believed him guilty I had been willing enough, out of that old romantic feeling, to take the burden on my own shoulders. But not for Jervis Fanshawe.
"What are you going to do now?" I asked for the second time. "What plans have you in your mind?"
He looked at me again, with that cunning expression on his face I had seen before. "There is a vessel to sail, on which Murray Olivant took passages for himself and for you," he said in a whisper. "What if I took his place, Charlie—and you came with me?"
"Too late," I said—"even if you had the tickets."
Still keeping his eyes fixed upon my face, he dived into one of his pockets, and brought out an envelope; opened it, and pulled out the tickets. I started, and stared at him, and made a movement to take them from him; but he closed the envelope quickly, and thrust it back into his pocket.