If anything, the putty-like pallor of his face became still more ghastly.
"Don't do anything violent, Neil," he whispered. "You'll only regret it. I swear to you—"
"I shouldn't swear," I said. "You don't want to die with a lie on your lips."
The sweat broke out on his forehead, and he glanced desperately round the room, as though seeking for some possible method of escape. The only comfort he got was a shake of the head from Tommy.
"You—you don't mean to murder me?" he gasped.
I gave a fiendish laugh. "Don't I!" I cried. "What's one murder more or less? I know you've put the police on to me, and I'd sooner be hanged than go back to Dartmoor any day."
Tommy rubbed his hands together ghoulishly. "What are we going to do with him?" he asked. "Cut his throat?"
"No," I said. "It would make a mess, and we don't want to spoil
Joyce's carpet."
"Oh, it doesn't matter about the carpet," said Joyce unselfishly.
"I've got it," said Tommy. "Why not throw him in the river? The tide's up; I noticed it as we came along."