LITMIR.BIZ

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far?"

      "About fifty yards."

      "Was anyone—did anyone see?"

      "No."

      "What time?"

      "Three."

      "And then?"

      "Went back to her."

      "Why—in Heaven's name?"

      "She was lonely and afraid; so was I, Keith."

      "Where is this place?"

      "Forty-two, Borrow Street, Soho."

      "And the archway?"

      "Corner of Glove Lane."

      "Good God! Why—I saw it in the paper!"

      And seizing the journal that lay on his bureau, Keith read again that paragraph: "The body of a man was found this morning under an archway in Glove Lane, Soho. From marks about the throat grave suspicions of foul play are entertained. The body had apparently been robbed, and nothing was discovered leading to identification."

      It was real earnest, then. Murder! His own brother! He faced round and said:

      "You saw this in the paper, and dreamed it. Understand—you dreamed it!"

      The wistful answer came:

      "If only I had, Keith—if only I had!"

      In his turn, Keith very nearly wrung his hands.

      "Did you take anything from the—body?"

      "This dropped while we were struggling."

      It was an empty envelope with a South American post-mark addressed: "Patrick Walenn, Simon's Hotel, Farrier Street, London." Again with that twitching in his heart, Keith said:

      "Put it in the fire."

      Then suddenly he stooped to pluck it out. By that command—he had—identified himself with this—this—But he did not pluck it out. It blackened, writhed, and vanished. And once more he said:

      "What in God's name made you come here and tell me?"

      "You know about these things. I didn't mean to kill him. I love the girl. What shall I do, Keith?

      "Simple! How simple! To ask what he was to do! It was like Larry! And he said:

      "You were not seen, you think?" "It's a dark street. There was no one about."

      "When did you leave this girl the second time?"

      "About seven o'clock."

      "Where did you go?"

      "To my rooms."

      "In Fitzroy Street?"

      "Yes."

      "Did anyone see you come in?"

      "No."

      "What have you done since?"

      "Sat there."

      "Not been out?"

      "No."

      "Not seen the girl?"

      "No."

      "You don't know, then, what she's done since?"

      "No."

      "Would she give you away?"

      "Never."

      "Would she give herself away—hysteria?"

      "No."

      "Who knows of your relations with her?"

      "No one."

      "No one?"

      "I don't know who should, Keith."

      "Did anyone see you going in last night, when you first went to her?"

      "No. She lives on the ground floor. I've got keys."

      "Give them to me. What else have you that connects you with her?"

      "Nothing."

      "In your rooms?"

      "No."

      "No photographs. No letters?"

      "No."

      "Be careful."

      "Nothing."

      "No one saw you going back to her the second time?"

      "No."

      "No one saw you leave her in the morning?"

      "No."

      "You were fortunate. Sit down again, man. I must think."

      Think! Think out this accursed thing—so beyond all thought, and all belief. But he could not think. Not a coherent thought would come. And he began again:

      "Was it his first reappearance with her?"

      "Yes."

      "She told you so?"

      "Yes."

      "How did he find out where she was?"

      "I don't know."

      "How drunk were you?"

      "I was not drunk."

      "How much had you drunk?"

      "About two bottles of claret—nothing."

      "You say you didn't mean to kill him?"

      "No-God knows!"

      "That's something."

      "What made you choose the arch?"

      "It was the first dark place."

      "Did his face look as if he had been strangled?"

      "Don't!"

      "Did it?"

      "Yes."

      "Very disfigured?"

      "Yes."

      "Did you look to see if his clothes were marked?"

      "No."

      "Why not?"

      "Why not? My God! If you had done it!"

      "You say he was disfigured. Would he be recognisable?"

      "I don't know."

      "When she lived with him last—where was that?"

      "I don't know for certain. Pimlico, I think."

      "Not Soho?"

      "No."

      "How long has she been at the Soho place?"

      "Nearly a year."

      "Always the same rooms?"

      "Yes."

      "Is there anyone living in that house or street who would be likely to know her as his wife?"

      "I don't think so."

      "What was he?"

      "I should think he was a professional 'bully.'"

      "I see. Spending most of his time abroad, then?"

      "Yes."

      "Do you know if he was known to the police?"

      "I haven't heard of it."

      "Now, listen, Larry. When you leave here go straight home, and don't go out till I come to you, to-morrow morning. Promise that!"

      "I promise."

      "I've got a dinner engagement. I'll think this out. Don't drink. Don't talk! Pull yourself together."

      "Don't keep me longer than you can help, Keith!"

      That

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