“Nerves,” murmured Ackroyd to himself.

 

He unfolded the thick sheets of paper, and read aloud in a low voice.

 

“_My dear, my very dear Roger,—A life calls for a life. I see that—I saw it in

your face this afternoon. So I am taking the only road open to me. I leave to

you the punishment of the person who has made my life a hell upon earth for the

last year. I would not tell you the name this afternoon, but I propose to write

it to you now. I have no children or near relations to be spared, so do not fear

publicity. If you can, Roger, my very dear Roger, forgive me the wrong I meant

to do you, since when the time came, I could not do it after all...._”

 

Ackroyd, his finger on the sheet to turn it over, paused.

 

“Sheppard, forgive me, but I must read this alone,” he said unsteadily. “It was

meant for my eyes, and my eyes only.”

 

He put the letter in the envelope and laid it on the table.

 

“Later, when I am alone.”

 

“No,” I cried impulsively, “read it now.”

 

Ackroyd stared at me in some surprise.