realize that with a pig-headed chap like him, it was my best chance of getting

him _not_ to read it? His nervousness that night was interesting

psychologically. He knew danger was close at hand. And yet he never suspected

_me_.

 

The dagger was an afterthought. I’d brought up a very handy little weapon of my

own, but when I saw the dagger lying in the silver table, it occurred to me at

once how much better it would be to use a weapon that couldn’t be traced to me.

 

I suppose I must have meant to murder him all along. As soon as I heard of Mrs.

Ferrars’s death, I felt convinced that she would have told him everything before

she died. When I met him and he seemed so agitated, I thought that perhaps he

knew the truth, but that he couldn’t bring himself to believe it, and was going

to give me the chance of refuting it.

 

So I went home and took my precautions. If the trouble were after all only

something to do with Ralph—well, no harm would have been done. The dictaphone he

had given me two days before to adjust. Something had gone a little wrong with

it, and I persuaded him to let me have a go at it, instead of sending it back. I

did what I wanted to it, and took it up with me in my bag that evening.

 

I am rather pleased with myself as a writer. What could be neater, for instance,

than the following:—

 

“_The letters were brought in at twenty minutes to nine. It was just on ten