in and spoke to the porter.... When I came back from my walk last night I found

a card in my letter-box. It bore the name of the man I want least to meet on

God’s earth.”

 

I think that the look in my companion’s eyes, the sheer naked scare on his face,

completed my conviction of his honesty. My own voice sharpened a bit as I asked

him what he did next.

 

“I realized that I was bottled as sure as a pickled herring, and that there was

only one way out. I had to die. If my pursuers knew I was dead they would go to

sleep again.”

 

“How did you manage it?”

 

“I told the man that valets me that I was feeling pretty bad, and I got myself

up to look like death. That wasn’t difficult, for I’m no slouch at disguises.

Then I got a corpse—you can always get a body in London if you know where to go

for it. I fetched it back in a trunk on the top of a four-wheeler, and I had to

be assisted upstairs to my room. You see I had to pile up some evidence for the

inquest. I went to bed and got my man to mix me a sleeping-draught, and then

told him to clear out. He wanted to fetch a doctor, but I swore some and said I

couldn’t abide leeches. When I was left alone I started in to fake up that

corpse. He was my size, and I judged had perished from too much alcohol, so I

put some spirits handy about the place. The jaw was the weak point in the

likeness, so I blew it away with a revolver. I daresay there will be somebody