out, and I did not hurry, for, unless the murderer came back, I had till about

six o’clock in the morning for my cogitations.

 

I was in the soup—that was pretty clear. Any shadow of a doubt I might have had

about the truth of Scudder’s tale was now gone. The proof of it was lying under

the table-cloth. The men who knew that he knew what he knew had found him, and

had taken the best way to make certain of his silence. Yes; but he had been in

my rooms four days, and his enemies must have reckoned that he had confided in

me. So I would be the next to go. It might be that very night, or next day, or

the day after, but my number was up all right.

 

Then suddenly I thought of another probability. Supposing I went out now and

called in the police, or went to bed and let Paddock find the body and call them

in the morning. What kind of a story was I to tell about Scudder? I had lied to

Paddock about him, and the whole thing looked desperately fishy. If I made a

clean breast of it and told the police everything he had told me, they would

simply laugh at me. The odds were a thousand to one that I would be charged with

the murder, and the circumstantial evidence was strong enough to hang me. Few

people knew me in England; I had no real pal who could come forward and swear to

my character. Perhaps that was what those secret enemies were playing for. They

were clever enough for anything, and an English prison was as good a way of

getting rid of me till after June 15th as a knife in my chest.

 

Besides, if I told the whole story, and by any miracle was believed, I would be

playing their game. Karolides would stay at home, which was what they wanted.