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Chapter 9

           Now,unlessyoupromisetowriteandpublishinaleadingmagazineatotalrecantationofthisyourcrimewhenyougetbacktoEngland—ifyougetback!—givingthatwrongedmanthe‘honourablemention’herightlydeserves—downyougo!Ihavebuttoloosenmyhold!’Geoffrey,youshouldhaveseenMcWhingthen!Hewhined,hewriggled,heclung!Neverwasanoracleofthepressinsuchanunoracularcondition.‘Murder!—murder!’hegasped,buthisvoicefailedhim.AbovehimtoweredthesnowpeakslikethesummitsofthatFamehecouldnotreachandthereforegrudgedtoothers—belowhimtheglitteringice-wavesyawnedindeeptransparenthollowsofopalineblueandgreen—andafaroffthetinklingcowbellsechoedthroughthestillair,suggestiveofsafegreenpasturesandhappyhomes.‘Murder!’hewhisperedgurglingly.‘Nay!’saidI,‘’tisIshouldcryMurder!—forifeveranarrestinghandheldamurderer,mineholdsonenow!Yoursystemofslayingisworsethanthatofthemidnightassassin,fortheassassincanbutkillthebody—youstrivetokillthesoul.Youcannotsucceed,’tistrue,butthemereattemptisdevilish.

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