Chapter 2

           Isatdowninanarmchairandfeltverysick.Thatlastedformaybefiveminutes,andwassucceededbyafitofthehorrors.ThepoorstaringwhitefaceonthefloorwasmorethanIcouldbear,andImanagedtogetatable-clothandcoverit.ThenIstaggeredtoacupboard,foundthebrandyandswallowedseveralmouthfuls.Ihadseenmendieviolentlybefore;indeedIhadkilledafewmyselfintheMatabeleWar;butthiscold-bloodedindoorbusinesswasdifferent.StillImanagedtopullmyselftogether.Ilookedatmywatch,andsawthatitwashalf-pastten.

           Anideaseizedme,andIwentovertheflatwithasmall-toothcomb.Therewasnobodythere,noranytraceofanybody,butIshutteredandboltedallthewindowsandputthechainonthedoor.Bythistimemywitswerecomingbacktome,andIcouldthinkagain.Ittookmeaboutanhourtofigurethethingout,andIdidnothurry,for,unlessthemurderercameback,Ihadtillaboutsixo’clockinthemorningformycogitations.

           Iwasinthesoup—thatwasprettyclear.AnyshadowofadoubtImighthavehadaboutthetruthofScudder’stalewasnowgone.Theproofofitwaslyingunderthetable-cloth.Themenwhoknewthatheknewwhatheknewhadfoundhim,andhadtakenthebestwaytomakecertainofhissilence.Yes;buthehadbeeninmyroomsfourdays,andhisenemiesmusthavereckonedthathehadconfidedinme.SoIwouldbethenexttogo.Itmightbethatverynight,ornextday,orthedayafter,butmynumberwasupallright.

           ThensuddenlyIthoughtofanotherprobability.