Chapter 4

           Youmaypicturemedrivingthat40h.p.carforallshewasworthoverthecrispmoorroadsonthatshiningMaymorning;glancingbackatfirstovermyshoulder,andlookinganxiouslytothenextturning;thendrivingwithavagueeye,justwideenoughawaketokeeponthehighway.ForIwasthinkingdesperatelyofwhatIhadfoundinScudder’spocket-book.

           Thelittlemanhadtoldmeapackoflies.AllhisyarnsabouttheBalkansandtheJew-AnarchistsandtheForeignOfficeConferencewereeyewash,andsowasKarolides.Andyetnotquite,asyoushallhear.Ihadstakedeverythingonmybeliefinhisstory,andhadbeenletdown;herewashisbooktellingmeadifferenttale,andinsteadofbeingonce-bitten-twice-shy,Ibelieveditabsolutely.

           Why,Idon’tknow.Itrangdesperatelytrue,andthefirstyarn,ifyouunderstandme,hadbeeninaqueerwaytruealsoinspirit.ThefifteenthdayofJunewasgoingtobeadayofdestiny,abiggerdestinythanthekillingofaDago.ItwassobigthatIdidn’tblameScudderforkeepingmeoutofthegameandwantingtoplayalonehand.That,Iwasprettyclear,washisintention.Hehadtoldmesomethingwhichsoundedbigenough,buttherealthingwassoimmortallybigthathe,themanwhohadfounditout,wanteditallforhimself.Ididn’tblamehim.Itwasrisksafterallthathewaschieflygreedyabout.

           Thewholestorywasinthenotes—withgaps,youunderstand,whichhewouldhavefilledupfromhismemory.