king out
from it. All of a sudden he looks up and sees Mr. Morrison
a-watching him and me from behind the counter. Back he whisks the
pocket-book into his pocket, calls me for my bill, gives me two
mouldy pennies for a tip, buttons up his coat and walks out."

"You know who he was?" Laverick inquired.

Again the waiter paused for a moment before he answered--paused
and looked nervously around the room. His voice shook.

"He was the man as was murdered about a hundred yards off the
'Black Post' last night, sir," he said.

"How do you know?" Laverick asked.

"I got an hour off to-day," the waiter continued, "and went down to
the Mortuary. There was no doubt about it. There he was--same
chap, same clothes. I could swear to him anywhere, and I reckon
I'll have to at the inquest."

Laverick's cigarette burned away between his fingers. It seemed to
him that he was no longer in the room. He was listening to Big
Ben striking the hour, he was back again in that tiny little bedroom
with its spotless sheets and lace curtains. The man on the bed was
looking at him. Laverick remembered the look and shivered.

"What has this to do with Morrison?" he demanded.

Once more the waiter looked around in that half mysterious, half
terrified way.

"Mr. Morrison, sir," he said, dropping his voice to a hoarse whisper,
"he followed the other chap out within thirty seconds. A sort of
queer look he'd got in his face too, and he went out without paying
me. I've read the papers pretty careful, sir," the man went on,
"but I ain't seen no word of that pocket-book of bank-notes being
found on the man as was murdered."

Laverick threw the end of his burning cigarette away. He walked to
the window, keeping his back deliberately turned on his visitor.
His eyes followed the glittering arc of lights which fringed the
Thames Embankment, were caught by the flaring sky-sign on the other
side of the river. He felt his heart beating with unaccustomed vigor.
Was this, then, the secret of Morrison's terror? He wondered no
longer at his collapse. The terror was upon him, too. He felt his
forehead, and his hand, when he drew it away, was wet. It was not
Morrison alone but he himself who might be implicated in this man's
knowledge. The thoughts flitted through his brain like parts of a
nightmare. He saw Morrison arrested, he saw the whole story of the
missing pocket-book in the papers, he imagined his bank manager
reading it and thi