out that," said I, wishing to spare him from saying more than
was necessary. "He told Fenimore and me about it."

"What was his version?" he asked in a low tone. "I had better hear it."

When I had told him, he shook his head. "He lied. He was saving his
skin. I was not such a fool, mad as I was, as to leave him like that.
He had seen us together. He had seen me alone. To-morrow there would be
discovery. I offered him a thousand pounds to say nothing. He haggled.
Oh! the ghastly business! Eventually I suggested that he should come up
to London with me by the first train in the morning and discuss the
money. I was dreading lest someone should come along the avenue and see
me. He agreed. I think I drank a bottle of whisky that night. It kept
me alive. We met in my chambers in London. I had sent my man up the day
before to do some odds and ends for me. I made a clear breast of it to
Gedge. He believed the worst. I don't blame him. I bought his silence
for a thousand a year. I made arrangements for payment through my
bankers. I went to Norway. But I went alone. I didn't fish. I put off
the two men I was to join. I spent over a month all by myself. I don't
think I could tell you a thing about the place. I walked and walked all
day until I was exhausted, and got sleep that way. I'm sure I was going
mad. I should have gone mad if it hadn't been for the war. I suppose
I'm the only Englishman living or dead who whooped and danced with
exultation when he heard of it. I think my brain must have been a bit
touched, for I laughed and cried and jumped about in a pine-wood with a
week old newspaper in my hands. I came home. You know the rest."

Yes, I knew the rest. The woman he had left to drown had been ever
before his eyes; the avenging Furies in pursuit. This was the torture
in his soul that had led him to many a mad challenge of Death, who
always scorned his defiance. Yes, I knew all that he could tell me.

But we went on talking. There were a few points I wanted cleared up.
Why should he have kept up a correspondence with Gedge?

"I only wrote one foolish angry letter," he replied.

And I told him how Sir Anthony had thrown it unread into the fire.
Gedge's nocturnal waylaying of him in my front garden was another
unsuccessful attempt to tighten the screw. Like Randall and myself, he
had no fear of Gedge.

Of Sir Anthony he could not speak. He seemed to be crushed by the
heroic achievement. It was the only phase of our inte