elt that I had done right in this my first step
toward saving you from the pain and suffering that was sure to come; for
I had no doubt of the discovery. Then I argued that such a wretch was
worthless, and that, even dead, he ought not to have the power to injure
two people whom I loved. I knew that you meant to hide your--"

"Crime," interposed Stratton.

"I never looked upon it as a crime. Let us call it your misfortune in
slaying another in the effort to save your own life. There, then, was
my position. I had gone so far; and, difficult as the task had seemed,
the task was easy beside that which was to come."

"Tell me what you did," said Stratton hoarsely.

"I tell you I sat down to think," said Brettison coolly, "and the more I
thought the more impossible the task seemed to grow. I told myself that
it must be done--that body must be concealed where no prying eyes could
find it, and so that he who hid it could never be forced to bear the
blame.

"If the poor wretch were discovered, it did not matter, thought I--no
one would know him. Even if it was found who he was, it did not matter;
for, I tell you, I felt no compunction, and I told myself that in time
you would get over the shock and might be happy after all; for I said
that you would have no greater cause for self-reproach than the soldier
who slays an enemy to save his own life.

"What, then, could I do? Get the poor wretch carried down to a cab,
have him borne to a hospital, and escape in the bustle of the ambulance
being brought to him?

"That meant discovery, I felt sure. And I thought of the streets by
night. In all probability, no one had seen him come up to the chambers;
but I was damped directly there; for those who carried the man down
would be able to tell whence he came, and hundreds would be glad to play
the amateur detective and hunt me down.

"On all hands I was checked," continued Brettison, "and I could not help
thinking, as I found myself hedged in by obstacles, how much safer we
all are in London than we think. The difficulty seemed to increase, and
at last I began to recall the story in the `Arabian Nights' about the
man choking himself to death with a bone, and the trouble his host had
to dispose of the body. You remember about how they propped it up
against another man's door, so that he knocked it down and imagined that
he had killed the intruder. I fancied myself carrying the man into the
streets myself, but I did not