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           WhenIcamebackfrommywalklastnightIfoundacardinmyletter-box.ItborethenameofthemanIwantleasttomeetonGod’searth.”

           Ithinkthatthelookinmycompanion’seyes,thesheernakedscareonhisface,completedmyconvictionofhishonesty.MyownvoicesharpenedabitasIaskedhimwhathedidnext.

           “IrealizedthatIwasbottledassureasapickledherring,andthattherewasonlyonewayout.Ihadtodie.IfmypursuersknewIwasdeadtheywouldgotosleepagain.”

           “Howdidyoumanageit?”

           “ItoldthemanthatvaletsmethatIwasfeelingprettybad,andIgotmyselfuptolooklikedeath.Thatwasn’tdifficult,forI’mnoslouchatdisguises.ThenIgotacorpse—youcanalwaysgetabodyinLondonifyouknowwheretogoforit.Ifetcheditbackinatrunkonthetopofafour-wheeler,andIhadtobeassistedupstairstomyroom.YouseeIhadtopileupsomeevidencefortheinquest.Iwenttobedandgotmymantomixmeasleeping-draught,andthentoldhimtoclearout.Hewantedtofetchadoctor,butIsworesomeandsaidIcouldn’tabideleeches.WhenIwasleftaloneIstartedintofakeupthatcorpse.Hewasmysize,andIjudgedhadperishedfromtoomuchalcohol,soIputsomespiritshandyabouttheplace.Thejawwastheweakpointinthelikeness,soIblewitawaywitharevolver.Idaresaytherewillbesomebodytomorrowtosweartohavingheardashot,buttherearenoneighboursonmyfloor,andIguessedIcouldriskit.