Had it really come?  Must he go back home with this murk on him; knowing that his brother was a confessed and branded murderer?  He went quickly, to the half-drawn curtains and looked in.  Against the wall he saw a bed, and those two in it.  He recoiled in sheer amazement and relief.  Asleep with curtains undrawn, lights left on?  Asleep through all his knocking!  They must both be drunk.  The blood rushed up in his neck.  Asleep!  And rushing forward again, he called out:  “Larry!” Then, with a gasp he went towards the bed.  “Larry!” No answer!  No movement!  Seizing his brother’s shoulder, he shook it violently.  It felt cold.  They were lying in each other’s arms, breast to breast, lips to lips, their faces white in the light shining above the dressing-table.  And such a shudder shook Keith that he had to grasp the brass rail above their heads.  Then he bent down, and wetting his finger, placed it close to their joined lips.  No two could ever swoon so utterly as that; not even a drunken sleep could be so fast.  His wet finger felt not the faintest stir of air, nor was there any movement in the pulses of their hands.  No breath!  No life!  The eyes of the girl were closed.  How strangely innocent she looked!  Larry’s open eyes seemed to be gazing at her shut eyes; but Keith saw that they were sightless.  With a sort of sob he drew down the lids.  Then, by an impulse that he could never have explained, he laid a hand on his brother’s head, and a hand on the girl’s fair hair.  The clothes had fallen down a little from her bare shoulder; he pulled them up, as if to keep her warm, and caught the glint of metal; a tiny gilt crucifix no longer than a thumbnail, on a thread of steel chain, had slipped down from her breast into the hollow of the arm which lay round Larry’s neck.  Keith buried it beneath the clothes and noticed an envelope pinned to the coverlet; bending down, he read:  “Please give this at once to the police.—­Laurence Darrant.”  He thrust it into his pocket.  Like elastic stretched beyond its uttermost, his reason, will, faculties of calculation and resolve snapped to within him.  He thought with incredible swiftness:  ‘I must know nothing of this.  I must go!’ And, almost before he knew that he had moved, he was out again in the street.

He could never have told of what he thought while he was walking home.  He did not really come to himself till he was in his study.  There, with a trembling hand, he poured himself out whisky and drank it off.  If he had not chanced to go there, the charwoman would have found them when she came in the morning, and given that envelope to the police!  He took it out.  He had a right—­a right to know what was in it!  He broke it open.

“I, Laurence Darrant, about to die by my own hand, declare that this is a solemn and true confession.  I committed what is known as the Glove Lane Murder on the night of November the 27th last in the following way”—­on and on to the last words—­“We didn’t want to die; but we could not bear separation, and I couldn’t face letting an innocent man be hung for me.  I do not see any other way.  I beg that there may be no postmortem on our bodies.  The stuff we have taken is some of that which will be found on the dressing-table.  Please bury us together.