“Whom else should I tell?  I came to know what I’m to do, Keith?  Give myself up, or what?”

At that sudden introduction of the practical Keith felt his heart twitch.  Was it then as real as all that?  But he said, very quietly: 

“Just tell me—­How did it come about, this—­affair?”

That question linked the dark, gruesome, fantastic nightmare on to actuality.

“When did it happen?”

“Last night.”

In Larry’s face there was—­there had always been—­something childishly truthful.  He would never stand a chance in court!  And Keith said: 

“How?  Where?  You’d better tell me quietly from the beginning.  Drink this coffee; it’ll clear your head.”

Laurence took the little blue cup and drained it.

“Yes,” he said.  “It’s like this, Keith.  There’s a girl I’ve known for some months now—­”

Women!  And Keith said between his teeth:  “Well?”

“Her father was a Pole who died over here when she was sixteen, and left her all alone.  A man called Walenn, a mongrel American, living in the same house, married her, or pretended to—­she’s very pretty, Keith—­he left her with a baby six months old, and another coming.  That one died, and she did nearly.  Then she starved till another fellow took her on.  She lived with him two years; then Walenn turned up again, and made her go back to him.  The brute used to beat her black and blue, all for nothing.  Then he left her again.  When I met her she’d lost her elder child, too, and was taking anybody who came along.”

He suddenly looked up into Keith’s face.

“But I’ve never met a sweeter woman, nor a truer, that I swear.  Woman!  She’s only twenty now!  When I went to her last night, that brute—­that Walenn—­had found her out again; and when he came for me, swaggering and bullying—­Look!”—­he touched a dark mark on his forehead—­“I took his throat in my hands, and when I let go—­”

“Yes?”

“Dead.  I never knew till afterwards that she was hanging on to him behind.”

Again he made that gesture-wringing his hands.

In a hard voice Keith said: 

“What did you do then?”

“We sat by it a long time.  Then I carried it on my back down the street, round a corner to an archway.”

“How far?”

“About fifty yards.”

“Was anyone—­did anyone see?”

“No.”

“What time?”

“Three.”

“And then?”

“Went back to her.”

“Why—­in Heaven’s name?”

“She was lonely and afraid; so was I, Keith.”

“Where is this place?”

“Forty-two, Borrow Street, Soho.”

“And the archway?”

“Corner of Glove Lane.”

“Good God!  Why—­I saw it in the paper!”

And seizing the journal that lay on his bureau, Keith read again that paragraph:  “The body of a man was found this morning under an archway in Glove Lane, Soho.  From marks about the throat grave suspicions of foul play are entertained.  The body had apparently been robbed, and nothing was discovered leading to identification.”