It was real earnest, then.  Murder!  His own brother!  He faced round and said: 

“You saw this in the paper, and dreamed it.  Understand—­you dreamed it!”

The wistful answer came: 

“If only I had, Keith—­if only I had!”

In his turn, Keith very nearly wrung his hands.

“Did you take anything from the—­body?”

“This dropped while we were struggling.”,

It was an empty envelope with a South American post-mark addressed:  “Patrick Walenn, Simon’s Hotel, Farrier Street, London.”  Again with that twitching in his heart, Keith said: 

“Put it in the fire.”

Then suddenly he stooped to pluck it out.  By that command—­he had—­identified himself with this—­this—­But he did not pluck it out.  It blackened, writhed, and vanished.  And once more he said: 

“What in God’s name made you come here and tell me?”

“You know about these things.  I didn’t mean to kill him.  I love the girl.  What shall I do, Keith?

“Simple!  How simple!  To ask what he was to do!  It was like Larry!  And he said: 

“You were not seen, you think?” “It’s a dark street.  There was no one about.”

“When did you leave this girl the second time?”

“About seven o’clock.”

“Where did you go?”

“To my rooms.”

“In Fitzroy Street?”

“Yes.”

“Did anyone see you come in?”

“No.”

“What have you done since?”

“Sat there.”

“Not been out?”

“No.”

“Not seen the girl?”

“No.”

“You don’t know, then, what she’s done since?”

“No.”

“Would she give you away?”

“Never.”

“Would she give herself away—­hysteria?”

“No.”

“Who knows of your relations with her?”

“No one.”

“No one?”

“I don’t know who should, Keith.”

“Did anyone see you going in last night, when you first went to her?”

“No.  She lives on the ground floor.  I’ve got keys.”

“Give them to me.  What else have you that connects you with her?”

“Nothing.”

“In your rooms?”

“No.”

“No photographs.  No letters?”

“No.”

“Be careful.”

“Nothing.”

“No one saw you going back to her the second time?”

“No.”

“No one saw you leave her in the morning?”

“No.”

“You were fortunate.  Sit down again, man.  I must think.”

Think!  Think out this accursed thing—­so beyond all thought, and all belief.  But he could not think.  Not a coherent thought would come.  And he began again: 

“Was it his first reappearance with her?”

“Yes.”

“She told you so?”

“Yes.”

“How did he find out where she was?”