C

       I slept badly last night, on his sofa. Early this morning I returned to my own room, dressed, ordered up a light breakfast, and then spent two hours in packing. It was nearer eleven than ten when I tapped on the door.     

       “Come in!” he called.     

       He had pulled an extra pillow in behind his head, and was sitting up in bed. He was whiter than I had before seen him. And the hand that he extended to me shook so that he could hardly hold it up. It was cold to the touch.     

       For a few moments after I had sent a boy for his coffee, we talked about next to nothing—the time, the weather, my departure. But his hollow eyes were searching me.     

       “Who put me here?” he asked, finally.     

       I told him.     

       “Any trouble?”     

       I hesitated.     

       “Tell me. Don't play with me. Did I break out?”     

       There was nothing to do but tell him the whole story; which I did. He listened in complete silence, sipping the coffee (for which he seemed to feel some repugnance).     

       “Hurt the fellow?” he asked, when I had done.     

       “No. He is reported all right this morning.”     

       His chin dropped on his deep chest. He seemed to be mediating, in a crestfallen sort of way; but I observed that his eyes wandered aimlessly about the room. Finally he said:     

       “Suppose I had killed him.”     

       “You did n't,” I replied shortly.     

       He covered his face with his shaking hands.     

       “It's the murder in my heart,” he muttered.     

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