Not for one moment did he think that those who were behind him, who employed him, who had left so much to his clever and facile brain, had let him down; had allowed him at this moment to be thrown to the wolves. That also was part of the game. If he was a sadist he was quite prepared to invert his sadism against himself. Possibly they might even be glad to be rid of him—those greater and more dominant minds. Possibly he knew too much.
He was tired. He yawned. He threw the half-smoked cigarette into the fire. Then, as he half-turned, he saw the library door open slowly; saw Kerr, the Mauser pistol in his hand, come into the room. Lelley raised his eyebrows. He felt mildly interested. He thought in German—an indulgence he only allowed on very special occasions: Here it is. They're on to you
