CHAPTER XVIII.
I AM CALLEDHad I had my way, that night, Miss Moore would have sought a place of refuge, where she could have lain hidden till the cloud passed over and her integrity was made clear. Anything, to my mind, was better than that she should run even a momentary risk of a policeman’s contaminating hands. But Hume would have none of it.
Some one knocked at the door, while I was sitting on the side of the bed, wondering, since I had failed to do murder, if suicide was not the next best thing. It was Hume. He gave me one of his swift, keen glances as he came in.
“Anything fresh?”
“Man, I’ve made an i***t of myself—an idiot.”
“Ah! But what I said was. Is there anything fresh?”
I told him the story of my interview with Symonds. He kept on smiling all the time, as if it had been
