it to any practical use.

No, George must have had some other reason for perjuring his
unpleasant soul, and the only one I could think of was that he had
purposely turned the case against me in order to shield the real
murderer. He had been fairly well acquainted with the dead man, I
knew--their tastes indeed ran on somewhat similar lines--and it was
just possible that he was aware who had committed the crime.

The thought filled me, as it always had filled me, with a bitter fury.
Again and again in my cell I had fancied myself escaping from the
prison and choking the truth out of my cousin's throat with my
fingers, and now that the first part of this picture had come true, I
vowed silently to myself that nothing should stop the remainder from
following it. Whatever McMurtrie might propose, I would see George
once again face to face, even if death or recapture was the price I
had to pay.

I had just arrived at this conclusion when I heard the sound of
footsteps in the passage outside. Then the handle of the door turned,
and McMurtrie appeared on the threshold with Savaroff looming up
behind him. There was a moment's silence, while the doctor stood there
smiling down on me as blandly as ever.

"May we come in?" he inquired. "We are not interrupting your tea, I
hope."

"No, I have done tea, thank you," I said, with a gesture towards the
tray.