"For God's sake, Leslie," he said, "tell them to open the window.
I'm choking!"

He was right: the room was stifling. I opened the door behind me,
and stood in the doorway, against a rush for freedom. But he did
not move. He sank back into his dejected attitude.

"Will you eat some soup, if I send it?"

He shook his head.

"Is there anything you care for?"

"Better let me starve; I'm gone, anyhow."

"Singleton," I said, "I wish you would tell me about last night.
If you did it, we've got you. If you didn't, you'd better let me
take your own account of what happened, while it's fresh in your
mind. Or, better still, write it yourself."

He held out his right hand. I saw that it was shaking violently.

"Couldn't hold a pen," he said tersely. "Wouldn't be believed,
anyhow."

The air being somewhat better, I closed and locked the door again,
and, coming in, took out my notebook and pencil. He watched me
craftily. "You can write it," he said, "if you'll give it to me to
keep. I'm not going to put the rope around my own neck. If it's
all right, my lawyers will use it. If it isn't--" He shrugged his