And seizing the journal that lay on his bureau, Keith read again that
paragraph: "The body of a man was found this morning under an archway in
Glove Lane, Soho. From marks about the throat grave suspicions of foul
play are entertained. The body had apparently been robbed, and nothing
was discovered leading to identification."

It was real earnest, then. Murder! His own brother! He faced round and
said:

"You saw this in the paper, and dreamed it. Understand--you dreamed it!"

The wistful answer came:

"If only I had, Keith--if only I had!"

In his turn, Keith very nearly wrung his hands.

"Did you take anything from the--body?"

"This dropped while we were struggling."

It was an empty envelope with a South American post-mark addressed:
"Patrick Walenn, Simon's Hotel, Farrier Street, London." Again with that
twitching in his heart, Keith said:

"Put it in the fire."

Then suddenly he stooped to pluck it out. By that command--he
had--identified himself with this--this--But he did not pluck it out. It
blackened, writhed, and vanished. And once more he said: