I was in the soup--that was pretty clear. Any shadow of a doubt
I might have had about the truth of Scudder's tale was now gone.
The proof of it was lying under the table-cloth. The men who
knew that he knew what he knew had found him, and had taken
the best way to make certain of his silence. Yes; but he had been in
my rooms four days, and his enemies must have reckoned that he
had confided in me. So I would be the next to go. It might be that
very night, or next day, or the day after, but my number was up
all right.

Then suddenly I thought of another probability. Supposing I
went out now and called in the police, or went to bed and let
Paddock find the body and call them in the morning. What kind of
a story was I to tell about Scudder? I had lied to Paddock about
him, and the whole thing looked desperately fishy. If I made a clean
breast of it and told the police everything he had told me, they
would simply laugh at me. The odds were a thousand to one that I
would be charged with the murder, and the circumstantial evidence
was strong enough to hang me. Few people knew me in England; I
had no real pal who could come forward and swear to my character.
Perhaps that was what those secret enemies were playing for. They
were clever enough for anything, and an English prison was as
good a way of getting rid of me till after June 15th as a knife in
my chest.

Besides, if I told the whole story, and by any miracle was believed,
I would be playing their game. Karolides would stay at home,
which was what they wanted. Somehow or other the sight of
Scudder's dead face had made me a passionate believer in his