I came to London to look for you, and somehow the figure I saw in my dreams had got mixed up with you. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. ‘Well, I can see you won’t let it alone, so what do you propose to do about the wench?’ ‘I’ll die before I let it alone,’ Gerald vowed. In truth, Sheila never saw Lucy murder anyone at all, she only saw the blood. If I am to die in the attempt, then so be it.
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