with Dr. Alleyne. The two men had had a great talk, somewhat coloured by presentiment. They knew at least that they would never meet again, but neither guessed that the man who had just pronounced the sentence of death on the other would himself go first.
Dane walked afterwards to his hotel. He thought it strange he should be feeling so cynically indifferent to his limited future, and also that he should be feeling fairly well. He had these respites in which he recovered his nerve.
He had, after several conferences, finally told Davenport Carr that day the real reason why he wished Valerie to get away at once, to get off to Egypt, London, anywhere. As he walked to his hotel he saw his father-in-law as he had left him, standing speechless in the middle of his comfortable office. And for a minute he rather pitied Davenport Carr.
When he got into his room he knew he would never be in a better frame of mind to take the step he had rather dreaded for days, the irrevocable step of writing to Valerie. The talk with the doctor had keyed him up. So he sat down and began steadily enough. But he wobbled towards the end, his head dropped on his hands, and it took him over an hour to pen the last few lines. Then his head went down again, and stayed still for some time. Then he took up the letter and looked at it. He was not trying to read it through. He was hoping it would not hurt Valerie too much. Then an imp whispered in his ear, and he added the postscript. With a spurt of decision he sealed the envelope and stamped it, and took it out to the hotel letter box, afraid to leave it with himself till the morning.
He went to bed feeling it did not matter whether he slept or not. But the fates were kind that night. He slept
