thing to do. I came to a desperate resolve, which I put into execution with sufficient clumsiness.
"You're on the wrong tack, Mr. Symonds."
"I've not said what tack I am on."
"You police are famous for your blunders. I'll save you from making another."
"That's kind."
"I killed Edwin Lawrence."
They looked at me, then at each other, smiling. The inspector's colleague gave a short, dry laugh.
"It's a little too thin," he said.
"I repeat that I killed Edwin Lawrence."
The inspector gazed at me with twinkling eyes.
"What do you propose to gain by that?"
"Gain? Nothing; except, I suppose, the gallows. But I don't care. Life has no longer any charms for me, with this—this upon my soul. His blood is on my hands. I admit it."
"With a view, I presume, to getting his blood off the hands of somebody else, eh?"
"What on earth do you mean? You seem to be some sort of monomaniac—possessed with but one idea. I tell you that I am the man's murderer. You can take your prisoner. And there's an end of it."
"Hardly. What we want to know just now is, how you account for these stains upon Miss Moore's cloak."
