"I thought it was not a fall," I replied.
"It was Phil's pal--Kilby."
"I thought that."
"How could you--think it? Did--others--think so?" he asked anxiously.
"No, not others; I alone. They thought it accident; they could have no
ground for suspicion. But I had; and, besides, there were marks on your
throat."
"Nothing must happen to him, you understand. He had been drinking,
and--and he was justified. I wronged him in Samoa, him and Mrs.
Falchion."
I nodded and put my fingers on my lips.
Again there was silence. I sat and watched him, his eyes closed, his body
was motionless. He slept for hours so, and then he waked rather sharply,
and said half deliriously: "I could have dragged him with me, Marmion."
"But you did not. Yes, I understand. Go to sleep again, Roscoe."
Later on the fever came, and he moaned and moved his head about his
pillow. He could not move his body--it was too much injured.
There was a source of fear in Kilby. Would he recklessly announce what he
had done, and the cause of it? After thinking it over and over, I
concluded that he would not disclose his crimes.
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