"I thought you were dead."
"I am risen from the grave."
"I am glad you are not dead."
"Why?"
Mr. Howitt paused as if to moisten his parched lips.
"I never meant to kill you"
"In that case, Andrew, your meaning was unfortunate. I do mean to kill you—now."
"Don't kill me, Douglas."
"A reason, Andrew?"
"If you knew what I have suffered since I thought I had killed you, you would not wish to take upon yourself the burden which I have had to bear."
"My nerves, Andrew, are stronger than yours. What would crush you to the ground would not weigh on me at all. Surely you knew that before." Mr. Howitt fidgeted on the back of his chair. "It was not that you did not mean to kill me. You lacked the courage. You gashed me like some frenzied cur. Then, afraid of your own handiwork, you ran to save your skin. You dared not wait to see if what you had meant to do was done. Why, Andrew, as soon as the effects of your drug had gone, I sat up. I heard you running down the stairs, I saw your knife lying at my side, all stained with my own blood—see, Andrew, the stains are on it still! I even picked up this scrap of paper which had fallen from your pocket on to the floor."
He held out a piece of paper towards Mr. Howitt
"It is the advertisement of an hotel—Hotel de la Couronne d'Or, St Hélier's, Jersey. I said to myself, I wonder if that is where Andrew is gone. I will go and see. And if I find him I will kill him. I have
