Well, to cut a long story short, I went back next day and found the invalid delirious, and as a nurse had been obtained, I had to send her out of the room on a fictitious errand, telling her that I was a medical man. Then I proceeded to make a hurried search for Featherson's note-case, which I ultimately found beneath his pillow. I knew I ran an awful risk of infection, but had again to take that.
I was disappointed to discover only two thousand pounds in paper, out of which I pocketed sixteen hundred, and replaced the rest. It would not have done to leave him without a fair supply—otherwise suspicion might have arisen.
Well, he died, and the waiter died, and afterwards two more of the hotel-servants. It was a sad affair for the proprietor, as all the guests left hurriedly. I frankly admit that, once having obtained the money, I did not run much risk of infection myself, but as Featherson never recovered actual consciousness it was no hardship to him.
I somehow, nevertheless, felt that I should have liked to have soothed his last days. The old blackguard had his good points.
I sent all he had left, in the way of money
