what was written on that departing slip of paper. I let no sign of this escape me, however, as I went on restoring that scattering of wealth to its leather receptacle. I even took advantage of an unobserved moment to slip old Ezra Bartlett's six bank-notes from their keeping-place and drop them down in the club-bag. Then I pulled off the ruby ring and tossed it into the same place. For a new impulse had taken possession of me. I wanted to cleanse my soul of the whole tangled business. I wanted none of the fruits of that night's misadventure about my body. Until then, for some reason, I had taken a sort of black joy in letting Wendy Washburn believe the worst of me that he was able to believe. Why it was, I couldn't exactly explain, any more than I can explain why the preacher's son who plays pirate loves to stick a wooden dagger in his belt. But I'd had my fill of playing pirate, and now a reaction, born of heaven knows what, had set in.
I looked up as I finished my task, to find Wendy Washburn staring at me with a slight frown on his usually placid forehead.
"I suppose you still don't feel like telling me just how and where you got possession of all this?" he asked, with a hand-wave toward the club-bag.
