‘It is not for myself, you understand,’ pursued the man, in an unctuous tone that sickened the general, ‘but for this poor one. He was in a curious state of desperation. The white cloth was instantly dyed with crimson; but, regardless of this, Jonathan continued his murderous assault. ‘Who’d believe me? And I’d have to tell my part in it all, too. A small brickbat was thrown, which struck Jonathan in the face. They could not have called it a fatal motor accident if he had not been dead. Had you died, I should have fully obeyed the instructions on that envelope. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed.
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