those places—where are those endless places, Mortimer? They must be at an immense distance!”
He saw in his friend’s face that he was losing himself; for he added after a moment: “Don’t be afraid—I am not gone yet. What was it?”
“You wanted to tell me something, Eugene. My poor dear fellow, you wanted to say something to your old friend—to the friend who has always loved you, admired you, imitated you, founded himself upon you, been nothing without you, and who, God knows, would be here in your place if he could!”
“Tut, tut!” said Eugene with a tender glance as the other put his hand before his face. “I am not worth it. I acknowledge that I like it, dear boy, but I am not worth it. This attack, my dear Mortimer; this murder—”
His friend leaned over him with renewed attention, saying: “You and I suspect someone.”
“More than suspect. But, Mortimer, while I lie here, and when I lie here no longer, I trust to you that the perpetrator is never brought to justice.”
“Eugene?”
“Her innocent reputation would be ruined, my friend. She would be punished, not he. I have wronged her enough in fact; I have wronged her still more in intention. You recollect what pavement is said to be made of good intentions. It is made of bad intentions too. Mortimer, I am lying on it, and I know!”
“Be comforted, my dear Eugene.”
“I will, when you have promised me. Dear Mortimer, the man must never be pursued. If he should be accused, you must keep him silent and