“Of course I haven’t⁠—not that kind, anyway.”

“The question is,” said Anthony, “what are we going to do now? There are two courses open to us. A: Ring up the police, tell the whole story, and trust to your unassailable position in the world and your hitherto blameless life. B: An attempt on my part to dispose successfully of the body. Naturally my private inclinations urge me to B. I’ve always wanted to see if I couldn’t conceal a crime with the necessary cunning, but have had a squeamish objection to shedding blood. On the whole, I expect A’s the soundest. Then there’s a sort of bowdlerized A. Ring up the police, etc. , but suppress the pistol and the blackmailing letters⁠—that is, if they are on him still.”

Anthony ran rapidly through the dead man’s pockets.

“He’s been stripped clean,” he announced. “There’s not a thing on him. There’ll be dirty work at the crossroads over those letters yet. Hullo, what’s this? Hole in the lining⁠—something got caught there, torn roughly out, and a scrap of paper left behind.”