There
was something almost dramatic in the man's sad voice, his depressed
bearing, the story of this tragedy that had come so suddenly into his
life. One looked round and realized the truth of all he had said. One
realized something, even, of the bitterness of his daily life.
Mr. Bundercombe sipped his coffee thoughtfully.
"Tell me why you did not come to me or write, Louis?" he asked.
The man stretched out his hands.
"But it was to you, sir, that I had broken my word!" he pointed out. "When
you gave me that first little bundle you looked at me so steadfastly--when
you told me that every scrap was to be destroyed; and I promised--I
promised you faithfully. And you asked me afterward about that last batch.
You said to me: 'Louis, you are sure that they are all quite gone?
Remember that there is trouble in the possession of them!' And I told you
a lie!"
Mr. Bundercombe coughed and poured himself out a little more of the
coffee.
"Louis," he declared, "you are a fool! You are a blithering idiot! You are
a jackass! It never occurred to me before. I am the guilty one for placing
such a temptation in your way. Now where's this Monsieur Giatron of
yours?"
Louis looked at him wonderingly.
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