Keith buried it beneath the clothes and noticed an envelope pinned to
the coverlet; bending down, he read: "Please give this at once to the
police.--LAURENCE DARRANT." He thrust it into his pocket. Like
elastic stretched beyond its uttermost, his reason, will, faculties
of calculation and resolve snapped to within him. He thought with
incredible swiftness: 'I must know nothing of this. I must go!' And,
almost before he knew that he had moved, he was out again in the street.
He could never have told of what he thought while he was walking home.
He did not really come to himself till he was in his study. There, with
a trembling hand, he poured himself out whisky and drank it off. If he
had not chanced to go there, the charwoman would have found them when
she came in the morning, and given that envelope to the police! He took
it out. He had a right--a right to know what was in it! He broke it
open.
"I, Laurence Darrant, about to die by my own hand, declare that this
is a solemn and true confession. I committed what is known as the Glove
Lane Murder on the night of November the 27th last in the following
way"--on and on to the last words--"We didn't want to die; but we could
not bear separation, and I couldn't face letting an innocent man be
hung for me.
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