along the blade. He could have not frowned more heavily if he had recognized the knife.
“The villains!” he muttered. “The damned villains!”
“Villains?” I queried. “Did you see more than one of them, then?”
“Didn’t you?” he asked quickly. “Yes, yes, to be sure! There was at least one other beggar skulking down below.” He stood looking at me, the knife in his hand, though mine was held out for it. “Don’t you think, Mr. Cole, that it’s our duty to hand this over to the police? I - I’ve heard of
was my poor self again; it was my own little life, and no other, that I wanted to go on living;, and yet I felt vaguely there was some special thing I wished to live for, something that had not been very long in my ken; something that had perhaps nerved and strengthened me all these hours. What, then, could it be? I could not think.