I lay back in bed and laughed with him, partly from weakness, partly to hide my shaking, which I was terrified he would notice. I changed the subject a moment later, as he said nothing more; then, still acting on impulse and with no preconceived plan or idea of my next move, I sat bolt upright in bed and fixed him with my eyes. I assumed a very convinced and serious tone. I felt serious and convinced. The mood of horror had rushed suddenly up in me: “Boyde, I remember it all now.” I spoke with great emphasis. “It was not a dream at all. You came to this bedside and showed me the letter. You held it out for me to read. It was dated from my old Toronto Dairy three days ago. _You showed me the cheque too._ It was for seventy-five dollars, signed by Kay, and made out to your order. I remember every single detail of it suddenly. And--_so do you_.” He gazed at me as a little child might gaze. He made no movement. His eyes neither dropped nor flinched. He merely gazed--with a puzzled, innocent, guileless stare. A pained expression then stole across his face. “Blackwood, what on earth do you mean? It’s not likely I should forget it if seventy-five dollars came, is it?” he went on quickly in his most sympathetic voice, an aggrieved note in it that stirred all my affection instantly. “The most he has sent so far is ten dollars. I should have given you the money at once. And _you know it_, Blackwood.” He got up and walked quietly to and fro. It was the way he uttered those last four words that sent ice down my spine and brought the mood of horror back. Why this was so, I cannot explain. Perhaps the phrase rang false; perhaps its over-emphasis failed. I only know that my hesitation vanished. That prepared plan so strangely matured, yet hidden so deeply that it emerged only step by step as it was needed, pushed up another move into my upper mind. I got slowly out of bed. Perspiration broke out all over me. I felt very weak. The wound stretched. Straight before me, a long way off it seemed, was the sofa. Boyde stood watching my every move. He stood like a statue. Before I had taken a couple of slow, small steps, crawling round the edge of the bed, he did two quick things that in a flash brought final conviction to me, so that I knew beyond any doubt the hideous thing was true: he moved suddenly across the room, passing in front of me, though not near enough to touch; three rapid strides and he was against the window--with his back to the light. It was dusk. He wished to conceal his face from me. His left arm hung at his side, the hand on a level with the dressing-table, and I saw his fingers feeling along its surface, though his eyes never left my own. I saw them find, then grip, the white-handled razor, and pull it slowly towards him. These were the two things that betrayed him, but chiefly, I think, the first of them--concealing his face.