To Jephson my last
words were, "Write daily. When Dr. Foe can sit out, dress him in any
old suit, shirt, and underwear. I don't see myself out of this khaki
for a long time ahead. He will be fit again long before Monday week,
when you're to join up: and when he is able to walk, there's an
envelope for him in the top right-hand drawer of my writing-table."
Jephson wrote twice to report that Dr. Foe was "going on favourably,"
and on the third day, that he had even dressed himself and taken a
walk. He had been away four hours and more--"which caused me much
anxiety," added Jephson.
But on the fourth day, on the eve of our starting for Rouen, I got
the following letter, in Jack's own handwriting:
"My dear Roddy,--I shall use the old name, since it is the last
time I shall address you; and you, starting for France, will
have no time to reach me and say that it is forbidden.
"I have killed Farrell. It was a stupid and a sorry ending.
At the last it was even quite brutal--bestially different from
anything I had imagined--and I had imagined many ways--while I
had control of the show.
Pages:
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496