Farrell's
overcoat lay close beside it, and his hat--which had fallen
short of the edge of the embankment as he pitched backwards.
"I picked up the coat, put it on, and felt in its pockets.
They were empty, but for a railway ticket. I picked up the hat,
and smiled to find that it fitted me. Lastly I stopped, lifted
the dog's corpse and flung it over to follow its master.
All accounts thus closed, I stepped out for the station and
caught the last train for Charing Cross.
"You know the rest.
"I borrowed your clothes, yesterday, and went down to the
inquest. They admitted me to see the body, on my pretence that
I had missed a relative and might be able to identify it.
Farrell had gone back to his old features; death had made up its
mind to hide the secret after all. . . . I am afraid that,
having overtaxed my strength, I broke down on the revulsion, and
may have given myself away.
"But it doesn't matter. That dog has done for me. Your Dr.
Tredgold is a good fellow and has nursed me very prettily back
from starvation.
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