I only wish I
didn't: for I dream of it at night: and, being a widower, I can't
confide the trouble. The fact is, I must suffer from nerves and--
what do they call 'em, sir?--hallucinations--yes, that's the word.
But I was fresh from inspecting the body, and when that person broke
in, wearing a face like the corpse's twin-brother, well, it knocked
me clean out. Of course, it must have been a hallucination; none of
the others saw the least resemblance--as they've told me since.
But at the moment, I'd have wagered my life. . . ."
EPILOGUE.
"Yes, that is the story," said Otway, sorting back the documents into
his dispatch-case.
"Is it quite all the story, sir?" asked Polkinghorne, breaking the
silence that followed its close.
Otway frowned, re-sorted the last three or four papers, laid them in
the case and closed it with a couple of snaps.
"That's all," he answered, "that exists for publication. That is,
unless you want a moral. I can give you _that_, all right: and if
you have any use for it you may apply it to this blasted War.
As I see it, the more you beat Fritz by becoming like him, the more
he has won.
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