“Tell me. Don't play with me. Did I break out?”
There was nothing to do but tell him the whole story; which I did. He
listened in complete silence, sipping the coffee (for which he seemed to
feel some repugnance).
“Hurt the fellow?” he asked, when I had done.
“No. He is reported all right this morning.”
His chin dropped on his deep chest. He seemed to be mediating, in a
crestfallen sort of way; but I observed that his eyes wandered aimlessly
about the room. Finally he said:
“Suppose I had killed him.”
“You did n't,” I replied shortly.
He covered his face with his shaking hands.
“It's the murder in my heart,” he muttered.