£19,000. Burford Delannoy
pulled the head curtains of his victim's berth, and, shooting back the bolt, opened the door.
"Any letters or telegrams for shore, sir?"
"Is there time to go ashore?"
"Can if you like, sir; the tender will bring you back. You will get about an hour ashore."
"Very well, I will go, then."
"At once, sir. The tender will leave in less than five minutes."
And the officer went on his round collecting letters and telegrams.
Loide put on his hat, flung the blood stained knife out of the port-hole, turned the button of the electric light, and stepped outside, closing the door after him.
Then he suddenly remembered that the most likely place of all he had overlooked. A sleeping man would place valuables beneath his pillow.
He entered the cabin again, turned the electric light button, and slid his hand under the dead man's pillow—nothing.
To make assurance doubly sure—much as he dreaded looking on the face of the man he had murdered—he pulled aside the towel.
Then for a second time he was paralyzed with astonishment and horror, and thrust his fingers in his mouth to prevent the escape of a cry. He had never before seen the face of his victim. It was not his client Depew.
He had killed the wrong man!
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