It was your damned conscience; and I suppose you couldn't strangle it.

I am sorry you couldn't.

Sometimes a strangled conscience makes men kinder." Colonel Arran rang.

A dark flush had overspread his forehead; he turned to the butler.
"Bring me the despatch box which stands on: my study table." Berkley, hands behind his back, was pacing the dining-room carpet.
"Would you accept a glass of wine ?" asked Colonel Arran in a low voice.
Berkley wheeled on him with a terrible smile.
"Shall a man drink wine with the slayer of souls ?" Then, pallid face horribly distorted, he stretched out a shaking arm.

"Not that you ever could succeed in getting near enough to murder _hers_! But you've killed mine.