"I am a wood-carver." The deed he had only thought of an hour ago was accomplished, and there could be no undoing it.

This passport and these papers would be forwarded to the embassy at Berne, where doubtless his name was already known as a fugitive criminal.

He could not reclaim them, for with them he took up again the burden of his sin.

He had condemned himself to a penalty and sacrifice the most complete that man could think of, or put into execution.

Roland Sefton was dead, and his wife and children were set free from the degradation he had brought upon them.
He spent the remaining hours of the day in wandering about the forests in the Alpine valley.