He knew very well as he sat there on the edge of his bed that the thing was truth.

He, Stephen Laverick, a man hitherto of upright character, with a reputation of which unconsciously he was proud, had robbed a dead man, had looked into the burning eyes of his murderer, had stolen away with twenty thousand pounds of someone else's money.

Morally, at any rate,--probably legally as well,--he was a thief.

A glimpse inside his safe on the part of an astute detective might very easily bring him under the grave suspicion of being a criminal of altogether deeper dye.
Stephen Laverick was, in his way, something of a philosopher.

In the cold daylight, with the sound of the water running into his bath, this deed which he had done seemed to him foolish and reprehensible.
Nevertheless, he realized the absolute finality of his action.