He freed his left hand from the blanket and held it out to Sir Thomas Pamellor.

“Will you hold my hand a minute —for old friendship?”

“You —you —you murdered a postman!” Pamellor stammered.

The hand fell to the ground, so limp that it made an audible little thud.

“No one,” St. Sabas muttered. “No one knows enough. Only Dennim.”

“I have always understood, Savarin,” I answered.

He drew out his right hand, bright red and dripping, and laid it on the turf between us with the last of his strength. For the few seconds which were left it was I who held it between my own.