It was Macfarlane himself who made the first advance. He
came up quietly behind and laid his hand gently but firmly on
the other's shoulder.
'Richardson,' said he, 'may have the head.'
Now Richardson was a student who had long been anxious for
that portion of the human subject to dissect. There was no
answer, and the murderer resumed: 'Talking of business, you
must pay me; your accounts, you see, must tally.'
Fettes found a voice, the ghost of his own: 'Pay you!' he
cried. 'Pay you for that?'
'Why, yes, of course you must. By all means and on every
possible account, you must,' returned the other. 'I dare not
give it for nothing, you dare not take it for nothing; it
would compromise us both. This is another case like Jane
Galbraith's. The more things are wrong the more we must act
as if all were right. Where does old K- keep his money?'
'There,' answered Fettes hoarsely, pointing to a cupboard in
the corner.
'Give me the key, then,' said the other, calmly, holding out
his hand.
There was an instant's hesitation, and the die was cast.
Macfarlane could not suppress a nervous twitch, the
infinitesimal mark of an immense relief, as he felt the key
between his fingers. He opened the cupboard, brought out pen
and ink and a paper-book that stood in one compartment, and
separated from the funds in a drawer a sum suitable to the
occasion.
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