Indeed, I
think you mentioned the January number. You were therefore accessory
before the fact. I simply had to slaughter the poor wretch.'
Sir George sank back in his chair wellnigh breathless with horror.
Publishers are humane men who rarely commit crimes; authors, however,
are a hardened set who usually perpetrate a felony every time they
issue a book. Doyle laughed easily.
'I'm used to this sort of thing,' he said. 'Remember how I killed off
the people in "The White Company". Now, if you will help me to get rid
of the body, all may yet be well. You see, I learned from the
misguided simpleton himself that nobody knows where he is today. He
often disappears for weeks at a time, so there really is slight danger
of detection. Will you lend a hand?'
'I suppose I must,' cried the conscience-stricken man.
Doyle at once threw off the lassitude which the coming of Sherlock
Holmes had caused, and acted now with an energy which was
characteristic of him. Going to an outhouse, he brought the motor car
to the front door, then, picking up Holmes and followed by his
trembling guest, he went outside and flung the body into the tonneau
behind. He then threw a spade and a pick into the car, and covered
everything up with a water-proof spread.
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