A piteous letter came from Latimer, and a substantial cheque lies on my table ready to be posted.

I wonder how much I have left?
So long as it is enough to pay my doctor's bills and funeral expenses, what does it matter?
The last line of the above was written on December 21st.

It is now January 30th, and I am still alive and able to write.

I wish I weren't.
But I will set down as plainly as I can what has happened in the interval.
I had just written the last word, seated at my hotel window in the sunshine, and enjoying, in spite of my uncheerful thoughts, the scents that rose from the garden, when I heard a knock at my door.

At my invitation to enter, Anastasius Papadopoulos trotted into the room in a great state of excitement carrying the familiar bunch of papers.