He drew one hand impatiently across his face.

The idea that Simeon Stagg must have been the informer had at that moment got possession of his mind.

"Never ask me what I would _say_," he cried.
"Willy, dear Willy," sobbed Rotha, throwing her arms about him, "that person--" The sobs were stifling her, but she would not spare herself.
"That person was MYSELF!" "You!" cried Willy, breaking from her embrace.

"And the murder ?" he asked hoarsely, "whose murder ?" "James Wilson's." "Let me go--let me go, I say." "Another word." Rotha stepped into the doorway.

Willy threw her hastily aside and hurried out..