Where shall I look for a defense?
At the moment the only defense I can think of is simply this--the captain knows I killed him! Even as I write this, I hear his footsteps above me, as I heard them when I sat here composing my first letter to you.

He is dressing for dinner.

We are to dine together at Romano's.
And there, my lady, you have finally the answer to the mystery that has--I hope--puzzled you.

I killed my friend the captain in my second letter to you, and all the odd developments that followed lived only in my imagination as I sat here beside the green-shaded lamp in my study, plotting how I should write seven letters to you that would, as the novel advertisements say, grip your attention to the very end.

Oh, I am guilty--there is no denying that.