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it; then, with a pale face and bitten lip, he drew near, pulled aside
a corner of the swathing blanket, and recoiled, shuddering. There was a
long silence in the studio.
'Now tell me,' said Michael, in a low voice: 'Had you any hand in it?'
and he pointed to the body.
The little artist could only utter broken and disjointed sounds.
Michael poured some gin into a glass. 'Drink that,' he said. 'Don't be
afraid of me. I'm your friend through thick and thin.'
Pitman put the liquor down untasted.
'I swear before God,' he said, 'this is another mystery to me. In my
worst fears I never dreamed of such a thing. I would not lay a finger on
a sucking infant.'
'That's all square,' said Michael, with a sigh of huge relief. 'I
believe you, old boy.' And he shook the artist warmly by the hand. 'I
thought for a moment,' he added with rather a ghastly smile, 'I thought
for a moment you might have made away with Mr Semitopolis.'
'It would make no difference if I had,' groaned Pitman. 'All is at an
end for me. There's the writing on the wall.'
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