He whispered. "I am
certain of you, Mr. Powell. You had better go on deck now. As to me
. . . " and I saw him raise his hands to his head as if distracted. But his
last words before we stole out that cabin stick to my mind with the very
tone of his mutter--to himself, not to me:
"No! No! I am not going to stumble now over that corpse."
* * *
"This is what our Mr. Powell had to tell me," said Marlow, changing his
tone. I was glad to learn that Flora de Barral had been saved from
_that_ sinister shadow at least falling upon her path.
We sat silent then, my mind running on the end of de Barral, on the
irresistible pressure of imaginary griefs, crushing conscience, scruples,
prudence, under their ever-expanding volume; on the sombre and venomous
irony in the obsession which had mastered that old man.
"Well," I said.
"The steward found him," Mr. Powell roused himself. "He went in there
with a cup of tea at five and of course dropped it. I was on watch
again. He reeled up to me on deck pale as death. I had been expecting
it; and yet I could hardly speak.
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