But what did the occupant of the box care? The laugh was always with the dead: they were out of the muddle. That's the kind, my friend, that always fall soft. What little happiness I had I was forced to steal. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. With people of that sort all sorts of things may happen. His letter of credit; probably that was it; and, observing the strangeness of the room he was in, his first concern on returning to consciousness would naturally relate to his letter of credit. I hope you won’t think less of me, you’ve treated me so well.
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