'Am I mad? or are you?' cried Morris.
'I think it must be Pitman,' said Michael.
The three men stared at each other, wild-eyed.
'This is dreadful,' said Morris, 'dreadful. I do not understand one word
that is addressed to me.'
'I give you my word of honour, no more do I,' said Michael.
'And in God's name, why whiskers?' cried Morris, pointing in a ghastly
manner at his cousin. 'Does my brain reel? How whiskers?'
'O, that's a matter of detail,' said Michael.
There was another silence, during which Morris appeared to himself to
be shot in a trapeze as high as St Paul's, and as low as Baker Street
Station.
'Let us recapitulate,' said Michael, 'unless it's really a dream, in
which case I wish Teena would call me for breakfast. My friend Pitman,
here, received a barrel which, it now appears, was meant for you. The
barrel contained the body of a man. How or why you killed him...'
'I never laid a hand on him,' protested Morris. 'This is what I have
dreaded all along. But think, Michael! I'm not that kind of man; with
all my faults, I wouldn't touch a hair of anybody's head, and it was all
dead loss to me.
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