Part 2 The next morning was as dark and foggy as if it was mid-November instead of early March. “To tell you the truth though, I am quite a stranger in London, and it occurred to me that Mr. Whisky kills him suddenly; it does not sap him gradually. If you don’t think it would be a social outrage, perhaps I might walk with you to your railway station. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. But it never said: "Tell someone! Tell someone!" Was he something of a moral pervert, then? Was it what he had lost—the familiar world—rather than what he had done? He stared dully at the footrail. " "Well, take a chair," rejoined Kneebone. “But Sir John?” he exclaimed.
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