CHAPTER XVIII The doctor reached for the key and studied it sombrely. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. I had that coming. He knew she would be there, practicing alone in 118. ‘And just who is Leonardo?’ ‘How in God’s name should I know?’ demanded Roding irascibly. Never mind. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband. He had forgiven everybody.
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