Explore "The Shadow of Larose" by Arthur Gask on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
And now I come to the chapter in my life that pricks my conscience most. For I was a murderer then in intent, if not in actual fact.
I went home to the hotel that evening in a truly desperate condition. I was at the end of my tether, and about to lose everything. And I was being worsted, too, not by a man of the acute intelligence of Gilbert Larose, not by the accumulated activities of the best brains of the South Australian detective staff -- but by a drunken, bleary-eyed degenerate, who owed every atom of his success to chance. Just chance, blind chance.