Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 1, No. 4, August 1957 (British Edition)

“My dear, my poor little bird,” said Maserac. His arms closed around her. “Try to forget, Furilla. To-night — tomorrow — this will be a world in which Harald does not exist.” He put her firmly from him, looked for a long time into her eyes, then slowly turned to the door.

“Maserac, Maserac, what are you going to do?”

“Do?” He smiled gently. “Surely there is only one thing to do. How could there be a choice?”

He left her.

In the morning, they found Harold’s tattered body slumped in his cabin. And Maserac, dear Maserac — his fury had crushed, not only Harald, but his own great heart, his dear, dear heart. He lay in an open field, his slack hand still on the horsewhip, his unseeing eyes turned to the sunrise, and Furilla knew that her name lay silent on his dead lips.