CHAPTER XXVIII

The three dined together in the big dining-room almost in silence.

Musard and Philip Heredith had not returned until after six, and their

first knowledge of Colwyn's presence was by some oversight deferred

until they met at the dinner table. In the awkwardness of that surprise

they sat down to dine, and Musard's half-hearted efforts to start a

conversation met with little response from his companions. Colwyn was

preoccupied with his own thoughts, which apparently affected his

appetite, for he sent away dish after dish untouched. Phil hastened the

service of the meal considerably, as though he were anxious to get it

over as speedily as possible in order to hear what the detective had to

say. As soon as the dessert was on the table he turned to Colwyn eagerly

and asked him if he had any news.

"I have many things to say," was the response.

"In that case, shall we take our coffee into the smoking-room?"

suggested Musard with a slight glance at the hovering figure of the

butler.

"I prefer to remain here, if you do not mind," said Colwyn.

Musard shot a puzzled look at him, which the detective met with a clear

cold gaze which revealed nothing. There was another silent pause while

they waited for the butler to leave the room. But Tufnell was pouring

out coffee and handing cigars with the slow deliberation of a man

sufficiently old to have outlived any illusions about the value of time.

Philip Heredith lit a cigarette. Musard waved away the cigar-box and

produced a strong black cheroot from the crocodile-skin case. Colwyn

declined a cigar, and his coffee remained untasted in front of him.

"You can leave the room now, Tufnell," said Phil impatiently. "Do not

return until I ring. We do not wish to be disturbed."

Tufnell bowed and left the room. As he did so Colwyn pushed back his

chair and walked across to the window, where he stood for a few moments

looking out. A wan young moon gleamed through the black tapestry of the

avenue of trees, pointing white fingers at the house and plunging the

old garden into deep pools of shadow. The trees huddled in their rows,

whispering menacingly, and stretching half-stripped branches to the

silent sky.

Colwyn returned to the table and confronted the two men who were

awaiting him. He glanced from one to the other of their attentive faces,

and said abruptly:

"Hazel Rath is innocent."

"I was certain of it." Philip Heredith's hand came down emphatically on

the table in front of him as he made this declaration. "I knew it all

along," he added in additional emphasis.

"This is an amazing piece of news, Mr. Colwyn," said Musard, turning

earnestly to the detective. "Who, then--"

Colwyn made a detaining gesture.

"Wait," he said. "I cannot tell you that just yet." He turned to Phil,

whose dark eyes were fixed on his face. "It was you who asked me to try

and solve the mystery of your wife's death. It is to you that my

explanation is due. Shall I speak freely in Mr. Musard's presence, or

would you rather hear me alone?"

"I can go to the smoking-room," said Musard, rising as he spoke.

But Phil waved him to his seat again.

"No, no, Musard, stay where you are. There is no reason why you should

not hear what Mr. Colwyn has to say. Your advice may be needed," he

added as an afterthought.

"So be it," said Colwyn. "Then I had better commence by informing you

that Hazel Rath has broken her silence. She has made a statement to the

police, which, whilst affirming her innocence, does very little to clear

up the murder. Her story, briefly, is that she went up to the left wing

about half-past seven, noticed that Mrs. Heredith's room was in

darkness, and went in under the impression that she might be ill and in

need of assistance. She groped her way across the room to turn on the

light, and she had reached the head of the bed and was feeling for the

switch when a hand clutched her throat. She screamed wildly, and the

hand fell away. A moment afterwards the report of a shot filled the

room. She found the electric switch, and turned on the light. The first

thing she saw was a revolver--Nepcote's revolver--lying at her feet near

the head of the bed. Then her eyes turned to the bed, and she saw Mrs.

Heredith, bleeding from the mouth and nose. While she was attempting to

render her some assistance she heard footsteps on the stairs, and

thought of her own safety. She switched off the light and ran out,

carrying the revolver and the handkerchief with which she had been

wiping the blood from the dying woman's lips. She was just in time to

conceal herself behind the curtains in the corridor and escape the

observation of those who were rushing upstairs. There she stayed while

the rooms were searched, and was afterwards able to steal downstairs

unobserved and gain the safety of her mother's apartments, where the

revolver and the handkerchief were subsequently found."

"This is a remarkable story," said Musard slowly. "Do the police believe

it?"

"They do not, but I have my reasons for thinking it true," responded

Colwyn. "The next step in the story of how this unhappy girl became the

victim of an apparently irrebuttable set of circumstances through her

own silence, has to do with another person's secret visit to the

moat-house on the night of the murder. That person was a man, who came

to return to Mrs. Heredith the necklace which we subsequently discovered

to be missing from her locked jewel-case. It is not necessary to relate

how the necklace came to be in his hands. He had undertaken to return

the necklace from London to enable Mrs. Heredith to produce it on the

following day, and it was arranged between them that when he reached the

moat-house that night he was to enter the unused door in the left wing,

which was to be previously unlocked for him, and was to wait on the

staircase until Mrs. Heredith was able to steal down to him and obtain

the jewels. That plan was upset by Tufnell finding the door unlocked,

and locking it again before his arrival. When he did arrive he found

himself unable to get in."

"Stop a moment," exclaimed Musard hoarsely. "This story goes too deep

for me. Who is this man? Do you know him? Has he anything to do with the

murder?"

"Yes, I know him, and he has much to do with the murder," said the

detective. "Shall I mention his name, Mr. Heredith?"

Phil nodded, as though he were unable to speak.

"The man is Captain Nepcote."

"Nepcote!" A swift flash of wrath came into Musard's heavy dark eyes as

he uttered the name. Then, in a wider understanding of the sordid

interpretation of Colwyn's story, he hesitatingly added: "I think I see.

It was Nepcote's revolver. Was it he who shot Violet?"

"Before answering that question it is necessary to give Nepcote's

explanation of his actions on that night. His own story is that he did

not enter the house. He says that while he was waiting outside he heard

a scream followed by a shot, and he then hid in the woods in front of

the house until he thought it safe to return to London. He declares he

is innocent of the murder."

"That is a lie!" Phil burst forth. "Who will believe him?" He stopped

abruptly, and turned fiercely to Colwyn. "How do you know Nepcote said

this?" he demanded.

"Because I saw him the night before I left London. He told me

everything, and gave me the necklace."

"And you let him go again? Are you mad?" Phil was on his feet, shaking

with excitement.

"What makes you think I let him go?" retorted Colwyn coldly. "You need

not be afraid that your wife's murderer will escape justice. Nepcote is

lying ill of pneumonia in a private hospital in London. He can only

escape by death. But the manner in which you have received this

information suggests to my mind that you have had your own suspicions of

Nepcote all along, but have kept them to yourself."

"I cannot conceive that to be any business of yours," replied the young

man, with a touch of hauteur.

"It seems to me that it is, in the circumstances. You came to me seeking

my assistance because you believed in the innocence of Hazel Rath,

but--as I am now convinced--you suppressed information which pointed to

Captain Nepcote."

"I told you all that I thought necessary."

"You told me that your wife had been shot with Nepcote's revolver. Is

that what you mean?"

"Yes. That was sufficient to put you on the track without taking you

into my confidence about ... something which affected my honour and the

honour of my family." Phil turned very pale as he uttered the last

words.

"Perhaps Phil should have told you, but you must make allow--" commenced

Musard. But Colwyn silenced him with an imperative glance.

"At the time you came to see me, you believed that Captain Nepcote had

murdered your wife?" he said, facing Phil.

"I did."

"Do you mind telling me now on what ground you based that belief?"

"I fail to recognize your right to cross-question me," replied the young

man haughtily, "but I will answer your question. It was for the reason

that you have supposed. I suspected his relations with my wife. There

was his revolver to prove that he had been in her room. I do not know

why Hazel Rath carried it away."

"Perhaps I could enlighten you on that point. As you knew so much, it is

equally certain that you knew about your wife's missing necklace, though

you did not tell me of that, either. But I will not go into that now--I

wish to hurry on to my conclusion. I have at least done all that you

asked me to do; I have proved Hazel Rath's innocence. But I have proved

more than that. Captain Nepcote is also innocent."

"I should like to hear how you arrive at that conclusion." Phil strove

to utter the words calmly, but his trembling lips revealed his inward

agitation.

"His story, as told to me, fits in with facts of which he could have had

no knowledge. He says he found the door of the left wing locked, and we

know it was locked by Tufnell more than an hour before. He states that

after the shot he hid in the woods in front of the house. It was there

Tufnell thought he saw somebody hiding; it was there I found a scrap of

khaki adhering to a bramble at the spot indicated by Nepcote as his

hiding-place. Tufnell admits that he called out in alarm when his eye

fell on the crouching figure. Nepcote says that he saw Tufnell, heard

his cry, and plunged deeper into the bushes for safety. Tufnell returned

along the carriage drive twenty minutes afterwards with Detective Caldew

and Sergeant Lumbe. Nepcote heard the crunch of their feet on the gravel

as they passed. His accuracy in these details which he could not

possibly have known helped me to the conclusion that the whole of his

story was true."

"He had plenty of time to commit the murder, nevertheless," said Phil.

"It is useless for you to try and cling to that theory--now."

There was something in the tone in which these words were uttered which

caused the young man to look swiftly at the detective from beneath

furrowed brows.

"You seem to have constituted yourself the champion of this scoundrel,"

he said, in a changed harsh voice.

Musard glanced from one to the other with troubled eyes. There was a

growing hint of menace in their conversation which his mind, deeply

agitated by the strange disclosures of the evening, could only fear

without fathoming.

"I do not understand you," he said simply, addressing himself to Colwyn.

"If this man Nepcote did not commit the murder, who did? Was it not he

who was in the bedroom when Hazel Rath went there in the dark?"

"No," said Colwyn; "it was not he."

"Who was the man, then, who clutched Hazel Rath, by the throat?"

persisted Musard.

"It was no man," responded Colwyn, in a gloomy voice. "_That_ was the

point which baffled me for hours when I thought the whole truth was

within my grasp. Again and again I sought vainly for the answer, until,

in mental weariness and utter despair, I was tempted to believe that the

powers of evil had combined to shield the perpetrator of this atrocious

murder from justice. Then it came to me--the last horrible revelation in

this hellish plot. It was the hand of the dying woman, spasmodically

clutching at the empty air in her death agonies, which accidentally came

in contact with Hazel Rath's throat, and loosened her brooch."

"Oh, this is too terrible," murmured Musard. His swarthy face showed an

ashen tint. "What do you mean? What are you keeping back? Where does all

this lead to?"

"It leads to the exposure of the trick--the trick of a false report by

which the murderer sought to procure an alibi and revenge."

"What do you mean? What have you found out?" cried Phil, leaping to his

feet and facing Colwyn.

As he uttered the words, a loud shot in the room overhead rang out with

startling distinctness.

"I mean--that," said Colwyn quietly.

Even up to the moment of his experiment he was not quite certain. But in

the one swift glance they exchanged, everything was revealed to each of

them.

Before Musard could frame the question which trembled on his amazed

lips, Phil spoke. His face was very white, and his dark eyes blazing:

"Yes. That is it. You have found me out." His voice, deepened to a

bitter intensity, had a deliberate intonation which was almost solemn.

"What did they do to me? Shall I ever forget my feelings when,

unobserved by them, I caught them in the house one day, whispering and

kissing? I walked straight out into the woods to be alone with my shame.

My brain was on fire. When I recalled his lecherous looks and her wanton

meaning glances I was tempted to destroy myself in misery and despair.

Human nature--ah, God, what a beastly thing it is. I had trusted them

both so utterly--I loved her so deeply. How had they repaid my trust and

love? By deceiving me, under my eyes, in my own home, before my marriage

was three months old.

"That night I dreamt of obscene things. I awoke with their images

hovering by my bedside, looking at me with sneering eyes, mocking me

with lewd gestures. 'Your honour and the honour of the Herediths--Where

is it?' they kept repeating: 'Sold by the wanton you have made your

wife. What is honour to the lust of the flesh? There is nothing so

strong in the world.' But as I watched them the ceiling rolled away, and

in the darkness of the sky a stern and implacable face appeared. And it

said, 'There is one thing stronger than honour, stronger even that the

lust of the flesh, and that is--Death.'

"It was the answer to a question I had been asking myself ever since I

knew. I got up, and sat by the open window, to plan how I should kill

them both. But I wanted the man to feel more than a swift thunderstroke

of mortal agony. I wished to make him suffer as I had suffered, but at

first I could see no way.

"Then it came to me in the strangest way--a light, a direction, a guide.

I had been smoking as I sat there thinking--smoking cigarettes which I

lit with a little automatic lighter I always used. I must have laid it

down carelessly, for I was interrupted in my meditations by the sight of

a thin trail of vapour ascending from the window ledge. I had failed to

put the extinguisher on the lighter, and the wick had gone on burning.

As I watched the red spark crawling almost imperceptibly along the

yellow wick, there dawned in my mind the first glimmering of the idea of

a slow match and a delayed report. Bit by bit it took form, and the

means of my revenge was made clear to me. I went back to bed and slept

soundly.

"I was in no hurry to act. There was much to think over, much to do,

before the plan was finally perfected. I carried out experiments in the

gun-room when everybody was in bed, secure in the knowledge that no

report, however loud, could penetrate from those thick walls upstairs.

While I was making ready I watched them both. Not a furtive glance or

caress passed between them which I did not see.

"The night my aunt asked Violet about the necklace I suspected that it

was no longer in her possession. I guessed that by her evasive answers

and telltale face. When she left the room and went upstairs I crept

after her in the shadows and followed her to the door of Nepcote's room.

I listened to their conversation; I heard him promise her to return

secretly to the moat-house on the following night with the necklace. My

heart leapt as I listened. I believed that I had him.

"I stole away quietly without waiting to learn any more, but I stayed up

till far into the night preparing my final plans. My intention was to

shoot her just before dinner, and arrange for the false report to

explode after he had arrived and hidden himself in the old staircase,

waiting for her to go to him. Then, when the report startled everybody

in the dining-room, I intended to be the first to rush upstairs, and

lead the search in the direction of the old staircase. I would have had

him by the throat, before he had time to get away. How would he have

been able to account for his secret presence in the house when her

jewels were in his pocket and her dead body upstairs, close to where he

was hiding?

"I had intended to kill Violet with a small revolver which I had bought

in a second-hand place at London last winter, but Nepcote's carelessness

in leaving his own revolver in the gun-room gave the last finishing

touch to my plan. I could scarcely believe my luck when I found it. It

seemed as though he himself were playing into my hands. I hid it away,

expecting that there would be inquiries, but there were none. He had

forgotten all about it. It was strange, too, that Violet herself helped

by telling my aunt before dinner on the night of her pretended illness

that she did not wish to be disturbed by anybody. That removed a defect

in my arrangements which had caused me much anxious thought. I had

feared that somebody, probably a servant, might enter the room in the

period between the first and second reports. It was a chance I could not

afford to overlook, and I could see no way of guarding against it except

by locking the door, which I did not want to do. I wanted to leave the

door partly open so as to make sure of the second report penetrating to

the dining-room downstairs.

"When my aunt gave me Violet's message in the library shortly before

dinner I knew that the moment had arrived. The altered arrangements for

an earlier dinner cost me a moment's perplexity, but no more. One cannot

hurry one's own guests, and I knew it would be impossible to get dinner

over as quickly as my aunt anticipated. If it were ending too quickly

for my purpose it would be an easy matter to introduce a subject which

would set somebody talking. That, as you know, is what actually

happened.

"After my aunt left me I waited until the last possible moment before

slipping upstairs. The revolver and the pistol were locked away in my

own bedroom in readiness. I got them out. The pistol was completely

prepared except for the cap. I had bound a twelve inch tinder-wick to

the stock in order to allow for a delay of nearly fifty minutes between

the lighting and the report. I knew that Nepcote expected to arrive at

the moat-house by half-past seven at the latest, but I gave him a margin

of a few minutes for unexpected delays. I put the pistol in my pocket,

and wrapping the revolver in a silk muffler to deaden the report, went

swiftly to my wife's room. I closed the door behind me as I entered.

"She was lying on the bed with her eyes closed, and did not hear me

approach. That helped me. Can you understand my feelings. I was about to

destroy something I loved better than life itself, but it was not she

who was lying on the bed. _She_ had died before--died by her own

act--leaving behind her another woman whose life was a living lie, who

was so corrupt and worthless as to be unfit to live. It was _that_ I was

going to destroy. I felt no compunction--no remorse. As I placed the

muzzle of the revolver against her breast, she opened her eyes in

terror, and saw me. I pulled the trigger quickly.... As I did so I heard

the dinner gong sound downstairs.

"The muffled report made less noise than the clapping of a pair of

hands. I knew that faint sound would not be heard downstairs. She never

moved, and I thought she was dead. I bent over the fireplace, shook some

caps out of the butt of the pistol, and placed one on the nipple. Then I

lit a match and started my prepared fuse. It was an easy matter to place

the pistol in position at the top of the grate; the difficulty of

recovering it subsequently was not made manifest to me until after my

illness, although my previous secret examination of the grate had

convinced me that the recoil of the explosion would cause the pistol to

fall to the bottom of the chimney behind the grate. When I had placed

the pistol in position I turned off the electric light, and opened the

window to allow the fumes of the burning wick to escape. Then I hurried

downstairs. I was not in the room three minutes altogether. I saw nobody

on my way down; nearly everybody had gone in to dinner, but I was in

time to sit down with the others.

"I felt quite cold and collected as I sat at the dinner table waiting

for the moment of my vengeance. I felt as though I was under the control

of some force immensely stronger than myself which held me firm with

giant hands while the minutes slowly ebbed away. I am sure there was

nothing unusual in my behaviour. I pretended to eat, and joined in the

conversation around me.

"The report did not come at the moment I anticipated, but I was not

perturbed at the delay. My experiments had taught me the difficulty of

fixing an explosion for an exact period. The time was in general

approximately the same, but there were reasons which caused a slight

difference. The wick always burnt at a uniform rate; the trouble was

with the string. Sometimes it was slow in catching. Sometimes the

pressure of the string partly extinguished the wick and made combustion

slower as it neared the point of contact. Once I tied the string so

tight that the wick went out altogether just before reaching the string.

But I had taken measures to overcome these little irregularities, and to

make sure of the string catching readily I had rubbed a little petrol on

it where it crossed the wick.

"But it was the scream before the report which upset my calculations and

almost caused me to collapse. When that terrible cry rang out my false

strength fled from me, leaving me weak and trembling. I think I should

have betrayed myself if the report had not followed so quickly, throwing

everybody into the same state of confusion as myself. I do not know how

I managed to make my limbs carry me upstairs with the others. I did not

know what had happened. My brain refused to act. I was conscious of

nothing except that a great wheel seemed turning inside my head,

tightening all my nerves to such taut agony that I could hardly refrain

from crying aloud.

"What I said or did when I found myself in the bedroom I do not know.

When I saw that everything was as I had arranged my mind began swinging

like a pendulum towards my revenge, and I struggled to lead the search

towards the staircase. But I was unable to move. I was like a man in a

dream, encompassed by invisible obstacles. Then the wheel in my head

suddenly relaxed, I felt the room and its objects slipping from me, and

everything went black.

"You know about my illness. It was not until I was supposed to be

recovering that the power of clear thought came back to me. There were

days when my brain was numb and powerless, like that of one newly

awakened from a terrible nightmare, striving to recall what had

happened. Then one day the veil was drawn, and I remembered everything.

My aunt was in the room, and I questioned her. She brought Musard to me,

and from him I learnt the truth.

"Intuitively I realized what had happened. Hazel Rath had gone to the

room for some unknown reason, had seen my wife lying there, and

screamed. Then, hardly conscious of what she was doing, she picked up

the revolver I had left lying by the bedside, and ran out of the room in

fright. I was even able to divine a reason for her silence under the

accusation of murder. She felt that nobody would believe her story,

especially after the history of her mother's past was brought to light.

"As I turned over what they had told me and realized that my own secret

was safe, I thought I saw the way to accomplish my revenge and save

Hazel Rath. Up till then the revolver had not been identified as

Nepcote's. It seemed to me that the mere disclosure of that fact was

sufficient to direct attention to Nepcote and bring to light his

movements on that night. But the detective who came to see me about the

revolver was too foolish and obstinate to grasp the importance of my

information. It was then I decided to go to you. It was daring, perhaps,

but it seemed safe enough to me. I was determined to entangle Nepcote,

and to free Hazel Rath.

"I told you no more than I had told to the other detective. I had

powerful motives for reticence. If I had told you more you would have

seen that I had an ulterior reason for directing attention to Nepcote. I

had not the least fear that you would discover my secret, but the

knowledge, if imparted to you, would have weakened the impression I

wanted to convey by suggesting to your mind that I was actuated by

hatred of Nepcote. Besides, I did not wish any living being to know of

my shame. I believed that I could accomplish my revenge without its ever

being known. I thought Nepcote would prefer to perish as the victim of

circumstances rather than incur public opprobrium by a defence which he

knew would never be believed. The actual facts against him were too

strong. He could neither extenuate nor deny them. He could not explain

his lying telegrams, his secret return, his presence in the moat-house,

his possession of the necklace, the revolver in the bedroom where the

body was. Therefore, it was only necessary to give you a starting point,

because discovery was inevitable where so much was hidden. I saw to it

that the loss of the necklace was discovered after your arrival. That

was all you needed to know.

"I do not know what oversight of mine put you on the track of the truth.

There was one, but I do not see how that could have helped you. It was

not until the following afternoon in the gun-room, when Musard drew your

attention to the pistol-case, that I remembered that the pistol I had

used was still at the back of the fireplace upstairs, where apparently

it had lain undiscovered during my illness. I had taken the precaution

of concealing the key of the case, but I decided to restore the pistol

that night after you left. It was more difficult to recover than I

anticipated, owing to the depth of the space behind the grate. I had to

push back the bedstead and use the tongs before I could reach it. I

believe it would have lain there undiscovered for years. There was

nothing else that I can recall, except that when I restored the pistol I

saw I had left the end of one of my experimental tinder-lighter wicks

lying in the case.

"But I do not wish to know how you found out, now that Nepcote has

escaped. I have nothing left to live for. The doctor thinks I am

recovering, but I knew that it was only the hope of revenge which kept

me going. Now that is gone I have not long to live. I rejoice that it is

so. But whatever had happened, I would have saved that poor girl, Hazel

Rath.... I ask you to believe that ... Violet...."

He ceased, and with a weary gesture, let his head fall on his

outstretched arms, as though the strength which bore him up while he

told his tale deserted him when he had made manifest the truth.

His two listeners sat for some minutes in silence, each engrossed in his

own thoughts. Musard stared gloomily at Phil with unseeing eyes. He was

as one who had passed through unimagined horrors in a space not to be

measured by time, to emerge with a fatigued sense of the black malignity

of unknown gods who create the passions of humanity for their own brutal

sport. His moving lips betrayed a consciousness loosened from its

moorings, tossed in a turbulent sea of disaster. Then they formed the

whispered words:

"The house was founded in horror and it ends in horror. So the old

tradition comes true."

The next moment he turned his eyes on Colwyn with a look askance, as

though he saw in him the instrument of this misery.

"Why did Hazel Rath keep silence?" he asked.

"Women have made greater sacrifices for love," Colwyn gently replied.

"Hazel Rath loved him, and kept silence to shield him. She would not

have spoken at all if suspicion had not fastened on Nepcote, and even

when she did speak she kept something back. We may now learn later what

actually passed between Hazel and Mrs. Heredith in the bedroom that

night. My own opinion is that, while Hazel was bending over her, the

dying woman whispered the name of her murderer."

"What are you going to do now?" Musard abruptly demanded, in sudden

change of mood, speaking as though there were nobody present but their

two selves.

"There is only one thing to do."

"Do you mean to let the world know the truth--to give him up to

justice?"

"What other course is there open for me to pursue?" said Colwyn sadly.

"I cannot see what earthly purpose will be gained by making this

horrible story public. Consider, I beg of you, all the circumstances

before you inflict this dreadful sorrow and scandal on an honoured

family."

"It is because I have to consider all the circumstances that I have no

option."

"Is there no other way?" persisted Musard. "He is mad. He must have been

possessed. You heard his story; his hallucinations were those of an

insane person. He had some justification. He would never have committed

this terrible deed of his own free will."

Colwyn did not reply. It was useless to point out that there is no such

thing as free will in human affairs, and that if Philip Heredith had

been impelled to his crime by the evil force of passions which were

stronger than the restraining power of human reason, he must pay the

full price demanded by humanity for the only safeguard of its supremacy.

There was the sound of an opening door and footsteps outside, and a

voice called:

"Phil! Vincent! Where are you?"

"They have returned!" Musard excitedly exclaimed. "What are they to be

told?"

"I cannot say," replied Colwyn, casting a sombre glance at Phil's

drooping and motionless figure.

There was something new in his posture--a stark stillness which arrested

his eye. He stepped quickly to his side and bent over him.

"He is dead," he said.

"Dead? My God! Impossible!"

"It is quite true. It is better so."

"Vincent!" Miss Heredith's voice sounded not far away.

"She is coming here. Quick, what am I to say to her?"

"I cannot tell you," responded Colwyn, with another glance at the still

form. "It was he who called me in to solve this mystery, and I have done

what he asked. I will leave you to tell her what you will, but I cannot

keep silence afterwards where the liberty of innocent people is

involved. Justice is as impersonal as Truth herself."

"Vincent!" This time the voice sounded just outside the door.

"I must stop her--she must not come in here," said Musard, starting up.

But he was too late. The door opened, and Miss Heredith stood in the

doorway.

Her startled eyes took in the agitated face of Musard, and then

travelled to the drooping attitude of the figure at the table. She went

quickly past the two men, and bent over her nephew. As she did so, she

sobbed aloud. All the pity and pathos of a woman, all the misery and

mystery of a broken heart, welled forth in her faint mournful cry.

"This will kill her," said Musard savagely.

But Colwyn felt that it would not be so. As he turned from the room,

leaving the living and the dead together, he knew that when the first

bitterness of the shock was over, and she was faced again with the

consciousness of duty, she would call on her abiding faith to help her

to wear, without flinching, the heavy grey garment of life.

THE END

By REES & WATSON

THE MYSTERY OF THE DOWNS

THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Hand in the Dark, by Arthur J. Rees