iss Bond," he said in a voice that forced attention--it was low and
vibrating with feeling--"Miss Bond, have you ever told a lie to shield a
friend?"

"Yes," she said, her eyes meeting his.

"So can I," came back the same tense voice, "when I know the truth about
that friend."

Then for the first time tears came in a storm. Her breath was quick and
feverish. "No one will ever believe, no one will understand. They will
say that I killed him, that I murdered him."

Through it all I stood almost speechless, puzzled. What did it all mean?

"No," said Kennedy, "no, for they will never know of it."

"Never know?"

"Never--if in the end justice is done. Have you the will? Or did you
destroy it?"

It was a bold stroke.

"Yes. No. Here it is. How could I destroy it, even though it was burning
out my very soul?"

She literally tore the paper from the bosom of her dress and cast it
from her in horror and terror.

Kennedy picked it up, opened it, and glanced hurriedly through it. "Miss
Bond," he said, "Jack shall never know a word of this. I shall tell him
that the will has been found unexpectedly in John Fletcher's desk among
some other papers. Walter, swear on your honour as a gentleman that this
will was found in old Fletcher's desk."

"Dr. Kennedy, how can I ever thank you?" she exclaimed, sinking wearily
down into a chair and pressing her hands to her throbbing forehead.

"By telling me just how you came by this will, so that when you and
Fletcher are married I may be as good a friend, without suspicion, to
you as I am to him. I think a full confession would do you good, Miss
Bond. Would you prefer to have Dr. Jameson not hear it?"

"No, he may stay."

"This much I know, Miss Bond. Last summer in Paris with the Greenes you
must have chanced to hear, of Pillard, the Apache, one of the most noted
cracksmen the world has ever produced. You sought him out. He taught
you how to paint your fingers with a rubber composition, how to use an
electric drill, how to use the old-fashioned jimmy. You went down to
Fletcherwood by the back road about a quarter after eleven the night of
the robbery in the Greenes' little electric runabout. You entered the
library by an unlocked window, you coupled your drill to the electric
light connections of the chandelier. You had to work quickly, for the
power would go off at midnight, yet you could not do the job later, when
they were sleeping more soundly, for the very same reason."