recovered the memorandum
book which had slipped from his grasp, together with the second
telegram. He shook his head impatiently in an effort to clear it of
the stupor which numbed his brain.

Why should he be affected like this? he demanded angrily of himself.
What was there here that couldn't be explained in the light of facts
already known? It was no news to him now that Ocky was aiding Janet to
escape the consequences of her crime, and it was plain enough what must
have happened. She had found the notebook in Janet's possession,
handled it cautiously and left those prints, then insisted upon its
return to its rightful owners. That was all. His heart began to pound
less violently, and presently he was opening the second telegram, which
he saw at once was a straight wire from Kitty Doyle filed early that
morning.

"_Same compartment in sleeper. She had lower berth. Was very
restless. Talked several times. Could only hear one sentence,
repeated frequently. Miss Ocky, why did you do it, why did you do it?
She wired Hotel Beauclerc Montreal for reservation. K. Doyle._"

"Miss Ocky, why did you do it, why did you do it?"

For a few moments that sentence written in letters of fire danced madly
before his eyes. Then it cleared away and left him gazing at the
peaceful woods beyond the patch of velvet lawn. His face was
expressionless, but his lips moved slowly.

"That's it. That's it, of course. It's been there all the time. I
knew it. I was just afraid to face it. Now--I've got to."

He was standing on the veranda, but he had an odd sense that his brain
had detached itself from his body and was floating high in the air,
whence it had a comprehensive, bird's-eye view of the whole situation.
The chief actors in the drama were there, and as his brain watched them
they dissolved briefly into mist, then reformed slowly into a sort of
allegorical tableau.

There was Miss Ocky, arrayed in the somber robes of a monk, a stained
dagger held loosely in her fingers, an illusive, faintly mocking smile
on her lips. There was a great figure in white, a bandage about its
eyes, leaning negligently on a long, two-edged sword, its calm,
sightless face turned toward the woman in black. There was Janet
Mackay, gaunt and ugly, interposing her thin body between the two, a
pitifully inadequate shield. They all appeared to be waiting for
something, and presently it was evident that the attention of the two
women w