under
circumstances which I hereby authorize Mr. Krech to describe to you. I
will send it to you by messenger. I regret that I cannot name the
thief, whose identity, in my opinion, will never be learned. I shall
look forward to seeing you when I again visit Hambleton, which I hope
to do after a short period of work and rest. Sincerely yours, Peter
Creighton._"

He stood up, holding the open letter in his hand. His head was heavy.
Hardly conscious of what he was doing, he went to the French windows,
pulled them open and stepped out on the balcony. Instantly, a low
voice challenged him from the darkness.

"Mr. Creighton! I'm so glad! I thought you must be lost! I've been
waiting here--! Please, will you do something for me?"

"I'm always ready for that, Miss Copley."

"I want you to come here. The door of my room is unlocked." The low
voice grew even fainter. "I--I am very ill," said Miss Ocky.

_XXIII: The Darkest Hour_

Everything else faded from his mind at the emergency suggested by her
last words.

He was with her in five seconds. In that time she had retreated from
the balcony and was lying back in a deep, upholstered armchair near the
open window, a soft woolen lap-robe over her knees and tucked about her
feet. He leaned over her anxiously.

"You are ill? What is it?" he questioned her swiftly. "Let me go for
the doctor!"

"No--please! It isn't a case for a doctor--yet. I must talk to you
first." There was a straight-backed chair close by, as though she had
placed it there for him, and she waved him to it. She did not continue
until he had reluctantly seated himself on its edge, bending forward to
watch her face in the dim light from a single lamp across the room.
"I--there is something I must tell you. Do you remember saying one
evening that a detective must occasionally be a father-confessor as
well as--"

"Stop!" He interrupted her, aghast, his tortured nerves rebelling
against this unexpected, fresh flagellation. "I want no confession
from you--I won't listen--!"

"Please! You must let me have my way in this; I have a good reason for
insisting on that." Her voice was low, quiet and determined. "I want
to tell you that your search is ended. It was I who--"

"Don't say it!" he broke in hoarsely. "I know it already!"

"You--_what_?" Her eyes were large, incredulous. "You know that it
was I who--who killed Simon Varr?" Amazed, she saw him nod his head,
and