ters
at the Avon Hotel would certainly inform the police if he did not. He
looked at the body of the miserable woman in its strange mask of age.
"She went to see Lord Caranby in disguise," said the inspector, "you
can see her face is made up. Does his lordship know who she is?"

"Yes. And Mr. Jennings, the detective, knows also."

"Perhaps you do yourself, Mr. Mallow?"

Cuthbert nodded. "She is Maraquito, the--"

"What! the gambling-house coiner we have been looking for?"

"The same. Jennings can tell you more about the matter than I can."

"I'll get Mr. Jennings to come here as soon as he is on his feet, and
that will be to-morrow most probably. But why did Maraquito throw
vitriol at Lord Caranby?"

"Jennings can tell you that," said Mallow, suppressing the fact that
the vitriol had been meant for Juliet. "Perhaps it had something to do
with the raid made on the unfinished house which, you know, belonged to
my uncle."

"Bless me, so it did. I expect, enraged by the factory being
discovered, Maraquito wished to revenge herself on your uncle. She may
have thought that he gave information to Jennings about the place."

"She might have thought so," said Mallow. "I am returning to the Avon
Hotel. If you want to see me you can send for me there. But Jennings
knows everything."

"What about his lordship?"

"He will die," said Cuthbert abruptly, and departed, leaving the
inspector full of regrets that Maraquito had not lived to figure in the
police court. He looked at the matter purely from a professional
standpoint, and would have liked the sensation such an affair would
have caused.

When Mallow came back to the hotel he found that his uncle had
recovered consciousness and was asking for him. Yeo would not allow
his patient to talk much, so Cuthbert sat by the bedside holding the
hand of the dying man. Caranby had been badly burnt about the temples,
and the sight of one eye was completely gone. Occasionally Yeo gave
him a reviving cordial which made him feel better. Towards evening
Caranby expressed a wish to talk. The doctor would have prevented him,
but the dying man disregarded these orders.

"I must talk," he whispered faintly. "Cuthbert, get a sheet of paper."

"But you have made your will," said Yeo, rebukingly.

"This is not a will. It is a confession. Cuthbert will write it out
and you will witness my signature along with him, Yeo."

"A confession!" murmured Cuthbert, going out