stable in a doorway in Albemarle Street. The officer, who first
thought he was intoxicated, later took him to St. George's Hospital,
where he died. Afterwards a scratch was found on the palm of his hand,
and the doctors believed it had been caused by a pin infected with some
poison. The truth was, however, that his hand was scratched in opening
a bottle of champagne at supper. The doctors never suspected the tiny
puncture in the hair at the nape of the neck, and they never discovered
it."

"I knew nothing of the affair," declared The Sparrow, his face clouded
by anger. "Then Howell was the actual murderer?"

"He was," Yvonne replied. "I saw him press the needle into Mr. Henfrey's
neck, while Benton stood by, ready to seize the victim if he resisted.
Benton and Howell had agreed to kill Mr. Henfrey, compel his son to
marry Louise, and then get Hugh out of the world by one or other of
their devilish schemes. Ah!" she sighed, looking sadly before her. "I
see it all now--everything."

"Then it was arranged that after I had married Louise I should also meet
with an unexpected end?"

"Yes. One that should discredit you in the eyes of your wife and your
own friends--an end probably like your father's. A secret visit to
London, and a mysterious death," Mademoiselle replied.

She spoke quite calmly and rationally. The shock of suddenly
encountering the two persons who had been uppermost in her thoughts
before those terrible injuries to her brain had balanced it again.
Though the pains in her head were excruciating, as she explained, yet
she could now think, and she remembered all the bitterness of the past.

"You, M'sieur Henfrey, are the son of my dead friend. You have been the
victim of a great and dastardly conspiracy," she said. "But I ask your
forgiveness, for I assure you that when I invited your father up from
Woodthorpe I had no idea whatever of what those assassins intended."

"Benton is already under arrest for another affair," broke in The
Sparrow quietly. "I heard so from London yesterday."

"Ah! And I hope that Howell will also be punished for his crime," the
handsome woman cried. "Though I have been a thief, a swindler, and a
decoy--ah! yes, I admit it all--I have never committed the crime of
murder. I know, messieurs," she went on--"I know that I am a social
outcast, the mysterious Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo, they call me! But
I have suffered. I have indeed in these past months paid my debt to
Society, a