by every means in my power to induce
him to go in on a scheme to which, unknown to him, I had
already committed him. He steadfastly refused. His death was
the only way for me to obviate exposure and ruin, and the
disgrace of a prison sentence. I anticipated his attitude and
had come prepared. During a heated period of our discussion,
he walked to the desk and stood for a moment with his shoulder
turned to me, searching for a paper in his private drawer. I
saw my chance, and seized upon it. I was standing before his
chair, I may explain, watching him over its high back. I took
the vial of prussic acid from my pocket, uncorked it and
poured a few drops into his high-ball glass. I had recorked
the vial, and was on the point of returning it to its
hiding-place, when he turned to me. Had I raised my hand to my
pocket he would have noticed the gesture; as it was, the back
of the chair screened me, and on a sudden desperate impulse I
thrust the vial deep in the leather fold between the seat and
back.

Lawton drank, and died. I left the house, as I thought,
unnoticed and secure from detection. On subsequent visits to
the house I endeavored to regain possession of the vial, but
on each occasion I failed in my purpose, and at length it fell
into the hands of Anita Lawton. I have no more to say. Of
earlier events at home in England, which you and I discussed
to-night, it is better that I remain silent. You, of all men,
will appreciate my motive.

And now, Blaine, good-night. Please accept my heartfelt thanks
for the manner in which you handled a most difficult situation
to-night. You have beaten me fairly at my own game. It may be
that we shall meet again, somewhere, some time. In all
sincerity, yours,

ARTHUR BERTRAND ROCKAMORE.

The detective folded the letter slowly and returned it to its
envelope. Then he sat for long buried in thought. Rockamore had taken
the solitary loophole of escape from overwhelming disgrace left to
him. He had, as far as in him lay, expiated his crimes. What need,
then, to blazon them forth to a gaping world? Pennington Lawton had
died of heart-disease, so said the coroner. The press had echoed him,
and the public accepted that fact. Only two living persons beside the
coroner knew the truth, and Blaine felt sure that the gentle spirit of
An