ow
sofa, two women, hand-in-hand, had been sobbing out their grief to one
another. On the threshold, peering with strained eyes through the gloom,
was Mr. Thurwell, his light overcoat, hastily thrown over his evening
clothes, still unremoved.

She rose to her feet, and he saw the dim outline of her graceful figure,
even a vision of her white, tear-stained face.

"The truth has come out," he said gravely. "To-morrow Bernard will be
free. The man who killed Sir Geoffrey Kynaston has confessed."

"Confessed!" Helen repeated. "Where? To whom?"

"To the Home Secretary, to a party of us as we sat at supper, his guests
at the club. Helen, be prepared for a great surprise. The murderer was
Sir Allan Beaumerville."

"I know it," Helen whispered hoarsely across the room. "Have they
arrested Sir Allan?"

Mr. Thurwell's surprise at his daughter's knowledge was forgotten in the
horror of the scene which her words had called up. Across the darkened
air of the little chamber it seemed to float again before his shuddering
memory, and he stretched out his hands for a moment before his face.

"Arrested him--no!" he answered in an agitated tone. "I have seen
nothing so awful in all my life. He made his confession at the head of
his table, the police were clamoring outside with a warrant, and while
we all sat dazed and stupefied, he fell backward--dead."

A cry rang through the little chamber, a sudden wail, half of relief,
half of anguish. Helen fell upon her knees by the side of the sofa. Mr.
Thurwell started, and moved forward.

"Who is that?" he asked quickly. "I thought you were alone."

"It is his wife," Helen answered, not without some fear. "See, she has
fainted."

Mr. Thurwell hesitated only for a moment. Then his face filled with
compassion.

"God help her;" he said solemnly. "I will send the women up to you, and
a doctor. God help her!"

CHAPTER XLII

AT LAST

The morning sunlight lay upon that wonderful fair garden of the villa.
The tall white lilies, the scarlet poppies, the clustering japonica, the
purple hyacinths, and the untrimmed brilliantly-flowering shrubs, lifted
their heads before its sweet, quickening warmth, and yielded up their
perfume to the still clear air. The languorous hour of noon was still
far off. It was the birth of a southern summer day, and everything was
fresh and pure, untainted by the burning, enervating heat which was soon
to dry up the sweetness from the earth, and the fr