But Hugo went on without noticing.
"Justified—except in one thing. And I want to tell you about that."
"You need not," said Brian, quietly. "If it is anything fresh, I do not wish to hear."
"Brian," said Angela, "you are hard."
"No, he is not too hard," Hugo interposed, in a dreamy voice, more as if he were talking to himself than to them. "He was always good to me: he did more for me than anybody else. More than Richard. I always hated Richard. I wished that he was dead." He stopped, and then resumed, with a firmer intonation. "Is Mr. Colquhoun in the house? Fetch him here, and Vivian too, if he is at hand. I have something to say to them."
They did his bidding, and presently the persons for whom he asked stood at his bed-side.
"Are they all here? My eyes are getting dim; it is time I spoke," said Hugo, feebly. "Mr. Colquhoun, I shall want you to take down what I say. You may make it as public as you like. Angela——"
He felt for her hand. She gave it to him, and let him lean upon her shoulder as he spoke. He looked up in her eyes with a sort of smile.
"Kiss me, Angela," he said, "for the last time. You will never do it again.... Are you all listening? I wish you and everyone to know that it was I—I—who shot Richard Luttrell in the wood; not Brian. We fired at the same moment. It was not Brian; do you hear?"
There was a dead silence. Then Brian staggered as if he would have fallen, and caught at Percival's arm. But the weakness was only for a moment. He said, simply, "I thank God," and stood erect again. Mr. Colquhoun put on his spectacles and stared at him. Angela, pale to the lips, did not move; Hugo's head was still resting against her shoulder. It was Brian's voice that broke the silence, and there was pity and kindliness in its tone.