"Arrived hotel. Secured room adjoining Janet. Bed early. Was restless, talkative. Unable distinguish words. Picked lock communicating door. Listened by bed. Incoherent. Suddenly awoke. Surprised me. I used own judgment as instructed. Made best of bad situation. Accused her of murder. Threatened her with police. Terrible scene. Frantic denials followed by complete collapse. Full confession. Made lengthy synopsis. Obtained signature. Abruptly she seemed to go mad. Raved wildly. On point summoning assistance when violently attacked. Threw me in corner. Threw bureau on top of me. Before interference possible ran to open window. Jumped out. Six stories. Death instantaneous. Wire instructions. K. Doyle."
"Gee Joseph!" gasped Krech, and handed the telegram to the detective, who had sprung to his elbow long since and peered over his shoulder. The big man walked back to his chair and dropped into it limply. "I'm all unstarched!" he said plaintively. "Save my sanity and tell me what it's all about! How many people killed Simon Varr?"
"One!" answered Creighton grimly, but his eyes were shining. "Janet Mackay! And Ocky—Ocky thought she was dying—! She tried to shield Janet by assuming the guilt! Merciful Heaven, what a thing to do! No wonder she insisted on my recalling Kitty Doyle at once! Threatened to turn her sacrifice into a wasted gesture, Kitty did—and, by golly, Kitty has! But it wasn't wasted as far as we're concerned—we can always appreciate it! It was fine, Krech—fine!"
"But foolish," grunted Krech. "Think of the unhappiness she would have caused every one who is fond of her if she'd been allowed to roll up her reputation into a ball and kick it away!"
"Don't you suppose that thought hurt her?" cried Creighton. "If laying down your life for a friend exemplifies the greater love, what of a woman who lays down her reputation? Isn't that even finer?"
"Y-yes. Perhaps you're right. But—she condoned a crime."
"Uh-huh. And I think you and I are in a nice position to criticize her, aren't we? Perhaps Jean might help us there!"
Creighton, carried out of himself by a denouement almost beyond belief, was close to laughter. Mr. Krech was not. He left his chair and began to saunter uncertainly around the room, pausing finally at the desk and staring down at its blotter, his back turned to his companion. A more neutral observer than the other, he thought he could see a question arising that had not yet occurred to the less-unprejudiced detective. But Creighton would stumble upon it eventually—far better to thrash it out now.
"Why did Janet kill Simon Varr?" he opened the subject.
"Why—why—" Creighton stammered, at a loss for a moment, but recovered himself swiftly as an answer came. "Don't you understand that? Her motive was the one Ocky professed! She was playing Destiny! She knew all about Varr—they discussed him at length—and she had always had a distaste for the man since the old days in this house. When Ocky told her the story of the monk, it was she who conceived the idea of the masquerade. It was she who knew Maxon's propensity for mischief-making and selected him as a deputy. It was she who threatened Simon, fired the tannery—but why go on? The two women are simply interchangeable, and Ocky had only to repeat in her own person the confession she forced from Janet—"