“But that is ridiculous, Major Holmes,” he said quietly. “You must have been very greatly misled. It was I who was guilty of the burglary. Here, in this parcel, you will find all the documents I purloined, or I might say borrowed, the instrument with which I cut out the panel of the door, another with which I picked the lock—instruments, I may say, obtained with the greatest possible difficulty from an establishment in London.”
There was a moment’s blank silence. Major Holmes’s expression, after the first shock of surprise, was one of complete incredulity.
“This is a very remarkable statement on your part, Mr. Ballaston,” he observed. “I presume you wish us to take note of what you say. At the same time I have, I am sorry to remind you, a warrant against your nephew on a more serious charge.”
Henry Ballaston apologised with dignity.
“I regret,” he said, “not to have mentioned the two affairs together. I, also, on June 30th of last year, after a few words of unpleasant discussion with Mr. Endacott, shot him through the head.”
Once more there was a brief spell of breathless silence. Henry Ballaston was entirely master of the situation, perfectly self-possessed, slightly apologetic. Father and son were gazing into each other’s eyes with mutual and amazed interrogation.
“You see,” Henry continued, in explanatory fashion, “Mr. Endacott was a very unreasonable man. He admitted that he had made a translation of the manuscript, but he refused to give it to me. He desired his niece to profit by it. I suppose I must have lost my temper. I shot him and secured the other Image, but could find no trace of the manuscript. Hence my second effort within the last few days. Have I made myself quite clear?”
Sir Bertram’s fingers upon his son’s arm had grown like the grip of a vice. He leaned forward.
“Do you mean to say that you didn’t do it, Greg?” he whispered hoarsely.
“Before God, I didn’t!” was the passionate reply. “I thought it was you.”