“He shot himself!” Gregory gasped.
“There isn’t a doubt about it,” Mr. Johnson declared. “The name of the doctor is there. He was a dying man.”
Across the room their eyes met—Gregory’s and Claire’s. It seemed as though nothing could keep them apart. Without conscious movement he was by her side, her hands in his. All the time, with slow, deliberate emphasis, Major Holmes was reading the letter aloud, reading the words penned by a dying man, the supreme yet ghastly irony of which no one properly apprehended in those few minutes of immense relief.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Claire faltered, as soon as she could find words.
Gregory glanced behind at the little group and drew her nearer and nearer. A nightmare was passing from his brain.
“I thought it was Dad,” he whispered, under his breath. “What could I do?”
“The letter appears to be genuine,” Major Holmes decided, looking up with an air of great relief, “and the name of the doctor fortunately provides us with corroborative evidence, but under the circumstances I must confess that I fail to understand Mr. Henry Ballaston’s position,” he added, turning towards him.
The latter coughed a little nervously.
“It has never been my custom,” he declared, “to countenance any deviation from the truth in others or to indulge in anything approaching a falsehood myself. I have to admit, however, that on the present occasion I made a false statement, which I beg leave to withdraw. The fact is,” he confided, with a touch of that ingenuousness which was one of his characteristics, “I never doubted for a moment that my nephew Gregory, in the interests of the family, was guilty of this misdemeanour. I am a useless person in this world. He is a young man and our direct heir. I did what I thought best.”
“But the Image?” Sir Bertram demanded in bewilderment—“the second Image of the Soul? How on earth did that get to the Hall?”