"Helen, Helen, I have strange news for you!"
The room was in semi-darkness, for the fire had burnt low and the heavily shaded lamp gave out but little light. Side by side on the low 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.