“Your mother’s heart!” I repeated, bewildered.
“It must be done, it is right that it should be done—but I can’t do it. I have, therefore, decided to tell you the whole story, and then you can repeat it to her very gently, very calmly, which I could not do. And you will remain to comfort her when I am gone, won’t you?”
“Don’t talk in this way,” I commanded, forcibly possessing myself of her hands. “You are not going to die.”
“Don’t touch me,” she entreated, tearing herself away from me. “You won’t want to, when you know the truth. I have not only committed a dreadful crime, but have allowed an innocent person to suffer in my stead. I should have confessed to the detective yesterday that I knew Mrs. Atkins had not killed the man, because—because—I myself killed him.”
I was so overcome with horror and surprise at hearing this confession, that for a moment I was paralysed.
“My poor darling,” I exclaimed at last, “how did this accident occur?”
She had evidently expected me to express horror and indignation, and that I did not do so was such an unexpected relief, that the poor child burst into tears. This time she did not repulse me. When she had become a little calmer, she said:
“I am glad that there is one person at least who, hearing that admission, does not at once believe me guilty of a dreadful crime. Oh, I assure you, I swear to you, that I never meant to kill the—the—fellow.” She shuddered.
“Of course you didn’t. Tell me all about it, and let me see if I can’t help you in some way.”
A faint gleam of hope shot across her face.