Harold was terribly distressed to hear of the death of his brother. For a long time Brenda kept the news from him, fearing its effect in his weak state. But the day came when it could no longer be withheld, and she was obliged to tell him the truth.
It was a glorious tropical morning. Her father had gone out, and she was seated by her husband's bed, holding his hand in her own. His beard had grown, he was thin and haggard, but his eyes were bright and full of intelligence. He was anxious, and able now to hear all that had to be told. And she told him everything. He was amazed.
"Wilfred killed Malet!" he said, hardly believing his ears. "But he had a sprained ankle on that night. It is impossible!"
"His sprain was feigned to protect himself," replied Brenda, sadly; "it is all in his confession."
"He left a written confession?"
"Yes, he wrote everything as it happened on that night, and carried the statement about with him, to be placed in the hands of you or myself when he died. Hush, Harold, dear, you must not speak. Here is my father."
Mr. Scarse entered on tiptoe to inquire how the invalid was getting on. He brought in some fruit--always a welcome gift to the convalescent. He had heard enough to acquaint him with the subject under discussion. So busy had Brenda been in nursing her husband that she had not found time to tell the whole story to her father. Now he asked her for details, and she went over them again for his benefit.
"But why did Wilfred kill the man?" he asked.
"From sheer patriotic feeling," answered his daughter. "He found out that Mr. Malet was supplying information about our defences to Van Zwieten, and he remonstrated with him. Malet laughed at his scruples and denied his complicity. Then Wilfred searched Mr. Malet's desk and found papers which proved conclusively his treachery. Then it was he decided to kill him to save the honor of the family."
"Well," said Scarse, reflectively, "murder is a terrible crime; but if ever it is excusable, surely it is in such circumstances as these."