"How much?"
"We will talk of that when I know the truth. Have you a confession?"
"Yes, I have." She thought she might with safety admit as much. "I found the whole story of Mr. and Mrs. Lestrange and Mr. Beauchamp amongst my business papers--my husband's papers, I should say. It was signed and witnessed in New Orleans. It seems Warrender was dying there, and wanted to tell Mr. Beauchamp--Marlow, I mean--the truth, so he had the confession drawn up by a lawyer. Afterwards, when he got well, he did not destroy it."
"Beauchamp was innocent of the murder, then?"
"Yes. He knocked Achille Lestrange down, but he did not kill him."
"Aha! I thought so!" chuckled Blair, rubbing his hands. "Who did?"
Mrs. Warrender drew back with a look of cunning on her face.
"That's tellings," said she, relapsing into the speech of her people. "I don't part with my secret unless I get my price."
"Name your price."
"Two thousand pounds."