"What about his lordship?"
"He will die," said Cuthbert abruptly, and departed, leaving the inspector full of regrets that Maraquito had not lived to figure in the police court. He looked at the matter purely from a professional standpoint, and would have liked the sensation such an affair would have caused.
When Mallow came back to the hotel he found that his uncle had recovered consciousness and was asking for him. Yeo would not allow his patient to talk much, so Cuthbert sat by the bedside holding the hand of the dying man. Caranby had been badly burnt about the temples, and the sight of one eye was completely gone. Occasionally Yeo gave him a reviving cordial which made him feel better. Towards evening Caranby expressed a wish to talk. The doctor would have prevented him, but the dying man disregarded these orders.
"I must talk," he whispered faintly. "Cuthbert, get a sheet of paper."
"But you have made your will," said Yeo, rebukingly.
"This is not a will. It is a confession. Cuthbert will write it out and you will witness my signature along with him, Yeo."
"A confession!" murmured Cuthbert, going out of the room to get pen, ink and paper. "What about?"
He soon knew, for when he was established by the side of the bed with his writing materials on a small table, Caranby laughed to himself quietly. "Do you know what I am about to say?" he gasped.
"No. If it is nothing important you had better not exhaust yourself."
"It is most important, as you will hear. I know who murdered the supposed Miss Loach."