"These are the true facts of the case. Afterwards Bocaros, on his way to see about the will, came to my office and engaged me to look after the case. He did this at my desire, so that I could turn the evidence as I chose. Then Bocaros found that Mrs. Brand had cheated him, and had given the money to Calvert. Why she did so I do not know, unless it was that she liked Calvert the best. However, the money being gone, I wanted to get it. I therefore arranged that the blame of the crime should fall on Calvert. He, quite unsuspicious of my ends, engaged me to hunt down the assassin. I was hunting down him. Had he not overslept himself he would have been at the villa at the time of the commission of the crime, and I would have caught him in my net. Then I would have made a lot of money.
"As it was, Tracey's discovery of the diary led to the detection of Fane, and Fane's confession led to the production of the locket which Mrs. Brand held in her dead hand. Then Bocaros grew frightened and told the truth. The result was that I was in danger of arrest, and, with the locket, the crime would most certainly have been brought home to me.
"I sought shelter with my wife, but she shot me. She said she thought I was a burglar. I suppose she did, and----"
Here Laura interrupted the reading. "Surely Mrs. Baldwin did think he was a burglar," she said indignantly.
"Of course," said Arnold quickly; "for certain she did, Laura. Had she known he was her husband, little as she loved him, she would not have fired the shot. And you remember the jury brought in a verdict exonerating Mrs. Baldwin."
"I'm glad of that," said Laura thoughtfully. "Read on, dear."
"There's no more," said Arnold, returning the confession to his pocket. "I shall put this in the deed-box at Laing and Merry's, to be used should occasion arise, though I don't think it ever will. So that ends the whole matter. We can get married as soon as possible, Laura, and thank heaven our troubles are over."
While Laura and Arnold were thus talking in one room, Mrs. Fane was having a conversation with her husband in another. Walter Fane, bowed with shame, was half lying on the sofa, and Mrs. Fane was pacing the room. He had just confessed all, and his wife's cheeks were crimson with anger.
"O you coward--you mean, pitiful coward!" she said fiercely, "how dare you marry me, to bring me to this shame! I thought you were only a fool. But you are a knave and worse than a knave. That poor creature's death lies at your door."
"I did not kill her," moaned Fane, burying his face in the cushions.