Whatever the case might be, Slade's course was to act quickly. He went to the desk and reached out for the paper first. At that moment he had an uncanny sensation of being watched.
He glanced nervously about the room. No one there. He braced himself. Perhaps it was this light — all from the single lamp on the desk. He would forget the passing worry in a moment, Slade decided. He picked up the paper and glanced at it.
It was not Telford's statement.
Slade stood completely stupefied.
The paper which he held bore this heading:
The Confession of Martin Slade.
Slade began to read, like a man in a dream. Here was a recounting of crimes that he had committed!
Who had learned these facts? Who had put this paper here?
Slade's hand was instinctively reaching toward his coat pocket, when a low laugh stopped the action. Glancing upward, Slade's eyes saw the end of the large bookcase.
A long, spreading shadow extended from that spot. It formed a blot of vengeance on the floor. Then came the form to which it belonged. A being in a black cloak, his features hidden by a broad-brimmed slouch hat, stepped toward the cringing crook.