The reports next day of the patient were much better; there was no question but that he would die, but as far as clearness of mind went, why he was perfectly capable of settling any affairs he wished. Sir Barry secures the services of a prominent lawyer and an officer of the police force, and with the physician visited the convent the next day. They took down Fanchon's written confession. He had knowingly obtained the missing money, for purposes he did not state; he professed himself sorry for having wronged his partner, but seemed utterly unaware of what punishment he would be called upon to suffer for his crime. Then Sir Barry says clearly:
"It is an understood fact that Cyril Fanchon is accused and found guilty of default of trust, is that true gentlemen?" Sir Barry looks around the room inquiringly.
"The man's own words declare himself guilty," is the reply.
"And I accuse him of another crime, that of bigamy."
"Sir Barry you must surely be mistaken," interrupted Mr. Litchfield, gravely. The silence for a moment is almost unbearable.
"That man lying there went to Scotland, won the affections of a pure, innocent girl, the pretty daughter of one of my tenants. He married her when he was already married here. He left his little Scottish bride, and she left her home, followed him here and found him a married man with a wife and family. She gave up all worldly ambitions; she is here in this convent, the girl who has tended him so faithfully during his illness—Sister Jean, once Jantie Mackeith. Are you listening? Is it not so?"
If Cyril Fanchon were dying, Sir Barry could not help feeling that Jantie Mackeith's hour of triumph had come. From pale to red, from red to purple, turned the face of Cyril Fanchon.
"Is that true?" Mr. Litchfield's voice is stern and reproachful. "Can it be possible this young man can be guilty of so much dishonor? impossible."
The doctor gives Fanchon some brandy, and he says sullenly:
"Well, if I did, whose business is it but my own?"