“You actually saw the shot fired?” I cried, starting up quickly. “Then you also saw the murderer? Speak! name him! Let me know the truth.”
“The man who shot Gilbert Sternroyd,” she said in a hard, firm voice, “the man who drew a revolver secretly from his pocket and fired full upon him as he stepped from the room, was my stepfather! I gripped his arm, but too late. Gilbert fell, and the coward fled.”
“His name?” I demanded.
“He is known to you,” she replied, slowly twisting her handkerchief between her fingers, and with a manner of subdued, fierce vengefulness she laughed a little hard laugh; but it was more significant of inward agony than any words could have been. “He is known to you, to the world, as the Earl of Fyneshade!”
“Fyneshade!” I gasped dumbfounded. “And he is your stepfather?”
“Yes,” she answered. “Seek him, and give him into the hands of the police, for he is the assassin.”
“But the motive?” I cried. “What was it?”
“Twofold. Sternroyd had obtained knowledge of the fraud perpetrated by substituting my personality for Ethel’s, and came to me declaring his intention of exposing it. Besides this he was an ardent admirer of Mabel, my stepfather’s young wife, and although she gave him no encouragement he was infatuated, and had made a will leaving his immense wealth to her. Fyneshade knew this, and saw that by getting rid of him he would preserve his guilty secret, and at the same time enrich his wife and consequently himself. He suggested this to my pseudo-husband, Francis Markwick, who—”
“Markwick!” I gasped. “Was it that scoundrel who assisted in the fraud and posed as your husband?”
“The same. I myself overheard the two men in consultation upon the benefits to be derived from the young millionaire’s death, and afterwards warned him and also told Mabel. Therefore, from the first, Lady Fyneshade and your friend Bethune knew the truth.”