“No; you are innocent.”
“Ah, Gabrielle,” he cried earnestly, “how shall I ever thank you enough for clearing up the awful mystery and removing the guilty burden from my conscience?”
“Before you thank me, hear the end,” she said calmly. “I told you how I married Glanville. Well, at that time I believed him to be a student of whose conviction I had unfortunately been the cause. Yet after his escape he wrote to me, making an appointment for me to meet him in London, and admitting that Glanville was only a name he had assumed in order that his friends should not discover that he had entered Bohemia. It was his hobby to study Art—”
“Who was he, then?” inquired Hugh, interrupting.
“Your brother.”
“Douglas?” he ejaculated, in abject amazement.
“Yes.”
“Surely you must be mistaken,” cried Egerton incredulously.
“I said I would convince you. Here is the letter,” and she handed the missive for their inspection.
“Did you meet as arranged?” Hugh asked breathlessly, recognising his brother’s handwriting.