Mrs. Hillmer had gone out early, so the thing was done in her absence. Her amazement was so great that she wired me, using as a signature the pet name of her childhood, and this was the first message you heard the groom refer to when he came a second time with the telegram from Richmond. I wrote her a hurried note, explaining that I intended the transfer as a sop to her offended brother, but she had telegraphed again, and I had to go to see her, to learn that Mensmore resented the gift, and had gone off in a huff to Monte Carlo. A little later, I took the supreme step of writing a farewell letter. Since my wife's death I could not bear to meet any other woman. I communed with my poor Alice more when dead than when alive. I do not think I have anything else to tell you. Step by step I watched you and the police tearing aside my barrier of deceit. At times I thought I would baffle you in the end. Were it not for my folly in bribing Jane Harding I think I must have succeeded. That poor girl was the undoing of me in the first instance, and she now has brought me my final sentence, for she came to-day and told me, with tears, all that happened between the detective and herself. White, too, put in an appearance. To-morrow, I suppose, he will bring a warrant, if you do not see him first and tell him the truth. Do not misunderstand me. I am glad of this release. When you strove to arouse me from my despair I did, for a little while, cherish the hope that I might be able to devote my declining years to the work which Alice herself took an interest in. But the web of testimony woven round my old friend, Mensmore; the self-effacing spirit of his sister, who, to shield me, was willing to sacrifice herself; the possibility that I might involve these two, and perhaps others, in my own ruin--every circumstance conspired to overwhelm me. I can endure no more, my dear Bruce. It is ended. The past is already a dream to me--the future void. My poor nature was not designed to withstand such a strain. The cord of existence has snapped, and I cannot bring myself to believe it will be mended again. In bidding you farewell I ask one thing. If you take a charitable view of my deeds, if you consider that my penalty is commensurate with my faults, then you might take my dead hand and say, "This was my friend. I pity him. May the spirit of his wife be merciful unto him should they meet in the regions beyond the grave." And so, for the last time, I sign myself CHARLES DYKE. CHAPTER XXXI VALEDICTORY Much as Bruce would have wished to inter his dead friend's secret with his mortal remains in the tomb, it was impossible.