This revelation was not without its effect on the question Lionel was still debating in his own mind. It armed his uncle and Tom with one weapon more in favour of the course they were desirous that he should pursue. If Kester St. George were not Lionel’s cousin, if he were not related to the family in any way, there was less reason than ever why Lionel should not declare himself, why he should not give himself up, and let his own innocence be proved once and for ever, by proving the guilt of this other man. Even Edith at last added her persuasions to those of his uncle and the others, and when this became the case Lionel could hold out no longer. Exactly a week after the death of Kester St. George (as we may as well continue to call him) Lionel Dering walked into the police-station at Duxley, and gave himself up into the hands of the sergeant on duty. Mr. Drayton was astounded, as well he might be. “How can you be Mr. Dering?” he said. Lionel being now close-shaved, did not tally with the superintendent’s recollection of him. “I saw that gentleman lying dead in his coffin in the church of San Michele, in Italy, and I could have sworn to him anywhere.” “What you saw, Mr. Drayton, was a cleverly-executed waxen effigy, and not the man himself. Me you did see and talk to, but without recognizing me. At all events here I am, alive and well, and if you will kindly lock me up, I shall esteem it a favour.” “I was never so sold in the whole course of my life,” said Drayton. “But there’s one comfort—Sergeant Whiffins was just as much sold as I was.” At the ensuing summer assizes Lionel Dering was again put on his trial for the murder of Percy Osmond. Janvard, whose safety had been carefully looked after by a private detective in the guise of a guest at his hotel, was admitted as evidence for the Crown, and without leaving their box a verdict of Not Guilty was found by the jury. Never had such a scene been known in Duxley as was enacted that summer afternoon, when Lionel Dering walked down the steps of the Court-house a free man. A landau was in waiting, into which he was lifted by main force. No horses were needed, or would have been allowed. Relays of the crowd dragged the carriage all the way to Park Newton, in company with two brass bands, and all the flags that the town could muster. Lionel’s arm had never ached so much as it did that evening, after he had shaken hands with a great multitude of his friends—and every man and boy prided himself upon being Mr. Dering’s friend that day. As for the ladies, they had their own way of showing their sympathy with him. Half the children in the parish that came to light during the next twelve months were christened either Edith or Lionel.