“Now you see how the murder really happened—now you know who the murderer really was,” said Lionel, speaking from some place in the farther room where he could not be seen. “This is no dream but a most dread reality that you see pictured before you. I have proofs—ample proofs—of the truth of that which I now state. The murderer of Percy Osmond stands among you. Kester St. George is that man!” At these words, every eye was turned instinctively on Kester. He was still standing at the table where he had put down his glass. His right hand was hidden in his waistcoat. With his left hand he supported himself against the table. A strange lividity had overspread his face; his lips twitched nervously. His frightened eyes wandered from one face to another of those who were now gazing on him. He tried to speak, but could not. Then his eyes fixed themselves on the brandy. Tom interpreted the look and poured some into a glass. He drank it greedily and then he spoke. “What you have just been told,” he said, “is nothing but a cruel, cowardly; devilish lie! Where is this man who accuses me? Why does he hide himself? He hides himself because he is a liar—because he dare not face either you or me. We all know who was the murderer—we all know that Lionel Dering——” “Lionel Dering is here to answer for himself. It is he who tells you to your face that you are the murderer of Percy Osmond!” Yes, there, framed by the archway, full in the blaze of light, stood Lionel, no longer disguised—the dye washed off his face, his hands, his hair—the Lionel that they all remembered so well come back from the dead—his own dear self, and none but he, as they could all see at a glance, and yet looking strangely different without his long fair beard. For a full minute Kester St. George stood as rigid as a statue, glaring across the room at the man whom he had so bitterly wronged. One word his lips tried to form, but only half succeeded in doing so. That one word was _Forgive_. Then a strange spasm passed across his face; he pressed his hand to his left side, and turning suddenly half round, fell back into the arms of the man nearest to him. “He has fainted,” said the General. “He is dead,” said Tom. “Heaven knows, I had no thought of knowledge of this,” said Lionel. “None whatever!” CHAPTER XII. GATHERED THREADS.