As the questions followed each other, Evelyn felt as if the ground were opening under her feet; she had still all the evidence of the statuette, but she realized with a sudden pang that that did not answer the one dreadful question, “Was his father alive when he left?” She turned uneasily and saw Fairlie standing in the doorway; his guard was down as he listened, and a terrible indecision was written on his face. Evelyn read him like a book—his young master was accused; in spite of the way he had tried to cover up the trail, it was known that John had been there, and there was no one now alive except Fairlie himself who could save him, and he could only save him by admitting his own guilt—so Evelyn understood the look of doubt and agony with which the old man’s usually settled face was working. Whether, left to himself, he would have risen to a confession was never decided. Humblethorne’s final words had been a challenge as one should say, “Certainly I did overlook this dent which you admit you yourself only found by accident, but what difference does it really make?” and almost without thinking Evelyn took up the challenge. “If he didn’t kill him, who did?” she repeated. “Look behind you! There stands your answer in the shoes for which you have been searching!” Both men wheeled sharply. “Fairlie!” they gasped. The butler’s face set again, just as if a curtain had fallen across the vivid drama momentarily revealed; and he came forward, paler than usual, bowed down a little by age and the fearful thoughts within him, but retaining his imperturbable manner undiminished. “I do not understand how you have ascertained the fact, Miss Evelyn,” he said, searching her with a slow, keen glance, but speaking in his normal, respectful voice; “but it is quite true that I killed Sir Roger.” “Take care!” cried Humblethorne sharply. “It is my duty to warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence against you.” “I quite understand that,” replied Fairlie with a characteristically gracious inclination of his body towards Humblethorne. “I am obliged to you, but since I have been discovered there is no further object in concealment. I am not sorry,” he added wearily. “Perhaps you will excuse me if I sit down a moment.” He seated himself after an apologetic glance at Evelyn with the air of a man who has neither hope nor fear of any future thing. The two men were too taken aback at the extraordinary suddenness of the accusation and confession to say a word: Evelyn was too overwhelmed with the conflict in her mind, horror, pity and a kind of dreadful fascination in this fulfilment of her labours. “I will tell you how it happened,” resumed Fairlie slowly; “there has been enough of mystery in this house. Will you tell me, Miss Evelyn, how you found me out?”