“Listen,” he said gently. “It’s all right about John. He is cleared absolutely. In a short time you will be together and all this will seem like a bad dream. Steady, now,” he added sharply, for the girl had swayed away from him and, for a second, he thought the news had been too much for her. But even as he spoke, a great rush of colour flooded her face and she drew herself erect. “It can’t be true!” she whispered. “Say it again, Uncle Fayre. John, free!” Her hands were on his shoulders and she almost shook him in her eagerness. “John’s safe,” he repeated. “Edward has cleared him. I have come from Westminster now. Edward wants to speak to you. Can I ring him up now and tell him you will see him?” “Of course. Tell him to come quick. Does John know?” “Not yet. Grey will see him to-morrow.” “Couldn’t the news be got to him to-night? It’s cruel to make him wait,” she pleaded. Fayre shook his head. “I’m afraid not. But you can ask Edward when he comes. Where’s your telephone?” She led the way into the hall, and in another moment Fayre was ringing up the house in Westminster. Kean’s butler answered the call. “Can I speak to Sir Edward Kean?” asked Fayre. “He is expecting a call from me. Mr. Fayre speaking.” “Mr. Fayre?” The man’s voice was eager and hurried. “If you could come round, sir? We’re in great trouble here and the responsibility . . . There’s no one . . .” The broken sentences tailed off oddly and Fayre was suddenly seized with an ominous sense of foreboding. “What is it?” he asked sharply. “Sir Edward, sir. He shot himself just after you left. . . .” “Is he dead? Quick, man!” “Yes. He must have died at once. The doctor’s here now. If you could come at once, sir . . .” “I’ll come now.” Mechanically Fayre hung up the receiver and put the telephone down on the table. Then he collapsed completely, his face buried in his hands, his whole body shaking uncontrollably. When he pulled himself together sufficiently to look up he found Cynthia standing by his side. “What is it, Uncle Fayre? Not Sybil?” In as few words as possible he explained the situation to her, omitting any mention of Kean’s confession. He could not bring himself to speak of that yet to her. She was terribly shaken, but she held back her tears until she had taken him into the dining-room and mixed him a stiff drink. While he was drinking it she telephoned for a taxi and within five minutes he was on his way back to Westminster. It was late before he got back to the club, utterly worn out and shaken with remorse. If he had had the sense to stay with Kean he might have averted this final catastrophe. Then, as he sat in his room, too tired and disheartened to face the task of undressing, his sanity reasserted itself and he knew that Kean had taken the only possible way out. Sybil was dead and nothing could hurt her now. If only he could be sure that she had not guessed!