"Yet, if the latter part of his confession has no basis of fact, why assume that the first part had any more valid claim to credence?" Clem asked himself this question more than once, but was unable to answer it to his satisfaction. He could not but admit that that part of the confession which related to John Brancker seemed to bear upon it the stamp of truth; the facts, if facts they were, as told by Ephraim, might very easily have happened; there was nothing intrinsically improbable about them, as there was about that other statement which had reference to Mr. Hazeldine. Most of us have an easy habit of trying to persuade ourselves that things are as we wish them to be, and this was what Clement strove to do in the present instance, but not altogether successfully. The first portion of Ephraim's confession might be true, and probably was so, he told himself; but the second part was almost as surely fictitious--a vision conjured up by the disordered brain of a sick man. Clement was anxious to see his brother at the earliest possible moment, and unburthen his mind to him; but it was not till the day after Ephraim's death that he found time to go over to Beecham. On arriving at the Brewery he walked straight into his brother's office feeling pretty sure that he should find him there. Nor was he mistaken. Edward, who was busy writing a letter as he entered, looked up and nodded, and with that Clem sat down to wait till he should be at liberty. "Glad to see you," said Edward, as he applied the blotting-paper to his letter. "But, you look a bit worried. Anything the matter?" "Ned," said the younger brother, leaning forward a little, and fixing his eyes intently on the other's face, "have you ever had any cause or reason to suspect that our father, instead of meeting his death at the hand of another, as everyone believed he did, committed suicide?" On the instant every vestige of color fled from Edward Hazeldine's face; he drew a deep breath that was almost a gasp, and set his teeth hard. "Great heavens! Edward, you do know, or suspect something of the sort!" cried Clement, staring at his brother's white face and drawn mouth, and feeling for the moment as if the foundations of his life were crumbling under him. "Yes, I do know," said Edward, after a space of silence, speaking in cold, and, as it seemed, half-defiant tones. "I have known it all along. James Hazeldine was not murdered. He died by his own hand, in order to avert disgrace and ruin from himself and those belonging to him." Then, before Clement could find a word to say, he rose, and crossing to a safe imbedded in the wall, he unlocked it, and from one of the drawers drew forth his father's letter. "Read and believe," he said with stern brevity, as he pushed the letter across the table to Clem.