Clem had found himself unable to fix beforehand on any particular form of words in which to convey to John the startling news he had made up his mind to tell him. It was a terrible confession for a son to have to make, and his heart grew faint within him as he followed John into the summerhouse; but he would not give himself time for further thought, or for any possible turning back from that which he sternly determined on going through with to the bitter end. Without waiting to sit down, he took one of John's hands in both his, and grasping it very hard he said, "A communication written by my father on the last day of his life, and addressed to my brother, has come into Edward's hands. In it my father announces his fixed determination to put an end to his existence. It seems that, unknown even to my mother, he had long been suffering from a serious affection of the heart, and had been told by two eminent physicians that, at the most, his life was only worth a few months' purchase. That the knowledge of this fact preyed on his mind cannot be doubted, nor that, in conjunction with certain other circumstances, it led him to take the desperate resolve which resulted in its fatal consummation a few hours after the letter in question was written. Do not ask me to enter into any details--at least, not now. It will be enough if I assure you that both Edward and I are fully agreed that my father's tragic end was due to his own rash act, and that no shadow of blame or suspicion attaches to any other person." John stood with blanched face and incredulous eyes like one whom some sudden shock has bereft of half his senses. Clem stood with down-dropped eyes, breathing hard and biting his under lip. It was all he could do to crush down the emotion that was battling within him. "But about the robbery? About the missing money?" queried John at length, in a voice that was hardly more than a whisper. "Do not ask me--do not ask me!" cried Clem, in tones full of anguish. Dropping John's hand, he turned abruptly away, and seating himself on the bench which ran round three sides of the summerhouse, he rested his elbows on the little table and covered his face with his hands. Convulsive sobs shook his frame from head to foot. John, his eyes streaming with tears, stepped quietly up to him, and laid a hand gently on his shoulder. CHAPTER XXVIII. VICTORY. "The pity of it--oh, the pity of it!" were John Brancker's first words as soon as he was able in some measure to control his feelings. "What you have told me has both shocked and grieved me as I was never shocked or grieved before. But do not say a word more about it, Mr. Clement, either now or at any future time. I would infinitely rather that you should not, and you may rest assured that I shall never ask you a single question."