I was so dreadfully alarmed that I felt stunned for a moment. Pulling myself together, I started to my feet, when my eyes fell on the envelope, lying beside my plate. A large crest was emblazoned on its back. I stood spell-bound, for that crest was, alas, not unfamiliar to me. I could not be mistaken--it was identical with the one engraved on the sleeve-link which had been found on the body of the murdered man. What did this similarity mean? Was it possible that the victim's real name was Derwent? That would account for the coincidence of the two Allans, and all I knew of one was equally applicable to the other. Merritt had told me that Brown was supposed to have been born a gentleman, and often posed as an Englishman of title. But if the corpse was indeed that of her brother, why had May not recognised it? No, the probabilities were, as the detective had said, that the crest meant nothing. Still deeply perturbed, I hastened to the hotel. On giving my name I was at once ushered into the Derwent's private sitting-room. It was empty, but a moment later May appeared. She was excessively pale, and heavy dark rings encircled her eyes. I longed to take her in my arms, but all I dared to do was to detain her small hand in mine till after several efforts on her part to free herself--very gentle efforts, however--I finally relinquished it. "It is kind of you to come so soon." "You knew I would come the moment I received your message." "I hoped so. All night long I have lain awake, praying for courage to make a confession, knowing all the time that if I do so it will break my mother's heart." "Your mother's heart!" I repeated, bewildered. "It must be done, it is right that it should be done--but I can't do it. I have, therefore, decided to tell you the whole story, and then you can repeat it to her very gently, very calmly, which I could not do. And you will remain to comfort her when I am gone, won't you?" "Don't talk in this way," I commanded, forcibly possessing myself of her hands. "You are not going to die." "Don't touch me," she entreated, tearing herself away from me. "You won't want to, when you know the truth. I have not only committed a dreadful crime, but have allowed an innocent person to suffer in my stead. I should have confessed to the detective yesterday that I knew Mrs. Atkins had not killed the man, because--because--I myself killed him." I was so overcome with horror and surprise at hearing this confession, that for a moment I was paralysed. "My poor darling," I exclaimed at last, "how did this accident occur?" She had evidently expected me to express horror and indignation, and that I did not do so was such an unexpected relief, that the poor child burst into tears. This time she did not repulse me. When she had become a little calmer, she said: