"Nothing to do with the will," answered Calton, gravely; "but the fact is, Mr. Frettlby was implicated in the affair." Dr. Chinston glanced enquiringly at Brian, but that gentleman shook his head. "It has nothing to do with my arrest," he said, sadly. Madge's words, uttered in her delirium, flashed across the doctor's memory. "What do you mean?" he gasped, pushing back his chair. "How was he implicated?" "That I cannot tell you," answered Calton, "until I read his confession." "Ah!" said Kilsip, becoming very attentive. "Yes," said Calton, turning to Kilsip, "your hunt after Moreland is a wild-goose chase, for the murderer of Oliver Whyte is discovered." "Discovered!" cried Kilsip and the doctor in one breath. "Yes, and his name is Mark Frettlby." Kilsip shot a glance of disdain out of his bright black eyes, and gave a low laugh of disbelief, but the doctor pushed back his chair furiously, and arose to his feet. "This is monstrous," he cried, in a rage. "I won't sit still and hear this accusation against my dead friend." "Unfortunately, it is too true," said Brian, sadly. "How dare you say so?" said Chinston, turning angrily on him. "And you going to marry his daughter!" "There is only one way to settle the question," said Calton, coldly. "We must read his confession." "But why the detective?" asked the doctor, ungraciously, as he took his seat. "Because I want him to hear for himself that Mr. Frettlby committed the crime, that he may keep silence." "Not till I've arrested him," said Kilsip, determinedly. "But he's dead," said Brian. "I'm speaking of Roger Moreland," retorted Kilsip. "For he and no other murdered Oliver Whyte." "That's a much more likely story," Chinston said. "I tell you no," said Calton, vehemently. "God knows I would like to preserve Mark Frettlby's good name, and it is with this object I have brought you all together. I will read the confession, and when you know the truth, I want you all to keep silent about it, as Mark Frettlby is dead, and the publication of his crime can do no good to anyone." "I know," resumed Calton, addressing the detective, "that you are fully convinced in your own mind that you are right and I am wrong, but what if I tell you that Mark Frettlby died holding those very papers for the sake of which the crime was committed?" Kilsip's face lengthened considerably. "What were the papers?" "The marriage certificate of Mark Frettlby and Rosanna Moore, the woman who died in the back slum." Kilsip was not often astonished; but he was so now. And Dr. Chinston fell back in his chair, staring at the barrister in blank amazement. "And what's more," went on Calton, triumphantly, "do you know that Moreland went to Frettlby two nights ago and obtained a certain sum for hush-money?" "What!" cried Kilsip. "Yes, Moreland, in coming out of the hotel, evidently saw Frettlby, and threatened to expose him unless he paid for his silence."