"So say I. But it will be requisite to see Draycot for a minute before we go, as he must now take upon himself the responsibility of looking after Drelincourt. I suppose he will prefer being driven into Sunbridge in his brougham. Well, there's no harm in that. It's the last time he will ride in it." Sir John was already at the door. As Ormsby followed him out, he said to himself, half aloud: "Thank Heaven that I have lived to see this day. At last, my poor Kitty, at last you are avenged!" CHAPTER XIII. LAST THINGS. The note given by Mr. Ormsby to Wicks was placed by that functionary on the table in Mrs. Drelincourt's boudoir. Although he had been told to deliver it at once, he took no notice of the request. His mistress was probably in her dressing room, and the note might wait till she came downstairs. He was not going to put himself out of the way to please Mr. Ormsby, whose imperative mode of addressing him had cut his superfine feelings to the quick. On entering the room a little later, Drelincourt failed to perceive the note. He sank into an easy chair, and supporting an elbow on either of its arms, he let his chin rest on his interlocked fingers. He was awaiting the coming of his wife. The boudoir was lighted by a large oriel window, the upper half of which contained a representation in stained glass of the coat of arms and device of the Drelincourts. After waiting a few minutes, Drelincourt rose in order to ring the bell. The sands in his hour glass were running quickly away. As he crossed the room, he caught sight of the letter, and he at once picked it up. The superscription was in a peculiar, crabbed hand, which, as he looked at it, seemed to grow familiar under his eyes. Then the truth flashed across him: the writing was James Ormsby's. He had seen more than one specimen of it in years gone by, and his memory was a tenacious one. He could not be mistaken. "Now, what can Ormsby have to write about to my wife?" he asked himself. "He owes me a grudge, or fancies he does, and now that, of my own accord, I have put myself beyond his reach, it would be just like him to vent the last drops of his spite on Madeline. She must not be allowed to read what he has written till I have thoroughly satisfied myself that it is fit for her to see." Without more ado, he tore open the note. Here is what he read: Madam: I consider it my duty to inform you that your husband has just confessed that he, and he alone, was the murderer of my sister, the first Mrs. Drelincourt. James Ormsby. "The caitiff!--the coward! To aim a final blow at me through Madeline." He groaned out the words between his teeth. His strong, lean fingers gripped the note, as they would have gripped Ormsby's throat had he been there. A tap at the door recalled him to himself. Next moment Wicks entered, carrying a letter on a salver. "Just brought by a mounted messenger, sir. The man is waiting in case there should be any answer."