Petrie adjusted his glasses, the better to observe the man, as he said: "Since you desire it. Only I have come a very long way to inform you that you have a right to the title." The cause of Mr. Petrie’s presence flashed through Jim’s mind. "Then my cousin—" "Is dead, my lord—Mr. Carston." Monotonously Jim repeated: "Dead. Henry should have outlived me." "I am sorry to be the bearer of distressing news, your lordship—" But Jim interrupted. "Don’t humbug, Petrie. There was no love lost between Henry and me, as you know, though I’ve tried to forget that." When he had recovered from the first surprise of this meeting, and had more fully grasped the significance of Petrie’s news, he inquired, "I suppose Henry left a statement at his death." "Statement?" the lawyer inquired. Jim further explained. "Something in the nature of a confession." "Confession?" "By Jove! he might have done that." "His late lordship died very suddenly." But Jim waited for no further details. "So he died without a word. He died leaving me a fugitive from justice. So they still think me—" Then quickly the real facts of the case began to straighten themselves in Jim’s mind. If Henry had not spoken—had left no confession—how and why had Petrie sought him? Then he asked: "Why have you come here?" Petrie, who was constantly watching the effect of his every word on the man who more and more confused and interested him, slowly answered, "I am here because your cousin, Lady Kerhill—" "Diana?" Jim softly breathed the name, but said no more. Petrie continued: "Believes that if you will speak—if you will break the silence of years, you can return to England and assume your proper place at the head of your house, and in the world." So it was to Diana he owed this. "Then there is one who still believes in me. God bless her!" All restraint fell from Jim as he sat himself beside the solicitor and said, simply, "I did it for her sake, Petrie." Then, as though unconscious of the other man’s presence, he sat staring ahead of him. His surmise had been right, Petrie thought. This man was not guilty. The case began to assume new interest and new complications. He must hear more. Jim roused himself. From an inside pocket of his shirt he drew a small bag which held a sheet of faded paper. "You are familiar with the late Kerhill’s writing. You are also familiar with his character and life. I have never allowed this paper to leave my body." As he spoke he handed the paper to Petrie. "But death has cancelled this agreement." Petrie read the document. Jim sat motionless. As the sun dropped lower and lower towards the west, bolts of scarlet and purple seemed to be hurled from its blazing brilliance down on the cabin and the yard. Petrie broke the silence. "So you took upon your shoulders his guilt?" In his tone there was no great surprise.