The morrow would tell me if Colensoe was guilty. I had little doubt of it in my own mind--but he should say so himself when waking as he had condemned himself whilst sleeping. I would take him to the studio and confront him with his own testimony. He should see the face of the man whose life he had taken, painted with his own hands. He was later than usual in coming down that morning. I left the breakfast-room with the intention of calling him, when, just as I got into the passage, I saw him at the top of the stairs. His hat was on. His face was ghastly pale, every feature was working. His eyes betokened some mad intention--their gaze appeared to kill. He almost flew down the stairs. "Don't stop me," he cried. "I must go into the open. I want God's air. Let me go now--let me go, only for a little while!" "Colensoe," I said, catching him by the arm, "what mad act do you contemplate?" "Nothing--nothing. Believe me, nothing. I only want the refreshing breeze, that's all. I'm tired--worn out." "Yes, you are truly tired," I said. "What do you mean?" he cried. "Your work." "Work--what work?--who works?" "Come with me," I said. [Illustration: "HE SHRIEKED THE MURDERED MAN'S NAME."] Like a child he followed me to his studio. I opened the door. The portrait of Huntingdon rested on the easel. He saw it. The eyes he had painted pierced him to the heart, and the lips almost moved in accusation. He shrieked the murdered man's name and fell to the ground. He was dead! * * * * * The following letter was found on Wilfred Colensoe's dressing-table:--