Shocked and distressed as I was at the story, I felt many points in it needed clearing up, and was inwardly assured that, if he would, he had the power to explain the whole matter satisfactorily. He opened the door himself. "I know," he said, abruptly, before I could speak, "why you have come. Mrs. Llewellyn was with you this morning; I saw her rustling up towards the sacristy. Don't let charity bring you any farther." I signed to him to let me come in. "We can't talk on the doorstep," I said. "Of course, it is all a mistake." He let me come to the study; then, as he closed the door behind me, he said:-- "There is no mistake. I was there--in her room that night. She saw me." "You were not there to take the diamonds," I persisted. "I was not there to steal the diamonds; I will own so much." "In that case, who did steal them, if stolen they were? No pains should have been spared at the time to discover the actual thief. Even now it might not be too late, if you would only account for your presence in the room." "The actual thief----" He began restlessly to pace the floor. "What if I were to say that I took the diamonds--with my own hands?" "I should answer that you must have been in some way unconscious of your actions." My confidence seemed to touch him; he looked at me, and for a moment I hoped I was to gain some enlightenment; then he said, slowly:-- "I was never in my life more completely master of myself. And now there must be an end of my confessions." I saw that to question him further would be useless, and shortly afterwards took my leave. As we parted he grasped my extended hand. "I owe you an apology," he said, "for having brought this annoyance upon you, and I don't know how to thank you for your patience with me." A few days later an invitation reached me to dine at the Hall. Any intercourse between Allan Fortescue and Sir Lewin Maxwell had inevitably ceased. Sir Lewin, not unnaturally, accepted Mrs. Llewellyn's view of the case, but he did not quarrel with me for taking my own line, and young Lady Maxwell seemed almost grateful for my belief in the possible innocence of her old lover. She was a most charming woman, with an habitually sweet and gracious manner, rendered only more attractive, I at first thought, by a variableness of mood which brought suggestion of possible storms. An accomplished musician, her talent made a link between us. Often, indeed, during the earlier part of our intercourse she became associated in my mind with the harmonies of Beethoven, whose creations she rendered with remarkable skill and feeling. Later, however, I noticed an increase of nervous restlessness, an expression in her eyes as of some haunting, eager desire, little in keeping with the works of the master, which, however full of variety, are to my mind always instinct with a great satisfaction and repose.