to carry his burden alone! It seemed to me then that never whilst I lived could I escape from the bitterness of this sudden whirlwind of regret. Swiftly though I had walked from the cathedral, he was already in his study when I entered the house. I opened the door timidly. He was sitting in his chair leaning back with half-closed eyes like a man overcome with sudden pain. I fell on my knees by his side and took his fingers in mine. “Father!” I cried, “I have done my best to keep her away! I have done all that I could!” His hand pressed mine gently. Then there was a loud ringing at the bell. I sprang up white with fear. “I will not let her come here!” I cried. “We will say that you are ill! She must go away!” He shook his head. “It is useless,” he said, quietly; “it must come sooner or later--better now perhaps. Let us wait, I have left word that she is to be shown in here.” There was a brief silence. Then we heard steps in the hall, the rustling of a woman’s gown, and the door was opened and closed. She came forward to the edge of the little circle of light thrown around us by my father’s reading lamp. There she stood with a great red spot burning in her cheeks, and a fierce light in her eyes. “At last, then, the mystery is solved,” she cried, triumphantly. “I was a fool or I should have guessed it long ago! Have you forgotten me, Philip Maltabar?” My father rose to his feet. He was serene, but grave. “No, I have not forgotten you, Olive Berdenstein,” he said, slowly. “Yours is not a name to be forgotten by me. Say what you have come to say, please, and go away.” She looked at him in surprise, and laughed shortly. “Oh, you need not fear,” she answered, “I have not come to stay. I recognized you in the cathedral, and I should have been on my way to the police station by now, but first I promised myself the pleasure of this visit. Your daughter and I are such friends, you know.” My father took up some writing paper and dipped his pen in the ink as though about to commence a letter. “I think,” he said, “that you had better go now. The police station closes early here, and you will have to hurry as it is--that is, if you wish to get a warrant to-night.” She looked at him fixedly. He certainly had no fear. My heart beat fast with the admiration one has always for a brave man. The girl was being cheated of her triumph. “You are right,” she said, “I must hurry; I am going to them and I shall say I know now who was my brother’s murderer! It was Philip Maltabar, the man who calls himself Canon Ffolliot. But though he may be a very holy man, I can prove him to be a murderer!” “This is rather a hard word,” my father remarked, with a faint smile at the corners of his lips. “It is a true one,” she cried, fiercely. “You killed him. You cannot deny it.” “I do not deny it,” he answered, quietly. “It is quite true that I killed your brother--or rather that in a struggle between us I struck him a blow from the effects of which he died.”