“He speaks to Jeekes, angrily, maybe—the butler heard the sound of loud voices—they have words. And then ...” There came a knock at the library door. It was not a loud knock. It was in reality scarcely more than a gentle tap. But it fell upon a silence of Manderton’s own creating, a rapt silence following a pause which preceded the climax of his narrative. So the discreet knocking resounded loud and clear through the library. “Who is that? What is it?” rapped out Dr. Romain irritably. “Don’t let any one disturb us, Inspector!” called out Horace Trevert to Inspector Humphries, who had opened the door. Bude’s face appeared in the doorway. He had a short altercation with the Inspector, who resolutely interposed his massive form between the butler and the room. “What is it, Bude?” asked Robin, going to the door. “It’s a letter for Miss Trevert, sir!” said Bude. “Well, leave it in the hall. Miss Trevert can’t be disturbed at present ...” “But ... but, sir,” the butler protested. Then Robin noticed that he was trembling with excitement and that his features were all distraught. “What’s the matter with you, Bude?” Robin demanded. Humphries had stood on one side and Robin now faced the butler. “It’s a letter from ... that Jeekes!” faltered Bude, holding out a salver. “I know his writing, sir!” “For Miss Trevert?” Robin gathered up the plain white envelope. It bore a Dutch stamp. The postmark was Rotterdam. He gave the letter to Mary. It was bulky and heavy. “For you,” he said, and stood beside her while she broke the seal. By this they had all gathered round her. The envelope fluttered to the floor. Mary was unfolding a wad of sheets of writing-paper folded once across. She glanced at the topmost sheet, then handed the bundle to Robin. “It’s a confession!” she said. From beyond the grave the little secretary had spoken and spoiled Mr. Manderton’s _dénouement_. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE DEATH OF HARTLEY PARRISH “For Miss Trevert.” Thus, in Jeekes’s round and flowing commercial hand, the document began: Last Statement of Albert Edward Jeekes, made at Rotterdam, this twenty-first Day of January, in the Year of Our Lord One Thousand Nine Hundred and... Mr. Bardy, the solicitor, to whom, by common consent, the reading of the confession had been entrusted, raised his eyebrows, thereby letting his eyeglass fall, and looked round at the company. “Pon my soul,” he remarked, “for a man about to take his own life, our friend seems to have been the coolest customer imaginable. Look at it! Written in a firm hand and almost without an erasure. Very remarkable! Very remarkable, indeed!...” “Hm!” grunted Mr. Manderton, “not so uncommon as you suppose, Mr. Bardy, sir. Hendriks, the Palmers Green poisoner, typed out his confession on cream inlaid paper before dosing himself. But let’s hear what the gentleman has to tell us....” This was the last digression. Thenceforth Mr. Bardy read out the confession to the end without interruption.