Dr. Lynch wrote his confession. It contained the substance of his answers to Dick’s questions; the supposed had become the actual. The doctor was diligent and thoughtful in his labor; but his face had entirely lost that aspect of slavish fear it had worn when Dick was present. His expression was that of low cunning; and one who looked upon him now would have regarded him as the conqueror, instead of the conquered. He finished the document, glanced at it, laid down the pen, smiled, rubbed his hands, rose from his chair, walked the room like a cabinet minister who has just elaborated a very satisfactory state paper. Through apparent defeat the doctor was evidently winning his most decisive victory. The author of the confession read it over, inserted a few words accidentally omitted, punctuated it as carefully as though it were to appear in the Poppleton Mercury, and then coolly awaited the return of his persecutor. “Vindicate him! Yes, I’ll vindicate him,” muttered the doctor, as he sat gazing at the burning sticks in the fireplace. “I can afford to do that. I can give the inch for the sake of the ell.” Dick Birch finished his supper, and returned to the room. The moment the door opened, Dr. Lynch looked as timid and abject as when his tormentor had left him. He handed the confession to the lawyer, who read it through with as much care as though it had been a deed of some valuable estate. “What do you think of it, Mr. Birch?” asked the doctor, with much apparent emotion. “It is all very well as far as it goes,” replied Dick, in business-like tones. “I have told all I know, Mr. Birch,” pleaded Dr. Lynch. “You have written out a very full history of your operations on the night in question; and so far, your paper is entirely satisfactory; but you have not told why you came to Poppleton.” “I came only to practise my profession. I had no other object in view.” “You had,” said Dick, bluntly. “Upon my honor I had not.” “Very well; pass that for the present, but it will come up again. Why did you send for Buckstone?” “My motives were good,” whined the culprit. “No doubt of that; all your motives were good,” sneered Dick. “You will remember that I was the medical attendant of Mary Kingman.” “You were; go on.” “Possibly I may have been, to some extent, influenced by selfish motives.” “Possibly!” “But I assure you, Mr. Birch, that my principal object was to redeem Miss Kingman from the misery to which she was reduced. I was afraid she would die on my hands.” “Did you tell her that you had written to Buckstone?” “I did not dare to raise any hopes till there was some prospect of their being realized.” “You were very kind, doctor. You suggested that it was barely possible you might have been influenced to some extent by selfish motives. What selfish motives had you?”