"In view of recent developments, I am under the impression that Scotland Yard would welcome your reappearance on British soil, but I fear that will be forever impossible," Blaine said slowly. "Just as you were beside your uncles when each met with his end, so you were beside Pennington Lawton when death came to him! That has been proved.

Just as brandy and soda, and peach brandy, are amber-colored, so are Scotch high-b.a.l.l.s, which you and Pennington Lawton were drinking. No odor of peaches lingered about the room, for Miss Lawton had lighted a handful of joss-sticks in a vase upon the mantel earlier in the evening, and their pungent perfume filled the air. But the odor of peaches permeated the room when the tiny bottle which you hid in the folds of the chair was uncorked--the odor of peaches rose above the stench of mortifying flesh, when the body of your victim was exhumed late last night for a belated autopsy! The heart would have revealed the truth, had there been no corroborative evidence, for it was filled with arterial blood--incontrovertible proof of death by prussic-acid poisoning."

There was a tense pause, and then Rockamore spoke sharply, his voice strained to the breaking point.

"If you are so certain of my guilt, Blaine, why have you come to me secretly here and now? What is your price?"

"I have no price," the great detective answered, simply.

"Then why did you not arrest me at once? Why this purposeless interview?"

"Because--" Blaine paused, and when he spoke again, a solemn hush, almost of pity, had crept into his tones. "You come of a fine old line, Mr. Rockamore, of a splendid race. Your grandfather, the aged Earl, is living only in the past, proud of the record of his forebears. Your father is a soldier and statesman, valuable to the nation; his younger brother, Cedric, has achieved deserved fame and glory in the Boer War. There remains only you. For the sake of the innocent who must suffer with you, I have come to you to-night, that you may have an opportunity to--prepare yourself. In the morning I must arrest you. My duty is plain."

As he uttered the words, the craven fear which had struggled through the malicious sneer on the other man's face faded as if an obliterating hand had pa.s.sed across his brow, and a look of indomitable courage and resignation took its place. There was something akin to n.o.bility in his expression as he turned to the detective with head proudly erect and shoulders squared.

"I thank you, Mr. Blaine," he said, simply. "I understand. I shall not fail them--the others! You have been far more generous to me than I deserve. And now--good-night. You will find me here when you come in the morning."

But in the morning Henry Blaine did not carry out his expressed intention. Instead, he sat at his desk, staring at the headlines in a paper spread out before him. The Honorable Bertrand Rockamore had been found dead on the floor of his den, with a bullet through his head. He would never allow his man to touch his guns, and had been engaged in cleaning one of them, as was his custom, in preparation for his annual shooting trip to Florida, when in some fashion it had been accidentally discharged.

"I wonder if I did the right thing!" mused Blaine. "He had the courage to do it, after all. Blood will tell, in the end."

CHAPTER XIX

THE UNSEEN LISTENER

"There's a man outside who wishes to speak to you, sir. Says his name is Hicks, but won't tell his business."

Blaine looked up from the paper.

"Never heard of him. What sort of a man, Marsh?"

"Old, white-haired, carries himself like an old family servant of some sort. Looks as if he'd been crying. He's trembling so he can scarcely stand, and seems deeply affected by something. Says he has a message for you, and must see you personally."

"Very well. Show him in."

"Thank you for receiving me, sir." A quavering old voice sounded from the doorway a moment later, and Blaine turned in his chair to face the aged, erect, black-clad figure which stood there.

"Come in, Hicks." The detective's voice was kindly. "Sit down here, and tell me what I can do for you."

"I bring you a message, sir." The man tottered to the chair and sank into it. "A message from the dead."

Blaine leaned forward suddenly.

"You were--"

"Mr. Rockamore's valet, sir, and his father's before him. I loved him as if he were my own son, if you will pardon the liberty I take in saying so, and when he came to this country I accompanied him. He was always good to me, sir, a kind young master and a real friend. It was I who found him this morning--"

His voice broke, and he bowed his head upon his wrinkled hands. No tears came--but the thin shoulders shook, and a dry sob tore its way from the gaunt throat.

Blaine waited until the paroxysm had ceased, and then urged, gently:

"Go on, Hicks. You have something to tell me?"

"Yes, sir. The coroner and the press call it accidental death, but I--may G.o.d forgive me for saying it--I know better! He left word where none could find it but me, that you knew the truth, and he bade me give you--this!"

He produced a large, square envelope from an inner pocket, and extended it in his trembling hand to the detective. Without glancing at it, Blaine laid it on the desk before him.

"Where did you discover this?"

"There is a flat, oblong casket of old silver, shaped somewhat like a humidor--a family relic, sir--which stands upon the center-table in the den. Whenever Mr. Rockamore had any message to leave for me in writing, concerning his confidential business, which he did not wish the other servants to have access to, he always slipped it into the casket. After the coroner had come and gone this morning, and some of the excitement had died down, I went back to the den, to straighten it. I don't know why, but somehow I half suspected the truth. Perhaps it was the expression of his face--so peaceful and resigned, with all the hard, sneering lines the years had brought gone from it, so that he looked almost like a boy again, the bonny boy who used to ride helter-skelter on his pony through the lanes of Staffordshire, long ago."

The aged man spoke half to himself and seemed to have fallen into a reverie, which Blaine made no attempt to break in upon. At length he roused himself with a little start, and went on.

"At any rate, when I had the room in order, and was standing by the table taking a last look about, my hand rested on the casket, and quite without thinking, sir, I raised the lid. There within it lay a sealed envelope with my name on it! Inside was a certified check for two thousand pounds made out to me--he didn't forget me, even at the last--and that letter for you, together with a little note asking me to--to take him home. Is it true, sir, that you do know the whole truth?"

"I think I do," Blaine responded gravely. "I did the best I could for your late master, Hicks, all that I could do which was compatible with my duty, and now my lips are sealed. I cannot betray his confidence.

You intend to accompany the body to England?"

"Of course, sir," the old man said simply. "It was his last request of me, who have never refused him anything in all his life. When I have seen him laid beside the others of the House of Stafford, I will go back to the castle, to his father, and end my days there. My course is nearly run, and this great new country has no place in it for the aged. I--I will go now, sir. I have much to attend to, and my master is lying alone."

When the old servant had taken his departure, Henry Blaine picked up the envelope. It was addressed in a firm, unshaken hand, and with a last touch of the sardonic humor characteristic of the dead man, it had been stamped with the seal of the renowned and honored House of Stafford.

The detective broke the seal, and lifting the flap, drew out the folded letter page and became immediately absorbed in its contents. He read:

In view of your magnanimity to-night, I feel that this explanation--call it a confession, if you will--is your due.

If you consider it your duty to give it to the world at large, you must do so, but for G.o.d's sake be as merciful as you can to those at home, who will suffer enough, in all conscience, as the affair now stands.

Your accusation was justified. I killed Pennington Lawton in the manner and for the reason which you alleged. I made an appointment by telephone just after dinner, to call upon him late that night. I tried by every means in my power to induce him to go in on a scheme to which, unknown to him, I had already committed him. He steadfastly refused. His death was the only way for me to obviate exposure and ruin, and the disgrace of a prison sentence. I antic.i.p.ated his att.i.tude and had come prepared. During a heated period of our discussion, he walked to the desk and stood for a moment with his shoulder turned to me, searching for a paper in his private drawer. I saw my chance, and seized upon it. I was standing before his chair, I may explain, watching him over its high back. I took the vial of prussic acid from my pocket, uncorked it and poured a few drops into his high-ball gla.s.s. I had recorked the vial, and was on the point of returning it to its hiding-place, when he turned to me. Had I raised my hand to my pocket he would have noticed the gesture; as it was, the back of the chair screened me, and on a sudden desperate impulse I thrust the vial deep in the leather fold between the seat and back.

Lawton drank, and died. I left the house, as I thought, unnoticed and secure from detection. On subsequent visits to the house I endeavored to regain possession of the vial, but on each occasion I failed in my purpose, and at length it fell into the hands of Anita Lawton. I have no more to say. Of earlier events at home in England, which you and I discussed to-night, it is better that I remain silent. You, of all men, will appreciate my motive.

And now, Blaine, good-night. Please accept my heartfelt thanks for the manner in which you handled a most difficult situation to-night. You have beaten me fairly at my own game. It may be that we shall meet again, somewhere, some time. In all sincerity, yours,

ARTHUR BERTRAND ROCKAMORE.

The detective folded the letter slowly and returned it to its envelope. Then he sat for long buried in thought. Rockamore had taken the solitary loophole of escape from overwhelming disgrace left to him. He had, as far as in him lay, expiated his crimes. What need, then, to blazon them forth to a gaping world? Pennington Lawton had died of heart-disease, so said the coroner. The press had echoed him, and the public accepted that fact. Only two living persons beside the coroner knew the truth, and Blaine felt sure that the gentle spirit of Anita Lawton would be merciful--her thirst for vengeance upon her father's murderer sated by his self-inflicted death--to those of his blood, who, innocent, must be dragged in the mire by the disclosure of his infamy.

When Henry Blaine presented himself an hour later at her home, he found Anita inexpressibly shocked by the tragic event of the night.

"He was guilty!" she murmured. "He took his own life to escape falling into your hands! That gunshot was no accident, Mr. Blaine. He murdered my father in cold blood, but he has paid. I abhor his memory, and yet I can find it in my heart to be sorry for him!"

In silence, the detective placed in her hands the letter of the dead man, and watched her face as she slowly read it. When she looked up, her eyes were wet, and a tiny red spot glowed in either cheek.

"Poor Father!" she moaned. "With all his leadership and knowledge of men, he was helpless and unsuspecting in the hands of that merciless fiend! And yet even he thought of his own people at the last, and wanted to spare them. Oh, how I wish we could! If we might only keep from them forever the knowledge of his wickedness, his crime!"