Archie slipped the confession into his pocket before the policeman returned, and then left the cottage with Random and the doctor, since nothing else could now be done.  It was between seven and eight, and the chilly dawn was breaking, but the sea-mist still lay heavily over the marshes, as though it were the winding sheet of the dead.  Robinson went to his own house to get his trap and drive into Jessum, there to catch the train and ferry to Pierside.  It was necessary that Inspector Date should be informed of this new tragedy without delay, and as Constable Painter was engaged in watching the cottage, there was no messenger available but Dr. Robinson.  Random indeed offered to send a soldier, or to afford Robinson the use of the Fort telephone, but the doctor preferred to see Date personally, so as to detail exactly what had happened.  Perhaps the young medical man had an eye to becoming better known, for the improvement of his practice; but he certainly seemed anxious to take a prominent part in the proceedings connected with the murder of Mrs. Jasher.

When Robinson parted from them, Random and Hope went to the lodgings of the latter, so as to read over the confession and learn exactly to what extent Mrs. Jasher had been mixed up in the tragedy of the green mummy.  She had declared herself innocent even on her death-bed, and so far as the two could judge at this point, she certainly had not actually strangled Sidney Bolton.  But it might be—­and it appeared to be more than probable—­that she was an accessory after the fact.  But this they could learn from the confession, and they sat in Hope’s quiet little sitting-room, in which the fire had been just lighted by the artist’s landlady, with the scattered sheets neatly ranged before them.

“Perhaps you would like a cup of coffee, or a whisky and soda,” suggested Archie, “before starting to read?”

“I should,” assented Random, who looked weary and pale.  “The events of the night have somewhat knocked me up.  Coffee for choice—­nice, black, strong, hot coffee.”

Hope nodded and went to order the same.  When he returned he sat down, after closing the door carefully, and proceeded to read.  But before he could speak Random raised his hand.

“Let us chat until the coffee comes in,” he said; “then we shall not be interrupted when reading.”

“All right,” said Hope.  “Have a cigar!”

“No, thanks.  I have been smoking all the night.  I shall sit here by the fire and wait for the coffee.  You look chippy yourself.”

“And small wonder,” said Archie wearily.  “We little thought when we left the Fort last night what a time we were going to have.  Fancy Mrs. Jasher having sent you the emerald after all!”

“Yes.  She repented, as she said, and yet I dare say—­as she also said—­she was sorry that she acted on her impulse.  If she had not been stabbed by that damned Cockatoo, she would no doubt have destroyed that confession.  I expect she wrote that also on the impulse of the moment.”