“You needn’t think I’m going to split,” she said, indignantly, recurring to her Bourke Street slang in the excitement of the moment.  “I know what you know, but I’ll be as silent as the grave.”

“Thank you,” said Brian, fervently, taking her hand; “I know you love her too well to betray this terrible secret.”

“I would be a nice ’un, I would,” said Sal, with a scorn, “after her lifting me out of the gutter, to round on her—­a poor girl like me, without a friend or a relative, now Gran’s dead.”

Calton looked up quickly.  It was plain Sal was quite ignorant that Rosanna Moore was her mother.  So much the better; they would keep her in ignorance, perhaps not altogether, but it would be folly to undeceive her at present.

“I’m goin’ to Miss Madge now,” she said, going to the door, “and I won’t see you again; she’s getting light-headed, and might let it out; but I’ll not let any one in but myself,” and so saying, she left the room.

“Cast thy bread upon the waters,” said Calton, oracularly.  “The kindness of Miss Frettlby to that poor waif is already bearing fruit—­gratitude is the rarest of qualities, rarer even than modesty.”

Fitzgerald made no answer, but stared out of the window, and thought of his darling lying sick unto death, and he able to do nothing to save her.

“Well,” said Calton, sharply.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Fitzgerald, turning in confusion.  “I suppose the will must be read, and all that sort of thing.”

“Yes,” answered the barrister, “I am one of the executors.”

“And the others?”

“Yourself and Chinston,” answered Calton; “so I suppose,” turning to the desk, “we can look at his papers, and see that all is straight.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” replied Brian, mechanically, his thoughts far away, and then he turned again to the window.  Suddenly Calton gave vent to an exclamation of surprise, and, turning hastily, Brian saw him holding a thick roll of papers in his hand, which he had taken out of the drawer.

“Look here, Fitzgerald,” he said, greatly excited, “here is Frettlby’s confession—­look!” and he held it up.

Brian sprang forward in astonishment.  So at last the hansom cab mystery was to be cleared up.  These sheets, no doubt, contained the whole narration of the crime, and how it was committed.

“We will read it, of course,” he said, hesitating, half hoping that Calton would propose to destroy it at once.

“Yes,” answered Calton; “the three executors must read it, and then—­we will burn it.”

“That will be the better way,” answered Brian, gloomily.  “Frettlby is dead, and the law can do nothing in the matter, so it would be best to avoid the scandal of publicity.  But why tell Chinston?”

“We must,” said Calton, decidedly.  “He will be sure to gather the truth from Madge’s ravings, and he may as well know all.  He is quite safe, and will be silent as the grave.  But I am more sorry to tell Kilsip.”