“That evening before dinner, Sir Timothy Brast called to see Mr. Hilditch, and a very stormy interview took place.  I do not know the rights of that, sir.  I only know that there was a fierce quarrel.  Mrs. Hilditch came in and Sir Timothy left the house.  His last words to Mr. Hilditch were, ‘You will hear from me again.’  As you know, sir—­I mean as you remember, if you followed the evidence—­all the servants slept at the back of the house.  I slept in the butler’s room downstairs, next to the plate pantry.  I was awake when you left, sitting in my easy-chair, reading.  Ten minutes after you had left, there was a sound at the front door as though some one had knocked with their knuckles.  I got up, to open it but Mr. Hilditch was before me.  He admitted Sir Timothy.  They went back into the library together.  It struck me that Mr. Hilditch had had a great deal to drink, and there was a queer look on Sir Timothy’s face that I didn’t understand.  I stepped into the little room which communicates with the library by folding doors.  There was a chink already between the two.  I got a knife from the pantry and widened it until I could see through.  I heard very little of the conversation but there was no quarrel.  Mr. Hilditch took up the weapon which you know about, sat in a chair and held it to his heart.  I heard him say something like this.  ’This ought to appeal to you, Sir Timothy.  You’re a specialist in this sort of thing.  One little touch, and there you are.’  Mrs. Hilditch said something about putting it away.  My master turned to Sir Timothy and said something in a low tone.  Suddenly Sir Timothy leaned over.  He caught hold of Mr. Hilditch’s hand which held the hilt of the dagger, and and—­well, he just drove it in, sir.  Then he stood away.  Mrs. Hilditch sprang up and would have screamed, but Sir Timothy placed his hand over her mouth.  In a moment I heard her say, ‘What have you done?’ Sir Timothy looked at Mr. Hilditch quite calmly.  ’I have ridded the world of a verminous creature,’ he said.  My knees began to shake.  My nerves were always bad.  I crept back into my room, took off my clothes and got into bed.  I had just put the light out when they called for me.”

Francis was himself again.  There was an immense relief, a joy in his heart.  He had never for a single moment blamed Margaret, but he had never for a single moment forgotten.  It was a closed chapter but the stain was on its pages.  It was wonderful to tear it out and scatter the fragments.

“I remember you at the inquest,” he said.  “Your name is John Walter.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your evidence was very different.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You kept all this to yourself.”

“I did, sir.  I thought it best.”

“Tell me what has happened since?”

The man looked down at the table.

“I have always been a poor man, sir,” he said.  “I have had bad luck whenever I’ve made a try to start at anything.  I thought there seemed a chance for me here.  I went to Sir Timothy and I told him everything.”