thing to-morrow."

"To-morrow!" said Bill in great disappointment.

"Well, I'll tell you one thing to-night, if you'll promise not to ask
any more questions. But you probably know it already."

"What is it?"

"Only that Mark Ablett did not kill his brother."

"And Cayley did?"

"That's another question, Bill. However, the answer is that Cayley
didn't, either."

"Then who on earth--"

"Have some more beer," said Antony with a smile. And Bill had to be
content with that.

They were early to bed that evening, for both of them were tired. Bill
slept loudly and defiantly, but Antony lay awake, wondering. What was
happening at the Red House now? Perhaps he would hear in the morning;
perhaps he would get a letter. He went over the whole story again from
the beginning--was there any possibility of a mistake? What would the
police do? Would they ever find out? Ought he to have told them? Well,
let them find out; it was their job. Surely he couldn't have made a
mistake this time. No good wondering now; he would know definitely in
the morning.

In the morning there was a letter for him.

CHAPTER XXI. Cayley's Apology

"My Dear Mr. Gillingham,

"I gather from your letter that you have made certain discoveries which
you may feel it your duty to communicate to the police, and that in this
case my arrest on a charge of murder would inevitably follow. Why,
in these circumstances, you should give me such ample warning of your
intentions I do not understand, unless it is that you are not wholly out
of sympathy with me. But whether or not you sympathize, at any rate you
will want to know--and I want you to know--the exact manner in which
Ablett met his death and the reasons which made that death necessary. If
the police have to be told anything, I would rather that they too knew
the whole story. They, and even you, may call it murder, but by that
time I shall be out of the way. Let them call it what they like.

"I must begin by taking you back to a summer day fifteen years ago, when
I was a boy of thirteen and Mark a young man of twenty-five. His
whole life was make-believe, and just now he was pretending to be a
philanthropist. He sat in our little drawing-room, flicking his gloves
against the back of his left hand, and my mother, good soul, thought
what a noble young gentleman he was, and Philip and I, hastily washed
and crammed into collars, stood in front of him, nudging each other and
kicking the backs of our