n hand, they sat down together by the fire. He gave her an account
of the double inquest, and the result.

"When we came out," he added, calmly, "there were not quite so many ready
to lynch me as before."

Her hand trembled in his. The horror of his experience, the anguished
sympathy of hers, spoke in the slight movement, and the pressure that
answered it. Some day, but not yet, it would be possible to put it into
words.

"And I might do nothing!" she breathed.

"Nothing!" He smiled upon her, but his tone brought a shudder--the
shudder of the traveller who looks back upon the inch which has held him
from the abyss. But for Cyril Boden's adventure of the night before,
would she ever have seen him again?

"I was a long time with my solicitors this morning," he said abruptly.

"Yes?" She turned her face to his; but his morbid sense could detect in
it no sign of any special interest.

"The will was opened on the day of the funeral. It was a great surprise.
I had reason to suppose that it contained a distinct provision
invalidating all bequests to me should I propose to hand over any of the
property, or money derived from the property, to Felicia Melrose, or
her mother. But it contained nothing of the kind. The first draft of the
will was sent to his solicitors at the end of July. They put it into
form, and it was signed the day after he communicated his intentions to
me. There is no doubt whatever that he meant to insert such a clause. He
spoke of it to me and to others. I thought it was done But as a matter of
fact he never either drafted it himself, or gave final instructions for
it. His Carlisle man--Hanson--thought it was because of his horror of
death. He had put off making his will as long as possible--got it
done--and then could not bring himself to touch it again! To send for it
back--to finger and fuss with it--seemed to bring death nearer and he did
not mean to die."

He paused, shading his eyes with his hand. The visualising sense,
stimulated by the nerve strain of the preceding weeks, beheld with
ghastly clearness the face of Melrose in death, with the blood-stain on
the lips.

"And so," he resumed, "there was no short way out. By merely writing to
Miss Melrose, to offer her a fortune, it was not possible to void the
will."

He paused. The intensity of his look held her motionless.

"You remember--how I refused--when you asked me--to take any steps toward
voiding it?"

Her lips made a dumb moveme