efully cheated Dino Vasari, and
that you twice--yes, twice--tried to murder him, in order to gain your
own ends. Hugo Luttrell, you are a coward, a thief, a would-be murderer;
and unless you can prove that you were in my mother's room with no evil
intent (which I believe to be impossible) you shall be branded with all
these names in the world's face."

"There is no proof--there is no legal proof," cried Hugo, boldly. But
his lips were white.

"But there is plenty of moral proof, young man," said Mr. Colquhoun's
dry voice. "Quite enough to blast your reputation. And what does this
empty bottle mean and this broken glass? Perhaps your wife can tell us
that."

There was a momentary silence. Mr. Colquhoun held up the little bottle,
and pointed with raised eyebrows to the label upon it. Heron was
supporting his sister in his arms and trying to revive her: Fane and the
impassive constable barred the way between Hugo and the door.

In that pause, a strange, choked sound came from the bed. For the first
time for many months Mrs. Luttrell had slightly raised her hand. She
said the name that had been upon her lips so many times during the last
few weeks, and her eyes were fixed upon the man whom for a lifetime she
had called her son.

"Brian!" she said, "Brian!"

And he, suddenly turning pale, relaxed his hold upon Hugo's arm and
walked to the bed-side. "Mother," he said, leaning over her, "did you
call me? Did you speak to me?"

She looked at him with wistful eyes: her nerveless fingers tried to
press his hand. "Brian," she murmured. Then, with a great spasmodic
effort: "My son!"

The attention of the others had been concentrated upon this little
scene; and for the moment both Fane and Mr. Colquhoun drew nearer to the
bed, leaving the door of Mrs. Luttrell's bed-room unguarded. The
constable was standing in the dressing-room. It was then that Hugo saw
his chance, although it was one which a sane man would scarcely have
thought of taking. He made a rush for the bed-room door.

Whither should he go? The front door was bolted and barred; but he
supposed that the back door would be open. He never thought of the
entrance to the garden by which Brian Luttrell had got into the house.
He dashed down the staircase; he was nimbler and lighter-footed than
Fane, who was immediately behind him, and he knew the tortuous ways and
winding passages of the house, as Fane did not. He gained on his
pursuer. Down the dark stone passages