shed that he was dead." He stopped, and then resumed, with
a firmer intonation. "Is Mr. Colquhoun in the house? Fetch him here, and
Vivian too, if he is at hand. I have something to say to them."

They did his bidding, and presently the persons for whom he asked stood
at his bed-side.

"Are they all here? My eyes are getting dim; it is time I spoke," said
Hugo, feebly. "Mr. Colquhoun, I shall want you to take down what I say.
You may make it as public as you like. Angela----"

He felt for her hand. She gave it to him, and let him lean upon her
shoulder as he spoke. He looked up in her eyes with a sort of smile.

"Kiss me, Angela," he said, "for the last time. You will never do it
again.... Are you all listening? I wish you and everyone to know that it
was I--I--who shot Richard Luttrell in the wood; not Brian. We fired at
the same moment. It was not Brian; do you hear?"

There was a dead silence. Then Brian staggered as if he would have
fallen, and caught at Percival's arm. But the weakness was only for a
moment. He said, simply, "I thank God," and stood erect again. Mr.
Colquhoun put on his spectacles and stared at him. Angela, pale to the
lips, did not move; Hugo's head was still resting against her shoulder.
It was Brian's voice that broke the silence, and there was pity and
kindliness in its tone.

"Never mind, Hugo," he said, bending over him. "It was an accident; it
might have been done by either of us. God knows I sorrowed bitterly when
I thought my hand had done it; perhaps you have sorrowed, too. At any
rate, you are trying to make amends, and if I have anything personally
to forgive----"

"Wait," said Hugo, in his feeble yet imperious voice, with long pauses
between the brief, broken sentences. "You do not understand. I did it on
purpose. I meant to kill him. He had struck me, and I meant to be
revenged. I thought I should suffer for it--and I did not care.... I did
not mean Brian to be blamed; but I dared not tell the truth.... Put me
down, Angela; I killed him, do you hear?"

But she did not move.

"Did you wish me to write this statement?" said Mr. Colquhoun, in his
dryest manner. "If so, I have done it."

"Give me the pen," said Hugo, when he had heard what had been written.

He took it between his feeble fingers. He could scarcely write; but he
managed to scrawl his name at the bottom of the paper on which his
confession was recorded, and two of the persons present signed their
names as witne