not what words,
but he knew that they had been straining at his lips--to wreck his
self-respect for ever, and hopelessly defeat even the crazy purpose that
had almost possessed him, by drowning her wretchedness in disgust, by
babbling with the tongue of infatuation to a woman with a husband not
yet buried, to a woman who loved another man.

Such was the magic of her tears, quickening in a moment the thing which,
as his heart had known, he must not let come to life. For Philip Trent
was a young man, younger in nature even than his years, and a way of
life that kept his edge keen and his spirit volcanic had prepared him
very ill for the meeting that comes once in the early manhood of most of
us, usually--as in his case, he told himself harshly--to no purpose but
the testing of virtue and the power of the will.

CHAPTER XI: Hitherto Unpublished

My Dear Molloy:---This is in case I don't find you at your office. I
have found out who killed Manderson, as this dispatch will show. This
was my problem; yours is to decide what use to make of it. It definitely
charges an unsuspected person with having a hand in the crime, and
practically accuses him of being the murderer, so I don't suppose you
will publish it before his arrest, and I believe it is illegal to do so
afterwards until he has been tried and found guilty. You may decide to
publish it then; and you may find it possible to make some use or other
before then of the facts I have given. That is your affair. Meanwhile,
will you communicate with Scotland Yard, and let them see what I have
written? I have done with the Manderson mystery, and I wish to God I had
never touched it. Here follows my dispatch.--P.T.

Marlstone, June 16th. I begin this, my third and probably my final
dispatch to the Record upon the Manderson murder, with conflicting
feelings. I have a strong sense of relief, because in my two previous
dispatches I was obliged, in the interests of justice, to withhold facts
ascertained by me which would, if published then, have put a certain
person upon his guard and possibly have led to his escape; for he is
a man of no common boldness and resource. These facts I shall now set
forth. But I have, I confess, no liking for the story of treachery and
perverted cleverness which I have to tell. It leaves an evil taste
in the mouth, a savour of something revolting in the deeper puzzle of
motive underlying thc puzzle of the crime itself, which I believe I have
so