at last,--that and nothing else.

But he,--what was he to do? It went against his heart to harass her
at that moment; but then it was essential that he should know the
truth. The truth, or a suspicion of the truth was now breaking upon
him; and if that suspicion should be confirmed, what was he to do?
It was at any rate necessary that everything should be put beyond a
doubt.

"Lady Mason," he said, "if you are able to speak to me--"

"Yes," she said, gradually straightening herself, and raising her
head though she did not look at him. "Yes. I am able." But there was
something terrible in the sound of her voice. It was such a sound of
agony that he felt himself unable to persist.

"If you wish it I will leave you, and come back,--say in an hour."

"No, no; do not leave me." And her whole body was shaken with a
tremour, as though of an ague fit. "Do not go away, and I will tell
you everything. I did it."

"Did what?"

"I--forged the will. I did it all.--I am guilty."

There was the whole truth now, declared openly and in the most simple
words, and there was no longer any possibility that he should doubt.
It was very terrible,--a terrible tragedy. But to him at this present
moment the part most frightful was his and her present position. What
should he do for her? How should he counsel her? In what way so act
that he might best assist her without compromising that high sense
of right and wrong which in him was a second nature. He felt at
the moment that he would still give his last shilling to rescue
her,--only that there was the property! Let the heavens fall, justice
must be done there. Even a wretch such as Joseph Mason must have that
which was clearly his own.

As she spoke those last words, she had risen from the sofa, and was
now standing before him resting with her hands upon the table, like a
prisoner in the dock.

"What!" he said; "with your own hands?"

"Yes; with my own hands. When he would not do justice to my baby,
when he talked of that other being the head of his house, I did it,
with my own hands,--during the night."

"And you wrote the names,--yourself?"

"Yes; I wrote them all." And then there was again silence in the
room; but she still stood, leaning on the table, waiting for him to
speak her doom.

He turned away from the spot in which he had confronted her and
walked to the window. What was he to do? How was he to help her? And
how was he to be rid of her? How was he to save his dau