door.

"The gentleman must wait, Nillson," he answered. "Leave the room now,
and see that we are not interrupted until I ring the bell."

The servant bowed and withdrew, after a wondering glance at the faces of
the little party. Sir Philip Roden left his seat and, crossing the room,
locked the door.

"Sir Allan Beaumerville," he said quietly, "there can be only one course
to take with regard to the painful disclosures which you have laid
before us to-night. If you have anything to add, please let us hear it
quickly."

Sir Allan continued at once.

"I went back to my son's cottage. I washed my hands in his room, and the
towel I concealed in his cabinet. Just as I was leaving he entered. What
passed between us I need not mention. I took up my botanizing case and
hurried away along the cliffs, and afterward was met by Mr. Thurwell's
servant, with whom I returned once more to look upon my work. Then came
the time when suspicion commenced to fall upon my son. I implored him
to leave the country. He refused. At last he was arrested. For the
father whom he can only despise he has been willing to die. To-night I
had made up my mind to leave a confession of my guilt and fly. My plans
are changed. Only a few hours ago I looked into the face of one whom I
had never thought to see again in this world. Her advice I am now
following. To her care I entrusted my confession, and to your ears I
have detailed it. My story is done, gentlemen. Sir Philip Roden, I place
myself in your hands."

His last words had been almost drowned by a clamorous knocking at the
closed door. When he had ceased, Sir Philip Roden rose and opened it.
Two men entered at once, followed by Mr. Benjamin Levy. The men
recognized Sir Philip, and saluted.

"What is your business?" he asked.

"We hold a warrant for the arrest of Sir Allan Beaumerville, sir," was
the respectful answer, "granted on the sworn information of Mr. Benjamin
Levy there, by Mr. Pulsford, half an hour ago. Which is he, sir?"

Sir Philip pointed to where his late host was standing a little away
from the others, his hand resting on the carved knob of his high-backed
chair, and his eyes fixed wildly upon them. The man advanced to him at
once.

"You are my prisoner, Sir Allan Beaumerville," he said quietly. "I hold
a warrant here for your arrest on the charge of having murdered Sir
Geoffrey Kynaston on the 12th of August of last year."

Those who were watching Sir Allan's face closely