Mr. Johnson, that same evening, was smoking the cigar of discontent, drinking the coffee of bitterness, and sipping the brandy of fire. Around him was all the stillness and the sweetness of the summer twilight which he loved so much; stars burning in a violet sky, the breath of roses in the air, the peaceful village sounds in his ears, more lulling and soothing than absolute silence. Yet he was filled with disquietude. He rose and, with his hands in his pockets, paced the long strip of velvety lawn. What he had done, what he had worked for, seemed to him to be a simple act of justice, yet with its accomplishment he was acutely conscious of an intense isolation. No one was in sympathy with him. Every one loved the wicked Ballastons. Even Katherine Besant had left him, her eyes streaming with tears. Madame had sent imploring but vain messages. In the village he felt that it was barely safe to show himself. Then, when he was wondering where to look for consolation, the postern gate opened quickly. Two women entered—Katherine Besant and Claire. He moved forward to welcome them.

“Miss Endacott,” Katherine explained, “wants to see you immediately and talk to you. Take her away somewhere. I will wait.”

“I am pleased to talk to Miss Endacott anywhere she wishes,” Mr. Johnson acquiesced.

“In the study, quickly,” Claire begged.

She swung round upon him as soon as they had entered the room—superb, beautiful but furious.

“Mr. Johnson,” she began, “I have come to beseech you, to insist that you move no further in this horrible affair. Nothing can bring my uncle back to life; nothing can ever still the remorse of whoever killed him. Beyond that, let it rest. I implore you, Mr. Johnson, to do nothing more.”

“My dear young lady,” he replied gravely, “think of what you are proposing. You can scarcely be content to let your uncle’s murderer go scot free.”

“That is just what I do want,” she persisted. “He gained nothing by it, and—I am quite sure that, whoever it was, he was not altogether sane. Even on the steamer—Mr. Johnson, I beg you to believe me—Gregory Ballaston was under the influence of that horrible Image. All the time he behaved quite strangely. As soon as he had parted from it, he was as different as possible. If whoever killed my uncle came from the house where that Image is—it’s a terrible thing to say, but I honestly believe it—they couldn’t help it, they weren’t responsible.”

The tenant of the Great House shook his head.

“It is too late,” he said.

“What do you mean, too late?” she demanded, with a sudden fear in her eyes. “What have you done? What right have you to interfere, anyway? Gregory Ballaston is going abroad to-night. That is the best thing that could happen.”

“It is nevertheless too late,” Mr. Johnson declared. “The local police have consulted with Scotland Yard by telephone, and they have decided that the evidence they hold at present against Gregory Ballaston is sufficient for them to stop his going abroad. They have issued two warrants to-night. He will be arrested, I should say, within the next few minutes.”

She seemed suddenly to tower above him; white, passionate, menacing. Her eyes blazed, her fingers seemed to seek a weapon. It was the first vital fury of youth.

“You brute!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Gregory!”

For a moment the earth seemed to darken around her. Mr. Johnson groaned as he led the half-fainting girl to a couch.

“Miss Endacott,” he said, “this is a terrible business, but believe me, justice must be done. Murder is an unforgivable crime. To take another man’s life—have you thought what it means?”

“What about my life?” she moaned. “Don’t you understand? I was content never to see him again. I lied about the Image to save him, but I love him. If this horrible thing happens, I think that I shall kill you. I shall either do that or die myself. I can’t bear it, I tell you! I can’t bear it!”

She leaned forward in her chair and began to sob. Mr. Johnson mopped his forehead feverishly. It was perhaps in his eager desire to escape from the horror of the moment that he took particular note of the long key which was attached to the chain which hung around her neck, and which had temporarily escaped its resting place.

“What key is that?” he asked her sharply.

She took no notice at first. He repeated his question. She looked as though she could have struck him.

“Key!” she echoed scornfully. “What does it matter? Why do you ask me about keys at a moment like this? There’s only one thing that matters—he must be saved. You must do something. Take back something you have said. Of course, I know he did it, or I should be with him at this moment. He’s not bad. He mustn’t be killed. I—oh, my God!”

She began to sob again. He laid his hand upon her shoulder.

“Listen,” he said, “I will do all that I can, I promise you, but you must tell me what this key is. I have a reason for asking.”

“It came from some safe-makers about eleven months ago,” she answered wearily. “They said it was the duplicate which my uncle had ordered the last time he was in London.”

He removed the chain from her neck, crossed the room and entered the little annex, the door of which, since the burglary, had stood open, and where, in a corner, a rusty old safe had been fitted into the wall. At the first turn the key slipped in and the lock yielded. He swung the door open. In the darkness there was the gleam of a bulky white envelope. He took it out. It was addressed to Claire Endacott. He examined it for a moment. Then he closed the safe and returned to the library.

“Miss Endacott,” he announced, “that key of yours has solved something which has puzzled me for a very long time. It has opened the old safe here. The other key to it was inside. This letter, as you see, is for you. I have always felt convinced that your uncle, before his death, had succeeded in making some sort of a translation of the document which he possessed, indicating the whereabouts of the jewels. This is probably the solution.”

She flung the letter away and, but for his intervention, would have trampled it with her foot upon the floor.

“Do something!” she begged. “You must stop what is going to happen. It isn’t fair. It isn’t right!”

He rescued the letter and himself broke the seal. She snatched it from his fingers.

“Don’t waste time,” she pleaded. “Do something! Letters! What does it matter about letters?”

“It is from your uncle,” he told her solemnly. “Probably the last thing he ever wrote.”

She tore open the envelope with quick, nervous fingers, anxious yet reluctant. She began to read with a sort of sullen indifference. Then she seemed suddenly galvanised into a new and amazingly altered state of living. Mr. Johnson, as he watched her, was terrified. She sprang to her feet and shrieked out at the top of her voice.

“Read it! Read it yourself!” she cried, gripping him by the arm, so that her fingers bored their way into his flesh. “Read it and tell me that it is the truth! Let me see too. Spell it out! Read it!”

Their heads touched. Her breath came hot upon his cheek. She grasped the letter as though afraid it might be torn from her.

My dear Claire,

I went to London this morning with the shadow of a fear—no more. I come back—doomed. You can hear all about it, if you like, from Sir Francis Moore, 18 Harley Street. Three months to live and much suffering! I think not. I shall end it to-night. You will be rich—much richer than you think. Malcolm’s have my will. You and your aunt will share alike. I enclose in this letter a translation of a document which will tell you, unless the document lies, how to obtain the treasure in the Images. Use it as you will. I have no interest. I should have liked a year or two here, but I prefer what is to come to an increase of the agony of which I have already had a foretaste. I hope that you will be happy.

He read it through word by word. She repeated them after him. Then a calm seemed to come upon her which was almost unnatural.

“Take care of the letter,” he enjoined. “Don’t lose it.”

He rushed out across the lawn and through the postern gate. Down the great avenue from the house he could see the lights of two cars flashing. He ran on to the crossroads and stood there with arms extended. Presently they swung round the corner, and at the sight of him were brought to a standstill with a grinding of the brakes. In the front one were Major Holmes, Sir Bertram and Gregory, in the rear one Cloutson and Henry Ballaston. Mr. Johnson gripped Major Holmes by the arm.

“Major,” he exclaimed, “an amazing thing has happened. You must come round to the Great House at once.”

Major Holmes frowned.

“I am afraid, Mr. Johnson,” he said, “it is too late for any sort of intervention. The criminal has confessed.”

Mr. Johnson was staggered, but still frantically eloquent.

“There can be nothing to confess,” he insisted. “Come and I’ll show you the letter. I’ll show you where I found it. You must come. You’re in charge of this case. I’m sane. It was I who wanted justice done. You must see what has happened—see the open safe—read the letter!”

Major Holmes descended and gave an order to the sergeant behind. Both cars were driven to the Great House. Almost pushed in by Mr. Johnson, they crowded into the library. He pointed to the open safe, visible through the door of the annex.

“Miss Endacott had the key,” he explained. “I noticed it round her neck to-night. It came a month after Mr. Endacott’s death. I opened the safe and found this letter that you must all read. I will swear that it is in Ralph Endacott’s handwriting. His niece will swear it. I took it from the safe. Ralph Endacott shot himself. He was dying.”

“He shot himself!” Gregory gasped.

“There isn’t a doubt about it,” Mr. Johnson declared. “The name of the doctor is there. He was a dying man.”

Across the room their eyes met—Gregory’s and Claire’s. It seemed as though nothing could keep them apart. Without conscious movement he was by her side, her hands in his. All the time, with slow, deliberate emphasis, Major Holmes was reading the letter aloud, reading the words penned by a dying man, the supreme yet ghastly irony of which no one properly apprehended in those few minutes of immense relief.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Claire faltered, as soon as she could find words.

Gregory glanced behind at the little group and drew her nearer and nearer. A nightmare was passing from his brain.

“I thought it was Dad,” he whispered, under his breath. “What could I do?”

“The letter appears to be genuine,” Major Holmes decided, looking up with an air of great relief, “and the name of the doctor fortunately provides us with corroborative evidence, but under the circumstances I must confess that I fail to understand Mr. Henry Ballaston’s position,” he added, turning towards him.

The latter coughed a little nervously.

“It has never been my custom,” he declared, “to countenance any deviation from the truth in others or to indulge in anything approaching a falsehood myself. I have to admit, however, that on the present occasion I made a false statement, which I beg leave to withdraw. The fact is,” he confided, with a touch of that ingenuousness which was one of his characteristics, “I never doubted for a moment that my nephew Gregory, in the interests of the family, was guilty of this misdemeanour. I am a useless person in this world. He is a young man and our direct heir. I did what I thought best.”

“But the Image?” Sir Bertram demanded in bewilderment—“the second Image of the Soul? How on earth did that get to the Hall?”

“I brought it,” was Henry’s complacent reply.

“But when?” Gregory asked helplessly.

“On the night of Mr. Endacott’s unfortunate decease,” Henry replied. “I must confess that on the previous evening I paid a surreptitious visit here. I had no idea on that occasion of purloining the Image, but I was anxious to secure, if possible, a translation of any of the Chinese documents which Mr. Endacott was known to possess which might assist us towards the recovery of the jewels. I found Mr. Endacott, however, at work, and I was unfortunate enough to disturb him. During his brief absence in the garden I endeavoured to peruse his papers, but his unexpectedly prompt return forced me on that occasion to abandon the enterprise. On the following evening I saw Gregory leave the house——”

“I came to see if you were still in the garden,” Gregory interrupted, turning to Claire.

“Precisely,” Henry acquiesced, “but I was not at that time aware of your—er—attachment, nor did I attribute any sentimental purpose to your nocturnal excursion. I followed you—and at the side gate here, after some considerable interval, I heard what I imagined to be a muffled revolver shot. I crept from my place of concealment and entered the library. Mr. Endacott was lying there, quite dead. I listened for a moment. I was perhaps unnerved. I imagined that I heard your retreating footsteps from the anteroom into the courtyard. I listened again. There was nothing to be heard. The Image was lying on the floor by Mr. Endacott’s side. He had probably been examining it prior to his lamented action and the fall of his body had displaced it. I considered. I decided that your nerve, Gregory, had failed you, that having committed the preliminary—er—misdeed, you had hurried away without the Image. I accordingly picked it up and brought it home. I placed it by the side of the other in my room. It has been there ever since. I saw the shock which its presence caused you, my dear brother—you too, Gregory—but I did not think an explanation advisable.”

Sir Bertram laid his hand upon his son’s shoulder.

“My God, Gregory,” he muttered, “I thought—I thought, of course, that it was you.”

Gregory groaned.

“And I,” he explained—“as I knew it wasn’t I—thought it must be you.”

“My God, these Ballastons!” Major Holmes exclaimed, with amazed fervour.

A wonderful half-hour! Sir Bertram had slipped away and was on his knees by Madame’s couch. Mr. Johnson, whilst every one else was talking confusedly, hastened down to the cellar. Gregory led Claire out into the garden. In his hand was the paper she had passed over to him.

“The Images,” he whispered; “let’s go and find them.”

They drove in the limousine car, still laden with his luggage, through the scented darkness, back to the Hall, his arms around her, her head resting contentedly upon his shoulder. Whilst she waited, he ran upstairs, to the amazement of Rawson and the footman who had admitted him, and presently returned with the two Images. Rawson met him at the foot of the stairs. His face was full of astonishment and piteous appeal.

“You will excuse me, Mr. Gregory, sir,” he begged. “If there’s any news——”

Gregory staggered past him, borne down by his burden.

“Everything’s all right, Rawson,” he exclaimed. “Mr. Endacott shot himself—found out he was going to die, anyway. We shall be back, all three of us, to sleep. I may not be going abroad at all. Get yourself a bottle of wine, Rawson. Tell you more about it when we get back.”

Another drive which seemed to pass like a dream; a dream during which the agony of the last hour appeared to fade into nothingness. Then the Great House again, the Images upon the library table, and a little crowd gathered around. Mr. Johnson, to whom Gregory had passed the paper, called out the instructions.

“You press the right eye of the Body,” he directed, “and press at the same time the inner lobe of the left ear. Then you move the Image forward three times slowly, pressing most at the lowest point. Now then!”

Gregory obeyed the instructions. At the end of the third movement there was a slight noise inside like the whirring of a spring. A ticking began. They stood a little distance away. Suddenly the right eye opened and a stream of what seemed to be red and crystal and green fire came out and discharged itself upon the tablecloth. Every one drew closer, fascinated, breathless, until with a final whirring the shower ended. Mr. Johnson passed his hands over the stones.

“The finest emeralds I ever saw,” he declared. “There is one diamond there I wouldn’t dare to value.—Now for the Soul! You reverse the process. Press the left eye and the lobe of the right ear.”

This time, after the whirring ended, the left eye opened, and a slow stream of pink and white pearls fell on to the table.

“The tears of Buddha,” Mr. Johnson exclaimed. “It’s the oldest superstition on the river. ‘When Buddha weeps, the tears are pearls.’”

Again they watched, spellbound. This stream continued even longer than the other one. Then there was a little click and all was over. The eye slipped back. The Image seemed to smile in beneficent fashion. Claire’s fingers tightened upon Gregory’s arm.

“Without expert advice,” Mr. Johnson pronounced, in an awed tone, “I wouldn’t take less than a million for them.”

“They belong to you, every stone,” Gregory whispered to his companion.

She laughed up at him.

“Does it matter?” she murmured.