When Gurth Egerton got home he found Birnie still sitting up and smoking. The doctor had gone home, after the theatre, with some friends to a supper party, and had only just returned, although it was nearly four o’clock.

As Gurth let himself in the doctor called out to him.

‘I’m glad you’re up, Birnie,’ said Gurth, ‘for I want to speak to you.’

‘Why, how pale you are, old fellow! You look as if you’d seen a ghost.’

‘So I have,’ answered Gurth, sinking into a chair; ‘or something quite as bad. That cursed business about Ralph has turned up again!’

Birnie sat for a moment looking at his companion, and said nothing. For a long time past he had been wishing to speak to Gurth on this very subject, and yet he felt it was an awkward one to approach.

He was firmly established in his profession, he had made a fortune, he had not the slightest need now of pecuniary assistance, and he felt that some day Gurth might be tempted to do some stupid thing, and then the blame would rest on him.

Birnie had all his life long let nothing trouble him, and had always taken a passive rather that an active part in the search after fortune. He objected now to these periodical alarms of Mr. Egerton’s. He didn’t want to be bothered with his friend’s business any more. He felt that the time had come when it would be perhaps as well if he and Gurth Egerton really did have a little conversation about the late Mr. Ralph Egerton.

‘Well, what about poor Ralph now?’ asked the doctor, after he had determined on his course of action and let a big ring of smoke float gracefully from his lips.

‘Birnie, I must make a clean breast of it,’ said Gurth. ‘It’s no good beating about the bush. You know that unfortunate night when in the heat of a quarrel I stabbed Ralph, and he died. It wasn’t murder, but the world might call it hard names. I ran away, like the coward that I am, and you sent me word that he was dead, that you had signed the certificate, and that I could come back. I have always been grateful to you, Birnie, and I think I’ve shown it, for you helped me out of a horrible mess.

I tremble to think what might have happened but for you.’

‘It might have been a little awkward, certainly,’ said Birnie.

‘Indeed it might. Well, when the Bon Espoir went down, and I thought it was all up with me, like a cursed fool that I was, I wrote out a confession and gave it to a clergyman. I confessed that I had stabbed my cousin.’

‘Good Heavens! you didn’t do that?’ exclaimed Birnie, his calm face agitated for once.

‘Yes, I did. And that cursed confession must have been preserved, in some miraculous way, when the ship went down, for it floated ashore yesterday and my written words are in the papers. Thank goodness! it’s not all decipherable; but there’s no knowing what chemicals may do. Birnie, I must go away again; and this time, I fear, for good. There is God’s hand in this. I shall never know what peace is again.’

Dr. Birnie was fairly astonished. Gurth had never taken him so completely into his confidence as this before.

‘Gurth Egerton,’ he said, presently, ‘you must be mad!’

‘I was, to sign such a damning document as that.’

‘And to confess a crime which you never committed.’

‘But,’ stammered Gurth, ‘you know I——’

‘I know you stabbed your cousin, certainly, but it was only a scratch. I thought I told you I signed the certificate of his death.’

‘Yes. To hide the real cause.’

‘Nonsense! I signed a proper certificate. Ralph Egerton died from what I wrote on the certificate—from a complication of diseases brought on by drink. The wound had nothing to do with it. The bleeding did him good, if anything.’

Gurth Egerton sat like a man in a dream.

‘Do you mean that?’

‘I mean you’ve been accusing yourself all these years of a crime you never committed. I called a physician in to Ralph—he can be produced, if necessary. The cause of death was what I say.’

‘Why, in God’s name, did you never tell me this before, Birnie?’ exclaimed Egerton, still half dazed.

‘I never knew you accused yourself of the murder,’ said the doctor, quietly. ‘I showed you the certificate.’

‘Yes, but I thought——’

‘My dear fellow,’ exclaimed Birnie, interrupting, ‘you’ve been the victim of an hallucination. The sooner you get rid of the idea that you murdered your cousin, the better; and as to this confession, they’ll never decipher any more. The salt water has destroyed the paper, I take it. No chemistry can restore what does not exist.’

Gurth Egerton fetched a deep breath. He had punished himself all these years for his evil passions. He had fled when no man pursued. God had marked out his penalty, and he had had to bear it.

And Marston had used this mare’s nest to frighten him with. Marston believed it true, and had triumphed over him. Ah, now the tables were turned. He was safe, and Marston was still at his mercy.

Edward Marston went to the Waterloo terminus and waited for the first train that would take him down home.

The first train left at six, and he walked about until it started. He was anxious to go down at once, and relieve his poor Ruth’s suspense. He had gained a week’s respite, and removed a dangerous enemy from his path. He would send Gertie up to the dying man at once. Gertie might plead with him for longer grace still for those who had been so good to her. At any rate, while things were as they were, it would be as well that the girl should be out of the way.

Hope was strong in his breast that morning as he took his seat in the train. During one short night a change—a great change—had taken place. He had faced his enemy and conquered him, and diplomacy might easily accomplish the rest.

He would give up everything willingly, if need be. All he asked was to get away with Ruth somewhere where he could live quietly and end his days in making his peace with God.

Oh, if he came through this crisis, how earnestly, how truly, he would repent! He leaned back in the carriage, as the train rushed on through the early morning, and thought of the poor heartbroken woman at home, whose love for him had been so good and pure and noble, and his eyes filled with tears.

He pictured her at home, hoping and praying through the weary watches of the night for his safety. He could see her cheeks flush with joy as she heard his step upon the walk, and knew that he had come back to her safe from the jaws of his deadly peril.

He pictured her hiding her head upon his guilty breast, and thanking the good God who had restored him to her once again, and then he forgot everything, save a sensation of horrible anguish, he heard a crash, the shrieks of men and women, he felt a terrible blow and the hot blood trickling down his face, sharp pain shot across his chest, and he knew no more till he found himself lying in a strange place, where he could not say, and he had a dull, dim sense of voices round him buzzing and humming like innumerable bees.

Ile opened his eyes, and then he felt that he was terribly weak. He looked up and saw Ruth—his Ruth, with swollen eyes and a white, worn face, bending over him.

Then he remembered that he had been on the railway, and that there had been a collision. He could not move; he felt that there were bandages about his body, and he had a fearful, terrible pain in his chest and body. He tried to speak, and his voice came in a thin, weak whisper.

Ruth was bending low, kneeling by his side. There were grave doctors standing by the bed, and a woman who looked like a nurse.

Then he knew that he was in the hospital. His head felt, oh, to queer and strange, and everything seemed swimming about him.

‘Do you know me, Edward darling?’ whispered Ruth.

‘Yes, you are Ruth,’ he said, feebly. ‘Am I hurt?’

Ruth’s sweet eyes were filled with tears again in a moment, and she nodded her head.

The doctor came up and bent over him, and looked at him anxiously.

‘You are a doctor?’ whispered the injured man.

‘Yes.’

‘Am I much hurt?’

‘My poor fellow,’ said the doctor, ‘we must hope; but it is my duty to tell you that there is the gravest danger in your case. It is only right that you should know it.’

He had guessed it.

He knew what the grave faces and the weeping wife meant. He was in danger of his life. He knew what the awful pain meant, and the weakness that almost robbed him of his voice.

‘You won’t go away, Ruth?’ he said, feebly, as his wife bent towards him.

‘No,’ sobbed Ruth; ‘I shall not leave you. They will let me stay.’

The doctors were still by the bedside.

He saw them—he saw Ruth—he dimly remembered all that had happened now, and, just as the remembrance was getting clearer, everything faded, and he relapsed into unconsciousness again.

Ruth, watching by the unconscious form of her husband knew the worst. In mercy the doctors had told her. Her husband had been brought in from the railway with terrible internal injuries, which must be fatal. He had been identified as Squire Heritage by the papers in his pocket, and his wife had been sent for by the railway officials. He was dying. The doctor told her he would not live four-and-twenty hours. Science could do nothing.

It was near midnight when he came to himself again, and a great screen was drawn about his bed. He was weaker now, but he did not feel the pain so much; only there was a sensation of floating away. His body seemed too light to stay where it was. He looked up, and saw his wife’s face pressed down on the pillow by his, her sweet eyes watching for the return of consciousness.

‘Ruth, my darling,’ he whispered, ‘keep your face there a little while.’

She kissed him gently, her hot tears wetting the pillow.

‘Don’t cry, Ruth,’ he said. ‘It is better so. I shall escape them all now. Pray for me, Ruth. Had I lived I might have tried to be better, but God knows best.’

He lay for a moment and said nothing.

His breath was coming faster and faster, and the gray shadows were settling down upon his face.

Presently he closed his eyes again and sighed deeply.

For a moment all was still.

Then he opened his eyes and fixed them lovingly on Ruth’s face,

‘Smile, my darling,’ he said. ‘Let your smile be the last thing I see on earth. Forgive me for all the wrong I have done, and pray for me sometimes. The only happiness I ever knew in this world was your love. God bless you, my own Ruth!’

She smiled at him as he bade—smiled through the tears that she could not check.

His lips moved feebly, and she bent down till they touched her in one last feeble kiss.

‘God—bless you—Ruth,’ he murmured, but so faintly that she could hardly hear it.

He never spoke again.

Her name was the last word upon his lips.