Colonel Willowby read:

“Dear Miss Willowby: Even at this, the last moment, I feel it necessary to write to you, breaking off our engagement forever. You must know what pain this gives me; I would rather take my very life. Sometimes I feel as if I must—but it cannot be otherwise. I know you love me, yet the love of a woman for a man is not alone enough to make those two people happy. You cannot imagine how much I regret that our wedding day is at hand—the mockery of it! Our wedding day, which will never be!

“You will be startled to learn that I——”

The rest was torn off. In fact, the slip itself was full of tears and creases, as if the writer had thought to entirely destroy the unfinished and unsent communication.

The colonel read the slip in silence. Then he reread the last line aloud: “‘You will be startled to learn that I——’ He had some secret. The poor, miserable wretch!”

“It would seem so. If true, the secret died with him. It is enough to know that he committed suicide. He was just reckless enough for the deed.”

The colonel shut his teeth hard. His former military experience had left no softness in his heart for the moral coward who would end his life rather than confront his duty, stern as that duty might be. He glared at the paper, then crushed it in his palm and tossed it on the table. Fearing it might be forgotten and picked up by others, Henry Cross restored it to his pocket.

“It is a cold, unnatural letter for such a man as Chesterbrook to write,” said Cross softly. “But, then, the condition of the room—all upset——”

“That was his work, to make it appear as if he had been murdered. If he did this for Maud’s sake, it is the one commendable point in the entire miserable affair.”

“I see! I see! I believe the detective said nothing was stolen.”

“So far as Chesterbrook’s valet could discover, not one cent’s worth was taken.”

“But if he upset the room for the purpose of deception, wouldn’t he have gone further and thrown some money or jewels away to make the deception more complete?”

“A man on the point of suicide is not the man to take many things into consideration. The chances are that he became temporarily insane at the final moment—I fancy all suicides do—and, taking up the dagger, he plunged it into his heart just before the motor car drove up to take him to the church. His body was not quite cold when found.”

Colonel Willowby shuddered. Apparently there was no escaping Henry Cross’ skillful deductions. Yet he made one more effort.

“But the dagger; I never knew Allen to have such a weapon.”

“He did have a dagger.”

“You are sure?”

“I am.”

“I thought he and you were not good friends; as you were not friendly, you surely were not in his rooms——”

“Never, until this morning. I would not have lived in the same house, only the owner is my personal friend, and urged me to take the apartments.”

“I understand something of the bitterness a young man in your position can feel, Cross. But let that pass. May I ask you where you saw him with his dagger? Was it the one used to-day?”

“I cannot say if it was the same. I had no opportunity or wish to examine the dagger he had when I saw him.”

“And where did you see him?”

The young man was silent for a moment, evidently somewhat annoyed.

“If you must know, I saw him at the office of the Land Improvement Company.”

“Our office!”

“Yes.”

“And what was he doing with the dagger?”

“He was toying with it at a desk in the side office.”

The colonel’s face showed well his incredulity.

“And was he alone at the time?”

“No, he and that young lady were there together.”

“You mean Miss Harding?”

“I believe that is her name. She is the regular typewriter.”

“That is Miss Harding. But what could they have been doing with the dagger?”

“That I cannot tell you. It was none of my business, and I only stopped for a second to look.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Several weeks ago.”

“Mr. Bixby was not around at the time?”

“No. It was after six o’clock in the evening, and I suppose he had gone home. One of the shades of the windows was down and the light over the desk was lighted. The light fell on the dagger as I was passing, and that made me halt.”

The colonel was on his feet and moving slowly back and forth. Suddenly he halted and emitted a deep “Ah! It cannot be possible. And yet——” He stopped short. “Cross, this is a mystery within a mystery,” he went on, aloud. “Do you know that Allen was the one to recommend Miss Harding to Bixby for that position?”

“I did not know.”

“Yes. He was very anxious to obtain work for her in Lakeview. He told Bixby he had known her in New York, and could recommend her as a first-class stenographer, typewriter, and bookkeeper, and on the strength of his recommendation Bixby employed her.”

“I see.”

“Now, what were the two doing at the office so late in the evening?” asked the colonel, almost harshly.

“I cannot tell you, sir.”

“The side office is a private one. That young woman has nothing to do in there.”

The colonel looked at his companion as if expecting him to speak, but for once Henry Cross remained silent. The silence continued, broken only by the monotonous tick of the clock. The colonel at last continued:

“Cross, you were not so blind as Maud and I; you saw more than we. Tell me what you know, what you think—everything. There is no use of hiding it. He is dead, and the truth can make no difference one way or the other.”

The young man cleared his throat, started to speak twice, and stopped.

“I know nothing,” he said finally.

“But what do you think?”

“What should I think, colonel?”

“Don’t beat about the bush, Cross! Good heavens! things are bad enough now. I would rather have the truth than be in suspense. Unless you will be candid, I will make inquiries elsewhere.”

“As I said, I know nothing, excepting that Chesterbrook and this Miss Harding were frequently together. That was not the first time I saw them at the office in the evening, and once I met them up the lake shore, seated in the moonlight on the rocks, and he—he——”

“Tell it all, man—all!”

“He was holding her hands. There, you have wrung the whole truth from me, and I did not mean to mention it, remembering he is dead.”

The colonel put up his hands as if to ward off a blow.

“And this was the man Maud was willing to marry! The villain!”

“Hush! We do not know if it was so bad. There may have been some reason——”

“Bah, Cross! You are young; you do not know the world as I do. I see it all. Didn’t he say in his letter that Maud would be startled to learn something? Perhaps that young woman threatened him with exposure. She must have done so; and, fearing that she would betray him, he took his own cowardly way out of all trouble. And to think I nursed such a viper in my breast!—that I was willing to accept his financial assistance! It fills me with rage. If I had him here——”

“Remember, he is dead.”

The old man stopped, and his anger subsided.

“Yes, he is dead—and, perhaps, we had better thank Heaven for it,” he said. “My poor Maud!” and his eyes filled with tears.

“My advice would be to let the whole matter drop, so far as you are concerned. It will do no good to agitate it. Let the police think it was a murder. It is not likely they will discover the truth.”

“I will do that. But that young woman? Supposing she comes forward with some claim against Allen’s estate, for instance——”

“Let us hope she will not. She does not look like a young woman who is in the least crafty.”

“Looks are often deceptive.” Colonel Willowby paused and passed his hand over his forehead. “But Maud must know the truth regarding Allen’s death. She must not be left to grieve over such a man.”

Henry Cross bowed.

“But my connection with the matter——”

“Shall remain a secret in my own breast, I give my word of honor.”

Footsteps sounded in the hall, and a second later came a rap on the door. The colonel opened it to admit the doctor, who looked exceedingly grave.

“My daughter, doctor?” he asked the old man eagerly; and on the moment the discussion with Henry Cross was a thing of the past.

“She is resting quietly at last,” returned the medical gentleman. “I have given her an opiate, and she must not be disturbed. I have also left some powders, and given directions to the colored woman concerning them. I will be here again in the morning.”

“What do you think of her condition?”

“She is suffering from the shock; but she is young and healthy, and I have hopes she will soon overcome it.” The doctor gazed at the colonel’s haggard face. “You must take it easier, too, or you will be down.”

“I can stand much, doctor. My friend, Mr. Cross, Doctor Spriglehem.”

The two men shook hands, and a moment later the doctor passed out of the mansion. The colonel saw him to the door, and, when he returned to the library, he found Henry Cross also ready to take his departure.

Cross passed out of the gateway and on to the road in deep thought, his head bent and his hat pushed low on his forehead. He was wondering how Maud Willowby would receive the dreadful news her father had to impart. He paused to look back at the mansion, hunting out what he supposed were the blinds to the windows of the girl’s apartment.

“Excuse me, but will you tell me what house that is?”

The man who had asked the question had come up quite close to Cross. He was the sporty-looking fellow who had stood on the bridge near the lake; but the young man did not recognize him.

“That house?”

“Yes. Who lives there?”

“Colonel Willowby.”

“That’s the father of the young lady who was going to be married, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. Kind of curious, that’s all. So much excitement.”

As the questioning was distasteful to Cross, he moved on, and the sporty-looking fellow was soon left behind.