George stared at the triumphant detective in surprise. It seemed impossible that what he stated could be true. Miss Bull was the very last person whom Brendon would have accused. No one had been more candid than she had been, and no one at the time of the discovery of the crime had done more to help the detectives.

"You must mean Margery," said George after a time.

"No, I don't," replied Bawdsey, in a determined voice. "I mean that little white old woman with the black eyes--Miss Bull, or, as you know her, Miss Jenny Howard."

"But what reason----"

"Ah, that's a long story! She shall tell you herself."

"Have you had her arrested?"

"Not yet. But she will be arrested before the end of the day. I have already communicated with Scotland Yard."

George rose and walked to the window. He felt irritable and upset now that the truth had come to light. He wished that Bawdsey had not been so confoundedly interfering, and the detective's next words annoyed him still further.

"It was your idea about Margery that put me on the scent," he said with great complacency; "though, to be sure, I had my suspicions before. It was to watch Miss Bull that I came here."

"What made you think that she was guilty?"

"She has confessed--in the calmest manner, too--that----"

"I mean before. Why did you suspect her?"

"Well, it seemed to me that she was the only person who could have killed Eliza. She and Eliza hated one another because of their mutual love for your father."

George groaned. What a lot of trouble his father had caused with his handsome looks and charming manners. Even after his death the fatal attraction he exercised seemed to bring about disaster. "She did not kill Mrs. Jersey on that account," he said.

"Wait till you hear. She will tell you. In fact, she asked me to send for you, as she wishes to speak."

"Where is she now?"

"In the famous sitting-room playing Patience."

"Doesn't she realize the peril of her position?"

"In a way she does. But she seems quite ready to face the worst."

"Poor woman," said George, thinking of the sad life which the old maid had led; "if she has sinned, she has suffered."

"If people will use knives in that way they must be punished," was the rather harsh retort of Bawdsey.

"Don't talk stuff, Bawdsey. You have your own sins to think of."

"I never committed murder."

"No one said you had, but you may do so before you die."

Bawdsey shuddered. "I hope not, Mr. Vane," he said. "I don't know why you should say such a thing. I am an honest man."

"You say that so often that I shall begin to disbelieve it," replied Brendon, rather cynically; "but if you marry Lola, either you will kill her or she will kill you."

"I'll take my chance of that. And if you----"

George made an impatient gesture with his hand and returned to his seat. "Never mind further chatter. Let me hear how you came to learn that this poor creature struck the blow."

"If you talk that way of a criminal, Mr. Vane, what will you say of a good woman?"

"My good man, there is more joy over a sinner that repenteth----"

"But Miss Bull doesn't repent," said Bawdsey.

"I'll hear the story before I give an opinion on that point. You say that it was some remark I made which----"

"Yes, it was," said Bawdsey, eagerly, and throwing himself into a seat. "Your remark that Margery might be guilty----"

"One moment," interrupted George, in his turn. "I may tell you that I have seen Mr. Ireland, and he declares that he never was near the house on that night, that he knew nothing of the confession, and that he had no latch-key. He is innocent."

"Now that I have heard Miss Bull I know that, sir. She's the one."

"Well, and how did you find out?"

Bawdsey cleared his throat and began, with a most important air: "I rather agreed with your idea that Margery might be guilty," he said, "and when I turned it over in my own mind I thought it more and more probable. I therefore determined to get Margery alone and work on her fears."

"Pah!" said Brendon, with disgust.

"Well, sir," retorted Bawdsey, shrugging his shoulders. "I had to get at the truth somehow, and detective's work is not all so honorable as novelists make out. I got Margery alone."

"And how did you set to work?"

"Well, it was this morning in the sitting-room. Miss Bull had gone out and had left Margery to make up some accounts. The girl was laboring away at them and getting into a hopeless mess. I came to speak with her, and offered to do them. I soon put the accounts to rights and then began to talk of Miss Bull."

"Why of Miss Bull?"

"Why--" Bawdsey pinched his lip--"I thought at the time that Margery was guilty, and that if in talking to her I laid the blame on Miss Bull that the girl would speak out."

"You traded on the poor wretch's friendship. Bawdsey, I'm ashamed of you."

"I'm ashamed of myself," replied the detective, penitently; "but Lord bless you! Mr. Vane, one gets used to this sort of thing. In our business the means justifies the ends far more than in religion."

"I certainly don't think it justifies any end in religion," said George, sharply. "Well, you accused Miss Bull of the crime?"

"In a way I did. Margery denied it."

"What did you say?"

"That she might as well confess. I declared that I had evidence to prove Miss Bull's guilt, and that she would be arrested when she came back. I declare, Mr. Vane, I thought that girl would strike me. She was like a wild-cat."

"I wish she had," growled George, whose generous spirit was revolted by the use Bawdsey had put Margery to.

"She said if I arrested Miss Bull she would kill me. I said, 'As you killed your aunt.' She up and said: 'Yes, I did kill her. Miss Bull is innocent, and you know she is.' Of course, when she admitted the fact I at once began to suspect Miss Bull."

"Why did you do that?"

"Because if Margery had been guilty she would not have owned up. But if Miss Bull was guilty, Margery would certainly take the guilt on herself."

"Poor girl!" murmured George "there is something noble in that dull soul."

Bawdsey could not see this, and mentally disagreed with it. However, he did not want to argue down Brendon's too tender conscience, so he went on with his recital. "While Margery was threatening me and taking the guilt on herself, Miss Bull came in. That stupid girl ran to her and fell at her feet, crying that I knew all, but that she would die for her dear Miss Bull."

"And what did the woman say?"

"She asked me if I knew. I said I did. She demanded how I found out. I told her that that was my business. She began to smell a rat and suspected that I was bluffing. She would have held her tongue, but Margery was in such terror for her friend that she came out with the whole story. Miss Bull tried to stop her, but Margery kept repeating that she would die for her dear Miss Bull, and so let the cat out of the bag."

"The girl is half-witted--all this may not be true."

"Oh, yes, it is. When Miss Bull saw that the game was up she sat down and admitted that she had killed Mrs. Jersey. She also said that she was glad the truth had come to light, that she wished to die, and so on."

"She was raving," said George, incredulously, not thinking any one would incriminate himself or herself so freely.

"No, she wasn't. She told me the whole story in the calmest manner, just as though she were asking me to have a cup of tea. Then she asked me to send for you and sat down to play Patience."

"I wonder you are not having her watched," said George, with scorn.

"Oh, she won't run away," replied Bawdsey, easily, and not perceiving the irony of the remark. "Come along, Mr. Vane, we'll go down and see her. She is desperately anxious to see you."

"Do any of the boarders know?"

"Not yet, but they will when she is arrested."

George shuddered and followed Bawdsey down the stairs. It seemed terrible to him that such a fragile little creature as Miss Bull should be subjected to this disgrace. He did not condone her crime. She had acted wrongly and must take the consequences. But he could not forget that she was Dorothy's aunt, and he wished he could see some way of rescuing her from this dreadful position.

Miss Bull was--as Bawdsey had stated--playing Patience. Seated at the very table where her victim had sat, she dealt the cards, and seemed quite interested in the game. Margery was seated in a chair near at hand, looking with tearful eyes into the face of her friend. Beyond the fact that Miss Bull was whiter than usual, she showed no signs of emotion.

"You have come, George," she said, addressing him by his name. "I am glad to see you. Mr. Bawdsey, you may go."

The detective was taken aback and would have remonstrated, but Margery rose and approached him. "You have done your worst," she said, her eyes flashing. "Go, or I'll twist your neck."

Bawdsey shrugged his shoulders, and with a glance at George went out. After all, he had heard the story before and did not particularly care to hear it again. Besides, Bawdsey was a kindly man, and he felt sorry that he had proceeded to such extremities.

Miss Bull shuffled her pack of cards and laid them away in a box. "I shall play that game no more," she said. "I have been playing Patience all my life, but the end has come, and I am glad it has come. Hush, Margery," for the girl had burst into tears, "I will see that you are left well off and looked after, my dear."

"I don't want that. I want you," sobbed the girl. She slipped to the floor and laid her head on Miss Bull's knee like a faithful dog. Miss Bull patted her head and allowed her to remain in this position while she spoke to Geor............