Miss Peytral had to be put to bed under care of a nurse, for the revulsion was very great, and so was her physical prostration. Bowmore, now set free, and in himself a very pleasant young fellow, came with hurried inquiries and congratulations, and then rushed off to London to cable to his friends in Canada, for fear of the effect of newspaper telegrams.

When at last Hewitt and I sat with Mr. Peytral in his study, “Mr. Hewitt,” said Peytral, “I am not sure how far explanations may go between us. There is more in that death in the barn than the police will ever guess.”

Peytral was haggard and drawn, for, as he had let slip already, he had scarce slept an hour since leaving home on Thursday.

“I am tired,” he said, “and worn out, but that is not a novelty with me; and I’m not sure but we may be of use to each other. Did my daughter tell you why she sent Mr. Bowmore after me on Thursday night?”

Hewitt explained the thing as briefly as possible, just as he had heard it from Miss Peytral.

“Ah,” said Peytral, thoughtfully. “So she thought my manner became moody a few months back. It did, no doubt, for I had memories; and more, I had apprehensions. Mr. Hewitt, I think I read in the papers that you were in some way engaged in the extraordinary case of the murder of Mr. Jacob Mason?”

“That is quite correct. I was.”

“There was another case, a little while before, which possibly you may not have heard of. A man was found strangled near the York column, by Pall Mall, with just such a mark on his forehead as was found on Mr. Mason’s.”

“I know that case, too, as well as the other.”

“Do you know the name of the murderer?”

“I think I do. We speak in confidence, of course, as client and professional man?”

“Of course. What was his name?”

“I have heard two — Everard Myatt and Catherton Hunt.”

“Neither is his real name, and I doubt if anybody but himself knows it. Twenty years ago and more I knew him as Mayes. He was a Jamaican. Mr. Hewitt, that man’s foul life has been justly forfeit a thousand times, but if it belongs to anybody it belongs to me!”

It was terrible to see the sudden fiery change in the old man. His lassitude was gone in a flash, his eyes blazed and his nostrils dilated.

For a little while he sat so, his mouth awork with passion; then he sank back in his chair with a sigh.

“I am getting old,” he said, more quietly, “and perhaps I am not strong enough to lose my temper. . . . Well, as I said, Mayes was a Jamaican, a renegade white. Do you remember that in the black rebellion of 1865, there was a traitorous white man among the negroes? Eyre hanged a few rebels, and rightly, but the worst creature on all that island escaped — probably escaped by the aid of that very white skin that should have ensured him a greater punishment than the rest. He escaped to Hayti. Now you have probably heard something of Hayti, and of the common state of affairs there?”

We both had heard, and, indeed, the matter had been particularly brought to Hewitt’s notice by the case which I have told elsewhere as “The Affair of the Tortoise.” As for me, I had read Sir Spenser St. John’s book on the black republic, and I had been greatly impressed by the graphic picture it gives of the horrible, blood-stained travesty of regular government there prevailing. Nothing in the worst of the South American Republics is to be remotely compared to it. In the worst periods there was not a crime imaginable that could not be, and was not, committed openly and with impunity by anybody on the right side of the so-called “government”; and the “government” was nothing but an organised crime in itself.

“Well,” Peytral pursued, “then I need not expatiate on it, and you will understand the sort of place that Mayes fled to, and how it suited him. He was a man of far greater ability than any of the coarse scoundrels in power, and he was worse than all of them. He was not such a fool as to aim at ostensible political power — that way generally led to assassination. He was the jackal, the contriver, the power behind the throne, the instigator of half the devilry set going in that unhappy place, and he profited by it with little risk; he was the confidential adviser of that horrible creature Domingue. If you know anything of Hayti you will know what that means.

“At this time I was comparatively a young man, and a merchant at Port-au-Prince. It was a bad place, of course, and business was risky enough, but, for that very reason, profits were large, and that was an attraction to a sanguine young man like myself. I did very well, and I had thoughts of getting out of it with what I had made. But it was a fatal thing to be supposed wealthy in Port-au-Prince, unless you were a villain in power, or partner with one. I was neither, and I was judged a suitable victim by Mayes. Not I alone, either — no, nor even only I and my fortune. Gentlemen, gentlemen, my poor wife, who now lies ——”

Peytral’s utterance failed him. He rose as if choking, and Hewitt rose to quiet him. “Never mind,” he said, “sit quiet now. We understand. Rest a moment.”

The old man sank back in his chair, and for a little while buried his face in his hands. Then he went on.

“I needn’t go into details,” he said, huskily. “It is enough to say that every devilish engine of force and cunning was put in operation against me. So it came that at last, on a hint from a hanger-on of the police-office, who had enough humanity in him to remember a kindness he had experienced at my hands, that we took flight in the middle of the night — my poor wife, myself, and our three children, with nothing in the world but our bare lives and the clothes we wore. I might have tried to get aboard a foreign ship in the harbour, but I knew that would be useless. I should have been given up on whatever criminal charge Mayes chose to present, and my wife and children with me. I had hope of somehow getting to San Cristobel, where I had a friend — over the border in the other Government of the island, the Dominican Republic. That was eighty miles away and more, across swamps, and forests and mountains. Well, we did it — we did it. We did it, Mr. Hewitt, and I dream of it still. They hunted us, sir — hunted us with dogs. We hid from them a whole day among the rank weeds — up to our shoulders in the water of a pestilential fever-swamp; Claire, the baby, on her mother’s back, and both the boys on mine. They died — they died next day. My two beautiful boys, gentlemen, died in my arms, and I was too weak even to bury them!”

There was another long pause, and the man’s head was bowed in his hands once more. Presently he went on again, but at first without lifting his head.

“We did it, gentlemen,” he said —“we did it. We crawled into San Cristobel at the end of five days; and from that moment my dear wife has never once stood upright on her feet. So we came out of it, and the baby, Claire, was the one that suffered least. She was too young to understand, and her mother — her mother saved her, when I could not save the boys!”

He paused again, and presently sat up, pale, but in full command of himself. “You will excuse me, gentlemen, I am sure, and make allowances for my feelings,” he said. “There is not a great deal more to tell. Mayes did not last long in Hayti. Domingue was overthrown, and Mayes left the island, I was told, and made for another part of the world. Years afterward I heard of his being in China, though what truth there may have been in the rumour I cannot say.

“My friend in San Cristobel — he was a cousin, in fact — put me on my legs again, and after a while he helped me to begin business at San Domingo, under my present name, Peytral, which, in fact, was my mother’s maiden name. There came a sudden push in trade with the United States about this time, and I went into my affairs with the more energy to distract my thoughts. In fifteen years — to cut a long story short — I had made the small competency which I have brought to England with me, with the idea of a peaceful end to my life and my wife’s; though I doubt if I am to have that now. I doubt it, and I will tell you why. Mr. Hew............