Reginald Carne was laid down on the table in the gardener's cottage. The doctor could now examine him, and whispered to the clergyman that both his legs were broken, and that he had no doubt whatever he had received terrible internal injuries. "I don't think he will live till morning."  
Presently there was a knock at the door. "Can I come in?" Mr. Volkes asked, when the doctor opened it. "I have known the poor fellow from the time he was a child. Is he sensible?"
 
"He is sensible in a way," the doctor said. "That is, I believe he knows perfectly well what we are saying, but he has several times laughed that strange, cunning laugh that is almost peculiar to the insane."
 
"Well, at any rate, I will speak to him," said Mr. Volkes.
 
"Do you know me, Reginald?" he went on in a clear voice as he came up to the side of the table.
 
Reginald Carne nodded, and again a low mocking laugh came from his lips. "You thought you were very clever, Volkes, mighty clever; but I tricked you."
 
"You tricked me, did you?" the magistrate said, cheerfully. "How did you trick me?"
 
"You thought, and they all thought, the dull-headed fools, that Ronald Mervyn killed Margaret. Ho! ho! I cheated you all nicely."
 
A glance of surprise passed between his listeners. Mr. Volkes signed to the others not to speak, and then went on:
 
"So he did, Reginald, so he did—though we couldn't prove it; you did not trick us there."
 
"I did," Reginald Carne said, angrily. "I killed her myself."
 
 
"'I did,' Reginald Carne said, angrily—'I killed her myself.'"
 
An exclamation of horror broke from the three listeners. Mr. Volkes was the first to recover himself.
 
"Nonsense, Reginald, you are dreaming."
 
"I am not," he said, vehemently. "I had thought it all out over and over again. I was always thinking of it. I wanted to put an end to this curse. It's been going on too long, and it troubled me. I had made up my mind to kill her long before; but I might not have done it when I did if I had not heard Ronald threatening her, and another man heard it too. This was a grand opportunity, you see. It was as much as I could do to sit quietly at dinner with that naval fellow, and to know that it was all right. It was glorious, for it would be killing two birds with one stone. I wanted to get rid of Ronald as much as I did of her, so that the curse might come to an end, and now it was all so easy. I had only to drop the glove he had left behind him on the grass close below her window, and after that quarrel he would be suspected and hung. Nothing could have worked better for me; and then, too, I thought it would puzzle them to give them another scent to work on. There was another man had a grudge against Margaret; that was Forester, the poacher. I had picked up his knife in the wood just where he had killed my keeper, and afterwards I heard him telling his sweetheart, who was Margaret's maid, that he would kill Margaret for persuading her to give him up; so I dropped the knife by the side of the bed, and I thought that one or other of them would be sure to be hung; but somehow that didn't come right. I believe the girl hid the knife, only I didn't dare question her about it. But that didn't matter; the fellow would be hung one way or the other for killing my keeper. But the other was a glorious thing, and I chuckled over it. It was hard to look calm and grave when I was giving evidence against Ronald, and when all the fools were thinking that he did it, when it was me all the time. Didn't I do it cleverly, Volkes? I hid her things where the gardener was sure to find them the first time he dug up the bed. They let Ronald off, but he will not come back again, and I don't suppose he will ever marry; so there is an end of the curse as far as he's concerned. Then I waited a bit, but the devil was always at my elbow, telling me to finish the good work, and last night I did it. I put the candle to the curtains in all the rooms downstairs, and stood and watched them blaze up until it got too hot to stay any longer. It was a grand sight, and I could hear the Spanish woman laughing and shouting. She has had her way with us for a long time, but now it's all over; the curse of the Carnes is played out. There, didn't I cheat you nicely, Volkes, you and all the others? You never suspected me, not one of you. I used to keep grave all day, but at night when I was in my room alone I laughed for hours to think of all the dogs on the wrong scent."
 
His three listeners looked at each other silently.
 
"It was a grand thing to put an end to the curse," Reginald Carne rambled on. "It was no pain to her; and if she had lived, the trouble would have come upon her children."
 
"You know that you are hurt beyond chance of recovery, Carne," the magistrate said, gravely. "It is a terrible story that you have told us. I think that you ought to put it down on paper, so that other people may know how it was done; because, you see, at present, an innocent man is suspected."
 
"What do I care? That is nothing to me one way or the other. I am glad I have succeeded in frightening Ronald Mervyn away, and I hope he will never come back again. You don't suppose I am going to help to bring him home!"
 
Mr. Volkes saw that he had made a mistake. "Yes, I quite understand you don't want him back," he said, soothingly. "I thought, perhaps, that you would like people to know how you had sacrificed yourself to put an end to the curse, and how cleverly you had managed to deceive every one. People would never believe us if we were to tell them. They would say either that you did not know what you were talking about, or that it was empty boasting on your part."
 
"They may think what they like," he said, sullenly; "it is nothing to me what they think."
 
There was a change in the tone of his voice that caused the doctor to put his hand on his wrist again.
 
"Let me give you a few drops more of brandy, Carne."
 
"No, I will not," the dying man said. "I suppose you want to keep me alive to get some more out of me, but you won't. I won't speak again."
 
The others held a whispered conversation in the corner.
 
"He is going fast," the doctor said. "It is a marvel that his voice is as strong as it is. He certainly won't live till morning. It is likely he may die within an hour."
 
"I will ask him another question or two," Mr. Volkes said. "If we could but get something to corroborate his story, it would be invaluable."
 
But Reginald Carne spoke no more.
 
He heard what was said to him, for he laughed the same malicious laugh that had thrilled the crowd as he stood on the parapet, but it was low and feeble now. In hopes that he might yet change his mind, Mr. Volkes and the clergyman remained with Dr. Arrowsmith for another hour. At the end of that time Reginald Carne startled them by speaking again, clearly and distinctly:
 
"I tell you it's all over, you witch; you have done us harm enough, but I have beaten you. It was you against me, and I have won. There is nothing more for you to do here, and you can go to your place. Carne's Hold is down, and the curse is broken."
 
As he ceased speaking the doctor moved quietly up to the side of the stretcher, put his finger on his wrist, and stood there for a minute, then he bent down and listened.
 
"He is gone," he said, "the poor fellow is dead." The three gentlemen went outside the cottage; some of the people were standing near waiting for news of Reginald Carne's state. "Mr. Carne has just died," the doctor said, as he went up to them. "Will one of you find Mrs. Wilson and tell her to bring another woman with her and see to him? In the morning I will make arrangements to have him taken down to the village."
 
"What do you think we had better do about this, Dr. Arrowsmith?" Mr. Volkes asked as he rejoined them. "Do you believe this story?"
 
"Unquestionably I do," the doctor replied. "I believe every word of it."
 
"But the man was mad, doctor."
 
"Yes, he was mad and has been so for a long time in my opinion, but that makes no difference whatever in my confidence that he was speaking truly. Confessions of this kind from a madman are generally true; their cunning is prodigious, and as long as they wish to conceal a fact it is next to impossible to get it from them; but when, as in the present case, they are proud of their cleverness and of the success with which they have fooled other people, they will tell everything. You see their ideas of right and wrong are entirely upset; the real lunatic is unconscious of having committed a crime, and is inclined even to glory in it."
 
"I wish we could have got him to sign," the magistrate said.
 
"I am sure he could not have held the pen," Dr. Arrowsmith replied. "I will certify to that effect, and as we three all heard the confession, I think that if you draw it out and we sign it as witnesses, it will have just as good an effect as if he had written it himself."
 
"There was one part, doctor, that surprised me even more than the rest—that was the part relating to the man Forester. I don't believe a soul suspected him of being in any way connected with the crime. At least we heard nothing of a knife being found, nor, of course, of the quarrel between Forester and the girl; Ruth Powlett, was it not?"
 
"No; that is all new to us," the doctor said.
 
"I think the best way would be to see her in the morning. She may not like to confess that she concealed the knife, if she did so. Of course, if she does, it will be an invaluable confirmation of his story, and will show conclusively that his confession was not a mere delusion of a madman's brain."
 
"Yes, indeed," the doctor agreed, "that would clench the matter altogether, and I am almost certain you will find that what he has said is true. The girl was in my hands a short time before Miss Carne's death. They said she had had a fall, but to my mind it seemed more like a severe mental shock. Then after Miss Carne's death she was very ill again, and there was something about her that puzzled me a good deal. For instance, she insisted upon remaining in court until the verdict was given, and that at a time when she was so ill she could scarcely stand. She was so obstinate over the matter that it completely puzzled me; but if what Carne said was true, and she had the knowledge of something that would have gone very far to prove Ronald Mervyn's innocence, the matter is explained. The only difficulty before us is to get her to speak, because, of course, she cannot do so without laying herself open to a charge—I don't mean a criminal charge, but a moral one—of having suppressed evidence in a manner that concerned a man's life. I think the best plan will be for us to meet at your house, Mr. Volkes, at eleven o'clock to-morrow. I will go into the village before that, and will bring Ruth Powlett up in my gig, and if you will allow me I will do the talking to her. I have had her a good deal in my hands for the last year, and I think she has confidence in me, and will perhaps answer me more freely than she would you as a magistrate."
 
"Very likely she would, doctor. Let the arrangement stand as you propose."
 
The next morning, at half-past ten, Dr. Arrowsmith drove up in his gig to the mill. Ruth came to the door.
 
"Ruth," he said, "I want you to put on your bonnet and shawl and let me drive you a short distance. I have something particular that I want to talk to you about, and want to have you to myself for a bit."
 
A good deal surprised, Ruth went into the house and reappeared in two or three minutes warmly wrapped up.
 
"That's right," the doctor said; "jump in."
 
Ruth Powlett was the first to speak.
 
"I suppose it is true, sir, that poor Mr. Carne is dead?"
 
"Yes, he died at two o'clock. Ruth, I have a curious thing to tell you about him; but I will wait until we get through the village; I have no doubt that it will surprise you as much as it surprised me."
 
Ruth said nothing until they had crossed the bridge over the Dare.
 
"What is it?" she asked at last.
 
"Well, Ruth, at present it is only known to Mr. Vickery, Mr. Volkes, and myself, and, whatever happens, I want you to say nothing about it until I give you leave. Now, Ruth, I have some sort of idea that what I am going to tell you will relieve your mind of a burden."
 
Ruth turned pale.
 
"Relieve my mind, sir!" she repeated.
 
"Yes, Ruth; I may be wrong, and if I am I can only say beforehand that I am sorry; but I have an idea that you suspect, and have for a long time suspected, that George Forester murdered Miss Carne."
 
Ruth did not speak, but looking down, the doctor saw by the pallor of her cheeks and the expression of her face that his supposition was correct.
 
"I think, Ruth, that has been your idea. If so, I can relieve your mind. Mr. Carne before his death confessed that he murdered his sister." Ruth gave a start and a cry. She reeled in her seat, and would have fallen had not the doctor thrown his arm round her. "Steady, my child, steady," he said; "this is a surprise to you, I have no doubt, and, whatever it is to others, probably a joyful one."
 
Ruth broke into a violent fit of sobbing. The doctor did not attempt to check her, but when she gradually recovered he said, "That is strange news, is it not, Ruth?"
 
"But did he mean it, sir?" she asked. "Did he know what he was saying when he said so?"
 
"He knew perfectly well, Ruth; he told us a long story, but I will not tell you what it is now. We shall be at Mr. Volkes's in a minute, and we shall find Mr. Vickery there, and I want you to tell us what you know about it before you hear what Mr. Carne's story was. I do hope that you will tell us everything you know. Only in that way can we clear Captain Mervyn."
 
"I will tell you everything I know, sir," Ruth said, quietly; "I told Miss Armstrong five weeks ago, and was only waiting till she heard from some one she has written to before telling it to every one."
 
The gig now drew up at the door of the magistrate's house, and Dr. Arrowsmith led Ruth into the sitting-room, where Mr. Volkes and the clergyman were awaiting her.
 
"Sit down here, Ruth," the doctor said, handing her a chair. "Now, gentlemen, I may tell you first that I have told Miss Powlett that Mr. Carne has confessed that he killed his sister. I have not told her a single word more. It was, of course, of the highest importance that she should not know the nature of his story before telling you her own. She has expressed her willingness to tell you all she kno............