Carteret smiled sadly.

“I am sorry, Mr. Delamere,” he said, “that you should permit yourself to be so exercised about a worthless scoundrel who has forfeited his right to live.  The proof against him is overwhelming.  As to his capability of crime, we will apply your own test.  You have been kept in the dark too long, Mr. Delamere,—­indeed, we all have,—­about others as well as this negro.  Listen, sir:  last night, at the Clarendon Club, Tom Delamere was caught cheating outrageously at cards.  He had been suspected for some time; a trap was laid for him, and be fell into it.  Out of regard for you and for my family, he has been permitted to resign quietly, with the understanding that he first pay off his debts, which are considerable.”

Mr. Delamere’s face, which had taken on some color in the excitement of the interview, had gradually paled to a chalky white while Carteret was speaking.  His head sunk forward; already an old man, he seemed to have aged ten years in but little more than as many seconds.

“Can this be true?” he demanded in a hoarse whisper.  “Is it—­entirely authentic?”

“True as gospel; true as it is that Mrs. Ochiltree has been murdered, and that this negro killed her.  Ellis was at the club a few minutes after the affair happened, and learned the facts from one of the participants.  Tom made no attempt at denial.  We have kept the matter out of the other papers, and I would have spared your feelings,—­I surely would not wish to wound them,—­but the temptation proved too strong for me, and it seemed the only way to convince you:  it was your own test.  If a gentleman of a distinguished name and an honorable ancestry, with all the restraining forces of social position surrounding him, to hold him in check, can stoop to dishonor, what is the improbability of an illiterate negro’s being at least capable of crime?”

“Enough, sir,” said the old gentleman.  “You have proved enough.  My grandson may be a scoundrel,—­I can see, in the light of this revelation, how he might be; and he seems not to have denied it.  I maintain, nevertheless, that my man Sandy is innocent of the charge against him.  He has denied it, and it has not been proved.  Carteret, I owe that negro my life; he, and his father before him, have served me and mine faithfully and well.  I cannot see him killed like a dog, without judge or jury,—­no, not even if he were guilty, which I do not believe!”

Carteret felt a twinge of remorse for the pain he had inflicted upon this fine old man, this ideal gentleman of the ideal past,—­the past which he himself so much admired and regretted.  He would like to spare his old friend any further agitation; he was in a state of health where too great excitement might prove fatal.  But how could he?  The negro was guilty, and sure to die sooner or later.  He had not meant to interfere, and his intervention might be fruitless.