“Oh, it is you, Mr. Delamere.”

“Carteret,” exclaimed Mr. Delamere, “I must speak to you immediately, and alone.”

“Excuse me a moment, gentlemen,” said Carteret, turning to those within the room.  “I’ll be back in a moment—­don’t go away.”

Ellis had left the room, closing the door behind him.  Mr. Delamere and Carteret were quite alone.

“Carteret,” declared the old gentleman, “this murder must not take place.”

“‘Murder’ is a hard word,” replied the editor, frowning slightly.

“It is the right word,” rejoined Mr. Delamere, decidedly.  “It would be a foul and most unnatural murder, for Sandy did not kill Mrs. Ochiltree.”

Carteret with difficulty restrained a smile of pity.  His old friend was very much excited, as the tremor in his voice gave proof.  The criminal was his trusted servant, who had proved unworthy of confidence.  No one could question Mr. Delamere’s motives; but he was old, his judgment was no longer to be relied upon.  It was a great pity that he should so excite and overstrain himself about a worthless negro, who had forfeited his life for a dastardly crime.  Mr. Delamere had had two paralytic strokes, and a third might prove fatal.  He must be dealt with gently.

“Mr. Delamere,” he said, with patient tolerance, “I think you are deceived.  There is but one sure way to stop this execution.  If your servant is innocent, you must produce the real criminal.  If the negro, with such overwhelming proofs against him, is not guilty, who is?”

“I will tell you who is,” replied Mr. Delamere.  “The murderer is,”—­the words came with a note of anguish, as though torn from his very heart,—­“the murderer is Tom Delamere, my own grandson!”

“Impossible, sir!” exclaimed Carteret, starting back involuntarily.  “That could not be!  The man was seen leaving the house, and he was black!”

“All cats are gray in the dark, Carteret; and, moreover, nothing is easier than for a white man to black his face.  God alone knows how many crimes have been done in this guise!  Tom Delamere, to get the money to pay his gambling debts, committed this foul murder, and then tried to fasten it upon as honest and faithful a soul as ever trod the earth.”

Carteret, though at first overwhelmed by this announcement, perceived with quick intuition that it might easily be true.  It was but a step from fraud to crime, and in Delamere’s need of money there lay a palpable motive for robbery,—­the murder may have been an afterthought.  Delamere knew as much about the cedar chest as the negro could have known, and more.

But a white man must not be condemned without proof positive.

“What foundation is there, sir,” he asked, “for this astounding charge?”