“Yet you needn’t have done it—­because—­your first idea was right!”

[Illustration:  “I’ll tell you who I thought it was at first,” said he, heartily.]

“Right?” echoed Langholm, densely.  “My first idea was—­right?”

“You said you first thought it was I who killed—­her husband.”

“It couldn’t have been!”

“But it was.”

Langholm got back to his feet.  He could conceive but one explanation of this preposterous statement.  Severino’s sickness had extended to his brain.  He was delirious.  This was the first sign.

“Where are you going?” asked the invalid, querulously, as his companion moved towards the door.

“When was the doctor here last?” demanded Langholm in return.

There was silence for a few moments, and then a faint laugh, that threatened to break into a sob, from the bed.

“I see what you think.  How can I convince you that I have all my wits about me?  I’d rather not have a light just yet—­but in my bag you’ll find a writing-case.  It is locked, but the keys are in my trouser’s pocket.  In my writing-case you will find a sealed envelope, and in that a fuller confession than I shall have breath to make to you.  Take it downstairs and glance at it—­then come back.”

“No, no,” said Langholm, hoarsely; “no, I believe you!  Yes—­it was my first idea!”

“I hardly knew what I was doing,” Severino whispered.  “I was delirious then, if you like!  Yet I remember it better than anything else in all my life.  I have never forgotten it for an hour—­since it first came back!”

“You really were unconscious for days afterwards?”

“I believe it was weeks.  Otherwise, you must know—­she will be the first to believe—­I never could have let her—­”

“My poor, dear fellow—­of course—­of course.”

Langholm felt for the emaciated hand, and stroked it as though it had been a child’s.  Yet that was the hand that had slain Alexander Minchin!  And Langholm thought of it; and still his own was almost womanly in the tender pity of its touch.

“I want to tell you,” the sick lad murmured.  “I wanted to tell her—­God knows it—­and that alone was why I came to her the moment I could find out where she was.  No—­no—­not that alone!  I am too ill to pretend any more.  It was not all pretence when I let you think it was only passion that drove me down here.  I believe I should have come, even if I had had nothing at all to tell her—­only to be near her—­as I was this afternoon!  But the other made it a duty.  Yet, when she came this afternoon, I could not do my duty.  I had not the courage.  It was too big a thing just to be with her again!  And then the other lady—­I thanked God for her too—­for she made it impossible for me to speak.  But to you I must ... especially after what you say.”

The man came out in Langholm’s ministrations.  “One minute,” he said; and returned in two or three with a pint of tolerable champagne.  “I keep a few for angel’s visits,” he explained; “but I am afraid I must light the candle.  I will put it at the other side of the room.  Do you mind the tumbler?  Now drink, and tell me only what you feel inclined, neither more nor less.”