Langholm thereupon spoke more openly of his whole case against Steel, who instantly admitted its strength.

“But I owe you an apology,” the latter added, “not only for something I said to you this afternoon, more in mischief than in malice, which I would nevertheless unsay if I could, but for deliberately manufacturing the last link in your chain.  I happened to buy both my revolvers and Minchin’s from a hawker up the country; his were a present from me; and, as they say out there, one pair was the dead spit of the other.  This morning when I found I was being shadowed by these local heroes, it occurred to me for my own amusement to put one of my pair in a thoroughly conspicuous place, and this afternoon I could not resist sending you to the room to add it to your grand discoveries.  You see, I could have proved an alibi for the weapon, at all events, during my trip to town a year ago.  Yes, poor Minchin wrote to me, and I went up to town by the next train to take him by surprise.  How you got to know of his letter I can’t conceive.  But it carried no hint of blackmail.  I think you did wonders, and I hope you will forgive me for that little trap; it really wasn’t set for you.  It is also perfectly true that I stayed at the Cadogan and was out at that particular time.  I went there because it was the one decent hotel I knew of in those parts, which was probably your own reason, and I was out reconnoitring my old friend’s house because I knew him for an inveterate late-bird, and he did not write as though marriage had improved his habits.  In fact, as you know, he had gone to the dogs altogether.”

This reminded Langholm of the hour.

“It is late now,” said he, “and I must be off.  Poor Severino had not a relation in this country that I know of.  There will be a great deal to do to-morrow.”

Steel at once insisted on bearing all expenses; that would be the lightest part, he said.  “You have done so much!” he added.  “By the way, you can’t go without saying good-night to my wife.  She has still to thank you.”

“I don’t want to be thanked.”

“But for you the truth might never have come out.”

“Still I shall be much happier if she never speaks of it again.”

“Very well, she shall not—­on one condition.”

“What is that?”

“Langholm, I thought last summer we were to be rather friends?  I don’t think that of many people.  May I still think it of you?”

“If you will,” said Langholm.  “I—­I don’t believe I ever should have brought myself to give you away!”

“You behaved most fairly, my dear fellow.  I shall not forget it, nor the way you scored off the blackmailer Abel.  If it is any satisfaction to you, I will tell you what his secret was.  Nay, I may as well; and my wife, I must tell her too, though all these months I have hidden it from her; but I have no doubt he took it to the police when you failed him.  It is bound to get about, but I can live it down as I did the thing itself.  Langholm, like many a better man, I left my country for my country’s good.  Never mind the offence; the curious can hunt up the case, and will perhaps admit there have been worse.  But that man and I were transported to Western Australia on the same vessel in ’69.”