There was a yet longer pause before Mr. Mardale spoke again.

“Stay then!” he said in the same gentle voice.  “I will fetch a light.”  He shuffled out of the room, and to Sir Charles it seemed again an inconceivably long time before he returned.  He came back with a single candle, which he placed upon the table, a little star of light, showing the faces of the two men shadowy and dim.  He closed the door carefully, and coming back, said simply: 

“You know.”

“Yes.”

“How did you find out?”

“I saw the grave.  I noticed the remarkable height of the mound.  I guessed.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Mardale, and in a low voice he explained.  “I found the book here one day, that he left by accident.  On December 11th Mrs. Ripley was buried, and that night he left the house—­for the stables, yes, but he did not return from the stables.  It seemed quite clear to me where he would be that night.  People hereabouts take me for a man crazed and daft, I know that very well, but I know something of passion, Sir Charles.  I have had my griefs to bear.  Oh, I knew where he would be.  I followed over the hill down to the churchyard of Burley Wood.  I had no thought of what I should do.  I carried a stick in my hand, I had no thought of using it.  But I found him lying full-length upon the grave with his lips pressed to the earth of it, whispering to her who lay beneath him....  I called to him to stand up and he did.  I bade him, if he dared, repeat the words he had used to my face, to me, the father of the girl he had married, and he did—­triumphantly, recklessly.  I struck at him with the knob of my stick, the knob was heavy, I struck with all my might, the blow fell upon his forehead.  The spade was lying on the ground beside the grave.  I buried him with her.  Now what will you do?”

“Nothing,” said Sir Charles.

“But Mr. Jerkley asked you to help him.”

“I shall tell a lie.”

“My friend, there is no need,” said the old man with his gentle smile.  “When I went out for this candle I ...”  Sir Charles broke in upon him in a whirl of horror.

“No.  Don’t say it!  You did not!”

“I did,” replied Mr. Mardale.  “The poison is a kindly one.  I shall be dead before morning.  I shall sleep my way to death.  I do not mind, for I fear that, after all, my inventions are of little worth.  I have left a confession on my writing-desk.  There is no reason—­is there?—­why he and she should be kept apart?”

It was not a question which Sir Charles could discuss.  He said nothing, and was again left alone in the darkness, listening to the shuffling footsteps of Mr. Mardale as, for the last time, he mounted the stairs.

MR. MITCHELBOURNE’S LAST ESCAPADE.