That night the crowd that gathered in the Coliseum to see the new play, went away angry and disappointed; for Clarissa Lambert was not acting.  Another actress took her part—­but how differently!  And all the while she, for whose sake they had come, was on her knees wrestling with a grimmer tragedy than “Francesca,” with no other audience than the angels of pity.

Twenty-four hours had passed, and found me hastening towards Old Kensington; for in my pocket lay a note bearing only the words “Come at 3.30—­Claire,” and on my heart rested a load of suspense unbearable.  For many minutes beforehand, I paced up and down outside the house in an agony, and as my watch pointed to the half-hour, knocked and was admitted.

Mrs. Luttrell met me in the passage.  She seemed most terribly white and worn, so that I was astonished when she simply said, “Claire is slightly unwell, and in fact could not act last night, but she wishes to see you for some reason.”

Wondering why Claire’s mother should look so strangely if she guessed nothing of what had happened, but supposing illness to be the reason, I stopped for an instant to ask.

“Am I pale?” she answered.  “It is nothing—­nothing—­do not take any notice of it.  I am rather weaker than usual to-day, that is all—­a mere nothing.  You will find Claire in the drawing-room there.”  And so she left me.

I knocked at the drawing-room door, and hearing a faint voice inside, entered.  As I did so, Claire rose to meet me.  She was very pale, and the dark circles around her eyes told of a long vigil; but her manner at first was composed and even cold.

“Claire!” I cried, and stretched out my hands.

“Not yet,” she said, and motioned me to a chair.  “I sent for you because I have been thinking of—­of—­what happened yesterday, and I want you to tell me all; the whole story from beginning to end.”

“But—­”

“There is no ‘but’ in the case, Jasper.  I am Janet Railton, and you say that my father killed yours.  Tell me how it was.”

Her manner was so calm that I hesitated at first, bewildered.  Then, finding that she waited for me to speak, I sat down facing her and began my story.

I told it through, without suppression or concealment, from the time when my father started to seek the treasure, down to the cowardly blow that had taken my friend’s life.  During the whole narrative she never took her eyes from my face for more than a moment.  Her very lips were bloodless, but her manner was as quiet as though I were reading her some story of people who had never lived.  Once only she interrupted me.  I was repeating the conversation between her father and Simon Colliver upon Dead Man’s Rock.

“You are quite sure,” she asked, “of the words?  You are positive he said, ’Captain, it was your knife’?”

“Certain,” I answered sadly.

“You are giving the very words they both used?”