“I did it because I regarded her treatment of my suit as insolent.  I have no mercy for any such display of intolerance on the part of the rich and the fortunate.  I hated her for it; I hated her class, herself and all she stood for.  To strike the dealer of such a hurt I felt to be my right.  Though a man of small beginnings and of a stock which such as you call common, I have a pride which few of your blood can equal.  I could not work, or sleep or eat with such a sting in my breast as she had planted there.  To rid myself of it, I determined to kill her, and I did.  How?  Oh, that was easy, though it has proved a great stumbling-block to the detectives, as I knew it would!  I shot her—­but not with an ordinary bullet.  My charge was a small icicle made deliberately for the purpose.  It had strength enough to penetrate, but it left no trace behind it.  ‘A bullet of ice for a heart of ice,’ I had said in the torment of my rage.  But the word was without knowledge, Mr. Challoner.  I see it now; I have seen it for two whole weeks.  I did not misjudge her condemnation of me, but I misjudged its cause.  It was not to the comparatively poor, the comparatively obscure man she sought to show contempt, but to the brother of Oswald whose claims she saw insulted.  A woman I should have respected, not killed.  A woman of no pride of station; a woman who loved a man not only of my own class but of my own blood—­a woman, to avenge whose unmerited death I stand here before you a self-condemned criminal.  That is but justice, Mr. Challoner.  That is the way I look at things.  Though no sentimentalist; and dead to all beliefs save the eternal truths of science, I have that in me which will not let me profit, now that I know myself unworthy, by the great success I have earned.  Hence this confession, Mr. Challoner.  It has not come easily, nor do I shut my eyes in the least to the results which must follow.  But I can not do differently.  To-morrow, you may telegraph to New York.  Till then I desire to be left undisturbed.  I have many things to dispose of in the interim.”

Mr. Challoner, very white by now, pointed to the door before he sank again into his chair.  Brotherson took it for dismissal and stepped slowly back.  Then their eyes met again and Mr. Challoner spoke his first word: 

“There was another—­a poor woman—­she died suddenly—­and her wound was not unlike that inflicted upon Edith.  Did you—­”

“I did.”  The answer came without a tremour.  “You may say and so may others that I was less justified in this attack than in the other; but I do not see it that way.  A theory does not always work in practice.  I wished to test the unusual means I contemplated, and the woman I saw before me across the court was hard-working and with nothing in life to look forward to, so—­”

A cry of bitter execration from Mr. Challoner cut him short.  Turning with a shrug he was about to lift his hand to the door, when he gave a violent start and fell hastily back before a quickly entering figure of such passion and fury as neither of these men had ever seen before.