Robinson gave her some in a spoon.

“Now lie quietly and do not attempt to speak,” he commanded.  “You need all your strength.”

“I do—­to tell that which I wish to tell,” gasped Mrs. Jasher, trying to raise herself.  “Sir Frank!  Sir Frank!” Her voice sounded hoarse and weak.

“Yes, Mrs. Jasher,” said the young man, coming softly to the bedside.

She thrust out a weak hand and clutched him.

“You must be my father-confessor, and hear all.  You got the emerald?”

“What!” Random recoiled in astonishment, “Did you—­”

“Yes, I sent it to you as a wedding present.  I was sorry and I was afraid; and I—­I—­” She paused again, gasping.

The doctor intervened and gave her more brandy.

“You must not talk,” he insisted severely, “or I shall turn Sir Frank and Mr. Hope out of the room.”

“No! no!  Give me more brandy—­more—­more.” and when the doctor placed a tumbler to her lips, she drank so greedily that he had to take the glass away lest she should do herself harm.  But the ardent spirit put new life into her, and with a superhuman effort she suddenly reared herself in the bed.

“Come here, Hope—­come here, Random,” she said in a much stronger voice.  “I have much to tell you.  Yes, I took the emerald after dark and threw it into the sentry box when the man wasn’t looking.  I escaped your spy, Random, and I escaped the notice of the sentry.  I walked like a cat, and like a cat I can see in the dark.  I am glad you have got the emerald.”

“Where did you get it?” asked Random quietly.

“That’s a long story.  I don’t know that I have the strength to tell it.  I have written it out.”

“You have written it out?” said Hope quickly, and drawing near.

“Yes.  Jane thought that I was writing letters, but I was writing out the whole story of the murder.  You were good to me, Random, you dear boy, and on the impulse of the moment I took the emerald to you.  I was sorry when I got back, but it was too late then to repent, as I did not dare to go near the Fort again.  Your spy who watched might have discovered me the second time.  I then thought that I would write out the story of the murder, so as to exonerate myself.”

“Then you are not guilty of Bolton’s death?” asked Sir Frank, puzzled, for her confession was somewhat incoherent.

“No.  I did not strangle him.  But I know who did.  I have written it all down.  I was just finishing when I heard the tapping at the window.  I let him in and he tried to get the confession, for I told him what I had done.”

“Who did you tell?” asked Hope, much excited.

Mrs. Jasher took no notice.

“The confession is lying on my desk—­all the sheets of paper are loose.  I had no time to bind them together, for he came in.  He wanted the emerald, and the confession.  I told him that I had given the emerald to you, Random, and that I had confessed all in writing.  Then he went mad and flew at me with a dreadful knife.  He knocked over the candles and the lamp.  Everything went out and all was darkness, and I lay crying for help, with that devil stabbing—­stabbing—­ah—­”