“Yes,” and Mr. Crawford took a document from the same drawer whence he had taken the pistol; “there is Joseph Crawford’s will, leaving all his property to Florence Lloyd.”

Mechanically, Mr. Randolph took the paper his client passed to him, and, after a glance at it, laid it on the table in front of him.

“That was my crime,” said Philip Crawford solemnly, “and I thank God that I can confess it and make restitution.  I must have been suddenly possessed of a devil of greed, for the moment I saw that will, I knew that if I took it away the property would be mine, and I would then run no danger of being ruined by my stock speculations.  I had a dim feeling that I should eventually give all, or a large part, of the fortune to Florence, but at the moment I was obsessed by evil, and I—­I stole my brother’s will.”

It was an honest confession of an awful crime.  But under the spell of that strong, low voice, and the upright bearing of that impressive figure, we could not, at the moment, condemn; we could only listen and wait.

“Then,” the speaker proceeded, “I was seized with the terrific, unreasoning fear that I dare say always besets a malefactor.  I had but one thought, to get away, and leave the murder to be discovered by some one else.  In a sort of subconscious effort at caution, I took my pistol, lest it prove incriminating evidence against me, but in my mad frenzy of fear, I gave no thought to the gold bag or the newspaper.  I came home, secreted the will and the revolver, and ever since I have had no doubts as to the existence of a hell.  A thousand times I have been on the point of making this confession, and even had it not been brought about as it has, I must have given way soon.  No mortal could stand out long under the pressure of remorse and regret that has been on me this past week.  Now, gentlemen, I have told you all.  The action you may take in this matter must be of your own choosing.  But, except for the stigma of past sin, I stand again before the world, with no unconfessed crime upon my conscience.  I stole the will; I have restored it.  But my hands are clean of the blood of my brother, and I am now free to add my efforts to yours to find the criminal and avenge the crime.”

He had not raised his voice above those low, even tones in which he had started his recital; he had made no bid for leniency of judgment; but, to a man, his three hearers rose and held out friendly hands to him as he finished his story.

“Thank you,” he said simply, as he accepted this mute token of our belief in his word.  “I am gratified at your kindly attitude, but I realize, none the less, what this will all mean for me.  Not only myself but my innocent family must share my disgrace.  However, that is part of the wrongdoer’s punishment—­that results fall not only on his own head, but on the heads and hearts of his loved ones.”

“Mr. Goodrich,” said Mr. Randolph, “I don’t know how you look upon this matter from your official viewpoint, but unless you deem it necessary, I should think that this confidence of Mr. Crawford’s need never be given to the public.  May we not simply state that the missing will has been found, without any further disclosures?”