“Who, in heaven's name, is the man?” demanded Random, standing up in his eagerness. But Mrs. Jasher had fallen back in a faint, and Robinson was again supplying her with brandy.
“You had better leave the room, you two,” he said, “or I can't be answerable for her life.”
“I must stay and learn the truth,” said Random determinedly, “and you, Hope, go into the parlor and find that confession. It is on the desk, as she said, all loose sheets. No doubt it was the confession which the man she refers to tried to secure when he came back the second time. He may make another attempt, or Painter may go to sleep. Hurry! hurry!”
Archie needed no second telling, as he realized what hung on the securing of the confession. He stole swiftly out of the room, closing the door after him. Faint as was the sound, Mrs. Jasher heard it and opened her eyes.
“Do not go, Random,” she said faintly. “I have yet much to say, although the confession will tell you all. I am half sorry I wrote it out—at least I was—and perhaps should have burnt it had I not met with this accident.”
“Accident!” echoed Sir Frank scornfully. “Murder you mean.”
The sinister word galvanized the dying woman in sudden strong life, and she reared herself again on the bed.
“Murder! Yes, it is murder,” she cried loudly. “He killed Sidney Bolton to get the emeralds, and he killed me to make me close my mouth.”
“Who stabbed you? Speak! speak!” cried Random anxiously.