I don’t know how long I sat there—only a few minutes in reality, I suppose. Yet it seemed as though an eternity had passed when I heard the door open and, turning my head, looked up to see Melchett entering the room.
He stared at Hawes asleep in his chair, then turned to me.
“What’s this, Clement? What does it all mean?”
Of the two letters in my hand I selected one and passed it to him. He read it aloud in a low voice.
“ My Dear Clement —It is a peculiarly unpleasant thing that I have to say. After all, I think I prefer writing it. We can discuss it at a later date. It concerns the recent speculations. I am sorry to say that I have satisfied myself beyond any possible doubt as to the identity of the culprit. Painful as it is for me to have to accuse an ordained priest of the church, my duty is only too painfully clear. An example must be made and—”
He looked at me questioningly. At this point the writing tailed off in an undistinguishable scrawl where death had overtaken the writer’s hand.
Melchett drew a deep breath, then looked at Hawes.
“So that’s the solution! The one man we never even considered. And remorse drove him to confess!”
“He’s been very queer lately,” I said.