"That's all right, then!" said the big man with satisfaction. "I'll tell Jean just what you have said. In the event of your learning the truth, we felt some concern as to whether or not you'd be--be--"

"_What?_"

"Well--human!"

"Um." The detective gave a little laugh that was totally devoid of mirth. "Yes, I'm going to be--human! I fought that battle all day yesterday! I find that Ocky means more to me than--than honor, to put it bluntly and melodramatically."

"Cheers!" cried the unscrupulous Mr. Krech. "Loud cheers!"

"I came to another decision," continued Creighton seriously, "one that is dictated by common decency if nothing else. This is my last case.

My shingle is coming down forthwith. I haven't met the acid test.

I've quit under fire. I'm a deserter from the ranks. I'm--_through_!"

He shook his head as Krech started to protest. "No. Whatever happens, that is definitely settled."

"Whatever happens," repeated the big man musingly, the phrase recalling him to certain practical considerations. "Let's see. Jean and I know the truth; we're mum. Janet knows it; she's safe. How about Kitty Doyle? That young lady is sharper than a serpent's tooth, as I remember her! Suppose she tumbles to It? Will she join the conspiracy of silence?"

"I believe Kitty is a friend of mine," said Creighton, and added simply, "I'm singularly fortunate in my friends, Krech."

The next moment he jumped nervously as some one rapped gently on his door. He glanced at the big man appealingly, and sat down again on the edge of his bed.

"All right," grinned Krech. "Leave it to me!"

"A telegram for Mr. Creighton, sir," said Bates, as the door was opened to him. "The boy just brought it this minute."

"That must be something from Kitty now," muttered Creighton when the butler had gone. "Open it and read it, will you? My nerve has gone to pieces!" He shifted uneasily. "Hurry up!"

"Yes, it's from Kitty," confirmed Krech, opening the envelope and glancing at the signature on the message. "A long one, too. Here goes!" He held the paper under the lamp and began to read, casually at first, then rapidly as the import of the dispatch quickened his pulse.

"_Arrived hotel. Secured room adjoining Janet. Bed early. Was restless, talkative. Unable distinguish words. Picked lock communicating door. Listened by bed. Incoherent. Suddenly awoke.

Surprised me. I used own judgment as instructed. Made best of bad situation. Accused her of murder. Threatened her with police.

Terrible scene. Frantic denials followed by complete collapse. Full confession. Made lengthy synopsis. Obtained signature. Abruptly she seemed to go mad. Raved wildly. On point summoning a.s.sistance when violently attacked. Threw me in corner. Threw bureau on top of me.

Before interference possible ran to open window. Jumped out. Six stories. Death instantaneous. Wire instructions. K. Doyle._"

"Gee Joseph!" gasped Krech, and handed the telegram to the detective, who had sprung to his elbow long since and peered over his shoulder.

The big man walked back to his chair and dropped into it limply. "I'm all unstarched!" he said plaintively. "Save my sanity and tell me what it's all about! How many people killed Simon Varr?"

"One!" answered Creighton grimly, but his eyes were shining. "Janet Mackay! And Ocky--Ocky thought she was dying--! She tried to shield Janet by a.s.suming the guilt! Merciful Heaven, what a thing to do! No wonder she insisted on my recalling Kitty Doyle at once! Threatened to turn her sacrifice into a wasted gesture, Kitty did--and, by golly, Kitty _has_! But it wasn't wasted as far as we're concerned--we can always appreciate it! It was fine, Krech--fine!"

"But foolish," grunted Krech. "Think of the unhappiness she would have caused every one who is fond of her if she'd been allowed to roll up her reputation into a ball and kick it away!"

"Don't you suppose that thought hurt her?" cried Creighton. "If laying down your life for a friend exemplifies the greater love, what of a woman who lays down her reputation? Isn't that even finer?"

"Y-yes. Perhaps you're right. But--she condoned a crime."

"Uh-huh. And I think you and I are in a nice position to criticize her, aren't we? Perhaps Jean might help us there!"

Creighton, carried out of himself by a _denouement_ almost beyond belief, was close to laughter. Mr. Krech was not. He left his chair and began to saunter uncertainly around the room, pausing finally at the desk and staring down at its blotter, his back turned to his companion. A more neutral observer than the other, he thought he could see a question arising that had not yet occurred to the less-unprejudiced detective. But Creighton would stumble upon it eventually--far better to thrash it out now.

"Why did Janet kill Simon Varr?" he opened the subject.

"Why--why--" Creighton stammered, at a loss for a moment, but recovered himself swiftly as an answer came. "Don't you understand that? Her motive was the one Ocky professed! She was playing Destiny! She knew all about Varr--they discussed him at length--and she had always had a distaste for the man since the old days in this house. When Ocky told her the story of the monk, it was she who conceived the idea of the masquerade. It was she who knew Maxon's propensity for mischief-making and selected him as a deputy. It was she who threatened Simon, fired the tannery--but why go on? The two women are simply interchangeable, and Ocky had only to repeat in her own person the confession she forced from Janet--"

"Why was she so long suspecting Janet?"

"Huh? Well--if a murder is committed are you apt to suspect a person you've known as well as you know yourself for twenty-five years? I've been wondering what first directed Ocky's suspicion to her companion, and I think I have the answer. The other day when Sherwood was describing the actions of the monk at the time of the murder, Ocky suddenly revealed a tremendous lot of emotion; depend upon it, something he said then must have given her a clue to the truth. And the incident of the fingerprints on the notebook--change one woman for the other and that is explained! It was not the cautious Janet that found the book in Ocky's bureau--it was the heedless Ocky who found it somewhere among Janet's things and never stopped to think that she was leaving prints when she picked it up!"

"But--this playing Destiny, as you call it. Ocky could do that without fear of the consequences, since she believed her days to be numbered, but could Janet?"

"Why not?" Creighton's voice was still confident but he had begun to look askance at his friend as he caught a hint of something more serious behind this inquisition. "Haven't we an explanation for that in Kitty's telegram? She says 'Janet seemed to go mad'. Isn't that the whole story after all? Janet was unbalanced; she pondered the cussedness of Varr; she fell victim to an obsession. She began to picture herself as a scourge of the unrighteous--she probably read up on Jael and Charlotte Corday and women like that. Her brain cracked.

I'm not romancing, either. History is full of cold-blooded murders committed from motives of altruism. Common enough, both the cause and effect. Anyway, we have Janet's full confession coming to us--" He broke off short at an involuntary movement on the part of his friend--and abruptly a fear crept into his eyes. "_Krech_--what are you thinking of?"

"The same thing you are, Creighton."

"Put it into words!" commanded the detective fiercely.

"You've done it yourself. You have pointed out that the two women are interchangeable. So they are--even to the point where each makes what is tantamount to a dying statement! Ocky's confession was convincing when you heard it, wasn't it? Janet's will be equally so when it arrives. Creighton--which are we to believe?"

"That's it!" whispered Creighton. "That's it!"

The big man came back slowly from the desk. They stared at each other blankly. The light had gone from the detective's eyes, the new born life from his limbs. He felt weak and beaten as he contemplated this fresh perplexity. He moistened his lips before he could speak.

"It--it seems to resolve itself into a problem in psychology," he said wearily. "No definite, tangible proof either way. Janet was perhaps the more likely of the two to commit murder--I know something of that dour Scotch temperament and its slow-burning fire that suddenly explodes into flame. She traveled with Ocky and imbibed her own share of Oriental fatalism. On the other hand, Ocky was far the cleverer of the two, there's no denying that. Hers would be the brain more apt to conceive the masquerade of the monk, the promotion of the strike, the concoction of that note with its queer phrases--'stiff-necked son of Belial', 'thunderbolts of wrath'--all that stuff. Yet again, those are just the expressions Janet might use if she were afflicted with a semi-religious mania! But Ocky was better equipped mentally to carry the scheme through, that took a cool head, and Janet, from Kitty's account, was rather of the emotional, high-strung, hysterical type.

Oh--!" Creighton raised his two hands and dropped them despairingly.

"Krech--I'm just going around in circles!"

"There's no other place _to_ go," declared the big man morosely. "But I disagree with your last description of Janet. She may have been hysterical in Montreal but she was cool enough the last time I saw her.

The way she marched down to that brook with evidence of a first degree murder under her arm! And the way she stood watching the bubbles, nodding her head and rubbing her hands together as if to say, 'Well, _that's_ a good job done!'-- _Creighton_! What is it?"

The detective did not reply. Perhaps he could not trust his voice, perhaps he wished to enjoy in silence the wave of happiness and exquisite relief that flooded his breast. He rose abruptly, and further to conceal his emotion he walked to the French window and flung it open.

The night was gone. The eastern sky was a blaze of crimson glory.

Some of its radiance was reflected from his face as he draw a deep breath of the fresh morning air.

"Hullo," he said huskily. "It--it's dawn!"

THE END