Warm heart and nimble brain had done Tom Erichsen their last service; had undone their first and only injury; and this was the end between these two.
When the three men had the great room once more to themselves, Tom turned quietly to Daintree, who was now perfectly livid with rage and chagrin, and simply inquired whether he still denied his own crime.
“Deny it!” cried Daintree. “It is too preposterous to be worth denying. Show me what you have stolen; let us see this precious proof!”
“I have a live witness, too, if you force me to call him in.”
Tom went to a window and had thrown up a sash before the other two joined him. Outside was the curricle and Wyeth seated at Fawcett’s side.
“Stop—stop—don’t call to him!” whispered Daintree, in a choking voice.
“Do you deny it now?”
“Yes—no—listen to me!”
“Which do you mean?”
“I—killed him.”
“Good God!” cried Nicholas Harding.
Tom shut down the sash.
“Yes, I killed him,” cried Daintree, recovering his spirits; “and I’d do it again this minute. Why? You shall hear—and then Claire shall hear—for I mean to see her; it will take all Sydney to keep us apart. That night she refused me—God alone knows why—she loves me now and will stick to me in spite of you all—but she refused me then. I stayed for an hour where she left me. Then I got out by the back way and wandered through the fields—just as I was—thinking of her! At
