It was uncanny as Kennedy rushed along in his reconstruction of
the scene, almost unbelievable. The girl watched him, fascinated.

"John Fletcher was wakeful that night. Somehow or other he heard
you at work. He entered the library and, by the light streaming
from his bedroom, he saw who it was. In anger he must have
addressed you, and his passion got the better of his age--he fell
suddenly on the floor with a stroke of apoplexy. As you bent over
him he died. But why did you ever attempt so foolish an
undertaking? Didn't you know that other people knew of the will
and its terms, that you were sure to be traced out in the end, if
not by friends, by foes? How did you suppose you could profit by
destroying the will, of which others knew the provisions?"

Any other woman than Helen Bond would have been hysterical long
before Kennedy had finished pressing home remorselessly one fact
after another of her story. But, with her, the relief now after
the tension of many hours of concealment seemed to nerve her to
go to the end and tell the truth.

What was it? Had she some secret lover for whom she had dared all
to secure the family fortune? Or was she shielding someone dearer
to her than her own reputation? Why had Kennedy made Fletcher
withdraw?

Her eyes dropped and her breast rose and fell with suppressed
emotion. Yet I was hardly prepared for her reply when at last she
slowly raised her head and looked us calmly in the face.

"I did it because I loved Jack."