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Of course it was all guess work and inference, and besides, it must be Mr. Ripley. Mr. Ripley might as easily have discovered the secret of the Memoirs as himself–or anyone else. Mr. Ripley would have justification for anger and indeed for more–yes for what men who are not affected are used to call a crime … Sir Charles abruptly stopped his reasoning, seeing that it was prompted by a defence of Mr. Mardale. He made his escape from his hosts as soon as he decently could and retired to his room. He sat down in his room and thought, and he thought to some purpose. He blew out his candle, and stole down the stairs into the hall. He had met no one. From the hall he went to the library-door and opened it–ever so gently. The room was quite dark. Sir Charles felt his way across it to his chair in the corner. He sat down in the darkness and waited. After a time inconceivably long, after every board in the house had cracked a million times, he heard distinctly a light shuffling step in the passage, and after that the latch of the door release itself from the socket. He heard nothing more, for a little, he could only guess that the door was being silently opened by some one who carried no candle. Then the shuffling footsteps began to move gently across the room, towards him, towards the corner where he was sitting. Sir Charles had had no doubt but that they would, not a single doubt, but none the less as he sat there in the dark, he felt the hair rising on his scalp, and all his body thrill. Then a hand groped and touched him. A cry rang out, but it was Sir Charles who uttered it. A voice answered quietly:

“You had fallen asleep. I regret to have waked you.”

“I was not asleep, Mr. Mardale.”

There was a pause and Mr. Mardale continued.

“I cannot sleep to-night, I came for a book.”

“I know. For the book I took back to Leamington to-day, before I went to visit Mrs. Ripley’s grave.”

There was a yet longer pause before Mr. Mardale spoke again.

“Stay then!” he said in the same gentle voice. “I will fetch a light.” He shuffled out of the room, and to Sir Charles it seemed again an inconceivably long time before he returned. He came back with a single candle, which he placed upon the table, a little star of light, showing the faces of the two men shadowy and dim. He closed the door carefully, and coming back, said simply:

“You know.”

“Yes.”

“How did you find out?”

“I saw the grave. I noticed the remarkable height of the mound. I guessed.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Mardale, and in a low voice he explained. “I found the book here one day, that he left by accident. On December 11th Mrs. Ripley was buried, and that night he left the house–for the stables, yes, but he did not return from the stables. It seemed quite clear to me where he would be that night. People hereabouts take me for a man crazed and daft, I know that very well, but I know something of passion, Sir Charles. I have had my griefs to bear. Oh, I knew where he would be. I followed over the hill down to the churchyard of Burley Wood. I had no thought of what I should do. I carried a stick in my hand, I had no thought of using it. But I found him lying full-length upon the grave with his lips pressed to the earth of it, whispering to her who lay beneath him…. I called to him to stand up and he did. I bade him, if he dared, repeat the words he had used to my face, to me, the father of the girl he had married, and he did–triumphantly, recklessly. I struck at him with the knob of my stick, the knob was heavy, I struck with all my might, the blow fell upon his forehead. The spade was lying on the ground beside the grave. I buried him with her. Now what will you do?”

“Nothing,” said Sir Charles.

“But Mr. Jerkley asked you to help him.”

“I shall tell a lie.”

“My friend, there is no need,” said the old man with his gentle smile. “When I went out for this candle I …” Sir Charles broke in upon him in a whirl of horror.

“No. Don’t say it! You did not!”

“I did,” replied Mr. Mardale. “The poison is a kindly one. I shall be dead before morning. I shall sleep my way to death. I do not mind, for I fear that, after all, my inventions are of little worth. I have left a confession on my writing-desk. There is no reason–is there?–why he and she should be kept apart?”

It was not a question which Sir Charles could discuss. He said nothing, and was again left alone in the darkness, listening to the shuffling footsteps of Mr. Mardale as, for the last time, he mounted the stairs.