Occasionally Yeo gave him a reviving cordial
which made him feel better. Towards evening Caranby expressed
a wish to talk. The doctor would have prevented him, but the
dying man disregarded these orders.
"I must talk," he whispered faintly. "Cuthbert, get a sheet
of paper."
"But you have made your will," said Yeo, rebukingly.
"This is not a will. It is a confession. Cuthbert will write
it out and you will witness my signature along with him, Yeo."
"A confession!" murmured Cuthbert, going out of the room to
get pen, ink and paper. "What about?"
He soon knew, for when he was established by the side of the
bed with his writing materials on a small table, Caranby
laughed to himself quietly. "Do you know what I am about to
say?" he gasped.
"No. If it is nothing important you had better not exhaust
yourself."
"It is most important, as you will hear. I know who murdered
the supposed Miss Loach."
Cuthbert nearly dropped the pen. "Who was it?" he asked,
expecting to hear the name of Mrs. Octagon.
"I did!" said Caranby, quietly.
"You!--that's impossible."
"Unfortunately it is true. It was an accident, though. Yeo,
give me more drink; I must tell everything."
Yeo was quite calm. He had known Caranby for many years, and
was not at all disposed to shrink from him because he
confessed to having committed a murder. He knew that the Earl
was a kind-hearted man and had been shamefully treated by
three women.
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