The day dragged on, bringing at its close England's entrance into
the war; and the Carlton bootblack was a prophet not without honor
in a certain Texas heart. And on the following morning there
arrived a letter which was torn open by eager trembling fingers.
The letter spoke:
DEAR LADY JUDGE: This is by far the hardest to write of all the
letters you have had from me. For twenty-four hours I have been
planning it. Last night I walked on the Embankment while the
hansoms jogged by and the lights of the tramcars danced on
Westminster Bridge just as the fireflies used to in the garden
back of our house in Kansas. While I walked I planned. To-day,
shut up in my rooms, I was also planning. And yet now, when I
sit down to write, I am still confused; still at a loss where to
begin and what to say, once I have begun.
At the close of my last letter I confessed to you that it was I
who murdered Captain Fraser-Freer. That is the truth. Soften the
blow as I may, it all comes down to that. The bitter truth!
Not a week ago--last Thursday night at seven--I climbed our
dark stairs and plunged a knife into the heart of that defenseless
gentleman. If only I could point out to you that he had offended
me in some way; if I could prove to you that his death was
necessary to me, as it really was to Inspector Bray--then there
might be some hope of your ultimate pardon.
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