“Lionel Dering is here to answer for himself. It is he who tells you to your face that you are the murderer of Percy Osmond!”
Yes, there, framed by the archway, full in the blaze of light, stood Lionel, no longer disguised—the dye washed off his face, his hands, his hair—the Lionel that they all remembered so well come back from the dead—his own dear self, and none but he, as they could all see at a glance, and yet looking strangely different without his long fair beard.
For a full minute Kester St. George stood as rigid as a statue, glaring across the room at the man whom he had so bitterly wronged.
One word his lips tried to form, but only half succeeded in doing so. That one word was _Forgive_. Then a strange spasm passed across his face; he pressed his hand to his left side, and turning suddenly half round, fell back into the arms of the man nearest to him.
“Heaven knows, I had no thought of knowledge of this,” said Lionel. “None whatever!”
The terribly sudden death of Kester St. George, left Lionel Dering with two courses to choose between. On the one hand he could carry out his original intention of going abroad, under an assumed name, leaving the world still to believe that he was dead. On the other hand, he could give himself up to justice, under his real name, and, his first trial never having been finished—take his stand at the bar again under the original charge, and with the proofs he had gathered in his possession, let his innocence of the crime imputed to him work itself out through a legitimate channel to a verdict of Not Guilty. This latter course was the only one open to him if he wished to clear himself in the eyes of the world from the stain of blood, or even if he wished to assume his own name and his position as the owner of Park Newton. But did he really wish this thing? That idea of going abroad, of burying himself and his wife in some far-away nook of the New World, had taken such hold on his imagination, that even now it had by no means lost its sweetness in his thoughts. Then, again, Kester having died without a will, if he—Lionel were to leave himself undeclared, the estate would go to General St. George, as next of kin, and after the old soldier’s time it would go, in the natural course of events, to his brother Richard. Why, then, declare himself? why give himself into custody and undergo the pain and annoyance of another term of imprisonment, and another trial—and they would be both painful and annoying, even though his innocence were proved at the end of them? Why not rather bind over to silence those few trusted friends to whom his secret was already known, and going abroad with Edith, spend the remainder of his days in happy obscurity. Why re-open that bloodstained page of family history, over which the world had of a surety gloated sufficiently already?