The servant tried to open the door, and Ibbetson went to the window and
called out for the police. I rushed to the picture where I had hidden
the creese, and threw it on the table. Then I swung him away from the
window by his coat-tails, and told him to defend himself, pointing to
the creese.
He seized it, and stood on the defensive; the servant had apparently run
down-stairs for assistance.
"Now, then," I said, "down on your knees, you infamous cur, and confess;
it's your only chance."
"Confess what, you fool?"
"That you're a coward and a liar; that you wrote that letter; that Mrs.
Deane was no more your mistress than my mother was!"
There was a sound of people running up-stairs. He listened a moment and
hissed out:
"They _both_ were, you idiot! How can I tell for certain whether you are
my son or not? It all comes to the same. Of course I wrote the letter.
Come on, you cowardly assassin, you bastard parricide!" ... and he
advanced on me with his creese low down in his right hand, the point
upward, and made a thrust, shrieking out, "Break open the door! quick!"
They did; but too late!
[Illustration: "BASTARD! PARRICIDE!"]