the sabre, examined it, reflected with unaffected concentration of
thought, and then turned a respectful face to O'Brien.
"Commandant," he said, "we trust you will always produce this
weapon if it is wanted for police examination. Meanwhile," he
added, slapping the steel back in the ringing scabbard, "let me
return you your sword."

At the military symbolism of the action the audience could
hardly refrain from applause.

For Neil O'Brien, indeed, that gesture was the turning-point
of existence. By the time he was wandering in the mysterious
garden again in the colours of the morning the tragic futility of
his ordinary mien had fallen from him; he was a man with many
reasons for happiness. Lord Galloway was a gentleman, and had
offered him an apology. Lady Margaret was something better than a
lady, a woman at least, and had perhaps given him something better
than an apology, as they drifted among the old flowerbeds before
breakfast. The whole company was more lighthearted and humane,
for though the riddle of the death remained, the load of suspicion
was lifted off them all, and sent flying off to Paris with the
strange millionaire--a man they hardly knew. The devil was cast
out of the house--he had cast himself out.

Still, the riddle remained; and when O'Brien threw himself on
a garden seat beside Dr. Simon, that keenly scientific person at
once resumed it. He did not get much talk out of O'Brien, whose
thoughts were on pleasanter things.

"I can't say it interests me much," said the Irishman frankly,