entrance hall, waiting for the arrival of
the police, the valet breathlessly gave the sensational particulars to
the rapidly growing crowd of curious onlookers. He had taken his usual
Sunday out and on returning home at midnight, as was his custom, he had
let himself in with his latchkey. To his astonishment he had found this
man, the prisoner, about to leave the premises. His manner and remarks
were so peculiar that they at once aroused his suspicion. He hurried
into the apartment and found his master lying dead on the floor in a
pool of blood. In his hurry the assassin had dropped his revolver, which
was lying near the corpse. As far as he could see, nothing had been
taken from the apartment. Evidently the man was disturbed at his work
and, when suddenly surprised, had made the bluff that he was calling on
Mr. Underwood. They had got the right man, that was certain. He was
caught red-handed, and in proof of what he said, the valet pointed to
Howard's right hand, which was still covered with blood.

"How terrible!" exclaimed a woman bystander, averting her face. "So
young, too!"

"It's all a mistake, I tell you. It's all a mistake," cried Howard,
almost panic-stricken. "I'm a friend of Mr. Underwood's."

"Nice friend!" sneered an onlooker.

"Tell that to the police," laughed another.

"Or to the marines!" cried a third.

"It's the chair for his'n!" opined a fourth.

By this time the main entrance hall was crowded with people, tenants and
passers-by attracted by the unwonted commotion. A scandal in high life
is always caviare to the sensation seeker. Everybody excitedly inquired
of his neighbor:

"What is it? What's the matter?"

Presently the rattle of wheels was heard and a heavy vehicle, driven
furiously, drew up at the sidewalk with a jerk. It was the police patrol
wagon, and in it were the captain of the precinct and a half dozen
policemen and detectives. The crowd pushed forward to get a better view
of the burly representatives of the law as, full of authority, they
elbowed their way unceremoniously through the throng. Pointing to the
leader, a big man in plain clothes, with a square, determined jaw and a
bulldog face, they whispered one to another:

"That's Captain Clinton, chief of the precinct. He's a terror. It'll go
hard with any prisoner he gets in his clutches!"

Followed by his uniformed myrmidons, the police official pushed his way
to the corner where sat Howard, dazed and trembling, and sti