ow, came with
hurried inquiries and congratulations, and then rushed off to London to
cable to his friends in Canada, for fear of the effect of newspaper
telegrams.

When at last Hewitt and I sat with Mr. Peytral in his study, "Mr.
Hewitt," said Peytral, "I am not sure how far explanations may go
between us. There is more in that death in the barn than the police will
ever guess."

Peytral was haggard and drawn, for, as he had let slip already, he had
scarce slept an hour since leaving home on Thursday.

"I am tired," he said, "and worn out, but that is not a novelty with me;
and I'm not sure but we may be of use to each other. Did my daughter
tell you why she sent Mr. Bowmore after me on Thursday night?"

Hewitt explained the thing as briefly as possible, just as he had heard
it from Miss Peytral.

"Ah," said Peytral, thoughtfully. "So she thought my manner became moody
a few months back. It did, no doubt, for I had memories; and more, I had
apprehensions. Mr. Hewitt, I think I read in the papers that you were in
some way engaged in the extraordinary case of the murder of Mr. Jacob
Mason?"

"That is quite correct. I was."

"There was another case, a little while before, which possibly you may
not have heard of. A man was found strangled near the York column, by
Pall Mall, with just such a mark on his forehead as was found on Mr.
Mason's."

"I know that case, too, as well as the other."

"Do you know the name of the murderer?"

"I think I do. We speak in confidence, of course, as client and
professional man?"

"Of course. What was his name?"

"I have heard two--Everard Myatt and Catherton Hunt."

"Neither is his real name, and I doubt if anybody but himself knows it.
Twenty years ago and more I knew him as Mayes. He was a Jamaican. Mr.
Hewitt, that man's foul life has been justly forfeit a thousand times,
but if it belongs to anybody it belongs to me!"

It was terrible to see the sudden fiery change in the old man. His
lassitude was gone in a flash, his eyes blazed and his nostrils dilated.

For a little while he sat so, his mouth awork with passion; then he sank
back in his chair with a sigh.

"I am getting old," he said, more quietly, "and perhaps I am not strong
enough to lose my temper.... Well, as I said, Mayes was a Jamaican, a
renegade white. Do you remember that in the black rebellion of 1865,
there was a traitorous white man among the negroes? Eyre hanged a few
rebels, and rightly, but the