table and slip it
in his pocket. Then he walked to the back of the house where the
servants were collected in an uneasy group. There was a chauffeur, he
found, a butler, a cook, and a maid. Another maid, they told him, was
with Mrs. Randall.

Garth questioned them about last night's wedding and the hour of their
return, but they were an incoherent lot, all talking at once, and saying
nothing useful. Therefore he returned to the verandah where he stood,
trying to put himself in Randall's place, casting about for his likely
course when he had sensibly decided not to use his automobile.

The sun had set. The dusk had already rendered objects at a distance
indistinct. A decided chill heralded the night. The two detectives sat
disconsolately on the steps. Mrs. Randall's voice continued its pitiful
monotone, now and then torn by unavailing and demoralizing cries.

Garth started. He stared at a patch of shrubbery on the hillside to the
right. Certainly something had moved there. It occurred to him that to a
man in the shrubbery the three forms under the verandah roof would be in
this light invisible. Again he was sure there was movement over there.
If it were Randall, come back! His experience had taught him that such a
return was psychologically conformable.

Without speaking to the others he walked to the end of the verandah and
dropped over the rail. Aiding the friendly dusk by keeping behind trees
and bushes as far as possible, he approached the patch of shrubbery.
After a moment there was no question. The foliage did not wholly secrete
the figure of a man. The man appeared to listen. Garth's hand tightened
on his revolver. The description fitted, but that was scarcely
necessary, for on this cold evening the man was hatless.

Garth appraised the fugitive's damp and stained clothing. He could
picture him hiding all night and day--perhaps in that small, half-ruined
stone building which showed dimly from here--until the necessities of
hunger or the impulse to return to the scene of his crime and learn its
denouement had driven him from cover. The haggard face seemed eloquent
of guilt.

Garth sprang up and, his revolver ready, faced the man.

"Dr. Randall! I've plenty of help near."

Randall stepped back.

"And what about Treving?" he asked in a husky voice.

Garth watched him warily.

"I'm sorry," he answered, "but I've got to take you for his murder."

Randall's face whitened. He held himself rigidly. After a t