This man," he demanded; "who is he?"

With an impatient gesture Hemingway signified Harris.

"He doesn't know who I am," he said. "He knows me as Hemingway. I am
Henry Brownell, of Waltham, Mass." Again his face sank into the palms
of his hands. "And I'm tired--tired," he moaned. "I am sick of not
knowing, sick of running away. I give myself up."

The detective breathed a sigh of relief that seemed to issue from his
soul.

"My God," he sighed, "you've given me a long chase! I've had eleven
months of you, and I'm as sick of this as you are." He recovered
himself sharply. As though reciting an incantation, he addressed
Hemingway in crisp, emotionless notes.

"Henry Brownell," he chanted, "I arrest you in the name of the
commonwealth of Massachusetts for the robbery, on October the eleventh,
nineteen hundred and nine, of the Waltham Title and Trust Company. I
understand," he added, "you waive extradition and return with me of
your own free will?"

With his face still in his hands, Hemingway murmured assent. The
detective stepped briskly and uninvited to the table and seated
himself. He was beaming with triumph, with pleasurable excitement.

"I want to send a message home, Mr. Consul," he said. "May I use your
cable blanks?"

Harris was still standing in the centre of the room looking down upon
the bowed head and shoulders of Hemingway. Since, in amazement, he had
sprung toward him, he had not spoken. And he was still silent.

Inside the skull of Wilbur Harris, of Iowa, U. S. A., American consul
to Zanzibar, East Africa, there was going forward a mighty struggle
that was not fit to put into words. For Harris and his conscience had
met and were at odds. One way or the other the fight must be settled
at once, and whatever he decided must be for all time. This he
understood, and as his sympathies and conscience struggled for the
mastery the pen of the detective, scratching at racing speed across the
paper, warned him that only a few seconds were left him in which to
protest or else to forever after hold his peace.

So realistic had been the acting of Hemingway that for an instant
Harris himself had been deceived. But only for an instant. With his
knowledge of the circumstances he saw that Hemingway was not confessing
to a crime of his own, but drawing across the trail of the real
criminal the convenient and useful red herring. He knew that already
Hemingway had determined to sail the next morning.