without flinching, however.

"Hubert Vander? The name is a new one to me, Dyke."

"Indeed!"

A sneer curled the lip of the detective.

"What do you mean by that?" questioned Mr. Elliston. "Am I to
understand that you connect ME in any way with this girl's death, or
that I am a friend to this Hubert Vander of whom you speak?"

"Your pretended indignation will not deceive, Harper Elliston. Look at
THIS, and tell me what you think of it," said Dyke Darrel, with the
sternness of steel.

The detective laid the photograph he had obtained in the Black Hollow
cabin in the hand of Mr. Elliston.

The New Yorker did start then.

He gazed long and constantly at the pictured face.

"What have you to say now, Harper Elliston?" demanded Dyke Darrel, in
an awful voice.

"It is a mighty close resemblance," returned the gentleman. "Where did
you obtain this, Dyke?"

"From Sibyl Osborne."

"Sibyl Osborne?"

"She who lies before you. If that is not YOUR portrait, and if you are
not the man who murdered Captain Osborne and ruined his daughter, then
I am out of my senses."

With the words Dyke Darrel presented a cocked revolver at the heart of
the cool, smiling villain before him.

The smile left the New Yorker's face, and a serious expression
followed it.

"What? You draw a pistol on me, Dyke Darrel? I am surprised," cried
Mr. Elliston in an injured tone. "I did not imagine that you could
lose confidence in me, let what would happen. Can it be that our
friendship was but a brittle cord, after all?"

"I cannot remain friendly when my confidence has been betrayed."

"And you deem me a most hardened scoundrel? Of course you will give me
a hearing. You are an upholder of law, and do not approve of lynching.
Here, put on the handcuffs, Dyke, and take me to prison. You will be
sorry for this some time, but now that circumstances are against me
your friendship falls to the ground. I did not expect such treatment.
However, I can live through it; but I shall never feel toward you as I
have in times past. Put on the irons, Dyke. Why do you hesitate?"

"There is a chance for a mistake, of course," said the detective,

"I am glad you admit that much."

"Is that your photograph?"

"You said it belonged to a young lady!"

"But is it a photograph of your face?"

"It is not."

"You swear it?"

"I do."

"And you were not in Black Hollow, last night?"

"I was not."

"Swear it?

"I swear it."

"You did not know thi