ning Molly's
affection, this would indeed be a rescue at the eleventh hour. It
was with a Nunc-Dimittis air that he felt for his cigar-case, and
extended it toward the detective. A cigar from his own private case
was with him a mark of supreme favor and good-will, a sort of
accolade which he bestowed only upon the really meritorious few.

Usually, it was received with becoming deference; but on this
occasion there was a somewhat startling deviation from routine; for,
just as he was opening the case, something cold and hard pressed
against each of his wrists, there was a snap and a click, and,
looking up, dazed, he saw that the detective had sprung back, and
was contemplating him with a grim smile over the barrel of an
ugly-looking little revolver.

Guilty or innocent, the first thing a man does when, he finds
handcuffs on his wrists is to try to get them off. The action is
automatic. Mr. McEachern strained at the steel chain till the veins
stood out on his forehead. His great body shook with rage.

The detective eyed these efforts with some satisfaction. The picture
presented by the other as he heaved and tugged was that of a guilty
man trapped.

"It's no good, my friend," he said.

The voice brought McEachern back to his senses. In the first shock
of the thing, the primitive man in him had led him beyond the
confines of self-restraint. He had simply struggled unthinkingly.
Now, he came to himself again.

He shook his manacled hands furiously.

"What does this mean?" he shouted. "What the--?"

"Less noise," said the detective, sharply. "Get back!" he snapped,
as the other took a step forward.

"Do you know who I am?" thundered McEachern.

"No," said the detective. "And that's just why you're wearing those
bracelets. Come, now, don't be a fool. The game's up. Can't you see
that?"

McEachern leaned helplessly against the billiard-table. He felt
weak. Everything was unreal. Had he gone mad? he wondered.

"That's right," said the detective. "Stay there. You can't do any
harm there. It was a pretty little game, I'll admit. You worked it
well. Meeting your old friend from New York and all, and having him
invited to the castle. Very pretty. New York, indeed! Seen about as
much of New York as I have of Timbuctoo. I saw through him."

Some inkling of the truth began to penetrate McEachern's
consciousness. He had become obsessed with the idea that, as the
captive was not Spike, it must be Jimmy. The possibility