nd
sentence, rose before his eyes. One moment he determined to flee the
country; the next he resolved to surrender to the police and tell all
that he knew, so that the real murderer might be sought for without
loss of time. But the latter course was risky, fraught with terrible
possibilities. The evidence would be strong against him. He remembered
Diane's letter. He must destroy it! He hurriedly searched the pockets of
the clothing he had worn on the previous night, but in vain.

"The letter is gone--I have lost it!" he concluded, with a sinking
heart. "But where and how? And if it is found--"

There was a sharp rap at the door, and as quickly it opened, without
invitation. Two stern-looking men, dressed in plain clothes, stepped
into the room. Jack knew at once what the visit meant, and with a
supreme effort he braced himself to meet the ordeal. It was hard work
to stand erect and to keep his face from twitching.

"You are John Vernon?" demanded one of the men.

"Yes."

"I will be very brief, sir. I am a Scotland Yard officer, and I am here
to arrest you on suspicion of having murdered your wife, known as Diane
Merode, at Number 324 Beak street, last night."

"I expected this," Jack replied. "I have just seen the paper--I knew
nothing of the crime before. I am entirely innocent, though I admit that
the circumstances--"

"I warn you not to say anything that may incriminate yourself. You must
come with me, sir!"

"I understand that, and I will go quietly. I am quite ready. And at the
proper time I will speak."

There was no delay. One of the officers remained to search the
apartments, and Jack accompanied the other downstairs. They got into
a cab and drove off, while Mrs. Jones shook her fist at them from the
doorway, loudly protesting that she was a disgraced and ruined woman
forever.

The magistrate was sitting in the court at Great Marlborough street, and
Jack was taken there to undergo a brief preliminary formality. Contrary
to advice, he persisted in making a statement, after which he was
removed to the Holloway prison of detention to await the result of the
coroner's inquest.

About the time that the cell-door closed on the unfortunate artist,
shutting him in to bitter reflections, Victor Nevill was in his rooms on
Jermyn street. Several of the latest papers were spread out before him,
and he brushed them savagely aside as he reached for a cigar-box. He
looked paler than usual--even haggard.

"They