This phase of the situation had evidently not occurred to David Chapman in his zeal for satisfaction to his all-consuming hatred of Burton. He dropped his eyes, nervously clasped and unclasped his hands, while his face paled as he faltered out, “Well—maybe you had best not act upon my suggestions; I may be all wrong.” “There, Mr. Chapman, is where I can’t agree with you. I am a sworn officer of this commonwealth, and, by heavens! I would arrest the governor of the state if I knew it to be my duty. Not all the money of the Dunlaps or in the whole of Massachusetts could prevent me from laying my hand on Walter Burton and placing him under arrest for the murder of the Malloy girl, if I find the clothing you mention in the condition you describe. I shall wait to make the search at the ‘Eyrie’ until tomorrow night, that if there be a mistake it shall not be an irreparable one,” said the conscientious Chief of Detectives sternly, in a determined tone of voice. “But I may be mistaken,” urged the agitated amateur detective. “You have convinced me that there are grounds for your statements; I know them now, and, knowing them, by my oath of office, must take action,” quietly replied O’Brien. “Then promise to keep my connection with the case a secret, except what may be required of me as a witness subpoenaed to appear and testify,” cried the now remorseful Chapman. “That I will, and readily too, as it is but a small favor in comparison to the great aid you have been to our department, and is not in conflict with my duty. I shall also collect and hand over to you all of the reward.” “Never mind the reward; keep it for your pension fund,” replied the regretful Superintendent of J. Dunlap, who had played detective once too often and too well for his own peace of mind. XIX Never had there assembled beneath the roof of the Dunlap mansion since the old house was constructed, a company so entirely uncomfortable as that around the table in the library on the night that Walter Burton dined for the last time with Mr. Dunlap. John Dunlap’s mind was filled with doubts concerning what was his duty with regard to Burton, having due consideration for the memory of his deceased brother, and as to what would have been the wish of that beloved brother under existing circumstances. Recognizing, as John Dunlap did, the influence that his personal antipathy for Burton had upon his conduct, he was nervous and uncomfortable. Burton felt the restraint imposed upon him irksome, even for the time of this brief and final visit to the home where his best emotions had been aroused, and the purest delights of his artificial existence enjoyed. He was anxious to be gone, to be free, to forget, and was impatient of delay.