"Let me clear it up," broke in Stanhope. "You see, I had often explored those alleys, disguised as Silly Charlie; the character was one that admitted me everywhere. Before going to the masquerade, I had prepared for the night's work by putting my toilet articles in a carriage, and stationing it near the festive mansion. This I did to insure myself against possible delay, my programme being to drive to the agency, start my men, and then go on ahead of them, assuming my disguise as I went, for the purpose of reconnoitring the grounds for the last time, before leading the men into the alleys. You delayed me a little, and I had to deal with your 'Chinaman' in such a way as to leave in his mind a very unfavorable opinion of 'Hail Columbia.' But I was there ahead of you after all; for particulars--ahem! consult your memory." His eyes twinkled merrily at the recollection of Vernet in the cellar trap, and he suppressed a laugh with difficulty. Again Vernet reddened and bit his under lip. "Oh, you have outwitted me," he said bitterly, "but you will never be able to prove it was not Warburton who personated the Sailor that night." "I won't try, for it was Warburton. I shall not explain his presence there, however; it was a mistake on his part, but he meant well. It was not he who did the killing." "You are bent on clearing Warburton, but how will you prove his innocence?" "By a witness who saw Papa Francoise strike the blow." "Who?" "A girl known as Rag-picker Nance. She was in the custody of the Francoises when I made my appearance among them, in the character of Franz. They were afraid of her and kept her drugged and drunk constantly. They wanted to be rid of her, and I took her off their hands one dark night--the same night, by the by, that came so near being your last, in that burning tenement. Heavens! but that old woman is a tigress! In spite of me, she managed to fire the building. It came near being the end of you." Vernet turned and eyed him sharply. "Was it you," he asked, "who brought me out?" Stanhope blushed, and then laughed carelessly to conceal his embarrassment. "Well, yes," he admitted; "I'm sorry to say that it was. It was a great piece of impertinence on my part; but, you see, I had the advantage over the others of knowing that you were up there." Vernet wore the look of a man who sees what he cannot comprehend. "You're a riddle to me," he said. "You upset a man's plans and boast of it openly. You do him a monstrous favor, you save his life, and admit it with the sheepishness of a chicken-thief." "Well, you see, I feel sheepish," confessed Stanhope flippantly. "I blush for so such Sunday-school sentiment. This habit of putting in my oar to interfere with the designs of Providence, is a weakness in a man of my cloth. Don't give me away, Van; _I'll_ never tell of it."