Light as were the words, Vernet well understood their meaning. The episode of the blazing tenement--his burnt-cork essay, with its ludicrous beginning and its almost tragical end--was to be kept a secret between them. When he could, in justice to others, Stanhope would spare his defeated rival. Vernet's is not the only mind that would find it difficult to comprehend this generous nature, turning, for the sake of a less fortunate companion, his own brave deeds into a jest. For some moments they walked on in silence. Then Vernet said: "Of course, I see that there is a mystery between Alan Warburton and these Francoises, and that you intend to keep the mystery from publicity. But I don't see how you can prosecute this case without bringing Warburton into court." "What case?" "Papa Francoise, for the murder of the Jew." "Say, the killing of the Jew; it was only manslaughter. We shall not press that case." "What!" "There is an older charge against Papa Francoise, and a weightier one." "What is that?" "It's the end of your search and mine, Van. When I arrested Papa Francoise to-day, I arrested _the murderer of Arthur Pearson_!" "What!" Van Vernet stopped short and faced his companion, his face growing ashen white. [Illustration: "When I arrested Papa Francoise to-day, I arrested _the murderer of Arthur Pearson_!"--page 434.] "It's true, Van. In trying to relieve the sufferings of a dying man, I stumbled upon the clue I might have sought after, and failed to find, for an hundred years." They had halted at a street corner, and Van Vernet wheeled sharply about and made a step forward. "Vernet, where are you going?" "Nowhere; never mind me; we part here." "Not yet, Van, I want to say--" "Not now," broke in Vernet huskily. "You--have said enough--for once." And he strode hurriedly down the side street. "Poor Van," soliloquized Stanhope, as he gazed after the retreating figure. "Poor fellow; defeat and loss of fortune are too much for him." And he turned and went thoughtfully on toward his own abode. CHAPTER LVIII. HOW STANHOPE CAME BACK. Again we are in the office of the Chief of the detectives; in his private office, where he sits alone, looking bored and uncomfortable. "Everybody late," he mutters, "and I hoped Follingsbee would come first." He consults his watch, and finds that it is four o'clock. Four o'clock, and his interviews with the lawyer, the Australian, and the Englishman, yet to come. Ten minutes more of waiting. Then the boy enters to announce Messrs. Parks and Ainsworth. The Chief rises to receive them, and accepts their excuses in silence. "We drove about the city," says Walter Parks, "to pass away a portion of the time. An accident to our vehicle detained us." Then the two men sit down and look expectantly at the Chief. "Mr. Ainsworth," he says gravely, "I have news for you of Thomas Uliman and his wife; bad news, I regret to say."