"In spite of your airs, Mr. Warburton," he says candidly, "you would be a fine fellow if you were not--such a prig. So you demand an explanation. Well, here it is, at least as much as you will need to enlighten you. Who am I? I am a friend to all honest men. Why did I follow you? Neither Vernet nor myself followed you or the lady. Vernet was there as the leader of an organized Raid. I was there--ahem! as a pilot for Vernet. _You_ were there as a spy upon the lady. Mrs. Warburton's presence remains to be accounted for. And now, Mr. Warburton, adieu. You are out of present danger; if I find that Mrs. Warburton has not fared so well, you will hear from me again. If otherwise, you look your last upon Silly Charlie." With a mocking laugh he turns, and pausing at the corner to wave his hand in farewell, he darts away in the direction whence he came. Puzzled, chagrined, his brain teeming with strange thoughts, Alan Warburton turns homeward. What is it that has come upon him this night? Less than two hours ago, an aristocrat, proud to a fault, with an unblemished name, and with nothing to fear or to conceal. Now, stealing through the dark streets like an outcast, his pride humbled to the dust, his breast burdened with a double secret, accused of murder, creeping from the police, a hunted man! To-morrow the town will be flooded with descriptions of this escaped sailor. To-morrow he must change his appearance, must flee the city. And all because of his zeal for the family honor; all because of his brother's wife, and her horrible secret! To-night charity hath no place in Alan Warburton's heart. * * * * * Meanwhile, Van Vernet, covered with rags and dust, sickened by the foul smell of the vault into which he has been precipitated, and boiling over with wrath, is being rescued from his absurd and uncomfortable position by three policemen, who, being sent forward to ascertain if possible the cause of their leader's prolonged absence, have stumbled upon him in the very nick of time. As he emerges from the trap, by the aid of the same rope with which not long before he had secured Alan Warburton's feet, he presents a most ludicrous appearance. His hat has been lost in the darkness of the cellar, and his head is plentifully decorated with rags and feathers, which have adhered tenaciously to his disarranged locks. He is smeared with dirt, pallid from the stench, nauseated, chagrined, wrathful. Instinctively he comprehends the situation. The simpleton has played him false, the prisoner has escaped. On the floor lie the handcuffs which Alan Warburton has shaken off as he fled. He picks them up and examines them eagerly. Then an imprecation breaks from his lips. They have been _unlocked_! And by whom? Not by the man who wore them; that was impossible. Suddenly, flinging down the handcuffs, he turns to the policemen.