The detective fumed and fretted. He would wait one hour longer. He would wait half an hour. He would only wait ten minutes. He would announce his secret and receive city aid to go in search of the criminal. But suppose he had lost him? At station one, station two, and three, up to the last number of stations, he would be jeered at in the city of Boston. Why had he not called in the help of some of his former colleagues? Served him right for playing dog in the manger. No one would ever trust him again. And he mused on miserably, his wrath burning higher and higher. At last it reached a point where it began to flicker. Self-pity and deadly weariness were overcoming him. His throbbing head sank lower and lower, his aching limbs grew less remindful. He thought drowsily of his subservient wife, his quiet home, his comfortable bed. He would give five dollars for an hour's rest, and with a gradual blending of all his emotions into peaceful oblivion he fell sound asleep. He slept he knew not how long, but he waked up with a jerk, and turned his rubicund face up to Captain White's strangely pale one. "Your prisoner has come," he said, in a low voice. H. Robinson tottered to his feet and looked over the roof railing. Down there was a smooth-lined, shapely yacht rubbing herself like a snow-white duck against the narrow wharf. Two or three people were standing about,--he could just make out their dusky outlines. They were all wonderfully quiet. He must get below, and he hurried down the steps, carefully placing his feet on the bright places indicated by the lantern held up to him by Captain White. Upon arriving on the wharf H. Robinson warily looked about him. Two men who were evidently servants remained on board the yacht. An old lady, who was Miss Gastonguay, the chief of police, and a pale youth known in criminal circles as Sideboard Charlie stood on the boat-house veranda. This latter had been a favourite and companion of the noted bank breaker. He was not wanted now on any "count" of his own, and the detective did not concern himself about him. But where was his prey,--the lion of the chase? Captain White pointed to the yacht. A motionless figure wrapped in a cloak lay on a bench. H. Robinson suspected a trap. It would not be like the matchless dissembler to fall into his arms. "You come with me," he said to the chief. The latter stolidly accompanied him. "There is your man," he muttered. The lion was asleep. H. Robinson could wake him, and he laid a hand on the stiff shoulder, and drew aside the fold of cloth from the marble face. Then he stepped back, his face working stupidly. "Dead,--and I am fooled." He had half suspected this, and he gave place to the two young men who noiselessly and swiftly placed their hands under the dead man's body and carried him on shore. No one spoke; matters must have been prearranged, and in sullen silence the detective kept up with the party, who in a body marched toward the house.