To his surprise they did not enter it, but passed through a garden toward a hillside. Here was a small cemetery. They entered the gate, their burden was deposited on the grass, then the different members of the party scattered. The detective watched the austere old lady who remained by the dead body. He had made it his business to inquire into her peculiarities, and it did not altogether surprise him that she should take an interest in a criminal. But would she allow him to be buried in her private cemetery? An eerie shiver ran up and down his backbone. He did not like this midnight work. The solemn quietness, the air of respectability and yet of secrecy about this last act of a criminal career offended him and grated against his official sense of propriety. He approached Captain White, who had just reappeared, carrying a spade in his hand. "You lay out to bury this man?" "Yes." "I protest--" the detective was just beginning when Captain White put up his hand. "Hush up; wait a bit." Several lanterns stood about on the grass, and some one had hung the largest of them on the projecting toe of Louis Gastonguay's granite boot. By the reddish yellow glare of this light on the monument, H. Robinson saw a white figure approaching. The white figure was supported by a dark one. Ah, here was the daughter. She certainly was no shady character, and his eye ran critically over her snowy figure. But what distress!--he had never seen anything like it, and a secret thrill pervaded him. That little beauty had lost her father. Bank robber or no bank robber, he must have been all the world to her. What would she say if she knew he had been the one to run him down? and he uneasily stepped behind one of the Scotchmen from the yacht. He had witnessed some pretty trying scenes, but he had never seen anything like this. The Longlegs with her was her husband. Reverently he escorted her to the dead body and put a supporting arm around her as she fell on her knees. This was awful, and the detective turned away. Then, compelled by the same fascination, he looked again. So young to suffer. Poor slip of a girl,--not more than half as old as his wife. Evidently she had been told not to shriek or cry out. Her fingers were locked in a painful grasp, her pitiful moans were barely audible. Frantically and repeatedly she kissed the cold face, and her tearless eyes sought her husband's in dumb entreaty. Why had it happened? Who was to blame? Why had she not been with him? Her father--oh, her father! and the detective, though not a man given to much emotion, involuntarily voiced her mute and heart-broken pleadings. "Do you still protest?" asked a grim voice in his ear. "Confound you, no," he said, snappishly, to Captain White. One of the Scotchmen quickly ran his spade over a scant grass plot designated by Miss Gastonguay. When the first earth was turned up, the girl sprang to her feet with an agonised cry, "Must I forgive them? Justin, I cannot."