In Chicago the sheriff found that his deputy had promptly arrested Darcy on O'Leary's identification, and had had the man locked up. But on visiting the jail, Carter was considerably in doubt if he had ever seen the prisoner before. The Darcy he remembered was smooth shaven, bronzed through exposure to the California sun, rough and rather desperate in appearance. This man wore a beard, was well dressed, rather pale from confinement in his office, and of sanctimonious countenance. "But that's Darcy, all right," O'Leary assured him. "Same eyes, and same mole on his neck. Just read him that letter from Collins, Mr. Carter." At the name of Collins the prisoner winced visibly. For some time he had realized that Collins might betray him; and he had thought seriously of ending that scoundrel's career. Carter followed up the advantage quickly. "I think this is Mr. Thorn of Union City?" he inquired politely. "That's my name," said the man, "and I live in Union City, as I told the officer." "I've just come from Union City," replied Carter quietly, "and happen to know that you are a respected citizen of that place. Don't suppose you ever heard of J. C. P. Collins of Nevada County, California?" "I was a miner in California several years, but I don't remember anybody by the name of Collins." "It's singular then that Collins should call you his old pal and address you as 'Dear Thorn alias Darcy.'" And Carter presented Collins' letter. "You're wanted, Thorn, alias Darcy, for the murder of William F. Cummins." The sheriff looked at the prisoner so sternly that the man wilted. "Collins has owned up, and you might as well do the same." "O God!" groaned the man, "my sin has found me out. I killed Cummins with my own hand; and I am ready to pay the penalty." His religion had not been all humbug, by any means; and now he asked permission to visit Union City to make public confession of the murder. But Carter had left Collins in jail at St. Louis, and saw no reason to delay the arrest of that scoundrel in order to gratify the wishes of a confessed murderer. So he proceeded to St. Louis at once, arrested Collins, who seemed rather shocked and grieved to meet his old friend the sheriff once more; and hurried the prisoners back to California. There was great excitement in the gold fields, you may be sure, when it was announced that Will Cummins' murderers were safely lodged in jail, more than three years after the crime. Surely, California was becoming civilized, and at last Nevada County was actually to try a couple of men for murder. CHAPTER XVIII The End of J. C. P. Collins