“Make for his revolver!” gasped the detective--“quick, before he can get at it.” Gilead saw where the weapon had fallen, and, snatching at it on the instant, presented it at the young dealer’s head. “Give in, Lightfoot,” he said, in a voice as cool as judgment. “I allow you two seconds.” With a ghastly groan, the man rolled over and surrendered. They got him to his feet and handcuffed. From the moment of his defeat he appeared void of all volition. His face was as grey as streaked putty; the sockets of his eyes were white; drops of sweat stood on his forehead. They relit the gas, and helped him all limp into a chair, where he sat half-collapsed. “Good God!” whispered Gilead: “has he shot himself?” “Not he,” said the detective, coolly picking the dust of the fray from his coat. “A mercy he didn’t one of us. You’re all right, sir?” “Yes. And you?” “A bit scorched--no more. I wonder at you, Lightfoot. You’ve made a bad mess of this business, my lad.” Gilead uttered a sudden cry. “It’s there! Look!” The room was empty, save for a common chair or two and a bare deal table; _and in the middle of the latter lay a single folded parrakeet skin, green, with a rose and black collar round its neck_. He stood staring a moment, then went and lifted and balanced the thing in his hand. And, so holding it, he turned, with a lost expression on his face. “Why,” he said, “I must have miscalculated after all, and she’s been here before us.” The detective uttered a quick exclamation:-- “Look at the man! What’s taken him?” He was writhing and tearing at his bonds. Suddenly he broke into a whining unearthly cry, that tailed off into a string of inarticulate blasphemies. “Officer,” said Gilead whitely: “there’s something beyond what I looked for in this business--something, I believe, infinitely blacker and more deadly. Stay you here while I go over the house.” The prisoner, straightening himself convulsively, moved as if to spring. “All right, sir,” said the detective, prompt to interpose. “You can leave him to me.” Gilead, clipping his little torch into flame, hurried instantly out of the room. A deadly constricted feeling was at his heart; he looked with certainty for some horror to be revealed in a moment. Yet he had no least reason for blaming himself. He had merely watched, not directed, the course of events. Indeed, Providence, it might be said, had appointed in him its unconscious Nemesis. Would only that it had permitted him to forestall in that character the deed he feared.