The porter went away relieved. Hugh, left alone, went to his spirit-case on the sideboard and poured himself out a stiff glass of whisky. “It may be the last,” he said to himself, grimly. He drank it off and lit a cigarette with fingers that trembled just a little. “And now for Minna,” he said, striding out of the room. The expected blow had fallen. Arrest was certain. Unless he could account for his night, release was impossible. The circumstantial evidence which he knew could be brought against him was enough to imperil his life. And no one could be more acutely aware than he, a criminal advocate, of the possibility of a chain of specious links, unsuspected by him now, that might bring him powerless to the gallows. Now, the gallows is a gruesome thing, which an innocent man, full of the lust of life, cannot contemplate with equanimity. The marriage could be concealed no longer. It was a matter of life or death. Then all would be well. Provided only he reached The Lindens before a hand was laid on his shoulder. Through the gathering darkness of the dreary February evening he hurried on the accursedly familiar road. It had never seemed so long. As he neared the vague form of the constable advancing on his beat, his heart throbbed violently. Then he laughed scornfully at his fears. As if a policeman on duty would arrest him! Without a doubt he was being shadowed at this very moment, and when the time was ripe, a civil spoken officer in plain clothes would take him quietly and discreetly into custody. But he felt glad when the front door of The Lindens closed upon him and he found himself in the warm security of the hall. Samuels, the butler, came down the stairs. “Miss Hart is very sorry, but she cannot receive you to-day, sir.” “Is she in bed?” “No, sir.” “Where is she?” “In the drawing-room.” “Thank you, Samuels; I must see her.” And brushing past the rather bewildered butler, he mounted the stairs and entered the drawing-room unceremoniously. Minna rose angrily from her chair, keeping her thumb between the pages of the novel she was reading. Dressed in a loose dressing-gown, with her hair pinned up untidily, she was all the more incensed at his interruption. “I told Samuels--” she began, with a petulant stamp of the foot. “Yes, I know,” he interrupted. “I disregarded him. This is not a time for politeness. The police are after me. I may be arrested at any moment. They know that I did not reach home till the morning. I am caught in a trap. I must account for my actions between half-past eleven and seven.” She turned as white as a sheet. The novel slipped from her fingers to the carpet. “Impossible,” she said. “What’s impossible?” “That they should arrest you. They have no evidence. Oh! it is absurd.” “Absurd or not, they will.” Rapidly he sketched his position. She listened motionless, and with quivering lips. “What do you wish me to do?” she asked in a voice scarcely audible.