Braith blocked his way. The red-faced detective was at his side. “So, you are Mr Emanuel Pick!” “No!” gasped the other. “He lies! He lies!” yelled the woman, from the floor. The Jew reeled back and, with a piercing scream, tore at his handcuffed wrists. Braith whispered to the detective: “What has the woman done? What is the charge?” “Charge? There are a dozen. The last is murder.” The woman had fainted and they carried her away. The light fell a moment on the Jew’s livid face, the next Braith stood under the dark porch of the empty theater. The confusion was all at the stage entrance. Here, in front, the deserted street was white and black and silent under the electric lamps. All the lonelier for two wretched gamins, counting their dirty sous and draggled newspapers. When they saw Braith they started for him; one was ahead in the race, but the other gained on him, reached him, dealt him a merciless blow, and panted up to Braith. The defeated one, crying bitterly, gathered up his scattered papers from the gutter. “Curse you, Rigaud! you hound!” he cried, in a passion of tears. “Curse you, son of a murderer!” The first gamin whipped out a paper and thrust it toward Braith. “Buy it, Monsieur!” he whined, “the last edition, full account of the Boulangist riot this morning; burning of the Prussian flags; explosion on a warship; murder in Germany, discovered by an English Milord—” Braith was walking fast; the gamin ran by his side for a moment, but soon gave it up. Braith walked faster and faster; he was almost running when he reached his own door. There was a light in his window. He rushed up the stairs and into his room. Clifford was sitting there, his head in his hands. Braith touched him, trying to speak lightly. “Are you asleep, old man?” Clifford raised a colorless face to his. “What is it? Can’t you speak?” But Clifford only pointed to a crumpled telegram lying on the table, and hid his face again as Braith raised the paper to the light. The End