"Why it is as plain as day, child," said Simon Darche, ever ready to explain a matter of business. "The second mortgage of a million and a half to square everything. Come here, come close to the fire, my hands are cold. I think I must have been ill." "You would never think Mr. Darche had been ill, would you, gentlemen?" asked Marion, appealing again to the detectives. "No, guess not," they answered in chorus. Meanwhile Brett led Darche across the room, talking to him in a loud tone until they were near the door. "Your wife will make some diversion presently," he whispered. "I do not know how. When she does, make for that door and get out." "Thank you, thank you," said John with genuine fervour, and his face lighted up. "God bless you, Brett!" "Do not thank me," answered Brett roughly. "I do not want to do it. Thank your wife." "Oh!" exclaimed John Darche, and his eyelids contracted. "My wife! Is it for her?" "Yes." "I will remember that. I will remember it as long as I live." Brett never forgot the look which accompanied the words. "Well, be grateful to her anyhow," he said. At that moment a piercing scream rang through the room. Marion Darche, while talking to her father-in-law, had been standing quite close to the fire. When Brett turned his head the front of her dress was burning with a slow flame and she was making desperate efforts to tear it from her. "Good Heavens, you are really burning!" cried Brett as he crushed the flaming stuff with his bare hands, regardless of the consequences to himself. "Did you think that I cried out in fun?" asked Marion calmly. On hearing his wife's cry John Darche had bestowed but one glance upon her. It mattered but little to him that she was really on fire. The detectives had rushed to her assistance and for one moment no one was looking. He was close to the door. A moment later he had left the room and turned the key behind him. "My God!" exclaimed the officer in charge, suddenly. "He has gone! Run, boys! Stop! One of you take the old one. We will not lose them both." Old Darche started as though he had suddenly been waked out of a deep sleep, and his voice rang out loud and clear. "Hey, what is this?" he cried. "Hello! Detectives in my house? Disguised too?" "Yes, sir," answered one of the detectives, seizing him by the wrist just as the other two left the room in pursuit of John Darche. "And one of them has got you." "Got me!" roared the old man. "Hands off, there! What do you mean? Damn you, sir, let me go!" "Oh, well," replied the officer calmly, "if you are going to take on like that, you may just as well know that your son was tried and convicted for forgery to-day. Not that I believe that you had anything to do with it, but he is a precious rascal all the same, and has escaped from your house--" "I! Forgery? The man is mad! John, where are you? Brett! Vanbrugh! Help me, gentlemen!"