He appealed to Brett, and then to Vanbrugh who, indeed, was doing his best to draw the officer away. "No, no," answered the latter firmly. "I've got one of them--it's all in the family." Though Marion's dress was still smouldering and Brett was on his knees trying to extinguish the last spark with his own hands, she forgot her own danger, and almost tearing herself away from Brett she clasped the policeman's hand trying to drag it from Simon Darche's shoulder. "Oh, sir," she cried in tearful entreaty, "pray let him go! He is innocent--he is ill! He will not think of escaping. Don't you see that we have kept it all from him?" "Kept it all from me?" asked the old gentleman fiercely turning upon her. "What do you mean? Where is John? Where is John? I say!" "In handcuffs by this time I guess," said the detective calmly. "But I insist upon knowing what all this means," continued old Darche, growing more and more excited, while the veins of his temples swelled to bursting. "Forgery! Trial! Conviction! John escaping! Am I dreaming? Are not you three directors of the other road? Good God, young man, speak!" He seized Brett by the collar in his excitement. "Pray be calm, sir, pray be calm," answered the young man, trying to loosen the policeman's sturdy grasp. By a tremendous effort, such as madmen make in supreme moments, the old man broke loose, and seizing Marion by the wrist dragged her half across the room while he spoke. "Tell me this thing is all a lie!" he cried, again and again. "The lady knows the truth well enough, sir," said the policeman, coming up behind him. "She caught fire just right." For one moment Simon Darche stood upright in the middle of the room, looking from one to the other with wild frightened eyes. "Oh, it is true!" he cried in accents of supreme agony. "John has disgraced himself! Oh, my son, my son!" One instant more, and the light in his eyes broke, he threw out his arms and fell straight backwards against the detective. Simon Darche was dead. CHAPTER VIII. There was no lack of sympathy for Marion Darche, and it was shown in many ways during the period of calm which succeeded her husband's disappearance and the sudden death of his father. Every one was anxious to be first in showing the lonely woman that she was not alone, but that, on the contrary, those who had been her friends formerly were more ready than ever to proclaim the fact now, and, so far as they were able, not in words only, but in deeds also. She was relieved, all at once, of the many burdens which had oppressed her life during the past years--indeed, she sometimes caught herself missing the constant sacrifice, the daily effort of subduing her temper, the hourly care for the doting old man who was gone.