I was still stupefied by a sense of inconceivable loss, and had not raised my eyes from that which was slowly forcing me to realize what had happened, when there was a rustle at my elbow, and a shower of hothouse flowers passed before them, falling like huge snowflakes where my gaze had rested. I looked up, and at my side stood a majestic figure in deep mourning. The face was carefully veiled, but I was too close not to recognize the masterful beauty whom the world knew as Jacques Saillard. I had no sympathy with her; on the contrary, my blood boiled with the vague conviction that in some way she was responsible for this death. Yet she was the only woman present—there were not a half a dozen of us altogether—and her flowers were the only flowers. The melancholy ceremony was over, and Jacques Saillard had departed in a funeral brougham, evidently hired for the occasion. I had watched her drive away, and the sight of my own cabman, making signs to me through the fog, had suddenly reminded me that I had bidden him to wait. I was the last to leave, and had turned my back upon the grave-diggers, already at their final task, when a hand fell lightly but firmly upon my shoulder. “I don’t want to make a scene in a cemetery,” said a voice, in a not unkindly, almost confidential whisper. “Will you get into your own cab and come quietly?” “Who on earth are you?” I exclaimed. I now remembered having seen the fellow hovering about during the funeral, and subconsciously taking him for the undertaker’s head man. He had certainly that appearance, and even now I could scarcely believe that he was anything else. “My name won’t help you,” he said, pityingly. “But you will guess where I come from when I tell you I have a warrant for your arrest.” My sensations at this announcement may not be believed, but I solemnly declare that I have seldom experienced so fierce a satisfaction. Here was a new excitement in which to drown my grief; here was something to think about; and I should be spared the intolerable experience of a solitary return to the little place at Ham. It was as though I had lost a limb and some one had struck me so hard in the face that the greater agony was forgotten. I got into the hansom without a word, my captor following at my heels, and giving his own directions to the cabman before taking his seat. The word “station” was the only one I caught, and I wondered whether it was to be Bow Street again. My companion’s next words, however, or rather the tone in which he uttered them, destroyed my capacity for idle speculation. “Mr. Maturin!” said he. “Mr. Maturin indeed!” “Well,” said I, “what about him?” “Do you think we don’t know who he was?” “Who was he?” I asked, defiantly. “You ought to know,” said he. “You got locked up through him the other time, too. His favorite name was Raffles then.” “It was his real name,” I said, indignantly. “And he has been dead for years.” My captor simply chuckled.