"Oh, I didn't find him myself," said Mr. Inkerman. "Inspector Dolan found him. Dolan says he will bring him up here at five o'clock, if that will suit you." "Very well," said the bishop; "that will suit me exactly." At the appointed time there were four or five of the more prominent ecclesiastics present in the bishop's library--among the others, Dr. Dayton and Dr. Ives. A little after five Mr. Inkerman came quietly into the room accompanied by Gilderman. "The inspector hasn't come yet?" he asked. "No," said the bishop; "not yet." "They've just called me up from the station-house, telling me that he was on the way," said the lawyer. "How much do you suppose this man will want for his services?" asked the bishop, after a moment or two of pause. "Oh, I don't know," said the lawyer. "Thank you"--and he took a cigar from the box the man-servant offered him--"I would not give him very much, though. He's only a poor devil, and a little money will go a great way with him. Offer him ten dollars." "Ten dollars!" exclaimed Dr. Ives. "Rogues must be cheap in these times, sir!" and there was a ripple of amusement. "Some rogues are and some are not," said Mr. Inkerman, when the laugh had subsided. "I dare say it would take a pot of money to buy a Herod, and still more to buy a Pilate," and then again there was a ripple of laughter. At that moment the servant came in bringing a printed card upon the salver. The card had a semibusiness-like, semisocial look. He handed it to the bishop, who glanced at it. "Oh," he said, "here he is. Show him up directly." He handed the card to Dr. Dayton, who ran his eye over it. "It's Inspector Dolan," he said to the others. In a little while the servant returned, holding open the door and ushering in the two men. The light shone upon the inspector's uniform, gleaming upon the badge on his breast. He came directly into the room followed by a rather small, rather thin man, with a lean face and reddish hair and beard, and a long, lean neck. The man seemed abashed and ill at ease in the presence of the clergymen. He stood in the farther part of the room, not far from the door. He held his hat in his hand, shifting it and turning it around and around. He was ill clad and rough looking, but his face was rather cunning than stupid. It was not altogether a bad face. His eyes wandered about the room, resting an instant upon each unusual object. There was a large photogravure in colors of Renault's "Execution in Tangier." That caught his eye, and his gaze lingered upon it for a moment--the severed head, the prone corpse lying upon the steps, the huge figure of the executioner looming above it, and the splashes of blood trickling over the white marble. He looked at the picture for an instant, and then he looked at the bishop; then he looked back at the picture again.