"Everything is regular, sir," continued the detective. "We have a requisition for you from the Governor of this State. It was obtained by telegraph from Trenton. You will excuse my dropping on you in this way; but I wanted to take you to New York to-night, as the inquest meets again at ten o'clock to-morrow morning." "The inquest!--what inquest? Tell me, in God's name!" said Marcus, finding his voice at last. "Inquest! There must have been a murder committed." "What is it?" "Tell us, Mr. Policeman." The question was asked on all sides. "Now I _didn't_ want a scene," said Detective Leffingwell, politely, "and I won't have one. Mr. Wilkeson and I understand each other. The word 'inquest' dropped out of my mouth before I thought." "As heaven is above us, we do not understand each other!" said Marcus. "Tell me, pray tell me at once, or I shall go mad." "Anything to please you," replied the officer; "but I can't bear these explanations in public. It isn't my way of doing business." He then leaned forward, and whispered in the ear of Marcus. "Great God!" was all that Marcus could say. Then he sank to the seat, and bowed his head in agony. Tiffles, who had forced his way to his friend's side during the excitement, threw his arms about him, and said: "Never mind appearances, Marcus. I'll stake my life you are innocent of the charge, whatever it is." "Oh! you're a humbug," remarked C. Skimmerhorn, Esq. "Call me and my panorama a humbug, if you please; but Mr. Wilkeson is a gentleman and a man of honor." Tiffles's face beamed with a strange kindness. He looked up, and saw the idiot standing near him. His small eyes filled with tears as he gazed with an expression of intelligent pity at the crushed man. Tiffles could have hugged the idiot, not only as the most sensible man, but the best-hearted one he had seen in the village. C. Skimmerhorn, Esq., would have retorted severely, but his attention, and that of all the crowd, was drawn, at that moment, to a citizen who came forward, and, in a state of beathless excitement, said he guessed he knew what it all meant. He was in New York that afternoon, and read, in one of the evening papers, an account of a dreadful murder committed on an old man named Minford. The supposed murderer, the paper said, was a Mr. Wilkes or Wilkson. "Now I hope you are satisfied," said Detective Leffingwell, looking around with contempt at his hearers. A slight scream was heard from the corner of a seat near by. From the beginning of this unpleasant affair, it was observed that a plainly dressed woman--a seamstress accompanying the family of a Mr. Graft--had become very pale and nervous, and had been seen to move uneasily in her seat. This woman had fainted away. She it was who had stared so strangely at Marcus in the car that morning. Mrs. Graft and her two daughters promptly removed the fainting woman to the entry, where the fresh air soon restored her, and she was sent home.