“A man has made a confession—a man named Gill, a half-witted fellow who thinks he killed Lew Brady.” “Brady?” she gasped. The Frog nodded. “It isn’t true,” she breathed. “You’re lying! You’re telling me this to frighten me.” “Will you marry me?” he asked. “Never, never!” she cried. “I would rather die. You are lying to me.” “When you want me, send for me,” said the Frog. “Put in your window a white card, and I will save your brother.” She half lay on the table, her head upon her folded arms. “It’s not true, it’s not true,” she muttered. There was no reply, and, looking up, she saw that the room was empty. Staggering to her feet, she went out into the kitchen. The kitchen door was open; and, peering into the dark garden, she saw no sign of the man. She had strength to bolt the door, and dragged herself up to her room and to her bed, and then she fainted. Daylight showed in the windows when she sat up. She was painfully weary, her eyes were red with weeping, her head was in a whirl. It had been a night of horror—and it was not true, it could not be true. She had heard of no murder; and if there had been, it could not be Ray. She would have known; Ray would have sent for her father. She dragged her aching limbs to the bathroom and turned the cold-water tap. Half an hour later she was sane, and looking at her experience dispassionately. Ray was alive. The man had tried to frighten her. Who was he? She shivered. She saw only one solution to her terrible problem, and after she had made herself a cup of tea, she dressed and walked down into the town, in time to catch an early train. What other thought came to her, she never dreamt for one moment of surrender, never so much as glanced at the window where a white card could be placed, might save the life of her brother. In her heart of hearts, she knew that this man would not have come to her with such a story unless it was well founded. That was not the Frog’s way. What advantage would he gain if he had invented this tragedy? Nevertheless, she did not even look for a white card, or think of its possible use. Dick was at breakfast when she arrived, and a glance at her face told him that she brought bad news. “Don’t go, Mr. Elk,” she said as the inspector pushed back his chair. “You must know this.” As briefly as she could, she narrated the events of the night before, and Dick listened with rising wrath until she came to the climax of the story. “Ray under sentence?” he said incredulously. “Of course it isn’t true.” “Where did he say the boy was?” asked Elk. “In Gloucester Prison.” In their presence her reserve had melted and she was near to tears. “Gloucester Prison?” repeated Elk slowly. “There _is_ a man there under sentence of death, a man named”—he strove to remember—“Carter,” he said at last. “That is it—Carter, a tramp. He killed another tramp named Phenan.”