He turned away without another word. But at the door he paused once more--in obvious hesitation. "There's nothing else I can do for you?" he asked. "Nothing, sir. Thank you." "You--you were not thinking--of----" "Of what, sir?" asked Luke. Then as he saw the other man's eyes wandering to the drawer of the desk, he said simply: "Of suicide, you mean, sir?" Colonel Harris nodded. "Oh, no," rejoined Luke. And he added after a slight pause: "Not at present." "What do you mean by that?" "I mean that I shouldn't exactly hang for the murder of the Clapham bricklayer. I shouldn't let it come to that. I am sorry I did not manage to get away to-night. I thought they meant to let me." "I think they did mean to. Some blunder I suppose on the part of the subordinates." "I suppose so." "Well, Luke," said Colonel Harris with a deep sigh, "I have known you ever since you were a child, but, by G--d, man! I confess that I don't understand you." "That's very kindly put, sir," rejoined Luke with the semblance of a smile. "You have every right to call me a confounded blackguard." "I shall only do that after your trial, my boy," said the other. "When I have heard you confess with your own lips that you killed that d----d scoundrel in a moment of intense provocation." "I had better not keep the police waiting any longer, sir, had I?" "No! no! that's all right. I'll take my poor Lou away at once, and we'll see after Edie, and Jim--we'll look after them--and Frank, too, when he comes home." "Thank you, sir." "S'long my boy." And Colonel Harris--puzzled, worried, and miserable--finally went out of the room. On the threshold he turned, moved by the simple and primitive instinct of wishing to take a last look at a friend. He saw Luke standing there in the full light of the electric lamp, calm, quite serene, correct to the last in attitude and bearing. The face was just a mask--marble-like and impassive--jealously guarding the secrets of the soul within. Just a good-looking, well-bred young Englishman in fact, who looked in his elegant attire ready to start off for some social function. Not a single trace either on his person or in his neat, orderly surroundings of the appalling tragedy which would have broken the spirit of any human creature, less well-schooled in self-restraint. Convention was triumphant to the end. The man of the world--the English gentleman, hypocritical or unemotional? which?--was here ready to face abject humiliation and hopeless disgrace as impassively as he would have received the welcome of an hostess at a dinner-party. CHAPTER XXXV WHICH TELLS OF PICTURES IN THE FIRE