“I saw you with all the evening papers as usual, Bransome,” the Prime Minister remarked during the service of dinner. “Was there any news?” “Nothing much,” the Foreign Secretary replied. “Consuls are down another point and the Daily Comet says that you are like a drowning man clinging to the raft of your majority. Excellent cartoon of you, by the bye. You shall see it after dinner.” “Thank you,” the Prime Minister said. “Was there anything about you in the same paper by any chance?” “Nothing particularly abusive,” Sir Edward answered blandly. “By the bye, the police declare that they have a definite clue this time, and are going to arrest the murderer of Hamilton Fynes and poor dicky Vanderpole tonight or tomorrow.” “Excellent!” the Duke declared. “It would have been a perfect disgrace to our police system to have left two such crimes undetected. Our respected friend at the Home Office will have a little peace now.” “How about me?” Bransome grumbled. “Haven’t I been worried to death, too?” The Prince, who had just finished describing to Lady Grace a typical landscape of his country, turned toward Bransome. “I think that I heard you say something about a discovery in connection with those wonderful murder cases,” he said. “Has any one actually been arrested?” “My paper was an early edition,” Bransome answered, “but it spoke of a sensational denouement within the next few hours. I should imagine that it is all over by now. At the same time it’s absurd how the Press give these things away. It seems that some fellow who was bicycling saw a man get in and out of poor Dicky’s taxi and is quite prepared to swear to him.” “Has he not been rather a long time in coming forward with his evidence?” the Prince remarked. “I do not remember to have seen any mention of such a person in the papers before.” “He watched so well,” Bransome answered, “and was so startled that he was knocked down and run over. The detective in charge of the case found him in a hospital.” “These things always come out sooner or later,” the Prime Minister remarked. “As a matter of fact, I am inclined to think that our police wait too long before they make an arrest. They play with their victim so deliberately that sometimes he slips through their fingers. Very often, too, they let a man go who would give himself away from sheer fright if he felt the touch of a policeman upon his shoulder.” “As a nation,” Bransome remarked, helping himself to the entree, “we handle life amongst ourselves with perpetual kid gloves. We are always afraid of molesting the liberty of the subject. A trifle more brutality sometimes would make for strength. We are like a dentist whose work suffers because he is afraid of hurting his patient.” Somerfield was watching his fiancee curiously. “Are you really very pale tonight, Penelope,” he asked, “or is it those red flowers which have drawn all the color from your cheeks?”