"This is a bad business, Mr. Merrill," he found his breath to say. Frank Merrill had been leaning over his uncle as the constable entered, but now stood erect, pale, but perfectly self-possessed. "I heard the shot and I came in," he said. "Stay where you are," said the constable, and, stepping quickly out on to the lawn, he blew his whistle long and shrilly, then returned to the room. "This is a bad business, Mr. Merrill," he repeated. "It is a very bad business," said the other in a low voice. "Is this revolver yours?" Frank shook his head. "I've never seen it before," he said with emphasis. The constable thought as quickly as it was humanly possible for him to think. He had no doubt in his mind that this unhappy youth had fired the shots which had ended the life of the man on the floor. "Stay here," he said again, and again went out to blow his whistle. He walked this time on the lawn by the side of the drive toward the road. He had not taken half a dozen steps when he saw a dark figure of a man creeping stealthily along before him in the shade of the shrubs. In a second the constable was on him, had grasped him and swung him round, flashing his lantern into his prisoner's face. Instantly he released his hold. "I beg your pardon, Sergeant," he stammered. "What's the matter?" scowled the other. "What's wrong with you, Constable?" Sergeant Smith's face was drawn and haggard. The policeman looked at him with open-mouthed astonishment. "I didn't know it was you," he said. "What's wrong?" asked the other again, and his voice was cracked and unnatural. "There's been a murder--old Minute--shot!" Sergeant Smith staggered back a pace. "Good God!" he said. "Minute murdered? Then he did it! The young devil did it!" "Come and have a look," invited Wiseman, recovering his balance. "I've got his nephew." "No, no! I don't want to see John Minute dead! You go back. I'll bring another constable and a doctor." He stumbled blindly along the drive into the road, and Constable Wiseman went back to the house. Frank was where he had left him, save that he had seated himself and was gazing steadfastly upon the dead man. He looked up as the policeman entered. "What have you done?" he asked. "The sergeant's gone for a doctor and another constable," said Wiseman gravely. "I'm afraid they will be too late," said Frank. "He is--What's that?" There was a distant hammering and a faint voice calling for help. "What's that?" whispered Frank again. The constable strode through the open doorway to the foot of the stairs and listened. The sound came from the upper story. He ran upstairs, mounting two at a time, and presently located the noise. It came from an end room, and somebody was hammering on the panels. The door was locked, but the key had been left in the lock, and this Constable Wiseman turned, flooding the dark interior with light. "Come out!" he said, and Jasper Cole staggered out, dazed and shaking.