"He told me something which I feel inclined to tell you," she continued, glancing into her companion's haggard face with a gleam of sympathy in her eyes. "You'll probably see it in the newspapers to-morrow morning. Governor Roughton's resignation was compulsory. He is under arrest." "For negligence?" "For participation," was the grave reply. "Mr. Lutchester has been down to--the city where these things took place. He only got back late this afternoon." "Lutchester again!" Fischer muttered. "You see, it's rather in his line," Pamela reminded him. "He is over here to superintend the production of munitions from the factories which are working for the British Government." "He is over here as a sort of general mischief-maker!" Fischer exclaimed fiercely. "Do I understand that he has been down in----?" Pamela nodded. "He went down with one of the heads of the New York police." She turned away, but Fischer caught at her wrist. "You know more than this!" he cried hoarsely. The agony in the man's face and tone touched her. After all, he was fighting for the great things. There was nothing mean about Fischer, nothing selfish about his lying and his crimes. "I have told you all that I can," she whispered, "but if you hurried, you could catch the _New York_ to-night--and I think I should advise you to go." CHAPTER XXXVI Fischer, on leaving his unsuccessful dinner party, drove direct to the residence of Mr. Max H. Bookam, in Fifth Avenue. The butler who admitted him looked a little blank at his inquiry. "Mr. Bookam was expected home yesterday, sir," he announced. "He has not arrived, however." "Has there been any telegram from him?--any news as to the cause of his non-return?" Fischer persisted. "I believe that Mr. Kaye, his secretary, has some information, sir," the man admitted. "Perhaps you would like to see him." Fischer did not hesitate, and was conducted at once to the study in which Mr. Bookam was wont to indulge in various nefarious Stock Exchange adventures. The room was occupied on this occasion by a dejected-looking young man, with pasty face and gold spectacles. The apartment, as Fischer was quick to notice, showed signs of a strange disorder. "Where's Mr. Bookam?" he asked quickly. The young man walked to the door, shook it to be sure that it was closed, and came back again. His tone was ominous, almost dramatic. "In the State Prison at----, sir," he announced. "What for?" Fischer demanded, breathing a little thickly. "I have no certain information," the secretary replied, with a noncommittal air. "All I know is that I had a long-distance telephone to burn certain documents, but before I could do so the room and the house were searched by New York detectives, whose warrant it was useless to resist." "But what's the charge against Mr. Bookam?"