Deacon smiled. “Nothing, thanks awfully. Our Arthur—old Digby-Coates, you know—has done all that. Brought me down a sack of books, a box of cigars, and arranged for decidedly improved victuals to be brought over from the White Horse by quite a neat line in barmaidings. Also, he’s fixed up the solicitors and trimmings. They’re going to try to get Marshall, K.C.” “Excellent! Marshall’s about the best counsel there is. There’s nothing you want, then.” “Nothing. Shall I see you to-morrow?” Anthony nodded. “You will. Early afternoon, probably, as I hear they’re moving you later. Good-night; and don’t forget I’m going to get you out of this—somehow.” They shook hands. A minute later Anthony was walking slowly back towards his inn up the cobbled street. The sun was sinking behind the gables of a twisted house at the top of the rise, and the road which had been gold was splashed with blood-red blotches. He shivered. In all this morass of doubt and wilderness of evil—a wilderness wherein innocent men had obviously committed crimes they had nothing to do with, where every one was sure except Anthony Ruthven Gethryn—he felt alone. Not even the golden-dark background to his thoughts which was the perpetual image of the Lady of the Sandal could compensate for the blackness of bewilderment—the blackness through which he could see light but not yet the way to light. Then his thoughts turned to Deacon, his cheerfulness, his ease of manner, his courage which surely masked a hell of distress. Suddenly the admiration which he felt somehow cheered him. His step quickened. “By God!” he muttered, “that’s a man and a half——” and broke off sharply. He had collided with something softly hard. A girl, running. A girl with wild, red-rimmed eyes and hatless, dishevelled, golden head. Before he could voice apology; almost before he was aware of the collision, she had passed him and was stumbling down the uneven little road with its splashes of crimson painted by the dying sun. From a doorway a slatternly woman peered out, curious with the brutal, impersonal curiosity of the yokel. Anthony struggled to adjust his memory. Ah, yes! It was the sister. Her sister. Dora Masterson. He turned; caught up with four long strides; laid a hand upon the girl’s shoulder. She shook it off, turning to him a face disfigured by desire for more tears, tears that would not come. “You were going to the police-station, Miss Masterson?” Anthony asked. She nodded. “You mustn’t—not like this.” He took her gently by the arm. “You could do nothing—and you’d make him feel as if things were unbearable.” “I must see him.” She spoke dully, an unnatural pause between each word. “Not now,” said Anthony firmly. “Not when I want your help.” He wondered if the lie showed through his words; cursed that he should have to hamper himself with an hysterical girl. She swallowed the bait. “Help you?” she asked eagerly. “About—about Archie? How can I do that?