On this morning, though, he was at least on the road to high spirits, and walked on down the twisting, cobbled street towards the police-station, whistling beneath his breath. The whistle bewailed the cruel death of Cock Robin. Still whistling, he ran up the steps of the police-station. As he passed through the doorway the whistling stopped, cut off in the middle of a bar. He stepped to one side, away from the door. Coming towards it were Lucia Lemesurier and her sister. Neither at once saw Anthony. Then, with a gracious smile to officialdom, Lucia turned and looked full at him. He raised his hat and looked grim. He didn’t mean to look grim; he was merely trying to behave well in a police-station to a lady he loved and had offended. Lucia flushed and bowed coldly and walked down the steps. She hadn’t meant to do any of these things; but the man _did_ look so forbidding. “Conceited idiot!” she said to herself, referring to Anthony and not meaning it in the least. “Hell!” said Anthony under his breath, and went rather white. Dora Masterson held out her hand. “Good-morning,” she said, and looked curiously at him. From somewhere he dragged out a smile. “Morning. Feeling better?” She beamed at him. “Oh, ever so much! Archie seems so—so exactly as if everything was the same as usual. He’s wonderful! And I haven’t forgotten what you said about miracles. You will do one, won’t you?” With another smile she ran down the steps and after her sister. She had scented an intriguing mystery in the behaviour of these two. Anthony emerged from thought to find the inspector looking at him with barely veiled curiosity. He essayed a cheerful manner. Perhaps the inspector would be so good as to let him see Mr. Deacon. If the inspector remembered, Superintendent Boyd—— In less than two minutes he was alone with the prisoner. Deacon put down the book he was reading. “Hallo-allo! More visitors for the condemned man. Good job you’re early. I believe they’re moving me to the county clink about eleven.” Anthony sat down upon the bed. “How are you?” he said. He said it to gain time. His thoughts, once so carefully ordered, had been thrown into much confusion. That bow had been so extremely distant. “To tell you the truth,” Deacon said slowly and heavily, “I feel absolutely rotten! It’s beginning to get on my nerves—all this!” He made a sweeping gesture. “It—I feel——” He broke off and laughed. “Fan-tods won’t do any good, will they? And it’s only what I might have expected. Nurse always told me my middle name was Crippen.” Admiration and sympathy cleared Anthony’s head. “When’s the magistrate’s court?” he asked abruptly. “The balloon, I believe, goes up at 10 a. m. the day after to-morrow.” Anthony muttered: “Day after to-morrow, eh? Well, it may,” and relapsed into silence.