"Father, dear," she cried, excitedly, when they were alone, "listen to me. I can't sleep to-night unless it can be arranged for me to see that pistol that was found. I have a fancy that----" She stopped short. "A fancy--what?" he demanded suddenly. "That I may have seen it once before," she continued. Wilkinson called an officer. The officer took Leslie across the bridge and into the other part of the building where the pistol was to be seen. Its custodian watched the girl narrowly as she looked upon it; but she gave no sign. "I don't believe I ever saw that one before," she volunteered. Back again with her father, she whispered eagerly in his ear: "Father, oh, father, what am I to do? That gun there is the very gun that Giles Ilingsworth had in our house that day. It's the same--the very same, I'm sure of it. What am I to do?" Wilkinson uttered an oath under his breath. "We'll give him up, that's what we'll do! We'll hunt him down!" he said excitedly. "He tried to kill me, and he did kill little Pallister." He stood there staring at her, his face growing whiter all the time. He was about to speak again when he was interrupted by the entrance of Colonel Morehead. Through the lawyer's mind, as he looked at Wilkinson and his daughter, a number of impressions were passing. The three days' confinement in a cell had left its traces on the multi-millionaire: a terrible depression was on him, his shoulders were hunched, and his eyes lustreless. With Leslie, of course, there was no such great change, though her lips were trembling, her eyes wide and searching, and her figure seemed shrunken. In other words, the shadow of the Tombs was upon them all. All--the word is used advisedly, for Morehead, himself, was by no means in a normal condition. Veteran, though he unquestionably was, he had shivered as if with dread the moment he had crossed the threshold of the jail. Hundreds of times, it is true, he had passed in and out without let or hinderance, and yet upon every occasion this indescribable sense of dread--the clutch of terror, the stretching out of the cold, clammy hand of penal servitude, the horribly silent eloquence of bolt and bar--was ever present. Custom had not staled it; it bit into him with terrible force. But whatever he felt, he gave no sign. To-day, as always, he had merely nodded to the doorman as he passed in, strode down the narrow passage-way and pushed through the turn-stile. At that point, however, he had been confronted by the deputy warden of the jail. "Counsellor," asked big Bill Steen with unaccustomed caution in his tone, "who was you looking for?" The Counsellor smiled. "You have only one of my birds shut up in your aviary, Bill. Obviously, he's the man I wish to see." Big Bill nodded, still with suspicious caution. "Peter V. Wilkinson, I suppose?" "Precisely," returned the Colonel, and was starting on.