"He was here when the pistol was fired--at this box, my friend, as the bullet will testify." He pointed to the mark on the enamelled panel behind. "When the lights came he had gone--that is all." "He can't have gone," said T. B. shortly. "The theatre is surrounded. I have a warrant for his arrest." A cry from the girl stopped him. She was white and shaking. "Arrest!" she gasped, "on what charge?" "On a charge of being concerned with one Gorth in burglary at the Docks--and with an attempted murder." "Gorth!" cried the girl, vehemently. "If any man is guilty, it is Gorth--that evil man----" "Speak softly of the dead," said T. B. gently. "Mr. Gorth, as I have every reason to believe, received wounds from which he died. Perhaps you can enlighten me, Poltavo?" But the Count could only spread deprecating hands. T. B. went out into the corridor. There was an emergency exit to the street, but the door was closed. On the floor he found a glove, on the door itself the print of a bloody hand. But there was no sign of Farrington. CHAPTER VII Two days later, at the stroke of ten, Frank Doughton sprang from his taxi in front of the office of the _Evening Times_. He stood for a moment, drawing in the fresh March air, sweet with the breath of approaching spring. The fog of last night had vanished, leaving no trace. He caught the scent of Southern lilacs from an adjoining florist shop. He took the stairs three at a time. "Chief in yet?" he inquired of Jamieson, the news editor, who looked up in astonishment at his entrance, and then at the clock. "No, he's not down yet. You've broken your record." Frank nodded. "I've got to get away early." Tossing his hat upon his desk, he sat down and went methodically through his papers. He unfolded his _Times_, his mind intent upon the problem of the missing millionaire. He had not seen Doris since that night in the box. The first paper under his hand was an early edition of a rival evening journal. He glanced down at the headlines on the front page, then with a horrified cry he sprang to his feet. He was pale, and the hand which gripped the paper shook. "Good Lord!" he exclaimed. Jamieson swung round in his swivel chair. "What's up?" he inquired. "Farrington!" said Frank, huskily. "Farrington has committed suicide!" "Yes, we've a column about it," remarked Jamieson, complacently. "A pretty good story." Then suddenly: "You knew him?" he asked. Frank Doughton lifted a face from which every vestige of colour had been drained. "I--I was with him at the theatre on the night he disappeared," he said. Jamieson whistled softly. Doughton rose hurriedly and reached for his hat. "I must go to them. Perhaps something can be done. Doris----" he broke off, unable to continue, and turned away sharply. Jamieson looked at him sympathetically. "Why don't you go round to Brakely Square?" he suggested. "There may be new developments--possibly a mistake. You note that the body has not been discovered."