Twelve o'clock, and the household sleeping. He had spent the early part of the night at Moorgate Place, had written his account of the murder, seen it consigned to the machines, and returned wearily home. Now, in the stillness, he was listening; every belated cab whose passing broke the silence of the night set his heart beating, for he was listening--listening for Severac Bablon. His faith was shaken. He had been content to know himself the confidant of the man who had taken from Park Lane to give to the Embankment; of the man who had kidnapped four great millionaires and compelled them each to bear an equal share with himself, towards salving a wrecked bank; of the man, who assisted by M. Lemage, the first detective in Europe, had hoodwinked Scotland Yard. But the thought that he had called "friend" the man who had murdered, or caused to be murdered, Douglas Graham--whatever had been the dead man's character--was dreadful--terrifying. It meant? It meant that if Severac Bablon did not come, and come that night, to clear himself, then he, Sheard, must confess to his knowledge of him--must, at whatever personal cost, give every assistance in his power to those who sought to apprehend the murderer. A key turned in the lock of the front door. Sheard started to his feet. A soft step in the hall--and Severac Bablon entered. The journalist could find no words to greet him; but he stood watching the fine masterful face. There was a new, eager look in the long, dark eyes. Severac Bablon extended his hand. Sheard shook his head and resting his elbow on the mantelpiece, looked down into the dying embers of the fire. "You, too, my friend?" Sheard turned impulsively. "Tell me you are in no way implicated in that ghastly crime!" he burst out. "Only tell me, and I shall be satisfied." Severac Bablon stepped quickly forward, grasped him by both shoulders and looked hard into his eyes with that strange, penetrating gaze that seemed to pierce through all pretence into the mind beyond. "Sheard, in the pursuit of what I--and my poor wisdom may be no better than a wiser man's folly--of what I consider to be Nature's one law--Justice, I have braved the laws of man, risked my honour and my liberty. I have dared to hold the scales, to weigh in the balance some of the affairs of men. But life, be it that of the lowliest insect, of the vilest sinner against every code of mankind, is sacred. I--with all my egotism, with all my poor human vanity--would not dare to rob a fellow creature of that gift which only God can give, which only God may take back." "Then----" "You, who knew me, doubted?" Sheard grasped the proffered hand. "Forgive my fears," he said warmly; "I should have known. But this horrible thing has shaken me. I cannot survey murdered corpses with the calmly professional eye of the Sheffields and Harbornes."