In the City of London, which is deserted as a cemetery from ten o'clock at night till six in the morning, the police keep a sharp eye on waiting cabs and automobiles between these hours, and invariably inquire their business. This constable was quite satisfied that all was well when he saw Mr. Hilton Fenley, whom he knew by sight. In any event, the flying murderer was safer than he dared hope in that place and at that time. The Roxton telephonic system was temporarily useless in so far as it affected his movements; for a fire had broken out at The Towers, and the flames of the burning roof had been as a beacon for miles around during the whole of the time consumed by the run to London. CHAPTER XVI THE CLOSE OF A TRAGEDY Winter was in the Quarry Wood and feeling his way but trusting to hands and feet when he heard, and soon saw, Furneaux and the two constables coming toward him. The little detective held the electric torch above his head, and was striding on without looking to right or left. The bitterness of defeat was in his face. Life had turned to gall and wormwood. As the expressive American phrase has it, he was chewing mud. The Superintendent smiled. He knew what torment his friend was suffering. "Hello, there!" he said gruffly, and the three men jumped, for their nerves were on edge. "Oh, it's you, Napoleon," yelped Furneaux. "Behold Soult and his army corps, come to explain how Sir John Moore dodged him at Corunna." "You've lost your man, then?" "Botched the job at the moment of victory. And all through a rope end." "Tush! That isn't in your line." "Must I be lashed by your wit, too? The rope was applied to me, not to Fenley." "You don't mean to say, sir," broke in one of the astounded policemen, "that you think Mr. Hilton killed his own father!" "Was it you who got that punch in the tummy?" "Yes, sir." "Well, save your breath. You'll want it when the muscles stiffen. _'Cre nom d'un pipe!_ To think that I, Furneaux of the Yard, should queer the finest pitch I ever stood on." "Oh, come now, Charles," said Winter. "Don't cry over spilt milk. You'll catch Fenley all right before the weather changes. What really happened?" Aware of the paramount necessity of suppressing his personal woes, Furneaux at once gave a graphic and succinct account of Fenley's imminent capture and escape. He was scrupulously fair, and exonerated his assistants from any share of the blame--if indeed any one could be held accountable for the singular accident which precipitated matters by a few vital seconds.