Next morning early they reached Plymouth Harbour. As they entered the mouth of the breakwater, the tender came alongside to convey them ashore. Guy looked over the bulwarks and saw Cyril waiting for him. In a fervour of delight at the sight of the green fields and the soft hills of old England--the beautiful Hoe, and the solid stone houses, and the familiar face turned up to welcome him--Guy waved his handkerchief round and round his head in triumph; to which demonstration Cyril, as he fancied, responded but coldly. A chill fell upon his heart. This was bad, but still, after all, he could hardly expect Cyril to know intuitively under what sinister influence he had signed that fatal cheque. And yet he was disappointed. His heart had jumped so hard at sight of Cyril, he could hardly believe Cyril wasn't glad to see him. As he stepped into the tender from the gangway, just ready to rush up and shake Cyril's hand fervently, a resolute-looking man by the side of the steps laid a very firm grip on his shoulder with an air of authority. "Guy Waring?" he said interrogatively. And Guy, turning pale, answered without flinching-- "Yes, my name's Guy Waring." "Then you're my prisoner," the man said, in a very firm voice. "I'm an inspector of constabulary." "On what charge?" Guy exclaimed, half taken aback at this promptitude. "I have a warrant against you, sir," the inspector answered, "as you are no doubt aware, for the wilful murder of Montague Nevitt, on the 17th of August, year before last, at Mambury, in Devonshire." The word's fell upon Guy's ears with all the suddenness and crushing force of an unexpected thunderbolt. "Wilful murder," he cried, taken aback by the charge. "Wilful murder of Montague Nevitt at Mambury! Oh no, you can't mean that! Montague Nevitt dead! Montague Nevitt murdered! And at Mambury, too! There MUST be some mistake somewhere." "No, there's no mistake at all, this time," the inspector said quietly, slipping a pair of handcuffs unobtrusively into his pocket as he spoke. "If you come along with me without any unnecessary noise, we won't trouble to iron you. But you'd better say as little as possible about the charge just now, for whatever you say may be used in evidence at the trial against you." Guy turned to Cyril with an appealing look. "Cyril," he, cried, "what does all this mean? Is Nevitt dead? It's the very first word I've ever heard about it." Cyril's heart gave a bound of wild relief at those words. The moment Guy said it his brother knew he spoke the simple truth. "Why, Guy," he answered, with a fierce burst of joy, "then you're not a murderer after all? You're innocent! You're innocent! And for eighteen months all England has thought you guilty; and I've lived under the burden of being universally considered a murderer's brother!" Guy looked him back in the face with those truthful grey eyes of his.