Mrs Ogilvy disengaged herself from the man whose sudden push inwards had almost carried her away. She came forward into the midst in her white cap and shawl, a wonderful centre to all these dark figures. “There is no such person in my house,” she said. And then there came a cry and tumult from behind, and through the door of the dining-room, which stood wide open, making it a part of the scene, there suddenly appeared another group of whirling struggling figures, steadily pushing back before them the two fugitives, who had crept their way out, only to be met and overpowered, and brought back to answer as they could for themselves. Then, and only then, Mrs Ogilvy’s strength failed her. The light for a moment went out of her eyes. All that she had done had been in vain, in vain. CHAPTER XXIII. The two men stood with the background of dark figures behind, while the inspector who was at the head of the party advanced towards them. Robbie, with his long beard and his cloak over his shoulder, was the one upon whom all eyes were fixed. One of the policemen held him firm by the arm. His countenance was dark, his air sullen, like a wild beast taken in the toils. The other by his side, almost spruce in his loose coat, his clean-shaven face seeking no shadow, facing the enemy with a half-smile upon it, easy, careless, fearing no evil--produced an effect quite contrary to that which the dark and bearded brigand made upon the officers of the law. Who could doubt that it was he who was the son of the house, “led away” by the truculent ruffian by his side? There was no mention of Robbie’s name in the warrant. And the sight of Robbie’s mother, and her defence of her threshold, had touched the hearts even of the police. To take away this ruffian, to leave her her son in peace, poor old lady, relieving her poor little quiet house of the horror that had stolen into it--the inspector certainly felt that he would be doing a good service to his neighbour as well as obeying the orders of the law. “The one with the beard,” he said, looking at a paper which he held in his hand--“that is him. Secure him, Green. Stand by, men; be on your guard; he knows what he’s about---- ah!” The inspector breathed more freely when the handcuffs clicked on Robert Ogilvy’s wrists, who for his part neither resisted nor answered, but stood looking almost stupidly at the scene, and then down upon his hands when they were secured. The other by his side put up a hand to his face, as if overwhelmed by the catastrophe, and fell a little backward, overcome it seemed with distress--as Robbie ought to have done, had this and not the ruffian in the beard been he.