Lord Prelice returned to his rooms in Half-Moon Street just as the dawn broke over an astonished and indignant Mayfair, and threw himself on his bed to recuperate. Tough as he was with travel and adventure, he needed sleep very badly after the exciting events of the dark hours, and as he dropped off into slumber it struck him forcibly that the time of superabundant leisure had gone by for ever. Formerly an idler, who took comparatively little interest in life, and certainly none in the doings of other people, he found himself committed, through friendship, to a strenuous career. Ever since Lady Sophia's visit on the previous morning he had gradually become entangled in other lives, and until the crooked ways of these had been made straight he saw no chance of reverting to his happy-go-lucky existence. Prelice, having a high ideal of friendship, resolved to help Shepworth, and, through him, Miss Mona Chent, with all the brain power and physical power and social power at his command. And the opportunity of doing so was not unpleasing to an active-minded man, who had hitherto fritted away his intelligence in butterfly pursuits. He woke at noon to receive a telegram, which his man brought in, with an apology for disturbing him. It proved to be from Shepworth, and contained the amazing news that the barrister had been arrested for the murder. Considering that Inspector Bruge had assured Shepworth--and in Prelice's presence--that there was no chance of any suspicion being cast upon him in any way, the young man had to read the wire twice or thrice before he could fully grasp its sinister significance. It seemed absurd. Dozens of people, including Bruge and two medical men, had seen the insensible form of the accused man, and were content at the time that he could not raise a hand, much less execute a crime, which needed clear-headedness and strength. And it was the more ridiculous to arrest Shepworth, because the barrister had given a plain account of what had happened,--so far as he remembered--which was similar in most respects to what had taken place at Hythe. Of course, Prelice recollected the way in which he and Ned had concealed the true story of the knife; but it was impossible that Shepworth, now quite in possession of his wits, should have told an unnecessary truth. If he had, Prelice believed that he would be arrested also, as an accessory after the fact. The thought made him uncomfortable, until he brushed it away. Ned was not exactly an idiot, and on whatever plea he had been arrested, it certainly could not have to do with the story of the knife.