As is often the case, the person most concerned in the culmination of this scene was apparently the least agitated, and the first to recover his self-possession. Gently loosening Helen's arms from around him, Bernard Maddison walked steadily toward the door, and confronted his visitors. One was his fellow-passenger from London, the other a tall, wiry-looking man, who was standing with his hat under his arm, and his hands in the pocket of a long traveling coat.

"I am Bernard Maddison," he said quietly. "What is your business with me?"

"I am sorry, sir, that it is rather unpleasant," the man answered, lowering his voice. "It is my duty to arrest you under this warrant, charging you with the murder of Sir Geoffrey Kynaston on the 12th of August last year. Please do not make any answer to the charge, as anything that is now said by you or anyone present, in connection with it, can be used in evidence against you."

"I am ready to go with you at once," he answered. "The sooner we get away the better. I have no luggage here, so I do not need to make any preparations."

He felt a hand on his arm, and turned round. Mr. Thurwell had recovered from his first stupefaction, and had come to his side. Close behind him, Sir Allan Beaumerville was standing, pale as death, and with a curious glitter in his eyes.

"Maddison, what is this?" Mr. Thurwell asked gravely.

"I am arrested on a charge of murdering Sir Geoffrey Kynaston at your shooting party last year," Bernard Maddison answered quietly. "I make no reply to the charge, save that I am not guilty. I am sorry that this should have occurred at your house. Had I received any intimation of it, I would not have come here. As it is, I can only express my regret."

Although in some respects a plain man, there was a certain innate dignity of carriage and deportment which always distinguished Bernard Maddison among other men. Never had it been more apparent than at that moment. There was unconscious hauteur in his manner of meeting this awful charge, in his tone, and in the perfect calm of his demeanor, which was more powerful than any vehement protestations could have been. Mr. Thurwell had long had his doubts, and very uneasy doubts, concerning this matter, but at that moment he felt ashamed of them. He made up his mind on impulse, but what he said he meant and adhered to.

"I believe you, Mr. Maddison," he said cordially, holding out his hand. "I think that the charge is absurd. In any case, please reckon me amongst your friends. If there is no one else whom you would prefer to see, I will go and get Dewes down from town in the morning."

For the first time Bernard Maddison showed some slight sign of emotion. He took Mr. Thurwell's hand, but did not speak for a moment. Then, as they stood there in a little group, Helen glided up to them with a faint smile on her lips, and a strange look in her white face.

"Father," she said, "thank God for those words!"

Then she turned to her lover, and gave him both her hands, looking up at him through a mist of tears, but still with that ghostly smile upon her parted lips.

"Bernard," she said softly, "you know that I have no doubts. You must go now, but it will not be for long. You will come back to us, and we shall be glad to see you. You need not trouble about me. See, I am quite calm. It is because I have no fear."

He stooped and kissed her hands, but she held up her face.

"Kiss me, Bernard," she said softly. "Father," she added, turning half round toward him, "I love him. We should have told you everything to-morrow."

Mr. Thurwell bowed his head, and turned away to speak to the detectives, who had remained discreetly outside the door. Sir Allan returned to his seat, and poured himself out a glass of wine. For a moment they were all alone, and he held her hands tightly.

"This will all come right, love," she whispered softly; "and it will make no difference, will it? Promise me that when it is over you will come straight to me. Promise me that, and I will be brave. If you do not, I shall break my heart."

"Then I promise it," he answered, with a slight tremble in his voice.

But looking at him anxiously, she was not satisfied. His white face, firm and resolute though it was, had a certain despair in it which chilled her. The hopefulness of her words seemed to have found no echo in his heart.

"Dearest," she whispered, "it will all come right."

His expression changed, but the effort of it was visible. His smile was forced, and his words, light though they were, troubled her.

"We must hope so. Nay, it will come right, dear. Wish me good-by now, or rather, au revoir. My guardians will be getting impatient."

They were virtually alone, and he drew from her lips one long, passionate kiss. Then, with a few cheerful words, he turned resolutely away. Mr. Thurwell, who had been waiting outside, came to him at once.

"The brougham is at the door," he said, with an anxious glance at Helen, who was leaning back against a chair, her hands locked in one another, ghastly pale, and evidently on the point of fainting. "These men have only an open trap, and it is a cold drive across the moor. To-morrow you go to York to be brought before the magistrates. I shall be there."

"You are very good," Bernard Maddison said earnestly; "but, so far as defence is concerned, I will have no lawyer's aid. What little there is to be said, I will say myself."

Mr. Thurwell shook his head.

"It does not do," he said. "But there will be time to consider that. The magistrates will be sure to commit you for trial. They must have evidence enough for that, or Mr. Malcolm would never have signed the warrant against anyone in your position."

"I am quite prepared for that," he answered. "Let us go."

They left the room at once. Helen had fainted in her chair. Sir Allan Beaumerville had apparently disappeared.

They stood on the doorstep for a moment while the carriage, which had been driven a little way down the avenue to quiet the mettlesome horses, returned, and Mr. Thurwell spoke a few more encouraging words.

"Jenkins has packed some things of mine, which may be useful to you, in a portmanteau," he said. "You will find it in the carriage, and also an ulster. Keep up your spirits, Maddison. All will be well."

"At any rate, I shall never forget your kindness," Bernard Maddison answered, grasping his hand. "Good-by, Mr. Thurwell!"

"Good night, Maddison, good night! I shall see you to-morrow."

The impatient horses leaped forward, and Mr. Thurwell turned back into the hall, and made his way back into the dining room. Helen had recovered sufficiently to be able to go to her room, he was told. Sir Allan was still sitting at the table, quietly sipping a cup of coffee. His legs were crossed, and he was smoking one of his favorite Egyptian cigarettes.

"Has he gone?" he said, looking round languidly.

Mr. Thurwell frowned. He was a man of somewhat imperturbable manners himself, but he was far from being unfeeling, and Sir Allan's silence and non-expression of any sympathy toward Bernard Maddison annoyed him not a little.

"Yes, he's gone," he answered shortly. "I can't believe that there's the slightest vestige of truth in that ridiculous charge. The man is innocent; I'm sure of it."

Sir Allan shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't believe he's guilty myself," he answered; "but one never knows."