on and pulled up outside the gates. P. C. Wiseman, who at this
moment was less than fifty yards from the gate, saw a man descend and
pass quickly into the grounds of the house.

At nine-fifty-two or nine-fifty-three the constable, walking slowly
toward the house, came abreast of the wall, and, looking up, saw a light
flash for a moment in one of the upper windows. He had hardly seen this
when he heard two shots fired in rapid succession, and a cry.

Only for a moment did P. C. Wiseman hesitate. He jumped the low wall,
pushed through the shrubs, and made for the side of the house from
whence a flood of light fell from the open French windows of the
library. He blundered into the room a pace or two, and then stopped, for
the sight was one which might well arrest even as unimaginative a man as
a county constable.

John Minute lay on the floor on his back, and it did not need a doctor
to tell that he was dead. By his side, and almost within reach of his
hand, was a revolver of a very heavy army pattern. Mechanically the
constable picked up the revolver and turned his stern face to the other
occupant of the room.

"This is a bad business, Mr. Merrill," he found his breath to say.

Frank Merrill had been leaning over his uncle as the constable entered,
but now stood erect, pale, but perfectly self-possessed.

"I heard the shot and I came in," he said.

"Stay where you are," said the constable, and, stepping quickly out on
to the lawn, he blew his whistle long and shrilly, then returned to the
room.

"This is a bad business, Mr. Merrill," he repeated.

"It is a very bad business," said the other in a low voice.

"Is this revolver yours?"

Frank shook his head.

"I've never seen it before," he said with emphasis.

The constable thought as quickly as it was humanly possible for him to
think. He had no doubt in his mind that this unhappy youth had fired the
shots which had ended the life of the man on the floor.

"Stay here," he said again, and again went out to blow his whistle. He
walked this time on the lawn by the side of the drive toward the road.
He had not taken half a dozen steps when he saw a dark figure of a man
creeping stealthily along before him in the shade of the shrubs. In a
second the constable was on him, had grasped him and swung him round,
flashing his lantern into his prisoner's face. Instantly he released his
hold.

"I beg your pardon, Sergeant," he stammered.

"What's the matter?" scowle