people, and the
dark figures outside, would have made a marvelous tableau.

Suddenly the silence was broken by a low agonized cry. Helen had thrown
her arms with a sudden impulsive gesture around her lover's neck.

"My love, my love!" she cried, "it is I who have done this thing. They
shall not take you from me--they shall not!"

CHAPTER XXXIV

ARRESTED

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 wa