get-me-nots embroidered
on the sleeves. It was the companion to that which had been found about
Lyne's body. And there was something more. The removal of the garment
from the drawer disclosed a mark on the white enamel of the bureau. It
was a bloody thumb print!

The detective looked round at his assistant, and the expression of his
face was set in its hardest mask.

"Whiteside," he said quietly, "swear out a warrant for the arrest of
Odette Rider on a charge of wilful murder. Telegraph all stations to
detain this girl, and let me know the result."

Without another word he turned from the room and walked back to his
lodgings.

CHAPTER VIII

THE SILENCING OF SAM STAY

There was a criminal in London who was watched day and night. It was no
new experience to Sam Stay to find an unconcerned-looking detective
strolling along behind him; but for the first time in his life the
burglar was neither disconcerted nor embarrassed by these attentions.

The death of Thornton Lyne had been the most tragic blow which had
ever overtaken him. And if they had arrested him he would have been
indifferent. For this hang-dog criminal, with the long, melancholy
face, lined and seamed and puckered so that he appeared to be an old man,
had loved Thornton Lyne as he had loved nothing in his wild and barren
life. Lyne to him had been some divine creature, possessed gifts and
qualities which no other would have recognised in him. In Sam's eyes Lyne
could have done no wrong. By Sam Stay's standard he stood for all that
was beautiful in human nature.

Thornton Lyne was dead! Dead, dead, dead.

Every footfall echoed the horrible, unbelievable word. The man was
incapable of feeling--every other pain was deadened in this great
suffering which was his.

And who had been the cause of it all? Whose treachery had cut short this
wonderful life? He ground his teeth at the thought. Odette Rider! He
remembered the name. He remembered all the injuries she had done to this
man, his benefactor. He remembered that long conversation which Lyne and
he had had on the morning of Sam's release from prison and the plannings
which had followed.

He could not know that his hero was lying, and that in his pique and hurt
vanity he was inventing grievances which had no foundation, and offences
which had never been committed. He only knew that, because of the hate
which lay in Thornton Lyne's heart, justifiable hate from Sam's view, the
death of this gre