Douglas Graham--whatever had
been the dead man's character--was dreadful--terrifying.

It meant? It meant that if Severac Bablon did not come, and come that
night, to clear himself, then he, Sheard, must confess to his knowledge
of him--must, at whatever personal cost, give every assistance in his
power to those who sought to apprehend the murderer.

A key turned in the lock of the front door.

Sheard started to his feet. A soft step in the hall--and Severac Bablon
entered.

The journalist could find no words to greet him; but he stood watching
the fine masterful face. There was a new, eager look in the long, dark
eyes.

Severac Bablon extended his hand. Sheard shook his head and resting his
elbow on the mantelpiece, looked down into the dying embers of the fire.

"You, too, my friend?"

Sheard turned impulsively.

"Tell me you are in no way implicated in that ghastly crime!" he burst
out. "Only tell me, and I shall be satisfied."

Severac Bablon stepped quickly forward, grasped him by both shoulders
and looked hard into his eyes with that strange, penetrating gaze that
seemed to pierce through all pretence into the mind beyond.

"Sheard, in the pursuit of what I--and my poor wisdom may be no better
than a wiser man's folly--of what I consider to be Nature's one
law--Justice, I have braved the laws of man, risked my honour and my
liberty. I have dared to hold the scales, to weigh in the balance some
of the affairs of men. But life, be it that of the lowliest insect, of
the vilest sinner against every code of mankind, is sacred. I--with all
my egotism, with all my poor human vanity--would not dare to rob a
fellow creature of that gift which only God can give, which only God may
take back."

"Then----"

"You, who knew me, doubted?"

Sheard grasped the proffered hand.

"Forgive my fears," he said warmly; "I should have known. But this
horrible thing has shaken me. I cannot survey murdered corpses with the
calmly professional eye of the Sheffields and Harbornes."

"It was the work of an enemy, Sheard. There are men labouring, even now,
piecing a false chain together, link by link; searching, spying, toiling
in the dark to prove that the robber, the incendiary, the iconoclast, is
also a murderer. I have need of all my friends to-night."

With a weary gesture, almost pathetic, he ran his fingers through his
black hair. The shaded light struck greenly venomous sparks from his
ring.

"This is such a cowa