Mr. Dane shook his head slowly.  He was a hard man, but there was an unaccustomed look of distress in his face.

“Sorry, Mr. Romilly,” he said regretfully.  “I did suggest something of the sort, but they wouldn’t hear of it at headquarters.  If we let you slip through our fingers, we should never hear the last of it from London.”

Then there came another and a still more unexpected interruption.  From outside they heard Beatrice’s voice raised in excitement.  Mr. Dane stood on one side as the door was thrown open.  Beatrice suddenly flung herself into the room, dragging after her a man who was almost breathless.

“I say, Beatrice, steady!” the latter began good-naturedly.

There followed the most wonderful silence in the world, a silence which was filled with throbbing, indescribable emotions, a silence which meant something different for every one of them.  Beatrice, gripping her captive by the wrist, was looking around, striving to understand.  Elizabeth was filled with blank wonder.  Mr. Dane was puzzled.  But Philip, who a moment before had seemed perfectly composed, was the one who seemed torn by indescribable, by horrible emotions.  He was livid almost to the lips.  His hands were stretched out as though to keep from him some awful and ghastly vision.  His eyes, filled with the anguished light of supreme terror, were fastened upon the newcomer.  His lips shook as he tried to speak.

“Take him away!” he shrieked.  “Oh, my God!”

Beatrice, more coherent than any of them, scoffed at him.

“Don’t be a fool!” she cried.  “Take him away, indeed!  He’s the most wonderful thing that ever happened.  He’s the one man in life you want to see!  So you’ve come for him, eh?” she went on, turning almost like a wild-cat on Dane.  “You beast!  You chose to-night, did you?  Now get on with it, then, and I’ll give you the surprise of your life.  What are you here for?”

“I am here to arrest that man, Philip Romilly, for the murder of his cousin, Douglas Romilly, Miss Wenderley,” Dane announced gravely.  “I am sorry.”

Beatrice threw her head back and laughed hysterically.

“You’ll never write a play like it, Philip!” she exclaimed.  “There never was anything like it before.  Now, Mr. Dane, what is it you say in America when you want to introduce anybody?—­shake hands with Mr. Douglas Romilly—­that’s it.  Shake hands with the dead man here and then get on with your arresting.  He must be dead if you say so, but he doesn’t look it, does he?”

Philip’s face had become a more natural colour.  His eyes had never left the other man’s.  He swayed a little on his feet and his voice seemed to him to come from a long way off.

“Douglas!  It isn’t you, Douglas! ...  It isn’t you really?”

“I wish you’d all leave off staring at me as though I were a ghost,” the other man answered, almost pettishly.  “I’m Douglas Romilly, right enough.  You needn’t look in such a blue funk, Philip,” he went on, his fingers mechanically rearranging his collar and tie, which Beatrice had disarranged.  “I served you a beastly trick and you went for me.  I should have done the same if I’d been in your place.  On the other hand, I rather turned the tables on you by keeping quiet.  Perhaps it’s up to me to explain.”