“To go with me to New York, Mr. Wilkeson,” said the tall stranger, quickly.  “Thank you for your promptness in answering.  The only clue that I had, was the hasty measure I took of you this morning, when I was watching for an escaped convict at Cortlandt-street ferry.  Perhaps you remember seeing me there, sir?”

Marcus, though the sudden shock had almost stunned him, at once recalled the man who had eyed him narrowly at the ferry that morning.

The two other candle bearers had stepped forward as Marcus declared himself, and were about to lay hold of him, when the first man smilingly pushed them back, and said: 

“Don’t touch him.  It’s all right.  Mr. Wilkeson is a gentleman, and will go quietly.”

To Marcus he said, apologetically: 

“Two Jersey constables I got to assist me.  They don’t do things exactly in the style of Detective Leffingwell.”

Marcus recognized the name; and so terrified was he at the thoughts which it conjured up, that his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth.  The scene was like a horrid dream.

“Everything is regular, sir,” continued the detective.  “We have a requisition for you from the Governor of this State.  It was obtained by telegraph from Trenton.  You will excuse my dropping on you in this way; but I wanted to take you to New York to-night, as the inquest meets again at ten o’clock to-morrow morning.”

“The inquest!—­what inquest?  Tell me, in God’s name!” said Marcus, finding his voice at last.

“Inquest!  There must have been a murder committed.”  “What is it?” “Tell us, Mr. Policeman.”  The question was asked on all sides.

“Now I didn’t want a scene,” said Detective Leffingwell, politely, “and I won’t have one.  Mr. Wilkeson and I understand each other.  The word ‘inquest’ dropped out of my mouth before I thought.”

“As heaven is above us, we do not understand each other!” said Marcus.  “Tell me, pray tell me at once, or I shall go mad.”

“Anything to please you,” replied the officer; “but I can’t bear these explanations in public.  It isn’t my way of doing business.”  He then leaned forward, and whispered in the ear of Marcus.

“Great God!” was all that Marcus could say.  Then he sank to the seat, and bowed his head in agony.

Tiffles, who had forced his way to his friend’s side during the excitement, threw his arms about him, and said: 

“Never mind appearances, Marcus.  I’ll stake my life you are innocent of the charge, whatever it is.”

“Oh! you’re a humbug,” remarked C. Skimmerhorn, Esq.

“Call me and my panorama a humbug, if you please; but Mr. Wilkeson is a gentleman and a man of honor.”  Tiffles’s face beamed with a strange kindness.  He looked up, and saw the idiot standing near him.  His small eyes filled with tears as he gazed with an expression of intelligent pity at the crushed man.  Tiffles could have hugged the idiot, not only as the most sensible man, but the best-hearted one he had seen in the village.