C. Skimmerhorn, Esq., would have retorted severely, but his attention, and that of all the crowd, was drawn, at that moment, to a citizen who came forward, and, in a state of beathless excitement, said he guessed he knew what it all meant.  He was in New York that afternoon, and read, in one of the evening papers, an account of a dreadful murder committed on an old man named Minford.  The supposed murderer, the paper said, was a Mr. Wilkes or Wilkson.

“Now I hope you are satisfied,” said Detective Leffingwell, looking around with contempt at his hearers.

A slight scream was heard from the corner of a seat near by.  From the beginning of this unpleasant affair, it was observed that a plainly dressed woman—­a seamstress accompanying the family of a Mr. Graft—­had become very pale and nervous, and had been seen to move uneasily in her seat.  This woman had fainted away.  She it was who had stared so strangely at Marcus in the car that morning.

Mrs. Graft and her two daughters promptly removed the fainting woman to the entry, where the fresh air soon restored her, and she was sent home.

“No wonder the women faint away, when you crowd round here so stupidly,” said the officer, momentarily losing his temper.  “Please step back, now, and let Mr. Wilkeson and me get out.  We must leave for New York by the next train—­and that starts in fifteen minutes.”  The detective referred to his watch.  “Are you ready, sir?” tapping Marcus gently on the shoulder.

Marcus rose, and displayed a face haggard with grief.

They all whispered, or thought, “He is guilty.”

“I am ready,” said he; “but I call heaven to witness that I know nothing of this crime.”

The detective bowed courteously, and then said: 

“I also have summons for Mr. Tiffles and Mr. Patching, gentlemen connected with this panorama, as witnesses.  They will please step forward.”

“I am Mr. Tiffles,” said that person.  “Wesley is my panoramic name.”

This disclosure caused a small sensation.  “I knew the man was a humbug from the start,” whispered C. Skimmerhorn, Esq., to a friend at his elbow.  “I’d like to prosecute him for swindling.”

“And I am Mr. Patching,” exclaimed the artist, presenting himself.

It should be here stated, that, when the disturbances of the evening first set in, Patching, in pure disgust at the bad taste of the audience, had quietly dropped himself out of the second story window at the rear of the stage, and had been skulking in the back lot ever since.  Having heard, outside, of the arrest of Marcus Wilkeson, on an unknown charge, he had plucked up courage and friendship enough to reenter the hall, and tender his aid and consolation to that unhappy man.  He came in just in time to hear his name called.

“So that’s the chap they called Chicory, or Checkerberry,” whispered C. Skimmerhorn, Esq.  “Anybody can see he is a swindler by his slouched hat, and beard. Shouldn’t I enjoy having a good case against him!”