“Why, Mr. Wilkeson,” exclaimed the boy Bog, “that’s the very chap!”

“Who is he?” asked the lieutenant of police, “that I may have him arrested at once.”

“He is the son—­”

CHAPTER V.

THE SORROW OF WHITE HAIRS.

At that moment the door opened, and the venerable form of Myndert Van Quintem appeared before them.  Marcus cast a hasty glance, importing silence, at his companions, and rose to receive his old friend.

Mr. Van Quintem’s face expressed the tenderest compassion.  He clasped Marcus’s hand, and said: 

“My young friend, it deeply grieves me to see you here; for I feel—­I may say I know morally—­that you are innocent of any part in this murder.”

“Thank you for your confidence,” said Marcus.  “I hope, when Miss Minford and certain other witnesses are examined to-morrow, to prove my innocence conclusively.”

“So you will, I am sure.  When I say that I know you are innocent, I found my belief on my short but pleasant acquaintance with you.  But I cannot guess, from the evidence at the inquest yesterday and that of to-day—­just published in the afternoon papers,—­who committed the murder, or what was the motive of it.  Have you any clue to the mystery?”

“Yes—­yes,” replied Marcus.  “We think we have a clue; but so slight, that it is hardly worth mentioning.  My friends here are going to follow it up.”

“And in order that we may do so without any delay,” said the lieutenant, “please give us the name of that sneaking letter writer.”

Marcus coughed, looked at the lieutenant knowingly, and said, “Oh, that’s no consequence.  It’s a false scent.  Depend on it.”

The old gentleman, as he entered the room, had caught Marcus Wilkeson’s words.  “He is the son—­” and had observed the slight confusion with which Marcus had stopped saying something.  He now noticed the glance enjoining silence, which Marcus had directed at the lieutenant of police.

Mr. Van Quintem turned pale, as a harrowing suspicion came into his mind.  “Mr. Wilkeson,” he said, in a trembling voice, “will you answer me one question truly?”

“I—­I will,” replied Marcus.

“Then tell me, in Heaven’s name, do you know of anything that connects my son with this monstrous crime?  I have had a dreadful presentiment, all along, that he had something to do with it.  The end of his wrong career will be the gallows.  I have dreamt of it for years.  O God! that I should have begotten such a profligate and miscreant into the world!”

The old man made another pause, and then said, with a calmness that surprised his hearers.  “Now I am ready to hear all.”

“And you shall,” said Marcus, “though it pains me, my dear friend, to tell you what we know of your son.  I will say, however, that there is no proof directly connecting him with the murder.”