“Mr. Pyecroft, what does this mean?” cried Mrs. De Peyster.

Mr. Pyecroft’s usual perfect composure was gone.  His face was gleamingly alert; sharp as a razor’s edge.

“God knows how they’ve done it,” he snapped out.  “But it means they’ve tracked me here!”

“As—­as Thomas Preston?”

“As Thomas Preston.”

“And if they take you—­they—­they may find me, and—­”

“Nothing more likely,” grimly responded Mr. Pyecroft.

“Then escape!” Mrs. De Peyster cried with frantic energy.  “Run!  For heaven’s sake, run!  You still have time!”

“Running from the police is the surest way to get caught when they’ve got you trapped,” he answered in quick, staccato tones.  “They’ve got every door watched—­sure.  Anyhow—­Listen!  Hear those steps?  They haven’t trusted you, Matilda; they’ve followed.  Angelica, down with your face to the wall, and be sick!  And while you’re at it, be damned sick!”

Mrs. De Peyster obeyed.  Mr. Pyecroft drew the room’s one chair up beside the bed, sat down, picked up “Wormwood,” and again, with the most natural manner in the world, he began to read in a loud voice.  The next moment the two policemen of the previous night came in.

Mr. Pyecroft arose.

“I must beg your pardon, officers,” he said pleasantly and with a slight tincture of his clerical manner.  “My sister Matilda just told me you wished to see me, but I was almost at the end of a very interesting chapter which I was reading aloud to my other sister, who is ill, and so I thought I would conclude the scene before I came down.  In what way can I serve you?”

Neither of the officers replied.  One closed the doorway with his bulk, and the other thumped heavily down a flight or two of stairs, from whence his shout ascended:—­

“We’ve got him up here, Lieutenant!  Come on up!”

Within the tiny room of the second maid no one spoke.  Presently heavy footfalls mounted; the second policeman entered, and presently two solid men in civilian dress pushed through the door.  The foremost, a dark-visaged man with heavy jaw, and a black derby which he did not remove, fixed on Mr. Pyecroft a triumphant, domineering gaze.

“Well, Preston,” he said, “so we’ve landed you at last.”

Mr. Pyecroft, his left forefinger still keeping the place in “Wormwood,” stared at the speaker in bewilderment.

“Pardon me, sir, but I completely fail to understand what you are talking about.”

“Don’t try that con stuff on us; we won’t fall for it,” advised the lieutenant.  He smiled with satiric satisfaction; he was something of a wit in the department.  “But if you ain’t sure who you are, I’ll put you wise:  Mr. Thomas Preston, forger of the Jefferson letters, it gives me great pleasure to introduce you to yourself.  Shake hands, gents.”

Mr. Pyecroft continued his puzzled stare.  Then a smile began to break through his bewilderment.  Then he laughed.