The magistrate was sitting in the court at Great Marlborough street, and Jack was taken there to undergo a brief preliminary formality.  Contrary to advice, he persisted in making a statement, after which he was removed to the Holloway prison of detention to await the result of the coroner’s inquest.

About the time that the cell-door closed on the unfortunate artist, shutting him in to bitter reflections, Victor Nevill was in his rooms on Jermyn street.  Several of the latest papers were spread out before him, and he brushed them savagely aside as he reached for a cigar-box.  He looked paler than usual—­even haggard.

“They have taken him by this time,” he thought.  “I was lucky to pick up the letter, and it was a stroke of inspiration to send it to the police.  He is guilty, without doubt.  I vowed to have a further revenge, my fine fellow, if I ever got the chance, and I have kept my word.  But there are other troubles to meet.  The clouds are gathering—­I wonder if I shall weather the storm!”

* * * * *

Enterprising reporters, aided by official leaking somewhere, obtained possession of considerable facts, including the prisoner’s arrest and statement, before two o’clock, and the afternoon journals promptly published them, not scrupling to add various imaginary embellishments.  The simple truth was enough to cause a wide-spread and profound sensation, and it did so; for John Vernon’s reputation as an artist, and his Academy successes, were known alike to society and to the masses.  It was a rare morsel of scandal!

Madge Foster’s first knowledge of the murder was gleaned from a morning paper, which, delayed for some reason, was not delivered until her father had gone up to town.  Toward evening she bought a late edition from a newsboy who had penetrated to the isolated regions of Grove Park and Strand-on-the-Green, and she saw Jack’s name in big letters.  When she had read the whole account, the room seemed to swim around her, and she dropped, half fainting, into a chair.

“He is innocent—­his story is true!” she cried, feebly.  “I will never believe him guilty!  Oh, if I could only go to him and comfort him in his great trouble!”

Stephen Foster came home at seven o’clock, but he dined alone.  Madge was in her room, and would not come out or touch food.  Her eyes were red and swollen, and she had wept until the fountain of her tears was dried up.

At four o’clock that same afternoon Mr. Tenby, the famous criminal solicitor, was sitting in his private office in Bedford street, Strand, when two prospective clients were announced simultaneously, and, by a mistake on the part of the office-boy, shown in together.  The visitors were Jimmie Drexell and Sir Lucius Chesney, and, greatly to their mutual amazement and the surprise of the solicitor, it appeared that they had come on the same errand—­to engage Mr. Tenby to look after the interests of Jack Vernon.  They were soon on the best of terms.