new theories were afloat.  Constant had committed suicide by Esoteric Buddhism, as witness his devotion to Mme. Blavatsky, or he had been murdered by his Mahatma or victimised by Hypnotism, Mesmerism, Somnambulism, and other weird abstractions.  Grodman’s great point was—­Jessie Dymond must be produced, dead or alive.  The electric current scoured the civilised world in search of her.  What wonder if the shrewder sort divined that the indomitable detective had fixed his last hope on the girl’s guilt?  If Jessie had wrongs why should she not have avenged them herself?  Did she not always remind the poet of Joan of Arc?

Another week passed; the shadow of the gallows crept over the days; on, on, remorselessly drawing nearer, as the last ray of hope sank below the horizon.  The Home Secretary remained inflexible; the great petitions discharged their signatures at him in vain.  He was a Conservative, sternly conscientious; and the mere insinuation that his obstinacy was due to the politics of the condemned only hardened him against the temptation of a cheap reputation for magnanimity.  He would not even grant a respite, to increase the chances of the discovery of Jessie Dymond.  In the last of the three weeks there was a final monster meeting of protest.  Grodman again took the chair, and several distinguished faddists were present, as well as numerous respectable members of society.  The Home Secretary acknowledged the receipt of their resolutions.  The Trade Unions were divided in their allegiance; some whispered of faith and hope, others of financial defalcations.  The former essayed to organise a procession and an indignation meeting on the Sunday preceding the Tuesday fixed for the execution, but it fell through on a rumour of confession.  The Monday papers contained a last masterly letter from Grodman exposing the weakness of the evidence, but they knew nothing of a confession.  The prisoner was mute and disdainful, professing little regard for a life empty of love and burdened with self-reproach.  He refused to see clergymen.  He was accorded an interview with Miss Brent in the presence of a gaoler, and solemnly asseverated his respect for her dead lover’s memory.  Monday buzzed with rumours; the evening papers chronicled them hour by hour.  A poignant anxiety was abroad.  The girl would be found.  Some miracle would happen.  A reprieve would arrive.  The sentence would be commuted.  But the short day darkened into night even as Mortlake’s short day was darkening.  And the shadow of the gallows crept on and on, and seemed to mingle with the twilight.

Crowl stood at the door of his shop, unable to work.  His big grey eyes were heavy with unshed tears.  The dingy wintry road seemed one vast cemetery; the street lamps twinkled like corpse-lights.  The confused sounds of the street life reached his ear as from another world.  He did not see the people who flitted to and fro amid the gathering shadows of the cold, dreary night.  One ghastly vision flashed and faded and flashed upon the background of the duskiness.