"There's no other place to go," declared the big man morosely. "But I disagree with your last description of Janet. She may have been hysterical in Montreal but she was cool enough the last time I saw her. The way she marched down to that brook with evidence of a first degree murder under her arm! And the way she stood watching the bubbles, nodding her head and rubbing her hands together as if to say, 'Well, that's a good job done!'— Creighton! What is it?"
The detective did not reply. Perhaps he could not trust his voice, perhaps he wished to enjoy in silence the wave of happiness and exquisite relief that flooded his breast. He rose abruptly, and further to conceal his emotion he walked to the French window and flung it open.
The night was gone. The eastern sky was a blaze of crimson glory. Some of its radiance was reflected from his face as he draw a deep breath of the fresh morning air.
"Hullo," he said huskily. "It—it's dawn!"
THE END