"My God!" exclaimed the officer in charge, suddenly. "He has gone! Run, boys! Stop! One of you take the old one. We will not lose them both."
Old Darche started as though he had suddenly been waked out of a deep sleep, and his voice rang out loud and clear.
"Hey, what is this?" he cried. "Hello! Detectives in my house? Disguised too?"
"Yes, sir," answered one of the detectives, seizing him by the wrist just as the other two left the room in pursuit of John Darche. "And one of them has got you."
"Got me!" roared the old man. "Hands off, there! What do you mean? Damn you, sir, let me go!"
"Oh, well," replied the officer calmly, "if you are going to take on like that, you may just as well know that your son was tried and convicted for forgery to-day. Not that I believe that you had anything to do with it, but he is a precious rascal all the same, and has escaped from your house—"
"I! Forgery? The man is mad! John, where are you? Brett! Vanbrugh! Help me, gentlemen!"
He appealed to Brett, and then to Vanbrugh who, indeed, was doing his best to draw the officer away.
"No, no," answered the latter firmly. "I've got one of them—it's all in the family."
Though Marion's dress was still smouldering and Brett was on his knees trying to extinguish the last spark with his own hands, she forgot her own danger, and almost tearing herself away from Brett she clasped the policeman's hand trying to drag it from Simon Darche's shoulder.