"Oh, sir," she cried in tearful entreaty, "pray let him go! He is innocent—he is ill! He will not think of escaping. Don't you see that we have kept it all from him?"
"Kept it all from me?" asked the old gentleman fiercely turning upon her. "What do you mean? Where is John? Where is John? I say!"
"In handcuffs by this time I guess," said the detective calmly.
"But I insist upon knowing what all this means," continued old Darche, growing more and more excited, while the veins of his temples swelled to bursting. "Forgery! Trial! Conviction! John escaping! Am I dreaming? Are not you three directors of the other road? Good God, young man, speak!" He seized Brett by the collar in his excitement.
"Pray be calm, sir, pray be calm," answered the young man, trying to loosen the policeman's sturdy grasp.
By a tremendous effort, such as madmen make in supreme moments, the old man broke loose, and seizing Marion by the wrist dragged her half across the room while he spoke. "Tell me this thing is all a lie!" he cried, again and again.
"The lady knows the truth well enough, sir," said the policeman, coming up behind him. "She caught fire just right."
For one moment Simon Darche stood upright in the middle of the room, looking from one to the other with wild frightened eyes.
"Oh, it is true!" he cried in accents of supreme agony. "John has disgraced himself! Oh, my son, my son!"
One instant more, and the light in his eyes broke, he threw out his arms and fell straight backwards against the detective. Simon Darche was dead.