"That is the truth, sir. I could bear to keep it secret no longer, and was going now to the police-station to give myself up, when I saw you."
Still Winter made no move. He stood there, frowning in thought, staring at nothing.
"And all the proofs I have gathered against—against someone else—all these are false?" he muttered.
"I am afraid so, sir," said Pauline, "since it was I who did it with my own hands."
"And Mr. Osborne's dagger and flint—where do they come in?"
"It was I who stole them from Mr. Osborne's museum, sir, to throw suspicion upon him."
"Oh, come along," growled Winter. "I believe, I know, you are lying, but this must be inquired into."
Not unkindly, acting more like a man in a dream than an officer of the law, he took her arm, led her to the cab from which she had just descended, and the two drove away together to the police-station higher up the street.
Thus, and thus only, was Inspector Furneaux saved from arrest that day. Two minutes later he and Osborne passed the very spot where Pauline found Winter, and reached Poland Street without interference.
Furneaux produced a bunch of keys when he ran up the steps of the house. He unlocked the door at once, and the two men entered. Evidently Furneaux had been there before, for he hurried without hesitation down the kitchen stairs, put a key into the cellar door, flung it open, and Osborne, peering wildly over his shoulder, caught a glimpse of Rosalind sitting on the ground in a corner.