Again there was silence; meanwhile each looked at the other and the same name framed itself unconsciously upon every lip ... Ross Duggan. It was not spoken aloud, but Cleek could read it as he looked about him. Then Lady Paula spoke.
"Then—it was Ross? It was that unfilial and cruel son of an unknowing and innocent old man, just as I knew it to be?" she shrilled excitedly, jumping to her feet and turning to Ross and seizing him by the shoulder as though she would tear him limb from limb. "Oh, sacremento! I knew it! I knew it! Wicked, cruel creature that you are! Ungrateful—beast——"
Cleek caught her sharply by the arm and spun her around as though she had been made of paper. His face was grim.
"One moment," he cried in a sharp staccato. "This lady is going to give trouble. Well, then, the moment can be delayed no longer. Constable—bring in your prisoner."
He gave a shrill whistle, strode across the room, fitted the key into the lock, and in an instant there was pandemonium.
For of a sudden there was a stifled scream from somewhere in the room—a hurried breath and a woman's voice shrilled out, "Oh, I cannot bear it any longer— I cannot! I cannot!" Then the door flashed open to admit of two policemen, who had slung between them the stooping figure of a man, closely handcuffed, and with a dark scrub of beard showing upon his unshaven chin. Came another scream; a boy's shrill voice lifted excitedly, "Uncle Antoni!" followed by a scuffling of a man's footsteps. Cleek took a quick step forward in the midst of all the confusion, caught at someone's sleeve and held it in a grip like a vice, rapped out in a sharp voice, "Catch him, Dollops! Catch the beggar before he slips out through the open door and gives us the 'go-by'—the beastly blighter!" Then, all in a moment, he was fighting and twisting and doubling to regain his hold upon the man who was trying to escape; there was a muttered curse, and a flying foot came out and caught the leg of a delicate table, sending it toppling over with a crash in the midst of them; the grating of a key in a lock, and—the end had come!
Brushing a piece of dust from his sleeve as P. C. Mackay snapped the bracelets upon still another prisoner, Cleek turned and surveyed the room with flushed cheek and flashing eye.
"Friends," he said blandly, "your man—your murderer. Caught as red-handed as one could wish—and as innocently as a babe, too!"
And pointed toward the manacled, fighting figure of James Tavish!