Bates brought the news about one o'clock, rose from an untasted luncheon
and hurried to the high-street. Knots of people stared at Grant, some
sheepishly, others with frank relief, because all who knew him liked him.
One man, a retired ironmonger and an impulsive fellow, came forward and
wrung his hand heartily. A few prominent residents followed suit. Grant
was greatly embarrassed, but managed to endure these awkward if
well-meant congratulations. There could be no mistaking their intent. He
had been tried for murder at the bar of public opinion, and was now
formally acquitted.

Even Fred Elkin, ignorant as yet of his own peril, yielded to the
influences of the moment and bustled through the crowd.

"Mr. Grant," he cried outspokenly, "I ask your pardon. I seem to have
made a d--d fool of myself!"

"Easier done than said," chimed in Hart. "But, among all this
bell-ringing, can anyone tell what has actually happened? Where's
Peters?"

"In the post office."

The two went in, and found the journalist scribbling against time. Hart
coolly grabbed a few slips of manuscript, and commenced reading. Grant
looked about for Doris. She was not visible, but Mr. Martin, pallid and
nervous, nodded toward the sitting-room. The younger man, taking the
gesture as a tacit invitation, entered the room.

Doris was sitting there, crying bitterly. Poor girl! She had seen that
portion of the drama which was enacted in the street, and the shock of it