In the meantime heavily leaded lines--vague and mysterious--concerning
"Crime in High Life," were set up, accompanied on the editorial page by
a paragraph to the following effect:


"With our usual enterprise and keen scent for news, we discovered at a
late hour last night that an intelligent Irishman in the employ of Mr.
Arnot had been intrusted by that gentleman with a letter written after
the hour of midnight to the superintendent of the police. The guilty
party appears to be a Mr. Haldane--a young man of aristocratic and
wealthy connections--who is at present in Mr. Arnot's employ, and a
member of his family. We think we are aware of the nature of his grave
offence, but in justice to all concerned we refer our readers to our
next issue, wherein they will find full particulars of the painful
affair, since we have obtained peculiar facilities for learning them. No
arrests have yet been made."


"That will pique all the gossips in town, and nearly double our next
issue," complacently muttered the local editor, as he carried the scrawl
at the last moment into the composing-room.

In the meantime the hero of our story--if such a term by any latitude of
meaning can be applied to one whose folly had brought him into such a
prosaic and miserable plight--still lay in a heavy stupor on the lounge
where Pat had thrown his form, that had been as limp and helpless as if
it had become a mere body without a soul. But the consequences of his
action did not cease with his paralysis, any more than do the influences
of evil deeds perish with a dying man.