For the murderer of Captain Fraser-Freer has been caught at last! Sunday night I spent ingloriously in a cell in Scotland Yard.

I could not sleep.

I had so much to think of--you, for example, and at intervals how I might escape from the folds of the net that had closed so tightly about me.

My friend at the consulate, Watson, called on me late in the evening; and he was very kind.

But there was a note lacking in his voice, and after he was gone the terrible certainty came into my mind--he believed that I was guilty after all.
The night passed, and a goodly portion of to-day went by--as the poets say--with lagging feet.