Lyon went straight to the jail to report to Lawrence. He had little difficulty in securing admittance, for the sheriff was sufficiently pliable and Lawrence sufficiently important to permit a softening of the rigors of prison discipline in his case. His arrest might, indeed, be considered merely a detention on suspicion until the Grand Jury had formally indicted him, and the sheriff had evidently considered that his duty was filled by ensuring his safety, without undue severity. The room was guarded without and barred within, but in itself it was more an austerely furnished bedroom than a cell, and Lawrence had more the air of a host receiving his guests than a prisoner. That, however, was Lawrence's way. It would have taken more than a stone wall and a locked door to force humiliation upon him. He tossed circumstances aside like impertinent meddlers, and scarcely condescended to be aware of their futile attempts to hamper him.

At the moment he was in consultation with his attorney, Howell,--or, rather, Howell was trying to hold a consultation with him, and, judging by his looks, not very successfully.

"It is unfortunate that your memory should be so curiously unequal," Howell said drily, as Lyon entered.

"If it is equal to the occasion, that's sufficient," Lawrence said carelessly. "Don't you be putting on airs with me, Howell. I'm your associate counsel in this affair. You go and see if you can get me out on bail, and then we'll talk some more. Hello, here's Lyon, of the News. At last I have attained to a distinction I have secretly longed for all my life. I am going to be interviewed."

"If he succeeds In getting any really valuable information out of you, I'll take him on for associate counsel," grumbled Howell, as he gathered up his papers and took his departure.

"Well?" demanded Lawrence, the instant they were alone. His Celtic blue eyes were snapping with impatience.

"I delivered your message. Judging from the balance of our interview, your hint was accepted."

Lawrence laughed. He threw himself down in his chair and laughed with a keen appreciation of the situation suggested by Lyon's words and a sudden relaxation of his nervous tension that struck Lyon as significant.

"Come, you might tell me something more, considering!" he said.

"There isn't much that I know," said Lyon. But he understood very well what it was that Lawrence wanted and he went over his interview with a good deal of detail. Lawrence sat silent, listening, with his hand hiding his mouth and his eyes veiled by their drooping lids. At the end he drew a long breath and slowly stretched his arms above his head.

"Well, that's all right, and you're a jewel of an ambassador," he said. Then suddenly he pushed the whole subject away with an airy wave of his hand. "You are here on professional business, I suppose. Are you going to write up my picturesque appearance in my barren cell, or do you want my opinion of Yeats' poetry or on the defects of the jury system? By Jove, old man, you'd have to hunt hard to ask for something that I wouldn't give you."

"I am very glad you gave me the opportunity," said Lyon simply. Then he hesitated. He had an instinctive feeling that, as a mere ambassador, he must not presume to assert any personal interest in the situation, and yet he felt there was something which Lawrence might consider important in the old gentleman's revelation. Of course he could not repeat the whole of that conversation! That, luckily, was not necessary. But if he might venture on the friendly interest which he really felt, he must mention one item.

"I met Miss Wolcott's grandfather," he said, with the casual air of one who is filling in a conversational break. "He inquired if you were in town,--said he had expected you to call Monday night, but supposed perhaps you had not done so, because you knew Miss Wolcott was to be out."

Lawrence looked up sharply.

"He said that, did he?"

"Yes. He seemed to be cherishing a grievance because she had gone out without notifying him, and because she let herself in by the side-door when she returned at ten o'clock."

Lawrence looked at him with concentrated gaze.

"I wonder to how many people he has confided his grievance," he said slowly. "He doesn't see very many people, and he is apt to forget things in time. We'll have to hope for the best. Here's to his poor memory!"

"If the subject isn't revived! But I gathered that he doesn't read the papers."

"No, his eyesight is really very bad, though of course he won't admit it. If worst came to worst,--I mean if his testimony came into the case,--it would not be difficult to cast some uncertainty on the time. He couldn't read the face of a watch, I feel sure."

"Then here's to his poor eyes," said Lyon with a smile.

And Lawrence laughed and shook hands with him with a tacit acceptance of his partisanship that bound Lyon to him more strongly than any formal words could have done. Indeed, when Lyon went away he considered himself pledged, heart and soul, to Lawrence's cause. No henchman of the days of chivalry ever felt a more passionate throb of devotion to an unfortunate chieftain than this quiet, self-effacing young reporter felt for the brilliant and audacious man who was so evidently determined to play a lone hand against fate. This feeling was in no respect lessened by the possibility which he had been forced to consider that Lawrence might in fact be much more nearly involved than he had at first supposed. Men had been swept away from the moorings of convention and morality by the passions of love and hate ever since the world began, and Lawrence, for all his breeding and gentleness, was a man of vital passions. No one could know him at all and fail to recognize that. And he had loved Miss Wolcott and hated Fullerton; that was clear. But the question of whether he was, in fact, guilty or innocent, was merely secondary. The first question for Lyon, as for any true and loyal clansman it must always be, was merely by what means and to what extent he could serve him. And that settled once and for all the question of his own obligation to speak. The cause of justice might demand that he should give Howell a hint as to important witnesses. The language in which he mentally consigned the cause of justice to the scaffold was not exactly feminine, but the sentiment behind it was peculiarly and winningly feminine. If Lawrence wanted this thing, he should be allowed to have it, and the cause of justice might go hang.

At the same time, he was absorbed in a constant speculation on the facts of the case. The little light he had gained only made the darkness more visible. If Lawrence had indeed struck the fatal blow, how had it come about? Had he encountered Fullerton and Miss Wolcott together, and had there been a sudden quarrel with this unexpected termination? Then Miss Wolcott was the sole witness, and Lawrence's injunction to silence was easy enough to understand. That was of course the most obvious explanation, though on that theory it was hard to understand Lawrence's amazement when his cane had been produced at the inquest. On the other hand, if Lawrence's tale was true about his being behind Lyon on Hemlock Avenue, then his persistent evasion of all really conclusive proof of his alibi must be due to his determination to shield Miss Wolcott. Did he think it possible that she herself was the murderer? It was necessary to consider even that possibility. Lyon recalled the girl's sphinx-like composure, and he was by no means sure that it might not cover passional possibilities which could, on occasion, burst into devastating force. She was the sort of woman who would be quite equal to taking the law into her own hands if she felt it expedient to do so. Lyon knew the brooding type. If, for instance, she loved Lawrence, and if she felt that Fullerton stood between them, and particularly if she had any cause for bitterness against Fullerton which would make her feel that in slaying him she was an instrument of justice,--well, tragedies were happening every day that were no more difficult of belief. She was not an ordinary woman; and when a woman breaks through the lines of convention she will go farther than a man. She had had a grudge against Fullerton, she had prayed for his death, she had been on the spot when he was killed. Whether she struck the blow herself or not, it was clear that her connection with the affair was intimate. If she was the woman Donohue had seen in Fullerton's company when they left the Wellington together, it would seem that she had been agitated to the point of sobbing aloud as she walked beside him. Any emotion that could reduce Miss Wolcott to sobs must have been powerful. All this Lawrence knew as well as Lyon, but it was conceivable that he knew more. Had he been a witness of the murder, if not an actor in it? How had his cane come to be on the spot unless he had been there himself? And the fact that Fullerton's overcoat had been turned seemed to indicate a deliberate attempt at concealment which did not accord with the girl's frantic flight from the spot. Some one else had been involved in that, some one with steady nerves and a cool head. In all the uncertainty, the one thing clear was that Lawrence had been so concerned about protecting the girl that he had almost seemed to invite rather than to repel suspicion. Whether the Grand Jury would consider the evidence against him as strong enough to warrant an indictment remained to be seen, but if it did not, it would not be because of any efforts on Lawrence's own part. That unfortunate public quarrel in the Court House was a serious complication, and since the murder that point had been much before the public. Half a dozen different versions had been given by as many positive eye-witnesses. That they differed so widely in detail only made the public more certain that there must have been something very serious in it. The wiseacres who had prophesied that something would come of it took credit to themselves.

It was merely from curiosity, and with no idea of the discovery he was about to make, that Lyon went to Hemlock Avenue that evening at ten to retrace the course he had taken the night before. He wanted to fix the scene in his memory definitely, and to take note of what he had seen and what he might have seen if he had looked. He stopped at the place where he had seen the running girl, and looked about. Certainly she had come from Sherman Street, and, cutting diagonally across Hemlock Avenue, had crossed the field of his vision squarely. He shut his eyes for an instant to recall the scene. She ran well,--he could see now that swift, sure flight. Was it possible that the statuesque Miss Wolcott could ever forget herself in that Diana-like run? Somehow the picture, as he now looked at it, was not like Miss Wolcott. It was lither, quicker, than he could imagine her. Yet there was no question about her running in at the Wolcott house. Stay, was he so sure of that? He had not seen her enter. She had simply run in by the walk that led to the side door. Could she have gone through the Wolcott yard on her way elsewhere? If the running girl was not in fact Miss Wolcott, then his whole theory fell down. Trusting to luck and the inspiration of the moment if he should be challenged, Lyon coolly followed the concrete walk past the side door into the Wolcott back yard. It was a sixty foot lot, running back about a hundred feet. At the front it was unfenced and open to the street, but at the back and on the two sides back of the rear line of the houses it was enclosed by a close board wall six feet high. By the posts and the clothes lines here, it was evident that the back yard was consecrated to Eliza and wash day. So far as might be seen, there was no gate in the enclosing wall. Was there an alley beyond or did this lot abut on the lot which faced on the next street south,--Locust? Lyon felt that might be an important question, and he went down to the corner of the lot and pulled himself up by his hands to look over the top of the wall. He satisfied himself of two points,--that there was no alley between this lot and the adjoining one, and that the board which he had laid his hand upon was not firm. He bent down to examine it. It was a broad board near the left corner of the wall. It was fastened to the upper cross-piece of the fence by a single large spike, and the lower end was unnailed. The effect of this was that while it hung straight in its place so long as it was untouched the lower end could be easily swung on that upper spike as a pivot, leaving a triangular aperture at the bottom quite large enough for a slender person to squeeze through. To test it, Lyon pulled himself through, and swung the board back into its place. He found himself in a large enclosed space, boarded in on all sides except the front, where a high wire fence separated it from the street. With a certain astonishment, Lyon recognized his surroundings. He was in the enclosed grounds of Miss Elliott's Private School for Girls on Locust Avenue,--a highly select and exclusive establishment. Was it as easy to get out as to get in? He hesitated a moment before deciding on further explorations, but the trees in the yard gave him the aid of convenient shadows, and he cautiously followed the wall around the lot, trying each board. There were no more secret panels. Everything was as firm as it looked. He had thought to get out by the gate on Locust Avenue, for it somehow touched his dignity to crawl out by the little hole that had admitted him, but to his surprise he found that the wire fence, which enclosed the lot on the front, came up to the house itself in such a way that no exit could be made on that side except through the house. Moreover the fence was too high to jump, even for him. Emboldened by the fact that the house was as entirely dark as though it were vacant, Lyon made another and even more careful examination of the enclosing wall. There was no break, and he was forced to make his way out, as he had come in, by Miss Wolcott's back yard.

He regained the open street with a tingling pulse. Perhaps his discovery meant nothing,--but perhaps it meant everything. It might enable him in time to tell Lawrence that the running girl was not Edith Wolcott. The sudden recognition of that possibility excited him keenly. Could it be that Lawrence had mistakenly jumped to the same conclusion that he had? Were Lawrence and Miss Wolcott both keeping silence, each to shield the other, while the guilty person made her escape through the sacred precincts of Miss Elliott's select school? He would interview Miss Elliott to-morrow.