There were very many people who looked at the drunken man who was being carried off by the policeman, but the cabman drove swiftly, and gave such people very little opportunity for close observation.

CHAPTER XXXII

The Stock-Market is Safe.

There was a great stir at the police station, but Olive and her uncle saw little of it.  They were quickly taken to private rooms, where the captain was attended by a police surgeon.  He had been bruised and badly treated, but his injuries were not serious.

Olive was put in charge of a matron, who wondered greatly what brought her there.  Very soon they were examined separately, and the tale of each of them was almost identical with that of the other; only Olive was able to tell more about the two gentlemen in the barouche, for she had been at her uncle’s side, and there was nothing to obstruct her vision.

When the examination was ended the police captain enjoined each of them to say no word to any living soul about what they had testified to him.  This was a most important matter, and it was necessary that it be hedged around with the greatest secrecy.

When Olive retired to her plain but comfortable cot she was tired and weak from the reaction of her restrained emotions, but she did not immediately go to sleep for thinking that she had killed a man.  And yet for this killing there was not in this girl’s mind one atom of regret.  She was so grateful that she had been there, and had been enabled to do it.  She had seen her uncle almost at his last gasp, and she had saved him from making that last gasp.  Moreover, she had saved the life of the man who had saved the most important life in the land.  She knew the face of the gentleman in the barouche who sat on the side nearest her; she knew what her uncle had done, and she was proud of him; she knew what she had done for him; and she regarded the black-haired man with the hairy hands no more than she would have regarded a wild beast who had suddenly sprung upon them.  She thought of him, of course, with horror, but her feelings of thankfulness for her uncle’s safety were far too strong.  At last her grateful heart closed her eyes, and let her rest.

There were no letters found on the body of the black-haired man which gave any clue to his name; but there were papers which showed that he was from southern France; that he was an anarchist; that he was in this country upon a mission; and that he had been for two weeks in Washington, waiting for an opportunity to fulfil that mission.  Which opportunity had at last shown itself in front of him just as Captain John Asher rushed up behind him.