“Very likely not,” answered Brian; “midsummer out here is so hot that one gets no sleep, and, consequently no dreams.  Depend upon it, if the four lovers whom Puck treated so badly had lived in Australia they wouldn’t have been able to sleep for the mosquitoes.”

“What nonsense you two young people do talk,” said Mr. Frettlby, with an amused smile, as he stirred his tea.

“Dulce est desipere in loco,” observed Brian, gravely, “a man who can’t carry out that observation is sure not to be up to much.”

“I don’t like Latin,” said Miss Frettlby, shaking her pretty head.  “I agree with Heine’s remark, that if the Romans had been forced to learn it they would not have found time to conquer the world.”

“Which was a much more agreeable task,” said Brian.

“And more profitable,” finished Mr. Frettlby.

They chattered in this desultory fashion for a considerable time, till at last Madge rose and said they must go.

Brian proposed to dine with them at St. Kilda, and then they would all go to Brock’s Fireworks.  Madge consented to this, and she was just pulling on her gloves when suddenly they heard a ring at the front door, and presently Mrs. Sampson talking in an excited manner at the pitch of her voice.

“You shan’t come in, I tell you,” they heard her say shrilly, “so it’s no good trying, which I’ve allays ’eard as an Englishman’s ’ouse is ’is castle, an’ you’re a-breakin’ the law, as well as a-spilin’ the carpets, which ’as bin newly put down.”

Some one made a reply; then the door of Brian’s room was thrown open, and Gorby walked in, followed by another man.  Fitzgerald turned as white as a sheet, for he felt instinctively that they had come for him.  However, pulling himself together, he demanded, in a haughty tone, the reason of the intrusion.

Mr. Gorby walked straight over to where Brian was standing, and placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder.

“Brian Fitzgerald,” he said, in a clear voice, “I arrest you in the Queen’s name.”

“For what?” asked Brian, steadily.

“The murder of Oliver Whyte.”

At this Madge gave a cry.

“It is not true!” she said, wildly.  “My God, it’s not true.”

Brian did not answer, but, ghastly pale, held out his hands.  Gorby slipped the handcuffs on to his wrists with a feeling of compunction, despite his joy in running his Man down.  This done, Fitzgerald turned round to where Madge was standing, pale and still, as though turned into stone.

“Madge,” he said, in a clear, low voice, “I am going to prison—­perhaps to death; but I swear to you, by all that I hold most sacred, that I am innocent of this murder.”

“My darling!” She made a step forward, but her father stepped before her.

“Keep back,” he said, in a hard voice; “there is nothing between you and that man now.”

She turned round with an ashen face, but with a proud look in her clear eyes.