"Tomorrow I may be in a position to answer your question.

I am not to-night." Why did I take heart?
Not a change, not the flicker of one had passed over his countenance at my utterance of the word _man_.

Either his official habit had stood him in wonderful stead, or the police had failed so far to see any connection between this murder and the young girl whose footprints, for all I knew, still lingered on the stairs.
Would the morrow arm them with completer knowledge?
As I turned from his retreating figure and flung myself down before the hearth, this was the question I continually propounded to myself, in vain repetition.

Would the morrow reveal the fact that Adelaide's young sister had been with her in the hour of death, or would the fates propitiously aid her in preserving this secret as they had already aided her in selecting for the one man who shared it, him who of all others was bound by honour and personal consideration for her not to divulge what he knew.
Thus the hours between two and seven passed when I fell into a fitful sleep, from which I was rudely wakened by a loud rattle at my door, followed by the entrance of the officer who had walked up and down the corridor all night.
"The waggon is here," said he.

"Breakfast will be given you at the station." To which Hexford, looking over his shoulder, added: "I'm sorry to say that we have here the warrant for your arrest.