THE GREY RAT

Ottwell Binns

1931

Contents

1: The Gunman

2: Unexpected Encounters

3: A Surprise

4: The Houseboat

5: A Caller

6: A Piquant Situation

7: The Student of Theology

8: Under the Eaves

9: The Surprised Ploughman

10: At Roquebrune

11: At The Villa Vento.

12: A Girl In The Moonlight.

13: A Visit To An Apothecary

14: A Desperate Move

15: A Startling Question

16: Developments

17: The Revelation

18: Departure

___________

1: The Gunman

THE three men at the club window looked down at the roaring tide of Piccadilly. They were all youngish, and though at the moment much at their case, had each the air that proclaims the man of action. Two of them were unmistakably Englishmen, whilst the accent of the third, who was speaking, proclaimed him a citizen of the United States.

"There's the League of Nations―" The speaker broke off and looked at one of his companions challengingly.

"Yes?" answered the challenged man in a non-committal voice, whilst his eyes, extraordinarily reposeful, watched the street.

"Well, isn't it an instrument of peace, Millwarde?"

"An instrument? Yes. But effective?" He paused a moment, then asked abruptly: "See the Telegraph yesterday?"

"I take no stock in news sheets," blurted the other.

"Wise man," Millwarde laughed quietly. "Nurtured on the romantic Press of New York "

"What about the Telegraph?" interrupted the third man.

"There was an article 'By Our Diplomatic Correspondent,' whoever that may be. Fellow seemed to know things, and asserted that the Disarmament Commission at Geneva was going into liquidation. Causes— failure of France and Italy to agree on Naval Programmes; new development in German polities, and risk that debates 'would become acrimonious and even dangerous.' Last six words in inverted commas.... And yesterday the Duce was cracking the flag like a whip. 'None can, none shall stop us. Thoughts and words are beautiful things, but guns and other weapons still more beautiful.' Promised for 1932 the greatest display of arms Rome has ever known in her 3,000 years."

He lit a cigarette, blew a cloud of smoke, watched it meditatively, then said quietly, "League of Nations! There you are."

"There are bound to be awkward corners," began the American hotly.

"Better to take account of them then, and not get behind a smoke screen. The root causes of war are economic. Markets, racial fecundity, and all that. Italy's a Catholic country— no birth control, bursting with population, and infected with the Fascist virus— you know the stuff— 'Greater than Rome in Rome's palmiest days.' A heady notion for a volatile Latin race, and―"

His reposeful eyes wandered to the street. An alert light kindled in them, and as he broke off abruptly he leaped to his feet.

"Great Harry!"

"What―"

The others, knowing him, were already out of their chairs staring down into the street, and so had the luck to see what he saw. A taxicab was in the act of drawing up at the door of the club. Almost level with it was a big Bentley saloon, moving slowly, and at the open window was a hard-featured man, whose hand, balanced on his knee, held an automatic pistol. Millwarde's companions had the fraction of time required to note the astonishing spectacle when the thing happened. The taxi came to a standstill, the Bentley drew level with it, and the hard-featured man, lifting himself from the seat, leaned forward and raised the pistol. There was a stream of fire, a succession of reports that blended into one. From the taxi came a single sharp cry, then a roaring shout from the driver, and the Bentley, accelerating, swept forward.

Millwarde ran for the stairs and the street. Before he reached the pavement he caught the hoarse shouting of wrathful men who had witnessed an unprecedented 'thing. There was a wild hooting of motor horns, a woman shrieked in terror, then again— an alien sound in the famous street— the double crack of a pistol. As he reached the open air he gave a single glance up the street. The Bentley was racing, with several taxis in pursuit, the roadway clearing like magic before them, whilst a crush of amazed people roared excitedly, and a couple of policemen afoot gave futile chase.

In the fraction of time that Millwarde spared for the spectacle, the growing clamour was punctuated by a succession of shots, and from the window in the back of the Bentley issued a little cloud of smoke. The foremost taxi swerved violently, and caught by the second went over with a crash. The third vehicle swung clear and took the lead in the chase, the others following madly with a wild shrieking of warning Klaxons.

After that single glance Millwarde ran across the pavement to the taxi which had drawn up outside the club. The driver, neglecting the exciting spectacle in the street, was giving his whole attention to his fare, who was lying back in the corner manifestly badly injured. Turning for a moment he recognised Millwarde and spoke tersely:

"My God, sir— he's got his!"

Millwarde looked at the injured man, started slightly, pursed his lips to whistle, changed his mind and jerked quickly:

"I know him. Get to your wheel and run to Charing Cross Hospital Quick!"

"But there's a bobby coming, sir, an'—"

"Never mind. Do as I tell you. I will take the responsibility."

"Right, sir."

The driver hurried to his wheel, and Millwarde entered the taxi and closed the door. As they moved forward he looked quickly at the injured man. There was a trickle of blood from the forehead where a bullet had grazed without penetrating. On the front of his shirt quite near the heart there was a growing red stain that proclaimed a .serious wound, 'whilst one hand had boon smashed. The man was all "shot up," as Radway would have said; and looking at the greying face and closed eyes, and listening to the gasping breath, Millwarde had no doubt that his injuries were mortal.

"In heaven's name!" he whispered to himself, then stopped sharply.

The wounded man had opened his eyes. He was staving at Millwarde in an incredulous way. Then his lips shaped a word.

"Millwarde."

"Yes, Shuyler."

"Those devils—got me?"

"Potted you in the open street. Better keep quiet. We shall be at the hospital in two minutes."

"No use!" The man made an involuntary movement as the taxi was forced to pull up sharply, then he gave a groan. "I'm through—But I—must—tell you." He broke off. His eyes closed. He gulped, and took a shuddering breath. Then the eyes opened again and for one moment seemed to blaze. "God!" he whispered, "I — I— can't." He shook like a man taken with a rigor. His lips moved soundlessly, and it was plain to Millwarde that he was dying. The breath sounded rattlingly, there was a look of sick, baffled despair on the grey face, and the light in the eyes was going out. Then suddenly it blazed again. In one tremendous effort of will he held death off. and croaked whisperingly: "Look for— du Chastaigny— my chambers— on— 27th— grim―"

With the last word half spoken the man sank back; a sigh came from the sagging month; and the light in the eyes went out without a flicker, like a candle flame caught in a sudden draught.

Millwarde stretched a hand for the slack wrist, held it for a second or two, then gently released it; and looked out of the window whilst he memorised the dead man's last words.

The taxi was slowing down when he remembered something. With his eyes on the driver's back he felt for the dead man's keys. They were on a steel chain attached to a little wallet; and he swiftly unhooked them, transferring the wallet to his own pocket. A moment later the taxi came to a standstill, and the driver hailed some one— a student, Millwarde thought.

"Here, Professor, a bad case. Shot in Piccadilly. Lively with the stretcher."

Millwarde stepped out of the taxi, and addressed the young surgeon.

"A mortuary case. He died on the way here. But perhaps you had better make sure."

The surgeon made sure.

"No doubt of it," he said. "That shot under the heart would be fatal of itself. How did it happen?"

"'Shot from a running car," answered Millwarde tersely.

"Phew! That sounds like Chicago. Who is he?"

"An American— name of Shuyler. If the police want particulars refer them to the American Embassy.... Here is his card. I have an appointment."

He slipped away unobtrusively, found another taxi, and drove to an address in Bloomsbury—a block of chambers. There was a lift there; and when Millwarde arrived the porter was just closing the gate for the ascent. He looked inquiringly at Millwarde, who shook his head. The lift moved upward, and as it passed out of sight he took the stairs, two steps at a stride. The chambers he was making for were on the second floor; and he had the luck to find the landing empty. Drawing the dead man's keys from his pocket he glanced at the lock on the door and unerringly selected the key. A moment later he was in the chambers with the door closed behind him.

He had been there twice before, once socially, once professionally; and knew his way about. There was a roll-top desk in a recess near the window and he guessed there was the place to look for that which the late owner had hidden him seek. The desk proved to be locked, but the key was in the wallet, and pushing back the cover he stared at the pigeon-holes revealed.

"There?"

He had doubts. The secret for which a mail had paid the price of his life was scarcely likely to he left where the first seeker might find it.

Nevertheless he went through the papers the pigeon-holes held, working smoothly mid methodically, restoring each paper to its proper place as he finished with it. There were bills, private letters, newspaper cuttings, and what looked like the beginnings of a magazine article; but in none did he find the mention of the name that Shuyler whispered with his dying breath.

There wore drawers. He searched them diligently but vainly, and at last stood aside baffled and perplexed. Nowhere had he found the name of du Chastaigny on letter or card. That the secret was not in the desk he was certain, for he had examined every scrap of paper it held.

He looked round thoughtfully. Near the big divan chair against the fireplace was an inlaid coffee-table, with a yellow-backed French novel lying on it. Idly, whilst his mind worked at the problem of possible places of concealment, he picked up the book, and as he did so almost jumped; for on the yellow cover, written in a neat feminine hand was a name:

Clotilde Du Chastaigny.

Roquebrune

He whistled softly; and whilst his eves were still fixed upon the novel his mind was hard at work. A woman! But what had she to do with that gunman business in Piccadilly? At the bottom of most trouble in the world there was a woman. That fact had become proverbial. Cherchez la femme? The French knew. But who was Clotilde du Chastaigny: what was her book doing in Shuyler's chambers; why had the dying man spoken her name with such desperate earnestness?

He looked round the room in some perplexity. He had the name and an indefinite address; but they afforded no explanation of Shuyler's murder in the open street. There must have been urgent reasons for the killer to take such desperate chances; but what that reason was, though some way connected with the name inscribed on this light French book, did not appear.

Absorbed in thought, he forgot the passage of time, the invidiousness of his position should he chance to be discovered in the chambers. The latter fact was brought to mind sharply by the sound of feet on the landing outside; which. penetrating his absorption in the problem before him, made him suddenly alert, he heard voices, steps moving towards the door of the chambers, and knew beyond question that here were visitors for Shuyler; or men who, like himself, had their reasons for inspecting the dead man's chambers. Who could they be?

The footsteps baited outside the door. There was a whisper, and a soft jingle of keys. He looked round for a hiding-place. The bedroom seemed to be the only feasible place, and swiftly and silently he crossed to it, and passed within, leaving the door slightly ajar.

To him in his hiding-place came a sound of a key tried in the lock. The effort, it seemed, was a failure, for there was a second and third attempt, then the tones of an impatient voice, speaking in French.

"The wire. Quick. The keys are useless."

Millwarde waited a little breathlessly, wondering who the men might be. His first conjecture had been that the callers belonged to the police, who might, he thought, be expected almost any moment, but the language employed banished that idea at once. Scotland Yard had expert linguists, but it was unlikely that any of them were being employed to search a murdered man's rooms. The visitors, like himself, were unofficial and―

He caught a click, and knew that the picklock had succeeded where the lows had failed. The door opened and closed again and by the sounds of movement which reached him he knew that two men had entered the chambers. He heard them moving about, busy, as it appeared, with the drawers of the desk and the papers they held. They worked quickly, but untidily from the sounds, as he judged, throwing the papers on the floor as they finished their consideration of them. He wondered if he dared risk a look at them, and finally decided to take a chance. Waiting until the sound of rustling papers was such as to drown any slight noise made by the door, he pulled the latter open an inch or two, and then peeped forth.

There were, as he had guessed, two men in the room. Both were busy at the desk, heaps of papers at their feet, their backs towards him, so that he could make out little except that one was tall and of unusual slimness; whilst the other was of middle height, broad-backed, with curly hair that was beginning to go grey. He wished that they would turn round; but for a time the wish went ungratified for the pair, absorbed in their task, continued to bend over the desk; examining the papers it held; scanning each document swiftly; then in turn dropping it to the litter on the floor.

Then the tall man straightened his back and gave a grunt.

"Absolutely nothing!"

"Nothing,", agreed his companion, and, as he did so; turned to survey the room.

Before he slid back from the door Millwarde had a glimpse of a swarthy- face, with a grizzled moustache, an eagle-like, nose, and a pair of flashing black eyes; which lit with stark amazement in the second that he saw them. His heart quickened as he stood in the shadow of the door and asked himself a question— had the man seen him?

That seemed impossible, for the man had, not been looking in the direction of the bedroom at the moment when that flash of amazement had come in the dark eyes. But Millwarde's experience had taught him that the impossible was often the fact; and swiftly he visualised the room in which the pair were. As he did so he caught whispering voices. That sound brought conviction. The men had not whispered previously, and, so far as he knew, unless the swarthy-faced one had seen him, there was no reason why they should do so now. The man at the moment of his sudden surprise had been looking in the direction of the fireplace, and Millwarde, visualising that, had a swift comprehension of the truth; for above the fireplace was an overmantel, with a large centre mirror. Beyond question, the fellow looking in it, had seen the bedroom door ajar, with himself peering forth.

He wondered what the pair would do, and himself looked coolly round for any means of escape. There was a door opening from, the bedroom— to a bathroom, as he guessed; and as the whispering in the other room continued, he slipped to the second door, and, finding it loose, gently pushed it open. As he had expected, it gave on to a small bathroom, the window of which stood wide, and as he glanced swiftly out his heart leaped— for crossing one comer of the window he saw an iron rail, and divined there must be the fire escape. He moved to the window and looked forth. The iron steps, guarded with rails, were just below the window, an easy drop from the sill.

He had time to no more than mark the fact, when a slight creaking noise made him spin round. The shorter of the two men was standing in the bathroom doorway. There was a savage light in the man's dark eyes; and his face had a menacing look; while his right hand was concealed behind his back.

That concealed hand interested Millwarde. That it held a knife he was morally certain, while he himself had no weapon— unless the French yellow-back might be counted such.

For a second the swarthy-faced man's eyes went to the book, a little wonderingly; and quite coolly Millwarde put it in his coat pocket. When the time came to him to go through the window he meant to take that sample of light literature with him.

He fronted the man coolly, without speaking; waiting for him to open the conversation; well aware that there are few men whom the silence of another will not force to speak. His reserve bore fruit; the man broke out stormily in English, but with a strong accent.

"What are you doing here?''

There was a little jerky movement of the fellow's right arm as he made the demand, and Millwarde answered him coolly enough.

"My friend, if you are not careful you will cut yourself."

The other's dark eyes flamed, he brought the hidden hand to the fore, and with it the suspected knife— a long blade like a poniard.

"Damnation!" the man said hoarsely "It is not I who will be cut if you do not answer me."

Millwarde did not hurry. Host retched a hand and rested it on the window-sill, wondering to himself what the other fellow was doing. The man noticed his action and disapproved.

"Leave the window," he said sharply.

Millwarde, since the order suited him, obeyed, taking a step which carried him a good yard nearer the other, and quite close to the bath.

"Now. Quick. The answer? What do you here?"

"I might retort—" began Millwarde, but was interrupted by the voice of the second man crying urgently in French:

"Gaston, there is need for haste. A man from an automobile enters— an officer of the English police, I swear. It is time to depart."

A flash of uneasiness came on the face of Gaston, but for a moment longer he stood his ground, looking at Millwarde with darkling eyes.

"You might retort," he growled. "But you will not. You will speak. You will tell me what―" He flourished the knife menacingly as he broke off.

"No," answered Millwarde with a coolness that was admirable. "Instead―"

As he paused the other took up the word: "Instead?"

"I shall ring the bell!"

Millwarde laughed coolly as. stretching a hand across the bath, he put a thumb upon the bellpush, which he had just marked, and pressed heavily.

"Perdition!" ejaculated the man in consternation, then the hand that held the knife went back for the stroke. "You shall pay me for that—"

Millwarde paid in unexpected fashion. His foot shot out and up. It caught the man on the kneecap— a painful kick. The fellow gave an involuntary cry and staggered hack. Millwarde leaped and shut the door in his face. There was a bolt, which he promptly shot, then he pressed the bell-button again— good and hard, and with a quiet laugh moved to the window. From the other side of the door came voices.

"Diable!"

"Quick, Gaston―"

He waited to hear no more. He thought it very likely that the man of whom the tall intruder had given warning was a police officer; and he had no desire to be found in the dead Shuyler's rooms and to be called on for an explanation he did not wish to make. Besides there was a bell. It would bring the porter almost certainly, and―

He heard a door crash as he climbed to the window-sill, and guessed that like himself the pair stayed not in the order of their going. For a second he perched on the sill, considering the windows across the large square made by the backs of the houses. A girl at one of them, combing her hair, paused to look at him, then threw up her hands tragically, no doubt under the impression that she saw a man about to fling himself to death. He smiled, waved a hand reassuringly, and without haste carefully turned and lowered himself. For an instant he hung at the full reach of his arms and let go.

The drop was a short one, but it had its difficulties. He reached the iron stairs awkwardly, one foot on a step and one in vacancy; and losing his balance shot downwards, coming to rest on the little grated landing at the bottom of the flight.

There was a double window there designed for an emergency exit, and as he picked himself up through it he glimpsed an elderly gentleman staring at him in extreme amazement.

Without waiting to ace what the man would do, he raced down the remaining stairs, and reached the next platform, which left him with some eight feet to go; the last portion of escape— a mere ladder— being hooked backwards and fastened with a padlock, no doubt as a protection against burglars. He laid down on the little landing, lowered himself over, and dropped into a large yard. At the far end was a door a little ajar, and he raced for it without pause, acutely aware of a shouting man at one of the upper windows.

The door gave on a passage that served the rear of all the houses in the square, and from one end of it came the roar of traffic. He ran in that direction, took a couple of turns, and emerged in a rather grimy street. Dropping to a quick walk, three minutes later he reached Southampton Row. There he signalled to a crawling taxi, gave the man instructions to take him to his club, and as the vehicle moved forward lit a cigarette.

Two minutes later the taxi was held up at a crossing and as it came to a standstill cheek by jowl on the near side with a tradesman's van, another taxi drew level with it on the off side.... Millwarde, absorbed in his thoughts, was scarcely aware of it. His eyes fixed on the driver's mirror while he recalled events saw nothing. But presently a movement reflected in the glass broke through his absorption, and half turning he looked: through the open window at the neighbouring taxi— to find himself staring into the blazing eyes of the swarthy-faced man who so recently had threatened him with the knife.

2: Unexpected Encounters

THERE was a space of perhaps three inches between the running boards of the two vehicles, and the occupants were no more than a yard apart, with the windows open. For a second, as Millwarde looked into the other's fiery eyes, he thought of the knife the man carried, and remembered the brazen assassination of Shuyler in Piccadilly; then he smiled grimly. The conditions now were quite different. The bathroom at the dead man's chambers had offered opportunity for a secret crime, in Piccadilly there had been the chance for a desperate getaway, but here there was neither. The swarthy-faced man, whatever his will, was helpless, and knew it. Millwarde leaned forward and expressed sympathy.

"Tantalising— hey?"

His words might have had reference to the hold up of the traffic, but the man did not so interpret them. His face twisted with rage, and he spat an oath, whilst Millwarde continued with ironic amiability.

"When one has a knife— like yours, it is galling that the circumstances should be unpropitious. But that is life, as I'll swear your friend knows."

As he spoke the last words, he leaned forward and stared deliberately at the man in the farther corner of the other taxi— the tall, slim man, whose face he had not seen, he saw it now, and had little liking for it. The man was a veritable death's head, every bone in the face prominent under the tightly stretched skin, lips drawn back from the teeth; and with snaky-eyes glittering feverishly in the deep sockets.

So much he had time to note when the traffic officer's arm went down, and there was a movement forward. The driver of the other taxi, who no doubt had his instructions, managed to get ahead of the procession, and was over the crossing before Millwarde's driver could move. Other vehicles slid between them, obscuring the view; but Millwarde did not mind. Curious though he was as to the reason for their visit to the dead Shuyler's chambers, he had no intention of following them; and having a suspicion that they might not be so disinterested and would be waiting for him farther down the street, he took up the speaking tube, and gave his Jehu new instructions.

A moment later the taxi halted against the kerb in the shadow of; a piled-up dray which effectually obscured any view of it from ahead. Millwarde, descending, paid his driver liberally, and then doubled back and sought the shelter of the Underground. A few minutes later, quite certain that he had evaded the pair in the taxi, he emerged at Piccadilly, and went on foot to his club.

He found his friends at the window where he had left them, discussing with others the tragedy that had taken place in the street. On his entrance to the room there was a little stir of excitement.

"That poor fellow who was shot―" began one of the group.

"Died before we reached the hospital," he answered, without waiting for the end of the question.

"That's bad! Who was he?"

Millwarde looked thoughtfully away as he replied, "An American, name of Shuyler. A dark horse, I fancy."

The questioner crowed with a note of one whose prognostications receive vindication.

"An American! What did I tell you fellows? It's Chicago come to London. A pair of rival rum-runners as like as not. That shooting from a running car is a regular gangster's trick. In the pork metropolis it's done twice nightly with a matinee thrown in―"

Millwarde looked past the voluble one and met the eyes of his friends in turn. In the gaze of both there was a question which he answered with an almost imperceptible nod; then he broke in on the flow of words.

"What happened to the Bentley?"

"Got clean away," a man explained. "Fellow in it simply shot up the chase. Broke the arm of the driver of the first taxi with a bullet, and there was a smash up. Potted the tyres of two others; and ran down the traffic policeman at the corner higher up... A score of people got the number of the Bentley; but a fat lot of good it will be.... Fellows who are going out on a desperate job like that don't take their own car. They borrow without asking— and I'll lay 5 to 1 that somewhere in the suburbs there's an abandoned Bentley; for which the real owner is inquiring at Scotland Yard... Any takers?"

There were no takers, since all present recognised the folly of wagering against the obvious, and while the discursive talk went on, Millwarde slipped away to a corner of the library, where presently he was joined by his friends. For a moment neither, of them spoke, then the American broke the silence.

"Shuyler?" he said questioningly. "Lincoln H. Shuyler?"

"Yes."

"Then it was no gangster who shot him up," affirmed Radway with conviction. "Shuyler never went after vermin of that breed."

"No," agreed Millwarde.

The third man waited; then as Millwarde lit a cigarette and seemed to become absorbed in his thoughts, he said tentatively:

"You were a goodish time at the hospital, Hugh?"

"Three minutes... four maybe."

"And since?" suggested the other.

"Toured Bloomsbury to get a book."

"I should have thought Charing Cross Road was a better hunting ground."

"Not for this book, Tony."

He produced the yellow-back as he spoke, and displayed the title. Tony Armitage read it aloud for the benefit of Radway.

"Du Côté de chez Swann— Marcel Proust! Um! Nothing out of the way."

"No! Except that I lifted it from Shuyler's chambers!"

"The devil you did!... You've been there— already ?"

"Shuyler's dying instructions... I'll tell you." He told the whole story, tersely, quietly, and the others listened absorbed until he finished; then Armitage leaned forward, took the book and thoughtfully considered the name inscribed upon the cover.

"Clotilde de Chastaigny. Um! Tells you just so much. Young lady— maybe. French of course. But what was Shuyler doing with the book, and why was he anxious that you should make acquaintance with the name?"

"If we knew that we should probably know why he was shot," remarked Millwarde.

Armitage nodded; and then Radway offered comment.

"There's that date or number whichever it is— the 27th and the half-name besides... I figure the three are linked together, or Lincoln Shuyler would not have named them with the same breath. But, say, the pieces don't fit to make a right picture and there are other things that tease me. Were those fellows you saw at his chambers working with the gunman who shot him? Did they know that Shuyler was scuppered when they went to his chambers? Did they go after that book?"

"No—to the last... They combed through his papers and drew a blank. They never looked at the books."

"But there was something," broke in Armitage. "That is a sure thing. Shuyler had knowledge of importance apparently. And he was coming here when he was shot. Taxi had stopped at the door. That's a thing to have in mind. He wasn't a member here. He must have been going to call—on one of us, or leave a message."

"More than a possibility," agreed Millwarde.

"And the man who shot him out there— in n crowded thoroughfare like Piccadilly— took big chances. That means it was vitally necessary to prevent Shuyler getting into touch— to shut his mouth."

"Sound reasoning. Meant him to go out with his secret untold. That is why the pair I ran against went to his chambers. One bottled up the secret with his automatic, the others went to make sure Shuyler hadn't documented it."

''Shuyler was a good man— but close," said Radway. "He liked to play a lone hand, and pull all the tricks himself. That was his weakness. I was with him— a member of G-2 during the war. He was one of the best operators in the American Intelligence Service— which, once it got going, was tip-top... But he was as tight, with news as a Jew with his wad."

"Yes?"

"Point is that if he were coming here to give information away he was hard pressed— hoisting an S.O.S."

"I wonder if he knew that gunman was at his heels?"

"There wasn't much that Lincoln H. Shuyler didn't know about the guys in whose pies he had his finger. He knew right enough. You can go the limit in that.... But what else was it that he knew which made his killing a necessity—  and steeled the guy who did it to take such a long chance?"

"If this were Chicago, I wouldn't think much of it. But it's London; and' Piccadilly isn't the place even a gangster would choose to bump a man off in broad daylight... A big risk like that means a big secret to be guarded, and Shuyler has taken it with him, except for a name, a date or a number, and half another name."

"Got to ferret it out," said Millwarde quietly. "There is this address "

"Yes. And there are the men. I'd recognise that rock-faced gunman anywhere. And there are the two you saw in―" He broke off sharply. "Hullo! here comes the C.I.D. or I'm a nigger. Going to tell him about that book, Hugh?"

"No!" Millwarde picked up the book and thrust it in his pocket, then turned to look at the man who was walking across the room.

"Charley Allardyce—a keen man... I'll do the talking."

He greeted the newcomer cheerfully and indicated a chair. The other took it, nodded at Armitage, whom he knew, and looked at Radway. Millwarde made the introduction.

"Inspector Allardyce— Scotland Yard. Radway— Louis, U.S.A."

"Friends of the late Lincoln H. Shuyler?" inquired the Inspector, going straight to the heart of his business.

"As one oyster is friend of another oyster, I knew him as well as one here and there."

"Radway belongs to the hush-hush crowd at Washington," explained Armitage. "You can talk freely, Allardyce."

"Good! I understand you three saw Shuyler murdered out in the street a little while hack."

"A dress-circle seat," answered Millwarde. "We were at the window just above."

"You saw the murderer?"

"Yes. A hard-faced man, dark eyes, mouth like, a rat-trap, big chin, clean shaven. Soft grey hat, fly collar; blue coat and vest. Number of car—"

"We've got the car. It was abandoned in Fulham Palace road. It isn't helpful, as it was reported as having been stolen— an hour before the shooting. It was left outside Barker's whilst the owner and his wife did some shopping. When they came out it was gone. Commonplace happening."

"Who is the owner?" asked Millwarde with a curiosity that was less idle than it seemed.

"Frenchman— M. Marcel Futrelle, domiciled at one of the swagger flats at Burlington Court, Kensington. No end of a swell, apparently."

Millwarde nodded, and mentally pigeonholed the name and address, and the Inspector asked his next question.

"You took Shuyler to the hospital?"

"Yes; but he died on the way.

"Say anything?"

"He tried, to tell me something, hut hadn't the time. Gasped a name, a date or number, and part of another name, at least that is what I take it to be—"

"Ah. Tell me. A name and a date may be useful."

Millwarde gave the required information, of which the Inspector made a note, then inquired: "Nothing more?"

"Nothing:"

Allardyce sat lost in thought. for a moment; then commented: "Not a great deal.... And we're not likely to get more. Shuyler's chambers have already been gone through by Somebody—not an ordinary burglar; and a man was seen leaving by the fire-escape.... Must have had a key; and by-the-by Shuyler's own keys are missing."

"That so?"

Neither tone nor demeanour gave any indication that the Inspector's information was not news; and Millwarde waited patiently for the next question, which came after a little pause.

"You knew Shuyler, and at the Yard, of course we knew of him. He was of your crowd, I believe, Mr. Radway? Do you know of anything in which he was engaged— professionally, I mean— which may have led to his murder?"

"Nothing. Washington may have information. Personally I haven't seen Shuyler for over a year."

"We were just discussing what was behind the business when you arrived," said Millwarde, with the air of a man eager to help, "but we hadn't got anywhere."

"And you're not likely to get very far, I imagine," replied the Inspector with conviction. "Seems like some gangster business. But why having shot Shuyler they should search his chambers interests me. Must have been something there, maybe still is, for the searcher was disturbed by my arrival. I think I'll run back and just go through his things thoroughly... Possibly I shall light on something."

"Always a chance," Millwarde answered encouragingly; and the Inspector took his leave.

After his departure there was a brief silence, which was broken by Radway.

"Going to do anything, Millwarde?"

"Yes. I'm going to find out what Shuyler was on. There are at least three men in London who know, and I have seen all three— and all are noticeable men."

"Three men in London " Armitage laughed. "Three needles in a thundering big haystack."

"Then there's the owner of the Bentley— M. Marcel Futrelle, a Frenchman―"

"By Jove, yes. And the lady's name in that book is French too. May be a coincidence, but―"

"There is the lady herself. If other lines fail, I shall go to Roquebrune and restore the book to her.... She may be glad to get it back."

Armitage lit a cigarette, looked thoughtfully at his friends, and waited for them to speak. Radway was the one who took the opportunity.

"If there's anything big behind— we work together?"

"Yes."

"Good. Lincoln H. Shuyler was a colleague of mine and an old war pal. I'd hale to think I'd let his murderer get away." He broke off, mused a moment, then added with quiet ferocity, "I'll have his pelt if I have to take to gunning in Piccadilly myself."

He rose abruptly from his chair, and without so much as a nod took his departure. The others watched him go in silence; and when the door closed behind him Armitage spoke a single word.

"Hipped!"

"Yes! As I'd be if I saw you shot the same way, Tony. Shuyler, as I happen to know, pulled Radway out of a tight corner in Geneva three years back, and it is natural he should feel that way. For my part I want to know why Shuyler was scuppered, and I'm going to find out." He rose as he spoke. "See you to-night at the Darlington crush?"

"Yes! Starting right away?"

"When I've changed my raiment. Going to make an afternoon call while the trail's fresh."

"Hurlington Court?"

"Hurlington Court— Kensington. An obvious covert to draw. So long."

As it chanced the fine covert represented by the palatial flat of M. Futrelle at Hurlington Court proved a blank. M. Futrelle was not at home, having that afternoon an appointment with his dentist.

"But, perhaps-Madame―" began Millwarde, making a blind shot.

"No; Madame is out with her niece," answered the maid.

"Then I must try tomorrow," said Millwarde regretfully; and, ignoring the silver salver in the maid's hand, carelessly thrust his card into his waistcoat pocket.

"A madame— and a niece," he mused in the corner of the taxi. "Respectable enough for an archdeacon. A wasted hour— but one never knows."

One may not know; but sometimes one finds out things; and within a few minutes of his call at Hurlington Court Hugh Millwarde made his discovery that he was being followed. Accident served him in that matter. At a point where the road was under repair the driver or his taxi narrowly shaved a tradesman's van, indeed so narrowly that, hearing a violent hooting behind, Millwarde, with a thought that possibly the van had not escaped scatheless after all, was moved to take a glance through the little window at the back of the taxi.

The van was uninjured, and just swerving clear of a second taxi, from which the hooting came. Observant by habit, as well as by the needs of his profession, he noticed that the driver was a choleric-looking individual, with glasses and a shabby chauffeur's uniform coat of bottle green. He thought no more of either the mail or the taxi for a good seven minutes, but when he stopped at the tobacconist s to purchase cigarettes, on coming out of the shop he was interested to see that the taxi he had noticed had also stopped a few yards up the street, whilst the choleric-faced driver sat alertly at the wheel. Looking beyond the driver he saw the passenger was a man—only the top of a trilby hat and a pair of hands, however, being visible, the rest being hidden behind a newspaper, in which, apparently, he was deeply engrossed.

It was a small thing, but Millwarde had regard for small things. The fact that the taxi which had been behind him on his way from Hurlington Court was still behind him, though he had spent two or three minutes in the tobacconists shop, might be a coincidence, on the other hand, it might be significant. The latter possibility made him watchful. As his own vehicle moved forward he knelt on the seat, and took one swift glance through the rear window. The taxi which had aroused his interest was already in motion.

"So!" he whispered thoughtfully,

Determined to test the matter fully, he thought out a route which moving in a tolerably wide circuit, would bring him exactly to the point where he then was, and gave the driver instructions accordingly. The man. exhibiting no surprise, began the circuit. Millwarde did not use the window behind him again, but kept his eyes steadily upon the driver's mirror. It was some time before it revealed anything of interest. then, as the taxi made a turn to the right, he saw the other taxi with its choleric-faced driver quite clearly. With his suspicion continued, he continued to watch the mirror, seeing once or twice the reflection of the following taxi, and as he neared his tobacconist's, one again stopped the taxi, paid the fare, and looked carelessly round.

The following taxi had stopped, and he begun to walk towards it quickly. The man within could scarcely be blind to the fact that his shadowing had been discovered for no man calls on his tobacconist, then circles a mile in order to make a second call. That his manoeuvre and intention were alike suspected, he had proof a moment later: for whilst he had still half-a-dozen yards to go, the taxi began to move. Millwarde took the edge of the pavement to watch it pass, but was disappointed; for again the passenger had the newspaper opened wide, and all that he saw was a shapely hand, on the third finger of which gleamed a sapphire ring.

He looked quickly round in the hope of finding another vehicle in which he himself might play shadower. None was immediately available, and, as the taxi he watched was swallowed in the traffic, he began to walk to his flat, speculating as to the identity of the man who had followed him.

Was it one of the pair whom he had seen at the dead Shuyler's chambers? That was barely possible; but that meant that, after all, they must have followed him to his club, which did not seem likely. There was, however, another possibility. Perhaps the shadower had been watching Hurlington Court with instructions to follow any particular caller. That, in turn, might include Scotland Yard. It could scarcely have anything to do with those who had stolen M. Futrelle's car, for the thieves could have no further interest in a man whom they had victimised, even if aware of his identity. But— by Jove! Yes. it might mean that M. Futrelle was not the victim he appeared, and that, having something more than an accidental interest in the crime in which his Bentley had participated, he was on the watch for any repercussions that might affect himself.

That, however, was a mere speculation; and, until he knew more about M. Futrelle or had convincing evidence of his association with the crime, was not to be acted upon; and he gave himself to another line of thought. Who was Clotilde du Chastaigny. Was she in any way associated with the mysterious business that was behind Shuyler's death? Or― the thought was new to him—was she someone whom Shuyler desired to be informed of his fate? Either was possible, and he found himself wondering if she were young, if there were a romantic attachment between her and the dead man, or if some less emotional interest were the connecting link?

His reflections led to nothing definite; but six hours later chance served him beyond his wildest hopes. A social engagement took him to Hartington House, where Lady Hartington, the wife of the newly appointed Ambassador to Madrid, was giving a farewell ball to her near friends and to a wide circle of diplomatic acquaintances. Millwarde was counted among the former, and as an eligible bachelor and an accomplished dancer was trebly welcome. Arriving a little late, entering the spacious ballroom festooned with roses and blazing with many lamps, he stood near the doorway looking for his hostess.

It was a little time before he saw her across the great room, standing by an archway where silken curtains shimmered and waved and beyond which there was the greenery of palms and ferns. He began a slow progress towards her, buttonholed now and again by an acquaintance, held up by some mother with an eye to the main chance for her daughter; and sometimes by daughters whose frank and entirely joyous camaraderie was beyond suspicion of ulterior motive.

So with many stops by the way he accomplished two-thirds of his journey, and then occurred another interruption. From an alcove, a little blindly, came hurrying a slim girl dressed virginally in glistening white— a girl with a wealth of dark hair worn very simply, with a face of haunting beauty, and fine eyes of a bluish-grey, which at the moment were blinded by some strong emotion— fear as Millwarde would have taken oath. There was no question of the momentary blindness, for the hurrying girl charged straight into him, and only Millwarde's ready hands saved a rather severe collision.

"A thousand pardons " he began, quick to take the blame which was not his.

"My own fault―" the girl interrupted with the faintest of accents, then broke off as she met Millwarde's more than admiring gaze.

For a moment those eyes, that recalled to Millwarde the blue-grey mists of morning on his native hills, looked straight into his face, and were held there, perhaps, by the open worship in his eyes, possibly by some responsive emotion beyond her control. For a moment— during which Millwarde felt his heart beating like a drum, then a vivid flush dyed the girl's face, a tumultuous light came in the fine grey eyes; she made an odd little gesture, and there broke from her a whispered interjection.

"Oh!"

The next instant she had passed on abruptly, without any further word. Millwarde turned to watch her go, lost her in the throng, then with an absorbed look on his face resumed his way. Lady Dartington received him with a gay reproach.

"At last, laggard! And there is a girl―"

That was an old jest between them, for here Hugh Millwarde was concerned Lady Dartington was a determined matchmaker, foiled a score of times; but undaunted.

"I know," he retorted, for once quite seriously. "I have just soon her. I want you to introduce me, Molly."

"You have just seen her." Lady Dartington looked at him a little wonderingly. Then she laughed merrily.

"I wonder if you have, Hugh. If we're thinking of the same girl"

"We are. I know it." He looked round the crowded room, and near the door of the conservatory saw the lady so lately encountered standing with a distinguished looking man who seemed to be speaking to her with some earnestness, "Come," he challenged, "I will lead you to her, and you shall introduce us."

"Such faith was never known in Israel!" Lady Hartington laughed. "But —your arm; you shall prove yourself right or wrong."

"I cannot be wrong," he laughed confidently. "This way, Lady Molly."

He led her in the direction of the conservatory archway. Not a word did he speak until they were quite near their objective, then he looked at his companion. "Well. Molly?"

"Hugh!" she broke in. "How did you now?"

"How did you know when you met Bill Dartington and ran off from Newnham with him?" he countered with laughter.

"Hugh! Is it like that— at last?"

"Just like that! Now―"

Lady Darlington slipped her arm from his, and, as the girl turned, she spoke with the gaiety of one who sees ancient purpose ripening unexpectedly.

"My dear, I have brought the best dancer in the room to you— a great friend of mine," she turned to Millwarde.

"Mr. Hugh Millwarde; Mademoiselle Clotilde du Chastaigny."

For a second, as he caught the name, Millwarde found the fact almost incredible. A flash of sheer amazement came on his face, but the next instant, seeing the blue grey eyes fixed on him a little wonderingly, he masked his surprise with a smile and bowed. Opportunely the orchestra started with a waltz tune.

"If I may have the pleasure." he said tentatively, with a diffidence that was very sincere.

Mademoiselle did not speak. For a second she hesitated, and he was tormented by- the thought that, she was seeking an excuse. Then she smiled, and made a little impulsive movement forward. The next moment they glided into the throng— Millwarde, with pulses leaping at the touch of her hand in his, and the light weight of the intimate arm on his shoulder; but with a score of questions at the gallop in his mind.

3: A Surprise

CLOTILDE du Chastaigny danced well, surrendering herself whole-heartedly to the music, and Millwarde, so far as the emotional tumult he was experiencing permitted, was free to follow his questioning thoughts. Was this divine girl the one whose name was on that yellow-back?... It must be so.... The name was sufficiently unusual to put coincidence out of court. But what had she to do with the dead Shuyler?... That book proclaimed acquaintance, possibly friendship. Did she know that he was dead? He remembered the unmistakable fear her eyes had betrayed, fear that had made her oblivious of himself. Had she just heard?... Again, was she in any way involved in that tragedy... and how? He looked down at the rare face so near his own. There was at the moment a dreaming look in the blue-grey eves, but underneath them were faint shadows, and the face in repose had a hint of sadness. Was it possible that . At that precise moment the dreaming look passed from the girl's eyes, and they met his own in even glance. Then she smiled frankly.

"Mr. Millwarde, you have something on your mind?"

"A book!" he answered, taking the opportunity offered.

"A book?" A gay little laugh followed the question. "You are writing one?"

"Heaven forbid!" he cried, fervently pious.

"But―"

"Mademoiselle. I should like to tell you of that book... but not here. We are near the conservatory. With your permission―"

"But I love waltzing, and a book must be very intriguing to―"

"This one is enormously so to me— though I have not yet read it."

Mademoiselle laughed again. "But in that case I cannot see the attraction. The name of the book? I should like to hear it."

"The name? I am sure it is familiar to you. It is "Du Côté de chez Swann.'"

As he gave the title he felt the girl start. Her eyes flashed with mingled wonder and fear, and he heard the quick, half-gasping intake of her breath. For a moment she did not speak, then she said in a shaking voice:

"By Marcel Proust, I think."

"Yes."

"And you are interested in the story?"

"I am interested in a particular copy of it because of a name inscribed on it."

"A name you know?" came the inquiry in a voice that was now quite steady.

"One I have just heard― yours, in fact, mademoiselle."

"Ah!"

They were very near the arched doorway with its silken curtains waving slightly in the draught, and he wondered what she would do. Then she spoke with decision.

"After all, we will go to the conservatory, since you desire it, Mr. Millwarde. The waltz is ending."

Millwarde knew the conservatory as well as he knew his own chambers. With her hand resting lightly on his arm, he led her to the far end, where was a recess half hidden in palms and tree ferns, from which one could see anyone approaching without being immediately discovered, he bowed her to a seat, then whilst he was wondering how to begin mademoiselle saved him the trouble.

"Where is my book, Mr. Millwarde?"

"At my chambers, under lock and key."

"You— treasure it so much?" her lips smiled. There was an attempt at gaiety in her voice, but there was an apprehensive look in her eyes.

"I think it is safer so. I should not like it to he stolen."

"But you have not told me how it came into your possession, Mr. Millwarde?"

"No—I took it from a dead man's rooms."

"A dead man's rooms!'' she echoed, little troubled note in her voice. "The name of that man is—is―"

"Lincoln H. Shuyler."

The trouble that had sounded in her voice now clouded her blue-grey eyes.

"I ― I did not know that Mr. Shuyler was dead."

"If you had seen the evening papers you must have known," he answered quietly. "The announcement is there in the evening papers."

"But the reason for that?" she said quickly in apprehensive tones. "Tell me quickly. I― I am troubled by your news."

He was sufficiently aware of her trouble, and although he found in it the assurance that she had been ignorant of Shuyler's death, he was himself troubled as he thought of the possible relation between the dead man and her. He answered her bluntly enough.

"The reason is that his death makes a shouting headline for the evening press. He was shot in Piccadilly this afternoon."

A stark look came in the fine eyes, the delicate face blanched until it had a death-like hue, and her hands, clutching each other, proclaimed intense emotion.

"Shot!" she whispered tragically. "Shot!"

"From a running car― a stolen Bentley belonging to a gentleman in Kensington― a M. Futrelle."

"Mon Dieu!"

The words were almost a moan. She looked at him pitifully  as a stricken child, helplessly. He thought she was likely to faint, and stretched a hand to save her from slipping forward.

"Mademoiselle—" he began with quick compunction, as he saw the result of his words, but she waved a deprecating hand.

"No," she whispered, whilst the hand went to her throat. "Tell me all."

"Are you sure you can bear it?"

"I― I must know."

"Very well. You shall hear."

He gave a succinct account of the attack on Shuyler, of how he had heard her name, and had gone to the dead man's chambers and discovered the book, but gave none of the other details. Mademoiselle listened with intense interest, and  gradually a look of relief came in her eyes. He noted that, and reflected to himself, and reflected to himself that the girl had been afraid that she would hear something that had not been spoken. What was that? What had she anticipated, the failure of which brought relief?  He could not guess, but he was sure that there was something, and, as he finished his story he waited  alertly for her comment, thinking that with it might come a clue to he secret. But in that he was disappointed.  The girl made absolutely no reference to the yellow-back, but after a pause she asked:

"You are sure about the Bentley?"

"There can be no question of that," he said. "A score of witnesses noted the number, and the car was found and identified within a couple of hours."

The shadow of a tear came back in her eyes, and she appeared to be considering; then she asked hesitatingly, as if uncertain of  the wisdom of her question.  "You saw the man in the Bentley?"

"The Man who did the shooting? Quite plainly."

Again there was momentary hesitation, and the next question came in a shaking voice:

"What manner of man ... was he?"

Millwarde divined readily enough that for his companion this was a crucial question, and that on the reply hung much more than he knew. He was at some pains with the answer, and he watched the girl closely as he spoke:

"A hard-featured man, heavily jowled; clean-shaven face with a light mouth and eyes piercingly dark. For his clothing―"

He broke off sharply. The relief he had seen creep into her eyes was now like a flooding tide. The tenseness went from her face. Her eyes shone with a glad light and he knew that his unfinished description had lifted a very load of fear from her mind.  Abruptly he enquired: "You do not know the man?"

She had been afraid she would. That was very clear to him, and it was equally clear that whoever had been in her mind had been acquainted with Shuyler, and that she had cause to fear that he might have been guilty of that brazen murder.  He burned to know who that individual was, but at the moment he had no hope that she would tell him, and he deliberately refrained from asking. He waited for little time, then he harked back.

"You knew Lincoln Shuyler?''

"A little," she answered, a note of reserve in her voice.

"You lent him your Du côté de chez Swann?"

"No," she answered calmly. "I'm afraid he stole it."

Millwarde made no attempt to hide his surprise. I knew Shuyler― a little.

"I find it hard to think of him stealing a book costing at most a franc or two."

"The― the circumstances were very peculiar," answered the girl, flushing a little.

"They must have been, "he said quietly, wondering what they were, then continued slowly:  "Mademoiselle, can you tell me anything more?"

"How― What do you mean?" she asked hurriedly.

"About your book if you like, but about other things more. A dastardly crime has been committed, and the guilty man had a purpose. Men are not killed as Lincoln Shuyler was killed without some very powerful motive, and in this case I am sure the motive was to prevent Shuyler from communicating knowledge that he had gathered; knowledge, shall we say, of international importance, for the dead man was attached— a little loosely, but still attached— to the American Embassy. I know that; and I know the work on which he was engaged. Perhaps you also know―"

"No! No!"

"Well, there is no harm in telling you now. Lincoln Shuyler was in the employ of the Bureau of Secret Intelligence at Washington. Whoever that man was who shot him so ruthlessly, he was afraid of Shuyler, afraid of something coming to light which he wished to be kept dark, and"— he interrupted himself sharply, and spoke challengingly— "just now when you asked me that man's description you were afraid that you might recognise him?"

Mademoiselle's face grew paler at the challenge, and there was trouble again her eyes.

"But I did not!" she said quickly. "I did not."

"No! But are you sure that the man who was in your mind would not have made the recognition?"

His question had point. Plainly it suggested something to the girl of which she had not thought. A startled look came in her face, she made a nervous gesture and he caught a half-whispered— "Oh!"

He waited, hoping that she would answer, but she remained dumb, a fixed tragic look in her eyes as of one visioning dark possibilities; and before he could make up his mind to probe further, there came an interruption. He caught the sound of Lady Dartington's voice, speaking gaily.

"But, monsieur, is it fair? The night is young and your niece―"

A crash of syncopated music from the ballroom drowned the rest; but looking through the greenery, Millwarde saw his hostess approaching, accompanied by a tall, grey-haired, grey-bearded man with the ribbon of some order in his button-hole. His companion also was aware of their approach. She rose quickly, plainly relieved to break the tête-à-tête,

"My uncle," she explained. "He comes for me."

Without giving hint opportunity for further speech she moved forward from the screening ferns, and Millwarde followed her, his eyes on the approaching man. A moment later the two couples met. Lady Holly was the first to speak.

"My dear, I could shake your uncle. He insists that he must go, and I take you with him. He pleads a long journey tomorrow, as if that were any excuse. But he is beyond persuasion "

"And I, Lady Dartington, am a little tired."

Mademoiselle looked more than tired— pallid and overborne; and there was a flash of inquiry in Lady Dartington's face as she turned to Millwarde. He, for his part, looked at her companion. His hostess found a hint in the glance and took it.

"M. Futrelle, may I introduce Mr. Hugh Millwarde?"

Behind the heavy tortoiseshell glasses that he affected M. Futrelle's eyes beamed. He thrust out a ready hand.

"Delighted to meet you, monsieur," he said effusively. "Delighted."

He held Millwarde's hand a shade longer than was usual and the young man had a feeling that those beaming eyes were appraising him closely; at the same time they set twanging some chord of memory which functioned indistinctly. M. Futrelle ceased to clasp hands and broke out sharply:

"Tiens! Monsieur, am I right? You are the gentleman who saw that unfortunate man shot from my automobile this afternoon?"

"Yes," answered Millwarde.

M. Futrelle gesticulated, and cried fervently, "Never shall I use the Bentley again. To-morrow it goes to a dealer for sale. I could not sit with comfort in a vehicle that had been used for such villainy.... You must tell me the whole story when I have time to hear it. Naturally, I am interested."

"Naturally," agreed Millwarde.

"But now there is not time, no. And tomorrow, alas! Clotilde and I go into your Yorkshire. But when I return―"

"Happy to oblige, M. Futrelle."

"But one thing— is it true, as the officer from your police hinted, that the unfortunate man was a friend of yours, monsieur?"

The eyes behind the glasses no longer beamed. They had rather a look of keen expectation. Millwarde, with that chord of remembrance twanging imperfectly, noted that look, and found reasons for reserve.

"An acquaintance merely."

"But he told you things before he died, perhaps?"

The eyes were eager now, and M. Futrelle's face expressed a frank curiosity, which, in the circumstances, was no more than natural. Millwarde recognised that, but was resolved for his own reasons not to gratify it— at least with information. His resolve became adamant when, chancing to glance at Mademoiselle standing a little aside from her uncle, he caught a flash of warning in her eves, and saw a quick shake of her head.

"Nothing, monsieur," he answered, lying easily. "Those bullets gave him no time for revelations."

"A pity!" M. Futrelle's voice expressed infinite regret. "Even a few words— a name, perhaps, would have brought that assassin to the gallows.... And now the Sûreté— your Scotland Yard, I mean— has a hard nut to crack.... But that automobile— never do I ride in her again. I shall lose many francs, but to ride in her would set my heart shuddering, and Clotilde―" He broke off and looked with tender affection at his niece. "It would be an abomination I could not stomach. No! But I keep you and myself. Adieu, monsieur! When I return you shall tell me that story. Yes."

He offered an arm to his niece, who took it. and with the slightest bow, turned silently away. Millwarde watched them go, his brows close-knitted in an effort of remembrance. Lady Molly watched both them and him, then, as the pair passed from the conservatory, asked without preamble, "Hugh, what have you said to Clotilde to upset her so?"

Then he turned to her, his face smilingly inscrutable.

"Molly," he replied, "for a diplomat's wife your methods are singularly direct."

"Tell me," she said, with a little stamp of her jewelled shoe.

"No," he replied, smiling again. "But in moment or two you shall have the privilege of telling me something instead.... Excuse me! Where duty calls, you know— and I really am in a hurry."

His hurry took him just as far as the street, where he lit a cigarette and walked little way from the temporary awning which led to the steps of Dartington House. He found shadow under one of the windows, and there waited, watchful. A saloon car drove up and three people stepped out— late guests of his hostess. The car passed on, and a moment later its place was taken by another saloon— a Bentley. Instantly his eyes went to the number plate. Then he nodded and smiled a trifle grimly. It was the number of the car which had been used to such fell purpose in Piccadilly a few hours before. M. Futrelle and his niece descended the steps. A footman opened the door of the Bentley and the pair entered, and a moment later were driven away.

"So," thought Millwarde ironically, as he watched the receding tail light. "M. Futrelle cannot stomach the Bentley any more. A man of sentiment, evidently."

He returned to the house, found his hostess, and to her put the question she was to be privileged to answer.

"Molly, who is M. Futrelle?"

Lady Dartington, looking at him, knew the question was not one for a bantering answer, and replied seriously.

"M. Futrelle is a Frenchman— an Alsatian of aristocratic descent, who has made himself a business millionaire.... Bill and I met Clotilde and him at Cannes last winter. He is a most interesting man."

"No question of that," agreed Millwarde. "You have no doubt of his bona fides?"

"My dear man, you don't question that, surely?"

Millwarde disregarded the question, and asked:

"What particular merchandise does he specialise in?"

"Chemicals, I. believe; but whether it is pills or tonics, I can't tell you."

"So!... you have his French address?"

"No! But whatever mare's nest you are poking into, Hugh, it will interest you to know that he is persona grata at the French Embassy. He was there two nights ago."

"That is interesting. You can tell me nothing more?"

"Nothing." Lady Darlington laughed, "except that Clotilde's mother was Irish, and that somewhere she has an invalid father, a great recluse, with a taste for invention.... That also is interesting, I hope." Then she revolted. "Now you shall tell me the reason for this catechism? Do you know anything to M. Futrelle's discredit?"

"I can't answer that until―"

"Until," she encouraged.

"Until I have taken him to a barber―"

"My dear Hugh!"

"—and shaved him. You know how I dislike beards. When I sported one— that was in Russia— I did not know myself. The man who looked at me from the mirror was a stranger. And if I could not recognise Hugh Millwarde, how should I know M. Futrelle 'grown upon with hair like grass', as R.L.S. once wrote?"

"Hugh, there is something!"

He laughed. "A cloud no bigger than a man's beard, yet like a blanket on my memory.... But it may disperse, or M. Futrelle may decide to give the barber a chance to earn his bread, in which case―"

He did not finish the remark. There was an interruption. Someone wished to speak to Lady Darlington, and thanking heaven for the chance he slipped away.

In the street he looked round for a taxi, but, not finding one immediately, began to stroll slowly along. As he did so a man who had been loitering at the corner of the mansion detached himself and followed a little way behind. Twenty-live yards farther on the taxi for which Millwarde was looking overlook him, and he signalled to the driver, who drew up by the kerb. Millwarde spoke to the driver, giving him directions. As it chanced at the corner there was a pneumatic drill at work, and the din of it overwhelmed all lesser sounds. He had to repeat the directions into the ear of the driver, the latter leaning towards him with his left elbow resting on the seat.,

And while passenger and. driver were so engaged, the man who had followed him from Darlington House did a bold thing. Moving swiftly forward, he reached the farther side of the taxi, opened the door on that side. and. slipping into the nearest corner, closed the door softly, then pulled the wide brim of his hat well down over his lace. There was no light inside the taxi, and in the corner he was almost invisible— at most a bulky shadow.

Millwarde having finished his instructions entered the taxi, sank into the other corner, slammed the door, and leaned forward to make sure that the catch had caught. In the same moment he felt something hard thrust against his ribs, and in extreme amazement, through the din of the drill, caught a harsh voice speaking almost on his ear.

"Monsieur, you vill sit as still as a mouse. I haf der pistol."

With the warning, the pressure of the hard thing against his ribs was accentuated, and. remembering the tragedy of the afternoon and impressed with the need for discretion. Millwarde sat quite still.

4

The Houseboat

THE HARSH voice spoke again:

"You gave der man instructions. Now you will give him new ones. Dere is der speaking tube. You will tell der driver dat .von vill go to—to Marlow. An' no hanky-panky— or—"  Another thrust of the pistol completed the hinted threat.

"Marlow," objected Millwarde. "That is a long way.''

The pistol jabbed him once more, and he unhooked the speaking tube. Though he had protested, he had not the slightest idea of disobeying or of speaking and obtaining the taxi-driver's help. Either would be useless, and the last would be folly, since almost certainly the man would use the pistol ruthlessly. But another consideration dictated obedience. His mind recovering from the initial surprise was working coolly, he wanted to see the face of the speaker, which was still in shadow, and desired earnestly to learn the particular destination at Marlow to which the man meant to take him.

For the first he must wait until some chance revealed it, and to learn the second it seemed that he must go there unless―

As a thought occurred to him, he set a trap for the man.

"Any particular address?" he inquired in the most casual voice he could assume.

"Dat vill be given in very good time. You say Marlow."

Millwarde gave the driver the change of destination in a level voice, half expecting the man to protest. But nothing surprises the London taxi driver. The  man merely half-turned his head and nodded comprehension. no doubt congratulating himself on having secured so good a fare.

In silence they drove on, Millwarde vainly endeavouring to get a glimpse of his captor's face. Then he inquired:

"Any objection to my smoking?"

"Nein," grunted the man.

"German," thought Millwarde. and proceeded to light a cigarette.

As the tobacco caught, ne turned deliberately, holding the match so that its small flame would illumine the others face. The wide hat brim pulled well down prevented him from seeing more than the lower half of the features: but the chin and month were unmistakable: and he experienced a thrill as he realised that the man who held the pistol so hard against his ribs was the desperate gunman who had killed Shuyler in the open street

The revelation was rather startling, yet he allowed no indication of what he had learned to escape him. But while he smoked one question was beating in his brain. In the choice vernacular of Chicago, was he being "taken for a ride"? It seemed more than likely. There were lonely places in the neighbourhood of the river where crime could be committed, and the criminal be far away before any discovery of it could be made.

With that reflection came another. Did the ruffian mean to go to Marlow at all, or was it his intention to carry out his purpose on the way; and when the driver pulled up at the sound of the shot, make a quick escape? That was a contingency to be faced; and he began to make plans to meet it in case it should arise.

He noted automatically that they were now running through Kensington, and thought that at present he had nothing to fear. The man having come so far would wait until they reached the comparative darkness of the country roads, possibly until they were beyond Brentford, or even Slough, then perhaps he would make the attempt. He began to wonder how the man had got on to his track at all. That he must be in touch with the pair of rascals who had been at Shuyler's chambers was a foregone conclusion; and that he himself had not escaped the man who had been shadowing him was evident. But it seemed to him that it would be well to affect complete ignorance, and demand an explanation of what was happening. He spoke suddenly:

"I say, would you mind telling me the --reason for my joy-ride. I don't mind going to Marlow— the night, is young— but I should like to know why I must?"

"You do not know?"

"Haven't the ghost of an idea."

"Well, Mr. Millwarde. you vill have both der ghost an' der body of der idea very soon," said the man with a hard laugh,

Did the man really mean to complete the journey? As he asked himself the question, Millwarde moved slightly and received an instantaneous reminder of his position.

"No tricks," growled the man. "Der pistol is an automatic. It shoots many times so quick as der lightning."

Millwarde knew all about automatics, and did not mean that the one against his ribs should be unloaded in himself. He still affected ignorance.

"I don't want to he shot,"' he drawled, "but I would like you to know that some way you are making a mistake."

"Der is no mistake," answered the man shortly.

They slowed down tor Brentford High street, and with that town left behind quickened pace again. Slough was passed and still there was no overt move on the part of the hard-faced man. But as they glided into the darkness beyond, Millwarde prepared himself for action. Here the road was quiet. There was little traffic and it was possible that the moment he was anticipating was- at hand. If a man fired without warning his chances were slim indeed, but he trusted to the murderer's vanity to give him some explanation before he completed his purpose. The pistol was on his right side, against his arm, and he cherished the hope that a quick backward jab of his elbow would turn its muzzle to the back of the ear, while a swinging blow of his left fist across his own body might discommode the man sufficiently long to enable him to deal with him. He waited, tensely, but nothing happened. As they approached Wargrave. the man suddenly broke the silence.

"When we go past dis place, I gif you directions. You speak den to der driver. You understand?"

"Yes," answered Millwarde, a little relieved to find that his own desperate plan was not to be tested yet. They slid through the riverside village, and then the man spoke again.

"Der tube. You vill tell the man we do not go to Marlow."

Millwarde saw a slender chance and took it. Taking up the speaking-tube he lifted it towards his mouth, and then holding it quite close, asked a little sharply;

"Then where the devil do we go?"

He had his eyes on the driver as he spoke, and saw him suddenly cock his head. That the man's attention had been attracted, he was sure, and he was equally sure that his curiosity would be aroused by another change of destination. It was even possible that he might refuse to continue the journey, though Millwarde devoutly hoped he would not.

"You vill tell der man to stop at der next lane but one on der right. Der is a post dere!"

"The next lane but one did you say?" asked Millwarde rather loudly.

"Dat is where we go. You vill tell der man."

Millwarde told him.

"I say, my man, I don't want to go right into Marlow. The place I want is the second lane on the right from here marked with a post. Do you get me?"

The man lifted a hand but did not turn round, and with a note of curiosity, Millwarde. the speaking-tube still close to his mouth, asked his captor. "Do we go right down the lane?"

"We do, but der taxi vill stop at der entrance, and dere you will pay der fare.

"Oh, will I? And what will you be doing with that fancy pistol of yours?"

The taxi-driver stiffened a little. That he had heard something, as Millwarde had intended that he should, seemed certain, but how much? If only he could give a clear warning to the man to be prepared, he thought to himself, and got an instruction he was not expecting.

"Release der tube quick, or der pistol will itself explain."

Millwarde dropped the tube. Whether the driver was warned of an unusual situation he could not be sure, but it was wisdom not to arouse further the suspicion of the man who for the moment dictated his actions. The man continued masterfully.

"Vlien we at der lane arrive, you vill descend an' pay der driver. After you vill valk down der lane—but remember, every moment I haf you in sight of der pistol."

"Down the lane? Where "

"Dat is my business; but presently you vill discover."

"To the killing block?" wondered Millwarde. "Well―"

The man moved suddenly, and the pistol ceased its pressure. For a second Millwarde had a flashing conviction that it was to be in the taxi, after all. and tautened his muscles for swift action. Then the man's voice came out of the darkness.

"We arrive. In one minute we stop. Den you will descend, but remember I shall der watch keep mit der pistol."

Millwarde drew a sharp breath of relief. The open, in the darkness of the night, was better than the confined space of the taxi, when the other man was armed, and prepared to go the limit in crime. But for a moment he was in two minds. One was to take a chance the instant the taxi stopped, and, knocking the pistol aside, tackle the scoundrel, calling on the driver for help; whilst the other was to see the adventure through at all risks; and perhaps discover the secret of Shuyler's death; and the reason for the association he suspected between this gunman and the elegant M. Futrelle. If the man did not mean more callous murder, then almost certainly he was making for some rendezvous where associates waited him— those two intruders in Shuyler's chambers as like as not. He reflected swiftly that if the man had no other purpose than to kill him, he would not have brought him so far. For one who had sufficient nerve to go gunning in broad daylight in Piccadilly this night journey offered a hundred chances, and

"Ach! We come dere."

The taxi was slowing down. Looking through the window Millwarde saw a white directing post gleaming in the glare of the headlights, and on the instant his mind was made up. The other's familiarity with the district implied the rendezvous he had thought of, and he would take the risk to learn that, if nothing else. The vehicle stopped exactly at the post, and the driver looked round, then prepared to descend.

"Now!"' commanded the gunman harshly. Millwarde lifted himself up, and a little breathlessly groped for the door-handle. If the man fired now . Relief surged as he caught the click of the other door handle, and knew that the ruffian also was descending. The driver opened the door, and as he did so Millwarde caught an odd look on his face, as he peered into the taxi. Unquestionably he had heard part of that conversation through the tube, as Millwarde had meant he should. Then he turned quickly at some sound in the road.

"God Almighty―" he began, and Millwarde, stumbling purposely, almost knocked him off his feet.

"Quiet!" he whispered sharply, then asked loudly: "How much?"

The driver was a man of resource, and of some spirit. Whatever he might or might not have heard of the words Millwarde had meant to reach him. he sensed an unusual situation, and followed his fare's lead. Deliberately he consulted his meter, and then rather aggressively answered:

"Night fare, out of radius, six pounds three shillings."

"A tall charge!" said Millwarde, and himself put his head round the corner of the taxi to examine the meter. "Are you sure?"

"Sure―" began the man, then whispered: "Back there, under the trees "

"I know," whispered Millwarde hack, then loud and angrily, "Your d―d meter is all wrong. I pay four pounds and not a penny more." He began to count two for one, whispering swiftly, and punctuating his message with the notes. "Wait down the road (One!) half an hour (Two!) If I don't show up (Three!), go to the nearest police station for help (Four!) There, you shark! take it or leave it. Thai's all you'll get."

The last words were noisily angry, and the driver's reply was more so:

"You bloomin' bilker―"

He lifted a clenched fist as if to strike, and Millwarde backed hastily away.

"Better mind what you're doing, my man!" he counselled.

"Mind! That's just what I will.... I'll mind, yes, I'll mind, an' I'll get you if I have to wait"— he spluttered angrily— "to wait till judgment day."

Millwarde could have laughed aloud. The man had conveyed the message that he would wait, and so far all was well; but he hoped he would have the wit not to overdo the comedy. The driver lived up to his hopes. Growling and swearing to himself, he climbed hack to his seat, and starting forward swung his vehicle so sharply into the lane, that Millwarde was forced to leap swiftly out of the way. The fellow laughed scornfully.

"That made you hop, you bilking scamp." He reversed swiftly into the road, the bonnet of the taxi pointing homewards. As he-did so the headlights illumined the full width of the road; and three yards, away, under the trees, Millwarde saw the man who was waiting for him. He stood statuesquely, still as a rock, arms folded across his chest, the right hand with the pistol balanced on the left. Then as with a final opprobrious shout from the driver the taxi moved off, the waiting man suddenly flashed all electric torch.

"Right turn! Vorwarts!" he snapped like any drill sergeant.

Millwarde turned into the lane, without demur and without qualms. The fellow really was taking him to some secret rendezvous, and did not mean to shoot yet awhile. He chuckled softly to himself, as the other fell into step on his left, the pistol in one hand, the flashlight in the other. What sort of a fool did the blackguard think him to order him like a schoolboy? The fact that the other never doubted he would obey gave him confidence. When the right moment came, and he had learned what he wished, the fellow would have a surprise. Meanwhile it seemed wise to show anxiety.

"Where are you taking me?" he asked in a voice that proclaimed acute apprehension.

The other merely grunted; and Millwarde tried again, his apprehension intensified.

"What are you going to do with me?"

"Dat you vill discover presently." his conductor growled. "All in der good time."

Millwarde, having betrayed his apprehension, gave his attention to the lane. It was rough enough, rutted, full of loose stones grown over with grass—-a little-used track, as he judged. Trees bordered it, and banks the height of which was accentuated by the darkness. They followed it for some 200 yards, then the flashlight revealed a field gate, where the lane and road both ended.

"Open der gate," commanded the man harshly.

Millwarde obeyed, and as they passed through found himself walking upon grass. On the farther side of the field was another gate standing open, and another field, at the far end of which was a thick coppice. As they entered this, for the first time since leaving the taxi Millwarde experienced a sharp misgiving. Apparently remote from any homestead and well away from the road, it was a place for dark deeds. Did the ruthless slayer of Shuyler after all mean to despatch him here?

With fist clenched, ready for a swift spring, every sense alert, he looked at the German, then drew a breath of relief. The man was apparently absorbed in keeping to the path through the coppice, and had no more regard for him than he would have shown to an obedient sheep to which he was acting drover. So much the better, he thought, and kept step in the radiance of the flashlight. A bed of osiers followed the coppice, and in the darkness there appeared the light of a lamp shining through a curtained window, and in the same moment the sickle moon lifting above tall trees reflected itself in still waters. Millwarde dinned that here was some backwater of the river, and as they halted on the very edge of it, dimly on the farther side he discerned the outlines of a large houseboat from which came the rays of the lamp.

There, then, was the rendezvous across the stretch of water gleaming ghostly like a mirror in a dark room— a remote, solitary pace, where any dark crime might be staged. A weighted body dropped from that houseboat might remain undiscovered save by the eels until judgment day. Was it wise to go there, unsupported, in the darkness?

As he asked himself the question the man at his side gave a shrill whistle. A door on the houseboat opened, letting out a stream of light on the backwater, and there came an answering call. Against the light he saw two men, one of whom moved to the side of the houseboat, where he busied himself for a moment, then through the night stillness came the creak of oars in rowlocks.

"A wherry," thought Millwarde, and in the same moment found the answer to his question.

To go to the houseboat, and to challenge three desperate men— at least three— would be stark folly. He had learned one thing that he desired, and it would be wisdom to let the rest go by default. For his own ends he had obeyed the dictates of a black hearted murderer, but now it was time to give the fellow a surprise. But that man in the wherry? If he could but get a glimpse of his face. The man whistled; then cried in a low voice, and in French:

"Show a light, Fritz."

Millwarde's captor snapped on his flashlight, and its white beam lit the wherry and the man. As the light shone the rower turned to mark his position, giving Millwarde a glimpse of the face of the shorter of the two men who had surprised him in Shuyler's chambers— the man with the knife. He had expected this man or the other; but nevertheless he exulted at the confirmation of his suspicions, then he prepared for action. The man in the wherry called out again:

"Who is with you, Fritz?"

"Millwarde."

"The devil!" ejaculated the oarsman in a startled voice.

Fritz laughed and spoke mockingly to Millwarde:

"A friend of yours. He will be happy to renew―"

The remark went unfinished. Millwarde, noticing the man was off his guard, saw that his moment had come. He leaped in suddenly with his fist clenched in a straight right-armed punch. The distance was perfect and the blow was neatly placed. It caught the German exactly over the heart, and with a sound half grunt, half gasp, he toppled backward into deep water, while as he fell the pistol in his hand, discharged involuntarily, shattered the utter stillness of the night. The man in the wherry shouted wildly; the other on the houseboat roared to ask what was the matter, and Millwarde, feeling that he had gathered the honours of the night, turned and, running like a hare, headed for the cover of the osiers.

As he reached them there sounded a sharp word behind him, and on the heels of it another report of a pistol. He guessed that the man in the wherry was coming into action, and was glad when the osiers hid him from view, he plunged forward, reckless of the damage done to his clothing. Missing the path, he struck a marshy place, and left one of his dress shoes there; but was unaware of the fact until, reaching the coppice, he set his foot on a root, which made him wince with its hardness.

Small troubles of that sort, however, were nothing. Behind him, in the osiers, was a sound of men crashing their way through, two of them at least; and, guessing that Fritz, reaching dry land after his involuntary bath, had joined the wherryman in the pursuit, he raced on. With two men, both ripe for desperate action, behind him, he had no time to waste, and his one real chance lay in reaching the road ahead of them.

He had lost the path altogether, but after a little wandering in the shadows of the coppice he came unexpectedly on the field that it bounded. He was about to race across it in the direction of the gate, when, in the faint moonlight, he saw a hurrying shadow break from the coppice and run towards the gateway. A second shadow followed, and realising that his pursuer's were already ahead of him, he crouched and watched. Reaching the gate, the two men halted, apparently for a consultation, for there drifted to him a sound of voices. He was too far off to hear what was said; but his eyes inhumed him of the conclusion reached: for whilst one man remained at the gate, the second began to return across the field. The pair knew or guessed that he had not left the coppice, and whilst one guarded the gate the other was to beat the little wood.

Prudence dictated a move. There was no need, after all, that he should use the lane in order to reach the road and the waiting taxi; he had but to move sufficiently far to the right, and then walk in a straight line across country. Kicking off his remaining shoe, he began to hurry through the coppice, parallel with the field, and keeping in view as well as he could the advancing man. The fellow was crossing the field diagonally, and, moving as swiftly and silently as he could, he managed to pass the point where the man must reach the wood, a full minute before he did.

Then from somewhere behind came the sound of someone coo-ee-ing. The second man from the house-boat, he guessed. There must have been another boat then, or a punt; anyway, there were now two men to search the coppice, he heard the man who had crossed the field shouting directions to the newcomer, and, as he hurried on, heard the latter calling out somewhere on his right.

Since he seemed the nearer, he kept his ears open for this fellow, disregarding alike the other searcher and the man guarding the gate. He had difficulties as he moved forward. There were brambles in the coppice, trailing roots, and broken sticks which dealt savagely with his unprotected feet. Then one of the trailing roots tripped him, and he went down into bushes with a crash that filled the night with sound. Instantly there shrilled a whistle from the nearer man, and a shout followed from his original pursuer, which told him that the noise of his fall had been heard. There followed the noise of running feet, plunging recklessly through the undergrowth, coming in his direction, and, knowing that now his peril was great, he himself ran, careless of any sound he might make, careful only to bear in the direction of the road.

Compared with the din made by the pair behind him, his flight was comparatively noiseless, and he had a good hope of reaching the road, when a shout behind told him that he had been seen. He slipped behind some hollies, doubled a little, then made a bee line for where he conceived the road to lie. Running in a wood, even in daylight, makes for confusion, and in darkness may be utterly bewildering. Trying to keep ahead of his pursuers he lost his sense of direction, and, gasping for breath, he risked a moment's pause to try and discover it. As he did so he became aware of a soft, pulsating sound, and an odour with which he was wholly familiar— the sound of a motor-engine running slowly, and the gas from an exhaust.

He could have shouted with relief. The waiting taxi was somewhere in front of him, but a few yards away, and its driver, warned no doubt by the shots and the shouting, with ready wit had started the engine. If he could reach it. The sound of feet trampling bushes behind him acted like a spur, he ran forward, saw the road before him like a dull grey ribbon under the thin moonlight., and found himself against a barbed wire fence, the lines of which were too close to slip through and too high to vault. He had been over wire before, with men shooting in front of him; but then he had been well shod, and now―

Desperately he slipped off his thin evening overcoat, and threw it across the lower wire. It was some protection, but not much. He lacerated one foot badly, and was caught and held by the upper strand. He heard the man behind him shouting exultantly, and thought that he had failed. If the fellow had a pistol― He literally threw himself from the fence, tearing his clothes to ribbons, but breaking free, and falling heavily in the road. As he rolled over and leaped to his feet, he heard his pursuer check and ejaculate:

"Damnation!"

The fellow then had discovered the wire. Good! But now the scoundrel would most certainly shoot. He shouted gaspingly to the taxi-man, and ran down the road, making a zig-zag course. The shot that he feared followed.

The crack of the pistol and the wind of the bullet were almost simultaneous; and then, sweeter than any music ever was, he heard the noisy purr of the taxi running in low gear. He shouted to the driver, and, almost done, ran on towards a little bend in the road that offered concealment. The pistol cracked again, but whether the shot was meant for him or the taxi-driver he did not know; but he was relieved to hear the. taxi was still running. He reached the turn of the road, half-a-dozen yards ahead of the vehicle. The man had the door already open, and as the taxi slowed down Millwarde literally tumbled in, and, as the driver threw the door to, he slowly picked himself up, and, utterly exhausted, collapsed in the corner of the seat.

5

A Caller

THE DRIVER of the taxi knew what was wanted of him. Accelerating, he drove at topmost speed along the deserted road until they reached Wargrave. The place was still in darkness; no light at any window; no one moving a-wheel or on foot. He drew tip in the shadow of the churchyard wall, and, stopping his engine, listened. No sound of pursuit broke the stillness. Descending, he opened the door of the taxi.

"All right, sir?" he inquired of his fare, who lay relaxed in the corner.

"Sound, but very sore," answered Millwarde, thrusting his shoeless foot into view.

"My aunt! You came through that wood and over the wire barefoot."

"Stocking feet, more or less. There's a pair of expensive silk socks ruined."

"Better than a bullet in your heart, sir. Those devils tried to pot you, didn't they? How about looking for the police?"

Millwarde forced a laugh at that.

"I should be sorry to disturb any policeman's beauty sleep. This is—er... a private matter, you understand?"

"Right, sir. But that man who was in my 'bus with you. How did he get in?"

"He was there when I entered."

"You're not pulling my leg, sir?"

"I'm telling you the simple truth."

"Well I'm jiggered! But how did he do it? .... Must have slipped in when I pulled up for you, sir."

"Something of that kind, I expect.... The main thing is that we have left him behind with his friends.... And I think we had better increase the 'leave', if you don't mind."

"Mind, sir!" The man laughed. "Not me! You know that fellow in the wood tried to pot me or the tyres, I'm not sure which. Minded one of old times when I rode a motor-cycle in France, with Jerry peppering the road. I'll get on, sir, if you'll tell me where I'm to take you.

Millwarde gave the address of his chambers, and, with a promise to have him there in two ticks, the man went back to his wheel, and the journey was resumed. In the small hours of the morning they arrived at their destination.

"Come up and have a drink," Millwarde invited the man, "and I'll settle―"

"Settle! I'm already paid, sir."

"Not for the shot you risked," answered Millwarde, and, limping badly, led the way to his chambers.

When he had switched on the light the man stared at him in some amazement.

"Lor', sir," he commented, looking at the state of Millwarde's clothing, "but you must have had a rough passage through that darned wood."

"A nasty one," owned Millwarde, a little ruefully, and limped to a chair by the hearth, where there was a soft rug. "Mind playing butler?" he added. "My feet are pretty bad. The tantalus and syphon are on the sideboard there, glasses also. I can do with a treble one."

"Right, sir. Leave it to me."

The man handed Millwarde the mixture as desired, helped-himself to a stiffish glass, and lifted it after the manner of his kind.

"Here's how sir! An' all the good luck you want."

He drank, and then glanced at his host's bemired and bloodstained feet.

"Better let me take a look at them, sir. I'm a first-aid man; did the classes at the Polytechnic years since; and I'm pretty handy, though I say so as shouldn't."

"I shall be grateful if you will. My soles feel as if somebody were using them for pincushions, and pressing the pins to the heads."

"I daresay, sir. Woods without boots or shoes are the devil. I been there—when I was a kid. If I could get hot water―"

"In the bathroom. Through that door there, and turn left. Switches at each corner."

The man's claim to be pretty handy was justified. In a quarter of an hour he had extracted most of the thorns Millwarde had gathered, washed the lacerated wounds made by the wire, and treated all the scratches and punctures with iodine that his patient kept for emergencies. Then he bound both feet in handkerchiefs and stood upright.

"Best I can do sir. And the iodine will stave off any festering."

"I'm infinitely obliged. Help yourself to another whisky?"

"Don't mind if I do, sir! And yourself?"

"Thank you, if you'll be so good."

Over the second whisky Millwarde settled what he called the reckoning, and spoke to the man frankly.

"I want you to keep the events of the night to yourself, Mr.―"

"Nebby's the name I go by among friends. Charles Willings on the taxi licence."

"Well, Nebby, you understand?"

"Certainly, sir. I'm not too fond of the police myself, always pulling you up an' chivvying you about things that don't matter a tinker's curse, they are. A man might think that they are paid to make life a merry little 'ell for all taxi-drivers."

Millwarde laughed and explained. "There was nothing illegal in my actions to-night. All the offences against the law were on the other side; as you'll guess when I tell you that from the point where you picked me up to the lane where I got out that fellow has a pistol against my rib."

"Cripes!" cried Nebby. "As bad as that. I knew there was something when I heard you mention a pistol through the speaking tube. That fellow must be a tough lot."

'All that.... But I want you to keep quiet about him and the others. There is more behind tonight's adventure than I can tell you, and it it's tremendously important that it should be kept secret."

"I get you, sir. Trust me—the grave won't -be more silent." He gulped what remained of the whisky, and then gave a laugh. "Nobody would credit it if they was told. Couldn't myself at first when I heard you talking down the pneumatic. Thinks I, here's a gent been looking too long in the red wine, a-talking to another gent who isn't there. I've heard more than one who has been out in a wet night do that. But when you spoke to me directly, giving the order where to stop, I knowed you hadn't been overdoing the wine-bibbing, and that there was something queer behind me; an' when I saw that fellow standing against the hedge I guessed that it was queerer than I'd thought.... But you're safely out of it, thank heaven."

"Yes. And infinitely obliged to you, Nebby."

"Oh that! I'm thankful that this bit of excitement came my way. Life's pretty dull when it's made up of driving gents to the station in a hurry, and others to their chambers who're too canned to find the keyhole. But " The grandfather's clock in the corner chimed the hour of three, and Nebby started. "Good Lor', that the time? I must be off!... You'll manage now, sir?"

"Yes! But you might leave your address, Nebby, in the event of my needing you for another lively night."

"Delighted, sir."

Nebby wrote the address on a tablet, as instructed, and went his way. When he had gone Millwarde lit a cigarette, and, his aching feet propped up on a chair, gave himself to a consideration of the events of the night.

One thing was very clear to him. The idea he had entertained that the man who had shot Shuyler and the pair who had visited the dead man's rooms were acting in concert was the right one. Whatever their object, the three were working together, and that houseboat on the backwater below Marlow was their headquarters. But why had they trailed him, and why had the hard-faced Fritz made that daring attempt to abduct him? Did they suspect him of knowing the secret for which Shuyler had been so foully murdered ? There could be no other reason for such extreme action as that which had been taken. There had 'been other witnesses, but he had been the one who had ridden with Shuyler to the hospital, and might reasonably be suspected of having heard from the dying man whatever secret knowledge he might nave. Further, if the pair who had surprised him in Shuyler's chambers had become aware of his identity with the one who had beard Shuyler's last words, that suspicion would be enormously strengthened; for what but something Shuyler had revealed would have taken him so promptly to the murdered man's rooms? Again the fact that his name had been known to Fritz and recognised by the man in the wherry was a further pointer, and one not to be ignored; whilst the extreme actions of abducting him at the pistol point and the attempt to shoot him on his escape were a revelation of the importance they attached to himself.

His thoughts passed on to the secret itself— for that secret there was, and one of quite tremendous significance, he was assured. What was the nature of it'; and was M. Futrelle, whose Bentley had been used by Fritz, interested in keeping it inviolate? That the Bentley had been reported stolen an hour before the crime, and had been found abandoned after it, was nothing. It might be the merest eyewash; and there was something about M. Futrelle that disquieted him. The man, protesting that never again could he use the Bentley, had ridden in it to Dartington House, and it was outside awaiting his use at the very moment he had made that declaration. A small thing, perhaps, but there were other things which gave it point and which fostered the notion that M. Futrelle at the moment when he had reported his loss was possibly very well aware of the use to which it was to be put.

To begin with there was M. Futrelle himself— an Alsatian of aristocratic descent, who had made himself a millionaire. He had jested about the man's beard, but behind the jest had been a substratum of earnestness: and he really had a feeling that somewhere and at some time he had looked into the man's beaming eyes before, though then they had not been camouflaged by those tortoiseshell rims. Further, Monsieur had shown something more than a curious interest in the possible friendship between Shuyler and himself, as also in anything Shuyler might have told him. And beyond there were three or four things of weighty significance— Mademoiselle Clotilde's unquestionable fear that she might recognise the criminal who had been guilty of Shuyler's murder; the startled look and exclamation when he had suggested that whilst she had not recognised the criminal from his description, someone of whom she was thinking might do so; the shaken head, and flash of warning not to answer her uncle's question, and last, but not least significant, her name on Shuyler's lips, and on the book he had taken from the dead man's rooms.

These things all pointed one way. Whatever the secret for which Shuyler had died, M. Futrelle appeared to be as interested in keeping it inviolate as the hard-faced Fritz himself.

"Decidedly a man to keep in mind, this M. Futrelle," he murmured to himself;" then gave his thoughts to Mademoiselle.

Was she also involved in this tragic business? He could not believe that. Brief as their acquaintance was, he was assured that she at least had nothing to do with Shuyler's death; though beyond question there had been some acquaintanceship between them, and she had some suspicion, however vague it might be of the considerations which had dictated the murderer's action.

Again his mind turned to three considerations and to the iron-jawed Fritz. He knew where the murderer was, and if he rang up Scotland Yard, in no time at all a flying squad would be on the way to that houseboat below Marlow. But though he looked once in the direction of the telephone, he did not make the call. Already, he had little doubt, the trio would have abandoned the houseboat. His knowledge of their whereabouts and their suspicion that he was cognisant of their activities would by this have driven them to seek fresh cover, and any police raid would be a mere waste of time.

But beyond that was another thing which was decisive. Knowing the nature of Shuyler's task, it was infinitely more important to learn the secret on which he had stumbled than to avenge his death. In that task risks were part of the day's work. The men who served their Governments secretly took the chances with open eyes, and not infrequently found the chances too much for them and died; but the manner of their deaths was not trumpeted to the world, nor were the hidden causes proclaimed from the housetops.

In Shuyler's case, however, the matter was simplified. The killer had been seen by several people; he could be identified and brought to justice at any favourable time. But for the immediate present it was as well to let him run. since his trail might lead to the knowledge of that for which Shuyler had died.

Having reached this conclusion, he limped to the bureau and from the drawer where he had locked it, took the book he had brought from Shuyler's rooms. He considered the name written there, while his forehead puckered in a frown. How had Shuyler come by this book, and why should Clotilde du Chastaigny have betrayed so much emotion at the mention of its title.

He stared at the book for quite a long time, but found no answer, then mechanically he began to turn the leaves, while his mind still sought to solve the question it had raised. While he was so engaged he came unexpectedly on a half-sheet of flimsy notepaper that at first sight he imagined had been used for a book-marker. But when he turned it over his eyes grew alert and eager. There was something written there in pencil, showing rather faintly on the slaty-grey paper— rough notes at a first glance. With a sudden surge of excitement quickening his pulse, he turned to a small table at his shoulder, switched on a reading lamp, and examined the paper carefully. There were names there, and abbreviated notes. He looked at the first name, and as he did so, whistled sharply.

"Marcel Futrelle (alias)— Pierre Girardot; the Grey Rat."

For a full minute after he sat staring at the flimsy scrap, not reading, an absorbed look in his eyes, recalling the smiling, grey-bearded gentleman, whom he had met that night, with eyes beaming behind his tortoise-shelled glasses.

"The Grey Rat!" he whispered...  As he did so, by a trick of imagination, he saw the bearded face fade out like a motion picture, to be replaced by another, younger, but the same face, shorn of its beard, and without glasses.

"So!" he muttered, his memory functioning completely. "I was sure―"

He broke off, and stared into vacancy, visioning a mean estaminet behind the English lines in where, with a friend, he had drunk a heady vin blanc. The proprietor had been a middle-aged, rather slipshod fellow, scrubby-chinned, but with a mane of iron-grey hair, a ruddy face, and eyes that beamed gaiety like any sun— a jovial host, and, as it appeared later, one of the cleverest of German agents. But clever as he was some act of his had aroused suspicion, and one night the estaminet had gone up in smoke and flame, its owner with it, as was supposed at the time, though subsequent events had proved the contrary.

"So!" he reflected, "Pierre Girardot, the Grey Rat— in a new incarnation! I wonder what his game is?"

His eyes went to the other names, seeking enlightenment. The first told him little that was helpful.

"Paul du Chastaigny," he read. "C.1912. Made getaway 10 Invr. of C.T.-cap"

"A relation of Mademoiselle' Clotilde almost certainly," he thought. "Possibly father or brother."

The notes were beyond his immediate elucidation, and without wasting time over them he read on.

"Fritz Hermann B/X. Part compiler of Berlin Black Book. Suspect shot G. T. Geneva '17. Recently in Chicago."

"The devil!" he ejaculated, and again was lost in thought.

B/X he had known by repute as one of the most daring and unscrupulous of Teutonic agents, clever as the Master spy whom he served, and ruthless as a shark.

G. T. who had been shot at Geneva, was Guy Tresham, one of the most brilliant of British Intelligence officers, and a friend of his own. The Berlin Black Book was known in his own department as The Book of 40,000 Names— names of people of all classes in Europe, but particularly of those who were influential, and who, because of some hidden delinquency, might have pressure brought on them to serve the German cause— in short, blackmailed.

So that was the hard-faced Fritz who had shot Shuyler with as brazen a daring as that of any Chicago gunman— part compiler of a huge blackmailing book, spy, and assassin.

He whistled thoughtfully to himself, and then his eyes turned to the last name.

"Katusha Pavlovna, 3rd I."

"Russian," he interpreted aloud. "Third International. A feminine agent almost certainly."

Then he considered the names again in bulk. The Grey Rat, B/X Fritz, and the woman of the Third International— plus Paul du Chastaigny, who might be anything. A pretty trinity, he reflected, plus an unknown quantity. Decidedly, in view of Shuyler's death and the manner of it, there was something pretty big in the wind. But what?

He sat for a long time considering the problem, eyes closed, brow puckered in the effort of thought. When at last he opened his eyes, the room was lit with the grey light of dawn, and he was no nearer the solution than he had been at the beginning. Whatever it was that Shuyler had stumbled upon, and for knowing which he had been slain, was still a profound mystery. But, he thought, he had now threads in his hands which would lead to its elucidation, and with his brain refreshed by sleep he might find the clue hidden somewhere in this list and in Shuyler's dying words. And with that thought he limped off to bed.

Morning found him with feet that were painful enough, but not sufficiently so to prevent him going out if necessary, and after breakfasting he telephoned to Radway and Tony Armitage, who, half an hour later, arrived in a taxi together. The Englishman greeted him reproachfully.

"Swept Darlington House for you last night, Hugh. Didn't find you, though Lady Molly swore you were there."

"I was, and I was not! Left early for Marlow."

"Marlow! My Aunt! Why?"

"Sit down. Cigarettes on the mantelpiece. I'll tell you."

He gave a brief but precise account of his adventure of the previous night, omitting nothing essential, and when he finished Armitage broke out:

"Taxi-man Nebby deserves the Albert Medal. But, my hat, you've been bang up against it, sitting with that cast-iron gunman."

"Name of Fritz Hermann," said Millwarde quietly. "Otherwise B/X Gothic script."

Tony Armitage fairly jumped from his chair.

"How the deuce do you know that," he ejaculated. "Fellow whisper it in your ear during that joy-ride?"

"No! But his comrades in arms called him Fritz, and the rest is deduction—here are the premises."

He produced the flimsy paper with the names as he spoke, and handed it to his friend. Armitage read it through rapidly. "Fritz and the Grey Rat! Shuyler had certainly toppled into something deep. Those two together! There's going to be the deuce of a spree somewhere.... But the other two? Know them at all?"

"No! The woman's easy, though. Russian, of course, and 3rd I. can mean only one thing."

Armitage nodded with conviction. "There's the hammer and the sickle hallmark for a dead certainty. Take a look, Radway," he said, as he handed the paper to the American. "Paul du Chastaigny seems to be the only dark horse in the list. You may know his stable."

The American considered the list for a moment or two, then a little gleam came in his eyes.

"A French Who's Who might be useful," he said slowly. "But there's a pointer here. 'Invr,' short for inventor, for a dollar. And C.T.cap is easy for a fellow who had naval training."

He paused and deliberately lit a cigarette, whereat Armitage laughed impatiently.

"Oh, get on with your easy job."

"Chastaigny Torpedo-cap," said Radway briefly. "Every torpedo-man has heard of that. It is superseded now, but in its day―" He broke off suddenly. His eyes took a reflective look, and the others, watching him, waited patiently. It was a full minute before he spoke. Then he resumed slowly, "There's something that I can't recall. Something queer I read or beard. Got into some sort of scrape―"

"C. 1912," interjected Armitage. "Made getaway '16.' What did he make his getaway from?"

Millwarde had a sudden flash of enlightenment.

"A for Athens; B for Berlin; C for Cayenne!" he said quietly.

"And D for Devil's Island. You've hit the nail, Millwarde. That was it. It comes back. I wasn't particularly interested at the time. But now— Man's loose somewhere in the world, if Shuyler's note is true, and, mark it, he's an inventor."

"Sort of Johnny who might bring out a new gun or something miraculous in high explosive," commented Armitage. "And if he spent four years at Devil's Island he's no principles left. Might do anything in partnership with Fritz and the Rat and Comrade Kalusha."

There was a silence for a moment, then Radway spoke tersely,

"We've got to find them. There's devilry afoot: and anyway. B/X Fritz shot Lincoln M. Shuyler; and that's an account to be squared— at any early date. Where are the moorings of that houseboat?"

"You won't find―"

"I'm going to take a look. There's one end of their trail, anyway; and if they're gone the scent may lie. I'm going right away." He looked at Armitage, who nodded.

"Coming? Millwarde can fend for himself. Englishman's house his castle and all that. What! Late lunch at club, Hugh?"

"Yes!" answered Millwarde. "Though I may have to send out for crutches."

The pair departed, and Millwarde began to review the situation afresh in the light of new facts. What he had heard of Paul du Chastaigny disturbed him profoundly. If, as seemed likely, the man was a criminal, in what relation did he stand to Mademoiselle Clotilde? Was she, who had been at Lady Darlington's with the man who called himself Futrelle, aware of the criminal activities of that man and his associates? Did she share them? There was a troubled light in his eyes as he considered the questions, but he faced them squarely. Appearances were bad. Facts as he knew them inclined the beam heavily against her, and there, was the question of her association with Shuyler— however slight it might have been. Was it a friendly one or otherwise? Had Shuyler used her in some way, or had she been used to make Shuyler betray himself under the guise of friendship, or even of affection? He winced a little at the thought; then, remembering her as he had seen her a moment after their first meeting with something more than mutual interest telepathically proclaimed, he cried out against the last possibility.

"By heaven, no!"

He had time for no further reflection.

Steps sounded on the landing, there was a double knock at the door, which he recognised for that of the caretaker, who acted as scout, and he spoke brusquely.

"Come in, Standring "

The man opened the door and told his business without waste of words.

"Lady down in the hall wants to see you, sir."

"A lady!" Millwarde was a little surprised. "What name?"

"Wouldn't give it, Mr. Millwarde. Said I was to come up and tell you. She's dressed to the nines, real sables an' all that, sir or I'm no judge; and by the way she speaks English some brand of foreigner, I should say."

A wild hope kindled suddenly in Millwarde's heart. After all Mademoiselle had not gone with that rascally uncle of hers to Yorkshire, She―

"Show her up at once, Standring," he said with an impulsiveness that surprised himself.

"Yes, sir."

Standring departed, closing the door after him. Two or three minutes passed, then he heard the lift gates open and caught the man's voice.

He rose from his chair, and eager-eyed watched the door. His heart was beating a very tattoo, and he was uplifted by expectation. The double knock sounded'; again, the handle turned, the door opened, and he glimpsed Standring as he stepped aside.

"Walk right in, miss."

"Now!" Then the visitor came into view, and stood hesitating in the doorway, a very beautiful woman, at the sight of whom his vaulting hopes crashed, for she was a complete stranger.

6

A Piquant Situation

THE woman did not speak for a moment, and Millwarde watched her closely, wondering exactly why she had come. To warn him to keep off the grass, perhaps, he thought; or possibly just to learn how much he knew. He checked a smile at the latter possibility. Having told her sufficient to set her .guessing, he proposed to tell her no more. Then the woman spoke quickly.

'"Lincoln Shuyler was a friend of yours. You took him to the hospital. On the way he told you something―"

"Pure assumption!" he interrupted.

''Then why did you go in such haste to his chambers?" she countered swiftly.

Millwarde's face betrayed an almost ludicrous surprise, and he gasped: "How do you know that?"

The woman stared at him a little frowningly, uncertain perhaps of the genuineness of the surprise, then she shrugged her shoulders.

"Is it necessary to explain?" she asked. "It is sufficient that I know that you went there directly from the hospital, and it is certain that you did not go— to— er— shall we say— lock the door?"

Millwarde laughed. "But I did lock the door— I really did— though shortly after the lock was picked by a precious pair of scoundrels, who spent some time among Shuyler's papers." He paused, then added lightly: "Ever since I have been puzzling my head wondering what they were looking for."

An impatient look came on the woman's face. It was clear that she did not quite know how to meet Millwarde's levity, and was a little baffled by his apparent frankness. After a moment she spoke challengingly

"Yon are sure you do not know?"

"Quite sure, Miss Pavlovna. If I knew I should perhaps know something else that is puzzling me."

"What is that?" she asked.

"The real reason for your call this morning."

"I have indicated that, answered the woman, with a directness that equalled his own. "I came to learn what Shuyler told you before he died, that sent you helter-skelter to his rooms "

"Miss Katusha!" he protested. "Helter-skelter! I am not so undignified!"

Katusha Pavlovna ignored the interruption. "And what you took away with you when you left?"

"Ah, now we cease going round the mulberry bush!... I do not know by what right you ask these questions, and I am sure you will not believe me when I tell you what I did take away."

"So," she said, a little light of eagerness in her eyes, "you did take something?"

'It is on the table there," he nodded his head as he spoke, indicating the yellow book.

The woman looked avidly at the book, and asked quickly: "A novel? I may look at it, perhaps?"

"With pleasure! I would even present you with the work if it were mine."

Katusha Pavlovna could not hide her excitement. She rose quickly from her chair and hurried to the table. Snatching up the book, she looked at it eagerly, and then came the start which Millwarde was looking for. She had read Clotilde du Chastaigny's name on the cover, and, as he expected, it had for her a considerable significance. For perhaps five seconds, she remained quite still, then with an appearance of nonchalance she began to turn the leaves, but her eyes, quick as a bird's, as he noted, were searching the pages feverishly, as if looking for something she did not find. Then, whilst she still turned the pages, she spoke:

"Apparently a book that Shuyler had borrowed—and had forgotten to return. There is a name— a lady's name "

"Yes! A rather taking name. It intrigues one!... But I am afraid that the owner must now go without her book unless, yes, one might commit it to the care of the post-office. There is an address there, as well as a name."

He saw her look at him under her long eyelashes, and could have laughed outright. He was sure that she burned to ask him why he had brought that particular book from the dead man's rooms, but was afraid of giving it an importance that possibly he might he unaware of. Guessing her quandary, he waited to learn what she would do. What she did rather surprised him. Setting the book down, she returned to her chair, and then laughed.

"An interesting work," she said. "I have read it. I wonder why you troubled to bring it away?"

"If I had not borrowed it," he laughed back, "it might have been stolen. Those two men―"

A flash came in his visitor's eyes.

'You think that they were looking for that book?"

'Who knows?" he answered lightly. "They were no common thieves, for they never looked at Shuyler's silver candlesticks, I'll swear."

Katusha Pavlovna sneezed suddenly— a good round sneeze that did not pretend to be anything else; and hurriedly opened her leather bag, and, taking out a handkerchief, used it. Then she restored the handkerchief, but did not close the bag, letting her hand remain in its depths. Millwarde noted that, and remembering how earlier in the interview her hand had gone to the bag, was secretly amused, but outwardly concerned.

"You feel the draught, perhaps? I will close that window if you wish?"

He did not wait for her to acquiesce, but, limping to the window, closed it, taking his time in doing so, interested in something in the street below. When he turned round his visitor's hand was out of the bag, and now in place of the handkerchief it held a black, nasty-looking automatic pistol. He had half expected something of that kind, but affected amazement.

"Miss Pavlovna!" he cried protestingly. "Whatever―"

"Keep your voice down, fool!" commanded the woman. "It is your turn to feel the draught, hein? Well, it is going to become more piercing and cold if you do not tell me what I came to ask you."

Millwarde, though inclined to laugh, kept up his pose.

"Shut up!" said the woman coarsely. "And answer me. What did Shuyler tell you that sent you so hurriedly to his chambers, and why did you bring away that particular book?"

"I protest―"

Katusha Pavlovna steadied her arm by resting her elbow on the chair. She closed an eye and glanced with the other along the black barrel. There was a resolute look on her face, and her voice was crisp and harsh as she said tersely,

"Answer! Or you follow Shuyler."

Millwarde knew that was no idle threat. This had been in her mind from the beginning of the interview, and no doubt all along had been meant to be the end of it. The men with whom she was leagued scented danger, and were prepared to deliver themselves by drastic action. And Katusha Pavlovna belonged to a class of woman who were own sisters to the jungle tigress. He had deliberately played to get the claws unsheathed and he knew that but for one thing his peril was great. But he displayed no haste to yield to her threats.

"You would not dare," he said, knowing that was not the truth. "The shot would be heard. You would be taken before you could leave the building."

"Heard!" Katusha Pavlovna laughed scornfully. "Listen!"

Millwarde listened more intensely than the woman guessed.

From the street came the roar of traffic, the beat of engines, the hooting of Klaxons— the strident din of hurrying London.

"Heard!" she cried scornfully. "The sound of a pistol will be like the fall of a raindrop in Niagara. Now fool, speak."

Millwarde, who through the roar of sound from outside had caught the little sound beyond the door for which he had strained his cars, laughed.

''That is the whirr of the lift," he said quickly. "Do you hear it?"

"Quick!" the woman commanded.

"You are too late." he said. "He is here. That is his voice."

"Of whom are you talking?"

Of Inspector Allardyce, of Scotland Yard.... I saw him from the window just now." He laughed cheerfully. "If he knew where I had obtained that book, like you he would develop an interest in Marcel Proust; as it is, that pistol of yours will interest him more. If I were you―"

A double rap sounded and he answered it. "Yes."

The door opened, and mingling with the sound of it Millwarde caught the snap of a catch, and then came the caretaker's voice.

"Inspector Allardyce to see you, sir."

Millwarde flashed a look at the bag on Katusha's lap. It was closed, and her gloved hands wore both resting on the arms of the chair. He glanced at her face and saw that it was troubled. She did not know what Allardyce's coming meant; and was in doubt what Millwarde proposed to do. He gave her no indication whatever.

"Very well. Show him in."

Allardyce entered the room and gave greeting.

"Morning, Millwarde;" then aware of the other visitor, stood waiting.

"Miss Pavlovna," said Millwarde smilingly, "may I introduce Inspector Allardyce?"

The woman inclined her head and wailed, plainly on thorns for what was to follow. Millwarde deliberately kept her on that uneasy seat for a moment.

"You were speaking about the murder of the unfortunate Shuyler just now," he said, watching her with a little amusement, "and I expect that deed is what brings Inspector Allardyce here.... That so, Allardyce?"

"Yes."

The inspector's eyes went quickly to the other visitor, whose face flushed under their scrutiny.

"Did you know Shuyler, Miss Pavlovna?" he asked sharply.

"No!... But naturally one is interested after that affair in Piccadilly," was the reply given with a coolness that moved Millwarde to admiration.

She rose from the chair as she spoke, glanced first at the door then at Millwarde. That double glance was a question. Clearly she was still in doubt as to what was in his mind; and whether she was to be allowed to depart or not.

Millwarde. however, had no intention of detaining her. She might or might not have been concerned in Shuyler's death; but at large she would serve his own purpose better than if she were confined in Holloway; since, like her associates, she might lead him to the heart of the affair of which Shuyler's murder was a mere incident. He nodded slightly in answer to the unspoken question.

"Going, Miss Pavlovna?" he asked smilingly, and limped to the door to open it. With his hand on the knob he turned. "There is that book of Proust's," he said tentatively, "if you would care for the loan of it."

"Thank you, no," she replied coolly enough. "I am sure it would not interest me."

He opened the door. "Good-morning! Delighted to have seen you. No doubt we shall meet again before long."

"I hope so," she answered quietly enough; but there was a stormy look in her eyes which betrayed the fierceness of her otherwise suppressed emotion. "Au revoir."

She moved out of the room, and as she crossed the landing to the lift, Millwarde closed the door and limped hack to his chair. As he did so Allardyce noticed his lameness.

"Hurt yourself?"' he asked with brusque friendliness.

"Rheumatism."

"Nasty sort of thing to get hold of. Better take a trip to Harrogate or Northwich and get it cleared out of you. Once it's in the bones it's inclined to stick."

"When I've time maybe I'll go," answered Millwarde, and waited for the other to explain his business.

For a moment, however, Allardyce had another interest.

"That lady— Pavlovna, did you say the name was?"

"Katusha Pavlovna," amplified Millwarde.

"Russian, of course." The inspector frowned a little. "I seem to have heard it before, somewhere."

"Mixing it up with the name of someone in the Russian ballet, I expect," answered the other without offering any help. "Those Slav names are often very much alike."

"Yes," agreed Allardyce, and proceeded to unfold his business. "Dropped in to see you as I was passing—about the Shuyler affair You got your subpoena?"

"Yes, thank you. Bit of a nuisance for a busy man."

"Proceedings will be formal only. After evidence of identity and the shooting— no questions asked— the inquest will be adjourned for the. police to make inquiries."

"That is what I thought might happen." The inspector lit a cigarette, and after a couple of whiffs spoke again.

"There's an impression at the Yard that there's more in Shuyler's murder than meets the eye."

"Always is in any murder," commented Millwarde.

"U.S.A Embassy owns that Shuyler was on its pay roll, but has no information. Was under the impression that he was in France, from whence he last reported."

"Get the name of the place?" asked Millwarde easily.

"Yes. Roquebrune. On the hills between Monte Carlo and Mentone. An odd little place, as you'll know, I expect. Can't have had anything to do with the sort of job that Shuyler might he on, I should, say."

"Doesn't seem likely," Millwarde allowed; but with a side thought for the book lying on the table, which he devoutly hoped Allardyce would not glance at.

"We shall make inquiries there, of course, but it will be a waste of time, I'll wager. The secret lies here under our hand in London, or in Chicago, the last I should say; for the affair was pure gangster business. If Shuyler had an enemy in Roquebrune or Monte Carlo, or any of those places on the Riviera, whoever got him would have done the trick there." lie; broke off, and then asked, "No information to pass on, I suppose?''

"No," answered Millwarde, with the air of a man who hoped for none.

"Then I'll get along. See you at the Coroner's Court this afternoon."

The inspector went his way; and Millwarde gave himself to thought, renewing his recent encounter with Katusha Pavlovna. At one point in the review he laughed.

"Shook her up when I named her!"

Then a grave look came in his eyes as they turned to the yellowback upon the table. She had known Clotilde du Chastaigny's name, it seemed, and that fact for which he had deliberately fished disturbed him profoundly. Innocent as he was convinced she was, Mademoiselle was yet involved in the business through her father or her uncle, or both. And what the business was he had not yet the slightest inkling, but that it was of tremendous importance was certain, for men like Fritz Hermann did not risk their necks for small things. Further, Katusha Pavlovna had not made her very unconventional call out of idle curiosity. There had been a dark purpose behind that call, and, in view of what had happened at the end, it was not difficult to guess its nature. The woman, though she had been foiled, had no doubt meant to silence him as Shuyler had been silenced, if he had betrayed knowledge of the dead man's secret.

He wondered if the clue to that secret lay in Roquebrune, where Shuyler was known to have been, and where in all probability he had met Clotilde du Chastaigny— and possibly her father. If the latter was domiciled there, it was more than possible, and for a moment or two he visioned that topsy-turvy little town, perched on the hillside by the Corniche road, and in fancy stood in the Place dos Frères looking over the parapet to the sea, conjecturing what the secret could be. Something connected with Roquebrune itself? Absurd! That quaint town, with its steep and narrow streets, its myriad steps, its orange trees, and its lavender, was a place for tourists, not for a mystery that must be guarded by the murder of a man in a London street.

His thoughts went farther afield. From the Place dos Frères one could look east and west along the Corniche road; and the coast, and the sea. Did the secret lie in one of the Mediterranean towns— Monte Carlo, Nice, Mentone? There were possibilities there— riff-raff, idlers, gamesters, international crooks, who might well be of the kidney in-whom Shuyler would have an interest. He thought of the Italian places— Bordighera, San Remo; then his mind harked back sharply, if Shuyler had been at Roquebrune, that which had drawn him to the neighbourhood would scarcely be far away. He recalled the smaller places not in the geographical sequence; but higgledy-piggledly as they occurred to his mind— Beaulieu, Vallecrosia, Villefranche, La Mortola, Grimaldi—

There his memory checked sharply. For a second or so he was like a man turned to stone, then the light of a dazzling revelation flashed in his eyes.

"Grimaldi! By heaven!" he ejaculated, and again, "GrimaIdi!"

He sat there listening again to Shuyler's croaking whisper. "Look for.... du Chastaigny... my chambers... on... 27th Grim―"

"Grimaldi" he said once more. "Not a doubt of it That was the unfinished word."

He was very sure of it. Grimaldi as the crow flies was no great distance from Roquebrune. A man might almost take a 'bus ride between the two places. At any rate he could train to Ventimiglia and reach it from there. And Grimaldi, he remembered suddenly, was on the frontier of two countries. France and Italy. What did it all mean? Why should a man, foully shot, with his dying breath give the name— or as much of it as he could speak— of that small place against the frontiers and on the sea?

He did not know; he could not guess, but that there was something of quite terrific importance connected with the place he was sure; something— he recalled the number or date given— that was to happen on the 27th. perhaps Rising suddenly from his chair, he limped to his desk, and picking up a popular Year Book hastily turned the leaves till he found the calendar for the month giving anniversaries and events. He looked at the 27th. Some man had been burnt on that day— Michael Servetus, whoever he was. It told him nothing, and try as he would he could not remember anything of a public or international nature that was scheduled to take place on the 27th. But if there was nothing public, then there was something of a private nature that would have national or international repercussions. What? What? What?

His mind reiterated the question without finding any definite answer. Remembering that the Grey Rat was involved, and B/X Fritz Hermann, it might be anything— some stupendous devilry beyond anticipation of decent people, and as incalculable in its results as the assassinations at Sarajevo in 1914.

Baffled he gave up the problem, and, hunting out his easiest pair of shoes, took his way to his club to lunch. Neither Armitage nor Radway put in an appearance; and when the time arrived he went on to the inquest to which he had been called as a witness. The proceedings followed the lines Allardyce had indicated; and were from his point of view commendably brief. But when the adjournment was announced an idea occurred to him, and he was moved to question Allardyce.

"M. Futrelle!" he asked. "You did not call him?"

"No occasion," was the answer, "particularly as he was due to go to Yorkshire this morning. He'll return if need should arise."

"Got the address, of course?"

"Yes, Norseby House, near Whitby." The inspector looked at him shrewdly as he gave the information. "Interested?''

Millwarde told him the truth as far as it went.

"Met him at Harrington House last night. Naturally the old fellow was interested in the Shuyler affair, and I half promised to have a talk with him about it. But if he's gone to Yorkshire it will be a waste of time to call at Hurlington Court.

"Yes," agreed Allardyce, and went his way.

Millwarde, reflecting that M. Futrelle had at least been consistent in his story, went hack to his club, to find his friends had returned.

"Well?" he asked. "You found the houseboat?"

"The ashes of it," answered Armitage briefly.

"Ashes?"

"Still smouldering," jerked in Radway. "Must have gone up like a tar-barrel. It burnt to the waters edge."

7

The Student Of Theology.

"AND the men?" asked Millwarde.

"Vamoosed. Not a sign of them," replied Armitage. "We made inquiries, naturally, but learned nothing. Nobody around knew that the houseboat, which had been to let for some time, had found a tenant. There's one thing, however— the wherry was gone. I expect they used her to get away out to the main stream and so to one of the riverside towns. Hopeless to hunt for them, I think."

"Unquestionably. The trail is here in London, I fancy. I've had a caller since you went— Katusha Pavlovna."

"The deuce! You get all the luck," laughed Armitage. "What's she like? A good looker? Try to vamp you?"

"Not exactly, unless an automatic is part of a vamp outfit."

"Often is," said Radway. "That or a knife carried in the garter— Apache way. What happened?"

Millwarde gave them the account of his visitor, and, when he had finished, Radway spoke a single word:

"Dangerous!"

"Possibly. But she's here in London, and may be met and located, but not by me. I'm going to Yorkshire tonight."

"Yorkshire ?"

"After M. Futrelle. I got his address from Allardyce. It may be a waste of time; but one never knows. We've got to take any chance that's going. And, by-the-by, I think I've got Shuyler's half-spoken name. It is Grimaldi."

"Grimaldi,"' said Radway reflectively. "Fellow was a clown, wasn't he? Must be a code word."

"Or the name of a little place where the Franco-Italian frontier runs into the sea," suggested Millwarde quietly.

"My hat!" ejaculated Armitage. "That sounds like a hot scent, Hugh. Fritz and the Grey Rat and the vamping Katusha are the trio for an international dust-up, I should say."

'Yes. That's why I'm going to Yorkshire. This lot has got to be checkmated— but first we have to learn their game. The Grey Rat went north this morning, and I am following. Not that I think the denouement will come there. But if he moves on I shall be at his heels, and so in touch with things.... You may be able to pick up something at this end, but it's a dead ringer, I think, that we shall all be at Grimaldi on the 27th, unless we can stop whatever infernal thing is planned before."

"Infernal is the word," said Radway. That bunch didn't kill Shuyler from any benevolent motives. You'll leave the address, I suppose."

"Yes! And send you any necessary particulars. I know that country pretty well, and if Norseby House, Whitby, is the place I think, I shall probably put up. at 'The Flask', which is on Whitby road, and south of Robin Hood's Bay. A pretty lonely spot, but fairly adjacent to M. Futrelle's new abode— if he really is there, as I have a conviction that he is."

'Then we comb London for Fritz and the lady, whilst you take the moorland air," Armitage laughed. "Watch your step, though, Hugh. Cornered rats can be nasty things."

That was a judgment which Hugh Millwarde was not inclined to challenge, and when a few hours later he drove to King's Cross to catch the night express to the north, he was alert and watchful for any sign that he was followed.

He found none; neither on the way nor at the station did he observe anyone who might he suspected of having any interest in his movements, though as there were a fair number of passengers, and of others seeing their friends away, he could not be sure that there was no espionage. He was fortunate enough to get a first-class smoker to himself, and when the train moved out of the station, he drew down all the blinds, and, covering the lamp with the shade provided, made himself as comfortable as He could, composing himself for sleep.

The movement of the train, the monotonous rhythm of the wheels, with his own weariness, soon induced a drowsiness which before long passed into sleep. For some time his sleep was profound and untroubled by dreams; but presently it became fitful. The train was rocking heavily, and two or three times when the motion was more violent his eyes opened, stared a little vacantly round the compartment, and then closed again. After a time the passage of the train became smoother, and again he drifted into sleep, but now his sleep was troubled by dreams, one of which was one that had often harassed him, but which, by repetition, lost nothing of its vividness and power to induce quite acute apprehension. All men have such dreams, rooted in the past, in the profession they chance to follow, or the sport in which they are peculiarly interested; dreams which repeat themselves at shorter or longer intervals, and in which the golfer slices his drive or misses a simple putt; the clergyman cannot find his text or has lost his sermon, whilst the man whose job carries him continually along the skirts of danger finds himself in some situation of acute peril.

Millwarde's particular nightmare was one in which he crouched in a filthy Polish inn, staring through the blackness, in which a cricket chirped, waiting, watching for a door to open. He never saw and never heard the door open; but it always opened as he was made aware by a draft which set him shivering. That shiver always wakened him, so that he never knew what followed or discovered what inimical purpose lay behind the stealthily opened door.

The dream, as he redreamed it in the train, followed its familiar sequence. He crouched in the darkness; heard the cricket sing, felt the vague but acute apprehension of unknown danger, and was conscious of the draft which induced the shiver that brought the blessed relief of the waking moment. Opening his eyes in the semidarkness, he drew a breath of relief, laughed a little at himself— and then shivered again. That shiver of the waking moment was contrary to precedent. It stirred him to greater wakefulness, and unexpectedly he made the discovery that the draught was a real one, cutting across the compartment, and boring into his right car and his neck like an icy augur. He looked quickly at the windows, the ventilators, and. last of all, the door leading to the corridor. It was open, with a gap of perhaps two inches between it and the frame.

He stared at it thoughtfully. He had shut the door carefully on leaving London, he remembered that quite distinctly. It was true that the rocking of the train might .have jerked it open, and that the door, of the sliding variety, might have slid hack on its runners, and there were other possible explanations— a ticket inspector happening along and refraining from waking him, or some passenger seeking a more comfortable seat. The thing might he just as simple as any one of these three explanations; but in view of the perils among which he had moved in the last forty hours, it behoved him to he sure beyond all doubt.

Accordingly he watched the door for a little time. The movement of the train did not in any way affect it; and the gap between the door and the frame neither widened nor grew less. Then he rose and carefully closed the door, noting its stillness as he did so, and making sure that the catch had caught. That done, he went back to his corner, adjusted his rug, pulled his cap well down, but a little awry, that he might be able to look under the peak, and assumed, the attitude of slumber.

For a long time nothing happened. The train roared on through the night. Occasionally there was a rattle against the windows of coal dust or the dead ash of flying sparks; but there was no sign of human movement, and the door, quite unaffected by the motion of the train, remained closed. He had almost decided that there was no reason for him to continue his vigil, when there occurred a thing which made him change his mind.

Someone passed down the corridor. The blinds being drawn he could not see the individual; but he caught a bumping sound as the swaying of the express flung the man rather heavily against the side of his compartment. He heard the man recover himself, and then he heard nothing more. A small thing, but he waited patiently, and in complete immobility, wondering if the man were the one who had been responsible for the open door. If so, he thought it was possible that the unknown might be intending to make a second attempt to enter.

Chance served him better than he could have hoped. The movement of the train jerked loose one of the blinds, on the corridor side. It shot up with a sharp sound, the unexpectedness of which made him jump; but a second later he was composed again, watching a man who was moving slowly past the window. The man's face was in shadow, but he was a tall man, wearing a loose tweed overcoat, which dropped straight from the shoulders. Millwarde marked the coat carefully before the man passed out of eye-range; and three seconds later made the discovery that the wearer had come to a halt exactly opposite the door of the compartment. A hand gripping the brass rail, which guarded the outer window, and a foot or so of sleeve of the same light tweed of the coat that he had marked, gave him that information; and he chuckled softly, as he waited for what was to follow.

Did the unknown mean to enter the compartment? Had he tried to do so before and been disturbed by his sudden waking? It seemed that there was a probability of the answer to both questions being in the affirmative, and as he reached that conclusion, he asked himself what was the man's purpose? Did he mean to search him or attack him? The latter he realised would be quite a simple proposition. A man might very easily jerk open that door, and shoot him before he could move, assured that the sound of a pistol shot would be drowned by the roar and rattle of the train. He thought what he should do in the event of any such attempt— of which the associates of the gunman who had slain Shuyler were quite capable— and with half closed eyes he watched the hand on the rail against the outer window.

After what seemed an intolerable time it moved.

"At last!" he thought, and tensed himself for the spring he proposed to make at the psychological moment. Against the rumbling background of sound made by the express he caught a slight click. The man outside had turned the knob of the door. The latter moved slightly, noiselessly, under pressure evenly exerted.

From the lamps in the corridors a very slight beam of light came through the chink, and Millwarde, watching, saw it obscured by the man who was opening the door, but whose face he still could not see.

The chink widened until there was about two inches between the door and the framework, sufficient room thought Millwarde to allow for the introduction of a pistol barrel, and to afford play for a sighting shot. He prepared for the leap he was resolved to make, and then heard something rasp against the woodwork. Was it the pistol? Had the moment arrived?  Scarcely had the questions-flashed into his mind, when there was a very faint sound, and before he could move a sword of light flashed across the compartment and was focussed on himself.

He could have laughed with relief at this unexpected thing, but remained quite still, apparently a man in deep slumber, trying to fathom the meaning of the unknown's actions. Was the man not sure of his identity, and was he endeavouring to achieve certainty before proceeding to extremes? That seemed the only possible explanation; and he decided to wait a moment longer before making his spring.

The flashlight played upon his face, and do what he would he could not prevent his eyelids from quivering. If the man saw that he would inevitably guess that he was foxing, and might be moved to swift action. Determining to anticipate that, he sprang straight to his feet and in the direction of the door.

His sudden move plainly disconcerted the watcher in the corridor. There was a clattering sound, and the flashlight fell on the floor right at Millwarde's feet, whilst the owner of it fled. Millwarde reached the door and tried to throw it open. As he had noticed when he had I closed it, the door was stiff, and now by ill-fortune it stuck. The delay was a very brief one. Exerting all his strength he flung the door back, and stepped out into the corridor. It was empty.

The compartment as it chanced was the end one of the coach, and at the turn of the corridor was one of the connecting platforms and a door— closed. Opening it swiftly he looked down the corridor of the next coach. There was no one in it; but whilst he stood looking the door at the farther end opened and the conductor came into view. Here, thought Millwarde, was a heaven-sent chance to locate the inquisitive passenger who had fled on finding he was discovered. He advanced to meet the man. and asked abruptly:

"Meet anyone in the corridor as you came along, conductor?"

The official stared at him a little curiously, and then answered. "No. sir."

"Sure?"

"Quite sure, sir. Why do you ask?"

"Because there is someone who is displaying an unusual interest in his fellow travellers. A train thief possibly."

"Are you sure, sir?" asked the conductor a little incredulously. "I should say it was more likely someone who had made a mistake in his compartment."

"Well, he had a flashlight to help him to find it," said Millwarde with a short laugh, "and he left it behind him. when he ran. It's on the floor in my compartment now."

"Indeed, sir. That does sound odd. I never heard of anyone using a flashlight to move about in a train."

"Well, you've heard now," retorted Millwarde, and looking down the corridor at the closed doors asked sharply, "Many people in this coach?"

"A dozen or so, sir. All sleeping, I'll wager."

"But that man must be here, somewhere. You didn't meet him farther up the corridor, and―"

"By jingo!" the conductor interrupted.

What is it?" asked Millwarde sharply,! for it was clear that something had occurred to the man.

"Well, sir, I didn't meet anybody, but it's possible I might have done if I'd been a moment earlier or later in coming along the corridor. You see as I was coming down the other coach, the door in the corridor opened and shut again I rather, quickly. I thought nothing of it. You know what these doors are. Unless they're fastened back, if there's an open window or two in the corridor they'll slam themselves to and fro in the draught. But in this case in view of what you say―"

He broke off sharply as a banging sounded behind him, and as the man swung round, Millwarde was aware of an ice-cold gale blowing towards him.

"Good Lord," cried the conductor, there's a door burst open."

He ran down the corridor, and Millwarde, interested in that open door, followed him. He found the man at the end of the coach endeavouring to reach the door which had swung back and was held against the coach side by the wind of the train.

"Careful," he said as the man. leaned forward; and steadied him by holding on to him.

The conductor managed to reach the door, and when he had closed it, looked at Millwarde.

"A little odd, that, sir. I've been past that door a dozen times tonight, and I never noticed anything wrong with it."

Millwarde looked at the door and back to the man.

"It is possible that the man who closed that communication door when he saw you coming went that way. I fancy he would guess that I should be following him."

"Must have had a nerve!" said the conductor.

"Oh, as to that I've known a man to go half the length of an express train on the running board." He did not explain that the man was himself, but the conductor accepted the statement without question.

"I've known the like to happen more than once; usually with drunken Tommies or larky bluejackets, I guess if the man got out here, he slipped in again farther up the train. I'd better trot back that way. He may have left the other door open too."

"I'll come with you," said Millwarde. The possibility of an open door did not interest him; but the compartment which they passed did; and where the blinds were not down he stared in at the windows of each as he passed, looking for a tall man in a light tweed overcoat. He saw none, and indeed scarcely expected to; for the man who had been interested in himself, and had taken the risk of moving along the footboard of a running train, would by this time be simulating sleep with all blinds down, and possibly wearing another coat than the one in which he had made the venture.

They found no other door open, and presently returned down the train to Millwarde's compartment, where they found the flashlight lying on the floor.

"There you are," laughed Millwarde. "Proof at any rate that I was not dreaming."

The conductor picked it up and examined it.

"A natty thing," he remarked. "Silver mount and a good bull's-eye."

"Take it with you," laughed Millwarde. "and look for a tall man with a loose tweed overcoat of a light shade. If you find him, bring me word."

The conductor laughed. "I will, sir, but there are several tall men on the train tonight, and you're one of them, so that isn't much help. And also tweed overcoats are popular wear with gentlemen going north as you'll know."

"Yes," Millwarde agreed. "But find him if you can. If you were to demand to see tickets just now, you might spot the man. He'll probably pretend to be so sound asleep that you'll have hard work to wake him."

"No criterion, sir. You could roll some men on the floor and they'd still slumber genuinely."

"Lucky beggars!" laughed Millwarde, knowing the man was right. "Anyway I'm going to try to emulate them; but you might keep your eyes on this section of the train in case the fellow has another try."

"I will, sir, I will."

"Good, I'll see you when we get to York."

He shaded the lamp, closed the door, and settled himself in the corner ns if for sleep. Though he had asked the conductor to be on the alert he had no expectation of further interference for that night. The man with the flashlight had either accomplished his purpose or he had failed beyond hope of immediately redeeming his failure. If he had desired merely to identify him, then in all likelihood he had done so, while if he had contemplated some overt action he would know that it was out of the realm of possibility for the time being.

But who was the man? Not the swarthy faced Gaston who had threatened him with a knife in Shuyler's chambers, he was not sufficiently tall. But there was the other man— the death's-head fellow with parchment skin and snaky eyes. He filled the bill for height; and it was possible that he might be the man who had stood in the corridor, flashing the light in order to assure himself that he was the man he sought. If that were so, he reflected, a walk down the train in daylight would reveal the fact; for that cadaverous face, with the glittering deep-socketed eyes, would be unmistakable.

Assured of that, and confident that whatever the unknown's purpose had been it would not again be attempted, he composed himself for sleep, and presently passed into quiet slumber from which he did not awake until full daybreak. Then he stirred himself, and letting up the blinds, looked out on the changing landscape. The train as he guessed was not far from York; and if he were to make an inspection of his fellow passengers it was high time he began.

Lighting a cigarette, he left his compartment and began to stroll along the corridor, moving in the direction of the engine— the direction taken by the fleeing watcher of the night. Most of the passengers were awake, with the blinds of their compartments raised; but though he looked closely at all as he passed, he saw no one whom he recognised. Particularly did he give his attention to the tall men of whom the conductor had spoken, but found nothing to help him. The most of them were very obvious. Two were plainly farmers of the better class, another was as obviously a soldier in mufti, and one or two others he passed over at the first glance.

One only arrested his attention and that for only a brief while— a very spare, elderly man, wearing a dark ulster of a rather clerical cut. He had a grey beard and moustache, heavy grey eyebrows with bristly hairs that gave him a quite ferocious appearance, which, however, was detracted from by the mildness of his countenance, Which, above the beard, about the cheek-bones, had a pink flush that often accompanies tuberculous lungs. In addition he wore rather heavy glasses, and had a nervous affection of one eyelid, which apparently he was unable to control, and which fluttered up and down in a continued wink. There were two or three books on the seat near by him, and the title of one Millwarde was able to read; The Biological Basis of Human Nature, By H. S. Jennings.

He looked at the journal in which the man seemed absorbed, The Harvard Theological Review.

At that he passed on. Some dry-as-dust theological professor, he thought, and the last man to stand outside another man's compartment with a flashlight in his hand and an evil purpose in his heart. When he reached the engine end of the train, he reversed to proceed to the other end. As he passed the compartment in which was the student of theology, he found occasion for a smile, for the review was on the floor, and apparently Harvard had proved too much of a good thing, since the reader's bearded chin was on his chest, and his eyes were closed.

The search of the other half of the train proved quite fruitless. Nowhere did he Bee anyone remotely resembling the men associated with the slayer of Schuyler; nor anyone with a coat like the one worn by the watcher in the corridor. Neither was there anyone whom he could suspect of being interested in himself.

But there was someone, of that he was certain. Unless the watcher had left the train some time in the night, there was one who with evil intention had spied on him while he slept, and who fearing discovery had daringly slipped out to the footboard in order to avoid it. He had then to beware of a new enemy, one with whom he was unacquainted and who, helped by his anonymity, might strike without warning.

When the train ran into York, he found that he had an hour to wait before being able to proceed to his destination, and went to the restaurant to obtain breakfast. While he was waiting to be served he looked round the spacious room, where at least a score of other people were eating or, like himself, waiting to be served. Among all there was no one who held any interest for him, though he recognised several of them as having been his fellow travellers. Assured of that, he began to read a paper he had purchased, and when the waiter appeared with his breakfast gave himself to it whole-heartedly, glancing at the news as he ate.

His chair was sideways to the entrance to the restaurant, and when he was perhaps half-way through his meal a noise caused him to look in that direction. As he did so he smiled a little. The student of theology had just entered, carrying a suitcase in one hand, while his left arm was folded round what looked like a whole library with the books clutched precariously against his chest, he shuffled weakly up the room, peering through his heavy glasses like a very short-sighted man. One or two people in Millwarde's neighbourhood watched the scholar's progress with some amusement, and Millwarde, looking at the hooks, made a wager with himself that there would be trouble before the owner of them reached his seat, unless he were very quick.

He won his wager, for as the student drew almost level with himself, some unevenness caught his feet, and the books fell to the floor with a crash, scattering themselves in an amazing way, while a number of papers, notes apparently, added to the medley. One or two ill-mannered people laughed, a waiter hurrying with a tray grinned as he did a cakewalk among the fallen books, the owner of which stood peering down at them with an expression of comical dismay. Then he set down the suitcase, and rather painfully, as it seemed, stooped and started to retrieve his scattered possessions. Picking up the largest book, "The Biological Basis," as Millwarde noted, he looked round, mumbled something and set it on Millwarde's table. Then he stooped for the next book. It was too much for Millwarde.

"Sit down," he said. "I'll gather your goods."

The student thanked him in the same mumbling voice with something of a trans-Atlantic accent, dropped into a second chair at the table, while Millwarde quickly gathered up the books and papers, thrusting the latter into one of the books. The owner of them mumbled again, thanks as Millwarde supposed, and gathering up the books again in the same precarious clutch, picked up his suitcase and shuffled off to a solitary table near one of the windows.

Millwarde smiled, and resumed his meal; and at the end, drinking up his coffee, lit a cigarette, and gave himself to the newspapers. After a little time his head jerked up suddenly and he stared across the restaurant, then he took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes as if they troubled him. He looked at the paper again, and as he did so found the words before him running into each other, making a blurred and continuous line. His table also seemed to be growing a little unsteady, heaving up and down in a curious fashion.

These phenomena did not worry him overmuch at first. He had experienced similar things after a tossing at sea, or a very long journey in a motor-car. and he supposed that it was the kick of the long night journey in the train manifesting itself. But after a couple of minutes he knew that his explanation was not a sufficient one. His eyes were growing worse, the table—the whole room— behaving in a most fantastic way, reeling in a drunken dance in which he himself was being swept willy-nilly.

He made a supreme effort of will and staggered to his feet, clutching the back of his chair to steady himself. For one brief second his vision cleared, and in that second he saw a man enter the restaurant— a hard-featured man whom he had seen twice before. As he made the recognition the momentary clearness passed, the room became a mere whirling blurt before his eyes, a wave of nausea swept him; and even as he guessed the truth, his hold on the chair grew weak, the blackness of night descended on his consciousness, and. he pitched to the floor with a crash, knocking the table and crockery over as he fell.

A couple of waiters hurried to him, two or three men at neighbouring tables joined them, and the old scholar, unburdened by his hooks, shuffled across the room at a rate that no one who had seen his entry would have thought possible.

"Dear! dear!" he said as one of the waiters lifted Millwarde's bead. "A little brandy, perhaps "

"No!" said a harsh voice. "Do you vant to kill der man? I am a physician. Der is a look of cerebral haemorrhage, and in dat case der stimulant vill be fatal."

Without asking anyone's permission, the speaker, the hard-faced man, took charge. He unfastened Millwarde's collar and tie, loosed his shirt, and felt his heart. Then he shook his head.

"Feeble?" he said. "Feeble!" He turned sharply to one of the waiters. "Der is a hospital perhaps?... Yes! Den I haf a car outside, and I vill der poor man take dere. If you vill der help to carry him."

The waiter hurried to obey, whilst unnoticed in the hubbub the theological student went back to his table, picked up his suitcase, and, deserting his library, left the restaurant and went to the front of the station. He was still there and watching alertly, when a couple of waiters, accompanied by the hard-faced man, carried out the unconscious Millwarde, and set him in a big Bentley saloon which was waiting there.

"The poor man―" he began, addressing the hard-featured one, who checked him with a gesture.

"Do not get in der way, my goot man."

"No—o "

"Down der street to der next corner is der way, is it not?" asked the Samaritan of the scholar who might or might not know.

"Certainly," replied that individual.

"The next corner."

And with laughter in the eyes behind the heavy glasses the student of theology watched the other enter the Bentley and drive away with the unconscious Millwarde. The little crowd of spectators melted, but the student remained staring into vacancy. Then, when he was quite alone, he laughed and murmured:

"So much for Mr. Millwarde! Now I will go to the next corner."

And carrying his suitcase, he marched alertly away, whistling a cheerful air.

8

Under The Eaves

FROM the darkness into which he had crashed so unexpectedly, Hugh Millwarde awoke to an external darkness almost as profound. At first he scarcely realised that the opaqueness in which he found himself was any way different from that of unconsciousness in which he had lain much longer than he was aware. His mind moved only sluggishly. Vague, half-formed, and unfinished thoughts crept heavily through his brain, on which there was a weight of somnolence that for a long time he could not shake off. He stared into the void of darkness, wondering in a dim way where he was, but did not at first remember what had befallen him. He was, indeed, very like a man who had suffered sonic lesion of Die brain; whose memory, refusing to function, had cut him adrift from his past, and left him without chart for what lay ahead.

But slowly the somnolence lifted itself. Little by little his brain began to function, and finally he became aware that he was lying oil a wooden floor, that his hands were bound, and that his feet were not free. When he tried to move the last there was a slight clanking sound as of a light chain dragging along the wood, and that sound was like an alarm bell to his mind. The black lethargy lying so heavily on his brain was shaken as a dense fog by some sudden wind. It broke and parted, then vanished altogether leaving his mind alert, and memory functioning with almost appalling vividness.

He remembered that he had been in the station' restaurant; that he had in mere decency helped that apparently guileless old scholar by gathering his books and scattered papers; and that for the time that he had been so engaged the man had been seated at his table. Swiftly he marshalled the facts. "The coffee, of course," he reflected, "with that old reprobate to add the drug!"

But who was the man? One of the Fritz Hermann crowd for a certainty—and for a guess, the lanky death's-head man who had been with Gaston at Shuyler's chambers. If this conjecture were the right one, the fellow was a superb actor, his disguise had been perfect, and he had not only looked but had played to the life the character he had assumed. But how had the fellow chanced to be on the train so disguised? As he asked himself the question he divined the answer. The scoundrel's presence in the train which he himself was travelling by was the merest coincidence. He had been going north so disguised for some purpose of his own— for a shot— to meet M. Futrelle, and, seeing Millwarde, had either jumped to the conclusion that he was being shadowed or had decided to use the opportunity afforded by a conjunction that was entirely accidental.,

But Fritz Hermann? He had seen him in that moment of clarity before he crashed into the darkness. He was quite sure of that. Staring into the darkness, he visioned the door of the restaurant with the German entering. How had he chanced to be there so apropos? Again the answer was forthcoming— the trio of the boathouse had left London, by different routes, and Fritz Hermann had been at the station to meet the man with the cadaverous face. No doubt as the train ran in the station he had received some warning signal which had moved him to scatter from the arrival platform, and after he himself had gone into the restaurant, in the interval before the spurious old scholar's entrance, the pair had met and concocted the precious trap into which he had fallen.

''Quick workers!" he gave the grudging tribute, and then his mind turned to other questions.

Where was he? Conjecture helped him again. M. Futrelle— the Grey Rat— was in the Riding, at no great distance from York, and no doubt the pair, and possibly Gaston also, had been on the way to join him at Norseby House. It was a fair presumption that they had brought him along with them; and that lying in the darkness there he was in the close neighbourhood of the man whom he had set out to find— and of Clotilde du Chastaigny. In any case, he was where the precious crowd meant him to be, and that was far from a consoling thought.

How had they brought him to this black hole where he lay? He wasted little time over that problem, since it was of no real moment, the fait accompli being unalterable. There was, moreover, a third question that loomed portentous—what was to happen to him?

That was certainly a disturbing question. He did not doubt that he was in a position of grave peril. The man who had shot Shuyler so ruthlessly was not in the least likely to hesitate over a second killing. As he considered the situation, he found himself wondering why the German had not already proceeded to extremes; but derived little consolation from the fact. For years, in the tasks in which he had engaged, he had necessarily moved on the edge of danger, taking his risks as they came in the day's work; but never had he been in greater peril than he was at that moment— and he was quite helpless! Fritz and company could do with him just what was pleasing to them.

He recognised that, then deliberately turned away from the gloomy thought. Refusing to let It distract him, he gave himself to a consideration of his immediate surroundings, listening intently for any sound that would help him. He heard nothing. The silence was intense, and combined with the utter darkness was rather appalling. Had he been carried to this place of darkness, remote perhaps from any dwelling, to be left there to perish miserably?

The question shook him a little. Most men, even the bravest, have a spot on their courage. A man who will stand up to high explosives will wilt at poison gas, and another wearing the cross of valour will quail at the risk of smallpox contagion. Millwarde, in hot corners, had a cold-drawn courage which had proved itself many times, but the thought of death by starvation set little pulses of fear beating in his heart. He had been on the Volga in the days of the great famine, and knew the slow-drawn agony of such a death.

He checked the impulsive fear before it could become panic, and he caught a faint, drumming sound over his head. Rain on the roof! He was, then, in topmost story of some building, close under the rafters, and in that case it must be night, for in the daytime light would find its way through a hundred small chinks in any roof. That meant that he had lain in this dark prison under the influence of whatever drug he had swallowed for the better part of a day—perhaps longer; he could not tell.

The patter of the rain grew heavier. From some weak spot in the roof there came a drip which, falling straight between his eyes, startled him unutterably; an he had scarcely recovered the shock of that unexpected happening when he caught a sound which made him strain his ear for more. In the room, below him there was someone moving. Other sounds presently reached him, one of cautious step of someone treading for an unfamiliar way. There followed a stab of light which seemed to come straight up from the floor, and outlined clearly a section of dark rafters above his head. He guessed there must be a trapdoor with a ladder leading up to the garret, and, assured that he was to have a visitor he half-closed his eyes, and assuming the attitude of a sleeping or unconscious man waited with his head turned slightly towards the opening through which the light streamed. The uncertain steps ceased, and he had time to see a hand grasp the edge of the trap when the light disappeared and was followed by a clattering sound, an a half-suppressed exclamation from the owner of the hand.

Then followed a period of silence, broken only by the sound of a gasping breath. He conjectured that the person on the ladder had let fall the flashlight and was waiting to see if the clatter it had made had attracted attention. That meant that his visitor was anxious to avoid notice and his heart leaped at the thought, it was probably a friend.

With straining ears he continued to listen. Quite a long time passed before any new sound came to him, then one more there was a little noise of movement, and he supposed that whoever the person was, he was descending the ladder —doubtless to recover the flashlight. Some of faint movements below reached him then again a whispered ejaculation. What it meant he did not know: but when one more there was a noise of shuffling steps and of feet upon the ladder, with the darkness unbroken, he conjectured that probably the flashlight had been damaged by the fall, and was no longer of any use.

The stops ceased, but were followed a little rustling which puzzled him until he found the interpretation—the ladder was a vertical one. and the climber, uncertain of his position in the darkness was cautiously lifting himself over the edge of the trap to the floor. Again there was a brief period of silence: then a coup of light steps, and the sound of frou-frou of a feminine skirt.

At that sound he came near to crying out in his surprise, and a second later he was anticipating amazing things. There were two women who might be aware of his situation and interested in his fate: Katusha Pavlovna and Clotilde du Chastaigny! Which? Out of the darkness can a whispering voice which settled the question before his conjecture was completed.

"Mr. Millwarde!"

Clotilde! A surge of excitement, shook his voice as he answered back in a whisper that had a joyous lilt:

"Mademoiselle— it is you?"

"Who else, Mr. Millwarde?"

He heard her light stops move cautiously and uncertainly across the floor. Once they seemed to be going away from him, and he whispered: "This way, mademoiselle."

The steps turned anew in his direction, approached, and then a booted toe touched his ribs.

"Steady, mademoiselle," he laughingly whispered. "You have arrived."

The girl slipped to her knees at his side, then almost in his ear, so close that he felt her breath, she asked:

"Your hands are bound?"

"And feet chained."

"Chained!" came the whisper, with a note of chagrin. "I never thought of that. I brought food— and a knife—"

"You came to release me?" he asked exultantly.

"To free your hands and to receive your parole."

"My parole?" he asked, in a puzzled voice.

"Not to loose your feet or to leave the loft for an hour."

"But why?"

"That I cannot.... must not tell you."

A suspicion occurred to him, which he voiced quickly, without giving himself time for consideration.

"Those men who brought mo here― they sent you to obtain this promise?"

"No! They meant to... to―"

He felt her shudder, and divined the rest, helped by the fear that he had already known.

"They meant to leave me here?" he asked sharply. "To die of starvation."

"Oh!" There was a sob. then a whispered "I... I do not know— anything, but that they meant to leave you."

The inference he drew from the words thrust the personal aspect aside.

"Ah!" he said. "So they are for the wing again. Where are they going?"

"Mr. Millwarde!"

There was a protest in the voice, which he understood perfectly.

"You think I ought not to ask that— of you? Perhaps you are right, but I think you cannot know certain things. One of those two men who brought me to this place is the man who shot Lincoln Shuyler."

There was no reply from the girl, but he caught a sound that was very like a sob, and not for a moment did he think that he had given her news that she was unaware of. After a little pause he continued.

"Two nights ago he would have killed me but for a fortunate chance. I am convinced of that; also I am very sure that there is some tremendous villainy purposed which he is afraid that I may thwart. What it is I do not yet know―" His whisper broke off; then he asked sharply: "You, perhaps, can tell me, Mademoiselle?"

"No, No! I do not know anything except that one I love is in great danger."

"One you love!" For a second Millwarde was aghast, then he jumped to the explanation. "Your father—Paul du Chastaigny?"

The sound of a little gasp came through the darkness—then a wondering whisper,

"How— how do you know about my father?"

"I have seen his name," he answered without vouchsafing particulars, "and naturally I associated him with you. The name is not common."

He waited, hoping that she might explain, but she remained silent, and after a moment or two he spoke again, urgingly:

"Mademoiselle, if you would trust me it is possible that I might help your father and save him from the peril that threatens him. He is— do I guess aright?— afraid of those men who brought me here?"

"Of— of what they may do," she owned brokenly. "But Oh! I cannot tell you!"

"And of your uncle, perhaps?"

"He is with them. Those men are his friends."

Millwarde's mind groped blindly among the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle that were already in his possession, and by a sudden inspiration was enabled to fit two of them together.

"And these men and M. Futrelle are compelling your father to do something from which he is averse?"

He heard the girl start and knew that his intuition was correct, though her answer was little help.

"I cannot tell you anything— for my father's sake. And I must go! You will give me the parole I ask?"

"To do nothing for two hours? Since I must―"

"Do not be harsh on me, Mr. Millwarde. I have no choice."

"No, I can understand that, mademoiselle, and it was ungracious of me to speak so. I give you my promise willingly and with gratitude."

"Then―'

He heard her move, and guessing that she proposed to release his hands turned over and lay face downwards' on the floor. A moment later he felt her hand groping for the rope. It touched his own, and he thrilled a little, then came her whisper.

"You will keep very still—lest I should cut you―"

"Still as a mouse, mademoiselle," he whispered, with a soft laugh.

"But you are no mouse! No! Or these men would not be afraid of you."

There was an almost proud note in her voice. It gave Millwarde a better conceit of himself. His heart warmed to her, and he was almost impelled to say so; but restraining himself remained silent and still until he felt the rope that bound his wrists fall away.

"There, Mr. Millwarde—and not a cut."

"Not a scratch," he said cheerfully. Then turned over, and as he sat up gave a sharp exclamation.

"What―" .

"My hands are dead as stones. That rope was tight."

"Wait! I will massage them."

He felt her groping hands, and a moment later they had one of his between them, and were gently rubbing it.

"A little more vigour, perhaps, will be better, mademoiselle. Do not be afraid of hurting me."

The delicate hands massaged more energetically, and after a little time he felt the painful pricks and stabs of returning circulation.

"Good!" he said. "The other now, if you have time."

The other hand was massaged until it also grew painful, and then he himself rubbed one on the other, with a rough vigour beyond anything she could have achieved.. He was still so engaged when she spoke again.

"There is the basket by your side with sandwiches and wine. The cork is drawn, but I am afraid I forgot the glass."

"No matter!" he laughed quietly. "A bottle fits the mouth if it is pursed."

"Now I must go."

"One moment, mademoiselle. Unless it is among the things forbidden to ask, you might tell me the hour."

"It is 4 o'clock in the morning or thereabouts."

So, he thought to himself, he had lain there for something like 20 hours, reckoning the time consumed in the journey from York. Then as he heard her move preparatory to departure, he spoke again swiftly,

"Mademoiselle, you are going? If you will give me your hand "

He caught the rustle of silk and knew the hand he desired was thrust out to him. He found it in the darkness, and lowered his lips to it.

"I cannot thank you now―"

"There can be no other time," broke in the girl with a sob. "We shall not meet again."

"Oh, but we shall," he said quickly, and with confidence. "There are some things that are fated. You leave me here; but somewhere in the world I shall find you―"

"No!" she whispered, and there was a hint of emotion in her voice, an emotion that for the moment made her incautious. "When my father is delivered from "

She broke off. Millwarde marked the half admission, but waited in silence, and after a brief time without completing the broken sentence the girl resumed. "I shall be where no man can find me."

For a moment he had an appalling thought, and whispered sharply, "Mademoiselle. you are telling me―"

"That I shall go to a nunnery. There, I have heard, one may find peace, and at least there will be time to pray for my father."

The girl spoke simply, with a finality that alarmed him, since it voiced a decision that might be inflexible, and to him the purpose she voiced was almost as appalling as the thought he had first entertained.

He was moved out of all reserve.

"Mademoiselle," he whispered hoarsely. "You must not. That is no way for you— to spend your days among the dead in life. There are other ways of peace―"

"What ways?" .

"How shall I tell you?" he said. "How make you believe me?"

"I am not of an incredulous heart, Mr. Millwarde."

"No. thank God! And already you know what I would tell you. Three nights ago — or is it two?— what matter? time is nothing!— we two met at Dartington House, met as strangers. You were troubled then, why I do not know; but I read it in your eyes. You did not see me. You blundered into― No, fate thrust you almost into my arms. Then with scarcely a word between us— a conventional apology, no more, we looked at each other, and— am I an egotistic fool?— you understood, as I understood. Tell me, am I wrong."

The only answer was a sob. He felt the hand in his shaking and he knew that he was not wrong.

"You do not answer. But I have more to say. From you I went to Lady Molly. It is an old jest between us that she is a meddling matchmaker, determined to turn me into a benedict. She reproached me for being late, and then once more drew her chestnut from the fire. There was a girl she began, and I laughed. I knew, I told her and wagered to lead her to the girl she spoke of. I brought her to you to introduce us. She asked me how I knew. And I asked her how Bill Dartington knew when she eloped with him from Newnham. You may not know that story—"

"But I do," whispered the girl. "I heard it that very night. It was a quick mating with a great passion to light the way."

"Yes," Millwarde laughed boyishly.

"They met at a common ball, went up the river in a canoe in the dawn, and an hour later were on their way to Scotland where both had a domicile. That same night they were married by declaration before witnesses, and are still true lovers... Well, to go back, I told her that and left it there: but, mademoiselle, you understand. I know you do; and for you the way of peace is not through nunnery gates."

"Ah, but there are things that you do not comprehend— things that I can never tell you―"

"Things that I shall never ask you rather," he interrupted quickly.... "But there is one thing I ask?"

"Perhaps... if... if you tell me came the sobbing whisper.

"A small thing to what I desire. It is that you will not do this thing until you and I have met again."

There followed a silence in which he could hear his heart beating, then Mademoiselle Clotilde whispered brokenly:

"You... think that... that we shall m-meet again?"

"Think! No; I know. It is written in the stars that we shall."

"Then... I will wait."

"God be thanked!" he whispered fervently, and for the second time he set his lips to the hand he held.

"And now it is time I should go," said Clotilde. "But for two hours―"

"I will count the seconds," laughed Millwarde, and then checked sharply as from somewhere in the depths of the house below came a sound of voices.

"Oh," whispered Clotilde, and snatched her hand away.

Millwarde heard her feet moving uncertainly and remembered the trap-door. It was dangerous in the dark, and hurriedly he fumbled in his pockets for his matchbox. It was there, he found it, and by the aid of the match that he held to light her way Clotilde found her way to the opening; and the last he saw of her before the match went out was the blue-grey eyes abrim with tears.

He listened anxiously, heard her feet touch the floor below, caught faint sounds of receding steps, and then followed a silence like that of the dead. Pulling out his watch he looked at it. It had a radiolite dial, visible in the darkness, and he saw that it had stopped at twenty minutes to twelve. He wound it up, set the fingers at quarter-past 4 o'clock, and then schooled himself to wait through the longest two hours of his life. Meanwhile he listened.

There was no aspect of the situation that had not occurred to Clotilde. The iron jawed Fritz or one of the others might take it into his head to pay him a visit. In that case he must feign the drugged sleep that he had awakened from, and lie with his free hand under him. And there was the basket that Clotilde had brought, if that were observed― Striking another match, he found the basket, and crawling as far as the chain allowed, thrust it out of sight where the slope of the roof met the walls of the house. Then he crept back to his original place, and there sat waiting, his ears alert for any sound.

After, a little time, he heard sounds in abundance. Voices rendered hollow by distance, occasional footsteps; one or twice the banging of a door, and-again a tramping of feet that seemed to come from outside. But no one came to his garret, for which he was fervently thankful. Apparently Frits and company were content to know that he was safe under the eaves, and were too busy or lacked the desire to visit him; or, assured that he was out of harm's way, were cold-bloodedly indifferent.

There was a change in the quality of the darkness, which crew less opaque. Over his head he could discern dimly the outlines of the tiles and at the angle of the roof and the walls were faint lines of light telling him that day was breaking. Somewhere in the house a clock chimed sonorously, and though he knew what the hour must be he counted the strokes.

"One! two! three! four! five!"

Scarcely had the clock ceased to strike, when again he heard voices outside, he thought, and then the mingled purr and splutter of an automobile engine at its first starting. The purr became steady, almost like the drone of a bee; a gear was noisily and badly changed, and there followed the noise of wheels on gravel. The wheels came to a standstill, but the purr of the engine continued; plainly audible in the extreme quiet of the dawn. There was a sudden clamour of birds, gulls, as he guessed, foraging over the land; then again voices; the crash of a door heavily closed; a rhythmic quickening in the engine's purr, and the sound of receding wheels, which quickly died away. Then, nut the plaintive screaming of the sea birds, silence! The men who had brought him to this house had left him in possession, assured that he would perish miserably, and in the loneliness; and lie there under the roof until the heat and the draughts had turned him into an unrecognisable mummy. He laughed at the ghastly thought, consulted his watch anew, and laughed again.

"Fifty minutes to zero hour!

He clanked the chain which was about his feet, and found the sound almost a gay one. Then he remembered the basket hidden in the angle of roof and wall, and retrieved it. The light which now percolated between the tiles and under the eaves was sufficient to show the contents. There was fruit as well as sandwiches, and a bottle of Rudesheimer, with the cork loosened. He twisted out the cork, carefully stood upright, with his head almost touching the rafters, then before he lifted the long bottle to his month, whispered softly: .

"Clotilde!"

9

The Surprised Ploughman.

WHEN he had breakfasted, he examined the chain, in preparation for the moment when he should attempt to free himself. It was of rusted steel, with links which, though light, looked strong. The chain was attached to anklets which were not unlike wide bracelets, and the farther end was padlocked round one of the rafters near the angle of the wall. That first examination was not reassuring. Plainly the chain and anklets, light as they were, had been forged for strength and designed for the purpose for which they were now being used— to hold a man safely. No doubt at all; he thought, as he examined them, that they had been used before by those precious scoundrels, now speeding away through the dawn, and— sobering thought— apparently they had never been broken.

He gave his attention to the rafter. It was oak, rather heavy for its work, like the rafters of most seventeenth century buildings, but sound as a bell and immensely strong. Considering the chain and the anklets and the beam, he had a new conception of the task before him, and decided that there really was no occasion for Clotilde's insistence on his two hours' parole. The chain and the beam would ensure that he did not break free within her limit of time.

He waited impatiently for the time to pass, consulting his watch often. The minutes went slower than ever had the minutes he had known before zero-hour on the day of attack, each one crawling more slowly than a slug on cinders. The last time he consulted the watch there remained a minute and a half; and thrusting it in his pocket he waited for the clock in the house to strike. It sounded at last, its chime mingling with the cawing of flighting rooks outside; and on the second stroke, following a plan he had thought as he lay on his hack, he set his feet against the wall, and taking the slack of the chain in, both hands jerked smartly in a forlorn hope that some link might snap. Nothing happened. Again and again he tried; till his hands were blistered and the sweat poured from him, but the chain had been forged by a master chain-smith; and no link in all its length was a weak one. Breathless, the blisters on his hand broken and seeping, his wrists, elbows, and shoulders aching intolerably from the jerky strain they had endured, he desisted at last, and lay still to recover for a fresh effort.

He rested for a full ten minutes, then rising to his feet he began to grind the double chain under his heel, changing at times to a fierce stamping, hoping that some link might fracture. The result was nil; the effort merely driving the chain into the floor-hoards without in the least affecting the links. He tried the anklets, like steel bracelets two inches broad and a quarter of an inch thick. First he endeavoured to snap one of them, lying on his back and bringing his legs heavily against a projecting piece of stonework, which he imagined was part of a chimney. In the end he bruised his shins badly without achieving his purpose, and afraid lest he should snap a bone he was forced to desist.

Then, conscious of a little panicky feeling at the failure of all his efforts, once more he lay on the floor resting and breathing himself, and while he did so was amazed to hear the clock of the house chime the hour of eight. He had, it seemed, been too engrossed in his efforts to hear the intervening chime, and it appalled him to think that he had laboured for two whole hours— with no result beyond his bruised shins, his lacerated hands, and aching joints.

The panic feeling surged again, but ho fought it down and, lighting a cigarette, he began to review the situation afresh, While he did so his eyes fell on the padlock which held the chain round the beam, mid with a new hope he rose to his knees and examined it carefully. It was of steel, self-locking and probably as efficient in its own way as the chain. He carried a small penknife, double-bladed, and with this he tried to pick the lock, but merely snapped both blades. That, however, left him undaunted. In the manacle that held him that lock, he was convinced, was the weakest link; and it might be possible to smash it with a well-aimed kick. As well as he could he put it in position against the rafter and made his new effort. To kick with both feet at once as he was compelled to was not easy, and lying on his back he could put no great force into his kicks; but, assured by this that the lock was his one hope, he tried several times, and at the seventh kick achieved something quite out of his reckoning; for, missing his aim, the toes of both feet caught one of the lower tiles, shivering it, and letting a little flood of daylight in.

In the same moment there reached him the sound of a voice shouting with a rustic accent.

"Dobbin. Woa-a-a, Smiler!"

His heart leaped at the sound. There was a man with horses not far away, a fieldman, as he guessed, at the plough or the harrow. What a fool he had been not to consider such a possibility before! It had been but one chance in a hundred, to be sure, but here, unthought of though it was, was the hundredth chance fairly knocking at his door. He wasted no time, but began to kick again, aiming at the tiles. In a very short time he had shattered two more and suffered a nasty little cut on the jaw from a flying fragment, but that troubled him not at all, for there above his head was the open sky, with the bird cries ringing clear; and the homely brogue of the fieldman shouting to his sweating horses like heaven's own music in his ears. Without delay he crept to the opening he had made, roused himself, and with his head and shoulders lifted above the tiles looked forth.

Below him was a rather neglected kitchen garden bounded by a greystone wall. Far away stretching for miles were the great moors; but between the boundary wall and the first stretch of heather was another dry-built wall, enclosing four or five acres of rough ploughland; and across this, with his back to the house at the moment, lumbered a ploughman behind a team of unevenly matched horses.

Mill ward e watched the man with kindling eyes as he moved on towards the farther wall. It was no use trying to attract his attention until he turned: and now with salvation in sight he felt no impatience, but waited until the man should turn his team for the return journey.

"Woa-a!"

The long-drawn word sounded through the stillness, the ploughman shouted other directions and turned his team and plough about. Millwarde watched him thrust the share in for the new furrow; and with infinite patience waited until team and man were half-way across the field. Then he lifted up his voice.

"Ahoy! There— Ah-o-o-y!"

The ploughman for a moment continued on his way, bent over his plough handles, his mind concentrated in the effort to keep the furrow true. Millwarde thought he had not heard, and was preparing to shout again when the man checked his team and looked slowly round the boundary walls of the field.

Millwarde shouted a second time, cupping his hands about his mouth to make the sound travel; and again the man stared round the landscape, with the slow deliberation of the bucolic minded. The survey concluded, he took off his shapeless trilby, scratched his head, looked round once more, then resumed his hat, and turned anew to the plough handles. At that Millwarde put forth his best effort.

"Ahoy! Ahoy! Ahoy!" he roared, continuing and waring his arms until the man at last located him.

When that befell the result was almost comic. Stepping back in the furrow the man stared as at some sight that was beyond belief, one hand on his hip, the other shading his eyes against the sun. He stared, but he did not move, apparently hypnotised by the spectacle of a man head and shoulders lifted above the tiles where before he had been only chimneys.

Millwarde shouted to him again, bidding him come nearer, and after a little time the man began to stalk across the furrows slowly and heavily, halting when he was perhaps ten yards from the wall.

"Wot d'yo' want?" he shouted upwards.

Millwarde told him tersely and emphatically that he wanted him to break into the house some way and make his way to the garrets. The man listened, and apparently took in all that was said; but in the end still allowed curiosity to delay action.

"The folks'll all be gone away then?"

"Yes, this morning."

"An' left yo' locked in by mistake, I reckon."

"Yes, something like that. Hurry. Break in a window and come up here."

"Cawn't yo' come down an' break a way out i'stead o' me brcakin' a way in?" queried the man not unreasonably.

"No, I can't. I'm caught, held fast," answered Millwarde, refraining from startling the man with the whole truth.

"But who are yo'? I mun know yo'm no burglar or owt o' that sort afore I―"

"Oh, damn it, man!" broke out Millwarde in exasperation. "Hurry, and there's a pound note for you when you free me."

"A poound! By t'Mass, mon, why didn't yo' mention it afore? I'll be wi' yo' in a brace o shakes."

It was longer, much longer than that, indeed a whole twenty minutes before Millwarde heard the man's clumsy feet in the room below his prison, and again shouted to him to hurry.

"I'm coomin'," asserted the man, and began what seemed a painful ascent of the ladder.

When finally he stood on the same floor with Millwarde, a look of incredulous amazement came on his bucolic face. He stared at the anklets and chains as if he could not believe his eyes.

"By t'Mass!" he ejaculated. "By t'Mass! Yo're chained up like a dog."

"Yes, and I want you to set me free, and there'll be another pound for you."

"But I hevn't seen number one— not yet!" said the man slowly.

Millwarde swore under his breath, and produced his wallet.

"There's number one; and there's number two. Now. for heaven's sake, man, get moving. You'll want a hammer and a cold chisel if you can find them, and something to rest this chain on whilst you cut the links. There must he something that will serve about a house like this.... Use your judgment, but be quick."

"Ay," replied the man, "I'll he quick; an' I'll use my judgment!... But sakes alive! whoever did this quare thing to yo? You're noan a lunatic by the way yo' talked."

"No! But I shall be soon if you don't hurry. Quick! I've been here for hours, and explanations can wait."

"Ay! There's no hurry about them as I know of. Brass talks better nor words any day, an' yo've gettin' t'brass for sure." With maddening deliberation the fellow folded the notes, bestowed them with infinite care in a small pocket inside the waistband of his breeches, buttoned the pocket carefully, then touched his hat.

"I'm goin' now. I'll be back in five minutes or so."

It was the "or so" rather than the five minutes, and a long one at that, before he returned, but Millwarde was consoled for the long wait, when he saw that the man had both chisel and a heavy hammer, as well as a solid cogged wheel, which at some time had formed part of a turnip-cutter, and now was to serve for anvil. He gave the man precise instructions to cut the chains as near the anklets as he could, then seated himself on the floor, and directed operations. Within seven minutes he was free of everything except the anklets, which his trousers would conceal; and he stood up, lit a cigarette, and asked the man sharply:

"Where's the nearest place that I can hire a car?"

"Up to t'Bay, an' that's aw five miles."

"Um! How far is it to .'The Flask'?"

'Two miles across t'moor, an' now I come to think of it yo' might get a lift fro' theere if yo're wantin' one, measter."

"Good! Then I'll get downstairs and make ready for starting. Lead the way, will you?"

The man led the way with infinite deliberation, and, when they reached the hall, showed some disposition to be curious.

"'Tis a quare thing that you should hev been chained up there, measter, like a dog or a coo i' t'stall."

"Queerer than you can guess, my man," answered Millwarde, without any attempt to satisfy the other's quite natural curiosity. "Who is the owner of Norseby now?"

"Squire Harland's executors. 'T be for sale: but there's no customers; an' it's nobbut in t'shootin' season they can get a tenant for it— furnished."

"But it has been let lately?"

"Aye, these three months, to some come-by-chance foreign body, wi' a quare-sounding name."

"Futrelle?" suggested Millwarde.

The man shook his bead, and Millwarde tried again.

"Du Chastaigny?"

"By t'Mass! That's him! A wisht sort o' body, who passed the time o' day wi' none. Used to keep a biggish motor-boat down at t'Bay; an spent hawf his days playin' with sommat in t'water. Some said t'were a new-fangled way o' fishin', but Ted Storm, who saw t'thing once when he was out settin' crab pots, said 'twas a toy submarine."

"Is that so?"

Millwarde was more interested than his words indicated. M. du Chastaigny, he remembered, had once been associated with some device connected with torpedoes, and it seemed likely that he retained his interest in that destructive weapon. Apparently he had spent a good deal of time on the sea experimenting with some model of his own devising. His interest in Clotilde's father trebled at a bound.

"Have you seen him lately?" he asked quickly.

"Not for these three weeks or mebbe more. I heard t'boat had been sold, an' that the man had gone off to foreign parts where he belonged to."

Having given this information, the man suddenly remembered his team. "By t'Mass I mun be off or them hosses'll be up to some mischief."

From his position, through a window of the hall, Millwarde could just see the heads of the hosses. They appeared to be perfectly still, enjoying their spell of rest in the sunshine. But he did not say so to their owner, having his own reasons for wishing the man well away. With a forefinger to the brim of his battered trilby as his only farewell, the ploughman shambled off, moving more quickly than from his brief acquaintance with him Millwarde would have thought possible.

He himself remained where he was. He saw the fellow climb the wall of the field and drop down the other side. Even then he did not move, having no wish to he spied upon by a curious rustic. Not until the man's voice urging his team broke on the stillness did he leave the ball and proceed to investigate the precincts of Norseby House. He passed from room to room, opening a cupboard here, a drawer there, and spending some time near a flat-topped desk, where there were papers that might be informing. He found nothing of any account there; but in a room lying off the kitchen he came on what was plainly a workshop. There was a bench with vyces, a lathe, an array of tools, and some strips of aluminium, but nowhere any indication of the purpose for which the workshop had been used. But from the information given him by the ploughman Millwarde thought he knew that. Here M. du Chastaigny had been engaged in some task not unconnected with the model, which the crab-fisherman had taken for a toy submarine, hut which, in view of the man's past, was much more likely to be a model torpedo— an arm with which he had once won fame in naval circles.

Millwarde searched further.

In the kitchen grate he came on a lot of burned paper; but it had been beaten up and was a mere smother of ashes, with no white word to be read against its blackness. No other room held anything of interest for him, and presently he found himself in the hall again, but little wiser for the time he had spent in his search. He looked through the window. The ploughman was standing with his hands on the plough-handles, stationary, staring in the direction of the house, no doubt wondering in his slow bucolic way who he was, what he was doing there, and how he had come to be in the predicament from which he had been delivered. Presently, he thought, the man would go to his midday meal. He would talk most likely to the first person who came along, for rural folk were great gossips; and if his story chanced to reach the local constable there was more than a possibility that the officer might seek promotion by making an arrest. It was time to go before anything of that kind could befall, especially since Norseby House was a blank cover; so, waiting until the man's back was turned, he climbed through the window which the fellow had used, walked round the house, and, screened by a plantation of firs, made the high road unseen, and set off in the direction of the moorland inn, the name of which he had left with Radway and Armitage as his possible address.

The sun was shining. The air had a double tang— of the moor and the sea— and was refreshing and invigorating, bringing an uplift of spirit, so that as he walked he whistled a cheerful march. But presently the whistle died away and he grew absorbed in thought. His adventure at Norseby had helped the investigation of the mystery behind Shuyler's death little or nothing. In that he was precisely where he was before he had left King's Cross but for one thing— he had learned definitely that whatever part Paul du Chastaigny had in that mystery― he played it under compulsion. There was another not so definite, indeed too shadowy yet to fit into the puzzle, and that was the model on which apparently M. du Chastaigny had been engaged whilst living in seclusion at Norseby.

Did that come into the business? The man was an inventor of parts, with a name known to men in the naval schools. Had he designed something that might be of interest to all the maritime nations, and was the thing to be exploited by those rascals, the Grey Rat, B/X, and the others of whom, by Clotilde's admission, he was afraid? It seemed possible, but that carried him but a little way. If Shuyler had wind of any invention that might interest his department, his energies would have been directed to securing the plans, instead of which he had left behind him that list of names, and with his dying breath had gasped du Chastaigny's name, a date or a number— which was uncertain— and the half-word that he himself had guessed to be Grimaldi.

Were these things any way related to the model of which the ploughman had spoken? He could not see the connection as yet, but he discerned clearly that if they were, then behind was something far more important than the invention itself. What in high heaven's name could it be?

The question was beyond his competence to answer, and whilst he faced the baffling thing another query shot into his mind. Had Shuyler known of du Chastaigny's tenancy of Norseby House, or had he only been in touch with the mystery at Roquebrune, where he had last been reported? Again he found no answer to the question. One thing only was crystal clear, as it had been all along, and that was that, whether he had learned it in Yorkshire or at the fantastic little town above the Corniche road, the secret which had brought Shuyler hotfoot to London with death at his heels was something far out of the ordinary.

His mental activity took another turn. Why had M. Futrelle left London for Yorkshire? To be out of the way of inquiries in the matter of Shuyler's death? A possibility, he thought, but a thin one, since his identity with the Grey Rat was quite unsuspected at the moment. And the others? Their flight was better understandable. In view of his own activities, and the knowledge of their whereabouts, it had been necessary to cover their tracks. So they had burned the houseboat and winged it northwards, possibly to consult with Futrelle. And they were still on the wing! Where―

He halted and looked round the sunlit landscape. On one hand were the wide reaches of the moor; on the other the shining face of the sea, and it was on the latter his eyes rested. That way— beyond question, and for some point whence they could slip away almost unnoticed. From the Tyne to the Humber there were half a score of places whence hurrying men could make the ports across the North Sea. Given a privately chartered craft Antwerp, Rotterdam, Ostend, Zeebrugge were all within the scope of possibility; and from any of these ports the whole continent of Europe was open to them.

He resumed his way, walking quickly, eager to get the conveyance he needed, with plans already forming in his mind. In a little time, however, he was forced to slacken speed. The steel anklets began to chafe. Though of no great weight, with each step they moved; and the movement galled his ankle-bones. The farther he walked the more intolerable was the trouble and his feet, not yet recovered from the bruising they had suffered in the wood on the road to Marlow, became excessively painful. He began to limp badly;-and when he came to the next milestone he was forced to rest. Two miles down the undulating road he could see the inn which was his immediate destination; and was wondering if he could possibly make it, when a rumbling sound from the other direction made him turn his eyes that way. A heavy steam lorry with a trailer was coming down the road, belching smoke, and rattling along at a rate that for so heavy a vehicle was a contemptuous flouting of that slogan of all good drivers— safety first!

He viewed its coining with delight. The reckless speed moved his sympathy. He rose from the milestone and planted himself right in the middle of the road. The driver might run him down, but he should not pass him. When the lorry was yet twenty-five yards away, he lifted his hand. The driver did not slacken speed; instead he hooted and clanked along as if he meant to drive on until the crack of doom.

Millwarde stood his ground; knowing that even on a lonely road there were few men who would take the risk of running down a man who blocked their way. The lorry-driver pulled up, and addressed the obstruction angrily.

" 'Ere what the blazes are yo' playing at?"

"'Stopping trains," answered Millwarde,' with a laugh. "I want a lift."

The other for a moment was stricken dumb by the cool request, then his speech came back in a flood, roaring, and of lurid hue.

"Of all the blasted check―"

Millwarde let the flood run on. Taking out his wallet he extracted a £1 note and waved it like a flag. The effect was magical. The lurid speech checked instantly.

" 'Op up, sir! D——d if I didn't take yo' for a Weary-Willy."

Millwarde laughed at the compliment; and hopping up thrust the note into the fellow's hand.

"How far d'you want to go?" demanded the driver as he folded the note.

"As far as you in the Scarborough direction."

"That's to Cloughton," answered the man, "with calls at 'The Flask' and 'The Falcon.'"

Millwarde saw that he was favoured to ride with the product of a local brewery, and laughed again.

"I shall drink ale at both. Cloughton will do for me. I can get some sort of car there."

"Right you are."

The man restarted his engine, and with Millwarde ensconced in the farther corner against the driver's mate, they rumbled and rattled down the road, gathering speed as they went. It was better than walking for a footsore man; but the ride was not an unmixed joy. Millwarde was shaken, bobbed up and down, thrown now against the side of the cab and then against the driver's mate, in a fashion beyond all his experience. Once his head banged sharply against the wood behind him; and the driver, aware of the mishap, laughed sympathetically— "A bit shaky, hey?"

"Shaky! This contraption is a travelling earthquake!"

"Do your liver good!" answered the man cheerfully. "Better than horse-ridin' any day!"

They drew near the inn, outside which stood a saloon car with the legend "Hackney Carriage" on an iron fan near the back number plate. Millwarde looked at it covetously, wondering if it were disengaged; or alternatively if the driver of it could be bribed. Then as they pulled up he glimpsed a man at the window, who disappeared instantly, but two seconds later reappeared at the door— "Tony Armitage!"

"Hughie, you old sinner! Where have you sprung from?"

"Norseby House," answered Millwarde, and as he prepared to follow the driver's mate into the road thrust both feet forward and gave a knee hitch to his trousers, dig playing the steel anklets.

"My sacred aunt!" ejaculated Armitage, jumping to the truth. "Like that, is it?"

"Just like that! Where's Radway?"

"Paris! By air liner, with that charming Katusha! Come inside and I'll explain."

"Taxi yours?" inquired Millwarde.

"Just paid off. Driver's having a viver."

"Keep him there," said Millwarde tersely, and followed the other limpingly into the inn.

10

At Roquebrune

"WELL?" asked Tony Armitage expectantly. '

"First, these gyves," answered Millwarde. "They're beastly uncomfortable. I expect the landlord has a tool-chest of sorts. The things are iron, thank heaven, though the chain was steel. A file and a hacksaw will do the trick."

The landlord had the tools required and in twenty minutes Millwarde was free of the troublesome anklets; and over a tankard of beer gave Armitage an account of his adventures. His friend listened without interruption until the end, then he remarked cheerfully;

"A lively little jaunt you've had, Hugh. Might have been worse though. I can't think why Fritz didn't pot you out of hand while he had the chance."

"There was Futrelle! So far as he knows he is not suspected of any association with the Shuyler business except through his stolen or borrowed Bentley. Possibly he intervened."

"Yes," agreed Armitage. "Or the girl! What matters is that you're here." He was silent for a moment, then he spoke abruptly. "Got a line on the business at last seemingly."

"Yes," replied Millwarde encouragingly.

"Oh, you know— du Chastaigny and his new way of fishing with a toy submarine. Fellow was a torpedo expert if Radway was right, and that thing he played with out in the bay there— well, what but a model torpedo!"

"You think Shuyler was after that?"

"What else? They scuppered him because he'd got wind of it."

"Wait. Assume he had word of it. The plans would have been his quarry. But he hadn't got them "

"How d'you know? Those fellows shot him and went to his rooms to search them immediately after. What were they looking for but the plans they suspected him of having?"

"Sound reasoning. But you've omitted one or two important items, Tony. To begin with, there were no plans in Shuyler's chambers. I went through his papers pretty thoroughly, and that pair who followed me were just as thorough, and we all drew blank. There was nothing of the sort found on Shuyler when Allardyce went through his pockets and clothing generally."

"No, but―"

"Wait. I don't say that model has nothing to do with the business. I believe it has. But there's something beyond all, I'm certain. Shuyler with his dying breath j gives me a name— du Chastaigny― that connects up with the possible new torpedo all right. I look for du Chastaigny's name , as directed; I find it, and in that book I discover that little list of Shuylers."  He paused and lit a cigarette, then rattled off the names. "Pierre Giradot (the Grey Rat), Paul du Chastaigny, Fritz Hermann, BX, Katusha Pavlovna, 3rd International. Leave out du Chastaigny, and the others make a bright trio, whilst the Grey Rat and Fritz in combination are enough to raise the hair on anyone who knows their reputation. Assume that du Chastaigny has produced something extraordinary in the way of a torpedo. The ordinary procedure would be to market it to one of the Powers. Du Chastaigny is French. If Shuyler's note and Radway's memory are right he's a runaway from Devil's Island. May have a grouse against his native land; on the other hand, left to himself, he might bargain with the French naval authorities for a pardon as part of the price of his torpedo. But the others know of his invention and of the fact that he is due to go back to Devil's Island if caught. And they're exploiting him. How? For money? In the end for a certainty. Pierre Giradot sold his country wholesale in the war, and would sell his own mother for cask. B/X was a spy of spies, but he served the Fatherland faithfully enough, and would serve it again for money or for love. God knows the man is a patriot in his own dark way. Well—there you are! Two men who don't care two pins for Franco, and Kalusha Pavlovna an agent of the Third International. Where's the Russian woman come in?"

"Maybe Radway will find out."

"Maybe. But if the 27th is a date and not a number, he has got to be mortal quick―"

"Change the date or the place, or both?"

"This date," interjected his friend, "might be the date when there's to be a secret demonstration of the Chastaigny new torpedo."

"Might be! But it doesn't explain Shuyler's murder. Suppose he knew of some invention of du Chastaigny's, and the date of the demonstration, and the place, and those others knew he had the information. What would be the simple thing for them to do?"

"Exactly. Instead of which Shuyler, last heard of officially at Roquebrune, shows up in London, with these fellows not on his heels, and he is shot in the open street, before he can pass his knowledge on. Why the more difficult and infinitely more risky way?"

"I'm no good at conundrums."

"Well, here's a line. Suppose the date and place simply could not he changed, that both, for some reason, are indispensable."

"I get you." Tony Armitage nodded, then with a thoughtful look on his face hummed lightly:—

"Never the time and the place

And the loved one altogether "

"But they've got to be sometimes," asserted Millwarde," and here's one of the occasions. That is as sure as Christmas. And, in the circumstances, the fact is significant. It is not merely a rendezvous of some sort, but it is one that can't possibly be changed, one that must he on that date and at that place; not on that date at some other place; and not at that place on some other date "

"Don't confuse me more, Hugh. I've got it. Time and place and the 'loved one' —that's the torpedo!— altogether'—hey?"

"Yes! And with some damnable thing at the end of the business, something quite out of the common and beyond anticipation."

Armitage nodded. "Agreed nem con!  What's the next move? Do we go to the place of the clown who could not laugh?"

"There— or Roquebrune."

"Gord!" Armitage looked out of the window. "The Riviera at this time of the year will be pleasant, all sunshine and flowers. What! When do we start?"

"We'll start for London at once. We may get word from Radway there, and I don t think it's an atom of good wasting time up here, for I am certain the Grey Wolf and his crowd are gone for good. They will have made for the coast and for the Continent, where I imagine du Chastaigny has been since he left Norseby weeks ago."

"Wondered why he ever came here?"

"To experiment, of course. On the Continent the authorities are wide awake over things of that sort, and would ask for explanations. Here you could build an airship and no questions asked."

"We do mind our own business rather well," chuckled Armitage, and went his way to prepare the taxi-driver.

Eight hours later they arrived in London. and at their club found a message from Radway.

"We are on the wing again for Monte Carlo. Address messages to the Hermitage, Radway."

"We will do better," said Millwarde. "We will go to Monte Carlo ourselves. It is convenient for both Roquebrune and Grimaldi. If you will wire him to look for us at his hotel―"

"At once," laughed Armitage. "I'm all for the sunny South."

THE BOAT to-Calais and the Cote d'Azure express brought them at long last to the unimpressive station that was their destination. They found Radway waiting.

"This is what I call real friendly―" began Tony Armitage.

"Wrong," interrupted the American. "It's just slimness, Half the blighted day have been waiting at this wayside station in fear I should miss you."

"Why this concern ?"

"To tell Millwarde there's no room for him at the Hermitage—"

"Why not? House full?"

"No, but Katusha has a front suite, and as you're not bosom pals―"

"Right," said Millwarde.

"You go to the Pavia. Katusha and I have clicked— gently. "I was able to be of service on the express—"

"How did you pick up the scent? Tony never told me that."

"Simplest thing in the world. Went with an old chum from Yale to the office of the airline to book a scat to Le Toquet, and the lady walked in. I heard her give her name, and so booked a second scat; saw her luggage was labelled for the Hermitage, and had my own labelled there, too. Armitage is incog. to her, so there's a room for him, and two guys can easily chum up at a Monte Carlo hotel. Besides. I have a notion the lady is waiting for someone, and if that should be Fritz or any of the bunch, or the Grey Rat. you're better out of sight, I guess, while Tony and I, perfect strangers, watch the performance from the stalls. So we'll say auf weidersehen here."

"Yes," agreed Millwarde.

"And Tony will make the Hermitage all on his lonesome, and in half an hour I shall be explaining to him the one infallible system by which he can break the perishing bank.... And by-the-by, it's worth keeping in mind that Katusha is a born gambler, so if you should feel inclined to try your luck, you'd better keep your peepers wide open."

"I will!" answered Millwarde. "You'll let me know how things go?"

"Sure! It's a nice constitutional before breakfast along to the Pavia. And if you want a confab a little drive out to Eze or La Turbie can be hired."

"Yes!... So long!" and without more ado Millwarde, in a closed vehicle, took his way to his hotel.

lN the morning, while he was at breakfast, Radway walked in.

"Nothing doing," he explained. "But Katusha is sure waiting for her pals. I helped her to look up trains before I came."

"Let me know when they arrive," said Millwarde. "This morning I'm going up to Roquebrune to look for du Chastaigny.'

"Going to interview him?"

No. Just look over the ground, and all that."

Radway nodded his understanding and went his way, and two hours later Hugh Millwarde climbed the steep cobbled path and the steps which led to the chief street of Roquebrune; and after a careful reconnoitre entered a little shop where tobacco and stamps were sold, the proprietor of which, seen in his doorway, had the look of a garrulous man. Millwarde purchased cigarettes too vile to smoke and stamps that he did not want, then asked an inveigling question:

"There are many visitors come to Roquebrune?"

"Many, monsieur. They arrive from the great hotels at Monte Carlo and climb here to smile at our streets, and to groan over our many steps. But what would they have? An old town perched like the nest of an eagle on the hillside must have steps, and, when streets are very old they do not go straight, Non! why should they?"

Millwarde liked the winding streets and owned the necessity for steps, and the proprietor, encouraged, continued—

"The Rue Moncollet, now? There is nothing like it in Monte Carlo."

Millwarde, remembering that steep alley-like street winding like a sluggish stream in a plain, with buildings and tunnelled rock that were like walls of a canyon, owned enthusiastically that the gay town far below had nothing to compare with it, and then turned the conversation a little.

"You have lived here long, monsieur?

"All my life, and here I shall die if God is kind. Why should a man dig himself up by the roots and transplant himself to some place where the soil does not nourish him. Here I am firm rooted as the broom which, clinging to the rock, saved Roquebrune from sliding into the sea in the old days."

Millwarde approved both the sentiment and the expression and gave the conversation a further twist.

"A man who has lived in Roquebrune from his birth must know every one. I wonder if you are acquainted with an old friend of mine who for a time made this place his home."

"The name, monsieur?" asked the tradesman with eagerness.

"M. du Chastaigny."

Millwarde watched the man closely as he bent his brows in an effort of remembrance. Finally the other shook his head.

"It must have been a very long time ago, monsieur; for I do not remember the name. But possibly he did not dwell in Roquebrune itself; but in one of the villas above. There are strangers who come and go there, who do not know my little shop and make their purchases in Monte Carlo, where they pay more and get no better."

"A possibility," Millwarde agreed, then added: "He may be here still. I wonder if one could find out."

"There is the Curé, monsieur. He know all that come, for soon or late all visit his charming garden."

"Ah! I have heard of that garden. I must pay a visit there."

"But, of course, monsieur. It is one of the sights, like our Place and the Casa 5 of the Lascaris. Certainly, monsieur must go.

Millwarde went, and found the garden all that it was reputed—a place of charm, with roses and palm trees and many homely flowers, with singing birds everywhere, and a view of the blue sea. Something else he found also—a shady bench commanding that view, on which was seated a man with a ravaged countenance and eyes that, staring towards shining sea, seemed full of infinite woe. Millwarde withdrew doubting whether the man had been aware of his intrusion.

By the door of the church he met the Curé, a simple, kindly man, as the true lover of birds and flowers must he, and a natural priest of men; to whom even the clever and the learned might take their woes and find balm and healing, a man of a spirit serene as his own garden. A word about the church, a further word about the garden, and many words about the little town paved the way for Millwarde's question.

"I was .told in the town that you knew every soul in it, monsieur," he laughed tentatively.

The Curé laughed. "An exaggeration, monsieur. There are many strangers come to Roquebrune these days— birds of passage, here for one season, and then gone."

"I wonder if you know a man I wish to meet, monsieur. He may be a stranger or long resident in Roquebrune. I do not know."

"If he is long resident I shall know him," the Curé smiled, "unless―"

"Unless, M. le Curé?"

The priest smiled again. "Oh, we have our mysteries even in Roquebrune, and there is one house up on the hill there that I do not enter. For why, you will wonder, monsieur; and the answer is because the gates are not open, and the place is shuttered like a prison against all comers. But the name of the man you would meet, monsieur?"

"M. du Chastaigny!"

The Curé did not even hesitate, He shook his head promptly.

"That, monsieur, is a name that I do not know." He laughed pleasantly as he caught the look of disappointment on Millwarde's face. "But that, monsieur, is nothing. A man may be more ignorant than he knows, and I, for instance, do not even know the name of the owner of Villa Vento."

"That is the house of the closed gates?"

"Monsieur guesses rightly, the house of the closed gates." Then the priest went on, "But though I do not enter the house, nor know the name of the owner, the man himself is known to me, and what is a name, after all?"

"A label for convenience," answered Millwarde carelessly, his thoughts on the mysterious Villa Vento.

The priest continued a little garrulously, "A label, yes, as monsieur says, a tag by which a man is known among his friends, and in the books of the Recording Angel, perhaps, and if a man chooses to tear the label from himself that is his own affair. Hein?"

"But the man who does that, who changes the label, has usually a reason. Father."

"True! And the reason is not always a good one, as the authorities down there at Monte Carlo know."

Millwarde laughed. "It may he a very bad one, though desirable for the man who takes an alias."

"As you say, monsieur. But also it may mean that the man merely shuns the world because of the burden of his sorrow."

"Ah!"

Millwarde thought instantly of that man on the shaded seat staring with woeful eyes at the sea, and almost involuntarily turned his eyes towards that quarter of the garden. The priest caught the direction of his glance and spoke gently.

"So, monsieur, you have seen?"

"The man on your seat there, yes! He is the owner of the Villa Vento?"

"Owner? I do not know, but he resides there, and he comes often to my little garden and stares over the sea with those sad eyes— a man, monsieur, who must have known much woe and who even now finds the burden of life almost greater than he can bear."

"He has given you his confidence?"

The Curé shook his head. "No— not yet. That will come presently, perhaps. I have never spoken to him. When his need is too great for silence he will come to me with his confidence, and I shall give him the comfort and help which the Church for her children; but until then, monsieur, I can do nothing. Yet something is done,  for he comes to my garden, and perhaps his tortured soul drinks of its serenity."

"Tortured?" Millwarde looked at the priest quickly.

"You will not challenge the word, my son, you who already have noted his ploughed face, his eyes sick with despair? No! And I have seen men like that before. Across the sea there in Algiers in the Legion there are many. That man— I knew it when first I saw him, one has an instinct in these matters—that man, like the great Dante, has been in hell."

"Or in Cayenne!" The words slipped from Millwarde almost before he was aware of it, and he saw a little. flash of keenness in the Curé's kindly eyes.

"Is there any difference, monsieur? If what the books say is true—"  He broke off. "But I will tell you something. It is not of the past only that man thinks. He may have walked the flaming doors; but it is not there in the past that his mind dwells. No! I have watched him— as a father may watch a son who presently will need his help, you comprehend?— and I am sure that he is a man who is trying to make up his mind to some course to he followed. You ask me how I know? By many little things that I have seen— one day a look of resolution, the index of a man who has made up his mind; and the next his eyes swimming with sick indecision, sign of a soul swinging between two choices." The priest broke off. "Perhaps," he said softly, "before the real decision is made he may ask for my prayers."

"I pray that he may, Father," answered Millwarde sincerely enough, and the next second the Curé's hand was on his own.

"He comes. Monsieur, I feel that you understand. I should not like that stricken one to guess that we were talking of him. My flowers, you said they were beautiful. If you would please give them your attention―"

Millwarde understood, and, respecting the Cure's wish, duly admired the flowers: and whilst so engaged heard the sound of approaching feet. Deliberately he refrained from looking round, but when the man was passed he looked after him, marked the bowed shoulders, the head carried without pride, the steps of a weary man. Then he faced the priest.

"You will excuse me—"

"Ah! you follow him?" said the Cure sharply.

"Not for his hurt, believe me, Father."

"I have been indiscreet―"

"No! I beg of you not to think that."

"You think he may be the man whom you seek, perhaps?"

"It is possible. I do not know. But the name I mentioned and all that you have told me―"

"Conjectures, convictions, perhaps, but no evidence, remember, monsieur."

"What matter— these are secret between us, Father? There is a grave reason if that man is M. du Chastaigny. I cannot tell you, but you will believe me. please. Presently, perhaps, I may return."

He waved his hand in quick farewell, and, afraid of losing his quarry, hurried away. He had, however, no need for haste. Before him, walking slowly up the steep street, was the man who, as he believed, was Clotilde's father— a bowed figure of a man of name unknown, even to the priest of the place, who dwelt in a house whose gates it seemed were always closed.

The man did not look behind him, perhaps even he did not see much in front of him, for once he almost stumbled over a goat that a boy was leading; and at another where one of the innumerable flights of steps obtruded on the street, he stumbled altogether and went down on the cobbles.

Millwarde ran forward and helped him up, restoring his hat, which had fallen from his head.

"Merci, monsieur," said the man gratefully.

"I trust you are not hurt;" said Millwarde with real concern. "These cobbles are nasty things to fall on."

"Not at all, monsieur. The dust I have gathered is the worst hurt."

He smiled wanly as he spoke, and for one moment his troubled eyes, shining with gratitude, met Millwarde's. In that moment the latter was sure. Eyes like those, of slaty blue, younger eyes, but with the same misty look, he had seen a few nights ago; and he had not a scrap of doubt that here was the wisht-looking man who had been at Norseby House, and who had spent his time out in the bay with the model of some destructive thing, he had no doubt,-yet he found the reality almost incredible. This woe-stricken man, grateful for a small thing, the associate of scoundrels, and a fugitive from Cayenne, he was no villain, of that he was sure. The ravaged face indexed trouble, but no evil; it was the face of a sick man, but not of a wicked one. All that flashed through his mind as he stood fronting the man; and for one second he was tempted to give the other his name; but repressed the. temptation, and watched him pass on. But now he did not follow. Some scruple held him hack from that. And the Villa Vento would be easy to find—somewhere among those villas scattered on the hill above the town. He could go there later. He looked at the stricken figure climbing the street, then he looked at his watch.

"Time for lunch," he said; and took his way down the street, his brow wrinkled in thought.

HE found a restaurant, ordered his lunch, and whilst waiting sat staring absently through the' window; which, lifted well above it, commanded the steep street. There were many things there, to interest the tourist, but he saw none of them, the questions, in his mind holding all his attention. What could the man whom he had seen have in common with the Grey Rat, with Fritz Hermann, with the men who had been at Shuyler's rooms? What crime could he have been, guilty of to take him to that hell at Cayenne? What burden of trouble bowed his shoulders? What— if the Curé were right in his conjecture— what decision was he making in that garden, with its serenity, and beauty, while he stared out over the sea?

To none of these things, could he find anything about him.

"Monsieur is served?"

At that he woke out of his absorption with a start.

"Oh, thank you."

And in the same moment he once more became aware of the street, and of the pedestrians climbing or descending its slope. There was a little knot of tourists, laughing at some quaintness; a girl was seated on the steps of one of the houses with a sketch-block on her knees; and lower down another girl was swinging up the hill with a lightness that proclaimed youth and health and energy, a girl, moreover, of much grace

"Stars in heaven!" he ejaculated, and the next moment he was on his feet; for the girl was Clotilde du Chastaigny.

11

At The Villa Vento.

FOR THE moment Millwarde entirely forgot his lunch. Watching Clotilde swinging up the street his first impulse was to run out and intercept her. But even as he turned towards the door second thoughts and wiser counsels prevailed. The girl did not know that he was in Roquebrune or its neighbourhood, and for the time, until he had a clear understanding of the mystery in which her father was involved, it was better that she should remain in ignorance of his presence. That way he might the better watch over her, and possibly help that sorrow-burdened man whom he had seen in the Curé's garden.

Also she might not be alone. Those others— he turned again to the window and looked down the street. He saw nothing, however, of M. Futrelle or of Fritz Hermann and his helpers. Probably, he reflected, the whole party had just arrived at the station; and Clotilde, either desiring to be alone or preferring the walk, had taken the way up the steps and through the town, while the others, with the baggage, had taken some other way. In any case, at the present stage, it would be folly to take any chance of encountering them. The longer they believed that he was starving in that garret at Norseby the better for his purpose.

He watched the girl out of sight, and then seating himself at the table began his meal, reflecting as he ate. The Curé's words about the man whom he himself believed was M. du Chastaigny had made a considerable impression on his mind. Was it true that the stricken-looking man who made use of the Curé's garden was not merely burdened by sorrows of the past, but harrowed by the necessity of reaching some decision which concerned the future, and which troubled him even more? What was that decision concerned with? Clotilde? That was a possibility, but it did not trouble him very much, since there were other things that seemed more probable. That invention with which du Chastaigny had been experimenting? That seemed to him much more likely; and there were solid reasons for that conclusion.

The Curé's surmises in themselves might be shadowy, but these were supported by those cryptic references to her father in peril made by Clotilde. It was easy to conjecture that he was being blackmailed; what if the object of that blackmail was not cash but an endeavour to compel him to use that new weapon of war to some nefarious end? When he sat in that quiet garden, a hag-ridden man staring at the sea with tormented eyes, was he, as the Curé had suggested, trying to reach some decision which, if made one way, would have appalling results to others; or if the other would mean stark ruin for himself?

Dimly he perceived possibilities— fantastic, but not wholly off the map. Europe was full of explosive material. There were half a dozen Alsace-Lorraines left by the Treaty of Versailles, and even the League of Nations had done little for the minorities which the treaty had delivered to the oppression of ancient enemies. The men in his profession knew the truth which the politicians glossed over— were aware of the dangerous undercurrents; the secret undertakings; the powerful jealousies of the new States; the economic pressure which, like the hunger of a starving man, might move one of them on a favourable chance to snatch at some coveted loaf. A spark on that explosive material would be disastrous, and Fritz Hermann and the Grey Rat— as no doubt Katusha Pavlovna, servant of a fanatical regime— were capable of flashing that spark. What if this invention of Paul du Chastaigny's was to provide the means?

He could not quite see how, but that mattered little. The possibility was there, and must be considered, the truth discovered.... If only he could win the confidence of that hag-ridden man— or of Clotilde, the thing would he simple. It might be worth trying.... If he went up to the Villa Vento.

He made his decision there and then; and, finishing his lunch, took his way up the street and beyond to the hillside above. There he met a boy leading a donkey laden with cabbages, and asked his way to the villa he sought. The boy gave him directions, and presently he found himself out side a shut gate with , a cheval de frise and a stone wall above which a cedar showed. He considered the gate a moment, read the name painted oh it, and was in the act of trying the latch when somewhere behind him he caught a burst of feminine laughter.

That laughter saved him! His memory responded as a chord struck by a deft hand, and without looking round he knew that somewhere not far away was Katusha Pavlovna. She might have seen him, possibly recognised him. He did not know; but carelessly, as if he had been merely reading a name on a . gate with the curiosity of an idle, man, without turning he walked on, following a rough path which ran parallel with the wall.

The afternoon was very still, sound on the hillside travelled clearly, and he heard the woman's laughing voice. "But, my dear M. Futrelle, consider the proprieties."

From what he knew of him in the character of the Grey Rat,, he was convinced that M. Futrelle would not let the proprieties trouble him very much; but he was glad to have the news of the man's presence so conveyed. Decidedly, this was not the hour for a call at the Villa Vento, and a second later that conviction was deepened when a voice, speaking in German, reached him.

"Himmel! what a view!, Du Chastaigny looks out on the world."

"And on the. Mediterranean, Fritz, Do not forget that. From this point he beholds the ships."

"Ja! The ships!" Fritz Hermann laughed as at some jest, though what the jest could be Millwarde could not perceive.

He reached the end of the wall, turned the corner, saw that there was no one in sight, and, promptly dropping on his knees, crept to the cover of some rosemary bushes growing among the boulders. There ensconced he looked back towards the gate. He three people whose voices he had heard were halted, taking the view, while M. Futrelle waxed lyrical on the beauties of it.

He did not listen to the oration. Here, he thought, was proof positive that the owner or tenant of the Villa Vento was M. du Chastaigny. The precious trio outside the gate put that matter beyond all doubt, and as he crouched there he wondered with what grace the inventor would receive his visitors. And Clotilde, would she have a warm welcome for them?

He waited until the trio, having had their fill of scenery, turned to the gate, which, it appeared, was kept locked, for M. Futrelle produced a key before they could enter. When they disappeared, he made a swift survey of the situation. The house was built on an outcrop of rock, with rising ground behind it. The wall in front was not high, and from the farther side was probably no more than three feet, for the top, as he noticed, was balustraded, though creepers masked it so well that at first the fact had escaped his notice. No doubt, he thought, there was a terrace there from which those within could take the view without effort. Also, he reflected, anyone chancing to look down in the direction of the rosemary bushes must inevitably see him.

He moved on, following the boundary wall of the villa in the direction of the rising ground behind. Half-way up the sound of a man's voice brought him to a standstill.

"My dear Paul, you have the appearance of a sick man." He recognised the genial tones of M. Futrelle, now earnestly commiserating. "What have you been doing, mon cher? But no doubt the mistral has awakened the old Cayenne fever that troubles you? We must see to it. We cannot have you incapacitated for the 27th."

Millwarde strained his cars for the answer, but heard none. A moment later; however, M. Futrelle's voice reached him again.

"The thing must go sans entrave. It is the opportunity a man might pray for, and we cannot let any old infection intervene, lest again you should find yourself in the area of infection anew."

A light laugh and a noise of footsteps followed the words. Millwarde listened carefully, but heard no more voices, Anparently the whole party had moved into the house, and as he desired to see that, he continued on his way up the hill. As he went his mind was busy. The words he had overheard had settled two things. "The 27th" of Shuyler's dying message was undoubtedly a date and not a number, and there was no question that M, du Chastaigny was being threatened by the amiable Futrelle.

That reference to the area of infection was unquestionably a threat held over the escaped prisoner to compel him to a certain course— to some notion that must go sans entrave— without a hitch― on the 27th, which would provide a heaven-sent opportunity. But in high heaven's name what was the thing to which du Chastaigny was being urged by his genial relative?

He found no answer to that question. When he reached the higher ground at the back of the house, he hid himself behind some golden broom, and looked down at the villa with hungry eyes. At the moment he would have given a year of his life to hear what was being said somewhere in that house with its white front shining in the sun: and he would have given twice that time to have had the genial M. Futrelle in a room with himself, with the door locked and none to hear what took place between them. There were some men for whom flogging was their proper dessert, and he was rapidly coming to a conviction that M. Futrelle was one who had escaped it too long.

From this new position he commanded the back of the house, the side, and the extreme end of the verandah which ran along the whole front, overgrown with roses and shading the rooms from the sun. That —and a portion of the garden and the terrace behind the balustraded wall— was all he could see of the place, for those within the house were quite out of his range.

Nevertheless, he continued his vigil. Chance had served him very well, and while he could not expect his phenomenal luck to continue, there was a bare possibility that he might yet hear, something more or see something that would be instructive. In some trees behind him birds were singing. Bees were grumbling by. Down the hill the goats were browsing, and once a man crossed the empty foreground and disappeared beyond the villa, but the latter itself might have been an abode of the dead. No one moved on the garden; the verandah, so far as he could see, was empty, and in the rear of the house at any rate there was no sign that anyone was in the place at all.

His thoughts ranged a little. Had Shuyler ever entered that house, or had he, like himself, viewed it from without? The former seemed the likeliest thing. That book of Marcel Proust's with Clotilde's name upon the cover indicated at least a friendly relationship— that was if Shuyler had not brazenly stolen it as Clotilde had suggested. Had he talked with the harassed owner of the villa, and so gathered the secret for which his life had been the forfeit; or had he listened on that verandah, watchful, deeming himself unseen, only in the end to discover the ruthless Fritz and the others upon his trail? He could not guess, and the mystery grew no clearer, consider it how he would.

He recalled the words he had overheard between Futrelle and Fritz, about the view embracing the Mediterranean and the ships; It had seemed there had been some significance in the double reference, some jest which had moved the German to laughter. What on earth could it be?

His eyes turned from the villa to the prospect on which it looked. Roquebrune, with its crooked streets, its narrow lanes and tunnelled ways, was immediately below him. Farther away was Cap Martin, a white stretch that was the terrace of Monte Carlo, below which, at that moment no doubt, the valiant sportsmen were engaged in their eternal massacre of pigeons. And there was the sea, the blue highway of a thousand ships; the sea was there, and the ships; on the horizon he could see the azure of sea and sky stained by a smudge of smoke, but stare as he would, he could not sec the jest at which Fritz Hermann had laughed.

He gave up looking for it at last, and turned his eyes anew to the Villa Vento. Ah! There was someone moving there at last— Clotilde! He saw her cross the angle of the garden his view commanded, and seat herself in the shade of the cedar. There for a time she sat absorbed in; thought, as it seemed, at any rate engaged in no activity. Then quite suddenly she hid her face in her hands.

That little action moved him almost beyond endurance. That she should weep shook him to the heart. The cause of her tears he could guess; and he burned to comfort her, to win her full confidence that he might give her the help she needed. He was tempted to make his presence known— far more strongly tempted than he had been when he had seen her passing-up Roquebrune's climbing street.

He stood up, wondering how to attract her attention without awakening the interest of other people. But at that moment there came a change. The girl lifted her head, her hands dropped swiftly to her sides, and rising from the seat she moved hastily into the deeper shade of the cedar.

Millwarde's eyes turned to the house, seeking an explanation of this hurried move. He found it in n man who was just descending the steps that led to the lawn. He did not need to look twice to recognise Fritz Hermann, and when he saw the man move across the lawn in the direction of Clotilde a sharp anger kindled in him.

It was clear that in moving into the cedar's shade the girl had hoped to avoid the man, and equally clear that the latter, having seen her, did not mean to be avoided. Without haste, he made a beeline towards the cedar, which stood is an angle of the wall, and whichever way the girl took she could not escape the man, as perhaps Clotilde realised, for a moment later she came into Millwarde's view again, advancing to" meet Hermann. The latter stopped, and apparently made some suggestion to the girl, for they turned together and, walking across the lawn, made for the balm-traded terrace at the end of the garden, where the man waved the girl to a seat, and a second later took his place beside her.

Millwarde had no desire to play eavesdropper where Clotilde was concerned; but here it seemed to him was an entirely justifiable occasion, for Fritz Hermann could have nothing to say to Clotilde that was in her interest, while he might learn things which would enable him to help her. In a twinkling he was out of his hiding-place and slipping swiftly and quietly along in the shadow of the garden wall. He reached the corner and looked round for cover. Quite close were the rosemary bushes where he had previously hidden, and just beyond them was a large flat rock, unnoticed before, and of sufficient depth to conceal from the view of anyone in the terrace, he slipped across to it and, lying full length behind it, listened.

At first he heard only a murmuring, which mingled with the sound of falling water in the ravine behind him and below the outcrop of rock on which the Villa Vento was built. Then quite clearly came Clotilde's voice, speaking English and in sharp protest.

"But there is some wickedness planned, Herr Hermann. Do you think I am blind and that I cannot see my father is nigh broken with care?"

"Dat vill pass, soon," he heard the man reply. "And instead of der care he vill have peace, but nothing in der world to fear."

"Except you and my uncle, and those others!" cried the girl with a rising intonation.

"My dear fraulein―"

Feminine laughter from the neighbourhood of the house drowned the rest, and then came a cheerful shout from the genial M. Futrelle.

"I will wager a louis that you are mistaken, Katusha. There are no rabbits there— a goat kid, perhaps—"

"Or―"

He did not catch the alternative, but M. Futrelle's gay laughter revealed that he found it a jest; and then came Katusha's voice, energetic and masterful. "But you shall see, M. Futrelle. Keep your eye upon the space on either hand, and you shall see my rabbit bolt.".

The next thing that Millwarde heard was a plopping sound, and almost simultaneously something struck the flat surface of the rock behind which he crouched, and ricochcetted dangerously near his head.

"Great Harry!"  he whispered, to himself. "A bullet— from some weapon with a silencer!"

Did the Russian woman know of .his presence behind the rock?  He glanced hastily along the length of it to see if by chance his feet protruded and. were in sight; but there was at least a yard of the concealing rock to spare. Then he heard the German ask sharply:

"Vat is dat, Katusha?"

M. Futrelle explained, laughing. "A rabbit, Fritz, or so Katusha is convinced. I tell her there are no rabbits, that, it is a goat perhaps, but Katusha is shooting to make her rabbit bolt."

Fritz Hermann laughed, and again came the plopping sound and the sharp tap of the" bullet on the rock, this time a little to the side.

"A good shot. Katusha: but your rabbit does not mind it," cried M. Futrelle with laughter. "Perhaps he is asleep, or he is making love to Lady Bunny, or—"

"You will see!" sounded the woman s voice with a ring of laughter in it.

That laughter sounded unpleasantly in Millwarde's ear. A suspicion occurred to him that the Russian woman had seen him, and while as yet unaware of his identity, was shooting to make him break cover and reveal himself. Scarcely had the thought occurred to him, when two more shots followed in quick succession, one of which chipped off a piece of rock which flew dangerously near his eyes.

"I do not see yet, Katusha." Futrelle's laughing voice reached Millwarde quite clearly. "Four shots are sufficient to make the whole race of rabbits bolt to the bowels of the earth. But possibly your first shot blew a hole through him."

"We will go find out presently when I have refilled the chamber, M. Futrelle," said the woman. "And if you have a pistol―"

"A shotgun would be better for a rabbit—" began the man's voice.

"For a rabbit, yes. But how if my rabbit is a man!" The woman laughed harshly.

"Diable! You do not mean―"

"Come! We will prove if my suspicion is the right one."

"But if it should be so, between here and the gate we shall be out of sight of that rock."

"There is Fritz! He can watch from the terrace.... Hola, Frits!"

The woman began to shout directions, but Millwarde did not wait for them to he completed. If the German had a pistol, from the terrace he could command all the frontage of the villa and the entrance to the path that came up from Roquebrune; and that he was a marksman he never doubted. Without delay he began to wriggle from his sheltering rock. He reached the bushes beyond, and was praying that the descent behind him would be practicable, when he heard a sudden shout of surprise from the German.

"Gott in Himmel! Der is a man!"

Millwarde heard Katusha Pavlovna laugh, and found the laugh a hateful one. The German shouted again, but what he said Millwarde never knew, for the edge of the bluff where the Villa Von to was perched claimed his attention. Thank heaven it was not sheer, and at the bottom were sheltering trees. If the rock wise not rotten the descent was practicable, and in any ease the chance had to be taken; for if Frits Hermann discovered him, there would be no second chance for him. For the moment he was fairly sure that neither Katusha nor the German had any notion of the identity of their quarry, and that ignorance must be maintained.

He heard the gate crash as he slipped over the edge of the bluff. There were irregular places on the face of it; little ledges that might have been made for a man to climb, and in cracks bushes had rooted themselves firmly and deeply. All aided him, and since he was an Alpinist, and a member of an English rock-climbing dub, the bluff offered no serious difficulty. He was three-quarters of the way down with little more than a dozen feet to go. when he heard voices over his head. He did not look up, being resolved that his identity should not be revealed if he could help it.

He looked down. Immediately beneath him there wore bushes and a little beyond trees that clothed the ravine, down which water was cascading. There might be fallen rocks among those bushes, but he took the chance, and dropped just as a plop sounded above. He caught the wind of the bullet as he crashed in the bushes, and without waiting to discover whether he was hurt or not he crept quickly into the shelter the bushes afforded, reached the trees, and as he began the descent towards the water running whitely down the, ravine he heard Fritz Hermann shout again:

"Der Teufel! A spy. Gif me der pistol!"

Confident now that he was out of sight, Millwarde kept on his way, and was drawing near the water when a thought struck him. He did not know where the ravine opened out, or where this bounding water had its outfall. Somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Grand Corniche was likely, he thought. But his pursuers would know for certain, and if they hurried .down the hill, through the town, they might; very well be in time to cut him off. And; they would expect him to go down hill. For a fleeing man that was the line of least resistance, and the one that ninety-nine out of every hundred men would take. He would be the hundredth mail, and take the more difficult way. Though he had not the remotest notion where the ravine led, or what difficulties it might have to offer, he was sure that upward was the way of safety.

That decision taken, he began to thrust his way through a thicket of oleanders. He had scarcely entered it when the sharp, phut of a bullet in a tree trunk a little to the right sent him down on hands, and knees. And without delay, using all. caution, he began to crawl with incredible swiftness in the opposite direction to that from which the bullet had come.

12

A Girl In The Moonlight

HE WENT but a little way before he heard the sound of feet, and when that reached him he became still and huddled close under one of the bushes, as small birds huddle when a hawk is in the air. His particular hawk he could not see, and as the feet came to a standstill he ceased to hear him also. Who was the man? The iron-jawed Fritz or the genial Futrelle? A moment later he had authentic news.

"Donnerwetter!" The word came in an explosive whisper and so near that Millwarde knew the German was almost within striking distance of him, and with that pistol to serve him much too close for comfort. The whispered curse told him that Fritz had lost the scent, and he was debating whether he should try to rush the man and here, in this deep ravine, revenge poor Shuyler and-make his own deliverance sure, when the unseen man moved again. Millwarde listened carefully. The other appeared to he nosing about in the clumps of oleanders, but moving away from the particular one where he was hidden.

That, on reflection, seemed all to the good. Fritz Hermann, given the chance, would use his pistol ruthlessly, and this deserted ravine was made for disposing of a man secretly. He put from him all idea of trying to rush the gunman, and was contented that the villain should he moving away from him.

But was that so? The footsteps were returning, and apparently the German was beating the little thicket of oleanders more thoroughly. That meant discovery was imminent and Millwarde prepared himself for the moment when he would have to move with lightning swiftness, or be shot down like a dog. The steps ceased. For what seemed quite a long time there was silence, and he imagined the other was listening for any sound that would betray the whereabouts of his quarry. Then there was a rustling among the evergreens. Careful cat-like steps appeared to be coming straight towards his hiding-place. In another moment the man would be on him. He clenched his fist and tensed himself for the spring. As he did so, from some where lower down the ravine came a sharp whistle— the kind of whistle a man makes with a couple of fingers in his mouth. The German evidently recognised the call, for he returned it, and moved out of the thicket, passing Millwarde at a distance of not more than five yards.

Millwarde held his breath, heard someone crashing noisily through the undergrowth in the ravine, then caught Futrelle's voice.

"Have you found him, mon ami"?

"No. He was here, but is here no longer."

Millwarde drew a breath of relief at that. If the German believed what he said, there was no fear that, aided by his brother-scoundrel, he would beat the oleanders anew and more thoroughly.

"He would make down the ravine," said -Futrelle with conviction. "A running mail . takes the easiest way, and the road lies below. Come, let us hurry! We may yet overtake him."

"If he is ahead―"

"There is always the chance, my friend. And there is no choice but to go that way. We cannot climb those rocks. You recognised the man, perhaps?"

"Non! I had but a glimpse "

"Let us hurry then. Another glimpse and a straight line for a pistol, and we will make this inquisitive one declare his business. Come! The way of the quarry is down there."

Millwarde, with immense relief, heard the pair hurry away, but he himself remained where he was until the sound of their going ceased, lest he should reveal himself to a backward glance from one of the pair. When the ravine was quite still, and there was no sound but that of the hurrying water, he rose from his hiding place and, moving from the thicket, faced the ascent of the ravine. He did not go very far, however. A possible way up the farther side offered itself and, crossing the stream, he took it, and in three-quarters of an hour found himself on an open hillside, looking down on the Grande Corniche, and beyond to the sea.

Seating himself, he smoked a cigarette, while he considered his further way. A survey of the slope revealed a mule-track running down towards the road, and when his cigarette was finished, having tidied himself as well as he could, he followed the track; and reaching the road had the luck to be overtaken by an empty automobile, which very quickly took him back to his hotel where he found Tony Armitage awaiting him, with some impatience. Without so much as a word of greeting, his friend produced a wallet, took there from a small Kodak snapshot, and thrust it into his hands. "Know the beauties, Hugh?

Millwarde looked at the photograph and then whistled softly; for the two beauties depicted there were the swarthy Gaston and his cadaverous comrade, who had studied theology so diligently in the train to York. The pair, were seated in lounge chairs on an open terrace, a bottle between them, and the professor no longer wore his whiskers.

''Yes!" answered Millwarde. "How did you get it?"

"Snapped the pair in a happy moment. Thought you might know them, since they fitted the description you gave of the fellows who burgled Shuyler's rooms."

"That was clever to recognise—"

"Oh! as to that," Armitage laughed diffidently, "Katusha helped no end."

"How? I shouldn't have thought she would have been confidential with you, Tony."

"She wasn't. And she didn't so much as address the beauties. Look at the picture closely. See anything carelessly placed on that small table?"

"A hat—"

"Post-office, my dear Hugh! Katusha sever spoke to the fellows, but as she passed by she dropped a billet-doux in that― er... receptacle. Radway saw it, and I saw it, and Louis is green with jealousy for when a lady drops a letter in 'a fellow's hat it argues previous and familiar acquaintance. Even in Monte that : sort of thing isn't done without foreknowledge that it will be acceptable. So I took a chance and the snap, and the Radway developed it and printed it; and there you have it— fresh from the mint... And that's not the end of this shocking affair as the old song says. There is another brace of birds of your acquaintance at the 'Hermitage' "

"I know! Futrelle and Fritz. I've seen them."

Armitage betrayed neither curiosity nor surprise, but merely nodded.

"Wait long enough and you'll see Satan himself on the terrace at Monte―"

"It wasn't on the terrace. It was up at Roquebrune, at du Chastaigny's villa.

"Phew! The torpedo-guy is there?"

"Yes! A sick man whose malady is of the soul."

"Oh come! That's no talk―"

"It's the professional opinion of the Curé of Roquebrune— and mine."

"Fellow's worried, conscience-stricken for past sins and all that, you mean?"

"Something like that."

"Sounds a little tall for a fellow who's done the round trip to Devil's Island. They don't make penitents there."

"No, but du Chastaigny seems to have a conscience which worries him— maybe less about the past than the future, if the Cure

"§m! He's broken the seal of the-confessional to "

"The Curé has never spoken a word to du Chastaigny. He's waiting for the other to the approach; but that's his considered opinion, and I share it.... I'll tell you."

He told the whole clearly and carefully and Armitage, who behind a light manner concealed a serious mind, listened intently; then he offered comment.

"What was the name of that fellow we read about in the history class at school— I mean the Johnny who did the grand tour selling indulgences to eat the apple and miss the Recording Angel's notice? Tettrazini― no, that's the Nightingale!— Got it!... Tetzel! Seems to me that if the Curé of Roquebrune could deputise for Tetzel he'd be sure of one customer.... You think du Chastaigny is being blackmailed into some devilry? What?" .

"Sure of it! And it harries him! . He doesn't know what to do! I imagine Fritz and the Grey Rat are holding Devil's Island over his head; though having seen him, I can't think how he ever came to go there in the first place."

"Can tell you that, out of hand. Radway was curious about it as he couldn't remember the details. He has a chum pal here, local correspondent of the Nicoise, and during an interval between photography, and philandering with Katusha he hunted him up. Fellow appears to be a Pelman fanatic, stores the little grey cells like a bee packs honey; and he had du Chastaigny's dossier neatly tucked in one of them, and sealed over. He uncapped it for Radway's benefit.... Du Chastaigny was in one of the French naval departments during the war, and had access to important matters. There was the usual leakage, and a watch was set on three or four men in the department—du Chastaigny being one of them They found nothing against him or any of the others for a while; then a very important document was missed, and the authorities acted promptly, as the French can when there's need. All men in the department suffered an immediate visitation of officers of the Sûréte, du Chastaigny among them. At his house, just on the edge of Passy, they found a peculiar state of affairs. The doors were locked, and there was no answer to the police summons, though a light was burning in one of the rooms. When they entered they found du Chastaigny and another man of his department in the lighted room. Du Chastaigny was unconscious and the other man was dead, shot through the heart. There was an empty wine bottle on the table and three glasses, and the Sûréte fellows naturally concluded that there had been a third man there. They found an empty official envelope, which had contained the missing papers—but the papers were gone, with the third man, of course.

"Du Chastaigny, it appears, was drugged. When he came round, he'd nothing to tell the authorities beyond the fact that Bodin— that was the shot man— had called on him unexpectedly; that he had opened the wine and had left the room in response to a summons at the door, where he found no one. and that after drinking he felt drowsy, and that was all he knew."

"The third man?"

"Du Chastaigny denied all knowledge of him. in spite of the third glass and the vanished document, of the existence of which he protested complete ignorance... To cut the story short, the police went into court with a theory that Bodin and du Chastaigny had been in collusion; that the missing document had been taken to the latter's house for disposal, and that after the third man had gone the pair had quarrelled over the division of the spoils, and becoming aware that Bodin had drugged him, du Chastaigny had shot him before going off... A quite simple explanation "

"Money found?" asked Millwarde.

"No! That was one of the weak points in the case presented by the Sûreté officials. They nearly wrecked du Chastaigny's apartments looking for it, and their failure would have lost them their case in normal times; for the accused was a quiet-living man, with a fair private fortune, whose leisure was devoted to research.... But the war years were not normal. At the mention of spies and traitors every Frenchman saw red. Du Chastaigny was found guilty on the double count of treason and Bodin's murder, and went to the hulks and to Cayenne for life, and was lucky he wasn't marched straight off to a firing squad."

"Toulon and Cayenne," ejaculated Millwarde. "Did you say lucky?"

"Well, he got away from Cayenne."

"And is under threat of being returned. I would wager my last farthing on it."

Tony Armitage whistled thoughtfully to himself, then asked abruptly: "You say Fritz and the Grey Rat are up at Roquebrune with him?"

"They were. Whether they've gone back or not, I don't know. Last I saw of them they were scrambling down a ravine below the villa. I went the other way."

He gave a brief account of his adventures; and when he described how he had lain under the rock while Katusha Pavlovna sprayed it with bullets, Tony Armitage laughed.

"A rabbit! Katusha knew all right."

"But not that the hidden man was I."

"No!... I'll warn Radway of the lady's humour. Make him more careful... But to get back. You think that pair are up at the villa trying to force du Chastaigny to some act he's against?"

"Certain! An act scheduled for the 27th. That's a date, not a number. I learned that much eavesdropping."

"But what in thunder can it be?"

Millwarde did not immediately reply. He was staring absently out of the window which looked across to the sea, deep and blue and tranquil in the afternoon sun. In his ears while he stared was the echo of a genial voice.

"And on the Mediterranean, Fritz. Do not forget that. From this point he beholds the ships."

Then followed that other harsher voice. "Ja! The ships," and the laughter at a jest that still escaped him as he considered the words anew.

Why should Futrelle direct attention to so commonplace a matter? There was undoubted significance in that scrap of conversation overheard while he had been moving away from the gate, but it did not appear to him- Yet it was there. He was sure of that; and while he, still looked out of the window, he had a vision of that haggard-faced man on the seat in the Curé's garden staring with tragic eyes at the sea. Was he watching the ships— watching for some particular ship, perhaps? He dismissed that thought almost immediately. From the Villa Vento the man could see all that he might desire, in that way, without going down the hill to Roquebrune.

Yet that the sea and the ships, a natural association, had a special significance in the minds or those whom he had overheard he was convinced, and answered his friend tersely—

"Something to do with the sea and ships!"

"Dm!"

"That's all I know. It might he worth while finding out if any of the crowd have an interest in any of the pleasure yachts down the coast here."

"Radway's the man for that. Being naval he can smell a hooker a mile off. I'll put him on to the job. The fair Katusha may spill that particular bean without thought."

"More likely to spill lead!... Where's Radway now?"

"Up at the hotel. There's a tea-dansant going, and I suspect a date with Katusha.... Don't worry," he continued with a grin.. "You know Louis! The flies don't pitch on his head... What's your next move?"

"Best until dinner. After that I may go up to Roquebrune again.... I can't go to the Casino or any other place here. I might run against one of the crowd we're after and be recognised... Good thing I'm the only one of us who is known to them. Louis and you have clear running so long as they don't link you up with me or Shuyler."

"Oh, we'll watch that.... Better destroy that little snap, hadn't we?"

"Yes."

Millwarde tore up the snapshot, put the pieces on, an ashtray, lit a cigarette, and then applied the match to the torn paper and watched it go up in smoke. He pounded the ashes with another match; then Armitage rose.

"We'll find out about the yachts... I'll push on now, or Radway may elope with Katusha." He grinned cheerfully. "Who knows? These Russians have such lively matrimonial ideas these days." He went his way and, left to himself, Millwarde: once more reviewed the problem before him, failing to get any further with it. Then he studied a time-table, and, having dined, strolled to the station and caught a local train which took him to Roquebrune. He climbed the steps from the station to the little Place, and paused for a moment to stand by the parapet and look at the sea, shimmering in the rising moon; then he turned and passed into the narrow streets, and through them to the head of the town, and to the hillside beyond. Up there it was very quiet, and half-way to the Villa Vento he halted again and looked back. The face of the sea was brighter; but brighter than the sea or the moon which lent it light was the glare on the terrace at Monte Carlo. He considered them a moment, contrasting their garishness with the shimmer of the moonlight on the sea, and finding a parable in the contrast; then he resumed his climbing way.

He had not defined the purpose of this journey to himself, and when the Villa Vento lifted itself whitely in the moonlight he half-wondered why he had come. The house showed no light, the jalousies were closed as if to shut out prying eyes, the double wooden gates where he had read the name that afternoon were shut, and. no doubt, locked and bolted. The night was very still, so still that he could hear the bleating of goats that came faintly from farther up the hill: but from the Villa Vento came no sound of life or movement.

He had a sudden fear that Paul du Chastaigny had departed, taking Clotilde with him—possibly alarmed by the occurrences connected with his own visit a few hours before. That was more than likely. In his nervous and half-distraught condition, harassed alike by the past and the future, the inventor might easily have been stampeded by fear. And if Clotilde had gone— a sense of desolation swept over him at the thought. In that moment he knew exactly why he had come, and he looked-at the villa, with its closed jalousies dark against its moonlit white front, with disappointed eyes. Then he caught a slight sound; a light footstep that came from somewhere above his head, and a moment later saw a white-robed figure come into sight and halt at the balustraded wall, where it stood statuesquely in the moonlight.

His heart leaped at the sight. He moved hurriedly forward, stumbled on a loose stone, and saw the white-robed figure on the terrace above stoop to stare down into the shadows for the cause of the noise. Then he gave a low-toned laugh, which had in it a note of joyous excitement; and out of the shadows he whispered upward to that stooping figure—

"Clotilde!... Clotilde!"

13

A Visit To An Apothecary

CLOTILDE du Chastaigny may have been startled, but she made no outcry. She straightened sharply, flashed a swift glance over her shoulder at the silent house; then she whispered in consternation.

"You!"

"None other!" Millwarde whispered back with affected lightness.

"But you must not stay here!" The answer came, passionately, almost imploringly. "You must go—at once.... There are those here who will... will—"

"I know!" he anticipated that which she shrank from saying. "They tried this afternoon."

"Ah! you were that man?"

"Yes!"

"The more reason for your departure— at once. Go! Go!"

"No," he answered stubbornly. "I must speak with you. I came up here hoping that I might see you; though I did not own it to myself."

"Then you did not come to— to―" Again her tongue boggled at the word, and a second time his mind filled in the blank.

"No! Not to spy. I beg of you to believe me."

"I do!... I do! But. oh, you must not linger. Go, I beseech you! If anything should befall you here I should blame myself—till I died."

Her whispering voice was urgent, pleading. the anxiety in it so real, that Millwarde was almost constrained to obey; then, for her sake more than in furtherance of his own desire, he hardened himself to resistance.

"Nothing shall befall me, Clotilde," he assured her, then added tentatively, "If I might climb up there to you―"

"No! No! It would be perilous. Wait!... I will come out to you. We shall be safer on the open hill."

She left the balustrade; and as he listened to the sound of her light feet receding Millwarde waited well content. At that moment the mystery of Shuyler's death was a small tiling, and Hermann and the others were shadows of the night. He moved towards the gate, assured that she would come to him that way; and there waited, almost at the very place where M. du Chastaigny's visitors had halted to take the view which had moved the admiration of the iron-faced Fritz. Without thought of that his eyes turned down the hill towards the moonlit sea, and as he saw the leagues of shimmering water, the men who a moment before had been shadows became real again, grim enemies not merely of himself but, through her father, of that white girl for whom he waited. He set his teeth at the thought. The scoundrel should not hurt her, or cloud her life with sorrow. Somehow he would reach the heart of the mystery in which du Chastaigny was involved; and defeat the evil purpose shopping behind events as he knew them.

A click at the gate broke on his reflections, and he turned to sec Clotilde emerging, a white wrap about her to fend off a possible chill; but bareheaded, with the moonlight on her hair. He moved to meet her impulsively.

"My dear!" he whispered. "My dear!"

Clotilde made no direct reply to that, but she clutched nervously the hand he held out to her, and then whispered back.

"Let us go up the hill. At this hour none will come that way."

They faced the hill, hand in hand, and moved upward in silence, until they were well above the villa, in the shadow of some trees. Then Clotilde halted, then faced him.

"Oh why did you come?" Millwarde laughed at that.

"I thought I came up the hill without definite purpose. But when I saw the jalousied windows and the whole house dark, I was afraid that you had gone; and then I knew the hope that had brought me up the hill was that I might see you."

"You thought that I had gone; and you were mistaken—"

"Blessedly!" he answered in a tone that was convincing.

"But in another thing you were mistaken. Yon said the whole house was dark. Look!"

Her white hand shot out with the index finger at stretch; and below him he saw what he knew must be the villa. Two windows in the rear were brightly lit.

"Your father―" he began.

"And my uncle, with that other, who pursued you to-day." She was silent for a moment, then she broke out quiveringly.

"I am greatly troubled— for my father!'

"Tell me," he said swiftly, and slipped an arm about her comfortingly, as if she had been a child. "I want to help you... your father also."

He felt her trembling, and a sob broke from her. "I cannot tell. I do not know precisely. ... But there is something those two urge that he should do. He is reluctant... and they talk, and talk—and once I heard my uncle cry: 'But, by Geld, Paul, you shall or―' "

Her voice broke, and Millwarde knew that she had not told all that she had overheard. His mind finished the remark, but he desired to hear it from her.

"Yes?" he said. "Tell me, Clotilde."

"Oh, I cannot. You would not believe; or if you believed you would go away——"

"No," he broke in almost sharply. "You must not think that of me. It is not right, as I will prove to you.... Your uncle finished with a threat. He said 'or you shall go back to Cayenne?' Is it not so?"

The girl stiffened in his arm. He heard her gasp, and the gasp was followed by a long shuddering intake of air. Then she whispered brokenly:

"But... but you cannot possibly have overheard... How did you know?"

"A conjecture," he answered. "I know these men are engaged in some evil work, I have know that from the day that Shuyler died, and once you told me that your father was in some peril. I met him to-day "

"You met him?" she cried in surprise.

"In the little garden by the church," he answered, "and in the street where he stumbled, and I helped him up. We spoke— such words as two strangers in such circumstances might speak; but it was easy to see that he was in great trouble "

"Oh; you cannot know how great!"

"I can guess. And tonight I heard the story of how he was sent to Cayenne—"

"Unjustly!" broke in the girl passionately. "He was not guilty of those crimes. I am sure of that. He lives to prove his innocence."

"I do not think he was guilty, myself. There was a third man involved in that affair whom the officials never found, and he no doubt was the man who shot Bodin.... But to finish my explanation. Your father was manifestly a man greatly troubled; I had heard his story; and when I you spoke of your uncle's threat it was easy to divine what that threat was. Your father is a fugitive from Cayenne; what more likely threat could be employed than one to send him back there?"

"But he must not go," whispered the girl brokenly. "It would kill him. Even now he walks in his sleep at nights, driven by remembrance of horrors of the days when he was in that place of 'les condamnes.' "

"No," said Millwarde; "he must not go. These men must not be allowed to send him back―"

"But if he does not do as they wish!" cried Clotilde a little desperately.

"Do you know what that is?" he asked quickly.

"No; only that it is something that my father views with horror; yet from which he sees no means of escape."

'"If you could persuade him to trust me―" began Millwarde tentatively.

"Impossible! He had not taken even me into his confidence. I dare not mention the matter to him. You comprehend it is only by the little slips he makes, helped by what I overhear from those others, that I know anything. Those men would kill me if they thought I knew, as they killed that man Shuyler. I... I am quite helpless and unable to do anything; must see my father fight against the inevitable thing. There are times when I feel like one watching a man slipping down the grass towards an abyss, unable to do anything, but to cover the eyes and shut out I sight of the tragedy." A sob broke from her, and she ended in a shaking whisper: "Oh... it is terrible; and... I... I am deadly afraid!"

His arm was still about her, and as she spoke she clung to him, convulsively, as a child clings to an adult when it is afraid of the phantasmal things of the night. That clinging was to him a revelation of her fear, and with the knowledge of how much she must be enduring it moved him to say quickly:

"Then you must leave! I must take you away."

"No!" He felt her stiffen under his arm. "I cannot... will not leave him."

"But have you thought?" he said swiftly. "What ever the dark thing that you fear may he, it is almost certainly something criminal. Men arc not killed as Shuyler was killed to hide something that would hear the light of day. If your father is driven by those others to help in an evil project. Nemesis is sure, and you may be involved."

It was he knew the weakest argument he could have used with her, but at the moment he could think of no other. He had the answer he expected, swift as a flash of lightning:

"Do you think that would induce me to go away— to leave him to his despair?"

"No," he answered. "I do not. I knew better when I spoke. You must remain— to help your father. We will help him together. Somehow we will deliver him. Though for the moment I do not see how... I could have that man Fritz arrested, he deserves to die for many things, and I saw him kill Shuyler. But I am not sure that it would save your father, or that it would prevent whatever is behind it all. You see, I do not know what that is yet; and so far I am working in the dark... If Fritz Hermann were arrested and those others with him it might only precipitate that which is planned, for there may be more than we know involved who would be seared into action; and until I know what is planned I cannot move.... If your father would sneak "

"He will not! He fights the thing alone— but I am sure that it is horror to bins only to contemplate it.... And those others, they push him on to it, and I am afraid that he will not be able to resist them. My uncle―" She interrupted herself and did not complete the sentence, perhaps because she found herself on the edge of some indiscretion. Millwarde did not press her.

"I know much about your uncle, perhaps more than you can tell me. And—"

He broke off sharply in his turn; and stood for a moment staring towards the shimmering sea. Clotilde saw his face in the moonlight, and what she read there moved her to whisper quickly.

"What is it? Something has occurred to you? You have some thought?"

"Yes," he answered frankly. "It came to me whilst I was speaking. Was M. Futrelle in Paris at that time when your father was arrested?"

"I do not know. I was at Pau at school— a little child. Why do you ask?"

"Because of that third man who was involved in that affair, the man who knocked at the door, but who was not there when your father answered the summons."

"You think it was my uncle?" asked the girl quickly.

"It is very probable! I said I knew much about your uncle, and one thing I know is that at that time his activities were, to put it mildly, of an utterly reprehensible nature. Assume that the man who was shot— Bodin— was a guilty man; that he carried those papers to your father's house at Passy, that night: I think it is possible that he went there to meet Marcel Futrelle, that your father was called from the room of set purpose―"

"What purpose?"

"To give Bodin the opportunity to drug his wine."

"But why?"

'Those papers were important. They had been missed. Already the officials of the Sûreté were looking for them— paying domiciliary visits. Perhaps Bodin knew that, and with your uncle's collusion, thought to provide himself with a scapegoat. He no doubt knew that he was under suspicion, and if he could precipitate that about your father, he might think himself reasonably safe... But he made one miscalculation―"

"What was that?"

"It is but a conjecture of mine," answered Millwarde slowly, "but upon my word I believe it is the right one. If there is one thing more certain than another it is that for those stolen papers money was to be paid— big money, for they were documents of importance. But no money was found either on Bodin or at your father's house at Passy. That is what I heard; and it fairly shouts one thing."

"Yes? Yes?" whispered the girl eagerly. "Why, that Bodin had left the character of the man with whom he was dealing out of account. And that man— say  M. Futrelle, who was and is quite capable of such a thing— with the stage neatly set by Bodin, your father drugged, and the evidence of that envelope lying on the floor to convict one or both those men who had had access to the papers it had held, decided not to pay the money at all; or at least having paid it to recover it; and so committed the crime for which your father went to Cayenne.'

The girl shivered. "My uncle!" she whispered. "He... he is evil! But― Oh, you cannot prove it? As you said, it is conjecture."

"Conjecture, yes!... Only the man who having a rendezvous with Bodin knocked on the door, used that third glass, shot M. Bodin and departed carrying away with him both the documents and the money can prove that I am right. And some day I will ask M. Futrelle to do so."

"You are very sure," she whispered. "Too sure!"

"No. I feel it in my bones. It came to me only just now; but I am sure that something like that with Futrelle in the background is the explanation of your fathers unfortunate experience... But that is. a mystery that can wait.... There is this other business in which your father is being thrust. We have to, save him from that."

"Yes! Yes!" she said swiftly,.

"And more than that, the business has to be scotched; I do not know what it is yet; but it is something very bad—so much you know yourself, and I am sure it somehow carries with it possibilities that arc not to be contemplated.' Your uncle, Fritz. Hermann, that woman who was shooting to make me bolt this afternoon—"

"A wicked woman! How I hate her!"

"They are after no small game!  Such a combination cannot be merely blackmailing your father. There is a thing beyond that—a thing that I must learn before the 27th—

"Why the 27th?" asked Clotilde curiously,

"Because whatever is designed will happen then. Shuyler with his dying breath gave me that date..... You must help me, Clotilde, for your own sake—your father's— you must help. We must learn what is planned... Your father has been busy of late with some new invention, has he not?"

"But how did you know?" cried the girl amazedly. "It is a great secret. Even I do not know what it is. But a little while ago he told me that he had achieved something that would bring him much money. I cannot think how you―"

"It is very simple," he answered, smiling. "Up in Yorkshire, on the morning that you went away a gossiping ploughman told me how your father when there spent much time on the sea, amusing himself with what some fishermen had taken for a toy submarine. I knew that your father was an inventor— and the conclusion could be jumped to without any great effort.... But if you do not know what the invention is, I must find out somehow, and that quickly, if I am to prevent what is planned."

"Yes!" answered the girl. "Yes!"

"If one only knew— it would mean so much."

"Yes!" replied Clotilde again, thoughtfully, then she asked quickly: "You think if you knew you could help my father?"

"I am sure of it, and more, I could save him from being dragged into whatever villainy is being planned."

"Then," said the girl quietly, "I shall try to find out for you. I... I shall listen and spy and behave as if I were Judas's daughter; and you will despise me―"

"Never, Clotilde!"

"You will, I am sure you will. I shall become like that woman, Katusha Pavlovna "

"You can never become like her, ma chere, and what you do, you will do for love of your father."

"For my father I would do anything in this world— to give him peace, to make him a happy man," whispered the girl earnestly. "For him I shall do the unforgivable thing— I shall listen at keyholes," she said bitterly, "and peep round corners, and read letters that―"

"My dear," he said, and drew her to him in an endeavour to convince her, while the girl continued distraughtly:

"And in the end I shall look at myself in the mirror in scorn; and you will think of me with contempt "

"Never!" he said, "Clotilde, you must not say that. It is not true. I shall love you to the end— and if you cannot do this without feeling debased, then leave it alone... I will find the truth for myself.... Let us leave it there, my dear. Not to know all these men purpose would I have you walk in the shadow of self shame—you who are bright, and clean.... No man's salvation is worth a girl's pride in herself."

He held her close, and conscious that she was weeping silently, stooped and kissed her, then she lifted her face, and in the moonlight he saw her eyes bright with tears.

"You will think I am a child," she said quiveringly.

"No," he said, distressed at her grief.

"But I shall try to be brave— to help you; and my father, since I now know that you will not hold me in scorn—"

"My dear, you must not say such things. They hurt. "

"Tell me," she said, "where I can find you, or send to you if I should learn what those men purpose."

"Clotilde, I think you must not do this thing, after all."

"And I think I must — to save my father," she returned whisperingly, "since there is no other way."

"There will be danger," he protested, now almost eager to dissuade her. "You said just now that those men would kill you, if they thought you knew, and that is a certain thing if they discovered you were trying to betray them. I think, after all, you must not―"

"But I must! These many days I have been wondering how I could save my father. Now I see the way. And I will not be turned aside.... Danger, you say! What of it? Danger will redeem what I shall do from shame."

"But Clotilde—"

"No," she interrupted. "I shall not listen. Give me the address."

Millwarde could do nothing else. In her face as he saw it in the moonlight there was an exalted look, and her eyes were rapt. So, he thought, saints taught up by a passion for sacrifice must have appeared; and he knew that she was beyond all dissuasion.

"But you will be careful, my dear," he urged. "You will do nothing reckless? If anything befell you I should never forgive myself."

Her mood changed at that. She snuggled closer in his arms and laughed through her tears.

"You do not know how cunning love will make me," she whispered, and held up her face to be kissed. A moment later she spoke again. "Now I must go! I may be missed. My father will want me... Come, you shall walk a little way down the hill with me. But not all the way, no! for I will not take you into danger."

They moved down the hill together, his arm about her, neither of them speaking. Half-way to the house she halted.

"Now we will say good-bye."

"But―" he began to protest, and, lifting herself on tiptoes, she checked the protest with a kiss.

"It is better so, and you can watch over me as I go."

He knew she was right; and remaining there he watched her go down the hill to the villa— a white vision in the moonlight. Almost in the shadow of the wall, she turned and waved her hand, and he waved back, then she went forward and clearly through the stillness he caught the clash of the gate. It had an ominous sound in his ears— like the crash-of a prison gate. He stood there for a while, blaming himself, but with fear for her who had gone down to perils that if he had held his tongue she would not have known; then he walked slowly down the hill, giving the villa a wide berth. But as he went he heard the gate clash again, and turned eagerly in the direction of the sound, with a quick hope that Clotilde might be returning. That hope was dashed a moment later, as in the moonlight he discerned the figure of a man who clearly was the one who had just left the villa. The man was too far off for recognition, but he was making for Roquebrune, and, with a desire to discover his identity, he followed the man down the hill, shortening the distance between them as they neared the town. As they entered the steep street the light from a shop window revealed that the man in front of him was the genial M. Futrelle. A little lower down the street, the man halted in front of anther shop, which chanced to be that of the tobacconist where Millwarde had made his inquiries earlier in the day. There M. Futrelle spent a little time, and looked thoughtfully up and down the street before he popped inside.

Standing in the shadow a little distance away, Millwarde asked himself if the man had observed him, or had he some furtive errand at the tobacconist's. A couple of minutes later the latter idea was discounted, for the man for whom he waited emerged, a glowing cigar in his mouth, which doubtless he had just purchased. On the steps he paused a moment, took out the cigar, and looked at the end as if to assure himself that it was well alight, then without appealing to have any interest in the street, he descended the steps and resumed his way.

That way, thought Millwarde, as he followed at a discreet distance, was a sufficiently tortuous one, such a way as perhaps only Roquebrune could have provided. Leaving the main street, his quarry dived into a cobble-paved lane with high houses reached by steps on either side, which twisted like no other street in Europe. Here and there the moonlight splashed brilliantly, but mostly it was in dense shadow; and to keep M. Futrelle in view he was forced to shorten the distance between them. As it was, a moment later he was at a loss, for his quarry, after passing one of the moonlit patches, simply walked out of the picture in the blackness beyond.

Millwarde hurried forward as quietly as he could; and learned the reason for the other's disappearance. He had passed through one of the vaulted ways the town boasts into another of its cobbled lanes― one that climbed steeply upward, and which was so placed that on one side the houses caught the moonlight while the others were in complete shadow. The lane was empty of pedestrians— save for M. Futrelle, who if he knew himself to be followed was at no pains to avoid his tracker, for he kept to the moonlit side of the street.

Millwarde himself chose the shadow, and had gone less than half-way up the hill when he saw the other turn and climb up some steps to a house that had some kind of lamp above its door; for even in the moonlight he could discern a splash of colour. He saw M. Futrelle enter, and after waiting a moment or two went forward up the hill till he reached the house with the lamp. The door was closed, a red curtain was drawn across the lighted window, and over the door was a sigh, newly painted and easy to read in the moonlight—

JACQUES LA FORTUNE,

Apothecaire.

Having considered the sign, he moved on a little way and found cover in a narrow gut between two high houses. The gut was black as pitch, hut it commanded the apothecary's shop; and while he stood there he meditated on the reason for M. Futrelle's visit to this little shop, which was plainly of an inferior class. It was not to be supposed, he thought, that the man had come here because he had the toothache or had the need of a lotion for the rheumatism. It was not exactly the kind of druggist that one so elegant as he would resort to for ordinary needs. Then what...

He had ample time for meditation on the problem. At least a quarter of an hour passed without any sign of M. Futrelle, and from the darkness where he stood he was still contemplating M. Jacques la Fortune's moonlit front, when a slight sound behind him made him turn swiftly; and the next moment he was fighting desperately for his life.

14

A Desperate Move

HANDS were at his throat, a knee jabbed upward at his body—and the jab hurt, half doubling him with pain. Then the surprise of the attack passed; his brain functioned coolly, and without attempting to loosen those choking hands he himself jabbed in turn, a right hand at his opponent's heart. He heard his assailant gasp; and mindful of the fact that in the narrow alley he was open to attack from both front and rear, he turned and managed to get his back to the wall. As he did so while flecks of fire leaped in the darkness before his eyes and the interrupted blood-flow brought a feeling that his head must burst, he jabbed again, and, taking a leaf from his opponent's book, kicked upward with his knee, savagely, with all the energy he could summon.

A grunt of pain came from the unseen man. The hands about his throat relaxed, and with a twist to the side he wrenched himself free. As he did so out of the darkness came a hoarse curse.

"Hell!"

He glimpsed his opponent for the first time— a mere shadow, with the eyes faintly luminous in the darkness. In the same moment he caught a click and stooped swiftly, like a fencer, with one hand touching the ground. There was a flash, in which he glimpsed a bearded face; almost simultaneously there was a subdued sound, the ping of a bullet over his head; and then he leaped forward, striking with his clenched fist with all the force he was capable of and with the weight of his body behind the blow.

In that narrow alley, which, even had his opponent been prepared, rendered a side-step impossible, he could scarcely miss. His fist found something hard. There was a clicking sound, like that of a smartly driven billiard ball coming into contact with another; and he heard a groan and a stumble, as the man before him crashed against the side of the alley and then fell to the ground. A sound of steps, of voices in the street behind him warned him that others were coming. They might be allies of the man he had floored; or mere dwellers in the street, who, aware of something unusual taking place, were coming to investigate. He did not know, and was in no mind to take the risk discovery might involve.

Without delay he leaped forward, running up the dark gut of the alley, and trampling on the fallen man as he went. He had no notion whither the alley led, but since his late opponent, whom he had seen enter a house on the opposite side of the street, had come down it he argued that there must be a way round somewhere. He heard voices shouting, a stumbling sound, which made him chuckle as he reflected that his assailant must be suffering a trampling; then unexpectedly the passage turned and he crashed against the wall, tried vainly to save himself, and tumbled down a flight of steps. As ne picked himself up. sorely bruised, he would nave cursed that fantastic place of alleys and tunnels and steps. But, however good his inclination, he had neither breath nor time to waste in so vain an exercise. He was still in darkness, but before him was a patch of moonlight like a white square of a chessboard; and made cautious by his fall he moved towards it a little gingerly. He reached it without mishap, found another lane-like street, which descended sharply, and hurried on between houses each with its flight of steps; The way was cobbled, bad for running on, but heaven be praised it was without any stairs down which to fall. At the far end it became suddenly dark, plunging between the houses into a way cut through the living rock, and following its windings, two minutes later he found himself in the main street.

So far as he could discover there was no pursuit, but he did not linger, following the downward way, he reached the station. There was no tram that would serve him for over an hour, and since at the moment he had no inclination to linger in the neighbourhood of Roquebrune, he went out to the road, found a mule track to the lower road, and there entered a tramcar which at a moderate rate carried him back to Monte Carlo. Descending, he looked carefully round to make sure that he had not been followed, then by devious ways he returned to his hotel.

There he bathed his throat, which was very sore from the squeezing it had undergone, and after rubbing in some embrocation and attending to one or two nasty bruises that he had suffered in the fall during his flight, he sought a quiet corner of the lounge and gave himself up to reflection on the events of the night.

One question worried him considerably. Had Futrelle recognised him cither while they struggled in the darkness of the narrow alley or previously when he had been trailing the man through the town? He hoped that it was not so, though now it was clear to him that the man must have been aware that he was being followed at least from the time when he had entered the tobacconist's shop. No doubt whatever the purchase of the cigar had been made in order to allow him to make sure that there was someone at his heels. But going over the way through the narrow streets, in his mind, he gradually reached the conviction that Futrelle could not possibly have recognised him. As far as possible he had clung to the shadows, and when he had crossed moonlit spaces the other had not been in sight. No doubt, he assured himself, Futrelle, becoming aware that he was followed, had made his savage attack, primarily with the object of discovering the identity of his shadower! And in that he had failed unless the flash of the pistol had helped him to the revelation.

But what had taken him to the drug shop of Jacques la Fortune in that out-of-the-way alley, when there was another and better chemist's shop in the main street, next door to the tobacconist's at which he had called? That puzzled him a little, till he remembered how he himself had been drugged in the restaurant at York, with a drug that was extraordinarily quick in its action. That possibly was the explanation. Futrelle could not obtain of any decent chemist the drugs which no doubt ho and the others used at times; but if La Fortune, with his mean-looking shop, was, as he suspected, the kind of man that may be found in many towns, who behind the mask of a reputable business conduct an illicit traffic, the visit was explained. Tomorrow, at any rate, he could inquire into the matter of the apothecary's reputation; but meanwhile for whom had Futrelle been purchasing drugs, as presumably he had been?

He could only guess the answer— for M. du Chastaigny. He recalled the haggard man with the sunken eyes whom he had seen in the Cure's garden. He was not a man in good health, obviously. A man who might have need of drugs, he reflected, having spent some years among the horrors of Cayenne; or again one who might he what he was because of too many drugs

That was a point to be kept in mind, and one on which it would be wise to warn Clotilde. If her father were resisting the wishes of those who most obviously were endeavouring to force him along a way that he viewed not merely with repugnance but with downright horror, it might well be that his will power might be broken down by some infernal drug. The sooner Clotilde was made aware of the possibility the better.

His thoughts passed to the girl herself, beset with care, moving certainly in the shadow of peril, and trying to deliver her father from the machinations of evil men.

His heart warmed to her, and a light of dreams came in his eyes. As soon as this business was through, sooner if she could be persuaded, he would take her away from the Villa Vento and—

His reverie was interrupted at that point by the entrance of Armitage and Radway. The latter's eyes had a brightness that proclaimed he brought news; and as he dropped into a chair, he spoke abruptly.

"There's a motor-boat!... Owned by Katusha."

"Ah."

"A long white thing, big as a small whale," explained Radway further. "I've seen it from afar. And in an hour's time I propose to make a nearer acquaintance with it."

"How did you find out?"

"Dancing attendance on the fair Russian. Went down to the harbour to meet her, and being ahead of time saw her land from it. Chaffed her on rivalling the millionaires of this coast of pleasure in her means of transport, and she owned up, being vainer than most of her sex. The boat's a beauty. Lines like a destroyer, with a little bridge and a stumpy mast that carries a wireless. If the engines are in keeping, she's a racer.... Naturally I overflowed in praise, and tried to cadge a cruise down the coast. It didn't come off— as desired, but I got a promise."

"A promise?'

"Of a joy-spin! Seems the Snow Queen —that's the name of the boat— is going into dock for repairs, and will be there until the 28th.

"The 28th," echoed Millwarde sharply.

"Yes. Day before the 29th, and day after the 27th. Thought the date might hit your eye."

"What do you think, Radway?"

"A blind!... Considering what we know. That date is altogether too convenient."

"Seems so!" agreed Millwarde. "But what on earth can they be going to do with such a craft?"

"Sail her on the sea. What!" grinned Armitage. "Appears pretty clear that this affair ends on the water."

Millwarde did not speak again for a moment, but was absorbed in thought, staring through the window at the moonlit sea.

"Such a boat," he said at last, "in conjunction with the new torpedo which we suppose du Chastaigny to have invented, is significant."

"To be used— tests and all that, hey?" said Armitage.

"Yes! That was in my mind. But if it is merely that there is no need for the inventor to be as worried as he is."

"Oh! he is?"

"Desperately, I know."

"Maybe he's afraid it will turn out a dud," said Armitage. "Natural anxiety and all that."

"No! That is not it. I have an idea that what is disturbing him is the use to which it may be put."

"Some piratical act, hey? Or the sale to some Power he doesn't approve of. The Grey Rat would sell the soul of his mother if it could be made a profitable transaction. Du Chastaigny's patriotism may have survived Devil's Island, you know."

"Possibly! But that gets us no further. And we have two days more in which to learn the secret. If we don't I have a feeling there will he some calamitous happening."

"That boat!" said Radway. "I'm going to give her the once over as I said. We may tumble on the secret there."

"Or over at Grimaldi," suggested Armitage. "Been across there yet, Millwarde?'"

"No! Tomorrow I'll run over."

"And tonight," laughed Radway; "I go for a swim by moonlight."

"Why a swim? A boat―"

"A swimmer may hang on to a craft to rest, if he is nearly petered out he may even board her till he gets his wind. A boat bas no such excuse, and is more noticeable in any ease."

Millwarde nodded understanding. "When do you start?"

"In an hour when things slacken down a bit. Tony here is going to act as safety boatman in case of need."

They talked for some time longer, and then Radway looked at his watch, and rose from his seat.

"Time to move, Tony."

"Suppose I come with you," suggested Millwarde, who at the moment felt that to remain inactive would be intolerable,

"No. no. Follow after, if you like. If in your company we run into any of that crowd the game would be blown. I suggest the Terrace. The Snow Queen's moored off the Casino, where the liners lie. You'll have a bird's-eye view almost in this light, knowing what to look for. You can't miss picking out the boat—a white thing in the moonshine."

Millwarde nodded, and a quarter of an hour after the pair had departed made his way to the Terrace. The night was pleasantly warm, the moonlight on the sea was attractive, and there were many paraders, podgy and thrifty men shunning the temptations of the Casino only to encounter new ones in the daughters of Cytherea, elegant rand beautiful; honeymooners with eyes for none but themselves; lovers of a night; tourists proclaiming themselves such by the keenness of their interest; a few hawks of the international type looking for pigeons to pluck; stout bourgeoisie and their wives, whose pursuit of pleasure in that place of gaiety was like that of elephants chasing a butterfly.

For none of them did Millwarde spare a glance. Standing apart, his eyes went to the moonlit sea. A small liner lay off the Casino, a silhouette of darkness on the shimmering water. A pleasure yacht, white sails spread, was moving slowly to its moorings; and one or two small boats were dark blots in the shimmering water. Presently he found the craft he sought, its white hull reflecting the moonlight; and but for its single mast like a graceful seabird on the shining bosom of the sea.

His gaze came to nearer things— the small craft moving slowly by, each no doubt with, youth and love at prow and helm. Then he found what he wanted: a boat that from the fact that it moved steadily seaward had apparently a definite objective.

"There!"

As his mind shaped the word his eyes fixed themselves upon that boat in a steady gaze, and presently made out the two men in her. He followed her course for a minute or two, until she was more than half-way to that long white boat with the single stumpy mast; then for a moment his eyes turned elsewhere, and when next he looked at her there was but one man visible in her.

Knowing what to look for his eyes went to the moonlit water between the skiff and the Snow Queen. It was all a-ripple in the moonlight, but his alert eyes caught a ripple that was more pronounced, the occasional gleam of a wet white arm and, where that accentuated ripple was, a little dark blob which he knew was Radway's head.

He watched the swimmer's course intently, noting at the same time that the boat from which he had slipped had fallen away a little, and was now practically motionless upon the water. The swimming man was drawing nearer the white motor-craft. Two minutes more and he would reach it, thought Millwarde, and possibly learn the secret to preserve which Shuyler had been shot so ruthlessly. He hoped it might be so; and then heard two people come to a standstill almost at his side. He took no notice of them, being absorbed in Radway's progression; but suddenly he stiffened as he heard a woman's voice exclaim:—

"Tiens! There is one there who swims in the moonlight!" He recognised the voice instantly for that of Katusha Pavlovna. With a foreboding that things were not to run so smoothly as had seemed likely a moment or two before, he waited tensely for what might follow, making no movement except to pull the brim of his soft hat well down over his face. A man's laugh sounded, and a masculine voice answered in French:

"Some fool swimming for a wager no doubt!"

"Gaston!"

Millwarde's mind registered the fact, and with mounting anxiety he waited. If that -pair almost at his shoulder continued to watch, having their own reasons for being interested in the Snow Queen, they might tumble to the truth. He dare not turn round; it seemed advisable that he should remain where he was until he was sure that Radway's purpose was not suspected: and he almost prayed that the pair would move on. But they did not do so, and, whilst keeping his ears open, he watched the dark blob on the water that .was the swimmer's head. It was now quite near the motor-craft, and to anyone who was watching it must have been obvious where the swimming man was making for. The woman spoke again with an accent of sharp conviction.

"Gaston, that man makes for the Snow Queen."

The man to whom she spoke laughed easily, plainly not perturbed,.

"A swimmer's mark, you comprehend, Katusha. He will swim round it, and presently you will see him return. There are fools who thus waste their strength. There! what said I?. The man goes round the boat."

Radway's head had vanished. There was no longer the accentuated ripple on the water. Nothing broke the shimmer in the neighbourhood of the boat. With his heart beating a very tattoo, Millwarde waited, watching that white boat with almost painful interest. Knowing Louis Radway, he Was certain that, the American, once he was assured that there was no one on the white motor-boat, would board her. In which case with the pair at his shoulder watching there would be grave trouble.

A minute or two passed very slowly. Millwarde visioned the swimming man moving round the boat, but a second later his heart almost stood still. On that shining white deck a figure had suddenly appeared. "Swam round to put the boat between him and the beach," thought Millwarde, and in view of the pair at his shoulder could have laughed at the irony of that precaution,

"Diable!" cried the man's voice hoarsely, "you were right, Katusha, the man boards our vessel."

"But who can it be!" asked the woman, a sharp edge of suspicion in her tones. "And what wants he?"

"Dieu! How should I know? A spy for certain. Come, we will take him red-handed!"

There was a sound of hurrying feet, and after a moment Millwarde looked round. The pair were hurrying— almost running― between the strollers on the terrace. He thought quickly what he must do, but could think of no project that would be of any use to Radway. Before he could secure a boat, that running pair who, no doubt, had a dinghy to hand somewhere, would be on the water. There was nothing that he could do, but helplessly watch the course of events.

He hoped that Radway would not remain long upon the white boat. If he left her before that pair got afloat there would be a good chance of his getting away without his identity being discovered. At first he could see his friend moving about on the deck, but while he watched Radway passed out of sight.

"Trying the cabins'" he thought. "They will be locked. If he wastes time―"

He looked for Tony Armitage, and experienced a little relief when he saw the latter had taken his boat nearer the Snow Queen. No doubt Tony was watching, and would give the alarm in case of need; in which event a plunge and a few strokes would bring Radway to his side. A few minutes went by, and his anxiety mounted. Radway had not reappeared; Armitage's boat was now close beside the motor-boat; and still, there was no sign of the pair who had hurried along the Terrace. Had they had some difficulty in procuring the boat they would need?

Through the lapping of the water, the music of the neighbouring orchestra, and the steady patter of feet came a faint chugging sound, which he recognised instantly for what it was. He stared in the direction whence it came, and saw a small launch racing along, throwing plumes of water from her bows. He could not see who was in the launch; but not for a moment did he doubt; and he stood staring anxiously at the Snow Queen. There was no sign of, Radway, apparently he was still busy investigating below deck.

He turned to the rowing boat again. Would Tony never realise what was happening? Did he not see that racing launch?! His anxiety mounted to fever pitch. If i there were anything upon that white boat to be kept secret, then if he were caught there Radway was doomed. Gaston and the woman would be as ruthless as Fritz Hermann himself. The former would shoot Radway out of hand— an easy thing to do, unobserved, if they caught him below deck; and even if the thing were done openly in the night of anyone who like himself might be watching, though without his understanding of the drama, there was justification. Radway would be proclaimed a thief— perhaps a desperate one — and the law would not be severe with the man who shot in such circumstances.

He looked at the launch again. It was now more than half-way towards the Snow Queen, racing at a high speed; and Tony was strangely unaware of it.

"No, by heaven―"

The rowing-boat had swirled suddenly. Armitage was driving it towards the Snow Queen with powerful strokes. He had almost reached the motor-craft when a figure appeared on deck.

"Radway at last! Thank God."

For a second he saw Radway poised on the side of the white boat, and caught the splash of silver as he dived. A moment later his head came into view, and Armitage drove the boat towards the swimmer, then as they drew together steadied it while his friend climbed over the stern. A few seconds later the skiff moved on again.

"Done!" whispered Millwarde to him self, drawing a deep breath of relief.

He looked at the launch, and found cause for new anxiety. It was no longer racing for the Snow Queen. No doubt those aboard her had observed all that he himself had seen; and now the launch was running directly for the skiff. In a flash he understood. Those aboard her meant to run the rowing-boat down. At the speed at which they were travelling no one with oars could hope to manoeuvre to safety, and the launch would be like a projectile that would cut the smaller boat in two.

That Armitage and Radway were aware of their peril he did not doubt, for the skiff was being driven with strong strokes toward the other small craft in the neighbourhood, as a rabbit pursued by a stoat seeks the company of its kind, no doubt with the idea that the presence of others would divert those in the launch from their murderous purpose.

The move was a vain one. The nearest small boat was yet some distance away when the launch, driven at topmost speed, fairly flung itself at its prey. But a second before it struck, the two men in the boat dived overside and were deep in the water when the impact came, smashing their boat to kindling wood.

Millwarde saw them go. and held his breath for what was to follow. That those in the launch were quite baulked he did not believe. Some way they would finish what they had begun. He watched with straining eyes, expecting to see the launch dart forward again; but it remained where it was, and whilst across the water came the clamour of voices of those who had seen what to them was the accident, he began hurriedly to search the shimmering water for any sign of his friends.

15

A Startling Question

THE TWO men came up almost together, their heads like bobbing corks in the moonlight; and he saw them strike out, swimming side by side, apparently quite unhurt. Reassured, his eyes turned again to the launch. It was still stationary, and he experienced a tremendous surge of relief as it was borne upon him that it was unable to move by its own power; that in some way the tremendous impact of the collision had jarred its machinery out of gear.

Whilst he watched, a sweep was thrust overboard, confirming his conclusion. The launch began to move slowly enough; but by this time other boats were nearing his friends, and immediate risks were over; for whilst the swarthy-faced Gaston with a chance to run would no doubt have emulated Fritz Hermann's savage deed in Piccadilly, he would not take the risk when all chance of running was denied him.

The strollers on the Terrace had mostly halted, and were watching the rescue with the excitement of those who welcome any diversion, and offering heated comment.

"It was criminal— absolutely criminal!" said an English voice. "I saw the whole thing. Those fools in the launch simply hurtled straight ahead like a destroyer going into action. They ought to be gaoled."

"But what is der matter?" asked a second voice, at the sound of which Millwarde almost jumped. "I did not see der ding."

"I saw the whole of it," explained the Englishman volubly. "A man dived off that white craft lying out there, and swam to a skiff which picked him up. Then the launch came along tearing like blazes. It simply ran the skiff down— ran it down as if it had been a piece of stick in the water. The man aboard the launch couldn't help but see the row boat, and they must have been clean crazy or have lost control. Anyway, they've suffered in the smash-up by the look of things, and it serves than jolly well right. I hope their blessed engine is dislocated beyond repair."

Again came the sound of the German voice, still seeking information.

"You say dat der man who was picked up dived from der white boat out dere?"

"Yes! Saw the whole thing, he—"

"But vat for did he dive into der water for der oder boat to pick him up?"

"You'll have to ask him that," laughed the Englishman, and Millwarde, without waiting to hear more, slipped away.

He made no attempt to meet his friends, being very certain that Fritz Hermann would do that in order to discover who had left the Snow Queen in such fashion; and desiring at all costs to escape notice. Leaving the Terrace, he found a taxi, and driving straight to his hotel waited with what patience he could summon for the appearance of his friends. He was certain that they would come; but when an hour passed without their appearance he began to grow anxious, had some untoward thing occurred? Fritz Hermann had an iron nerve. He was capable of the most desperate action, and if on seeing Radway and Armitage he had felt cause for fear, there was no anticipating what reckless action he might have taken.

Another half hour passed, and his anxiety was deepened to positive apprehension when from the hall came the sound of Tony Armitage's laughter. He drew a breath of relief.

"Safe! Thank heaven."

The pair entered the lounge together, spruce as men newly valeted, bearing no trace of their late adventure. Millwarde waved a hand towards the whisky and bottled waters beside the glasses on the table.

"Help yourselves.''

They did so, and after the first drink Tony Armitage met his friend's eyes and laughed.

"Well, Hughie?"

"I saw it all—or as much as could be seen from the Terrace."

"Yes! Somebody on that launch had a nerve. They came for us like a charging rhinoceros."

"Suffering Job! Yes!" said Radway feelingly. "I'd give a dollar to know who they were."

"I'll collect the dollar!" answered Millwarde with a laugh. "Gaston and Katusha Pavlovna were the crew or I'm a Dutchman."

"How d'you know?"

Millwarde explained, and then asked, "See anything of Fritz Hermann when you landed ?"

"No! There was a bit of a pack. You know the kind of thing that happens after a street accident, when the empty-headed and the curious get round and gape―"

"On this occasion I will warrant that Fritz was among the gapers. He was on the Terrace and he was interested. He will have you pigeon-holed now. I fancy you'll go to no more dansants with Katusha, Radway."

The American laughed. "I should bet against it myself— heavily. If Fritz saw us he'll talk to the woman, and she'll tumble to the truth. For the matter of that, if she was one of the complement of the launch she may have seen us. The moonlight was quite brilliant out on the water. Guess that Tony and I will change our hotel in the morning. If the veil of secrecy is gone and Katusha suspects she's been played like a fish on a line, her neighbourhood will be about as safe as that of a healthy tigress."

"Less so, I should think," said Millwarde, and then asked a question: "Find anything, Louis?"

"Yes. First, that boat is in the top class. If I know anything there's nothing in these waters to touch her, when she's going all out! I didn't get into the cabins, but there's a sort of long saloon with ornamental frosted panes in the door. The ornament is in clear glass, you know the sort of thing. I was able to squint through it."

He broke off and took a gulp of whisky, then continued: "I found it interesting. Inside there was something on trestles covered with a big dust-sheet, sort of thing you use on cars, half the length of the saloon. Don't know what it was. Might be a torpedo, though."

"What makes you think that?"

"Shape, and all that. Another thing, on the starboard side of that boat, close to the bows and pretty low down, there's an unglazed porthole, screwed down, and painted white same as the hull. Might accommodate a torpedo-tube. I don't know! May be just a riotous imagination working on that idea of du Chastaigny's invention, or it, may be a cold fact. I should have got into that saloon somehow if Tony hadn't given me the office that it was time to clear out... worth keeping in mind, too, that the port I mentioned must open into the saloon. I noted that carefully."

"If it is a torpedo— they're evidently going to try it out," said Millwarde thoughtfully.

"Yes! But what sort of a trial? May be a dummy, of course. You can't run one with the war head on round here, without considerable risk."

'No-o." Millwarde's tone contradicted the word, and Radway interpreted promptly.

"Meaning that you can, hey? Well, I'll own those guys are game enough to try. Maybe they've an old hulk somewhere about that they're going to use for a target. Might find out by taking a look round."

'Yes," answered Millwarde. "That might explain it; but somehow I can't help feeling that the matter is not so simple as that."

"No! Fritz and the Grey Rat don't run to the obvious. Guess we've just got to keep that white boat in sight, then we'll learn what they're after. Philandering with Katusha being strictly o-p-h, I'll hire a launch. in the morning and cruise in the offing, hey?"

"It might be wise."

"Only thing that I can see. If Fritz was among the hero-worshippers who saw Tony and me land, he'll have our description for Katusha to recognise, and you can wager it won't take long for him to smell a rat in the wine cask. I shall have to keep out of his way; and the launch will be the best means for doing that. Tony, here, can keep an eye on the enemies' land forces, maybe; and you maybe can watch du Chastaigny. If he should move from Roquebrune―"

"I shall have word," interrupted Millwarde confidently, without offering any exclamation of how the word would reach him.

"Then things should be O.K. If that Snow Queen moves off, I follow. Tony, here, watches Gaston and that lanky hound of a guy he hunts with, and you Keep in touch with du Chastaigny... Don't see, then, how they can got away with any condemned scheme without us having early news."

"No. Any concentration of Forces would be noticeable; and there is always Grimaldi. That's the final rendezvous of the scoundrels for certain.... If we only knew exactly what to look for!"

"We don't. But all of us have hauled needles out of haystacks before, and with less to go on than we have here, I guess,"

Radway chuckled. "In a way that white boat is a godsend. It's a noticeable craft, and can't go far without being spotted by someone, even if I should miss it in the launch I'm going to hire or commandeer. We shall be able to keep track, right enough, through that craft."

"Yes," agreed Millwarde.

They discussed for some time longer, and then quite late Radway and Armitage departed for their hotel. Millwarde, himself, though very tired, after they had gone, sat staring at the moonlit sea, and trying to fathom the mystery which confronted him, but all in vain, and finally, finding himself nodding, went off to bed, with a hope that perhaps the morning would bring some solution.

His hope was not realised, but he was wakened quite early by a chambermaid who brought the information that a gentleman wished to see him immediately on important business.

"You bring the name?" he asked quickly.

"Yes, messieurs. It is M. Radway."

"Bring him up," he answered promptly, wondering what could have dragged the visitor from his bed at this early hour. When Radway entered the bedroom, without any preamble he broke out:

"It is gone!"

"Gone?"

"Scooted, fled, folded its tent like the Arabs and silently stole away."

"What the deuce are yon talking about, Radway?"

"The Snow Queen. She left at dawn, and those two beauties at the Hermitage have gone also. Only Katusha remains."

Millwarde whistled thoughtfully, then asked, "When did you find out?"

"Half an hour ago. Went down to the

I Terrace for a breather and missed her at once. Got the news of her going from a fellow working on the Terrace. She has gone east from his account; and I'm going to look for her as soon as I can charter a launch."

"Seems to be the only thing."

"Tony will remain. He's not entangled with the fair Russian as I am"— he laughed cheerfully—" and will be able to watch her with— er— detachment."

"Yes."

"Thought you'd initial the plan. Communicate here, I suppose. Yes!... Well, I'll be going. May take a little time to pick up the sort of launch I want."

"That boat—" began Millwarde slowly.

"Yes?"

"It must be found, Radway."

"Poof! I know that! I'm going to find her, don't worry. Just the sort of job I like— nosing down a coast with a good launch. I've done it before."

"You'll be cautious, old man. After last night "

"Cautious!" Radway laughed. "'After last night,' as you say, this little voyage will be a rest cure. So long."

"So long, and good hunting."

Radway went his way, and Millwarde rose and dressed, and over his coffee reflected on the new development, which he found a disturbing one. If the Snow Queen had remained under the direct observation of himself or his friends there would have been some chance of learning to what end she was to be used. At least her comings and goings would have been watched; and any activity that might any way be linked to Shuyler's legacy of mystery countered. But now it was another horse altogether.

She had gone out into the blue, to an unknown destination, which might be merely one of the Italian ports or as far away as the African coasts which such a boat could easily make. The one bright spot was that the Russian woman remained at the "Hermitage." Whatever was in the air, it was certain that she would be in at the finish; and till she moved nothing was likely to happen; and there was still a day before the 27th. After reflection he went to the telephone and gave Armitage instructions to shadow the woman closely; and if she left Monte Carlo by road or sea to follow her at all costs; and report the destination to him, for it seemed a certainty that she would eventually go off to join her confederates in the Snow Queen.

Later, he took the tramway along the lower road, and by mule track and steps climbed up to Roquebrune. There a second time he called on the tobacconist, and purchased cigarettes, and indulged in gossip,: presently leading the conversation in the direction that he wanted it to take.

"Le pharmacien, your neighbour, he is perhaps the only one in Roquebrune?"

"No. m'sieur, there are three others— in a smaller way."

"Ah! That explains. I was puzzled by the name over the door, for I had heard of another with a name that takes the ear― Jacques la Fortune."

The look on the tobacconist's face told him what he wanted to know; and a moment later the man's words confirmed what his face had revealed.

"A man of ill repute, m'sieur! A secret trafficker in forbidden drugs, they say. I do not know. But more than once the police have been to his little shop when there has been trouble in Roquebrune. M'sieur comprehends? It is not wise for a man with a reputation to maintain to buy his pills from Jacques la Fortune."

Millwarde comprehended, and said so; and the gossip expanded.

"A few months ago at La Turbie there was tragedy. A pretty mademoiselle who had lost much money at the Casino forged a cheque taken from the book of a rich aunt with whom she liked— her benefactor, M'sieur comprehends? The rich lady discovered the forgery and there was great trouble, so great that one fine morning the aunt was found in bed— dead, murdered by poison. The poison was an unusual one. In two days the traces of it would have vanished, evaporated, and nothing could have been proved. But the police had heard of that cheque, and there was le autopsie on the same day; and the poison was found, and traced in the end to Jacques la Fortune's mean shop. But he swore that it had been stolen, and as there were supporting circumstances, he was believed, and escaped the prison. But what, I ask you, m'sieur, was la Fortune doing with a rare poison in a little shop in Roquebrune?"

"What, indeed? echoed Millwarde. "A suspicious character, apparently."

''One whose shop is to be avoided, if M'sieur values his good name."

Millwarde agreed, and promptly took his way to the little shop with the coloured lamp and the red curtains, which were drawn at night, when probably la Fortune's business was most brisk. He did not find the place easily, losing his way twice in the winding alleys; and stumbled upon it at last almost by accident. It was not an attractive-looking place, grubby the red curtains as seen by daylight faded and begrimed; the paint on windows and doors blistered by the sun and peeling in places, with only the signboard clean and newly painted, possibly that his surreptitious clientele should not pass the shop by. Millwarde reconnoitred it from the place where he had sought shelter on the previous night, unaware at first that he himself was under observation, the revelation of that fact coming to him when he saw a curtain at an upper window blinking. Then he walked a little way up the street, crossed, and, returning, mounted the steps and entered the little shop.

A bell tinkled at his entrance, and an elderly man, who walked shufflingly in down-at-heel slippers, came from a room at the back of the shop— a bearded man, much wrinkled, with sly eyes. As those eyes fell on Millwarde for one moment there was a flash in them which told him that here was the one who had watched him from behind the curtain at the upper window. So much the better, he thought. No doubt the fellow's mind was jumping with curiosity, and possibly disturbed by the vague fear which stands always in the background with those who engage in nefarious trades, and which might make it possible to stampede him into some admission.

"Bonjour, m'sieur!" said the apothecaire, speaking like a man with an asthma, and stood waiting his customer's pleasure.

"Bonjour!" replied Millwarde, and looked round the shop curiously, without stating his business.

A cunning look came in the sly eyes as their owner watched this taciturn customer, and as they took in his style the cunning look became a gleam of covetousness. Millwarde, still staring round the shop, noted both, particularly the latter, and thought to himself that here was the keyhole which fitted with the right key might open the door of secrets, but he did not speak. Doubtless the apothecaire was used to tongue-tied customers, and to others who did not find it easy to explain their requirements, for he broke the silence with wheezy encouragement.

"M'sieur requires medicine?"

"No! not medicine." answered Millwarde shortly.

"Ah!" The word was a revelation. It proclaims complete understanding. If monsieur did not require medicine no doubt whatever that it was the more profitable side of the business on which demands were to be made. The sly eyes beamed. The man rubbed his hands; then he chuckled.

"Declare your requirements without fear, m'sieur. These walls, unlike others, have no ears. Doubtless M'sieur's business is confidential."

"Very," answered Millwarde, and producing his wallet, took from it five hundred-franc notes, and arranged them in a line on the little counter.

Then he looked at the apothecaire. The man's sly eyes were fixed upon the notes. There was cupidity in every line of the wrinkled face. Millwarde told himself that he had the man's measure exactly, and waited until the other's gaze was lifted to meet his own smiling eyes.

"Yes?" said the master of the shop, wheezingly. "Yes, m'sieur?"

"Last night you had a client, a grey bearded man whom, since this conversation is confidential, we will call Monsieur X. That there may be no mistake, I will say that he passed through your shop and out of a rear door. You recognise the man I mean?"

He knew there was no question of that. The sly eyes had a flash of fear, the whole face betrayed the man's trouble.

"But M'sieur is mistaken." he said hurriedly.. "I had no such client."

"I am not mistaken, Monsieur la Fortune. I saw the man enter, and as he came out without repassing your door there can be no question of what I say."

"Some other place near by, perhaps," began the man.

"No other place. It was here. But since you deny—"

Millwarde broke off and began to gather up the notes. At that the money-hunger betrayed itself in the man's eyes again. He stretched a hand as if to check Millwarde's action, then he said quickly:

"Wait, m'sieur, maybe I shall recall the man."

Millwarde waited, and after a moment's consideration the apothecaire said tentatively: "M'sieur is of the Prefecture, perhaps?"

Millwarde flicked the notes. "Would the Prefet de Police pay you for information, my friend?"

It was sufficient answer, and the apothecaire, with his eyes on the notes,  made his decision.

"I remember M'sieur X. If M'sieur will explain what is needed, and I am assured that the matter is sccret—"

"As secret as the dead," interrupted Millwarde. "Have no fear. Neither Monsieur X nor the police will hear of the matter from me. Monsieur X came here to make, a purchase?"

"That is correct, m'sieur. He needed an Eastern drug that is not easy to attain."

"So! you will explain to me the propertics of that drug, please."

"They are twofold," answered the apothecaire. "At first it produces a sense of well-being; but the effect of its continual use is to predispose a man to take always the way that is easiest."

"You mean it destroys the will power."

"More surely than alcohol or even cocaine. A score of doses and a man is a puppet."

"So!" Millwarde, having guessed the nature of Futrelle's errand the previous night, was not surprised. He reflected a moment, and then asked: "You have sold Monsieur X this preparation previously to last night?"

"But yes, m'sieur, several times. M'sieur X is an old client, you comprehend, and one whom I could not afford to offend by a refusal."

"Dare not―" translated Millwarde in his own mind, then he asked sharply: "There is an antidote to this drug— I mean one that would counteract its effects if a man still continued to take the drug."

"None that would counteract them altogether unless its use ceased," answered la Fortune, and then added thoughtfully, "But they might be weakened by a certain mixtion I could prepare."

"Then you will prepare it, and make it tasteless as you can. At once."

The apothecaire wasted no time, but set about his task at once, measuring from small phials which he took from a locked drawer, and once dissolving some powder in alcohol. At the end of a quarter of an hour, he set a bottle down on tbc counter containing a mixture that was slightly milky, and then with his eyes on the notes, he grinned and let himself go.

"That will do the trick, m'sieur; and in the matter of the drug I sold him put M'sieur X's nose off his face. The money is mine?"

"Yes: but if I  find you have dealt crookedly with me in the matter of the mixtion you will have Monsieur X to deal with."

There was a flash of fear in the man's eyes. "M'sieur would not inform after―" he began cringingly, and then broke off, and spoke with evident sincerity. "But there is no need for threats. The mixture will serve; though if M'sieur could keep the drug of M'sieur X's from the patient it would serve better— much better."

"That may not be possible, but I will try.... You may take up the money now."

The apothecaire gathered it up avidly, and Millwarde took up the bottle, and looked at it.

"There are no directions for taking," he commented.

"In liquid at each meal," said the other quickly. "If M'sieur proposed to administer it to the patient surreptitiously―"

"I do."

"Then there is no better way. It is tasteless in wine or coffee."

"Thank you! You will not inform Monsieur X of my visit."

"M'sieur!" There was a protest in the word; then the man added: "I am no fool, nor yet a Judas."

As he took his way up the winding street, Millwarde, reflecting, had his own opinion on the apothecaire's estimate of himself, but was fairly sure that self-interest would make him hold his tongue. Plainly the fellow stood in fear of Futrelle; and since there was no need to speak would avoid doing so; and having reached that conclusion, he gave his mind to the problem of getting the antidote to Clotilde, and explaining the necessity for its use. Recalling her father's ravaged face and his manifest depression it was not difficult to believe what he had conjectured last night from Futrelle's visit to the druggist, and the  latter's account of the commodity he had purchased, that du Chastaigny was secretly or openly being drugged. Which? he wondered, and a quarter of an hour later learned the truth.

With an idea that he might meet the man himself, he made his way to the church and to the garden where du Chastaigny resorted. He was not there, but as he seated himself on the shady bench with its distant view of the sea, the Curé appeared, smiling.

"Bonjour monsieur! You return to my Garden of Peace."

"Yes," answered Millwarde, "but this morning I come seeking the man of whom we talked the other day."

"Ah; that poor soul. You are too late, monsieur. Already he has been here— for the last time, he said, for an hour ago he left Roquebrune."

Millwarde was profoundly disturbed by the news; but gave no sign of being so, and asked quietly enough:

"So, monsieur, he gave you his confidence at the last then?"

The priest shook his head smilingly; then the smile faded and a grave look came in his candid eyes.

"You have more than a stranger's interest in the man?" he challenged in a sharper tone than Millwarde would have thought possible in one so obviously of simple and gentle nature.

That tone was informing. There was something on the Curé's mind, something that troubled him, and which perhaps he might confide to a friend of M. du Chastaigny's. Millwarde determined to be frank with him, and win that confidence.

"You guess rightly, Father. He has a charming daughter whom I hope to bring to your little church one fine morning that you may marry us."

"Tiens!" The word expressed a surprise that was better revealed by the Curé's face.

Millwarde smiled and continued. "The man of whom we speak of has not been informed of that yet, you understand, M. le Curé, but it is the truth."

The priest looked at him with trouble iu his candid eyes, and was quite evidently in two minds. Millwarde waited, then the other broke out: "Monsieur, since you are to enter into that relationship, perhaps I may confide in you."

"Certainly, Father."

"It is, first, that I have discovered the man is a drug taker."

"That I know already," replied Millwarde quietly, "and perhaps he has his excuses. But how did you learn?"

"When we were talking I saw his arm while he rubbed up his sleeve as if something irritated him. The marks of the needle were there—with the little stain of iodine to obviate any poisoning. I have seen such marks before, and I recognised them for what they were, monsieur."

Millwarde nodded. He knew now that while Futrelle supplied the drug, M. du Chastaigny must administer it himself, though heaven knew under what fond misapprehension.

"An unhappy thing." he commented.

"But that is hot all, monsieur.. Do you know if his mind is affected? Those unhappy ones who take noxious drugs suffer often that way."

"I do not know. It is possible, apart from the drug. He has suffered much and endured terrible trouble for a sin that I ain convinced was not his."

"So!... Monsieur, I shall tell you for his sake, as for that of the charming mademoiselle you are to marry.... But I am not breaking the seal of the confessional, you comprehend. Nothing like that, no! . But this morning, while we talked here on this bench, the man asked me a question so strange—that to me it seemed it could only be the fruit of a disordered mind.

"Tell, me," said Millwarde, earnestly urgent.

"Monsieur, the thing he asked me as a priest, mark you, but not in the confessional, was whether a man would he justified in taking five lives and his own, if by such an act he saved the lives of thousands?... A madman's question, surely, monsieur, for how could such a thing be?"

For a moment Millwarde was dumb. He stared at the priest with startled eyes, while a. score of questions flashed through his mind, then he broke out hoarsely:

"He asked you that, Father? He asked you that mad thing?"

16

Developments

"IN no more words than that, monsieur... A mad question, as you say, and one that could, come only, from a tottering mind."

"And you replied— what?" asked Millwarde sharply. ,

"Monsieur, heaven pardon me! I am not the Almighty— the All-knowing! From a sane man such a question seriously asked would be too big for me; from a man crazed with drugs, perhaps, and broken, with sorrow—it did not require a direct answer. I answered that such a question was too improbable for consideration, and the alternatives too wicked for any decision of .mine. But he had a reply for that. The hoary one about a choice of evils, to which there is no reply but his own that will satisfy one who thinks that is the only choice.... Then he left the question, smiling as u lost soul might smile... But when he departed, monsieur, he gave me a handsome sum to say masses for his soul, soon to he in purgatory, which he said was nothing to one that had already waded naked through hell. Which is the remark of one wholly mad."

"It is well not to be oversure," said Millwarde quietly. "You say he has already gone from Roquebrune?"

"Yes. He went towards the station from here."

"How long ago?"

"It was just after matins. I found him here when I came from the church to take the view as my custom is— say three, no four, hours ago."

"He did not tell you of his destination?"

"No, monsieur, but as he left my little garden he had the look of one who hears death's wings about him; and there against the roses he. knelt for my blessing. When he rose, he thanked me, then he clicked heels like any soldier, made the salute, and with a kind of mockery gave me the gladiators' cry in the old tongue— 'Ave Caesar, morituri te salutant!' An ironical gesture "

"My God, no!" whispered Millwarde, rising swiftly.

The Cure looked at him in swift apprehension.

"Monsieur," he began agitatedly. 'You think... you think―"

"I do not know what I think, good Father. But that man is in deep waters. Maybe that ironical gesture as you call it was as sincere as truth."

"You think he went forth to... to die?" quavered the priest.

"It is probable "

"God forgive me. And I let him go! But how could I know? Those who have the devil's hunger for drugs "

"You could not know. I, who know more than I have told you, have never thought of that possibility.... You will excuse me. I must go at once."

He went without further delay, hurrying through the town at a pace which made the inhabitants of Roquebrune stare. He left the town behind and faced the hill.

When the Villa Vento came in right he broke into a run, but before he reached its closed gate he knew his journey was in vain, for the jalousies were dosed; and when he climbed the slope to get a view of the verandah, he saw the lower windows were all shuttered.

But even then he must make more certain. Going back he tried the gate. It was locked. Then he walked straight along the wall until he came to a place when an active man might climb it. He went up it, and dropping in the garden, walked straight to the main entrance. There was a bell-push there, and he act his thumb upon it hard, and kept it there for quite a long time. There was a whirring in the depths of the house that would have wakened the Seven Sleepers, but which brought no response. He walked round the house, past the shuttered windows, until he came to a side door on which he hammered until certain that the house was really empty. Then he ran back across the garden to the terrace, dropped over the balustraded wall, and raced back to the town. Passing through the small Place he took the steps to the station and there in something of a sweat he interviewed all the officials he could find.

A sick man of haggard face, grey-haired, with eyes of slatey-blue, and much bowed at the shoulders, who had left by train three or four hours ago, possibly with a charming young lady for companion. So his description ran, and was listened to with extreme politeness by all to whom he gave it, but at the end there was the shaking head.

"No monsieur, but that is nothing. At this season there are many passengers, and sick men are plentiful, while charming young ladies—" A smiling gesture indicated no scarcity of the commodity, and in despair Millwarde gave up questioning at last and took the next train to Monte Carlo, consumed with anxiety for Clotilde more than for that stricken man, her father.

The latter, as he read the situation, had found some desperate way out of the thing into which he was being thrust by that genial scoundrel Futrelle and the iron-faced Fritz— the old way of Samson at Gaza. Rather than lend himself to the unknown design to which they were forcing him he meant to. destroy both his enemies and himself. And Clotilde? Millwarde grew cold as he asked himself , the question. If she were with him, as was almost certain, she might be involved in whatever holocaust he had planned, whether with the cunning of the insane, or with the cold sanity of one who knows that he has reached a dead end.

He was burdened with apprehension as he thought of the possibilities. Clotilde would not desert her father. She would be too alert to be left behind. Consumed with anxiety as she was, little-short of violence would drive her from his side. And if the man's purpose held—. But would it hold? His hand felt the hardness of la Fortune's bottle in his pocket, the contents of which were to have been an antidote to that weakening drug. Was that scheme, hinted to the Curé,-one that with Futrelle and Hermann to dominate his slackened volition he would still carry through; or would he at the last moment take the easiest way: of obedience to those masterful rogues?

He did not know; he could not even conjecture. He had seen a drug-addict who one moment had been in a darning passion of self-assertion, cowering like a whipped dog a minute after. Was that scene in the Curé's garden a mere piece de theatre, or was the man's will really keyed up to some dramatic and not unheroic end to all his troubles? He thrust the question aside with fierce impatience. Du Chastaigny himself and the wolves who harried him were nothing. The first he could think of with pity, the latter could go to the hell that flamed for them. What mattered to him supremely at that moment was Clotilde; he must find her, must save her before it was too late. And he had but one hope—her promise to communicate with him in case of need or of a move from the Villa Vento. Perhaps already. at his hotel there was a letter!

That hope buoyed him until he reached the "Pavia," where it broke down. In answer to; his eager inquiry he was told, "No, there was no letter, no telegrams, nor had there been any telephone message.

With that he almost touched, despair, and stood for a long time at the window spring with bleak eyes at the deep blue of the Mediterranean, with the white yachts upon it like great seabirds. Farther away there were other craft, which by their grim outlines against the sky were ships-of-war, probably of France or Italy, he thought in a mental aside while he fought, back the hopelessness which for the moment had him in its grip.

There was, he told himself, a chance that he might yet hear from Clotilde. Four hours, after all, were but a short time, and posts, were not as prompt as in England. Perhaps when she arrived at whatever destination her father was making for she would write or telegraph, and. by evening, or at the latest tomorrow morning, he would know where she was, and possibly learn clearly the meaning of the flight from Roquebrune.

He stared from the window, a long time after that, with many troubling thoughts racing through his mind, and was still staring when an Englishman whose acquaintance he had made in the hotel entered the room, and approaching the window, nodded in the direction of the warships which Millwarde had observed.

"Italian!" he commented. "The Duce's practical expression of his doctrine 'Our future is on the sea.' Don't know that I think much of the Italians either as warriors or sailors. It's all right for the Fascists to march vaingloriously and crow like a cock on a dung heap. They've no one to oppose them— or if they have they overwhelm them by crowds.

Millwarde, who at the moment was not particularly interested in the flag-waving Fascist enthusiasts, nodded absently and strove to follow his own thoughts. His acquaintance observed no lack of interest and continued unperturbed. "Shouting is all right in peace time, and when you've got the other fellow under your feet same as the Fascists have the opposition crowd. But it doesn't win battles; nor make up for real grit and stamina. You've heard the tale how during the war the Italians just scooted—"

"Yes!" interrupted Millwarde, having no desire to hear that tale again.

"Well, that shows 'em up. doesn't it? Any popinjay can shout, but it takes a real man to fight—and stick it out.... And those ships are pretty toys. Manoeuvres are all right. Nice to watch— but if ever it came to a set-to with France where would those ships be with the French submarines shoaling like herring in Italian waters. Fools can't see it, though, and those particular manoeuvres are a piece of cheek."

"In what way?" queried Millwarde, interested in spite of himself. "The Mediterranean is an open highway."

"Yes. But take a line on those ships. Italian territory ends some miles east of here, and French territory begins. Which side the line would you say those ships are on?"

"You can't stick frontier posts in the sea."

"No, but you can stay decently at home while you play at war. The Gulf of Genoa's wide enough." The man broke off and then added: "Damned provocative, I call it. What would we say if the French fleet conducted war manoeuvres five or six miles off Plymouth?"

Millwarde forced a laugh. "Tell them to go home, I expect."

"Yes! And there'll be diplomatic representations here, I'll wager, before long! There's a note about the business in the Nicoise this morning. The paper is―

Millwarde wanted to hear no more. He had his own worries without taking on those of two nations with adjoining territory; and was grateful when a messenger brought word that he was wanted on the telephone. He went in the high hope that his caller-up might be Clotilde. It turned out to be Tony Armitage.

"That you, Hughie. Tony speaking. The fair Russian seems to be a fixture; and I'm wondering if I can be better employed than loafing on the Terrace among the dowagers and the frail. Any new instructions to serve :out?"

"No! Keep in touch. That woman is the only pointer we have now."

"That so? No news from Radway?"

"No."

"And the man up at Roquebrune—the torpedo guy, I mean?"

"Gone to an unknown destination."

"Phew!"

"I'm hoping for some message before the day is out, and in the meantime I'm thinking of going down the coast as far as Grimaldi. If Shuyler was right in his information I may learn something there."

"Yes; seems likely. If I don't hear from you in the meantime I'll ring up after dinner."

"Very well."

Millwarde managed to avoid his garrulous compatriot, and following the idea that he had mentioned, caught a train to Mentone, and thence took an automobile to Grimaldi. He found nothing to interest him in that little frontier place on the sea. There were a few visitors there, some tourists from Mentone or Ventimiglia; but nowhere did he see any indication of those whom he sought, or any unusual thing that might be connected with the dead Shuyler's half-uttered message.

After a little time profitlessly spent, he went on to Ventimiglia, and remembering that he had not lunched he made his way up into the narrow streets of the old part of the town to a cafe that he knew, and ordered a meal, with wine. He was feeling utterly dispirited. There remained but little more than thirty-six hours in which to discover the secret hidden behind Shuyler's words; and at the moment the outlook was not promising. Radway questing down the coast in his hired launch had not yet reported the Snow Queen. Clotilde might be in no position to communicate with him, and there remained only Katusha Pavlovna to furnish a lead that might not be forthcoming. And the need was desperate—he was sure of that. Shuyler-had not been shot for any small thing. Paul du Chastaigny, whether mad or sane, had not talked as he had to the Curé of Roquebrune without sufficient cause; and for any man to contemplate the annihilation of five people and himself that cause must be something far out of the common..

For the hundredth time he tried to conjecture what it might be, hoping for some mental flash that would light the mystery and make all clear.. But the flash did not come. He recalled the problem the man had put to the Curé. There had been the mention of thousands of lives saved by the deliberate sacrifice of six. That sounded like an exaggeration—the kind of thing that a man mentally disordered might easily say; for of some forms of lunacy exaggeration was a characteristic. But, what if it were just the stark truth? What could be the nature of the thing that threatened if so many lives were involved?— an epidemic? That was outside the ring of activities of the Grey Rat  and Fritz Hermann. Revolution? That was possible with Katusha Pavlovna acting as the agent of the Third International and in unison with that pair of blackguards. War? He smiled at the notion. Formidable as Fritz Hermann was, and cunning as was the genial Futrelle, that surely was beyond their power to provoke. He was still considering the problem, having reached the coffee stage of his lunch, when he suffered a little shock.

Following a long-established habit of his he had chosen a table that commanded the entrance— which in this case was half masked with palms; and to his amazement, watching it absently, engrossed in his uncomfortable thoughts, he saw Katusha Pavlovna come round the palms. In a twinkling he snatched up a paper which lay near him on a table, and appeared to become engrossed in it; while he watched the woman over the top. At the same time he asked himself where was Tony Armitage. Had the Russian woman given him the slip after all? Knowing his friend's skill as a shadower he could scarcely believe that, yet here the woman was, with no Tony in the landscape! That fact worried him a little. His own experience with Katusha Pavlovna told him that the woman would let no scruple stand in her way, and it was possible that some untoward thing had overtaken his friend. Well, that might be so; and since the woman was here be must take on the role of shadower himself, for he did not suppose that she had come to old Ventimiglia merely to see the sights or to indulge in Italian cooking. More likely this place was a rendezvous; and at all risks of discovery he must learn whom she had come to meet.

The woman ordered a meal, conned the wine list carefully, gave her order, and then lit a cigarette. A moment later, rather to his surprise, she proceeded to write picture postcards, a weakness that not in a hundred years would he have suspected in her. Once she broke off and considered the restaurant clock, comparing it with her own wristlet-watch, then attacked the postcards anew. The waiter arrived with the food she had ordered, food plainly to her liking, for she ate with evident relish, and gave no attention whatever to the people about her, for which small mercy Millwarde was thankful. Then a noise at a side door attracted his attention for a moment. An Englishman-obviously of the tourist variety, for he was dressed in plus fours of a violent check— was apologising in execrable Italian to a lady into whom he had blundered and who was listening to him without in the least comprehending the letter of his speech. Apparently, however, the spirit of it was clear to her, for she bowed politely and passed on, while the tourist stood looking round the restaurant for a table. A bowing waiter indicated one, which was rejected; a second one, three tables from Millwarde, found favour, and the man seated himself, gave his order, and then looked round the room.

His eyes met Millwarde's, and for a second revealed astonishment; then n little grin came on his face, and with slow deliberation one eyelid closed.

"Tony!"

Millwarde mentally shouted the name, nodded, and sat there admiring the perfect presentation of the part his friend was playing. The other glanced at Katusha, who apparently was quite uninterested in this vulgar Englishman; and then, taking out a pocket-book, proceeded to scribble a note. Having written it, he folded it carefully, and then, taking out a handful of money, proceeded to count it— after the thrifty and rather anxious manner of the traveller who is doubtful if his means will run to it.

Millwarde, who had seen Tony count money before, smiled and waited. Presently the latter dropped a 50 cent nickel, which was in fact cleverly propelled in the direction of Millwarde, who obligingly stopped it with his foot. The thrifty tourist dived forward to retrieve it, and while he laughed like a man who had saved his bacon, surreptitiously dropped the note he had written on to Millwarde's table. Then he returned to his own place, and gave himself up with beaming heartiness to the food the waiter brought to him.

Millwarde glanced over his paper. The Russian woman was still eating. He glanced casually round. No one had observed Tony's little ruse, and, folding his paper that he might hold it with one hand, with the other he opened the note and smoothed it out and then read:—

Radway has reported Snow Queen off Bordighera. Thinks going no farther, just tooling about, wasting time apparently. Dear Katusha had a wire, and packed a suitcase. Heard the lady asking train times, and listened more, and with an hour to spare I changed, and caught the same train. Beauty am I not? Smith of Birmingham doing the Grand tour, hey? Lady has an appointment, I fancy. So I wait till the cows come home. Surprised to see you. Will communicate the 'Pavia'— if you give the nod. Prospering, what!

Having read the entirely characteristic note, Millwarde screwed it up, transferred it to his pocket, then met his friend's eye and nodded. A moment later he signalled for his bill, and having paid it took his departure, using the side door by which Armitage had entered, thus keeping his back to the Russian woman, who as he departed was lighting a post-prandial cigarette.

Once outside he walked quickly down the hill, whistling a cheerful air. Things were looking up. With Radway in touch with the Snow Queen and Tony on the track of Katusha Pavlovna he experienced a return of confidence. It needed only a message from Clotilde to bring all the units involved, in the mystery into his ken again, and that message he hoped might be awaiting him at the Pavia.

At the station he found there was no train that would serve him, and with an hour to wait and impatience for spur decided on an automobile, and that way made his return to Monte Carlo. At the Pavia there were messages for him— one delivered by hand from Tony announcing his journey; the other a telegram from Radway giving him the news he had already heard; but there was nothing from Clotilde. That dashed him a little. He began to discover new causes for worry. Something had gone wrong. Possibly she was not allowed to send any communication. If that rascally uncle of hers suspected her in the least there would be grave trouble, and if Fritz Hermann guessed

Fear for her leaped at the thought. If only he knew her whereabouts he could go; but with no news of her he could do nothing but wait, with hope dwindling and fear mounting as the time passed and no message came. He did not leave the hotel, dare not; but having given orders for any message that might come for him to be sent up to him immediately, he spent most of the time in his room, seated by the window, staring at the sea, harassed by his thoughts. Dinnertime approached. It began to grow dusk, and his anxiety grew almost intolerable. Then came another message from Radway:

There is some move on. Rat and another man joined up. Nosing slowly west. I follow after despatching this. Must see you, urgent. I may have been mistaken in date. Take a chance to see you G. beach, tonight in case. Radway.

He was in a quandary. It was easy to guess who the man was who had joined up in the Snow Queen with Futrelle— Paul du Chastaigny, for a thousand pounds! But where was Clotilde? Why was there no message from her? If he waited— but could he wait? Radway's message was plainly important; and there was more behind it than could be written without arousing the interests of telegraph officials. At all costs he must keep the appointment at Grimaldi, for if Shuyler had been mistaken, it might well be that very night was the night fixed for the unknown thing which he feared, which Clotilde feared, and for knowing which Shuyler had been shot.... And there was not much time.

Reluctantly he ordered a car; and was actually on the point of departure when a man on a motor-cycle drove up to the door, and dismounting, fairly ran up the steps of the hotel. With an odd felling that fate was knocking at the door, he bade the driver wait; and through the glazed door he saw the rider of the cycle produce an envelope and begin to gesticulate violently, as he refused to hand it to the hotel porter. Then he was sure. Stepping from the car, he raced up the stops. As he entered the swing door the porter saw him.

"Ah," he said. "Here is the gentleman."

Millwarde held out his hand for the envelope. "Quick, man!"

"Signor Millwarde?" asked the man in Italian, without yielding the envelope.

"Yes! Didn't you hear?"

"Pardon, signor. I was commanded to make sure." He handed the envelope over. Millwarde read his own name and that of the hotel, in a lady's handwriting, and asked quickly:

"Whence have you come?"

"Ventimiglia," answered the man. "At a great speed, signor."

"I can believe that." answered Millwarde, and taking out his wallet gave the man a handsome tip. Then he tore open the envelope, look out a single flimsy sheet it held, and turning his back on porter and messenger, read with eager eyes.

17

The Revelation.

Mon Cher,

I have failed, I have learned nothing, and my father has gone away—where, I know not. This morning very early he announced that we were to go to Ventimiglia for a few days, and we departed before I could write to tell you we were going. All day he has been with me, very strange in his manner, and sometimes brooding and at others shaken by some secret excitement; and this afternoon he took me forth into the old town here to buy me a piece of rare jewellery, very costly, though it is not my birthday, nor any other fête when, such a gift would not have surprised... And now he has gone away with my uncle— to what? Oh! I am consumed with fear; and I write this in great haste to tell you, with the Russian woman— who joined us this afternoon—watching me as the cat watches the canary... I do not know what I can do, but this I shall send to you that you may get it immediately, though by what means I know not. You may have learned things since we talked upon the hill above Roquebrune, and it may help you to know that my father has gone secretly away with my uncle while this woman waits here with me. Do not trouble for me, but oh, mon cher, if you can, save my father from the evil that threatens.

CLOTILDE.

The name of .the hotel was on the paper, and having read the note Millwarde turned to the messenger.

"You can take a message back for me?"

"Certainly, m'sieur."

"Wait! I shall be a very short time.''

Entering the lounge he wrote a brief note, sealed it, addressed it to Clotilde, and returning to the hall gave the man very definite instructions to deliver it only into the hands of the girl herself. Then after giving the messenger a handsome pourboire he went out to the waiting car, and gave the man instructions to take him to Grimaldi as quickly as the road and the night allowed.

Leaning back with closed eyes, he engaged in the exercise of putting two and two together. Radway's message had indicated that the Rat and another man had joined the Snow Queen; and with Clotilde's information about her father's secret departure it was easy to deduce that the second man, unknown to the American, was M. du Chastaigny. And the Snow Queen was no longer lingering outside Bordighera; but with these two new passengers aboard was nosing slowly westward, returning on its former course— a course that if the coast was followed would bring it to Grimaldi.

Was Radway right in his suggestion that Shuyler had been misinformed in the date on which the secret matter that he had discovered was to reach its consummation? That might well be; or alternatively the date itself might have been altered. Du Chastaigny's sudden departure from Roquebrune and his further departure with Futrelle without saying anything to Clotilde seemed to indicate that things were moving rapidly to a conclusion; while the fact that Katusha Pavlovna had been left to watch the girl was further evidence. That, he thought, would be her uncle's work, a precaution against any possible leakage of his plans.

He would have preferred to drive straight to Ventimiglia and take Clotilde out of the reach of the Russian woman. But Radway's message was urgent, and as it was unlikely that any harm was intended to Clotilde, and further as in any case Tony Armitage would have both under observation, it was the only wise thing to be at Grimaldi to meet Radway when he arrived. If the denouement of the mystery which had involved .the murder of Lincoln Shuyler was to take place to-night he must at-all costs be there.

His thoughts went back to. du Chastaigny and to his actions of the morning as related by the Curé of Roquebrune. The inventor, it seemed, was anticipating the worst—a man in full expectation of life, he thought, did not pay for masses for his soul and ask the blessing of a priest, to salute him with the old Imperial salute of the gladiators immediately afterwards. The man was in expectation of dying. The gift he had bought for Clotilde, though it was not her fête day, nor any other day that might have called for such a gift, had a deep significance in view of the knowledge of what had taken place in the Curé's quiet garden in the early morning. It was another testimony that du Chastaigny was not. expecting to live—a farewell gift to his daughter whom, perforce, he must leave in ignorance of what was in his mind.

His earlier conjectures recurred to him that du Chastaigny meant to destroy himself and his enemies at the same time. But what was the tiring towards which he was being thrust which necessitated such a drastic course as the only delivery? That was the problem that he could not solve, the very nature of which was beyond conjecture; but that the Snow Queen and that covered thing which Radway had observed in his inspection were in some way involved he was sure.

Beating his brains vainly he stared out of the window into the night. The moon was rising in a clouded sky, and the face of the sea, as glimpses of it were afforded, had a ghostly look, quite unlike the shimmering glory of the previous night. Far off on its ghostly bosom there was a gleam of lights, and once a searchlight cut the gloom like a shining sword, telling him that the Italian ships which he had observed earlier in the day were still out there, engaged possibly in night manoeuvres. But they had no interest for him, and again his mind reverted to the problem the solution of which would not come.

The clouds grew heavier,, making the moonlight very faint. There was a sudden splash of raindrops on the windows, and a minute or two later it began to rain in earnest, promising a dirty night. His driver was forced to slacken speed, and it was some minutes after ten when they reached their destination, with rain still blowing in from the sea . and the streets deserted. He paid his driver, bidding him go to the neighbouring hotel and wait in case of need; then he hurried to the sea and looked eagerly for Radway's launch. In the rainy darkness he could see nothing. Far out was the gleam of the warships' lights, and one of them seemed to be moving inshore; but there was no nearer light to indicate the presence of any other craft.

He walked some distance parallel with the sea without regarding the soaking rain, but he saw nothing of either Radway or the launch. Then he looked at his watch.

"Ten thirty-five!"

Either he had missed his friend or the latter was late; or something had befallen which prevented him from keeping the appointment. He walked back with the ran in his face, stopping to now and again to look seawards, consumed with anxiety, and helpless to act. The rain slackened a little, ceased,, and for a minute or two the moonlight broke through hurrying clouds, lighting the face of the sea. He searched it with hungry eyes, and as he did so became aware of a white thing that reflected the light, and of a smaller object which showed dark in the waters. His heart leaped with excitement as he found the interpretation of the sight afforded him.

"By heaven! The Snow Queen and Radway!"

The clouds covered the moon afresh, there was another spate of rain; but now he watched the sea's dark face with expectation, and while he watched -caught the gleam of a light in front of him. It was approaching steadily; and, telling himself that here, was Radway's launch, he followed its course with burning eyes that never for a moment lost sight of it.

Nearer it came and he went down to meet it, and guided by the light was at the place when Radway stepped ashore.

"Yon, Millwarde! Topping... wait one moment." He turned away to give instructions to the man. who was running the launch. The man backed off, and began to move slowly, keeping parallel with the beach,, and Radway explained.

"I have a bunch that we may want him, so he's going to hang about. The Snow Queen is lying put there without lights."

"I know, I saw her just now when the moon broke clear, What is the play, Radway?".

"Lord knows. I found her up at Bordighera as I telegraphed to you; and hung about watching— fishing if you please, though I caught nothing. She hung around till a launch brought Futrelle and another guy aboard—"

"Du Chastaigny!" .

"I guessed that much, but didn't wire what I wasn't sure of. After they'd boarded her the white boat began to work westward, going easy; and I .could see she wasn't going to make this place or Monte before dark, so I slipped ashore and wired you, then followed."

"Then you've got nothing definite?"

"Not a thing, except we're here at this place that Shuyler mentioned, and that crowd are out there, waiting for heaven knows what, though I'll lay a dollar to a doughnut that the stage is set, and that though tomorrow is the 27th the play is for tonight.... I'd give an eye almost to know what it is. Only thing is to wait and watch and keep the launch handy in case of need. Where's Tony?"

"At Ventimiglia watching the Russian and, I hope, du Chastaigny's daughter."

"She's there."

"Yes! I had a message. She came over with her father this morning, and he left her without saying he was going or leaving word of his destination."

"But we know that he is here. He's out on the big motor-boat unless he's slipped overboard."

"He won't have done that— yet!" answered Millwarde quietly, and gave the other an account of his talk with the Curé.

"Phew!" whistled Radway. "That sets the lid on it. The thing is staged for tonight, whatever it is!" He looked across the sea, half hidden in a spate of rain; with the Snow Queen wholly invisible, and then added musingly, "If we only knew what was happening out there I guess we'd find it mortal interesting? Looks as if the inventor had designs on Petrovna,. Fritz, and company. But I don't just get that bit about the thousands of lives involved. Sounds like a crazed mind to me."

"May be that,"  agreed Millwarde; "on the other hand it may not."

Radway looked seaward again thoughtfully, though it was certain that he could see little, for at the moment the rain veiled everything; then he said. "I've half a mind to take the launch and have a nose round. One might go pretty close to that white boat without being seen on a night like this."

"Wait a little. If the weather clears we may see something that will warrant action."

"Well, we'll get in the lee of somewhere, or we'll melt in this wet."

They moved on, and found the desired shelter in the lee of ah unlighted building, and there stood waiting for the most part silent, their eyes straining seaward. The shower passed, but the face of the moon was obscured by black clouds, and while Radway declared he could see the Snow Queen Millwarde could see nothing whatever. But once, while they watched, the flare of a searchlight swept the face of the sea like a great broom, and then was extinguished.

"Those ships are pretty close in," remarked Radway carelessly.

"Yes!" answered Millwarde indifferently.

Then again they waited, watchful and anxious, Radway with mounting impatience. He looked at his watch.

"Ten fifty-five. Curtain's a long time in going up. Wonder if after all Shuyler was right, and we're too previous?"

"Possibly! I should be sure of it, if that boat were not lying out there."

"Waiting for the weather to clear, maybe.''

Again followed a period of waiting, towards the end of which Millwarde caught the sound of footsteps. He gripped the other's arm.

"Hear that?" he asked whisperingly.

"Yes! Someone moving. May be nothing— or—" the footsteps-became audible again, quite dose, then followed the sound of a stumble and a half-suppressed oath.

"Tony!... By the Mass!" ejaculated Radway, and then whistled softly.

Out of the darkness came an answering whistle, very subdued, then the footsteps were renewed, and a moment later Armitage was standing beside them.

"Of all the luck!" he whispered ecstatically.

"What brought you here, Tony?" demanded Millwarde with a hope that his friend might have the key to the mystery.

"That nightbird Katusha "

"She is here?"

"Somewhere about! I followed her here— on foot if you please, and I'm drenched. I lost her three minutes ago at a corner."

"Is she alone?" asked Millwarde quickly.

"Yes. There's a young woman up at Ventimiglia who showed up this afternoon, and whom Katusha has been watching like a mother―"

"She's there now?"

"Was when we started on this duck's trip. My business was Katusha, though Lord knows what she wants here on this stinking night."

"Know the name of the place, Tony?" broke in Radway.

"Haven't thought of it, and haven't a notion, unless— My Aunt! You're not trying to fell me that it's―"

"Grimaldi! Yes."

"But what's Katusha doing here tonight? I thought that tomorrow was the date."

"Maybe changed," said Millwarde. "Seems a certain bet now that the Russian has come here. And— Great Scot! Yes!... Tony, we've got to find her. She knows the whole of this business, and we've just got to make her speak. The Snow Queen is lying out there in the darkness; and we're no nearer than ever to knowing what the game is. But it's something pretty desperate; and, as the Russian knows, we've got to find her and get the truth. Where did you lose her?"

"Just up the village!"

"Then we'll go―"

"Wait!" said Radway, "Whatever the game is it is going to be played out on the seafront here... That means the lady will come this way, and we'll gather her like a wayside posy."

They waited in silence. The moon broke for a moment from the clouds, flooding the sea in front with fitful light, which passed almost as swiftly as it came, but in that; passing radiance all three saw the Snow Queen like a bird on the bosom of the sea, seemingly inactive.

"That craft's there yet, anyway," whispered the American as the darkness supervened:

They watched again, eyes on the sea, ears for their more immediate neighbourhood. A mile and a half away there gleamed on the waters what must have been a signal from one of the warships, for there were answering flashes without any sound, and then in the darkness between the shore and. the ships there was a glow of light that might nave been taken for that of a star if it had been higher up; and Radway whispered again:

"That's the Snow Queen. Looks like they were getting a move on at last."

All the trio watched that light with fascinated eyes, wondering what it might portend, and each of them was so absorbed that he forgot to listen for the footsteps that would proclaim the advent of Katusha Pavlovna. Another light gleamed on the dark face of the sea, and Radway cried in mounting excitement:

"The footlights! The curtain's due to rise. And the play―" His remarks were cut in twain by a sharp feminine cry away to the right, then a woman's voice cried harshly:

"You!— You little fool! What―"

"Katusha, as I'm the sinner!" whispered Tony. "But for goodness sake, who's the other, for there are two "

There was one of the trio who knew— Millwarde. At that first cry he had stiffened, and when the Russian began her railing, leaving his friend's side, he ran lightly in the direction of the sound. He had gone but a little way when through the murmur of the sea he caught the sound of hurrying feet stumbling in the darkness, out of which quite suddenly, directly in front of him, appeared a shadowy form. He opened his arms and the form ran blindly into them.

"Oh!"

The word came quiveringly, a gasping breath behind it; making certain what he had already guessed, and he whispered, swiftly and reassuringly—

"It is I, Clotilde."

A little whispered cry of relief came from the girl whom he had enfolded in his arms, and then another form appeared out of the night, running and stumbling as Clotilde herself had done, and in haste colliding with them, recoiling on the instant.

"Steady, Mademoiselle Pavlovna," began Millwarde. "It is no night for sprinting, and―"

"You!... You!" Consternation and amazement mingled in the woman's voice. Then before Millwarde could answer a little hoarse try broke from her. "Dear heaven

Millwarde sensed rather than saw her move; and intuition told him what was coming. He dragged Clotilde down, and was only just in time. There was a flash in the darkness, a report which seemed but a small sound in that wide place and against the drone of the sea, and a bullet whistled over him and Clotilde.

"Keep low," he whispered to the girl, and prepared to spring.

But he was saved from the peril of that. Out of the night close at hand came a little cry, a quick laugh, and Tony Armitage's voice.

"Grab the gun, Radway! I have the lady."

There was a. sound of struggling; then Radway's voice, harsh and compelling:—

"Drop it, woman. This clutch will break your wrist... You won't?... Well―"

A quick inarticulate cry of pain followed. There was a sound of something falling; and a couple of seconds later Radway's voice made itself heard again.

"Got the gun, Tony. Better hold the wrists, though— behind her. That's a good hold, and―"

A very spate of words broke from the Russian — words with a triumphant ring mingling with words of exultant blasphemy which go unrecorded.

"You will hold my hands, yes... I give them to you! Fools!..  You can do nothing!... Nothing! The hour has struck, and now everything is beyond your  power. That shivering lambkin there followed me... and she will see what she came to stop, and you, dogs, and worse, you will see also―"

"What is it?" asked Millwarde of Clotilde in a compelling voice. "If you know, tell me. There may yet be time."

"I do not know... exactly. It is something terrible, something to do with my father's new invention. That woman told me before she left. It is to blow the world sky-high— she said. Something to do with a ship or ships― warships that were out there―"

"God!" cried Radway, in the voice of a man on whom has flashed a sudden stunning thought. "The Maine!"

"Main!" echoed Tony Armitage. 'The sea!... Well―"

"The Maine! You blistering idiot! At Havana! Those devils mean to emulate— du Chastaigny's torpedo! Those Italian ships out there! That's why the Snow Queen has been lying -waiting in the dark. They mean to copy the Spaniards in '08. The wickedness of it! But we'll stop―"

"No!" Katusha Pavlovna laughed wildly. "You will not stop it. You are too late! Already they prepare. Behold!"

Instinctively the others turned their eyes to the sea. Between the far lights of the battleships and the shore there were other lights that came, from the saloon window of the Snow Queen proclaiming to their suddenly illumined minds dread activities. Radway gave a shout, then with fingers to his lips whistled shrilly, and began to ran. The launch, a little way out, moved towards the shore, the throb of its engine plainly heard. Then the Russian woman laughed again, in almost hysterical triumph.

"Too late!" she cried. "We win and―"

"Hold your tongue, vixen!" Tony Armitage broke in hoarsely, while Clotilde with a little shuddering moan buried her face against her lover's shoulder.

18

Departure

WITH the weeping girl held close in his arms, Millwarde saw Radway reach the edge of the water and leap for the launch, then caught his voice in a sharp order. The launch swirled and turned seaward, and the chug, chug that came over the water told, him how it was being raced. The sound grew fainter, and he stood straining his eyes into the darkness, his mind in ferment with the thing that had puzzled him crystal clear at last. Radway in that flashing moment of insight had hit the truth. While the machinations behind were still unexplained, the dastardly scheme which was to further them was revealed in all its wickedness, and he saw it cut out from the darkness which had enveloped it as by a spotlight.

That new weapon of du Chastaigny was to be tested, with a practical test that was supremely callous and wicked. One of those ships manoeuvring in the darkness was to be the target of a projectile which, racing through the dark waters and under cover of night, when it struck would send hundreds of men to their death. The horror of the thing sent an icy chill to his heart; and then the thought of the possible repercussion of the deed surged in him overwhelmingly. That garrulous fool at the hotel had talked of the nearness of those ships to the French coast, and found in that the cause of a possible resentment on the part of France. But here was something a thousandfold worse. If the dastardly thing planned happened according to schedule, then within a week this coast of pleasure would hear the baying of the mad dogs of war, and the pleasure-seekers would be scurrying like sheep for their far folds....

There was tension already between France and Italy upon the question of Naval armaments; and if one of those ships out there were struck unseen in the darkness, riven by gun cotton, and sent plunging to the deep, there could be but one end. History would repeat itself. As the explosion in Havana harbour thirty years ago had set two nations headlong into war, so would this vile thing. Of that there could be no question. Two volatile peoples, high-spirited— one proud of its resurgence to the first rank of the Powers, and assured that it had suffered a dastardly and treacherous attack; the other nervous from the Great War, suspecting secret machinations on the part of its old enemy, and assured of its complete innocence of the dastardly thing— were together too inflammable to escape taking fire. Tow and fire were insurable goods by comparison. ... With the Latin temperament, the proneness to bombast, the strutting akin to that of the spurred gamecock, there could be no escape, no cool effort to elucidate the facts, but just a raving resentment that could end but one way.

In a tumult of thought he saw all the flaming possibility, and, staring across the waters, had but a single hope. And that hope was centred not in Radway, but in M. du Chastaigny. Mad or sane would he qualify for those masses for which he had paid the Curé of Roquebrune that day; or would Futrelle and Fritz Hermann prove too much for him and prevail over the heroic resolution he had taken?

He stared at the sea with burning eyes. The Snow Queen was in darkness again, and in the gloom she was invisible: but the lights of Radway's launch were still to be seen rapidly receding. That void of darkness troubled him greatly. Anything might be happening in it; and he was certain that only one man's weakened will stood between the world and a great catastrophe.

He felt Clotilde shaking with sobs and could find no word of comfort. The tension and the silence became almost unbearable. The others found it so also apparently, for from the Russian woman came an hysterical little cry, and Tony, the most light-hearted of men, broke out hoarsely:

"Good heavens!... Will he make it in time?"

Millwarde attempted no answer. There was a lightening of the clouds overhead, and the face of the sea grew less dark. He thought he could discern the long white hull of the Snow Queen, but was not sure. Then the clouds broke and for a brief while the moon shone clearly, and Tony and he saw the white boat, simultaneously, and the former gasped:

"Mercy on us!... She's on the move!... Louis will never touch her."

The Snow Queen was moving away from the land towards the ships farther out. How far would she got Millwarde found himself trying to calculate the distance to be travelled and at the same time to remember what was the range of the modern torpedo. He spared a glance for Radway's launch, now little more than a dark blot on the sea; and then, as the light dimmed a little, stared upward at the sky.

The rift through which the moonlight came was closing. A light, veil of cloud was spread across it. while a black mass fob lowed behind. In two or three minutes at most the face of the sea would be dark once more, and he had a conviction that then the climax would come. He stared at the white boat again, fixing her position in his mind, while the light continued to fade. It went out at last, as the black cloud spread its pall over the moon's face, and the white boat was no more visible. But with eyes fixed, in a tensity of expectation he still stared at the place where she had been. He had not long to wait.

The darkness was split suddenly by a great flash of blinding light, in which he saw only one thing— the hull of the Snow Queen torn apart as by titanic hands, then, as the momentary light went out across the sea came a burst of shattering sound. Clotilde shrank in his arms and a moaning cry came from her; then she grew limp, and as he held her to save her from falling he knew that she had fainted. Tony Armitage began to speak in a voice that from stress of excitement was little more than a stuttering croak.

"Great Scot!... They've gone... You saw... Hughie?... What's the word? Hoist— with their own petard!"

"Yes!" said Millwarde, with difficulty keeping his own emotion in check. "Du Chastaigny's doings."

"But— but— how the deuce do you know?"

"I was half-expecting it. This morning he paid for masses for his soul, which seemed to be anticipating things. I'll tell you the whole story―"

There was a sudden blaze of light over the sea as half a dozen searchlights cleft the darkness.

"They're aware of something wrong out there," began Tony. "Think it something to do with themselves likely enough. If they knew the narrow, shave— My hat!— There's Radway tearing shorewards, I'd clean forgotten him. Good thing he was out of range of that torpedo or whatever it was—what!"

One of the warships, its searchlight raking the sea, seemed to be moving inshore a little. The broad fan of light fell for a moment on the little group on the shore, revealing to Millwarde the white face of the unconscious girl in his arms, and that of Katusha Pavlovna, whom Armitage still held in a hold she could not break; it had a stark look, dead white, with eyes from which all expression seemed to have been stricken. For the moment at any rate the woman was one without hope; but he could not bring himself to pity her; and as there was a sound of clamouring voices in the streets behind them, which told that the sound of the explosion had been heard, the necessity for action thrust itself upon him.

"Tony," he said sharply, "take care if that woman. If folk come this way run her down to the sea. Take her on the launch, and tell Radway to communicate with me first chance at the Hotel Pavia. I have a car up the street—"

Millwarde changed his hold on the unconscious girl in his arms, and began to walk away. He met people who looked at him curiously and shouted questions which he did not trouble to answer. When he readied the little hotel to which the driver had gone, he found the car parked outside, and the man himself nowhere visible. For the moment that suited him as well as anything could have done; and as the door of the hotel was closed, and the blinds drawn, with the street in darkness, he set Clotilde in a corner of the saloon, closed the door, and then went to the hotel; There was no bell, but a rapping on the panel brought an elderly woman, who looked at him curiously.

"The driver of the automobile?" he said quickly. "He is needed at once."

The woman shrugged her shoulders. "He is not here!― Just now there was a strange sound as of thunder, and he and my son ran out together— towards the sea! No doubt he will return presently."

In his heart Millwarde cursed the man; but replied as casually as he could, "No doubt!" Then he asked for brandy, gulped it quickly, and called for more. "There is one in the saloon who is sick," he said, "I take it out to him."

The old woman showed no curiosity; and Millwarde carried the brandy to the car, and when Clotilde, reviving, opened her eyes, he was by her side.

"Sip this, my dear, slowly. Do not ask questions― yet."

The girl obeyed him, and when the glass was empty leaned back in the corner; then came her whisper:

"What... what happened? I saw the light― heard the noise "

A sob ended the words, and, setting down the glass, Millwarde .put his arms around her."

"My dear," he said, "you must be very brave, as your father was―"

"He― he―"

"He prevented a great crime, at the cost of his life, I fear."

"Oh!" she sobbed. "Oh!... You think there is no hope?"

"None whatever, I am afraid. He knew there was none if he did the thing he had planned. That I know certainly."

"But how? how "

He told her of Paul du Chastaigny's visit to the Curé's garden in the early morning, and of what had taken place in that place of peace; and concluded: "That is why I am so sure. He knew what he had planned and was aware what the end must be.... Indeed, there could only be one end for everyone there, if, as I believe, he exploded that invention of his in the confined space of the saloon of the Snow Queen.... No, one there could possibly have escaped. And he knew, he surely knew! Remember, there was that costly gift he bought you in old Ventimiglia, though it was not your fête day. That was a farewell gift, though he could not say so to you."

"Yes," sobbed the girl. "Yes! Now I understand.... But it is terrible that he should die so."

"It would have been more terrible if he had chosen to do what those others wished and to live. He was right in what he said to the Curé of Roquebrune. It was a handful of lives set in the balance against thousands; and the lesser evil in such a choice is the choice of good.... Futrelle was a great scoundrel... some time I shall tell you and you will understand and that Fritz Hermann—"

He broke off at the sound of approaching footsteps and voices. "Ah!" he said. "The chauffeur at last. Excuse me, my dear, I must speak to him.... Do not reveal yourself.

Picking up the glass, he slipped from the saloon, closed the door, and carried the glass to the house from which he was emerging at the moment when his driver and a man of middle-years arrived at the steps, talking vociferously. The driver jumped at the sight of him.

"Monsieur has been waiting?"

"Quite a long time, my man."

"A hundred pardons!" The man was generous in his request. But had not Monsieur heard the explosion out there on the sea? Something terrible had happened. An accident no doubt to one of those ships, for there were the searchlights concentrated on one place, and many boats moving round. It was thus sometimes even in peace with those who played at war— they got the real thing... Then there was another strange thing— that was seen—

"What was that?" demanded Millwarde, sharply.

"There was a launch seen to come in from the sea; and also a man and a woman struggling on the shore. The woman was thrown into the launch before any could prevent, and the man followed her and the launch slid away into the darkness. An abduction, almost certainly, monsieur, a strange thing in such circumstances."

"Remarkable!" agreed Millwarde. "And now, my friend, we will return to Monte Carlo."

"But certainly, monsieur."

The man cranked his engine, and Millwarde entered the saloon, where Clotilde was seated well back in the corner, her face hidden in her hands. For a long time Millwarde made no attempt to divert her from her sorrow, but when at last she moved and whispered something that he did not catch, he put his arms around her.

"Courage, my dear. Your father would not have you weep for him. With him there will be no regrets for the thing he did."

"No," she whispered. "No! But―"

The words were not finished. Lying close in his arms she must have found comfort, for presently the sobs ceased and she was quite still.

And so they came to the Hotel Pavia, and as they descended were gazed at with amazement by the driver.

"Monsieur―" he began, staggered by the apparition of two where he thought there had been one.

Millwarde, watching Clotilde moving slowly towards the steps, laughed softly.

"No, Jacques! You do not dream. The lady is real."

"But, monsieur, I was not aware―"

"You were not meant to be. Open your hand and shut your mouth."

The man did both, but a moment later, staring at the money in his hand, was moved to further speech.

"Tiens! Now I comprehend. It is an elopement. Such generosity "

"Near enough for a guess, Jacques," said Millwarde. "Bon soir," and with that hurried after Clotilde.

FOR MILLWARDE the next two or three days were very busy ones. A telegram from Villafranche about noon on the day following took him there in haste, where at the local Prefecture he found Hadway and Armitage with Katusha Pavlovna. The launch had been seen on the previous night, and in view of what had happened the Italian commander, suspecting some kind of foul play, had sent out a wireless which, when they had run into the harbour, had ensured their immediate arrest. Hadway and Tony, both of whom had suffered arrest before, were philosophical; but the woman was clearly in a great state of apprehension. Armitage greeted him cheerfully.

"You'll have to blow the gaff, Hugh. Those beauties have it in their heads that we're guilty of barratry or piracy or some other nicety."

"Yes!― But not here! The story will have to he told—but not here. I'm going to talk to the chief here; and presently I fancy you'll all be shipped to Paris."

They were, and two days later, in a business-like room of the Sûreté, on the Quai d'Horloge, with windows looking out on the river, Millwarde told his story, with four other people present beside the prisoners, one of whom was from the British Embassy. He was listened to in almost unbroken silence except when he mentioned names, then one of the French officials broke in:

"Paul du Chastaigny! He was reported dead at Cayenne. And he made the escape! Well, there are many such. And― that one I have never believed guilty of Bodin's death. But this M. Futrelle— that is a name I do not know—"

"In the war he was known as Pierre Girardot— the Grey Rut."

"Tiens!... That man!... But is it possible that you do not know his real name, monsieur?"

"I know no other name."

"No? It is news to you then that his full name was Marcel Futrelle du Chastaigny?"

"Quite!"

"He was the brother of Paul. But continue, monsieur. Fritz Hermann we know, and it is good that that one is dead."

Millwarde continued, and when he had finished the four men who had listened to his story were very grave indeed, and when the man at the head of the table addressed Katusha Pavlovna there was that in his voice when he exhorted her to make a clean confession which, coupled with a suggestion of lenient treatment, made her compliant. She answered all questions with an amazing docility.

"Yes, there had been a conspiracy to embroil the two nations. The Grey Rat and Fritz Hermann had been at the head of―"

'No, Pavlovna," the official interrupted brusquely. "Those men were but instruments. There were others more highly placed? Speak truly. That is the price of leniency."

'Yes." The woman agreed and gave the names— two of which were startling.

"Ah!... Always the implacable enemies of France those two— and one of them for ever rattling the sabre, with no lesson learned! But for the, third, your countryman, he is the enemy of the world. Continue, Pavlovna."

The woman continued, unfolding all the details of the plot Millwarde and Radway had intuitively apprehended on the shore by Grimaldi; and when she had finished, Millwarde, who had passed a note to the official while she had been speaking, waited for questions the answers to which he much desired...

"A terrible confession, mademoiselle, or a thing for which those others have paid the price. But there is a thing that puzzles me. Paul du Chastaigny— he was reluctant?"

"Always!"

"Then why did he not come to us?"

"Would you have listened, monsieur, or returned him to Cayenne forthwith?" answered the woman quietly. "But he was under his brother's thumb. Your Cayenne had made him a wreck. Marcel Futrelle bought soothing drugs; and when he threatened to rebel withheld them and threatened him with the return to Cayenne. It was very simple.''

"You think that Paul du Chastaigny killed Bodin and stole those plans?"

The question was asked nonchalantly as being of little importance, but Millwarde waited eagerly for the answer. It came with a little laugh, for, assured of lenient treatment, Katusha Pavlovna was recovering her spirits. Besides, she really found the question amusing.

"No, monsieur! The contrary. It was Brother Marcel who shot Bodin after making the agreement to purchase the plans at his brother's house, and arranging with Bodin to throw suspicion on Paul―"

"Tiens! The man could he so devilish!... His own brother!"

"It was a jest with him. He told the story to Fritz and myself one night, over the wine. He had thought his brother would be shot out of hand; and there was a little property in Languedoc that he coveted, and also there was a great price for those papers which Bodin would not bring without assurance of the suspicion being diverted."

"All! That property!"

"It was a trust, it appeared, for Mademoiselle du Chastaigny, and he could not get his thumbs upon it. A great disappointment, he assured us, though, later he had cherished a scheme which but for his having to flee from France hurriedly might have brought it to his hands."

"He is well dead, that one!" said the great official feelingly, and as Millwarde reflected on the lines that scheme must necessarily have taken, he agreed most heartily. Then the official hummed a little to himself, stained through the window at the river, and asked his last question:

"There remains that man who was shot in London? You did not kill him, Pavlovna?"

"No, no," said the woman hurriedly. "That was Fritz Hermann's work. It is known that it was a man. It was in the newspapers."

"Yes. In the newspapers!.... But it was not told there why he was killed."

"I can explain that," said the woman. "He was a spy―"

"Not quite that, Pavlovna."

The woman shrugged her shoulders. "An agent of his country, then. What matters the name? He knew Fritz, and had overheard Futrelle and the German talking. He was almost caught in the garden at Roquebrune, but escaped, and disappeared. Then he was seen again, and followed to England. He knew much, for he went to a house in Yorkshire, where he again was almost caught. He was followed to London and―" The woman shrugged her shoulders, and added callously; "That is all."

"Yes," agreed the official. "That is all."

FOUR days later Millwarde climbed up to the church at Roquebrune and found the Curé walking in his charming garden.

"So, monsieur," he cried gaily, "you return to my little garden." Then he caught the look in Millwarde's eyes, and his gaiety died. "Ah! You come to tell me of that afflicted one―"

"To bid you say those masses for his soul, monsieur."

"He is dead?" asked the priest quickly.

"With the death of a brave man."

The Cure's mild eyes had a flash of trouble.

"The others of whom he spoke " he began."

"Yes," answered Millwarde. "He took them with him."

"Then he was a murderer?"

"No. The saviour of thousands. That problem he put to you was a real one— not the fantastic conception of a madman's brain. The story has been told once in the Sûreté at Paris. It cannot be told here, you comprehend, for there are great secrets involved, but the man when he gave you that ironic salute went from here to do a brave thing. He died on the night of that day."

"And there was no third choice, monsieur, as I supposed there was, in my ignorance, perhaps?"

"I do not say that. There may have been a middle way. There nearly always is. But that harassed man did not see it."

"Men and women are often blinded with care and the things that harass," said the Curé thoughtfully. "And that poor man had been to Cayenne, you said."

"He was sent there unjustly. That has been proved."

"Ah. The poor soul."

"He went the one good way he saw, beset as he was," said Millwarde stubbornly.

"And if we go the only good way that seems possible God is of infinite understanding and merciful. Come, my friend. The church is there. We will say the prayers together."

They came out together as they had gone in. The sun was shining on the flowers, and the sea far below was very blue.

"A fair world, my son, but for human folly!" said the priest, and then remembered something. "There was a thing you told me, monsieur, about Mademoiselle if―"

"Yes," said' Millwarde, laughing for the first time. "Next week she comes here— with me, you understand?"

"Fine, my son! She is, I am sure, very beautiful lady."

"The most beautiful in the world, my father," laughed Millwarde again.

"I was sure of that," the priest chuckled. "The most beautiful lady in the world is always the one a man takes to the altar. But this lady will be among the happy ones also!"

"If I can make her so, father," said Millwarde with becoming humility.

"Have, no doubt of that, my son," laughed the Curé. "Do you not give yourself? That is the gift that makes the happy heart— for a woman; and perhaps for us all."

A WEEK later, with Tony Armitage for best man and Radway to sponsor the bride, Millwarde and Clotilde were married very simply in the little church; and when the nuptial mass had been said, knelt for another mass for the dead; and later walked through the garden to the wooden bench in its bower. There for a moment or two they stood together, looking down the green hill to the blue of the sea. Then Clotilde spoke.

"It was here he came."

"Yes."

"And since we keep the house above, we shall come here often—together?"

"Together, sweetheart."

"But we shall not be sad when we come," said Clotilde, her eyes suddenly bright with tears. "Non! he would not have desired that."

"I am sure he would not," agreed Millwarde fervently.

They stood for a moment longer, then Millwarde glanced backward. There was no one in sight, though the Curé's voice as he talked with Tony and Radway came through the shadowing greenery. He slipped an arm round her.

"Clotilde," he whispered and kissed her. Then they went forth together, arm in arm, and as they appeared the Curé waved a hand and cried gaily,

"Behold, my friends! Of old the world began with a man and a woman who were happy in a fine garden; and today—" He broke off with a gay gesture, and it was Millwarde who finished the thought as gaily.

"And today, father, it renews its youth."

"But yes, my son," answered the Curé, his eyes shining. "I am sure of that."

And Clotilde, standing in the sunshine among the flowers, was most sure of them all.

The End

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Transcriber's Notes

Source: The Australasian, Melbourne, Australia

Serial commencing 16 May 1931, under the title "The shuyler Mystery"

All chapters had titles except Chapter 18, so I made one up for it.

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Table of Contents

1: The Gunman

2: Unexpected Encounters

3: A Surprise

4: The Houseboat

5: A Caller

6: A Piquant Situation

7: The Student of Theology

8: Under the Eaves

9: The Surprised Ploughman

10: At Roquebrune

11: At The Villa Vento.

12: A Girl In The Moonlight.

13: A Visit To An Apothecary

14: A Desperate Move

15: A Startling Question

16: Developments

17: The Revelation

18: Departure