The Dr Night Trilogy
Author: Aidan de Brune
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Three novels: Dr Night (1926) The Green Pearl (1930) Whispering Death (1931)

THE DR. NIGHT TRILOGY

Aiden de Brune

Introduction

Dr. Night (1926)

The Green Pearl (1930)

Whispering Death (1931)

Aiden de Brune Bibliography

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Introduction

THESE three novels were first published as serials in Australian newspapers, a market for fiction that was very important in the pre-World War 2 era. There were many hundreds of small-town newspapers published in this period, and for many people they were just about the only reading matter easily available. Few small country towns had proper book shops, and the short stories and serials in the newspapers were often the only fiction to be had.

There were a number of authors who specialised in writing fiction for newspapers, and one of them was Aiden de Brune (1873-1946). Between 1926 and 1935 his serials and short stories were published in many regional and some capital city newspapers.

And then he was forgotten.

It wasn't until 2017 that he was re-discovered by the present writer, and the full extent of his literary output revealed. Also revealed was his real identity: Henry Charles Cull, an Englishman who migrated to Perth, Western Australia in 1910 in search of work. This identification was the result of an astute piece of detective work by Colin Choat of Project Gutenberg Australia.

By late 1920, with the flood of returned soldiers from the Great War crowding the employment market, and a post-war recession, Cull was unemployed, and broke. He decided his best hope was Sydney, two and a half thousand miles way across the desert centre of the Australian continent. He had no money for ship or rail ticket, so he collected together a swagman's outfit and walked.

There was no road across the continent then, so he followed the railway, which after all had water tanks for the trains, and railroad fettlers' camps at regular intervals. Three months later he walked into Sydney, and sought work.

He was out of luck in Sydney, too, and after scraping along for a few months he hit upon a novel, and indeed challengingly foolhardy, notion. He approached a newly established Sydney newspaper and struck a deal. He would walk around the entire island continent, sending in articles and reports, and the newspaper would pay for his contributions. By this means he would not be just another unemployed swagman, but rather a professional journalist with an income.

On 20 September 1921 he left the newspaper office in Sydney and struck north. And on 4 March 1924 he walked back into the same office, deeply tanned, footsore and weary, after an epic 10,000 mile circumnavigation of Australia on foot. This was certainly the first time it had been done. His planned one-year trip had taken two and a half years. And on his long way, he had astutely visited the editorial offices of every newspaper in the towns he passed through, and made himself known.

By the time he reached Sydney he was something of a celebrity, and on the back of this he secured work in the publishing field; and in 1926 he took up writing newspaper serials.

He was not entirely new to fiction. In 1920 he had published his first serial, in a regional Western Australian newspaper: The Pursuits of Mr Peter Pell. It is a picaresque yarn of an engaging rogue. In Sydney wrote his only printed novel, published by Sydney's small Cornstalk Press, The Carson Loan Mystery (1926).

Then came Dr Night (1926). It was essentially a crime story of the drug trade in Sydney, which steadily veered towards fantasy as it progressed. A sequel appeared in 1930, The Green Pearl,  in which Dr Night re-appears as one of several parties in pursuit of the mystic green pearl. The grand finale, now full-blown sf/fantasy, was Whispering Death (1931).

In the meantime he aso wrote numerous crime serials and short stories for newspapers. (A bibliography is appended at the end of this book).

The whole of his known output has now been published in e-book form, and can be found at Australian public domain e-book publisher Roy Glashan's Library and at Project Gutenberg Australia. As there were no covers for the serials, I created a set of suitably pulpish covers for all the the e-books myself.

This trilogy volume has been specially prepared for the Mobile Read Forum's Patricia Clarke Memorial Library.

Terry Walker
aka "Pulpmeister"

August 2018

________________

Cover design by T Walker 2017

DR. NIGHT

1926

Contents

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

Chapter 9 | Chapter 10

Chapter 11 | Chapter 12

Chapter 13 | Chapter 14

Chapter 15 | Chapter 16

Chapter 17 | Chapter 18

Chapter 19 | Chapter 20

Chapter 21 | Chapter 22

Chapter 23 | Chapter 24

Chapter 25 | Chapter 26

Chapter 27 | Chapter 28

Chapter 29 | Chapter 30

Chapter 31 | Chapter 32

Chapter 33 | Chapter 34

Chapter 35

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1

ROBERT HARDY dropped off the tram at the end of Elizabeth Street and walked sharply up to the Detective Offices at the corner of Hunter and Phillip Streets, Sydney. Passing the Inquiry Office, he turned down a dark passage and hailed outside a door marked "Superintendent of Detectives." Listening a moment he knocked and entered.

A heavily-built man with it strong square face, looked up and nodded. Then he turned again to his task of signing a batch of documents. This completed, he bunched the papers, and, placing them in a wire basket, sat hack and looked inquiringly at his visitor. Without a word, Hardy passed a copy of the Morning Mirror across the desk, and indicated a paragraph with a heavy blue pencil mark.

"What's the joke, Dixon?" he asked abruptly.

"That came into the office last night by the night roundsman, if the chief sub. hadn't known that he was an unimaginative, stolid reporter who couldn't fix a story on anything but a real happening, it'd have been turned down."

"And you saw the story in the paragraph, Hardy?" asked Superintendent Dixon of the Mirror's star reporter, smiling. "All I can see in it is one of the peculiar little happenings that frequently amuse our Darlinghurst men."

"You wouldn't be sitting in that chair if that is all you see in that paragraph," answered Hardy. "But I suspect a lot. In my office I have a map of Sydney, and I have marked a blue pencil line around the Darlinghurst and Potts Point districts. Somewhere within that area is a story I want."

"You want that story from me?" inquired the Superintendent with a yawn.

"Wanting and getting are two different things," observed Hardy. "I get from you just what I can pry out by having a better knowledge of the story under discussion than the D.O."

"You are at the beginning of wisdom," said Dixon gravely. "I am going to have great hopes of you, Hardy."

"Good of you, but we'll can that stuff," retorted the reporter. "Here's this yarn, with a story behind it. On the face of it, it's more than queer—improbable, if you like."

He spread the newspaper on the desk and jabbed the paragraph with a stubby forefinger.

"A woman walks into Darlinghurst Police Station last night, about eight o'clock and tells the Sergeant in charge that there have been mysterious happenings around her house during the past week. When the Sergeant asks questions, she shuts up. Professes she has nothing to say. All she wants Is that the men on the beat be required to move on anyone found loitering about the vicinity of her house."

"Not much to worry the brains of the Mirror special Investigator," the superintendent observed, smiling. At the same time he keenly watched the younger man from beneath his heavy brows.

"I got some more dope this morning," retorted Hardy quickly. "Went to Darlinghurst and saw the register. The woman's name is Matthews. She lives in a flat at Western Street, Darlinghurst. Has three children, a girl about twenty years of age, named Clarice. Nothing of a beauty, but said to be a clever stenographer, employed at one of the big insurance offices."

"Exhibit B?" queried Dixon, quietly. "You're right as to Exhibit A."

"Exhibit B is the limit," replied the newspaper man. "It is a long, lean, scraggy youth, a year younger than the girl. Runs with one of the gun gangs at Darlinghurst. Never been in the hands of the police, but owes that to the fact that his mother has a small private income, sufficient to keep the wolf from the door. Name 'Bill', or 'William' if you want to be virtuous with your English. Disappeared lately, after some dispute with the members of the push he favours."

"Again I must, express my admiration for your industry," murmured Dixon. "Let me see, it is not quite half past ten in the morning and you appear to have the history of three quarters of this interesting family."

"I'm go to the other quarter," Hardy smiled. "Exhibit C is somewhat on a pattern with Exhibit B. Knocks about the city a bit here and there. Something of a pimp for politicians; bit of a small town politician himself; gets in where he can and somehow appears to turn in a bit of dough, at times."

"When I have a spare half hour, I must certainly call at the Mirror Office and congratulate Mr. Thomas—"

"I wouldn't," interrupted Hardy, with a grin. "Might put the Chief in mind that there is a Police Department in Sydney. He is fond of leaders on The Grossly Inept Methods of—"

Dixon threw up his hands with a gesture of surrender.

"I give in," he exclaimed. "I have a great admiration for your respected Chief, but when he gets the grouch on the best police force in the world, I absolutely come to loathe him."

"Now that you have had your breakfast of good red herrings," observed Hardy. "We'll get back to the story."

"Can you continue it in your next?" asked the superintendent, gravely.

"No necessity." Hardy drew a notebook from his pocket and placed it on the table. "The lady is fond of talking— except, apparently, to the police. She told a neighbour all about it, just before she went down to the police station."

"The next Superintendent of Detectives should certainly be journalistically trained," observed Dixon, to space.

"Won't hurt him," grunted Hardy. "Here it is. Just after dark on the night in question, someone rang the Matthews' electric bell. When Mrs. Matthews answered the door a man inquired for 'Bill'. Mrs. Matthews answered she believed her son and heir had taken a trip to Melbourne. The visitor was hard to convince, but ultimately accepted the statement. An hour afterwards Clarice Matthews was called to the door by a ring, and another man inquired for brother Bill. The same answer was returned and he left."

"There should be at least a column spread in that," said the superintendent, mildly. "You certainly have worked to some purpose, Bob."

"Let me finish. An hour later, Albert— that's Exhibit C— came home. He said that he had been stopped by two men who wanted to know where Bill was. He had replied that, so far as he knew, Bill was in Melbourne. The men then wanted to come in with him and search Bill's room, claiming that he had some stuff belonging to them. Albert disagreed with the plan, and manage to get home, very shaken in nerves. A few minutes later a shot was fired at the house, breaking one of the windows, and embedding itself in the ceiling."

The superintendent sat upright, quickly.

"Are you going to use that, Bob?"

"Why not!"

"I think I shall have to have that conversation with Mr. Thomas."

"He will tell you to go to—"

"He will be rude, certainly. But then, he has some common sense, a form of grey matter that appears to be lacking—"

"—in his subordinates," finished Hardy, with a broad grin. "Still, a promise to let a subordinate, named Hardy in on the ground floor of the game, might take the place of the lacking grey matter."

"I understand." Superintendent Dixon sat back in his chair and nibbled at the end of his pencil. "The trouble in making such a deal is that I have nothing to offer in return."

"In that case—"

"Look here, Bob." The superintendent leaned forward and pointed his pencil at the journalist. "The truth is, that you have given me information that has not yet come into this office. When I had the report from Darlinghurst this morning, I sent a couple of men out to make inquiries. They have not yet reported. Another time, boy, make your bargain before you give your information away."

"All right, superintendent." Hardy rose from his chair, abruptly, and walked to the door. "It'll make a nice front-page story, as it stands."

"If your editor will publish it. I fear I shall have to call him on the phone, as I am too busy to go round today."

Hardy came to a sudden halt. He was well aware that his newspaper was, at the time, at peace with the Detective Offices. In these circumstances, his editor would think twice before publishing any story the superintendent placed a veto on. Superintendent Dixon watched Hardy's face with interest. For a moment the journalist remained with the handle of the door in his hand. Then, he turned and walked back to his chair.

"I should bring the goods to you and that you would deal straight."

"I'm not going to play otherwise, boy," replied Dixon with a smile. "What you published last night didn't matter. More than probable your man got it from the sergeant at the desk. What you tell me this morning places a different complexion on the matter."

"You think there is a big story behind this?" asked Hardy, eagerly.

"There is something worth inquiring into," said the superintendent cautiously. "You shall have the story, boy. But, you will have to wait for it."

"Very well, then," said Hardy, after a moment's thought. "I'll see the chief and get him to let me go after it."

"That will suit me, Bob," answered the superintendent; "Of course the old agreement stands. Bring what you get to me and I'll see you get first talk for publication."

Outside the Detective Offices Hardy stood for some minutes undecided as to his next course of action. He had six hours before he could hope to see Alphonzo Thomas, the Editor of the Mirror. True, he could have found the day editor in his room, but he was convinced the story he had to tell was of such Importance that only the chief could deal with It.

As he was turning away from the building, a man touched him on the shoulder. "Looking for a story, Bob?"

"Have you anything, Frost?" asked Hardy, eagerly, recognising in the speaker one of the headquarters' detective-inspectors.

"Doing anything?" asked Frost.

"Nothing that will not keep," replied the journalist, truthfully.

"Wait for me, then," said the Inspector, turning to ascend the steps. "There's something happened out at the Point you may get a story out of."

2

INSPECTOR FROST did not remain in Police Headquarters many minutes. On rejoining Hardy he suggested an adjournment to the nearest café.

"A man was found in Darlinghurst Road this morning, in an unconscious condition," he commenced, with a preface.

"Nothing unusual for that particular part of Sydney," observed Hardy. "I understand police records state there are more sly-grog shops in Darlinghurst than in all the other districts of Sydney combined."

The Inspector took no notice of the newspaper man's remarks. From an inner pocket he produced a few papers and laid them on the marble topped table.

"There are one or two things about this case that may interest you, Hardy," continued Frost. "There was little on the man. To be exact, four shillings in silver and three pennies. A two-bladed knife showing signs of hard usage. A cheap watch and silver change, both well worn. Two pieces of string, one of them tied with several peculiar knots, and one letter."

"Where is the man?" asked Hardy.

"At the Sydney Hospital," replied the Inspector; "He has not recovered consciousness and the doctors do not seem to know what is the matter with him. At all events, they won't tell, if they do know."

"Anything strange about his clothing?" asked the journalist.

"A cheap blue suit, well worn, made by Dent and Sons, a soft hat, with the maker's name torn out. Striped shirt, low, turned down collar and black knotted tie. Brown shoes, well worn at the heels, and showing signs of having been half-soled several times, laces broken and joined, one mended with a piece of string. Undergarments cheap and almost in rags."

"Any body marks?"

"None whatever. A few moles and minor scars but nothing distinctive. I had finger prints taken and submitted to the office. Was just going to see if they had produced results when I met you. They know nothing of him, so he's never been through our hands."

"Then, he is nothing but one of the usual finds. Appears to me, Frost, you are trying to make a lot out of one of the common incidents of police work. Do you mean to tell me that this is the first man in a state of unconsciousness the police of Sydney have found?"

"There jumps the journalist to unconsidered conclusions," retorted the Inspector. "There is one uncommon matter and I have refrained from mentioning it so far. In fact, there are two uncommon features in the case."

"One at a lime, please."

"First, the man was unconscious. That, itself is not unusual, but it is remarkable that the doctor at the hospital does not seem to be able to give an explanation for his condition."

"Go on."

"The second is this letter." The Inspector drew an envelope from his pocket, and, extracting a piece of paper, passed the envelope over to Hardy. It was a common, commercial envelope, with the address written in pencil thereon. It was addressed to "Mr. Carl Humberson, 133 Cascade Street. Darlinghurst."

"I presume you suggest that Mr. Carl Humberson does not live at that address," remarked Hardy.

"I had the pleasure of interviewing Mr. Carl Humberson," replied the detective. "He was good enough to prove, conclusively, that he had never received the letter. Certainly, his appearance is totally different from the man we found."

"What of the contents?" asked Hardy stretching his hand across the table. Frost gave him a half sheet of note paper, badly torn, and containing the lower portion of a letter. It read:—

...that when you receive this, my patience is at an end. I have tried to do my best for you, but you are not only disobedient but have placed me in great danger by your reckless disregard of my instructions. You must be aware of the penalty you are incurring by this behaviour. I have warned you before and again tell you, that my patience is exhausted. In three days you will meet your punishment— the punishment I have meted out to others you know of.

—Dr. Night.

"Dr. Night." Hardy looked across at the Inspector. "I have never heard of this man. Have you looked him up, Frost?"

"There is no person of that name on the British Medical Association's register," stated the Inspector positively. "There is not a Dr. Night known to any religion, medical or scientific association or society in Australia, nor, so far as I can discover, in the world."

"That seems pretty conclusive," laughed the journalist. "The question seems to be: who, and what, is Dr. Night? And, when we have answered that question I want to know what powers he possesses to punish his enemies to the very date, and apparently from a distance."

"What do you mean?" The Inspector picked up the envelope and pointed to some faint pencil marks at one corner. They indicated a date three days previous.

"Dr. Night appears to be a very interesting gentleman," observed Hardy. "Anyone would be interesting who could produce a state of coma that is unrecognisable by the medical profession and also produce that coma from a distance; for I suppose we may presume that Mr. Carl Humberson had, after receiving that letter, conceived a strong distaste for the worthy doctor's company."

"That is your opinion, eh?" asked Frost.

"It is your's too," challenged Hardy. "Now, tell me what you want me to do. Publish this?"

He indicated the letter on the table. "It will make a fair story, but not so good as the one I took to Dixon this morning, and got wrecked."

Frost was inquisitive and Hardy recounted the Matthews story, very much as he had told to Superintendent Dixon.

"I wonder if there is any connection?" mused Frost.

"Improbable, I should think. The only connecting link I can find is that the two matters occurred within the danger zone."

Frost laughed at Hardy's remark. It was a time worn joke that Hardy attributed all the ills from which Sydney suffered to the Darlinghurst area.

"You may laugh as you will," retorted the journalist, carelessly. "One of these days you will find that only a spring cleaning in Darlinghurst will prevent a wave of crime sweeping Sydney, as it has lately swept Melbourne."

Hardy look a careful copy of the letter and envelope and went down to the Mirror Office. There he had a long interview with the day editor and then out to lunch. On returning to the newspaper offices he found a message waiting for him, to ring up Inspector Frost, at the Detective offices.

Obtaining the connection he had to wait some time as the detective was engaged with the Commissioner of Police. At last Frost rang up the newspaper.

"He's dead," announced Frost briefly, immediately he heard the journalist's voice.

"Have the doctors learned anything more?" asked Hardy.

"If they have, they're darned close about it," replied the Inspector. "Anyway you can write it down as 'murder.'"

"Murder?"

"Sure thing." Frost's voice sounded puzzled over the phone. "There's not a scratch or bruise on him, and so far as the doctors can tell there's no sign of poison. Yet, I'll stake my life that someone hangs for it."

When he had handed in his copy, Hardy walked up to Elizabeth Street and caught a Darlinghurst tram. A call at the Police Station resulted in the information that Mrs. Matthews was still disinclined to talk. The journalist then turned back towards the city and called on police headquarters. Superintendent Dixon and Inspector Frost were both out, and the office men had but a general knowledge of the two happenings.

The journalist then went to the city mortuary and was allowed to view the dead body.

For some time he examined the corpse, closely, but could find no clue of consequence. There was some trouble in obtaining permission to view the dead man's clothing, but, at length, they were produced. Inch by inch, the journalist went over the well-worn garments. The suit was badly crumpled and very dirty. The underclothing was soiled and ragged. The hat was broken and discoloured.

3

THE quest appeared hopeless, yet Hardy persevered. He was relying on a peculiar instinct that seemed to lead him on. So far as he could see the clothing contained no clue to the mysterious death or the owner. Again and again, with a patience almost hopeless, he held up for inspection the various articles.

Then, as he dropped the trousers carelessly on the table he found his first clue. The trousers were cuffed, and as they fell, a few grains of white powder sifted from the fold. Waiting until the attendant had wandered to another part of the room. Hardy cut the stitching and turned down the cloth. There lay a few grains of white powder. The journalist sifted them into an old envelope.

The second leg of the garment yielded a few more grains and it small piece of glass. Pocketing his find, Hardy left the mortuary and went down to the newspaper offices. Mr. Thomas had just arrived and the star man sought an immediate interview.

Alphonzo Thomas managing editor of the Morning Mirror was a short, fair man, partially bald, but wearing, with evident pride, a large light-brown moustache which he continually pulled when excited or disturbed. Hardy placed the two cases he had investigated before his editor.

To the journalist, the mystery of Mrs. Matthews and her family and informal callers appeared the most intriguing. The dead man at the Sydney morgue might yield a story, possibly a good one, when the identity of Dr. Night was discovered.

For nearly an hour the two men discussed the stories, and finally Alphonse Thomas resolved that, while neither story warranted the journalist devoting the whole of his time to it, he should for the next few days, hold a roving commission on the two. This arrangement suited Hardy. Somewhere in the two mysteries lay a good story.

As Hardy was leaving the room, his telephone bell rang. Thomas picked up the receiver and then called to Hardy. "Phone for you, Rob. Switched through to here, as it was said to be a hurry call."

The young man took the receiver. "Hullo! Hardy, of the Mirror, speaking."

"Robert Hardy, of the Morning Mirror?" queried a very precise male voice. "I believe, Mr. Hardy, that you are investigating the case of the man found unconscious in Darlinghurst Road, last night?"

"Yes, Who's speaking? What do you know?"

"I will answer your last question first. Mr. Hardy. I know a great deal of the matter. I am of the opinion you have undertaken an investigation beyond your capabilities."

"Really?" All Hardy's fighting instincts were aroused at the remark. "May I ask the name of my critic?"

"Before I say more," replied the man. "I would like to offer you a word of warning. I believe you found a piece of a letter enclosed in an envelope in the pocket of the unconscious man. Is that not so?"

"The police found a letter in the pocket of the man," replied the journalist, resisting an impulse to hang up the receiver. "You are in error in referring to the 'unconscious man.' He is dead."

"I regret the mistake, Mr. Hardy, I should have spoken of the dead man. May I inquire the time of his death?"

"About noon today. The detective in charge of the case will no doubt give you the exact time. Now, may I again ask your name, and where I can see you? From your remarks you appear to possess a lot of interesting information about this dead man."

"Dear me." The tone was quite regretful. "The drug should have worked earlier. I calculated that he would die not later than six o'clock this morning."

"Who the devil are you? Haven't you got a name?"

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Hardy. I should have given you my name at the commencement of the conversation. It was pure forgetfulness on my part. Now, let me warn you to keep out of the affair, if you value your— er— health. I cannot have impertinent newspaper men interfering in my affairs. My name is Dr. Night."

Then came the sharp click of the receiver being hung on the hook. For a moment Hardy stood, staring, at the instrument before him. Then he seized the lever and jerked it viciously.

"Switch speaking," came the calm voice of the Mirror's operator.

"Find out the number and place of the person who has just been speaking to me. Hurry up; it's urgent!"

Hardy turned to face his chief. Mr. Thomas was sealed well back in his chair, calmly watching the excited journalist.

"Do you know who that was?" exclaimed Hardy. "That was Dr. Night, and he had the infernal check to tell me to keep off the Darlinghurst Road case."

If the journalist had expected sympathy or amazement from the Mirror's editor, he was mistaken. Thomas grinned broadly at the excited man for a moment, and then turned to his desk.

"Well, get him, Hardy. It's your job."

Hardy knew his editor well enough to realise that in those few words lay his course of action. Thomas was leaving the hunt for Dr. Night in his hands. He would be able to call for all the help he wanted, but above all, it was up to him to "get him" or give a very complete and satisfactory explanation for a failure.

For the next half-hour the journalist sat at the end of the telephone line. From exchange he received the information that the call had been put through from a public booth, He had expected that. Dr. Night would never have been foolish enough to use an instrument through which he might be traced. Getting through to the Superintendent of the city exchange, Hardy requested that every departmental effort should be made to trace the call and the caller. Then he rang police headquarters to find that Superintendent Dixon and Inspector Frost had left for the night.

The desk man, once assured of the urgency of the business, promised to get in touch with Inspector Frost and ask him to telephone Mr. Thomas. Outside the Mirror offices Hardy jumped into a taxi and went down to the city exchange. There the night superintendent was awaiting him with the Information that the call had originated through the William Street exchange.

Hearing a message for the inspector the journalist drove down to William Street. Here he was informed that the call had been booked at 7.25 p.m., and originated at it public call box attached to the Oxford Street post office. Street, post office. Busy as the last hour had been, Hardy had constructed a mental picture of the mysterious Dr. Night.

A man who spoke so precisely would certainly he precise in his dress. Following a sub-conscious line of reasoning the journalist constructed a man of middle height, pale, aesthetic features, grey hair and eyebrows, and, being an indoor man, wearing a dark overcoat and hat, probably grey.

Had he been asked why he pictured Dr. Night in this manner, the journalist could not have given a satisfactory reply.

The picture had come into his mind during the brief telephone communication. Dr. Night was a "grey" man, and although Hardy laughed at himself for the thought, the greyness persisted.

Arriving at Oxford Street post office, Hardy found it closed for the night. The three telephone booths stood empty and dark, and the few loungers about could not remember any person answering to the description the journalist had constructed for Dr. Night.

Several of the surrounding shops were open and Hardy started a systematic inquiry of the attendants and customers, but with no success. Many persons, said to have been seen using the telephone booth, were carefully described by people questioned, but in no one case did the description appear to warrant investigation.

Hardy was almost discouraged when the Inspector arrived, somewhat excited, at the prospect of getting on the trail of the one man who appeared to be able to explain the death of the mystery man of Darlinghurst Road. The journalist explained the steps he had taken to trace the telephone message, and then spoke of the mental picture he had drawn of Dr. Night. As he had expected, the detective laughed heartily at the idea.

4

"NOTHING to do here," grumbled Frost, after he had sharply questioned one or two of the loungers about the Post Office corner. "We'll get up to the station and see if they have anything new on the two affairs to report."

At the Police Station the Sergeant in charge could tell them nothing new on the matters of Mrs. Matthews and the mystery man of Darlinghurst Road. They stood talking to him for some time.

Just as they were about to leave, the constable who had been relieved from duty in Oxford St. walked in.

"Seen a man, this evening in Oxford Street between seven o'clock and a quarter to eight, near the Post Office?" asked Frost, with a wink at the man at the desk. "Middle height, very grey, thin features, greyish skin, looked like a doctor or a university professor. Wore a dark overcoat and a dark hat, constable?"

"Yes, sir," replied the man, promptly. "Soon after seven o'clock a man answering to that description crossed Oxford Street at the Crown Street intersection. Appeared somewhat absent-minded. Nearly run over by one of them buses."

"What?" shouted the inspector, staring at the man in amazement, with a puzzled glance at the Sergeant.

"Come from up near the old gaol. Saw him under a light standard. Heavy, grey eyebrows and sort of peculiar eyes. Seemed to look through you, he did. Is he wanted, sir?"

Frost hung on to the desk, a bewildered look in his eyes. The sergeant was looking at the constable as if he had never seen him before. Hardy felt a glow of satisfaction at the useful work his 'hunch' had put in, but was very puzzled at the outcome.

"You've broke it this time, man," gasped Frost at length. "Want him? I'd have given a year's seniority to have been alongside you. That was Dr. Night."

"Dr. who, sir," asked the bewildered constable. "There's nothing on the book about him, sir."

"There will, be tomorrow, constable," answered Frost grimly. "I want a talk with that bird and I want it badly. You're the only one of us who has seen him. If, you can pick him up it'll be as good as a stripe to you."

For a full half hour Frost questioned the constable and Hardy as to the personality of the man seen in Oxford Street, and the voice on the telephone. At the end of the time he had a fairly accurate description of the person supposed to be Dr. Night. This was immediately placed on the book and telephoned to all the police stations around Sydney. The person described was to be detained until Frost had had an opportunity of questioning him.

"Suppose I am going a bit far," commented the Inspector, as he and the journalist left the police station. "But you've given me a jolt this evening, Bob. Lord, you're lost in a newspaper office if you can't see a man at the other end of a telephone line."

"It may not be Dr. Night," said Hardy thoughtfully.

"It may not, and it may be," retorted Frost. "I'm not taking chances. I want a word with that bird— and I want it bad."

For some minutes Frost strode down Oxford Street, in silence. At the junction with Liverpool Street he halted.

"There's nothing more we can do to-night," he said slowly. "I'm getting home, Bob. Suppose you'll do the same. You've done a good day's work, my boy, and you've given at least one member of the New South Wales police department a bigger jolt than half a dozen questions in Parliament, could have done."

Hardy had stepped off the pavement to board a Circular Quay tram when the detective called him back.

"By the way Bob. You're sitting on the inside of this game. Mind your steps in that paper of yours. I know you like sensation and the way things are moving it looks as if you'll get plenty. Don't spoil things by too much talk at the moment. There's a right time to open out, you know."

Nodding assent, Hardy swung on to the tram and went down to the Mirror Office to report. There he found that orders had been left on the board for him to report direct to the editor.

Thomas looked up expectantly as Hardy entered his room. In a few words the journalist reviewed the night's happenings, and finished with Frost's warning against premature publication of the story. Thomas frowned at the warning and sat for some moments tugging at his moustache.

"Suppose we'll have to lot the gist of the story pass tonight." he said, at length. "I don't want to get upsides with the police at present. It's a good story, Hardy, and you appear to be on the inside running. Yes, it'll keep. You'd better sign off now. You're on this story until I call you off."

The managing editor turned to his work. Hardy sat quid. In a minute Thomas looked up, inquiringly.

"Until the story is cleared up?" asked Hardy stolidly.

"Of course!" Thomas spoke impatiently. "I'm not likely to take you off anything as good as this looks. Good night, lad."

5

HARDY searched the next morning's newspapers eagerly. Only the Mirror contained a "starred story" of the mystery man of Darlinghurst Road. The Journalist's story of the torn letter from Dr. Night was a scoop.

When he arrived at the newspaper office he found a note from Thomas in the rack asking him to bring Inspector Frost to the editor's room that afternoon at one o'clock. A scribbled postscript wished the journalist luck on the day's hunting, and instructed him to place his copy in the editor's "private copy" basket.

The newspaperman was somewhat of a loss how to proceed on the double inquiry. Mrs. Matthews was, for some reason, disinclined to give any further reason for her complaints to the police: the search for the "grey" man would now he taken in hand seriously by the police.

One point remained; the little packet of white powder and broken glass he had taken from the cuffs of the dead man's trousers.

Leaving the newspaper office, Hardy walked down to the corner of Pitt and King Streets, and entered the chemists shop of Masters Bros. & Co.

A tall, thin man, with a worn, clean shaven face, came from behind the prescription desk to meet him.

"Bad nights, again?" asked Hardy, with a rapid glance at his friend's face. "Neuritis will kill you, Ted."

"It's hell," answered Ted Chaffers, the manager of the shop. "Enough to drive one to drink or drugs."

"It's the latter I've come to see you about," remarked the newspaper man, casually.

"Lord, man! You've never taken to the dope?" asked Chaffers, with real concern in his voice.

"Not yet," answered Hardy, with a quiet smile. "One never knows what's in store for a newspaperman. Some of our assignments are enough to drive anyone to it. Have it look at this and tell me what you make of it."

Ted Chaffers took the packet behind the desk. In a couple of minutes he returned, the paper open in his hand.

"Dope, Bob. Where did you get it? There's a lot of dirt and fluff mixed up with it. More of your mystery work?"

"You've hit it, Ted. That stuff came out of the cuffs of the trousers of the man found dying in Darlinghurst Road. Of course, this is confidential. I'm telling you so that you may be able to identify it, if necessary."

"Then the man was a cocaine addict," answered Chaffers, positively. "This is not the stuff you get at a reputable chemist. It's full of fake, but there's enough 'snow' there to satisfy an addict."

"What about the piece of glass?" asked Hardy, picking up the fragment, from the paper.

"Looks like a piece of one of the tubes this stuff is sold in," replied the chemist after a moment's examination. "I had a tube of the stuff in my hands the other day. Man brought it in and wanted to sell it. I told him I would have nothing to do with the muck. It's not only impure, but it's dangerous to have on the promises. Yes, I'll swear this piece of glass came from a similar bottle."

The journalist had expected information of this nature.

Leaving the shop he walked up to the Sydney Hospital. There he asked to see Dr. Streatham, the medical superintendent.

"Another mystery story?" grinned the doctor, when Hardy was admitted to his room. "Perhaps I can guess. The Mirror made a sensation of the story of the man picked up in Darlinghurst Road the night before last. Guess that's your business, Bob."

"I shall have to recommend you for a job at the Detective Office," drawled Hardy. "You doctors would make great investigators."

"We are investigators," replied the doctor, seriously. "We investigate humans when they are brought to us by disease, accident and death. I've never yet had the opportunity to investigate the brain of a newspaperman, but there's still time. It will be an interesting study."

"Not for the newspaper man," grinned Hardy. "Your guess counts one to you. I'm on the Darlinghurst Road mystery. Now I'll have my guess. That man was a cocaine addict?"

"Good man. Where did you get it? I was going to ring up Frost and tell him that, among other things. Wondered why he never asked the question of me when he was here yesterday."

Hardy produced the packet of cocaine and dirt, and handed it to the doctor. "I got that out of the cuffs of the dead man's trousers," he explained. "Another little point against friend Frost, eh?"

The medical superintendent sifted the mixture about on the paper.

"Cocaine of a poor quality, much diluted with some foreign matter. I'll have to make a record of this, Hardy. In future, when a mystery man is brought into the hospital, I will have the cuffs of his trousers turned out, as well as his pockets."

"What of the glass, doctor?"

Dr. Streatham left the room to return shortly, holding a thin glass tube about two inches long and half-an inch in diameter. "There's the whole article," he said, handing the tube to the journalist. "I got it off one of my patients about a mouth ago. There's cocaine in it—the stuff the runners sell."

Hardy held out his hand for thee packet of dirt and cocaine the doctor had continued to hold, but Dr. Streatham shook his head.

"You'd better let me retain this, Bob," he said, significantly. "Strictly speaking, it belongs to the Crown and there might be awkward questions asked if it became known that you had it. I shall hand it to Frost the next time he comes to see me—that is, after I have made an analysis of the stuff. There may be something in this mixture that may lead to a determination of the cause of the man's death."

"Good enough, doctor. I shall expect you to let me have a copy of your notes on the analysis after you have informed the police."

Leaving the hospital the journalist went down to the Detective Office. Superintendent Dixon was not in his room, and Inspector Frost was engaged with the Commissioner. After a wait of quarter of an hour, the Inspector came down the stairs and joined the journalist. Hardy gave him Thomas's message, and the detective promised to be at the Mirror offices at the time stated.

"I've been handed the Matthews matter to look into," remarked Frost at length, "You're interested in that, too? Brought the dope to the Superintendent, I'm told. Got a twist on it yet?"

"Only a 'hunch'," answered Hardy. "There's no ground for the 'hunch' so far as I can see. Yet I'm willing to stake a good bit on it."

"Go to it, Bob," laughed the inspector. "After your guess at Dr. Night yesterday, this office is willing to carefully consider your 'hunches.' I haven't recovered from the shock, yet."

"Mrs. Matthews and the mystery man are linked together in my mind."

"And—by Jove, Bob! I believe you've hit on something. I have some information that seems to bear out your theory."

"Police secrets, or share?" inquired Hardy. "I've some information, too. A little matter the police, in the person of Inspector Frost, appears to have overlooked."

"I'll risk it," grinned the detective. "Appears to me that you, and the police are fifty-fifty on this game. We'll sit it over a cup of coffee." A few minutes later the two men entered a café and sealed themselves at a marble-topped table in a vacant corner.

"You blow first?" asked Frost.

"Don't mind. My 'hunch' is that we are in on a dope story. Yesterday I went down to the morgue to see the corpse. Fiddling about with the poor devil's clothing, I found cocaine in the cuffs of the trousers."

"Of all the—" Frost's face fell. "I missed a bet there. Got the stuff?"

"You can get it from Dr. Streatham, at the Sydney Hospital," replied Hardy. "He is making an analysis of the dirt. Says he will have it ready in a couple of days."

"Good move, Bob. Anything more?"

"A point I let slip, yesterday," confessed the journalist. "When I found the dirt from the cuff contained cocaine, I remembered a peculiar look in Mrs. Matthews' eyes. I am willing to stake that she is a cocaine addict, also. That's all there is in my packet, Frost."

"Not bad, Bob. As to Mrs. Matthews, I'd say that you were right. I had a talk to her this morning and noticed the same thing. But beyond that, I've got certain proof that we are correct in our surmise."

"Good."

"You know that she has three children. Seen them, Bob?"

"No. Guess they're on the same wicket, from what you say."

"They are. All three of them have the same look. To test the matter I've gone into the history of the family. Not much results yet, but enough to lead to a pretty story. You know of the elder boy?"

"Exhibit B?"

"Yes. The chief said that you had named him that. Well, Exhibit B, otherwise William Matthews, has disappeared."

"But William Matthews and the mystery man of Darlinghurst Road are not one and the same person," objected Hardy. "The mystery man is not a day under thirty-five and William Matthews is only about nineteen."

"There you slip," laughed Frost. "I have not tried to make out the two are identical. All that I have stated is that William Matthews has bolted."

"For what reason?"

"Again you beat me." Frost spread out his hands in a deprecating manner. "William Matthews is not the mystery man. But William Matthews has a history, and that history appears to link him up with the mystery man, if what you say about him is correct."

"I've had two experts on the dirt and they both say cocaine," stated Hardy. "I'll take their word for it."

"Then here's William Matthews story," answered Frost. "He's been running dope between the importers and he salesmen. Collects the stuff, heaven knows where, and hands it over for the price agreed upon. Last lot, he made a bad break. Suppose he thought he was not getting enough out of it, so emptied out the tubes of dope and filled them up with a mixture of borax and sugar."

"Sweet youth!" murmured Hardy.

"Humph! The runners didn't think so. They found out the exchange and called on Matthews to hand over the goods. William wouldn't, or couldn't. The gang got nasty. William did a bolt and left his family to face the music. Gang went to the house and demanded William. He had disappeared, so they, tried to force the mother and children to come across. They wouldn't or couldn't. So the gang tried shooting."

"A fair explanation," observed Hardy. "How do you connect the mystery man?"

"My guess is that he is either one of his runners that Matthews served or he got wise as to who were the importers and tried to hold them up for the stuff."

"I think we'll say 'importers,'" suggested Hardy, with a smile of knowledge.

"How's that?" asked Frost.

The journalist drew a copy of that day's Mirror from his pocket and pointed to the 'star' article on the front page.

"Dr. Night," he quietly answered.

6

"I WANT to know why this man, Dr. Night, telephoned to Bob Hardy last night," asked Alphonzo Thomas. For over an hour Inspector Frost and Bob Hardy had sat in consultation with the managing editor of the Mirror. The two investigators had spoken at length on the parts of the quest they had dealt with, the sharp-witted editor of Sydney's leading morning newspaper questioning and probing.

Quite early in the conference it had been decided that the mystery man of Darlinghurst Road was linked in some manner with Mrs. Matthews and her family and that, for the sake of convenience, the two stories could he dealt with as one.

Then Alphonzo Thomas had voiced the one question that had been in the minds of all three men from the beginning of the conversation.

"Dr. Night was betrayed by the letter in the pocket of the dead man," Hardy reminded his chief.

"That letter did not contain a distinct threat to murder," objected Thomas. "Had not Dr. Night betrayed himself by telephoning direct to Hardy, it would not have been difficult to link him up with this affair."

"He may have thought otherwise," observed Frost. "It is well known that criminals make the most simple mistakes. We police would not have a show against them, otherwise."

"I am in doubt as to the 'simple' mistake, Frost," said Thomas sharply. "Take the case at your valuation. Dr. Night learns by some means that you have discovered this letter or part of a letter, on his person of the man he killed. In a fit of nerves, he telephones a threat to Hardy to try to prevent him investigating and publishing the story. Why telephone to Hardy? Why not telephone to you and warn you to drop the matter?"

"I am afraid he would have wasted the call fee, had he done so," laughed the detective.

"Why not think the same in reference to Hardy?" continued Thomas, "The Mirror men have a reputation for getting what they go after. Hardy has been in a few tight corners when engaged on investigations, but I have yet to observe signs of loss of nerve."

"Hardy had a lot of luck at the jump-off," admitted the detective. "I'm saying nothing against his work, but he got on the trail in a manner likely to induce a fit of nerves in any criminal."

"In that case, why did Dr. Night not only issue a warning, but convey to Hardy the definite information that he committed the murder. Further, he informed Hardy that the drug should have proved fatal at a certain time. In that case, there is a definite clue to the murderer."

"A small one, I'm afraid," interjected Hardy. "I asked Dr. Streatham if he knew of a drug that would kill without a sign at a definite time, between six and ten hours after it was administered and, as well, produce a state of coma between the time of its administration and death."

"What was his reply?" asked the detective inquisitively.

"He laughed," Hardy grinned broadly, as he answered.

"I consider that telephone message a challenge to the Mirror, and I am going to accept it as one," continued Thomas definitely. "Hardy, will you write your story from that point of view? Dr. Night has challenged the Mirror to keep out of the investigation, or to take the consequences. My answer is that the Mirror will hunt this man down until his history and deeds are laid bare to the public eye. Get that, Hardy? Good! You will, of course, consult with Inspector Frost as to what details are to be published and what kept back. All I want at the moment is to start the hue and cry."

The journalist rose from his seat and beckoned to the detective. As Hardy held the door open, Thomas continued: "There will be a directors' meeting this evening. I shall make it my business to be there and to ask the directors to take up the challenge of this very impertinent murderer, by offering a reward for his discovery. That's all, Hardy. Good afternoon, Inspector."

The next morning the contents bills of the Mirror announced the offer of a reward of £500 for information leading to the discovery and arrest of Dr. Night. Hardy's story, under a triple column, spread on the front page, told in crisp, clear sentences of the finding of the mystery man in Darlinghurst Road and his death. Then it dealt with this attack on Mrs. Matthews' house, linking the two mysteries together. In a large panel was starred the telephone conversation Hardy had with Dr. Night; the threat to keep out of the investigation or to lake the consequences being prominent in big type.

The story look the imagination of Sydney's million. Throughout the day information and queries poured into the newspaper office and the continued ringing of the telephone bell drove the day editor to a frenzied desperation bordering on resignation.

Then followed a flood of correspondence, most of the writers' professing to have seen the mysterious Dr. Night in various parts of the State and Australia. Hardy and Frost took over the examination of this correspondence and spent considerable time each day sorting out the few letters that appeared to contain information of value.

At the same time the police were not idle. Darlinghurst and the surrounding districts wore carefully combed for any one who at all resembled the 'grey' man seen by the constable in Oxford Street.

Late on the third night following the publication of the big story in the Mirror and the offer of the reward tor the capture of Dr. Night, Frost rose wearily to his feet. He had just finished examining a collection of letters from the Mirror's correspondents, all certain that they had lately seen the hunted man.

"Call it a day, Bob," he suggested, stretching his arms, wearily. "I did not know there were so many cranks in Australia. Every dead-beat who has managed to raise the price of a stamp appears to have the one clue we have overlooked."

"Another fifteen minutes will see me through," replied Hardy, stifling a yawn. "Here's a letter that might interest you. The lady, who lives just outside Bourke, is of opinion that a swaggie who called on her two days previous to the date of her letter is Dr. Night. She wants the reward sent to her by return post."

"And the next will be from that particular swagman, informing us that that identical woman is Dr. Night in petticoats. What's the matter, Bob?"

"I think we have a clue here," said Hardy, slowly. "There is not much in the letter, but it rings true."

Frost leaned forward and caught the letter from Hardy's hand. It was but a scrap of paper and bore only two typewritten lines:

Meet me any night, Roslyn Garden steps, 11 sharp. One week from tonight, alone— D.

The detective dropped the note carefully on the table. Then he produced a pair of tweezers and lifting the note into the middle of a clean sheet of foolscap, wrapped it up.

"I shall want your finger prints, Bob," he said. "Let us go round to the office."

"What's the game?" asked Hardy, curiously.

"I may be mistaken, but this has the appearance of coming from Dr. Night."

Frost picked up his hat and led the way to the street. "If our good friend, the doctor, has been careless, there may be finger prints on this paper. It's a chance, but we won't miss it."

At police headquarters the Inspector handed over the precious packet to the man on duty in the fingerprints department, with copies of his own and Hardy's fingerprints. He requested that if any strange prints appeared on the paper he be immediately advised.

Outside the department Hardy looked at his watch.

"Ten minutes to eleven. Too late to keep the appointment, tonight, Frost."

"I was waiting for you to make the remark," observed Frost with a grin. "I'm in doubt how we are to keep that appointment."

"There's the word 'alone' included in the message," remarked Hardy. "I intend to keep the appointment, and alone, tomorrow, Mr. Detective."

"The hell you won't," retorted Frost, roughly. "The thing's a damned catch."

"It may not be."

"We'll argue that out tomorrow," Frost yawned. "I'm tired. Do you think there'll be many of those fool letters tomorrow?"

"Shoals of 'em," Hardy assured him with a grin. "What are you objecting to? We've struck something that looks good."

"The only thing that looks good to me at the moment, is bed. Advise the same prescription for you, Bob. Good night, and no fooling with that letter. We're playing with something that's worse than dynamite."

Frost turned down towards Circular Quay leaving Hardy to catch the Bondi tram at the corner of King Street. When the Inspector had left him, the journalist stood motionless, in the same spot, for some time. Then, with sudden decision he walked up to Queen's Square and caught a Darlinghurst tram. At King's Cross he alighted and walked down. Darlinghurst Road to Elizabeth Bay Road.

At the top of the passageway leading down into Roslyn Gardens he moved with caution. Carefully examining all the dark spots, he slipped silently down into Roslyn Gardens' he moved corner at the bottom, looking around him.

There was no one in sight.

Hardy had not expected the mysterious "D" to wait at the appointed spot for any length of time. If, and when, he kept the appointment, he must be there within five minutes of eleven, and in that short space of time lay the danger of the adventure.

Leisurely sauntering along, Hardy scrutinised the houses as he passed. Somewhere in that district lived Dr. Night. If he kept the appointment with "D" he might have the opportunity of meeting the murderer face to face. What kind of man would this Dr. Night prove to be?

Again the mental picture flashed across the journalist's brain. A cold-blooded, scientific, precise murderer; killing by intent, and not by the more forgiving lust of passion: an intellect arrogating to itself a supremacy over the common laws that made community life possible.

Frost had not been too sympathetic in his views of the message. He had doubted its honesty, but the journalist was convinced that the note bore no sinister aspect. The Inspector would want to police the whole district and mass a force of men convenient to the meeting place That would attract attention a and most likely prevent the mysterious correspondent keeping the appointment.

Left to himself, Hardy would have gone to the rendezvous unaccompanied, ignoring all thought of danger, and trusting to his wits and never-failing luck to bring him through unscathed. At the back of the journalist's mind was a determination to keep the appointment "D" had made and to keep it alone. The Inspector was the difficulty. He would not consent to such a course and Hardy knew that he would have the greatest difficulty in evading the safeguards the Inspector would try to enforce.

Gradually a plan grew in Hardy's mind for circumventing the Inspector and his safeguards. Turning back, the journalist again covered the ground around Roslyn Garden steps. That, conning carefully the idea, he walked down to the tram stop. He had found a way to get from within the guards the Inspector would certainly surround him with.

At Bondi Junction he left the tram and walked quickly down Acacia Road, turning in at a doorway of a high block of flats. On the third floor he let himself into his rooms and switched on the lights. Then, on the instant, Hardy froze, tense with expectation.

Someone had been in his rooms, and within the last hour. There was a subtle perfume in the air of the rooms that was strange to him.

Cautiously looking around, examining every inch of the apartment, his eyes came to the table. On it lay a small packet, wrapped in white paper and tied with coloured string.

Moving with every caution, he approached the table and examined the package without touching it. It looked innocent but, after the warning he had received from the mysterious Dr. Night, Hardy was disinclined to take any thing on trust. Leaving the package untouched, the journalist proceeded to carefully examine the remainder of the flat.

In the other rooms there were no traces of the strange visitor. The lock on the front door did not show signs of being forced, and it was a matter of impossibility for anyone to gain access to the flat from the windows. The intruders must have obtained a key to the rooms.

Returning to the sitting room, Hardy again examined the package carefully. It looked innocent enough, but some instinct warned him that he was facing a deadly peril. A short search and the newspaper man found an old pair of leather motor-gauntlets.

Donning those, Hardy cut the string and unrolled the parcel.

Beneath the white wrappings was a small box. Lifting the lid with great precaution, the journalist discovered a small tube of white powder lying on a bed of cotton wool. He recognised it at once. Only a couple of days before be had seen a similar tube in the hands of Dr. Streatham, at the Sydney Hospital. It was a tube of cocaine, of the sort dealt with by the illicit drug smugglers.

"Now, who the devil is making me a present of a tube of cocaine?" Hardy muttered. "Of all the crass foolishness—"

Carefully he lifted the tube from its bed of cotton wool and held it to the light. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he replaced it In the box and put on the lid. For some time Hardy sat, staring at the innocent looking box on the table, lying beside the heavy leather gauntlets. Then, with sudden resolution, he locked the box in a drawer of his desk, and, picking up the gauntlets, donned them. In the bathroom he scrubbed and disinfected them, thoroughly.

"I may be an ass," he muttered to himself, with a whimsical smile. "But—"

Then he turned out the light and went to bed.

"Well, and what did you do then?" inspector Frost asked the question impatiently. He was seated in Hardy's room at the Mirror office, and the journalist had been recounting the story of the box of cocaine he had found in his rooms the previous evening.

"Went to bed," replied Hardy, laconically.

"Did you bolt the front door?" retorted the detective, with an attempt of sarcasm. The journalist had taken the finding of the tube of cocaine in his-room so calmly that the Inspector was curious.

"What for?"

"Your strange visitor might have returned after you had gone to bed."

"He might," drawled Hardy. "But I give him credit for keeping better hours than I do."

"You've got a nerve, young man," was the Inspector's only comment. "S'pose you slept like a top?"

"Always do. Why shouldn't I?"

"Well, nothing happened to disturb your rest? No one entered your flat again?" The Inspector asked the questions as if he did not require answers. "What about it tonight?"

"What about it?" The journalist was immediately on his guard. He had made up his mind to keep that assignment alone and he knew that he would meet with the keenest opposition from the detective. From the moment Frost had entered his office the newspaper man had sensed the struggle of wits that was to come.

Frost would go to any length to gain his ends and surround the meeting with the unknown "D" with all the precautions at the command of the Department. Hardy had to meet this opposition alone and without resources. It was a battle of wits and he was determined not to accept defeat.

The Inspector had already taken certain precautions. He was well aware that Hardy was determined to shake off his companionship and protection. Already Hardy was under hidden and constant espionage. Men had been detailed for special duty in the vicinity of Roslyn Gardens steps and at ten o'clock that night a large body of police would take up strategic positions in the neighbourhood, enclosing a huge area of ground into which anyone might enter but none escape from unquestioned.

Within that ring the Inspector had determined that he and the journalist would pass, with a few chosen men, specially detained to seize "D." The moment the capture was made, the ring would be closed only to reopen when the Inspector was satisfied that he had the mysterious Dr. Night in his grasp.

Frost had sensed the opposition of the journalist. He was waiting for some overt act on the part of Hardy that would bring matters to a head. Then, and then only, would he finalise the disposition of his men. But he was determined that the break should originate with the newspaperman and, until it occurred he would stick to his side like a burr.

Slouching low in his chair, Hardy watched the detective with half closed eyes. He could guess the thoughts passing through the official mind. Already he had guessed the detective's plans for the night, and was determined that no action of his should give the Inspector cause for complaint.

The "burr" idea was so apparent that the newspaperman almost laughed aloud. For the first time in his life he was under police espionage. Many times he had tried to imagine what his course would be in such circumstances. Now the occasion had arisen. It was his brains against the whole police force, directed by one of the cleverest detectives in Australia.

It was his intention to shake off that espionage; to slip away from the inspector; to hold the interview with "D" unwatched; and to return to his office or home unaccompanied by Frost or any of his subordinates.

Throughout the day Hardy deliberately reversed the position between himself and Frost. Together they went about the routine of enquiries, the visit to the various stations with which they were in touch, the examination of the enormous mail at the Mirror offices. In apparent friendliness, but hidden antagonism, they lunched together in Hardy's room in the Mirror office, which had, for the time being, become the headquarters of the hunt for Dr. Night.

Late in the afternoon Thomas arrived at the Mirror, and immediately sent for the journalist to learn the latest news of the hunt for Dr. Night. The inspector accompanied the journalist to the room of the managing editor and urged on Thomas the advisability of Hardy acting, during the interview with "D," with police instructions and requirements.

To the detective's surprise, Thomas refused to interfere. The situation amused him, and in a few terse sentences he made the inspector understand that he had placed the hunt for Dr. Night in Hardy's hands, and that it was not his habit to interfere without sufficient cause. Finally, and somewhat bluntly, he intimated that he considered the police held the big end of the stick, and that it would be difficult for a single person, however clever, to evade police protection, it the police were serious in their determination. During the evening meal Frost was somewhat silent and made but short answers to Hardy's easy flow of conversation.

Once more out on the street, the journalist proposed that they turn in to one of the picture shows for the few hours of waiting. Frost grimly assented. Here, he suspected, was the commencement of the journalist's plan of evasion. Well, he could try. The Inspector was confident that he would get an unpleasant shock.

It happened that the principal picture of the programme was an American detective story. In spite of his attitude of watchfulness over the journalist, Frost became interested, noting with some distaste the many abnormalities of police methods introduced by the author. If that story in any way interpreted police methods of the United Slates of America then no wonder that continent was over-run by crooks.

The picture was working to its climax when the Inspector felt a touch on his arm. Hardy was on his feet.

"Time to move on, old man," whispered the newspaperman, and led the way out of the building. Outside; half-a-dozen men were standing idly by the curb. As Frost passed he made a sign for them to follow. Markedly unconcerned, Hardy led the way up King Street and boarded the Darlinghurst tram. Frost, silent but watching intently, kept pace with him.

The men following, guessing their leader's intention, had disappeared.

7

THE short journey up William Street passed almost in silence. At King's Cross the two men alighted, and three men from another compartment of the tram followed, them. Crossing the road Hardy, murmuring something about cigarettes, entered a soft-drinks shop. Frost waited outside. Here was a chance to pass the necessary instructions to his waiting men.

In a few moments the journalist rejoined the Inspector and the two men with their shadows, sauntered along Darlinghurst Road. Just opposite the short lane leading to the head of the stops, Hardy paused.

"I propose to the head of the steps exactly at the hour," he said casually. "I shall wait there two minutes, and then walk down the steps to Roslyn Gardens at a fair pace. If I reach the foot of the steps before five minutes past, then I shall wait there until the time is up."

"So you have no objections now to my accompanying you?" asked the Inspector, with some surprise.

"I am leaving that decision to you."

Hardy registered astonishment in a nearly perfect manner.

"I warn you that if you insist on accompanying me it is possible that my correspondent will not show up. Still, there is a chance that I may be mistaken."

"I'm coming."

Frost was doggedly determined, that in no circumstances would he lose sight of the journalist that night, or at least not until well past eleven o'clock.

Across the road, the lane leading to the head of the steps lay silent and dark. In the distance a deepening in the blackness denoted the head of the steps. For a minute the two men stood side by side, looking down the lane. Within the next half-hour that quiet spot might be the scene of one of the most sensational episodes in police history of Sydney.

Hardy looked at his watch.

"What do you make the time, Frost?" Hardy spoke casually. "We bad better set our watches together. I make it three minutes to the hour, by the G.P.O. clock, this morning."

The Inspector set his watch, which happened to be a few minutes slow, by the journalist's. For another minute they stood, quietly talking.

"Time's up!" said Hardy, briskly. "Coming?"

Without looking round, he led the way across the road and down the lane to the head of the steps. Halt way down a large tree cast a heavy shadow across the steps. It was necessary to proceed with careful watchfulness. Frost was on the lighter side of the passage and forged slightly ahead.

Once again, when the light of the lamp lit the path, he turned and spoke to the journalist. To his surprise Hardy had disappeared.

Inspector Frost was startled. He could have sworn that Hardy had stood beside him within the last five seconds.

Immediately he became the alert police officer. Quietly turning on the steps, he surveyed his surroundings. On his right was a low wooden fence bordering a somewhat untidy garden. There was little shrubbery in that garden, certainly not enough to cover a man. The light of the lamp illuminated the garden fairly well, and after a careful look over the Inspector decided that the journalist could not have escaped that way.

On the left side, the steps were bordered by a high cement wall, too high, in the police officer's opinion, for Hardy to have surmounted so quickly and quietly. Away behind him the steps ascended to the path. It would take a very active man nearly half a minute to have run up the steps and around the corner of the lane. Certainly, no one could have run that distance in quick time without making considerable noise, and the disappearance of the journalist had been absolutely noiseless.

The only remaining avenue of escape was down the steps to the Gardens, and that would have necessitated passing before the police officer. Suddenly Frost darted towards the cement wall, right in the heart of the shadow. There was a low door, almost indistinguishable in the darkness. Throwing his weight against it, the Inspector found it was locked. Yet Hardy might have found it open until he had passed through, and then shot the bolt.

With a spring the Inspector got his hands on the top of the wall and pulled himself up. Straddling the wall, he saw below him a well-groomed flower garden. From his seat he could see every inch of the ground, and Hardy certainly was not concealed there. Decidedly puzzled, Frost came to the conclusion that the journalist must have doubled back up the steps. It seemed impossible, but there was no other solution of the mystery.

Running up the stops and along the lane, the Inspector came out under the lamp in Darlinghurst road. He gave a low whistle and a man came out of the shadows towards him.

"Anyone come up the steps, Thompson?" asked Frost abruptly.

"No, sir," replied the plain-clothes constable. "Not a soul been along here since you and Mr. Hardy went down there."

"Did Mr. Hardy come this way?" The Inspector disliked asking the question. He had been hoodwinked, and he did not wish his subordinates to know it.

"Mr. Hardy, sir?" inquired the man. "No sir. He went down the steps with you and has not come back again. Did you separate?"

"Yes!" half-lied Frost. "Keep a sharp look out. Something queer is happening in this neighbourhood. Whistle immediately you see anything suspicious."

At that moment the clock of a nearby church chimed the four quarters, and then commenced to strike the hour. Instinctively, the Inspector pulled out his watch.

"That clock's slow," he remarked.

"Not much, sir." The man pulled out a large silver watch. "Just two minutes."

"Your watch is dead wrong," exclaimed Frost heatedly. "That clock is seven or eight minutes slow."

"I put my watch right by the station clock just before I came out," replied the officer doggedly. "I ain't a minute out."

"But Mr. Hardy and I put our watches—" Frost stopped suddenly in the middle of the sentence. He had remembered comparing watches with Hardy and that he had advanced his watch five minutes to make it coincide with the journalist's watch. Hardy had claimed that his watch was exact, and Frost had carelessly accepted that assurance.

The journalist had set his watch five minutes fast. Frost had not to think long to guess the puzzle. All through the day he had watched the journalist carefully, expecting some trick. Then, for one moment he had been off his guard, and in that moment Hardy had planned and made his get-away.

For some moments Frost stood wondering at the cleverness of the journalist. It had been a simple trick; so simple that it had caught him off his guard. He had been suspicious of the sudden acquiescence of the newspaper-man to the companionship of the police. He had expected Hardy to make some attempt to evade the continued espionage, and had anticipated with grim humour the sudden and effective counter-move he had prepared. Then, at the one moment when he could not retrieve any error, the journalist had fooled him—tricked him as if he were but a novice.

In the police force, Frost had built up a reputation for dogged perseverance. It had become a tradition that any criminal on whose trail he had camped would be run down and certainly captured. He was "Bulldog" Frost, and any man on whom his hand rested was a safe and sure prisoner.

One consolation the detective had. Hardy was within the lines he had drawn round the steps, and he could not get out without his permission. Walking quickly up the road, Frost passed the word to close the net and bring everyone within it to him.

Then, slowly and methodically, he started to make the circuit of his lines. At the end of Roslyn Gardens he came upon his first clue. A few minutes after eleven a closed car had driven up to the policeman on duly, and had been passed through the lines. A young lady had driven the car. She had stopped when challenged by the police, and explained that she had been visiting friends in the Gardens. She had given her name and address, and had been alone in the car.

"Anything in the car?" demanded Frost.

"Only rugs and things motorists litter up their car with," replied the man.

Frost knew that he was beaten. The girl was "D" or an agent of "D," and under those rugs littering the back of the car had lain Robert Hardy, a prisoner or a free agent.

Frost cursed his luck as he made his way back to the steps. There he made a careful examination by the light of his electric torch. He could see the marks which he had made in climbing the cement wall. There were no other marks.

Climbing on to the wall again, he made a careful inspection of the beds and paths. Again he confronted a blank. Back on the steps, he glanced over the wooden wall at the patch of ground bordering the wall and flashed his torch over the loose soil. There were no footmarks. Hardy had disappeared as if he had been snatched up into the clouds.

"I'll make him come across with the trick when I see him again," muttered Frost savagely. "He put one over on me that time. I'll give him credit for that."

In Darlinghurst Road once more, Frost called his men oft duty and went down to the Mirror offices. There he sought an interview with Thomas, after learning that Hardy had not returned.

"Any luck, Frost?" asked the managing editor when the detective entered his room.

"Hardy's disappeared," replied the Inspector, sinking into a chair.

"What?" Thomas jumped as though he had been seated on springs. "What do you mean, Frost? If anything's happened to that boy, I'll—"

"He played the disappearing trick himself," retorted the Inspector baldly. "You remember how I urged that you should forbid him to part from me. You refused to interfere. So he disappeared on his own."

"Put one over on you?"

Thomas was grave for a moment, and then laughed. "Rather a come-down for the police force."

"I'll give him his due; it was smart, work." Frost was, at last, able to laugh at his own discomfiture. "That young man would make a criminal that would turn white the hair of a force of Commissioners."

8

FOR a few minutes the two men enjoyed the joke. Then the inspector went over the night's happenings, step by step, not trying to cover his confusion when he found that Hardy had succeeded in giving him the slip. At the end of the story the two men looked at each other and again laughed heartily.

"I hope that nothing will happen to the boy," said Thomas at length. "He is a smart lad, and a bloodhound on the trail of a story, but he is inclined to take too many risks."

"I'm not going to say that I'm not worrying about him, Mr. Thomas," said the detective candidly. "I am. But if he can get me in such an easy fashion, I'll back him to got out of any difficulty he wanders into with a whole skin, too."

The telephone bell rang. Thomas picked up the receiver and listened for a minute, a broad grin spreading over his face. Then he passed the Instrument over to the inspector.

"Hardy wants you, Frost."

"Is that Inspector Frost, of the New South Wales Detective Department?" came over the wire, faintly, in a well-known voice.

"It is," replied the detective grimly. "May I ask what your highness has been doing since I set my watch by your very inaccurate timepiece?"

"I've been for a joyride with a lady friend." The voice on the wire held a hint of laughter. "At the moment I am at home, going to bed, as a pattern for all good detectives."

"I suppose the lady's name commences with a capital D?" suggested the inspector, grinning in spite of himself.

"It does." Then came a low laugh. "Say, Frost, she's some peach!"

Hardy laughed silently as he heard the rapid footsteps of Inspector Frost running up towards Darlinghurst Road. He was crouching under the low wooden fence, hardly daring to breathe. Immediately the steps of the detective died away in the distance, he stood up and stepped on to the hard gravel path. A few gardening tools were lying about, and picking up a rake the journalist carefully smoothed out the footmarks on the soft bed. Then he strode rapidly down towards the Gardens and vaulted the low wall.

It had been absurdly easy. Frost had been thrown off his guard and had not acted with his usual resource. Hardy had anticipated this. The unpremeditated action of the detective would give the necessary time to meet "D" and get away before the inspector returned to tile stops to make a more systematic search. As Hardy vaulted the fence the church clock chimed the hour. If his unknown correspondent was punctual his plans would have succeeded to a nicety. The Journalist stood, counting the strokes on the bell. As the last tone sounded a motor car swung rapidly round the corner and pulled up at the foot of the stops.

"Mr. Hardy! Quick!" It was a girl's voice, low and exceedingly pleasant. Wondering greatly the journalist stepped into the hack of the car, tripping over a pile of rugs. Immediately the car moved forward. The rugs gave Hardy a hint. They had yet to pierce the cordon of police Frost had drawn in a wide circle around the stops. It might be possible for him to bluff the car through, but he did not know what instructions the inspector had given to his men. Sitting down on the floor of the car, the newspaper man covered himself with the rugs, making the heap look as natural as possible. He had hardly concealed himself before the car pulled up abruptly, and he heard a man talking to the girl driver. A few moments and the car moved forward.

Hardy crawled out from under the rugs, and, opening the near door, stepped on to the running board, and slipped into the seat by the driver. The girl had opened out the car, and, dodging through some side streets, crossed in front of the Rushcutter's Bay Stadium, and then, by side streets, into Oxford Street. Turning citywards she swung into Victoria Street and down to Potts Point. Outside the gates of some large gardens, surrounding a fine house, she brought the car to a stop.

"Will you open the gales, please, Mr. Hardy?" she said, quietly. Hardy swung open the gates, and, when the girl had driven through, closed them again and walked up to the car. The girl was standing on the path awaiting him.

"I did, not expect the place to be surrounded by police." There was more than a hint of reproach in the clear voice.

"Inspector Frost is particularly thick-headed at times," said the journalist. "Unfortunately, he was in my office when I received your letter. Nothing would satisfy him but that he must also attend the interview you so kindly offered me. I tried hard, but he would not understand that three people always formed a particularly large crowd. Getting rid of him was very arduous work."

The girl laughed, and Hardy decided that she had a particularly pretty laugh. He wished that she would move out of the shadows so that he could judge if her features matched her laughter.

"I suppose I shall have to introduce myself, after this most informal meeting," she observed. "My name is Doris Blayde. This is my father's house."

"You already know my name," replied the journalist. "But to comply with social demands, I should I say that Robert Hardy of the Mirror has the honour to await your commands."

"How did you get rid of your friend Inspector Frost?" inquired the girl.

"I left him on the steps." Hardy laughed slightly at the picture of the bewildered Inspector searching for him. "The last I heard of him was a muttered statement about 'being snatched up into the blooming clouds'."

"I was surprised to find the district being watched by the police. Still, it didn't matter, as you managed to give them the slip," remarked Doris. "I had been visiting in the Gardens and I did tell the constable my right name and address. So it doesn't matter, does it?"

"Not one bit." assured Hardy.

"I suppose you are wondering why I sent that note to you," Doris appeared to be at a loss how to guide the conversation.

"I gathered from your short note that you had some information for me," suggested thee newspaper man, "Still, if it was only your intention to take me for a motor ride around the beauties of your neighbourhood, I must offer you my hearty thanks."

"It was more than that, Mr. Hardy." The girl spoke earnestly. "Father and I have been wondering over certain matters that have come to our knowledge, and I suggested that you should be told of them. Father objected, so I took this course of sending for you."

"But if your father objects—" commenced Hardy.

"He won't, now I have caught you," laughed the girl. "I think he is in the library. Will you help me to put this machine away and we will join him."

The garage doors were open and Doris steered the big machine skilfully into its place. Then she led the way through a side door of the house into a corridor.

"Father's in here," she whispered, stopping before a door. "He's not very terrible, even when I do things he says I mustn't."

9

SHE opened a door and led the way into a large comfortably furnished room, crowed with books. Although principally a library, it bore unmistakable evidence of being a favourite living room of the family. A bright fire was burning on the hearth, and seated before it was a tall, fair man, with a mass of light grey, curly hair surrounding his head. As he turned his head at the opening of the door, Hardy saw that he was clean shaven and his eyes bright blue, particularly open.

"Dad. I have brought Mr. Robert Hardy, of the Mirror, home with me."

Mr. Blayde came forward to greet the journalist. His hand, extended in greeting, was long and slender, and the slightly bowed shoulders spoke eloquently of the man of books and not of affairs.

"I did protest at my daughter mixing herself up in this affair of the dead man found in Darlinghurst Road," said Blayde, speaking in a low soft voice. "Yet I am most pleased to welcome you to my home, Mr. Hardy. I think you will be comfortable here and— what will you have to drink? We make a practice of helping ourselves in this house. Ah, I see. Doris is before me."

"I am afraid this is an unconventional hour for a call, Mr. Blayde," laughed Hardy, sinking luxuriously into the depths of a lounge chair. He was weary after his long day's work and the excitement of the evening. Doris seated herself on the arm of her father's chair. With her hat off, Hardy had an opportunity of unobtrusively scrutinising her. She was of medium height, with a slight boyish figure, fair, almost the same tone as her father. He decided that she was quite as pretty as her voice by this time. He had quite made up his mind she had the prettiest voice he had ever heard.

"My daughter and I have followed the story of the Mystery Man of Darlinghurst in your newspaper, very closely," commenced Blayde. "I am by way of being an amateur criminologist, and my daughter is an earnest devourer of detective fiction."

"All this is to lead up to the fact that we believe that we have discovered something that will help you, Mr. Hardy," interjected Doris.

"That remains for Mr. Hardy to judge," corrected Blayde. "Certainly we have noticed some queer happenings in this neighbourhood."

"Have you any reason to believe that they are connected in any way with the Mystery Man?" asked Hardy.

"I think I know the man whose body was found in Darlinghurst Road." Doris was jumping with impatience, contrasting quaintly with her father's more judicial attitude.

"You know the Mystery Man?" Hardy sat upright.

"I told father I had seen him, when I saw the portrait in the Mirror, but he would not believe me. You see, Mr. Hardy, your newspaper does not—"

"—go in for art portraiture," completed Hardy with a laugh. "Do you think, you would recognise him from a proper portrait?"

"I am certain I should," exclaimed Doris.

Hardy hesitated a moment. Then lie drew a photograph from his breast pocket. "I'm afraid It may shock you, Miss Blayde," he said, hesitatingly, and holding the photograph face downwards. "You see, it was taken after death and— well, although he was not outwardly injured, death photographs are not very pleasant."

Doris hold out her hand without hesitation, although she shuddered slightly when she first saw the face of the dead man.

"Yes," Doris exclaimed, passing the photograph of the mystery man to her father. "I am sure it is the same man. You only saw him once or twice, dad, but perhaps you will recognise him."

"I think you are right, Doris." Mr. Blayde spoke after he had carefully examined the photograph.

"Who is he?" asked Hardy, with difficulty restraining his impatience.

"I believe this to be the photograph of a man who lived for a time in the house next to this. He was. I believe, chauffeur to Mr. Francis Westerton."

"Francis Westerton?" Hardy was puzzled. "If this man was his chauffeur, I wonder why Mr. Westerton has not come forward to identity the body. Who Is this Mr. Westerton?"

"I know little of him," explained Blayde. "He bought the house next I door some two years ago. We have seen little of him. He appears to go out very little, and then only in a closed car. Doris came in touch with his chauffeur while our man was away on his holidays, and her car broke down. She telephoned to Mr. Westerton and asked him to allow his man to come in and give the machine a look over. The man came and fixed up the car. I saw him for a few minutes when I rewarded him for his trouble. On the other hand Doris was in and out of the garage all the time."

"You know nothing of Mr. Westerton, socially?" asked Hardy.

"He is absolutely unsociable," protested the girl. "I tried to get him to come to a dance we gave here, and he hadn't the decency to refuse my invitation."

"Then he must be hopeless." Hardy thought he would not require much pressing to attend a dance with Miss Doris Blayde.

"Now that we have succeeded in identifying the mystery man," remarked Blayde, "I will leave it to Doris to tell you the remainder of the story. All I will say is that I can personally vouch for the truth of the many incidents. I did not see the first part of the affair, but Doris fetched me in time to witness the climax."

"Is your story connected with Mr. Westerton, Miss Blayde?" asked Hardy with interest.

"The events happened in Mr. Westerton's grounds," replied the girl. "First, I should explain to you how I came to witness the affair, or you will think I am in the habit of prying into my neighbour's affairs."

"Before you commence, Miss Blayde," interrupted Hardy, "will you tell me if you have any occasion to believe that Mr. Westerton had anything to do with the murder of his chauffeur?"

"The murder of his chauffeur?" repeated the girl in surprise.

"So far as we have penetrated into the mystery, there is every reason to believe that the man who was found unconscious in Darlinghurst Road was murdered by a man named Dr. Night."

"Then Mr. Westerton is Dr. Night," announced Doris positively, ignoring the protesting hand her father raised.

Hardy Sprang to his feet, in excitement. This man, Westerton, to be the mysterious, self-confessed murderer, Dr. Night! For a minute he remained standing, trying to steady and coordinate his facts.

"What grounds have you for that statement, Miss Blayde," he said, at length, seating himself again.

"Do let me tell my story and then you can judge," said Doris, quietly. She left the arm of her father's chair and drew a low stool against his knee. Sitting there, in the soft glow of the fire light, she made so fair a picture that Hardy could not take his eyes from her.

"I have' read everything you have published about the mystery man." The girl spoke after a long pause and in a low voice. "First, I was attracted by the awful bad print of the man in the Mirror. Then your story of the mysterious Dr. Night was most thrilling. It was like a romance out of a book. If you will come to the top of this house you will find that I have a cosy nook up there, for, although we are near the water, we can only see it from the roof. One evening—it was the day before the mystery man was found—I remained up in my nook very late. Dad had been detained in town and I would not go down to dinner. I told my maid, Annie, to bring me up a light meal, on a tray. Presently, I got tired of leading, and picked up the powerful glasses dad keeps up there, to examine the ships that go up and down the Harbour. There was a big ship coming in and I turned the glasses on her. I could see her decks plainly and followed her with the glasses until she went out of sight behind the trees."

10

DORIS hesitated a moment and then continued "I was just going to put the glasses down when I saw something moving in the garden next door. I had looked at the house lost before I took up the glasses to examine the ship, and the place appeared deserted. There was not a light in the house, and I thought that Mr. Westerton had retired for the night, or else had gone on one of the long motor trips he is so fond of. Perhaps I should not have done so—dad says that I was wrong— but I turned the glasses on the grounds, and what I saw there was so strange that I could not resist continuing to look. Two men were standing under the trees, near our wall. They appeared to be engaged in a furious argument. One was a big man, the other much shorter and thinner."

Hardy wanted to ask a question, but refrained. There would be plenty of time to question the girl when she had finished her story.

"Presently the big man turned and strode towards the house. The shorter man followed, continuing to argue the point in dispute. He was quite excited over it, and at length stood right in the path of his companion. The big man pushed him on one side and went into the house. I thought the other man would follow him, but he did not, and as he seemed to expect the big man to return, I continued to watch. The big man came back after a short interval. This time he had another man with him, and they carried something long, and wrapped in a rug, between them. Do you know, Mr. Hardy, I believe they were carrying the mystery man of Darlinghurst Road."

Doris appeared to be somewhat overcome by the recital of the scene she had witnessed on the evening before the mystery man was found by the police. Her father took her hand and held it, patting it sympathetically.

"Don't go on, if it upsets you, Miss Blayde," urged Hardy. "Now you have given us so good a tip, we can no doubt get to the bottom of the business without troubling you further."

"No; I will tell you all that I saw," decided Doris, looking up proudly. "They carried the— the thing to a place under the trees where I had first seen the two men standing. Again they had another argument. I thought that they were never going to come to a conclusion, but at last the big man appeared to give way to the arguments of his companion. The man who had, apparently, done all the talking— the thinner, shorter man— then went away, and, after a time, I saw the car backing to the place. The men lifted the 'thing' into the car and then got in themselves. The car drove away, and I heard it go out of the grounds on to the road. I went downstairs and met dad in the hall. He had just come home, and I told him all that I had seen. He would not believe me at first, but I made him come upstairs with me, and there I explained everything all over again. Just as dad was getting impatient and saying that I had been dreaming, we heard the car returning. In a few minutes it came in view along the drive. It stopped at the front door, and the two men got out. Then the car drove off to the garage. The two men came across to the trees, and I saw them pick up some tools. They were talking excitedly, and once I thought they were going to fight. At length, they went away, and although dad and I remained on the roof for some time, nothing more happened." Doris concluded her story, breathlessly.

For a time the journalist sat silent, conning the many points the girl had set out. "You believe that the long package they carried out of the house to be the mystery man?" he asked at length.

"It was just the shape of a body, and they were away in the car just long enough to go to Darlinghurst Road, get rid of him and return," replied Blayde. "I did not credit Doris' story at first, but the actions of the men were so strange, and the facts in the newspapers appeared to fit into them so well, that at last I had to believe."

"Did you recognise any of the men?" asked Hardy. "I am positive the two men I first saw were Mr. Westerton and his valet," answered the girl.

"It was too dark to be certain," corrected Blayde. "The forms appeared to be those of the persons Doris mentioned."

"What is Mr. Westerton like?" Hardy asked the question eagerly. On the answer might rest the solution of part of the problem before him.

"Oh, he is a big man— a big, burly man, very red in the face, and with a thick neck, and he wears the smallest of collars possible." Doris' words were illustrated with eager gestures. "He has small green eyes and quite a little rosebud mouth, and he has such a funny voice. Just like a child's."

"Then I am afraid Mr. Westerton is not Dr. Night," said the journalist disappointedly. "We have a description of Dr. Night as a short, slight man, very grey, and speaking in a precise, even tone."

Doris looked disappointed.

"You have given me a wonderful help," stated Hardy earnestly, as he rose to take his departure. "Half past twelve! You will never forgive me for detaining, you to this hour, Mr. Blayde. Good night, and thank you very much for your help."

11

DORIS escorted the journalist to the door. As he took her hand in parting, asked:

"Why did you send me that note, and write to me in that mysterious way?"

"Because I have the idea that my father and I are being watched."

Doris made the startling reply in a very matter of fact voice. "I am certain there is something evil next door, although you do not think that Mr. Westerton is your Dr. Night. Those people next door are doing illegal things, and they are afraid we are watching them."

Then, as Hardy stood on the doorstep, Doris placed her hand on his coat-sleeve. "You will come and see us again. Mr. Hardy, will you not? Dad and I are so interested in this mystery— and your work."

It was only the street door, that by some mysterious means interposed at the critical moment, that prevented the journalist making an abject fool of himself.

Inspector Frost was awaiting Hardy when he arrived at the Mirror Office the next morning. The detective greeted the newspaper man without any sign of animosity at the trick played on him the previous evening. In fact, except for a few words of somewhat heavy sarcasm, he ignored the incident of the Roslyn Gardens steps and concentrated on the story told to the newspaper man by Doris Blayde.

The one outstanding feature of the story was the identification of the mystery man of Darlinghurst Road, and the Inspector sharply cross-questioned the journalist on this.

Why had not Westerton come forward to identify the dead man as his chauffeur? True, the newspaper reproductions of the photograph of the dead man were poor and rendered positive identification difficult; but against that could be set the fact that the chauffeur must have been missed from the household, and inquiry as to his whereabouts would be natural.

Again, Doris Blayde and her father had seen sufficient resemblance between the prints and the chauffeur to induce them to communicate with the Mirror's representative.

The inspector did not attach much importance to the story of the men and the mysterious package beneath the trees. There might be a dozen plausible explanations of the incident. Further, while the chauffeur might have been murdered at the house, it was almost impossible to believe that any person should consider burying an unconscious man, even though he was certain to die in time.

Shortly after mid-day. Thomas came down to the newspaper office and on learning that the Inspector and Hardy were in consultation on the premises, sent a message asking them to join him in his room.

There, Hardy had to go again over the story told him by the Blaydes. The managing editor supported the theory of the detective and advised an immediate interview with Mr. Westerton.

To the Inspector's surprise, Hardy refused to accompany him on the visit to Westerton's house. He gave as his reason for his refusal that he had determined to make "Holmhurst," Mr. Blayde's residence, his headquarters for watching Westerton's house, and that his accompanying Frost on the inquiry might draw unwelcome attention to the Blaydes, and his presence there.

After some discussion Thomas supported the argument of the journalist, and it was decided that the Inspector should take with him the Darlinghurst constable who had seen the man supposed to be Dr. Night in Oxford Street.

Frost chose the early afternoon for his visit to "Forest Home." A telephone to Darlinghurst Police Station warned the constable to meet him at King's Cross, and the two men walked down to Pott's Point shortly after 2 o'clock.

The big iron gates of "Forest Home" were wide open when the Inspector and his companion arrived. A couple of gardeners were engaged on some flower beds near the entrance. As Frost walked up the gravel drive he looked around him with some curiosity. The long, low cement-faced house, surrounded by wide verandahs, did not look like the lair of a gang of desperate criminals. It was just the house that would normally be occupied by a wealthy Sydney merchant. The place was in excellent repair, and the grounds remarkably well kept. Far away to the left stood a belt of trees, bordering the dividing wall between "Forest Home" and "Holmhurst," the trees beneath which Doris Blayde had seen the strange incident of the long bundle.

As Frost and the constable approached the main entrance, a tall, stout man, with a very florid complexion, rose from a lounge on the verandah, and came to meet them. From the description of the journalist Frost decided that this was Westerton, the owner of the house.

"Mr. Westerton?" queried the Inspector. "My name is Frost—inspector Frost, of the Criminal Investigation Department of the New South Wales Police. Will you give me a few minutes of your time?"

"Delighted!" The absurd rosebud mouth pursed into a baby smile that made the Inspector almost laugh. The voice was that of a young child, ridiculous in the extreme from such a large man. He turned and led the way to where he had been seated and drew up some chairs.

"Constable Chalmers, of the Darlinghurst District," introduced the Inspector. "From certain in—"

"Please." The big man held up a fat white hand. "I am sure, after the walk from the tram stop, you must be thirsty. May I offer you a drink?"

Frost accepted the preferred hospitality. He was in no hurry to leave "Forest Home." The longer he could linger about the place, the greater the opportunity to examine the house and its inmates.

"I am investigating the death of the man found unconscious in Darlinghurst Road, a week ago, Mr. Westerton," commenced Frost officially. "So far we have not been able to establish identity."

"A most sad case," chirruped Westerton. "I am afraid I do not see how I shall be able to help you, Inspector."

"You read the daily papers. Mr. Westerton?" asked Frost. "The Mirror for instance?"

"A most interesting newspaper. Certainly I take it."

"You saw the photograph of the murdered man in that newspaper?"

The fat man laughed heartily. "It was a portrait? It might have been someone. You, for example, Mr Frost."

"It did not remind you of anyone?" The Inspector was watching Westerton, keenly. The man appeared to be thoroughly at ease.

"No! why should it?"

Frost took a photograph from his pocket and passed it to Westerton. Immediately the latter caught sight of the pictured face he jumped to his feet excitedly.

"Good gracious! This is Smithson," he shrilled. "Where did you get this? What is the matter with him? He looks—"

"He is dead." interrupted the Inspector. "Who was Smithson?"

"My chauffeur. At least he was until I dismissed him."

"Has he been missing?"

"Missing? No, I discharged him. He was so insolent. I paid him his wages and he went away."

"Did you see him again?"

Frost was puzzled. Here, where he expected to solve the mystery of the dead man of Darlinghurst Road, he was met by a name only.

"He came back the following day. He was intoxicated and demanded money. My people turned him out of the grounds."

"Will you give me the date on which you discharged this man, Smithson?" Frost produced a pocket book.

Westerton touched a bell.

"What date did Smithson leave my employ?" The big man asked the question of the maid who answered the bell.

"A fortnight ago tomorrow, sir," replied the girl.

"When did you see him last?" Frost asked the question of the girl, sharply. Before replying, the maid looked at her employer, who nodded.

"He came here the day after he was dismissed. He was very drunk and abusive." The answer was given hesitatingly.

"Did you see him after that?"

"He was continually about the gates." The girl showed signs of distress. "He frightened us and we were afraid to go outside the grounds."

"Why?"

"Well, sir. He thought we should side with him against Mr. Westerton. He swore to us, and called us names. We were glad when he was discharged, for he wasn't a pleasant companion in the house. He was always drinking, and foolin' about."

"Do you read the newspapers?" asked the Inspector.

"Sometimes, sir."

The girl looked puzzled.

"Anything in the newspapers of late that interested you?" asked Frost, carelessly.

"You mean the murder," said the girl slowly, after a pause.

"Yes. Did you see the portrait of the murdered man, published in the 'papers?"

"Y-e-s." The girl did not appear to understand the drift of the question, at first. Then realisation came. "You— you don't mean that it was he?"

Frost picked up the photograph Westerton had placed on the wicker table and handed it to the maid. "Do you recognise that?" he asked.

"Yes. That is him. You say— he is dead?" The girl looked at the inspector, questioningly.

"That is the photograph of the man the police found unconscious In Darlinghurst Road. Do you identify him as Smithson, the chauffeur lately employed here?"

The girl nodded, agitatedly. Then turned and ran into the house.

"Upset her a bit," commented Frost, placing the photograph on the table again.

"Women always get upset at death," said Westerton. "I suppose you will require me to give evidence at the inquest?"

"Certainly. I shall want that girl, also, and others of your servants. Smithson was murdered and it is possible that one of your household may be able to provide a clue to the murderer."

Handing the photograph to the constable, Chalmers, the Inspector instructed him to Interview the servants and obtain the necessary statements from them.

Chalmers was the only person who had seen the supposed Dr. Night. He wanted to get him into the house, among the servants. It was possible the man might pick up some clue to the mysterious person and also to the other happenings— matters he did not at the present time propose to question Westerton on.

When the constable had left, Frost dropped his official attitude and lounged back in his chair, talking on general subjects. In the half-hour of the constable's absence he gained much information on Westerton's history, entirely unsuspected by that man.

At length Chalmers returned, and the Inspector rose from his chair. To his surprise, the fat man rose also and proposed to accompany them to the entrance gates. This suited Frost. He turned into the drive running near the "Holmhurst" boundary wall.

"Fine trees," Frost observed, carelessly pointing to the belt of trees hiding the Blayde's house from view. "Pity there's that gap. It will take a long time for a new tree to fill that space."

"I shall put a big tree there," replied Westerton. "Already the place is being prepared, and in a few days it will be planted. It is one from the other side I shall move."

Frost stepped from the drive and crossed the grass to the trees. Westerton made an involuntary move, as if to stop him! Frost did not appear to notice the action. Reluctantly, the fat man followed the detective, and the constable dropped to the rear. At the foot of the trees the Inspector stopped and looked about him.

Close at hand it was plain to see that the gap had been filled by a very large tree. Glancing around him, the Inspector determined that Doris Blayde could well have seen anyone standing beneath the trees, and also sufficient of the lawn to observe anyone going towards the front door. Walking around carelessly, he soon found the marks of tyres on the soft turf.

Directly before the detective, stood "Holmhurst," Mr. Blayde's handsome home. A compact dark-red building, very English in appearance. On the flat roof rose a quaint little structure— evidently the "cosy nook" Doris Blayde had referred to in her story. Until the new tree was planted the cosy nook would he an ideal spot from which to keep watch on the inhabitants of "Forest Home," and Frost had already determined that household was well worth watching.

"Fine place, that." The Inspector nodded towards 'Holmhurst.' "S'pose you know who lives there. Of course you would. You've lived here long enough to know your neighbours."

"Strange to say, I do not know my neighbours," Westerton laughed slightly. "It happens that I am somewhat of an invalid. Heart, you know. Not much, but I have to rest a lot. I must have no fatigue, and neighbours are always fatiguing, you know."

"Sorry." Frost spoke emphatically. "Perhaps you had better not come down to the gates. Chalmers and I can find our way out."

The fat man looked uncertain, then held out his hand. "If you will excuse me, then. I shall always be pleased to see you, Mr.— Look out!" Westerton had clutched Frost's arm find dragged him forward. The detective laughed.

"By Jove! I was nearly in that hole. Funny thing, I never noticed it. Looks like a grave."

"A grave?" Westerton's face became ashen. Then, with an effort, he recovered his poise and joined in the Inspector's laugh. "You are not a cheerful companion, Mr. Frost. First, you tell me that my late chauffeur has been murdered. Then you say the hole I am having dug to plant my new tree in is a grave. You are too morbid."

With his hand pressed to his side, Westerton turned and walked to the house. Frost stood for some moments watching him, his lips twisted into a wry smile. Then, motioning to the constable, he turned and strode to the gates.

"Funny thing, sir," observed the constable, falling in step alongside his superior officer. "That hole did look like a grave."

Robert Hardy had not missed an early opportunity of calling on Doris Blayde and her father. He had two attractions to "Holmhurst." First, there was the girl, and secondly he had decided that the Blaydes' house would be an ideal place from which to watch the household at "Forest Home."

Both Mr. Blayde and his daughter were keenly interested in the mystery man of Darlinghurst Road and eager to help in every possible way to bring the murderer to justice.

Within a week, Hardy had been accepted as an intimate friend of the family. Evening after evening was spent in the "cosy nook" on the root of "Holmhurst," watching for any move on the part of the "Forest Home" household, and in idle conversation.

Gradually these quiet evenings came to mean much to the journalist. An orphan, he had for years missed the intimate beauty of home life. The Blaydes had taken him into their circle, and the long, quiet evenings on the roof had come to mean much to two of the three gathered there.

The inquest on Charles Richard Smithson, one-time chauffeur to Francis Westerton, was duly held, and a verdict of wilful murder against a person or persons unknown recorded. Inspector Frost had not tried to prove anything more than identification, and that the man had been poisoned by some unknown person.

On the latter point there was some diversity of opinion amongst the medical witnesses. Heart disease was mentioned, and the Crown representative had some difficulty in getting from the witnesses an admission that the man might have been poisoned. The medical men were unanimous in stating that, if the dead man had been poisoned, the poison was unknown to modern science.

Francis Westerton proved a competent witness under examination. His evidence was given tersely and well. The deceased had been his chauffeur. He had discharged him for drunkenness and insolence. The next day Smithson had called at "Forest Home" in a state of intoxication and had insisted on an interview with him. At that interview he had uttered vague threats and had demanded money. He had been promptly expelled the house and grounds. Witness had seen the deceased on the day previous to him being discovered In an unconscious condition in Darlinghurst Road.

The next witness was the maid Frost had questioned on his call at "Forest Home."

She gave her name as Mary Gannett, and under searching examination admitted that she had seen the deceased, Smithson, on the evening before he had been found unconscious.

After his dismissal Smithson had hung about the gates at "Forest Home." The witness had seen him several times.

At first, he was intoxicated and abusive of Mr. Westerton. Later, he was quieter, the witness thought, because he had spent all his money. She had spoken to him several times, advising him to leave the neighbourhood and to get work.

The evening before he had been found unconscious he had beckoned her to come down to the gates. He had told her that he had had nothing to eat that day. She had left him to obtain some food from the cook for a "poor man at the gates." She had given him money on his promising not to spend it in drink. He had continued to utter threats against Mr. Westerton. Just before he had left her that evening he said that she was a good girl and that he would reward her now that he had the old bird, Westerton, under his thumb.

He was quite sober then, Francis Westerton recalled, said that he could not imagine what the deceased had meant by stating that he had him, the witness, under his thumb. Smithson had no hold over him. His life was an open book. He had no secrets.

"It may be an open book to him," grumbled Frost, when going over the evidence with Thomas and Hardy at the Mirror Office. "It's Greek to me."

"Greek may be an open book, Frost." Hardy laughed. "The one trouble in reading it is to know the language. You have had Westerton looked up?"

"Two and a half years in Sydney. Came from England. Appears to have plenty of money. Invested heavily in Government stocks. Does not speculate, drinks moderately, does not play golf or any other game, so far as I know. Doesn't attend races or any sports meetings. Hasn't any business or profession. Doesn't attend church, theatres, pictures, shows or concerts. Has a powerful wireless, but only uses it on occasions. Has only two daily newspapers delivered at the house. Doesn't buy books, periodicals or magazines. Smokes a lot in spite of his bad heart he talks about, and is not under the advice of a doctor. Has an enormous post, mainly from abroad. I have had it examined and it appears to be mainly from personal friends. Very few commercial letters."

"A very negative person," laughed Thomas. "You don't seem to have struck on his hobbies or pursuits, Frost."

"He has one hobby," remarked Hardy, quietly. "He has a partiality for midnight motor-rides."

"What's that?" exclaimed Frost.

"Westerton has the habit of leaving home about 10.30 at night and driving out towards South Head. These journeys are not regular— except that he invariably starts at 10.30 and travels in the same direction."

"Where does he go?" demanded Frost. "Have you followed him?"

"I followed him one night," replied the journalist. "The trip appeared aimless and harmless. Something in the nature of a joy-ride."

"Who drives the car?"

"Westerton, himself."

"Does he stop anywhere? Speak to anyone along the road?"

"Stops a good deal: seems to enjoy the view across the harbour. Once or twice he has offered persons on foot a lift. Sometimes he will stop the car, and sit yarning with some chance-met acquaintance, or stranger."

"On what days are these journeys taken?" asked Frost, after a lengthy pause.

"Absolutely irregular," Hardy replied. "Mr. Blayde first informed me of this habit of Westerton's and then I watched. I saw Westerton leave 'Forest Home' twice on these trips. Appears to take a run when he feels so inclined."

For a long time the detective remained silent, a heavy frown on his face. At length he appeared to have made up his mind to a course of action.

"What line are you working on, Hardy?" he asked.

12

THE journalist's face flushed. Lately the pursuit of the mysterious Dr. Night had given place to a more interesting occupation. The watching from the cosy nook on the roof of "Holmhurst," seated beside Doris Blayde, had come to be much more interesting than criminology.

"Only night watching," Hardy replied, hastily. Then added; "That and trying to get a line on Westerton's movements during the day."

"You think these mid-night motorcar trips have a definite end?"

"If Westerton drove out regular intervals. I should say 'yes,'" replied the journalist, slowly. "At present I can only see the aimless fad of a wealthy man in them. Yet, somehow, they seem too aimless."

"I agree with you," interjected the detective, sharply. "They are too aimless to be honest. What do you think of Westerton, Bob?"

"I don't like him."

"Spoken to him?"

"Three or four times. I made it my business to get on speaking terms with him."

"He says he is English born, but has lived a long time in America."

"English-born," repeated Frost, quietly.

"Why, the man's a German," exploded Hardy. "Speaks good English, I admit, but sometimes he frames his sentences as if he were translating from his native tongue."

"I wondered if you had noticed that," Frost laughed shortly. "I noticed the same thing when I first interviewed him. He's not English, I'll swear to that."

"Looks as if the mystery of the dead man of Darlinghurst Road is to go on the slate as another unsolved New South Wales murder," mused Thomas. He was watching the detective closely from beneath his half-closed eyelids. "There's quite a number of them, now."

Journalist and detective swung angrily towards the managing editor of the Mirror.

"There's no chalking this up, Mr. Thomas," exclaimed the detective angrily. "If I have to resign from the department, I camp on this trail to the end."

"The same thing goes with me, Mr. Thomas." Hardy's face was flushed. "I'll get to the bottom of this business."

"Then make a note of these joyrides. When you have half a dozen of them recorded, find out what happened on land or sea, corresponding to them."

"What 'do you know, sir?" asked the journalist, eagerly.

"I know that I have to get the Mirror out for to-morrow, and that you and Frost are blocking my work."

Then as the two men rose to leave the room, Thomas added; "I have a hunch as you call it, Bob, that the Harbour may be a strong point in the solution of the Westerton joy-rides. Good-night to both of you."

The journalist was particularly silent when he and the detective reached his room in the Mirror building. For some time he wandered about the room, picking up things and looking at them in a vacant way.

At length he swung round on Frost, who was seated in a lounge chair, idly scanning some proof matter.

"Will you get someone to follow Westerton on his next Joy-ride, Frost?" he exclaimed suddenly, halting in his walk before the seated Inspector.

"Sure. What's the game, Bob?"

"I'm going to explore 'Forest Home,'" replied the journalist. "Next time Westerton goes out, I'm going to get into that house, somehow. Get your man to make a map of the route Westerton takes. Time him at all points where he stops—how long he remains at each place."

"What about the persons he speaks to?" asked Frost curiously.

"Immaterial, so far as I see for the time being. The Chief had a hunch when he gave us that tip about the Harbour. I'm going to follow it and will give the house and the grounds a close-up at the same time."

"Well, good luck, Bob, I've some other matters to look into. Seems the dope trade is looking up in Sydney and the Commissioner is yelling blue murder."

"Huh!" Hardy swung round to face the Inspector. "What's that you're saying?"

"Only that the dope trade is looking up again." Frost laughed at Hardy's sudden interest, yet he was suddenly alert. "There's always a fair dope trade through this city we don't seem to be able to hobble. Lately it has grown, considerably, in spite of the large number of runners our men have picked up of late. The Chief has asked me to take a hand in the matter."

"Look here, Frost," exclaimed the journalist, excitedly. "Have you forgotten young Bill Matthews? What about getting the police of Melbourne to look him up? Get a line on his cobbers and amusements?"

"Still following the story? All right. Bob. I'll have a word sent down to them. Don't get in trouble over your explorings. If you're caught—" The Inspector made an expressive gesture.

"I'll take my medicine," laughed Hardy as he parted from the detective and made his way to the Mirror record rooms.

Half an hour later he left the building with a large roll of newspapers under his arm and caught the Darlinghurst tram at Queen's Square.

The long night watches from the roof of "Holmhurst" had not resulted in any important discovery making towards the solution of the mystery of the solution of the dead man of Darlinghurst Road. Twice, since he had taken up the watch, had Hardy seen Westerton start on his mysterious night rides. Aimless, they appeared to be; the whim of a rich man to whom night and day were indifferent.

Yet one fact appeared significant—these journeys always commenced exactly at half past ten at night. On the second occasion on which the journalist had seen the man next door start on a journey, Westerton had left the "Forest Home" garage a few minutes early. He had appeared to realise this by the time he had reached the road and had stopped the car and sat in it idly until the church clock had chimed the half hour. Then he had driven on.

Impatient at the long inaction, Hardy had determined to search the grounds of "Forest Home" the next time Westerton left on one of his mysterious car-rides. For some days he had searched the grounds of "Forest Home" through powerful field-glasses from the roof of "Holmhurst," but the view was too restricted. With Westerton away, he did not fear to be discovered by the servants.

Doris Blayde vigorously opposed the proposed expedition, declaring it was risky, and that if the journalist was discovered, It was liable to arouse suspicion that "Forest Home" was under police observation; but Hardy was certain that no regular watch was kept by the household of "Forest Home," and that with the master away the servants would not trouble even if they had a suspicion that someone was prowling about the grounds. Further, he had decided on a late hour of the night tor his proposed expedition.

Two nights after Hardy had determined to search the grounds of the house next door, Westerton started on one of his mysterious car rides. About twenty minutes past ten, the journalist noticed one of the servants walk down to the gates and swing them open. Five minutes later he heard the sound of the car being driven out of the garage on to the drive. Then, exactly at the chiming of the half-hour from the church clock, Westerton drove the car out on the road and went in the direction of Rushcutter's Bay. The servant closed the gates and returned to the house.

Hardy waited a quarter of an hour and then slipped from "Holmhurst" by the side door and crept down to the boundary wall between the two houses. Earlier in the evening, Hardy had drawn a small iron table under the boundary wall, opposite the spot where the gap occurred in the belt of trees. Mounting on the table, Hardy peered over the wall. A light was still burning on the ground floor.

Hardy waited, and ten minutes later the light was extinguished. A few minutes and lights began to appear in the upper story of the house. Hardy calculated that he would have a little over half an hour before Westerton would return from his ride. In that time he proposed to thoroughly explore the grounds of the house, but to leave any attempt to penetrate the house itself to a later date.

A quick spring and the journalist was over the wall and crouching in the shadows. From there he carefully examined his surroundings. Then, satisfied that no one was watching, he skirmished along the boundary wall until he reached the big gates. Crossing the open patch of ground rapidly he continued along the iron railings fronting the road, dodging from bush to bush.

At the far side he found a short wall from the iron gates leading down to the water's edge. The wall was considerably shorter than the dividing wall between "Holmhurst" and "Forest Home." It took him but a few minutes to traverse its full length. Then he returned to the road, and, taking every precaution to prevent being seen by any passer-by, returned to the gap in the trees, close by where he had entered the grounds.

He now had a fair knowledge of the geography of the grounds. "Forest Home" was situated on the edge of the Harbour. The piece of ground comprised about four acres, the house being situated on the edge of a small cliff that overlooked the water. Along each boundary wall stood a belt of fine trees, and between them lay well kept lawns set out with flower beds. A heart-shaped drive surrounded the centre lawns, and between the drive and the tree belts were long stretches of narrow lawns and flower and shrub beds.

On the water side of the house the belts of trees had been trained towards the wings of the house, and hid the edge of the cliff and the water view from persons on the road and drive. On the "Holmhurst" side this belt of trees came within ten feet of the walls of the house, and some of the branches overhung the wide verandahs and reached almost to the windows.

Keeping well within the shadow of the trees, Hardy walked towards the eastern wing of the house. Passing through the trees there he came out on the edge of the cliff. It was about fifty feet high, and from the house paths had been cut in the solid rock down to a patch of lawn and shrubbery at the edge of the water. The belt of trees narrowed until they were only sufficiently thick to hide the boundary wall. It was along this waterfront that Hardy had determined he would make any discoveries leading to a solution of the mysteries that appeared to surround "Forest Home" and its owner.

The rear of the house appeared to be quiet. None of the windows showed light, and the narrow terrace on the edge of the cliff lay silent and deserted in the dim light of the moon. Dodging back amid the shelter of the trees, the journalist found the boundary wall again and, with some damage to his clothing and person, climbed down the cliff until he stood on the piece of ground bordering the water front, and in the shelter of the trees. From there he could see the rook-steps leading down to the lower level from the house. The lower lawns, were laid out in a tennis court, bounded by a large expanse of grass. A high netting surrounded the tennis court, and beneath the small cliff and just outside the netting stood a summer-house of rustic work. At one side, near the boundary wall of "Holmhurst," was a large boat-house. A space of seven or eight feet between the boat house and the boundary wall was apparently filled by high bushes.

For some time Hardy stood in the shade of the trees, examining his surroundings. So far as he could discover, he was alone in the grounds. Yet someone might be seated in the rustic house, and any untoward movement on his part would lead to his detection. It was necessary that he should discover, immediately, if anyone was in the summer-house.

The boat-house and the patch of bush between it and the boundary wall intrigued him. It was necessary to satisfy himself that the summer-house was vacant. Yet, to approach it, was to leave himself open to observation from the boat-house and the queer bit of land beside it.

The journalist was facing a dilemma. Both courses of action were dangerous. At that moment a dark cloud slid over the face of the moon. For a time the grounds of "Forest Home" were drenched in gloom. Acting on Instinct, Hardy ran silently towards the boat-house. When the moonlight again flooded the scene, he was standing in the shadows of the building.

Slowly and with the greatest caution the journalist crept towards the patch of ground beside the party wall. At the corner of the house he peered round, and swiftly caught his breath. From where he stood the sheltering bushes had been trimmed away. The patch of ground was not filled with flowering bushes as he had supposed, when examining it from a distance. A space had been cleared in the centre and in that space stood a small iron table and a couple of chairs. It was a hidden observation post, from whence a watch could be kept on the Harbour.

The waterfront was guarded by low, thick bushes, overhanging the water, yet so trimmed that a person seated in the hidden nook would have a fairly free outlook over the Harbour, while securely sheltered from observation. On the land side the sheltering bushes just overlapped the corner of the boat-shed foliage.

The outlook had been used very recently. On the table stood bottles and glasses, still containing liquor. A box of cigars was on the table, half opened, and the ashtrays were well filled. A biscuit box had the lid propped against its side, and beside it an open book lay face down. It was not a place anyone would choose to pass an idle hour. It was an observation post only. Anyone too confined, and on a hot day would be uncomfortably oppressive. It was concealed there one could keep a watch on the shipping of the harbour and receive, if not send, signals to the shipping passing or at anchor.

The place was vacant. The journalist entered it boldly and seated himself In one of the chairs. As he had reasoned, the chair commanded a wonderful view of the Harbour. Hardy looked around himself. At his right hand, almost within reach, was a low door, shut, but the padlock fastening it was loose. Hardy picked up one of the clean glasses and helped himself to a liberal allowance of whisky. A soda syphon stood handy and he filled the glass with the effervescent water. He was badly in need of a drink and looked longingly at the open box of cigars. He could do with a smoke, but that was too dangerous.

Why should Westerton have a concealed outlook over the Harbour? Why had he had a door out in the wall of the boathouse in such a position that anyone watching in the nook could quickly escape into the boathouse if some skiff on the water came too close, or felt inquisitive regarding the clump of bushes?

Hardy was irritated. The mystery of this house and its owner was growing, instead of becoming solved. Francis Westerton was not Dr. Night. He was convinced of that; yet the owner of "Forest Home" was fast becoming as Mysterious as the little "gray man" who had commanded, him not to proceed with his investigations into the death of the mystery man of Darlinghurst road. Westerton had called himself an Englishman, yet he used idioms that would only be used by a person of Teutonic extraction.

Mysteries had solutions; yet this house, and the grounds surrounding it, teemed with small inconsequences that border on the realms of unsolved mystery. There was nothing tangible. Westerton might be one of those innocent foreigners who prefer to live under an alien flag to the petty inconveniences of life in their native lands. The house and grounds might be entirely innocent of harbouring criminal activities. There was nothing definite, yet a hundred unexplainable trifles surrounded the place; little trivialities that pointed definitely, yet inconsequently, towards the dead man of Darlinghurst Road, and his identity.

Westerton had driven away and would not return for the better part of an hour. For that time the journalist could continue his search—if Westerton was acting entirely on his own. But Hardy was coming to the belief that the big man was but one of a gang inhabiting "Forest Home." If that was so, then he was in a dangerous position.

Discretion urged a quick retreat, even if retreat meant long hours spent crouching beneath the trees and shrubs, waiting for Westerton and his confederates to reveal themselves and the mystery of their actions.

13

THE door leading into the boathouse intrigued the journalist. Quickly he placed a hand on it and pulled. The door was fast, in spite of the dangling padlock. A stronger pull, and the door remained firm. Hardy drew a pencil flash from his pocket and threw a thin beam of light on the door. Just above the padlock was a small latch. Pressing this, the door swung silently open.

Hardy entered and drew the door closed behind him. The boat house was a long, somewhat narrow structure, part of it overhanging the water. There were no boats in it, and from what he could see there had not been boats sheltered in it for a long time.

He was standing on a wooden floor about the size of an ordinary room. Out towards the harbour he could see the glint of water behind the closed water-gates. Above his head hung three powerful electric globes with strong reflectors.

Here was more mystery. A boathouse that did not contain a boat and had not harboured boats for some considerable time. The journalist pressed the button of his torch again and swept the light slowly round the room. In the centre of the room stood a long bench, covered with various packages and a litter of apparatus. Around the walls had been built shelving, and these were filled with apparatus and packages.

Hardy walked slowly around the room, letting his light play on the various articles. Westerton had evidently a catholic taste in chemistry, for most of the apparatus related to chemical research.

Close by the water edge stood three huge packing cases. Two of them were empty and the third was open, but still retained part of its contents. The packing straw and paper were still scattered around the cases. Hardy groped down in the case. It appeared to be filled with small round, smooth objects. With some trouble he prised one from its place, and stood upright. The object was wrapped in paper.

The journalist started to uncover it.

Something hit him hard over the head, and he felt himself falling— down down— Faster and faster he slipped down a long, long slide— and then oblivion.

The long, slow slide downwards ceased and oblivion came as a period of gentle rest. Then painfully, and with a queer, underlying agony, succeeded the upward lift to consciousness. The tug upwards became stronger and swifter, and Hardy felt a long smooth rocking of his body. He was lying on something soft; something that yielded to every motion of his body; and part of it felt loose. It was as If, by some means, part of his skull had fallen away leaving the delicate, sensitive nerves exposed.

The long, lazy, swinging motion continued. Hardy felt that he could lie there and sleep for hours. Something splashed on his face, and he was too uninterested to lift his hand to wipe it away. It was water. All too slowly, he came to realise that he was in the water. The swaying he had felt was the long roll of the tide.

Something was holding him tight around the neck. His collar was choking him. He put up a hand and found a small cold hand twisted into the limp dampness of his collar. A voice, dimly familiar, was calling to him.

"Bob! Bob!" The voice called desperately. "Oh, do wake up, Bob! Do wake up!"

Now he remembered. It was Doris' voice. What was she doing here? She had no business here! He couldn't quite remember where they were, but it was not right for her to be there; he was certain of that. It was night and quite late, and the water was so soothing and restful. He wanted to sleep.

Now Doris was pouring water over him. Some of it splashed into his mouth, and it was quite salt. Besides, she was making him wet. Something bumped his head. He became angry for it had hit the place where it seemed that his brain lay exposed. One of his hands caught the edge of a boat. He opened his eyes.

Yes! it was the edge of a boat. What was it doing there and why was he in the water and not in the boat? The hand let go of his collar and he could breathe more freely. Then the small hands grasped his hands and tugged hard.

"Bob! Bob! Help yourself! Creep into the boat while I balance it. Oh, Bob—" Doris was calling to him.

He looked up, into her eyes. She was looking down at him from over the side of a small skiff. With a big effort he threw off the inertia that was holding him. Doris was calling to him for help! With a big effort he raised his other hand to catch the edge of the skiff.

Something was in it. He dropped the object into the bottom of the boat; and then caught hold of the edge.

Doris had disappeared; but he could still hear her calling to him to get into the boat.

Exerting every remaining ounce of his strength, he lifted himself from the water and rolled over into the bottom of the skiff.

"Quick, Bob!" Doris was shaking him roughly. "Quick, or they will catch us!"

The girl's low voice was a call to action. Hardy struggled to clear his senses. Mistily, his head in a whirl, he sat up in the bottom of the boat. Doris was struggling with an oar over his head. Reaching up a shaky hand, he guided it into the rowlock. Then his fingers met hers, and held.

"Oh, Bob!" It was all the girl could say. A long, lingering clasp and she withdrew her fingers. Drawing himself up on the seat by the thwarts of the boat, Hardy caught at the oars. For a minute the boat, and the surrounding waters, danced an insane jig before his eyes.

Gradually things steadied, and, feebly at first, but stronger after a few strokes, he started to paddle towards the "Holmhurst" boatshed.

"Quick, Bob," whispered the girl. "He is getting a boat out."

"Not a boat there, old thing." Hardy laughed almost wildly, as he bent to the oars. "Did you see anything?"

"Only a man with a tail," replied Doris shakily.

"A what?" Hardy stopped rowing, to gaze at the girl, in amazement. "It's been too much for you, dear. I'll have to get you home at once. You're—"

"I'm all right, Bob." The girl laughed, slightly hysterically "I really did see a man with a tail."

"You mean a man with a pig-tail," corrected Hardy, after a moment's thought. "I've never seen a 'Chink' at 'Forest Home,' though."

"There isn't one," declared Doris, positively. "And the thing I saw carried its tail in the usual place; not at the top of his neck."

"Wonder if there's anything of an ape-kind about the place?" mused Hardy.

"But it was a man," insisted Doris, "It was a man with a tail. A real man, I mean."

Then the girl burst out laughing, wildly. Hardy looked anxiously at her. The strain of the past few hours had been too much for her. He was terribly afraid of feminine hysteria.

"It sounds absurd. 'A man with a tail'." Doris laughed. "But, Bob, I did see him, and at the time I was not looking for anything out of the way."

"What were you doing out in the boat?" asked the journalist, anxious to change the subject.

"Watching you," retorted the girl, promptly. "When you climbed over the wall I wanted to follow, but I knew that you would send me back. So I went up to the cosy nook and tried to follow you through the night glasses. But, I could see nothing. Then I remembered that the boat was afloat. So I ran down to the boat-house and found the oars, hoping to be able to keep a watch on you from the water. For a long time I watched and saw nothing. Then the lights went up in the boathouse and I saw the man with the tail. He was bending over something lying on the ground. After a time he picked it up and carried it to the water and threw it in. I rowed down to see what it was that he had thrown into the Harbour, and— and found you, Bob, and— and you— you wouldn't answer me when I called you Bob."

Hardy was silent for some minutes. Doris had saved his life, and she had seen something that he had not seen. The man with the tail puzzled him, but he did not doubt her now. She had seen what she had described. It had not been hysteria, for she had seen the man with the tail before she had realised that the "something" thrown into the Harbour was his unconscious body. Swinging the head of the boat round, Hardy let the tide drift it down the Harbour, past "Forest Home" grounds. The house and the boatshed were in darkness. The man with the tail, if he existed outside Doris' imagination, had disappeared, but now the journalist was certain that the freak existed.

Urging the boat round against the tide, Hardy passed the point and then let it drift down again past the "Forest Home" boatshed. A few strokes and he came again to the observation post. He shipped the oars and caught at one of the overhanging branches. "Hold this, Doris," he whispered, as he passed the bough to the girl. Then he stepped out of the boat and waded to the shore. From where he had landed, he could peer between the branches into the observation post, beside the boatshed.

As he had expected, it was deserted. The door into the boathouse was shut and the padlock fastened. Whoever had discovered him in the boathouse and struck him down, had been satisfied he had disposed of him for good, and had not waited.

A low whistle from the girl in the boat, recalled Hardy. Time was passing fast and Doris was anxious to get back to her father before he noticed her absence and became worried.

Hardy stepped into the boat again, and pulled up to the "Holmhurst" boatshed. There he made the boat fast, and, carrying the oars into the shed, looked them up. Then Doris and he walked up the tiny path to the house. At one of the angles of the steps they had a fine view of the waterside of "Forest Home," between the trees.

"A house of mystery," observed Hardy, meditatively. "I wonder if we shall ever untangle the skein?" Doris pressed his hand in silent sympathy.

While they stood there the sound of a motor horn was heard from the front of the house. Then followed the soft grind of tyres on loose gravel.

"Mr. Westerton," whispered Doris. "We got back just in time." Listening intently they could almost follow the actions of the motorist. They heard the car backed into the garage and then the big doors rolled into place. As they went to move on, they glanced up at the windows of the house next door.

"Look!" Doris clasped her hand over her mouth. She was pointing Hardy's hand towards the windows of "Forest Home."

One of them had been suddenly illuminated, As they watched, a man's shadow was thrown on the blind. He was standing facing the window. A thin narrow man with sloping shoulders. Even in the position in which he was standing it was possible to see that his shoulders were bent. It was the outline of a man who had spent many years in study. In no one particular did it resemble the burly outline of the master of "Forest Home."

The shadow grew smaller and the outline more distinct. Then, slowly, the shadow turned. They saw the bend of the bowed shoulders and the poise of the scholarly head. The figure was shrouded in a long loose cloak from its throat. Slowly the garment slipped from the figure's shoulders to the ground. As it did, Doris gave a little gasping shriek.

14

SHE had not been mistaken. At "Forest Home" lives a man with a tail. Hardy could see it plainly. It curved out from the figure, gradually arching up to the tip. The girl's fingers bit into the journalist's arm. Then she began to sob, hiding her face on Hardy's sleeve.

The figure moved away from the window, towards the centre of the room. As it moved it increased in size until it appeared almost gigantic. Then it appeared to lift something from the table, with both hands. For a few seconds it stood motionless, then it raised the object high in the air with both hands, and lowered it on its head. In some way the thing looked like an inverted flowerpot, made of some pliant material. Again the figure approached the window, only to vanish as if blotted out by some magic power, leaving the window illuminated only by the unbroken glow of the light.

Placing his arm around the girl's waist, Hardy supported her to the house. On the doorstep they lingered awhile, Doris trying to compose her nerves, in case she met her father on her way to her room.

When he left her, the journalist walked towards the entrance gates. He had not proceeded far when he was recalled by a low whistle. Doris met him on the drive.

"Bob," whispered the girl. "You threw this into the boat to-night, when I found you." She pressed a small, hard object into his hand, and then, with a hurried word of farewell, ran into the house.

Hardy stepped into a patch of moonlight and looked at the object the girl had given him. In his hand lay a small bottle of glass about two inches long and half an inch in diameter. For a moment he looked at it in amazement. Then he remembered. It was similar to the bottle he had found on the table of his sitting room, some days before; it was the fellow of the bottle Dr. Streatham had shown him at the Sydney Hospital.

Hardy opened the bottle and smelt the interior. It was empty and had apparently hot been used. In that particular alone, it differed from the bottle Dr. Streatham had shown him, and one mysteriously sent to him. Both those bottles held cocaine. This bottle, empty now, would certainly have been used by the drug fiends inhabiting "Forest Home" at some time to hold the illicit drug they were smuggling into Australia.

His luck had held. Accident following accident had led him to the goal he sought. At "Forest Home" he had found the bottle, and at "Forest Home" he would, sooner or later, find the solution to the various mysteries that had followed the discovery of the body of the man, Smithson, in Darlinghurst Road.

The apparition of "The Man with the Tail" in the upper room of "Forest Home" greatly perplexed Robert Hardy. The investigations he had carried out in the grounds and the boatshed had proved to him that the place was being used by a gang of illicit drug smugglers. He had in his possession sufficient evidence to persuade the police to raid the place. Once inside the house, without warning, he was convinced that evidence would be forthcoming to secure convictions for all found on the premises.

The knowledge that "Forest Home" was the head quarters of and gang of' crooks was satisfactory in so far as it justified the suspicions that the journalist had held of the house and its owner, Francis Westerton.

But Hardy realised that he had not advanced one inch in the solution of the death of Smithson in Darlinghurst Road; and the identity of the mysterious Dr. Night had still to be discovered. Westerton was not Dr. Night, and since the evening when that master criminal had telephoned the Mirror Offices and made virtual confession of his complicity in the death of Smithson, he had vanished into thin air.

The journalist was working on the theory that the pursuit of Francis Westerton and his activities would lead to the lair of the master criminal, Dr. Night.

Inspector Frost's report of the interviews on the verandah and in the grounds of "Forest Home," had induced the suspicion that Westerton was not the master mind of the gang inhabiting the house. Hardy held a suspicion that behind the scenes lurked Dr. Night either living in seclusion at "Forest Home" or visiting there at frequent intervals.

The night rides indulged in by Westerton gave colour to that theory. Dr. Night well might be brought to the house, and taken therefrom, concealed in the car. The regularity of the time of leaving "Forest Home" could be explained by the fact that the car was met at an appointed spot by another car, for the transference of the passenger. Such a procedure would certainly prevent the two places frequented by Dr. Night being connected.

Following this line of reasoning, Hardy asked himself: "Is Dr. Night the Man with the Tail" Doris and he had seen shadowed on the blind of the upper room at "Forest Home?" It was possible; and from the seclusion Dr. Night had apparently adopted, very probable.

Then, who was Dr. Night? Was he a freak of nature; a deformed intelligence; seeking to work ill on humanity, as revenge for Nature's endowment of abnormality? Such an explanation fitted into the puzzle—but it was only a theory. By hook or crook the journalist determined to gain admission to "Forest Home" and to prove his theory right or wrong.

To visit the house would serve him little. He would not be allowed to wander about at his will. The only course was to obtain admission unknown to Francis Westerton and his household. To do that he would have to place himself outside the law. Detection would mean imprisonment, and although he stood on intimate terms with the Police Department, he could not look for any relaxation of the laws. That would be impossible, for Westerton would certainly press for his punishment; and neither his newspaper nor the police could refuse, or plead complicity without raising a storm of public indignation against the invasion of the privacy of a citizen's home.

Hardy found the Inspector waiting for him in his room at the Mirror Offices when he arrived the following morning. Frost met him with the news that William Matthews had been arrested at Fitzroy, a Melbourne suburb, the previous day.

"How is that going to help us?" asked the journalist.

"We've taken him on a charge of consorting with persons of doubtful character, and being without visible means of support," replied the Inspector shortly. "After appearing before the Victorian magistrate, he will be remanded to Sydney on a warrant I have caused to be issued. When he gets here we will persuade him to explain a lot of things."

"Particularly?" queried Hardy.

"I want to know if he was connected with Smithson."

"Matthews will have a lot more than that to explain when he comes to Sydney," observed the journalist thoughtfully. "I want the inner story of the shooting up of his mother's flat; and that means the story of his connections with the snow-runners of this city."

"Sure."

The Inspector hesitated, then continued: "Truth is, Bob, the story's got me bluffed. The Chief asked me this morning who Dr. Night is, and I had to confess that I hadn't the ghost of an idea, beyond the fact that he had a lot to do with the death of Smithson."

"Dr. Night is the head of the Illicit drug traffic of Sydney," replied Hardy quickly. "Who, and what, he is, I cannot even guess. He is covered too well, but I'm just beginning to understand how he is operating."

Frost was immediately interested.

The journalist then recounted in detail his adventures in the grounds of "Forest Home," the previous night, finishing his story with the vision of "The Man With the Tail," seen by Doris and on the blind of the room at "Forest Home."

"How you can hope to work out from that the line of operation of these crooks is more than I can understand," remarked the detective, when Hardy had concluded. "All I can gather is that someone was trying to play the goat with you."

"The case of bottles in the boatshed is sufficient on which to base the theory that 'Forest Home' is the headquarters of the illicit drug smugglers of Sydney," retorted Hardy. "You remember, a similar bottle was placed in my room for some purpose. Both Chaffers, the chemist, and Dr. Streatham, of the Sydney Hospital, are positive that the drug runners are selling the dope in those bottles."

"By the bye, Bob," interjected the Inspector, "I think you should bring that bottle down to headquarters. There might be something about It that would give us a clue."

Hardy thought for a moment. He had a strange reluctance to bring the bottle into the business at that stage.

"No," he said positively. "That bottle is too innocent, Frost. It's locked up in my rooms, and I'm opposed to anyone touching it until we know more about it than we do now. Besides, we have no knowledge whatever that it is connected with either Dr. Night, or Smithson. It may be a practical joke that someone is trying to put over me. Anyhow, that bottle stays where it is until we know more. Now, do you remember Mr. Thomas tipping me to compare Westerton's mysterious journeys with happenings on 'land and sea'?"

"Well?"

"I obtained from Mr. Blayde a list of the dates on which Westerton had taken night motor-rides. A search through the files of the Mirror resulted in the fact that the motor rides coincide with the arrivals of ships from Asia."

"That's a point," exclaimed the Inspector with great satisfaction. "I'm going to have that car searched next time he goes out."

Hardy did not think any good would result from any such search. While there might be a connection between the arrival of eastern shipping and the mysterious motor-rides of Francis Westerton, it would be improbable that the gang would attempt to convey, the drugs from the ship to "Forest Home" by such methods, it was too open for suspicion.

The boatshed offered the better route for the smuggling of the drugs. On dark nights the conveyance of the smuggled drugs by water would be almost absolutely safe from detection. Men disguised as fishermen could, without suspicion, visit the vessels at the wharves and then drop casually down the shores to the boathouse. The water police would be entirely unsuspicious, and the presence of a fair haul of fish in the boat, an excellent cover.

Yet the journalist did not attempt to dissuade the detective from his proposed search of Westerton's car. He did not believe it would result in any tangible evidence, but it would give him a free hand to conduct the examination of "Forest Home." He had already made up his mind that he must take all risks and force an entrance to the house of mystery.

It was late that night before Hardy made his way to the gates of "Forest Home." He had not called at the Blayde's house, as he was certain that if Doris knew of his proposed adventure she would bitterly oppose him taking the risk, or else demand some share in the adventure. That was impossible.

15

THE grounds of "Forest Home" lay silent and deserted in the waning light of the moon when he arrived at the gates. The road was deserted, and after a swift look round, the journalist scaled the wall and dropped into the shadows of the trees. Cautiously, he skirted the boundary wall down to the boathouse. On both sides the house was in darkness.

Was Westerton at home, or had he gone for one of his mysterious motor drives? More than probably the gangster was at home. At no time had he taken his motor trips on two consecutive nights.

Hardy had determined to risk this. From what the Inspector had told him, there seemed to be quite a number of servants in the house. The presence of Westerton would add but little to the risk he was running.

The outlook between the boundary wall and the boathouse was deserted. A survey of the boatshed indicated that it was vacant. It was from there, Hardy had decided, that he had been watched on the previous evening. This time he would not leave his rear unexplored.

Waiting until a cloud passed over the face of the moon, Hardy ran silently to the blank wall of the summer-house. Here he was in the shadows again. For a time he listened intently, his ear against the woodwork. There was no sound and no light issuing from the building.

Creeping to the front, the journalist boldly entered the summer-house and flashed his torch around. As he had suspected, it was empty. He was now satisfied that this portion of the grounds did not contain watchers. There remained the house, and every window of the building was in darkness. That, in itself, was no guarantee that the inmates were in bed and asleep. Before proceeding further, he must satisfy himself that the darkened rooms did not contain watchers.

Presuming that the gang had posted sentinels—and such a course would be probable after his adventure of the previous night—Hardy had but two courses he could pursue. He could go to the house, trusting to his luck to make them discover their presence before getting dangerously close to them, or he could make them come to him. Both methods were risky, and one false step might wreck all hopes of ever getting into, the house, unobserved.

Watching his opportunity, Hardy returned to the shelter of the boat-shed. There he retired into the concealed nook and lighted a cigarette. He could smoke here without endangering his mission. He wanted a smoke and time to think and plan.

The cigarette finished, he climbed out on the runway from the boathouse, extending over the water. From there he threw the light of his torch across the bushes on the waterfront. For several minutes he played the light up and down, intermittently. Then he crept Into the nook and lay beneath the sheltering bushes, watching the house. It remained silent and dark. Satisfied now that the inmates were asleep, Hardy made his way to the edge of the verandah. Crouched down, the journalist scanned the verandah and the windows. Suddenly he tensed.

A window was open and through it, swaying in the gentle breeze, floated a curtain. What did it mean? For some moments Hardy remained undecided. Was it a trap; or—had the window been left open by a careless servant? Both were possibilities, impossible to prove.

Then he swung himself on the verandah and silently approached the open window. There was no sound from within the room. Catching hold of the curtain as it, drifted towards him, the journalist peered into the darkened room. All he could see was the dim outlines of a few pieces of furniture that stood near the window, The remainder of the room was in darkness.

To suspect a man of dealing in smuggled drugs and to invade his house in the dead of night, are different things. Hardy held no illusion on the subject. He was taking a big risk. He knew that even Frost, with the power of the Detective Department behind him, would have no power to save him If he was detected and caught. He would have to take his medicine. The Mirror would disown him. He would be treated as a common thief.

Only if he failed. Success, and the proving of his theories, would justify his actions. The thought spurred him on, With a quick, backwards glance over the grounds, he pulled back the flapping curtain and stepped Into the room.

For a full minute Hardy stood, just inside the room, listening intently. There was not a sound to be heard. He pressed the button of his torch and swept the light slowly around the room.

As the light pierced the darkness, the windows behind him swung together. At the same time came the sharp click of a switch and the room was flooded with light.

Standing on the hearth rug was a thin grey man of medium height, his shoulders slightly bent forward in a scholarly stoop. On his head he wore a black silk skull cap from beneath which scanty grey hairs straggled across his forehead and temples.

"Good evening, Mr. Hardy." The man's lips had not appeared to move yet the voice came clear as a bell with a slight tinge of foreign accent. The man stood, absolutely still, only his piercing grey eyes showing signs of life.

"I have waited a long time for you, Mr. Hardy," the clear voice continued. "You could not keep away neither did I will you to do so."

"Dr. Night!" breathed Hardy.

"At your service. Dr. Night!" The thin lips twitched into a faint smile. "The name will serve. You would not take the warning I gave you; yet that warning was given at some considerable risk to myself."

Hardy swung round, suddenly, towards the window. He had it in mind to make a swift break for liberty.

"I warn you." Dr. Night raised a thin hand. "My servants are without and have orders not to allow you to pass. They obey me or—But we will not talk of unpleasant things."

He had been trapped. Hardy now realised that the quietness of the house, the open window, the unmatched grounds had all been decoys to draw him into this room. He had been watched silently, unobtrusively, from the moment he had entered the grounds of "Forest Home." The way had been made smooth for him that he might deliver himself helpless, into the hands of the master criminal.

A wave of relief swept over him that he had concealed his intentions from Doris. It would have been inconceivable for her to have fallen into the hands of this ominous grey man.

"What are you going to do with me?" Hardy asked the question, involuntarily.

"You are my guest." Dr. Night's eyes had not lost their glint of amusement—the amusement of a cat playing with a tortured mouse. "It is the better way. You have become inconvenient. For that I congratulate you, Mr. Hardy. Few people inconvenience me; your friend the big policeman, not at all. As my guest you will not inconvenience me."

"I should Imagine otherwise," answered Hardy with a short laugh. "You realise that questions will be asked by my newspaper and the police, if I disappear without explanations."

"By your friend, the big policeman." Dr. Night waved the suggestion aside. "Yet you had no trouble in avoiding his espionage when you determined to meet my fair neighbour alone at the foot of Roslyn Gardens steps."

Dr. Night smiled again at the journalist's bewilderment. "You are surprised, my guest. You have not realised that you have been watched for a long time. That I made one mistake is not a guarantee that I shall make others. The good man, Smithson, was a mistake. I shall not err again."

"You made a mistake when you telephoned me," corrected Hardy. Something in the air of his captor gave him confidence.

"I grieve to differ from my guest." Dr. Night's smile had disappeared. "It was written that you came to me. Therefore I took means that you should find me. I placed in your hands the slender thread that would lead you to this house, and to this room. You have followed it, my servants watching your every step. You have come here a—now you are my guest."

"The word 'guest' seems somewhat of a misnomer," remarked the Journalist, drily.

"I think not. But I am remiss. Will you please be seated. I desire not that my guest should stand."

Pocketing the torch he had continued to hold, Hardy walked carelessly Into the room and seated himself in a deep lounge chair.

"That is well." The master criminal relaxed the air of tension he had worn since revealing himself to the journalist. He dropped wearily into a chair. "We will now talk of the future."

"The one matter that Interests me at the present moment is, how long you intend to hold me a prisoner," retorted Hardy.

"Who can read the book that lies in the lap of the gods?" Dr. Night turned his piercing glance on the journalist. "We mortals live from day to day and walk the path ordained for us. Again I fear I am remiss. It is well that I administer to the requirements of my guest."

The master criminal clapped his hands, thrice. Immediately the door opened and a Chinese servant entered, pushing a wheeled table before him, on which was set out an elaborate tea-service. Halting in the doorway the man bowed low, three times. He pushed the waiter to the side of his master and folded his hands in his sleeves.

"I offer you the drink of my country." Dr. Night waved a thin hand towards the tea equipage. "It is to your liking? That is well. It is for you to order in this house and for my servants to obey. If they obey not you shall inform me and they shall be Ask not little, my guest. The wise man takes that which is freely offered, even to the uttermost."

"I warn you, Dr. Night, that I shall take my freedom," laughed the journalist, sipping the delicious China tea from a cup of exquisite delicacy. Already he had recovered his nerve and was planning his escape.

In spite of the involuntary awe the master criminal had first infected him with, the journalist realised now that it was a battle of wits. Dr. Night had shown that he did not intend to murder him, or to hand him over to the authorities as a thief. There must be some way he could work to freedom, and even if he failed. Inspector Frost would search for him. "Forest Home" would immediately fall under suspicion and p search of the premises would result in his release.

"Shall I read your thoughts?" The cool voice of the master criminal broke on his meditation. "You are thinking that your friend, the big policeman, will quickly come for you. True, he will come, but he will not find you. You will not want him to find you."

"I beg your pardon?" Hardy was startled.

"I say, you will not want your friend the big policeman to find you." Dr. Night's voice was full of assurance, "It will be your desire to remain here as my guest.

"Should you leave me I shall have to invite your lady friend to take your place. You understand. I am referring to the young lady who pulled you out of the water last night. And she will not refuse. No, I shall take her for— my guest."

16

THE grey eyes of the man became full of weird lights. The lean body tensed with energy and as he leaned towards the Journalist his voice became low and menacing.

"You will be my guest here, or the lady of your friendship shall take, your place. She, I will send to my country, and there she will not be my guest. There are men in my country who desire greatly women who are white. Do you understand?"

Slowly, Hardy nodded his head. Only too well he understood the veiled threat.

Dr. Night confined Hardy in a suite of rooms on the upper storey of "Forest Home," overlooking the Harbour. Except that the door of the suite was kept locked and the windows were heavily barred, there was but little restraint put on him. The master criminal appeared to think that the journalist was' overawed by his threats against Doris' liberty.

Hardy was willing that the Doctor should deceive himself in that manner. From the moment the threat against Doris had been uttered the journalist had determined to play a part. He would remain a voluntary prisoner in the quarters assigned to him, obedient to the orders of his gaoler, and trust to the sequence of events to give him his liberty at the opportune moment. One of the chief reasons which held Hardy a complacent prisoner in "Forest Home" was the fact that, in those circumstance he would have opportunities to study the master-criminal at close quarters; and that chance might put him in the way of the clues to solve the mysteries surrounding the place and the gang. To attain these objects, Hardy was content to ignore the immediate question of his liberty. Once he had to break up this nest of criminals he would find means to walk out of this house and take measures for Doris' protection. Further, every day brought the Inspector nearer to his prison place. Sooner or later, he and the police would get into communication and then the arrest of Dr. Night and his confederates would quickly follow.

Dr. Night appeared to take a great interest In his prisoner. Two or three times a day he would visit Hardy's room and, though his visits were short, at first, he gradually lengthened them. Nearly every evening he would send a message to the journalist requesting him to visit him in his study; and the short journeys through the house showed Hardy that the master criminal had at his disposal a large staff of servile Asiatics.

Dr. Night's nationality puzzled the journalist. There was an evident desire on the part of the Doctor that his prisoner should regard him as a Chinese of high rank; but for some indefinable reason, that Hardy could not have logically defended, he was convinced that the master-criminal was attempting to mislead him in that direction. At the same time the journalist noticed that the Chinese servants regarded their master as purely Chinese and of royal rank, and served him accordingly.

Hardy saw no one but the master criminal and the Chinese servants. So far as he could discover there were no white people in the house. Yet Frost had declared that the household was composed only of Europeans. The journalist could not conclude that the house contained two separate households, and that the Asiatic household was carefully concealed from any chance visitors to the house.

Openly, and for public information, Francis Westerton occupied the house. Behind this blind lived Dr. Night, served by Asiatic servants, in royal seclusion.

The apparent inaction of the journalist induced a spirit of boastfulness in the master criminal. At the first intervals between Hardy and his gaoler the latter had confined himself to general subjects and had proved himself a wonderfully well-informed man. Later, he had become more personal, and entertained the journalist with accounts of his adventures as a modern Robin Hood, in constant warfare with recognised authority, always succouring the poor and needy. It was the story of a life that led from the heart of China, and through the various countries of the world, to the new nation in Australia.

A week passed and in spite of Hardy's ceaseless watchfulness, he had learned but little, his immediate ambition was to gain a certain freedom in the house. For the time he was indifferent as to how closely the master-criminal guarded him from the grounds and freedom. He wanted liberty to explore the house and that, it was evident, was to be denied him.

When Dr. Night visited him, the door of his prison rooms stood apparently unguarded, but outside in the corridor stood on guard half-a-dozen stalwart Chinese. Peculiarly, when he was served with his meals in his sitting-room, the man who waited on him appeared to be unattended, by guards.

The inaction fretted the journalist. He wondered that Inspector Frost was doing. Surely his disappearance would have caused inquiries to be made at "Forest Home." The detective knew that he had been watching the place. Fairly contented at first, the journalist grew restless and spent much of his time standing at his window, staring out over the Harbour.

One day his attention was attracted by the vigorous signalling of a sailor on a destroyer steaming down the Harbour. The journalist could decipher the letters as they were spelt out. Idly, he repeated the message to himself. An idea struck him. It would be possible to flash a message across the Harbour. The electric light in his room would be the means.

Would the sudden lighting and darkening of his room be sufficient? He doubted it. He must intensify the light and throw it out over the Harbour. He looked around the room. A radiator stood in the corner, attached to the wall plug by a long length of flexible wire.

Disengaging the wall plug, he had at his disposal a long length of wire sufficient to extend the light to his window. Mounting the table he carefully scraped bare the wires immediately above the lamp holder, keeping them apart with a plug of wood. From one of the rooms of the suite he obtained a globe-holder and fitted it on to the end of the cord. Around this he formed a cone of newspaper to confine and intensify the light. He was now ready to get in touch with the outer world.

Three nights in succession the journalist, at frequent intervals, attempted to get into communication with some boat on the Harbour, but without success.

On the fourth night he noticed a lantern being waved vigorously from a small boat. After watching it for some time, Hardy came to the conclusion that the persons in the boat were trying to get in communication with him.

"Tell Inspector Frost, police, come waterfront, to-morrow," carefully spelt out the journalist, in hesitating Morse.

There was a brief wait and then Hardy repeated the message. From the boat someone winked out the message:

"Yes."

Hardy was now in communication with the outer world.

Pulling down his apparatus and concealing the evidence of his work, he sat down to think out his course of action. Frost would certainly come to the waterfront the following night, and by that time he must have planned his future actions. If he decided to leave "Forest Home" at once, Frost would certainly arrange for the house to be raided immediately. In fact, Hardy feared that once the Inspector received his message, he would arrange a raid without waiting to hear from Hardy on the following evening.

Strange to say, the journalist was not in a hurry to leave "Forest Home." The house intrigued him. If only he could pass the door of his room, unwatched.

The following evening Dr. Night came early to his room and sat talking. Hardy was restless, and when the hours passed and the master-criminal showed no signs of leaving he became suspicious that the doctor's spies had discovered his attempt to communicate with the outer world. At length, the journalist commenced to yawn, ostentatiously.

"You are tired, my friend," Dr. Night said "Yet you have no work to draw on your strength. As for me, night I have to labour long. I will, therefore, bid you pleasant sleep and a good awakening."

"It will be pleasant if it leads to the day of my freedom," observed Hardy barely stifling another yawn.

"That is a matter it is forbidden to discuss." Dr. Night bowed as he moved towards the door. "The day may come. In the meantime, remember, the wise man is patient in all things."

Immediately the Doctor had left the room, Hardy sprang to the door and pressed his ear against the woodwork. He heard the slow, stately step walk along the corridor and then start to descend the stairs.

When he was certain that the Doctor would not return the journalist mounted the table and quickly fixed his apparatus. For about an hour he flashed signals across the Harbour, without result. Then he received an answering signal from the deck of a ship lying out towards Neutral Bay.

Three times the message was repeated before the journalist could decipher it.

Finally, he pieced together sufficient of the words to guess the meaning of the whole.

"Frost in boat, waterfront. Is it safe, signal from there?"

Depressing the mouth of his cone, Hardy winked out the word: "Frost."

From a clump of bushes on the waterfront a torch winked quickly. Opening the window the journalist flung out on the lawn his cigarette case, containing a letter he had written during the day.

Then he morsed: "Letter on lawn. To-morrow after midnight. Good night."

It was very dangerous to continue signalling.

Hardy waited impatiently for the following night. It wanted some twenty minutes to the hour when he took up his station at the window, fearing every minute that something would happen to prevent the detective getting in touch with him. Just on the stroke of the hour a torch winked on the water edge.

Hardy opened his window, and waited. A few minutes later a soft article struck the bars of the window and fell, almost silently on to the iron of the verandah roof. The journalist thrust his arm out of the window, curved to cover as many bars as possible, and waited. Again the soft thing bumped the bars and fell to the roof; this time the string to which it was attached fell over his arm. Stretching out his other hand he caught the string and hauled it in.

A somewhat large package came over the edge of the verandah and slid along the roof. It was fairly bulky and he had some difficulty in dragging it between the bars. Then he pulled down his flashing apparatus. With nervous hands he opened the package and switched on the room lights. He discovered a miscellaneous collection of files, saws, skeleton keys and other burglar tools, including a knotted rope.

17

A LETTER lay among the tools. Hardy was about to open it when he thought he heard a sound in the corridor. Bundling the tools into the cloth in which they had been wrapped he took them into his bedroom, and hid them under the mattress of his bed. Then he returned to his sitting room and opened the letter.

Here are the tools you asked for. We have been greatly worried over your disappearance and Thomas raised hell with the D.B. He was much relieved when I telephoned him today that we had got in touch with you and told him that you were occupying a position in the enemy's camp. When will you be ready to escape? Shouldn't take you more than a night to file through those bars. What did you want the keys for? Do you intend to get through the house? Should say window the best. Bill Matthews was brought from Melbourne this morning. Going to give him a 'once-over' tomorrow evening at office. Should like you to be there as you may have gathered sufficient to induce him to open out. One of our boats with a couple of men will be under the bushes on the waterfront each night, until you escape, to be of any assistance to you. If you are not free within forty-eight hours after you get this, I shall raid the house.

Jim Frost.

P.S.—Will wait for your O.K.

Hardy seized a piece of paper and was about to write a note acknowledging the detective's letter when he heard voices in the garden. Switching off the light, he went to the window and peered out into the night. He could see little but moving shadows. The shrill voices of the Chinese servants came up to him and he could distinguish the calm, level deeper tones of the master-criminal.

Then a torch winked on the waterfront. The chatter of the Chinese servants increased in volume. Someone on land fired a couple of shots, responded to from the waterfront by a derisive laugh.

The light in the study below switched on and Hardy could distinguish on the lawn the slender form of Dr. Night, standing by the bulkier form of a white man.

"Sure I hit one of 'em," exulted Dr. Night's companion. "Couldn't miss 'em. What were they after?"

"Robert Hardy," replied the Doctor. "It is most evident that the big policeman suspects that he is here."

"D'yer think that newspaper chap got in touch with him?" queried the man.

"We may soon learn if that is so."

Dr. Night turned and led the way back to the house. Hardy stripped off his coat and collar and picked up a book. When the master-criminal and his companion entered the room he was seated, apparently half-asleep, in a chair.

"Hullo!" The journalist gave an excellent imitation of a man rudely awakened from a doze. "By Jove! I must have fallen asleep over my book. Anything wrong, Doctor?"

"Did not my guest hear the shots fired on the lawn?" Dr. Night looked searchingly into the journalist's face as he asked the question.

"What was the trouble?" asked Hardy Innocently.

"I was unable to discover," replied Dr. Night suavely. "My guest would do well to retire. It is not good to read too late at night."

"I'd stop 'is readin' an' 'is breathin' too," muttered the gunman, slipping his hand into the pocket of his jacket. "Just say t'word, Doctor."

"I do not approve of violence." The master-criminal motioned his companion towards the door. "Mr. Hardy understands the consequence of disobedience to my wishes."

For an hour Hardy lay down on his bed, intent on keeping awake. He had determined that, when the household had quieted down, after the excitement occasioned by the shooting on the lawn, he would explore the house. Time was short, for Inspector Frost had written that he had Matthews in custody, in Sydney, and intended to question his the following night. The journalist had determined that he would be present at that inquisition. Matthews could link up many points in the chain of evidence he was weaving around the household at "Forest Home," if he would speak, and Hardy was of opinion that he had information that would induce the young criminal to talk freely.

The master-criminal had indicated earlier in the evening that he had work that would occupy him a greater part of the night. Hardy realised that to attempt to explore the house with Dr. Night awake was terribly hazardous, but he could not wait, it had to be that night, whatever the cost. With the information that he might gain, the work of the police in routing out this nest of criminals would be made easy and exact.

The frequent conversations he had had with the master-criminal had given him an insight into the character of the man. Clever, the Doctor undoubtedly was, but it was a cleverness that held many pitfalls. Secure in his own ability, the master-criminal held the powers of his opponent's cheap. He ignored the undoubted ability of the Police Department, treating them as if of no account. He had concealed to some extent his opinion of the journalist, but had let it be seen that while he gave the newspaper man credit for certain shrewdness, he discounted any opposition from him as negligible.

Unwittingly Dr. Night had given Hardy a fairly clear understanding of the working of the gang he headed. The journalist had, before he entered the home of Dr. Night as a prisoner, formed the theory that "Forest Home" was the headquarters of a gang of illicit drug smugglers under the leadership of Francis Westerton and Dr. Night. He had suspicioned that the activities of the gang were confined to New South Wales.

His interviews with the master criminal had sufficed to show him that he had vastly underrated the abilities and extent of the gang. Dr. Night was the sole head of the organisation. Westerton and the other white men under him, and their ramifications, spread all over Australia. Under the master criminal, Sydney had become the centre and the port for the secret importations of cocaine and opium in vast quantities.

But there was another side of the activities of the gang that Hardy had not yet uncovered. Sufficient he had learned to induce him to believe that through "Forest Home" Chinese and other Asiatics were being imported into Australia in vast quantities. These men, practically slaves, were immediately passed into the city and out into the country, to be forwarded by underground railways into the vast north, there to work in mines and on the fields owned by Chinese who had been in Australia for years.

From sentences the doctor had let fall, the journalist was coming to believe that white men, calling themselves Australians, were not innocent of this bartering in human flesh and blood as cheap labour. Piecing together the various bits of information he had obtained during his confinement in the house, the time passed quickly for the journalist.

At two o'clock in the morning, Hardy swung his feet to the ground and went quietly to the door. Not a sound could be heard from the corridor. Taking a bunch of the skeleton keys Frost had given him, Hardy tried a likely-looking one in the door. It turned easily and silently. Very cautiously, he pulled the door slightly open and peered out. The electric light was still burning in the corridor. For a moment the journalist stood at the open door carefully examining the corridor from end to end. It lay silent and deserted.

Hardy had in his mind a careful plan of the house, gathered from the few times he had passed from his prison room to the Doctor's study. Turning towards the head of the stairs and walking with the utmost caution, he passed along the corridor. At the head of the stairs he halted and listened intently. The house seemed deserted. As far as he could judge he was the only person awake within those walls. Yet, unless the Doctor had deliberately deceived him, he knew that this was not so.

Somewhere in the house the master-criminal was awake and at his nefarious business. It was for Hardy to avoid him at all costs. Face to face with the Doctor, he would have to surrender and go back to a more vigorous confinement, or fight his way to freedom against overwhelming odds. If his luck held—Hardy proved that it would—tomorrow he would be free, and with the information to put the master-criminal and his gang behind the bars for a long term of years.

The next hour would decide.

Carefully creeping down the stairs. Hardy arrived at the ground floor. Before him were the great doors of the entrance hall. On either side the hall branched off into passages. Doors seemed everywhere. Turning to the right, Hardy cautiously tried the door. It gave and be thrust it open and peered in. The blind was up and the journalist could see that it was one of the big reception rooms, unoccupied. The door on the left of the front doors led into a similar room.

The journalist hesitated a moment and then closed the door. It was not in these rooms he would find the information he required. Through the darkness of the house the newspaper investigator moved silently, from room to room. Soon he located the room where Westerton lay asleep. In another room he found the maids, also asleep. Yet another room was given over to the men-servants, but nowhere did he find any trace of the Chinese servants. It was evident that they slept in some quarters at the rear of the house.

At length he came to the door of the room he knew to be the master-criminal's study. Here he paused a long time, listening with his ear pressed against the panel. It was silent within the room, but Hardy feared to turn the latch. He well remembered the wonderful silence the man had preserved on the night he had been captured.

Was Dr. Night within, like a spider In his lair, awaiting the journalist-fly to walk into the trap?

The minutes passed while Hardy stood with his hand on the door-knob trying to pluck up courage to put his doubts to rest. Then, walking back to the front door, he carefully examined the fastenings, making certain that the door was not bolted and could be opened on the latch alone. Satisfied he returned to the study door and, listening a moment, turned the handle and slipped inside.

A light was burning on the desk under one of the long windows. The red shade cast a glow over the room, leaving the corners in mysterious shadows. Hardy drew his pocket torch and swept the room with a beam of white light. He was alone. A number of papers were littered on the blotting pad. Quickly he passed them under review. They were innocent business letters, most of them relating, to the household expenditure. Among these papers were a few, obviously letters, written in Chinese characters. The newspaper man hesitated, with them in his hand. He would have liked to have appropriated them. They might contain information relating to the foreign correspondence of the gang.

It was dangerous, however. Dr. Night might miss them and in his rooms he had no hiding place where they would be safe from a thorough search. Systematically, Hardy quartered the room, patiently searching for evidence of the gang's criminal activities. A comfortable, handsomely furnished room, it held nothing that could be considered of value to a prosecution.

Wearied with his search, Hardy seated himself in one of the lounge chairs and looked around him. His attention was caught by a handsome pianola standing against the wall at the far end of the room. Close by stood a cabinet, choked full of piano rolls. On the instrument and on top of the cabinet, and piled on the floor around were heaps of rolls.

Hardy could not remember hearing the pianola being played since he became a prisoner in the house. From the number of rolls scattered around Dr. Night should be considered a "pianola fan." Yet he did not use the instrument.

Crossing the room, Hardy picked up one of the boxes. It opened easily in his hand and contained the usual music roll. Lifting it out the journalist opened the roll. It was the usual perforated paper article. Hardy tried box after box, only to meet the same result.

He was not satisfied. Why should the master-criminal accumulate this large pile of rolls and never play the instrument? They looked innocent, but—Hardy slipped one of the boxes into his pocket. It would not be missed and in his rooms he could examine it at leisure.

The silence of the room made Hardy incautious. He was standing by the pianola, puzzling over the mystery of the musical instrument that was never played when he heard a sound—a slight click, like the release of a latch. Quickly, he slipped behind the pianola.

There was a long silence. He peered around the instrument. Someone was standing by the big desk, searching for something. Drawer after drawer was opened and examined.

At length the man stood up, muttering to himself. He walked across the room to the handsome fireplace and pressed one of the bosses of the ornamentation. A section of the wainscoting moved silently to one side, revealing a passage. The man bent down-and gave a low whistle. A few seconds and he whistled again. Almost immediately Dr. Night passed through the opening into the room.

"The things are not here," exclaimed the man, irritably. Dr Night went to the desk and pulled out one of the drawers completely. He thrust his arm into the cavity. There was a little click and part of the heavy moulding at the top of the desk fell down, revealing a shallow drawer.

"Here are the papers, my friend," said the Doctor, suavely. "You know where the stuff is hidden."

"Sure," said the stranger. "It's one of the cutest tricks I've come across this side of the Pacific."

"It is a pleasure to have the commendation of so great an authority as Carl Humberson." Dr. Night spoke with slight sarcasm.

"That's more than I can say for the birds I have to work with," retorted Humberson, crossly. "Of all the mugs I've come across, the wiseheads of Sydney beat it. How In Hades did you come to let Jinks Smithson get in the hands of the 'demons'?"

"That is a matter we have discussed at some length before," answered Dr. Night, with a slight anger in his tone. "Had you not been foolish enough it would not have been necessary for me to write to you. I am not responsible; my servant thought the letter would give him power over you and I— opened it."

"Yet you killed him?"

"It was necessary. The man indulged in excessive drinking of spirits. He was a talker and— well, he talked."

"Good lor'!" Humberson turned on his heel with a shudder and made his way to the secret door. "Comin' down?"

"I follow you, my friend." The master-criminal closed the secret cavity and replaced the desk drawer he had pulled out. Then he passed from the room through the door by the fire-place, and the secret door swung shut behind him.

Robert Hardy had much to occupy him on the day following his adventure in Dr. Night's study. For the first time he was beginning to accurately realise the strength of his opponents. Dr. Night had murdered Smithson, the man found unconscious in Darlinghurst Road. He had heard the master-criminal admit the fact in a callous, cold-blooded manner, defending his action on the ground of policy.

A new factor in the problem confronting the journalist was the secret sliding panel in the Doctor's study. Where did it lead to and what lay behind it? For the moment he believed that it lead to the boathouse, but further reflection made him decide against this theory.

Before starting on his tour of the house he had carefully watched the gardens. Had any person been working in the boatshed, and under the powerful electric light system established there, he could not have failed to have caught some glimpse of the light. No, the secret door led to some underground workshop where the activities of the gang were conducted without risk of interruption.

On returning to his room from the master-criminal's study, Hardy had set himself to solve the problem of his escape. He had decided that the following night would see him free. Frost had warned him that it was the intention of the police, on that night, to question William Matthews as to the death of the man found in Darlinghurst Road, and also as to the reasons behind the attack on Mrs. Matthews' house.

The journalist would not have missed that examination on any account. Matthews answers to the questions the police would ask him, coupled with the information he had collected in the house of the mystery, would certainly make a connected story sufficient to enable Inspector Frost to apply to a magistrate for a search warrant on "Forest Home"; and warrants for the arrest of Dr. Night and the members of his gang.

At first glance the barrel windows of his prison appeared to be the best avenue of escape. During the day Hardy was left to his own devices. Dr. Night had provided him with a small but very complete library, and the daily papers were brought to him with regularity, within a short time of the publishing of each edition.

The journalist had rather wondered at this. Frost's investigations had shown that only one morning and one evening newspaper were delivered at "Forest Home." These newspapers were slight but additional proof of the fact that the two households were conducted on entirely separate lines.

18

TESTING the bars of the windows, the journalist decided that to cut through them would mean several days work, with the tenor of discovery hanging over him. To work in the day-time would subject him to espionage from the gardens; to work at night would be to risk someone in the house hearing the grate of the excellent saws the police had provided him with.

On his adventure through the house. Hardy had been able to reach the front doors unobserved. It was possible he might be able to do so again. The fastenings of the doors were not difficult and it should not be impossible or even difficult to pass out of the house through the front door unobserved and unheard. Against this stood the fact that most large houses were protected by some form of burglar alarm. To open the door and walk out might set in operation some mechanism that would alarm the household.

The journalist had no doubt that he could easily outdistance any of the Chinese servants in a sprint to Darlinghurst and the populous streets. Dr Night was not to be considered in a test of running speed. Francis Westerton was not built for running, even if his story of a weak heart was false.

There remained only the gunman. Hardy set him down as the one great danger. The man was lean and fit and had, in addition, the menace of the guns he would undoubtedly use on the slightest provocation.

There was an additional factor to be counted. Dr. Night had threatened Doris with a fate of unspeakable horror. The journalist was convinced that once his escape was known, every endeavour of the master-criminal would be directed to revenge, and that revenge would be against the girl at "Holmhurst."

Hardy might, on escaping, go for police protection. In the meantime, he and Mr. Blayde might attempt the defence of the house. But the master-criminal could, undoubtedly bring to the attack a very large force of Asians. It was almost certain the defenders of "Holmhurst" would be overwhelmed, Hardy and Mr. Blayde killed or seriously injured, and Doris in the hands of the unscrupulous criminals, before Frost could bring any force to their relief.

The sole remaining avenue of escape must be through one of the windows on the upper floor. The windows of his suite of rooms were barred, but it was improbable that all the windows on that floor were in the same condition.

From signs Hardy had some days previously come to the conclusion that the rooms he occupied were, at one time, used for a nursery. Thus the reason for the bars, obviously of some years' standing.

The hours of the day passed rapidly in the weighing of evidence on plans of escape. Darkness came about half-past seven. At six o'clock the Chinese servant detailed to attend on him had served an elaborate dinner and, after clearing the table, had locked the door. Dr. Night was evidently busy for the usual hour of his visit passed without him making an appearance.

At eight o'clock the journalist started to put into action the plans he had formed. For a time he knelt beside the door with his ear pressed against the pane listening for any sound in the corridor. No one passed, and at length Hardy decided that the time for action had arrived.

With the master key provided by the inspector, Hardy cautiously unlocked the door and, opening it a small crack peered out. As he had expected, the corridor was deserted, although brilliantly lit. To the left lay the head of the stairs.

Three doors lay between Hardy's prison room and the stairs. Hardy disregarded them. Escape from the windows or doors of the lower rooms would leave him to run the gauntlet of espionage from the house, while attempting to reach the police boat concealed under the bushes near the boundary wall between "Forest Home" and "Holmhurst."

With his scanty knowledge of the house to work on, the journalist decided that the far end of the long corridor to the room of his suite of rooms, gave him the best hope of escaping unobserved and attaining the shelter of the trees.

For a time Hardy stood in the corridor, carefully conning possibilities; at the same time alert for the slightest sign of movement in the house. Without moving, his eyes scanned the doors of the various rooms bordering the corridor to the right. Some of these rooms were certainly occupied. His investigations of the previous evening had shown that Francis Westerton and his household lived and slept in the front of the house and on the ground floor. It was, therefore, possible that the Chinese servants occupied the rooms at the rear of the house. He had not succeeded in discovering their sleeping apartments. Possibly they occupied the rooms around the prison.

At the end of the corridor was a door. There was no balcony to the upper storey of the house, therefore the door led into some room. Was that room occupied? If not, did the room contain an unbarred window, through which could be his road to freedom?

Creeping carefully down the thickly carpeted corridor, the journalist arrived at the door he had marked as his best means of escape. The master key turned easily and silently. Hardy opened the door a crack. The room was in darkness. For a couple of seconds he hesitated. If anyone slept in that room, the sudden light from the corridor would certainly awaken them.

Hardy had an impulse to search for the switch and shut off the corridor lights. Immediately he abandoned the project. The darkening of the corridor would attract the attention of any watchers within or without the house. If anyone occupied the room, his success depended entirely on his quickness of action.

Swinging open the doors, Hardy pressed the button of his electric torch and flooded the room with light. It was a large room almost entirely filled with boxes and the junk pertaining to an occupied house. A quick glance round and he switched off the torch and closed the door behind him. He had taken the risk of attracting attention in suddenly lighting the room. It had been an inevitable risk, but he had acted so quickly that he trusted any watchers in the grounds had not observed the lighting of the room; or if they had, had placed it to the credit of some servant. Turning, he locked the door and then went to the window.

As he had expected, the window was unbarred and looked out towards "Holmhurst." The trees came up to within a few yards of the edge of the verandah and one large branch far overhung the verandah roof, coming near the window of the box-room. Once out of that window, in a few seconds he would be within the shelter of the belt of trees. The risk of his escape being observed was small.

Listening tor a few moments at the door leading to the corridor, Hardy unlocked it and, shutting it behind him, stole back to his prison rooms. Here he collected the tools Frost had provided for his escape. With the bundle of tools under his arm he returned to the box-room. There he found a hiding place tor them.

19

A FEW minutes later he opened the window and stepped silently on to the verandah roof. Without sound, he crept to the verandah edge and dropped to the ground. Two seconds later and he stood, once more free, within the shelter of the trees.

His first impulse was to go straight to "Holmhurst" and let Doris know that he was safe and free. A moment's thought and he stole softly down to the water's edge and whistled lowly. Immediately came an answering whistle, and a boat edged down from the boundary wall.

Ten o'clock was striking when the journalist walked into the main entrance of Police Headquarters. Inspector Frost was loitering in the main hall and welcomed him warmly.

"Good boy," exclaimed the detective. "I guessed you would not miss tonight's show. Did you have any difficulty in escaping? But keep your story. The Chief will want to hear it."

Frost led down the corridor to the Superintendent of Detectives' office. As the couple entered, Dixon looked up with a broad smile of welcome.

"Still on the inside running of the story, Bob?" he laughed. "Frost looted our museum of housebreaking tools for you. In all my twenty years in the force I never had the luck to be accepted as a guest by the gang of criminals I was chasing."

"Perhaps it's the lack of grey-matter in the cranium of a journalist that makes the difference," retorted Hardy. "From what I can see, it appears impossible to have grey matter and luck. It's one or the other."

Before Dixon could reply the door opened and Alfonso Thomas, the managing editor of the Morning Mirror entered. Seeing Hardy with Superintendent Dixon he gave an exclamation of surprise.

"Hardy! You've escaped! Good work boy. For a few days we thought Dr. Night had made away with you."

"I think we are ready for our interesting young friend," remarked Dixon, at that moment. The Inspector left the room. Hardy and Thomas found seats under the window, to the right of the Superintendent's desk. There was an air of tenseness in the room, concealed by the three men under an air of assumed indifference. Yet, each one of the three realised that the work they were engaged in had come to a climax.

The silence was becoming almost oppressive when the door opened and admitted William Matthews and a detective sergeant. The latter took up a position by the door, whilst Frost beckoned the snow-runner to a seat facing the Superintendent, across the desk. When Matthews was seated there was a short silence.

Hardy and Thomas looked with open curiosity at the prisoner. Matthews was a typical product of the city. Hollow-chested, sallow-faced, short of stature, he bore every sign of the moderate degenerate. Seating himself carelessly, the snow-runner first deliberately tried to outstare the Superintendent. Failing in this object, he coolly turned in his chair and surveyed the other occupants of the room with tin air of detached insolence. Finally he turned to the Inspector.

"Say," he drawled, wearily. "Is this a beauty show, or what, and do I get first prize. Those boobs don't run natural with your mob."

"Keep a civil tongue in your mouth," replied the Inspector roughly.

"Next time you'll tell me to keep a silent tongue—and you brought me here for a pow-wow. You demons are as full of wise sayings as the Harbour's full of water."

"Captain Kettle sends his regards, Matthews," observed Dixon, carelessly.

Matthews swung round on his chair, his mouth agape. The shot had struck right home; the more that it had been entirely unexpected.

"Come down to book tales, now," Matthews tried to jeer away his error. "Well, it'll do some of you guys good to take a tumble to Sherlock Holmes, Sexton Blake, an' that lot. Might earn your beans then. Suppose that's what this writin' bloke's here for."

"Look here, Matthews," exclaimed Dixon sternly. "I've had you brought here to give you a chance to get out of a mess. Let me have any of your lip and you go up—and take your medicine."

"Ain't they good, these Sydney 'demons?'" Matthews turned a sudden glance on Thomas. "Allus tryin' to help a bloke. Never hits 'em down—not them. They're all for a poor chap's good. They don't want to know nuffing, 'course not! They're clever enough to find out all they wants to know."

"Clever enough to track down your friend, Dr. Night," said Hardy carelessly. "Come now, Matthews. Mr. Thomas and I are on the level, if you don't trust the police. Come across with what we want to know and we'll see that you get a square deal and perhaps more."

"Kind of yer!" The snow-runner appeared to fancy his heavy sarcasm. Then a thought appeared to strike him and he added: "Say, are you the Mirror bloke?"

"What of that?" Dixon broke in abruptly.

"If he's the Mirror bloke, perhaps he wrote the stuff about the man who was found dead in Darlinghurst Road."

"What if he did?"

"Well, he knows what comes to them as talks too much."

"So that's what you're frightened about." Frost tried to fill his voice with scorn. Matthews did not answer. He sat staring ahead at Superintendent Dixon. The watchers began to realise that the terror Dr. Night had instilled into his followers was real.

"Look here, Billy." Hardy drew a chair close to the prisoner's and lowered his voice. "Let's get together at the beginning. I had a story last year that might Interest you. It concerned an American of the name of Zimmerman."

"You've got nothing on me over that," Matthews sat upright in his chair for the first time, and glanced towards the door.

"Let's hear your tale of the deal?" interrupted Dixon.

"It was straight, boss. I bought the goods from the bagman. You can't hold me for that."

"As you won't tell the tale, I suppose I must," said the journalist carelessly. "About eighteen months ago, a commercial traveller came from New York to Sydney. He had with him a lot of samples. One case contained some gross of imitation gold pencil cases. The man took to drink and got rid of a lot of valuable stuff from his sample cases. The imitation gold pencil cases were a drug on the market and he failed to dispose of any of them at any old price. You, Matthews, came along and offered to get rid of the lot, at a price. You carried out your promise, but Zimmermann claimed he never saw the price."

"Th' old souse!" The snow-runner's voice was full of indignation. "He offered me a straight fifty-fifty on the deal then wanted to cry off— when the deal had gone through."

"That's the tale you tell." Dixon struck his desk heavily with his open hand. "Zimmerman states you collared the whole of the money you got for the pencils. Matthews, you stole that money."

"I—"

"You stole that money." Dixon's voice was more imperative on the repetition.

"Zimmerman 'ad 'arf."

"You stole that money." The Superintendent's voice had dropped to a dead monotone but had lost nothing of its imperativeness. The prisoner looked up into the Superintendent's boring eyes, and then looked down, hastily. The denial died on his lips. "'Ave it yer own way." The snow-runner's pallid cheeks were ashen white.

"You stole that money."

Matthews sat fidgeting restlessly in his chair. Again the Superintendent reiterated the statement, in the same monotonous monotone.

"Yes." The criminal's eyes, now fixed on the Superintendent, were filled with a depth of despair. "I stole that money."

20

"GOOD." Dixon's tone changed abruptly. "Have you the warrant Warren?"

"Yes, sir." The detective sergeant, seated at the door, stood up. "Shall I execute it sir?"

"Not yet." The Superintendent motioned the man to resume his seal. "How did you come to know Captain Kettle, Matthews?"

"He bought some of the pencils."

"Knowing them to be stolen property?"

"S'pose so."

"Who is Captain Kettle?"

"Friend o' the doctor's."

"In what way?"

"He 'ands out the stuff."

"What stuff?"

"The snow an' the other things."

"What other things?"

Matthews made a gesture of disgust. "You know. The mud, an' all that."

"Look here, Matthews," broke in Thomas, impatiently. "This sort of question and answer business doesn't suit me. The Morning Mirror has offered a large reward for the capture and conviction of Dr. Night and his gang, and the destruction of the illicit drug trade in this State. I will see that you get your share of the reward, if you help me to round up those criminals."

"An' who might you be?" Matthews began to regain some of the confidence Dixon's third degree methods had dissipated.

"My name is Thomas, and I'm managing editor of the Mirror."

"You've givin' me that straight?"

Alfonso Thomas' large moustache appeared to bristle at the idea that the owner would break his word.

"You have my word for it."

Bill Matthews stood up and stretched himself with an air of utter weariness. Frost made as if to force him back on his seat, but Hardy, who had been closely watching the criminal's face, made a warning gesture.

"Then this 'ere bloke's Bob Hardy. I thought so."

Matthews turned to face the star reporter. "The' boys says as you're straight. Will you back 'is word."

"Yes."

"How close 'ave you got to the doctor?" The criminal turned to Dixon.

"We shall arrest him any day now."

"Aw!" Matthews spat in disgust. "Why can't you 'dicks' talk straight. Give chap some proof. You're all kid stakes."

"Robert Hardy has been until tonight a prisoner in Dr. Night's house. Ho escaped this evening."

Dixon made the reply with studied simplicity.

"You've been a prisoner of the doctor's?" Matthews looked incredulous. "How did'ja come t'escape?"

"Got out of the window. Quite easy," laughed the journalist. "Believe I could get in again in the same way. That is if I wanted to."

"A lie." The young criminal exclaimed passionately. "I'm in an' you knows it,' but yer can't help lyin' time. It ain't fair."

"Last night I watched Dr. Night and Humberson come through the sliding panel by the fireplace in the Doctor's study," replied Hardy.

A look of awe came into the criminal's face. Going close to Hardy he peered right down into his eyes, "Give me yer 'davy' yer speakin' the truth an' I'll believe yer."

Matthews continued to stare intently into Hardy's eyes. "Lor', if you can put one over the Doctor you're the only man in Australia as 'as done it. I'll take yer word."

Hardy held out his hand. "There's my hand; I'm speaking the truth," said the journalist, earnestly. "I'm out to get the scalp of Dr. Night and wear it."

"I believe yer." The young criminal grasped the proffered hand for a moment. Then he swung towards the detective-sergeant.

"Where's that warrant, mate. Hurry up!"

At a nod from the Superintendent, the detective produced the warrant and gravely and formally arrested Matthews for the theft of certain imitation gold pencil cases from an American commercial traveller named Zimmermann.

"Now I'll talk," said Matthews, easily, taking his seat opposite the Superintendent. "When I'm through you'll send me down to Long Bay. It's the only place I knows ov as where the Doctor can't get me."

"Yer nearly caught me when yer sed as Captain' Kettle 'ad sent me 'is regards." Matthews spoke to Superintendent Dixon. "I thought for th' moment you'd collared 'im. D'yer know where 'e is?"

"There's a record of a man of that name being in gaol in New Zealand," answered the Superintendent grimly.

"So I 'eard in Melbourne," Matthews smiled broadly. "But, from wot a Sydney bloke told me it seems as 'ow 'e's somewhere in this city, at the moment."

"What do you mean?" asked Frost sharply.

"You've had a lot ov snow run ov late, ain't yer. Well, Captain Kettle's the best snow-runner as Dr. Night 'as. You've caught me out on the question, by Zimmerman and 'is dud pencils. Well, it was those pencils as brought me in touch with Captain Kettle," continued the young criminal, after a somewhat lengthy pause. "I 'ad the tip t' go t' him with the' goods. I did, an' 'e put me wise as to where to get rid ov 'em."

21

"I SUPPOSE he then made you an offer to join up with him in the snow running?" asked the journalist casually.

"Kerreck. That's jest wot 'e did. He 'ad a place in William Street where 'e 'ad a small printin' plant."

"That's news," observed Dixon. "What was the object of the plant. Snide notes?"

"Nothing so risky, guv'nor. Y'know th' straight trade in them drugs— th' snow an' th' mud— is in th' hands of a big American company. Well, t'get th' dud stuff as Dr. Night brings t' Sydney, on th' market without givin' the game away. It 'as ter 'ave a name on th' label. You'd be surprised to know th' stuff they sells t' the dinkum chemists. Straight stuff, I mean. Good as wot's sol' under the dinkum label. Why, mor'n 'arf th' chemists in Australia buys th' stuff from Dr. Night's chaps an' thinks they're gettin' th' dinkum goods with th' white mark on 'em."

"Then this Captain Kettle uses his printing press only for the purpose of forging labels for illicit drugs," commented Dixon.

"An' good enough at that," answered the snow-runner. "There's a sight more of the stuff comin' into the country as you demons think of. Why, Capt'n Kettle 'ad two men allus at work at th' plant. That 'e did!"

"Well, get along with your story," snapped Frost aggressively. It hurt the pride of the police officer to learn that so extensive a drug trade was being carried on under the eyes of the Department.

"All right! Give a bloke a chance. Y'see—"

"Where did he get the glass tubes for the stuff, Matthews?" interjected Hardy.

"Lor'! There's plenty of glass blowers in Australia who'd supply all th' Capt'n wanted. 'E 'ad a office somewhere in th' city and they fairly pestered 'is life out for orders."

"Surely they knew that bottles were being used for illegal purposes," questioned Thomas sharply.

"Who'd worry?" The rogue grinned broadly. "There's plenty as puts on th' dog of a dinkum life as don't worry as where th' dough comes from. Orders is orders, they ses, as so long as they don't get th' straight tip as th' stuff is on th' side they ain't going ter ask questions. I'm a-tellin' yer, the Cap and Dr. Night could get all th' bottles an' stuff they wanted—and no questions asked."

"Get on from where this Captain Kettle brought you into the game," ordered Dixon.

"Right-o. When th' Capt'n found out th' lay I was on, 'e knows as how 'e'could trust me. So 'e put it up ter me straight an' shows me as' how I could make a sight more 'oof with Jim in' danglin' soaks for their goods. Seein' as 'ow it's a safe lay so long as a bloke keeps 'is head, I was on."

"What did you get out of it?" asked the journalist.

"Them bottles used to 'old somethin' like an ounce of th' stuff, an' I made 'alf-a-note outer every one got rid of. Why, one week I shot out a 'undred of em and walked about with a roll as big as a bookmaker. It was risky pressin' it too hard, but in' an' out I 'made a level twenty quildlets a week, all round."

"How did you get out of it, Bill?" asked the superintendent curiously.

"Got greedy, that's how. Y'see, it happened as sometimes the doctor'd run short. Not as that 'appened often, but when it did I thought as 'ow I saw me way clear to make a bit on th' side. Struck on a mixture as looked so like the dinkum stuff as you 'ad to taste it to know wha's wot."

"You tried to make a bit on the side," suggested the Inspector.

"Right again. An' I got caught. It was like this. There's a bloke as lives in Darlinghurst. I ain't goin' ter give him away, so you needn't ask no questions about 'im.' 'E mada fine thing outer th' snow. The Capt'n used t'hand it to him direct before I came into th' game. Then 'e let 'im 'ave it through me. It 'appened as once he came to me an' wanted a lot of the dope an' the' doctor 'adn't it. The Capt'n 'ad gone to New Zealand an' I was gettin' the' stuff direct, from th' Doctor. I tried to show 'im as 'ow 'e 'ad'nt to supply this bird, but 'e's a bit offish an' wouldn't listen t'me. So I thought I'd make a bit on me own an' keep th' bloke quiet at the same time. I 'ad a lot of the labels an' the' bottles an' all that, as the Capt'n 'ad let me 'ave afore he went away."

"So you made up a dud lot and gave it to him?" suggested Dixon.

"D'yer take me for a mug?" The snow-runner's face was a study in disgust as he digested the Superintendent's question. "Why, that bloke's as fly as they make 'em. 'E'd have spotted th' fake at once. No, I 'ad a better game than that. I 'ad a lot of th' straight stuff as th' Doctor 'ad given me to hand to a bloke as was comin' from the country. It was at my digs awaitin' for 'im. I give that to Di—— th' Darlinghurst bloke an' then started, an' filled a lot ov bottles with the faked stuff. Y'see, I 'appened I' know the' joint where 'e an' 'is pal 'ung out. It wasn't difficult to 'ang around until 'e and 'is 'pal was out, an' then t' change th' straight stuff for the fake. I'd have given a couple of notes t'see 'is face when he found out whal'd happened."

"Go on, Bill," said Hardy encouragingly. "You're getting distinctly interesting."

"Glad it amuses you," Matthews answered drily. "I wasn't. Y'see, 'e 'appened to spot as it was me as rung the changes an' 'e came after me wi' a gun. It got so 'ot as I thought I'd fade away for a time. So I went ter Melbourne."

"And left your mother, sister and brother to be terrorised and a beaten up by thugs," exclaimed the Superintendent disgustedly.

"I ain't as bad as that," protested the young criminal aggressively. "I never thought 'e'd play that game. I didn't know of it until one ov th' Melbourne papers printed somethin' as was in the Mirror. I was comin' back to 'ave a friendly talk wi' D—wiv 'im an' 'is crowd—when the 'demons' nabbed me."

"A talk with a gun in each hand," suggested the journalist. "Good thing for you the police found you in Melbourne. Possibly saved your neck."

"What were you doing in Melbourne?" asked Dixon.

22

MATHEWS hesitated a moment before answering. Then he burst out laughing. "There was a bit in the Mirror about a committee being formed in Melbourne to fight th' drug traffic wasn't there?"

The snow runner turned to Hardy, who nodded assent.

"Well, I was workin' for that committee. 'Lor', it was just great."

"What do you mean?" asked Dixon angrily. "I want the truth and none of your lies. That committee was straight. Why, some of the best people in Melbourne were on it."

"Keep yer 'air on," retorted. Matthews easily. "I'm givin' yer the straight goods, ain't I? It was one of th' doctor's jokes, an' 'e's a rare hand at 'em.' Of course, they thought as they were straight. They wouldn't be anythin' else but they couldn't 'ave been of any use to us If they 'adn't been straight. All th' same, th' doctor 'ad some 'igh-toned pals down there an' 'e put up one of 'em to start th' business, 'e was straight an' 'e didn't know but what the doctor wasn't straight, too. Th' doctor put 'em up ter it an' got 'em to get hold ov me, t' show 'em th' ropes. I was to be a chap as had run the goods an' 'ad got th' 'allelujah bug. They simply ate it."

"The idea being that while you were pretending to help the committee you were creating avenues for the disposal of illicit drugs provided by Dr. Night?"

"Gee-hos-ho-phat!" The young scoundrel, looked at the Mirror's managing editor with well-feigned admiration. "Why ain't yer pickin' winners at th' trots, mister? You're a wonder. 'Course you've 'it it. Itwas a good plan, but somehow it went wrong. Any'ow, th' committee didn't cover me and I was taken for bein' in bad company or some such rot an' brought me 'ere. Of course, I've tumbled to it now."

"Where is Captain Kettle now? What is his real name?" asked the Superintendent sharply.

"Where is Capt'n Kettle?" repeated Matthews slowly. "Well, I guess you won't find 'im far from th' doctor, 'e ain't no fool where th' dibs are concerned. Who is 'e? Ask me another. 'E's th' flyest bloke as ever walked Australia. What is Ms name? 'e's 'ad a dozen as I knows of, an' if you went after any of them you'd think them as straight as a bishop. 'E's a wonder, that's wot 'e is!"

Dixon pressed the point and the snow-runner gave a list of names under which Captain Kettle had conducted businesses in Sydney. None of the names had come under the suspicion of the police, and in the case of two of the names Frost declared the names were those of well-known integrity.

"What is Captain Kettle's real name?" asked Hardy.

"I've told you I don't know, I'd tell yer it I did. I've known 'im to 'ave twenty and I'd bet that not one' of 'em was wished on t'im before 'e could yell."

"What is he like?"

"Like? Why, 'e's th' picture of th' bloke on the cover ov th' book ov the same name. I bought it 'cos I thought it was about 'im. Like as two peas, they is."

"That say, Captain Kettle is about middle height, slender built, brown hair and beard cut to a point."

"That's 'im."

"What is Dr. Night like?" continued Hardy.

"Oh, 'e's as grey as a 'orse, y'know. Grey all over."

"Middle height, grey hair, no beard or moustache," repeated Hardy.

"Yes."

"Just the same as Captain Kettle except for the hair on his face, his colouring— and his clothes."

"What do you mean?" Frost sprang to his feet.

"That Dr. Night and Captain Kettle were, and are, one and the same person."

"By jingo!" exclaimed the snow-runner excitedly. "I believe this writing chap 'as it! Allus thought I knew, th' doctor when I first saw him. Seemed familiar like."

"A somewhat wide conclusion," remarked Thomas with a smile. "Yet it may be correct."

"Who killed Smithson, Billy?" asked Frost, bending forward and looking intently into Matthews' eyes.

"Dr. Night," came the straight answer.

"How?"

Matthews turned deliberately in his chair and looked at the Journalist before replying.

"There was, somethin' in the paper about you findin' a bottle ov 'snow' in your doss one evenin', 'Mr. 'Hardy?" he asked, after some considerable pause.

"Yes."

"You didn't touch it?"

"Only while I had gloves on. Why, Bill?"

"Thought, so. Of course, I knows nuffin', but I guess that if Smithson 'ad been' as wise as you 'e'd been alive to-day. You found a bit ov glass in his trousers. Per'aps it fell there when th' boozy fool felt the stuff th' doctor painted the bottle with."

Hardy was about to question further when the telephone bell rang. Dixon lifted the receiver and listened for a minute. Then he pushed the instrument towards Hardy.

"Someone wants to speak to you, Bob. Wouldn't give a name."

"Hardy speaking. Who's there?"

Unaccountably the journalist had a feeling of impending disaster.

"Dr. Night is speaking," came the well-known, precise voice. "As you have left my house without my permission, I have persuaded Miss Blayde to become my guest."

"That fiend has captured Doris!" Hardy looked round on the five men, his face ashen grey. "I— I—"

"Steady, boy!" Inspector Frost sprang to his side and snatched the receiver from his hand. The instrument was dead, and his inquiries at the switchboard went to show that the master-criminal had hung up immediately he had delivered his ominous message.

"Chief, order out a car for us, I am going with Bob to Potts Point to see what truth there is in this message."

The journalist was standing by the desk, his eyes gazing into space. Twice Frost touched him on the arm, and the newspaperman took no notice. Then the detective placed his arm across Hardy's shoulders and led him from the room.

A car was drawing up before the main entrance. Frost shoved the newspaper man in and, after a muttered word to the driver, closed the door. The car immediately started off at a good pace.

Hardy lay back in a comer, his eyes closed, trying to steady his thoughts.

"Nothing to worry about." The words uttered by Frost struck dully on the journalist's brain. "Dixon will have given orders to have the place surrounded by now. The old scoundrel may have abducted Miss Blayde, but he can't get away with it. He's in that, house with his prisoner and gang, and there we'll find them."

"Where are we going?" asked Hardy at length.

"Holmhurst, first." Frost spoke crisply. "See what Mr. Blayde knows. For all we know, Dr. Night might be drawing, a red herring across the trail."

"Oh, it's true enough." The journalist had abandoned his attitude of despair and spoke with a return of his normal energy. "He's got her, that's certain.' Don't talk, Frost. I want to think."

The car sped on through-the darkness of the late night. Here and there the faint light of some shop or street lamp dimly illuminated the interior of the speeding car for a brief moment, casting grotesque shadows on the forms of the two men. Then, with a sudden jerk, the car swung round to the left and ran up the gravelled path lending to Mr. Blayde's house.

"This way," called Hardy, impatiently, as he jumped from the car. He ran down to the side door and turned the latch. As he had suspected, the door was unfastened. At the library door, he hesitated a moment, and then' entered quietly, followed by the detective.

"Where is Doris?" Hardy demanded In a low tone, as Mr. Blayde rose from his chair.

"Doris?" queried Mr. Blayde, noting the journalist's pale face and agitated manner.

"What's the matter, Bob?"

"Never mind me," answered Hardy, savagely. "Is Doris at home."

"She went to Coogee this afternoon to visit a friend." Mr. Blayde looked at his watch. "She is late, I don't like her driving through the streets so late at night."

"She won't come home," Hardy laughed wildly. "That half-caste devil has got her."

"Sit down." Frost took the journalist, by the shoulders and forced him into a chair. Then he turned to Mr. Blayde and in a few words recounted the telephone message from the master criminal.

"Bob seems to think that the position is serious, but the house is surrounded and at the worst Miss Blayde will only suffer a few hours temporary inconvenience."

The Inspector's quiet authoritative manner immediately quieted the alarm the master of "Holmhurst" had felt. With the usual Anglo-Saxon firm faith in the ability of the police he was willing to believe Frost and discount the journalist's dejection. In fact, so impressive was the Inspector that Hardy had begun to recover his poise.

Frost crossed to the sideboard and mixed three stiff glasses of whisky and soda. "Drink this, Bob," he said firmly. "We know where the girl is. Dr. Night made his first, mistake in giving you that information. We have the place surrounded and not even the cat will be able to get in and out without our knowledge. Now, if that man had any brains he could have taken her to half a hundred places in Sydney where we might have searched in vain for days, to find her. When you're ready we'll go over and see what our men have done. When our posts, are secure and the place surrounded we have only to walk in and rescue Miss Blayde and round up the gang. Why, it's sweet!"

"No. You don't know that devil like I do, Frost." The journalist spoke firmly. "Your method might serve with the ordinary kidnapper but Dr. Night is too clever. A police raid on the house would only result in the complete disappearance of Doris. He threatened to send her to China to become—" Hardy shuddered at the recollection of the master criminal's threat, but he did not lose his nerve again. For some moments he stood, lost in thought.

Then he turned to the two men.

"I'm going back," he declared quietly. "It is the better way. Perhaps, then. Dr. Night will let Doris go free."

"Going back?"

Frost stared at the journalist in astonishment. "You're mad, Bob. Why, he'll eat you!"

23

"I DON'T think so. Doris is only a pawn in the game. For some reason the Doctor wants to control me. Over and over again he indicated as much to me during the days I lived at that house."

"For what reason?" The detective was frankly puzzled.

"There you beat me." Hardy turned to Mr. Blayde. "Don't you agree with me. Even if I am wrong I shall be in the house and possibly able to assist Doris, if not able to free her immediately."

"It's a risk. Bob." The master of "Holmhurst" spoke slowly. "As the Inspector says, he may hold the two of you and thus double his ability to arrange a compromise with the authorities."

"There's no question of compromise," exclaimed Frost sharply. "You appear to forget that Dr. Night is a murderer and that a warrant is in existence tor his arrest on the charge of the death of the man Smithson. The Government cannot deal with Dr. Night except in one way."

"I'll take the risk." Hardy spoke impatiently. "I got out of the place in a manner it is unlikely the gang have discovered. I can get in the same way, with a little luck. Until Dr. Night solved that puzzle I shall have a certain advantage over him, and I think I know how to make the best of it."

Blayde showed a disposition to agree with the journalist and the Inspector was quick to recognise this. More, he had some experience of the futility of trying to control Hardy. Quickly he charged his line of argument.

"Very well." He reached for the telephone. "I'll get a few extra men and we'll all go in the same way."

Hardy covered the mouthpiece of the instrument with his hand. "Nothing doing, Frost," he said, firmly. "It takes time to organise a successful raid. Give me twenty four hours' start and then come cm and do you're damndest. I'll be ready for you then."

"I agree with Bob." Blayde spoke, suddenly. "It he can get back the way he came out and without Dr. Night discovering his methods he will hold a great advantage.. The man will be stalemated for the time and uncertain how to act.— Bob will possibly have a certain freedom of movement, and if during the next twenty-four hours he can locate Doris he can warn her of your attack and take means to safeguard her from any eleventh hour vengeance from the gang. Besides, with Bob inside the house, your attack will be free from many difficulties."

"I'm going, Frost," added the journalist quietly. "And you cannot stop me. Come with me and I will show you how I escaped and how you will get in tomorrow. I shall be expecting you immediately after dark."

The Inspector made a gesture of resignation. With Blayde definitely on the side of the journalist it was impossible for him to hold out. A few words advised Hardy of the line of attack he proposed. Then he picked up his hat and followed the journalist from the room. At the side door Hardy held out his hand to Blayde.

"I'll bring her back, Mr. Blayde," he said earnestly. "Or I shan't come back at all. You can rely on that. Come on, Frost." Carelessly he walked down to the boundary wall and climbed over, followed by the Inspector.

Once in the grounds of "Forest Home" he proceeded with greater caution. He had expected the grounds to be patrolled by Chinese guards, but to his surprise they appeared to be deserted. For some time he hung about the fringe of the trees, keeping well in the shadows.

"Queer, he muttered. Then, with a caution to the Inspector to remain hidden, he commenced to circle the house. Both house and grounds were deserted, so far as he could, discover.

Arriving at the gap in the trees beside the boundary wall he sat down on the turf and for some minutes was lost in thought.

"Where are your watchers?" He whispered quietly to the Inspector.

"Don't know." Frost was evidently worried. "Dixon would act quickly, I'm certain of that. Yet there's no one about. I'm going to see." Rising to his feet the Inspector stole down to the big entrance gates, followed by the journalist. Outside he whistled softly. A man materialised from tile shadows and came forward.

"What's the game?" asked the Inspector sharply. "I thought this house was closely guarded."

"Orders are to ring the place but not to go inside the grounds of 'Holmhurst' or 'Forest Home,'" replied the man quietly. "The Superintendent said that you would take charge sometime tonight and would make your own dispositions."

"Good! Carry on for the time. I'll see you later."

Frost turned to Hardy much relieved.

"Now, Bob. If you're going on with your fool stunt, get to it. Seems the place is deserted or Dr. Night is confident he can repel any attack on the house. We'll see how that works out, later. I'll be here until I'm certain you're back in your prison safely. Then, tomorrow night I'll raid this place at nine o'clock. But if there's any trouble any old time, I'm coming in one the run. Get me."

"Right." Hardy led the way back, to the side of the house opposite "Holmhurst."

"Now watch and see how I get in. It will be your line of attack tomorrow night, and it I can work it you will meet with no opposition."

Opposite the window by which he had escaped from "Forest Home" the journalist halted. A quick glance round, and he crossed the patch of grass until he stood close up against the verandah. Frost crouched in the shadows watching him. A frail-looking lattice made a precarious route to the roof of the verandah.

Once there the journalist tested the window. It was not locked. Raising it cautiously the newspaper-man crept into the box room and partly shut the window. He flashed his torchlight on the lumber. His kit of burglar tools were as he had left them. Picking up the skeleton key he turned and waved a farewell to the hidden police officer, before completely shutting the window.

The key turned easily in the door leading to the corridor. Opening the door a crack he peered out. The corridor was lit, but apparently deserted. Slipping off his boots, the journalist tip-toed swiftly to the door of his rooms and slid the master-key in the lock.

Once more he was back, a prisoner of Dr. Night.

Hardy examined the rooms. They were just as he had left them a few hours before; even the book he had been reading up to the minute of his escape lay on the table beside the tray of glasses and the spirits tantalus. With a sudden impulse the journalist opened the door again and carefully examined the lock.

Why had Dr. Night left the prison unaltered? Had he forecasted that the journalist would return to his prison house, when he heard that the gang of criminals had captured Doris Blayde? It seemed possible; yet, so far as he knew, no watchers had been posted to discover how he had left and re-entered the house.

He had the key to the door of his prison. So long as he retained that and the master criminal did not load the door with fresh fastenings, the way was open to him. But, first he had to find and release Doris; and after that, to make smooth, so far as lay in his power, the path of Inspector Frost and the raiding party.

"Never thought to be back here again," muttered the journalist. Then he looked round the room again, seeking a hiding place for the master-key that had now become of supreme importance. A few minutes' thought, and he crossed to the window and stretched his arm between the bars. He could just reach the roof of the verandah. It would prove a good hiding place for the key during the few hours he proposed to remain at "Forest Home."

Then he went into his bedroom and undressed.

"Wonder what time the old doctor will call me In the morning, and what sort of beastly temper he will be in?" were his last two waking thoughts!

A heavy hand pressed firmly on his shoulder awakened Hardy. Dazedly opening his eyes, he found the daylight streaming in at the window. Rolling over, he looked into the sombre grey eyes of Dr. Night.

"My guest sleeps far into the day," observed the Doctor, suavely.

"Nothing much else to do here," replied Hardy with a yawn that was only half feigned.

"So? I had formed the opinion that my guest had found sufficient to amuse him." There was cold menace in Dr. Night's voice.

The journalist did not answer.

In spite of a nerve that had pulled him through many a crisis in his career, he could not suppress a certain awe of this mysterious personality. "My guest does not appear willing to confide in me," continued the master criminal in the same curious monotone.

"The positions of the prisoner and gaoler do not usually lead to confidences," observed. Hardy sarcastically. "I duly received your telephone message— and came back."

"You were comfortable here? My servants attended to your wants? There was nothing possible for your comfort that was left unaccomplished?"

"Only the matter of an open door," commented Hardy. He was determined that the Doctor should broach the subject of the capture of Doris.

"It is possible that I may be able to offer that privilege in the near future."

24

"THEN you realise that your plans have failed?" asked the newspaper man, quickly.

"By no means," Dr. Night spoke with more animation than he had formerly exhibited. "My plans are complete and now only await your agreement to what I have to propose to you, to put them into immediate operation."

"I am afraid you will have to wait a long time for my help in your criminal activities," observed Hardy, grimly.

"Not at all. Your recent actions have placed me in a position to make certain demands on you, demands you dare not refuse to comply with."

"You mean?"

"You have not chosen to confide in me your recent actions and the reasons for them." Dr. Night had reverted to his usual smooth monotone. "I must therefore ask you certain questions."

"I shall not consider myself bound to answer." A thrill of excitement crept Into the newspaper man's voice. The crisis had come sooner than he had expected, but he had no fear.

"I require to know my guest's movements since he left my house last night. I require to know how my guest left my house and the manner of his return."

"Why ask me?" The journalist was fencing to know how much the master criminal and his spies had discovered. "You spoke to me on the telephone at Police Headquarters, last night, or rather early this morning."

"I require to know how my guest left and returned to this house."

"I shall not answer."

"I require to know for what reason my guest visited the police last evening."

The Doctor did hot seem to be perturbed at Hardy's refusal to answer.

"I shall not answer those questions."

"My guest is aware that I have gained possession of the person of Miss Doris Blayde?"

"You devil!" Hardy could restrain himself no longer. "What manner of man are you to war on women?"

The fathomless, expressive eyes of the master-criminal met Hardy's, and the journalist felt the anger die in his breast. The eyes fascinated him; grey as the depths of a wind-beaten sea; fathomless as the ocean; they held a quality he could not understand but which beat his will to almost submission. Dully, he sat down on the edge of the bed.

"I have kept my promise. The girl is here because you failed to comply with the conditions I laid down for your conduct. Dress yourself, Robert Hardy. It is my will that you see her."

The Doctor seated himself on a chair some distance from the bed and watched Hardy dress. The journalist spun the business out into almost a ceremony, yet the master-criminal showed no signs of impatience. At length, Hardy signified that he was ready.

Without a word Dr. Night led the way to the door.

He was about to see Doris, yet Hardy had no plan formed to obtain her freedom. Dr. Night had acted too suddenly. Hardy had gone to bed determined to awaken with the first beams of daylight and to formulate some plans for the girl's release. Now he was following the master-criminal to the place where she was confined— helpless and planless.

Out in the corridor the journalist expected to find a guard of Chinese ready to overcome any signs of resistance on his part. Instead he found the place apparently deserted.

Dr. Night turned to the right and led the way down the corridor in the direction of the box room. At a door half-way between Hardy's room and the end of the corridor, the master-criminal stopped. A key was in the door look. He turned it and stood to one side, motioning the journalist to enter.

The girl was seated in an arm-chair by the window, looking out over the harbour. At the sound of the opening of the door she turned her head and then sprang to her feet "Bob!"

"Doris!"

"I knew that you would come soon." The girl spoke bravely; then suddenly burst into tears and fell, into the journalist's arms.

"Don't cry, dear." Hardy stroked her hair gently. "I'll get you out of this, somehow. Don't cry, dear."

"Miss Blayde should understand that she was brought here as hostage for you," said the master-criminal with a ghost of a smile.

"Well, I've 'returned. What more do you want?" Hardy choked back the hot words that rose to his lips. That this man should dare to treat Doris so. "There is no reason for detaining Miss Blayde, now."

"Miss Blayde must remain here." Dr. Night spoke with finality.

"I'm damned if she will!"

"That is a matter we will discuss later."

The master-criminal shrugged.

"Look here." Hardy put the girl from him gently and strode over until he towered above the slim form of the crime master. "We are here alone. I noted that you had none of your gang in the corridor. I could choke you insensible and then walk out of the place, as I did last night. And, by Jove, I'll do it if you don't obey orders. Right, about turn and quick march.' D'you hear?"

Dr. Night stood with his hands folded before him, his eyes downcast. At Hardy's approach, he stepped quickly aside. As the journalist caught hold of the door-handle he spoke; a cruel smile twisting his lips.

"I would advise caution."

For answer, Hardy swung open the door. In the corridor, and facing him stood a couple of hefty-looking Chinese, armed with automatic pistols.

"These men answer with their lives for your escape." Again the master-criminal spoke in the slow, suave tones. For a few minutes the journalist stood staring from the guards to their master. Then, with a gesture of impotent anger, he flung the door shut.

"My guest has, I observe, some discretion. I should have been sorry to see the hands of my base-born servants pollute his honourable person. We will talk."

Dr. Night seated himself, and motioned to Doris and Hardy to be seated. After a moment's hesitation the girl went to a seat on a lounge.

"What do you want?" Hardy strode forward until he again stood over the master-criminal.

"There are many things I desire." Dr. Night smiled softly. "First it is my desire that my guest be seated."

The journalist was about to reply impatiently when he caught Doris' eyes. The girl beckoned him and, after a moment's hesitation, he went and seated himself beside her. "Well?"

"Good! Now we will talk. A man who suffers under defeat is a plaything for the gods. My guest is of those who smile on adversity and promise that the future shall pay to them of its treasures."

"What is all this leading to?" Hardy asked the question angrily. "Do you think that you can keep Miss Blayde and I prisoners indefinitely, and get away with it. Inspector Frost knows that we are here. Unless Miss Blayde is released immediately, he will raid the place. I can promise you that he will not go away empty-handed."

"He shall find you if he comes here." There was deep menace In the voice of the master-criminal. "Yes, he shall find you— but he shall not find her."

Hardy was silent for some minutes. He could not disregard the menace in the Doctor's voice. It was a direct threat of murder to him; and something, incredibly worse for the girl.

"Look here. Dr. Night." Hardy forced himself to plead with this murderer. "This farce is about played out. Miss Blayde comes of a well known and influential family. Any injury to her will cause you to be hounded throughout the world. As for me, well— I'll stay here, it you're so keen on it; but you must let her go. You know, it just isn't done."

"I have spoken."

"Oh, that's all nonsense." The Journalist forced a smile. "There's such a thing as law, you know."

"I am above all laws." The statement, absurd as it sounded, froze the dawning smile on Hardy's lips. There was a note in Dr. Night's voice that carried the conviction that the Doctor believed that he was supreme among men. The journalist looked at the slight figure seated before him, and wondered. He knew this man to hold absolute power over a large band of criminals, mainly foreigners. He had, at his command, a body of men who could withstand the forces of law and order in a city of a million souls. It was impossible!

"That's all right, Doctor." The journalist tried to continue the negotiations he had commenced. "You may think so. You might have reason to believe so in China, but you're in a white man's country here and we're strong for law and order. Every man's equal and that sort of thing. Now take my own case. When you locked me up for the night I just sat down and thought out how to get in touch with my friends. I did it, you know, though I'm not boasting about it. It's the same now. I'll confess I haven't a ghost of a plan, but I'll find—"

"You are my guest. Miss Blayde is my prisoner." Dr. Night slowly raised his eyes and looked at the journalist. "It is my will that you remain here. Should you attempt to escape, you know the penalty."

"The absurd threat against Miss Blayde?" Hardy attempted to laugh.

"That threat I have, in part, carried out. Miss Blayde is here, a prisoner in my house. It is for you to decide if she is to pass from my keeping to those who greatly desire her."

"With the whole of Sydney in an uproar over her abduction?" Hardy threw all the scorn he could muster Into his voice. "I tell you again, unless Miss Blayde is Immediately freed the police will come in search of her."

"The police will not act until tonight." There was decision in the voice of the master-criminal. "By that time she will be free—or on her way to China—to disappear for over."

"You mean—"

"Her destination is for you to decide."

"In what manner?"

"You would not remain here as my guest. Now you must remain here as partner in my work."

"I refuse."

Dr. Night shrugged. He rose from his seat and clapped his hands. The door opened and the Chinese guards entered. The master-criminal spoke to them in guttural tones. Then he turned to Hardy.

"Miss Blayde will be taken from here to-night for a destination I will not name." He spoke in his low, monotonous voice. "You, Mr. Hardy, will return to your rooms. You will have until the time set for her departure for meditation. I shall require your answer, then. I think you will reflect deeply."

25

AT the ominous words of the master-criminal, Doris cried out sharply and clung to Hardy. It was some time before the journalist could pacify her. Then with a whispered reassurance that help would be forthcoming before any harm could come to her, he left the room and joined the master-criminal in the corridor. Immediately the door of Doris's room was shut and locked.

The Doctor turned and walked down the corridor to Hardy's room. As one of the guards swung open the door, a man hurried along the corridor and caught Dr. Night by the arm.

"The 'demons' have got Matthews" he cried breathlessly.

"I had the news of the capture by the police of William Matthews in Melbourne, some days ago," replied, the Doctor, quietly.

"He's in Sydney."

For the first time Dr. Night showed some uneasiness. He flashed a quick look at the journalist.

"How did you learn this, Humberson?"

"Matthews was brought to Sydney the day before yesterday and taken to police headquarters," replied the gunman. "This morning he was taken into the Central Police Court and charged with the Zimmerman matter. He was committed for trial and taken immediately to Long Bay."

"Your visit to the Police Department, my friend," observed Dr. Night! turning to the journalist. Then he faced the gunman. "He knows the fate of those who talk of our work?"

"Matthews has split," declared the gunman, emphatically, "You'd have thought he was precious, the care they took of him. Johns all over the place and a squad of them to bring him to court and to take him to jug. He looked as happy as if he was on a holiday."

For some moments Dr. Night stood at the door of Hardy's prison rooms, in deep meditation. The news that William Matthews had been committed to Long Bay prison to await trial evidently disturbed him. At length he aroused himself and turned to the journalist, motioning to him to enter the room. It was impossible for Hardy to disobey, although he would willingly have lingered in the company of the rogues, to learn further details.

When the door closed on him, he knelt down and pressed his ear against the woodwork in an endeavour to catch some fragments of the conversation. All he could hear were the sounds of the footsteps of the master-criminal and his companions retreating towards the head of the stairs. Thrusting his hands in his pockets, the journalist wandered across the room to the window. He had a big problem to face and with but a few hours to come to a decision. Sometime that night, Dr. Night would come to him and demand his decision on the offer he had made him to join on the gang's criminal activities. His answer might consign Doris to a fate unspeakable. To avoid that answer, he would have to discover some means of escape for the girl, and, at the moment, he had not a glimmer of an idea how it was to be accomplished.

Opening the window, Hardy retrieved the master-key and tried it in the door. The door swung open to his touch. He gave a sign of relief. One step of the way was open to him. The next problem was how to get Doris out of the house safely. It was impossible to think of waiting until night before acting. At any moment Dr. Night might return for his decision, and Hardy was confident that the master criminal would not be content to take his mere word of adherence to his gang.

Some act, definitely criminal, and committing him body and soul to their cause, would be demanded; and he could not refuse while the girl he loved was at their mercy. There was a way; there must be a way.

For over an hour. Hardy stood at the window looking vacantly over the waters of the harbour, intent on the problem. Plan after plan arose in his mind; but in every one lay a big element of risk to Doris; and he wanted the one plan in which lay certainty and security. It seemed impossible. Almost he decided to await the advent of the master-criminal for his answer and then, by some subterfuge, gain access to Doris's prison. With his aims around her he would defy Dr. Night.

He was disturbed by the opening of his door. Half fearfully, ho looked around, expecting to face the master criminal, awaiting his answer. But it was only his Chinese servant, carrying the midday meal tray. The man set his burden on the side-board, then deftly proceeded to lay the table. Hardy watched the man's proceedings in silence. A glimmer of a plan was forming In his brain. He spoke sharply to the man and was answered only by a low bow. On previous days the journalist had attempted to enter into conversation with the attendant, but the man had refused to utter a word. He had abandoned all attempts to draw him into a talk. The man did not understand Australian or had been forbidden to speak to him. The Chinese completed his task and drew out a chair, waiting for Hardy. The journalist moved slowly from the window and seated himself at the table. He had found a chance. Could he develop that chance Into activity.

Hardy ate slowly. Gradually the plan was taking shape. It held but one kink. Before he could act with any certainty of success he must be alone for a few minutes. Given that and Doris would be free and the stage set to raid the house and capture the gang. But he must have those few precious moments away from the eyes of ids servitor. The meal dragged on, the Oriental carrying out the ritual of service in minute manner. Dr. Night provided, well for his "guest" and the meal was both lengthy and rich.

"The chutney, please." Hardy spoke with additional emphasis, yet striving to keep his voice on an impersonal note. He had found the chance that he had been looking for.

The man bowed low and backed to, wards the door. Immediately he had left the room, turning the key in the lock, Hardy darted into his bed-room and dragged from the ceiling-rose the flexible cord of the electric light. Then seizing a sheet from the bed he carried them to the sitting room and concealed them under the table.

Then followed a game of patience. Hardy watched the servant intently, waiting for a moment when the man would be off his guard. Methodically the man proceeded on his duties, clearing the table and replacing the cloth with the tantalus of spirits and glasses.

With a low bow he stood before the journalist, silently requesting permission to withdraw. As the Chinese straightened from the bow, Hardy flung a quantity of pepper in his face. With a strangled cry the man clasped his hands over his eyes. The journalist flung himself on the blinded man, bearing him to the floor and choking from his lips the warning cry. The attack was so sudden that the man made practically no resistance.

In a couple of minutes Hardy had him bound and gagged. Then he carried him into his bedroom.

Ten minutes later a Chinese servant walked out of the bed-room into the sitting-room, and stood irresolute. So far Hardy had succeeded in his plan. Dressed in the clothes of the servant he would be able to pass through the house with impunity so long as he avoided other Chinese. In his hand he held the keys of her prison, taken from the Oriental, then laying bound hand and foot on his bed.

The master-key opened the door into the corridor. Hardy stepped out without hesitation. There was no one in it. Walking stealthily to the head of the stairs, he descended a few steps until he could see into the hall below. So far as he could discover the household had not been disturbed by the sounds of the brief struggle in his room. As he watched, Westerton passed across the hall, in conversation with the gunman, Humberston.

Retreating to the corridor he went to the door of his rooms and locked it. He then walked quietly along the corridor and after a couple of attempts found the key that unlocked Doris' door.

The girl was seated by the window, looking out over the harbour.

She turned at the sound of the opening door and gave a little cry when she saw the Chinese entering. Closing and locking the door, Hardy walked towards her, his finger on his lips.

"Bob?"

"Quiet, dear."

"How did you escape, Bob?"

"I haven't yet," Hardy replied grimly. "Listen, dear, I think I see a way to get you out of this. Will you try, sweetheart?"

"I shan't be afraid if you are with me, Bob." Doris looked up fearlessly at her lover.

"That's the rub," answered the journalist, ruefully. "I can't let Frost down, so you must go alone."

"Do you mean to say that you are going to remain in this horrid place?" protested the girl. "Why, Bob, that man will murder you when he learns, that you have freed me."

"Look here, girlie," Hardy rubbed his chin, perplexedly. "I've got a scheme that will free you and make Dr. Night think you escaped on your own. It will puzzle him, no end."

"Can't you come, too," protested the girl, somewhat fearfully.

"I wouldn't if I could," Hardy answered truthfully. "I'm going to be in at the end of this mystery and by remaining, here I can help old Frost, no end. If I get you free, I want you to get in touch with him and tell him what happened. He will understand. Are you on?"

"I'll try." The girl pursed up her lips determinedly.

"Good!" Hardy opened the door. "I'll back in a moment."

Within a couple of minutes the journalist returned to Doris' room carrying the bound Chinese. Bidding Doris remain in the sitting-room he carried his burden into her bedroom and laid him on the bed. Then he stripped from himself the Chinese clothing. Carrying the Chinese garments he returned to the sitting room.

"I want you to put these on, dear. Over your own clothes will be best. It will make you look bigger. Knock at the door when you are ready."

26

RETURNING to the bedroom he replaced the flexible cord binding the Chinese with one he tore from the electric light fittings. Then he made a bundle of the sheet and the cord he had wrapped round the captive and placed them on a chair, ready to carry to his own rooms.

He had barely completed this task when Doris knocked at the door. Entering the sitting-room he was faced by a very presentable Chinese boy.

"What next?" asked the girl, saucily.

"This." Hardy caught the girl in his arms kissed her passionately. "You're the best and pluckiest girl in the whole world. Come on!"

He led the way to the box room and retrieved the knotted cord that he had hidden amid the boxes. Then he opened the window and got out on the verandah roof. A careful examination of the grounds on that side of the house showed no signs of watchers. Turning back to the window, he assisted the girl on to the roof.

"I'm going to lower you to the ground," he explained hurriedly. "When you find your feet, get across to the belt of trees. There's a gap in the brickwork a little way down towards the water. You can get across it quite easily.

"I understand." Her face was pale but determined. She realised that not only her own safety but the safety of her lover lay in her success.

"What am I to tell Inspector Frost?"

"Say that you're at home and say that he's to send men to guard your home. Frost will understand. He will be here tonight and we'll make a big clean up."

Hardy slipped the rope under the girl's arms and without hesitation she climbed over the edge of the roofing and swung to the ground. Immediately she had freed herself from the rope she sped towards the belt of trees.

Turning there, she wafted a kiss to her lover, and disappeared. Hardy waited a moment, then, hearing no alarm, gave a sigh of relief and re-entered the window.

"She's safe," he muttered, when once again In the corridor. "Now for the Chink and to set the stage for the Doctor."

In Doris' late prison rooms he set to work to give the place the appearance of a terrific struggle. Then, with a final glance at the bonds of the Asian lying on the bed, he picked up the bundle he had prepared and left the room, locking the corridor door and leaving the keys in the lock.

"It won't be much to that poor Chink's credit when the doctor finds him," Hardy chuckled as he made his way swiftly to his own rooms. "From appearances it will look as if the Chink had paid a visit to the girl, and had been bound and overpowered by her. Captured and bound by a girl. Won't he roar?"

In his own room, Hardy remade the bed and repaired the electric light fitting. Then he tidied the sitting-room and placed the tray of crockery in the corridor outside the door. Finally, he locked the door of his room and restored the master-key to its hiding place on the verandah roof.

"There's only one flaw in the whole act," the journalist murmured, as he seated himself in his favourite chair by the window and lit a cigarette. "The Chink will tell his tale, incriminating me. Will the doctor believe that, or the evidence I have prepared for him; the evidence that Doris fought and overpowered the Joss, and escaped? One thing in my favour is that the doctor will believe the Chink to be lying to get out of the disgrace of being conquered by a girl. Well, it won't be long before we know."

The cigarette well alight, Hardy picked up his book and commenced to read. In a while the book fell to the floor and the journalist lay back in his chair, meditating.

"She's some peach, sure!" he murmured. Then, after a long pause, in a soft undertone. "My girl!"

The afternoon drifted by in a long, seemingly interminable, waiting for the inevitable trouble. Again and again Hardy crossed to the door of the suite and stood with his ear pressed against the woodwork, listening intently for the discovery of Doris Blayde's escape. More than once he had to restrain himself from recovering the master key and opening the door to see if the table utensils he had placed in the corridor were still there.

Late in the afternoon the door of his room opened abruptly and Dr. Night entered. For some moments the master criminal stood in the centre of the room, looking intently at his prisoner. Then he started a casual conversation, asking seemingly inconsequent questions. While he was talking, Dr. Night moved continually about the room, his eyes searching every nook and corner.

Satisfied as to the sitting room the crime-master muttered an excuse and visited the bedroom and the adjoining bathroom. Returning to the sitting room he abruptly asked his prisoner if he required anything. Hardy replied that the soda in his syphon had turned flat and requested that a fresh syphon be sent to his room.

Dr. Night nodded response and left the room. Some little while after a strange Chinese servant brought a fresh syphon of soda water. The journalist was satisfied. He had learned that the man he had bound and gagged and left in the room occupied by Doris, had been relieved of his attendance on the prisoner. It was presumptive evidence that the tale told the master criminal was not wholly believed.

Just before dusk there was a commotion in the corridor. It seemed as if a dozen Chinese were engaged In a talking competition. At length the cool level tones of Dr. Night mingled with the Oriental clatter, and there came a lull of sound. The voice of the master criminal could be heard distinctly, but he could not distinguish the words, especially as the doctor appeared to be giving orders in some dialect of his native land.

After some time the door of Hardy's room was suddenly thrust open, and Dr. Night entered, followed by three Chinese, the centre one of the three being the man Hardy had bound and gagged and carried to Doris' prison chamber. At the sight of the Journalist seated by the window the man broke into voluble speech. The master criminal listened for a few moments, then struck the man violently across the mouth, silencing him.

"My servant states that you assaulted him, bound him, and took him to the room occupied by the girl, Doris Blayde, and there left him," said Dr. Night with ominous calm. "What have you to answer, Robert Hardy?"

"Is that what all the language was about?" asked the Journalist in apparent surprise, "I thought he was abusing me because the soda water had turned bad."

"I ask you to reply to the accusation my servant has brought against you, Robert Hardy." The voice of the master criminal was cold and hard. "The tone you adopt is not one with which so grave at charge should be met."

"Who is your servant that I should condescend to reply to any charge he may lay against me?" Hardy assumed an air of indignation.

"It is true that he is of the base born; that his ancestors are of the things that crawl on the earth," Dr. Night considered gravely, as he replied slowly, to the journalist. "Yet I would ask my guest to bear with this slave and from his supreme wisdom answer the base-born, confounding him."

"It is your wish?" Hardy asked the question.

"The greatness of my guest would honour my unworthiness in his reply." The master criminal appeared to forget the veneer of modernity that he had previously carried before the journalist.

"I reply with a question to the base born." For some occult reason Hardy found himself copying the phraseology of the Chinese despot before him.

"To go to the room occupied by Miss Blayde, I must pass through that door, pass along the corridor, open the door of the suite where you have confined Miss Blayde. I suppose you keep the door of her suite locked as you keep mine?"

"My guest has not answered the accusation my slave has laid against his supremeness," repeated the doctor, looking intently at the journalist.

"First, then you must tell me the accusation," countered Hardy. "I have not the privilege of understanding the lingo your slave seem so fluent in."

"The base-born accused you of assaulting him; carrying him to the rooms where the girl was confined; taking the girl from that place; and of taking from him his garments."

"Then Doris is free?" asked Hardy, simulating joy.

"You are a good actor, Robert Hardy," said Dr. Night, after a long pause. '"Almost I believe you that you speak truly."

"I cannot see you taking any other course, doctor; unless you are prepared to explain how I can pass through locked doors, abduct prisoners, and generally walk about freely about your house. When you have explained all that, I should like to know why, with the possession of such occult powers, I am sitting here, a prisoner, when I have only to walk to freedom?"

"You left my house last night and returned voluntarily," warned the doctor. "You refused to explain to me the manner in which you accomplished that feat."

"I returned because of the threats you held out against Miss Blayde," countered the journalist quickly.

"Threats which I carried into execution."

"Yet you now tell me Miss Blayde has escaped— and accuse me of having been the means of her escape. Have you forgotten you unlocked that door to enter this room?"

"I shall obtain possession of the person of that girl again," Dr. Night said with perfect assurance.

Hardy did not choose to reply. He for the next few hours held his life in his hands. Only a short time, and Frost would be at the house, with a force strong enough to overawe and capture the crowd of Oriental criminals occupying "Forest Home."

"You left my house and returned to it again," repeated Dr. Night. "You cannot answer the charge. I believe my slave has spoken the truth."

"I wonder what would happen to him if you choose to believe that he had lied to you?" asked Hardy, nonchalantly. A slight smile passed over the grey face of the mystery man. A cruel look came in his eyes and his lips drew back, exposing teeth that looked like fangs.

"He would be better dead."

The words came in a sibilant hiss that bore a menace almost indescribable in its ferocity.

"So you have asked me to prove that man a liar so that you may have the privilege of torturing him?" Hardy spoke angrily. "Well, I am going to do nothing of the kind. I shall refuse to answer any further questions."

"To pass from this room and to enter the girl's room you must be in possession of a key," suggested Dr. Night speculatively. "Where is it?"

Hardy closed his lips firmly.

"The keys that my servant possessed were found in the lock of the door of the room from which the girl escaped. Yet the door of your room was locked. Therefore you must be in possession of a key that will lock the door of this room."

Dr. Night stood for some moments waiting for the Journalist to reply to the indirect accusation he had brought against him.

Hardy shrugged his shoulders, looking over the master criminal's head.

"I must have you searched."

The words fell slowly and distinctly from Dr. Night's lips. He was looking directly at Hardy, and at the words the journalist flinched.

To be handled by these uncouth strangers, alien in race and thought, was a degradation, yet he bragged himself to suffer it. Even though Doris was safe under police protection in her own home, it would wreck Inspector Frost's schemes to reveal to this gangster the means he had employed, to outwit he and his servants.

At a sign from the doctor the Chinese seized Hardy, and subjected him to a thorough, though not scientific searching. The small bunch of keys he had in his pocket at the time of his capture and had been allowed to retain were tossed on the table, but not a key would fit the lock of the door of that room.

Dr. Night then gave orders for the suite to be thoroughly searched. Hardy watched them with a quiet smile curling his lips. The master key lay on the roof of the verandah, close against the wall of the house. With the bars on the window it was impossible for it to be seen.

27

"MY servant has lied." The doctor spoke when the men had completed their task. "That is if—"

"If what, my worthy host?" laughed Hardy, almost reckless with relief.

"If— you are not an exceedingly clever man," completed the master criminal. The journalist bowed his acknowledgements.

"Perhaps your servant has a partiality for your whisky, doctor," he retorted, with a light laugh. "I confess I favour it. May I suggest a refresher, after the strenuous events we have lately passed through. I have a fresh syphon here."

"I thank you. I have no time at present." Dr. Night had returned his old suave manner. He spoke rapidly in Chinese to his servants. "When I have dealt with this man according to his deserts, I shall be honoured to partake of your hospitality."

"What are you going to do with him?" asked Hardy sharply.

"He is mine, body and soul." Dr. Night spoke grimly. "He will never lie to me— or you— again."

"Stop!"

Dr. Night turned slowly to face the journalist, his hand on the door-knob.

"You mean to torture that man?"

"He is my slave."

"There are no slaves in this country."

"Your laws do not apply to me. I have had occasion to remind you of that before, Mr. Hardy. This house is Chinese territory."

"Are you going to tell me that you have the territorial immunity of an ambassador?" Hardy laughed, ironically. "You, a criminal the police are hunting and will capture within a very short time. Look here, Dr. Night, if that is your name. I am not going to stand idly by and see that man done to death."

"What can you do?"

"I can stop you leaving this room." As he spoke the journalist sprang suddenly to the door, thrusting the Asian to one side. Then, with his back to the door he glared around the room evidently awaiting and expecting attack.

Dr. Night had reeled back from the sudden attack by the journalist. For a few moments he remained with his eyes downcast. Then, instead of ordering his slaves to attack the journalist, he slowly raised his eyes and fixed them on some point about a foot above the journalist's head.

"Look here, Doctor." Hardy had cooled somewhat, repenting of the impulse that had driven him forward a direct attack on the master-criminal. "Let the man go. You haven't any evidence, one way or the other. Just because you can't get me to speak, you jump at conclusions. Conclusions are not evidence. No one convicts on them. If you like, I'll say that I was responsible for Miss Blayde's escape."

Dr. Night did not reply. He continued to stare at the point over Hardy's head. The silence was irritating. The journalist wanted to turn and discover what the Dr. was staring at.

"You needn't try to hypnotise me," laughed Hardy somewhat nervously. "I've had others try to do it, and not one of them can. Now— I'm talking to a reasonable man. Don't act hastily. Take time to think. I've told you the man is innocent, so you can't torture him. Come, now! Be a good fellow. Let the poor devil go. Come and sit down and act like the sport you are. Have a glass of your own whisky. It's bonzer stuff, I tell you. I can do with one myself."

Still the Asian stood silent, his eyes fixed on the spot over the journalist's head. But now small twinkling pointy of light flecked the pupils of his eyes. The lights danced and whirled in mad phantasy, growing larger and larger until the whole of both eyeballs seemed to be masses of moving, seething flames.

Hardy wrenched his eyes from the spectacle. He had felt his senses waver under the influence of the dancing lights.

"Of course, you can order those chaps to put me from the door, and I don't doubt but that they'll have a go for it."

Hardy was now talking to relieve the strain on his nerves. "Still, they'd be in for a dinkum fight. I'm no chicken and I guess I can give them a good go They're a hefty crowd but they don't look as If they are much of boxers, and I'm certain I'd make a mess of that chap's nose first hit. Couldn't miss it if I tried and I shan't try. What do you say? Box on, or whisky? I vote for the whisky, eh?"

The word "tomorrow" appeared to be drumming itself in Hardy's brain. He was trying to think of fresh arguments to use, but the irritating word persisted. Whenever he got hold of a new idea the word "tomorrow" came and hunted it away.

Then to his utter amazement he found himself walking across the room to his seat at the window. The Doctor had not hypnotised him. He was certain of that, but there was a force driving him that he could not withstand. He could think clearly. He was not acting under the Doctor's will. He had just walked across the Doctor's room under impulse. Chaps did that sort of thing, sometimes, y'know.

He glanced across his shoulder at Dr. Night. He was still standing, facing the door, In the same pose, his eyes still fixed on the point Hardy had wanted to examine. The three Chinese still stood in the centre of the room, the centre one kneeling on the floor.

"Tomorrow!"

"Tomorrow!"

The words had not been spoken by anyone in the room, yet they seemed to echo through space, obliterating all other sounds.

"Did you say 'tomorrow'?" asked Hardy, sinking into his chair by the window. "I'm willing if you promise not to do anything to that chap until after then. Yes? All right! It's a bargain."

Slowly Hardy became conscious of a presence in the room, it was something intangible, unseen, yet it seemed to grow, filling the room. The air became oppressive and hot, his throat parched, then became contracted, as if under the pressure of some supernatural power. He could only sit back in his chair, his eyes fastened, watchfully on the slight form that dominated the room.

Almost when Hardy thought he must shriek, Dr. Night raised his hand and pointed to the door. The Chinese moved slowly forward and, as they advanced the door seemed to recede before them.

No. It did not open. Hardy was prepare to swear to that. The door did not swing on its hinges. He was certain that it went back squarely and bodily, leaving a space of the corridor visible and— on to that space stepped the two hefty Chinese and the prisoner. They walked towards the head of the stairs and passed behind the solid wall. Hardy heard their footsteps growing fainter as they passed into the distance.

28

FOR the interval there was silence In the house— a silence that was more oppressive than the drumming that had been paramount in his head when he faced the Doctor at the door.

Then, slowly and calmly, the still figure in the centre of the room moved. With hardly visible motion he glided forward into the corridor, against the opposite wall of which the door of that room grotesquely stood. Then he turned, staring again over the crest of Hardy's head.

Now the feeling of irritation passed from Hardy's mind; to be succeeded by a great calm. The strange oppression in the room faded and in its place came a cool, sweet breeze. The whirling, dancing flames In the mystery's man's eyes, dwindled and slowed. For a moment they stilled and on the air came the slow, precise voice the journalist would recognise and remember all his life.

"Tomorrow. Until tomorrow. Then I— then shall you explain."

Suddenly, the door sprang into place, shutting from the journalist's sight the spare, thin figure of the Asian.

Hardy drew a long breath, loosening his collar with his finger. The door opened again—to admit one of the Chinese servants who methodically set about preparing the table for the evening meal.

For some time after Dr. Night had left the room Hardy sat conning over the events of the day. He was back in his prison room at "Forest Home" and, so far as he could gather, the master-criminal was in ignorance of the means he had employed to enter and leave the house. Then, he had freed Doris from the clutches of the gang. Her disappearance from her room had been in keeping with the mystery with which he had surrounded his own actions. So far as he could guess he had the master-criminal and his gang completely puzzled.

The threats to torture the poor devil of a Chinese were entirely discounted by the journalist. He had persuaded Dr. Night not to take any action against the man until the next day, and by that time Inspector Frost and his police would be in control of the house. Dr. Night and his gang would be behind prison bars.

The journalist was frankly puzzled by the apparently superhuman powers of the mystery man. It had been his frequent boast that he was immune to mesmerists and other like fraternities. Yet, without any apparatus or flummery, so far as he could judge, Dr. Night had created around him an atmosphere that had dulled his senses, and left him plastic in the master-criminal's hands.

The evening meal had been accompanied by certain signs that Dr. Night was taking precautions against further actions by the journalist. The man who brought the meal to the room and served it was attended to the door by an armed Chinese guard. The door was left open and the table was shifted to a position where the guard could have a full view of the journalist while he ate. Just before the man left the room he moved the table back to its old position. Immediately the door closed Hardy sprang across the room and pressed the panel of the door to listen, but he could not see whether the guard remained in the corridor, or accompanied the serving man to the lower floor.

With a shrug of anger, he returned to his seat at the window. Inaction irked the journalist. Every few minutes he looked at his watch. He had never thought the minutes could travel so slowly. His plans were set— and he could rely on Frost to keep his time, to the minute. Only one factor remained to be decided. Had Doctor Night set a watch in the corridor?

Hardy longed to repossess the master-key and open the door. Yet, if he acted at once, he might betray himself and his only means of gaining the freedom of the house would be taken from him.

In any event, Inspector Frost would act. The absence of the journalist from the box-room would not stop the raid. It would only force the police to act with greater caution— and take from them a knowledge of the house and its inmates. Hardy had intended to fully inform the Inspector of the lay-out of the house and the probable movements of the inmates, at nights, when he was at Police Headquarters; but the sudden news of the capture of Doris had driven all else from his thoughts.

Darkness had fallen. A long session with his ear at the door had failed to reveal any movements in the corridor Hardy was almost persuaded that Dr. Night had failed to set a watch. At any minute, now Inspector Frost and Ills men would be under the shelter of the trees watching from some sign from-the box-room window— and he dared not act.

In one of the chests in the box-room lay the housebreaking tools the Inspector had sent him. Hardy swore softly. If he had been able to bring them with him to his room! If he had them he would have an extra chance of success in the game he was playing— but would they have survived the very careful search of his rooms Dr. Night had supervised?

He could not hope to hide so material a bundle on the verandah roof. In his pocket he had a small penknife. It was the only tool or weapon he possessed, besides the master key. As a tool it was inefficient, as a weapon ineffective. For some moments he balanced the little instrument in his hand.

One of the blades was long, narrow and almost round. Carelessly he placed his left hand over the handle and rolled the knife between his palms.

An idea occurred to him. Going to the door he found a place on the panel, about breast high, that he thought would serve his purpose. Taking the handle of the penknife between his palms he applied the soft point of the blade to his chosen spot and spun the knife, with but soft pressure on the point.

Quickly, the blade bit into the wood and a thin trickle of sawdust fell to the floor.

29

VERY cautiously and carefully the journalist continued to spin the knife between his palms. Bit by bit the blade worked into the panel until suddenly it stopped, with a slight jar, indicating that the point of the blade had penetrated into the corridor.

Now he had to act with the greatest caution. He had to enlarge the minute bole so that he could see through it, but if he used the penknife the lights in the corridor might flash on the polished blade, and attract the attention of any guard Dr. Night had stationed there. A quick search of his pockets brought to light only a pencil, a few coins and some papers. He looked at the collection ruefully. He could see no hope there.

He looked around the room. Nothing in sight promised assistance. Tentatively he placed the pencil in hole. It was too big. A few seconds work with his penknife made the pencil fit in the hole somewhat loosely. A little pressure, and he turned it. There came a slight grating sound, and the pencil moved forward a fraction of an inch. Withdrawing the pencil he applied his eye to the hole. He could see through. Opposite his door and seated on a chair was one of the Chinese servants. He was looking down the corridor towards the head of the stairs. After a moment he turned his eyes and stared straight at the door of Hardy's room.

The journalist feared that he would notice the small hole on the edge of the panel, but the man made no sign. With the Asiatic seated opposite his room door and on guard, it was impossible for the journalist to use the master key. Long before the door could be opened and Hardy able to attack, the man would have raised the alarm—and have obtained assistance. In some manner the man must be removed. Almost despairingly, Hardy looked round the room again. A gust of wind came in at the half-opened window and swung the shaded electric light.

Hardy stood looking at it with a puzzled expression on his face. Suddenly, he turned and walked into his bedroom. On the bedside table lay a pocket torch. Placing it in his pocket he returned to the sitting-room. There he retrieved the master-key and fitted it silently into the lock. Again in his bedroom, Hardy switched off the electric light and then removed the globe from the socket.

Placing a three penny-piece across the contacts, he fitted the globe into the sockets again. At the switch, he pressed sharply. In the globe came a sudden light, accompanied by a cracking noise and then darkness. The dim light in the room, from the sitting-room globe, suddenly failed! Hardy raced through the rooms to his spy hole. The corridor was in darkness, and he could hear the Asiatic pattering to the head of the stairs, calling to his comrades in shrill tones.

The master-key turned silently. Plucking it from the lock, Hardy shut the door and locked it. Then, as silently as he could move, quickly he raced down the corridor to the box room. A moment, and he had the door shut behind him. So far he had succeeded.

Throwing a beam of light around the room the journalist located the light switch. A globe hung in the middle of the room. Pressing down the switch. Hardy waited for the house fuse to be mended. Now he had only one danger, and that he had no power to guard against. Should Dr. Night, with the fresh scare of the failing lights, take it into his head to search Hardy's prison rooms, then his escape would be discovered, immediately— and he greatly desired that the household should remain unalarmed until Frost was ready to act.

Crossing to the window, Hardy flashed his torch, then flung up the sash. An answering glimmer came from under the belt of trees.

Taking the knotted rope from its hiding place, he tied it firmly to the handle of a large trunk standing under the window, then throwing the rope over the verandah roof-edge. Then he seated himself on the trunk— and waited.

Suddenly the globe in the centre of the room came to life; the household had mended the broken fuse. The journalist jumped to the light-switch and plunged the room into darkness. As he regained the trunk and again seated himself, one end rose from the floor, as if bucking. Hardy flung all his weight on the trunk.

A few moments later, and a dark form filled the window.

"Bob?" It was the voice of Inspector frost.

"Here. Get on this trunk. You Johns are too well fed for my weight," answered the journalist. "How many are you?"

"Three." Almost as the journalist spoke another man slid gently into the room; to be followed by a third.

"Why the darkness, Bob?"

"I broke the safety fuse," answered Hardy. "There was a Chink seated In the corridor, facing my room. We can have a light now you're here." Feeling his way across the room Hardy switched on the light. Then he went to his cache of tools. As he expected, a small boring tool was in the kit. Taking this, the journalist went to the door, and commenced to bore a hole in one of the panels.

"What's the idea, Bob?" the Inspector asked curiously.

"I want to know if that Chink is still in the corridor," replied Hardy, working strenuously. "The only thing that I am afraid of is that Dr. Night has taken it into his head to search my room."

A minute later, and the tool bit through the wood. Through the hole Hardy looked down the corridor. The Asiatic was seated in his old place, facing Hardy's late prison door.

"All serene," exclaimed the journalist, turning to his companions. "They appear to have reckoned the light failure was an accident. But we've got to get rid of that fellow. He'll raise the house if we walk out of here on to him."

"Why not?" The light of battle lit in the dark eyes of the Inspector. "Let 'em have first shot, and then we can take a hand in the game. I'd love to have a pot at some of those chaps."

Hardy shook his head. He thought for a moment, then turned to his cache of tools. "Seat yourselves, gentlemen," he said laughingly. "Before we adopt our bloodthirsty friend's suggestion, I have a little demonstration to make." The three men looked curious when he brought from his cache a pianola roll.

"Had any luck in tracing out how the gang gets the 'snow' into the country, Frost?" he asked, when he had arranged matters to his satisfaction.

"You heard what Matthews split," replied the Inspector. "I've been working on that. Seems we've woke up a hornets' nest, Bob. This Dr. Night and his gang appears to have been everywhere."

"What do you mean?"

"If I said everything I should not be far off the mark. And it isn't cocaine, alone, by any means."

"Get on with it, Frost. You cackle like an old hen."

"If I do, the brood's coming home to roost." The detective smiled grimly. "I've followed up the clues Bill Matthews gave me last night, and at an interview I had with him this morning, and the lines led to some unexpected quarters."

"How's Matthews?"

30

"AS chirpy as a wagtail, Appears to enjoy Long Bay so much that we won't be able to shift him, ever. The one thing I can't get out of him is how the bulk of the stuff gets into the country. Most of the ways he appears to know can only be sidelines. No chance of large importations through those channels."

"Any line on a music shop, in your investigations?" asked the journalist, after a moment's thought.

"What the devil!" The Inspector stared at the journalist in sheer amazement. "I thought you had been locked up in this den of thieves, all day. Why, I only got on to that this morning."

"Well?"

"Matthews told me that Captain Kettle had an interest in a music agency—a wholesale place. So far as I could see the business is too large for any crook work. Why, they have the sole agency for one of the most popular makes of German pianolas."

Hardy lifted the pianola roll he had taken from his cache. "I found that in Dr. Night's study, you tell me why he wants a huge number of pianola, rolls when there's not a sound of music in the house from one week's end to the other? And, Frost, they're German."

The Inspector opened the box and took out the roll. He examined it carefully, even unwinding the paper for some distance. Finally, he rewound the roll and handed it to Hardy.

"I'll buy it, Bob," he said, with a short laugh.

The journalist opened the record until he had only the bare wooden roller in his hand. For a few minutes he tried to remove the knobs from the ends. Failing in this he took a small saw from the kit of tools and commenced to saw the roller in half. In a few moments he realised that the roller was a hollow cylinder.

He caught the half-sawn roller in his hands and wrenched it apart. From the interior streamed out a large quantity of white powder.

The Inspector picked up a pinch of the stuff and sniffed at it.

"You've solved the problem, Bob! Congrats! This is cocaine."

Frost picked up the roller and examined it. "I'd like to know how they work this knob."

"Plenty of time to experiment when our work's finished," laughed the journalist. "There's hundreds of rollers like these, downstairs."

"I understand a lot now," mused the Inspector. "When Matthews spoke of Captain Kettle's interest in the music shop, I made some inquiries. Didn't get a line on him, direct, but ran up against a lot of suspicion that pointed towards a certain music warehouse. That firm's importing a huge number of pianola rolls and seems to be able to sell at a price that has created a practical monopoly. Couldn't understand it until now."

"That mystery's solved," laughed the Journalist. "Now we have to find out how they got rid of the huge quantity them imported."

"Breeding drug fiends," answered the journalist shortly. "Man, Australia's full of the trade. The awful modern craving for excitement, and then more excitement, is just the ground these fiends want to prey on. People are trying to burn the candle at both ends. They demand excitement for twenty out of twenty-four hours of the day. To keep up the strain they frequent the chemists' shops for pick-me-ups. Later, they meet some 'friend' who states he or she has 'just the thing you want.' That's the end; and the beginning of the tale of hundreds of cases. They get used to the beastly stuff and hand it round to their friends and neighbours. Take a typical case. A man has a series of late nights. He goes down to his office in the condition best described as a 'wet rag.' More than probable, there's a drug addict on the premises. 'Take a bit of this, old man, It'll pull you together.' It does. Another series of jamborees, and the man applies for more of the stuff. Later, he asks where he can buy it for himself. Dr. Night and his confederates have made another customer and another victim. Almost every issue of a newspaper in Australia contains news of some tragedy attributable, directly or indirectly, to this horrible trade. And it's growing man, growing like a pestilent weed."

"We'll put a stop to it, now," growled the Inspector, and a heavy murmur of assent from his followers.

"With a consequent long list of suicides for the coroner to handle," added the journalist thoughtfully. "The poor devils cannot exist it their supplies are cut off."

"You don't suggest the Police Department should peddle the stuff to them?" Frost asked the question In blank amazement.

"I don't know what to suggest." Hardy moved restlessly around the room. "One thing, the stuff must not be destroyed. After tonight, the hospitals will need huge supplies of the cocaine."

"I don't follow you, Bob." The police inspector drummed with his fingers on the box he was seated upon.

"Look at the facts, man. It is evident from what we know of the Captain Kettle episodes that nearly every chemist in Australia is getting his supplies from Dr. Night. Every snow runner gets his goods through this loophole in the country's customs defence. The legitimate agents and makers are circumscribed to a limit that renders their stocks small and ineligible for medical purposes; much less as a source of supplies for addicts, when we smash up this house of sin. Dr. Night is the Snow King of Australia."

"Was," stated the Inspector emphatically. "After tonight, Dr. Night's a has-been."

Hardy paced the narrow room thoughtfully for some minutes. Then he returned to his seat beside the Inspector.

"I doubt if, even now, Frost, you realise the extent of this affair," he said. "There is something more than smuggling in this affair of Dr. Night."

"Look at the profits," urged the Inspector.

"They must be enormous," agreed the journalist. "But there are other lines of thought we should not neglect. I have, been in contact with Dr. Night tor some time. He does not appear to me to be a man who would enter this trade solely for the profits. You were in the War, Frost?"

"Yes."

"You know something of the enormous losses in lives and treasure, occasioned by the avarice of a few men?"

"I'm not a socialist," argued the Inspector. "It's good enough for me that Germany started the row and got a father of a good hiding."

"I worry about facts, not titles," answered Hardy. "You can call me a socialist if you like. Most writers are. But you can't conceal from yourself, whether you'd admit it or not, that greed of money, greed of power, and greed of revenge, are the three factors that set the world aflame."

"What then?"

"The Great War was fought with shot, bayonet and gas. What if some ambitious person, inflamed by one of the 'greeds' started to conquer humanity— what we call civilisation— by more more subtle means."

For a moment the detective stared at his companion, horror dawning in his eyes. For A long moment he waited, then:

"You mean a war of— of drugs?"

"It is possible." Suddenly Hardy sprang to his feet. "Come on Frost. Zero's struck. We've got work to do— not theories to argue."

Hardy went to the door and bent down to peer through the little spy hole. As he had expected, the Asiatic was again seated on the chair, facing the door of his late prison. The situation was awkward. So long as the man remained in that seat, and awake, it was Impossible for the raiding party to leave the box-room.

Outside the house were a large number of men, awaiting the opening of some door to pour into the house and overwhelm the inmates.

When the journalist straightened himself, the Inspector took his place at the spy hole, and carefully examined the corridor. It was a nasty problem. The man was a good sixty or seventy feet from the door of the box-room; far too distant for any chance for a rush attack.

Frost swore softly under his breath as he turned to face the journalist.

"Will the beggar ever sleep," he asked in a low whisper. "Looks as if we shall have to wait until he dozes off, or else charge out and gain the head of the stairs before he can be re-by his friends below."

"Dr. Night's servants don't sleep," replied Hardy, his lips twisted to a grim smile.

The Inspector had not witnessed the abject terror of the man he had fought and tied for Doris' freedom.

"Then it's a charge, boys." Frost turned to his men. "I'm afraid there's going to be a considerable amount of bloodshed in this affair. Remember, we've got to give them the first shot. The law only allows us to defend our selves. Of course you can make it as slippery as you please. Seconds count with bullets, and who's to swear you fired a fifth of a second before the other fellow. S'long as his pistol contains a fired cartridge, there's not going to be any outcry. And remember, we're all one in this work. If any blighter shoots at Bill, and Tom gets him before he gets Bill, that counts one to Tom, and no questions asked. Get me?"

The Inspector had his hand on the master-key when Hardy stopped him. The Inspector looked round impatiently.

"Walt a moment, Frost," exclaimed, the journalist, in a low tone. "Remember the trick I played on that chap to get here. Well, it's worth trying again. Can only alarm the fellows downstairs, at the most. They won't understand it. And even if they guess some trick is being played on them, they will have to guess quite a lot to find out how it is being worked."

The Inspector looked dubious. He had keyed himself for some nasty work and wanted to get it over as soon as possible. Frost was slightly dogmatic. He hated to change his plans. In this case he had decided that trickery was out of the question and the journalist's hesitation irritated. He was about to speak sharply, and go on with his plan, when Hardy took the master-key out of his hand and put it in his pocket.

"No good getting your paddy up, Frost," Hardy laughed at the expression on the detective's face. "It's fifty-fifty in this game and I want my share. At the worst, I can't block your plans for direct action, and I might manage to get through without causing a riot on this floor."

"Whose rooms are those along the corridor?" asked the Inspector, gruffly.

"Vacant, I think." Hardy put his hand In his pocket. "By Jove! I left all my silver on the table in my room. Got a trey-bit, Frost?"

"Yep" The Inspector handed over the coin. "What's the joke, Bob?"

Hardy threw the room into darkness and then lit his torch. Handing it to one of the men to hold, and bidding him focus the light on the electric bulb he unscrewed the globe from its and balanced the coin over the contacts.

The men watched him he replaced the globe in the holder.

31

"READY, Frost? Now listen, I'm going to unlock the door. Then I shall press the switch; that will fuse the light in the house. While it is dark I shall creep down to the chair where the man is seated. I think he will act as he did previously, and go to the top of the stairs. If he does I shall await his return; then I shall collar him. With luck I may be able to prevent him yelling out and alarming the household. At any rate we shall await his return; then I shall think about downstairs, and by the time they realise there is an alarm on this floor we shall be streaming down the stairs."

Interested, in spite of himself, the Inspector nodded a reluctant assent. Hardy unlocked the door and held it slightly ajar. One of the men pressed the switch and immediately the lights in the corridor went out.

Hardy slipped silently through the door and made his way to where the man had been seated. As he had expected, the man had retreated to the head of the stairs. The journalist could hear him there, talking excitedly to his friends below. Minutes passed, the journalist crouching beside the empty chair. The wait seemed almost interminable, and unbearable. Then, just as Hardy felt that he could stand the darkness and waiting no longer, the lights came to light again.

Now was the crucial time. The man would face in Hardy's direction when he returned to his watchman's chair. Hardy was only concealed by the slight outline of the chair, standing almost directly under one of the large bucket lights. The man could not help but see him. Everything depended on whether he was close enough for a successful attack, and whether he thought himself strong enough to recapture the journalist without help.

The Asiatic turned from the head of the stairs on the resurrection of the lights. He came padding down the corridor, leisurely, his eyes fixed on the ground. A few steps before the chair, he raised, his eyes and looked straight at the journalist. Hardy remained quiet.

The man stopped and half opened his mouth. Then, a cruel smile spread over his yellow countenance and he advanced, half crouching. The journalist met the beast-like spring half way, and the two men fell to the ground grappling. The journalist had found an early grip on the throat of his opponent and clung for a few minutes and Frost would come to his assistance.

Grimly he held on his head whirling from the continuous shower of blows rained by his antagonist. The lights were dancing before his eyes and his head throbbed terribly. He had buried his face on the breast of the Asian, and the queer overpowering smell of the Easterner's body made him feel faint. Frost was a long time coming.

His fingers bit deep into the man's throat and his ears sensed the labouring lungs. The blows on his head became less frequent and to come from only one side. Then he felt a hand slipped between his face and the man's chest. The hand crept higher, in spite of the pressure he was applying against it. The fingers curved round to his face and he could feel the long-nailed tips searching for his eyes; He shifted quickly, but the groping fingers followed. The man was staggering— dying on his feet, but still those groping fingers continued their search for his eyes.

Hardy felt he would have to let go. He could not hold out many seconds longer. Why did Frost not come to his assistance? What had happened to hamper the completion of the plan? Suddenly the man shivered and collapsed on to him. Hardy tried to release his fingers but the muscles did not relax. Someone caught at his wrists and forced his hands from the man's throat.

"Steady, Bob." It was the Inspector's voice. "Let's up, or you'll choke the yellow beggar."

Hardy opened his eyes and looked around. Frost was kneeling beside him holding his wrists. A few feet away the Asiatic lay on the floor, the two detectives busily engaged in binding and gagging him.

"Any alarm?" asked Hardy weakly.

"Not a sound from below," assured the Inspector. "Your attack was so sudden and with both of you in bare feet, you hardly made a sound. Looks as if you'd got away with it again, Bob."

"I'm all right now." Hardy rose to his feet and shook himself carefully.

"What next, Frost, it's your show, now."

For answer, the Inspector led the way to the stairs, followed by Hardy and the detectives. The Chinese was left in the corridor, helpless. They could collect him when the round-up was completed. At the head of the stairs the Inspector paused and looked over the banisters. The hall was brilliantly lit but no one was in sight.

Frost descended the stairs, followed by his small party of raiders. Arriving at the front door he paused and in a whisper bade the others await his return. Then he opened the door and walked out into the night. A minute later the detective returned, followed by half a dozen plain-clothes constables. The door carefully closed, the Inspector started to make his preparations for the cleanup of the household.

Four men were detailed to follow the Inspector and Hardy on their investigations of the rooms. The others were stationed about the hall, on guard, and to protect the investigators from surprise. Frost walked to a door and, with his hand on the knob, turned to the Journalist.

"What's here?"

"Front part of the house occupied by Westerton and his servants," replied Hardy promptly. "They're a blind. The real gang lives somewhere at the back of the house."

"Good. We'll clean them up and sort them out afterwards."

The third room visited proved to be a bedroom. Westerton was found deep in blissful sleep. The muzzle of an automatic thrust in his midriff despite Hardy's laughings of heart disease, effectually aroused him.

"Raise an alarm and I'll shoot," warned Frost, grimly. "Now you lazy, good-for-nothing invalid where's your household?"

"Next room."

"Oh! How many?"

"Four girls."

"That's all?"

"Yep. They're only for show. The Chinks do all the work."

"Where do the Chinese camp?"

"Next to the kitchen," Westerton replied, and found the barrel of the automatic thrust between his teeth.

"Not on your left," commanded Frost. "I'm just aching to shoot; so just be careful."

The Inspector jerked the fat man off the bed on to his feet. As the German looked round the room he caught sight of the journalist standing in the doorway.

"Ach! You? I told him you were better dead."

"Told whom," asked Frost.

The man would not answer.

"Where's Dr. Night?" asked the Inspector.

The man remained silent.

"Where's Captain Kettle?" continued Frost.

"In prison, in New Zealand," snarled Westerton. "I don't mind telling you that."

"Thanks. Any more; information to offer?" The man turned sullenly towards the door.

"Well, as you don't feel conversational, I'll see that you don't talk at all."

Before the man could move, Frost had seized him from behind and forced a gag in his mouth.

"Now for your maids."

The girls were aroused without any alarm and still in their night attire, but swathed in blankets, ushered into Westerton's room. Frost wished to gag the girls but Hardy intervened and persuaded him that, with the detectives on guard, they would not be so foolish as to call out and receive retributive punishment.

"Keep quiet and you'll get just what's coming to you," was Frost's final and cryptic parting advice. "Start any nonsense and it's your funeral. There's a hundred men in and around this house. Take your choice."

Detailing a couple of men to guard the prisoners, Frost led the way froth e room to continue the search the house. Room after room was systematically searched, without the arrest of any more suspects.

It looked as if Westerton had told the truth, when he said that his household consisted of only four maids.

"Looks fishy," whispered Frost to the journalist, as they stood before a door at the rear of the house. "Where the devil are Humbertson, Night and Kettle? Can't make it out at all. They don't sleep with the stinking Chinks, do they?"

Hardy smiled, but answered nothing. He was beginning to form a theory of the whereabouts of the master criminal and his associates. He had not forgotten the incident of the sliding panel in the master criminal's study.

"Where's this lead to?" asked Frost abruptly.

"Dr. Night's study," answered the journalist in a low tone. "Now there's likely to be trouble."

"Dr. Night's study," muttered Frost softly. "Humph."

A quick turn of the wrist, and he flung open the door and strode into the room. Hardy followed close on the heels of detective, and the men crowded the doorway.

The room was unoccupied. A shaded light stood on the desk before the window. In the fireplace a large radiator threw a warm glow over the surroundings, bringing into relief a small table holding a couple of decanters and some glasses. The little circle looked as if it had only recently been vacated. Frost strode across the room and lifted both glasses to his nose, one after the other.

"Seems they did hear us, Bob," he whispered. "They heard us and got for their lives. Funny we haven't heard any thing from outside. They can't get away. I'll swear to that."

The journalist shook his head in the negative. Whatever the heads of the gang were, they were not cowards. Humberston, a gunman by training and instinct, would certainly fight. Captain Kettle was an unknown problem, and while the arch-criminal, Dr. Night, was not built for a fighting man, Hardy could not but think that lie would go to any lengths to prevent capture and the downfall of his complicated plans.

Frost stood looking around the room with a puzzled expression on his face. Then, apparently, having made up his mind, he strode resolutely towards the door.

"Come along," he said quietly. "The birds have apparently flown. We'll have time to loot this place when we've rounded up the servants."

The Chinese servants of Dr. Night were found in their quarters peacefully asleep. The police skilfully rounded them up, and marched them to the room where Westerton and his maids were prisoners. Then, strengthening the guard over the prisoners, Frost led the way back to Dr. Night's study.

At the door of the study Frost found the plain-clothes man he had posted on guard. In the reply to the query in the Inspector's eyes, the man shook his head.

"Not a sound, sir," he whispered hoarsely. "I don't think they're back."

Without replying, Frost opened the door and strode into the room. For a moment the detective was undecided what action to take. Hardy watched him for some moments.

"Up against it, Frost?" The journalist grinned wickedly at the Inspector's predicament. "Let me take a hand in the matter. It may be that I know more of the secrets of this house than you."

"If you can get to the root of this business, get to it," retorted Frost crossly. "I can't believe that these scoundrels levanted without putting up something resembling a fight. But where the devil have they got to. I'd be prepared to swear they're not in this house."

"They're hot far away, it I guess right," laughed the journalist. "There's a secret door opening into this room. Where it leads to, I don't know. I saw Humberston use it one night. We'll have a try for it later, but first I want you to have a look at these pianola rolls."

But the spirit of the man-hunter was dominant in the breast of the Inspector. He gave but a cursory glance at the hundreds of pianola rolls, scattered about the room. For the moment he hardly seemed to realise that under his hand lay thousands of pounds worth of cocaine—that here lay the secret of the huge Importations of illicit drugs the department had failed for months to discover.

The desk appeared to attract his attention. He strode over to it and tried the drawers.

"I'd like to smash that thing up at once," he growled. "We might find a clue or two there, but to break it open would occupy too much time and make too much noise, and I want those men first. You say you know of a secret door, Bob. Where is it?"

Hardy crossed the room to the fireplace and ran his fingers along the moulding. One of the bosses appeared to give slightly under his fingers. A tentative pressure, and he had found the secret. The panel slid aside silently.

"Crikes!" exclaimed the Inspector; "Where does It lead to, Bob?"

"That is more than I can say," Hardy peered into the cavity over the Inspector's shoulder. "I told you, the night I explored the house I hid in this room and watched Humberston and Dr. Night enter and leave the room by this door. It appears to lead down below the house."

"We'll soon see. I'll lead here. Can't afford to have you shot up."

One of the police officer's rare smiles lit his face as he glanced back over his shoulder at the journalist. He stepped forward to enter the door. Hardy suddenly caught him by the shoulder and pulled him back. At the same time be touched the spring controlling the door, and the panel slipped back into place.

"What's up?" exclaimed Frost angrily. "Open that door, again, Bob."

"Hush!" The journalist's hand closed on the Inspector's lips. "There's someone coming up from below."

"Well, I was going to fetch him."

"The strategy of war is to divide the enemy's forces and destroy them in detail." Hardy muttered the platitude without a smile. "Get behind that screen, Frost. Hide yourselves, men. We'll take this fellow in a trap."

Switching off the lights, except the shaded lamp on the desk, Hardy watched the Inspector and his men take cover. Then he flattened himself against the wall, besides the secret panel. The seconds that passed appeared as minutes, and the journalist began to think that his ears had deceived him. Then, just as he was about to move, a slight click sounded beside his ear and the panel slid aside. A man's form passed Into the room and made for the desk. Hardy stretched out his hand and touched the boss controlling the panel. At the click of the shutting door the man swung round, with an exclamation. Then he strode to the switches and flooded the room with light.

"By heck! Who switched out the lights."

"Good evening, Mr. Humberston," said the journalist quietly.

The man's hand swung to his hip as he turned on his heel.

"The writer feller, by jingo! Why didn't the doctor put you to sleep for good. I wanted him to."

"That seems to be a common idea of my welfare, Mr. Humberston," laughed the journalist. "I have heard that wish expressed before, this evening. It appears that I am not to be consulted In the matter."

"What are you doing here?"

"A little exploration." Hardy laughed again. "In fact, I am interested in pianola rolls; Do you know anything about them?"

"So you know that?" A look of murderous hate came in the gunman's eyes. His voice fell to a sibilant hiss, and his hand again crept towards his hip-pocket. "You know too much, my Australian friend."

"Cut it out," exclaimed the journalist sharply. "You're covered."

"Am I? Well, I'll take a chance."

The man's hand moved so rapidly that Hardy could hardly follow it. He sprang aside and tripped. A stream of bullets poured from the automatic in the gunman's hand and peppered the wall against which the journalist had been standing.

Then, following the sudden silence from the gunman's pistol, came one solitary shot. A look of intense surprise came on the man's face. With an effort he turned slowly and faced the screen beside which the Inspector was now standing, a revolver in his hand. For a full minute the gunman looked at the police officer, his features braced for effort. Slowly his hand and arm tensed, and the muzzle of his pistol came up. The Inspector raised his arm again. Then, with a sigh, the man pitched forward on his face.

32

"LUCK!" exclaimed the detective, striding forward and bending over the fallen man. "I didn't want to have to fire again, but it looked as if I should have to. Say, boy, you'll never escape like that a second time. I've never seen a man so quick on the draw. Who is he?"

"Humberston, the man the note found on Smithson was addressed to," replied Hardy shortly. He was just beginning to realise the narrowness of his escape.

"So!" Frost stooped and rolled the man on to his back. He peered down on the white face. "Humberston, you say? Well, he's better known as Carl Petersen, the manager of the Petersen Pianola Music Company—the firm that's attempting to corner the pianola music industry in Sydney."

"Petersen! Humberston! But he's not Captain Kettle?" objected Hardy incredulously.

"Seems not," retorted the detective. "I'm beginning to believe that your Dr. Night and Captain Kettle are one and the same person."

"Number one," observed Inspector Frost, as he rose to his feet from beside the wounded gunman, Humberston. "If they're all as ready with their gats as he, there'll be a devil of a shooting—"

He was interrupted by the bursting in of the French windows and the abrupt entry of a number of police, attracted by the shooting.

"Huh! I forgot you chaps would roll up at the sound of the shots. Just as well you came. Looks as if we'll have quite a job, raking out this hell-hole. Now then, Bob, what about the door?"

Hardy crossed to the fireplace and pressed the concealed spring. The panel slid aside, noiselessly. Beyond lay the passage, silent, cool and grim beneath the glow of an electric globe just within the door.

He turned and faced the room, lit by the soft glow from the shaded lamps. A slight breeze was blowing in from the open window, stirring the curtains and gently swinging the globes. Almost in centre of the room lay the American, one of the detectives bending over him, administering first aid.

The journalist shuddered and quickly looked away. He had a sudden distaste for the coming adventure. This hounding of men, even though they might be criminals, held a primitive excitement that carried with it a revulsion of the more delicate sensibilities.

"What's the matter, Bob?" The Inspector's voice appeared to come from a distance, although the police officer was standing at his shoulder. "If we don't make a move soon we'll lose all the advantages of surprise. Humberston will be missed and Dr. Night, or this Captain Kettle, will be up here to find him."

Roused from his reverie, Hardy made a step through the secret door. The heavy hand of the Inspector held him back.

"You come second, lad. I lead."

A few steps through the door, and the passage bent quickly to the right. The raiders were standing at the head of a flight of stairs, leading apparently into the bowels of the earth. Here the light of the electric light just within the secret door showed very faintly. Frost led the way down steps, and the journalist followed him, counting twenty-eight steps.

At the bottom of the stairs a short passage led onwards, shrouded in gloom. Frost snapped on the light of his torch and threw the beam before them. Hardy added the strength of his torch to the glow and, under the combined light, the little army moved forward. The passage proved to be about twenty feet in length, and ended in a wall of natural rock. Calling lowly for more light, Frost explored for a door with practised hand.

"What's behind this, Bob?" asked the detective.

"Boatshed above, water in front," the journalist answered promptly and confidently.

"Should say you're right. There should be a door here, but I can't find one. Look to the roof."

The glow of half-a-dozen torches swept the roof, to reveal only the solid stone. The detective was frankly puzzled. Why had the passage been made, and in this direction. Whence had the gunman come, to meet his wounding and capture in the study of "Forest Home?"

With a muttered exclamation Frost swung round, his torch describing ft half-circle in the darkness.

"Look, Bob." Frost's light had settled on a passage that led back at an acute angle to the one they had come along. "Here's the answer."

A concentration of light showed only a long passage, sheltered at the far end in darkness their torches could not penetrate. Frost made a step along it, and then turned towards the wall behind them.

"Don't like to leave that behind me," he muttered. "Still, we can pick it up when we've routed out the gang. Hang it! Come along, you fellows. If it does lead to the boathouse Dr. Night is not likely to be there. Our men in the grounds would have routed him out, long before this. Masters, stand along that passage and keep, a watch on that wall. Shoot it you have to, or it you see anything like a door opening— and shoot straight. Whew, I'm getting nervy in this rat-hole."

With eager steps the detective led down the new corridor, followed by Hardy and his men. As he walked along he threw the light of his torch in every direction. Hardy, at the Inspector's elbow, kept his light focussed ahead. The men followed closely, their torches dark, yet every man's finger rested on the switch, ready to flood the corridor in light at the first signs of necessity.

The passage appeared to have been cut with considerable skill through Sydney sandstone. Most of the corridor was dry, but in places the water oozed through cracks in the rock and formed little pools on the floor. In the faint light of the police officer's torch the journalist noted that the roof of the tunnel held an electric light cable.

"Must have cost a lot of money to cut this rat-hole," commented Frost, waving his torch-light around.

"That is one of the problems I cannot quite understand," answered Hardy. "Snow running may be a profitable business, but this gang are running things on a scale that I can't even guess at. How do they manage to balance the sheet and leave a profit?"

"I'll worry about that when I get to the end of this job," retorted Frost grimly. "This passage appears to have had considerable use. Look at the floor. It's quite smooth, as if padded by generations of feet. Where does it lead to and what is it for? Darn it! There's not a door in sight."

"You notice the electric cable along the roof?" asked Hardy.

The Inspector flashed his light aloft. "So there is. Smith, run back to the room and see if any of the switches there work these lights. Anderson and Brown, space out after him and report both ways. And— I say, you fellows, just keep a watch on the walls as you go along; you may find a switch on the way back. Off with your light, Bob. We'll have to finish this job in the dark. It's too risky with our torches shining. Why, the doctor and that Captain Kettle could pot us off, one after the other, and we not get a shot back."

In silence and darkness, the little group waited for the return of the messengers. The minutes passed slowly, and alter what seemed to Hardy a wait of hours the lights of the plain-clothes men's torches returning from above, showed sharply in the tunnel.

"Nothing along the passages, and the lights in the room control only house light," repeated Frost angrily. "Then, where the deuce do these lights come from? Well, it can't be helped. We'll have to feel our way along, Bob. You take the left-hand wall and I'll take the right. If you want light, hold your torch well away from your body. You chaps, follow along the wall on either side."

Slowly the little procession moved forward in the thick darkness. Another fifty feet and Frost called a halt. "Anything to report, Bob?"

"Blank wall my side, Inspector."

"Same my side. Where do you think we are now?"

"Somewhere under the bluff between 'Forest Home' and 'Holmhurst.'"

"Thought so. Well, we can't do anything but go forward. Ready? No, wait a moment. Smith, go back to the house and get that bluff surrounded by land and water. Remember orders. No one to pass the lines except by my personal permission. Got ahead, Bob."

One hand sweeping the wall, the other holding his torch, Hardy moved slowly forward.

This slow crawl through the darkness was wearing on his nerves. He began to see things—to imagine the darkness before him held shapes and figures uncouth and grotesque. Dark, leering faces, yellow fanged, and with exaggerated Chinese eyes, watched him from the darkness. Almost instinctively, his right hand sought his pocket and dropped his torch, to pick up his automatic. He had it half-way out of his pocket when the wall on his left suddenly fell away from his hand. He gave a sudden, half-strangled exclamation and wrenched the weapon from his pocket.

"What's the matter, Bob?"

The Inspector's whisper came weirdly out of the darkness.

33

"LIGHTS!" Hardy transferred the automatic to his left hand and felt for his torch. As he pressed the button a beam of light from across the passage struck the wall well ahead of the journalist, and travelled slowly back, it rested on a small, low doorway, sunk deep into a recess into which Hardy had wandered. Frost gave the signal for lights and then crossed over and carefully examined the door. It was fastened, apparently on the Inside, for there appeared to be no bolts or bars side facing that passage. Frost scratched his head with the peak of his hat.

"I'd like to see what's behind you," he muttered addressing the door. "Wonder if you'd be hard to force? No. There's time for you when I come to the end of this warren. Come on, Bob. Jones, stand against the wall opposite that door and keep your flash on it. Shoot if it moves. That'll bring us back on the run."

Again the small party moved forward through the darkness, to be brought to a halt by a whisper from the Inspector. Almost at the same moment, Hardy spoke:

"Ran against a wall, Inspector?"

"Wall's given way here," retorted the Inspector. "Let's have some light. Looks as if the passage bends here."

The light of Hardy's torch illuminated a wall closing the end of the passage. Slowly the light travelled over the wall and fell into a passage, turning to the right. It was but a short one, a bare ten feet in length and was closed at the end by a heavy door.

Frost pressed the button of his torch and added the light to Hardy's. In a few strides he covered the distance. The door was of iron and heavily guarded by massive bolts and bars.

"Looks as if it was never intended to be opened," shouted Frost, tugging at the fastenings. "Lor', it must have been constructed to stand a siege."

"An outlet on the harbour," guessed the journalist. "This place must have taken some building."

"Too right!" Frost lifted with a grunt a heavy bar of iron and stood it against the wall. "And, our people never suspected this. What do they want it for? They get all their stuff in through the music rolls."

"Perhaps they go in for larger contraband."

"What do you mean?" The Inspector's voice was heavy with suspicion of the more prosaic police officer. "Guess away, if you think it will do us any good." Frost attempted, heavy sarcasm. "Huh! That's the lot. Now, what's behind all this?"

The door swung open with a slight squeak. Frost stepped out into the open night, and Hardy followed close upon his heels. They were standing on a narrow ledge of rock at the foot of the high bluff, on the edge of the harbour. The cool winds of the night were just fling the waters into sparkling wavelets, under the light of the moon. A Manly boat was passing, some little distance from the shore. On board a merry party were filling the air with laughter and snatches of song. The lights of the ferry lit up the waters, turning the crests of the wavelets into a sparkle of brilliant gems.

"A natural wharf," commented Frost. "Who'd have suspected this? Look at that cliff, Bob."

The door had swung back while they had been gazing at the beautiful' harbour scene. All the journalist could see was a high expanse of rock, rugged and broken, but showing no signs of the door through which they had passed on to the ledge of rock. Their long and weary crawl through the passages beneath "Forest Home" might have been but a phantasy of a dream.

The Inspector started towards the face of the rock. For some time he tested the cliff with the butt of his revolver, but everywhere he was met with the sharp click of steel on rock. The door had completely disappeared.

"Damn it—" The Inspector's temper was rising. "What do those chaps think they are doing? Why don't they open the door?"

With a laugh, Hardy pointed to the face of the rock some distance away from where the Inspector was testing, vainly, the cliff. The door that had shut so silently had re-opened. A couple of plain clothes men standing just outside it, their torches shining wanly In the moonlight.

"Faced with solid, rock, inches thick." Frost was carefully examining the door, "Shut off those lights, chaps. Do you want to get a bullet in you?"

Re-entering the passage, Frost had the door carefully rebarred and stationed a man before it. Then he led the way back to where the plain-clothes man stood on guard before the mysterious door.

As they advanced the light of his torch, playing on the door, cut weirdly through the darkness.

"Anything to report?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Then we'll deal with this mysterious door and what lies behind it. Let's hope we'll get to something definite here. Lights, while I see how it's to be opened."

Impatiently, the Inspector put his shoulder to the iron of the door. It swung inward, easily.

"Jones!" The Inspector exclaimed, angrily.

"Sir?"

"You told me that no one had come out of here."

"No one has come out of that door, sir. It hasn't moved all the time you've been away."

"It was locked when I tried it before. Now it is open."

"Yes, sir."

The Inspector flashed his light on the man's face. Jones appeared to be as bewildered as his superior officer.

"Humph!" The Inspector turned to the door and pushed it open. The room beyond was in darkness. "What's in here, I wonder?"

As he spoke the lights through the passage and within the room sprang to life, flooding the place with a brilliancy that bewildered and dazed the little group of raiders.

Hardy gave a sigh of relief when the electric globes in the underground warren beneath "Forest Home" lit. At last they were to come face to face with Dr. Night!

The sudden flooding with light of the chamber in which they stood showed that the master criminal was well aware of their presence in the warren and had chosen his time in which to receive them. His imprisonment in the house had shown Hardy that the mysterious person who headed the gang of criminals had at his command powers which he was unable to understand. Much as be desired to come to grips with the man and free the country from the menace overshadowing it, he feared for his companions and himself. Dr. Night would never allow himself to fall into the hands of the police.

The incident of Humberston in the doctor's study but a short hour before had shown him that the gang were desperate and willing to take any means to defeat their enemies. Would Dr. Night put up the same kind of fight?

Hardy did not believe that he would. The two men were of different calibre. The master criminal was of a cold calculating nature, entirely unsuited for physical violence. He was the more dangerous in that he possessed an intelligence of the highest power trained in the subtle unknown arts of mysterious Asia. From him could be expected some awful manifestation of powers of nature unknown to the civilisation of the white man.

In that underground citadel he had with him the man known as Captain Kettle. From what the journalist had learned about the man it was possible that he, like Humberston, would choose to fight it out, automatic in hand. But Humberston had been alone with his enemies when he went down to Frost's bullet. Would the doctor permit his one remaining white companion to follow the same road? Hardy doubted.

Inspector Frost stood in the centre of the underground chamber and looked around. The room had been cut from the sandstone that underlies most of the hills in and around Sydney. It was bare of furniture except for a small table and chair, placed against the wall at the far side. Close to the chair, and within arm's reach, was a door that opened into the room. The floor was uncarpeted, and Hardy was reminded instinctively of the ante-chamber of some lodge-room, where initiates were prepared for the ceremony.

For some moments the little band of police stood as If waiting a summons. Then, suddenly, the Inspector strode forward, towards the door.

As he approach the door swung slowly open, as if of its own volition. Beyond lay a short wide passage leading to another door, before which stood two gigantic Chinese, armed with large curved swords and dressed in semi-uniform.

At the sight of the advancing police they lowered their weapons, as it in salute and stood aside from the door. Hardy pressed forward until he had regained his old position at the Inspector's shoulder.

Frost hesitated a moment when he stood before the guards. Hardy could read his thoughts and touched his arm in warning. Frost would naturally want to arrest anyone found in that warren, but the journalist recognised the folly of commencing a fight with the servants and allowing the masters time to perfect their escape or means or resistance. The Inspector nodded shortly.

The impulse had passed, and with but a cursory glance at the impassive Orientals, he passed through the door to come face to face with the arch-criminal, Dr. Night.

34

A LONG room, almost a hall, lit by concealed lights that threw a coloured glow over the lower part of the room and, leaving the roof in deep gloom, gave the impression of great height. This effect was enhanced by the decoration of the ceiling. It represented the heavens, and the artist, aided by wonderful lighting, had given the impression of vast spaces. The walls were painted to represent the forests of an Oriental country. Here again was the effect of distances, unattained by modern European artists.

To the journalist it seemed as it he stood on the edge of a clearing looking over far-flung wildernesses towards a distant circle of hills. In the centre of the room stood a half circle of queer stools. Stools they really were, yet each stool had a high semi-circular back that partially enveloped the occupant. Facing the semi-circle was a raised platform on which was placed a highly-ornamented throne, supported on each side by two huge peacocks, their tails spread and quivering the slight breeze that floated through the opened door. Throne and stools were occupied by Chinese, evidently of high mandarin rank, and each man wore a head-dress of white silk that came down nearly to his lap. Before the throne and covered by a long piece of silk stood a long low table.

Hardy shuddered at the sight of it. The thing bore a sinister resemblance to a bier. For a space, the two groups of men remained motionless. The figures seated on the throne had not turned or moved at the entry of the police. They sat as if carved in stone, their faces turned towards, their master. Inspector Frost advanced a couple of paces; then stopped, as if undecided as to what action to take.

"Whom seek ye?" The ancient question rang through the room, as if penetrating the vast illusionary distances of the paintings on the walls. The gaily plumaged birds, flanking the throne, stretched higher their vivid, quivering feathers.

"Whom seek ye? Again I ask."

"I seek the man known as Dr. Night." Frost stepped forward, his head erect. Hardy felt a wave of fear sweep over him at the spectacle of his friend confronting, fearlessly the unknown menace of the east.

"I am he!" The figure on the throne stood up slowly and removed the veil that hung before his face. It was Dr. Night, but changed. No longer the slight grey figure that Hardy had traced from the telephone box in Oxford Street to the house at Potts Point. No longer the scientist, "snow" importer, criminal; but a monarch on his throne, conscious of his glory and power.

The slight grey figure had disappeared. The flowing robes of a silk rarely seen by alien eyes, gave him a majesty supreme. On his head rested a circlet of beaten gold, arching quaintly to the head and neck of a peacock. The metal of the crown was almost hidden by the glory of the gems with which it was studded— gems fitted to grace the diadem of any monarch; but shadowed to insignificance by the supreme glory of the jewel the gold bird held within its beak— a pearl the size of a wren's egg and of a glorious green, mirroring the tumbling iridescent waters of tropical seas.

Silently the veiled figure on the stool in the centre of the semi-circle, facing the throne, rose and drew his chair to one side, leaving an avenue from the door to the foot of the dais. As if he had awaited the unspoken invitation, he strode forward until he stood facing the throne, and beside the shrouded bier.

"What seek ye?" Dr. Night asked the question passionlessly.

"I hold a warrant for the arrest of the man known as Dr. Night." Frost was not speaking in his usual firm tones. He seemed to be struggling with some inexplicable emotion. "I am the man known in the city by the name of Dr. Night. Ye seek me?"

"I hold a warrant for your arrest on a charge of murder. Do you surrender?"

The lips of the master criminal curved slightly. With a slight motion his hand he Indicated the bier before him. The veiled man who had given passage to the Inspector came forward and stood beside the bier.

"I also hold warrants for the arrest of two men— Carl Humberston and Peter Jackson, alias Captain Kettle. I shall also hold every person here assembled under arrest, pending investigation."

Frost spoke unemotionally, yet with obvious effort. "It is my duty to warn you that anything you say may be used against you."

"Carl Humberston lies above, wounded by your revolver." Dr. Night I spoke impassively, yet with an authority that perplexed Hardy. He did not act as if all avenues of escape were closed against him, and that before him stood the shame of the dock and the hangman's noose.

"For Peter Jackson, my servant, who is known to you as Captain Kettle— look!"

With a swift gesture the shrouded figure beside the dais withdrew the overshadowing, silk. On the bier lay a man, bearing on his chest what looked to be a coil of rope. Hardy had stepped silently forward and now stood beside the Inspector. A quick glance showed him that the man lying before them had been strangled. The features were twisted and pain stricken, yet from the description he had of the man, the journalist could not doubt but that Captain Kettle, lay before him— dead.

"My servant dared to disobey my commands. I have punished him. He is beyond your power."

The low tones of the master criminal rang through the chamber as the decree of fate. The silent figures on the stools bowed their heads, as if acknowledging the justice of the punishment.

"Murder!" Frost spoke in a rasping voice. "Seems to me that you've got a double murder to answer for, Dr. Night. Strangled, and by this queer rope." The Inspector was bending over the corpse. With an inquisitive finger he flicked the coiled rope on the man's chest. The thing seemed to writhe at his touch. Frost gazed at it with astonishment. After a moment he caught it by an end and held it up.

"Jove!" The exclamation burst from Hardy involuntarily. "The monkey's tail." His memory flew back to the night when he had been thrown into the and had been rescued by Doris. On their way home they had stood and watched on the blinded window of "Forest Home" this "tail" attached to some person. Its strange shape and lithe animal nature could not be mistaken.

Frost stood before the throne on which Night had again seated himself, the strange tail in his hand. As he held it up the thing quivered and shook as it animated with life. Frost laughed suddenly. The thing was swaying in his hands, its oscillations becoming more and more strong. With a sudden effort it swung up and caught on to his arm. Quickly it established its hold, twisting round and round the arm of the dazed man. Then, with a sudden jerk it wrenched its end from the police officer's grip and commenced to work its way up his arm, towards his body.

"The devil!" Frost uttered the exclamation in low, puzzled manner. He made no attempt to free himself from the grip of the thing. His eyes were on the writhing, moving rope.

"Quick, Frost."' Hardy sprang to the police officer's side. "Throw the Thing away! Quick, or it will kill you!" The journalist seized the rope and sought to wrench it from the detective's arm. It held on strongly. Hardy turned to the silent seated figure, standing before the throne.

"Dr. Night! Would you kill him?"

The dark fathomless eyes of the master criminal turned for one instant from the steady look Into the eyes of the police officer. At that moment Hardy felt a relaxation in the resistance of the Thing. Putting his strength he wrenched it from the Inspector's arm, taking with it the whole of the man's jacket. As he turned and threw the Thing at the feet standing before the throne, the journalist caught a glimpse from the master criminal's eyes. They were flaming with hate and baffled fury. Then gradually the expression became again calm and serene.

"So that's your game."

Frost shook himself, as a dog coming out of water. Bracing himself he advanced a couple of steps. As he placed his foot on the dais, a look of puzzled wonder came in his eyes. His muscles tensed as if he was forcing his way forward against some great unseen power. For minutes he swayed as if seeking, from side to side, some form or resistance. Then, suddenly, he collapsed a huddled heap on the steps; his head almost touching the feet of Dr. Night.

Hardy gazed at the fallen figure of his comrade in wild amazement. But a couple of minutes before, Frost had stood virile and clothed with the might of the law, before the throne of the mysterious criminal, Dr. Night. Now he was lying, a poor broken tangle of flesh and bones, across the foot of the dais—and no tangible thing had wrought the change.

A sudden anger surged up in the heart of the journalist. He took a step forward and half raised his revolver. To his amazement his arm was powerless— some power was holding it down. For a few minutes he strove to fight against it, but, as a few hours earlier in his prison room, he found it irresistible. Gradually it grew stronger and stronger, enveloping and guarding the silent figure on the throne. It pressed him back, yet held him from retreating. It surrounded him and he felt that it was even penetrating his body and working outwards in a mighty expansion. His lungs swelled and felt as if about to burst. His eyes bulged and he could see but indistinctly. His brain was whirling and, as a last resource, he turned painfully to the small group of police crowded in the doorway.

35

"SHOOT! Shoot!" he exclaimed in a hoarse, anguished whisper that seemed to tear the tissues of his throat. "Shoot—and kill this devil!"

One of the men sprang forward, revolver in hand. Within the semi-circle of chairs he hesitated, and raised his weapon. Hardy turned to watch the master-criminal. Dr. Night, in all the majesty of his, royal robes, sat on his throne, silent and unafraid, a slight smile curving his thin, cruel lips.

Yet the shot did not come.

Hardy painfully turned. The man was swaying on his feet, a look of blank terror on his face. Presently he braced himself land, raised the revolver to the level of his face. For a full minute he stood thus, motionless. Then his fingers contracted and the sound of the shot re-echoed through the silences of the hall. Again and again: the echoes of the shot whirled around the room, growing; in intensity, until they jolted like peals of thunder. The lights dimmed and waned, until the place was filled with the gloom of a tropical storm. This air became black and charged the intensity of lightning. The veiled figures on the stools bowed forward, until their white masks swept the ground. Amid the roars of thunders came the whistling whip of driving winds followed by the hiss of torrential rains. Yet none fell.

The room grew dark, until the journalist could barely distinguish the majestic silent figure seated on the high throne above him. A queer soft light crept around the walls of the room, lighting the painted landscape to a fearful reality. The roof had disappeared and in its place had come a dark drear sky across which swept heavy banks of black clouds, charged with electricity.

The distant hills lightened, as if by the reflection of a setting sun. Their peaks grew bolder and more vivid. From them came a rushing blinding wind that circled the room and swept Hardy off his feet. He felt himself borne upwards and onwards; whither he could not guess. The hills grew larger and larger and at lying amid a nest of low foothills, he saw a white-walled city.

High in the air he was borne and over the battlements to the centre of the painted city. There the winds gradually failed and set him gently in a tiled square. Before him was a throne, set high on tiers of marble steps; and on that throne sat Dr. Night. Hardy looked around him. He was in the midst of a deserted city. Yet the houses were firm and open. The shops were hung with various goods. Carts stood in the streets; yet no living thing save, the silent figure on the throne could be seen.

"Fool! Thrice accursed fool!" The voice of the master-criminal came softly to his ears. Calm and emotionless, it seemed as the voice of a god. "Fool, who challenged the powers of my fathers handed to me through long generations; listen and learn.

"For the wrongs your race did to my people in the days that have passed, I brought to their lands the curse of the snow-white powder. This is the message I give to you, the only white man who has seen the city of the ancestors of the sons of heaven."

"Long years ago the white man came to the coasts of the land my fathers ruled. They asked to trade and we did not bid them go.

"My people had their laws and their customs. Those laws and those customs had served and had made them great in the days when the white man was not. The white man brought with him the juice of the poppy. The white man gave it to the people of my fathers. The white man debased the people of my fathers—and would not be denied. They brought soldiers who fought the soldiers of my fathers until they were forced to submit to the will of the foreigners.

"My fathers were helpless. Their hearts full of grief, they left the lands they had ruled so long and came to the city that had cradled their race. They set an impenetrable barrier between their city and the world and lived, awaiting the day when the white men would be swept from the face of the earth. For such was the decree of the gods, spoken by the mouths of the priests, their servants. Years passed, and the wail of my people came to my ears. The white men had increased in power and in strength. He had brought to the land of my people other things. He had taught to them the illusion that lives in fermented drinks. My people were slaves, seeking the gold and silver and precious ores the divine gods had placed in the land, for the greatness of their white conquerors.

"In my compassion I left the city of my waiting and came among the white men. I learned their mysteries and added them to the mysteries that my fathers had taught me. I fought the white people with the snow-white powder they themselves had found and given to the world.

"What of your people now, oh Robert Hardy? White men and women have enslaved themselves to this drug; a drug more powerful and terrible than the poppy juice your people brought to my country. Now the white people cannot do without the snow-white powder— and they must go to my people for it. For that reason have I placed the people of my land among the people of the white race.

"I have conquered. But a little time and the white people will be but a nation under my feet. Already white women sell their bodies for the fateful drug; white men give their gold I for its possession.

"I come again. I come when the I snow-white powder has accomplished | its work. Australia belongs to the East, Your people have taken it; to I my people must it be returned. Until the days of recompense be accomplished there is war between my people and your people, Robert Hardy.

"And in the day of restoration there will be no will but my will, no thoughts but my thoughts; and the land from the rising of the sun to the setting of the sun shall be my land; and my people shall rule all people."

"Farewell, Robert Hardy. I come again."

The majestic figure on the throne grew dimmer and dimmer. The city became enveloped in darkness that no eye could penetrate.

Hardy felt himself lifted high into the skies, yet all around him floated the thick darkness. Higher and higher he mounted until the air grew thin and rare; his breath became shorter and more difficult.

With a mighty effort he flung his arms apart, rending the darkness around him. Suddenly he dropped, down, down, through an immensity of space. He saw the earth rising up to him, swiftly and menacingly; and closed his eyes, waiting for the crash that never came.

HARDY opened his eyes. He was lying in bed in a large simply furnished room. He looked around uncomprehendingly. It was a strange room. Where was he? What had happened?

He tried to think, but his head ached. Restlessly, he turned on the soft, yielding pillows.

A girl rose from a chair beside the window and came across to the bed. It was Doris.

He looked up at her gratefully.

"Bob! Do you remember?"

"Remember? Remember, what?"

"Dr. Night and— and the—"

The girl broke down, and lying her head on the pillow beside him, sobbed softly.

Dr. Night! Swift as a picture on the screen, the scene came back to him. Again he passed through the torture of the bare hour in the underground warren beneath "Forest Home." Again he saw Frost go down before a power he could not see or understand. His hand came up and tenderly stroked the girl's hair.

"Frost?" he whispered, questioningly.

"We don't know, dear."

"The police?" The girl shook her head slowly.

Were they all gone, the gallant little band of gentlemen who had thought life little to free the country from the menace of the East. Was he alone— the onlooker— the sole survivor? No, he could not believe that!

"Where?" Hardy asked painfully.

"Where did we find you?" The girl turned so that her cheek lay beside her lover's. "On the rock ledge, dear. There was an explosion. The bluff is a mass of broken rook. The police have taken charge. They will not tell anyone—anything."

"Then— there is— hope. Frost?" The journalist muttered faintly.

"We— hope— yes."

The girl's voice was very low. "There— there is always hope."

"And— Dr. Night?"

"You are the only one we know to be found, dear. They— they are all in there."

Again into Hardy's brain come the last words of the mystery man: "Farewell! I come again—"

Would he come again, this man with the strange mysterious powers of forgotten ages?

Yes, he would come again. Hardy was sure of that— and when he came— God help the people.

Painfully, Hardy turned so that his arm lay over Doris's slender shoulders. Out of evil had come good; out of the degradation and turmoil of human passions he alone of the lost band had come back to the happiness and home of a love.

The End

_______________________________________

Cover design by T Walker 2017

THE GREEN PEARL

1930

Contents

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

Chapter 9 | Chapter 10

Chapter 11 | Chapter 12

Chapter 13 | Chapter 14

Chapter 15 | Chapter 16

Chapter 17 | Chapter 18

Chapter 19 | Chapter 20

Chapter 21 | Chapter 22

Chapter 23 | Chapter 24

Chapter 25 | Chapter 26

Chapter 27

______________

1

"MR. ROHMER, I am certain that a woman entered my room last night."

Carl Rohmer sat back in his chair and smiled.

During the twenty years he had managed the Hotel Splendide he had listened to stories and theories sufficient to fill a library. Few of the confidences. received by him ever became public. It was his uncanny ability to stifle gossip and scandal that had won for him his position in Sydney's largest and most luxurious hotel.

"And, the lady, M'sieu. What did she do?" Rohmer carelessly picked up an ivory, paper-knife from the desk, tapping with the blade, softly and irregularly, on the polished wood.

"You think I had a pipe-dream?" the man on the opposite side of the desk, laughed lightly. "Let me tell you, Mr. Rohmer..."

"Tut, tut!" Rohmer's white hand waved away the suggestion. "I asked the question, Mr. Therrold, in the way of business. It is well to commence at the beginning of the story.  M'sieu had supper and retired to his apartments, yes?"

Mark Therrold nodded; A tall; clean-shaven man of about 35 years of age, he seemed strangely perturbed, huddling down in the big lounge chair and running his fingers, continually, through his fast-greying hair.

"My supper, if you call it so, consisted of a few sandwiches and a whisky-soda at the bar," he retorted. "Then I went up to my room. It was a hot night and after a shower I sat I smoking and reading for an hour. Then I turned in."

"And the time?'' The hotel manager nodded encouragingly.

"When l went to bed? About 12.30, I should say. I did not look at my watch."

"M'sieu slept well, eh?"

"No. It was too hot to sleep. S'pose I dozed a bit. Anyway, it was some time after I turned in that . I had an idea that there was someone in my room."

"The person— a woman, M'sieu suggested— made, some noise?"

"Hardly a sound. I woke suddenly with the idea that there was someone in the room; but I could hear nothing." Therrold shifted restlessly. "I simply felt there, was someone hear. Oh, I can't explain.  I had the feeling that there was a woman near.''

"A woman?"

"I saw her, later. I lay still, with my eyes half-opened, watching. Shifting restlessly, I managed to roll over so that I could watch the half-lights through the windows. After some considerable time, I saw a shadow lift before the light. I thought she was making for the bathroom, but she came to the side of the bed and bent over me."

"M'sieu says that the lady bent over him as he lay in bed. What then: did she' do?"

''Nothing. She stood for a minute as if listening to my breathing. Probably wanted to see if I was; asleep. I lay quiet, hoping to find out what she was after, but she seemed to. move quite aimlessly around the room. Once I caught a fair view of her. She appeared to be about 25 years of age, and fair. I noticed that her hair was closely cropped, just like a boy's."

"Yes?" The drumming of the paper-knife on the table became insistent. "You say the lady was young— and possibly of good looks and... M'sieu did not say what she. wore— possibly evening dress?"

"I shouldn't call it; that, Mr. Rohmer." Therrold laughed. It was a pleasant laugh, and softened the lines of his face. "To my ignorance it appeared to be more like night attire— just a long coloured wrapper, caught up at the side by a button or a hook."

"M'sieu has good eyesight. If I mistake not, he said that the only light came from the window— and the night, it was dark."

Therrold flushed. "The girl bent over me; I saw her quite close. S'pose she wanted. to make afire that I was asleep. When I moved, to try and get a clearer view of her, she disappeared"

"M'sieu missed nothing from his room?"

"Not a thing. When I was certain that she had left the room I got up and  searched. She had taken nothing."

"M'sieu intrigues!" Rohmer hesitated.'"Has M'sieu with him anything of value?"

For a few seconds Therrold did not reply. He stared intently at the little hotel-manager,  then let his eyes wander around the beautifully appointed office. Rohmer's room was more like a sitting-room than the nerve centre of a busy hotel. The large desk in the centre of the room, was of rare black oak, in keeping with the other furniture. Around the walls were black-oak bookcases, filled to overflowing. On the bookcases and tables stood rare specimens of china and statuary. The floor was of highly polished parquet blocks, over which were scattered valuable rugs and skins. A few pictures hung oh the walls, but each of them was signed by some noted Australian painter.

The hotel-manager watched his guest carefully. Except for the incessant tap-tap of the paper-knife, he as immobile. Once he glanced across at a tall Japanese screen in a corner— and then a little smile played on his lips.

At length Therrold appeared to have made up his mind to some action. Leaning forward, he pulled from his waistcoat pocket a small enamelled box. From it he took a roll of black velvet and, placing it on the blotting pad before  Rohmer, flicked it open.

"A pearl! " The manager learned forward, with a quick whistling intake of his breath. "M'sieu, the Queen of Pearls!"

It seemed as if a ball of lambent fire slay on the small velvet square. The  pearl was medium, in size and almost pure oval in shape, containing within its far depths a wonderful green fire, A lover of rare and beautiful jewels, Rohmer, bent worshipfully over it. His fingers twitched as if anxious to lift the beautiful thing and fondle it.

"The Romanoff Green, Pearl." Therrold spoke softly. With a pencil he gently rolled the jewel over. The movement seemed to set the iridescent green moving in long, surging waves of colour.

"So!" Rohmer could not take his byes from the jewel. "It is wonderful, Unique! There is not another like it in all the world. M'sieu, I have heard of— this, but l never hoped to see it. Behold— it is priceless-- no money can buy it!' But; so, it is worthless, for who will pay for it-anything? It stands alone--the one green pearl known to men. Ah, you beautiful— beautiful thing!"

"Beautiful, yes." . Therrold. spoke bitterly. " It should be beautiful; bathed in the blood of countless, men and women. Mr. Rohmer, can you realise the misery and sin this overlaid grain of sand has caused through its existence? Can you picture the thousands who have marched to misery and  death— because in the depths of the ocean an oyster conceived the only known green pearl? You cannot— nor can I.  Yet, if its history were known and published, the. whole world would demand its destruction. Wherever it has rested it has caused misery, covetousness and--"

"And, you, m'sieu?" Rohmer lifted inquiring eyes at his guest.

"I?" Therrold shrugged. "Yes, Mr. Rohmer, you can number me among, its victims. Five years ago I accepted a commission from the Grand Duke Paul, the heir to the Romanoff Crown, to venture into Russia and recover the Green Pearl. For nearly five years I have lived a life I shudder to remember. I have lived with men— no, beasts, devoid of all human instincts. Men drunk with the lusts of blood and rapine. For over a thousand days I have lived, not knowing if I was to see the morrow's light. I staked my employer's money— my own  life— on the quest. Oh, I've succeeded— but at what cost?"

"Behold, you have accomplished!" Rohmer waved his hands over the jewel.

"I entered. Russia from— Europe— intending, when successful to retrace my steps. With almost incredible luck I got in touch with the men who had the jewel. When opportunity offered, I stole the pearl from them— the men who. had stolen it from among the Russian Crown jewels. Unluckily, their suspicions against me were aroused. Failing to regain the jewel they denounced me to the rulers of Russia claiming that I had been the original thief— that I had stolen it from among the regalia. I was thrown into prison; my belongings and person were searched again and again— but l had hidden well. I was questioned— tortured. I escaped— and was recaptured; to be again questioned— again tortured. Again I escaped and for months lay hidden within a few miles of my former prison. Then a chance came for me to leave Russia, across the old German frontier.

"The opportunity appeared too easy— or perhaps I  was over-suspicious. Yet I accepted the venture. On the frontier I was again , arrested , and searched; but the pearl was not on me. For a time I thought that they would put me across the frontier. In that case I would have lost, .for the pearl was hidden in Russia. One night I was taken from prison and carried into the heart of the empire. Months of questioning and torture followed--and again I escaped. Now I had to retrace my steps to where I had hidden the pearl. It was still there.

"Then a friend warned me not to venture towards the European frontier.  I turned east, lacking food; money, and, even clothing; almost dead from the privations and injuries I has sustained at the hands of men who preached a universal brotherhood. Day after day I plodded on, towards the rising sun. Man, if I told you one tithe of what I saw and suffered you would call me a liar.

"One day when I had almost given up hope of getting anywhere, I crossed the borders of the Chinese Empire. There wasn't; much chance— for me; I had evaded the emissaries of the Russian Government, but now I faced the Chinese bandits. News of what I carried seemed to have flown before me. Again and again I was -searched— but always managed to conceal the pearl. Even when I got into districts where European influence held sway I found, that. I had enemies, secret and unscrupulous. Then, suddenly, I had to face an added danger— and a strange passport."

"In what, m'sieu?" Rohmer questioned, interestedly.

"I found that the Green Pearl was borne sort of sacred jewel of some long-forgotten Central Asian Empire. This meant, that while: I had not lost my enemies— and indeed they Seemed to multiply the closer I got to the coast— I had friends. It was through those friends I at last managed to get on hoard a boat— bound for Australia; That is all, ex―"

"Except that you have arrived here."

Rohmer gazed curiously at the man who had, into a few short years, crowded the adventures of a lifetime. "Now, m'sieu; as to the woman— the woman of the night. M'sieu suspects..."

Therrold shrugged. "The Soviet commands strange agent, and have a nation's wealth to forward their aims. Then," he hesitated. "There are others."

"The pearl, m'sieu."  Rohmer spoke firmly. "You should have deposited it in the safe of the hotel. It is my duty to warn m'sieu, that the proprietors cannot except any risk occasioned. If it were stolen--"

"A not uncommon incident in the life of the Green Pearl," Therrold laughed. "No, Mr.— Rohmer. The pearl has its— home and would be hard to find; even if I did not stand in the way; Point of fact; it has been stolen from me three times since I left Russia. Then I stole it from the men who. stole it from the Russian Government.  They stole it from the Romanoffs, who probably stole it from some race they conquered. Possibly that race had to record a theft— Who can tell how far back its. history goes— of theft and murder, for a jewel weighing only 18 grains. It's safe with me--"

"What's that?" Therrold was on his feet, automatic in hand. The air of weariness had fallen from his shoulders; Again he was the alert Secret Service Agent holding his life of less value than the safety of his charge.

Backing slowly, he came to the corner of the desk so that he commanded not only the screen, from behind which had come the noise that had startled him, but also the alarmed hotel-manager.

"You— behind that screen! Come out, quick! I've got you covered!"

"M'sieu!" Rohmer held out an explanatory hand.

"M'sieu, let me―"

"Be silent!" Therrold spoke impatiently. He turned to the screen again. "Come on out. I shall count three and then fire." He waited a moment. "One... . two..."

The screen was swept to one side and a tall, slender, pale-faced girl walked into the room. She held an open note-book in her hand. Falteringly, she. came towards the desk, her terror-stricken eyes fixed on the automatic, levelled at her.  Therrold's hand dropped to his side.  He stared at the girl in amazement.

2

CARL. ROHMER ran round the desk and. placed himself between: the girl and Therrold, waving, his arms wildly, and pouring out words in half the languages of Europe.

The Secret Service Agents stood back, watchful. He made no attempt to gather the meaning of the manager's excited torrent of words. He knew that  in time the man would exhaust his excitement, and a proper, explanation would then be forthcoming.

"M'sieu! M'sieu!" At length Rohmer dropped into English

"I, Carl Rohmer, am to blame, it is not the young lady.. . No, she is but an employee of the hotel— the establishment. It is the rule; and m'sieu must pardon that; it I make it obeyed, that she place herself behind, the screen. I-- I— myself― I am desolate, despairing. It is my fault, m'sieu. I blame myself that I did send for the girl that she might make for me a record of a story most marvellous."

So that was the meaning of the tapping with the paper-knife. Therrold laughed in relief.

"You gave me quite a scare, Mr. Rohmer. I'm not yet used to civilisation again. S'pose I must offer my apologies to the. young lady, for the shock I must have given here. Also to you, Mr.--"

The quick pause made Rohmer turn suddenly.

Therrold was staring at the desk. The manager's eyes went to the blotting pad. On it still rested the square of. black velvet— but the Green Pearl had disappeared.

"The pearl!" Rohmer gasped; "it had—!"

He made a step towards his chair to feel the Secret Service Agent's automatic touching his chest.

"Quite so!" Therrold's smile was chilly. "I am beginning to understand.  Quite an interesting plot, yet l don't quite fathom the reason for the lady of the night. Did she. search for the pearl on her own account, Rohmer, or was she but a decoy to make me betray where she had hidden it? No, you needn't answer, unless you really want to talk-- that is at present."

For a few moments the Secret Service Agent stood motionless; his automatic covering the manager and the girl.

Then he laughed, harshly.  "Of course, the lady of the night was a decoy. She drove me to you, I was fool enough to let you know that I carried the pearl and— yes, you had your plans ready— that girl behind the. screen to draw my attention at the psychological moment. I fell into the trap. Very pretty. Looks to me that I'll have to accuse you of stealing the pearl, Rohmer. You were behind me for a few seconds, while I was engaged in persuading your confederate to come out into the open. Yes, yes! You alone had the opportunity to steal it! But, how do you mean to get away with it? The pearl's in this room, I'll swear to that! Bluff me? I don't think so!"

Again Therrold paused, his keen eyes searching the room and its appurtenances.  He lowered his gun and bowed mockingly.

'Rohmer, unless you hand me that pearl at once I shall accuse you of
its theft. Oh, I know it's not on you.' The agent laughed at the motion of denial from the manager. 'I don't have to search you to know that. I don't think it's in the desk, or on it; for you expect, the desk to be searched. The girl hasn't got it; I'm certain of that, unless you two can act quicker than I believe. Is it in the room? You must have guessed that I'd search everywhere— to drop it into one of those delicate pieces of china would be absurd. Well, well, I'll be absurd, just to. please you.'

With lithe, swift steps the Secret Service Agent moved around the desk and seated himself in the manager's chair, his automatic ready for instant use. For a moment he stared at the pair before him, the hotel manager a picture of distressed dismay, the girl pale, but more composed.

'We may save a lot of unpleasantness...' Therrold hesitated. 'Pardon me, I am forgetful. Mr. Rohmer, may I trouble you to place a chair for the lady— before the desk. Miss— er— I haven't the pleasure of knowing your name— will you please be seated. Thanks, Rohmer, you'll find that chair comfortable. Yes, like that! Your hands well in sight, please. Thanks. Now― but it is understood, Mr. Rohmer, that neither you nor the lady attempt to communicate without my consent. Now I'll place my gun on the desk— so. Please remember, I have the reputation of being an excellent snap-shot— and , I shan't be careless again, to-day.'

He drew the telephone towards him, keeping a keen watch en his prisoners. Calmly, he requested the switch operator to connect him with police headquarters. A few moments and he gained the connection and requested that a couple of detectives be sent to the hotel.

Replacing the receiver he looked up at Rohmer.

'Perhaps I might have asked the direct question, before calling in the police.' Therrold's voice was almost careless. 'I believe you realise that I command the situation. I can assure you that I possess credentials that will ensure me all the help that I require.' He paused, then added suddenly: 'Rohmer, have you the Green Pearl?'

The hotel manager shook his head, slowly. His eyes were on the automatic on the desk, but a few inches from Therrold' hand. He was strangely pale, his eyes glittering, dangerously.

'Quite so!' The Secret Service Agent laughed. 'And you have no knowledge of where it is. No? Really you are very, stubborn. Mr. Rohmer. Now, Miss— er — well, names don't matter. Have you the pearl?'

The girl shook her head. Therrold frowned. He picked up the paper knife and tapped with it, meditatively on the desk.

'Strange!' The adventurer spoke after some moments meditation. 'I was just beginning to feel safe in this big caravanserai of yours— and hearing English spoken around me again. 'S'pose I relaxed a bit. That gave you the opportunity. Careless, very. Should have remembered that those devils of modern Russia manage to get quite decent people in their employ. No, there's no need to talk, Rohmer, unless you want to tell me where the pearl is. Just keep your hands in your lap and...'

He paused, the paper knife still drumming on the desk. Suddenly, its tapping changed from the rhythmic drumming to an irregular, staccato beat.

Therrold's eyes lifted, staring directly at his prisoners.

'Got that, Rohmer? No?' The man laughed slightly. 'Well, it was a simple request, in rather poor Morse, for the return of the pearl. Really, that tapping was a brilliant idea. Didn't use the Morse, or any code. Just the steady beating— and it caught me. I'd have read the Morse, if you had used that.'

A knock came at the door. Therrold left the desk and opened the door, peering out. Then he stood back, admitting a couple of men. An hotel attendant, who attempted to follow them, was thrust back and the door locked, and bolted.

'Mr. Rohmer, the manager of this hotel, and the young lady, name unknown, who he states to be his typist.' Therrold introduced his prisoners, in response to the bewildered looks of the detectives. 'I'm staging something like a hold-up, y'know. May I ask who is in charge?'

'Detective Sergeant Saunders, from headquarters.' The elder man spoke brusquely.

'Who are you and what are you doing with that gun?' 'Sergeant Saunders,' repeated.

Therrold; he stepped close to the man. 'I think this has a meaning for you, Sergeant.' He held up his closed hand. As the detective's eyes came down to his closed fingers they opened. On his palm lay a queerly cut and marked disc of gold.

'I understand, sir.' The officer glanced sharply at Therrold. 'This is plain-clothes constable Browne. May I ask your name?'

'Mark Therrold-' For a moment the Secret Service man's eyes met the constable's. 'It happens that I am a guest at this hotel. A bare half hour ago I was seated in this room alone, as I supposed, with Mr. Rohmer. I was lodging a complaint that someone had entered my room during the night. He asked me if I carried anything of value. I showed ;him a very valuable pearl that I was carrying out to England. I had taken it from my pocket and placed it on a scrap of velvet, on the blotting pad before Mr. Rohmer. I heard a sound behind that screen. At my challenge this young lady walked into the room. After explanations with her and Mr. Rohmer I turned to the desk— to find that the pearl had disappeared.'

Sergeant Saunders looked puzzled. A largely-built man, of ordinary intelligence, he had gained his present rank in the service by hard plodding work. Crime was to him but the happenings of the day and to be solved on rigid, orthodox police lines. Happenings of uncommon nature perplexed and confused him.

'Mr. Rohmer is a responsible person, sir,' he suggested, after an interval. 'I agree.' Therrold smiled. 'I'm holding him entirely responsible. Only we three were in the room— and he, alone, was in a position to take the pearl, unobserved.'

'And the lady, sir?'

'A matter of precaution. Understand, Sergeant, no one enters or leaves this room until I get that pearl back— or am satisfied that it is not in the room, or on the person of anyone here.'

'Are you giving Mr. Rohmer and the lady in charge, sir?' Saunders stared at the Secret Service Agent in dire perplexity. He had not the faintest notion of how he should act.

Had it been the case or an ordinary theft— yes; but, here he had been shown an emblem of power that awed him.

'Don't be an ass, man!' Therrold spoke sharply. 'I don't want anyone arrested. I want that pearl. Rohmer will not make any fuss at anything you think fit to do. He has his hotel to think of. Now, get busy and find that pearl.'

As Therrold turned impatiently from Sergeant Saunders, his eyes caught those of Constable Browne. The man stepped forward saluting sharply.

'S'pose you've forgotten me. Captain Therrold. Sergeant Browne— Tom Browne! Knew you at once, sir.'

For a traction of a second the Englishman looked at the constable. Then his face brightened and he held out his hand. 'Thought I knew your face. Sergeant Tom Browne. Say, Browne, can you get some action in this country of yours. I want this room searched for the pearl. If It's not in this room, then it's on someone here— one of the there of us. Shouldn't be difficult.'

Browne saluted again and with a muttered word to his superior officer, took charge or the proceedings. Here Sergeant Saunders was on safe ground and showed great ability. Therrold watched with keen admiration, yet with sinking hopes. The pearl was not in the room. At length the young man went to where the Secret Service agent stood.

'It's not in this . room, sir. I'll swear to that.' The man spoke in a low voice. 'Unless--?'

'If you can't find the pearl in this room you'll have to search them,' stated the adventurer, firmly.

Rohmer started an energetic protest, which was supported by the red tape sergeant.'

' 'Fraid you'll have to give them in charge first, sir,' interpreted Browne, with a broad grin. 'We're not on the Somme here, sir.'

'Charge, nothing.' Therrold spoke irritably. 'My authority carries me, I believe?' Browne shook his head, dubiously. For the moment the Englishman was perplexed. During the past five years he had lived where his warrant tor his actions was his ability to shoot first, and straightest. The laws and regulations of civilisation irked and baffled him.

The girl broke the tension. From the moment she had walked from behind the screen she had not spoken, obeying Therrold's orders, passively. 'Send for a women and she can search me,' she said in a low voice. 'I have not stolen your pearl, Mr Therrold, and I am not afraid.'

Detective Browne immediately called headquarters, asking for a woman searcher to come to the hotel. Then he went to the Japanese screen and righted it, then turned to Therrold.

'There's two in this room you can't suspect, Captain,' he said, briskly. 'Sergeant Saunders and I came in long after the pearl was lost. I suggest that you give Mr. Rohmer a lead by allowing the sergeant to search you. Then he can't think you're trying to put one ever on him.'

Therrold looked at the hotel manager, who nodded assent. He went to the screen, beckoned the sergeant to accompany him. Five minutes later he emerged into the room, pulling on his coat.

Without a word, Rohmer left his seat and joined the officer behind the screen. Almost immediately a knock came at the door. Browne opened it and a middle-aged woman entered. A few words from the police officer and she walked to where the girl sat. Almost immediately Rohmer and the sergeant came from behind the screen. The police woman touched the girl on the arm and walked to the screen. For some minutes the four men waited. At last the woman came out, shaking her head, negatively.

'No results, sir.' Brown swung round to face Therrold. 'The pearl's not in this room, and it ain't on either of you three people. It fairly beats me.'

Therrold looked uncomfortable. For a second he hesitated, then went to where the girl sat. 'I owe you an apology for the indignity of the search,' he said, haltingly. 'I know you must think badly of me, but--'

'You forget.' The girl smiled slightly. 'I was behind that screen during your interview with Mr. Rohmer. I can't understand how the pearl has disappeared. It is very valuable, you said.'

'It is not the value, exactly.' Therrold hesitated. 'The pearl is valueless, except to three groups of people In the world. It is so unique— the only Green Pearl— that it would be absolutely valueless to anyone but one of the three claimants for it. It is unsaleable, yet...'

'Some jewels carry a fate beyond their worth,' completed the girl.

Therrold did not reply. He looked at her with interest a moment, and with renewed apologies, he turned to the detectives.

'I'm afraid--'

'An exclamation from the hotel manager caused him to turn sharply. Rohmer was standing before the desk with the square of velvet in his hand. On the blotting pad, where the velvet had rested, was drawn a large red chalked 'IV.'

3

THERROLD gazed at the red chalk mark on the desk in amazement. A few minutes and he -walked to the windows and stood staring out over the Domain, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. Detective Browne went to him.

'Queer business, Captain.' The officer spoke in a low voice. 'Make anything of it?' Therrold smiled, but did not answer the question. He pointed out of the window towards the Harbor. 'One of the finest views in the world, Browne. This country of yours is .magnificent. A great pity you cannot attract a big population.'

'Not all immigrants are acceptable, sir.' Browne stared out of the window, following the line of Therrold's pointing finger. 'No! Yet Australia takes any immigrant, so long as he can pass a simple language test, is in fair health and is not a known criminal. I suppose the riff-raff of the European continent come here— Greeks, Italians, Russians, Maltese, Swiss—' The Englishman made quite an appreciable pause between each nationality. At the word 'Swiss' the detective made a slight sign.

'The Swiss make good immigrants, sir,' he protested, somewhat loudly. 'Mr. Rohmer has quite a number of them in his employ.'

'Is that so? I thought there were only three in the hotel.'

'That's so; but there is a fourth coming soon.' Browne turned. 'Mr. Rohmer. I've been telling Mr. Therrold about your Swiss waiters. Is it three or four that you have?'

'The Swiss are the finest hotel men in the, world.' Rohmer left the Sergeant and came across to Therrold and Browne. 'All my waiters are Swiss. I will have no others.'

'Then we were both mistaken, Browne.' Therrold laughed. He turned to the senior police officer. 'What do you propose to do next, sergeant?'

The man scratched his chin, meditatively. 'All I can do it to report the matter to headquarters, sir,' he announced after an appreciable pause. 'Mr. Rohmer's story agrees with yours. The pearl was certainly lying on the desk when you heard the young lady behind the screen, and turned. He says that he is certain that it was lying on the velvet when he jumped up from his chair to come round the desk. As there is no door on that aide of the room, I can't understand how it could have been taken.'

'Seems we're all at fault, sergeant.' Therrold laughed bitterly. Without detective Browne, he would have been at the mercy of this slow-witted official. 'I've lost the pearl that I sacrificed five years of my life to gain. I've failed in my mission, and that at the time when I began to think of success.'

Browne looked curiously at Therrold. The Secret Service man was taking the loss of the pearl far too easily. Even if he had not known the Englishman Browne would have been suspicious; but he had worked with the captain, he knew his tenacity of purpose. He guessed that the present attitude of careless ease— of quiet acceptance of defeat— must cover some rapidly evolved scheme.

'By the way, Mr. Rohmer,' Therrold continued, speaking directly to the hotel manager for the first time since the police officers had entered the room. 'I must apologise for the unceremonious manner in which I held you up. 'I have apologised to Miss...'

'Miss Easton,' supplied the hotel man, hastily. 'It is not necessary for m'sieu to apologise. In the excitement of the happening it was a mistake forgivable. In the room happened only M. Therrold, myself and the young lady. Would m'sieu steal his own pearl? No, no!' The little manager held out a white hand. For a moment Therrold hesitated, then barely touched it and turned to Browne.

'Come and see me, sergeant. Any time you're free, and we'll have a yarn over war days. My telephone number is— let me see— Ah, yes, 519. That's it.'

'Pardon!' Rohmer interrupted quickly. 'M'sieu is mistaken. The number of the telephone is the number of the hotel. It is B0 3175. M'sieu has the room with the number 519.'

The Englishman laughed slightly. 'I must again apologise to everyone for the trouble I have occasioned.'

He walked to the door and opened it. Miss Easton followed him. As he stood aside to let the girl pass out he caught Browne's eyes. A glance, full of significance, passed between the men.

In the big lounge, filled with the usual gay, inconsequent throng, Therrold paused and watched the girl pass through the swing doors leading to the general offices. A slight frown puckered his brow, a frown that deepened as the girl glanced back, and hesitated. For the moment he thought that she was going to return, but with a little shrug she passed out of sight.

Passing to the lifts, Therrold went up to., his rooms and dropped wearily into a chair. He' had lost the Green Pearl— the Queen of Pearls— he smiled at the title the hotel-manager had bestowed on the jewel. It fitted somehow; fitted a jewel that had glowed in the crown of more than one monarch in Europe and  Asia.

Thrice, as he had told Rohmer, the pearl had been stolen from him. And — each time it had come back to him — sometimes in circumstances that might be named decrees of fate. Now he had lost it again— for the fourth time. Well, he would have to recover it.

In the big city under the Southern Cross he had relaxed his precautions. He had thought himself safe, forgetful of the fact that the Soviet agents are scattered all over the world, unmindful of the fact that from the moment he passed the frontier into China every Soviet agent in the world had been apprised of his possession of the jewel— that world-wide orders had proceeded from Moscow that the pearl was to be regained at any cost. The years that he had spent in Russia had convinced him that the Green Pearl in Russian eyes was something very sacred— a belief even held by men, who protested a violent disbelief in God.

His experiences in Asia had convinced him that in some remote corner of that vast continent lived a race that looked upon the jewel with the utmost veneration— that the Romanoff possession of the pearl had made for their great ascendency over the country. He knew that if he escaped from the east with the pearl in his possession— if he succeeded in fulfilling his mission and placing the jewels in the hands of the Grand Duke Paul— that the Russian Government would go to any lengths— even to inciting a fresh world war, to regain it.

They dared not let it rest in the hands of the Romanoffs. The pearl would become the centre of innumerable plots and revolutions. Even in European Russia there were men who looked upon the jewel as a definite sign of empire— men who could follow any aspirant to the Russian throne who carried on his standard the sign of the Green Pearl.

He knew that he would regain possession of the pearl and carry it to England— to the man who had set him a task others had proclaimed impossible. He was confident of his ultimate success. He had worn the Green Pearl over too many weary miles to doubt— carried it through too many trials and dangers to lose confidence now that he again walked under the British flag.

Therrold was aroused from the reverie into which he had fallen by a knock at the door and the entry of detective Browne. A sign from the Secret Service man prevented him closing the door.

'Thought you'd come up,' remarked the Englishman. 'Sit down. I'll get some drinks.' Browne dropped into the Indicated chair and watched Therrold go to the telephone.

' Queer how the pearl disappeared.' Therrold spoke inconsequently. 'Can't understand it. What .did that chalk 'IV' mean? If it means that this is the fourth time the infernal jewel's been stolen from me, the writer isn't far out.'

'Keep an eye on the mirror,' he whispered, as he passed the detective when returning to his seat. 'There's quite a bunch of spies in this house.'

Browne glanced up sharply. The door was set at an angle that prevented him seeing through, though in the mirror he had a fair view of the corridor. Therrold's seat commanded a smaller, but direct view, at a different angle. No one could be in the corridor, before the room door, without one of the men being aware of their presence.

'S'pose you haven't formed a theory about that chalk mark, Browne?' Therrold was mixing the drinks. 'Say when?'

'Thanks, sir. Not a ghost of an idea. Quite a mystery.'

'Many Soviet agents in this city?'

''Reds' you mean, sir? Quite a few but noisy— not dangerous.' The Englishman sipped his drink, meditatively. Suddenly he swung to face the detective.

'How many Internationals have there been, Browne?'

The police officer was silent for a minute.

'The Third Conference of the Third International was held at...' He hesitated. 'in Europe about a couple of years ago!'

'There'll be no more Conferences.' The Secret Service man laid a strong emphasis on the last word.'

'You mean that a new International will be held?' Browne asked quietly. That will be the Fourth International?'

'The Fourth International.' The eyes of the two men met. In their minds rose the 'IV' chalked on Rohmer's desk.

'I asked you as to the strength of the Soviet agents in Australia.' Therrold spoke after a pause. 'You state they are negligible.'

Others might hold a different opinion, sir.' Browne looked perplexed. 'It is not for me--'

Therrold's hand shot forward and opened. Under the police officer's eye glittered the queerly shaped badge. The man sprang to attention. 'Before wife, children land parents.' The Englishman spoke as if reciting a ritual. 'Before love of women, honour of men, our country, king and Empire.'

'Sir?'

'Tomorrow I shall ask the Commissioner of Police to transfer you to special duty— and gazette you for long leave of absence. You will report to me, here. I think you understand that the Green Pearl has to be recovered— at any cost.'

Therrold's manner suddenly changed. Again he became the careless English officer travelling for pleasure— an attitude he had assumed on reaching Australian soil. He stood up and held out his hand, cordially, to his subordinate. Some sixth sense drew thee eyes of the two men to the mirror. The door had swung slightly more open. Framed in the glass was a young girl and behind her a slim grey-faced man, on his head a queer-shaped skull cap from beneath which straggled long locks of grey hair. His features were decidedly Asian.

4

FOR SOME seconds the two men stared at the figures in the doorway. Then Browne jumped to his feet and dashed towards them. He tripped over a rug and fell heavily. Therrold, more deliberate in his actions, sprang over the detective's prostrate body and reached the door, pulling it violently open.

The corridor was empty. Fifty feet along the corridor was a corner, where the passage led to the elevators. Glancing to the left, and seeing no one in that direction, the Secret Service man dashed to the corner and raced down to the lift gates. The indicators showed that both lifts were near the bottom floors, one of them descending and the other rising. The man and woman could not have escaped that way.

Going back to his room, Therrold examined the doors on either side of the corridor. He wanted to knock at each door and enquire who occupied the room, but he had no excuse for the action. At his own door he met Browne, who had searched he corridor in the opposite direction.

'No luck, sir,' the man reported. 'Gosh! I went a thud that time.'

'Perhaps it is just as well we didn't catch them,' Therrold laughed. 'All they did was to peer into a room where we were enjoying a drink. That's not illegal. Did you Recognise either of them?'

'Can't say as I did, sir.' Browne set the door at the old angle, before returning to his chair. 'The man didn't look quite natural— rather funny, in fact.'

'A Chinese?' queried the Secret Service man. 'I thought so, too. That help, Browne?'

The police officer thought deeply for a few minutes. He drew a small memorandum book from his pocket and turned the leaves. 'There was a Chink here, two years ago, sir, who gave the Department a bit of trouble. Name, Dr. Night— or that's what he chose to call himself.'

The detective paused and looked up at the Englishman. 'From what we discovered it appeared that he was the big noise in the Sydney dope-world. Get away after wrecking the house he occupied and killing a bunch of our fellows who were raiding the place. The description broadcasted stated [that Dr. Night looked like a Chink, yet had points that might lead one to think him to be of partly European ancestry.'

'The man at the door was certainly Chinese— or from one of the Central Asian countries,' observed Therrold, thoughtfully. 'If he is not pure Chink, then he comes from one of those mysterious tribes in Central Asia that seem to have provided the population for Europe and Asia. I heard quite a lot of queer yarns about those tribes while making my way from Russia to Singapore. One of them ran that in almost prehistoric days a Central Asian monarch over land that is now China, and most of the other parts of Asia, establishing what he claimed to be world-wide empire. From what my informant said, that empire lasted some hundreds of years.'

'What became of it?' Browne asked the question idly. He appeared to interested in his manuscript book.

'Drowned in its own success.' Therrold stretched out: his hand for the soda siphon. 'Degenerated until they could not hold their sway over the many tribes they had conquered. The legend tells that they were driven back into the hill fastnesses of their country and disappeared from those days practical politics. Most of the legends of Central Asia are founded on similar themes— and always with the same ending; that they or their descendants, are to come. back in the fullness of their old glory, reconquer their old territory and establish a far larger and more lasting empire. In; that is embodied the instincts of all races— the hope of a Messiah, to lead the lost nation back to their past glory.'

Browne was gazing into space, a puzzled frown on his face. He held the little book open in his hand, apparently forgotten. At length, he sat upright and closed the book. A quick glance towards the door and he leaned forward.

'That was Dr. Night, sir— the man who peered in at the door,' Browns spoke in a whisper. 'He comes from somewhere out of the heart of Asia and claims to be a sort of prophet king. There was a reporter on the Mirror. He could tell you quite a tale about him. From what was rumoured at the time, this Dr. Night kept aim a prisoner in his house for days— and he was in the underground room when Dr. Night blew it and Inspector Frost and his men up. Hardy's his name, Robert Hardy, and he tells some queer story of being transported into some hidden city in Asia and seeing Dr. Night on his ancestral throne, wearing a wonderful Green Pearl in--Lord!'

'The Green Pearl!' Therrold was all attention. 'The legend of the Green Pearl is that it once adorned the crown of some great Asian monarch. Why, Browne, even the rumour that I was carrying it gave me a queer sort of kudos in many districts I passed through.'

'Then Dr. Night came after the jewel, sir. You can bet on that.' Browne stared at the Englishman with wide eyes. 'And that girl; she is in it, too. Acting for Dr. Night, no doubt. That's why she was in your room last night.'

Therrold lit a cigarette, thoughtfully. For a time he lay back, blowing rings towards the ceiling. Suddenly he sat up. 'You've given me quite a lot to think about, Browne,' he said. 'Yes, I think our friend at the open door and Dr. Night are the same person. What's his game. The Green Pearl, you claim. I don't think you're far out. Now, does he know that I lost it in Rohmer's office? If. not, how long will it take him to find that out. Once he gets that information, what will he do. Go after Rohmer? If he does, should I keep tabs on him or stick to the trail of the Green Pearl. I'd rather he thought I still had it; then he'd only watch my dust. Anyway, the pearl's gone for the present.'

'Doesn't seem to trouble you, sir,' Browne chuckled.

'The thing that's troubling me at the moment is that 'IV' on Rohmer's desk. The pearl will come back. That's certain. I've lost and recovered it before.'

'Who's got it now, sir?'

'Quién sabe!' Therrold laughed. 'So far as I know there are three groups of people after it — and intend to possess it, by hook or by crook. The Soviet Government claims it because they rule Russia. The Romanoffs claim it because they ruled Russia and wore it in their crown. This Dr. Night appears likely to put in a claim for it because his ancestors once owned it. Who'll got it, eventually I'm not going to try to guess. One thing only I know— that is that I shall recover possession of it and deliver it to the man who sent me in search of it. If he's wise, he'll put it under a hammer until it's dust — but he won't do that.'

'Who was the girl with the doctor, Captain?'

'The girl who came into my rooms last night and searched my belongings.' The Englishman rose to his feet. 'Well, Browne, I'll see the Commissioner and get your release. Then we'll take the trail of the Green Pearl. By the way, you might tip your chief that Dr. Night is loose in this city. If he can jug him for a time that would help us considerably. We'd only have our Soviet friends to consider then. See you to-morrow, sergeant.'

For some time after Browne had left the room Therrold sat thinking deeply. Then he threw off his coat and waistcoat and stretched out on the lounge, closing his eyes. For nearly an hour he lay; then sat up and looked at his watch. It was just on two o'clock.

Dressing leisurely, he sauntered down the corridor to the elevators. Opposite the lift-gates a long bench stood against the wall. As he came towards the gates, Therrold noticed a man on the bench, apparently asleep. He looked at him curiously, but his face was .bowed, concealing his features. Therrold rang the lift bell then turned again to face the man.

There was something strangely familiar about him. He went to the bench and stooped to peer into the man's face; then straightened, with a low whistle. When the elevator reached the floor, he was standing square before the gates.

'Get down to the offices and bring up Mr. Rohmer as quickly as you can,' he ordered tersely. 'Tell your mate not to bring anyone up to this floor. That applies to you, too.'

The man looked doubtful, but Therrold was imperative. When the lift had dropped out of sight, the Englishman returned to the seated figure. Taking care not to touch him, he bent and made a careful examination. The man's hands attracted attention. The Englishman tore his handkerchief in two and with the linen covering his fingers wrenched the man's hands apart. Something small and glistening fell from the hands and rolled under the bench.

The Englishman bent and flicked the article into the open. With a sudden gust of rage he made as if to crush the thing with his foot; then changed his mind and rolled the article into a piece of paper. In his hands he held the Green Pearl. Whistling thoughtfully, he carried it to the window and made a careful examination. For some seconds he rolled it from side to side, on the paper; a grim smile forming on his lips.

The opening of the lift gates behind him caused him to turn swiftly. He crushed the Green Pearl into the paper and slipped it into his pocket, as Carl Rohmer stepped on to the floor.

'The attendant at the elevator informed me that you required -my presence, m'sieu?' The hotel manager glanced curiously from the Englishman to the seated figure. 'Is it of the Green Pearl that m'sieu would speak?'

'Send that man down and stop all persons coming to this floor, Mr. Rohmer.' Therrold spoke in an undertone.

When the manager hesitated, he added: 'You don't want a scandal here, do you?'

When they were alone Therrold turned to the seated figure on the bench, beckoning the hotel manager to approach.

'Know him?' Rohmer bent down, peering into the grey face. 'Mon Dieu! It is— he is―'

'Detective Browne,' snapped the Englishman. 'Murdered! No, don't touch him, man! There's something damned queer here.'

5

'ON THE FACTS, Detective Browne was murdered by Dr. Night,' said Mark Therrold.

'Loose reckoning!' Superintendent Dixon grumbled. The head of the Detective Branch of the New South Wales Police was a heavily built man with a square rugged face, relieved only by keen blue eyes, shining from under shaggy eyebrows. 'Thought you'd do better, Captain Therrold, with your reputation. All your facts are, that you and Browne saw a Chinese looking individual spying  on you— a Chink that Brown thought he could identify with a Dr. Night who gave us some little trouble a few years ago. As to the cause of death— nothing. Can't understand what medical science has come to. We've had half a dozen deaths in this State during the past two years— suspected murders— and the doctors can't tell me what drugs, or means, were used.'

'You're forgetting the presence of the Green Pearl in Browne's hands,' reminded Therrold. 'By the way, Superintendent, you have the pearl. I should like to try a small experiment with it.'

Dixon turned to a large safe behind his desk and brought out a small -box. Removing, the lid, he exposed the Green Pearl, lying on a bed of cotton wool.

'There's the cause of Browne's death.' The Englishman spoke sadly. He stooped and from a case at his feet took a live rabbit and placed it on the desk. From his pocket he took a pair of strangely shaped pliers.

'What's the game?' inquired Dixon interestedly.

'A little experiment in doctored jewels. I want to find out how close I was to death yesterday.'

The Secret Service man picked up the Pearl with the pliers. 'Hold that rabbit's head, please.'

Very quietly Therrold brought the Green Pearl to the rabbit's nose and rubbed it gently over the nostrils. Then he placed the rodent on the office floor, allowing it to roam at will. In sudden tension, the two men rose to their feet, watching the little animal. For some time it appeared interested in the worn rug. then started to hop across the room. A derisive smile was forming on the Superintendent's lips when the rabbit showed signs of uneasiness. It sat up and rubbed its nose with its forepaws. Suddenly it toppled sideways; a few convulsive struggles and it lay still.

Therrold bent and felt the still-warm body.

'So died Sergeant Thomas Browne.' The Englishman spoke with some emotion. He lifted the body into the suitcase.

'The evidence is complete, Dixon. Now we can reconstruct what happened in the hotel corridor. Some time after leaving my room, Browne picked up the Green Pearl, probably in the corridor. He held it clasped in his hand. Why he did not come back to me with the jewel I cannot yet fathom. Perhaps he was close to the elevators and sat down on the bench he sat there until he died. Take care to reason things out first. Anyway, of that pearl, Dixon. It is coated with some subtle poison that acts through he pores of the skin.'

'Not very strong,' Dixon grumbled. 'Why, it took all of ten minutes for the poison to kill that rabbit.'

'Possibly the power of the poison is disappearing by evaporation,' Therrold answered quickly. 'Possibly when Browne handled the pearl the drug was new and very strong.'

'But you and Rohmer handled the pearl only a few hours before,' objected the Superintendent.

'We handled the Green Pearl.' Therrold emphasised the two words.

'What do you mean?'

'That thing is not the Green Pearl.' Therrold lifted the pliers holding the jewel with an expression of disgust. 'This is an imitation. Why, its weight alone gives it away. This bit of glass weighs possibly thirty grains or more and the Green Pearl's only eighteen and a half grains. I knew it was not the Green Pearl the moment I lifted it from the floor.'

For some moments the Superintendent was lost in thought. Therrold lifted the pearl on to it bed of cotton wool and replaced he lid of the box. The pliers he placed in the case with the dead rabbit.

'Where is the Green Pearl, Therrold?' The Superintendent spoke suddenly.

'I should like notice of that question,' the Secret Service agent smiled grimly. 'Long notice, too. For I guess I'll suggest that the Soviet agents in this city have a better knowledge of the pearl's whereabouts than anyone else.'

'They're...' Dixon expressed contempt.

'That is a popular attitude towards Communism.' Therrold shook his head. 'Surely you know better than that, Dixon. It's all very well to express disbelief in the abilities of the exponents of that creed and to sneer at it a fad that will soon be exploded. Yet, in your heart you realise that it is a great force— one that will have to be very seriously reckoned with in the near future. We know that it is gaining fresh adherents every day, not in ones and twos but by thousands. You know that Communism, as preached by Soviet Russia, has the wealth of a powerful nation behind it.'

'The Communists have no political support here. Every party is against them. They've mighty little support anywhere in the world. There's not a Government in the world that has given them anything but the most partial recognition.'

'Yet the Communists have active agents in every political party and organisation.' The Englishman spoke emphatically. 'Even among the 'die-hard' Conservatives they have agents working for the general unrest that is to forerun the world war that is to sweep capitalists and bourgeoisie from this globe. You ask, what are they there for? To encourage unrest; to persuade the unthinking employer to press more rapidly on the working man. They're put there, and provided with capital to establish futile businesses, by the Soviet Government of Russia. Money talks. The exponents of the Third International have unlimited capital for their propaganda— not only from the Russian nation, which they now own, but from the tribute they draw from their adherents all over the world. Of course we know that quite a lot of that money sticks to the fingers of the men who handle it, but there's enough and to spare. Russia, of today, is the big financial centre for the world revolution to Communism.'

Dixon shook his head disbelievingly.

'Of course, it is difficult for you to see it,' continued the Englishman. 'You Australians are living in an era of prosperity, high wages and general comfort. So long as the present standard of living is maintained at the present level there is little to fear from Communism. Let the standard of living be lowered, however, below the line where the working man will have no spare cash to play with; below the margin at which the working man's wife has to forgo the luxuries she has learned to look upon as necessities— and the Soviets will quickly gain adherents.'

'Some people would say that you were preaching Communism, Captain!' Dixon laughed.

'There are many rich and powerful men in Sydney who do more than I do to help along the Soviet revolution,' Therrold continued. 'Let me instance. Some little while ago a body of Australian employers went to the Arbitration Court pleading that the working man required but two shirts a year, and the working man's wife needed only one new dress in every four years. That plan, did more to help Communism among the working classes than all the sermons and speeches delivered in your Domain--more than a whole year's income of Soviet Russia could command.'

'There's no Communism in Australia,' asserted Dixon, doggedly. 'A few talkers, that's all.'

'Keep the workers employed and amused and they won't heed Communism,'' laughed the. Englishman. 'I've spent five years in Russia, studying their methods: They can only succeed where there is poverty, discontent and envy. While the worker has a neat, comfortable home, plenty of clothes for his family, money for a fair amount of amusements, he won't listen to anything that suggests a change. Why, man, the Communists themselves acknowledge that. They openly state that there can be no revolution unless the workers are starving and discontented. You can hear that any Sunday afternoon in the Domain. But, go among the crowd that cheers the speakers and tell them there's a bookie up the street who is paying greater odds on the favourite for the next big race than is general, and that -crowd will melt like snow before the sun. Why? Because they've got money to burn— and while the, workers have that Communism can knock at their doors in vain.'

Picking up the suitcase, Therrold turned to the door. On the street he , hesitated. He had to get rid of the dead rabbit— and he would have to wait until nightfall to do that. He turned and went back to the hotel. Too restless to remain indoors, -he came out on the street again. Pangs of hunger reminded him that he had missed his midday meal. He glanced at his watch. It was past three o'clock. He half-turned to retrace his steps to the hotel, then halted. He did not want to go back here; the place held too many unpleasant memories.

At the foot of Hunter Street a sign above a door attracted his attention. It advertised a first-class restaurant. The place looked quiet, and that was what he wanted. He ascended the stairs and looked about him. There was only half a dozen people in the room. He sauntered across to a table. He ordered a meal that made the pert waitress raise her thinned eyebrows, then sat back to await its arrival. He had much to think over.

The Green Pearl had to be recovered, and he had but one solitary clue to the theft. That clue pointed to Carl Rohmer, the hotel manager. He was certain that the man could explain the disappearance of the pearl, if he chose. True, the search of his office had proved abortive, but the pearl was small and easily hidden. There was the girl behind the screen to be taken into account; and the Asian and the girl who had peered into his room while he had talked with Browne. That girl―

The crash of broken china brought Therrold from his reverie. A lady rising from an adjacent table had swept some crockery to the ground. The waitress hurried forward and the lady opened her purse to pay for the damage, accidentally dropping a book she carried. Therrold stooped to retrieve it. As he handed it to her their eyes met. The Englishman stared at the girl in blank amazement. It was the girl who had searched his room the previous night— the girl who had been with Dr. Night a few minutes before Sergeant Tom Browne died.

6

THERROLD only betrayed surprise by a sudden setting of the 'muscles of his face. As the girl took the book from him he bowed and. turned indifferently away. But the desire for the meal had now left him. He watched the girl keenly, yet very puzzled. When she had taken the book from his hand she had looked straight at him. She must have recognised him, yet not for a. single moment did she betray recognition. He watched her walk to the door. As she disappeared down the stairs, Therrold suddenly beckoned the waitress and obtained his check. Avoiding any appearance of hurry, he went down to the street. The girl was not in sight.

For some moments he searched the street in vain; then returned to the restaurant. The waitress stated that she had never seen the lady before. Therrold then sought the manageress. A carefully garbled tale, with a grossly untrue sentimental motif, resulted in a promise that if the lady again visited the restaurant the Englishman should be immediately advised.'

Therrold left the place, cursing himself for a fool. He had been daydreaming and had let a valuable clue slip through his fingers. If he had watched more closely he would have recognised the girl immediately he had entered the restaurant.; Then he could have turned back to the street and watched. When the girl left the place he could-have traced her, unobserved.

In Pitt Street, Therrold caught a tram to Bathurst Street and walked up towards Hyde Park. At Railton Chambers he went up to the third floor halting before a door bearing the name and designation 'Martin Thorne, Foreign Agent.'

Entering the general office, he asked for Martin Thorne, using, no courtesy title. The clerk looked up quickly, then, without a word, went to the inner office. He returned almost immediately and lifted the flap of the counter, in invitation. A nod indicated the inner room.

A short stout man with a ruddy, clean-shaven face, looked up at Therrold. For half a minute the Englishman stood in the doorway, then entered and placed his hat and stick on a side table. He turned to the man behind the desk.

'Martin S. Thorne?' The Secret Service Agent slightly emphasised the 'S.'

'Ah!' Thorne raised his brows. 'You are. ? '

'Mark Therrold. And you?'

'B13.' The words were scarcely breathed.

'Good.' The Englishman held out his hand. On his palm lay the strangely shaped gold disc. Without a word the head of the Australian Branch of the British Secret Service indicated a chair beside the desk. Therrold seated himself, leaning forward. He traced an intricate pattern on the desk top. Thorne smiled. 'I heard you were in Sydney,' he said. 'I hardly expected that you would come here. Is there trouble?'

'The Green Pearl has disappeared— stolen.' Therrold spoke without emotion.

'Not for the first time, I believe.' The stout man slipped down comfortably into his chair. '

'Suppose you want help. You know we're shorthanded here.'

'One good man will do. I must have someone I can depend upon during the next few days. I suspect the manager of the hotel— he, alone, appears to have had the facilities to annex the pearl. Who he is working for I have yet to discover. I know the Soviet agents in Sydney have been instructed to recover the pearl at any cost. Then, there is a mysterious Asian who appears to have an interest in the jewel. His name is Dr. Night. But, you know the pearl's history. I want someone to watch my room.'

'But you say the pearl has disappeared.' Thorne looked up inquiringly.

'That is right.' The Englishman hesitated. 'Yet I believe that my room will be searched again by both groups interested in the Green Pearl. Of course, an agent of one of the groups has the pearl. The other group, possibly, does not yet know that the pearl has passed from my possession. I want to know and identify, the active agents of both parties. Then--'

The Secret Service Agent hesitated.

Thorne opened his eyes questioningly.

'―A girl entered my room last night. I believe she was after the pearl. After the jewel had been stolen from me I saw her watching me through the half-opened door of my room. With her was Dr. Night. This afternoon I saw her in a restaurant in Hunter Street. Unfortunately she got away too quickly for me to follow. I have arranged to get word if she returns to the restaurant. I want her traced. I want to know her connections with Dr. Night.' Therrold paused, to continue In a graver tone. 'I warn you, Therrold, your man will be sitting in on a dangerous game. Already Detective Browne has paid the penalty for attempting to assist me. Your man will be in danger from the jump-off, for he will be a menace to both groups, as I shall have to use him as a screen behind which operate.'

Again he paused.

'I don't think that I am in much personal danger, for the moment. One group has the pearl and has no reason to act against me, unless I get too closely on the pearl's tracks. The other group might even protect me; a kind of double chance of getting the pearl from where it is now. Understand?'

'Well?' Again the chief unclosed his sleepy eyes. 'Your man had better act apart from me, for a time— until I give him different instructions. I will find some way to communicate with him as occasions require. Of course, we can recognise each other as guests at the same hotel. That's all, I think.'

'The message from the restaurant —in regard to the girl.'

'That will be a telephone message. If I am not in the hotel the slip will be placed in my room by one of the pages. Your man will have a key to my room and will get the message as soon as possible and act as he considers best.' Thorne nodded. He sat up and drew the telephone to him.

'Hotel Splendide?' He spoke after obtaining the connection. 'Yes? Captain Leslie Thomas speaking. I shall arrive in Sydney this afternoon. Will you please reserve a room for me. No. Yes. I have been advised to ask for No. 519. Well, if I can't have that one— what? No? 520? Yes? Oh, opposite 519. Yes, I suppose it will do. Right. Book it, please. Yes, Captain Leslie Thomas.' The stout man hung up the receiver and turned to face Therrold.

'No. 520 will suit us, I think. Opposite your room. You'll remember the name— Captain Leslie Thomas. His own name; we find it best to use our proper names, if possible. Tall, fair man, with a small military moustache. Good stand, and has his wits about him. Should suit you. M'm! Well, Therrold, am I to know the full story?'

Therrold nodded. For many minutes he spoke in a guarded whisper, recounting his adventures from the day he left London for Russia. When he came to the point where he landed in Sydney and went to the Hotel Splendide the Secret Service chief became more markedly attentive. As the Englishman finished his account of the search of Rohmer's office, he interrupted:

'Let's straighten that out, Therrold. You say you took the pearl in to the office and placed it on the desk before Rohmer. The only door to the office was behind you. Before you were the windows and the desk. The Japanese screen was on your right. You are certain that Rohmer, the girl and yourself were the only persons in the room. The girl never came near the desk until after the pearl had disappeared. Rohmer was the person closest to the pearl— closer than you, in fact. You allowed no one, except the police, to enter the room until some time after it, and you three persons, had been thoroughly searched. Ergo, the pearl was in the room all the time— and after you left it.'

'So?'

'You are certain that Rohmer could not have thrown the pearl out of the window?'

'I was facing the windows all the time. Again, he would have had to chance losing the pearl. The windows open directly on to the pavement.'

'Then the windows are discounted. You say the room was effectively searched?'

'Very effectively.' Therrold spoke decidedly. 'Sergeant Browne was an experienced and thorough man. The room was thoroughly searched.'

The chief meditated a moment; then cleared the centre of his desk with a sweep of his hand. Picking and choosing from the common articles, he questioned Therrold as to the places they occupied on Rohmer's desk. At length he had the scene set to his satisfaction. 'Does Rohmer use a fountain pen?'

'Don't know.'

'Ink well on desk?'

'Yes.' The Englishman thought a moment.  'Rather a wide-mouthed one― open; you know the sort of thing I mean.'

'Very handsome carpet on the floor, I think you said?'

'A very fine one. Old Turkey, I should say.'

'Then Rohmer was in luck that you didn't guess his trick.' Thorne smiled secretly. 'Yes, I'm certain that if you had guessed you'd have emptied that inkwell over his handsome carpet.'

'What do you mean?' Therrold stared curiously at the man.

'You'd have found the Green Pearl— if you had emptied that inkwell over Rohmer's very handsome carpet.' The chief laughed gently. 'Clever trick! Just waited his opportunity and slipped the pearl into the ink well. That man's got brains. Pearl under your eye all the time and you and the police searching the room. Very, effective!'

Silently the Englishman cursed himself for a simple fool.

'Never thought of that, eh? Probably would though, if you'd tackled the problem as you gave it to me just now. One's apt to get hot at the moment and miss points. Still, you did well, Therrold; don't see how you could have acted better. Now, I've got some information that may help. At the same time you mustn't rely on me too greatly. You know you've been permitted to use your position rather largely on a private matter— the B.G. winked the other eye— but, then, there are limits.'

'I had word from— you know.' The chief made a slight motion with his hand. 'To give you what assistance I could. You understand, of course, that we are greatly hampered here. Men and money are both lacking. You know what the Home Government is— get results without cost. We get little or no help from the Federal Government— they've got a police of a sort— remarkable inefficient. You'd better rely on the ordinary police for detail work. I'll have word got to Dixon to help you all he can. Now, get out! It was dangerous for you to come here— for you're being watched. Still, you had to risk it. I'll pass the word to London and if you want to communicate with me, tell Thomas. Good luck, man!'

Again in Bathurst Street, Therrold looked at his watch. It was a little after five o'clock, almost too early to return to the hotel and dress for dinner. He sauntered down to Pitt Street, determined to call in at the restaurant on his way to his hotel, to find out if they had learned anything about the girl. A few yards from the Market Street intersection he stopped so abruptly that several people bumped into him.

He was staring across the road at the corner of the block known as 'Fashion Row.' A moment's hesitation and he crossed the road and sauntered more slowly towards King Street. Before him, utterly unconscious of his presence, walked the young lady of the restaurant— the girl who had entered his rooms the previous night.

Therrold sauntered on, certain that the girl had not seen him or, if she had, did not know that he had recognised her. She was walking slowly, stopping every few yards to examine some shop window. At the King Street corner she turned abruptly and retraced her steps.

The Englishman felt caught and wondered if she would speak to him, but she passed without a sign of recognition. Again, at Market Street, she turned up towards Hyde Park, crossing the open lands to the Oxford Street corner. Here she had to wait a few minutes before the traffic at the five ways intersection allowed her to cross to the opposite side.

In Oxford Street she, quickened her pace and about three hundred yards up the road entered a small antique shop. Therrold wandered if the girl lived there. He determined to wait. In about. a quarter of an hour the girl emerged from the shop and walked to a tram stop. There she boarded a Bondi tram.

Impatiently, the Englishman looked for a taxi. He would follow the girl and discover where she lived. Then, another thought came to him. What had the girl been doing in the shabby shop? Telling the taxi driver to follow 'he walked to the antique shop window. The shop door was open and Therrold hesitated whether to enter or not.

He could see a slatternly woman, lazily wielding a feather duster amid a motley collection of antiques. As he watched she called on someone in the rear room, and the man came into the shop. He spoke to the woman and then went to a corner and switched on the shop lights. As the man turned again to face the woman Therrold started in surprise. The man, evidently the owner of the shop, was an Asian— in every point answering to the description detective Browne had given of the master crook, Dr. Night.

7

THERROLD awoke late the next morning. It was a Sunday and the weekend newspapers lay on the floor, before the door. Dressing leisurely, he went down to breakfast. During the meal his thoughts turned to the incidents of the previous day. He had had big luck, in spite of the loss of the Green Pearl. He had found the lady of the night— and she had led him to the lair of the one man he had always feared— the man he now knew to be Dr. Night. Yet the mysterious Asian had not the Green Pearl. Therrold was certain of that.

If Rohmer had acted for the Asian in the theft of the pearl, then the murder of detective Browne had been wanton violence, totally at variance with the character of the Asian, as described by Superintendent Dixon and detective Browne. Both men had insisted that Dr. Night would not use violence, except as a last resource.

That Dr. Night had returned to Sydney after his escape from the police two years previous, was remarkable. That he should live in the same police district— a district where the police would retain a vivid remembrance of him— was astounding daring.

Why had the man returned to Sydney? Why had he been about the Hotel Splendide at the time when the Green Pearl was stolen. Therrold was certain that the man was after the pearl; but he had not obtained it. Therrold was inclined to believe that Rohmer still had the pearl; that for the present he would retain it, too frightened to try to pass it on to those who employed him. Who were the hotel manager's employers?

Now that he had traced down Dr. Night and the 'lady of the night,' the Englishman had little doubt. Rohmer was an agent of the Russian Soviet, perhaps not directly but certainly one detailed to obtain the Green Pearl from him. A scheme formed in the Secret Service Agent's brain to lure Rohmer into his room. It would be easy to overpower and search him— but would the man dare carry the pearl on his person?

The previous day Martin Thorne had cleared many points that had puzzled Therrold. But he had not been able to explain the red-chalked 'IV' that had so mysteriously appeared on Rohmer's desk.

If Rohmer had stolen the pearl, then he had made that strange chalk mark. Therrold remembered that Rohmer, himself, had discovered the sign. He remembered that the man had been shifting aimlessly around the room while he had been talking to the detectives. He could not remember if a red-chalk pencil had lain on the desk— but the man might have had one in his pocket.

Sergeant Saunders would not have considered a red pencil an article of suspicion when he searched the man— but the search was long before the sign appeared on the desk and the drawing of the 'IV' would not take more than a couple of seconds.

Leaving the restaurant, Therrold went to the elevator doors. Before him was standing a tall, fair man, a small military moustache decorating his upper lip. As Therrold waited, the man turned and surveyed him, screwing a monocle into his left eye. He gave no sign of recognition; yet the Secret Service man was certain that he was Captain Thomas. The description Thorne had supplied was exact. When the lift came to the floor, Therrold held back, allowing the fair man to precede him. At the fifth floor the Englishman was compelled to alight first, being close to the sage door. The fair man followed him on to the corridor.

Passing Therrold, the man walked quickly down the corridor, to stop before room 520 and fit a key into the lock. The man acted ostentatiously, as if he was trying to attract Therrold's attention to his acts. As the Englishman halted at his door the fair man looked back, and winked. As Therrold entered his room he stopped abruptly. Someone had been in his room while he had been in the restaurant. The Sunday newspapers still lay on the floor, where he had thrown them, but on the table, under one of the windows, lay another newspaper. It was opened at one of the central pages. One of the advertisements had been outlined in red ink. The Englishman read the advertisement. It was notice of a meeting to be held that evening at a small hall in Sussex Street. Comrade Vivian Atkins was to deliver a lecture on his visit to Soviet Russia.

Who had placed that newspaper in his rooms? Whoever had done so was evidently anxious that Therrold should know of that lecture. Had the newspaper been brought to his room by Carl Rohmer? That was possible; but what reason lay behind the act? What connection lay between a lecture on Soviet Russia, in Australia, and the Green Pearl? Therrold's thoughts flew to the man in the opposite room. Had he watched for Therrold to go down to the restaurant and had then come across and left the newspaper on the table? That theory appeared reasonable.

He believed the man to be Captain Thomas who was to help him in his task of recovering the Green Pearl and Thorne had said that he possessed information that might be of value to him. He had told the Secret Service chief that he did not want Thomas to recognise him until he gave the signal. Had the man taken the newspaper as a means of conveying certain information?

The Englishman strolled leisurely into the corridor. As he turned to lock his door he whistled a few bars of a quaint melody. A moment and Thomas' door opened and the fair man came out. As Therrold turned from the door they collided slightly. 'By Jove, old chappie! Awfully sorry, and all that!' Thomas picked up his monocle and screwed it into his eye.  'My fault, you know.'

'Fraid I must accept some of the blame.' Here Therrold grinned amiably. 'Hope I didn't hurt you?'

'Please don't mention it, old chappie.' Thomas hesitated. 'Do y'mind if I ask if you're English? I am, y'know. Quite a few of us in this 'better 'ole', don't y'know. Beastly bore, Sunday, what? Nothing to do and all the time to do it. Eh, what?'

'It is dull,' agreed the Englishman. 'I've been wondering how to put in the time. Mess about the lounge, I suppose.'

'Oh, I say!' The Australian appeared staggered. 'How beastly awful. Now, I try to improve my mind, y'know. Only time during the week, I assure you. There are dandy meetings in this town, Sunday nights. Serious, old bean! It's the thing, y'know! They all do it. Shouldn't be surprised if they had to. Act of Parliament, and all that. It's a Labor Government, y'know. Strong on improving the mind of the proletariat, and so on, y'know.'

So Thomas had left the newspaper in his room. It was a clever trick and one not likely to be suspected by the hotel servants, if they had had entered the room. An hour in the lounge wearied the Secret Service agent. Thomas had disappeared or he might have started an acquaintanceship with him.

He sent a page for his hat and stick and wandered into the city. There were few people about and they wore n dejected air. Therrold turned into Hyde Park and then through the park to Oxford Street, and up to the antique shop. The door was fastened and from what he could see, there was no one in the shop. For some minutes he stood scanning the dusty articles in the window. Then suddenly he stiffened.

At one end of a glass shelf was a small enamelled box— the exact replica of the box in which he had carried the Green Pearl. He had thought his enamelled box unique. He knew that the Green Pearl had rested for centuries in a similar box, among the Russian Crown jewels. So far as he was aware the box was still in the possession of the Soviet Government. He had tried to get possession of it and had failed.

While passing through China he had chanced to be of service to a mandarin of high rank. The nobleman had been grateful and had opened his treasure house to the Englishman, asking him to select from the array of exquisite bijouterie and jewels a souvenir of their friendship. To his surprise Therrold had seen there a duplicate of the box in which the Green Pearl had so long reposed, in Moscow. He had selected the box, deeming it to be of ordinary value.

To his surprise the mandarin had hesitated. Therrold had immediately withdrawn his choice. The Chinese had, however, insisted on him accepting the box. In answer to his question, Therrold learned that the box was a relic of some long-forgotten empire and that it was held in great veneration in the district.

Three enamelled boxes of the same pattern and history, were known to be in existence; and all of them related to the Green Pearl. One was in Moscow, the second passed from the Chinaman to Therrold, the third was supposed to be still in the possession of the heir to the last kingdom. And here was the third box, in the heart of Australia; in the window of an antique shop!

In that shop he believed he had seen Dr. Night. Detective Browne had stated that Dr. Night had claimed to be the heir to some long-lost Central-Asian empire.

Walking back to his hotel, Therrold decided that he would try to purchase the enamelled box. First, the purchase would be an excuse to visit the shop.. If he found any objection on the part of the man he believed to be Dr. Night, to part with the box, then he would know that it was genuine. More, he would have uncovered another source of danger to himself.

The hotel lounge was crowded with guests and visitors. Therrold went up to his room. As he placed the key in the lock he heard the faint echo of the melody he had whistled himself that day. Turning swiftly, he saw the Australian's door open and a hand beckon.

The door was shut very softly and Thomas pointed to a hole bored in the panel of the door. Peering through the hole, the Englishman found he commanded an excellent view of his own door.

For nearly five minutes the two men watched and waited. Then the door of the room opposite opened and two men emerged. The first was a stranger to Therrold, and he took him to be one of the hotel servants. The second man was Carl Rohmer.

8

THE TWO men waited until Rohmer and his companion had turned the corner before passing across to Therrold's room. A glance showed that a very close search of the room had been made.

'How long was Rohmer here, Thomas,' asked the Englishman.

'About an hour,' Thomas grinned. 'I didn't disturb them for you're not the johnnie to leave things about.'

'What were they after?' Therrold asked the question, partly of himself. If the hotel-keeper had the Green Pearl, then why had he searched that room?

The memory of the enamelled box he had seen in Oxford Street antique shop came to Therrold. Did Rohmer and his Soviet friends believe that he had possession of the box in which the pearl had rested while in Moscow. Rohmer had seen him take the pearl from the .box. Had the hotel-keeper sought to obtain the box as well as the pearl?

From under a pile of clothing in one of his suit-cases the Englishman brought out a large box of cigarettes. He carried it to the window table and turned it upside down. Under the cigarettes was the enamelled box.

Thomas was making a systematic search of the room. Therrold, lighting a cigarette, watched him, admiring the thoroughness with which the Australian . went about his work. It was evident Rohmer and his companion had taken nothing from the room. They had failed to find what they had came in search of.

Therrold knew what they had sought. The little hotel manager had received instructions from his employers to gain possession of the box. He wondered. Did the men who ruled Russia know that there were three enamelled boxes. Now he knew that he was faced by two sets of foes; the agents of Soviet Russia, acting through the Australian Communistic organisation and Carl Rohmer, and Dr. Night.

He had thought that his task was to recover the jewel; to wrest it from the Communists before Dr. Night knew that they had possession of it. Now he knew that he had not only to regain the pearl, while safeguarding it from the Asian, but he had also to guard the enamelled box.

Impatiently, and waiting for Thomas to finish his search, Therrold caught up part of the newspaper. From it dropped a single sheet of writing paper. He picked it up and turned it over.

On the other side was a red-chalked 'IV.'

'Thomas!' The Australian turned quickly. 'Did you put that copy of Advance on my table?'

'Yes.'

'And, this sheet of notepaper?'

'No.' The man stared at the paper in surprise. 'That's queer, old man. What does it mean?'

Thomas ignored the question. 'I'll swear that this was written by the same hand that drew the red IV on Rohmer's desk.'

'So.' Thomas whistled softly. 'Rohmer told me that only you, the girl, Rohmer and the police were in the room when that sign was uncovered.'

'You can count out the police.' Therrold laughed. 'I believe Sergeant Saunders did handle the piece of velvet on which the pearl had rested, covering the sign; but he had previously picked it up. He had quite a lot to say when Rohmer showed the sign.'

'Well, count the police out.'

The Australian was examining the paper.

'For one thing, Saunders hasn't the imagination to play that sort of trick. Browne was one of us, and you could trust him. That leaves only you, the girl and Rohmer.'

'The girl never went near the desk. I was talking to either Browne or Saunders between the time Saunders searched the desk and Rohmer revealing the sign...'

'Then it was Rohmer.' Thomas spoke with conviction. 'We know the man's a Communist. He's been a constant attendant at the Communist hall for quite a time. What I can't understand is, why did he search this room just now? He's got the pearl. We're all satisfied as to that.'

'He wanted that box.' Therrold pointed to the table.

'Well, he didn't get it.'

'But why advertise his search in this way?'

'M'm!' The Australian scratched his chin, thoughtfully. 'Ask me something easier, old man. The only answer I can guess is— a sort of crowing over his own cleverness.'

The Englishman did not answer. He plumped, heavily, down in a chair, frowning thoughtfully. Suddenly he looked up and was about to speak when he hesitated, holding up his hand warningly. They could hear the tap-tap of high-heeled shoes in the corridor drawing nearer the door. A pause, then a sharp rap on the door panel. At Therrold's answer the door opened and Rohmer's typist entered.

'Miss Easton!'

'I want to speak to you, Mr. Therrold.'. The girl glanced curiously at Thomas. Therrold placed a chair but she refused it with a slight motion of her hand.

'Yes?' The Englishman paused; then: 'Will you let me know what I can do for you?'

'I saw you pass through the lounge, and followed you up here as soon as I could.' She held out a letter to him.

'You brought me this letter— that is very good of you But, why have troubled? One of the pages would have brought it up.'

'The letter is not addressed to you.' The girl paused, then continued. 'Mr. Therrold, I have been dismissed by Mr. Rohmer.'

'I'm awfully sorry.' Therrold spoke awkwardly. 'Is there anything..?'

'This letter is notice of my dismissal.' Again the girl held out the letter. 'You will notice that it is dated to-day.'

'Yes?'

'If you will read this letter you will see that Mr. Rohmer makes an indirect charge of theft against me— the theft of the Green Pearl.'

'That's absurd.' The Englishman spoke quickly, colouring with anger. 'You were never in a position to take the pearl.'

'Then you know nothing of my dismissal? You did not get Mr. Rohmer to write that letter?'

'Certainly not, Miss Easton. The only conversation I have had with Mr. Rohmer since the scene in the office has been in connection with detective Browne' s death.'

'Mr. Rohmer visited you in this room.'

Therrold looked at the girl curiously. 'Mr. Rohmer did visit this room— but I was not here— I was not even in the hotel.'

For some minutes the girl hesitated then moved a couple of steps nearer the Englishman, lowering her voice to a whisper.

'Mr. Therrold, why did you take the pearl from Mr. Rohmer's desk and then accuse, us of the theft?'

9

THERROLD WAS taken aback by the girl's accusation. The idea was absurd— to accuse him of stealing his own property! Yet one glance at her face was sufficient to show that she spoke seriously.

'I saw you.' The girl was very serious. 'I was watching you. You heard me move behind the screen and jumped up. You were then standing with your back to the desk, between me and the pearl. I saw you put your hand behind you. In a little while you moved aside and— and I saw that the pearl has disappeared.'

'I put my hand behind me.' Therrold was trying to recall his actions during those few minutes in the hotel office. 'I put my hand in my hip pocket, to draw my gun.'

'You had your gun in your right hand.' The girl spoke with conviction. 'You put your left hand behind you and took the pearl. I was watching you closely.'

'But you were behind the screen.'

'There is a hole in the screen. I was watching through that.' 'You say, I put my left hand behind me.'

The Secret Service man was chasing a vague memory. 'I may have rested my hand on the desk, to steady myself. I jumped to my feet, in a hurry— for I did not know who, or what, was behind that screen. Did my left arm move while my hand was behind me?'

'I did not notice. I came from behind the screen when you told me to. It is probable that during those few seconds you took the pearl.'

'You are certainly a remarkable young lady.' The Englishman again indicated the chair. 'Will you not sit down. You forget that I was searched by the police and the pearl was not found on me.'

'What is the good of arguing?' The girl made a weary gesture. 'You stole the pearl. You had me searched. Now I am discharged and— and you laugh and--and deny that you did it.' She turned, dejectedly, towards the door.

'Please wait a moment.' Therrold stepped towards her. 'You said you were discharged on suspicion of being: concerned in the theft of the pearl. You mean that you have been given notice because you were searched?'

'I am discharged. I am to go at once.' The girl flared round on him, angrily. 'Why don't you read that letter?'

Therrold opened the envelope and withdrew a typed sheet of hotel letter paper. The writing was brief, merely stating that the girl was dismissed for unsatisfactory conduct.

'What do you want me to do, Miss Easton?

'If you are just you will go to Mr. Rohmer and tell him that you have found the pearl and that it was all a mistake. Perhaps, then, he will allow me to stay on.'

'But, I have not the pearl.' Therrold thought for a moment. 'This letter says nothing about the pearl.'

'Is it likely?' She laughed bitterly. 'Mr. Rohmer would not commit himself to that— on paper. I went to him and asked for the reason for my dismissal and he told me that it was because I was concerned in the disappearance of the Green Pearl. He said it was a rule of the hotel that any employee concerned in— in anything like that, shall be dismissed. Oh, they're all like that, these foreign managers. They never give an employee notice. They kick you out on the slightest pretext and refuse to give a reference.'

'Look here!' Therrold spoke impulsively. 'I am not standing for that. You're all at sea in your deductions. I did not take the pearl and I have a very good notion who did take it and where is it now. I'm not going to see you discharged for something you never did. Now, go down into the lounge and wait there for me. I'll have a word with Mr. Carl Rohmer, and I think he'll squirm.'

With a slight nod the girl walked ' out of the room. In the corridor she faced Therrold again. 'You won't be long, will you. If Mr. Rohmer finds me sitting in the lounge he'll turn me out in the street, and without my things.'

'I'll come right away.' Therrold picked up his coat. Making a sign to Thomas to await his return, he followed the girl to the elevators. In the lounge Therrold motioned the girl to a seat and then went in search of the hotel manager.

Rohmer was not in his private room and the office boy could not say where he was. All the Englishman could discover was that Rohmer was somewhere in the building. He sent one of the pages to discover the manager and tell him that he wished to speak to him, in the lounge. Then he went back to the girl. She brightened when she saw him coming across the lounge to her.

For some time the Englishman paced the lounge, his blood boiling at the arbitrary and unjust action of the man he was now certain had stolen the Green Pearl. A quarter of an hour passed and then Rohmer hastily entered the lounge and went to Therrold. 'M'sieu -wishes to speak to me, is it not so.' The man was all smiles and urbanity.

'Yes.' Therrold spoke abruptly. 'I have been accused of stealing my Green Pearl.'

'The Green Pearl? But — that is impossible. M'sieu to take what he had already. It is absurd!'

'Just what I thought, at first.' The Englishman spoke grimly. 'Yet the accusation was made in good faith— and appears to be borne out by certain actions of yours.'

'You say, M'sieu?'

'Miss Easton says that she saw me place my left hand behind me— at the time I jumped from my chair and ordered her to come from behind the screen— and take the pearl from the desk. She further states that you gave, as a reason for dispensing with her services, the reason that she was suspected of being concerned in the theft of the Green Pearl.'

''Ach, Miss Easton!' Rohmer turned to the girl, roughly. 'What are you doing here. You have been discharged and should be away from the hotel.'

The girl did not reply. Therrold turned again to the man.

'Is it true that you have dismissed Miss Easton at a moment's notice, dismissed her for being under suspicion of the theft of the Green Pearl?'

'Miss Easton, she is discharged. She is not?'

'Let me get this right,' Therrold interrupted sharply. 'Miss Easton informs me that you dismissed her. When she asked for a reason for her dismissal you told her that it was because of the theft of the Green Pearl. Is that correct. Did you make that statement?'

'M'sieu is angry.' Rohmer spread his hands deprecatingly. 'I informed Miss Easton that M'sieu would not steal his own pearl; that to suspect me— a gentleman in my position— that would be absurd. M'sieu must remember...'

'Will you please explain how the girl passed me and took the pearl from the desk. You remember that until the pearl had— had disappeared― I was always between her and the desk,' Therrold interrupted. 'You and I, Mr. Rohmer were the only two persons in the room in a position to steal the pearl. You have said that it is absurd to accuse you. You stated that I would not want to steal my own property— a jewel that has been in my possession for months. You have made an accusation— direct, or indirect, as you will — against this girl. Yet I, the person principally concerned, have made no accusation--yet.'

'It is the rule of the hotel, M'sieu.' Rohmer protested, eloquent with gestures. 'She has, unfortunately, become involved in the theft of a valuable. It is the rule. I am desolate, M'sieu— but it is the rule. M'sieu is merciful, but what can I do?'

Therrold was puzzled. The excuse for the dismissal of the girl was absurd, almost childish. Had the girl knowledge that she had not revealed to him? He wondered. She had accused him of stealing the pearl. She had inveigled him into interviewing Rohmer, on the pretext of obtaining her reinstatement. Rohmer was apparently defiant; yet behind his air of bravado Therrold thought the man very ill at ease.

'Mr. Rohmer.' He spoke after a short pause. 'I have accused no one of the theft of the Green Pearl. For the present I did not intend to accuse anyone. I thought I might recover the jewel without unnecessary publicity. But your action against Miss Easton has forced my hand. If you insist on dismissing the girl, then I must call in the police again and place before them the evidence that I have already obtained. I shall have to ask them to make an arrest — where I indicate. In any case, Miss Easton stays in this hotel until the Green Pearl is once more in my possession; either as an employee or as a guest. In the latter case you will send the bill to me. Understand. please, that I am concerned only in the recovery of the jewel and no person who was in the room when it disappeared will pass from under my observation until I have gained that object."

He turned; on his heels and walked to the elevators. Rohmer would give way and reinstate the girl. He did not doubt that. But, what motive lay behind Rohmer's action. Either the girl saw something that incriminated the hotel manager, or—

He suddenly, remembered that he had left the little enamelled box on the table of his room. Rohmer had been in the body of the hotel when he had gone in search of him. Rohmer had already searched his room for the enamelled box. He must know that he had left signs of the search. Had he-- With a sigh of relief Therrold remembered that he had bidden Thomas to stay in the room until his return.

Thomas was not in sight when he entered his room. Immediately his eyes went to the table before the window. The newspaper and cigarettes were still there, but the enamelled box was missing!

Therrold made one jump to the bathroom door. Thomas was not there. He went into the corridor and knocked at the opposite door. There was no answer. He waited a few seconds and knocked again, without result. The Australian was not on the floor, yet he had not come down to the lounge! Why had Thomas left the room, the door wide open and the enamelled box exposed on the table?

He knew that if the agent had come down, to go out, he would have seen him pass through the lounge.

'Some jewels carry a fatality beyond their worth.' The girl's words came to the Englishman as he sat pondering the problem.

Had Thomas followed the long road trod the previous day by detective Browne? And, on the last journey they would not be alone. Time and again, during the years he had carried the fateful pearl, others had died who had come in contact with it. Pate dogged its path. Even the girl had recognised that. Or, had she meant her words for a warning. If so, what meaning lay in them. True, the man might return shortly, with a plausible explanation of his absence, but Therrold doubted that.

What a fool he had been not to place the box in his pocket before he went down to the lounge. Had the girl's tale been designed to lure him from the room. Had the previous search of his room been for the purpose of forcing him to reveal where the box was hidden, Had Rohmer watched and during his absence returned and taken the box, There was no sign of a struggle in the room, but Thomas was not a man who would surrender without first putting up a bitter fight.

Therrold was puzzled. He rose and commenced a systematic search of the room. A few minutes and enlightenment came. The room had been prepared; for his inspection. There had been a struggle there, and the signs had been carefully camouflaged. In half an hour he succeeded in reading the story of what had happened there while he was in the lounge. He crossed the corridor and, with a master key, opened the door of Thomas' room. The man's belongings were scattered about in entire confusion. So, Thomas's room had also been searched. For what reason? A few moments and he guessed. Someone wanted to discover if there was more than a chance hotel acquaintance between him and the man. Sincerely, he hoped that the Australian had had nothing connecting him with the Secret Service.

10

LEAVING THOMAS' room, Therrold. returned to his own apartment. His mind was racked with perplexities; with a sudden fierce anger against the men who resorted to any actions to promote their selfish ends. He smiled bitterly. Again he stood alone, fighting for his trust against overwhelming odds.

During the years that had passed since he first obtained possession of the pearl, he had made few friends; a few he had found willing to help him in his work. In every case something had happened to those men. Some had died violent deaths, others had disappeared without leaving a single clue to their fate.

He had thought that when he landed in Sydney he would find helpers of his own race to assist him with his burden. Browne's appearance had appeared almost providential. The man had been in the Secret Service during the war. He was skilful, daring, resourceful. Browne had died, violently, immediately the men who sought the Green Pearl knew that he was associated with him. Now Thomas, revealed as a helper by one' unguarded movement, had disappeared. Therrold had little fear for his own life. For some reason those who sought the pearl had decided that he was not to die.

Possibly, the possession of the Green Pearl had constituted him neutral ground amid the warring forces. If they had reasoned in that manner, then they had betrayed themselves into a weakness. He had no doubts as to his capabilities to carry through his mission. He knew that he would again become possessed of the pearl, as he had on former occasions; he knew that he would carry it to England and place it hi the hands of the man who had sent him on the quest.

For a long time he sat, pondering his problems. His eyes, ceaselessly searching the room, came to the newspaper on the table. Thorne and Thomas had intended him to go to the lecture on Soviet Russia. Why, he could not fathom. He had intended to question Thomas. But he might not have known. The move— for that it was— had been designed by the men higher up— one of the cleverest men in the British Secret Service. It would be foolish to disregard the hint. He would go to the meeting. He would attend Comrade Atkins' meeting that night. Perhaps Rohmer would be there also. A grim smile played round the firm lips. He stretched out his hand to the table, to the litter of loose cigarettes, and drew back with an exclamation of surprise. Rising from his chair he bent over the scattered cigarettes. Surely there was a meaning on that table. A few moments study and he laughed. Those little cylinders were lying in symmetrical order.

|― ―|| ―| ―|||―― ――||―

Here was an adaptation of the Morse code signals. The upright cigarette represented dots and the parallel cigarettes dashes. The | followed by the ―represented 'A'. The ―|| spelt 'D'. The ―| meant 'H.' The ―||| 'B', and so on. Therrold found a pencil and scribbled down the code. For his first attempt he obtained A D N B O X.

From the ambiguous message stood out the word 'box.' But, what did 'ADN' mean?

Again he took up his pencil, attacking the puzzle.

|―, A; |――, W.

With an abrupt motion he tore the paper and started afresh.

|――||, L; ―|―|, C; ||, I; ――, M; ――|, G; |―, A.

LCIMGA.

This was, obviously, a poorer attempt than the first. Again he turned to the paper:

|――|, P; |―, A; |― ||, L; |―――, J; ―||―. X.

Here was no better result. Yet he knew that he was getting closer to the correct solution; working down the alphabet on a systematic plan. Only two more alternatives remained. The next attempt was also a failure. Then, taking the first letter as 'W,' the Secret Service Agent determined to follow it with a vowel. The next two signs '||' represented 'i' and the following pair of cigarettes must mean 'N.' Now his mind flew to his first attempt at a solution. He had had 'BOX'; with the first three letters of his latest solution he had a compound word: 'WINBOX.'

Had he succeeded? Was the enamelled box somewhere about the window. For some time he searched without success. The blind was half-way down. Therrold caught at the cord and jerked. The blind rolled up almost to the roller, then stopped without being checked. He pulled down the blind and sent it up again. It stopped in the same place. Pulling it down again he sought the solution of the check. Tucked in the torn salvage was the enamelled box.

Now he could reconstruct the happenings in that room while he had been in the lounge. Thomas had discovered that he was being watched. He had tucked the little box in the selvage of the blind and let it roll up. Then, hastily arranging the cigarettes, he had faced his assailants, confident that when Therrold returned to the room he would solve the puzzle. When Rohmer and his friends had overcome ' Thomas' resistance and had carried him away prisoner, they had returned and searched the room for the box, in vain.

For some time he sat fondling the little box, wondering where he should hide it. The blind had been a good, temporary hiding place, but was of little use as a place of permanent concealment. He could see nothing in the cold, bare, appurtenances of the hotel bedroom. There was no choice. He would have to carry it about with him, until he could again get in touch with Thorne and get him to take charge of it until he recovered the Green Pearl and was ready to sail for England.

He was about to slip the box in his waistcoat pocket when something in the patina of the enamel attracted his attention. Obtaining a powerful glass he scrutinised the surface of the box. A few seconds and he sat back, whistling softly.

This box was not the one he had brought out of Asia. Though alike in design and ornamentation, it was of very modern manufacture. This box had never had connection with the Green Pearl— it was not one of the three boxes manufactured by long forgotten men to the order of some prehistoric sovereign. The box was a fake; but where did it come from? Who had made it? and to whose order?

Immediately his thoughts went to the box on the shelf in the antique shop. Then to his memory came the imitation Green Pearl that had cost Sergeant Browne his life.

Box and pearl were imitations. Had they a still closer connection? But, from the imitation box he read more. Now he knew that Dr. Night, and not the Soviet Agents, were responsible for Thomas' disappearance. It was inconceivable to suggest that the Russian Government had had the box made and sent after him, to Australia. He did not believe that the Australian Communists knew of the box that had held the Green Pearl in Moscow.

Dr. Night, alone, had the knowledge to have the box made in this country.

Who would make the next move?  Carl Rohmer or Dr. Night? It was possible that when that was made he would find an opportunity to butt into the game. He determined that when his time came he would administer a severe check to those who now thought they held the whip hand.

A glance at his watch showed that it was after six o'clock. Dressing quickly, he went down to the dining room. In the lounge he passed the little hotel-manager. Did he fancy that in the small black eyes he could see a glint of triumph? He laughed quietly. Rohmer had certainly been very busy; but now it was his turn to play.

After dinner, returning to his room, Therrold changed into an inconspicuous suit of dark tweeds and picked up a book to pass, the time until he started for the lecture hall.

But the book would not hold his attention. For a time he fidgeted about the room, then went down to the lounge. There he found an almost quiet seat and idly watched the ever-changing throng.

'Mr. Therrold.' A low voice brought him alert. He looked round. Miss Easton was standing behind him partly shielded by one of the ornate pillars.  'Mr. Therrold, I want to thank you for speaking to Mr. Rohmer. He has reinstated me.'

For a moment Therrold thought to tax the girl with the part he believed she had played in the theft of the enamelled box, and the disappearance of Thomas. But she would deny the charge and he had only a theory.

'Not at all. Very pleased to have been of service to you.' Therrold tried to make his voice as inane as possible. 'By the way, I hope you have abandoned the absurd theory that I stole my own property.'

'You have not recovered— found it— yet?' The girl looked at him, he thought, strangely. 'You know, Mr. Therrold, I did not accuse you to— to make you speak to Mr. Rohmer and get him to reinstate me.'

'Then, you do not believe that I— er —acquired my own property?'

'I told you what I saw. Now— now, I am beginning to doubt.' A pucker of perplexity was on her brow. 'I— I asked Mr. Rohmer if you had made any claim on the hotel management regarding the pearl— and he said that you had not.'

'A claim difficult to substantiate.' Therrold laughed. 'Do you know that soon after I landed in Australia I asked an expert what a green pearl would be worth. He said that he would give me a blank cheque— to write in my own valuation, if I placed in his hand a genuine green pearl, for sale.'

The girl laughed quietly. There was a glint of amusement in the eyes that met Therrold frankly. 'I suppose that while you were talking to that expert you had the Green Pearl in your pocket. Did you show it to him?'

'I did not. Do you know, young lady, that the Green Pearl is the best known jewel in the world. It has graced the crown of more than one line of monarchs. If I had shown the Green Pearl to Mr. Angus he would certainly have asked me where I got it from and probably detained me until the police arrived. That would have meant publicity— and publicity would be bad for my mission. It is well-known that the owners of the Green Pearl would never part with it; but, if it did come on the market it would be guarded night and day by armed men, not carried about in the pocket of a casual traveller. No, I kept the pearl and my knowledge to myself.'

The girl glanced hastily round the crowded lounge, then bent to him: 'Mr. Therrold, you mean to stay here until you have recovered the Green Pearl, or know where it is?'

Therrold nodded wonderingly.

'Then?'

Again the girl glanced, almost fearfully, around and bent lower. 'Then, Mr. Therrold, I should change my room, if I were you.'

Before he could reply she swung round and walked quickly to the office doors. Therrold stared after her, amazed; but she did not glance back.

11

ALMOST at the south end of Sussex Street is a flat, ugly building of two stories, once a warehouse, now hall and offices in the occupation of the Sydney Communists. Access to the hall is obtained by a flight of narrow, steep stairs, opening directly on to the street. At one end of the rather square hall is a small stage; at the other end a refreshment bar, decorated with tea and coffee urns, and grey, thick, ugly china.

Therrold looked about him interestedly when he entered the ball. It was about three-quarters full, of an audience well dressed and, apparently of a thinking class of people. The Englishman crossed to the far side of the room and found a seat at the end of a row. A noise attracted his attention to the rear of the hall. There he noticed a group of men of a rougher type than the rest of the audience.

A few minutes after he had taken his seat a well dressed man passed into the row and took the seat next him. Immediately he opened a Sunday newspaper and became absorbed in the contents. Shortly after eight o'clock a group of three men marched down the hall and mounted the stage. Two of the men seated themselves at the lecturer's table, conspicuously decorated with a large water bottle and a couple of glasses. The third man advanced to the edge of the platform, clapping his hands.

'Ladies and gentlemen— or, should I say, comrades and friends.' Then followed the usual rustle of attention. 'We have with us to-night Comrade Atkins, one of the leaders of advanced thought in this country. For the past six months he has been visiting what we should call our spiritual home, Soviet Russia. There he has witnessed a contented working class; men working without the sting of the capitalist's lash on their back. Now, I'm not going to make a speech— that's not in my line. I'm going to call on Comrade Atkins, a man brave enough to tell the truth about what he has seen and experienced.'

A slight, round-shouldered man, wearing collared glasses, rose from a chair at the table and came to the front of the platform. His voice was weak and his diction hesitating. He had no notes and wandered from point to point in a manner irresistibly comical.

Therrold smiled. The lecturer's picture of Soviet Russia was strangely unlike what he had witnessed, and lived, during the three years he had been in Russia. The idea of the Russian moujik as a free workman, working because he liked it, was laughable. The Englishman knew, no one better, that Russia had exchanged an autocracy of the most dominant type for a bureaucracy in which the rulers practiced every form of corruption. He believed, sincerely, that in time Russia would settle down to a stable republic and again become a great nation— but those days were far in the future.

For over an hour the lecturer wandered, without point or plan in his remarks. He had abundant theories, but no facts. Of Russian conditions he appeared strangely ignorant, knowing considerably less than many of his audience. Suddenly he sat down and the chairman asked if anyone wished to ask him questions.

Half a dozen men, at the back of the hall, were immediately on their feet, shouting and gesticulating. As each question was answered a fresh group sprang on to their feet, all talking at the same time. A touch on Therrold's arm attracted his attention.

Before he could turn a slip of paper was thrust into his hand. He looked down.

'Walk round the room to the other side of the hall. Look at the man in the third seat from end of row, three rows behind this row.'

Therrold glanced at his neighbour. The man had twisted on his seat. staring back at the men at the back of the hall. Therrold strolled to the back of the hall, behind the questioning enthusiasts, to the opposite side of the hall. One glance at the man indicated and he recognised Carl Rohmer. The hotel manager was leaning forward, intent on the lecturer.

For a few minutes Therrold watched him. He dared not remain where he was for long. At any moment the flow of questions might cease and the proceedings terminate. Then Rohmer would go towards the entrance; if he passed him he certainly would recognise him.

As he was about to move away two men seated beside Rohmer got up and went towards the stairs. A man, who had been leaning against the wall close to where Therrold was standing, moved into the row, taking the seat next to the hotel manager. For a moment he leaned forward, as if interested in the proceedings. He passed his hand across his mouth in a peculiar manner. Rohmer turned and spoke in an undertone. The reply caused him to rise abruptly and move into the aisle, followed by the man.

Therrold bent his head, pulling his soft cap well over his eyes. Rohmer passed the Englishman without a glance and went to the stairs, followed by the man who had accosted him. Therrold followed them. About the head of the stairs there was a crowd. The audience had become tired of the proceedings and were leaving, almost in a body.

Keeping well behind Rohmer and his companion, the Secret Service agent allowed himself to be carried forward. Rohmer's coat was dragged back in the crush, something in the pocket hitting against Therrold's hand. The Englishman let the pocket sag forward again, but followed it with his hand. He slipped his hand into the man's pocket and withdrew a packet. Bending, he pushed back at the crowd behind him.

For a moment there was confusion, then a press of people closed between him and the hotel manager. He glanced quickly at his spoil; it was a small box wrapped in soft paper. A cry came from the midst of the crowd; the Englishman thought he recognised the tones of the hotel manager.

Someone shouted orders for the doors to be shut. A voice questioned from the foot of the stairs. Someone shouted that the hall was on fire. A tumult grew; word flew through the crowd that a robbery had been committed and that the door-keepers were insisting on searching everyone who wanted to leave the building.

Men shouted loud protests; a woman shrieked and fainted. The chairman, on the platform, clapped his hands, stamped and shouted. He shouted that a pickpocket was in the crowd. Someone called for the police — and the call was received with derisive cheers.

'What's been taken?' shouted a voice. 'An article of rare value has been stolen from a member of the audience here,' explained the chairman. 'It must be recovered.'

'Where's the blinking Communist?'

The retort was received with shouts of laughter. 'All property in common,' shouted a man.

'Now then, be good Communists. Get what you can. There's no thieves in the new state.'

Therrold thought quickly. He was in a tight corner. There was only one way out of the hall— and that exit was guarded by the door-keepers. The crowd at the head of the stairs was quickly thinning as the people passed down into the street. He looked at the windows. They were high on the wall. Even if he could get through one unobserved he would have a drop of thirty or more feet to the pavement.

There must be a way of escape; luck had held with him so far. He was certain that he had recovered the Green Pearl. Another slice of luck and he would get from that hall leaving Rohmer and his friends lamenting. He would not give up the pearl without a fight; but what fight could he put up in that open hall? He remembered that, although his automatic was in his pocket, he had forgotten to bring with him any spare cartridges.

For a moment he thought of appealing to the people around him. They looked to be honest. He put the idea from him with a shrug. Many of them would be indifferent— the majority certainly hostile. Most of them would consider him a thief, in spite of. what explanations he could make. He glanced towards the head of the stairs; the crowd had thinned considerably.

Stewards were already herding the lingerers towards the head of the stairs. He felt hopeless; a few minutes and he would be trapped. Again he had failed. Not yet! He would make a bold bid for freedom before they overpowered him. Under cover of the crowd he withdrew his automatic from his packet and shot back the safety catch. It was in his mind to go down the stairs and at the doors make a sudden bid for freedom. It was the only way.

The lights in the hall were suddenly extinguished! Hysterical shrieks, shouts of laugher and coarse jokes came from the crowd. Someone shouted that the involution bad commenced. A thin, voice rose in the strains of 'The Red Flag'; a man shouted 'Solidarity'; from the other end of the hall came 'The Marsellaise'.  Someone caught Therrold by the arm, pushing him towards the head of the stairs, thrusting rudely through the fast thinning crowd.

'Hurry up!' growled Therrold's guide. In the dim light of the candles the door-keepers were holding, he recognised the man win had sat beside him in the hall. 'We want to get out.'

''Arf a mo'!' One of the doorkeepers was trying to make a candle burn in the heavy draught. 'I'll have this right in a moment and then we'll search you.'

'Search— nothing!' The man laughed harshly. He leaned forward suddenly and struck the door-keeper on the point of the jaw. At the same time Therrold crashed the butt of his automatic on the other man's head!

The third door-keeper stood undecided, then opened his mouth to give the alarm.

The Englishman thrust the muzzle of his gun under his nose.

'Open that door!'

Still the man hesitated. Therrold struck him with the gun muzzle. As he collapsed his companion wrenched open the door.

The Englishman sprang into the street. Quickly, his companion seized him by the arm and rushed him up the street. A couple of turnings and they entered George Street. There the unknown stopped.

'Good night, Therrold.' The man spoke quietly. 'If you're wise you'll take a taxi back to your hotel. My work is finished.'

12

WHEN THERROLD tripped Rohmer at the head of the stairs the hotel manager caught, frantically, at his companion. Again on his balance, his hand went to his hip; pocket. For a moment he stood agape, then clutching his companion's are, he. whispered rapidly.

'What say?' The man shopped. 'What's gone?'

'The box, it has disappeared. The Green Pearl, it has vanished!' Rohmer's face was white and glistening with perspiration. 'There! I place it in the pocket of my jacket, made into a parcel. Of that, there is no doubt. Now, behold, it has taken itself away...'

'Shut your mouth!' The man whispered roughly. 'D'yer want to tell the whole world?'

With a despairing gesture, Rohmer indicated the empty pocket.

Tony Miller, a trusted member of the 'Seven,' thrust in his hand, without ceremony. The pocket was empty.

'There'll be hell over this,' he muttered. For a moment he stood undecided, then, seizing his companion by the arm, he dragged him down the stairs, thrusting him through the crowd without ceremony.

'Who took it?' Rohmer shrugged. In the excitement of the meeting he had forgotten the Green Pearl. His whole attention had been given to the lecturer. He remembered the sudden trip at the head of the stairs. The packet might have been taken from him then.

At the foot of the stairs a crowd of men and women were wedged tight into the little space before the doors. Three stewards were making frantic efforts to clear sufficient space to allow of the doors being opened. Halfway down the stairs Miller shouted to one of the men, by name. The man looked up

'What's the matter? Who called?'

'Shut that door.' Miller answered.

'Shut the door? Likely, with this crowd about. 'What's bitin' you?'

'Theft! Robbery!' Miller thrust Rohmer before him through. the press of people. 'Rohmer's been robbed! In the name of the 'Seven' shut that door.'

Violently, Miller thrust Rohmer before him down the remaining stairs.

At length they reached the narrow space before the doors. Some muttered words from the Communist and the doors were opened, sufficient to permit Miller and Rohmer to pass out into the street. On the pavement, Miller turned to the right and led down Sussex Street to George Street. Crossing Central Square he skirted the railway to Redfern Bridge, Rohmer trailing beside him, dejectedly.

At the bridge they had to wait for a break la the traffic. 'What will they say?'' gasped the little hotel-manager, tugging timidly at his companion's sleeve. 'Will they blame me?'

'Who else will they blame?'  Miller laughed scornfully. 'What made you wait there, after I gave you the office?'

'The gentleman— the lecturer— who talked. He was very interesting. He spoke of the country of Freedom— of Holy Russia!'

'Bunk!' The man spat viciously. 'Haven't you got over that? Why that is all eyewash for the crowd.'

'My friend!' Rohmer stopped in the middle of the crowded street to face his companion. 'It is the cause! Our Holy Cause!'

'The Cause yes!' Miller sneered. He dragged the little hotel manager almost from under the wheels of a speeding taxi. 'Well the 'Seven' will give you 'Cause' enough, not minding their business. How you came to lose it....'

Rohmer looked surprised and distressed. He seized his companion's arm,  forcing a halt. 'They will remember,' the Frenchman spoke with emotion. 'My friend, they will; remember that I alone accomplished. The pearl— I did acquire it, even at the risk of my life and liberty. I took it from the Englishman, that I, Carl Rohmer, might have liberty and equality to millions groaning under the iron heel of capitalism. They, will not forget that I, alone and unarmed, withstood the savage Englishman and his gun; that I was bound and searched by the police of the bourgeoisie. Will they forget that I served them faithfully, risking my life and liberty for the Sacred Cause?'

'They won't forget that you lost the bloomin' pearl.' Miller shook off the Frenchman's hold. 'Come on! You can do all the sprouting inside— if they let you.'

At the front door of a small, dark, two storeyed house, the agent of the 'Seven' knocked quickly three times.

He waited while he counted seven seconds, then knocked, slowly and distinctly, seven times. Immediately the door sprung open, revealing the hall in total darkness. Miller remained on the doorstep, as if awaiting some signal.

'Enter, friends.' The words were spoken in a deep, bass voice, from out of the darkness.

Miller stepped over the threshold. As his foot touched the door mat, powerful lights blazed over the doorway.

'Comrades Miller and Rohmer,' the deep voice boomed. A stout, tall man with a ruddy, good-humoured face, stepped from behind the door.

'Welcome! The Seven await you.'

Without replying, Miller ascended the stairs, closely followed by Rohmer. When they reached the first. landing the lights in the hall were extinguished. Immediately the 'Seven' agent halted. He tapped seven times on the wall. Lights on the floor above glowed out. A door on the upper floor opened and a slight, dark man with curly black hair, growing slightly grey, appeared.

'Comrade Miller.' The man advanced holding out his hand. 'Welcome. We have long expected you.'

'Here is Comrade Rohmer.' Miller barely touched the outstretched hand. 'He was too much taken with that sprouter, Atkins, to attend to business―'

'Comrade Atkins spoke well?' The man held out his hand to Rohmer. I have to bid you welcome to our headquarters, Comrade Rohmer. Comrade Miller belongs to the army of workers. He has little sympathy with the teachers of the Cause. Yet he is a most useful fellow— yes, a most useful fellow. But, I am keeping the 'Seven' waiting. Will you follow me?'

Miller shrugged. The man turned to the door he had come, out of. He allowed Miller to pass into the room, but barred Rohmer's path.

'Comrade.' he said, impressively, 'this is the first time you have been honoured by being allowed to meet those delegated by Holy Russia to save this poor country. It is not necessary for me to tell you that they are in an alien land— in the land of the enemy— under the cruel lash of capitalism; liable to be treated as spies— and murdered by processes they call legal. The safety of the 'Cause' depends on the 'Seven.' What would happen to the sheep if the shepherds were driven away, or killed. Alas! They would be scattered before the fierce breaths of the capitalists. In bringing you to them— in allowing you to see their faces— I am placing their lives in your hands. Enter, but be secret!'

Turning abruptly after this startling address, the man walked up the room and took his seat at the table.

Hesitatingly, Rohmer followed him. For a moment the hotel-keeper, paused, just past the threshold. At the far end of the room was a long table at which were seated seven men lounging negligently. Before the table was a wide free space and, near er the door, rows of forms. For the moment the Frenchman was depressed. His Gallic blood demanded the glitter of uniforms, the tall, lithe figures of soldiers, the pomp surrounding men who claimed to hold the dignity of empires in their hand. But, he saw a group of ill-dressed men, overfed, blotchy and gross men who looked what they really were, talkers and self-seekers, eager for anything that would pander to their vanity and selfishness.

A 'hist' from behind him caused Rohmer to turn. Miller was seated on a form close to the wall and was beckoning for him to go to him. For a few moments there was silence. At the middle of the long table sat Wills, the chairman, pink-faced and almost bald. On his right was a tall, big-made man with a mop of thick, black hair and a wide-spreading black moustache. On the chairman's left was the man who had welcomed Miller and Rohmer.

'The ordinary business of the meeting is suspended,' announced the chairman. 'It is now necessary to deal with a matter which has been referred to us from Moscow. From information I have received it appears that an Englishman, named Therrold, stole from the Soviet Government a Green Pearl of enormous value. The thief has come to Sydney and is staying at the Hotel Splendide. We, the 'Three' who act in the name of the 'Seven, instructed Carl Rohmer, manager of the hotel, to obtain immediate possession of the pearl and bring it to us. Our Secretary, Parkes, was informed yesterday that Comrade Rohmer had succeeded in his mission.

'It was arranged, for the pearl to be brought, here to-night and handed to us who act on behalf of Holy Russia.'

'Comrade Rohmer is in attendance,' interjected Parkes. 'I see him.'

The chairman nodded. 'Will Comrade Rohmer come to the table?'

Mechanically Rohmer moved to the table, facing the chairman. The seven men stared at him expectantly.

'Comrade Rohmer--' The chairman wagged an impressive forefinger-- 'A trust was given to you. I have learned with pleasure that you have been faithful and diligent. We await you handing over the Green Pearl.'

The little hotel-keeper strove to speak, but the words would not come. He shifted from one foot to the other, like a schoolboy caught in a misdeed. Wills smiled benevolently. He thought the Frenchman was overawed at being in the presence of the all-powerful 'Seven'.

'Do not fear.' Wills leaned forward, his fat body bulging over the table. 'You are among friends. We know that you have well served the 'Seven' and you will not -find them ungrateful. When the day arrives for this country to take her proper place in the Councils of the Free Nations under the protection of Holy Russia, you will be richly rewarded for the important service you have performed. Where is the pearl?'

'I obtained the pearl.' Rohmer spoke in a soft whisper. 'I took it from the man who stole it from Holy Russia. It— it has been stolen from me.'

'What?' The chairman sprang to his feet his face blazing with passion. 'You say it was stolen from you! Do you mean that you have failed in the trust that we gave you? Am I to tell our comrades in Holy Russia that we have only fools and children in Australia. Man, do you realise what you are saying? Do you know that you have betrayed our sacred Cause?'

'The pearl has been stolen from me.' Rohmer hung his head, dejectedly. 'I will try to recover it again.'

For a full minute Wills sat silent, then he leaned back in his chair, his lips curling in an ugly smile. 'I am afraid there will be no 'again' for you. Carl Rohmer,' he said, at length. 'While the 'Seven' reward greatly they punish severely. You have failed, Comrade Rohmer. Miller, I shall place the punishment of this man in your hands. You know what is to be done with him. Take him away.'

'I think not.'

A soft note spoke from the door. The men in the room started and turned. Before the door stood a slight, grey figure the features almost Asian in character, yet reminiscent of the Eastern European nations. He looked oddly grey and on his head was a strangely shaped skull cap. His eyebrows were well defined and from under their grey heaviness peered out piercingly black eyes, holding in their fathomless depths a weird vivid light.

A strangled gasp came from the men in the room. Miller was the first to recover from his. amazement. In a hoarse whisper he spoke two words: 'Dr. Night.'

For some seconds the man stood before the door, his hands concealed under the sleeves of his coat. With an effort Wills rose to his feet, leaning across the table.

'Who are you?' he stuttered. 'How dare you enter this room uninvited?'

'Tut tut!' Dr. Night moved a few paces into the room, halting before the table at which the 'Seven' sat. 'I have come here to-night because it is my will to come. I am Dr. Night.'

'What do you want?' The question came involuntary from the chairman's lips.'

'I have come for the Green Pearl— the Sacred Symbol of my House.'

13

THE SLIGHT FIGURE of the Asian appeared to dominate the room. The men. seated at the table, claiming to represent one of the most powerful nations of the world, shifted uneasily on their seats. Miller, after one long searching look at the slight, grey figure, had settled back oh the bench, sliding along it quietly towards the door, as if seeking to take the man from behind, at an opportune moment.

Jack Parkes, secretary of the 'Seven,' was the first to recover his self-possession. Wrenching his eyes from the grey man, he turned to the chairman, dramatically. 'Mr. Chairman, may I ask how this man obtained admission to this house.'

Wills looked uncomfortable, shifting uneasily in his seat. He made as if to reply, then laughed uneasily. The laugh, slight as it was, broke the tension that had grown since Wills had issued judgment on Carl Rohmer. Mabberley, the man on his right, laughed aloud. Parkes flushed angrily. He flashed on his companions an angry glance, then subsided into his seat.

'Ah!' Dr. Night took a lozenge from a small, enamelled box. 'Comrade Parkes forgets that he is not in Sydney Domain.'

'You say you are Dr. Night.' Wills spoke hesitatingly. 'How did you get here? The door is locked and there is a man on guard in the hall below.'

'The door is locked?' The Asian stepped hack and pulled open the door. 'Comrade Parkes sometimes forgets. He was eager to sit in judgment on the man, Carl Rohmer. I followed the man into this room.'

'Then Rohmer brought you here?' exclaimed Mabberley. He looked at the hapless hotel-keeper with eyes lull of venom.

'I said I followed him into the room.' Dr. Night turned his impassive gaze on the man. 'Carl Rohmer is not acquainted with me; in spite of the fact that of late I have made use of his hotel freely.'

'But, the man in the hall?' Wills leaned forward. 'Is he a traitor?'

'The man is tired— and irritable.' The Asian smiled mockingly. 'When I entered the house he was irritable. I soothed him— and now he sleeps— to an early recovery, I hope.'

'What do you want?' A short, heavily built man seated rear the end of the table boomed the question in a loud voice.

'The Green Pearl!' The reply came in a matter of fact voice. Again Dr. Night took the enamelled box from his pocket and extracted a lozenge.

'The enamelled box!' Rohmer sprang to his feet, pointing to the box in the Asian's hands. 'The enamelled box in which Captain Therrold carried the Green Pearl. I took it from him, leaving the box Mr Parkes gave me in its place. He stole it while I was in the lecture hall.'

'Is that true?' Wills asked the question, a frown on his red face.

'The enamelled box?'  Dr. Night looked down at the article in his hand. 'There are three enamelled boxes, of which this is one. Captain Therrold has one. The second lies in the Kremlin at Moscow; the third is here.' He turned and bent a peculiar look at the hotel-keeper. 'You say you took an enamelled box from Captain Therrold?'

'Enough of this foolery.' Parkes was on his feet again. 'I admit that I may have forgotten to lock the door. But— what of Smith, in the hall below. This man has murdered him. I demand that a search be made.'

A murmur of assent went round the table. Dr. Night smiled quietly, replacing the enamelled box in his pocket.

Wills turned angrily on Parkes. 'If you're so concerned about Smith, suppose you go and have a look at him.'

Parkes dropped back suddenly into his chair. Milson, the ex-pugilist, sprang to his feet.

'I'm not frightened of any bloomin' Chink,' he shouted. 'Keep this man here and if he's done anything to Smith I'll wring his bloomin' neck.'

'We'll both go.' Parkes left his seat, brave when supported by the muscles of the ex-pugilist. 'You fellows keep this man here. We won't be long.'

The slight, grey figure on the other side of the table did not stir. Quietly at ease, Dr. Night stood with downcast eyes, as if ignoring the decision of the men. Parkes moved down the table to Milson's chair and there hesitated as if waiting for his comrade to take the lead. Milson rose from his chair, apparently undecided how to act. At length he moved slowly forward, in a crouching attitude, his hands raised on guard.

Dr. Night made no sign. Emboldened by the Asian's disregard, Milson stepped forward and stretched out his hand. The next instant the ex-pugilist was lying across the table, a look of intense surprise on his face. Parkes retreated hastily to his chair, trying to look as if he had never left it.

Dr. Night had not moved. Only when Milson's hand had rested on his shoulder had he turned his head and looked the man full in the eyes.

'Go on, bully.' Mabberley laughed uproariously. 'You're not afraid of an old man like him?'

'Lor'!' Milson levered himself to his feet. 'Why, he's got a punch like the kick of a mule. We'll see who laughs now. 'e got me off me guard.'

Crouching low, the ex-pugilist approached the Asian with great caution, his guard held high and alert for every movement of his opponent. Stepping slowly, the man swerved suddenly to one side, hoping to make Dr. Night change his lethargic position and betray some intention. The Asian did not move. With a quick jerk the man swung for the jaw. More than one man in the room was prepared to swear that the blow was struck— but it never landed.

A bare foot from the mystery man's face Milson's fist hung in the air. The man's body, tensed and held. A look of surprise came over his face. He made a violent effort to step back, but found himself immovable. Slowly a paralysis crept over his body. The limbs grew rigid; the body poised in the act of striking. Only the eyes appeared free from the atrophy. In them came a look of terror— little beast-like cries came from the partly-opened lips.

With mild eyes Dr. Night looked from one to the other of the seated men. Their eyes were bowed to the table; they were afraid to look in the face of the man who had met violence with what appeared to be a living death. A smile of supreme contempt came on the Asian's lips. For a long moment he held them with his eyes.

'I have come for the Green Pearl.' The words fell sonorously and sweetly from the thin lips of the mysterious Asian. 'It is written: The secrets of the ages are the tools of the wise men. Deliver to me the pearl that is the treasure of my ancestors. It is not meet that it should rest in the hands of an alien race.'

'We haven't it.' The words came reluctantly from the lips of the man who sat at the head of the table.

'The man, Carl Rohmer, stole the Green Pearl from the man who stole it from Russian robbers. In the Hall of Talk he sat with it in his pocket. What has he done writs it? It is my will that I know.'

'You know a lot! Find out!' Parkes snapped the words, half under his breath.

'Peace!' The placid glance of the Asian rested on the man's face; a look of pain came into Parkes eyes. 'Let the keeper of the inn stand forward.'

Almost against his will, Rohmer Rose from his seat He tried to keep his eyes straight ahead, but they were drawn by a power stronger than his own. He had to turn and look at Dr. Night.

'The Pearl was stolen from me.' Unwillingly the words came from his lips.

'So?' Dr. Night bent nearer Rohmer. 'Where was Captain Therrold seated in the Hall of Talk?'

'I did not see him. He was not there.'

'You lie! My knowledge tells me that he was there and that he took the pearl from you. Tell me! I will that you tell me that which I wish to know.'

For a moment there was silence.

Every eye in the room turned to the hotel-keeper. In a queer, low monotonous voice the man commenced to speak, and all the time he stared directly into the fathomless eyes of the Asian. He spoke of how he had taken the pearl from Therrold, and his movements between when he had left the hotel on that Sunday night until he sat in the hall listening to the lecture. Then, without a change of voice, he spoke of Therrold's actions as if he had been with the Englishman. Accurately he described the stealing of the pearl from Ms pocket. Then he abandoned his account of Therrold's actions and spoke of his walk to the headquarters of the 'Seven.'

'You have spoken.' Dr. Night meditated a few seconds, then motioned the hotel-keeper back to his seat He turned to the stricken pugilist, still lying across the table, and muttered a few words.

Slowly the atrophy left the man's limbs. A look of terrified awe came into his eyes. Cowed and shamed, he slunk back to his seat.

'I have erred.' The Asian raised his hands above his head, almost as if in benediction. 'For a time there is peace between you and me, O Children of Outer Darkness. This much I say to you: Touch not the Green Pearl nor seek the place where it lies. Beware, I say! Seek not the pearl lest I call the Spirits of the night to blast you with a greater sleep than I gave to this man— the Sleep of Death.'

For more than a minute he stood with upraised hands, his keen eyes seeking those of each man at the table. On his face grew a look of mighty power and majesty— a power that burned in their eyes, paralysing their brains. In their ears beat the vibrations of mighty wings, soaring up through the low ceiling into the darkened vaults of the heavens. With obvious efforts the men drew their eyes from the slight, grey figure that appeared to be endowed with unearthly powers.

When they looked again he had disappeared and the door was closed.

14

TONY MILLER was the first to recover from the paralysis with which the mysterious Asian had confined them. He sprang to the  door and wrenched it open. The landing and stairway were in darkness. Shouting to Parkes to switch on the lights, he stumbled down the stairs and felt for the switch behind the hall door. A few minutes and the house was brilliantly illuminated.

A glance round the hall showed Miller the form of the door guide, Smith, stretched fast asleep in his chair. Miller shook him roughly. The man stared up, sleepily, then sprang to his feet.

'What are you sleeping for?' Miller shouted. 'Who was the bloke you let in?'

'Bloke?' The man rubbed his eyes, lazily.

'You have betrayed your trust.' Parkes was leaning over the banisters, pointing an accusatory finger at the man. 'Smith, what excuse have you to offer. Miller, you will attend to this man.'

'Shut up, you damned fool!' Milson vaulted the banisters into the hall below. 'Of all the blithering half-baked sheep's tongues, you're the worst. D'yer think yer preachin' to that slimy collection of bench-polishers in yer barn in Sussex Street, or iin the 'igh street, Randwick? You're all bloomin' talk! You're a leader of revolution? Bah! You? Why, at the first shot you'd be down in Lindemann's cellars forgetting you'd ever signed the pledge. Go on, you paralysing word-buster! No, thought not; yer ain't got ter guts ter do anythin' but talk.'

Wills loomed large at the top of the stairs, gazing down on the man below.

'What's the row,' he asked in his queerly low voice. 'Come up here, all of you. Do you want the neighbours to send for the police. Yes, you too, Smith.' He turned and went back to the meeting room. Half-sheepishly the men trooped after him.

When they had gathered and the door was locked he spoke again:

'It's not a bit of use you carrying on like a lot of kids,' he said slowly. 'We know how the man got in, and Milson can tell us what sort of a chap he is; oh, Bully. What we'd like to know is what Smith went through. I ain't blaming him. He was up against something real hard.'

'I didn't know there was a stranger here at all,' Smith protested. 'Miller came in with the hotel man and—'

'Mr. Chairman, I protest!' Parkes was on his feet, gesticulating wildly. 'How could the man have got in—' Wills turned his head and glared at Parkes with cold, pig-like eyes. Under the menacing glance the man subsided into his chair, muttering.

Smith waited a moment, then continued:

'Miller came in with Rohmer. After I had passed them upstairs, I switched off the lights and sat down. I remember hearing a knock at the door and then— then I think I must have fallen asleep. I remember nothing more— until I woke up to find Miller shaking me by the shoulder.'

Wills nodded his head gravely. He had expected a story similar to this. Dr. Night had won his way into the house by means of his wonderful mesmeric force. Yet, could he have mesmerised a man through a stout oaken door?

'We know what we're up against now.' Wills spoke reflectively. 'Now we've got to decide what we're going to do. This Dr. Night has told us not to go after the Green Pearl. On the other hand, we have orders from— from those we know— that we must obtain the pearl at any cost and forward it to Moscow. Well, we've got to make our choice now. If we go after the pearl— and it appears that Therrold has it again— then we are up against Dr. Night; and from what he's shown us to-night, he can handle the lot of us, single-handed.'

He paused a few moments, then continued: 'If we don't go after the pearl— we might as well go back to work. There will be no more money coming from— you know where. What we get now isn't such a lot— but it isn't to be sneezed at. Still, we have hopes that things will improve soon. Moscow's offered £60,000 tor that pearl. That's something to take into account. What's on the other side. Why, Dr. Night— and he only offers hard knocks. Don't know how you chap's feel about it, but  There's plenty of fools to do the rough work and—'

'That's all talk.' Milson stirred uneasily. 'Nice talk about this Moscow money and your personal expenses. What d'yer want? You've gotta cushy job as brings yer a thousand a year, sides expenses here. As for this Moscow money--'

'It wasn't until I got in touch with a certain union that I learned that it was possible for a union president to keep a fine house and have lashings of money to spend— on a salary of thirty bob a week. How do you do it, Milson?'

The man sat back, growling under his breath at the laugh that went round the table.

'As I was saying,' continued the leader of the 'Seven' amiably. 'We've got to choose between Dr. Night and our friends in Russia. Dr. Night's not a paying proposition, at present. Of course, it's possible our worthy secretary may be able to get in touch with him and arrange— something. He's good at that. Just to get a move on things, I'm going to propose that our good friend Rohmer be given a fresh chance. He didn't do so badly before. Dr. Night showed us that. And he says he can get the pearl again.'

'When the day comes...' Parkes sprang to his feet, waving his arms, wildly.

'...We'll give you a brace of automatics and let you bring Dr. Night to visit us.' Wills turned a baneful eye upon the man. 'That's a promise, Parkes, and don't forget it. Now, Rohmer, it's up to you. You said you can bring in the pearl. Well, you've got a week to do it in. You'll get all the help you want— but— we — must―have— that— pearl.'

With a nod, to indicate that the meeting was closed Wills rose form his chair.

In twos and threes, the man left the room and the house, talking in subdued tones. Miller caught up to Rohmer on the pavement before the house and walked down the street with him. For some distance neither man spoke.

At Redfern Bridge, the agent of the 'Seven' halted. 'You've had a lucky escape,' he said, shortly. 'Your luck was that Dr. Night thought to pay us a visit. He took all the spunk out of that gang. Lucky for you, I say; but I'd make a point of getting that pearl— I would, if I were you.'

He turned abruptly and disappeared into the darkness.

Rohmer waited a few minutes then walked down to Railway Square and hailed a taxi. Whirling down Castlereagh Street he heaved a sigh of relief at the narrow escape he had experienced.

It was a sorely puzzled hotel manager who walked into the Hotel Splendide. The lounge was almost deserted and he cast a quick glance around, in search of Captain Therrold. A young lady sitting close to the inquiry desk caught his eyes. The girl was a stranger to him, yet had the air of being a guest at the hotel. Rohmer prided himself that he knew every one of the hotel guests by sight and name. He went to the desk and rapped for the clerk.

'The lady in the dress of green and gold, who is she?' he asked impatiently. 'See! By the column, a few yards away. I do not remember her.'

The clerk nodded after a quick glance at the girl. He opened a ledger and swung it to face the manager.

'Miss Betty Carlington, room 531.'

Rohmer half spoke the words. The clerk smiled. 'No, sir, you wouldn't remember her. Came here just before dinner this evening— just after you went out.'

'From where comes she?' Rohmer asked impatiently. There was something strangely familiar about the girl; yet he could not place her.

'Melbourne, sir.'

'And the train, she comes to Sydney at midday.' Rohmer glanced sharply at the clerk. 'From the station to the Hotel— nearly six miles. How has the lady employed the interval?'

The clerk shook his head. The manager turned slightly, resting his arm on the ledge of the desk. A furtive examination of the girl did not satisfy. She was reading a book and her eyes were down. Shrugging, Rohmer went to his private office. He was perplexed. The girl was a stranger— yet somehow strangely familiar. It was strange— but how?

Hotel guests are birds of passage! He turned to a cabinet and took out a decanter and siphon. He wanted a stiff peg to steady his nerves, badly shaken by the events of the past hours. Emptying the first glass at a gulp, Rohmer mixed another peg and carried it to a seat by the window.

What a fool he had been to allow himself to be mixed up with Wills and his gang. He tried to puzzle out how he had become involved.

Ennui, first — of course. Sunday nights were slack, always, and then— there was curiosity. It had happened months before— many months, almost a year, Rohmer remembered.

The newspapers had been full of the conditions in Russia— and he had been curious. Someone had said that the newspapers were not printing the truth. Then— he had seen that advertisement. A man was to lecture on the real conditions in Russia — and it was a Sunday night. He had gone to the lecture.

There he had heard the revolution explained, on a parallel with the revolution of years before in his own country— France. The revolution had been the driving out of tyrants. It had been reasonable. He desired to know more of it. Leaving the hall he had purchased some of the pamphlets recommended by the attendant. A man had spoken to him, claiming that he had been in Russia and knew the conditions from personal observation. He had been interested and had asked the man to come to the hotel— to tell him more— and partake of his hospitality. The man had come again and again. He had talked well; he had explained much in a reasonable manner. But, how had he been drawn into the intrigues of the 'Seven'— the Soviet agents in Australia.

With a frown, he remembered. His friends had come to him and told him that certain men, antagonistic to the aims of Russian freedom, were to stay at his hotel. He had asked that Rohmer obtain certain information they possessed. It had meant entering their rooms— searching their papers. He had hesitated, yet under the persuasion of his friends had done this.

When Captain Therrold arrived at the hotel, Rohmer had felt the noose that he had placed round his own neck tighten. The man had come to him and demanded that he obtain the pearl from Therrold. He had refused— to be faced with irrefutable evidence that he had robbed a guest of certain papers. He had been shown how he could comply without risk— and had acceded to the demands. Now he was fully in the toils. He had taken the pearl and lost it. Now he was required to obtain it again— and he knew that over his head hung an awful penalty if he failed.

Fortifying himself with another stiff peg, Rohmer went up to the fifth floor. The corridor was deserted and lay, barely cold, under the brilliant lights. He went down to Therrold's room and paused at the door.

He was about to bend to the peep-hole he had bored in the door when he heard the elevator stop at the floor. The strange girl he had seen in the lounge was coming down the corridor. He waited until she entered her room; then went again to Therrold's door, and hesitated.

Turning again, he went down the corridor in the direction of the lifts. A few yards from the bend in the corridor were the floor switches. He opened the case and swung one of the handles. The lights in the corridor were immediately extinguished. Half running on tip-toe, Rohmer went to the Englishman's door.

Therrold was seated at the table beneath the window. At his elbow was a half-filled tumbler and the enamelled box. He was examining something he held in his hand.

A moment, and Rohmer saw the object.

It was the Green Pearl!

15

MARK THERROLD had regained possession of the Green Pearl. 'When he had reached his rooms, on returning from the lecture hall, he- had untied the packet, he had taken ; from Rohmer's pocket. As he had anticipated, the packet contained the enamelled box and within it- nestling on its bed of velvet, was the Green Pearl.

For some time Therrold sat staring at the jewel. The thing fascinated him. He could hardly withdraw his eyes from its soft, cool- lustre. He had regained the pearl! Now he had to plan how to keep it. Until he could carry it on board ship, en route for England and the Russian Prince. It was no easy task— to convey this pearl out of Australia and guard it on the long sea voyage against the cunning Dr. Night and the Soviet agents.

The problem was a hundred times more difficult than when he had landed in Sydney from the Japanese mail boat. Then his enemies had only suspected him of having the pearl. Now they knew! They had forced him into the open— to acknowledge possession of the Green Pearl. They were now able to concentrate their forces, hampered only by their mutual antagonism.

Now he was surrounded— and by foes he did not know. Could he win through first to the deck of a steamer, and then to England. Therrold knew that his greatest opponent was the mysterious Asian, Dr. Night.

Detective Browne had told him of the wonderful powers this man was said to control. Superintendent Dixon had added to his knowledge. Now he was able to identify the man, connecting him with legends he had learned while on his long trek across Asia.

Why had not Dr. Night tried to deprive him of the pearl while he was wandering across the plains of Asia. Why had he waited until he had landed in Australia before making an attempt to regain the jewel he claimed to be a sacred heirloom of his race? The question was unsolvable. For hours Therrold sat, pondering the problem. He must find a vessel sailing to England as soon as possible. He must arrange to get on board unwatched and unchallenged. There Thorne could help him. He must arrange some safeguard for the pearl while on board the ship, and before he sailed.

It would be wise to move to another hotel the next day. For the present? He took the jewel from the enamelled box and slipped it into the belt secured around his waist. For the time that was the safest place for it.

Suddenly Therrold looked up. Someone was tapping very quietly. He listened intently. The sound was very faint. It puzzled him, for he thought he heard it before that evening. With a shrug, he tried to put it form his imagination, but it persisted.

Suddenly in his brain it assumed a meaning: SOS SOS

The signal of distress!

But, who would be tapping out the signal of distress to him at that hour of the night? Immediately the Australian, agent came to his mind. Somewhere Thomas was hidden. But, was he hiding or was he confined? Surely the latter or he would not be signalling for help. The Englishman looked around. So far as he could judge the sounds came from the bathroom. He went to the door and with a key tapped a reply: WHERE

DONT KNOW came the rapid answer. Therrold now knew he was in communication with the Australian agent. But, where was he? Tapping an order to the concealed man to keep up a succession of signals, the Englishman circled the apartment. He found the signals were most distinct when he was in the bathroom. He circled that room, continually pressing his ear against the wall. He found the best results came when he was at the wall dividing the bathroom from the next apartment.

Returning to the bedroom, Therrold found the master key he had used to enter Thomas' bedroom earlier that day. He went to the door of the corridor. The corridor was in darkness and, in his anxiety over the Australian he forgot to wonder over that strangeness. Returning to his bedroom he found a pocket torch and again went to the corridor. A quick flash up and down the passage showed that no one was in sight. A few minutes search and he found the switch and threw it on. The door of the next apartment gave under the master key. Therrold stepped in and closed the door. He threw his light around the room, then switched on the room lights. The apartment was similar to the one he occupied, except that the bedroom lay on the opposite side of the bathroom.

A few strides and the Englishman entered the bathroom. On the floor, in a corner lay what looked like a bundle of rags. Flinging them aside, Therrold looked down on Thomas, bound and, gagged.

It was only the work of a moment to cut the throngs, yet it was some minutes before the Australian could stand up and allow Therrold to help him from the place.

'Thanks, old man.' Thomas leaned back in his chair and sipped a drink appreciatively.

'How long have I been trussed up in that hole?'

'All day,' the Secret Service agent replied briefly. He was rummaging in a suitcase, 'Fraid there's no chance of getting a meal for you at this hour of the night. Besides, I don't want friend Rohmer to know that you are free just yet.'

He produced a packet of biscuits and placed them on the table, at Thomas elbow.

'Lord, I thought I'd been there a week. Under those rugs I could scarcely breathe and I couldn't shift the beastly things off my head. Found a pipe against where I was lying and managed to get the door key out of my waistcoat pocket. Then I started to tap tap. Wondered if someone would hear and answer. Then I became concerned about my binge. Thought they intended to starve me to death, and, of course, wasted valuable time cursing the brutes.'

'Of course, it was Rohmer?'

'He and a couple of hefties.' Thomas spoke between mouthfuls of biscuits. 'They got me immediately after you left the room with that girl. I'd just come out of the bathroom and was going to the table to retrieve the enamelled box. They were on me before I realised that they were in the room. Hadn't a chance to put up anything of a scrap, y'know.'

'Wonder how long Rohmer intended to keep you there?' Therrold asked thoughtfully. 'Don't Iike to suggest you going back, but it would be interesting to know.'

'Thanks!' The Australian answered drily. He paused to attack the last of the biscuits. 'Don't feel like experimenting to-night. Ugh! Feel better now. What's the programme, Therrold? Am I to have a shot at that Frenchie? Lord, I'd love to get my hands on him!'

'Fraid you'll have to restrain your exuberance,' the Secret Service agent laughed. He took the enamelled box from his pocket and tapped it significantly. 'I managed to get the pearl back.'

'Good-oh!' The Australian sat up quickly. 'What's the tale, man?'

In a few words the Englishman recounted the adventures of the evening. Thomas was interested and asked a number of questions, particularly as to Rohmer's interest in the lecture.

'Thought the blighter was up to something of the sort,' he said, musingly. 'Now, how are you going to guard that bit of sea foam? After what you've said, the pack will be on your track, full cry.'

'Can't do anything, until tomorrow.' Therrold frowned. 'Then I clear out of here. First possible boat and I'm off to England.'

'Humph!' Thomas stretched, luxuriously. 'Jove, it's good to be free again. What about the registered post?'

'Not on your life. They'd know of that and the next move would be on the mails. No, I've a liking to carry the thing back in my pocket. That way, if they get at me again, I'm right on the job from the jump-off. That's a big advantage.'

'Then we'll guard it together from now on.' Thomas rose, stifling a yawn, ''Fraid I won't be much good to you, for the present. I'm as stiff as a swaggie!'

'Turn in there, old man!' Therrold indicated his bed. 'I'll watch until five o'clock and then you can take up guard until eight.'

'Right!' The Australian went to the bed. He turned with an exclamation. 'Say, old chap! Leave me here and take the pearl into my room. They'll never think to look for you there.'

Therrold nodded. The idea was good. Opening the door and making sure that he was unobserved, he crossed to Thomas' room.

16

WHEN Therrold entered his bedroom the next morning, shortly after six o'clock, the Australian was sound asleep. He awoke immediately the Englishman shook him. 'Jove, I've had a real sleep, old man. What's the time? Half-past six! Feel as fit as a fiddle, and as stiff. What time's breakfast. Lord, I'm hungry!'

'No biscuits,' Therrold laughed. 'You scoffed the lot last night, 'fraid. you'll have to wait for an hour or more. Don't think you'll be able to wangle breakfast before eight.'

Thomas tumbled out of bed and started to dress. When he had pulled on a few garments he bundled the rest of his belongings in his arms and started to the door. 'You want a shave old bean,' he said, judicially.

'I want a clean collar, at the least. See you later. The decencies of life will occupy some portion of the inevitable wait, but it will not decrease the natural vacuum. S'long!'

He turned in the doorway and looked back at the Englishman.

'Say, old chap. Is it still 'strangers ever,' or am I to have the inestimable honour of your society, in public?'

'Society, certainly.' Therrold hesitated a moment. 'Rohmer knows we're at least acquainted, so there's no good in keeping up that 'strangers' fiction for ever. By the way, you don't let out to your friend that you were ever a bondsman of his. When you're dressed, come over here and we'll go down together. I want to see the old scoundrel's face when he sees us walking into the dining room, arm in arm.'

Shortly before eight o'clock Thomas looked into Therrold's room to find the Secret Service Agent seated before the window. A nod, and the Englishman joined the Australian in the corridor.

The lift attendant betrayed no astonishment at seeing the two men together, apparently on intimate terms. He was accustomed to sudden hotel friendships.

For some time the two men loitered about the lounge. Rohmer was not about and Thomas continually urged that he was in sore need of one of the meals he had missed. In the restaurant, Therrold led Thomas to the table he was accustomed to occupy, motioning for him to take the seat opposite.

During the meal the two men talked on indifferent subjects; yet watching keenly for the hotel manager's appearance. At length they came to the conclusion that Rohmer would not come to the restaurant for breakfast, and went down to the lounge. For some time they occupied a seat in full view of the office door.

Rohmer did not appear and Therrold began to grow impatient. He went to the desk and asked for the manager, to be informed that Mr. Rohmer was confined to his room, indisposed. A short conversation between the two men and Thomas left the hotel for Thorne's office. It was necessary for the Secret Service to be informed of Therrold's plans. Again, Thorne could more easily, and without attracting suspicion, make the official arrangements regarding passport and berth, for Therrold to sail by the next mail boat. It was unlikely that either Dr. Night or the Soviet agents had learned of the connection between the Englishman and the Australian Secret Service.

Therrold loitered about the lounge for some time. He was waiting for Thomas' return. If there was any delay in finding a boat then Therrold had determined to move to another hotel. Again, the Englishman was most anxious to come face to face with the hotel manager and discover from his attitude if he had any suspicion that Therrold had robbed him of the Green Pearl in the Sussex Street lecture hall.

Thomas did not return to the hotel at the time appointed and Rohmer did not appear in the public portions of the hotel. Therrold began to get restive. He wanted action— something to do.

Then he remembered the little enamelled box in the Oxford Street antique shop. It would do no harm to saunter up to the shop and see if the box was still in the window. If it was, he would go into the shop and try to buy it. Then he would transfer the pearl to the new box end keep the old one he had carried from Asia as a souvenir of what he hoped would be his last journey through the wild spaces of the world.

When he returned to London — and if successful in his task — he would be a comparatively rich man. His record would be sufficient to gain him a good Job where a knowledge of the unfrequented places of the world would be of value.

Sending a page for his hat and stick, Therrold left the hotel and walked down to Queen's Square. Here he turned into College Street and along the length of Hyde Park, to Oxford Street. At the antique shop he found the enamelled box in the window. He looked in at the door. An old woman was applying a languid whisk to the few articles of antique furniture. Therrold entered and asked to be shown some specimens of black opal. The woman went to the rear of the shop and presently a young Chinese boy came forward, bowing low to the customer.

Therrold was about to address the youth in Cantonese, but refrained. It might not be wise to display a knowledge of Chinese dialect. He asked for some black opal and the youth went to the window and brought out some trays. Placing on one side the two or three specimens he intended to purchase, Therrold asked to see the enamelled box. The Chinese immediately produced it. The Englishman examined it carefully. It was certainly genuine, an exact replica of the one he had carried from Central Asia. He asked the price.

The boy took the box and examined it carefully; then shook his head, . negatively.

'What do you mean?' Therrold asked impatiently.

'No mark. No cash. No can sell.'

'Don't you want to sell?' The Englishman was puzzled. 'I'll give you a pound for it.'

The youth shook his head, putting the hand holding the box behind him. Therrold Increased his bid, but the Chinese reiterated, impassively: 'No can sell.'

'Therrold became impatient '

'You call again. Me tell boss. Him makee plice.'

Therrold left the shop reluctantly. He wanted the box and was prepared to pay a good price for it. But the youth was adamant. He would only sell articles that had the price marked on them.

Dr. Night was the owner of the antique shop. He had placed the enamelled box in the window of the shop for some reason, possibly as a bait. For whom? The only answer could be that the Asian was aware that Therrold had traced the girl to the shop. Yet the box had been on show when he crossed to the shop, after the girl had left and had looked in at the window. But it was quite possible that he had not been the only person following the girl. It was possible that she had seen Therrold in the tea shop and had later followed him to Bathurst Street.

In that case, Dr. Night know of his connection with the Secret Service chief. The girl might have loitered about to attract Therrold's attention and when he followed her she might, have made some secret sign to a confederate that. had caused him to run off to the antique shop. Dr. Night might then have placed the enamelled box in the window.

With an impatient shrug,  Therrold hailed a taxi and drove back to the hotel. He had not been in the lounge many minutes before one of the boys paged his name. Therrold nodded and the boy came to him.

'Gentleman to see you, sir.'

'What name?'

'Didn't give one, sir. Said you wouldn't know it.'

Therrold thought a moment. Was this some new trap? But what had he to fear in a crowded hotel lounge, in the middle of the day?

'Send him here, boy,' he directed briefly. In a few minutes the boy returned, preceding a slight, grey man. Therrold stared in astonishment. This. man had peered over the girl's shoulder into his room when Detective Browne sat with him. He was the man he had seen in the antique shop in Oxford Street when he had traced the girl there; the man Detective Browne had declared to be Dr. Night.

The Asian bowed formally to the Englishman and waited. A moment's hesitation and Therrold indicated the lounge. With another profound bow, Dr. Night seated himself.

'Mr. Therrold is surprised that I make a visit to him.' The Asian leaned back in his corner, looking quizzically at the Secret Service man.

'I am surprised that Dr. Night should show himself in the streets of Sydney,' Therrold retorted. 'Surely he is— careless.'

'You refer to—' The doctor waved a long, thin hand. 'Of course, you know of that affair. I should have remembered. I am not afraid, Mr. Therrold. The police in this country are not very alert.'

'No?'

'Mr. Therrold is wondering why I have come to see him. May I say that had I known of his interest in the little enamelled box in the corner of the window of my antique shop in Oxford Street, I would have given myself the pleasure of bringing it here and asking his acceptance of so insignificant a trifle.'

'How the...' Therrold stared at the man is astonishment. 'Oh, of course. Your Chinese boy informed you of my visit.'

'I have not attended the shop in Oxford Street this day.' Again the doctor smiled. 'Will Mr. Therrold condescend to accept the box from one who will be honoured to be named his friend?'

'Thank you, no.' Therrold stared at the man coldly. 'I have not forgotten my friend, Detective Browne.'

'Mr. Therrold blames me for the death of that man?' A slight flush showed under the grey skin.

'I cannot see my way to do otherwise.' Therrold was angry. 'I must tell you, Dr. Night, that immediately you leave me I shall inform the police of your visit and of your connection with the Oxford Street shop. They will want an explanation of Detective Browne's death; as well as of certain matters that occurred two years ago.'

'I have a war with the white people.' Dr. Night spoke the fantastic words with quiet dignity. 'I fight with the weapons my fathers' gods have given me. If your police are to take me, that is the will of those I serve. But I do not think they will take me.'

'That is a matter with which I have nothing to do.' Therrold spoke coolly. 'I have been remiss in not informing the police of my knowledge. May I ask the purpose of this visit?'

'I have come for the Green Pearl.' The Asian spoke quietly, yet Therrold thought there was a tenseness of excitement in the man's voice.

'You think I have the pearl?'

'I know it. Mr. Therrold, the pearl is the Sacred Symbol of my race, and power, descending to me from a long line of monarchs. It was stolen from my fathers by the Russians. There is a curse on the pearl when it lies in the hands of men who do not own it. The Russian Empire crumbled and fell. The Soviet Government staggered, until you saved it by stealing the Green Pearl from if. Had the Grand Duke Paul judged wisely he would not have sent you for the pearl. It was accomplishing its destiny— and the destiny of the men who held it. Now all is changed.'

'I know nothing of that, Dr. Night. My duty is to convey the pearl to my employer.'

'The Grand Duke Paul?'

'I see no reason to conceal the fact. Yes.'

Dr. Night sat for moments in thought. At length he looked up.

'Mr. Therrold, will you give me the pearl?'

'No.'

'Mr. Therrold, you went a dangerous journey to recover the pearl for your employer. You are a brave man. I am the rightful owner of the pearl. Will you give it to me?'

'I must carry out my instructions. I shall carry the pearl back to England and place it in the hands of the Grand Duke.'

'Yet I am the rightful owner of the pearl.'

'That is a matter without my discretion. I have to carry out my instructions.'

Again the Asian was silent for some minutes. He turned to the Secret Service agent. 'Mr. Therrold, I offered the, Soviet Government a large treasure for the Green Pearl. To you I make the same offer. Place the pearl in my hands and the money shall be paid to you how and when you will.'

Therrold rose to his feet. 'I am afraid we are wasting time, Dr. Night, if I like I shall take the pearl to the man who sent me to find it. I must ask you to excuse me.'

The Secret Service man was turning away when Dr. Night caught him by the arm.

'Mr. Therrold, you have in your waistcoat pocket a small enamelled box in which you carry the Green Pearl. Will you give it to me? Nay, I command you to give it to me.'

A queer, dazed look came in the Englishman's eyes. He turned and stared vacantly at the doctor.

'Give me the box, Mark Therrold.' There was quiet insistence in the man's voice. Mechanically Therrold put his fingers into his pocket and brought out the enamelled box.

The Asian took the box gently from Therrold's fingers, triumph gleaming  in his dark eyes. For a moment he looked deeply into Therrold's eyes, muttering words in a strange tongue. The Englishman stood quiescent, watching whilst Dr. Night turned and walked out of the hotel; then sat down on the lounge, staring vacantly before him.

17

CAPTAIN THOMAS entered the hotel lounge about half an hour after Dr. Night had left Therrold. He glanced around the space and noticed the Englishman at the far end, and went to him Therrold did not reply to the Australian's greeting. For a moment Thomas was nuzzled, then bent and stared into the Secret Service man's face a look of questioning doubt In his eyes. He called Therrold again, and when the man did not answer caught Him by the shoulder and shook him roughly.

Gradually a change came over the Englishman. The air of strained watchfulness left him; his eyes blinked as' if the light hurt them. Suddenly he turned and faced the Australian.

'Been dreaming, man?' The Australian laughed uncertainly. 'Anything happened?'

'Queer!' Therrold laughed nervously. 'I thought Dr. Night was here; talking to me. He— he was asking me to give him the Green Pearl.'

'Of course, you immediately did so?' Thomas looked puzzled, although he laughed. 'Pity to disappoint the old scoundrel when he came and asked for it so prettily.'

Therrold joined in his companions laughter.

The dream was coming to him, and with greater reality. He remembered the Asian coming across the lounge to him, following the page. He remembered vividly every word of the conversation leading up to the movement when Dr. Night had caught him by the arm and demanded the Green Pearl. From that point all was blank.

Therrold wondered; did he give the man the Green Pearl? Irritably, he rose from the lounge walked up and down. He must have been dreaming, yet he believed that Dr. Night's visit had been real. He could remember every inflection in the man's voice; the strange manner in which the Asian's tone had changed when he demanded the Green Pearl.

Shaking his shoulders roughly, Therrold felt in his pocket for his cigarette case. It was not there. Then he remembered that he had not been able to find it when dressing. He had not made much of a search for Thomas had been worrying to get down to breakfast. He had taken a few cigarettes and thrust them into the imitation enamelled box— the one he had found rolled up in the blind. He felt in his waistcoat pocket for the box. It was not there.

'Got a cigarette, Thomas?' he asked, walking to where the Australian sat, watching him. 'Lost my case last night. Now I've lost the enamelled box with a few cigarettes I put into it.'

'Sure you didn't give it to Dr. Night?' chaffed Thomas.

Therrold started. Now he could fill the blank. He sat down suddenly, on the divan, and laughed. 'Dr. Night has been here,' he said, after an Interval. 'He came here : and asked me to give him the Green Pearl. I refused and told him that I would tell the police where to find him— that they would want him in connection with. Browne's death, as well as for the affair of two years ago. Then— then I believe I gave him the fake enamelled box— with the cigarettes. Still, I'd like it proved if possible. Certainly, the box has disappeared.'

Without a word Thomas walked across to the Inquiry Desk.

He returned a few minutes later, followed by one of the pages. 'There's something in your dream, old man.' The Australian was obviously worried. 'The lad says that about an hour ago a slight grey man with stooping shoulders came to the Inquiry Desk and asked for you. The boy brought him here. He says that you and the man had quite a long conversation; that the man left and you continued to sit here until I came in.'

'That seems to coincide with my dream....' commenced Therrold.

'Not much of a dream,' interrupted the Australian. 'Dr. Night was here.' He turned to the boy and dismissed him with a tip.

'Now, about that enamelled box. You're certain you used it for the cigarettes this morning?'

'Quite sure.' Therrold was worried.

'Dr. Night asked you for the Green Pearl?'

'Yes.'

'More than once?'

'Yes.' A light came into the Englishman's eyes. 'Then he asked me to give him the enamelled box from my pocket.'

'You are certain that the box did not contain the Green Pearl?'

'Absolutely certain!' Therrold spoke confidently. 'Say, old man, you must remember. When we finished breakfast I offered you a cigarette. Did I offer you my case or the enamelled box?'

Thomas sat thinking for some seconds. At length he turned to his companion, grinning broadly. 'Now I recollect. You offered me a cigarette from the enamelled box.'

He leaned back on the seat, laughing heartily. 'Jove, old fellow! What a Joke! You gave Dr. Night half a dozen fine Virginia Cigarettes.'

Therrold did not echo the Australian's laughter. He was starring straight before him. Again he heard the low, insistent voice— a voice that held a command he could not resist. He had obeyed the compelling will and had given the man the enamelled box. Then he had returned to his seat— waiting until Thomas had shaken him out of his lethargy.

'Best think I've heard of for some time!' laughed the Australian'.

'Dr. Night over-reached himself that time. Somehow he guessed you had the box in your pocket. Probably felt it while he was sitting beside you here and thought you had the pearl in it. Made a shot in the dark— and won a packet of cigarettes, it's great!'

Therrold could not join in the Australian's merriment. At the back of his mind lay a great, unexplainable worry. He rose from the divan. 'Come upstairs, Thomas,' he suggested. 'I don't feel rights The two men strolled across to the elevators, Thomas still chuckling over the joke on Dr. Night. Therrold was silent, trying to banish the weight that had fastened on his mind. He was certain that he had given Dr. Night the enamelled box, but he wanted to get to his room and discover if the Green Pearl was safe. The elevator came down to the ground floor and the gate swung open.

Carl Rohmer stepped out of the cage, almost into the arms of the Secret Service man. At the sight of them he stepped quickly to one side, as if trying to avoid recognition. Therrold barred his way.

'Sorry to hear you were, indisposed, Mr. Rohmer.' He spoke genially. 'We were inquiring for you after breakfast. Wanted to know why the lights on the fifth floor went out during the night. S'pose a fuse blew out— or was it tied up, eh?'

'Is that so, m'sieu. I will inquiries make. The attendants have not reported the matter to me.'

The hotel manager made as if to pass on, but Therrold caught his arm. 'In fact, old dear,' he chatted. 'Bit of luck for me, though. If the lights hadn't failed I wouldn't have known that my old friend, Mark Therrold, was living just across the corridor from me. We bumped in the dark, what? Ships that pass in the dark and all that, old bean!'

'M'sieu is happy. I am delighted. If m'sieu will excuse me, there are--'

'Just a moment, old dear.' Thomas held the man firmly. 'I want to say how much I appreciate the apartments of this hotel. They're great! Specially the bathrooms. Spent hours in one, yesterday— couldn't tear myself from it. Absolutely enthralling!'

Tired of his play, the Australian released Rohmer, who darted to the door of his office. Thomas looked after him, a broad grin on his face, until the man disappeared. Then he joined Therrold in the lift. On the fifth floor he caught his companion by the arm.

'Score one to me, old chap. Did. you see his face. Fairly sweating with terror, poor devil. Seems as if those Russian devils have him fairly in the bag.'

At the corner of the corridor they stood aside to allow a young lady to pass. At sight of her face Therrold gave a low gasp. It was the girl of the night— Dr. Night's accomplice.

Therrold had forgotten the mystery girl in the stress of recent happenings. What was she doing in that corridor? He had traced her to the antique shop; from where she had boarded a Bondi-bound tram. He had assumed that she lived somewhere in the eastern suburbs. Now, from her manner, he must assume that she was living in the hotel. Was she watching him? Catching Therrold by the arm Therrold pointed after the girl.

'See that girl, Thomas? Notice her face?'

'Charming!' The Australian stroked his small, military moustache. 'Just the type I admire.'

'Then, follow her, man. She's the girl who looked into my room just before Detective Browne was murdered. Find out where she goes and how long she has been staying at this hotel. Til be in my room when you get back.'

Without replying, the Australian turned and strode to the elevators. The girl was standing waiting. In a moment the lift came to the floor and she entered, followed by Thomas. Therrold waited until the lift had started on its downward journey, and then went to his room. In the lounge, the girl went to the desk and received a number of letters. She strolled to one of the vacant seats and sat down to peruse her mail. Thomas followed her to the desk and to his surprise received a letter in response to his casual inquiry. He turned it over thoughtfully. He had not expected letters at the hotel. In fact, only Martin Thorne knew that he was staying there.

Seating himself so that he could keep the girl in sight, Thomas slit open his letter and drew out a blank sheet of notepaper. At one of the corners was a small red-ink cross. For a moment the Australian hesitated, studying the paper carefully. Then he turned to the envelope. It was stamped, but the stamp was not postmarked. Then the letter had not been through the mail. He smiled.

Taking the cigarette out of his case, he lit it, thoughtfully. The match still alight, he applied the flame to the notepaper, holding the sheet by the little cross. A few moments and a line of writing appeared on the blank surface. When the paper was consumed he dropped it into one of the ashtrays and ground the ashes to powder.'

The girl was still engaged in her correspondence and seemed likely to remain in the lounge for some time. Thomas rose languidly and strolled to the elevators. At Therrold's door he knocked in a peculiar manner, and entered. 'Miss Betty Carlington; room 531, this corridor. Came yesterday afternoon.' He paused, staring at his companion in astonishment.

'What's the matter, old chap?' Therrold was standing in the centre of the room, his face white and drawn with anxiety, At Thomas' question he turned and looked at him, blankly.

'The Green Pearl!' he muttered hoarsely.

'The Green Pearl has gone! I can't remember where I hid it!'

18

'THE GREEN PEARL gone! Nonsense, man.' Thomas took the Secret Service man by the shoulders and shook him. 'What did you do with it last night?'

Therrold slumped into a chair. His nerve had given way at last, after 5 years of superhuman effort. Since the visit of Dr. Night that afternoon he had not been able to think. He felt as if the mysterious man had cast some spell over him.

'Look here, old man.' For a time the Australian had paced the room, deep in thought. Now he paused. ''Toil didn't make a bally mistake and hand the thing to Dr. Night?'

Therrold shook his head. He knew he had not handed the pearl to the Asian. He remembered the incidents of the day quite clearly now— but he could not remember the Green Pearl. Even the shape, size and weight were now indefinite to him. He could not remember that he had brought it back to the hotel. He could remember everything plainly — but not where he had hidden the pearl.

He remembered finding Thomas in the next apartment and the talk they had had before he went to Thomas's room, to bed. He remembered coming into his room that morning and seeing the Australian in , his bed, asleep. He remembered taking the fake enamelled box from where he had hidden it and placing there the genuine box. He could remember filling the imitation box with cigarettes before going down to breakfast with Thomas. That was all.

He had carefully hidden the pearl; of that he had no doubt. He had not wavered, in the belief that he still had the pearl until Thomas had suggested that perhaps she had handed it to Dr. Night. Then he had come to Ms room to make certain that the pearl was safe.

He had found the enamelled box where he had placed it. The imitation box was missing. He had sought for the pearl but even the memory of where he had hidden it had disappeared.

'Keep an eye on that girl.' The Englishman spoke wearily. 'Scrape an acquaintance with her, if possible. I'm going to lie down for a time. Perhaps when I've had a sleep this fog in my brain will wear off and I'll remember where I put the cursed thing.'

Thomas protested. He wanted to stay with Therrold. Dr. Night by this time must have discovered that he had not obtained the pearl. He must have discovered that he had not the genuine box. He might come back— and Therrold was not in a condition to cope with the wily Asian.

'Let me rest. If Dr. Night can get me to remember where I placed the pearl, he can have it. I'll risk getting it from him.'

Therrold rolled restlessly on the bed. 'I want to forget for a time— and can't, with you pacing the room. I haven't a chance!'

The Australian left the room, promising to return at frequent intervals.

Almost immediately Therrold fell asleep. It was dark when he awoke— to find Thomas standing by the bed, looking down on him. He smiled at the worried look on the man's face.

'Haven't been doing any sleep walking, have I?' he asked lazily.

'Quiet as a baby.'

Thomas looked the question he dared not ask.

'Not a line on the pearl.' Therrold swung from the bed. 'The hiding place of the damned thing has completely gone from my memory. Funny! If it were not for you I'd doubt if I ever had it.'

'Dr. Night!' announced Thomas solemnly.

'Eh?'

'The man's a mesmerist, one of those fakir johnnies.' said the Australian. 'One of those fakirs who hare tricks far ahead of those the johnnies on the stage have. Mesmerised you with your eyes only, and all that. Dooced clever, y'know. Just wiped out that part of your memory about the Green Pearl. Didn't think such a thing could be done.'

Although quaintly phrased, there was truth in Thomas' statement. Therrold had, while in Asia, seen fakirs perform tricks unexplainable by European philosophy. He had witnessed thought transference far ahead of that exhibited in so-called civilised countries. He had watched men pass from life to death — and then retrace their steps. He believed that this man, Dr. Night, was the descendant of a long race of priest-kings, passing to their heirs secrets of science unknown to moderns.

He went to the bathroom anti dressed leisurely. Thomas, seated on the bed, kept up a running commentary on the situation.

They went down to dinner together. Then Thomas suggested the Theatre, but Therrold was loathe to leave the hotel. He feared that at any moment he might remember where he had hidden the pearl— and might then be out of reach of it. Dr. Night did not return to the hotel, in spite of Thomas' anticipations. Possibly he had come to doubt his own powers— perhaps he believed that Therrold knew that the pearl was not in the box when he meekly handed it over.

Betty Carlington remained in the lounge most of the evening. Her presence was significant. If she was an accomplice of the strange Asian, then possibly she was watching the two men. Yet she did not show signs of interest in them. Again and again the two men placed themselves in positions where, if the girl was secretly watching them, she must have betrayed herself.

Late in the evening Thomas remembered the message he had received in his letter that afternoon.

Thorne had instructed him to obtain Therrold's passport and post it to him.

In a few words, Thomas informed the Englishman of the message and they went up to the latter's room. Thomas enclosed the passport in an envelope and addressed it to one of the Australian agents, who would convey it to his chief. The two men took their hats' and strolled down to the General Post Office.

'Thorne is booking passages for you on the next two ships out,' explained the Australian. 'If you do not use either of these ships, then the passage will be transferred on to other ships. Your passport will be returned to you tomorrow. All you have to do is to find the pearl and slip on board ship. If we become separated, go ahead. We'll know if you have sailed.'

'So will the others, probably,' the Englishman laughed. 'The adventures of the Green Pearl are not over, by any chance.'

The passport despatched the men returned to the hotel. It was late, and in spite of his sleep that afternoon, the Englishman was drowsy. Thomas asserted that he was wakeful and arranged to keep watch from his own room, at least for a time.

Therrold awoke suddenly before daybreak next morning with the impression on his in mind that there was someone in his room. He lay still, listening intently. Wt could hear no sound. Yet he was certain that he was not alone. Had Dr. Night returned in search of the pearl? The large windows were lit by the glow from the street lamps. Therrold turned so that he could watch them. For so long he lay watching that lie became convinced that he was mistaken. Then a shadow passed between him and the window. Someone had crossed his room, going in the direction of the bathroom. The Englishman lay still, listening intently. There came a sound, as if someone had bumped against a chair. He turned on his pillows as if restless. Over his head was the switch of the reading lamp. He reached up, but he had slipped down in bed and the cord was out of reach. Very cautiously he shifted, straining up until his fingers caught the small knob. Then he waited, listening. Evidently the intruder was waiting for him to settle to sleep again. This time he must not be taken unawares. When he switched on the light he must be prepared to attack or defend. Very slowly he drew up his legs, freeing them from the bedclothes; listening intently -for some sound from his opponent. At length, tired of waiting, he switched on the light and sprang to the floor. Immediately the door of the bathroom shut with a faint click. Therrold raced across the room, automatic in hand. Someone had been in his room and was now in the bathroom — and from there he blocked escape.

The intruder was trapped this time! Cautiously the Englishman moved across the floor, until he stood against the wall beside the bathroom door. There he hesitated, uncertain as to his next move. It was one thing to trap a wild animal and another to open the trap and capture it! Therrold knew that the men he was opposed to were dangerous— more dangerous than any wild beasts; hesitating at nothing to gain their ends. A touch on the bathroom door might be the signal for fast and furious shooting. As matters stood, he and his opponent were at a stalemate. Whoever made the first move might expose himself to a fatal shot. For some minutes Therrold retained his position against the wall, thinking hard. He had an impulse to steal from the room and awaken Thomas. Yet that might give his enemy a chance to obtain a more advantageous position. There must be a way to bring the man into the open, without exposing himself. Keeping out of the line of fire from the bathroom door, Therrold went to his suitcase and found a pocket torch. Then he returned to the bed. Sitting on the edge he yawned loudly; then rolled cm to the mattress, making the bed creak as much as possible. He reached up and switched off the reading light. Almost immediately he slipped out of bed again and stole to the bathroom door, and waited, automatic in hand, his finger on the trigger of his torch. Minutes passed and the intruder showed no signs of leaving his refuge. Stepping cautiously, Therrold pressed on the door. It swung inward. Steadily he pressed until the door was half open — and waited. There was no sound from within the bathroom. Pressing the button of his torch, the Englishman cast the light through the door. So far as he could see the room was empty. Then, the intruder must be hiding behind the door, or in the long space between the door and the window. Changing his ground so that he covered the major portion of the bathroom with his automatic, Therrold determined to force the issue. 'Come out of there,' he called quietly. 'Remember, I have you covered and will shoot at the first suspicious movement. 'There There was no reply. Therrold waited a moment, then reached into the bathroom and switched on the light. He swung the door back close against the wall and stepped in. There was no one in the room!

19

INSIDE THE bathroom, and convinced that the place was empty, Therrold swung: the door shut and looked around him with amazement. He was convinced that there had been someone in his room and that he had driven that person into the bathroom.

But where had the intruder escaped to? He had watched the shadow pass the window, going in the direction of the bathroom. He was certain that the person had not had the opportunity to return to the bedroom. From the moment the bathroom door had shut with that significant click he had had it under observation— under the muzzle of his automatic. The intruder had had no chance to escape. Yet he was not there.

Only for a few seconds after he had switched off the reading light and before he had pressed the trigger of his torch had the room been in darkness, and then he stood before the bathroom, door. The man could not have escaped then. Yet the bathroom was empty!

Therrold was decidedly puzzled. He He went across to the main switch of the bedroom and threw on the lights. There was no doubt that someone had been In the room. His things were in disorder. The searcher had made no attempt at concealment; going about his work thoroughly. He must have worked by the light of a hooded torch, and have taken his time in the search. But, how had the man gained entrance to his room. Therrold remembered having locked the door before he went to bed. He tested the lock now. The bolt was shot and the chair he had tilted against the door was still in position. No one could have opened the door from the corridor without bringing the chair with a crash to the ground.

It was still more impossible for anyone to have left the room by that door and replaced the chair in that position. How had the intruder entered and left the room? There was only one answer: Through the bathroom. Yet the only door from the bathroom led through the bedroom. The only other exit was by the window. Then-old went into the bathroom. It was a long, narrow apartment about six feet wide and extending the length of the bedroom. At one end was the bath, with the usual conveniences of clothes hangers and toilet-shelf. At the other end was a lavatory, and beside it a vacant ..space about three feet wide and four feet long. The window was in the middle of the wall. It opened outward on hinges controlled by two brackets. When open there was barely room for a full-grown man to squeeze through. Therrold opened the window and looked out. The walls of the hotel fell sheer to a passageway beside the hotel. The passage was about twelve feet wide and on the other side of it was a low building of two stories high. It would be impossible for anyone to climb from the roof of that building to Therrold's room— or to descend to it. Therrold turned to the bathroom again. Had the shadow been a dream? But against that supposition was the evident search of the room. That was material enough. It was impossible to suggest anything other than that someone had entered the room and conducted a search. In that case, where had the searcher disappeared to? Thee bathroom was lined with tiles with a band of collared tiles surrounding the room, about four feet from the floor. Beyond the usual fittings stood in the space beside the lavatory a frame of wood attached to the wall, about seven feet high and filling the space. Except for the canopy at the head and the baseboard there was only the frame fixed on the wall, and three feet down form the canopy a cross-bar fitted with pegs. The affair looked like part of the clothes-closet, with only the top, bottom and back remaining. It looked strangely out of place.

A piece of cloth lay on the ground, close to the base of the strange framework. It caught the Englishman's eyes. He stooped and picked it up. It was a queerly-shaped piece of thin cloth with tapes at either end. For a moment he turned it on his hand, inquisitively; then sudden realisation came. -The thing was a mask.

What was it doing in his bathroom. Where had the mask come from? Therrold was certain that it had not been there when he had retired that night. He had come into the bathroom. Some of his clothing still hung on the pegs. He was certain that if the mask had been on the floor then he would have seen it. Then, the mask must have been dropped by the intruder who had searched his rooms. Now he had definite proof of the man's presence.

Again he searched the room's, covering the space minutely. He could find nothing. It was impossible to get out of the rooms unobserved, through the bedroom door. There must be some other way. Therrold believed that in some magazines he had read that modern hotels had secret doors into apartments; that these doors were for the convenience of the management, providing access to locked rooms.

Hotel directors are not fond of scandals in their establishments. Secret doors Into apartments provided means for glossing over happenings which might harm the hotel's reputation. If there was such a secret door in his apartment then, Therrold decided, the intruder to his room must be connected with the hotel, or in the confidence of the management. Immediately his thoughts turned to Carl Rohmer. He would have knowledge of the secret door. He had previously searched for the Green Pearl in that apartment.

The Englishman's face darkened. Carl Rohmer again! Had the man not learned that he was more than suspected — that the theft of the pearl in the first place was provable against him. He promised himself that the next morning Rohmer should pass through a very uncomfortable half-hour. If only he could trace the pearl! He dropped into a chair, trying to think. If he could only remember where he had hidden it he would not stay another hour in that infernal hotel. He could not remember. Continually his thoughts returned to the intruder. He must find the means whereby the man had obtained entrance. He went back to the bathroom, and the strange framework. He had found the mask at the foot of the pedestal. There he would commence his search. Mounting the base, Therrold tried to pull down the canopy. He tried to move it sideways, and up and down, but it was firmly fixed. In striving to push it, he had to stand on tip-toe, and nearly overbalanced. To save himself he caught at one of the pegs. It gave way slightly. Abandoning the canopy, he tested the pegs. One of them gave, moving to the right — but it did not release the spring of any secret door. Therrold tried the centre peg. That seemed firmly fixed; but the peg on the left moved — towards the centre peg. That was strange. The two other pegs moved towards the centre peg, yet producing no result. He was now certain that the pegs held the key to the mystery. Again he -tested them. He caught the two outer pegs and drew them together without result. He found, however, that when he brought the two pegs together that he could touch the centre peg. .He pulled them together again and tried to thrust down the centre peg. It only gave slightly. Then he tried to thrust it up. The peg slid upwards easily, with the grate of a bolt released. The whole of the wall within the frame moved, on well-oiled hinges. For a moment Therrold: looked into a darkened space then, as he released the pegs, the door swung shut again. A few seconds experimenting and he found the secret. When the door was open he had only to release the outside pegs, keeping the centre peg up, and the door remained fixed. Looking through the aperture, Therrold found that he was in the bathroom of the next apartment. He stepped through the door and flashed his light around. There was no one there. He went into the bedroom. The apartment was as he had left it when he went there in search of Thomas.

Now Therrold understood. The intruder had entered room 521 and had passed through the secret door into his apartment. He wondered if there was a secret door opening into apartment 523. He searched, but could not find one. Satisfied that he had solved his problem, although the intruder had escaped, the Englishman returned to his own apartment and threw, himself on his bed, determining to watch through the remainder of the night. Time passed slowly. The lights in the corridor were still burning, filtering into Therrold's room beneath the door. He lay and watched the light for some time; then suddenly it disappeared. Therrold was on his feet in an instant. He crept to the door and listened. From the corridor came the soft pad-pad of feet, passing down the corridor. He opened his door and looked out. The corridor was in darkness, but he could hear the sounds of feet receding in the distance. Suddenly they ceased and he saw a beam of an electric torch shine on the wall. The light moved slowly on. The Secret Service Agent stepped into the corridor and watched. The light passed from door to door. At length it paused on a door for some seconds, then the direct rays wwere hidden by a dark form that interposed between them and the wather.  Suddenly the light went out. Therrold waited a few seconds then went to the switch and threw it on, illuminating the corridor. Stepping warily, Therrold went down to the door on which the light had rested.

As he suspected, it was number  51. So  Miss Betty Carlington, as well as himself, had aroused the interest of the hotel authorities. Going to the switch-case, he plunged the corridor into darkness again then, using his torch-light sparingly, returned to the girl's door.

To his surprise it was ajar. For a moment he hesitated. He believed the girl to be in league with Dr. Night. If his suppositions were correct, then the Soviet agents had determined that the girl had the pearl and were now trying to get it from her.

He shrugged; even if the girl was allied to one of his enemies he could not leave her to the tender mercies of those Russian-trained brutes. He pushed open the door and entered. A quick glance round the room, by the light of his torch showed Therrold the girl in bed and asleep. He could see nothing outward in the room and was retreating to the door when something struck him on the back of the head and he fell, unconscious.

20

THERROLD CAME back out of the distant darkness to the lights of the girl's room. He opened his eyes— to close them again quickly. The lights hurt and his head was filled with the noise of tumbling waters. Someone was bending over him now and again something soothing passed over his aching temples. He was not curious; he wanted his head to cease aching; he wanted to rest.

At length he opened his eyes and looked up. A girl was kneeling beside him bathing his head. Again came the wonderful sense of coolness on his forehead. He moved restlessly, turning to face the girl. It was the girl of the night; the girl who had looked into his room with Dr. Night; the girl of the tea rooms and the antique shop in Oxford Street. Yet, somehow, she was different. She appeared older, more definite, more distinct in form and colouring. He tried to think of her name.

Ah, yes! Betty Carlington. The name suited her. She was a real 'Betty' girl; good-looking, well dressed and capable. Strange that such a girl should be mixed up with Dr. Night. But, was she? There might be some simple explanation of the matter. She might not be the girl.

Therrold had a doubt. There was a likeness; a remarkable likeness— but there were differences. Confound his head. It ached infernally! He tried to rise, and with a little assistance from the girl, sat up.

'Better?' The girl continued on her knees beside Mm 'Where's that man?' He turned over, with a struggle, and rose to his feet. He would have fallen again but for the girl's hand.

'Better?' The girl continued on her knees beside him.

'Where's that man?' He turned over and, with a struggle, rose to his feet. He would have fallen again but for the gin's hand.

'He went into the bathroom directly he had struck you down.' She glanced fearfully in the direction of the bathroom. 'I can't undertsand why he didn't come out while you were unconscious.'

'He won't come out.' Therrold laughed weakly. 'There's a way out of these rooms. I found it out accidentally only an hour or so ago. It was while I was— was looking for a man that I saw him enter your room, and followed. Seems he must have known that I was after him for he slipped behind the door and hit me just. What I can't understand is why didn't he go through that door?'

'You were in the way.' The girl laughed slightly. 'It was you falling that awoke me. You fell on the door and slammed it shut.'

She hesitated. 'I pulled you into the room.'

She dragged a chair to where he stood, weaving, dizzily. 'Sit down and let me bind up your head.' She went to a drawer and brought out some linen. In spite of his doubts which constantly recurred, Therrold found it pleasant to sit and let her cool fingers move over his aching head.

At length, she stood back, her task completed.

'That is better.' She tucked in a few ends. 'You are Mr. Therrold, are you not. I heard your name mentionin the lounge yesterday. I am Betty Carlington. There! With that head-dress you will cause quite a sensation at breakfast— this morning.'

'May I take this as an introduction Miss Carlington?' Therrold held out his hand and, after a moment's hesitation the girl placed her fingers on his palm for a moment.

'The big sensation tomorrow morning will be in Mr. Rohmer's office. That French scoundrel has a lot to explain.'

'Quite an unconventional meeting.' The girl laughed lightly. 'But— if you wish to continue the... Now your head is more comfortable...'

'You mean that our acquaintanceship should mature in more formal parts of the hotel.' Therrold laughed. 'By the way, Miss Carlington, do you know anything of the man who entered your rooms?'

'Nothing whatever.' The girl spoke honestly. 'I awoke― there was a light shining— a torch. I saw a man coming into the room. As he entered another man sprang from behind the door and struck him down. Then— but I have told you that. You said someone had searched your rooms to-night?'

'The same man who came to search yours, I believe.' Therrold spoke grimly. 'Miss Carlington, have you anything of value— anything anyone wants to deprive you of?'

Betty looked perplexed. 'You say the man searched your room and then come to mine. What on earth could he be after that would be in either your or my possession. Until a few minutes ago I only knew your name, Mr. Therrold.'

The girl was obviously sincere, and Therrold was reassured. He turned to the door.

'Shouldn't have kept you standing about in the cold, Miss Carlington.' He stumbled awkwardly. 'Hope I may have the pleasure of a talk with you, later in the day— after I have interviewed Rohmer. Perhaps then I may be able to explain a lot that is incomprehensible to you now. Hope so.'

He opened the door, to start back with an exclamation of astonishment. A man was standing in the corridor, as if on guard. As Therrold hesitated he pushed him back and followed him into the room. At the same time half a dozen men entered the room from the bathroom.

'Up with your hands, Therrold,' the man commanded softly. 'Face the windows. 'You, miss, put your hands behind you. One move from either of you and—' He waved his automatic threateningly.

Taken unawares and unarmed, there was no choice for the Secret Service agent. He faced the windows and immediately the muzzle of the weapon was thrust into his back. Hands passed over him, searching for weapons. Then he was ordered to place his hands behind his back. A cord was slipped over his wrists and knotted. Someone thrust a gag in his mouth. Another man bound and gagged the girl.

The men who had entered from the bathroom stood with levelled automatics while Therrold and the girl were bound. The Englishman stole a glance at the girl. He wondered if she had any part in this surprise attack, but her white, startled face dispelled all doubts.

The man who had driven Therrold into the room appeared to be the leader of the gang. Forcing the Secret Service man to where the girl stood, he ordered one of his men to bring chairs. He thrust Therrold into a chair and one of the men tied him firmly to the seat. The girl was treated in a similar manner. Then the gangster went to a man stationed before the bathroom door and spoke a few words in an undertone. The man nodded and left the room.

'Afraid you people won't get any breakfast this morning.'

The gangster came across the room and stood before his prisoners. 'Well, you both look well fed, so it won't do you any harm to starve for a few hours. There's plenty in this town as starves all day long. Now, Therrold, I'll deal with you as lightly as you'll let me; but I've come for the goods. Understand?'

Therrod nodded. The man went to the door and looked out. The corridor was deserted. Returning to his prisoners he loosened the cords binding them to the chairs and told them to stand up. At the point of the man's guns they were herded into the corridor and into the next apartment.

'This'll do for us.' The man closed and locked thee door; 'I may as well tell you, Therrold, that Rohmer told his peoeple that the couple occupying this room are down with an infectious disease. They're to be taken to the hospital to-day. Get me? Of course, the doctor might change his mind— that is, if I get what I want. Now, Therrold, if I have the gag removed, will you keep quiet?'

The Secret Service man nodded. The gangster went to the girl and repeated the question. She nodded assent.

'Good!'

One of the men came forward and removed the gags. 'You know what we're after, Therrold. To save delay, if you tell me where to find the Green Pearl I'll release the girl and she can let you free when we've made our getaway. What's your answer?'

Therrold thought quickly. From the first he knew that the men were after the Green Pearl. Well, they would have to find it. True, he had hidden it the previous night; but the memory of its hiding place had completely vanished from his mind.

'You want the Green Pearl,' he said, slowly. 'Have you asked Dr. Night for it?' He watched the girl as he spoke.

The girl's face was immobile. She did not betray the slightest surprise at the sudden mention of the mysterious Asian. Now Therrold was certain that he had been mistaken in linking her with the girl he had seen with Dr. Night.

'Never mind Dr. Night.' The gangster spoke gruffly. 'We'll attend to him if he comes any of his tricks here. We know you took the pearl from Carl Rohmer on Sunday night, and we want it. Now, are you going to give it up peacefully, or have we got to make you,'

'You can lave the Green Pearl when you find it,' the Secret Service man answered drily.

'We'll find it all right.' The man bent close to Therrold. 'We'll find it— and we'll make you tell us where to find it. Make no mistake about that. And if you won't speak, and speak quickly, there'll be hell to pay — get that,'

A man entered the room and spoke a few words in an undertone to the gangster. His brow clouded and he glanced angrily at his prisoners. He gave a brief order in a whisper, glancing at his watch.

'Seven o'clock. The ambulance will call here at eight. Make up your mind, Therrold. There's still time to save yourself, and the girl, a lot of unpleasantness. Now, where's the pearl?'

'I wish I knew.' Therrold could not help smiling.

'Getting funny, eh? Perhaps  we can refresh your memory. 'You've got half an hour to think it over, if you want that time. Remember, we are here on business, not pleasure.'

'You're searched my rooms, haven't you?' The Englishman smiled sarcastically. 'Woke me up doing it. Well, what did you find?'

'Nothing.' The man grinned comically. 'You're no slouch at hiding things, Therrold. So far as we know, it's not in your rooms, and it's not on you. Now, where is it? No answer? Well, take your time. There's plenty of it at present; If you won't tell me where the pearl is here we'll take you to a place where we'll make you tell us mighty quick. Now, I'll ask the girl a few questions. May pay you to listen, Therrold.'

He turned to the girl. 'Now, miss, where's the Green Pearl?'

'What Green Pearl?' Betty looked surprised. 'Is there such a thing?'

'S'pose that's where I laugh?' The man frowned angrily. 'Yes, my. dear, there is such a thing and you know it. No use trying that kid stuff with me; and your Chink friend can't help you now.'

'Try and not be offensive, Miller. Therrold spoke quietly. The man started, surprised. He went to Therrold and peered into his his face.

'Where did you get that stuff?' he asked in a changed voice.

'A wise man studies his enemies.' Therrold stared blankly at the man. 'With your gang after the pearl, I found out who was likely to do the dirty work.'

'Well, that won't help you.' The man hesitated a moment, then turned to the girl. 'Now, my dear, get this straight. One of you knows where the pearl is. It's not in his room and it ain't in yours. It's not on him. I don't believe it's on you. It's hidden somewhere. Now, where is it?'

'I don't know. I don't know anything about a Green Pearl.' The girl spoke gravely.

'You've got a nerve, all right.' The man gave grudging admiration. 'I'd like to let you go, but I daren't. Where's the real pearl, girl. You've got to tell; sooner or later, so get it over. I don't want to use any rough staff.'

The girl shook her head.

Therrold writhed In his chair. If he could get free for only a few minutes he might be able to give the girl a chance for freedom. He tugged at his bonds, but the knots held.

'Come, girl, be sensible.' Tony Miller's voice was almost  pleading. 'I've got to get that pearl. You don't know what you're up against by being obstinate. I've got to do what I'm told— and that's to get the pearl. Where is it?'

'l've told you. I know nothing about a Green Pearl.' A frightened look crept into the girl's eye. 'Really I'm not deceiving you. I never heard of a Green Pearl until you mentioned it.'

'Can that.' The man spoke brutally. He turned to Therrold. 'You, now. Come clean, or it'll be the worse for the girl. You might stand up to a bit of an argument, if we decided to handle you, but I doubt if you'll keep silence and let us handle the girl. I'll give you one more chance. Where is the Pearl?'

'Listen.' The sweat poured down Therrold's face. If these men proposed to torture the girl, then ne would have to give way, so far as he was able. But what had he to offer? He could not remember where he had hidden the pearl. Again he racked his brains. He remembered leaving Thomas in his rooms and crossing the corridor to the Australian's room. But from that point his memory was a blank.

'Listen, Miller. Dr. Night came to me yesterday. He asked for the pearl. He told me I was carrying it in an enamelled box in my pocket. He commanded me to give him the box and I had to.'

'A fine tale!' The gangster jeered. 'Do you expect me to believe that?'

'It's the truth.' The Englishman threw all the conviction he could into his tone. 'The man's a fiend. He only has to touch you and you have to obey his will.'

Miller was shaken. He remembered the scene in the Redfern House. There the Asian had shown mysterious and terrible powers. There, surrounded by enemies, he had forced from them the truth and walked out of the place, unscathed. The Soviet agent was not ignorant of what had happened at the hotel. He knew that Dr. Night had visited Therrold and had been with him for some time in the lounge. It was possible that the Asian had forced the Secret Service agent to give up the pearl, but...

He had little option in the matter. The 'Seven' would demand from him the pearl or his prisoners. He could not act as he wished. The Englishman might have told the truth— in Miller's mind there was little doubt— almost he was inclined to believe the man. But he dared not act on his beliefs. The 'Seven' would demand the pearl, or definite proof of where it was. With almost a snarl, the Soviet agent turned to the girl.

'He may be telling the truth.' Miller jerked his head towards Therrold. 'But I can't take risks. You know this Dr. Night. I've seen you about with him. Has he told the truth. Has Dr. Night the pearl?'

'I don't know.' The girl held her head proudly; but an awful terror was dawning in her eyes.

Therrold groaned. Why had not the girl dissembled. She could have stated that she believed Dr. Night had the pearl. It was to that end Therrold had framed his answers— that she should have the facts and be able to state an opinion, instead of a definite answer.

A look of devilish cunning came on the gangster's face. He beckoned to one of his men, who came and stood immediately behind the prisoners.

'I'm asking you both, now.' Miller gave a gesture, as if shifting the responsibility from his shoulders. 'Where is the Green Pearl? No answer! Gag 'em!'

In a moment the two prisoners were gagged and Therrold tied again to his chair. Miller motioned the man towards Betty. 'Listen, both of you. I've tried to make you reasonable and show you that you've got to hand over the Green Pearl. Well, neither of you seem inclined to obey. I'm asking you again.— where is the Green Pearl? If neither of you nod, to show that you'll either hand it over or tell me where it is, then?'

He paused grinning devilishly. 'Then, Tom, here, takes the girl back to her room and searches her for it— and I promise you that he won't be too particular. Now Til count three and―'

For a moment he stood, watching the fury in Therrold's face; then raised his hand and brought it down with a jerk— 'One!' He waited a moment, then motioned to the man, who picked Betty up in his arms. 'Two!' He turned to Therrold: 'Now, then! I'll ask you again. You see what your obstinacy has brought that girl to. Where is the pearl. Still don't know? Then ? Three!'

'Beg pardon! Hope I'm not intruding! Hullo, Therrold. What's up? Musical chairs, eh?'

The door from the corridor had opened silently and Thomas stood on the threshhold, automatic steadily

21

THERROLD choked with hysterical laughter— relief from the terrible tension of the past hour. Miller had swung round, his mouth open with astonishment. Close to the bathroom door stood the man with Betty in his arms, motionless, afraid to drop the girl. Behind Therrold were gathered the remaining men of Miller's gang. The man carrying the girl was first to move. With a quick motion he dropped the girl to her feet and bent down behind her.

The Australian frowned.

'Damned bad drill, the lot of you! Never seen a squad in such a huddle. Got to straighten you out. Well, then— you chaps; line up there! Quick! Now you— Miller's your name, Isn't it. Well, get in the centre of that line. Now, Miss Carlington, I suggest a chair. Ah, would you?'

The man who held Betty had drawn his automatic and fired. Thomas laughed. As the man's hand went up he had shifted slightly. The bullet had  impinged just above where his head had been.

'Good shot!' The Australian approved heartily. 'Silencer, too! Didn't want to disturb the other guests, eh? Think you're safe behind that girl? Well, guess again!'

Carelessly he started to advance.

'What are you going to do?' Miller spoke savagely. 'What do you suggest?' Thomas spoke carelessly. 'You seem to have been very busy this morning. Don't be afraid to speak, Miller. Nothing to say? Well, what about untying Mr. Therrold's hands. Come on, get a move on you!'

The man did not move. He stood in the centre of the line, glowering savagely. Therrold managed to turn his head and look at him. Miller was muttering in an undertone to the man next to him. He was planning something. A puzzled frown came on Thomas' face. If he could not overawe these men and get Therrold free...

A new thought came into his mind. 'Miss Carlington, can you manage to get over to me? Awfully obliged if you would try. Keep close against the wall, please. I don't want to lose sight of these gentlemen for a single second.'

The girl moved forward obediently, but the man behind her held back. Thomas' face darkened. He took a step forward. At the same moment Betty threw herself to the ground. Immediately the Australian had the man covered.

'Thanks, Miss Carlington,' he laughed. 'Quite clever of you. Now, my friend, to your pals. I want you in line-up. Quick march! That's the boy. Drop that gun. I'll stand no nonsense from you!'

Miller was muttering something. With an effort, Therrold tried to twist his chair go that he could look back.

He managed to get a glance at the man's face and then the chair overbalanced and he fell heavily to the ground. But, before he fell, he saw a vindictive light of triumph in the man's eyes. He tried to call out to Thomas and warn him, but the gag was too well fixed. He struggled fiercely and suddenly the chair rolled— towards the Australian. Thomas took a step forward, but at a movement in the line of gangsters he hesitated.

Therrold found that he was within a few feet of the Australian. Another roll and he would be at his feet. Thomas would then be able to give him the slight help necessary to free him. Then he caught sight of the girl. She was moving towards the Australian along the wall. If she gained Thomas and he freed her, then they had the gang at their mercy.

Again, with a violent effort, Therrold rolled over. He was now facing Thomas. A sudden horror seized him. Behind the Australian stood a man with arm upraised. Before Therrold could give any warning the man struck. Thomas tumbled forward almost on top of the Englishman.

'Just in time.' Miller sprang forward to Rohmer, who had just entered the room. 'That fool butted in and almost queered the works. Ambulance here, Carl? Good! We'll get them away as quickly as possible.'

He reached under the bed and pulled out a bundle of linen coats. In a feew minutes the men were transformed into passing resemblances of ambulance attendants.

They lifted Therrold and Betty on to the bed, side by side. Again Miller reached under the bed and pulled out a bag. From it he took a small bottle. He held it for a moment, undecided, then replaced it in the bag. He took out a tube of tabloids and held them up to the light. He went to Therrold and, pulling the gag aside, thrust one of the tabloids into his mouth. Then he went to the girl and put a tabloid in her month.

'That'll keep you both quiet,' he grumbled.

Therrold tried to expel the tabloid from his mouth, but the gag was too tight for him to work his tongue. He managed to get it almost to his lips when it broke and dissolved. Almost immediately a numbness came over his limbs, followed by an intense dreariness that he could not fight against.

Ten minutes later Miller returned to the bed. He bent and examined man and girl.

'All set!' He turned to his men.

'Now you boys, fade away. You know how do get out. Do it quietly and go in and out the back entrance so that you confuse the servants. Then fade out entirely. Tom, you and Bill clean up these rooms. Don't leave a clue to our presence here. I want the place left as if the hospital people had taken these people away. Then go to Rohmer. He'll give you hotel uniforms. Get into ihem and then search Therrold's and this girl's rooms. The pearl's somewhere about and we've got to find it. Savee?'

The men hastened to obey. In a few moments only Rohmer and Miller were left in the room. Rohmer went to the bed and bent over the two forms tnereon. 'Mon Dieu! They are dead!' he exclaimed.

'Not a chance.' Miller laughed. 'They'll have a comfortable sleep and wake up when we want them. Perhaps they'll be more sensible then.'

'What do you intend to do with them ?'

'Take them to our country cottage.' The gangster smiled grimly. 'Wills and Parkes will deal with them there. They've been saying enough about how I've handled things. Now they can take a hand. Perhaps they'll not be so cocksure of how things should be done when they've had a talk with Mr. Therrold. He's got guts. I'll say that. So's the girl. Why, even when I handed her over to Tom she didn't even bleat.'

A knock came at the door and Miller opened it. Two men -entered, carrying an ambulance stretcher between them. Therrold was placed on it and covered with blankets. Then the men carried him out into the corridor — to the service lift.

In ten minutes they re-entered and carried Betty away. Miller turned to the hotel manager.

'Going to stay here, Carl?' He waited a moment, then: 'Oh, come along! No good mooning here. Lock the door and get back to your office. Come on. Remember, I'm the doctor. Call me 'doctor' as we go down the lift, and talk about the patients. Come on!'

Rohmer walked out of the room, followed by Miller. As the hotel manager turned to lock the door, he hesitated:

'What of the man— the man I struck?'

'Good lor'!' Miller thrust the door open and charged into the room. 'I'd forgotten about him. What are we going to do with him? Why— Where's he got to?'

The men searched the room anxiously. Thomas had disappeared. Rohmer broke down, walking about the room, wringing his hands and moaning. Miller sat down on the bed worried and perplexed.

'He lay there.' The gangster muttered to himself. 'Carl couldn't have struck as hard as I thought. He was out when I dragged him off Therrold, but— but how did he get out!'

His eyes followed a line of retreat from where Thomas had lain. A smile came on his lips. 'That's it! While we weren't looking he rolled under the bed. Waited his chance then got away through the secret door.' He grinned. 'He play hell with our Carl when we've gone, but that's not my funeral.'

He raised his voice. 'Who was he, Carl?'

'I don't know.' The hotel man wailed. 'I saw not his face when he lay— I could not bear to look.'

'No,' the gangster spat scornfully. 'You wouldn't. You haven't the pluck of a louse.'

'No. I have not the courage.' Rohmer turned agonised eyes on his master. 'Leave me here. I will continue for a time.'

Miller hesitated, shrugged and then walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. For a time Rohmer walked up and down, in complete distraction, then calming, turned towards setting the room in order. He had obeyed the 'Seven.' He had delivered Therrold and the girl into their hands. Now he knew that he would be left to bear the brunt of any disclosures. He lost all faith in the men whom once he believed to be destined to give freedom to the world. He knew that they would use him for their ends— as they had done— and would then cast him aside. What was he to do?

For a moment he thought of sending for the police and making a full confession. But did he know enough to ensure the capture of all the gang. If but one of them escaped?  He shivered. Bracing himself, Rohmer left the room and went down the corridor to the lift. At Therrold's door he paused and tried the handle. The door was unlocked. Taking out his pass key, he locked the door.

In a short time the news would be brought to him that a man and a girl were missing. He would have to have a story ready— a story that would deceive the police and start them on a false scent. He turned towards the elevators, conning a story of sudden love and elopement around Therrold and Betty. Yes, that would serve. He...

A hand fell heavily on his shoulder. He turned abruptly to gaze into a pair of blazing blue eyes, beneath a shock of disordered hair. A heavy hand clamped down on his lips; he was forced round and thrust into a room.

'So, my friend of the Cause of Freedom! I've been puzzling how to get hold of you.'

Thomas flung the terrified man into a chair and seated himself opposite. 'Quite a nice peaceful gentleman from France, aren't you. Fond of hitting people over the head. Insists that all visitors to your hotel shall have a gay and jolly time, eh? Well, how would you like to be shanghaied, friend?'

Rohmer sat silent. Thomas pulled out his pouch and rolled a cigarette. He leaned back in his chair, surveying his prisoner quizzically. 'You don't seem chatty, dear boy.' He pulled on his cigarette until it drew well. 'I really thought you would like to talk over our busy little morning. I was going to collar friend Miller, but decided to keep him until I knew more. Lucky for him I remembered that you were still in the room. Quite comfortable, dear fellow? Wouldn't like a cushion at your back— or a few cords to support you in your chair.'

'M'sieu has the humour,' the hotel man stuttered.

'Sure he has.' Thomas laughed. 'There's a proverb about the man who laughs last. Know it, Rohmer? Yes, thought so. Now, a few questions before I call the police.'

'The police, m'sieu?'

'The police; the jolly, old, efficient police, dear old pal! The common or garden police! S'pose you've forgotten biffing me over the head? By the way, what did you do it with? Excuse me! Thanks! An automatic! I say, naughty! Little boys shouldn't play with firearms. Now, I'd have thought a bottle more in your line. Comfortable? Good! Now we'll have a nice little chat— at least you'll do most of the chatting. You're going to tell me where that crowd took Therrold and the girl. No? Won't talk? Tut tut! Sorry, but there are means, y'know!'

The Australian's ideas of means were primitive, but very effectual. At the end of the first quarter of an hour Ronmer broke down and declared, witb tears in his eyes, that he was willing to tell all he knew. Half-an-hour later Thomas booted him from the room, with the promise of dire injury before handing him and the confession he had just signed over to the police, if he talked to others.

22

THE ROUGH jolting over country roads aroused Therrold from his sleep. He opened his eyes to a white opaqueness that pressed down on him. His mouth tasted vilely. For some minutes he lay, trying to gather his thoughts together. He could understand the jolting of the vehicle, but he could not understand his surroundings. Then memory came, in a rush.

Where was Betty Carlington? He managed to roll to one side and feel about with his bound hands. He could feel blankets, but not the girl. The sheet over his face hindered his breathing. Moving his head up and down in jerks, he found that he could draw the sheet from above his face. It was slow work. At last the sheet slipped down and he could see the interior of the vehicle. He was lying on a stretcher in an ambulance wagon— a real one and beautifully clean.

Rolling over, he saw that there was another stretcher on the opposite side of the car. On it was a long bundle covered with blankets. For a moment his heart stood still. Had the fiends killed the girl? Then he realised that he must have looked something similar, a few minutes before. That bundle of blankets was Betty.

For some time he lay wondering how he was to get the girl and himself out of the fix they were in. The doors of the van were shut, but he could hear voices— apparently from the driver's seat. Probably Miller was there. He believed he could distinguish the man's voice. Of course, the van was being driven by one of the gang. There was no chance of help from that direction.

They had been captured by agents of the 'Seven.' Miller, the active head, was carrying them to some place where they could be held until the gams obtained possession of the Green Pearl— and he had hidden the pearl and could not remember where. The 'Seven' would not believe him. They would torture him and the girl.

Therrold groaned. If only he could remember where he had placed the pearl. He would gladly surrender it, even if that meant he would have to retrace his steps over the past five years. He would do anything to get the girl out of the damned mess they were in. The col'd sweat broke out on his forehead when he thought of Betty in the hands of these damned fiends.

He would feel safer if he knew that Thomas was free. The Australian would not rest until he had traced them down. That should not be difficult. Martin Thome would take an active part in the affair now. But where was Thomas? All Therrold could remember was seeing him struck down from behind. Was he, also, a prisoner?

If Thomas was free he could go to Thorne— and there would be hopes of a quick rescue. But he could not rely on that. More than likely the Australian was also a prisoner— or dead. Miller would not leave the man in the hotel, and alive. That would mean the quick tracking down of the gang. And, with Thomas dead, or a prisoner, it might be days before Martin Thorne knew that they were missing.

Suddenly the double doors swung open, as the van drew to a stop. Miller mounted into the van and bent over the Englishman.

'Manager to wriggle the sheet off your head.'

The man made as if to replace the sheet, then hesitated. 'What does it matter! Suppose it's damned hot with that over you. Let it be. There's nothing you can see with the doors shut.'

He was about to back out of the van when something in the Englishman's eyes caught Ms attention, and he went to him again, feeling at the cords that bound him. Therrold turned his eyes in the direction of the bundle he believed to be Betty.

'Thinking of the girl, eh. Oh, she's there, all right.' Therrold turned his head again, lifting it slightly. 'Fraid she'll stifle, eh?' He paused a moment. 'Well, why not?' He turned to the other stretcher and pulled the sheet down from the girl's face. Again he bent over Therrold.

'A man who can think of a girl who's no pal of his at a time like this has pluck,' he said quietly. 'I'll do the best I can for you, but you're a damned fool, all the same. What's the pearl to you. It ain't yours. Give it up. You've done your best to carry out your part of the bargain; done more than most men could have done. Think it over, mate. You're at the end of your string. Another ten minutes will see us at the end of our journes' and then I'll have a talk with you before that blasted fool, Parkes, comes on the job. Tell me where the pearl is and I'll see you get cast loose whatever the bunch has to say. Understand.'

He left the car, closed the doors, and rejoined his companions on the driver's seat. The car jogged on, and the voices of the two men in front rose above the rattle of the engine.

Therrold turned his head and looked to where the girl lay. Her face was just visible to him. He lifted his head and tried to discover if she was conscious, but could not see if her eyes were open or not. He noticed how pale her cheeks were. Poor girl, to be drawn into this maelstrom of human passions. With some wriggling, he managed to get the blankets shrugged under his shoulder, so that he could lay and watch the girl.

For a long time she was without movement; then he saw her breast heave. A space of time during which he thought that she had again become unconscious and she turned and looked at him. For some time the man and girl lay looking at each other. Then the absurdity of their positions came to the Englishman— and he wanted to laugh. The gag choked his laughter back, leaving him red in the face.

The van turned sharply and ran over some very rough ground. It stopped and Therrold could hear men's voices. The doors opened and Miller entered the van. He stripped the blankets from the Secret Service man and untied the cords confining bis feet.

'It ain't no use trying to get away, mate,' he stated genially. 'There's a crowd of us at this place, and no neighbors. Be sensible, and do as I tell you, and you'll get out. If not—' He shrugged.

Therrold tried to rise to his feet, but could not stand. Miller caught at him and dragged him upright. Holding him firmly, the gangster pushed him towards the door and let him fall into the arms of the men gathered before it.

'Weak on his pins.' Miller laughed. 'Let him stamp about a bit. Can't get away and you don't want to carry a man of his size into the house.'

Miller returned to the van- and presently emerged, carrying Betty. The girl was now conscious and tried to convey some message to Therrold with her eyes, as she passed. The men caught at the Englishman and pushed him after Miller and the girl. The van stood in the yard of a small, whitewashed house, surrounded by wide verandahs. It was an old house, amid a number of oriental trees.

Therrold looked up at the sky. So far as he could judge they had been carried south-west. If he knew the time he might be able to guess bow far they were from Sydney. The sun was fairly high; he believed it to be about ten o'clock.

Miller led to the house at a fast walk, carrying the girl. The Englishman followed and the two men brought up the rear. The gangster led into a small hall. At the end of the hall was a ladder leading up to a trap door. At the foot of the ladder the gangster set the girl on her feet.

'Go up first, Matt,' he ordered. I'll untie the little lady's hands and feet and then she can go up to you. Tie her hands directly she reaches you. Then I'll send the man up. Tie him up again and then come down.'

The man mounted the ladder, but it was some time before Betty could essay the climb. At length, she struggled to the loft and turning waited for' her hands to be tied. Miller motioned for Then-old to follow, and mounted himself behind the Secret Service man. Then-old found himself facing a heavy wooden door. To the right and left were similar doors. Miller went to the door facing the head of the ladder and unlocked it, motioning to his prisoners to enter.

'You'll be together for a time— until the 'Seven' want you,' he stated briefly. 'Give me your word that you won't try to escape and I'll untie the girl. She can release you if she wants to. That so?'

Therrold nodded. The gangster twisted Betty round and released her wrists, then without speaking again went out of the room and locked the door.

The Englishman watched the gangster leave the room, feeling very puzzled. What game was the man playing? True, he had been asked for his word not to escape, but he had not promised to refrain from using freedom now to provide for means of escape at a later time, wien his parole had expired. Therrold was aroused from his thoughts by the touch of soft fingers on his wrists. His arms fell to his side and he essayed to lift his hands to his face, but his arms were numbed. Then the gag fell from his mouth and he gulped large draughts of clean fresh air.

'Thanks.' He turned to the girl. 'Was wondering if you'd take that fellow's hint and keep me tied. No; sorry! I didn't mean that. What the devil are we to do.'

He looked at the girl. She was holding a thin kimono over her nightdress and shivering with the cold. He sprang to the door and hammered on it with his fists. In a few minutes steps ascended the. ladder and the door opened. Miller strode into the room.

'What's the game?' he asked roughly.

'I'll ask you that!' Therrold faced the gangster angrily. 'You bring a lady out motoring in her night attire, and then ask "What's the matter?"'

For a minute Miller stood undecided. There was a quaint grin on his face. 'Of course, if you object!' The situation seemed cause for mirth. 'There ain't a lady on the premises; still, if a blanket or two will be of use— there's plenty in the van.'

'Are you going to force a decent girl to go before that beastly crowd at men you call your 'Seven' clad only in a blanket?' Therrold demanded wrathfully. 'Rohmer's one of your gang, isn't he. Well, telephone him to pack some of the ladies things and send them on. In the meantime you can send up some of the blankets you talk about'

Miller hesitated, then backed to the door. Therrold took a step forward, then flung up his arm, on guard.

'Oh, I'm not going to attack you, yet,' Therrold laughed. 'What I want at present is the blankets, and— well, you can send up some breakfast. You've kept us waiting for it long enough. Why, it must be after eleven.'

'Half-past ten.' The man spoke promptly. 'You're free with your orders, mister. All right. The lady and you shall be fed and I'll get some glad rags for her.'

Therrold turned with a nod. His bluff had succeeded. He had discovered the time and could estimate the distance from Sydney. He had also gained food, and, what was more important, had found that the gangster could easily be browbeaten.

Therrold paced the floor, lost in thought. He was free from bonds. That was something. He knew that unless he rebelled against orders he would continue free until he had faced the 'Seven.' Surely in the meantime he could discover some way of getting the girl into safety— or remember where he had seereted the Green Pearl!

The door opened and Miller entered, carrying a large bundle of rags. A man followed and placed a well filled tray on the floor. Then, without a word they left the room and the door was locked.

Therrold carried the rugs to one of the corners.

'Come, Miss Carlington. Huddle down in a couple of these rugs and sit on the others. I'm butler this morning, and serve.'

The girl came to where Therrold had arranged the rugs and wound a couple of them round her. Then she sat down, looking expectantly at the breakfast tray.

'Mr. Therrold.' She looked up suddenly. 'I think you — you're wonderful! How could you talk to that man in that fashion? I thought he would strike you— and, oh, please don't say you haven't a pin!'

23

TWICE DURING the day Miller came to the loft and brought trays of food. The second time he was followed by a. man who bore a heavy suitcase. He was leaving the room when Therrold spoke.

'Do you expect Miss Carlington to dress with me in the room?'

'What more do you want?' The man turned with a frown. 'There's no necessity to dress that I know of. You stay here. I'm taking no chances.'

The Englishman was about to retort angrily when he caught Betty's eyes. She shook her head and pointed to the pile of rugs. Miller waited a moment, then, looking as if he had scored over the Englishman, went to the door. Then he turned.

'The Council of 'Seven' sits at eleven to-night,' he announced. 'You will both be ready, dressed or undressed.'

The door closed and Therrold walked over to the rugs. Betty was intent on the contents of the suitcase.

'Mr. Therrold,' she called. 'They have sent your things as well as mine.'

The Secret Service man was examining the room— a rug in his hand. There was not an article of furniture in it— not a table or chair— not even a nail in the walls. He looked so helpless standing in the middle of the room that Betty giggled.

'Not a nail, not a hook, not a thing in the room 'besides our two selves,' he exclaimed miserably. 'Why the devil couldn't that beast have taken me downtsairs for an hour or two?'

'Never mind.' The girl colored slightly. 'I think it will be sufficient if you sit by the door with your face to it, until I call. Bother it! Whoever packed this bag forgot a comb!'

Dropping the useless rug, Therrold collected his belongings and went to the door. Seated on the ground, he managed to dress — and continued facing the door until the girl spoke.

'Thank you, Mr. Therrold.' He rose to his feet to find the girl fully dressed. She put up her hands to her head. 'I cannot think what my hair must look like!'

'Prisoners cannot expect luxuries.' The Secret Service Agent laughed. 'Jove, it's dark in here!'

Throughout the day the Secret Service agent had tried to plan an escape for the girl. He had schemed every way, testing walls and roof— without success. Now he realised that they would have to go before the 'Seven.' What would happen to the girl then? It he could only remember where he had put the pearl! He would gladly hand it over to secure her safety. But he had not the pearl nor had he any knowledge of it.

He would do the best he could— take any means of clearing the girl from any complicity in the charge of the jewel. He would declare she was not the girl he had seen with Dr. Night— but Miller had declared that he knew her to be an associate of the Asian. For some time he paced the little room, lost in thought; the girl sitting on the rugs watching him.

At length he went to her and squatted on the floor. Without preface he plunged into the history of the Green Pearl. When he came to the incident of seeing the girl and Dr. Night peering into his room while he was talking with detective Browne he was most minute in his description of the girl.

'Now I understand.' Betty spoke gravely. 'I understand what that man meant when he accused me of being an accomplice of Dr. Night. Mr. Therrold, I hope you will believe me. I have no knowledge of this man. I do not believe I have ever seen him. I have never been at the Hotel Splendide until I arrived there on Sunday night.'

'Of couree, I believe you, Miss Carlington.' Therrold spoke impulsively, almost against his convictions, for in the gloom the girl bore a remarkable resemblance to the girl he had seen with the Asian. 'The thing we have to od is to convince these men  that you are not the girl. At present Miller is certain that he has seen you with Dr. Night. Can you produce any evidence to convince him that at the time you were in Melbourne.'

'Only in Melbourne, I'm afraid. No! I have a cousin in Liverpool. He wrote to me in Melbourne a week ago. It is because of his letter that I came to Sydney.'

'He cannot swear that you were in Melbourne at the time he wrote the letter?' asked Therrold. He knew that if he could not advance some proof that the girl was in Melbourne at the time she was supposed to be with Dr. Night in Sydney he would have trouble in persuading the 'Seven' to thoroughly probe her story.

'No,' Betty answered slowly. She was silent for some minutes, then laid her hand on Therrold's arm. 'Tell me again what you know of the girl who is so like me?'

Again the Englishman went over the description of the girl, emphasising every point he could remember.

'I am afraid I know that girl.' Betty was silent a moment. 'Mr Therrold, I have a cousin who is extermely like me— so alike that when we were children people took us for twins. I have not seen her for years and until you spoke I did not think she was in Sydney. My aunt, her mother, lived in Melbourne until Marv was fifteen. Then they moved to Perth. I wonder— is this girl Mary?'

Martin Thorne's story of Dr. Night's activities in Sydney two years ago flashed through the Secret Service man's brain. Dr. Night had been head of a dope gang. Had the girl come under his influence that way? If so, would that accouut fcr the differences he now knew existed between the two girls in appearance.

'I believe you have solved the puzzle,' he said, after a pause. 'When I first saw you I thought you were the girl I had seen with Dr. Night. This morning, in the room at the hotel, I was not so certain. The day I have spent with you has banished al doubt from my mind. But I'll have a devil of a job convincing these beasts that you are not the girl they think you are.'

For long hours the man and girl sat, discussing the problems facing them. Therrold made a couch of the rugs and insisted that Betty took some rest. He could not sleep, or rest, himself; contenting himself by sitting beside her, watching.

At last footsteps sounded on the ladder and the door swung open. Miller entered, swinging a hurricane lamp. Therrold touched Betty on the shoulder and she sat up quickly. The man beckoned them to follow him and led down the ladder. On the ground floor a number of men were gathered. They looked curiously at the prisoners as they passed through their midst to the room where the 'Seven' sat.

Miller opened the door of a room and beckoned the prisoners to enter. Therrold looked about him curiously. The room was large and bare. At the far end was a long table set across the room, and behind it were seated the 'Seven.' On the door side of the table were placed two chairs Miller escorted his prisoners to the table, pushing aside the chairs and forcing Betty and Therrold to stand before the men who had assumed the right to try and judge them.

'Your name im Mark Therrold?' The man seated at the centre of the table spoke. Therrold knew him to be Wills, the chief of the 'Seven.'

He nodded assent.

'Who is the woman?'

'Excuse me.' Therrold spoke icily. 'This lady is Miss Betty Carlington.'

'We'll leave her out of the matter for the time and deal with you. We went the Green Pearl.'

'So I understand.'

'We believe you have it in your possession.'

'I think not.' Therrold was fighting for delay. 'Your men have already searched me and the room I occupied at the hotel. They have not found it.'

'You are aware that one of our agents obtained the Green Pearl and was bringing it to us when it was stolen from him?'

Therrold smiled at the twist in the sentence. He, the legitimate custodian of the pearl had 'stolen' it from a thief.

'There's nothing to laugh at, Therrold.' Wills spoke angrily. 'Are you prepared to admit that you stole the Green Pearl? '

'I took from a man certain property he had stolen from me.'

'You acknowledge! that you took the Green Pearl from Carl Rohmer some time on Sunday night last?'

'If you choose to put the question that way — yes.'

'You took the pearl back to your room at the hotel?'

'I took the packet I obtained from Carl Rohmer back to the hotel. On opening it I found that I had the enamelled box Rohmer had taken from my room.'

'The pearl was in that box?'

'Yes.'

'What did you do with the box?'

'I hid it.'

'With the pearl in it?'

'No.'

'You hid the pearl separately?'

Therrold nodded and looked at Betty. He noticed that the girl was bearing up well under the strain.

'There is no need for you to communicate with your accomplice.' Wills spoke rapidly. 'We will deal with her later.'

'In the meantime I suggest tliat you have the courtesy to offer Miss, Carlington a seat.' Wills flushed angrily; yet he beckoned to one of the men, who brought a chair forward.

'Now that we have satisfied you in that respect perhaps you will tell us where you hid the Green Pearl.'

'I cannot.'

'You mean, you will not.'

'I mean what I say.' Therrold spoke firmly. 'The day after I hid the box and the pearl I received a call from a man named Dr. Night. He insisted that I give him the Green Pearl.'

'You did so?'

'I handed him a box I had in my pocket— a box similar to the one in which I carried the Green Pearl.' Therrold hesitated and smiled. 'The box contained cigarettes.'

'You are fooling with us,' Wills exclaimed.

'I am relating what actually occurred.' Therrold spoke calmly. 'Dr. Night asked me to return to him the Green Pearl. I refused. He then asked me to hand him the enamelled box from my waistcoat pocket. I— I was unable to refuse him, for he has rather peculiar ways. I gave him the box. I believe he thought the Green Pearl was inside it.'

'That is a lie!' Parkes was on his feet, shouting at the top of his voice. 'You needn't have given it to him if you didn't want to.'

Mabberley laughed loudly. Parkes swung on him furiously. 'Comrade Mabberley seems to be amused?'

'I am.' The man continued to laugh. 'I'm remembering the time when Comrade Parkes wanted to put Dr. Night out of the room and was 'persuaded' not to do so. That was enough to make a cow laugh.'

'If you did not give the pearl to Dr. Night then you must still have it.' Wills silenced the men with a glance. 'Will you give the Green Pearl to me?'

'I cannot. When Dr. Night left me I was quite dazed. It was not until a friend aroused me that I could think or act again. Then I found that my memory regarding the pearl had disappeared. I had even forgotten what it was like.'

'Mr. Chairman!' Parkes was on his feet again. 'That's too thin. The man should be made to state where the pearl is.'

'Well?' Mabberley interjected before Wills could speak. 'I, for one, believe him. I saw this Dr. Night freeze one man and chase another to his seat— that was Comrade Parkes. More than that, he stopped our secretary talking for quite a while— and and that takes some doing.'

Miller came forward to the side of the Secret Service man. 'Mr. Chairman, I want to say that I have been in charge of the prisoners. I was given the job of capturing them and I have talked with both of them, especially Therrold. I believe what he says. I was at headquarters when Dr. Night came amongst us, and saw what he did to Comrade Milson. If he could do that in front of us and get away with it, then what the prisoner describes is quite possible.'

'What do you suggest?' Wills asked grudgingly.

'Let the prisoner go bacK to me hotel and search for the pearl. We'll see that he stays there until he remembers.'

'Good!' Mabberley struck the table heavily. 'T'aint often we get such a sensible suggestion.'

'I oppose!' Parkes jumped to his feet, waving his arms wildly. 'We've had enough trouble to get them and— and—'

'I had.' Miller spoke contemptuously. 'I've never known Comarde Parkes to do anything else but talk. Mr. Chairman, so far matters have been in my hands. If Comrade Parkes wants to give orders, let him do some of the dirty work.'

'You call work on behalf of Holy Russia dirty?' The man shrieked the question at the top of his voice. 'I denounce you as a traitor.'

'Shut up!' Wills turned roughly on the man. 'What do you propose to do with the girl, Miller?'

'Keep her here.'

'I will not agree to search for the pearl while Miss Carlington is a prisoner.' The Englishman spoke quickly.

'And if we make you '

'You cannot.'

'So.' Wills leaned across the table until his grossness overlapped. 'Do you know that I can do what I like with you— and the girl.'

There was an evilness in the mans tone that made Therrold wince. Hfc clenched his fists; if he only had nimself to think of nothing would give him greater pleasure than to smack his fist into that ulgy, gross, leering tace. But he must remember the girl.

'I think you are mistaken.' His voice was cold and even. 'I am a member of the British Secret Service. Already the head of that organisation in Sydney is aware that I am missing. In a few hours he will be here and with sufficient force to put the lot of you behind bars. But I will search for the pearl and hand it to you when I find it; if you let Miss Carlington go to her friends.'

'You are in love with the girl?' Wills spoke coarsely.

'I am talking common decency.' Therrold colored.

Had the Soviet Chief discovered a secret he had hardly guessed hfmself? Had he fallen in love with the girl he but a short time previously believed to be acting for one of his opponents. He turned defiantly at the head of the 'Seven.'

'Unless Miss Carlington is released I will enter into no compact.'

There was a note of finality in Therrold's voice that impressed Wills. He turned and whispered to Mabberly, who nodded.

'You two.' Wills spoke briefly. 'Sit over there againsc the wall. There are others I have to question? You can take it, Therrold, that your proposal to search for the pearl on our behalf will receive careful consideration.'

'No! Betty spoke flatly. 'I will not consent to my freedom on those terms. Mr. Therrold shall not give up the Green Pearl.'

24

THE CHIEF of the 'Seven' waved his hand and Betty and Therrold were taken to a form at the side of the room. At another signal the door opened and Carl Rohmer was brought into the room by a couple of men. The one-time dapper hotel-manager was dishevelled and frightened. His face had an unearthly pallor. He looked about him on entering the room, as a wild animal would in cap tivity.

The men forced him to the edge of the table and there left him. For a moment he stood staring at the men who were to judge him; clinging with tensed fingers to the table. Then, with a deep sigh he collapsed to the ground. Wills made a sign and one of the men came forward and lifted Rohmer to a seat. For a few seconds the man sat in a heap, breathing heavily; then straightening himself with an effort he faced the 'Seven,' his face working queerly.

'Carl Rohmer, we want the Green Pearl.' Wills spoke significantly.

'I have not the pearl.' Rohmer gulped before he spoke.

'You were instructed to get the pearl from Therrold. You told us that you did so and that it was stolen from you before you could hand it to us. Again you were told to get the pearl and bring it to us. You did not do so.'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'I have not the opportunity had.'

'Yet Therrold is staying at your hotel. You have opportunities to get into his room and search for the jewel. We know that you have been in hi, room. Why have you not brought the pearl to us?'

'I could not find it.'

'Therrold states that he hid the pearl and could not find it when he searched for it.'

'I did not find the pearl.'

'You lie.' Wills' fist crashed on the table.  'You found the pearl and you did not bring it to us. You have broken your oath.'

'No.' The man's lips quivered. He spoke the denial in a whisper. 'You took Dr. Night to the room occupied by Therrold on the night you say you lost the pearl. With that man you searched the room, while Therrold lay under that man's hypnotic power. Do you deny that. You were watched.'

'I deny.' Rohmer spoke angrily.  'It is untrue— most untrue.'

'You were watched. The men who watched you are here now. Know that the 'Seven' never wholly trusted you. You were given the task of obtaining the Green Pearl from Therrold. To another was given the task of seeing that you kept your oath. He states that you betrayed your trust.'

Wills beckoned to one of the men who had brought Rohmer into the room. The man advanced to the table. Therrold recognised him as one of the hotel servants.

'Make your report.' The Chief spoke briefly.

I was instructed to watch Rohmer and see that he carried out the search for the Green Pearl in a proper manner.' The man spoke quietly. 'On Sunday night Rohmer went to the fifth floor of the hotel and, through a hole in the door of Therrold's room, watched him for some time. Just before Rohmer went upstairs the woman seated beside Therrold now came up to the floor. She went to her room. Rohmer waited until the door closed and then went to Therrold's door again. After a time he went down to his office. Before I followed him I peeped through a hole in Therrold's door and saw him holding the Green Pearl.'

'Why did you not go into the room and take the pearl from Therrold?' he asked eagerly. 'That was not my duty. I was appointed to watch that Rohmer did not betray the trust that was reposed in him.'

'Good!' Wills nodded his head approvingly. 'Go on.'

'I followed Rohmer to the ground floor. I did not think that he would do anything more than night, but he stayed in his office until early in the morning. About two o'clock a man in a very large overcoat and with his hat pulled down over his eyes came to the hotel and asked for Rohmer. He went into the office and they were together for a long time. My orders were to watch Rohmer all the time he was out of his rooms. I hid where I could watch the office door. After a time Rohmer and the man came out of the office and went up to Therrold's room. They entered the next room and passed into Therrold's room through the secret door. They were in there for some time and came out through the secret door. The man left the hotel and Rohmer went up to his rooms.'

Therrold smiled. The story was very probable. That was the night he had changed apartments with Thomas— the night that he had taken the Green Pearl into the Australian's room. Almost a light dawned in his mind.

'Do you think that Rohmer and the man found the Green Pearl?'

'No.'

'Why?'

'Because Dr. Night came to the hotel the next day. I saw him talking to Therrold. I concealed myself where I could overhear their conversation. I heard Dr. Night ask Therrold for the pearl. Therrold refused. Then Dr. Night asked Therrold for the enamelled box. Therrold gave it to him.'

'Willingly?'

'No.' The man hesitated. 'I saw Dr. Night at our headquarters last Sunday. I believed he played some trick on Therrold to make him give up the box.'

'Do you think the box contained the pearl?'

'No.'

'What happened after Dr. Night left Therrold. He states that the man left the hotel immediately.'

'He did not.' The man replied quietly. 'Therrold sat where Dr. Night had left him, looking dazed and ill. Dr. Night went to the door of the hotel and stood there for a full minute. Then, when a group of people entered, he came in again and went to Rohmer's office. He was there for some time. Rohmer left the office and went up to Therrold's room. When he came back to the office Dr. Night left the hotel.'

'Do you think that Rohmer found the pearl and gave it to Dr. Night?'

'Yes. I don't think Dr. Night would have left Rohmer unless he had the pearl. I believe Dr. Night obtained the secret of the hiding-place of the pearl from Therrold and sent Rohmer to fetch it.'

'Do you recognise the girl seated by Therrold?'

'I have seen her with Dr. Night.'

'That is untrue,' Therrold exclaimed. 'Miss Carlington only came to Sydney on Sunday evening. To connect her with that man is absurd.'

'Did she?' Wills looked doubtfully at the Englishman. 'We have only your statement for that. Still...'

'What?' asked Mabberley as the Chief paused.

'If the girl is connected with Dr. Night why is Therrold so anxious that we should let her go free? If Dr. Night has the pearl, even Therrold is as anxious to get it from him as we are— and the girl's the best bet to that. But we'll so into that later. Carl Rohmer, what have you to answer?'

'For what?'

'You are accused of stealing the Green Pearl from Therrold and giving it to Dr. Night instead of bringing it to us.'

'It is a lie!' Rohmer sprang to his feet. 'It is true that I did search the room for the pearl, but I did not find it.'

'Did you search Therrold?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'I was alone and I feared that I might awaken him.'

Therrold repressed a laugh. If Rohmer had gone to the bed he would have found Thomas there. Slowly memory was coming back to him. If he could only delay any decision of the 'Seven' for a time— to give his dormant memory a chance.

'I consider the case against Carl Rohmer proved.' Wills spoke sombrely. 'Carl Rohmer has betrayed us.'

'I believe Carl Rohmer gave the pearl to Dr. Night.' Mabberley spoke hesitatingly.

'It's true.' Parkes was again on his feet, his arms waving wildly. 'We have a traitor with us. What shall be done with him? Let us follow the example set by our comrades in the Land of Freedom, Holy Russia. There is bit one penalty— death.'

'Pigs! Dogs! I spit on you! I spit on you all.' Rohmer sprang to his feet, mad with excitement and fear. 'What is your Cause? Nothing! It is yourself! What want you the Green Pearl for? It is for money— the money you will spend on yourself—for your pies sure. Bah! I spit on you! I denounce you! Will a Frenchman betray the sacred cause of Freedom? Non, non! But with you there is no freedom! You are capitalists— bourgeoisie! You with the money you gather for freedom— and spend on yourself! You―'

Parkes was on his feet, shouting excitedly, trying to drown the voice of the Frenchman. His eyes blazed with passion and fear. Cold drops of sweat stood on his forehead, damping the towzled black hair that straggled over his brows.

For some minutes there was pandemonium. Wills beat on the table wild his fists in a vain endeavour to control his followers. At length, one of the men caught Rohmer, forcing him into a chair and stifling his shouts with his hand.

Wills sprang at Parkes, deliberately choking him silent.

'Carl Rohmer.' Wills returned to his chair and addressed the wretched man cowering before him. 'You have heard the accusation brought against you— and the judgment of the 'Seven.' Have you anything, to say?'

For some time Rohmer sat with his head in his hands, silent. Then slowly and with apparent difficulty he rose to his feet.

'It is not true what has been said. I know what you intend to do and I cannot stop you. This I have to say. You say that the man, Dr. Night, came to me in my office. That is true. He came to me because he was sent by that man―' He pointed to Parkes. 'He told me that Parkes sent him to me. I did not believe him and I spoke to Parkes on the telephone. He told me to―'

'He accuses me! Me, who has been to Russia to learn the freedom which will one day rule the world!'

Pale as death, the secretary faced the hotel manager. 'Me, who brought to this country the great knowledge of the Soviet. I know; know what you cannot know! I should be sitting in your seat, judging this man. Comrade Wills. I shall sit there one day and you shall stand before me. You say you were elected. Bah, what of that? Before the slaves of this world can throw off their chains the men who have learned freedom in Russia must lead. What do you know of freedom? You do not even know how to deal with traitors. But I, John Parkes, will show...'

With a dramatic flourish the secretary produced a large automatic and fired at the hotel-keeper. For a moment Rohmer clung to the edge of the able, a great surprise on his face. His left hand went up and clutched it his breast. From beneath his fingers great clots of crimson blood welled and dripped to the table. He staggered, dizzily. With a supreme effort be braced himself. Slowly his right hand passed behind him and came forward clutching a small revolver.

Gradually the weapon steadied, pointing at the breast of the secretary of the 'Seven.' The two men stood staring into each other's eyes. In Rohmer's face showed the shadows of approaching death, whitening his lips and draining the colour from his face. He smiled, almost contemptuously.

Parkes was clutching at Wills, shrieking in terror. The Chief strove to throw him off. A sharp crack, as of a whip, sounded through the room and Parkes collapsed across the table, dragging Wills down with him.

'Peace.' The solemn word broke the silence that followed the firing of the shot. 'The life that the gods give shall not be taken in violence!'

Therrold swung round. In the doorway stood a slender, grey-faced man whose brilliant, piercing eyes surveyed the scene with sadness and wonder.

25

DR. NIGHT'S entrance into the room was followed by a long silence. Wills had subsided into his chair, staring bleakly at the intruder. Parkes lay across the table, still clutching at his automatic. Almost at the feet of the Asian lay the body of Carl Rohmer, a peaceful smile on his half-parted lips.

Betty had turned at the first shot and buried her face on Therrold's shoulder. The Englishman had thrown his arm around the girl, tensing himself for the struggle he foresaw would arise from this bloodshed. What did the entry of Dr. Night portend. It seemed incredible that the Asian should walk into the Soviet gathering if he really had obtained the pearl from Rohmer; and the evidence of the man who had watched the hotel-manager could not be set aside as wholly untrue.

Dr. Night never acted on impulse. Every move was carefully considered; the definite and reasoned thought of a mastermind. Had Dr. Night obtained the jewel? The report of the watcher indicated that Rohmer had obtained the pearl and had handed it to the Asian. But the presence of Dr. Night in that room could only indicate that he was still in pursuit of the jewel.

In that case the pearl remained where Therrold had hidden it. Little glimmers of memory were chasing themselves through the Secret Service man's brain. He felt that at any moment the memory of the hiding place of the pearl would return to him. Would that serve him now. Both Wills and the members of the 'Seven' he would have been able to barter for the liberty of the girl in exchange for the jewel. He could not do that with the Asian. Dr. Night would force his secret from him, by the marvellous hypnotic powers he possessed. He wanted to remember, yet he feared for memory, to return.

Bending over the girl, Therrold whispered rapidly. She was sobbing softly and did not at first attend to what he was saying. He repeated his instructions and gradually she understood. She sat up, shivering at the sight of Rohmer's body, almost at her feet. She turned to Therrold and nodded, patting her hair into place.

For a brief period the Asian stood a few steps within the door, surveying the blood-stained room. He advanced deliberately towards the table, motioning to some of the men to remove the bodies of Parkes and Rohmer. They hesitated, but a flashing glance from his eyes compelled their obedience. At length, the Asian advanced the few remaining paces to the table and stood facing the Chief of the Seven.

Only when the room was again silent did he speak.

'They who would command events avoid the shedding of blood.' The Asian spoke in cold level tones. 'Death casts the shadows of his wings. Who can foretell where those shadows fall.'

Wills looked up, his eyes bloodshot, his hand, resting on the table beside a small pool of Parkes' blood, trembled. For a space he gazed steadily at the Asian.

'What do you want?' he asked bluntly.

'I require from you the Green Pearl, the sacred jewel of my ancestors.'

'Then take the damned thing.' Wills spoke almost hysterically. 'Find it and take it, if you can.'

'It shall be found.' Dr. Night's voice was emotionless. 'There are those in this room who know where it is. I demand that they speak.'

'Then make them speak.' Mabberley spoke bitterly. 'I agree with Comrade Wills― the thing is accursed.'

'Tell me what you know.'

There was quiet demand in the low voice.

'We know that Rohmer searched Therrold's rooms immediately after he saw the pearl in his hand. We know that you called and demanded the jewel from Therrold and obtained from him the imitation enamelled box. We know that you went to Rohmer's office after he had searched Therrold's room. We thought that you had obtained the jewel from him. Who has the pearl now I, personally, don't know and don't care. I've finished with it.'

'Peace.' Dr. Night lifted his hand and the Soviet Chief sank back in his chair as if stricken. 'What has Mark Therrold to say regarding the pearl?'

The Asian turned and looked at the Englishman.

Therrold thought rapidly. If he refused to speak and told the Asian to do his worst, lie must sacrifice Betty. In some manner he must temporise.

If he spoke at Dr. Night's command that would be tantamount to telling the 'Seven' what, he knew— and he had tried to bargain with them for the girl's freedom. He was in their hands. So far as he could judge, Dr. Night was also their prisoner, in spite of the fact that he had walked unhampered into the room.

For the moment the 'Seven' were bewildered and surprised by the fatal duel between Parkes and Rohmer; but they would soon recover their nerves. They would believe that their great enemy— their rival for the Green Pearl— was in their power. He must hold his tongue, biding the time when he could decide whether Dr. Night or the Soviet 'Seven' were the stronger.

'I remember the pearl.' Therrold tried to keep all inflexion out of his voice. 'I remember you coming and asking for the pearl and the enamelled box. I know that before you came to me I had hidden the pearl. Now I have forgotten.'

A ghost of a smile flecked the lips of the Asian. For a moment he stood in meditation, then raised his eyes and stared directly at the Englishman.

'The powers that are mine took from you the memory of where you had hidden the jewel. Those powers shall, in due time, show you where you hid the Green Pearl. Again I ask of you, Mark Therrold. Will you give me the Green Pearl, the sacred jewel of my house?'

'These men have asked the same thing of me,' retorted Therrold, boldly. 'They have promised that if I give the Green Pearl to them they will give Miss Carlington her freedom. I am in their hands. If I give it to you I have no guarantee or freedom or protection from either you or them. No. Dr. Night. I will carry out the trust I assumed and carry the Green Pearl to the Grand Duke Paul— the man who sent me for it.'

'Mark Therrold.' Dr. Night came to where the Englishman stood. 'You are a brave man and I honour you. But I shall obtain the Green Pearl. You shall never take it to England and the Grand Duke.'

'This lady, Miss Carlington.' Therrold spoke quickly. He feared those keen, penetrating eyes. 'She was captured by these men and brought here with me. They claim that she is your agent. Will you tell them that you have no knowledge of her,'

'You are very like her, child; very like her; but you are not the girl these men take you to be. She is safe where these men cannot touch her. Had they taken her prisoner, I would have known it on the instant and she would have been freed, or grave torments would have struck them. Yes, Mark Therrold, I will do as you ask. I declare that this girl has no knowledge or part with me.'

Dr. Night released Betty's hand and moved to the table. Facing the Soviet Chief, he spoke in clear, ringing tones.

'Anthony Wills, you have stated that you relinquish all claims to the Green Pearl. Will you deliver this man and this woman to me'

'No.' Mabberley was on his feet, his eyes blazing with avarice. 'No, we have Therrold and the girl, and we have you. You say that you can bring back Therrold's memory. Well, we will force you to do that. We'll force him to speak and then we'll get the pearl while we hold you and the girl prisoners here.'

A strange flickering smile came to the Asian's lips. For a moment he stared at the man with vivid, penetrating eyes that seemed to pierce down into the soul. Then he turned away with a contemptuous shrug.

Therrold could not take his eyes from the scene. Here was a man, a foreigner, elderly, slight, dominating a crowd of men whose lusts and passions flamed in their animal-like faces. Parkes had gone down the long road; Wills sat back shrunken and baffled, his nerves shattered. Now this silent, uncouth man, who had formerly appeared of little account, had stepped forward to carry on the long drawn-out contest.

Carefully, Dr. Night drew one of the chairs to the table and sat down. For a time he leaned forward, his hands clasped on the table before him. At length he looked up.

'Again I ask that I be given the man Therrold, and the girl.' He spoke firmly, yet softly.

'You can ask, but you won't get.' Mabberley stood defiant. He was staring over the Asian's head at the back of the room. Therrold followed the direction of the man's eyes. He was looking at Miller. The gangster was standing some yards behind the Asian, his hands fumbling at his belt. He appeared undecided and distrait. Therrold thought that Mabberley was trying to convey some message to the man, and that he was wilfully trying to evade knowledge.

Dr: Night made as if to rise from his seat. At that moment Miller acted. With a single bound he was on the Asian's back, forcing a cloth over his head, calling to the other men to aid him. For a moment there was a alight turmoil round the mystery man.. Then the crowd parted and Therrold saw Dr. Night seated in his chair, bound and blindfolded. Mabberley stood on the opposite side of the table, triumphant.

'Trouble with you fellows is that you get scared at things,' he crowed boastfully. 'Because that fellow put it all over Milson you took him to be infallible. I thought it out. I reckoned that he mesmerised Milson and that if he was caught from behind he would be helpless. He's just a fakir. I got him first jump. Now Wills, do you want to give up the pearl?'

Wills sat up straight and chuckled. With a jerky motion he turned to his companion and shook hands warmly. Then he turned to the prisoner.

'Want us to give up the pearl, eh?' he chortled. 'Think again, old fellow. We've got you and we've got Therrold. Between the two of you we'll get the pearl. Oh, no. You Chinks are mighty clever, but we white men beat you every time. Now, are you prepared to save your precious skin. If you're reasonable, we won't be unkind; but you've got to give Therrold his memory back or we'll— deal with you. Now you're going to talk sense.'

The Asian made no move. For long seconds the 'Seven' sat staring at the blindfolded man. Suddenly Wills jerked his head away.

'Queer!' He spoke in a half whisper. 'Do you know, I thought I could see the man's eves staring at me through that cloth. Why, they seemed to hold mine so I couldn't look away. Well, it seems that he doesn't intend to be reasonable, so we'll have to use force. Miller, get the poker. A few touches with that and he'll find it'll pay to talk sense.'

The man left the room, to return with a white-hot poker. He went to the side of the Aisan and looked at his chief for directions.

'Had it ready for you, Therrold.' Wills grinned across at the Secret Service man. 'You were reasonable, so we didn't want it. Now then, Dr. Night. Will you help Therrold to regain hjs memory? You won't talk. All right! Between the shoulders, I think, Miller.'

The man raised the poker and stepped behind the Asian. There he hesitated, a strange look coming into his eyes. Every muscle appeared to tense and strain under the enormous effort of will the man was making to carry out his orders. But he could not move hand or foot. For minutes he stood beside- his intended victim, casting agonised glances at his leaders.

The arrogance had disappeared from Mabberley's face. With almost a sob he fell back in his chair, covering his eyes with his hands. Wills leaned  forward, a look of supreme unbelief on his heavy features. Dr. Night was motionless, the central figure in the room. From the moment Miller had attacked him he was motionless. Blinded and bound, he appeared a helpless, pathetic figure— an old man who had tried to dominate and failed. Yet there was a quiet tenseness about the Asian that held attention. Physically helpless he might be, but from his person emanated an aura that held the men surrounding him spellbound. His slender figure had the majesty of one who rules, not by right but by a mentality superior by far to mere muscular strength.

Therrold became conscious that some vital power was flowing from the bound man. The atmosphere of the room was becoming close. Around the Asian grew a tangible mist. The lights were dimming— not by the failure of the lamps— but because the light waves within the room refused to vibrate. A visible darkness was creeping from the walls towards the centre of the room.

The Englishman looked down at the girl beside him. She was gazing at the Asian, her lips half-open in wonder and awe. He noticed that he could hardly see her features, and as he gazed at her the mist seemed to grow thicker; to withdraw her from him. He passed his arm around her and drew her close. She nestled to him, content with his physical proximity and protection.

Slowly the darkness spread and the light contracted. Soon only the light above the table bit through the denser atmosphere. It cast a brilliant beam of light directly down on the Asian's seated figure. Around the bound form a weird blue light commenced to play, throwing every line of Dr. Night's body into strong relief. The darkness was now almost complete and from the men lining the walls came little gasps, as if they were stifling in the dense air. The light over Dr. Night's head grew more brilliant and concentrated. It formed a well of light, about three feet in diameter, from the lamp to the floor, and at the base of the cone played the strange, weird blue light.

A slight movement by the bound man and the enveloping cloth slipped from his head to the floor. A long pause and the knots that bound the ropes about his hands came untied and slipped down. Still he sat, silent and motionless; an intense concentration in his glowing eyes. The cords binding him to the chair shivered and shook. They curled and twisted; writhing as if in torments. Then the knots slipped free and the ropes fell to the ground.

Still Dr. Night sat, facing the 'Seven', free and untrammeled. Slowly the darkness receded until the faces of the men against the wall appeared wavering and indistinct, as if seen through a mist. The lights glowed and once again threw their rays down on the room. The strange blue aura flickered and faded away, blending with the pale yellow light of the lamps. A long minute and the figure in the chair moved slowly.

Dr. Night raised his head and looked around him. He leaned forward, clasping his hands on the table. Unsmiling and intent, he gazed at the men seated before him, in his eyes scorn immeasurable and wordless.

'Children of the new race― who have not yet learned the mysteries of nature; who have forgotten and neglected the lore your fathers reverenced; listen and learn.' The voice, deep and sonorous, appeared to echo through a vast distance. 'You cannot bind that which I will to be free. You bound with ropes; beware, lest I bind with powers no man can resist!'

And still the slight grey figure sat, staring at the men before him. Therrold felt that in another minute he must scream. He half-rose from his seat, withdrawing his arms from around the girl. She looked up at him, pleadingly, catching at his hand. Immediately the tension binding him relaxed and he fell back on his seat with a sigh of relief.

Slowly the Asian turned and looked at the Englishman. There was no anger in those calm eyes; only a mighty, benign sadness; as if they had looked upon aeons of sin and passion since creation; as if they shadowed a soul world-weary. For a full minute those eyes rested on him, as if searching the inner secrets of his heart. Then the eyes passed on, scanning the long line of faces wining the walls.

Therrold gasped. In that long minute while the soul of the Asian sought his, he remembered. As on a silver screen he saw himself during those few missing minutes of that Sunday night— when he held the Green Pearl in his hand and sought round for a secure hiding-place.

26

DR. NIGHT rose from his seat and turned towards the door. As if in answer to his silent summons it opened and a file of Chinese came into the room. Without leader or instruction, yet apparently obeying some command, they drove the men into the centre of the room. The big table, at which the 'Seven' had sat, was thrust to one side and as each man was searched he was thrust into a far corner of the room.

Therrold had sprung to his feet at the entrance of the Chinese. Now, drawing Betty with him, he moved unobtrusively towards the door. He found it guarded by two stalwart Chinees. Finding escape impossible, he again sat down on a bench. For the time he must be content to watch.

Dr. Night was standing before the group of prisoners. With hardly a word, without shot or struggle, he had captured the entire organisation of the Soviets in Sydney. For long minutes he stared at them, grimly; then with a slight motion of his hand drew their attention to himself.

'Fools!' The word was spoken without trace of emotion. 'Fools, who neither know nor fear the wisdom that has come down through the aeons of time. You would bind me with cords and blind my eyes? You would pit your feeble powers against my powers, and the powers of those I serve? Fools! I was your prisoner and am now free! You are my prisoners and I shall deal with you according to my pleasures.'

He made a slight motion and a Chinaman approached bearing a bundle of cords. One by one the men were taken and secured. A big Chinaman approached Betty and tied her hands behind her back; then motioned to Therrold. When their hands were secure, the man led them through the door, out into the coolness of the early morning. For some distance he walked down the path towards the roadway, driving his prisoners before him. About a hundred yards from the house he bade them halt— and released them.

'Great business, old man!' The Chinese laughed exultingly. 'Lucky I was able to get hold of one of Dr. Night's boys and borrow his costume.'

'Thomas!' Therrold was thunderstruck. 'How the deuce did you get here?'

'Thanks to friend Rohmer.' The Australian grinned broadly. 'Captured him soon after you and Miss Carlington were taken from the hotel. A little— er— persuasion and he split all he knew. Then I came out here and watched. Wondered how I was to get into the place. Just scheming a little fancy shooting match when these Chinks came up. One of them wandered far from the herd, and became my meat. In his dress, I fell in at the end of the procession and waited for a chance to get to you.'

Therrold was about to question the Australian when he heard sounds of disturbance in the house. A couple of men dashed into the open, running towards the gate. Thomas drew his companions into the shelter of the trees, pressing an automatic into the Englishman's hand. For a time they stood hidden; then Thomas led the way to a wire fence. Scrambling through, he helped his companions to cross, then led them over a ploughed field.

'Can't take the road just yet,' he whispered. 'Those Chinks are sure to make a big search for you. Dr. Night will be fit to eat his hat at your escape. Thought he had you and the Green Pearl in his grasp for sure. Still, we're not out of the wood by a long way yet.'

For some distance they proceeded along the edge of a small thicket. Behind and around them they could hear high voices calling. At length, The Australian halted. Betty was nearly exhausted by the fast pace he had set.

'We have to wait a time, old man. No good flogging on through the dark. Don't think they'll track us here, but if they do we'll put up the best fight we can, eh?'

'Where are we?' exclaimed Betty.

'About two miles outside Liverpool,' the Australian answered.

'Liverpool.' Therrold was astonished. 'I thought we were closer to the coast than that.'

'Hist!' Thomas warned. Listening intently, they could hear someone stumbling over the rough ground. Therrold raised his automatic, but the Australian pressed it down. Crouching in the shadows of the trees they waited. In a few minutes a dark form loomed up beside them. Thomas touched Therrold's arm and they sprang together. A short, sharp struggle and they crouched down again, a struggling form between them.

Therrold tore hastily at the man's clothing and in a few minutes had him bound and gagged. Then, after a short search, he found the automatic the man was carrying and handed it to Betty.

'Where's the road?' Therrold asked suddenly, 'This waiting's no good. That man, Night, is uncanny. If we stop here he's bound to discover us.

Thomas pointed to the left. As if in confirmation of his gesture, the dull roar of a motor came to their ears and the glare of headlights shone along the road.

'Going into Liverpool,' announced the Australian. 'Think they'll overtake us.'

Therrold touched his companions on the arms and led to the road.

Thomas protested.

'Look out, old man,' he whispered. 'There's another car at the farm— the one Dr. Night came in.'

'Came in a car, did he?' growled the-Englishman. 'Thought he'd been wafted here on the wings of that power he talks about. Well, we've got to risk it. No good loitering here to be recaptured. Come on!'

They were only a hundred yards from the road. There it was better walking and Betty was able to get along at a fair pace. The two men kept ears and eyes well open. Where had the car gone? It would certainly not go into the town. Perhaps not finding them on the road it would return to the farm.

At length they heard the sounds of the motor roaring back towards them. Just ahead of where they were the lightening sky showed the tops of trees. Hurrying forward, they just managed to reach concealment before the lights of the car appeared on the road. It went past them at a furious pace, heading for the farm. The trees they had sheltered amid stood at the beginning of a lane, narrow and rough. They turned down it and for half a mile stumbled along its rough surface. The lane opened into a smoother and broader road. Away in the distance they could see lights.

'Liverpool,' announced the Australian. 'We've had luck!'

As he spoke a gun cracked, the bullet whizzing past his ear. He ducked and ran forward. Therrold drew the girl into the shelter of the hedge, whispering to her to kneel down. Again came the sound of a shot and they ran forward. They found Thomas standing over the insensible form of a Chinaman.

'Dead,' queried Therrold.

'Not a chance!' Thomas was nursing his wrist. 'Hit him with the butt. Nearly fractured my wrist. He's got a bean like a brick!'

Therrold rolled the man over. So far as he could see, he was not seriously injured.

'Come on,' he said, rising to his feet. 'Miss Carlington, I'm afraid we'll have to run for it now. Those shots will bring the pack on our trail.'

As he spoke, shouts came from the lane. Therrold looked around. Up the lane, in the direction of the town, stood a big barn. Pointing to it, he caught Betty's arm, urging her forward.

'Fraid we're caught, old man,' gasped Thomas, as they reached the shelter of the building. 'Still, we've got three guns and we're both good shots. Perhaps we can stand them off until some of the country people get curious.'

They crouched in the deep shadows of the barn, peering out on the road. In the half lights they could see a group of Chinese, chattering and pointing up at the bam. Thomas raised his automatic, but the Englishman restrained him.

'You'll only scatter them if you shoot, old man. Better let them pack until we've made our minds what to do.'

The Australian hesitated, then drew back into the building. He struck a match and looked around. Some farm implements, a sulky and a carpenter's bench and tools occupied the space. At one side was a door. Thomas pressed it and it swung open. The interior was in darkness and he struck another match.

In the room stood a small motor car.

Returning to where Therrold watched, the Australian reported his find. The car provided a way out, but Therrold was loath to leave the barn until he knew how they were to get the car on to the road.

Dawn was just breaking but the ground was still covered with a fine mist. It was dangerous to move, yet it was more dangerous to remain. The Chinese were on guard on the road. It was certain that they had sent a messenger back to report to Dr. Night that they had the prisoners cornered.

Therrold sent the Australian to the car with instructions to make it ready for a quick getaway. Then, warning the girl to keep under shelter, he went out into the open. His appearance was greeted with a shout and a couple of shots, both of which went wide.

To the left, Therrold found a fair farm road, running from the barn doors to the road. It was evident that this was the road used by the owner of the car. But, was that road barred by a locked gate? From the loose manner in which the barn was secured this was probable. If so, then they had no chance of escape in that direction.

The Englishman returned to the barn, puzzling over the problem. He believed there was a house near, possibly over the slight ridge across which the farm led. They might make a dash for the house. But the Chinese would follow and he doubted if there were sufficient arms at the house to stave off an attack. Thomas met him at the door and reported the car ready. He said that he had secured the door with a piece of thin string in place of the bolt.

A strong pressure on the string would snap it and allow the doors to swing open. The problem of the gate remained.

Therrold thought for a few moments and than told Thomas and Betty to get into the car and drive out when he gave the word. He looked at his gun to see that the magazine was fully charged, then went out of the barn and walked to where the Chinese were gathered. Some fifty yards from the men he opened fire, purposely shooting high. The men scattered abruptly, dodging from the Englishman's bullets.

Therrold whistled shrilly. The barn doors burst open and the car came out. The Englishman saw that Betty was at the wheel; Thomas was standing up in the car, automatic in hand. Therrold started to run down to the gates, covered by Thomas, who fired occasional shots to keep the Chinese at a distance.

Arriving at the top of the rise, Therrold saw that his guess had been correct. There was a house a little distance down the further slope. A man was standing a few yards from the door, evidently attracted by the sounds of the shots. Therrold ran down the slope towards the man, Betty keeping the car close beside him.

To his relief he saw that the gate to the road was wide open. The farmer commenced to run towards them. The Chinese, following closely, appeared on the crest of the ridge, to be driven back by a couple of shots from Thomas. Flourishing his gun, Therrold ran towards the man. As he expected, the farmer turned and bolted to the house.

'Quick, Betty!' Therrold sprang to one side and, as the car passed him, sprang on the running board, 'Make her move!'

The girl swung the car on to the road and stepped heavily on to the accelerator. Therrold faced round towards the rise. A group of Chinese were running down towards them. The farmer reappeared at the door carrying a shot-gun, alternately threatening the Chinese with the gun and staring after his car.

'Fine, old man!' Thomas leaned across the car and patted Therrold on the shoulder. 'Got clean away, by Jove!'

'Listen!' He could hear the sounds of a powerful car travelling at a great speed. In a moment it appeared on the crest of a hill. The farmer ran towards it, waving his gun to signal for the car to stop.

'That'll keep them for a time,' shouted Thomas.

The pursuing car swerved heavily, to avoid running over the man and came to a halt. The man was talking, rapidly, gesticulating after the fugtives. Presently he elimbed into the car and it; started again.

The delay had given them a fair start. Betty was oriving beautifully and the rough surface of the road was in favor of the lighter car. Still, their pursuers gained fast.

'Look!' Thomas pointed ahead. The town had opened a bare mile ahead of them. Therrold looked back.

The pursuing car was a bare hundred yards away and gaining fast. He leaned over the back of the car and waited. Now it was only fifty yards away. He aimed at the front wheels and fired every shot in his magazine. He thought that he had failed and held out his hand for Thomas' gun. Again he sent a stream of bullets at the tyres of the following car.

There was a loud report and the big car swerved suddenly, tilting over into the ditch. Thomas cheered loudly. A few minutes later they drove into the centre of the town. Betty pulled up before the doors of a garage.

'What's the matter?' asked Thomas jumping to the ground. 'Stalled?'

'Unsafe to go on in this car.' Betty slipped on to the sidewalk and knocked at the doors of the garage. 'Mr. Frampton will have the telephone at work all over the district in a few minutes. We can get a car here and take you into Sydney.' A man opened the door, greeting Betty with some surprise.

'Get out the big car quickly, Bob,' ordered the girl. 'Mr. Eric at home?'

'Yes, Miss Betty. We've been expecting you for days.'

'Good. Hurry, Bob. These men have to get into Sydney at once.' She turned to the two men. 'The garage belongs to my cousin, Eric Carlington. Bob will drive you into town and then we'll see that Mr. Frampton's car is returned to him. Mr. Therrold, an English boat sails from Sydney today. Get the pearl and catch that boat. It is your only chance.'

'But what of you?' Therrold felt unhappy.

'I am at home here.' Betty smiled slightly. 'I was only stopping in Sydney for a couple of days to do some shopping, then I was coming here. When you are safe out of Australia I will see Mr. Frampton and explain matters to him. He will understand, I am sure.'

The big car rolled out of the garage and Thomas jumped in. Therrold lingered beside the girl for a few moments, holding her hand. He had realised, now that the time of parting had come, that he would miss her badly. They had only met a few hours ago, yet a lifetime of knowledge had come to them.

'Hurry!' The girl urged him gently towards the car. 'They will be here any minute now, even if they have to walk into town.' Bending over the girl's hand, Therrold pressed his lips to her fingers; then turned and entered the car. His mission accomplished, he determined to return to Australia with all haste and search out the girl who had come to mean so much to him.

As the car sped citywards he looked back with a heavy heart. The two men were silent as the car sped on. Once Thomas muttered something about the time being short. Therrold did not reply. He sat with his arms folded, his thoughts on the girl who had been his companion during that night of horror.

The car came to a halt before the Hotel Splendide, and the two men alighted. Immediately the driver turned and sped away in the direction of Liverpool.'

Therrold stood on the hotel steps watching it out of sight, a dull aching at: his heart, then turned and followed Thomas into, the hotel.

'We're not out of the wood yet, old man,' observed the Australian, as they went up to their rooms. 'Dr. Night won't acknowledge defeat until you hand that pearl to the Grand Duke.'

'That won't be long now.' Therrold led down the corridor. 'I'm sailing this morning.'

'And the pearl?'

'Thanks to Dr. Night I have my memory back,' Therrold laughed. 'When he turned and looked at me in that farmhouse I suddenly remembered where I had hidden the pearl.'

'Good!' Thomas stopped before the Englishman's door. 'I'm coming in with you while you pack. You don't get out of my sight until you are on the boat.'

Therrold went into his room and hastily collected his belongings, he and the Australian carrying them to the latter's room. When the room was cleared, Therrold turned the key in the lock and pocketed it.

'I don't know how far Dr. Night suspects you of association with me,' he said, as they entered Thomas' room. 'If he comes here, he'll certainly go straight to my room. That will be a point for us, for we'll know he's here before he locates us.'

The Englishman packed quickly. 'I'll leave these here with you, Thomas,' he decided. 'I haven't time to stop and pay the hotel bill. You do that for me and get these bags on the Melbourne train. I'll pick them up there. By that time the pearl will be safe, in the ship's strong room, and I'll see that Dr. Night doesn't get on board. Now for the pearl!'

He carried a chair to the bathroom door and mounted on it. For a few seconds he felt along the top edge of the door, then took out his knife. Another moment and the pearl rested on his hand. Taking the enamelled box from his pocket he restored the gem to its bed of velvet.

'I'm ready,' he announced to his companion, who, with . the door ajar, was peering out on to the corridor. 'Got your gun?' asked the Australian. Therrold nodded. The two men went out on the corridor and Thomas locked the door. They went down to the elevators. One of the lifts was mounting to the floor. As the cage came to the level Thomas drew his automatic, drawing Therrold back hastily.

'Ware, Therrold ! They've caught up to us!'

Automatic in hand, Therrold raced for the bend in the corridor, Thomas following closely. Peering round the corner, Therrold saw half a dozen Chinese, headed by Dr. Night, tumble out of the lift. Another Chinaman followed, dragging with him the lift attendant.

Dr. Night walked down the corridor in the direction of Therrold's room, followed by his men. Thomas fired a shot into the floor before them. The shot sent the men scurrying back, but Dr. Night continued to advance, unperturbed.

'Pity.' Therrold spoke with regret. He had conceived a strange admiration for the Asian. He raised his automatic and deliberately fired. Dr. Night staggered and stopped. Then, with deadly earnestness, he resumed his advance. Again Therrold fired and he sank to the ground. The Chinese, sheltered in the lift, charged down the corridor. Thomas opened fire, hitting three of them. They retreated, sullenly, to shelter, taking Dr. Night with them.

'What are we to do now?'

The Australian turned a face, comic in its despair, towards Therrold. 'There'll be the devil to pay for this shooting— and you'll miss your boat!'

27

FOR SOME minutes the two men stood sheltered by the angle of the corridor. From the doors of the elevator peered out the faces of the Chinese, awaiting a favourable opportunity to charge down and avenge their leader. The position was a stalemate. The Chinese controlled the elevators barring the roads to the streets. On the other hand, the Chinese could not get to the two Secret Service men while their ammunition lasted.

Therrold thought quickly. They must get out of this tangle as soon as possible. Behind them lay the long corridor. They might retreat down its length, maintaining a running fight with the Chinese— but to what purpose? Except for the rooms they had occupied the ground behind them was unknown territory. Yet, there must be some means of escape. But, if means of escape, then another source of danger!

Whispering to Thomas to remain on guard, Therrold went down the corridor and tried the first door. It was locked. Using his master-key, he opened the door. The room was unoccupied; though there were signs that it had been occupied during the night. Opening the window, Therrold looked out. The sheer wall of the hotel gave no promise of escape that way.

A shot from the corner sent the Englishman hurrying back to his companion's side. A Chinese had tried to make a dash for the corner. He lay on the corridor with a broken leg.

Therrold turned and looked down the corridor. There was no means of escape from the trap they were in. The hotel was modern. Surely there were fire escapes— if he could only find them! Warning the Australian of his intentions, Therrold ran down the corridor to the far end. In the end wall was a large window. Perhaps from there he could locate the fire escapes.

When he was half way down the corridor the window was suddenly pushed open and a man jumped into the corridor. For a moment the Englishman hesitated. The man swung round. Seeing Therrold, he wrenched a revolver from his pocket. There was no time for hesitation. Therrold fired, smashing the man's arm.

Running forward, Therrold bent over the man. He was a European. A couple of shots sounded from the other end of the corridor, and he looked round. Thomas waved to him then turned to watch the elevators. Therrold pulled the man into one of the rooms and locked the door on him. The man had evidently been alone, for no one followed him through the window. Therrold looked out.

A small crowd had gathered at the foot of the fire escape. Another man had preparing to mount the ladder. At sight of the Englishman he dropped back to the ground, hastily. The fire escape extended up to the roof. Therrold could see little choice. To stay in the corridor meant to miss the boat and being starved into surrender— and an inquiry by the authorities. To descend to the streets meant inevitable delay and explanations.

To go up to the roof was the best choice. They might find some means of gaining the streets, unperceived. Climbing out of the window. Therrold called softly to Thomas. The Australian looked round and waved his hand. For a few seconds longer he continued to watch, then stepped back and ran down the corridor softly. Therrold watched his companion's progress, automatic in hand, prepared to cover his retreat.

Thomas gained the window, and at a word from Therrold went up to the roof. The Englishman followed. The roof was empty. Therrold had wondered if their opponents had taken possession of it, but he had to chance that. Possibly they had been too intent on holding the elevators. Now they had to find out what opportunities for escape the roof offered. A quick circle of the place gave no hope of escape.

A big crowd had gathered at the hotel, guarding the fire escapes. He gave up all hopes of catching the boat. All they could do was to guard themselves until the police arrived and then, face the subsequent inquiry.

'Top of the wheel house, man,' shouted Thomas, after a quick look around. 'Come on!' He raced for the small house sheltering the elevator works. Therrold followed. Lying prone on the house-top they would offer little mark for the Chinese bullets. For a long time nothing happened.

At length a Chinaman's head showed on top of one of the escapes. Therrold sent a bullet over the man's head. He was determined he would not allow anyone on the roof until the police arrived and explanations had taken place— explanations that would result in the hotel being cleared of Dr. Night and his followers. Then he and Thomas would go to police headquarters under guard.

'Wish we had that.' Thomas pointed straight up. Therrold followed the line of his pointing finger. High above them circled a large aeroplane. For the moment he thought the Asian had brought some new instrument for their destruction. Then he smiled. Even Dr. Night would not dare to try to land from an aeroplane on a roof-top.

The aeroplane circled above, then, coming, considerably closer to the roof. Thomas waved his hand to the pilot. The plane circled and came back in a long dive that seemed likely to end in a smash on the roof. At the last possible moment it turned and mounted swiftly.

'Good lord!' Thomas was gazing at the plane in astonishment. 'Therrold, I thought Miss Carlington was in that plane!'

Therrold did not answer. He, too, had thought he had recognised the girl in the craft. He watched, as the plane went into the a stance and turned. Again it mounted high, and as it went up he thought something white had been waved from the cockpit. The plane circled above the hotel. From the cockpit a long rope fell, streaming back. The craft dipped and came towards them in a long downward glide. Again Therrold thought the pilot waved to them.

It was Betty! But what was she doing there? Did the girl think that she could pick them from off the roof. She was waving again. Thomas was on his feet, waving to her. The course she was steering would trail the rope directly across them. Therrold turned and surveyed the roof-top. At the head of one of the fire escapes a dusky head showed. Then a hand came in view, pointing a revolver straight at the Australian.

The Secret Service agent fired quickly and with a wild yell the man lost his balance and fell to the street below. 'Quick, Therrold!' The rope was almost on them. Thomas stepped to one side, to give the Englishman first chance.

'Together!' The Englishman yelled. As he spoke the rope trailed between them, appeared to hesitate a moment then swept them off into space.

'Got us on a little piece of string, hasn't she,' laughed the Australian as they dangled at the end of the rope over the city. 'Get on up, old man; there's plenty of knots.'

Therrold started to climb. In a few minutes he reached the cockpit. As he tumbled aboard Betty looked back and nodded, brightly. Therrold answered her glance with one full of gratitude and admiration. What a wonderful little girl she was! He looked over the side.

Thomas was almost up to the plane. Betty pointed the machine out over the harbor. She waved her hand to Therrold, pointing down. Below, Therrold could see a big ship steaming down the harbour. It was the English mail boat. So Betty planned to land him on his ship!

He felt in his pocket. The enamelled box was there and in it the Green Pearl. He had accomplished another stage of his task. In an hour or less he would be on that boat and with the authority he carried the whole resources of the ship would be gathered to guard his treasure. Heading northwards, Betty sent the plane along at a terrific rate. Far out of sight of the city she headed for the coast.

Suddenly Thomas rose and bent over to the girl's ear. At first indecision showed in her face, then she nodded. She leaned over the side, watching the ground below.

'This is where we part, old man.' Thomas grasped Therrold's hand. 'Best of luck. I think you're out of the Australian wood, now.'

'What do you mean, you ass,' shouted Therrold. 'You can't get out and walk!'

Thomas was unstrapping a white bundle on the back of the seat before them. He lifted it to his knees.

'Parachute, old thing!' he called. 'Did a bit of that in the war. Help me buckle it on, then watch me. I'll get back to Martin Thorne and arrange an alibi for us both. It'll be interesting to watch Dr. Night and his crowd make the necessary explanations, also.'

The straps adjusted, Thomas crawled out on to one of the wings. For a moment he watched the ground below, then straightened himself and stepped out into the air.

Therrold watched the falling man for a full minute; then between them spread a white cloud. Betty circled the plane, leaning over the side, watching the falling man. The cloud seemed to hang for an intolerable time, then collapsed. Another minute and a little figure crawled from under it. The plane circled and mounted higher.

Now Therrold could see the heads before them, like toy rocks guarding a narrow line of silvery water. Between the rocks rode a miniature ship, heading out into the large expense of the silent waters beyond.

Betty began to spiral down. The vessel grew larger and larger. The long spiral straightened to a glide and the plane came to rest on the water a couple of hundred yards from the ship. The girl looked back at the man, a triumphant smile on her lips.

'What can I say, Betty?' Therrold leaned over the back of the pilot's seat. 'That you should have guessed our plight and come to pur rescue.'

The girl's eyes sparkled as she turned in her seat to face the man. 'But the plane, Betty?'

'The 'Seagull,' Mark. What do you think of her. She is cousin Eric's invention and will take off from water or land. I've flown her several times. Surely you've heard of her?'

Now Therrold remembered. The name 'Carlington' had seemed fainiIiar when first he heard it. Now he remembered the long newspaper reports on the wonderful plane invented by an Australian— a plane that British and Australian Governments were testing with a view to purchase.

'How will you get back, Betty? Will you be able to fly the plane back by yourself?'

'I could, but I needn't.' The girl looked past him. 'There is the launch with cousin Eric on board. He's bringing out more gas and will fly the plane back home.'

'Betty!' Therrold leaned over the girl. 'Cousin Eric can fly the plane back— by himself.'

The girl looked up, startled. She caught Therrold's eyes and blushed hotly.

'He... might... Mr.―"

'Mark, please, Betty,' Therrold interrupted. 'Betty, dear! Do you know that ship's captains have wonderful powers— beyond the three miles limit?'

The girl fingered the controls for a few seconds, then lifted her eyes, mischief dancing in them. 'Do... do you think... it would be...troubling him... too much, Mark... dear?'

The end.

__________________________

Cover design by T Walker 2017

WHISPERING DEATH

1931

Contents

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

Chapter 9 | Chapter 10

Chapter 11 | Chapter 12

Chapter 13 | Chapter 14

Chapter 15 | Chapter 16

Chapter 17 | Chapter 18

Chapter 19 | Chapter 20

Chapter 21 | Chapter 22

Chapter 23 | Chapter 24

Chapter 25 | Chapter 26

Chapter 27 | Chapter 28

Chapter 29 | Chapter 30

Chapter 31 | Chapter 32

Chapter 33 | Chapter 34

Chapter 35

__________________

1

"WHAT'S this?"

Roy Iston halted at the door of the big reporters' room in the Mirror offices, gazing around him with an expression of comical dismay on his homely, cheerful features. For a bare moment he hesitated, then strode across the long room to the large horseshoe table at which three men sat. He looked down at them with wonder growing in his eyes.

The three men were bending forward over the table, their foreheads resting on a confused litter of papers. Almost fearfully, Roy went round the desk and laid his hand on the shoulder of Robert Hardy, the chief sub-editor, shaking him gently. The man's head rolled grotesquely on the papers and he gave no signs of consciousness. Roy bent lower. Hardy's face was deathly pale ; his lips were slightly parted and on his clenched teeth was a film of dead white foam.

Roy straightened himself with a jerk, withdrawing his hand from the man's shoulder as if the contact had stung him. He glanced down the big room, a frown of perplexity on his ruddy face. At many of the desks men were seated, each of them bending forward over his work. From where he stood,. Roy could see that they were unconscious.

"The cuckoos!" A soundless whistle formed on his lips. 'What the hell? The whole staff of the Mirror doped, or—' He shook his head, as if in negation, of the thought in his mind! No, neither Hardy nor his companions were dead!

Again he bent over the chief subeditor, forcing him round so that he could peer into the bloodless, pallid features. Hardy was unconscious! But, what had caused it? A couple of paces brought the journalist to Jim O'Sullivan's side. A short examination, and Roy was satisfied. O'Sullivan, like Hardy, was fast asleep.

What had happened during the past three hours— the time since he had left that room on the 'rush' assignment Bob Hardy had thrust on him? Roy's eyes glanced, inquisitively across the room, towards the glass panelled door bearing the words Managing Editor. Behind that door was Alphonse Thomas. Was he, too, unconscious, perhaps dying?

A few strides brought him to the threshold of the room. For a moment he hesitated, then rapped sharply on the glass. There was no answer. He waited a few seconds before turning the handle and entering. The managing editor was seated at his desk, his head resting on his arms folded on his blotting-pad. A quick examination and Roy decided that he, too, was fast asleep. Almost on tiptoe, the journalist stole into the big, room, closing the door behind him.

What had happened? The frown deepened on Roy's face. The affair was almost unbelievable. He threw a quick glance at the many doors opening from- the reporters' room. He knew that if he opened any of them he would find the occupants asleep. For the first time a sense of loneliness overtook the journalist. He shuddered, thinking of himself as the one sentient being in that building of sleepers.

Almost involuntarily, he turned to the doorway through which he had entered, then hesitated again. There was something in the atmosphere of the place that puzzled, nay more, perplexed him. Something more than the muted men seated around that room.

For a time he debated what he should do. He listened; there was not a sound.  In that building at that time of night the Mirror offices should be vibrating with the shrill clatter and dull thuds of the speeding linotype machines. From deep down in the bowels of the building he should hear the reverberation of the mighty presses getting ready, to print the far-country editions! It wanted but a few minutes to eleven and at twelve-fifteen the first edition should be on the machine!

Mechanically, Roy strode up the long room to the sub-editor's table and drew to him one of the telephones. For some minutes he listened with growing impatience for the answer from the switch-board operator, then suddenly laughed.

"Of course!" Again he laughed. "The girl at the switch is also doped. Well, I'll have to attend to myself."

A few strides took him to the door. In the little room stood a! large switchboard. Before it was seated a girl, the earphone on her head her fingers holding a connecting cord. But she lay back in her arm-chair, sound asleep. Across her knees stretched the office-cat, snoring loudly.

"Oh, Maisie, Maisie!" Roy shook his head, comically. "And all those connections chattering like a lot of old maids at a tea-party!"

Ignoring the 'buzz buzz' that sounded from nearly all the lines coming into the office, Roy found an unoccupied line and plugged in. Then he dialled Police Headquarters.

"Police Headquarters? Good!" Roy spoke after a short pause. "Put me on to Inspector Frost. Yes. Roy Iston, of the Mirror speaking. No; none of that thanks. I was talking to him ten minutes ago and he told me that he had a couple of hours' work on hand before he could go home. Yes, I'll hang on. Bet your sweet life! Speed-o, boy!"

A short pause, and then Roy spoke again.

"That you, Jim! Good! Roy Iston speaking. Say, can you come over to the Mirror? Important? I should say it was. ,Battle, murder, sudden-death — or slow, perhaps! Take your choice! No, I'm not rotting, Jim, it's real important. Best case you'll have in your young life. Coming? Good-o!"

Thoughtfully, Roy replaced the receiver and went back to the reporter's room. For a minute he waited; then turned to the door leading to the elevators. It seemed inhuman to leave his friends, unaided; but he; did not want to touch them, yet. He wanted the room to remain as it was until after the Inspector's arrival. He wanted definite logical answers to the many questions that crowded his brain.

Again at the big, swing doors, he hesitated, then pushed through and went on to the pavement. The hands pointed to eleven-fifteen. He stared, doubtfully, up at the clock. Had only twenty minutes passed since he had pushed through the swing doors behind him, intent only on getting to his desk and scribbling the few lines of copy required— and then leave for home? In those few minutes he had lived hours. He had passed from the streets of the living to the habitations of the dead—

The dead! Had he been mistaken in his diagnosis and were the men in the building dead— not sleeping?

Dead! Dead! The words echoed again and again through his brain. He shook himself angrily. Why should he continually harp on death? He knew that Bob Hardy was not dead— merely sleeping. But, why? How? What— no, who— had caused the sudden sleep of nearly a hundred humans in the heart of one of the most important cities of the Empire?

"What's up Roy?" A heavy hand on the journalist's shoulder startled him from reverie.

"Up?" A slow grin came on Roy's face. "Come up, and I'll show you. Ever been in a city of dead men, Jim?"

"Dead men?' The Inspector, a short, keen-faced, dark man, looked suspiciously at the journalist. He spoke sharply. 'This isn't one of your jokes, Roy, is it? If it is, the Lord help you! I'm as busy as an ant's great-grandmother."

"Joke?" Roy shook his head, gravely. 'Wish it was, old man. I'd give a weeks' pay to— oh well, you know left you half-an-hour ago." He glanced up at the clock. "In front of headquarters, y'know. You turned in, there to— to do what all good policemen do before they go home I suppose."

"Well?" the Inspector interjected, as the newspaper-man paused.

"Well, I came on here." Again Roy smiled, involuntarily. "Pushed through these doors. Went up in the automatic lift to the third floor. Went to go to my desk to write up— well, that doesn't matter — and found the whole house asleep."

"Asleep! Rot!"

"You've said it!" The newspaperman nodded his head. "I'd have said the same thing, if you'd told the tale!. As it is, come and see!"

He pushed at the swing-doors as he spoke.

Frost caught him by the shoulder.

"Look here, Roy Iston, if this is a joke, I'll—"

"Joke?"  The journalist's face suddenly showed the strain of thy past few minutes. "If I'm joking, Frost, put me in an asylum— put me in the condemned cell, or— or kick me back to front. You've my leave, but come on, man! Come on!"

He wrenched himself from under the Inspector's hand and darted into the building. Frost, a look of doubt on his hawk-like face, followed slowly. In silence, they went up to the editorial offices.

Flinging open the door of the reporters' room, Roy stood aside for the police officer to precede him.

"God!" Frost paused on the threshold, taking in the sprawling forms of the men at the various desks. A quick glance around and he sprang to action, half-running to the subeditor's dock, at the head of the room.

"He's alive!" The inspector bent over Hardy's unconscious form. "Here— I want a doctor. Quick!' He caught up the telephone, agitating the hook angrily. "No good!"

Roy laughed nervously. "Wait!' I'll switch through from the board. Get a doctor's number and stand by."

In a few minutes the newspaperman re-entered the big room. The Inspector was speaking into the instrument. He replaced it on the table and turned to the unconscious man.

"Give me a hand, Roy. I want to lay him on the floor. No," he exclaimed, noticing the journalist's hesitation. 'He's not dead — but he's in my way!"

In silence, they lifted Hardy from his chair and laid him on the floor, Roy slipping a seat-cushion under the man's head. Frost slipped into the sub-editor's chair and drew the papers on the desk towards him. Immediately, he gave a short exclamation.

"Here, Roy! Seen this before?" The journalist bent over the sheets of copy paper, reading quickly:

MYSTERY AIRSHIP

HOVERS OVER SYDNEY

WHO OWNS IT

Shortly after ten o'clock last night the lighthouse keeper at South Head reported a strange aeroplane coming to land from due east.

The plane bore no letter or distinguishing , marks and was only about five hundred feet above the lighthouse.

Mr. Seeman, the head-keeper, reports that the plane was travelling at a tremendous speed and headed directly for the centre of the city. He is certain that it does not belong to the military or naval authorities of the Commonwealth, nor it is the property of any of the numerous aero clubs.

The most remarkable thing about the mystery plane is that the engines, which evidently develop enormous power, are absolutely silent.

Whence came this mystery ship and who owns it? It is certainly a distinct improvement on any other aeroplane in the Commonwealth and a most potential weapon of destruction.

LATER

The mystery airship hovered over Sydney for some ten minutes, plainly visible to many observers. It then headed seawards, travelling at a

There the message ended abruptly. The journalist and the policeman stared at each other in blank amazement.

2

ROBERT HARDY opened the door of the managing editor's office, in the Mirror building and glanced round the reporters' room. He caught Roy's eyes and beckoned; then returned into the room, leaving the door ajar. Roy shuffled his papers together and sauntered across the room. He tapped on the glass of the managing editor's door and immediately entered. Bob Hardy was standing beside Alphonse Thomas. Both men nodded shortly to the young man.

"Heard anything more of last night's affair?" Thomas questioned, after a pause.

"No, sir."

"Like to?"

"It was certainly intriguing.' Roy smiled tightly, and continued. "I may say that was the first time I've caught my chief-sub. asleep."

"I've asked Mr. Hardy if he would take the assignment." The managing editor spoke testily. "Unfortunately, he cannot. He's recommended you. Take it?"

"To discover who played the trick on the Mirror?" Roy spoke eagerly. "Why, sir—"

"We know who played the trick," Hardy interrupted. "The gentleman was good enough to leave his card last night. Found it in my pocket, this morning.'

"That's why I wanted Mr. Hardy to follow this up." Thomas spoke impatiently. 'He came across this scoundrel, once before, and—'

"You mean Dr. Night?" Roy knew the story of the battle of wits between the mysterious Asian, Dr. Night and Robert Hardy in the days when the latter had been a reporter on theMirror's staff— a story that contained the love romance of Hardy and his wife.

"Jove, Mr. Thomas, if you trust me—"

'We trust you, Roy." Hardy spoke gravely."We are in doubt, however, whether we should allow you to run this risk. Dr. Night is a killer; one of the greatest— perhaps the greatest— criminals in the world. You stake your life?"

"Yet you escaped?"

"I was lucky." Hardy drew a card from his pocket and passed it to Roy. The journalist examined it, curiously. It bore only the words "I have returned— Dr. Night."

"For what purpose?" Roy asked the question, wonderingly.

"That we can only guess at." Hardy motioned the journalist to a chair. "Dr. Night, years ago, told me that he was at war with the white races. I believe— I have reason to believe that he is the last survivor of some royal race who held empire in the heart of Asia. That is surmise only. We know so little of him."

"There was the pursuit of the Green Pearl," reminded Thomas.

"Yes.' Hardy passed his hands over his eyes, wearily. Then he spoke suddenly 'God! I'd give ten years of my life to go after that scoundrel, again!'

"But, why—"

"He's a married man, youngster." Thomas spoke ironically. "Can't say I blame Mrs. Hardy. She had a bitter experience of this Dr. Night. Anyhow, she's put her foot down. Hardy has to remain in the safety zone. You take his place. Willing?"

"And eager sir." Roy spoke impulsively.

"Then listen." Thomas paused a moment. "You came up here last night and found us all asleep. We took some waking, I believe. Now, here's the story : About half-past ten last night, Mr. Seeman, of the South Head lighthouse, telephoned Hardy about a mystery 'plane he had seen coming over the heads; from the sea. Hardy was taking the message when he chanced to look up and fancied he saw--"

"I saw him," the chief-sub. interrupted, emphatically.

"Well— looked up and saw Dr. Night standing in the doorway. The Asian was smiling mockingly. He lifted his hand and disappeared. Hardy found that the atmosphere had become thick; he could hardly breath. He fought for consciousness and— and watched his comrades, one after the other, come under the influence of the gas—"

"Gas?" queried Roy, curiously. 'I did not smell anything when I came into the room.'

"Not likely to," Thomas laughed. "Dr. Night—"

"The man's a devil!" exclaimed Hardy.

"Then Roy's got to prove himself a devil-tamer. Like the job, youngster?"

"Nothing better!" the journalist chuckled. "When do I start, sir?"

"Here and now." Thomas nodded, appreciatively. 'You've got the tale, so far as we can tell you. Hardy will put you wise to anything you want to know regarding Dr. Night's previous visitations .You can work, so far as the police will allow, with Inspector Frost—"

"Jim Frost on this?" Roy's face showed his pleasure. "That's good."

"I've had a word with the Commissioner," Thomas nodded. 'Frost knows Dr. Night and his methods. Perhaps he'll be able to keep you out of mischief.'

"Am I to take orders from the police?" Roy showed disappointment.

"If you do you'll wear the sack," thundered the managing editor, grimly. "No, Hardy spun along ahead of the police when he went after Dr. Night. We expect you to do the same. Still, boy, don't neglect Frost. He's a clever, keen man, and he knows what he's up against— and you don't."

"Act as you deem wise, Roy." Hardy spoke kindly... "You've got more than I had, when I took up Dr. Night's trail, years ago. We know the man and his methods, and with Inspector's Frost help can guard against this uncanny powers. I know how far he will go before he acknowledges himself beaten."

"Do you connect this mystery 'plane with Dr. Night?" asked the journalist.

"No!" exclaimed Thomas.

"Yes." Hardy spoke quickly. Roy looked from one man to the other, in perplexity, then laughed. A moment, and the three of them were laughing, together.

"We shan't get far with divided opinions," said Hardy doubtfully.

"What do you think, youngster?" asked the managing editor.

"For the time being I'm going to link up everything I can with the mystery." Roy spoke after consideration. "There's the 'plane, the gassing and this card. That's all." He hesitated. "Unless you can supply the remainder of the missing report."

"You mean?'

"The papers on Mr. Hardy's desk concluded with a 'late' message he was taking over the 'phone." The journalist addressed himself to his managing editor. "The words were―" He pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket and read:

"The mystery 'plane hovered over Sydney for some ten minutes, plainly visible to many observers. It then headed seawards, travelling at a―" Roy paused and looked expectantly at the chief-sub.

" 'Terrific speed' appears to be indicated," suggested Thomas.

Hardy nodded.

"That all?" Roy showed his disappointment. "Nothing about where the plane was going to. Not a word to indicate―"

"I can't remember." Hardy showed perplexity. "When I re-read that message last night I could not even remember taking it over the 'phone. Yet, it is in my handwriting. No, I can't imagine what the missing words may be."

"Have you asked Mr. Seeman?" queried the journalist.

"He says he never telephoned me one word."

"What?' Roy sprang from his chair, amazed.

"He informed me he never gave a report to the Mirror yesterday.'

"Of all—' Roy stuttered. 'Well, I'm--' He broke off, unable to find words.

"Strange, isn't it.' Thomas nodded, vaguely. 'A mystery 'plane hovered over Sydney— or is said to have done so. Someone telephones Hardy a story about it in Seeman's name. At the same moment, Dr. Night calls on Hardy and leaves his card— and the lot of 'em asleep."

"I believe the 'phone story," said Roy, stoutly.

"You do?" Thomas looked keenly as the journalist. "Well— so do I."

"Where did it come from? Where did it go?" asked Hardy.

"It came from the sea; it returned to the sea," said the managing editor, serenely.

'And, Dr. Night?" queried Hardy.

"Came in the 'plane," suggested Roy. "Where has he been all these years?"

"In Asia," Hardy guessed.

"Guessing is unprofitable." Thomas warned. "Now, Roy, get busy. You report only to Mr. Hardy or me. Understand? I want Dr. Night. Frost swears to plant him behind prison bars. You've got to race him to Dr. Night and get his story, first. Now Hardy―" He turned from the journalist. "There's that matter of staff-grading? Oh, damn that 'phone!"

The shrill tring of the bell had cut in on the managing editor's words. He lifted the receiver and as he listened wonder grew on his face. For a moment he sat, motionless, then signed for Roy to take the instrument.

"—and I trust Mr. Hardy took no effects from his little adventure last night." A cold, rather monotonous voice spoke over the wire. "I regret he did not publish the message I gave him over the telephone."

"The message regarding the mystery 'plane?" asked Roy, imitating Thomas's voice.

"Yes." The level tones continued. 'I intended that message to prepare the good business men of Sydney— to prepare them for my demands."

"Say, who are you?" Roy exclaimed, dropping all pretence.

"I shall ask my business friends of Sydney to contribute to a fund I am initiating— a fund that I shall use to forward the one purpose of my life." The suave voice continued. "I require half-a-million pounds from them. No, I shall not be unreasonable. The poor man shall have nothing to fear from me. I speak only to the rich. In a few days I shall send you a list of the men I expect to contribute to my fund. I trust I they will be reasonable. If not—"

"What?"

"Uncomfortable things may happen to them. At present, I do not wish to discuss the matter further. You will await my instructions."

"You haven't given a name," reminded Roy, impatiently.

"Name?" The cold voice held a trace of amusement. "Ask Alphonse Thomas or Robert Hardy. They will tell you all you require to know regarding Dr. Night."

3

"TOLD ME he had a list of rich men of the city of Sydney he expected to contribute to a fund of half-a-million pounds he was raising," Roy spoke indignantly. "Said that he would send on the list to Thomas in a few days and that if these men didn't come up to the scratch he would have to crack the whip. You never heard such bunkum, in all your life!"

"Bunkum? You believe that?"

"Don't you?"

"Dr. Night carries out his threats."

"Yet you and Bob Hardy beat him some years ago."

Inspector Frost did not answer. He sat back in his chair, fiddling with a paper-knife. From under his heavy brows he watched the newspaper man, keenly.

"Well?"

"I asked him about the mystery plane. He said he owned it; that it was immensely powerful— that with it he could lay waste this city. Then he went on to say that he had caused the sleep that overcame the Mirror staff, last night; that he intended that as a warning to Bob Hardy not to interfere."

"Ah!" The detective drew a deep breath of satisfaction. "So he's frightened of Hardy, is he? What does Bob say?"

"Mrs. Hardy objects to him taking over the assignment."

"And, as a rich woman, has a pull with the Mirror management." Frost laughed slightly. "Bob won't like that. I should have thought he would have protested, or that Thomas would? No, perhaps there's something behind it all. Bob is no coward; he doesn't care a damn for all Dr. Night's threats. So, you've taken over the chase. Well, I wish you luck!"

"Mr. Thomas says I'm to work with you, as much as the police regulations will let me.' Roy spoke ingenuously.

"You've come to me to know where you kick off?" Frost laughed. "That's more than I can tell you, young fellow. So far, there's not a clue in existence. Why, that message— That— might not have been Dr. Night speaking, after all. Some crook—"

"You believe that?" Roy interrupted.

The detective hesitated. For some moments he sat, playing with the various articles on his desk. At length, he spoke, slowly: "Listen to me, Roy Iston. You came to the Mirror offices last night, to find the staff sound asleep. Bob Hardy tells you that just before he fell asleep he took a strange message referring to a silent airship. He looked up and thought he saw Dr. Night, standing in the doorway. A couple of hours ago you believe you were talking to Dr. Night, over the telephone. He told you that he had selected certain important business men of this city to blackmail. If the money was not forthcoming when and where he demanded, there was going to be trouble. Eh?"

"He spoke of turning the 'Whispering Death' loose, over the city."

"The Whispering Death!" Frost paused. "Did he tell you what he meant by that phrase?"

"No."

"That's all you have to go on." Again the detective paused. "Look here, Roy Iston, all the police have to go on, as yet, is that last night the Mirror staff fell asleep over their work. Do you think that is a sufficient fact to set our organisation to work on? Why--"

"You're not going to infer, Frost, that they fell asleep by natural means?" Roy spoke indignantly.

"And I cannot conceive any means for doping a hundred men without large preparation and apparatus," the Inspector retorted.

"You don't believe my story, then?" The reporter flushed angrily. "Let me tell you that while I was talking to Dr. Night in Mr. Thomas's room Bob Hardy went to the switch and listened in. He says he can swear that it was Dr. Night speaking."

"Well?"

"Well— to you? You want Dr. Night, don't you— for murder?"

"Yes. There's a warrant out for him."

"Then Dr. Night's in Sydney."

"Where?"

Roy was silent. Was the mysterious Asian really in Australia? Bob Hardy . believed that he was. He knew that Alphonse Thomas shared that belief. But, Frost was doubting.

"Listen to me," the detective continued. "I'm willing to admit that I had an interview with the Commissioner this morning, after he had had a conversation over the telephone with Mr. Thomas. I am instructed to use my discretion. If Dr. Night is in Australia I am to bring him in. But I haven't a bit of evidence, yet, that the man is in Australia. For all I know, he may be in the heart of Asia."

Roy knew that there was truth in the Inspector's statement. They had no evidence that Dr. Night was in Sydney― only Hardy's belief that just before he fell asleep he recognised the Asian standing at the door; that he had heard his voice over the telephone..

And Alphonse Thomas had assigned him to run down Dr. Night! A bitter smile curved the newspaper-man's lips.

Where was he to start? How was he to proceed? For the first time he realised that from the moment he had accepted the assignment he had relied on Inspector Frost for a lead.

Now the detective was pointing out the difficulties in the plainest language. No—only one difficulty, and that was insurmountable.

If Dr. Night had returned to Sydney, where would he be? Roy's thoughts turned to the mystery 'plane. The report that had been sent in to the Mirror had indicated that the 'plane had come to land from the eastern seas. Where, in the wide expanse of the Pacific Ocean, was he to locate Dr. Night?

With a curt nod he turned to the door. As his hand touched the knob, Frost called to him.

"Made up your mind, Roy?"

"What about?"

"Where to commence the search for Dr. Night?"

"I was waiting for a lead from you." The young man spoke ruefully.

Frost laughed. "I haven't one to offer. What now?"

"Guess I'll go back and tell Thomas that I'm a bum journalist. Oh, damn it, Frost. What's the joke?"

For some minutes the detective meditated. At length he looked up.

"I'll help you where I can, Roy," he said, slowly. "But you can't expect me to stir things up on the present evidence— which is not evidence at all. There's just one hint I will offer. Dr. Night makes mistakes— we all do; his mistakes are those of over-confidence. He thinks he's unbeatable. He isn't. Hardy proved that, but Dr Night thinks Hardy's success was a fluke. Maybe it was, I'm not going to give an opinion. Now, I'll give you a tip. Watch Bob Hardy."

"What do you mean?"

The Inspector shook his head and turned to the papers on his desk. Roy hesitated a moment, then left the room and the building.

Watch Bob Hardy! What did the detective mean? On the pavement Roy stopped and pondered. Watch Bob Hardy! But the chief sub. had declined the task of running down Dr. Night. He had said his wife had objected to him taking the assignment.

Was that sufficient reason for Hardy's action? Roy thought of Alphonse's reputation. The managing editor was an autocrat. Although worshipped by his staff, he ruled-them with a rod of iron. He would not tolerate any question to his orders.

Yet he had offered Hardy the assignment, and had quietly acquiesced when the chief-sub. had declined it. Roy believed that this was suspicious. Thomas was not the man to allow his subordinates to pick and choose their, work. Had he and Hardy an understanding?

Had Hardy's refusal of the assignment been some plot conceived between him and the managing editor? Then—Roy's face flushed as the thought crossed his mind. Thomas's appointment to him to trace down Dr. Night was but part of a scheme to shield Robert Hardy.

The young man's lips set in a straight line. So they intended to use him as a blind. He was to take up the trail of Dr. Night openly, while Hardy worked in secret. In his heart he vowed that he would win through to success, despite his handicap.

He would trace down Dr. Night and bring him to justice. But how? His short talk with Inspector Frost had shown him the difficulties that lay before him. He had nothing to start on. There was not one single clue to guide him on his quest.

Was Frost a party to the scheme evolved between Thomas and Hardy? Roy half-turned to re-enter the Police Headquarters, then swung round and went down to the Mirror offices. What did it matter? Yet he felt very lonely. And but a short half-hour before he had prided himself on the assignment, believing he had behind him the power, influence, and wealth of the Mirror.

In King Street he boarded a tram and went out to South Head. At the lighthouse he found Tom Seeman on duty.

"What of that mystery 'plane, Mr. Seeman?" Roy asked somewhat brusquely. "We didn't get you quite right at the office."

"What mystery 'plane?" The old seaman smiled. "Your people know all I know."

"But you said you didn't telephone through a report of a mystery 'plane coming to Sydney from out sea."

"Neither did I." The man's smile broadened. "But that ain't to say there wasn't one. There was, as it happens."

"But..." Roy stammered. "Oh, damn! Say, Mr. Seeman, was there a 'plane or wasn't there one?"

"There was," Seeman spoke emphatically. "A big 'plane, too. Came in from a point south of east at a tremendous pace. Flying low, too; yet there wasn't a sound from it— just a queer, low, whistling as it passed overhead. I said to my mate. 'That 'plane...'"

"And you didn't telephone a report to the Mirror?"

"I didn't, 'cos why? 'Cos I couldn't get anyone at the Mirror to answer my call. Now, young man, can you tell me if you were all asleep down there?"

4

WHEN ROY ISTON left the managing director's office Alphonse Thomas did not resume work. He sat back in his chair and waited for Robert Hardy to return to the room.

"Well?" Thomas spoke quickly.

"The telephone message came from a public call-box at the William Street Post Office." Hardy spoke shortly. "Where's Roy Iston?"

"Gone to interview Inspector Frost." A slight smile parted Thomas's lips. "What will Frost tell him?"

"Nothing." Hardy paused. "Nothing more than he has told us this morning— that the Department cannot move on the story as it stands now."

"Do you think he will suspect anything?" continued the managing editor.

"That would be unlike Frost," Hardy smiled. "Before Roy has spoken half a dozen sentences Frost will guess the game we are up to. Frost won't willingly believe that I would relinquish any chance to get even with Dr. Night."

Thomas nodded. "Think we're dealing fairly with that young man?" he asked shortly.

"Roy?" Hardy frowned. "I don't like it one bit, Mr. Thomas, but what else can we do? Dr. Night must not suspect I am moving against him. It will be impossible to make him believe that the Mirror will not accept his direct challenge— for that is what his actions last night amount to. He will believe that you will give me the assignment to hunt him down, and he will be on his guard. He will have me watched. If I am to do any good I must have freedom of action. Someone from the Mirror has to go after him. With your consent I chose Roy Iston."

"And if Roy gets on the Asian's tail?"

Hardy smiled. "Good luck to him. He can't do any harm— and he will deflect suspicion from me. If he beats me to the story you know I'll be the first to congratulate him."

Thomas nodded. For some minutes he sat meditating. "What do you intend to do, Hardy?" he asked at length.

"Wait." The sub-editor made a gesture of impatience. "There is not a single clue for us to work on at present. Yet Dr. Night has shown that he fears us. His gassing of the office last night shows that In a day or so he will move again. Perhaps then he will make some mistake that will give us a starting point." ,

Alphonse Thomas slid back in his chair, frowning thoughtfully.

"What is his object, Hardy?"

"You mean?"

"That Asian doesn't act without some definite end in view."

The managing editor spoke slowly. "Our first bout with him occurred when he was engaged gathering a war-chest by means of the drug traffic. Then came the incident of the Green Pearl. I understood that he claimed that jewel as belonging to his ancestors What is he after now?"

"I don't know." Hardy spoke perplexedly. "But I do know that this time we are after him, and, by little apples, we'll get him."

With that the journalist rose abruptly from his chair and left the room. He had barely seated himself at his desk before the telephone bell rang.

"Mirror speaking." He spoke mechanically.

"Lady to see you. Mr Hardy " The inquiry clerk spoke.

"Business?"

"Private. Mr. Hardy. At least. if it is business she will not tell me."

"All right. Send her in." Hardy sat back in his chair and watched the door. In a few seconds a young, fair-haired girl entered, following a copy-boy. and looking around her inquiringly The boy led to the chief-sub's desk.

"Mr Hardy?"

When Bob nodded she continued. "I am Ruth Halliday. My father asked me to call and give you this." She held out a letter as she spoke.

Hardy tore off the envelope and drew out a single sheet of paper There were only a couple of lines of writing, and he read them at a glance. He turned to the girl.

"You know the contents of this letter Miss Halliday?"' he questioned.

"Yes." The girl hesitated. "It is a request from my father for you to call on him." She paused, then turned to fully face the journalist. "Mr. Hardy, will you do as my father asks? He is a cripple— crippled in the war, but he is really clever. He has something— something he wants to talk to you about— something to show you."

"Do you know what it is?" asked Hardy

"No." The girl's face lost its animation. "He will not tell us— mother and me. All he will say is that he has chanced on a great secret and that there is danger attached to it."

"Danger?"

"Our house has been burgled twice during the past three months."

"That is all you know?" At the girl's nod of assent, Hardy continued: "Do you know why your father wants me to call on him? So far as I know, we have never met."

"Father told me that if you asked that question I was to reply that you had knowledge of a certain Chinaman."

Hardy started. "A Chinaman!" he exclaimed. "Do you know his name?"

"No. I only know that through that Chinaman you and your wife nearly lost your lives." The girl answered simply.

"What is your father?" queried the journalist, abruptly.

"We have enough to live upon." Ruth Halliday spoke after a slight pause. "Father has a workshop and tries to invent things."

"Has he invented anything?" Immediately Hardy changed the question. "Do you know the name of the Chinaman you mentioned?"

"Not his Chinese name." The girl smiled. "He has an English name but I have forgotten it. I saw him once, when he called on father. He is a slight, grey man; dresses in grey and speaks in a slow, very polite voice, with just a suspicion of a foreign accent."

For a moment Hardy hesitated, then reached for his hat. The girl rose from her chair with a little smile of thanks and led from the room. In the street she pointed to a small, dark-blue sports car.

"I thought you would come, so I brought my car for you. It will be quicker and nicer than going out to Vaucluse on the trams."

During the drive Hardy watched the girl closely. From the moment he recognised Dr. Night standing at the door of the reporters' room the previous evening he had been keenly on guard. He guessed that he was in danger and that only the most constant watchfulness would serve.

He knew that Dr. Night feared him— feared the luck that had brought him successfully through the battle of wits he had fought with the Asian. In those days, half-a-dozen years before, Dr. Night had treated him with contemptuous tolerance. He had watched and waited, content to abide his time. In the end he had smashed up the huge drug ring the Asian had created and had forced the master-criminal to flight.

He wondered if this girl was an agent of the Asian. If she was not then here again was the long arm of coincidence, for if she was acting in good faith then her visit to the Mirror followed very closely on Dr. Night's challenge.

Hardy did not fear for himself. He had faith that he could get out of any predicament he happened into. But he was determined he would not be caught off his guard if he could possibly prevent it.

The girl drove the little car out to the suburbs at a smart pace. A few hundred yards from the town of Vaucluse she turned from the main road, towards the harbor. At the foot of a steep hill she drew the car to a stop before a comfortable-looking house.

"Father is down at the shed," she said. Then, noticing Hardy's questioning glance, she smiled. "He is always on the front veranda or at the shed." she explained. "You see, he is not on the veranda, so..."

She led down a path beside the house to a fair-sized garden at the rear. Hardy looked about him, curiously. They were walking towards a rather large brick shed. As they drew near, he noticed, that the place was strongly built and furnished with a heavy iron door.

"Where did the burglaries take place, Miss Halliday?" he asked.

"Both of them at the shed." The girl pointed before her.

"The burglars did not succeed in forcing that door?" Hardy smiled.

"No." Suddenly, she became grave. "But the second burglar got in. I think he managed to tamper with the lock. The alarm sounded and father fired a shotgun at the door. There were specks of blood on the lintels the next morning." She broke off, suddenly. "Father!"

The door swung open and a man propelled a small, wheeled-chair, in which he was seated, into the garden.

"Father, this is Mr. Hardy. He was so good as to leave his work and come with me at once."

Hardy looked at the man before him, curiously. He had a keen, thin, clever face, surmounted by snow-white hair. The journalist noted that both Halliday's legs had been amputated below the knees.

"Good of you to come so quickly, Mr. Hardy." The man's voice was strong, yet pleasant. "I am sorry to say I have had a severe loss."

"But..." Hardy hesitated. "Should you not have sent for the police?"

"The police cannot help me." A twinge of pain crossed Halliday's expressive features. "But I believe you can."

"Why?" The journalist questioned, curiously.

"Because you know the man who robbed me— Dr. Night."

5

"SO DR. Night robbed you of— something?" Bob Hardy spoke after a short pause. "And you come to me to recover it?"

Halliday shook his head.

"You may not be able to do that."

"Then why appeal to me?"

"Because years ago you fought Dr. Night and beat him."

"Hardly that." Bob smiled. "I had luck and the police on my side. Against me... But, tell me what Dr. Night has stolen from you?"

"The Whispering Death." Halliday spoke in a low voice. "No." He moved his hands impatiently. "He did not steal it; he took it."

"Leaving you an inadequate recompense?"

The Inventor swung his chair round and led into the building. As Ruth went to follow him he ordered her, brusquely, to go up to the house.

"Come in, Mr. Hardy." Halliday waved his hand in a sweeping gesture. "Welcome to my cave of dreams; my last interest in life."

"What is the Whispering Death?" Hardy glanced around a room that was partly laboratory and partly workshop.

"The most terrible engine of destruction ever evolved from man's brain." Halliday sent his chair, with a powerful push, along a low bench to a far corner. "Look, Mr. Hardy, here are photographs of my model. Unless you interfere, successfully, within a few days one of these machines will be hovering over Sydney, raining down death and destruction, with impunity."

Hardy bent over the photographs on the table. They showed what appeared to be an ordinary plane, yet there was something strange about it. He looked at the inventor.

"An aeroplane." He lifted his eyebrows slightly. "What is there about it, Mr. Halliday, to distinguish it from the dozens of ordinary 'planes that cross Sydney daily?"

"Look again." Halliday pushed his chair nearer the table. He lifted a pencil and tapped a section of the photograph. Hardy looked closer.

"You say this is a photograph of a model," he said at length. "Why..."

"A complete model. No. Look well, Mr. Hardy. Every detail of construction is there. What do you think is missing?"

"The propeller... yes... why, man, the machine has no engines. It's a glider, perhaps a sailplane... and you call it the 'Whispering Death!' Are you..."

"Can a sail-plane, or glider, travel at five hundred miles an hour?" There was gloomy triumph in the inventor's tones. "The Whispering Death will do that— possibly more. No, Mr. Hardy; the Whispering Death has no internal combustion engines. It is driven by a new force, the dream of scientists, but never before realised."

"And that is?"

The wheeled chair swung round and roiled to a bench in another part of the large room. Occupying the centre: of the bench was a large globe, set on- a spindle. Hardy immediately recognised a model of the earth.

Beside the sphere rested a delicate little model of an aeroplane, beautifully finished to scale and exact in detail. But the model, barely two inches long, bore no propeller. Halliday touched a switch and the globe started to revolve slowly. He touched another switch and from across the work-bench a powerful beam of light lit on the revolving sphere.

Again the inventor touched a switch. Hardy wondered, for nothing appeared to happen. The man in the wheeled chair lifted the little aeroplane and held it over the globe, about two inches above the surface. For a minute he held the 'plane, then released it. Instead of falling the model remained suspended above the globe.

"There is the Whispering Death. There is no weapon to equal it known to men. It has no engines, uses no petrol or oil. It has speed beyond the dreams of aeroracers. It is the super-aeroplane— mine."

The inventor's fingers went to a row of knobs on a board screwed to the edge of the bench. As he touched them, one after the other, the little 'plane circled, dipped and rose Hardy gasped in astonishment.

For minutes he stood, watching the little toy while the inventor played with the controls. He bent closer to the little machine, and then became aware of a slight, subtle sound, coming from it. For a long time he remained motionless, listening.

"The Whispering Death!" He straightened and looked at the inventor. "So that is why you named it the Whispering Death "

The man nodded. "Where the sound comes from I cannot explain. There are no moving parts in the machine. Only in one way..." He broke off, suddenly.

"And Dr. Night stole that model —or rather, one like it?"

"Dr. Night stole a complete set of plans for a full-sized machine. He stole a full-sized machine, nearly completed." Halliday spoke bitterly.

"He was one of the burglars who broke in here?" asked Hardy.

"No burglar could enter here. This workshop is protected so well that it would be death to anyone who penetrated beyond that door without my permission. No, Dr. Night came through the door, a visitor."

"How, and when?"

"How he came to know of me I do not know." Halliday spoke without inflection. "He came here, he told me, having heard rumours that I had invented a new 'plane."

"Perhaps it was my vanity that betrayed me," the inventor continued. "I had spoken to no one of my experiments. I should have known that he must have spied to have learned my secrets. Instead, I invited him here and showed him that toy."

He pointed to the little toy continually circling the whirling globe.

"I explained to him the principle of my discovery. Somehow he drew me to talk. I told him of the dreams of power I had for my country when I had finished my experiments and had perfected my machine.

"Then, one day, he came here while I was working. I had come to look upon him as a friend. He said he wanted to help me, and laid on that bench banknotes for ten thousand pounds. That was not to be the price of the machine, it was money in advance to help me conclude my experiments quickly. I was to hire what help I required. As soon as possible I was to commence the erection of a full-sized machine. When that was built he would undertake the sale of it to the Australian Government."

"Why should he make the sale, and not you, direct?" asked Hardy.

Halliday motioned to his wheeled chair— to all that remained of his lower limbs.

"How am I to negotiate,'" he asked bitterly. "I am unknown, working in secret. How am I to travel about from Government office to office, interviewing many people; conducting negotiations on all sides. No, from the first I realised that I could not do that; that some day I should have to take someone into my confidence. I thought that I had found a trustworthy agent in Dr. Night— a rich man who would work for the good of his country."

"But you knew that he was not an Australian!"' Hardy exclaimed in astonishment. "Dr. Night is an Asian— why, your daughter spoke to me of him as a Chinaman."

"I know now. I knew but a few days ago, when he came to see me and boasted of his power and his race. I did not know when he first came to me."

"How long is it since he first came to see you?" asked the journalist.

"Four months ago; that is two visits before he brought me the money Then I went to work and completed my experiments. He asked me for the plans to build a full-sized machine. Later he came here in a handsome car and drove me out to the factory where the machine was to be built. It was then I had my first doubts of him. The factory was manned, almost exclusively, by Asians. Only the manager and a couple of men— subordinates— were white."

"You gave him the full set of plans?' questioned the journalist.

"Everything except the key-plans to the secret power that lifts and flies the machine." The inventor answered. "That apparatus is small. Dr. Night suggested that I should manufacture that myself, to preserve my secret. I did."

"But, if you preserved the secret plan, what use were the other plans to Dr. Night?'

"I completed the secret apparatus about the time the rest of the machine was ready." Halliday paused. "Dr. Night suggested that he and I make a secret test of the machine the night before last! I was thrilled at the thought of ascending above the earth in the creation of my brain, and consented. He came for me that night in his car, accompanied by a couple of Chinese servants to carry me and the apparatus. They carried out the apparatus while Dr. Night waited with me, here."

"Well?" exclaimed Hardy, impatiently; yet he guessed what was to come.

"Suddenly Dr. Night commanded me to look at him. I did, and found myself held in thrall. I could not move, speak, or cry out. He left me like that, to await discovery by my wife and daughter, long after midnight. He drove away with the key-apparatus to my aeroplane."

"Then the mystery 'plane that flew over Sydney last night was the Whispering Death!" exclaimed Hardy.

"What do you mean?'" cried the inventor.

In a few words Hardy explained the happenings at the Mirror offices the previous night.

"That was my machine.'" Halliday raised himself in his chair with a sudden effort. "If I could get my hands on him!"

"What did he promise you for the 'plane?" asked Hardy, after a long pause. He could not think of Dr. Night descending to deliberate theft.

"Half a million pounds."

"Jumping tin hares!"' Hardy could not restrain his laughter. "Why, that's the identical sum he proposes to blackmail the rich men of this city for."

6

FOR SOME TIME the inventor and Hardy sat in the laboratory at the foot of the Vaucluse garden, discussing Dr. Night and his theft of the Halliday 'plane.

The invalid inventor had taken a sudden liking to his companion. Before sending for Hardy he had learned much of him; many things, peculiarly, from the mysterious Asian, Dr. Night. Halliday now knew that Hardy was trustworthy.

That mattered much to him. For more than a dozen years he had lived in his little wheeled chair, at first morose and solitary; then withdrawing still more into himself as the idea of the gravity 'plane came and developed in his mind.

The idea had obsessed him. His early experiments had proved very fruitful.

Their success had caused him to withdraw from the world around him. He had almost completely cut himself away from his wife and daughter; living all his days in the laboratory; even taking his meals there. Many nights he refused to leave the place, tossing restlessly on the pallet bed he had had installed in one corner.

And as his hopes dawned for the success of his experiments there came dreams of great wealth. He knew that, his aeroplane once in the air and performing as he desired, he had the world at his mercy. No engine of destruction or commerce could live with his creation. Cities, nations, would have to bow to his imperial will.

Yet, in spite of the dawning knowledge of the power he was creating and the use he could make of it, Adam Halliday was true to his creed and nation. For himself and those kin to him he desired ease and comfort. For his Empire he planned supremacy— a superiority in the councils of the nations that could, not be challenged.

Through his dreams obtruded one thought. He was a crippled invalid; an inventor unknown and unhonoured. To gain acknowledgment of his success, when it came, he would have to mix with men on an absolute equality. He would have to come and go freely. How could he do that when he was chained to a wheeled chair?

Then Dr. Night had come to him. The cold, suave manner of the Oriental had completely deceived him. The pose of, great wealth, to be used to further a world of peace and justice, had evoked his confidence. He had given the man his secrets— except one. The secret of the unknown metal constituting the gravity box— the basic secret of his invention.

Now to him had come Robert Hardy. He had not to judge the journalist on his appearance, his words. Chance had brought to him a full knowledge of the man and his history. He knew that in Hardy he had the one instrument to set against the machinations of the Asian. He believed— nay, he was certain— that the journalist would again triumph over Dr. Night and retrieve the big mistake he had made.

Hardy stayed at Vaucluse until the afternoon was well advanced. Then Ruth Halliday offered to drive him into the city. Hardy accepted with some eagerness. He did not relish the long, slow journey in the tramcars.

The journalist left Halliday with a promise of a quick return. In the city Hardy intended to go straight to police headquarters and consult Inspector Frost. A guard and a watch must be set about the Halliday home and the laboratory. Dr. Night or his agents would return. The Asian had the 'plane fitted with the secret gravity-power; but he had no knowledge of the metals the plates were composed of He had the Whispering Death, but to duplicate it he would have to obtain from the inventor his secret formula— the formula of the repulsion plates that gave the machine its wonderful locomotion. Halliday was certain that no experiments nor analysis would yield the secret of the unknown metals.

Probably Dr. Night had by this time realised that he had been hasty in so abruptly alienating the inventor's trust in him. No doubt he had himself, or by one of the numerous agents he employed, tried to duplicate the plates. He had certainly failed. Now he would again turn his attention to Halliday. This time he would not have a solitary, trusting man to deal with. The inventor would be on his guard— he would be guarded. Dr. Night would have openly to avow his quest. He would first, thought Hardy, attempt a search of the laboratory, in the hopes of obtaining some memoranda of the formula. Failing in that direction, he would endeavour to take captive Halliday, and wring his secret from him.

"I am glad I brought you out to see father," Ruth spoke impulsively, after they had driven some distance along the Sydney road in silence.

"Why?" With a start Hardy came out of his thoughts.

"He likes you." The girl nodded her blonde head. "Mr. Hardy, father lives too much alone. He has almost deserted mother and me. He is lonely, solitary, spending all his days in his laboratory."

"What do you want me to do?" The journalist smiled at the gild's earnestness.

"Come and see him often. Oh, you will be always welcome. Father will welcome you and so will mother and I—not only because you draw father out of himself, but for your own sake."

"Thank you." Hardy meditated a moment. "You know something of your father's worries. I have asked him to confide fully in his wife and yourself. He must never be alone— not even when he is in his laboratory."

"He came up to the house before we drove away." Ruth looked puzzled. "He has not done that for a long time. Usually he goes down to the laboratory soon after daybreak, and only returns to the house at bedtime."

"He will not do so in future." The journalist promised. "Miss Halliday, you and your mother must guard and watch him."

"From that Chinaman?" asked the girl.

"From the Asian, Dr. Night:"

"But what can we do?" The girl turned to Hardy.

"Much. But I don't rely on you two alone. I am asking Inspector Frost this afternoon to set a guard around your house. From now on, until Dr. Night is apprehended, you will never be un
watched."

"How terrible." Ruth shuddered slightly. "Will we have to live under espionage long?"

"Not very long, I hope." Hardy spoke earnestly. "And to lighten your stress I am going to bring Mrs. Hardy out to visit you and your mother. You will like her— and she will be a safeguard to you all."

"But... your wife and Dr. Night?" Ruth hesitated. "Mr. Hardy, you must not expose her to our dangers."

"Doris will understand." The man spoke confidently. "And she knows Dr. Night. Look out!"

They had turned a corner sharply, almost running into a small crowd gathered on the near side of the roadway. Only the girl's quick resource saved the car from dashing into the people. She swerved and almost immediately came to a halt.

"Someone's hurt." The girl, standing up in the car, could see above the heads of the crowd. Hardy did not wait for any further report. He jumped from the car and pushed towards the centre of the crowd.

A man was lying in the roadway, a doctor and a policeman bending over him. Something in the man's form attracted Hardy. He pushed forward impulsively.

"Keep back there." The constable looked up angrily. "Where do you think you're going?"

"What's happened, sergeant?" Hardy opened his hand to show a little blue covered book, bearing the word "Press."

"Young fellow fell from tram." The constable nodded recognition of the police pass. "The tram was coming down the hill at a pretty bat, too. Pell on his shoulder. Doctor says a broken collarbone and fractured forearm. A couple of ribs damaged, also."

"Whew!" At last Hardy caught sight of the sufferer's face. "I know him, sergeant. Roy Iston, of the Mirror. Should have his police-pass on him."

"That's right. I found his pass. We're waiting for the ambulance."

"Mr. Hardy." The journalist turned, to see Ruth at his elbow. "Is he a friend of yours? You know I have the car here, and... it's a long way to the hospital."

"It's Roy Iston," Hardy explained rapidly. "He's on this Dr. Night story— though what he is doing out this way I can't imagine."

"A friend of yours!" the girl gasped. "Then why―"

"Why, what, Miss Halliday?" Hardy glanced, inquisitively at the girl.

"Why not take him to my home? Mother and I will nurse him."

"But— the trouble?" the journalist protested.

"And the advantage. He is your friend "

"I am chief subeditor of the newspaper on the staff of which he is a reporter."

"That makes It better," the girl laughed gleefully. "Tell the policeman to put him in my car with the doctor. We will be home in ten minutes."

"But―"

"Oh, can't you see?" Ruth protested. "He will be able to tell us what to do— to advise us when you are not at Vaucluse. It is for the best. Mr. Hardy, can't you see what a great thing this will be for us all?"

Almost against his inclinations Hardy instructed the constable to help carry Roy to Ruth's car. The reporter was still insensible when they lifted him. As they propped him in a corner of the seat he opened his eyes drowsily.

"You, Mr. Hardy! Good-o! Where's that tramcar? Hurry, hurry, man Dr. Night was on it!"

"Dr. Night was on the car you fell from?" questioned the journalist hastily.

"Fell be damned!" Roy closed his eyes again wearily. "I never fell. He pushed me!"

7

HARDY waited until the doctor had left his patient, then seated himself by Roy's bedside.

"What happened, old man?" he asked quietly.

"Dr. Night threw me from the tramcar." Roy spoke from amid a wealth of bandages.

"Sure?"

"I'll swear he was the man. Besides there was no one else I can think of who would do it."

"Where had you been?"

"Out to South Head, to see Seeman. He told me he did not telephone the paragraph about the mystery 'plane, because he could not raise anyone at the Mirror.

"And then?"

"Had a wander round and a cup of tea—wondering what my next step should be. I caught the tramcar at the terminus and at Vaucluse a man mounted beside me. We were the only two in the compartment. There was a woman further down towards the rear, but she had her back to us."

"Did he— the man— speak?"

"Not a word. I almost forgot he was there until going down the hill to Rose Bay. Then he suddenly jerked me to my feet and flung me out."

"You're certain?"

"Absolutely."

"Notice the man?"

"Not particularly, except that he appeared all grey—you know what I mean. Grey hair, grey clothes, had that queer greyness of skin that characterises some men. Just what you described in Dr. Night. Oh, it was he, all right."

"And he mounted the tram at Vaucluse?" Hardy pondered. Had Dr. Night spied on him, penetrating the bluff he had put up of hiding behind Roy? That was possible. Or, he might have been watching the Hallidays. In the latter case, had he seen him at their home? If the Asian had, then he would have to abandon all pretence and come out openly on his trail.

"What are you going to do?" Roy asked after a lengthy pause.

"Go out after Dr. Night." The journalist spoke promptly.

"Then it's me for the social activities again," Roy sighed. "Asking budding millionaires how they made their first ten-pound note. Kidding Mrs. Blank that she's the big noise of the new political party."

"Not unless you want to." Hardy laughed "Look here, young fellow. Dr. Night's big enough to keep both you and I on our toes. You've had a slice of luck, though you don't know it."

"Being pitched off the tram? Thanks!"

"Getting into this house as a guest, which I believe will prove the storm centre of the problem." Hardy spoke quickly.

"What do you mean?" Roy attempted to raise himself and fell back with a low cry of pain.

"Keep still, you young fool!" The elder man's voice was kind. "How do you expect to take a hand in the game when you won't give your broken bones a chance to knit? Now, listen."

For a quarter of an hour he spoke quickly, yet emphatically; recounting the story from the moment someone telephoned him the news of the strange 'plane.

"That couldn't have been Dr. Night," expostulated Roy. "You saw him at the door a few seconds' after."

"You forget the switch-girl. You found her at her post, fast asleep."

"Well?"

"Couldn't Dr. Night have mesmerised her, got her to call me; then telephone the paragraph from her switch, walk up the passage, and gas the lot of us?"

"He might." Roy paused. "Yes, I believe you're right. He could do that, and more. Now, what can I to do? It'll be rotten lying here, unable to move." '

"You've got a pretty nurse. What more does a fellow want?"

"She's a peach, right enough."

"Then here's your orders. Get well as quickly as possible—and to do that you must stop worrying. Get in the good graces of the Hallidays, especially the old man. He wants cheering up. Keep them from thinking about Dr. Night— and watch."

"What for?"

"Anything that may happen." Hardy laughed. "Oh, something will, sure enough. Dr. Night's got Halliday's 'plane, complete. But he can't duplicate it, for the inventor hasn't passed over the secret of the gravity box that drives the machine. I'm guessing that Dr. Night wants that badly. He'll be after that—and you are here."

"With a busted shoulder, arm, and ribs! Thanks!"

"Lacking muscles, use your brain-box. A couple of days and you'll be an interesting invalid. In an emergency you'd be able to move about. Inspector Frost will look to the exterior of the house and the neighbourhood. You're in the centre of the web. When I come up again I'll wise you how you can get in touch with his men, if necessary. Other matters I'll attend to and keep you advised."

"Then we're working together? You're not hiding behind me any longer?"

"So you found that out?" Hardy laughed. "You're not so dumb, then. No, if Dr. Night was on the tram and threw you out, then he chased after me out here. That stops pretence. S'long, young fellow. Get well and amuse your nurse. She's worth studying."

From Vaucluse Hardy, went to the Mirror offices and, after a short interview with his managing editor, crossed the road to Police Headquarters.

Inspector Frost listened to his account of the day's happenings in silence, at times nodding understandingly. He agreed that the inventor's loss was a starting point in the investigation, and undertook that the house should be watched night and day. It was certain that Dr. Night would make an effort to gain knowledge of the gravity box. Although he had obtained possession of the Whispering Death he must have a complete set of plans if he wished to duplicate it.

"What does he want the 'plane for?" asked Frost.

"Why not ask why he informed the Mirror that he intended to hold up certain business men for half-a-million," retorted Hardy.

"That's easy." The Inspector laughed. "You say he promised Halliday half-a million for his 'plane. That's what he wants the money for. Dr. Night's queer. He'll steal, but he pays trust with trust.

Halliday trusted him with his plans. Dr. Night will wring that half-million from Sydney's business men for Halliday—perhaps a bit more to repay himself for his trouble. Then...

"Then..."

"I don't know."

For a time the two men were silent. At length, Hardy jumped to his feet, in some excitement.

"Remember when I went after him before?" Frost answered with a. nod. "Remember my strange dream, after the explosion under the rocks at Pott's Point? I dreamed that I saw Dr. Night seated on a throne in the centre of some deserted city in Central Asia? That's what he's after and that's what he wants the 'plane for. He's going to conquer the kingdom of his ancestors!"

"With one 'plane?"

"No, with a fleet of them."

"And no base to operate from?"

"Remember what Halliday told me about his 'plane? It doesn't want fuel; it can remain in the air indefinitely. It can travel at what we would call, at present, impossible speed."

"And, where is this kingdom?" queried Frost, with an incredulous smile.

Hardy did not answer for some minutes. He leaned back in his chair, a dreamy look in his cool, clear eyes.

"While I was recovering from my previous experience with Dr. Night, in hospital, ne said, at length, "Professor Evans, the Orientalist, came to see me He was curious at what had been published regarding Dr. Night. I told him of my dream— if it was a dream— and he questioned me closely. Finally, he decided that if I had not dreamed the whole thing I had been the recipient of some form of thought-transference from Dr. Night. He made a lot of explanations I couldn't follow and finally decided that the city of desolation I had seen was the capital of Dr. Night's forefathers; that it was situated somewhere near Semarechensk— or, in plain English, 'The Land of the Seven Rivers "

"Which, being interpreted...?" queried Frost. "Has a Russian sound to me."

"A successful guess." Hardy laughed. "I looked up the place on a map one day. It is in Russian Turkestan, just outside the borders of the Chinese Empire and not far from the point where China, India, Afghanistan, and Russia meet."

"Don't know the place," the Inspector ejaculated.

"Opportunities for travel in that direction may be provided for you, later." Hardy spoke significantly. "From all accounts, it is a sweet corner of the world. By the way, Frost, someone libelled that you'd taken up miniature golf."

"I've played a game or two," Frost, spoke modestly.

"You'll have to change your game it you go to Semarechensk, y'know. I understand the people of the Seven Rivers indulge in early rising. The principle amusement is, I believe, going out and cutting a few throats before breakfast."

"You think I'm going there?" The detective gazed inquiringly at his companion.

"I'm certain of it." Hardy was emphatic. "Look here, Frost. Dr. Night has the experimental 'plane, but it's of little use to him if he's going to tackle the Russian and Chinese Empires— and they'll both object to him setting up a turbulent little kingdom on the borders of their territory. Dr. Night doesn't take objections to his plans kindly."

"Well?"

"He'll want bigger, heavier, and faster planes of the gravity type. To get them he must gain Halliday's secret formula. He'll do that."

"We'll want bigger, heavier, and faster 'planes of the gravity type'

"Unless we prevent him." Frost was emphatic.

"He'll get it, never fear." Hardy nodded. "I've put in a word to make precautions. Saw Alphonse Thomas before I came here. Fired him up on the mystery 'plane and its possibilities, and he's gone, hotfooted, after Sir Max Vandelere."

"Well?"

"Sir Max is the big noise at the 'Mirror.' He was Minister for Aviation in the last Federal Ministry. He's a bug 'or. aeroplanes—and A. Thomas can handle him. I expect before evening to hear from Sir Max."

"To what effect?"

"That everyone on the staff of the Mirror is a fool—and that I am the greatest of all. That Halliday is a rogue or the greatest genius the world has ever produced. I shall be called to produce him, pronto. I shall be expected to listen for hours to very technical talk on aviation, between two enthusiasts."

"To what end?"

"To keep dud police inspectors in cushy jobs." Hardy spoke dispassionately. "In minor matters, I shall be taken from my work and instructed to supervise the construction of an airliner or two of vast proportions, built to Halliday's specifications, and for which Sir Max will provide the funds. Later, perhaps, I may take flight through China in it, accompanied by Sir Max, other gentlemen, and a famous detective inspector of police..."

"I'm damned if you will!" Frost exploded. "Say, Hardy, where does Halliday keep his secret formula?"

"In his head."

"Does Dr. Night know that?"

"I believe so."

"The damned fool!" Frost rose from his chair and paced the floor. "Don't you realise, man. that if it was a written formula, Dr. Night might steal it, and welcome. Now he'll steal Adam Halliday... and— God help the lot of us!"

8

FOR some days Roy suffered too much pain to take much notice of his surroundings; then his healthy youth triumphed and he became restless.

Mrs. Halliday, a thin, somewhat colourless woman, slightly over forty years of age, constituted herself head-nurse and spent many hours each day by the newspaper-man's bedside. Ruth was in and out of the room, continually, yet had hardly a word for the invalid. But Roy noticed that her eyes hardly left him when he was not appearing to take notice of her.

The inventor had seemed to resent the invalid thrust into his house. At first he came at long intervals, as if from a sense of duty. The intervals shortened, under Roy's determination to win the man, until almost without noticing it Halliday slipped into the habit of spending long hours at the reporter's bedside

Roy had determined that Halliday should be the first to mention his invention. When the inventor spoke of Dr Night the newspaper-man replied briefly and to the point, then dropped the subject. In the end, Halliday broke the ice casually and soon most of their talks centred about the wonderful mystery 'plane and its mission to bring world peace under the aegis of the British Empire.

The journalist, like most youths of the present age, had been greatly intrigued by aviation. That interest had suffered under the fascinations of' newspaper work. Now, with Halliday's encouragement, it revived and soon Ruth declared that the sickroom was unbearable with its continued air of technical acrostics.

Hardy journeyed out to Vaucluse every second day; at first to prime Roy as to the police precautions surrounding the Halliday's home; later he had little to report. A week passed quietly; then one morning the Mirror's chief sub-editor telephoned to make an appointment with Halliday. to meet himself and Sir Max Vanderlere.

By this time Roy was permitted to leave his bed and rest on the wide veranda or in the living-rooms of the house. Immediately on the receipt of Hardy's message Halliday invited Roy to be present at the conference in the laboratory at the foot of the garden.

Roy had been, by this time, in the laboratory on several occasions. The little monoplane continually circling the spinning globe fascinated him. He spent hours controlling the miniature gravity-'plane and became so expert in its control that Halliday appointed him exhibitor of the toy at the conference with Sir Max.

"One of my young men," Sir Max, a big, stout man, standing well over six feet in height and ruddy of face, boomed when Roy was introduced to him "Cracked up by that scoundrel, Dr. Night Well, well! Wonder he never cracked Hardy, six years ago. He's a fool, y'know. Can't tell how he escaped. You a fool?"

"Hope not, sir." Roy laughed slightly "In the office we look on Mr. Hardy as anything but a fool."

"Stick together, eh?" Sir Max's Dig laugh shook the room. "You are mistaken. He's proved himself a fool. What did he want to keep a man of Halliday's abilities covered up for? Stifling a genius, y'know. And, Heaven knows, we want them in the British Empire; with all the younger generation jazzing and cocktailing their brains away."

Hardy winked at Roy behind the big man's back. Then Halliday drove his wheeled-chair into the room. Immediately the baronet's manner changed. He became almost gentle to the cripple— and deferential to the inventor.

"Haven't much time to spare this afternoon, Mr. Halliday," he boomed cheerfully. "Don't blame me; blame the jack-a-napes who run the Mirror. Thank my jinks I've got Alphonse Thomas to look after it; though I can't understand how he can exist surrounded by a pack of idiots calling themselves journalists

Why, if it hadn't been for Thomas I'd never have heard of you, Mr. Halliday. Now, Where's that 'plane—or model of one? Convince me of what Thomas claims for you and I won't run away next visit in a hurry. Mrs. Halliday will have to fetch a broom to get rid of me. when she wants to lock up for the night."

Talking loudly, but kindly. Sir Max allowed himself to be led down the garden to the laboratory—the inventor leading in his wheeled chair.

At Halliday's request Roy operated the sphere and the miniature 'plane Sir Max .vas interested and examined the toy under a powerful glass, first with the model in his hand and then while it was hovering around the globe

"What's here?" he asked, suddenly tapping the sphere with his finger

"Earth," replied the inventor

"Special earth?" continued Sir Max.

"It was dug out of this garden."

"Any metal?"

"Only the rod supporting the sphere." Halliday smiled as he caught the drift of the questions He spun his chair round to another bench and picked up a long, narrow metal box. A flexible wire led from it to a wall-plug.

"Do you recognise this, Sir Max?" The inventor handed the box to the baronet.

"Can't say I do what is it?"

"Open it and see."

The lid opened easily. Hardy and Roy drew nearer and peered into the interior. While the outside of the box was painted aluminium white, the interior glistened like molten gold Across the bottom of the box extended innumerable coils of wire. Roy noticed that the whole of the interior of the box was composed of small squares of metal; to each attached the end of a wire. Where the wires led to he could not tell.

"What is the weight of that box, Sir Max?" asked the inventor.

"About twenty pounds, more or less."

"You notice the switch at the end? Yes? Now, please hold the box very tightly and press the switch."

The baronet obeyed instructions. When he touched the switch a very low murmur filled the room. It became stronger, yet never more than a whisper—an ominous sullen whisper.

Suddenly the baronet's hands, holding the box, lifted from waist high to his shoulders. He struggled to bring it down again, but it continued to rise until, to keep his hold on it. Sir Max was forced to stand on tip-toe.

"Hold tight, Sir Max." A mocking glint shone in the inventor's eyes. "Put your whole weight on it and bring it down again."

The baronet shifted both hands to across the top of the box and flung his eighteen stone against it. But it still continued to rise until it had dragged the baronet off his feet.

With a slight laugh Halliday motioned to Hardy to catch at the box. Now Roy noticed that Halliday held in his hand a small peculiarly constructed switch. As Hardy touched the box the inventor moved the switch—and the box subsided into the men's hands.

"Have I convinced you, Sir Max?" The inventor's cool voice broke the unnerving silence. "No? Well, I will do more—and remember the power in this box is not a tithe of that used in the small aeroplane Dr. Night stole. Please bring me the box, Mr. Hardy."

Halliday pointed out certain straps on his wheeled chair, explaining their purpose "to Hardy. He moved the switch a fraction and the box lost weight. When the straps were attached he gradually moved the arm of the switch over. The box floated upwards. It hesitated a moment when it caught the weight of the chair and scientist. Then it lifted again, taking with it chair and the Inventor. For a full minute Halliday and the box hung suspended above the floor.

"Now your answer, Sir Max?" Exultation rang in the inventor's tones. "I have lifted you from the floor by that box, in spite of your, efforts. I have shown you myself suspended between earth and heaven by the power in that box. Have I proved my case?"

"God of Abraham, yes!" Beads of perspiration stood on Sir Max's forehead. "But... you have to have the power of the wall-switch— a power-plug to conceive life in your gravity box."

"Not so. Hold the box, Mr. Hardy.

With, a jerk of his powerful hands, Halliday pulled the wires from the switch. At a motion Roy brought him a small dry battery. Holding the wires to the terminals, the inventor waited.

Again the sinister whisper rose from the plates in the box. It strained against Hardy's hands, floating in the air over the scientist's head.

"The box that Dr. Night took from here the night he stole my 'plane did not contain the secret he covets." Halliday spoke slowly. "That secret he unknowingly built into the 'plane itself. Yet, even if he knew where the secret lay, he could not duplicate it."

"And the secret?" asked Hardy, quickly "No. I should not have said that."

"Why not?" The inventor smiled "When you opened this box, what did you find? Merely a lining of queer-colored plates joined by many wires. Take one of those plates; submit it to the best man you can find. He will ten you that he cannot name the metal. He cannot. It is from the earth; perhaps from the air. I alone know, and I reveal my secret when I deliver my 'plane into the hands of men honest and trustworthy, to deal with it for the good of all mankind."

"But the box Dr. Night stole?" questioned Roy.

"Is but the connecting link between the plates lodged in the wings, the body of the machine, and the tail. A generator worked by a small propeller gives electricity to that box, to excite the plates.'

"But how is the machine propelled?' Hardy showed his perplexity. "I can understand those plates overcoming the power of gravitation and lifting the aeroplane. It then becomes an airship— lighter than air, at the mercy of innumerable air-currents."

"My machine is always heavier than air, when in flight," Halliday answered. "The power of gravity is not combated in one straight effort. The plates are so built that the gravity can be repelled or attracted at any angle. Therein lies the power of my speed."

Sir Max crossed the room with long, slow strides and stood before the inventor. Reverently his fingers touched the box, now resting on the table.

"My friend." A guttural sound came in the deep voice. "You have shown me and I believe. Men say I am rich, very rich. They tell me that when I touch a thing it rains gold into my coffers. Would they believe it if I told them I envied you, this?" Again he touched the box. "But I would be right. I envy you, Mr. Halliday."

Hardy nodded. He waited a full minute before he spoke. "I suggest you build a 'plane to Mr. Halliday's specifications, Sir Max," he said. "Not a small experimental 'plane like the one Dr. Night had constructed, but a real airliner—a machine that will carry many people and supplies for a very long voyage."

"Good!" The baronet nodded vigorously. "I have control of the Allanby aeroplane works. The plane will be started immediately— if Mr. Halliday will trust me with his invention."

For a long moment the two men looked eye into eye. Then the inventor extended his hand.

"I can trust you, Sir Max Vanderlere," he said, simply. "I will make the plates you require. The plans they are there." He pointed to a safe in the corner of the room.

"I shall not fall you." The baronot paused. "One thing I have to say. I will promise you no great wealth for your invention. First we must build and test. Secondly, we must discover and utterly destroy Dr. Night and the 'plane he stole. That accomplished, I will get the men who know and can plan. They will take your 'plane for the good of your country— the great Empire you and I and everyone who has sense believes in, and serves. I promise you that that Empire will deal with you justly and generously. Are you content?"

The hands of the two men met and locked.

"I am content," answered Adam Halliday.

9

IN SPITE of Sir Max Vanderlere's many appointments he stayed late in Halliday's laboratory, discussing the many phases of the building of the aeroplane to the inventor's specifications. When he left, Hardy joined Roy and the Hallidays at the evening meal. Again the conversation ' centred around the 'plane. Halliday was happy; at last he saw the fruition of his many dreams.

Roy was dog-tired when the journalist left for the city, and Ruth, with gentle authority, ordered him to bed. He found, however, that he could not sleep. For hours he lay awake, his brain busy on many, mostly inconsistent matters.

A clock chimed midnight and Roy threw back the covers and slid from the bed. He sipped at a glass of water, but it was tepid and lifeless. Not troubling to switch on the light, he went softly to the kitchen. He let the tap run tor some time then filled a glass and drank eagerly. The water refreshed him, yet he felt he could not sleep.

The house was wrapped in silence. Roy went to the window and peered out on the gardens. They were flooded with moonlight. Under the silver rays the brick laboratory was transformed to a house of beauty.

The grounds lay silent and deserted. Roy scanned the surroundings for the watchers Hardy had assured him were always on duty at night. He could see no one. Straining his eyes he searched every piece of shelter in the gardens, without result.

The laboratory appeared deserted, and within it lay a secret of untold importance. Had Hardy's plans failed? Had some mistake in orders delayed the men? For minutes Roy fumed and fretted in a paroxysm of indecision. At length, he decided that he would take up the watch himself.

He went back to his room and dressed, very awkward with his strapped shoulder and arm. Then going to the back door he opened it and stepped out into the shadows of the veranda.

A cane deck chair stood in the shadows, conveniently placed for him to watch the laboratory and most of the garden. Roy lay down and took out matches and cigarettes. Then he hesitated. If he was to watch, he should not smoke; the glowing tip of his cigarette might betray him.

He laughed. What could he do if he discovered some prowler about the place? With half his body in bandages he was not a match for a ten-year-old boy. His cigarette—a light—might be useful and frighten away any thief who did not know that behind the light was only a cripple.

A feeling of lazy contentment came over Roy as he lay back and smoked. His mind wandered in speculation of the adventures he believed lay before them. Sir Max would build a huge air-liner and in it Halliday, Hardy, and himself would hunt down the arch-criminal, Dr. Night. Perhaps the pursuit would take them far beyond the confines of Australia.

Hardy had spoken that afternoon of the Land of the Seven Rivers—Semarechensk he had called it. Hardy believed that in the heart of that secret plain stood some ages-old city, now deserted. Dr. Night claimed kingship over that city— possibly over the surrounding country.

That afternoon Hardy had told him of his strange dream. He had told them that he had thought he walked in spirit through deserted streets, bordered by houses of massive stone. He had come to the huge central square where stood the towering temple of the city's gods. He had spoken of the great throne reared in the centre of the square, and Dr. Night seated on it, splendid in royal robes and wearing on his forehead the Green Pearl, ancient emblem of his house.

The Green Pearl! Roy remembered reading of that remarkable gem some couple of years previous. It had been an article in an English magazine and, peculiarly, spoke of the jewel's many adventures. The article had been written by a certain Captain Therrold and recounted his adventures in Soviet Russia when he went to recover the gem for its rightful owner, the Grand Duke Paul

Therrold had succeeded in his quest, but in his escape from the Soviet agents had been driven right across Asia to Australia. In the latter country he had met with many strange adventures but had succeeded in retaining the Green Pearl; conveying it to London and its owner.

Dr. Night had vowed to obtain possession of the Green Pearl. He had openly stated that without it he could not draw together the scattered tribes of Semarechensk and weld them into a kingdom

Had Dr. Night succeeded in obtaining the Green Pearl— during the many months he had been absent from Australia?

Roy found himself nodding drowsily. He pulled himself together with a jerk. That would not do! He stood up and stretched himself.

Something was moving in the garden. Only a brief movement and then the stillness again. Now all thoughts of sleep were driven from him. He was awake, keen, alert. He moved to the edge of the veranda, partially concealed by one of the posts, and waited.

Almost he believed that he had been mistaken. For long minutes he searched the moon-drenched gardens. From where he stood the door of the laboratory was in plain sight; the moonlight falling full upon it.

Roy turned back to his chair, then hesitated. Why should he not stroll around the grounds; go to the laboratory door. He was now alert to catch some marauder. In his crippled condition that would be impossible. He was watching that his known pres e n c e might drive any thief away.

He stepped down on to the garden path and strolled around the house to the front garden. For some minutes he stood at the gate watching up and down the road. There was no one in sight. A careful look around the borders and shrubbery and he returned to the rear of the house.

As he turned the angle of the house he halted, abruptly. Something, someone, had moved in the little patch of bush to the right of the laboratory. With high beating heart, Roy sauntered down to the spot. Again he could find no intruder.

He went to the laboratory door, taking care not to touch it, for Halliday had told him that the door and windows were protected by many strange devices.

The door was fastened and appeared intact. Roy skirted the building, peering in at the windows. He could find nothing outwards; yet his strange uneasiness persisted.

Where were the police watchers? Again Roy searched the gardens, and again without result. In sudden resolution he returned to the house. In his room he looked at his watch It was ten minutes to one in the morning. Hardy would have seen the first editions off the machines and would be preparing to hand over to the night-editor.

Should he ring him up and tell him of the strange uneasiness that possessed him? Why not? Hardy would understand. Perhaps a short talk with the chief-sub. would steady his nerves and then he could return to bed—and sleep.

Roy stood in his room, considering what he should do. The telephone was in the hall. If he used it the slight sounds might awaken Halliday or one of his family. He did not want them to know that he was prowling house and gardens; prey to a strange uneasiness he could not control or explain.

He snatched a blanket from the bed and crept into the hall. Smothering the machine with the blanket he lifted the receiver from the hook, allowing it to dangle to the end of the cord. Then, pressing his sound shoulder against the blanket to keep It In place, he dialled the Mirror's number.

Now he- had to work his head and shoulders under the blanket and still keep it covering the machine—and that with one available hand. At length he managed to accomplish this, continually calling to the switch -girl to hold the connection.

"Bob Hardy there?" he called, at length. "Bob Hardy! Roy Iston here. Are you there. Bob Hardy? Roy Iston."

At length the answer came. Roy recognised the chief-sub's voice immediately.

"What's the matter, Roy? You should be in bed and asleep."

"Something's up here." Roy spoke in a whisper. "Something's going to happen. I'm certain of it. No, don't call me a fool, Bob. I've got a hunch. There is something going to happen."

"Bad dreams?" Hardy laughed. "Had supper too late or..."

"Stop rotting, man. I tell you there's trouble looming. I've seen nothing definite yet. except moving shadows in the garden..."

"There's a plain-clothes officer on watch. You know how to signal him."

"I've tried to—and he doesn't answer. Look here, Hardy. Pick up someone at Police Headquarters and get out here as quickly as possible. Something's up, I'll swear!"

For a moment there was silence. Then across the wire came the answer:

"Okay! We'll be out there in twenty minutes. Hold the fort, young fellow."

A slight click came across the wire.

Hoy carefully unwound the blanket from the Instrument and carried it into his room.

For more than a minute he debated his best line of action. To watch the laboratory door seemed Indicated, for there was the main point of attack. He went again to the back veranda and scanned the grounds. All appeared quiet and peaceful. He stepped down on the path and went down to the building.

Turning a bank of greenery he came in full sight of the laboratory door. Something dark lay before it. A moment's hesitation and he broke into a run.

A man lay on his face before the door, his left arm crumpled under him in a strange, limp fashion. Roy bent over him, but could not catch a glimpse of his face. Then he noticed that in the man's right hand was gripped a large automatic.

10

"WHAT'S THE matter, Roy?" Hardy and Inspector Frost had come round the side of the house and stood beside the prostrate man. "Who's this?"

"I don't know." Roy rose to his feet. "I've been restless ever since you left here last night, Hardy. I couldn't sleep, thinking that someone was prowling about the place. I came down here to see that the laboratory was all right— and found him."

"Hear a shot?" Frost asked.

"No."

"See anyone?"

"Not a soul. I thought I saw someone moving in the shadows, once or twice, but then fancied that I had been mistaken. I looked for your man, Inspector, but he was nowhere about."

"Matthews!" The Inspector looked up from his examination of the dead man. "He should have been here a long time ago."

He put his fingers to his lips and blew a low, sweet, penetrating note. There was no reply. Roy looked at Hardy and shook his head.

"You tried to find him, Roy?"

"Twice. I did as you told me. Went to the front gate and held my handkerchief over the top. But no one came."

Hardy turned to the detective, a puzzled frown on his face.

"How was he killed, Frost?"

"I don't know. The doctor must tell us that."

"Shot?"

"No." The detective stood up and flashed the light of his torch on the white face. "No man who was shot ever looked like that."

The three men looked down on the still dark form, the blanched face from which the still eyes stared upwards; holding In their depths the shadow of some frightful, terrorising death. The lips were drawn back, baring tobacco-stained teeth, in a grimace. On one of the ill-shaven cheeks were five round marks, each about the size of a three-penny piece.

"Can you use the 'phone without waking up the household?" asked Frost, suddenly.

"Can try. I managed to call Hardy." Roy laughed slightly at the remembrance of his struggles under the blanket.

"Get a doctor. Quick as you can. I'm guessing that he has two cases here."

"What do you mean?" asked Hardy, as the reporter moved towards the house.

"Where's Matthews?"

"Whew!" The newspaper-man paused. "So you think this bird put Matthews out of the way and then...

"Something like that. Recognise our friend?"

"No."

"Sam Rothsay. One of the cleverest cracksmen in this country."

"Then--"

"Just so." Frost moved away from the laboratory door. "No need to watch him. He'll be there when we return. As you hint, Hardy; Dr. Night."

The detective commenced a methodical search of the grounds. He had not proceeded far when he came to a patch of low shrubs. He halted, with a low exclamation. From under a low-hanging bush protruded a pair of legs.

"Matthews, for a million!" With gentle hands he caught at the legs and. with Hardy's help, drew the man from under the bush. A moment and he stood up. "Not dead, thank goodness. But, he's had a brute of a welt over the head."

For some minutes they worked over the man. Once Hardy paused to answer Roy's whistle directing him to where they were. The reporter exclaimed when he saw the insensible man.

"What is it? Who— I mean?" he asked.

"Dr Night, we suspect to the first question," replied Hardy "Matthews, to the second. Where's that doctor?"

"Coming. Dr. Carlton, he calls himself " The journalist bent and examined the severe wound that stretched across the crown, from the forehead. "Jove someone hit with intent that time."

Frost nodded. His exertions had succeeded in bringing the man to consciousness. Matthews opened his eyes and strove to sit up. The detective took his flask from the ground and poured some raw spirits down the man's throat.

"Know me, Matthews?" he asked, briefly. The man nodded.

"Who knocked you out?"

"Didn't see." The man made a long pause. "I thought I saw someone in here and came to search. Then I was struck from behind and went out. I never saw who struck me."

"Seen Rothsay here?"

"No." Again the man paused. "Is he here? Did he hit me? I'll get him for that, if..." He closed his eyes. "Suppose that was to pay me out. for the Lewisham Bank affair."

"Sam's dead."

"Dead?" With a sudden effort Matthews sat up. "Who killed him?"

"How do you know he was killed?' Hardy asked, curiously.

"Sam'ud never die in his bed." The detective spoke with closed eyes. "There's more than two or three in Sydney who'd be glad to put him on the spot."

"Sam was killed at the door of the laboratory, yonder." Frosf interjected.

"Trying to get in?"

"Don't know Ah. here's the doctor."' The Inspector rose to his feet and walked across the lawn to the read gate.

For some minutes the detective and doctor stood talking earnestly; once or twice Frost glancing round at the house At length they came to where Matthews lay. For a quarter of an hour the doctor worked over him, washing his wounds and bandaging them. He stood up and turned to Frost.

"He'll do now. Get him home to bed. A couple of days' rest and he'll be fit again, though his hat won't sit comfortably on his head. You say there's another injured man here. Where is he?"

"He's dead; by the laboratory door." Frost led the way. "All you can do for him is to tell me how he died."

"Strange!" he muttered. "From the look on his face one would think he died from strangulation, but there are no marks on his throat."

"What of those five marks on his right cheek?'' questioned Hardy.

For long minutes Dr. Carlton bent over the corpse. At his request, Frost illuminated the marks with the light from his torch. At length he nodded, as if satisfied. He turned to Hardy and placed the tips of his fingers on his cheek, pressing hard. He caught the torch from the detective's hand and focussed the light on the newspaper-man's face. Five little angry-looking marks showed on the white flesh.

"But no man's fingers impressed on a man's face ever killed him," expostulated Frost.

"Never said they would." Dr. Carlton, a short, stubby man, laughed. "All I did was to show you how those marks were made. I'm not a Sherlock Holmes. It's for you people to draw your own conclusions. Want me any more?"

"No, thanks, doctor. You'll give the necessary certificate, of course. By the way, you're going home? Thought so. Will you please, ring up Police Headquarters and tell them to send out the ambulance and a couple of my men. Speak in my name— Inspector Frost. I don't want to ring from this house containing a couple of women and a crippled man."

"Whose house?" Dr. Carlton paused. "A crippled man? Oh, of course. Lieutenant Halliday, isn't it? Lost his legs in the war? Thought I knew the place, though I've never met him. Well, goodnight, Inspector. Good-night, gentlemen."

The little doctor ambled across the lawns and disappeared around the side of the house. For some moments the four men stood without speaking. Suddenly, Frost turned to Matthews.

"Feel all right, now? Good. Our car's down the road a few yards. Can you make them? Right-o! Get along and rest in it. We'll take you home when we've finished here." He waited until the detective was out of sight, then turned to Roy. "All right, inside?" He nodded towards the house.

"So far as I know." The reporter replied.

"Know Halliday's room?" When Roy nodded, Frost continued. "Think you can wake him without alarming the women-folk?"

"I think so."

Frost nodded towards the house. "Get him out on the veranda. We'll come and talk to him there."

Roy went to the house. In the hall he paused and surveyed the doors. He knew which was Halliday's room and listened at the panel.

He could hear no sounds within the room. A moment's hesitation and he turned the handle and pushed open the door. There was no light in the room. Feeling cautiously before him, he stole to where the bed loomed in the shadows.

He tried to peer down on the pillows— to see the inventor's head, but could distinguish nothing. He felt with delicate touch over the covers, trying to locate the inventor's body. He was not there. In sudden terror, Roy sprang across the room and switched on the lights.

11

FOR SOME MOMENTS Roy stood surveying the room. The bed had been slept in; the covers were thrown back in disorder. Halliday's clothes were missing and also the wheeled chair, which usually stood during the night beside the inventor's bed.

Then, the inventor had risen from his bed and gone out of the room. To where? Roy walked out into the hall. The next room was occupied by Mrs. Halliday. Was he there? Somehow, Roy did not think that probable.

The two remaining rooms opening from the hall were, occupied by Ruth—and the room he was occupying. He opened the door and glanced into the room he occupied. No one was there. He listened at Mrs. Halliday's door and could not hear a sound within.

Moving silently, he went out on the back veranda. There he found Hardy, and the Inspector. They looked at him expectantly. He beckoned, and led to the Inventor's bedroom. No words were needed to explain the situation. While Hardy and Roy remained by the door Frost made a rapid search of the room. In a few minutes he rejoined them.

"Halliday got out of bed about an hour after he entered it," the detective muttered. "He dressed and entered his wheeled chair. From there..."

He threw the light of his torch on the linoleum and tip-toed up the hall. For some moments he stood before the front-door, then he returned to the newspaper-men.

"Didn't go out of the front door," he whispered. Then, after a pause. "What time did he go to bed, Iston?"

"Hardy and Sir Max left the house about half-past ten," Roy replied. "Half to three-quarters of an hour later Mrs Halliday and Ruth retired. Halliday and I followed about ten minutes later."

"Then Halliday was in bed about eleven to a quarter past. You say you got up about midnight. What did you do when you went to bed?"

"Dozed, I think."

"How did you wake up; suddenly?"

"Yes, rather." Roy hesitated between the words. "Yes, I awoke quite suddenly. In fact, I don't remember anything before finding myself standing by the bed."

"Hear anything?"

"Not that I can remember."

"Not a sound?" "Not one."

"Yet some sound awakened you."

"Yes."

"Halliday's wheeled chair bumping from the hallway on to the veranda."

Hardy nodded. "Where did he go?"

"Perhaps we can find out." Frost led on to the veranda. For a few minutes he walked up and down, then went down the slope to the lawn. Something he found there satisfied him, for he nodded several times, then beckoned the newspaper-men to him.

A man came round the corner of the house on to the lawn. The Inspector went to him and they exchanged a few words. The man went back towards the road, returning in a few minutes with two companions. Frost beckoned and led down to the laboratory.

When they came within sight of the door, Roy gave a little gasp and clutched Hardy's arm. Frost stopped dead, tilting his hat forward and scratching the back of his head.

The dead man had disappeared. Where he had lain in the moonlight was a bare patch of gravel.

"I'll be damned!" Frost sprang forward with a low cry. "Who..."

The sounds from a motor engine coming suddenly to action attracted their attention. Without a word Hardy dashed across the lawns around the corner of the house to the roadway.

A car was moving from before the gate. Frost ran on, tugging at his hip pocket. As he passed through the gate he shouted a command for the car to halt. Either the men in it did not hear him or Ignored his order. The car drove on, gathering speed.

The Inspector ran down the road to where the car in which he and Hardy had come to Vaucluse stood. He leaped in and started the engine. When the car moved, it bumped on the macadamised road badly.

"Damn!" Frost drew up with a jerk. He leaned over to the back seat and shook Matthews roughly. "Who's been at this car?"

The plain-clothes man mumbled something, dazed by his sudden awakening. Frost did not wait to repeat his question. He jumped out and ran to the back of the car. The rear tyres had been heavily slashed with a knife.

"Dr. Night." The Inspector grinned, ruefully. "Damn the man!"

Leaving the car with the now wide-awake Matthews, Frost went into the Halliday gardens and joined the newspaper-men.

"Someone took Rothsay's body away in a motor-car," he explained shortly. "Can't be helped. Now we've got to find Halliday."

A short search and he again came to the laboratory door. As he lifted his hand to the latch, Roy intervened. "Careful, Frost!" he exclaimed. "Halliday told me that anyone that tried that door without his sanction would get a baa shock."

"How?"

"Some contrivance ne has established," Roy tried to explain. "Wait a moment."

He ran back to the house, to Halliday's room. Close to the head of the bed he found what he was looking for— an electrical switch. But— it was open! What did that mean? For a moment he was puzzled, then went out of the room and closed the door.

He knew that Halliday protected his laboratory by some electrical contrivance. The inventor had been particular never to go into the laboratory unless the door stood open. But was the place protected now? The open switch suggested not.

Halliday was missing and the laboratory was unprotected. Roy shrugged, as he crossed the lawns to rejoin his companions.

"Well?" queried the Inspector.

Roy did not answer. He passed the two men and went to the door. For a moment he hesitated, then caught the handle and pushed the door open

The laboratory was in darkness. The three men crowded to the doorway, peering in, but they could see nothing. Roy reached round the lintel, feeling for the switch. He pressed in the little knob and the great globe in the centre of the ceiling burst into life.

"Look!" Hardy caught at Roy's sore arm. but in the excitement of the moment the reporter did not feel the pain.

Seated in his wheeled chair, beside the table on which the globe stood, was Adam Halliday. His eyes were open, staring fixedly at the door; but he gave no signs that he had seen the three men enter. Frost crossed the room quickly, and bent over the inventor.

"All right!" he nodded, briefly. "Either drugged or.... or some other devilment of that heathen Chinese. Look!" He pressed his finger on one of the staring eyeballs without the man flinching.

"You mean that Dr. Night has been here?" queried Hardy.

"For all that we know he may be here now." Frost looked inquisitively around the big room. "Lor', what a man!"

"What's this?" Roy picked up a piece of paper, lying beside the globe. "Why--" He stood staring at the paper, his mouth fallen open. Hardy snatched it from his hand. "Listen, Frost. This is a receipt from Dr. Night for the plans of Halliday's mystery 'plane. The damned cheek of the man!"

The Inspector did not answer. He was bending over Halliday. Roy went to his side.

"Shall I ring up Dr. Carlton again?" he whispered.

"No good." Frost spoke, gruffly. "The man's mesmerised. I can do as much good as any doctor."

For ever an hour the three men worked on the inventor. At length a change came on his fixed features. He sighed once or twice and shut his eyes.

"Wake up, Halliday." Frost spoke loudly. The man looked up, startled.

"What's the matter?" He looked around the laboratory. "Why... why am I here? I went to bed, didn't I?"

"And got up again," Frost laughed shortly. "Don't von remember anything more, man?"

"I had a dream― a strange dream." The cripple rubbed his eyes with his hands. "I thought Dr. Night..."

"People don't dream about Dr. Night," interrupted Hardy.

"I thought he came to my room and told me to get up and go with him He helped me dress and put me in my wheeled chair. We came down here."

"Did you see anyone else about?" questioned Roy.

"There was a man standing before the laboratory door. He stepped aside and watched me open it. Dr. Night pushed me inside and the man caught at his arm."

"Well?" The Inspector spoke eagerly as the inventor paused.

"I thought they quarrelled. Then Dr. Night said something in a voice that made me shiver. Almost immediately he came and joined me."

"What did he want?" Hardy asked.

"He wanted the plans of the aeroplane. I refused to give them to him. He became angry and insisted. Then, suddenly, he commanded me to be silent. I heard footsteps outside the building and went to cry out but Dr. Night placed his finger on my lips and I could not."

"What then? Lor', that man was in here when we discovered Rothsay."

"Again he asked for the plans. I could only shake my head. He commanded me to tell him where the plans were. They were in the safe." Halliday pointed to ft corner. "He asked for the safe combination, and I gave it to him. He went to the safe and got the plans out."

"But no light showed inside here," expostulated Roy.

"He used a torch giving a small, thin, yet powerful light— and the blinds were drawn on the windows," Halliday explained.

"What did he do then?"

"He told me to sleep. That soon someone would come and take me to bed."

"But what of this?" Roy held out the receipt left by Dr. Night

"That?' The Inventor was plainly puzzled. "Why, that's my writing."

"I know that." Roy spoke impatiently. "But did you write it?"

"I must have." The inventor stared at the paper, bewilderedly. "But I don't remember it."

"The point is that now Dr. Night has the plans of the new aeroplane." Hardy showed his disappointment. "He's beaten us all along the line."

"Did those plans contain your formulae for the gravity planes?" asked Frost.

"No." The inventor spoke triumphantly. "I have never written that."

"What does it matter?" Hardy interjected. "Dr. Night had you under his influence. It is only reasonable to believe he asked you for the formulae— and you gave it to him."

For a long minute there was silence In the room. Then, from the gardens came a woman's shriek.

"God! That was Ruth!' Roy dashed to the door. Disappearing round the corner of the house was a man bearing in his arms the form of a woman.

12

BAFFLED and outwitted, Hardy and Frost returned to Sydney. Roy accompanied them. He could not bear to stay at the Halliday's home and witness their grief at the loss of their daughter. He had spoke brave words of hope— of a quick restoration of the grave, blue-eyed girl who, in the few days of their association, had come to mean so much to him.

In his heart, Roy vowed that he would not rest until he had rescued Ruth from the clutches of the Asian. His silent vow seemed to bind him more closely to Hardy. The sub-editor, in past days, had suffered. a similar bereavement at the hands of Dr. Night. The memory of those days still lingered in Hardy's mind and drew his sympathy to Roy.

The newspaper-men dropped Matthews and Frost at their respective homes and then Hardy took Roy to his home. The reporter, was grateful for the thought. His relations were in the country and he could not think of his lonely diggings without a shudder.

"Holmhurst," where Mr. and Mrs. Hardy lived with her father, Henry Blayde, was in darkness when Hardy turned in at the big gates and drove up to the garage. They housed the big car and then the chief-sub. showed Roy to a guest-room. At the door he lingered a moment.

"Keep a stiff lip, Roy." Bob Hardy did not look at the young man as he spoke. "Dr. Night's not so bad, y'know. He treated Doris decently, although he kept her under lock and key. He'll just hold Ruth until..."

"The devil!" Roy swung on his heels and went to the window. "Why can't he fight men? A woman... a girl..."

He choked. Hardy watched him for a moment and then gently closed the door.

Roy stood before the windows for some time, trying to form plans for Ruth's release from the Asian. Schemes, fantastic and unreal, flashed across his mind, but even the most probable rested on a knowledge of Dr. Night's headquarters. He took to pacing the floor, then suddenly flung himself on the bed and buried his face in the pillows.

Sleep overcame him—a long, dreamless sleep that lasted well towards midday. Twice Hardy looked in on him and went away again, content to let his friend sleep his fill. The third time he entered the room and shook the reporter by the shoulder.

"Wha's th' matter?" Roy opened drowsy eyes.

"Just on noon." Hardy spoke cheerily. "Thought you'd like to know that I've had a 'phone call from the chief. He wants me down at Phillip Street as soon as possible."

"Dr. Night?" asked Roy.

That's why I roused you," Hardy grinned. "Thought you wouldn't like to be out of any happenings. No need for great hurry, young fellow. I've put razors, etc., on the dressing-table; the bath's through that door. The' missus is having breakfast sent up so that you can feed while you're dressing."

"Oh, I say, Hardy..."

"Some people call me 'Bob.' Doris say it's vulgar, but nice. As to the tray, just one of the house-boss' little peculiarities. She will insist of feeding all and sundry who crosses her threshold —even so insignificant a thing as a husband."

He shut the door and went downstairs, whistling. In a few minutes a maid brought a breakfast tray. Much to his surprise, the newspaper-man found that grief could partly be assuaged by food, especially when the last meal was many hours back.

The sounds of a motor-horn honking from the driveway took Roy to the window. Hardy was in the car, calling him. He waved his hand and .raced down the stairs. On the hall-steps he found Doris Hardy, looking little older, if a bit more matronly, than in the days when she had loyally backed Bob Hardy in his fight against Dr. Night and the drug-ring he controlled. "Roy stammered his thanks for her hospitality.

"But you're only leaving us temporarily," Doris laughed. "You are coming home with Bob to-night. You know your room, and that stay-out-late husband of mine will find you a latchkey."

"But, Mrs. Hardy―"

"But—er― Bob." The girl laid her hand on his arm. "Bob woke me this morning and told me about—about it all. I'm sorry—but—but it will all come right in the end. The Princess always escapes, the dangers and―"

"Leave Roy alone, woman." Hardy was standing at the foot of the steps. "For my sins I am married to a wife who cannot leave other men alone. Why, if I hadn't interfered. I believe she would be to-day Mrs. Dr. Night, instead of--"

"He had nice grey eyes," Doris spoke dreamily. "I always said I would never marry a man with brown eyes. They're so awfully jealous."

"You had to marry one to find that out, lady," Bob laughed. "Come on, Roy. Thomas will be tearing, the office to pieces if we delay longer."

Alphonse Thomas was striding up and down the big reporters' room when Roy and Hardy entered.

"So there you are, at last— and, of course, not a line in the paper about Dr. Night. Do you fellows think this is a charity organisation for decrepit journalists? Robert Hardy, with your--"

"The affair happened too late for the last edition, sir." The chief sub. was in no way disturbed by the managing editor's apparent temper. "I've got plenty for tonight, and it'll be a scoop."

"And I've got plenty, too." Thomas strode into his room and snatched up a letter from his desk. "Read that! Of all the damned impertinences.'"

Hardy took the letter, a typewritten document. The paper was of common quality. He did not examine the type. Dr. Night would not leave traces. Roy looked over his shoulder and gave an ejaculation of surprise; then read aloud:

"I am in urgent need of the sum of £500,000 for the payment of a debt I have incurred. As it is necessary for me to leave Australia very shortly, never to return, I shall be grateful if my many business friends in Sydney will assist me to honour my obligations.

"From the rich and generous of your city I have chosen the following gentlemen to contribute to my necessity. I ask you to inform them of their selection."

Then followed a list of twenty names. Every man selected was known for his wealth.

"I am sure," continued Dr. Night's letter, "that these gentlemen will not refuse my request. I write no threats; except that my necessity knows no law. I should regret, exceedingly, to have to be insistent."

The letter was signed "Dr. Night" in typescript. For some seconds after Roy ceased reading the three men were silent.

"What do you think of it, Hardy?" exploded Thomas.

"He means what he writes," the chief sub. stated emphatically.

" 'Course he does." The managing editor was impatient. "What am I to do with it?"

"Dr. Night asks you to notify these gentlemen of his request," suggested Roy.

"And to be laughed at as a ruddy fool!" Thomas showed his irritation. "If I took that letter to any one of them they would send for the police."

"Perhaps that is the best solution." Hardy turned to the telephone and put through an urgent call for Inspector Frost.

"There's one man's name missing from this list," Roy said, hesitatingly.

"There's many men's names missing," the managing editor snapped. "Of whom are you thinking?"

"Sir Max Vandelere," The reporter paused. "Then Simon Cohen isn't in this list, nor Bertram Upton."

"'What's in your mind, Roy?" asked -Hardy curiously.

"Rather a rough thing to say." The reporter hesitated again. "Sir Max, Cohen, and Upton are noted for their unassuming generosity. Much of their great wealth they devote to public causes. The men indicated here--"

Thomas snatched the list from Roy's' hands. He read down the list of names again and laughed.

"Your friend, Dr. Night, has made a bloomer in this." He turned to Hardy. "This list is of the twenty hardest nuts in the Commonwealth. Why, to get money out of one of these would be like wringing water out of a stone."

Hardy nodded. Roy's conclusion had not been lost on him. Dr. Night had acted to his queer psychology. He could have chosen twenty men from Sydney's wealthy population who would have proved easier prey. Instead he had . selected men who worshipped money as their god; men who gave nothing without great interest in return; men whose sole interest was centred on self.

"More trouble?" The inspector had entered the managing editor's room unperceived and had overheard Thomas's remark. He took the letter the managing editor extended to him and read it rapidly.

"Of all the confounded nerve!"

"That's agreed to!" Thomas snapped. "Now, what are we to do?"

"These men should be warned." Frost spoke doubtfully. "But "

"If you went to them and showed them that letter they would accuse you of attempting blackmail."

"Publish it," Roy suggested. "As a news item it will go over big. They can't object to that, and if they don't take the warning that's their funeral."

Frost laughed. "'Fraid the Police Department can't subscribe to that theory. We've got to protect them from the scoundrel. Still, publishing that letter will do no harm. More than likely one or two of them will get the willies and ask our protection."

"With the story of last night's happenings it will make a fine front-page scoop," exclaimed Roy.

Thomas looked at the reporter inquiringly. In brief, graphic sentences Roy sketched the happenings of the previous night. The managing editor's eyes beamed. Here, indeed, was a big story.

"How's Dr. Night going to deal with these fellows?" The inspector was bending over the telephone directory. "Will he take them in order or haphazard?"

"Who knows?" Hardy made a gesture of perplexity.

"It'll take half the department to guard that lot." Frost referred to the directory again. "Look here. First on the list is Warrington Smayles. He lives at Mosman. Then comes Leverel; his place is somewhere out Bondi way. Third man is Manning Forbes, and he motors into town from Moss Vale every morning. Of all the puzzles "

"We shall have to wait until Dr. Night gives us a lead," suggested Roy.

"And bleeds the first two or three," the inspector laughed. "No thanks, Roy, someone would be demanding my head on a charger if I went to work that way."

"Anyway, we publish that," decided Thomas, tapping the letter. "Now, while the inspector is here, we may as well decide which and what of last night's happenings is to be included in the news."

For over an hour the three men discussed the defence against Dr. Night's attack on Sydney's business, and how far the general public was to be informed of the master-criminal's activities. An agreement arrived at, Roy was, to his great satisfaction, deputed to. write the story.

The next morning the Mirror announced to a puzzled Australia that Dr. Night had returned.

RANSOM.

Dr. Night Blackmails Leading Citizens.

Mystery at a Vaucluse House.

A Dead Man Disappears.

Where Is the Silent Mystery 'Plane?

13

THE MIRROR'S ACCOUNT of Dr. Night's bold threat to blackmail twenty of Sydney's leading business men caused a great sensation the next morning. The newspaper's telephones were kept busy, but Alphonse Thomas had given orders that no inquiries on the subject were to be answered. The matter, with all documents that had been in the possession of the newspaper, was now in the hands of the police.

During the morning Frost made a, journey to Vaucluse, and again carefully examined the gardens and the laboratory. Halliday had had no news of his missing daughter. No demand for ransom had come from Dr. Night.

Shortly after midday the Inspector went up to the "Mirror's" editorial offices. He had only been conferring with Thomas for a few minutes when Hardy and Roy were summoned.

The call was a relief to the young journalist. He had wandered aimlessly about the big building, unable to settle to any definite occupation. Twice he had telephoned the Hallidays to be informed that there was no news of Ruth. Mrs. Halliday was prostrate- Halliday had locked himself in his laboratory, refusing to see anyone.

"Sit down," Thomas spoke abruptly. "Frost wants to consult you. What's to be done?"

"Rout out Dr. Night," muttered Roy.

"Easier said than done," the Inspector laughed heartily. "I'd give a month's pay to get a lead."

"Dr. Night will provide that presently." Hardy appeared to be the most composed member of the party, but his restless fingers betrayed the stress under which he laboured.

"It's hell for me," Frost exclaimed. "I came across here for a little relief. Do you realise that each of those twenty men named in Dr. Night's letter have applied for police protection? The Commissioner... well, a bear with a sore head is a lap-dog in comparison to him."

"What is the police move?" asked Thomas.

"None. We've created a certain calm by talking of bluff and the impossibility of there being such a person as Dr. Night. Stated the whole affair is only newspaper stuff."

"They don't take that seriously, surely?" Hardy laughed.

"They've got to take it." Frost struck his fist on the desk. "We've got to assume there's no such person— until he makes his first move."

"When will that be?" queried Roy, impatiently.

The shrill ring of the telephone bell prevented an answer. Thomas lifted the receiver, spoke a few words, and then shifted, the instrument across the desk to the Inspector.

"Police Headquarters, Frost."

The Inspector lifted the receiver and listened, his face growing dark. He replaced the receiver with a jerk and thrust the instrument from him.

"It's come," he said briefly.

"What?" The three men spoke simultaneously.

"Hofton Wales is with the Commissioner," the detective grinned. "Says he's received a letter from Dr. Night. He asks for £10,000 immediately."

"How, and where?" Thomas interjected. "Don't know. I'll tell you when I have interviewed the gentleman." Frost went to the door and hesitated. "Say, Roy, you come with me. I may have to go out when I've interviewed Wales. You can come back and tell our friends the glad tidings-"

"Wait a moment, Frost," exclaimed Hardy. "How about letting Roy hang round your office all the time. He's keen and reliable. You may want help, and, with twenty men to guard—well, even a journalist may fit in."

Frost laughed and nodded. . Roy sprang to the door and returned, hat in hand. Together they went to the elevators.

"Who's Hofton Wales?" The young man laughed curiously.

"Financier, company promoter, investor. Take your choice," the Inspector laughed. "Wonder why Dr. Night chose him? He's the poorest of the twenty, by all accounts."

"And Dr. Night values him at £10,000?"

"Which he won't get." The detective hesitated. "No, Wales is out for his own hand. He's not giving anything away. Wait a moment."

They were on the pavement before the Mirror offices. The Inspector took a newspaper from his pocket.

"Thought so," he continued. "Third on list. That settles it. If Wales had headed the list we might have had a chance."

"What to do?"

"Catch Dr. Night."

"How?"

"Hofton Wales will not part with a bean." The detective explained. "If he had been first on the list there was a chance that number two would next receive Dr. Night's attention "

"What will he do if Hofton Wales refuses his demands?"

"Damned if I know. Out him, I suppose."

"But he can't kill twenty men, one after the other." Roy expostulated.

They were on the steps leading up to Police Headquarters. Frost shrugged his shoulders and led down the corridor to his office.

"Wait here a moment, Roy," he said. "I have to go up to the Commissioner."

Alone, Roy paced the small office. Again the trail had opened before them. Would it lead them to a new impasse— or to Dr. Night? Where he found the Asian he was certain he would find Ruth. An overwhelming impatience seized him. Why was he loitering around the Mirror offices and Police Headquarters when his girl was. in the hands of that fiend?

Suddenly the door opened and Frost came into the room, accompanied by a medium-height, stout young man, with an unhealthy, florid face. The small light-blue eyes, were hard and selfish.

"Now, let's have that tale again. Mr. Wales," suggested the Inspector, when they were seated Then, noticing the suspicious glances the man cast at Roy, he laughed. "Mr. Wales, my assistant. Roy Iston. Take my word for it Mr. Wales, Roy's safe."

"Oh... all right. Yes." Wales appeared to be relieved. "Well, you know it all by now, don't you?"

"Can't have too many repetitions,'' Frost laughed. "Let me put Roy wise. You are Herbert Hofton Wales. On the rolls you are described as a financier. That's to say. a money-lender. Registered?"

"I don't lend money as a profession."

"No!" The detective's tone was almost offensive. "You've done a bit, of company promoting. Mr. Wales?"

"I have floated a few companies. One or two have been unfortunate, but...".

"Just so. Where do you live?"

"At Mosman."

"Any family?"

"What's that got to do with it?" Wales flushed, angrily. "Yes, I've got a wife and boy ten years old."

"Good. You say you received a letter from someone signing himself 'Dr. Night.'  Where?"

"At my office."

"Was it there before you arrived this morning?"

"Yes."

"It is after two o'clock now. Haven't you rather delayed coming to the police?"

"I came as soon as I got the letter. I did not leave home until midday and went straight to my club, where I had a luncheon appointment."

"From your club you went to your office, where you found awaiting you a letter from Dr. Night?"

"Yes."

'What did you do then?"

"I rang up the Police Commissioner and told him of the letter. He asked me to bring it to him at once."

"Where is the letter?" asked Roy, speaking for the first time.

"Here." The Inspector shoved a letter across the desk towards the newspaperman. Roy seized it and read the single page, eagerly.

Dear Mr. Hofton Wales,—

You have no doubt seen the article in the Mirror this morning containing my letter to the editor. That letter contains a list of twenty leading citizens of this city. Your name stands third on that list,

I expect each of you twenty gentlemen to contribute according to your means to a fund in which I am interested— a fund to adequately reward a man who deserves well of his country. I have not the slightest doubt but that you will accede to my wishes.

If, however, you should, through press of business, put my letter on one side and forget it, I can assure you I shall have, very reluctantly, to forcibly bring it back again to your memory— by taking from you something you hold very dear.

The sum I value your contribution at is £10,000. You will immediately obtain that sum from your bank. Later you will be instructed how to convey your contribution to me.

—Dr. Night.

Roy read the letter aloud. When he concluded he looked up. The Inspector had a broad smile on his face; Wales was frowning, his face red and set.

"Obtain that money to-day." The Inspector mused. "Am I to take it, Mr Wales, that the money is at this moment in your office safe?"

"You are not." The man started from his chair in sudden fury. "Do you think I give my money to anyone who chooses to threaten me?"

"'By taking from you something you hold dear.'" Frost quoted from the letter. "What is it that you hold dear. Mr Wales?"

For a moment the financier did not answer, then: "A man in my position owns many things of value."

"Which of these many things of value do you hold most dear, Mr. Wales?"

Again the man was silent.

"You say you have not drawn the £10,000 from the bank, Mr. Wales?" continued the Inspector.

"No, I shall ignore that letter." Frost looked at his watch.

"It is now twenty minutes to three. You have time to reconsider your decision, Mr. Wales."

"I have no money for blackmailers." The man spoke doggedly.

"And, what do you expect the police to do?"

"It is your duty to protect me," Wales spoke arrogantly. "What do you think I pay rates and taxes for? I expect protection."

"You have it." There was a grim note in the Inspector's voice. "Immediately your name was mentioned as the future recipient of Dr. Night's attentions, men were sent to guard your home and office. The police can do no more, Mr. Wales. It is a pity you cannot take some steps for your own protection."

"What do you mean?" The financier turned angrily on Frost.

"You will immediately obtain that sum from your bank." For the third time Frost quoted from Dr. Night's letter. "You fool, don't you see that you have let slip one good chance for us to capture this criminal. If you had taken that money from your bank Dr. Night would have had to come forward to receive it. There was our big chance—and you have let it slip through your carelessness."

Without a word Wales stood up, thoroughly cowed by the Inspector's anger and went to the door. As his hand touched the handle, the Inspector spoke, sharply.

"Where are you going, Mr. Wales? The bank will be closed before you get outside this building."

"I am going home." The answer came sullenly.

"Good. Go home and guard your greatest treasure. I tell you, Hofton Wales, Dr. Night never promises more than he can perform."

The door closed on the financier. For some moments Frost sat in deep thought. Suddenly he looked up.

"How long will he take to get to Mosman, Roy?"

"At this time of day?" Roy hesitated. "Twenty minutes to half an hour."

"We will give him an hour. Lunched yet, Roy? ,No. Neither have I. It's late, but there's eats left, somewhere. Come along!"

Three-quarters of an hour later they returned to Inspector Frost's office. Hardly were they seated before the telephone bell' rang,

"Yes?" Frost spoke expectantly.

"Wales. Hofton Wales, speaking!" The voice was almost a shout. "For God's sake, Frost, come over at once. My boy... my son... has disappeared."

14

THE POLICE car was at the door, waiting. Inspector Frost motioned Roy to enter and followed. In silence they waited until the car drew up at the end of the long queue awaiting the punt for North Shore.

"You expected this?" Roy turned to the Inspector.

"Something like it." Frost smiled, grimly. "Do you remember the wording of Dr. Night's letter: 'by taking from you something you hold very dear.' There was hardly a choice. Wales holds his money dear... and his son. He refused to part with his money, so..." He shrugged.

"What of Mrs. Wales?"

"I'd thought of that." The Inspector laughed aloud.; "Shows you've not read your own paper too carefully. Twice Mr. and Mrs. Wales have made their domestic dissensions public. So... nothing doing there."

"But, surely..." Roy hesitated. "If you had that suspicion, why not have taken precautions?"

"How?" A harsh note rang in Frost's voice. "What chance did Hofton Wales give me? I know he lied when he told me he did not get that note until after lunch. He was seen to enter his office soon after ten o'clock. No, he, at first., determined to ignore it."

"What made him change his mind?"

"He changed it during the lunch-hour. You know how everyone is talking of Dr. Night and his big demands. Possibly Wales lunched with a party discussing the subject. He may have mentioned that he had received a letter. His friends would certainly persuade him to go to the police."

"If you suspected that Dr. Night would strike in that direction— at the, child: could you not have taken precautions there?" Roy protested.

"I did what I could, but Wales deliberately hampered me. You heard Dr. Night's proposals. The money was to be withdrawn within five hours. Of those Wales wasted four. Do you imagine that Dr. Night did not have that man watched; that he knew that he had not obtained the money, and that he had come to Police Headquarters? Of course, he did. He waited until three o'clock and the banks were shut. Then he struck."

"But... you would not have had Wales pay over the money?" the newspaper-man exclaimed.

"No; but I wanted time." Frost frowned. "The only way Wales could gain time for me was by withdrawing the money. Dr. Night would have learned of that. He would have then to advise Wales how he was to dispose of the cash. That would have given us eighteen hours, at least, to make our plans." ,

Roy nodded. Now he understood the note. Dr. Night had taken all precautions, and, guessing at Wales's probable actions, had used them to his purpose.

From the first Roy had wondered why Dr. Night had asked for so small a sum as £10,000 from Hofton Wales. In proportion to that sum not half the half a million demanded would be raised from the twenty men listed. So, Dr. Night had anticipated refusals and evasions. What would be his next move? One thing Roy considered certain. A far larger sum than £10,000 would be demanded for the return of the child.

Against the theory that he was constructing Roy had to place the fact that Hofton Wales was by far the poorest of the twenty men listed. What would be Dr. Night's next move in the game? Would he choose the poorest of the remaining nineteen for his next victim That seemed probable. He put the point to the Inspector.

"Very likely," Frost nodded.. He pulled a list of the twenty men from his pocket. "Let's consider. Here's Britton Chambers, Albert Wilson, and Paul Lefevre; all about the same financial rating. Which of the three will he choose?"

For some time they debated the question, without satisfactory conclusions.

"Give it up." Frost laughed shortly. "Anyway, you've scored a big point, Roy. I'm going to concentrate my men on those three probable victims. Same time, we must remember Dr. Night likes to do the unexpected; he may hit next at one of the big dogs. Well, we'll have to risk that. I can't keep proper tabs on nineteen men all fiercely resenting the slightest curtailment of their liberty and still carry on the hunt for Wales's son."

He hesitated a moment, then continued:

"Lor'! Let him pull off a couple more of these stunts and there won't be enough men in the Police Department to carry on the hunt."

The police car swung in at a pair of very ornate gates and drew up before a tall portico. Hardly had it come to a stop before a woman darted out of the house and precipitated herself on the Inspector.

"My son! Where is my boy? Oh, you'll get him back for me. I'll... I'll

"There, there, ma'am." The Inspector spoke awkwardly. "We'll do our best, you may be sure. There's no cause to fret..."

"That's the way we get police protection." Wales stood on the top step trembling with rage. "Our money..."

"Damn your money!" The woman turned on him, furiously. "You save your money and I lose my boy!"

"Stop this bickering, both of you, and tell me how the boy was lost." Frost spoke impatiently.

For some time he had to argue and persuade, then he succeeded in obtaining something like a coherent story from the antagonistic parents.

Herbert Wales, junior, had left for St. Anthony's College at his usual time that morning. He was to have lunch at the college and to return home about four o'clock. At that time Mrs. Wales knew nothing about Dr. Night's demands on her husband's banking account nor the threat accompanying that demand.

Wales had driven home direct from Police Headquarters, and, immediately on entering the house, had demanded his son. Mrs. Wales had replied that Herbert was not due home from college for at least another half-hour. They had waited for the lad's arrival. Incautiously, Wales had allowed his wife to learn of Dr. Night's demand and threat, and she had staged a scene of violent hysterics.

The time came and passed for the boy to arrive home and there were no signs of him. Mrs. Wales had insisted that her husband immediately inform the police.

"Then you don't know whether he is abducted or not?" Frost ejaculated, in deep disgust. He pulled out his watch. "Why, it's only a quarter to five now. He may turn up any minute."

"He won't! He won't!" Agatha Wales moaned, throwing herself on the couch. "That man's taken him! I know it! I know it!"

"How?" Roy demanded, bluntly.

"Because of that man." She pointed to her husband. "He thinks more of his money than he does of his son and me."

"Of you, my dear!" Hofton Wales turned furiously on his wife. "Do you think I'd pay £10,000 for you? Get that out of your head, quick!"

Frost interposed hastily, asking for the telephone. Wales took him and Hoy into a room he named his study. He locked the door and withdrew the key.

"Don't want that woman in here with her cursed hysterics," he explained.

A look of disgust came on Frost's face. He tinned, without a word to the' telephone and called St. Anthony's College.

Herbert Wales, junior, had been at the college that day. He had left for home at the usual time, three o'clock. One of the masters had spoken to him as he passed through the college gates.

Frost asked who had accompanied the boy from the College? There was a long wait, and then a strange voice answered, naming two youths.

The Inspector repeated the names to the financier. Wales knew both families. The nearest lived about a quarter of a mile from the Wales house.

Frost rang up the house, yes, their son, Colin, had come home. There was delay while the boy was found. Herbert Wales had parted from him at his gate, intending to go straight home.

Then the abduction, if there was an abduction, had taken place between the two houses, somewhere over the quarter of a mile of road. Frost seized his hat, and, accompanied by Roy and the financier, walked over the ground. He could see no signs of a struggle. A keen search while on his way back, revealed no clues to the missing lad.

"Dr. Night doesn't make mistakes of that kind," he said in a low voice to Roy. "Now, all we can do is to wait until the scoundrel formulates his demands. They'll hurt Wales, I know. But, I don't think the doctor will harm the boy. No, Wales's money-bags will be the only thing to bleed."

Again at the house they had to face another interview with the distracted mother. On the pretext of a conference Frost retreated to the study, with Roy and Wales.

"What's the next move?" asked the financier, impatiently. "Are you going to sit here all day long, doing nothing?"

"What do you suggest?" asked Frost, blandly.

"Get out and arrest this Dr. Night. That's your job!" Wales spoke brutally. "That's what we pay you for."

"As it happens you do not pay me," Frost was stung to retort. "I am paid by the people of New South Wales, where men of your kidney are in a hopeless minority, though you make the most noise."

Wales swung on his heels and went to the window.

"What's the game, Frost?" Roy asked in an undertone.

"The game? Scene set for here, unless I'm mistaken." The Inspector yawned.

"You don't think I'd stay in this burrow if I didn't believe that."

The telephone bell Jangled. Wales turned from the window, but Frost reached out a long arm and took the instrument.

"Who's that? Hofton Wales here." Frost spoke in worried, irritable tones.

"Ah, my friend Hofton Wales," the suave voice mocked. "Certain instructions were sent to you, today. You did not obey them."

"The time was too short. I had not that sum at call."

"You lie." There was no heat in the voice on the lines. "Yesterday you paid into your bank eight thousand pounds, the proceeds of the sale of certain lands. The payment was made by certificated cheque. At that time you had in credit nearly six thousand pounds. Again I say, you lie."

Frost did not answer. A long pause and the voice continued:

"Instead of withdrawing that money from the bank you went to the police." The man laughed slightly. "I had you watched and know. Consequently, I acted. Herbert Wales, your son is in my hands."

"What do you want? I will pay the £10,000."

"You won't!" Wales tried to seize the instrument.

"Ah!" Again laughter, cold and sinister, came over the wire. "So it is my good friend, Inspector Frost who speaks for Hofton Wales. Still... what does it matter? Will you tell me. Inspector Frost, which does Hofton Wales love best— his son or his money bags?"

"Mr. Wales wants his son."

"His son will cost him £20,000. When I know that he is anxious— not willing— to pay, I will talk with him again."

Very deliberately Frost replaced the receiver on the instrument and turned to the financier.

"Dr. Night demands a £20,000 ransom for your son. He adds that when he is convinced that you are anxious to contribute that amount to his fund he will deal with you."

The Inspector turned and found his hat. Beckoning Roy, he went to the door.

"What are you going to do?" asked Wales, desperately.

"Find that boy... that is my duty," Frost answered, brusquely.

"Good..."

The telephone bell rang again. Frost waited at the door while Wales answered ;the call.

"For you." The financier shoved the instrument along the desk.

"Yes?" Frost said curtly into the instrument.

"That Frost?" Thomas, of the Mirror, here. Police Headquarters told me you had gone out to Wales's place. There's been a further development in the Dr. Night matter."

"In which direction?"

"Albert Wilson has been called upon for a contribution of £25,000. He is here, in my office. I'll hold him until you come."

15

"HOLD him!" Frost spoke oriefly. "He turned to the financier. "Dr. Night moves quickly."

"My boy?" The man moved forward a pace. "What does he want?"

"Not you." The detective showed his disgust. "He's struck at a friend of yours― Albert Wilson."

"Ah!" Relief showed on Wales's flabby features. "Well, he can afford to pay."

"That your advice to him?" The Inspector laughed. "Wants something like £25,000. Says that includes the £10,000 you forgot to draw from the bank this morning."

"He will release my boy if Wilson pays that?" Wales exclaimed. "Of course, he must."

"Not too sure of that." Frost spoke grimly. "You men of money are not too fond of paying one another's debts. If I guess right Wilson will follow your lead."

"In what way?"

"He'll refuse to pay; then set up a mighty wail when Dr. Night carries out his threat."

"But..." The financier hesitated. "What are you going to do? Are the police entirely inefficient? What do we pay taxes for? If there was one man of sense in the whole Police Department Dr. Night would be behind bars by now."

"Of course." The detective laughed shortly. "Men of your kidney seem to think that we have all the criminals in the world docketed and in pigeon-holes, When one of you is threatened all we have to do is to fill in the docket card and send him to Long Bay. Come on, Roy. We're wasting time here."

He strode out of the house and entered the waiting motor car.

"You're going to leave me?" Wales followed the two men out of the house.

"We are." The Inspector turned to the driver. "Mirror offices, and make it nippy."

"But, what am I to do?" The financier bewailed.

Frost leaned across Roy. "I'm speaking as a father, not as a police officer," he said, slowly. "If Dr. Night took my son and demanded ransom, there's one thing I'd do before I stirred up the police."

"And that is...?" Hope dawned in the man's cold eyes.

"I'd get my son back, if it cost me the last penny I had or could beg, borrow, or steal." He sat up and spoke to the driver. "Now, Johnnie, taken root here?"

The car moved forward with a jerk. For some time Frost sat with folded arms, frowning thoughtfully. Roy watched him, curiously. The Inspector had always, in his recollection, shown himself good-tempered and patient with people in trouble Yet he had not appeared to make the slightest allowance for the financier's sufferings under the loss of his son.

The journey back to the city was quickly accomplished. As the car drew up at the doors of the Mirror's offices the Inspector sprang out and raced up the steps, closely followed by Roy. He pushed the Inquiry Clerk on one side and strode into Alphonse's room. As he entered his eyes sought a man seated beside the big desk.

"Mr. Wilson?'' The detective's voice was harsh.

The man nodded. For a moment Frost started at him, fixedly.

"Well, what happened?"

"Inspector Frost." Thomas explained to his caller. "I think you had better tell your story again."

"Oh!" The man looked up at the detective and gave a sigh of relief. "Mr. Thomas told me you were coming here. I waited."

"So I see." Frost spoke grimly. "Now, tell me why you came here and did not go to Police Headquarters?"

"I read the letter from Dr. Night in the Mirror." Wilson spoke hesitatingly. "I thought "

"You got a letter from Dr. Night?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Special delivery. One of the Green Messenger boys."

"Where is he?"

"I..." The man looked astonished. "Why, I suppose he went back to his office."

"Where is the letter?"

Thomas lifted an envelope from the desk and passed it to the Inspector. The envelope was of medium quality and contained only a single sheet of notepaper.

Its context was similar to the one Hofton Wales had received, the only variation being in the amount demanded.

"Green Messenger boy brought that to you?" The detective demanded. "Sign for it?"

"Yes."

"You know the receipt books they use. Was that in order? Not a new one? Who was the previous recipient of a letter, or parcel recorded in the book?"

"I didn't notice that." Wilson spoke hesitatingly. "The book and the boy appeared to be regular, and in order. I signed for the letter opposite my name, and tipped the boy."

"Thanks." There was a note of sarcasm in the Inspector's voice. "Open the letter while the boy was with you?"

"No. I didn't think it important. I left it lying on the desk while I finished some work— about a quarter of an hour."

Frost nodded. He glanced at Roy and nodded towards the telephone. Roy went to the instrument and glanced at the Inspector, to And him frowning. He replaced the telephone on the table and went out of the room, going to the switch room. Ten minutes later he re-entered the editor's room and nodded, significantly, at the Inspector.

"What do you think. Frost?" inquired Thomas.

"That, as usual, a pile of time has been wasted." The detective frowned. "Why, in the name of little apples, you didn't go to Police Headquarters, I can't understand." He spoke to Wilson. "I'd made arrangements to cover a situation like this. Now..." He made an expressive gesture.

For some minutes he strode up and down the room, the three men watching him curiously.

"There's new matter in this," he said at length. "First the time limit is very short." Again he turned to Wilson. "What reason has Dr. Night to suppose you can lay your hands on £25,000, at a moment's notice? He gave Wales the whole of the day."

"I have bonds." Wilson hesitated. "I am negotiating a big loan and found it might be necessary to make a preliminary payment at any moment, probably outside banking hours. I obtained certain 'bearer bonds' and kept them in reserve."

"At your office."

"In my safe, yes. It's quite modern and burglar-proof."

"So that's that." Frost nodded. "Married man, Mr. Wilson?"

"No."

"You live at Moss Vale, eh?"

"Yes."

"Motor home every afternoon?"

"Not always. I have a suite at the Hotel Splendide."

"How many days a week do you go down to Moss Vale?"

"About twice, and, of course, the weekends."

"Not married, eh? Widower, with a family?"

"No, I have never been married."

"So!" Frost meditated. "Well, you got this letter. What were your impressions on reading it?"

"I would have thought it a joke but for the article in the Mirror. I came here to ask Mr. Thomas if he had any information that he had not published."

Frost smiled. Then, after a pause, continued his questioning.

"Which of your possessions do you value chiefly— of course, excluding your banking account?"

"I have many treasures." Wilson drew up his spare tall figure. "I have a reputation as an art connoisseur."

"Oh, art! Paintings, china, coins, postage-stamps or what?"

"I am considered catholic in my tastes."

"So is Dr. Night." The detective paused, then changed his line of examination. "Let's go back to your receipt of this letter. You had read the article in the 'Mirror' and knew you were not up against a joke. Had you thought of complying with Dr. Night's demands?"

"Complying with the demands of a blackmailer?" The thin, hawk-like features of the man sharpened. "Of course not."

"You know now that unless his demands are complied with Dr. Night acts immediately? Hofton Wales lost his son within an hour of the time-limit given him."

Wilson smiled. "I have no son, Inspector."

"Nor anything you value greatly?"

"I have many things I value greatly."

Frost took his watch from his pocket and watched the dial for a few seconds. "Name one of the things you value most."

"My Murillo." Wilson answered without a thought. "Then I have a unique collection of cameos I bought last February at the..."

"You know the time-limit Dr. Night gave you has expired?" Frost's voice had become normal again. "Like Wales, you will get no second chance."

"What can he do?" Wilson laughed loudly. "I have no family. As for my art treasures, they are well guarded. The house is impregnable; by night and by day two ex-soldiers, armed, are on guard."

"And I'll back Dr. Night." Roy half whispered. Frost overheard them, and smiled whimsically.

"What of the Green Messenger boy, Roy?" the Inspector asked.

"All in order. A young lady went into the Green Messenger offices in Her Majesty's Arcade and handed in a letter to be expressed to Mr. Wilson. The boy who delivered the letter is named Fred Parsons. He obtained a proper receipt for the letter. He is out at the moment but directly he returns he will be sent to you."

"Thought so," Frost nodded. "Dr. Night doesn't make those sort of mistakes. A young lady, eh?" For some moments he mused. "There was a young lady with Dr. Night in the Green Pearl case."

Thomas laughed. "What's on your mind, Frost?"

"Only that Dr. Night has scored again. He has infernal luck." Frost flung himself into a chair. "Say, Mr. Wilson, what do you value that painting at?"

"Value it at?" The financier showed surprise. "Man, do you know that it has no appreciative value. If I sold, and I am not likely to do that, I would send it to London, to Christie's. What it would bring under the hammer depends entirely on who were in the market for Old Masters."

"Still, it has a value." Frost spoke impatiently. "Oh, damn it, man, can't you think? You've wasted time, all round. You've wandered up here to get information from Mr. Thomas Say, what time did you come here?"

"Ten past six." The managing editor replied.

"Dr. Night made his demand on you at three-thirty." Frost ticked off his points. "You were told to get the money and leave Sydney for Moss Vale exactly at five o'clock. I believe that is your usual time to leave your office when you go to Moss Vale?"

"Yes."

"Dr. Night informed you that you would be met, en route, and relieved of your burden— the money. What, in the name of Mike, were you doing between three-thirty and six?"

"I took time to consider the position." Wilson spoke with dignity. "I considered I should obtain much more information before I acted. In pursuit of that information I came to Mr. Thomas."

"While Dr. Night went to Moss Vale." Frost laughed. "Mr. Wilson, I'm afraid the Asian has again collected tribute."

"What do you mean?" Yet understanding was dawning on the financier's mind.

"I can't say exactly, but I'll hazard a guess that you have already paid the price. It may be the cameos..."

"My Murillo!"

"Possibly! What do you value it at?"

"I wouldn't part with it for £50,000." The man wrung his hands in anxiety.

"Then— you saved £25,000 of bearer bonds this afternoon, and will pay £50,000 to reclaim your treasure— some day. I'm beginning to understand how Dr. Night intends to make up that half-million! He's clever!"

16

"WHAT DO you mean?" Albert Wilson started from his chair. "My Murillo!"

"Come and see." Frost moved to the door. There he paused. "Come with us, Roy," he said, briefly. "There's news here, unless I'm much mistaken."

In silence they went down to the police car, Frost motioned Roy to the back seat, beside Wilson, and took his place beside the driver.

The long journey through the evening dusk was not pleasant for the newspaperman. Wilson was a moody companion, continually complaining—and Roy had much to ponder over.

Dr. Night had acted with his usual speed. They had been prepared for the demand on Hofton Wales; but the attack on Albert Wilson had been so sudden that there had not been time to prepare a defence.

Why had Dr. Night made the demand on Wilson immediately after he had abducted Hofton Wales' son? Every sign showed that the master criminal had teen prepared for the second move. Roy decided that there was only one answer to the question. The Asian had not anticipated that his demand on Hofton Wales would be acceded to. Wales' hesitation and refusal to pay had played its part in the very complex scheme to rake from the twenty business men of half a million sterling.

Dr. Night had demanded £10,000 from Wales and £25,000 from Wilson. But the second demand, the £25,000, had been definitely stated to contain the £10,000 demanded in the first instance. If the Asian had stuck to his original demands he would not have raised half of the sum he demanded. But he was working an accumulator of vast proportions on the men. Each successive demand would contain all previous demands unpaid. In addition the crook would have obtained from each man who refused his demand something of great value. That "something" would have to be ransomed— at the Asian's valuation.

Roy tried to work out the sum, mentally, and staggered in review of the figures he produced. Under-the accumulator Dr. Night would demand over a million pounds from each of the last two men of the twenty. And, he had declared that all he wanted was half a million!

What then was his objective? Did there lie behind the demand for a half million pounds some design deeper and far more sinister?

Roy puzzled the problem. He could only arrive at one conclusion. Dr. Night had compiled a list of twenty financiers in the city. But that list was only a blind. He would hit at but a few, and those the men who were most selfish and greedy.

The car rolled down the long hill above Moss Vale and turned into a narrow lane to the left. A few hundred yards further and it swung into a private road and pulled up before a huge two-storeyed building of rather ornate design.

Albert Wilson was out of the car almost before it stopped and ran up the steps to the big entrance doors. Almost before Roy and Frost were out of the car he was pressing the button of the electric bell.

No one answered. Frost mounted the steps slowly and stood behind the art collector, a strange, quizzical smile on his lips.

"No key, Mr. Wilson?" he said, at length.

"No." The man answered, shortly. "Where the hell have they all gone to?"

Roy had not mounted to the hall door. He wandered around the side of the house, curiously scanning the windows. He turned the second corner and hesitated.

What was wrong with the house? For some time he puzzled to find a reason. Then, in an illuminating flash, he understood.

The house was silent, deserted. There was not a soul in sight; yet Wilson had stated that he kept a large staff permanently at the house.

Close by where Roy had halted a door stood open. He went to it and looked in He found himself staring into a big kitchen. Seated at a big table in the centre of the room was a large woman, wearing a coarse apron. She lay back in her chair, fast asleep.

ROY stepped into the kitchen and stared about him, curiously. A door opened to the left. He peered into the room, to see two men lying on the ground, apparently insensible. He went in to them. They were fast asleep.

Again through the house rang the clangour of the front-door gong.

From another door a short flight of stairs ran up to the big hall. Roy mounted them, two at a time. In the hall, which extended up to the roof of the house, he glanced hastily around, then went to the hall door and opened it.

"Where's everybody? God. I'll sack the lot of them!"

Wilson, his face ghastly pale, charged into the great hall. In the centre of the hall he stopped suddenly, a grey-green pallor coming over his face. With a little, choking cry he toppled forward, insensible.

Instinctively Frost and Roy glanced towards the spot at which the financier had stared. On the wall hung a heavy ornate, dulled gold frame. But. it contained no picture. In the centre of the bare space was a single sheet of paper Roy went and stared up at it. There were only three lines of. writing and a signature:

Received from Albert Wilson one picture, reputed to be by Murillo, of ' the estimated value of £50.000.

—Dr. Night.

Two hours later Frost and Roy left Moss Vale in the police car. In the house they left Wilson, under the care of a physician, delirious and babbling of lost pictures.

"Where's this going to end?" asked Roy, abruptly. "Frost, that man's a devil!"

"Think so?" The detective laughed. "All the devilment I see in our friend, Dr. Night, lies in the speed with which he acts. He gives his victims no time for consideration and that means that we, the police, trail along helpless, in the rear. Still "What?"

"He'll have to slacken up, some time."

The detective spoke serenely. "That will be our opportunity to catch up. and we  will."

"He's scored heavily, so far." observed Roy.

"That's true." The Inspector was silent a moment. "He's got Hofton Wales' son to ransom, and Wilson's pet painting. For the latter he asks £50,000. He hasn't put a price on the former, yet--"

Roy did not answer. Frost had arrived at the same conclusion to which he had been working. Dr. Night made a demand on his victims, but that demand was but a blind. He knew that these men would not accede to his first demand. Then ne took from them something they valued highly. For the return of his capture he asked much.

Frost dropped Roy at the doors of the "Mirror" offices and drove on to Police Headquarters. The newspaper-man went up to the big reporters' room, to find, on his desk, orders to report to the managing editor immediately he returned. He went across to the editorial room, knocked and entered.

"Well?" Alphonse Thomas looked up, questioningly.

"The Murillo's gone." Roy spoke briefly. "Dr. Night left a receipt for it."

"So?"

"The receipt stated that the picture was worth £50,000." The newspaper-man, spoke significantly.

"Fifty thousand pounds!" Thomas whistled, lowly. "He's not modest in his demands. How did Wilson take it?"

"Badly. Went down in a sort of fit. We left him in bed with doctors and nurses in the offing."

The managing editor leaned back in me chair and surveyed the reporter, quizzically.  "You don't seem to have much sympathy with your fellowmen, when they are in trouble, young fellow?"

"With that crowd?" Roy showed disgust. "All they think about is money— and getting it."

"A common complaint in the good city of Sydney." Thomas laughed. "Write it up, Roy. You've got a good story for the day. Wales and Wilson! Jove, Dr Night makes news."

"Anything from Mosman, sir?" asked Roy as he turned to the door.

"Not a thing. I telephoned there hall an hour ago. Halliday is waiting to hear from Dr. Night. I'm betting he'll pay at the first call. He's completely broken up."

"And Mr. Hardy, sir?"

"Went out to the Halliday's place." Thomas shuffled some papers, then looked up. "By the way, Roy, you're running this end of the story on your own. Don't fall down on it."

"But, Bob Hardy, Mr. Thomas?"

"Sir Max has commandeered him for a few weeks. Halliday is handing over plans of the aeroplane, and Hardy is to supervise construction. By the way, he says you are stopping with him at Pott's Point. Asked that you should get home as soon as possible. Think he has some news for you. Get to it, young fellow. Get that story to the sub's table— and get off."

Roy went to his desk. For some time he sat smoking. The story would not frame itself. From which angle should it be tackled? Into his thought continually intruded Ruth Halliday.

Ruth was in the hands of the arch-fiend, a prisoner. But a prisoner for whom no demand for ransom had been made. The coincidence came to Roy. Young Wales had disappeared, and Dr. Night had not declared his Intentions. Only in the case of the picture had anything like a demand been made for a definite sum— and that indirectly.

Suddenly the story took shape in his brain. He dropped his feet from his desk and swung open the typewriter.

Without pause, almost without thought, sheet after sheet of copy came from the machine. The story was good, one of the best things he had written. With unconscious art he worked carefully to his climax; then:

"Roy Iston!" He looked up to see Thomas standing beside him, the sheets of copy in his hand. "Good man! One of the best stories the 'Mirror' has ever had. But you'll have to alter this ending."

"Why?" Roy protested.

"Because of this." Thomas dropped a typed letter before the journalist. "Dr. Night's potential victims have decided to hold a meeting for mutual protection."

"Are they going to pay up?'' Roy laughed.

"Can't see them doing that— but there's copy in it." Thomas joined in Roy's laughter. "The 'eye of the needle' story is more probable than those twenty men contributing half a million for nothing."

The telephone on Roy's desk rang impatiently. He lifted the receiver and spoke his name. Thomas was moving towards his room when Roy stayed him, covering the mouthpiece of the instrument with his hand.

"Dr. Night has spoken, sir," he said in an undertone. "Halliday received a message from him to-day. "Ruth will be returned in exchange for the secret of the gravity plates."

17

TWO DAYS later the meeting of the twenty financiers threatened by Dr. Night took place.

Alphonse Thomas received an invitation to the meeting. Britton Chambers, who had called the meeting, telephoned him a special invitation. The meeting was to. be held at the Hotel Zenith and the managing director arranged that Hardy and Roy should accompany him.

Roy looked around the room, curiously, as he entered. The twenty financiers were seated at a large oblong table, each with writing utensils before him. Close to Britton Chambers, who was seated at the head of the table, were Hofton Wales and Albert Wilson, the latter looking pale and worn.

In a corner of the room, remote from the meeting, Roy noticed, with surprise. Inspector Frost. When the necessary introduction^ had been made, Roy crossed to the Inspector's side and drew up a chair. Thomas and Hardy were accommodated with seats near, but not at,, the table, slightly behind the chairman.

For some minutes after they entered there was an awkward pause. Chambers glanced at the men seated around the table and blew his nose, loudly. Roy took stock of him. A short, thick-set man. of about fifty years of age, with a full, florid face. His hair was very thin but carefully arranged to cover the glowing bald patches on his head.

Chambers coughed loudly, tugged lustily at the massive watch-chain stretched across his large, rotund waist, then levered himself to his feet.

"Gentlemen." He cleared his throat again. "Rather unusual, this meeting. Never known one like it before. But we've had proof it's necessary... yes, necessary."

"Pish!" A tall, thin man at the opposite end of the table sneered, openly. "What's all the talk about? Someone's tried to blackmail one or two business men and the newspapers have played it up for all it's worth."

"I'm speaking, Mr. Sullivan." Chambers spoke impressively. "I've convened this meeting and propose to open it in due form. As for your insinuations," he looked around him, triumphantly, "I've taken means to nail them... nail them, sir. I have here the very respected editor of the newspaper in question. I have here... " he tapped a paper on the table before him, "...the identical letter this blackmailer, Dr. Night, sent to the newspaper. Now. what have you to sav to that?"

No one answered, Chambers glanced around the room, triumphantly, then continued:—

"More than that. Here's Mr. Hofton Wales, well known to you all. He's lost his boy. Here's Mr. Albert Wilson. Two days ago he lost his Murillo..."

"What's that?" A stout young man on the right of the table glanced up quickly "Maybe a racehorse, but it sounds like a cigar."

"A valuable painting, sir." Chambers waved his hand, largely. "A painting valued at £50,000. Dr. Night demands that sum for its return." ,

"Gosh!" The stout young man subsided Into his chair.

"We are all in danger. You know how this blackmailer works. He acts quickly." Chambers was working himself into a state of excitement. "Dr. Night has attempted to blackmail Hofton Wales and Wilson. They resisted his demands and have been... been..."

"Blackmailed," suggested Sullivan.

"Robbed." came from somewhere near the foot of the table.

"Yes, robbed." The chairman bowed. "They resisted this criminal's extortions and were robbed. Who will he attack next?"

The men looked at each other, anxiously. Chambers had brought the problem home to each of them. They had come to the meeting out of curiosity; perhaps to see the two men who were the victims of the blackmailer.

But, to consider themselves open to the same attack: to have a sudden, irresistible demand made on their banking accounts. was a different matter. They glanced at each other: around the room, with growing uneasiness. Who was to be the next victim?

"What can we do?" The stout young man asked the question.

"That is what we have met here to consider." Chambers spoke with dignity. "Have you a proposal to put before the meeting, Mr. Lefty?"

"What? Me?"

"Yes, you." The chairman beamed on the man. "Just you, Mr. Lefty. Dr. Night demanded £10.000 from Mr. Hofton Wales. When he did not get it he demanded £25,000 from Mr. Wilson. I believe I am right in saying that in that sum Mr. Wales' unpaid £10,000 was included. His next demand will be for between forty and fifty thousand pounds."

"Whew!" Edward Lefty looked up in surprise. "How do you come at that, friend?"

"A proposition in mathematics, Mr. Lefty. He, Dr. Night, is running what may be termed an accumulator."

"And who's elected to pay that?" Sullivan jumped to his feet. "Look here. Britton Chambers, there's something damned funny in all this. How do you know that Dr. Night will demand £40,000? Perhaps you can tell us who is to be touched next..."

"Britton Chambers."

Who had spoken? The men around the table glanced from one to the other in amazement. Who had spoken the name?

Who? The chairman had sunk back in his chair. Now he leaned forward, his hands open and pressed on the table. He glanced from one man to the other, receiving from each a negative shake of the head.

Roy looked at Frost. The detective had abandoned his air of nonchalant unconcern and was leaning forward, his eyes searching the room. Roy gazed around him, in amazement. The voice had not been loud, but penetrating. It had rung clearly, yet softly, through the room.

"Someone spoke my name." Britton Chambers struggled to his feet. "I distinctly heard him. I demand to know who spoke. Someone said that Britton Chambers was to pay the £40,000."

"A slight error, Mr. Chambers." All eyes turned towards the door, from near Where the voice came. "The amount should have been £50,000."

Roy could have sworn that the door had not opened, yet before it stood a slight, wiry man. Grey was the colour that best described him. He was dressed in grey, even the skull-cap fitting closely to his head was grey. From under it straggled grey locks, blending with the grey eyebrows and grey-tinted skin. From under the heavy eyebrows looked out two brilliant grey eyes, piercing in their intensity.

"Dr. Night!" Although Roy had never seen the Asian before he recognised him at a glance.

The words were barely breathed, yet the Asian's eyes turned towards Roy. The newspaper-man had the feeling of a sudden cold douche.

"Dr. Night, at your service, gentlemen." The Asian spoke slowly, in cold, suave accents, with a slight foreign intonation.

"Mr. Britton Chambers mentioned an incorrect sum. I crave pardon for correcting him."

"You are Dr. Night?" Hofton Wales leaned forward across the table, staring at the man, hungrily. "You stole my son."

"He is well." The suave voice never faltered. "At the moment he is in charge of two young ladies, the Misses Halliday and... I assure you they will take great care of him."

"What do you want?" Hofton Wales straightened himself.

"I have not yet decided."

"I will give you what you ask."

"I asked ten thousand pounds as a contribution to a fund for an Australian genius I have discovered. You refused."

"I will give you ten.... no, twenty thousand pounds."

"No."

"Thirty thousand."

Dr. Night shook his head, slowly. "Then... death!"

With remarkable speed the financier pulled a gun out of his hip-pocket and levelled it at the Asian. Roy sprang to his feet with a shout of warning. Dr. Night did not heed him. His keen grey eyes were fixed on Hofton Wales.

The automatic came up, levelled at the slight figure of the blackmailer, yet the financier did not pull the trigger. For a moment the weapon remained motionless; then slowly the wrist and arm bent, as if under great compulsion.

A look of agonised alarm came on Hofton Wales' face. His arm was curving round. The muscles of his face and body tensed under the strain; yet the arm continued to curve.

The automatic now pointed towards the head of the table. Britton Chambers slipped from his chair to the ground, only his eyes and forehead showing above the table level. And. still the aim continued to curve.

"God, he will shoot himself!" Roy whispered. He glanced round at the Inspector.

Frost was leaning forward, every muscle of his body tensed. His eyes were fixed on the Asian, with a look of intense hatred—yet in his eyes was almost an appeal.

Roy tried to move from where he stood, but his body refused to obey his will. All he could do was to watch—watch the curving arm carrying the deadly weapon towards Hofton Wales' temple.

He glanced from man to man seated around the table. Not one of them had moved. Lefty was holding the arms of his chair, as if preparing to -spring to his feet; but his muscles were relaxed. And still the gun swung round in the deadly arc. The muzzle was now pointing to Hofton Wales' forehead. The arm shortened until the cold steel touched the flesh.

"If it were my will." Dr. Night spoke slowly. "But the taking of life is an offence to the gods. Drop that gun."

The weapon fell with a clatter on to the table and lay there unheeded. Dr. Night glanced around the group of men.

"If I willed." The words dropped as chilled water on the hearers' ears. "I could kill each of you as you sit. If I willed, you would give to me that which I demanded. But, you would give it of my will, not of your will. That which I take must be freely given."

For a moment he paused. Now he glanced at Hofton Wales and his eyes appeared to pierce into the man's brain.

"For your son, a ransom. The amount you named. Twenty thousand pounds. You shall bring it to me when and how I will."

"And, my Murillo?" Albert Wilson staggered to his feet.

"The price you know."

"Fifty thousand pounds?"

Dr. Night bent his head. The door behind him opened to invisible hands. He raised his right hand over his head m a queer beckoning motion; then stepped back and the door closed on him.

18

FOR THE space of ten seconds there was neither sound nor movement in the room after the door closed on Dr. Night. Roy looked at the men at the table. They sat as if frozen into immobility. Hofton Wales stood before his chair, his eyes cast down on the automatic lying before him on the table. Behind Britton Chambers sat Alphonse Thomas and Hardy, the latter with a thin smile growing on his lips.

Roy swung round on his chair to view Inspector Frost. The detective was leaning forward as if about to spring to his feet, his hands resting on his knees: his muscles tensed. Almost as the reporter turned the Inspector sprang to his feet and charged across the room to the door —to halt there in wondering amazement. Roy followed him more slowly.

"Why!" Frost stuttered in amazement. "I thought... I thought...

"You thought Dr. Night was at the door." The detective turned at the sound of Hardy's Voice behind him. "He was there. Now he's gone.

"Gone." A look of blank amazement was on the detective's face. "Why, he's only just entered. I saw the door open and him enter. It has not opened since, I'll swear."

"Wake up, map." Roy caught the detective by the shoulders arid shook him roughly. "The show's over."

"But where did he go to?" persisted Frost.

Roy pointed to the door. The Inspector dashed forward and pulled it open. Large clouds of light-blue smoke rolled into the room.

Hardy was the first to sense the danger. He dashed across the room to the windows, flinging them open. Roy and Frost backed against the wall beside the door, holding their handkerchiefs to their mouths and nostrils.

The smoke rolled into the room as ii propelled from a gun. It enveloped the men seated at the table, then spread until it filled the room. Some impulse caused Roy to hold his breath. He saw Frost slip to the ground beside him. and then the light-blue gas blotted out all view.

As suddenly as it had come the gas disappeared, leaving the room a litter of sleeping men. Roy staggered to one of the windows and thrust his head out in the open. A few big gulps of fresh air and he looked back into the room. Almost at his feet lay Robert Hardy.

With an accession of strength Roy lifted the chief-sub. and thrust his head through the window A few minutes and Hardy returned to consciousness.

"Dr. Night wins again." The words came slowly, in a low whisper, accompanied by a little laugh.

"How are you, Bob?"

"Mo better for my second dose of Dr. Night's gas.'' Hardy leaned far out of the window, gulping in the pure fresh air. He looked back over his shoulder into the room. "He got them good and strong, that time."

Roy made to go to the door

"Where are you going, Roy?" The chief-sub. held out a staying hand. "No good trying to follow Dr. Night. He had his getaway well arranged."

"I've got to get help for these men," protested Roy.

"Let them be. They'll be conscious in a quarter of an hour, if they do feel heavy and sick, afterwards. Lor', man, don't you recognise that we've got the Story of the day? This is a Mirrorscoop. Not another newspaper man within sight."

Roy hesitated. He watched Hardy drawing great gulps of fresh air into his lungs, then walk across to the big table. There he joined him, going from man to man, making a careful examination of Dr. Night's victim's.

Between them they took Thomas and Frost to the Windows, reviving them. Once Frost understood what had happened, he sat by the Window, his brow drawn and black.

"That's the end of me," he muttered. "To sit here like a stuffed pig and watch Dr. Night loot the crowd. The Commissioner won't stand for that."

"Then the Mirror will have a Word with the Commissioner." Hardy clapped the police officer on the back. "You're not expected, to do the impossible, Frost."

"To arrest one man isn't impossible."

"Dr. Night is... and you know it." Hardy paused. He turned to his chief. "How are you now, Mr. Thomas? Able to walk?"

"In a damned bad temper," Alphonse Thomas laughed. "I never thought one man could hold up a roomful of people, put them to ransom, and get away by walking out of the door. What was it, Hardy?"

"Mass mesmerism." The chief-sub. smiled, reminiscently. "Inspector Frost is a good example of what happened in our minds. He saw Dr. Night enter and from that moment time stood still for him. He saw Hofton Wales forced towards suicide, but it was as a side-issue to Dr. Night's presence. So far as the Asian is concerned, to Frost, he walked in at the door— and disappeared."

Frost nodded.

"Let's get out of this!" Roy exclaimed, suddenly. "The place makes me sick. Come on Frost." He took the man by the arm and pulled him to his feet. "Bob, you bring Mr. Thomas."

They left the room, a roomful of unconscious men, sprawling around a large table—and closed the door. Without speaking to anyone in the hotel they went out on to the street and walked. up to Phillip Street.

"You're publishing this?" Frost spoke, halting before Police Headquarters' main entrance.

"Of course." Thomas answered. "Don't worry, Frost. The Mirror's behind you. We'll see you right, and besides " he hesitated "I've got a hunch you'll lay a heavy hand on Dr. Night's shoulder yet."

"And have him making me do tricks like a performing pig." The Inspector grunted. "We like to slip the 'cuffs on a dangerous criminal as quickly as possible, but with Dr. Night... damn it, we'd have to blindfold him first."

At the door of the Mirror building Roy hesitated. Hardy looked at him inquiringly.

"Forgotten something," he muttered, as he turned away.

"Don't forget you've got the story to write, young fellow," called Thomas.

"Mr. Hardy will write that, Mr Thomas. Not waiting for a reply, Roy sped down the street.

''Not write the story!" Thomas gasped in blank astonishment. "Give Up a good story to..." Then he caught Hardy's eyes.

"Got something good on, eh? Know anything about it, Hardy? No, well, Well! You do the story and we'll see what the cat brings in."

A sudden thought had struck the reporter. He had been conning Frost's and Hardy's stories of what had happened at the conference, as he had walked up the street, one thing had struck him. While the others had seen all the incidents as he had, they had, to them, been distorted and lacking in rhythm.

He had seen the events of the brief minutes after Dr. Night had entered the room in logical sequence. Perhaps he had not come too strongly under the Asian's mysterious influence— or perhaps the gas had fogged their intellects. He had hardly smelt the gas; all he had experienced had been but a slight, momentarily dizziness.

He remembered the words Dr. Night had spoken to Hofton Wales and Albert Wilson. He had named to them the ransom that he required for the child and the picture. And they were to bring the price to him at the time and place to be conveyed to them later.

Did, in those words, lie the secret that would bring the Asian's downfall? Roy wondered. It had been an impulse that he had left his companions to return to the hotel. He wanted to see and study the two men when they had returned to consciousness.

At the Hotel Zenith he went into the lounge and found a chair so placed that it commanded not only the grand staircase, but the elevator doors. If he knew his men, they would come down to the lounge. Then he could observe them; try and discover what effect Dr. Night's words had had on them.

He had a long time to wait, but he knew that no one would enter the conference room without permission. Britton Chambers had given orders to that effect.

At length the elevator doors opened, and a group of men emerged. Roy recognised them as members of the threatened twenty. But neither Hofton Wales nor Wilson was of the party.

The men dispersed, and again Roy settled himself to wait. A quarter of an hour and the two men he awaited came down the stairs together, talking eagerly.

For some time they stood in the lounge debating some question. Roy sauntered through the crowd until he stood almost beside them. He strained his ears. If he could gain some clue as to which man to watch.

"We're both in the soup, though I'm wetter than you," Wilson raised his voice heatedly. "He only asks a measly twenty thousand from you. Fifty from me." Sudden exasperation shook the man. "Damned if I'll pay."

"I want my son." Wales spoke doggedly.

"Of course you'd break our decision," sneered Wilson.

"The meeting arrived, at no decision."

"You're mad." Wilson looked down his long-beaked nose. "Didn't you hear me telling them Dr. Night could go to hell before I'd part with a penny."

"Well?"

"And they agreed— so did you."

"They applauded what you said," Hofton Wales sneered. "Do you think that two of that crowd would come to an agreement— and hold it— if they found a better way out?"

"Britton Chambers congratulated me," suggested Wilson.

"Perhaps he thought that if Dr. Night got £50.000 from you he wouldn't want to wring money from him."

Wilson frowned, uneasily. He knew that not one of the twenty men at the meeting but hoped that he might, by some fluke, escape the Asian's extortions.

"Well, what are you going to do?" Wilson spoke, impatiently.

"Pay."

"When?"

"I don't know. I'm waiting to hear from the man. Anyway, I'm going to get the money now, and I'll carry it about with me until I can pay it over for my boy."

Hofton Wales swung on his heels and left the hotel, Roy close behind him.

Chance had served him well. The hunch that he had developed outside the Mirror's' offices had worked. Wales had decided to pay.

Dr. Night would approach the man for the money. Roy was certain that the Asian was having his Victims patched. He would know immediately Wales took the money from the bank. He would then get in touch with him, telling him how the money was to be paid over.

And, perhaps in his eagerness to obtain the money, he would make some slip. One false move would give the clue to the Asian's hiding place. Perhaps there was hidden Ruth, the boy, and the picture, perhaps in that secret plaice was stored Halliday's mystery aeroplane.

Roy watched the man stride down the street. He sauntered along some distance behind him, just keeping him within sight. He saw Wales turn in to the bank and composed himself for a somewhat lengthy wait, standing at the street corner so as to command both exits.

"You're Roy Iston." A heavy hand brought the newspaper man out of his reverie. "You were at that meeting today. Where did you get to?"

Roy looked round. Behind him was standing Britton Chambers.

"Crept away on tip-toe so as not to wake you fellows up," he grinned.

"You saw everything?" Chambers' tones were earnest. "You saw that man come into the room?"

At Roy's nod Chambers caught him by the arm. "Come up to my office. I've got something to show you."

Roy hesitated, then consented. He would lose sight of Hofton Wales for the time, but he could pick up the trail later. It would take time for the news that Wales had withdrawn the money from the bank to reach the, Asian. Then he would have to formulate his plans to safely acquire it.

Britton Chambers led Roy to Bramston House, in Pitt Street. On the first floor he opened a door with a key attached to his watch-chain and motioned Roy to enter. He locked the door after them carefully.

"Smoke?" He shoved a box of cigars across the desk. Then, abruptly, "You say you saw everything?"

"Yes."

"You saw Dr. Night hypnotise the lot of us? Well, what were you and Frost doing that you did not interfere?"

"Frost was hypnotised. I hadn't strength left in me to move." Roy laughed with some embarrassment.

"Thought so." Chambers paused. "You saw that fiend nearly force Hofton Wales to suicide? Yes. You heard him tell him that he would restore his son for twenty thousand? Yes. You heard him tell Wilson that he could have the picture back for fifty thousand? Anything else?"

"I heard him tell you that he had you down in his books for fifty thousand, not forty thousand," Roy smiled. "But he didn't give you a date to pay on."

"Didn't he?" Chambers mused for a moment. "Did you see him pass me this?"

With a quick movement the financier opened a drawer and flung an envelope on the table before Roy.

19

ROY STARED at the envelope. He could have sworn that not an incident had escaped his eyes from the moment Dr. Night had entered the room until Frost pulled open the door to face the light-blue gas.

Yet this man, Britton Chambers, definitely stated that Dr. Night had placed this envelope on the table before him. But at no time had the Asian moved from before the door!

"You say that Dr. Night placed the envelope on the table before you?" the journalist queried.

"He must have." Britton Chambers rubbed his partially bald head in perplexity. "I didn't see him do it— but I found it there, and--" he paused-- "it's from him."

"Well?"

"Read it and see," Britton Chambers spoke impatiently.

Roy withdrew the enclosure and read the few lines. As he had anticipated, it was a demand for fifty thousand pounds. This time the recipient was to withdraw the money from his bank exactly at noon the following day and carry it in a brief bag. Somewhere and sometime, before nightfall, the bag would be taken from him.

"Nice sort of game!" Britton Chambers had lost all the pomposity that had distinguished him at the meeting that afternoon. "Walking around town with fifty thousand dangling from my fingers, waiting for someone to lift the bag. Why any old dead-beat could hold me down. And this damned doctor doesn't propose to give me even a receipt!"

Roy laughed. The spectacle of Dr. Night gravely handing over a receipt for a blackmailing payment appealed to him.

"Oh, laugh away!" Britten Chambers growled. "Thank your stars you're not a moneyed man."

"What do you propose to do?"

"What do you think?"

"Depends on what you've got." Roy was thoughtful. "Dr. Night likes payment to his order. He's apt to get crotchety and take about twice as much as what he demanded in the first instance. Got anything valued at about a hundred thousand pounds?"

Britton Chambers did not answer. He started to pace his office.

"Look here, young man," he exclaimed at length. "Put yourself in my place. Say you've got something like a quarter of a million. Would you let yourself be blackmailed for a fifth of it?"

"No," Roy answered promptly.

"Yet you seemed to hint that I would be wise to pay this demand."

"I'd make a fight for my money, or anything else."

"Hofton Wales made a fight, and—"

"He is at the bank now withdrawing twenty thousand pounds."

"Certain?"

"I overheard him telling Mr. Wilson that he proposed to do so."

"And you tracked him to the bank?"

"Yes."

"What for?"

"I thought I might discover where the money went."

"Humph!" Britton Chambers paused and stared at the newspaper man. "That's an idea! But you couldn't play that game as a lone hand."

"Why not?"

"Dr. Night might let Hofton Wales carry the money around for a few days before claiming it. You'd have to be on the watch every, minute of the time. It's all odds to nothing that the moment you started to nod Dr. Night would step forward and annex the swag."

Roy nodded. He had not thought of that.

"Are you going to pay. Mr. Britton Chambers?" he asked.

"I might." A cunning smile came on the man's face. "Look here, young man, you're a reporter on the Mirror aren't you'"

"Your editor'll answer for you? Guarantee you're honest?"

"I hope so."

"You're detailed to follow up this Dr. Night story?"

"Yes." Roy hesitated. "The Mirror has determined to hunt down Dr. Night."

"And you thought to do so by playing tabs on Hofton Wales? Now, what about playing the game with me?"

Roy thought quickly. What was this man's game? He did not believe Britton Chambers would willingly hand over a fortune to Dr. Night; yet that was what he proposed. The man would bear watching.

"What do you propose to do?" he asked cautiously.

"I propose to go to my bank to-morrow at noon and withdraw fifty thousand pounds in notes of small denominations—Just as that scoundrel instructs me. I'll place them in a handbag and toddle off--"

"Well?" Roy asked as the man paused. "Well, you'll me. You'll have a similar bag to mine. I'll get a pair that Dr. Night won't be able to tell apart. You'll stand beside me at the pay teller's desk. When I pick up your bag you'll pick up mine and follow me, about twenty yards behind, to this office. If I go out again I'll carry my bag, but you'll leave yours here. You'll follow me until you see someone take my bag from me, then you'll follow him."

"What's the idea of the two bags?" asked Roy.

"I want you in the bank and as a guard until the right person takes the bag from me." Britton Chambers spoke quickly. "If you went into the bank without something to show business then you'd draw the attention of Dr. Night's spies to you. and the game would be up. See? Now. there's' one other thing. We'll want that police Inspector of yours in the game. Can you tip him off to follow you through the day?"

"I may get him if I tell him what you have told me." Roy answered cautiously.

"Don't tell him more than is necessary," advised the financier. "Tell him that I'm taking the money from the bank and that you're tracking me, to get on Dr. Night's tail. See?"

The newspaper man nodded. He was not satisfied with the plan, but it was infinitely better than his scheme to track Hofton Wales until Dr. Night or one of his agents went to him.

With a curt farewell to Britton Chambers the reporter went down to the street. The financier had arranged that one of the duplicate bags was to be delivered to him at the Mirroroffices early the next morning. He was not to come in contact with or speak to the financier. At the bank he was to manage to be next to him in line at the window; then to follow him until he reached his office.

In the Mirror building he ran into Hardy.

"Hello, Roy! Got anything good?"

"Only that Hofton  Wales drew twenty thousand from the bank an hour ago."

"Whew! Then he is going to pay Dr. Night."

"Looks like it. I'm beginning to think that Dr. Night will get his half million easily. Hofton Wales is paying money, in spite of his boast Albert Wilson will ransom his picture "

"Will he?"

"It's a Murillo, and worth quite a lot."

"Humph!" Hardy paused. "Suppose you'll be surprised if I told you that there's not a genuine Murillo in Australia, outside of the public collections."

"So?" Roy whistled. "Then why..."

"Just so. Why?"

"You think there's a mystery about that picture?"

"I don't think. I know." Hardy laughed. "No, don't ask me. I don't know what it is, yet. But .... well, who knows?"

For a few seconds there was silence.

"Where are you going, young man?" asked Hardy, abruptly.

"Written that story yet, Bob?"

"No. Want it?"

"If you don't... yes."

"Get to it, young fellow." Hardy laughed. He looked at his wrist-watch. "Four o'clock. Just time for afternoon tea. Then me for Ashfield."

"Ashfield?"

"Oh, you don't know. Sir Max has bought up Westcox's aeroplane factory. We're getting on with the building of the gravity 'planes."

"And you're director of constructions? Congrats!"

"Alphonse Thomas passed me that piece of news. How are things going?"

The two men had reached the tearooms. When the waitress had taken their order Hardy leaned forward to answer Roy's question.

"It's great, man. Without engines and instrument boards, it's one of the simplest machines you can conceive. Cost? About a couple of thousand each—and they'll carry a dozen people in each machine."

"And the gravity plates?"

Hardy looked grave. "Halliday will not trust anyone with the secret. He's making the plates in that laboratory down the garden. Of course, we've got the place surrounded with detectives, but what's the good of that when our opponent's Dr. Night?"

A few minutes later the newspaper-men parted, Hardy for Ashfield, Roy for the Mirror offices, to write up the account of the day's happenings.

ROY went down to the Mirror offices next morning about half-past ten o'clock. On his desk was a small box. He opened it and drew out a brief-case of common pattern. In it were some bundles of papers cut to represent bank notes. He closed the case and loitered about the reporters' room until half-past eleven; then strolled down Pitt Street to the main entrance of the Western States Bank.

It was two minutes to the hour when he reached the bank's doors. He hesitated a moment, and as he did so someone pushed him roughly aside and strode into the bank. The main was Britton Chambers, and Roy followed to the pay teller's window.

At the desk quite a few people were waiting. Britton Chambers stood in line, with Roy immediately behind him, until his turn came. He placed his bag on the ground, at the same time making room for Roy to stand beside him.

Roy placed his bag on the ground and waited.

"The cheque you telephoned about this morning, Mr. Britton Chambers?" The teller nodded. "I've the notes all ready. You have a case? Or shall I give you a bag?"

"I've a case." Britton Chambers spoke gruffly. Then, as if in sudden anger, he turned to Roy. "Who are you crowding on?"

"Stand aside, please." The teller looked up quickly. "There's plenty of time for everyone."

Roy stepped aside, bewildered and annoyed. What did the man mean? He waited until Britton Chambers lifted his bag to the counter and placed the notes in it. Then he presented the small cheque the financier had provided him with— to legalise his presence in the bank— picked up his case and walked out of the building.

For the moment he was inclined to go direct to Britton Chambers' offices, await him, and tell him where to journey. But second thoughts suggested that the man might have had some object in his rudeness. He might have been trying to indicate to any watcher that he and Roy were unacquainted.

Keeping about twenty yards behind the financier, Roy looked about for same indication of Frost's presence. He could not see the detective, so contented himself with a careful watch on the financier.

At the entrance to Bramston Buildings the financier hesitated on the steps. A man. coming out of the building, brushed against him. Immediately Roy noticed that Britton Chambers was not carrying the bag. He stepped forward to get a better view of the man; but it was not Dr. Night.

A man ran across the street to intercept the stranger, now carrying the bag. Roy recognised Inspector Frost. At the same moment two men ran out of an alley-way, colliding with the detective, all three men falling.

Roy did not wait to help Frost. Swinging his bag from his fingers, he set out in pursuit of Dr. Night's emissary

20

THE MAN, a stocky, well-built individual, a few inches above medium height, made up Pitt Street at a smart walk. Roy followed, keeping his quarry in full sight.

His task was not difficult. The man looked neither to right nor left. At the King Street intersection he paused a few moments and Roy wondered if he was waiting for a tramcar. But when the traffic was held up he continued on.

At Market Street he turned to the right, and at the George Street intersection paused again. Crossing the road, he went up to York Street. From there he turned and twisted through city streets, lanes and arcades, until the newspaper man was on the point of exhaustion. At length he led down towards the harbor, and, turning down Martin Place, came to Pitt Street again.

There was no hesitation in the man's manner now. He knew where he was going and intended to get there as quickly as possible. Yet twice he stopped and looked at his watch.

To Roy's amazement the man turned in at the doors of Bramston Buildings Ignoring the elevators, he ran up the stairs to the second floor, Roy in hot pursuit. At a glass door he tapped, then pushed it open and entered.

Trying to appear as casual and careless as possible the newspaper man sauntered down the corridor. The man had left the door fully open. As Roy passed he turned to see the name of the person occupying the office. To his utter astonishment he read the name—"Dr. Night."

Was it a coincidence? Were there two doctors bearing the name "Night" in Sydney? Roy stopped abruptly and swung round on his heels. The open door attracted him. For a moment he paused— then, without knocking, entered the room.

It was a barely furnished office containing only a single desk, on which stood an antiquated typewriter. A large wooden cupboard, a couple of battered filing cabinets and two or three rough chairs completed the furniture.

There was no one in the office Roy looked around him curiously. A door, shut, separated the office in which he stood from the next. He went to the door and knocked. A voice bade him enter. He opened the door.

A large desk occupied the centre of the room. Behind it and facing the door by which Roy entered was a slight, grey man. The newspaper man gasped his astonishment.

"Welcome, Mr. Roy Iston." Dr. Night looked up, the brilliant grey eyes, under the heavy brows showing a mere trace of amusement. "Please come in."

Involuntarily Roy stepped forward a couple of paces until he stood almost against the desk, facing the Asian. He half-turned when he heard the door shut behind him.

"Thank you, Humberston," Dr. Night spoke gravely. "May I trouble you to relieve Mr. Iston of the suit-case he is carrying. I believe it has been a burden, to him for quite a distance this afternoon."

A man stepped to the side of the desk and took the brief-case from Roy's hand. Now he recognised the man he had been chasing for the past couple, of hours.

"Sorry to have given you so long a walk, Mr. Iston," the Asian spoke gravely. "But it was necessary that we obtained the absence of. Mr. Britton Chambers from this building before you were brought here. He waited in his office for quite a time, but you did not arrive. He telephoned the 'Mirror,' and, I believe, the police. Then he went to make a personal search. By the way, Humberston, the case you took from Mr. Britton Chambers. I believe it was the case and not your personal charm that" interested Mr. Iston."

The man laid a second case on the desk beside the one Roy had carried. It was the case Britton Chambers had taken to the bank to hold the money, Roy wondered. The financier had intended Dr. Night or one of his confederates to take that case. Why had it not been taken direct to the Asian?

What had been the reason for the man, Humberston, to carry the case for so many miles around the city? The affair appeared to have no point. Why had Dr. Night enticed him to that room above Britton Chambers's offices?

A slight smile dawned on the Asian's lips as he watched Roy's face.

"As you guess, Mr. Iston, this room is immediately above Mr. Britton Chambers's private office. For some days I have kept close watch on him."

He lifted a small earphone from a hook under the desk and laid it on the blotting pad. From the same place he brought out a head-set.

"This," the Asian touched the headset, "is connected to Mr. Britton Chambers's telephone. He had quite an interesting conversation with his bank manager this morning." He paused and lifted the earphone. "This is the receiving end of a Dictaphone. I regret that Mr. Chambers is away from his office at the present moment. His failure to discover your whereabouts should make his spoken thoughts extremely interesting."

"But," Roy stuttered in surprise, "what's all this about? I followed instructions."

"Did you?" Dr. Night laughed gently. "Your instructions were to follow Mr. Britton Chambers to his offices in this building and deposit this case"—he touched the case Roy had carried—"there."

"I was to follow Mr. Britton Chambers and then the person who took the case of money from his hand," protested the newspaper man.

"So Mr. Britton Chambers instructed you." Dr. Night nodded assent. "But, unfortunately, Mr. Britton Chambers did not allow for a slight alteration in his plans."

"An alteration in his plans?"

"Not by Mr. Britton Chambers." The Asian smiled slightly. "I regret I found it necessary to interfere. But a slight, a very slight, alteration, and--" The smile lingered on the thin lips of the master-crook. For some moments he watched Roy in silence.

"I am to take it, then, Mr. Iston, that you are no party to what proved to be an innocent deception?"

"Deception?" Roy laughed. "Look here. Dr. Night, I don't know what you are driving at. If you want to know, I'm after you, and I've got all the influence and pull of the Mirror behind me."

"Yes?" the Asian spoke gently.

"But, in this matter, I'm in a fog. Mr. Britton Chambers found out that I was watching Mr. Hofton Wales when he went to his bank to draw the twenty thousand pounds you demanded for the return of his son. He told me of your demand on him, and suggested that when he handed over that brief case to you, or your messenger, that would be the quickest and surest manner of getting on your trail. I agreed. What he made me carry that case for I didn't and don't now understand."

For a long moment Dr. Night sat staring at the journalist. Roy shivered. Those brilliant, burning grey eyes appeared to be reading his most secret thoughts.

"I believe you," the Asian spoke smoothly. "It is just that you should know how you have been deceived."

"Deceived?" Roy laughed, shortly.

"Yes, deceived. Do you know that in this case you brought fifty thousand pounds from the Western States Bank?"

"Mr. Britton Chambers brought the money to his offices in the brief case he carried."

"He changed the cases in the bank, giving you the case containing the money. I believe Inspector Frost was in Pitt Street when Mr. Humberston took the case from Mr. Chambers's hands."

Roy looked stolid. The Asian laughed gently.

"To confuse Mr. Britton Chambers's plans I made a slight alteration in my arrangements. I allowed him to change cases with you although my man stood beside you and him in the bank, and could have interfered. I allowed Mr. Britton Chambers to pass a brief case filled with waste paper to Humberston. All I did was to suggest to Mr. Humberston that he took you for a little walk and then brought you to me, here."

"Suppose I had not followed him?"

"Then, with great regrets, I fear an— an accident might have happened."

"You mean?"

"What matters!" Dr. Night tapped the desk top impatiently. "You want proof. Place your hand upon the brief case you carried."

Almost against his will Roy obeyed. Dr. Night threw open the other case. It contained only the waste paper cut to banknote shape he had seen when he opened the case that morning in his office.

"Now open the case you carried."

Roy required no further urging. He opened the case and turned out on the desk many packets of bank notes.

"It is not difficult to fathom the mind of a Britton Chambers." Dr. Night laughed gently. "Almost these things"— he touched the earphones— "are unnecessary."

For a time there' was an uncomfortable silence in the room. Dr. Night was staring before him into space. Roy was furious. Britton Chambers had used him, not to trace down the arch-criminal, but to safeguard his beastly money.

Roy would not have cared had the financier fully explained his purpose. He would have willingly lent his aid to convey the money to the financier's offices. But the unnecessary deception irked him and aroused his ire.

Britton Chambers had planned to deceive Dr. Night. The brief case containing the waste paper was to be taken by the Asian's agent. The case of money... Had the man thought that Dr. Night would accuse his agent of stealing the money?

"The man deserves punishment." Dr. Night spoke gently, a slight twinkle in his eyes.

"I'd like to— to kick him," the newspaper man said viciously.

"He deserves punishment." The Asian laughed again. "Mr. Iston, do you know what I should have done had he failed to bring me the fifty thousand pounds?"

"He would have got it in the neck, like Hofton Wales and Albert Wilson," exclaimed Roy.

"Colloquial, but exact." Again the twinkle dawned in the master criminal^ eyes. "Mr. Iston, speak frankly. In your heart of hearts you consider that man deserves punishment?"

Roy nodded, almost against his own, volition.

"Then rest in peace." Dr. Night produced from his pocket a small case and pressed the spring. "You recognise this?"

From a bed of purple velvet flashed a magnificent ruby. Roy gasped.

"The Shah's Eye." With a snap the. Asian closed the case. "But three days ago Britton Chambers's agents brought this jewel into Australia. To-day it is mine."

"You hold it to ransom?"

"It is mine," the Asian reiterated. "The soul of that jewel would perish in that man's hands. But enough of that. I must safeguard you."

Swiftly the Asian emptied both suitcases. In the case Roy had carried he stowed the waste-paper.

"Go down to Britton Chambers's offices," he commanded. "Give him this case. It is the one you carried. He is in. Give it to him. Remember, it has contained nothing but this trash."

21

MECHANICALLY Roy turned and walked into the outer office, closely followed by Humberston. As he passed out into the corridor he glanced at the door. The glass was clean, no lettering appearing on it. '

"Put on for your benefit." The man grinned. "And, by the way, there's no need to come back, You won't find any one here."

Roy went down the stairs to Britton Chambers's offices. Immediately his name was taken in to the private office the financier came out.

"Have you got it?" he asked eagerly. On receiving Roy's nod of assent he motioned towards his room. Roy followed him and placed the brief case on the desk. The man heaved a sigh of relief.

"What happened?" he asked crossly. "You've been a hell of a time getting here."

"Frost met with an accident crossing the road to collar the man who took the case from you." Roy spoke briefly. "I had to take up the chase. He led me a pretty dance."

"Where?"

"All around the city."

"To where?"

"This building."

The financier stared at him.

"Why, what do you mean?"

"He eventually came in here."

"To which office?"

"The second floor." Roy appeared to consider. "Now I come to think of it, he must have gone into an office immediately over here."

"God!" The man blanched. "Man, do you know what you are saying?"

"What's the matter?" The newspaper man showed great innocence.

"Whose office?" Britton Chambers could hardly articulate.

"There was a name on the door. Dr. Night; yes, that's it. Funny there should be a dinkum Dr. Night in this city."

"I don't believe you!" The financier was holding on to the edge of his desk. "You're lying!"

"I beg your pardon." Roy stiffened."Thanks for a chance that never came off. Oh, by the way." The newspaper man pulled a few notes from his pocket. "Here's the money from the cheque you gave me to change. Good-day!" He turned to the door.

"Here, wait a moment." Britton Chambers was fiddling with the brief-case Roy had brought with him. "Perhaps I was hasty!"

"You were "

"I... I'm sorry. You know--"

The man's jaws fell apart. He had opened the brief-case and was staring at the collection of waste-paper.

"What's the matter?" Roy asked innocently.

"Where's the money?"

"What money?"

"The money you brought from the bank."

Roy pointed to the few notes he had placed on the desk.

"You knew that case contained no money." He spoke pointedly. "I found it at the Mirror offices this morning and -examined it there. I have carried it about with me all day. I believe you put that paper in that case yourself, Mr. Britton Chambers."

"But the money?"

"That came from the bank in the case you carried."

"But..." The man hesitated. He could not tell the newspaper man that in the bank he had changed the two cases.

"What is the matter, Mr. Britton Chambers?" Roy tried to infuse concern into his voice. "Don't you feel well?"

"Fifty thousand pounds!" The financier dropped into a chair, groaning.

"Quite a sum, isn't it? Well, you might have been hit for more if you hadn't been sensible enough to meet Dr. Night's first demand."

The man looked up inquiringly.

"Mr. Hofton Wales lost his son; Mr. Wilson, his picture. By the way, Mr. Britton Chambers, there was a piece of news in one of the newspapers the other day. It was reported that you had purchased the famous ruby, the Shah's Eye. Has it been delivered yet? When you get it don't forget the Mirror. We would like to send a photographer down to picture it."

The financier's eyes involuntarily turned to the safe. He nodded, unthinkingly.

"Worth quite a lot, I believe," Roy went on, tormentingly. "You were wise to satisfy Dr. Night. He might have taken a fancy to that jewel. Those Orientals are fond of gaudy stones."

The newspaper man waited. Britton Chambers did not answer.

"Sorry our little plan failed." The reporter picked up his hat. "Can't hope for success every time. Perhaps it would have been better if I had stuck to Hofton Wales's track. I might be on Dr. Night's trail now."

With careless nonchalance he strolled through the outer offices to the corridor. He waited a moment to be sure Britton Chambers did not follow him, then raced to the floor above.

The door which had borne the legend "Dr. Night" was fastened. Roy knocked, but there was no reply. Then he noticed an envelope stuck to the glass. He bent and examined it— and read his own name on it. Eagerly he tore it from the door. The enclosure was short and significant.

Received from Hofton Wales the sum of twenty thousand pounds for the discovery and return of his son, Herbert.—Dr. Night.

Roy laughed. Dr. Night had caught him napping again. When he had left Britton Chambers's office he had determined to go to Mosman and watch Hofton Wales' house. Now he could do nothing. His plans had all failed, and mainly through the greed and duplicity of the man he had sought to protect.

He ran down the stairs and out into Pitt Street. On the pavement be looked up into the sky. High over the streets hung an aeroplane. High as it was. Boy could see it had no propeller.

The mystery 'plane!

He turned and hastened down to the harbor— the direction in which the stolen plane was making. There he had a better view. The 'plane had lost altitude considerably, and was now only a few hundred feet up. Above the roar of the city traffic he could hear the low, sinister sound of the gravity plates; the sound that had won for the machine the title of "Whispering Death."

Why was the 'plane hovering over the city? Immediately followed the thought— if he could trace it to its hangar. He felt in his pockets, and sighed in relief. He had quite a fair sum of money on him.

On its previous appearance over Sydney the aeroplane had come from and returned to the eastern seas. Then was its home on some island off the coast, or on the mainland? Had the 'plane come from the continent, circled high, out of sight, and then flown in from the sea?

That was possible. Roy hailed a taxi. "Out to South Head, as quickly as possible," he ordered.

Throughout the journey he watched continually for the 'plane, but could not see it. At South Head he alighted and told the driver to await him. He went to the lighthouse and routed out Jack Seeman.

"Seen that 'plane again, Mr. Seeman?" he asked.

"No."

"It was over the city this afternoon." Roy started.

"Over the city?" The old sailor opened his eyes wide. "Now, what for?"

"Ask me something easier." The newspaper man laughed. "I saw it. No, I'm not pulling your leg. I saw it twice, and the second time it was sailing low."

"That's a mystery, sure enough." The old sailor shook his head. "Now,  t'other night it sailed in from the seas."

"Exactly where from?" asked Roy.

"A point or two south of east."

"You said that before." Roy laughed. "I'm not a sailor. Point, my jolly salt, point!"

Seeman extended a knobby forefinger, pointing out over the Head.

"It wasn't circling out to sea from the land?" persisted Roy.

"May have been," Seeman admitted. "I only saw it when it was high overhead. What's that?"

The strange whispering sound with its queer note of warning became audible. Roy and the sailor looked up. Only a few hundred feet above their heads hung the mystery aeroplane.

"Lord Almighty!" Seeman gazed awestruck at the machine. "Why, man, it hasn't got a propeller."

"Nor an engine," added Roy.

For some minutes he watched the 'plane carefully, wondering what should be his next move. The 'plane hung immediately above the lighthouse, then commenced to drift slowly out to sea.

Roy looked around him. He stood on a high foreland, commanding a fine view over land and sea. Yet he felt he was not high enough. His eyes fell on the lighthouse, pointing whitely up into the blue southern sky.

"Can we get to the top there, Mr. Seeman?" he asked abruptly.

"Tain't allowed." The old man shook his head.

"Nonsense!"

"I tell you, 'tain't allowed." The sailor spoke emphatically. Visitors ain't allowed in the lighthouse at all, at all."

"Oh, well." Roy shifted his attack "Guess you've seen a bit Of life, Mr. Seeman."

The old man looked at him suspiciously for a moment, then the temptation to romance became too strong. Roy watched the aeroplane slowly disappearing out to sea.

"Seen any pirates, Mr. Seeman?" he said, casually.

"Pirates?" The old man looked perplexed.

"I was thinking of telling you of Harry the Rover."

"You were a young man when he lived?"

"Naught but a boy, aye."

"Ever seen a modern pirate?"

"There ain't no such thing."

"Yes there is. You saw one not ten minutes ago."

"Haw, haw!" Jack Seeman was rolling back his head, in laughter. "You writer fellers..."

"I'm not joking." Roy was desperate. "Listen, Seeman, to steal a ship is piracy?"

The old man nodded.

"And aeroplanes are ships."

Seeman's answering nod expressed doubt.

"Well, that aeroplane that passed over our heads was stolen. I've got to find out where it came from and where it is going to. Take me up the lighthouse. I can see from there."

"I daren't, Mr. Iston."

"You've no sympathy with pirates. No honest sailor has. Look here, Seeman." Roy shook the man in his excitement. "I've just got to find out."

"Pirate, is he, damn him!" The old man considered a moment. "Curse it. I will."

He hobbled towards the lighthouse, Roy following closely. Slowly and painfully he toiled up the steps. Roy cursed under his breath. Would he be too late?

On the gallery surrounding the lantern, Roy peered out to sea, hope fading from his heart as he swept a clear sky.

"There she be!" Seeman's finger pointed slightly south of east. "She's picking up speed. She's coming back!"

Roy could see the aeroplane now. She had drifted far out to sea; then, picking up speed she swept to the southwards, circling in a wide sweep towards the coast.

"Know where's she's heading for, Seeman?" The newspaper man almost shouted in his impatience.

"Might guess." The old man answered imperturbably. "Yes, that might be it." He paused and squinted at the 'plane. "Come down to the locker room, young master. I think I knows something."

22

ROY RETURNED to the city late that afternoon, undecided whether he had spent a profitable day or not. His conversation with the lighthouse-keeper had resulted more indefinitely than he had expected. All he had learned was that while the Whispering Death came over Sydney from out the sea and departed in a like direction, the 'plane eventually returned to land.

Somewhere down the south coast, between Port Hacking and Kiama, had been Seeman's judgment. It was a long expanse of coastline to examine—in some parts lonely and indented with numerous bays and coves. A wonderful hiding-place for anyone who had anything to conceal.

Dr. Night had taken Halliday's gravity 'plane there. In all probability he had established a workshop, where he was duplicating the machine.

What was the Asian's object? Hardy had said that he was the last descendant of the reigning house of some forgotten Central Asian Empire. He was obsessed with the idea that it was his fate to recreate the old glories of his race.

Was that true? Roy had seen the man only twice. Each time he had been impressed by the wonderful powers possessed by the man. He had seen him so dominate a roomful of men that when he had departed no one could exactly recount what had happened.

There could be no doubt but that Dr. Night had some project in mind for which he proposed to use the Whispering Death. That project could only be blackmail on a wholesale scale— or conquest.

But, if Dr. Night was constructing a fleet of gravity 'planes, he must have some workshop fitted with the necessary tools and workmen. Sir Max Vandelere had solved a similar problem by buying a controlling interest in the aeroplane factory at Ashfield.

Had Dr. Night a factory?

It was possible Dr. Night had taken the same course. He might have his 'planes built in some established factory, by contract; but that would cause comment and talk. He could have the 'planes constructed for him in sections, at separate factories and then assemble them at his secret base.

Either of those plans would give him the gravity-'planes he required for his purpose, whatever it might be.

Arriving at the Mirror offices, Roy wrote a terse account of the day's happenings, then went to the library and collected the directories and books on aerostatics he could find.

The directories offered him little help. There were six aeroplane factories in Australia, of which four were located in New South Wales. One of these was under the control of Sir Max Vanderlere.

Roy went in search of Hardy. The chief-sub. had not yet arrived. Kingston, who was deputising for him, said that he was not expected until a late hour.

Roy returned to his directories and searched further. Two of the four aeroplane factories were situated on the plains of the Central Tableland, one was at Goulburn and the fourth at Ashfield. So far he had not made any progress.

The journals did not help; the only item of interest that the newspaper-man could discover was that near Port Hacking lived Frederick Hanson, perhaps the most famous aviator of the time. The article mentioned that Hanson had a small workshop in the grounds attached to his house.

Roy telephoned Hanson's house. The aviator was absent from home. A woman's voice informed him that Mr. Hanson's workshop was used solely for his own aeroplane repairs and experiments.

Again the journalist turned to the telephone, putting through calls to each of the aeroplane factories in the State. His query was always the same. Was that factory making parts of 'planes containing any peculiarities, for any person or firm? In every case he obtained a negative answer.

For more than an hour Roy wandered aimlessly about the Mirror building, wrestling with his problem. He could find, no solution. So far as he was concerned he had run into a dead end.

While Roy was pacing the big reporter's room Alphonse Thomas's door opened suddenly, and the managing editor peered out. He caught Roy's eyes and beckoned.

"Well?" Then without waiting for an answer. "Good story, today. That Britton Chambers got what he deserved.".

"Up against it, sir." Roy tried to smile. "I thought I was on the track of Dr. Night, but Chambers queered my game."

"Too bad." Thomas leaned' back in his chair, crossing his hands before him. "Tracking Dr. Night is like tracking a bird through the air, after it is out of sight Got any ideas?"

"Not one." Roy replied, candidly.

"This help?" The managing editor pushed a letter across the desk.

"Not much." Roy scanned the few lines. "I don't trust these men. They're not interested in bringing Dr. Night to bay, only in safeguarding their filthy money."

Yet he took note of the content, of the letter. It was the usual demand for money from Dr Night, and addressed to Anton Fairman The only peculiar thing was that the Asian had reduced his demand to ten thousand pounds— yet Fairman was reputedly much wealthier than any of the three previous men the crime-master had blackmailed.

"Well?"

"Tell me the secret behind Albert Wilson's painting and I may strike a clue," the newspaper-man exclaimed suddenly

"What's that?" Thomas sat up, alert. "Britton Chambers infers that Wilson's Murillo is not genuine; yet the man valued it at £50,000. That's the price Dr . Night demands for its return."

"Umph!" The managing editor sat forward with his chin cupped in his palms, Ills elbows on his desk. "Roy Iston. I believe you've struck something."

"Then I'm particularly dense, sir." Roy laughed. "I believe there is a secret attached to Wilson's Murillo but I haven't a clue to it yet."

Thomas reached for the telephone and asked for a connection to the Hotel Zenith.

"Mr. Albert Wilson in his suite?' he asked on the acknowledgment of his call. He waited a moment, then spoke again.

"Mr Wilson, we have oeen informed thai you have paid Dr Night fifty thousand pounds for the return of a Murillo painting missing from your Moss Vale residence. Is that true? Not paid yet. Waiting to hear from Dr Night. Oh, then you intend to pay? How? Oh, thanks!"

He replaced the receiver and looked up at Roy.

"You heard?'

"That Wilson intends to ransom the picture? Yes. How is that going to help me?"

Thomas considered for a few minutes "Seen Halliday lately?"

The newspaper-man shook his head. He had not had the heart to go out and visit the inventor. To be in that house, where he had spent so many happy hours with Ruth would be torture

"Bob Hardy's looking after him, sir"

"They didn't leave it to someone else to look after you— when you had that accident."

Roy bowed his head to the reproof. For a moment he was silent.

"Sorry, sir," he gulped. "I was wrong I... I was thinking of myself, mainly."

"Don't forget that Dr. Night is pressing Halliday for the secret formula of the gravity plates," continued the managing editor. "Hardy's stiffened him a lot to resist, but the pull of his daughter's captivity is wearing the man down."

"You want him to resist?" asked Roy.

"Of course. It's asking a lot, y'know, but if Dr. Night gets a fleet of those gravity-'planes in the air there'll be hell to pay in this little old world again."

"You believe Hardy's story of Dr Night's Central Asian Empire?"

"I do." The managing editor pulled a map from under some papers. "Look here. Here's the district where, Hardy claims, exists Dr. Night's deserted city. Let that man locate himself there and have control of a fleet of those gravity-'planes and he will raise hell."

Roy bent over the map curiously

"Russia will object. The Soviet will not stand for an autocratic Empire being built in their territory. They will send troops to hunt him out Now, look! That district borders the Chinese Empire. All Dr. Night has to do when he finds Russia intends to attack him is to stir up the Chinese against himself. For years China has been developing a military spirit. They'll have a shot at him. That means invading Soviet territory. Russia and China will tangle and Dr. Night, from the air, will play a merry tune on both."

"Looks interesting, sir."

"More than that, you young goat!" Thomas exploded "Run your finger south and you will come to India and beside it Afghanistan We're interested in India, and India in Afghanistan. Let Dr. Night light the bonfire in Semarechensk and a thousand to one the northern Indian tribes will not be able to resist burning their fingers Sure as fate, they'll attack some Afghan tribes they particularly dislike, then--"

"Very well put, sir." Roy looked up to see Hardy standing in the doorway 'You seem to have developed the point I made the other day, sir."

"Developed, hell!" Thomas growled. "It developed itself. 'Sides, I've had Professor Evans up here. He wasted quite a lot of time— but completed my education."

"Good." Hardy turned to Roy. "The librarian's got a grudge against you. young man. Says you've given her half-an-hour's work clearing up your mess."

"Good lor'!" The reporter looked conscious-stricken. "I wandered away without thinking."

"Searched without thinking, you should say." Hardy laughed, good-humouredly. 'You were on the right tack, Roy, but you didn't go far enough."

"How?"

"You inquired it aero-firms were making parts to order?"

"Yes."

"You rang up Hanson to know if his workshops took work to order."

"Yes. Some woman replied that the shops only undertook Hanson's private work."

"And you let it go at that?"

"Why not?" A sudden light came in Roy's eyes "You mean--"

"She told you that Frederick Hanson was away—didn't say where; didn't mention who she was."

"Yes?" The reporter spoke breathlessly

"She told me the same, Hardy drawled. "But I was more inquisitive than you. I wanted to know just where Frederick Hanson was. As the lady could not, or would not, inform me, I made a few inquiries. Fred. Hanson was last seen, by the postman, in his garden. His car is in the garage and he didn't leave by train. That tell you anything?"

"Seeman said the 'plane came in over land just, below Port Hacking!" exclaimed Roy.

"A statement good enough for any good newspaper-man to theorise on," Hardy laughed. "By the way, Roy, Halliday wants to see you. Seems to think you've neglected him of late."

"I'll go out to-morrow morning," avowed Roy contritely.

"I'd go out tonight if I were you. Dr. Night promises to pay Halliday a visit at an early date."

23

FOR A full moment Roy stared at his fellow journalist. Dr. Night promised to visit Halliday! Then the Asian had determined to press for the formula for the gravity plates! And Ruth was in his hands! He turned blindly to the door.

"My roadster's in the street. Take it, Roy," Hardy called after him.

The reporter nodded. In the street he found the car and slid behind the steering wheel. He turned out of Phillip Street into King Street. Taking the back way, via Cathedral Street to King's Cross, he let the car out. In the clearer streets beyond the Cross he stepped savagely on the accelerator.

He had to get to the Halliday house before the Asian That fact pressed on his brain. He had to be there before Dr. Night— or Ruth was lost.

Halliday would be divided between his secret and his love for his daughter. He might try and temporise—and Ruth would be lost. The inventor did not know the relentless purpose, the fixity of idea, of the Asian. Dr. Night would act—not against Halliday, but against his daughter

He skidded from the main road into the by-street that led to Halliday's home. Some hundred yards from the house he pulled up and looked about him, cautiously. The road was deserted. He started the machine again and drove past the Halliday's home, pulling up some two hundred yards from the gate. He alighted and left the machine, walking back to the gate.

Halliday would be In the laboratory at the end of . the garden. Avoiding the front windows, Roy crept around the corner of the house and sped through the shrubbery to the workshop.

"Who's there?" The challenge came in answer to his tap on the window.

"Roy Iston." The reporter spoke in guarded tones.

"Roy!" Halliday's tone changed. "Wait one minute, boy."

The journalist heard the grate of the wheeled chair moving, then:—

"Come in, boy!" As he entered the door the inventor rolled his chair forward to meet him. "I thought you had deserted us."

"Not that." Roy spoke lightly, intent on keeping from the inventor's face the lines of pain and worry. "I've been busy, trying to get on the tail of that scoundrel. Bob Hardy told me..."

"A good friend, Robert Hardy." Halliday's face lightened. "He has told me something of your work— the work you are doing for us; to free the world from a menace. He and Mrs. Hardy..."

"Doris has been here?"

"She is here now. When she heard that this... this Dr. Night had taken Ruth, she came. Mary... I don't know what my poor Mary would have done without her help and comfort."

"Bob says that he is coming here tonight."

"So he said. Thank God Mary did not take the message over the telephone. Mrs. Hardy was here. She took the message and brought it to me."

"He telephoned?" Roy showed incredulity. "Isn't he afraid of the police?"

"He knows that I dared not do that." The inventor shook his head. "He holds Ruth— and would make her suffer for my fault."

Roy nodded: he understood that Halliday dare not move, but ....

Hardy knew that Dr. Night was to come to Vaucluse that night. Had he told Frost? If he had then the police were in the neighbourhood.

But this time there must be no mistake. Dr. Night must be captured without fail. One slip and he would get away; perhaps to take some horrible revenge on the girl.

"What are you going to do?" The young man spoke in an undertone.

"What can I do?" The inventor smiled, wanly. "I am an invalid and he is a man endowed with some miraculous power." He motioned towards the table, by which his wheeled chair stood. "There is what he comes for. Let him take it and give me back my girl."

Roy glanced curiously at the table. On it lay an ordinary envelope and across the envelope a revolver.

"Either for him," the invalid whispered. "I have only one condition. I will give him the formula but before he takes it my girl must stand in this room. If he agrees, then he takes the envelope. If he will not agree..." The man straightened himself. "...then he will die."

The words were spoken simply; so simply that a choke rose in the journalist's throat.

"The formula?"

"There! The only time it has been written."

"And what of you?" Roy asked.

"What of me?" The inventor echoed the words in wonderment.

"Except for that envelope, you alone hold the secret?"

"Yes."

"Dr. Night will know that. He will take the envelope— and you."

For a long minute Halliday mused. Then he turned to the table and took the envelope.

"You are right. He will deceive me. He will release Ruth, but he will take the formula and me."

"So then Sir Max cannot complete his aeroplanes to capture Dr. Night."

"Quick, Roy." The inventor tore the envelope open. "Read! Learn it quickly."

Roy read the simple formula that applied to an amalgam of metals which overcame the earth's gravity. He wondered at its simplicity. A bare dozen lines, a few common numerals and chemicals. But, by their combination, they gave the solution to a secret ages long and often sought.

A few minutes and Roy handed back the paper. Halliday enclosed it in a new envelope and sealed it again.

"Who's there?" The challenge came in answer to his tap on the window.

"Does Hardy know this?" Roy asked suddenly.

"No."

"Nor Sir Max?"

"It is known to only you and me."

"Then, if Dr. Night comes; if he takes you and me, then the secret is lost?"

For the moment the inventor was perplexed. Then, driving his chair to the other end of the room, he picked up a small earthenware crucible. With a sharp instrument he worked on it for some minutes.

"The telephone, Roy," he exclaimed as he placed the crucible with its fellows. "Tell Hardy that if anything happens to you and me to look in the cup in the laboratory."

Roy seized the instrument and dialled the Mirror number. He had to wait for some moments to get the connection to Hardy's desk.

A tap came at the door. Halliday waited an instant before replying, but the electrical power was cut from the door. Suddenly it was pushed open and Dr. Night stood in the opening.

"Peace be here with us!" The Asian bowed his head as he passed the threshold.

"Where is my girl?" Halliday exclaimed passionately.

"Hardy, is that you, Hardy!" Roy had at last obtained the connection. "Listen! What you want is in the cup. Understand? In the cup."

"I am afraid that I do not understand, Mr. Iston." Dr. Night spoke with a slight smile.

"Is that necessary?" Roy faced the man boldly.

"I am inquisitive," the Asian murmured gently.

"And you know what inquisitive people usually get?" the reporter retorted.

"Am I to regret that you tell the truth?" There was menace in the question.

"I am not afraid of you, Dr. Night," Roy laughed slightly. "You came here to rob Mr. Halliday "

"Not so. I came here to reward his genius."

The Asian advanced to the table and placed on it a thick packet of banknotes.

"I promised Mr. Halliday a half-million pounds for his gravity 'plane. It is worth it. Here is the first instalment— a hundred and twenty thousand pounds."

"Wrung from three men you blackmailed."

"What matters?" Dr. Night shrugged. "They can afford to lose it."

"Mr. Halliday understood that the money was to come from the British or Australian Government. That would be clean money; money he could handle. This is dirty."

"All money is dirty; money is all evil. Men commit sin for it; suffer everything to possess it."

"There are good men."

"And counterfeit money, as there are counterfeit men." Again the doctor shrugged. "Mr. Halliday, you know what I have come for. Will you do as I request?"

"My daughter?"

"She shall be restored to you."

"When?"

"When I receive the secret formula." "It is there."

The Asian made a move towards the envelope, but Halliday grasped the revolver lying upon it.

"Bring Ruth into this room. Free her from your malign influence, and that envelope containing the formula' for the gravity plates is yours."

"Who else knows the secret?"

"One other."

Dr. Night's eyes turned to Roy's face. He nodded slowly.

"So Mr. Iston knows the secret."

"What of that?" Roy demanded boldly. "I shall not betray Mr. Halliday."

"But the secret makes you important." The Asian smiled secretly. "Until my hour comes— until I have proved your claim and am ready to leave Australia-- I must ask Mr. Halliday and Mr. Iston to accept my hospitality."

"You mean that we are prisoners?" demanded Roy.

Dr. Night bowed.

"And Ruth— my daughter?" Halliday asked again.

The Asian stepped to the door and whistled a low, sweet note. In a moment a woman came into the moonlight on the lawn, walking towards the laboratory. At the door she hesitated, looking directly at the Asian.

"Your daughter is here."

"Held by your mesmeric power. That must now end." The inventor spoke tiredly.

The arch-criminal breathed a low word to the girl. Her body stiffened, then relaxed. She looked around her wonderingly.

"Dad!"

"Are you content?" The Asian spoke.

"I am not." Roy exclaimed loudly. "Dr. Night, you are my prisoner."

The great door of the laboratory swung shut. The Asian turned, to see Roy standing by the great switchboard, pressing down a lever.

"The door is shut and electrified." Roy laughed triumphantly. "The windows are impassable. Mr. Halliday fortified well when he built this place to hold his secrets."

He paused, glancing from one to the other of those in the room.

"The long trail ends." he continued whimsically. "Dr Night is at last, a prisoner."

24

A FAINT SMILE lingered about the corners of Dr. Night's lips. He betrayed no uneasiness. his eyes wandering from Roy's triumphant air to the switch on which his hand still rested.

Halliday had snatched up the revolver and held it lying on his lap. A faint gleam of hope was dawning in his eyes. Would the reporter save the secret of his mystery 'plane? Almost he believed so.

Awakening from the brain-sleep in which the Asian had held her. Ruth had run to her father's side, and knelt by the wheeled chair. Her eyes were turned, wonderingly. on Roy.

"A stalemate." Dr. Night spoke evenly. "You have electrified the defences of this laboratory, and I cannot get out. Has Mr. Iston forgotten that he also holds prisoner Mr. and Miss Halliday—and himself?"

Roy laughed. "I am open to discuss terms," he said.

"And they are?"

"The return of the aeroplane you stole and your solemn pledge for yourself and your gang that you will not molest Mr. Halliday and his family further."

"And for Roy Iston?"

"Nothing." The reporter threw back his head proudly. "I am not afraid of you, Dr. Night."

"No, you are not afraid of me." The Asian spoke gently, almost sadly. "Twice before have I seen men who feared neither me nor the powers I control. But--" He paused and bowed his head .a moment in thought. "But they had not your courage. Hold up your hand, Roy Iston!".

Instinctively Roy obeyed, holding up his left hand above his head, the palm facing the Asian.

For a long moment. Dr. Night stared at the raised palm. Roy felt a, strange tingling in the centre of his palm. It crept up his fingers until his hand felt as if it was on fire.

A low cry escaped Ruth. She was staring at Roy's hand in horrified amazement.

From the tip of each finger glowed a strong red light, dancing and quivering in the still air of the room. As Roy glanced up at his hand the light changed to yellow, and quickly through shades of green to a beautiful limpid blue.

The young man laughed, lowering his hand to more closely examine the strange light that poured from his fingertips. He passed his right hand across his left and felt no beat. His left hand felt deliciously cool and clean.

"Some conjuring trick. Dr. Night?" he asked laughingly. "Is this a time for parlour magic?"

"Mock not." The Asian's words held a deep note. "Pray to the gods that never shall the blue leave you."

"The personal aura?" Roy lifted his hand and examined the light-still more closely.

"Extend your hand— anywhere, at anything."

Almost without thinking Roy extended his left hand towards the table on which stood the little model of the Whispering Death. The model rocked and quivered.

"Will it." There was an intense eagerness in the man's voice.

Automatically Roy willed the little machine to rise into the air. To his utter astonishment the machine rose, wheeling and diving in the direction the newspaper man's hand pointed, When he lowered his hand the miniature aeroplane came to rest again on the table.

"The gods will it." Dr. Night bowed his head. "Roy Iston, we shall meet again. Pray they who rule that when that day dawns the blue light is still with you."

The light died slowly from Roy's fingers, leaving permeating his whole being a sense of contentment and comfort.

For a moment there was silence. The Asian stood before the electrified door. Through the room swept an air of impending happening.

A strange grey mist emanated from the Asian. It spread, enveloping him as in a cloak. Roy gasped. He could no longer see the door. Even Dr. Night was fading from his sight.

For more than a minute the grey mist enveloped the door and man. Roy backed to the switchboard, firmly holding in place the lever which controlled the door. The mist slowly dispersed, and where the mystery man had stood there was nothing.

Roy threw down the switch and darted to the door. It was fast shut and safe, save that the electric current did not cover it.  Roy knew that he had but to force the lever back into place and the door would be finally safeguarded But, where was Dr. Night? Roy turned and looked at the inventor and Ruth. They were staring at the fastened door, disbelief in their eyes.

Had Dr. Night passed) through the closed door ? There was no other explanation― yet that was impossible.

"Not impossible." Halliday answered the newspaper man's unspoken thoughts. "There is such a thing as the fourth dimension, though we, of the white races, hardly know the name of it yet."

"Then he did disappear through the door?" Roy spoke incredulously.

"I saw the mist gather, and Dr. Night became part of the mist." Ruth spoke slowly.

"He left the formula." Halliday motioned to the letter which lay on the- table beside him.

Roy stretched out his hand to pick up the envelope, but it slipped from under his fingers. Again he attempted to grasp it, but unavailingly.

The envelope slid along the table to the edge and .fell to the ground. The newspaper man stooped to pick it up. In his hand it commenced, to twist and twirl. Suddenly it escaped his grasp and glided through the air to the door, on which it hung.

Again Roy sprang towards it. but drew back as the cold, grey mist gathered around it. As he watched the envelope grew faint in outline and gradually dissolved into the mist.

"Again the fourth dimension." Halliday laughed, almost bitterly. "Now Dr. Night has the formula."

Roy went, to the switchboard and released the door. As it swung open he noticed that a man was standing under the trees on the right of the lawn, watching the laboratory door. Awaiting a moment when the moon was dimmed by a passing cloud Roy slipped into the open. Keeping in the shadows he came up behind the watcher.

"What's the trouble, Frost?"

"Why? You?" The detective appeared astonished. "Where did you come from?"

"The laboratory."

"But... the door hasn't opened; I'll swear to that!"

"Moon-dreams!" Roy laughed lightly "I walked out of the laboratory, through the door, but a couple of minutes ago."

"Seen anything of Dr. Night?" asked the Inspector, eagerly.

"He was with us in the laboratory." Roy spoke with careful carelessness. "He came out a few minutes before I did."

"But I've been watching that door," protested Frost. "I've never had my eyes off it."

In a few words Roy described the scene in the laboratory. Frost listened in silence, his face expressing disbelief. Gradually a conviction grew that Roy was recounting something that had actually happened. When the newspaperman concluded there was a long silence.

"So Miss Halliday is back home again," the detective said at length. "Where has she been?"

"She does not know." Then, seeing disbelief in Frost's eyes, he continued: "Man, if you had seen her come here you would not doubt. She was free, absolutely free and alone, yet she came obedient to that fiend's word. She knows nothing. From the moment he took her from this house neither time nor place has had any meaning to her."

They had strolled to the laboratory door. Ruth was standing by her father, talking earnestly. When the two men entered she looked up at the reporter with a bright smile.

"Mr. Halliday turns night into day, but you should not." Roy took Ruth's hand gaily. "In a couple of hours a new day will dawn and then..." he paused. "Before then Frost and I have to get back to the city."

"But you will stay here, Roy." For the first time the girl used his given name. The intimacy sent a little thrill through him. "I... I don't think I shall rest unless you are near."

"Your room is ready for you, my boy." Halliday added quickly. "I too, I think, will rest easier if you are near to protect my dear ones."

"I'm going to support that." Frost interjected. "There's no reason why either of us should leave the place to-night."

"I'll make up a bed for you, Inspector." The young girl spoke quickly.

"Which would be unoccupied, young lady." The detective laughed. "A rug and one of the cane lounge-chairs on the veranda will fit me. I'm going to watch—not sleep."

The detective had his way. Laughingly driving, Halliday and his daughter before him, Roy made, for the house. In the hall he held Ruth's hands for some moments, While saying "good-night." Suddenly she took his left hand in hers, examining his fingers, curiously.

"The blue light has disappeared."

She spoke in little above a whisper.

"Strange, wasn't it." Roy was willing to talk on any subject to prolong the intimacy of the moment. "What did it mean?"

"The 'blue' light did not burn—the 'red' did!" For a brief moment the girl looked up at the man she now knew to be her lover, then turned and disappeared into her mother's bedroom.

Roy found the Inspector curled up in a deck-chair on the back veranda, a thick rug wound round him. The journalist hesitated. He did not feel like being alone. With a muttered word he went to his room and pulled a blanket from the bed. Lying in a chair close to the detective, with his pipe in full blast, he felt more comfortable.

"What's the next move, Roy?" asked the detective after a long pause.

"Hardy." The reporter spoke briefly.

"Bob Hardy?" Frost looked inquisitive.

" 'Um. He'll be out here at dawn." Roy laughed slightly. "You see, Frost, when I knew Dr. Night was about and that there didn't seem to be a hope for us to get away, I got Halliday to conceal the formula of the gravity plates in the laboratory; then 'phoned him a clue to the hiding place. He'll be out here at dawn, I'll bet."

"Why not before?" Frost was astonished.

"He knows Dr. Night." Roy paused. "Hardy's no fool, old man. He knew when he got my message that he had been elected our last hope. He had to find that formula and take it to Sir Max."

The Inspector nodded.

"Just think what the position would have been if he had come out here, at once, to find the formula. He would have guessed that Halliday and I, once Halliday had surrendered the formula to Dr. Night, would plan to get it in Sir Max's hands. If that proved impossible then Dr. Night would have the formula, Halliday and myself, and..." For a long moment he paused, "and with the only fleet of gravity 'planes in the world needn't confine his activities entirely to Central Asia."

Frost whistled.

"You're waiting for Hardy, then?"

"That— and other things." Roy nodded gravely. "Frost, do you know, I think I have a clue to Dr. Night's headquarters."

Before the detective could answer a low, sinister whispering grew on the air. The two men looked at each other in fear and amazement. The sound grew louder until it filled space, vibrant and unutterably evil. Frost shivered. Not by any means an imaginative man, the mysterious whispering filled' his mind with thoughts of violence and death.

"Heavens!" Roy exclaimed. "The Whispering Death!"

Suddenly he sprang to his feet and seized the detective, pulling him into the passage and flinging the door shut.

The sinister whispering grew louder, poised, it sounded immediately above the house. For a long moment it lingered, then slowly died into the distance.

Then the house rocked beneath them to the violence of a terrific explosion. The detective wrenched his arm from Roy's grasp and flung open the door. Where the laboratory had stood was now a huddle of broken masonry and burning timber.

"Lor'!" Roy muttered. "Dr. Night went to a lot of trouble to destroy a cup— a three-inch crucible."

25

IT WAS some time before Frost and Roy could calm the household and send them back to bed. Doris Hardy absolutely refused to return, and elected to sit up with the two men and await her husband.

For most of the time they sat in silence, each engrossed with their own thoughts. Roy now knew that the danger was very real. Dr. Night would not have destroyed the laboratory unless he was very certain that neither Halliday nor he could escape him.

The Asian now knew that the inventor had confided the secret formula to Roy. He knew, or had guessed, that somewhere in the laboratory was hidden a copy of the formula. He had taken immediate steps to destroy it.

Now he would strike, with all the evil powers he commanded, to capture them. That accomplished, he would have complete and sole control of the new power. And, with that power in his hands, to what lengths could he not go? The dream Of the re-creation of his forefather's empire would crystallise into a dream of world dominion.

In a low, sing-song voice he commenced to recite the secret formula. Doris and Frost looked up, inquiringly. Roy did not explain immediately.

"Listen! Learn this." Again he went over the formula, line by line, setting the words to a simple catchy tune. Doris joined in almost at once, to be joined a little later by Frost's deep bass. For more than a quarter of an hour Roy led them in continued repetition.

"You've got it now." he said. He then repeated his account of the scene' in the laboratory. "Dr. Night blew up the place to preserve the secret of the formula to himself. He knows I know it, therefore he, will strain every nerve to get me in his power."

Roy paused for a moment.

"But I'm staking on the fact that he . believes that Halliday will not entrust the secret to. anyone else. I don't think he would, myself." Roy smiled. "That's why I'm teaching you two the formula. Doris, directly you get in touch with your husband, teach it to him. Let him take it to Sir Max, and tell them to push on with those gravity 'planes with all speed. Understand?"

"Can't understand why Dr. Night didn't blow up the laboratory when you and Halliday were in it?" Frost questioned. "He could have included me in the holocaust."

"There's a reason," Roy answered slowly. "Dr. Night is not a killer."

'Not a killer?" Frost was amazed. "Why, I hold a warrant for his arrest for murder."

"I should have said a shedder of blood," Roy amended. "Have you noticed, Frost, that in all cases where death has occurred through Dr. Night no blood has been shed. It's— it's— I believe it's against his religion."

"Damned funny religion, to differentiate between kinds of killings." The detective paused a moment. "What's the next step, Roy?"

"Wait for Bob Hardy." Roy looked out on the lightening sky. "He should be here any minute now."

Ten minutes later a man walked around the corner of the house on to the lawn and stopped suddenly at sight of the wrecked laboratory. Doris gave a little cry and ran down to him.

"Bob!"

A minute and the man and girl mounted to the veranda. Before Roy would answer questions he insisted on Hardy learning the secret formula.

"That's a relief," he said, when Hardy was letter perfect. "Get that to Sir Max and we're all safe. By the way, Bob, how's the Ashfield factory protected? Can't understand why Dr. Night hasn't had a shot at it"

"Because up to yesterday only Halliday knew the secret of the gravity plates."

Hardy laughed quietly. "Two days ago Halliday sent down a complete set of plates. Now one of the 'planes hovers over the factory night and day— a machine fully armed. It would make mincemeat of the 'plane Dr. Night stole."

"Good enough, from the air," Roy commented. "What of the land defences?"

"Aviators and their crews, mostly. Sir Max has had a body of men, many of whom saw service in the Great War, organised for the past. week. They're to take shifts in the 'plane overhead and put in other time as ground guards."

"And the 'planes?"

"Three of them completed and awaiting the gravity plates. Three more will be ready in a couple of days. They're easy to build," continued the newspaper man. "There are no engines and gadgets of that sort to worry about. Easy to fly, too. Why, I went up in the guard 'plane yesterday, and although I don't know a Joystick from a walking-stick flew, the machine for over an hour."

"Wonder what Dr. Night's doing?" mused Frost.

'Building a fleet of 'planes." Roy answered quickly.

"Why has he let Ashfield alone?" continued the detective. "I don't quite cotton to Hardy's explanation."

"Dr. Night let them build the ships in peace," interposed Doris, "because he knew that Mr. Halliday alone made the gravity plates. He thought he would be able to steal the aeroplanes when they were ready, awaiting the gravity plates."

"Something like that," acknowledged her husband. "Yet he slipped up badly in one instance— over Whispered Death the Second. Wonder how he made that mistake?"

No one answered. At length Frost inquired:

"What's the next move? No good me attempting to advise. In this game I'm trailing along in the rear."

"I'm going to Port Hacking," Roy announced suddenly.

The group on the veranda looked at him inquiringly.

"Dr. Night's there— or at least a clue to him is there," the young man explained. "Remember what you told me yesterday?" he added, turning to Hardy.

The chief sub-editor nodded.

"You won't find him there," he said. "He's attending to Anton Fairman to-day, in the city."

Roy uttered a little exclamation. He went into the house to his room, returning with a bundle of bank-notes.

"Dr. Night brought these to Halliday last night," he explained. "Part payment of the half-million he promised for the 'plane. Queer cuss, isn't he? Steals a thing and then goes to a lot of trouble to persuade a crowd of uninterested people to pay for it. Something like shaking hands with oneself or making a noise while eating, to show politeness."

"What am I to do with them?" The detective expressed surprise. "Divide them between Wales, Wilson, and Britton Chambers?"

"Put them to account in the Police Relief Fund," advised Roy, with a grin.

"They belong to the three men." Doris spoke softly. "The money should be returned to them."

"They deserve to lose it," said Hardy. "'They didn't help one iota to guard themselves against the blackmailer."

Frost nodded thoughtfully.

"I'll take this to the Commissioner." he said. "Tell him it's loot recovered from Dr. Night, but not where it originally came from. The three financiers will have to prove it belongs to them, and, although they may eventually do so. Sir Henry won't make it any too easy for them."

The men nodded agreement. A stir within the house showed that the night had passed. Doris left the men to join Mrs. Halliday and Ruth to help to prepare breakfast.

Immediately after the meal the party broke up. Frost. Hardy, and Roy went to the city, first placing Halliday in Doris's car. It had been decided, during the meal, that now the laboratory was destroyed no need existed for the Hallidays to stay at Vaucluse for the present. Doris immediately claimed them as her guests. From the Potts Point house Hardy could frequently take Halliday to Ashfield to supervise the final preparations of the 'planes.

In the city the three men parted at the "Mirror" offices. Frost went to Police Headquarters, leaving the two journalists standing beside Hardy's motor car.

"Want the car, Roy?" The reporter nodded.

Send me down one of the youngsters who can drive. He can take me out to Port Hacking and leave me there."

"You think you can find Dr. Night there?"

"Certain."

"And, then?"

"I'm going to find out what happened to Hanson and his workshops. Say, Bob..."

"Yes."

"Rush another machine into the air. When it's ready send it out to me."

"To Port Hacking? Dr. Night will see it. They're monsters, y'know."

"All the better. It'll give him a shock." Hardy laughed, suddenly.

"Good-o! Take care of yourself, son. There's a little lady at my home who will require a pile of questions answered, if you' don't show up soon. For my grey hairs' sake, spare me."

He grinned broadly at the sight of the rich colour that flooded Roy's face and disappeared through the swing doors. A few minutes later a youth came out of the building.

"Mr. Hardy said you wanted me, Roy?"

"Can you drive that car, Pat?"

The youth's eyes glistened as he nodded.

"Rather! She's a beaut."

"Then hop in. You're elected chauffeur. Port Hacking, please, and see how many summonses you can collect on the way."

Pat White was a good, but somewhat reckless, driver. He had a fine car under his hands and used it finely. At a word from Roy he came to a halt some distance from the town. The newspaperman alighted and went into a cottage to inquire directions.

From the information he received Frederick Hanson occupied a large, old-fashioned house, standing in large grounds, on the opposite side of the town. Roy returned to the car and directed Pat. A few moments and they were within sight of the house.

Roy looked at the place curiously. Of two stories and built of old grey sandstone in the early days of the settlement. A couple of hundred yards from the house stood a large low shed. He guessed them to be workshops.

Had Dr. Night occupied this place to build his fleet of gravity 'planes? [The place would be ideal for the purpose. But if Dr. Night had taken possession of the house and grounds what then had happened to Hanson and his family' Were they prisoners of the Asian?

Instructing Pat White to keep out of sight, up a nearby lane, and to have the machine in readiness for a quick getaway, Roy cautiously approached the workshops.

There seemed to be a number of men about, very .busy over something. Roy drew nearer, taking advantage of every piece of cover.

The men were Chinese! Roy stared in amazement. For a long time he watched, trying to estimate the number of men about the place. He thought fifty.

A white man came from the big house down to the workshops. Roy recognised him. Dr. Night had called him Humberston in the offices in Bramston Buildings.

Then his and Hardy's hunch had been right. Dr. Night had taken possession of Hanson's house. What had the arch criminal done with the aviator and his family?

Humberston shouted a command and the great doors of one of the sheds rolled back. A group of men entered the building. Presently they rolled out into the open a huge aeroplane.

26

ROY GAVE a low whistle. He watched the men drag the huge machine into the open. Humberston climbed into the 'plane and appeared to be examining it. He called to one of the Chinese, who joined him in the cockpit.

Had Dr. Night another aeroplane ready to take the air? That was impossible! Had he dismantled the gravity plates from the small machine and fitted them into this monster? But that would be impossible in the time. The smaller machine had flown over Vaucluse that morning and dropped the bomb on the laboratory! Even with his large army of workers he had not had time for that task . Then, there was the doubt if the plates from the smaller machine would lift this monster.

For some time the men busied themselves around the interior of the machine. Then Humberston descended to the ground and walked to the house. Roy noticed that he carried a plan in his hand. Now he understood. The man had been examining the connections between the machine and the gravity plates.

He waited for some minutes in the shelter of the bushes, after the Chinese had wheeled the machine again into the shed; then crept to the road. In the lane he found Pat White and sent him into the city with a hastily scrawled note for Hardy.

When the car had departed. Roy experienced a sense of loneliness. The township was hidden from sight in a fold of the ground. There were only two houses in sight, widely spaced from each other. The big house, owned by Frederick Hanson, dominated the countryside.

Where was Frederick Hanson? Bob Hardy had said that the aviator had disappeared. Then the only solution, in view of what he. had just seen, was that Dr. Night had captured him and his estate

The newspaper-man found a sheltered spot and settled himself for a long wait. Hardy would communicate with Frost.

It would take time to organise a police attack on the house. They might not arrive at Port Hacking until late in the evening.

Roy looked at his watch. It was after one o'clock and he had not eaten since the early breakfast at Vaucluse. It would be ridiculous to hang around the house all the afternoon. He would go into the town and get something to eat.

He sauntered down the road, slowly. A loose dirt road, it plainly bore the impressions of Hardy's car tyre. Roy followed them idly. Pat White was a good fellow and would make all haste to the city. Hardy would...

Roy stopped suddenly, staring at a patch of sand lying at the entrance to a lane. Tyre-marks were deeply impressed on the sand. Why had the car turned off the road here? The town was directly ahead, over the next rise.

For some time Roy stood staring down at the patch of sand. Had something happened to the youth—or the car? He bent and examined the tyre-marks more closely. He could see nothing wrong; so far as the marks showed. The car had been deliberately driven into the lane.

Keeping well away from the marks on the road, Roy followed into the lane. He knew enough of tracking to see that the car had stopped just before it reached the corner, and from there had proceeded at a more leisurely pace. What had Pat White meant to do by turning off the main road? Roy looked around him. The youth had not taken a short cut.

He climbed a rise and paused to survey the surrounding country. He was bearing south of Port Hacking and ahead the road bent decidedly eastwards. With a start Roy recognised that eventually it would run behind Hanson's house.

Something in a patch of bush, some fifty yards ahead, caught his attention.

He walked on warily, watching the country on all sides. He came to the little thicket and paused; then entered. In the centre of the bush stood Hardy's motor-car.

What had happened to Pat White? Roy glanced around him nervously. So far as he could see there was no one around. But the bush was thick and might well be filled with Dr. Night's Chinese servants.

Bob Hardy had not received his message! A shiver of apprehension ran through Roy. Had Dr. Night discovered that he had traced him to Port Hacking? Had his spies reported to him Roy's arrival in the neighbourhood? Had he watched and seen Pat drive away in the direction of the city?

Roy turned on his heels and went to the road. There he hesitated. But first he should examine the car. So far as his untrained eyes could discover, there were no signs of struggle in the car. Roy examined the. Interior minutely, then tried, the engine. It turned over perfectly.

Circling the car, he looked for footprints. Although the ground was sandy, he found none. How had Pat left the car? He returned to the lane and walked back to the main road where the car had stopped. Again he looked for footprints

He could not find any. Again he searched the road. He was certain someone had stopped Pat at this spot and under some pretext had entered the car. Then the youth had been overpowered or forced to turn the car up the lane to the thicket

A strange streak on the ground caught his attention. He examined it more closely; puzzling over it for some time; then understood. There had been footprints in the sand and they had been smoothed out. Only in one spot had indications of the obliterator's work been left.

The newspaper-man turned resolutely towards the town. He would have to get to the telephone and ring up Hardy. Dr. Night knew that he had discovered his hiding-place, and was prepared

But did the Asian know that Hardy knew that Frederick Hanson was missing? He might assume that he, Roy, had come down to Port Hacking without taking anyone into his confidence. The attack on Pat White, the hiding of the motor-car in the thicket, pointed in that direction

He came to the long rise that hid the town from his sight. The surface was loose and he slackened pace slightly. Just before he reached the crest he stopped to regain breath.

A sense of unreality—of impending trouble came to him. Why had he stopped? To regain breath? That was nonsense. He was in perfect health. Almost daily he walked far steeper hills without discomfort.

A widespread tree grew close to the edge of the road. Almost without: conscious volition, Roy turned to it and threw himself down in the shade. A moment and he was fast asleep.

He awoke with a start. Heavy and drowsy, for he had slept soundly, he found the road and plodded on. He seemed to be walking for hours, with no result. At a turn of the road he looked up, puzzled.

Before him loomed the large greyness of Hanson's house. How had he come there? He had set out to walk to Port Hacking. He had rested— slept— on the way. Then he had retraced his steps!

He shrugged, laughing idly. He must have slept very soundly to have made a mistake in the direction he was travelling. He looked at the sun. It hung low in the western sky. A glance at his watch showed the time to be after six o'clock.

It was the hour of sunset and he had left the Mirror's offices early in the morning. He had come to find Dr. Night —and he had found him. But Dr. Night knew of his presence in the neighbourhood.

Hardy would be waiting at the Mirror's offices for word from him. He would wonder why Pat White had not returned with the car. Pat was now a prisoner in the Asian's house

He would have to get word to Hardy. He turned again in the direction of the town. Within a hundred yards the strange weariness again overcame him. Seeking a soft spot in the bush he threw himself down and immediately fell asleep.

The sun was high in the eastern sky when he awoke. He sat up, stiff and tired, straining himself, languidly. Through the bushes he could see the chimneys of Hanson's house. He stared at the windows of the top story idly. No smoke came from the chimneys: no signs of life showed at the windows.

Yet in that house, were crowded Dr. Night's Chinese servants. Perhaps there, also, were Pat White, Frederick Hanson and his family. They were prisoners of the Asian.

Roy stood up and shook himself. Close at hand a small creek wandered through the bush. He went to it and, after drinking long, bathed hands and face.

Refreshed, he took stock of his surroundings. The previous evening he had tried to get to Port Hacking, and had failed. Why?

He could answer his own question in two words— Dr. Night. He had now no doubt. He had not been tired when he had set out to walk to the. town. The weariness had grown on him after he had found the car— when he had tried to get on to the town. He was a prisoner— a prisoner in open country; yet just as safely held as if he were confined between four walls.

Roy sat down on a bank by the wayside and laughed. A prisoner, was he? Well, gaolers were supposed to feed their prisoners, and he was hungry—very hungry.

Dr Night had watched him from the bush the previous day. Well, he should not have that trouble in the future. Shaking some of the creases out of his clothes, Roy climbed the wire fence bounding the Hanson estate, and walked towards the workshops where a number of Chinese appeared to be very busy.

27

THE Chinese mechanics, gathered about a huge aeroplane in the space before the workshops, turned and gazed with mild surprise as Roy walked towards them. His heart was beating high, though he strolled on with an air of bored nonchalance. At the outskirts of the small crowd around the aeroplane he paused and examined the machine curiously.

As he had expected, only the frame of the machine had been completed. He could not see the interior of the cabin, for it was enclosed, but he was close enough to the wing to note that the spaces to contain the gravity plates were empty; there the wires swung loose.

A man came from the house followed by a couple of Chinese, heavily laden. At sight of Roy he stepped forward quickly. The journalist recognised Humberston

"What the..." Suddenly he grinned. "Oh, it's you, is it? Thought you'd gone to town to telephone your pals?"

"Your— or should I say, Dr. Night's— invitation to remain was... irresistible," drawled Roy. "Seem to be busy, don't you? '

"We'll be busier before long." The man spoke darkly. He turned to the laden Chinese and cursed them roundly. "Get up there with those plates. Oh, blast!" He glared around until he spotted a headman. "Say; you! What are you doing there? Tell these chaps what I said in their infernal lingo."

"Dr. Night likes that, doesn't he?" Roy remarked.

"What?"

"Cursing his countrymen."

"His countrymen?" Humberston stared, then laughed. "Why, they're scum to him. He... Oh, damn you, making me laugh like that. You just say that to him and see what you'll get."

Roy nodded. Humberston but confirmed Hardy's theory that Dr. Night was a Central Asian. Allied to the Chinese he might be in blood and tradition, but he was of the older blood of Asia— descendant from the great tribes from the vast plains from whence, tradition tells, mankind sprung.

Humberston had turned to the workmen and was. shouting rapid directions, interpreted by the headmen who scurried, about him like frightened rabbits. The newspaper man wondered why he was allowed to retain his freedom. Presently he noticed that a couple of hefty Chinese, armed with short, knobby sticks, were never far from him. Then hunger gnawed. He turned and walked to where the crook stood.

"When's breakfast, Humberston?"

The man stared, and grinned.

"Hungry? Well, a night in the bush ain't satisfying. Breakfast's over some while. Wait a mo' and we'll go up to the house and see what we can find. 1 can do with a bit myself."

Presently, assured that the work was proceeding correctly, the crook beckoned to Roy, and, followed by the two armed Chinese, led towards the house. A few steps and he waited for Roy to catch up to him.

"You seem happy enough," he growled, glancing sideways at the journalist.

"Why not?" Roy laughed.

"Guess you recognise you're beaten?"

"Dr Night's too strong for me." The journalist evaded the question.

"He cooked you nicely last night." The crook laughed "Lor', I laughed. And all in his room. He knew where you were, what you were doing, and what you thought. Played with you like he'd play with a kitten."

Roy had to laugh with the crook. The picture of Dr. Night, seated in his study, bewildering and baffling him while he wandered through the bush was painful, yet amusing.

"What of that young fellow I brought down here?" he asked suddenly. "He knows nothing."

"He's comfortable."

Humberston laughed.  "A nice lodging and three meals a day ain't too bad these days."

"And the car? It does not belong to me, y'know?"

The crook stopped suddenly and swung round on the reporter, scowling.

"What's the kid for, son? You know where the car is. I sat and listened to your thoughts while you wandered round it— looking for footprints, eh?" The wave of anger passed. "Don't try those games with the doctor. He's apt to get cross and... and then I'd rather face a mad dog. Biting's a little thing to what he'd do. Why..."

The man's voice trailed off to nothing.

He pushed open a door roughly and ushered the journalist into a large kitchen.

Roy looked about him. The room was empty except for a Chinaman busy at the stove. Humberston seated himself at the big table in the centre of the room, motioning the newspaper man to seat himself at his side.

"Chow— you," he bellowed at the Asiatic. "Wake up, there! Two of us, you yellow son of a dog!"

Abruptly he turned to Roy.

"Ain't it awful?" He barely changed his tone. "Only five people in over eighty speak a decent lingo and understand it. You can swear till you're black in the face and these darned Chinks only smile! What's a man to do?"

"Sure they don't understand?" Roy humoured the man.

"Sure? Yes. Whad'ud matter if they didn't. A Chow's made to be cursed and kicked, ain't he? Why, he's scarcely human. Big yellow apes!"

"They wear knives," Roy warned. "...and use them"

Humberston grunted and helped himself to the food the Chinaman placed on the table. He ate heartily, as if he had not fed previously that day. Roy finished some time before the crook and sat back in his chair, observant.

"Finished?" Humberston pushed his plate from him. "What are you going to do now?"

"Am I a free agent?"

"You can't get away."

"What of Dr Night?"

"Want to see him?" The crook laughed. "Well, he don't want to see you—or he'd have told me."

"Does he know I'm here?"

"Guess you recognise you're beaten. Sure. Knew the moment you walked out of the bush."

Roy thought a moment. If Dr. Night knew his movements so thoroughly and could read his thoughts, as he had done the previous night, what chance had he to succeed? He rose from his chair and went to the door by which they had entered.

"If I'm free to choose, we'll go outside," he laughed. "The open air for me every time."

Humberston followed him out of the house.

"You're a good plucked 'un," he said, half to himself. "And you're going to see something, m'boy."

"What do you mean?"

The crook did not answer. They strolled down to where the 'plane lay, the busy Chinese about it.

"What do you think of her?" Humberston laid his hand, proudly, on the undercarriage.

"Good!" Roy could not conceal his admiration for the graceful machine. "Almost ready to take the air isn't she?"

"Perhaps to-night." The man answered freely.

"Got many more of them?"

"Fishing for information?" Humberston laughed. "Well, why shouldn't you know? There's five more like this."

"All ready?"

"Except for the gravity plates." "When will they be ready?"

"As soon as the plates are made." The crook grinned. "That's why Dr. Night doesn't want you, yet. He's making them.'"

"Himself!"

"With a couple of his Chink friends. Highly-educated ones. Calls 'em 'doctor' an' all that."

Dr. Night had six giant 'planes! Roy wished he had been more inquisitive when he had been talking to Hardy. How many 'planes was Sir Max building?

If Humberston was not lying, and Roy had no reason to believe he was, then Dr. Night would have a fleet in the air within a few hours— a despotic force, capable of imposing his will on all Australasia.

"What's the first move?" he asked quietly.

"Like to know, wouldn't you?" Humberston grinned. "I don't mind telling you one thing. Those works at Ashfield will have to close down now. You're here and Halliday's lost his memory. That leaves the secret with Dr. Night. Directly we're ready we go to Ashfield and blow the 'plane they have out of the skies. That's enough for you to know"

Halliday ill! sudden depression settled on Roy. That would hamper the work undertaken by Sir Max and Hardy.

But would it? Had he not forestalled that move by Dr. Night. Frost, Doris, and Hardy knew the secret formula.

He would have to put that thought from him. He would have to forget it. He must school himself that only Halliday and himself knew the secret of the Whispering Death. Only by doing that could he save his friends from destruction.

Turning from the 'plane he sauntered leisurely towards the workshops. Humberston waited to give some direction to the headmen and then followed him.

Roy was amazed at the extent of the shops. He saws at once that recently they had been added to extensively.

Scattered about them were the parts of the other five 'planes. In one corner the second giant 'plane was being assembled.

He looked around for the small 'plane Dr. Night had stolen from Halliday. It was not in the workshops. He did not ask the crook. Sooner or later, if he continued to retain his freedom, he would discover it

Almost afraid to think, he was building up a plan of escape, and the model 'plane bore a large part in his scheme. He idled around the place until he came to an office. Entering it he threw himself in a chair, as if weary.

"Tired?" the crook grinned. "Mother Earth ain't no feather-bed, is she?"

Roy laughed as if in sympathy.

"I could do with a drink." he said casually.

"Now you're talking." Humberston turned to a cupboard and pulled open the door. He threw it shut, with a muttered exclamation, and turned to the yard

"Lou!" he yelled. "Lou, you perishing dodderer. Where are you? I'll break your blithering neck When I get you. Cupboard empty, d'yer hear? Get some beer, can't you?"

No one appeared in answer to the crook's shout. Roy waited, hope rising in his heart.

Humberston dashed to the door, shouting for the laggard Chinaman.

Immediately Roy turned to the desk— and the telephone on it. He rang the exchange—for the machine was not automatic.

In an agony of impatience he waited. Would he be able to get a message through to the Mirror before the crook returned? Again he rang.

"Number, please?"

"Listen." Roy was straining his ears for the returning steps of the crook. "Listen! I'm a prisoner. Get this to the Mirror newspaper. Hardy right location. Act immediately. Danger."

28

BOB HARDY had expected Pat White to report back to the Mirror offices on the evening of the day he drove Roy to Port Hacking. When the cadet journalist did not appear the chief-sub. was more annoyed than uneasy. He knew that Roy was on a dangerous mission. He should not have exposed the younger, inexperienced youth to peril.

Ruth was worried at Roy's complete disappearance. Doris had insisted on the Hallidays removing to her home at Pott's Point until the danger from Dr. Night had passed. Her experience of the Asian had taught her how dangerous he could be. The inventor was in peril. Until Dr. Night left the country, there was the menace that he would seek, tor kill all who knew the secret of the gravity plates.

Doris and Ruth had become great friends. The elder girl had penetrated her companion's secret. Together they would talk of their men in delightful inconsequence; Ruth gradually allowing herself to assume a sense of proprietorship over Roy.

Hardy and his wife consulted for a long time on the evening of the day Roy left for Port Hacking. The absence of news worried them greatly. The result of their discussion was that Hardy telephoned Sir Max, explaining the grounds for his uneasiness.

"What do you suggest has happened?" inquired the newspaper-proprietor.

"I think Roy and Pat have been captured," the chief sub-editor answered promptly. "Dr. Night has an uncanny facility for guessing what his opponents are doing."

"And if they have been captured?"

"Then they must be rescued." Hardy spoke emphatically. "Remember, Sir Max, Dr. Night holds the formula for making the gravity plates. He has his machines partly built, for he has had possession of the original Whispering Death for some time. His neglect to go after the formula immediately showed that he was working to a definite point. He wanted to have his 'planes ready to receive the gravity plates before he went after the formula."

"So." There was a long pause before Sir Max resumed. "You infer, Hardy, that Dr. Night will have his machines in the air shortly."

"That's right, Sir Max. If he has and he gets to know of our activities at Ashfield. then we're in great danger there. Again, if he gets his fleet in the air before we are ready, then 'good-bye' to Roy and Pat."

"What do you mean? Murder?"

"Either that or he will carry them away on his scheme of conquest— into the interior of Asia."

Again fell the silence. At length the millioniare resumed:

"How are we going on at Ashfleld?"

"One machine is in the air, permanently, on guard. One more will be ready late today. Four others are awaiting the gravity plates. Eight machines are all but completed, as regards structure. Sixteen machines are in various stages of construction."

"How do you think Dr. Night stands regarding construction?"

"Hard to tell, Sir Max. He got hold of the formula but a very few hours before Halliday gave it to me. His position depends on how far he advanced with the construction of the 'planes before he obtained the formula. Remember, he must have been building some time before we received our plans."

For the third time there was silence. "Can you get Lexton on the 'phone, Hardy— Lexton, the Ashfleld manager?"

"I think so."

"Get him. Tell him that work on the first dozen 'planes must go on night and day with all possible hands he can get employed, until they are ready. That must be to-morrow evening at the latest."

"And Roy and Pat?"

"You have two 'planes ready? Yes. Get over Port Hacking to-morrow with those 'planes— for observation. Don't stir up a row and if that scoundrel has 'planes in the air, avoid a fight at all costs. Your job is to locate the two young men, if possible. Of course, keep your eyes open and try and get a line on what Dr. Night is up to. Goodnight."

Hardy was satisfied. He telephoned the manager of the Ashfield works, then went up to Doris' boudoir to tell her of his conversation with Sir Max. Ruth was with Doris, and, somewhat incautiously, he spoke rather freely before her. He noticed the girl fell silent and lost her colour.

THE NEXT morning Hardy left home early, for the Mirror offices, determined, later in the day, to go to Ashfield. and do all in his power to expedite the work on the 'planes. Just before midday he was surprised by Doris and Ruth walking into the reporters' room.

"Ruth's worried," Doris whispered when she found a chance to have a word with her husband privately.

"Roy?" Hardy questioned.

"Of course. Didn't you guess that before? She's certain that Dr. Night has captured him. She wants to go out to Port Hacking and try and find some traces of him."

"But— that's madness:" the chief-sub. entered in surprise "Why, if Dr. Night's there―"

"Dr. Night is there." The girl was positive. "Roy would not have stayed away unless he had found some clue..."

"If Dr. Night is out there, then he has found Roy," Hardy grimaced. "For Ruth to go out there is to give that scoundrel a lever to force her father to place himself in his hands."

Doris nodded. She knew the mastercriminal would take every advantage given him.

The telephone bell rang sharply. Something in the tone of the bell brought all of them to attention. Hardy lifted the receiver and spoke the name of the newspaper. For a moment he listened his face blanching.

"Roy! Is that you, Roy!" He spoke in. a strained whisper "Danger? In what way? Say, Roy." He jangled the hook angrily "Here, Exchange, you've cut me off! What number called me? Connect again, please. Important!"

"Roy?" Ruth had sped to the desk on the mention of the word. "Bob, was that Roy? Tell me. I must... I must know!"

"Danger!"

"What did he say?" Doris asked.

"He said―" Hardy spoke slowly. "He said: 'I'm a prisoner. Get this to Mirror newspaper, Hardy right as to location. Act immediately. Danger!'"

"Ruth, dear! Don't worry!" Dons spoke cheerfully, although her face was white and the hand she lifted to her lips trembled.

"Worry?' The girl laughed bitterly. "And we let him go alone to... to..."

"Not alone, dear. Pat White was with him. They'll manage somehow "

"But he said there was danger."

"To us. Not to himself. I believe. But, listen..."

Robert Hardy was talking into the telephone. The two girls listened intently.

"...you say the second 'plane is ready for flight. What of the third? Oh. you'll be able to have four machines in the air late this afternoon. Good!"

"Late this afternoon?" Ruth spoke sharply. "That is no good! Roy wants help now. Oh, you... you stupid men! Doris, come with me!'"

She turned, running to the door. Hardy made as if to stop her, but Doris stayed him. She picked up her gloves and bag.

"Come, Bob." she spoke tranquilly.

"Where?"

"To Ashfield, of course."

"But..."

"Now, dear. Where's your hat? My car is at the door and Ruth will be in it. waiting."

Hardy followed his wife, dazedly amazed. In Doris's car they found Ruth, impatiently awaiting t.hpm She slid from behind the wheel. '

"You drive. Bob. You drive quicker than I."

"Where?"

"Why. to Ashfield—where you are building the aeroplanes, of course."

"What for?" Then: "Ouch!" as Doris's fingers found soft flesh.

They drove to the great aeroplane works, recently acquired by Sir Max, in silence. When they came within sight of the sheds and flying ground Ruth's eyes sought and found the huge aeroplane overhead.

The great machine hung in the air over the sheds, about a thousand feet from the ground. At first glance it appeared to be no different from the ordinary machine, except that it hung motionless.

As the car drew nearer the works the occupants became aware of a queer whispering noise in the air—a slow, subtle sound that held a sinister, threatening note. It was as if someone was murmuring unintelligible threats over a long stretch of telephone line.

Ruth looked up at the machine, hope shining in her eyes. It was her father's mind-child. His brain had given it birth, and now she was to send it out— to find and rescue the man she loved. Yes, loved! She had no doubts now. although no spoken word had passed between her and Roy. She knew she loved him, just as certainly as she knew he loved her.

Hardy had jumped from the car almost before it stopped and ran into the office. In a few minutes he came out into the open, accompanied by a stout, short, thickset man. with a cheerful, ruddy clean-shaven face.

"Come." Ruth touched Doris and got out of the car.

Almost as her foot reached the ground the 'plane above moved forward slowly and commenced to circle descending towards the ground in a steep spiral. It reached a spot above the flying ground and for a time -hung motionless; then fell directly to the ground—to halt ten feet up and then settle as gently as a bird.

Ruth gasped Now she could see the immense size of the machine. It was built of a strange white metal— a long, streamline cabin with a pilot's superstructure at the nose. The wings were very narrow, but of considerable length, in comparison with the body. On top the wings showed the white metal of the cabin, but underneath were of a pale gold; pale but luminous and rich.

"What do you think of her, girls?" Hardy turned to them, beaming with pride. "Beauty, isn't she? And Mr. Lexton says that they've tried her at five hundred miles an hour. Thinks she can nearly double that and stay in the air indefinitely. Oh, by the way, I forgot. Sorry, Doris. Mr. Lexton, our manager. My wife and Miss Halliday."

"What are you going to do with it?" Ruth pointed to the 'plane. Then, before Hardy could answer, she added: "Is she ready to go?'

"Where?" Hardy spoke.

"She's always ready, Miss Halliday." Lexton answered somewhat pompously. "She could go from here to to China― that is, if you didn't want to eat on the way."

"To China?" Ruth spoke quickly. She turned to her companions. "Come! Oh. come, quickly!"

"Where, dear?" Doris slipped her arm around the girl's waist.

"Where?" Surprise showed in Ruth's glance. "Why, to Port Hacking now... to Roy!"

29

HARDY hesitated, but Doris caught the girl's infection. In a few minutes the preliminaries were settled. The aeroplane was to go to Port Hacking on a journey of discovery— and then return.

Ruth had demurred at the arrangement. She wanted to follow up any clue they might discover regarding Roy's whereabouts. She wanted freedom to follow after him and rescue him from the clutches of Dr. Night. She keenly desired to be near him, to touch him, to know that he was safe.

She mounted into the aeroplane, her hopes rising high. Yet, even with her thoughts engrossed with Roy, she could not but be aware of the terrible engine of destruction her father had evolved. The huge cabin looked as if it could contain an army, and beyond it were other cabins, kitchens, store-chambers, etc.

She sat at one of the windows, looking down at the ground, impatient for the journey to start. Suddenly the earth sank away, yet she felt no movement.

Again the strange, whispering hum sounded. She glanced along the underside of the huge wing coming from over her head and extending far from her. On it were dependent thousands of little plates of light gold colour. They were quivering—moving so fast that it was almost impossible for her eyes to follow them. Now she saw that the sounds came from their movement; yet, here, just beneath them, they sounded no louder than when they were a thousand feet up in' the sky.

She glanced downwards. The aeroplane was ascending rapidly—now over five hundred feet in the air, yet still directly above the flying ground. It gained another two hundred feet altitude, then commenced to move forward.

At first slowly, as if sliding down a long hill. The pace increased and the curve altered, until the machine's nose was pointing up again. Now the aeroplane factory had slid from sight—she could barely see it—far in the rear. The pace increased—a series of long ascents and descents. Ruth understood now. The machine-gained speed by attraction and repulsion from the earth. 1

A few more moments and Hardy touched her arm, pointing forward. Away on the horizon she could see a speck—an aeroplane. The machine in which she sat bounded up In the air until objects on the earth became so small that she could hardly decipher them.

They were rapidly approaching the coast. Again she looked for the 'plane Hardy had pointed out to her. It was so close that she could distinguish details on it. The machine carried no propeller

For a moment Ruth did not understand; then enlightenment came. She was looking at the original Whispering Death, the 'plane Dr. Night had built to her father's specifications— the 'plane the Asian had stolen from him.

"They can't do it!" Hardy laughed "We can go two feet to their one and jump a thousand feet higher into the air than they."

Both 'planes were mounting rapidly. The air grew so cold that the girl drew her wraps tightly around her. She looked out of the window again. Already the strange 'plane was almost beneath them Their 'plane had almost stopped its ascent.

"Checkmate!" Hardy laughed. "Sure, that's Nanson's house." He pointed down to the roof of an old sandstone building almost beneath them. "Why. what's that —in the yard?'"

A crowd of men. looking like minute ants, were clustered around some larger object on the ground. It suddenly became larger and plainer. Ruth looked around. Their pilot had succeeded in getting above Dr. Night's small 'plane, and had increased the power of repulsion, forcing it down towards the earth.

"That's the end of that!" ' Hardy chortled. "Good thing for them we're not armed. If we had been, they would never have reached the ground alive."

Again Ruth looked down. The ant-men surrounding the 'plane on the ground were scattering. The machine rapidly grew larger. She knew that it was ascending in meet them.

A bell close to where Hardy was seated rang. He took down the receiver and listened.

"All right,"' he said at length. "I suppose you must."

Their 'plane jumped quickly forward. Looking out of her window Ruth saw they were leaving the small 'plane rapidly in the rear. The bigger 'plane was now far from the ground and rising with extreme rapidity.

"Where are we going?"' she asked anxiously.

"Back to Ashfield." Hardy spoke shortly. "Hope Lexton has that other 'plane in the air. If not--" He went to the rear cabin.

They were travelling with extreme rapidity. Ruth noticed a mirror facing her, and under it a row of little knobs. Hardly knowing what was doing, she fingered the knobs. A few turns of the screws and a 'plane suddenly appeared on the glass.

It was the 'plane they had witnessed rising from the ground from Dr. Night's workshops. It was pursuing them, yet not gaining on them. Now she understood Hardy's anxiety. They were fleeing before Dr. Night!

But Dr. Night had Roy in his power. They were running away from Roy. She half-rose from her seat, then sank back wearily. A thought came, and she turned to the mirror again.

The rows of knobs under the mirror worked a periscope. A few moments and Ruth mastered the instrument. She swung the mirror right and left. At length another and smaller aeroplane came into the view.

Dr. Night had two aeroplanes in the air, the one he had stolen from the inventor and the newer, larger one. She turned from the mirror. Hardy had returned to his seat and was working a similar mirror to the one beside her.

"All right, old dear!" The chief-sub. laughed as he caught her questioning glance. "We'll do them yet."

"What are we running away for?" she asked half-angrily.

"Not going to chance anything." Hardy grinned. "We're unarmed. .They may be armed or not. If they are, they can blew us out of the air. I was a damned fool to allow you girls to make this journey."

"But— but we are leading them home?" Ruth objected.

"Maybe we are."' The journalist laughed openly. "If they follow all the. way they'll get the shock of their young lives. Lexton will have another 'plane over tho factory, and I hope that will be armed. Watch out, ahead."

Ruth swung her mirror obediently. At once she picked up an aeroplane in the sky. A glance towards the ground and she saw they were approaching the Ashfield factory. A few moments and their pace slackened. They were gliding downwards and above them hung another silver aeroplane. Some distance in the' rear were their pursuers.

The aeroplane touched the ground and Hardy swung open the door.

"Jump, girls. Quick! We can't leave our friend up there alone."

Immediately they alighted the door closed and the machine bounded up from the earth. Doris and Ruth clasped hands, looking up at the 'planes.

The four 'planes were now almost together, manoeuvring for position. In this, the second Ashfield 'plane was materially handicapped; It had to protect its rising friend, yet not allow the enemy to gain any advantage over it.

For some time the four 'planes circled and dodged. Ruth held her breath. She was witnessing air manoeuvres that no airman of her generation had thought possible. The machines were perfect and with complete command of the element in which they floated.

Circling and dipping, rolling and slipping, the four 'planes strove for the mastery. At length one 'plane dodged forward, then upwards, rising at a big angle.

The trick had taken the Ashfield 'planes by surprise. The enemy 'plane had gained great altitude on them. It dashed forward over the 'plane the girls knew, contained Hardy.

Something dropped from the tipper 'plane; something that glittered in the sunlight. A quick roll by the victim evaded the falling bomb. It came to earth in a field a short distance from the factory, shaking the earth and air with a tremendous explosion.

As if the dropping of the bomb had been a signal, the enemy 'planes turned and fled, towards the coast. The Ashfield planes hovered in the air for some minutes, not making any attempt at pursuit; then dropped to the ground. The girl raced forward amid a crowd of merchants. Doris seized Hardy in her arms, as he jumped from the machine.

"Safe, old man?"

"Safe as houses. Narrow squeak, wasn't It. though? Thought they had us."

"What can we do?" Ruth wrung her hands. "They have aeroplanes as big and as fast as ours. They can drop bombs on our machines and..."

"Cheer up, old dear." Hardy laughed. "Perhaps we'll have a surprise for them when we come in contact again. This time we were unarmed. Next time... Ruth, your father's a darned clever man."

30

ALTHOUGH Hardy had laughed, to Ruth and Doris, at the pursuit by Dr. Night's mystery 'planes, he was much disturbed at the incident. The Asian must have his preparations well advanced to dare drop a bomb so near Sydney and in open view of so many people.

What plans had Dr Night made? He had not completed his blackmailing schemes. The twenty financiers had professed not to have heard from him again Hardy did not believe this: nor did he believe Albert Wilson's statement to the reporters that the Asian had failed to keep his word and return the famous painting.

There lay a mystery. Wilson had valued the painting at a fabulous sum. He had paid Dr. Night's demand for ransom for the picture; yet he had not appeared distressed when it had not been returned to him. Britton Chambers had inferred that there was a mystery regarding the painting. Did the Asian know the solution of that mystery?

But above all Hardy was troubled at his inability to take the air with sufficient force to rout out the master criminal from his base at Port Hacking. He had four aeroplanes ready, but what force could Dr. Night oppose to them?

Half an hour after Dr. Night's aeroplanes had retired over the eastern horizon. Sir Max and Adam Halliday had come to the workshops. Sir Max listened to Hardy's account of the adventures, a frown gathering on his brow.

"That's serious. Hardy," he said when the journalist concluded. "Something will have to be done at once. You say we have four aeroplanes ready. What force can Dr. Night oppose to them?"

"We saw only two." Hardy spoke slowly. "Of course, we were alone and the machine they had on guard was the small model. If we had taken greater force..." he hesitated.

"Will four machines be enough to rout out that man?" Sir Max asked abruptly.

"We can try."

"Then.... No, wait. Come with me!" He turned and entered the sheds. In the designers' room he found Halliday, handling a queerly-shaped piece of metal, something of the design of a small torpedo, but with a long length of wire attached to the rear end.

In terse sentences Sir Max explained the position to the inventor. Halliday listened In silence.

"So there is the position," Sir Max concluded. "You know the powers of your Invention better than we do. Can we challenge Dr. Night in the air with the four machines we have ready?"

"Sir Max," Lexton interjected. "We have just completed two more."

"And they are more speedy and powerful than those Dr. Night has," Halliday spoke carefully. "The plans that man has are of the small experimental 'plane he built under my direction. In the plans I gave you, for the larger machines, I have made several important improvements. Then, there is this."

He held up the strangely-shaped torpedo he had held on his lap. They looked at it curiously. Halliday smiled and nodded to Lexton.

The manager went to a metal box on the bench and threw over a switch. Immediately the strange, gruesome, whispering noise of the 'planes filled the room. The torpedo appeared to quiver with life For some seconds it lay inert, yet vividly alive, then rose in the air.

The three men watched Lexton in silence. Before him, on the top of the box, was a row of buttons. His fingers played over them lightly. As he pressed each knob the torpedo swerved, dived or rose in the air.

"Now the airship, Lexton." Halliday's voice held subdued excitement.

A model of an aeroplane, about three feet long, hung from the roof of the shed. As if obedient to the Inventor's voice, the torpedo altered its course and sped under the aeroplane. For a moment it stayed, then darted up.

The torpedo hardly appeared to touch the aeroplane, but the strange, whispering increased in volume. Then the torpedo dropped to within a few feet of the ground. Almost immediately the aeroplane appeared to dissolve into air. A slight shower of dust sank to the floor.

"Heavens!" Sir. Max covered his eyes with his hand "What devil thing is that?"

"The complement of my aeroplane, Sir Max." A fanatical light of triumph shone in Halliday's eyes. "The torpedo works on the same principle as the aeroplanes. Mr. Hardy, do you think you would have to fly before Dr. Night's aeroplanes if you had this with you?"

The journalist shook his head. His lips had paled as he witnessed the disintegration of the aeroplane, yet his eyes shone brightly.

"How many of these torpedoes have you, Mr. Halliday?" he asked, jerkily.

"Two. In three days you can have a score," the inventor laughed triumphantly.

"Three days." Hardy shook his head. "Too long. If we are to act we must start at once. Sir Max, why should we not act? Two of these torpedoes will give us absolute security."

"But..." The millionaire hesitated.

"Dr. Night will not wait." Hardy spoke rapidly. "Directly he has his 'planes in the air he will act."

"What will he do?"

"I have tried to guess." The newspaper-man frowned. "Either he will make direct for his own country or come here and smash up these works. He may hold Sydney to ransom for the balance of the demands, he made on the 'twenty.'".

"And, what do you propose to do?"

"I propose to provision the ships we have for a long voyage. Go to Port Hacking and rout out Dr. Night. I don't expect to find him there, however. After his demonstration to-day, he will move rapidly."

"How?"

"He will go to China." Hardy spoke with sudden inspiration. "Yes, he will not wait now that he knows that we have tracked him down. I know the man. The main thought in his mind is to re-establish the throne of his ancestors. He will go direct to Central Asia."

"You propose to follow him there?"

"What else can we do?" the newspaperman gestured. "We dare not allow him to roam the world in command of that fleet of aeroplanes."

"You propose to follow him and when you catch up to him destroy him and his aeroplanes?"

"Yes."

"Then I am coming, too." Sir Max spoke decisively. "No, Hardy, it is no good protesting. I have made up my mind."

"You will take me. Hardy," Halliday pleaded.

Hardy hesitated, then nodded. The inventor had a right to be included in the expedition, in spite of his disabilities.

"And Doris and I are coming." Ruth spoke quickly. "No, Mr. Hardy, I must go. Roy is.... is..."

"I must go with you, Bob." Doris added firmly.

Sir Max and Hardy expostulated with the girls. To their surprise they found that the inventor joined with the girls! He claimed that the aeroplanes were entirely safe, even if attacked by Dr. Night; that the journey would be little more than a new adventure, with hardly any risk.

An hour later the details were settled. Hardy and Halliday went into the workshops to oversee the making ready of the planes. Doris and Ruth went home to pack for themselves and the men. Sir Max undertook the provisioning of the expedition and spent a busy hour at the telephone.

It was at the hour of sunrise when the party reassembled at the Ashfield, workshops again. Doris and Ruth were the first to arrive, their car filled with luggage. Then closely followed Sir Max. They found the flying field occupied by the great 'planes, each one surrounded by stacks of provisions and necessities for the journey.

In silence, the girls watched the completion of the preparations for the flight. At last, all was ready and Hardy, appointed commander of the expedition, turned to them.

"Doris, Ruth! Won't you stay at home, please," he pleaded. "This affair may be horribly dangerous."

"For you?"

"For all of us."

"Then I must share the danger, boy," Doris laughed.

"Ruth must go, because of... Roy, and you know, dear, that Roy at present, is far less to Ruth than you are to me."

With a sudden, hard grasp of the hand, she passed him and followed Ruth into the cabin of the flagship of the little squadron. Sir Max followed her, looking more like a boy indulging in a forbidden spree than a responsible business man With a shrug, and a laugh, Hardy followed. As he entered the door, he turned and fastened it.

For some moments there was silence, then on the still morning air came the gruesome whispering of the gravity plates. The sounds grew in intensity and then the earth suddenly dropped from view

Flying in wedge formation the fleet made for Port Hacking. In a few minutes they were over the town and hovered over Hanson's workshops The place appeared to be deserted.

'"Where have they gone to?" Doris bent over Bob. seated before the wireless control board

Captain Hanson Found

"Escaped." The chief-sub. frowned "Wonder what he did with Roy?"

"We must go down. Bob" The girl was insistent.

Hardy nodded. He whispered a few words into the receiver and the huge machine dipped to the earth, leaving her companions hovering high in the sky.

As the 'plane touched earth, a man stepped out from the house and looked up to the sky.

"So far I command the Doris as well as the fleet."

31

HARDY JUMPED from the machine as u touched the earth. The man advanced slowly, hesitatingly. A tall, fair man, with keen grey eyes, he blinked uncertainly in the sunlight, as if he had long lived in the dark. The journalist gazed at him a moment, puzzled. He thought he should know this man; his face and form were familiar, but-- Then he smiled. Mentally, he had clothed the man in a flier's uniform—and remembered.

"Captain Hanson." Hardy held out his hand impulsively.

"Yes." The man blinked. "And you?"

"Robert Hardy, of the Mirror." The newspaper man laughed. "Now in command of the Australian fleet of Halliday gravity 'planes."

"Halliday gravity 'planes?" Hanson looked puzzled. "But, that man--"

"You mean Dr. Night." Hardy turned co his companions, who had alighted and walked to where he stood with Hanson "Doris, Ruth. Let me introduce Captain Hanson. V.C., war-ace and noted airman Sir Max. I don't believe you require introduction. Captain Hanson sat next to you at the Commemoration luncheon last year. Hanson, my wife and Miss Halliday, the latter the daughter of the inventor of these aeroplanes."

The airman mechanically acknowledged the introductions. His eyes passed from the huge machine resting in his ground to the squadron hung motionless in the air. He was puzzled, bewildered. These machines, without engines and propellers; that came to rest on the ground without wheels and under-carriages; that hung motionless in the air; were strange, unnatural to him. With a muttered word of apology he broke from the group, intent on satisfying his immediate curiosity.

Sir Max and Hardy exchanged glances and laughed. At a low word from the journalist the millionaire led the girls to the house to meet Mrs. Hanson and her children. Hardy returned to the aeroplane. There he found that Hanson and Halliday had become acquainted, and were deep in technicalities regarding the powers and achievements of the gravity 'planes

Nearly an hour later the party gathered in the old-fashioned living-room of the Hanson's house, to listen to the airman's story of their capture by Dr. Night.

"It was all over in a few seconds," he said quickly. "The house swarmed with Chinese. We were herded into this room and a slight, grey man, wearing a skullcap, entered. He was very polite. Apologised for inconveniencing us, but said he had to have the use of my workshops for. a few days. I protested, but was unable to move him."

Hardy grinned He knew Dr. Night and his methods.

"We were not badly treated. A suite of rooms on the first floor were set apart for our use. Our meals were brought to us. The only thing denied us was our liberty.'"

"There was another prisoner?" Ruth asked anxiously.

"I believe Dr. Night captured two young men that he accused of spying on his work," Hanson answered immediately. "I never saw them, but one of the Chinese, who spoke a little English, told me that he had others to attend to. He pointed at the ceiling as he spoke."

"Where are they?" the girl inquired anxiously.

"Dr. Night took them away with him.

The airman turned to Hardy. "I cannot understand one thing. How comes. Dr. Night to possess machines of the same pattern as yours, if you and he are at enmity?"

Hardy had to recount the story of Halliday and his invention. Hanson listened in silence. When the journalist concluded his narrative the airman nodded.

"You say these machines are an improvement on those possessed, by Dr. Night?" he questioned the inventor.

"In many ways." Halliday commenced. "In speed--"

"Which way did Dr. Night take?" asked Hardy impatiently.

"Out to sea." The airman pointed due east. Then, noticing the journalist's chagrin. "But he cave me a hint as to his destination."

Hardy looked up sharply.

"He thanked me for my hospitality." A slight smile flecked the airman's lips. Then he added: "I go to my country for the work that lies in my hands. I shall come again, remember!"

"He will come again!" Hardy muttered the words. "He said that before, and he has twice fulfilled his promise. This time--"

Hanson looked inquiringly at the journalist.

"This time," Hardy rose to his feet, "we go to him."

An exclamation from Sir Max drew all eyes to him. From a dark corner of the room he had drawn a roll of canvas, partly bound in brown paper. As he unrolled it an envelope dropped to the floor. Hardy seized it; then exclaimed at sight of the picture:

"Albert Wilson's Murillo."

Sir Max nodded. He knew the painting well. It was the Murillo that Dr. Night had stolen from Wilson; the painting that the financier had ransomed for fifty thousand pounds.

"What does the letter say, Hardy?" the millionaire asked quietly, not lifting his eyes from the canvas.

The Journalist tore open the envelope and took out a slip of paper. He read the few words on it aloud:

Dear Mr. Hardy,

Will you please return the accompanying counterfeit picture to Mr. Albert Wilson. It may please him to replace It . In the hall of his home. I was Interested to obtain the loan of It—to try and discover why Its owner prized it so highly.

I have solved the mystery. Mr. Wilson loves his money— he loves to be considered an art connoisseur. In an endeavour to reconcile greed and vanity he sold the genuine  painting after he had had it very capably copied.

I have punished his greed. Will the exposure your newspaper will undoubtedly make curb his Inordinate vanity?

Dr. Night.

At the foot of the note was a single line of writing:—

"Fate rules that we shall meet again soon—for the last time."

"And Fate, or Dr. Night, is right," exclaimed the newspaper man. "Dr. Night and I will meet again, and soon. This man must be captured or destroyed."

Sir Max nodded. "What is in your mind, Hardy?"

"To follow him, if it be to the world's end." There was passion in the man's voice.

"I'm with you!"' Hanson Jumped to his feet and seized Hardy's hand. He turned to Halliday. "I'm at your service, sir, if you care to trust me with the command of one of your aeroplanes "

"Robert Hardy is in supreme command of the fleet." There was assent to the airman's impulsive request in Halliday's voice.

Hardy laughed. "If the command of the aeroplane will satisfy you, captain, it is yours."

"And what part do I play in this search?" A voice from the door spoke quietly.

The group turned quickly. The door had opened without anyone being aware of it. On the threshold stood Inspector Frost.

"Bill Frost!" Hardy sprang across the room to wring the police officer's hand.

"So I have not been forgotten." The Inspector smiled quizzically. "At one moment I had a suspicion you intended to side-track me, Robert Hardy."

"How?"

"By staging the capture of Dr. Night with a lone hand."

"You mean to say you are coming, too?" Pleasure showed on Hardy's face.

"I most certainly am coming." Frost glanced down at the suitcase at his feet. "You forget that I hold a warrant for Dr. Night's arrest." .

"But that warrant won't hold in China, or rather, Russia."

"China, or Russia." Frost smiled. "Is that where our friend is heading? Well, well! One never knows."

"What?"

"Where an Australian warrant will run." A twinkle of amusement lit the Inspector's keen eyes. "There was a certain European Emperor who didn't think one was worth a cuss— and he nearly got it nailed to the gates of Berlin."

"But..."

"Got a license for that thing out there?" The Inspector pointed out of the window at the resting aeroplane. "Dangerous weapon that!"

"Oh, go to hell!" the journalist laughed. "Of course, you're coming!"

"Then, the sooner we get a start, the better." Frost spoke imperturbably. "Dr. Night won't wait for us—and I don't know that I want him to."

Sir Max swung round suddenly.

"What exactly do you mean by that. Inspector?"

"Not 'Inspector' for this Journey, Sir Max." Frost's hand opened for a fraction of a second, to show a, strangely shaped badge on his palm. "I held the King's Commission during the War. On this journey I go, not as Inspector Frost of the New South Wales Criminal Investigation Branch of the Police Department, but as Captain Frost, of His Britannic Majesty's Secret Service. My orders are— and they have been confirmed by every civilised nation in the world— that the man known as Dr. Night is no longer to trouble the peace of the world— at any cost."

32

THE GREAT aeroplane throbbed to the low, sinister whisperings of the gravity plates; then gently lifted from the earth. Faster and faster she rose, springing up to join her sister 'planes, hanging motionless in the air above. She came to her place at the point of the wedge and for a long moment hung motionless.

In the big cabin Doris and Ruth clasped hands, watching intently Bob Hardy, who sat at the wireless control board. Through the glass door, opening to the nose of the 'plane, they could see Captain Hanson's back, as he sat at the control board, flanked on either hand by the steersman and his second in command.

They had started on their dual quest -Jn search of Roy and Pat. and to take or destroy the greatest master-criminal the world had ever known. Before them and seas—lands dimly known to white lay thousands of miles over tropical lands men. They were going into the heart of Asia, there to find a forgotten city and a forgotten race

Through the air before them flashed Dr. Night, intent on making the land of his forefathers as quickly as possible. There he sought to re-establish a mighty empire, so long fallen that it had been swept from the records of the world.

Robert Hardy believed that Dr. Night designed to recreate that forgotten empire— that kingdom swept away in one of those cataclysms that periodically sweep the nomadic tribes of Central Asia— tribes that even, at the present day, owe but very loose allegiance to the empires that claim sovereignty over their lands.

And to accomplish his purpose. Dr. Night would have again to sweep the world with the horrors of war. He would have to plunge two mighty empires in a sea of blood. To him might, gather a few of the tribes in whose traditions still lingered a traditional loyalty to a long-lost empire. He might gather those nomads to the city of his fathers, seat himself on the throne his family had occupied, consolidate his rule; and then...

With the immense power of the gravity 'planes in his hands, there could be no doubt but that the Asian would embark on a career of conquest. He would win his ancient empire and beat back, with the greatest ease, the empires of Russia and China, who would seek to stay him.. He would extend his lands and authority. Would he then be satisfied with the empire his forefathers had ruled? He had seen modern cities and countries: he had known their wealth.

Would he seek to conquer far from his traditional borders? With the mighty, irresistible weapon of war he held, would he be satisfied with less than world dominion?

Dr. Night held the keys of war and peace in his hands. Against him were only the six aeroplanes Sir Max had built to test Adam Halliday's invention. More, these aeroplanes were being used as instruments of order and revenge— and in international law they had no standing. They were pirates!

Hardy smiled as the thoughts flashed through his mind. He glanced into the periscopic mirror, focussing the Australian flag at the stern of his flagship. More logical would it have been to hoist the skull and cross-bones—whatever his intentions

The long minutes of the journey lengthened to hours—and they had passed far from the shores of Australia. The hours lengthened to days and still they sped on, their, mark the heart or Asia.

The door of the forecabin opened and Hanson entered. With a curt nod he dropped into, a lounge chair by Hardy's side and rolled a cigarette.

"Some 'plane, this!" he grunted when the cigarette was drawing to his satisfaction. "Interesting to try a novice hand on her."

"A novice hand?" Hardy chuckled.

"Isn't it?" The aviator grinned. "I've tried a sail-plane and a glider, but I never heard of a 'plane that shoots through the air like a rocket. Say, boy! Where'd we hit if I pulled that control dead over and held it?"

"The moon, probably," Hardy laughed.

"Understand the trick now?"

"A child could understand this machine in five minutes." The man heaved a deep sigh. "Any child of five could handle this machine. No engines, no propeller! No watching oil and petrol gauges. No listening for knocks in the engine; watching for broken feed pipes, with one eye ever on Mother earth looking for probable landing places. Lor', what's aviation coming to, with men like Halliday taking a hand?"

The journalist nodded understanding. For long minutes there was silence.

"Sundown." Hanson spoke. "And there's Java right ahead. To think of it! And but yesterday we thought ourselves good if we flew from Sydney to Wyndham in a couple of days. Are we going down at nights? If so, well, it's dark down there, y'know."

"What for?" Hardy raised his eyebrows. "Oh, you haven't got over the petrol complex yet. No, we don't touch soil this side of Semarechensk."

"Dinner, boys." Doris was standing in the doorway.

"How about reliefs?" Hanson spoke quickly, as he gained his feet. "Shall I relieve Andrews while he feeds?"

Hardy grinned. He spoke a few words in the wireless, and immediately the 'planes drifted to rest, still in wedge formation.

The meal was a strange one. It was the first time they had eaten in the aeroplane. Hanson watched out of the window beside him nervously. He could not understand leaving the machines uncontrolled.

"What would happen if two of them drifted together?"' he asked Hardy suddenly.

"What happens when two logs drift together on a placidly flowing stream?" It was Halliday who answered. "A few bumps, that's all."

Hardy glanced at his companions. Not one word had been spoken of their quest and its probable outcome. There was a tacit understanding that the subject was not to be mentioned until their journey was nearing completion. A slight smile shone in every pair of eyes that met his.

He knew the query that dwelt insistently in his own mind. What would happen when they reached the City of the Gods to which Dr. Night was leading them? Would they find the Asian there; the city defended from the air by the 'planes Dr. Night had built at Port Hacking? Would the Asian attack them, or remain on the defensive?

Or had Dr. Night some deep-laid scheme into which his apparent flight was drawing them? A frown puckered the newspaper man's brow. Had he been unwise to give in to the pleadings of his wife and Ruth, allowing them to come on this wild adventure? What would be the result of an air-fight between the two fleets? Would their vast speed and mobility result in the annihilation of all the aeroplanes engaged?

He rose suddenly from his seat and strode back to the wireless control board. For some minutes he sat in deep thought, then went to the table on which the charts were spread. For a long time he sat working set after set of figures. He looked up to see Hanson by his side:

"Check these, captain." he said suddenly.

A few moments and the aviator looked up from the paper and nodded.

"Carry on, man," he approved. "Three quarters speed would bring us to the Land of the Seven Rivers by sunrise."

Again Hardy checked his figures; then turned to the mike. For a few minutes he gave bearings and speeds, then, in a louder voice, gave the order to proceed.

Night fell. The soft glow of the hidden lights illuminated the cabin of the airship. After much urging Sir Max and Hardy managed to persuade the girls to go to their cabins. Hanson went forward to take his turn at the controls. Sir Max sat by the wireless control, silently smoking. The newspaper man lounged back in his chair, the earphones clasped to his head.

For hours through the silent night the two men sat in silence, too tensed to think of bed, intent only on the new day and what it would bring in its train. Suddenly Hardy stiffened.

He touched Sir Max sharply, pointing to a row of figures on the desk before him. The millionaire went to the chart table, to return a moment later and nod Hardy indicated the window. Away to the east shone the first rays of the rising sun.

"Someone's calling the Doris." The newspaper man spoke suddenly. Then into the instrument: "Doris speaking!"

"Welcome to Semarechensk." The cool suave voice Hardy knew so well spoke out of space. "He whom you know as Dr. Night bids you welcome to the land of his ancestors."

33

HARDY turned to Sir Max, a slow grin growing on his lips. A touch of his fingers threw over the wireless control.

"Dr. Night," he said briefly, "bids us welcome to his ancestral kingdom."

Without waiting for a reply he strode to the window and looked out on the dawn. The earth beneath was still shrouded by the ends of night. Then, suddenly, the sun shot above the horizon, bathing the earth with wondrous beauty.

Behind the aeroplane lay the towering heights of the Barochoro Mountains, clad in serried ranks of towering timber, the leaves glistening green in the early morning rays. Almost directly ahead was a vast inland sea. Hardy had not to refer to the charts to know that this was Lake Balkash. Immediately beneath the 'planes was a bewildering network of rivers and creeks.

"How beautiful!" The newspaper man turned to find Ruth by his side. "Bob. are we there?"

Hardy nodded. "There flow the seven rivers— Semarechensk—the country Dr. Night claims as his own. Yes. we're there. Ruth, and--"

"What?" The girl placed her arm in his. "Bob, you have news of Roy?"

"No." The newspaper man hesitated a moment.

"Don't worry, Ruth. Dr. Night does not kill prisoners. Roy is safe, even is his freedom is curtailed."

"Then?"

"An hour ago I received a message from Dr. Night, bidding us welcome to his country."

The girl stared at him in surprise.

"Dr. Night bids us welcome! What on earth does he mean?"

"Look!" Hardy pointed before them. To their right lay a long chain mountains. The aeroplanes were following the course of a mighty river. On the left bank of the river, on a rising piece of ground close to the lakes, rose the white walls of a large city.

"The City of the Gods!" Ruth barely breathed the words.

"Dr. Night's ancestral home." A faraway look come into Hardy's eyes. Again he was in the underground cavern with the painted walls outside Sydney.

Again, in his vision he was wandering over a deserted land towards a city encircled with pure white walls. He passed the wide-flung gates and walked the silent streets, set with long deserted houses. Again he came to the vast central square before the marble temple and stopped before the high-set throne. Again he gazed up at the mysterious Asian, sitting majestic in the seat of his fathers. He saw the Green Pearl bound to the furrowed forehead. Again he heard the cold, ringing voice of the supreme criminal.

No, not criminal. He could not vision Dr. Night as a criminal. The man was mad, beset with beliefs that had long since passed from this earth. He was obsessed— a man with an idea impossible to realise whatever the powers he had inherited from his long-forgotten race.

Was that vision, dreamed in the tar southern city of Sydney, to materialise now? He recognised the gates of the city he had dreamed of. From the air he strained his eyes to follow the line of streets he had dream-walked; to search out the high throne; to see the small figure seated there, clad in wondrous royal robes.

An urge he could not understand bade him halt his fleet and descend to the earth. Again he looked towards the city, now looming large. He strode to the control board and gave the order to stop.

The 'planes drifted forward, slowing until they hung high in the air, motionless. some five miles from the city walls. Through his glasses Hardy searched the skies. He could not see Dr. Night's aeroplanes. Where had the man hidden them?

Had he concealed them in the city? That was hardly possible. Dr. Night knew that Hardy and his friends were following fast on his heels. But a few hours before he had let him know that he was approaching the land he claimed to reign over.

What plans had the Asian made? Hardy had expected that he would have been met by Dr. Night's air fleet at the frontiers of Semarechensk and warned not to proceed further. He might have had to fight—to force a way through the barring fleet. Instead, he had found the frontier open; he had been met with words of welcome.

He studied the contours of the city and the surrounding country intently. He could see no signs of life, save for the few animals that lingered on the rivers' banks.

What should he do? Logically, he ought to advance with all speed and occupy the air over the city. If the air fleet lay within the white walls then he could destroy them in detail, as they rose into the air.

But back of his mind was a strange fear of the mysterious Asian and the almost superhuman powers he possessed. Dr Night did not react to the ideas of ordinary men. He was a law unto himself. A man, yet with powers far beyond those known to be possessed by other men.

"Why the stop, Bob?" Hardy turned, to meet the inquiring gaze of Inspector Frost.

"And why not look before I leap?" countered the newspaper man. "I am remembering that I am responsible for quite a few lives in this fleet."

"Mrs. Hardy and Miss Halliday," interpreted the police officer. "Wrong to bring them, y'know."

Hardy grimaced. A shrug and he turned to re-survey the city. For some minutes there was silence, then the newspaper man continued:

"You think that I should fly over the city?"

"That would be logical."

"And just what Dr. Night would expect me to do."

Frost was silent. Hardy had touched the weak spot of his thought.

"Look!" The newspaper man pointed to a column of smoke that rose from a tall tower in the heart of the city.

The smoke rose straight into the still morning air until it towered above the altitude at which the 'planes floated. It mushroomed, spreading out until it covered the city with a black pall.

For more than a quarter of an hour the black column of smoke continued to rise, thickening and darkening the cloud. At length it ceased to pour from the tower.

The thick black cloud of smoke hung motionless over the city for about five minutes. Then, where the rising smoke had impinged on the cloud a slow whirling motion commenced, stirring the cloud as if to boiling point.

From the cloud came vivid streaks of lightning, but no sounds of thunder— nor was the cloud rent by the lightning. The storm boiled and swirled, but always the cloud confined its borders within the city walls.

With the swiftness of a flash of lightning the cloud disappeared. Again the bright northern sun shone down on a city of exceeding whiteness.

"Look!"

Frost pointed, in almost awe, to where the cloud had hung. There, in the brilliant sunlight, floated six aeroplanes, sister ships to those Hardy commanded.

"Keen, very keen!" The newspaper man turned to find Sir Max standing behind him. "Got his 'planes in the air under cover of the smoke cloud."

"And the lightning, Sir Max." There was a note of sarcasm in the Inspector's voice.

"Explainable, my dear fellow. A powerful electric station would--"

"A powerful electric station in the heart of Asia?"

"Anyway, I'm glad I didn't take our 'planes into that cloud." Hardy saw his companions' nerves were on edge.

"Well, what's the next move?" Frost spoke impatiently.

For some moments Hardy did not reply. His gaze was fixed on one of the gates of the city.

"Horsemen!" Sir Max flung open one of the windows and stared downwards.

From the gate issued a stream of white-clad men mounted on white ponies. Outside the walls they formed, with military precision, into regiments and trotted out into the country, making for the angle of the river over which the pursuit 'planes hung. Two of the 'planes hovering over the city detached themselves from their companions and escorted the horsemen.

The crew of the "Doris" watched the advancing regiments in silence. Presently Hardy felt a touch on his arm. He turned. Doris and Ruth were standing beside him.

"What does it mean? A fight?" Doris's fingers pressed on her husband's arm. heavily.

"I don't know." The newspaper man frowned. He turned and with his arm around his wife's waist went to the control board.

A few simple instructions and the Doris floated down to meet the advancing horsemen. The remaining 'planes closed their formation, still maintaining their altitude.

One of the 'planes escorting the horsemen sped forward and downward. Now Hardy saw that from a pole set over the pilot's cabin floated a white flag.

34

HARDY WALKED into the forecabin of the aeroplane and touched Hanson on the shoulder.

"Give over to Andrews, captain," he whispered. "I want you."

The aviator rose and followed Hardy into the main cabin. The newspaperman halted just within the door, slid it shut.

"You're in command of this fleet now, Hanson," he said, abruptly.

"And you?"

Hardy pointed to the horsemen, grouped around a clear space of ground, over which their 'plane hovered.

"I'm going into that city; there's my escort." He laughed shortly.

"But..."

"Don't argue, old man. It's just that or fight, and you've seen something this morning of Dr. Night's diabolical powers."

"That cloud?"

"Yes."

Hanson thought a moment. "Going alone, Hardy?"

"No. I'm taking Inspector Frost with me. He's safe.

"And?"

"It's up to us two." Hardy lowered his voice. "Dr. Night has to be stopped or..." he shrugged. "...well, we've been over all that before."

"Well, my orders?"

"Take the Doris into the air. I can't have the girls in danger. Send another 'plane down here and... Oh, damn it! You know what to do if I don't come back."

The newspaper man turned and caught the Inspector's eyes. He beckoned slightly. Frost nodded, and as the aeroplane settled gently on the ground strolled over and joined the two men.

"What's up, Bob?" he asked.

"There's our escort." The journalist pointed to the horsemen. "I'm going with you to visit Dr. Night."

Frost nodded. "And Mrs. Hardy?"

"I've got to slip away." The journalist grimaced. "Hanson will have to manage that. Ready?"

Without waiting for a reply he slid open the door and stepped down to the ground. Frost followed him closely. One of the horsemen rode quickly forward and a few yards from Hardy dismounted.

"I bid you welcome, Robert Hardy," he said in clear English. "The Master awaits you."

Frost stepped close to the man and peered into his face.

"Thomas Humberston." He whistled "Humph! Know I hold a warrant for your arrest. Thomas Humberston?"

"Australian warrants don't hold in this country, Inspector," the man laughed mockingly. "Here, Dr. Night is master and... " He finished with an expressive shrug.

The Inspector frowned, but did not reply. He followed Hardy to where a couple of led horses stood, and mounted. .

'Bob! Bob!" A sudden flurry amongst the surrounding horsemen and Doris broke through. "Where are you going?"

"To visit Dr. Night." Hardy flushed, uncomfortably. "Doris, go back to the aeroplane, please."

"I am going with you." The girl turned to Humberston, whom she recognised as the leader of the party. "A horse, please."

"And one for me." Ruth pressed her way through the throng. "No. Bob! I've got to go to Roy."

The Australian crook smiled sardonically and motioned to a couple of the horsemen. They dismounted and helped the girls to the saddles. Hardy shrugged, helplessly. Humberston mounted and rode to the head of the party.

In silence they rode to the gates of the city. Hardy was worried. He believed that if he and Frost had been alone they could have extricated themselves from any difficulty they got into. But the girls being with them complicated matters enormously.

At the city gates Humberston motioned Hardy and his companions to dismount. Within the walls the horsemen turned sharply to the left. and. skirting the walls, disappeared into a maze of narrow streets.

The crook motioned Hardy to lead on, up the main street of the city, beckoning Frost and the girls to follow him. For a moment the newspaper man hesitated, then stepped forward boldly.

He knew the way. In his mind recurred vividly the streets he had paced in his dream six years before. He recognised the heavily built stone houses he was passing, with their shuttered windows; the utter lack of people in the streets and houses.

The street widened and the houses became more imposing. Yet still he saw no one except the members of his party, even Humberston had disappeared. As in his trance, the city was deserted.

He led into the big central square before the magnificent Temple of the Gods. He halted, abruptly, facing the huge white throne erected in the centre of the square. On the raised seat sat Dr. Night clad in magnificent royal robes, and bound to his forehead was the Green Pearl. In wonderment he looked around him. Not a soul was in sight.

"Welcome, Robert Hardy!" The cold, suave voice rang through the empty space. "What seek ye?"

"The restoration of what you stole." The words came involuntarily to Hardy's lips. "Give me the 'planes you built from the plans you stole from Adam Halliday; give me the two young men you hold prisoners, and I and those with me will depart in peace.'"

"And if I will not?"

"Then the aeroplanes that I have brought with me will take the aeroplanes you stole and will not leave one stone of this city standing upon another."

"High words, Mr. Hardy." A slight smile flecked the cold lips.

"I can perform."

"While my— guests."

"You held me before and yet I conquered." Some inner force brought the words to Hardy's lips.

A frown passed on the Asian's brow. For a moment he was silent, thinking deeply; then pointed into the air.

"There float my aeroplanes. You saw them spring into the air. They are yours to take."

Doris was pulling the slender chain fastened to his coat.

"And the two young men?"

Again the Asian was silent. For long minutes they waited. Then Dr. Night rose to his feet and turned to face the temple. He extended his hands, palms upwards. A moment, and his fingers bent in a slow beckoning, partly clutching, gesture.

The doors of the great temple swung slowly open and on the threshold stood Roy and Pat. Again the doctor motioned, and they came forward on to the great terrace before the building. There they halted.

"Roy!" In a moment Ruth was running across the square and up the broad steps to the terrace. On the last step she hesitated. Hardy could see that she strove to go forward, but that some Invisible power held her back. She stretched out her arms to her lover, crying aloud his name. Neither Roy nor Pat took notice of her.

"There are the young men." Dr. Night spoke slowly as he turned and faced Hardy. "They are unbound."

"And their minds?" the newspaper man questioned.

"Are my will." The Asian bowed his head.

"Devilment!" Frost ground his teeth. His hand slipped to his hip pocket.

"The shedder of blood shall die in blood!" The sonorous words rolled through the empty space. "Man of blood, look!"

The little group looked around them in amazement. Where before they had been alone in the square with Dr. Night, now the place was filled with white-clad, figures. They had not seen them come: there had been no movement In the square or in the surrounding buildings. The people had, apparently, been incarnated from the air.

Again the trumpet blared. Every head bowed to the slight figure enthroned high above their heads. In the crowd a movement formed, those nearest the throne Dressing back until a broad lane opened from one side of the square to the other. Alone in the lane stood Robert Hardy and his companions.

From the east side of the square came the trampling of hoofs. Into view rode slowly the troops of white-clad horsemen. With lances held high they paced forward until they lined from side to side of the square, before the white throne.

Some thought caused Hardy to. look upwards. Again the thick black cloud was rising from the temple tower, enveloping and hiding the circling aeroplanes. As the cloud formed over the city the 'planes rose above it.

Something was tugging at Bob Hardy's pocket. He looked down. Doris was pulling at the slender chain fastened to his coat. His hand went up to it, but she frowned and shook her head.

At length the chain gave and she held in her hand a silver whistle. Placing it to her lips Doris blew a loud, shrill blast. Immediately the people in the square, the serried ranks of horsemen, vanished, leaving only Ruth and the two young men standing on the temple terrace.

As if the sound of the whistle had been a signal Roy sprang forward and clasped the girl in his arms.

35

HARDY looked up at the sky. The steady stream of smoke that had poured from the temple tower had disappeared. The cloud that hung above the city was drifting out over the open country. High above the city hung Dr. Night's squadron of aeroplanes.

His face paled and he glanced anxiously at Doris. She was holding his arm, staring triumphantly at the gauzy figure on the high white throne.

"Quick, Bob! Speak!" she whispered. "Don't you understand! You saw— we saw only what he wanted us to see."

Dr. Night was disturbed. He had half-risen from his throne, one hand extended towards the little group in the square.

"A bluff! Mesmerism!" Frost darted forward up the steps of the throne. "Dr. Night— whoever you are— I arrest you "

The extended hand slowly lowered until it pointed direct at the inspector— pointing at him between the eyes. The police officer hesitated, staggered, then fell, and rolled down the broad white steps until he lay at Hardy's feet.

"Peace, I command!" The slight figure standing before the huge throne spoke hesitatingly. "Peace, or from the skies will rain down destruction upon you."

"Ruth! Roy! Pat!" Again Doris raised the whistle to her lips and blew a loud call. "Here! Quick!"

Her words aroused the little group on the temple terrace. Ruth seized her lover's hand and ran down the steps and across the square to Doris's side.

"Quick, Bob! Speak!" Doris whispered urgently. "Oh, say something— something!"

But Hardy's lips were tied. He stared vacantly up at the figure on the throne. In sudden desperation the girl placed her hands over his eyes, shaking him roughly.

As though awakened from a trance Hardy stepped back, nearly falling. He glanced upwards into the sky. A sudden, triumphant look came into his eyes. He raised his arm, pointing upwards.

"You have refused peace, declaring for war!" His words rang clearly through the space. "Now, look!"

From the south, travelling at incredible speed darted Halliday's squadron of aeroplanes. They swept over and around the city in a wide, sweeping circle; then rose high in the air towering above Dr. Night's gravity 'planes.

Again from the south darted a single 'plane. It swept low over the great square, dropping until it hung motionless but a hundred feet above the man seated on the high throne. Gradually it descended until it was only a few feet from the ground.

High in the air the two fleets were manoeuvring for position. Halliday's aeroplanes had obtained the upper position, and were intent on keeping the advantage. The Asians' ships were twisting and turning, striving to mount above their opponents.

The Doris almost collided with one of Dr. Night's 'planes, the collision only being avoided by the Doris suddenly rebounding into the air. The 'plane with which the Doris had almost collided shivered and rocked, then fell like a stone into the city. Through the gruesome whisperings of the gravity plates the crash rang loudly.

"Good!" Hardy shouted. "That was Halliday in command, I'll swear."

"What happened?" Doris asked blindly; her face white and tensed.

"Dropped almost on her opponent and then turned on the full force of her gravity plates. Understand, dear? She pushed at the earth with all her force, and as that 'plane happened to be between her and the earth it got the full force of her power. Smashed and drove it down. Halliday did that. Hanson wouldn't have thought of it!"

The Doris was now under the enemy planes. She rose towards them slowly, dodging and slipping as they tried to bomb her. Suddenly she fell again, and. where she had been, floated a small speck of metal on which the sunlight glistened brightly.

"Look!" Hardy gripped his wife's arm 'Lor'! That's the end of her!"

The metal torpedo hung motionless for some seconds, then suddenly darted towards one of the aeroplanes. The machine darted aside, as if seeking to escape, but the torpedo, like a hawk in pursuit, sped after it.

For seconds that seemed like hours the 'plane sought to escape from its tiny pursuer, but in vain. Twist, turn, dip and rise as it would, the torpedo followed it. The Halliday 'planes, hovering in the air, continually menaced the victim, hampering its movements, slowing its speed.

Presently the torpedo appeared to gain some objective. For a moment it hung immediately under the 'plane, then darted up, and, for a brief moment, hung on the metal of its opponent.

The 'plane stopped as if struck; then, before the wondering eyes of the group in the square appeared to disintegrate. It disappeared in a moment and into the city fell a rain of glistening metal dust.

The sudden annihilation of the 'plane struck panic into its companions. They broke formation and sought safety in flight. The sky became dotted with single combats. But Dr. Night's aeroplanes were useless before the new Halliday machines, which were faster and more easily manoeuvred. One by one the Asian's 'planes were destroyed or driven down in the open country and captured.

"Is it peace, Lord of the City of Gods?" he asked.

The man on the throne made no answer, continuing to stare up into the sky in which now hung alone the Doris.

The newspaper man looked down on the prostrate form of the detective. He bent over him. Was the man dead? No. He was breathing steadily and regularly. Hardy shook him by the shoulder, roughly.

Inspector Frost opened his eyes, drowsily; then raised himself on his elbow and stared around him.

"I slipped, didn't I?" With a groan, as if bruised bones and muscles ached, he gained his feet. "Why, what's happened?"

Hardy did not answer. He was gazing up at Dr. Night, questioningly.

Something was happening to the man. His body tensed and then relaxed. With hands clutching the ivory arms of his throne, Dr. Night pulled himself to his feet, gazing down at the little group at the foot of his throne.

"To you, Robert Hardy, farewell." The voice sounded hollow and forced. "Fate fought between you and I and the dice favoured you. Farewell, I say. I go to join those who went before me."

For a space there was silence.

"The gods have blessed you, Robert Hardy." The cold voice had grown very thin. "They have chosen. You and yours to live and prosper; I to travel through the valley of ghosts to... to where Time is not."

The figure relaxed, almost falling back into the wide seat of the throne. Frost bounded up the steps and bent over the still figure. He turned to Hardy, wonderment in his eyes.

"Dr. Night is..." he hesitated, standing with one hand on the shoulder of the man he had pursued so long and relentlessly.

"...is dead." Hardy finished the sentence; then bowed his head.

For a long time there was silence. Then very gently Doris took her husband's arm and led him from the city.

SLOWLY the giant 'plane came up from the land of the Seven Rivers. In the big cabin Hardy and Doris stood gazing through the window.

Not a living being showed in the silent streets of the great white city as the 'plane passed slowly over it. Only there rested on the huge throne in the centre of the white square the slight grey figure, sleeping the last sleep of all humans, seated on the throne of his ancestors he had through life coveted.

"Poor Dr. Night!" Doris's eyes filled with tears as she looked down on the city of the dead. "Should we have left him like that?"

"Yes." Her husband spoke abruptly. "He is of the past; we have the future— we... and them."

He pointed through the open door to where Roy and Ruth stood. They were not looking down on the City of the Gods— the city forgotten. Their eyes quested a city and land they would always love and remember.

The 'plane flew south. From all points of the compass victorious and conquered 'planes gathered in their wake. In the west the sun slowly declined..

"Look, Doris!" Hardy turned his wife to where the white City of the Gods was slowly disappearing below the horizon. "Vale, Dr. Night!"

"Farewell, Dr. Night." The girl's eyes filled with tears as she hid her face on her husband's shoulder.

Vale, Dr. Night!

End

_________________________________

Aiden de Brune Bibliography

Published as a book but not a serial

1926  The Carson Loan Mystery (Cornstalk Press)

Novel-length newspaper serials

1920  The Pursuits of Peter Pell

1920  The Nine Stars Mystery (unfinished)

1926  Dr Night

1927  The Phantom Launch

1927  The Dagger and Cord (The Lonely Lady)

1929  The Shadow Crook

1929  The Little Grey Woman

1930  The Green Pearl

1930  The League of Five

1930  The Unlawful Adventure

1931  Whispering Death

1931  The Mystery of Madlands (The Murders at Madlands)

1931  Find This Man

1932  The Grays Manor Mystery

1934  The Kahm Syndicate

1934  The Flirting Fool (also as by John Morriss)

1934  Cain (Macleay Argus, as by John Morriss) also as "The Framing of Inspector Denvers" by Aidan de Brune

1935  Saul and the Spinster

1935  The Fortune-Telling House

Novelette newspaper serials

1931  Douchard's Island (30,000 words)

1932  The Three Snails (24,000 words)

Short Stories

1922  Just a Woolly

1927  Who Killed David Condon?

1927  Adelbert Cay

1928  Meet Mary Cronig

1928  Mary Quite Contrary

1928  The Marrickville Murders

1929  The Empty Match Box

1930  Whiteface

1930  Mary's Little Lamb

1931  Voodoo Vengeance*

1931  Five Minute Murder

1932  Silver Bells

1933  Mary's Fleece

1933  The Three Cats (as by John Morriss)

* Original title "All The Mystery of African Jungles Brought the Vengeance of the Voodoo to Jewel Thief" (!)

Table of Contents

- Introduction
- Dr. Night (1926)
- The Green Pearl (1930)
- Whispering Death (1931)
- Aiden de Brune Bibliography
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Chapter 30
- Chapter 31
- Chapter 32
- Chapter 33
- Chapter 34
- Chapter 35
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16