Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Action
Description: 51,000 Words. Published as a serial in 1933, but possibly not as a book. A lively 1933 action story set in London, Paris, and the Home Counties. The Hon Peter Pentreath, on a dark night when walking home along a lonely country road after his taxi cab broke down, witnesses a brutal murder and what appears to be an abduction of a young woman. The woman reminds him vaguely of another young woman he met briefly in the United States; naturally he sets out to hunt down the abductors.

THE STOLEN DEBUTANTE

Ottwell Binns

As serialised in The Queenslander
in weekly parts

3 August 1933 to 9 November 1933

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

_____________________

1

THE taxi was not running well, but the Hon. Peter Pentreath did not particularly notice the fact. He had dined well with old friends; the burgundy had been excellent, the Perrier Jouet '17 perfect, the port beyond praise, and the show which had followed had been of the light and pleasant sort of which the staple ingredients are shapely legs and twinkling toes. That, at any rate, was the impression which remained with him; and there had been one song that, remembered, stirred a merry chord of memory. How did it go?

"Tol-lol-lol-o-lol—"

The piquant words were beyond recall, and he could not remember more than that of the tricky melody. But the girl who had sung it had sweetly grey eyes which he remembered better than the song; for the reason that they recalled a pair of eyes seen years ago— or was it only seven months? Anyway time was nothing. Seven months was a good part of eternity, and those eyes—

"G-u-r-r!"

The sound set his teeth on edge and jerked him sharply from a rosy reverie begotten by a perfect evening. The taxi gave a lurch which threw him forward out of his seat, and only the instinctive outward thrust of his hands saved his head from going through the glass partition between the driver and himself. Naturally, to be jerked from dreams so harshly stirred indignation. He dropped a hasty word, lifted himself from his knees, and groped for the speaking tube.

"I say, Jehu, is this machine a taxi or a catapult? If you can't―"

He ceased his remonstrance as he realised that the driver was leaving the wheel, and, dropping the tube, he sat bolt upright on his seat, straightened his hat, and tried to think of polite words that would fit the occasion. He had time to think of quite a number, for the taxi driver did not immediately open the door to apologise, but passed to the rear of the car, and from the sounds which reached him Pentreath gathered the idea that the man was beating a tattoo with a spanner.

Presently, however, the door was flung open and the man's head in its peaked cap appeared. "It's no go, guvnor. The old bus has gone bust."

"Bust! It felt like it." Pentreath spoke carefully, to get his words clearly, but with feeling. "I almost looped the loop— became the human projectile―"

"Back axle is gone! An' I reckon 'here is where you take a shanks's pony."

A sudden foreboding eclipsed the afterglow of the perfect evening like a cloud.

"But, my dear fellow— er— how much farther have I to go?"

"Tween three an' four miles, I reckon."

The Hon. Peter leaned back in his seat so sharply that his topper was knocked over his eyes. He restored it to its proper angle with the meticulous care of a man who is aware that he has looked on the wine over long; then he made a dignified protest.

"My Jehu, it can't be done! 'Tween three or four miles—in pumps. I should be a case for an orthopaedic hospital! You really must think again, and think of something more fitting the hour and the need."

"Well, you can camp in the bus, if that suits you, an' I ain't chargin' nothin' extra. I've got to find a garage an' a breakdown lorry―"

"You propose to leave me here in charge of your confounded Noah's Ark?"

"Oh, nobody ain't goin' to run away with her—not yet awhile. 'Twas your convenience I was thinkin' of―"

"You were? That is very kind of you, I am sure. I don't know how to thank you―"

The Hon. Peter spoke with dignified sarcasm which apparently passed over the driver's head, for the man interrupted cordially: "That's all right, sir. Fare up to here is thirteen an' threepence; make it a quid an' I'll see you right. When I hit a garage I'll send some sort of char-a-banc to take you on."

"Char-a-banc! Gorgeous! I have never ridden in a char-a-banc. The idea is a shining one.... Here is your quid.... Give me a hand."

Pentreath stretched his long legs to the running-board.

The driver gave the hand as requested, and his fare achieved the road without disaster. The man steadied him as he stood swaying ever so slightly in the moonlight; and then Pentreath sought reassurance.

"You will not forget the char-a-banc.... A red one. That is my favourite colour..."

He hummed cheerfully: "My love is like a red, red rose―"

The taximan laughed. "Paint, I expect! All them pert misses are artists to-day... But I must push on to a garage, if you'll excuse me, sir. If you'll walk on, the chara'll overtake you and pick you up."

"The chara! What a delightful name. I will certainly walk on to be so picked up. I am infinitely obliged to you. Good night, my dear fellow."

There was just the faintest slurring of the syllables, enough to indicate a little elevation— no more; and when he stepped out in the moonlight he walked like a guardsman under perfect control, his head high, his topper at a jaunty angle.

THE road was smooth macadam, and he forgot that he was walking in pumps. The air and the moonlight were exhilarating. He felt that the world was as good as the evening had been; and presently he began to hum that tricky melody which served well as a marching tune.

"Tol-lol-lol-o-lol―"

Reiteration without being able to catch the end of the melody bored him, and presently he fell back on "The British Grenadiers" and covered the ground at a pace that would have made him a hot favourite in any pedestrian event. He reached a long stretch of road running between trees, deeply shadowed; and, by contrast with the moonlit road behind him, black as pitch. He was perhaps halfway through, when his ears caught a sound which brought him to a sudden halt.

Listening, he knew that he had not made any mistake— the sound he had heard was unquestionably the thrumming of an automobile engine somewhere on the road.

"The chara!" he ejaculated, and then realised that the sound was coming not from behind him but from the direction in which he was travelling. "Forward, the Grenadiers!"

He laughed with anticipation and inarched on. Whatever the vehicle that was coming to meet him, he would if possible requisition it to take him to Vanwood, his uncle's house, where old Barnish the butler would now be keeping lonely vigil for him. A wave of sentiment surged him as he visioned the old servant, who was a little deaf, straining for the purr of a taxi that was stranded like the ark on Ararat.

"Old Faithful..."he murmured feelingly, then laughed. "But if only the chara will show up he will think an earthquake is arriving."

The char-a-banc, however, did not announce itself, but the thrumming of the oncoming vehicle grew plainer. Suddenly, a great fan of light lit the long avenue from end to end, making him blink with its sudden, brightness, and revealing something almost in front of him which troubled him for a moment, since at half a score of points it reflected the glare of the strong headlight of the speeding vehicle. His first hazy thought was that there was a house there, the windows of which mirrored the light; but a moment later he realised the truth.

In front of him, not more than a score of yards away, a saloon car was standing. He halted and stared at it a little owlishly. The saloon was in darkness, not a lamp showing, an utterly reprehensible thing, he thought, and then chuckled.

"A gift from the gods, perhaps—or another stranded ark!"

He was about to move forward and prove his luck when in front of him the rear light of the standing vehicle gleamed suddenly like a red star, and there was an increase in the radiance ahead.

"Saloon has switched on its lights," he commented, and then the red star winked out and in twice, the radiance in front decreasing or increasing with automatic precision. A moment later the lights of the oncoming car were dimmed twice, and the truth was borne upon him that the cars were signalling each other.

"Now here's an odd thing," he thought aloud. "Why this heliographing in the night?"

As he asked himself the question the red lamp in front glowed again and was switched off, and remained dark. At that he took a resolution. Thirty minutes after the witching hour was no time for two cars to be practising signals on a lonely road. At least it omened unlawful occasions, and demanded investigation from an honest citizen. That saloon waiting with all lights doused had an air of mystery that he found challenging; and he determined to make an effort to learn the meaning of this unusual occurrence.

There was a wide strip of grass under the trees, and stepping on it, and getting as far away from the road as possible, he began to move forward. It was in his mind that there might be exciting moments ahead. Perhaps this mysterious rendezvous implied a burglary at one of the great houses in the neighbourhood.

Then came the next surprise. With his eyes on the saloon ahead he walked straight into another car parked under a low boughed tree, barking his shin against a dumb-iron and scorching his hand on a hot radiator. The suddenness and unexpectedness of the encounter wrenched from him a startled ejaculation.

"Good heavens!"

But the shock served to sober him completely. The last of the vinous mist that clouded his brain vanished as a wisp of vapour before a strong wind. He took a hold on himself and stared at the near car intently.

In the dark under the trees he could do no more than make out the outlines of a long low sports car of an open model which appeared to be empty. He looked round. The owner of the car was nowhere about; or if he were he was invisible in the shadows. A thought that possibly the man was watching the saloon farther up the road turned his attention in that direction, and more than ever intrigued by the mystery on which he had stumbled, he hurried forward.

Deep in the shadow of the trees he reached a point but a few yards from the standing car, and with a tree trunk between it and himself examined it as closely as he could. The strong light of the oncoming vehicle striking through the panes lit the saloon almost as well as its own roof lamp might have done, enabling him to see the driver at the wheel and another man at the back of the car. Their faces, however, were turned away from him, and he had no chance to change his position in order to get the glimpse he desired before the approaching car came to a standstill a few yards away, dousing its headlights, but leaving the side lamps burning!

He saw the driver move from the wheel; open the door, and step into the road, and stand there, as if waiting for the occupants of the other car to move. Then a surprising thing happened. Under the trees less than a dozen yards from the waiting man there was a sudden flash of fire, and a subdued sound, which Pentreath, well acquainted with firearms, knew was made by a pistol that had a silencer to deaden the sharpness of the explosion.

The man in the road gave a single sharp cry, threw up his arms, and crumpled at the knees, then tumbled slowly on his face, kicked once, and lay still.

A man with a pistol still In his hand emerged from the shadows. Two doors of the saloon that had been waiting were flung-open simultaneously, and the man whom he had observed, leaped out on the road and ran towards the fallen man, and, surprise on surprise, more slowly, but with extreme coolness in the face of the tragedy that had befallen, a girl followed. The man with the pistol reached his victim first; turned him over with amazing callousness; and then shot a single word to the others who were plainly confederates.

"Carrion!"

Peter had no doubt the man was dead. He had seen more than one man shot in his time, and the signs had been unmistakable. It came to him sharply that he himself stood in great peril. He had witnessed a brutal murder, and if those men became aware of his presence his own chances of escape were exceedingly slim. He made himself as small as possible behind the tree trunk, hoping that the headlights of the car that faced him would remain dark; and unable to do anything but watch helplessly.

The man in the road wasted no time. The dead man, who wore a chauffeur's uniform, was quickly stripped of his outer clothing, which one of the men carried off into the trees. The man with the pistol and the third man went to the bigger saloon, opened the rear door, and after a moment lifted something out— a slim, feminine form as Pentreath saw when they passed the side lamp. That this woman was unconscious or dead was very clear, and he watched whilst they carried her to the saloon from which they themselves had descended.

"Switch on those blithering lamps," shouted one of the men to the watching girl, and leaning forward through the open doorway the girl obliged. The man at the unconscious woman's shoulders growled a word to his companion, who halted perhaps five seconds whilst the speaker shifted his hold, lifting the sagging form higher, and bringing the face of the unconscious one full in the light of the lamp, so that for perhaps three seconds Pentreath was afforded a clear view of her face.

The view was a revelation. The face was that of a girl— a face that was familiar, and which had that very night been brought to mind by the face of the chorus girl at the show which he had attended. He brushed His eyes with his hand, thinking that he was suffering from an hallucination; but the face was real, and before he had recovered from the shock of realisation the pair moved on and placed the unconscious form in the rear seat of the smaller saloon. That done one of the men shut the door and moved to the luggage grid, from which he unstrapped a large leather trunk.

"Here's your fal-lals, Jane. Musn't forget them, or you'll sure have to go to eye-bye in your what-d'-you-call'ems!" The girl gave a hard laugh; and as she turned to the speaker Peter was given a fleeting glimpse of a handsome face, of a Neapolitan type; aquiline features, flashing dark eyes, and a laughing, sensuous mouth. That she could laugh with that dead man almost at her feet was to Pentreath an appalling thing; but he had no time to reflect upon the matter; for at that moment the man who had retreated to the shadowing trees returned, now to all outward appearance the chauffeur of some rich man. Over his arm he carried the clothes of which he had divested himself, and these he placed on the seat of the bigger saloon, then began to bark orders in a raucous American voice.

Activities about the two cars quickened. The case which had been taken from the smaller saloon was transferred to the other; and from the larger a second case was taken in exchange.

"Time, Jane!" said the pseudo-chauffeur; and the girl so addressed entered the larger car, taking the rear seat, and nonchalantly lit a cigarette, using a petrol lighter, which gave Pentreath a second glimpse of her face. Then for a moment the three men conferred together in low voices. No word reached Pentreath clearly, and the conference ended, the man in the chauffeur's uniform took his seat at the driving wheel of the big saloon, started the engine, and drove off in the direction in which the car had previously been travelling. The remaining pair climbed into the other car, one man in the rear with that unconscious girl. The driver skilfully reversed and followed in the wake of the now receding saloon, the rear lamp of which gleamed brilliantly red in the shadows.

Peter straightened himself, stepped from behind the sheltering tree, and drew a sharp breath. His head was in a whirl. His first thought was for the man lying in the road. He went to him and felt his heart, though without hope. There was no movement; and when he had struck a match and held it towards the still, white face he knew that the man was dead; for between the eyes was a was dead, for between the eyes was a blood, where a bullet had entered.

"Through the brain!" he whispered to himself; then remembered suddenly two things— one the white face of that unconscious girl who had been transferred from one saloon to the other, and the second that sports car into which he had blundered under the trees. He looked down the road. A red light was still visible, though rapidly receding; but unless the sports car was out of action there was every chance that he might overtake the fast disappearing saloon.

There was nothing to be done for a man shot through the brain; whilst that girl in her helplessness needed succour; and those brutal slayers must be brought to justice. A second later he was running over the grass towards the sports car. Reaching it, he flung the door open and almost threw himself in the driver's seat.

His hand groped among the switches, found the one which belonged to the dashboard lamp and turned it. Then he tested the clutch and foot-brake, and hand-brake in turn, and, assured that all was right there, he switched on and pressed the self-starter.

There was an immediate response, the engine running sweetly with a soft purring sound.

"All O.K.!" he murmured, and switched on the headlights.

In half a minute more he had the car off the grass and on to the road, and was heading for the now distant red gleam of the tail-lamp of the saloon. Scarcely had he started when that light disappeared; but that did not greatly trouble him. At the end of the avenue, as he recalled, there was a turn in the road, and once he was clear of the trees he would lift the red light again.

At first he drove carefully, testing the power of the car he was handling; but after a little time he accelerated, and the speedometer needle crept up steadily— twenty-five; thirty, thirty-five, forty. At forty-five he ceased to press the accelerator further. Even with an empty road before him it was folly to travel faster than that at night, and if he could maintain that speed almost certainly he would be able to overtake the saloon, or at any rate to follow it to its destination.

The rush of the night air clarified his brain. Assured of the car's capacity he had leisure to think, and he began to ask himself the meaning of the things he had witnessed, and what had been behind the callous murder of which he had been a helpless spectator? What motive bad inspired that cool-handed killer? It seemed clear that the two cars had rendezvous together, and that the victim of that foul shot had expected to find the other men where they were awaiting him. The signalling between the two cars was proof of that, and the fact that the dead man had pulled up and left his driving-seat was evidence that he had not anticipated any sort of treachery; certainly that he had no anticipation whatever of the fate which had befallen him.

The thing was inexplicable; and his thoughts turned to the unconscious girl whom he had seen transferred from one car to the other. He visioned her face as he had seen it in the glare of the headlights, and his heart beats quickened. Unless he was mistaken, he had seen that face before— in a street in Tulsa, Oklahoma, seven months ago.

The girl had narrowly escaped disaster from a skidding car, which had mounted the side-walk; and only his own promptness in jerking her through the open doorway of a dry goods store had saved her from almost certain death; for the skidding car had demolished half the store front. There had been a minor disaster in the store itself, since his too-energetic acting had thrown the girl against a stand of china, which had crashed noisily, and he had picked her up from the wreckage, with a cut hand. Laughing at his apology she had thanked him prettily whilst he had rendered first-aid with a bandage the store proprietor had found. As he was due to leave the city almost immediately the affair had stopped there; but ever since he had at odd moments recalled the girl's' grey eyes, clear and innocent as a child's, and the face of flowerlike beauty.

Could he be mistaken in thinking it was the same? There were resemblances between faces, of course. That girl who had sung the piquant  song at the Palace. His reflection broke off sharply as a new thought occurred to him. Was it possible that the singer was the girl whom he had seen transferred from one car to the other?....

There was a chance of that, of course. After the performance he had spent almost an hour at the Travellers' Club, and in such a car as she had been taken from the girl might have travelled far in the interval. But the fact that, the car had been travelling towards London seemed to make the possibility less feasible, whilst alternatively the identity of the unconscious girl with the girl seen in far Tulsa seven months before appeared an even more remote possibility. Yet stranger things happened in the world, and the fact that he should have thought of her that very night was itself an odd thing.

But, the alternatives apart, what was the meaning of that transfer from one car to the other of that second girl changing over to the larger car, and of the assumption of the dead chauffeur's uniform and place by one of the partners of the callous scoundrel who had slain him?

These were questions to which he could find no answer, and as the car swept out of the darkness of the avenue into the moonlight and took the turn beyond, and the red gleam of the tail light of his quarry came into view, he dismissed them, and concentrated on the chase. The car ahead was making a smart pace, and, taking the chances, he accelerated until the speedometer needle stood at 50. He had no wish to overtake the saloon. The men in it were plainly of desperate character, and would not hesitate to shoot again if they knew that he was following them. The immediate necessities of the situation would be met by keeping the car in sight and learning its destination. After that the police would do the rest.

He wondered what had become of the owner of the sports car? Had the man been one of the three at the rendezvous— say the ruffian who had fired the murderous shot from the shelter of the trees? Or was he an independent observer interested in the doings of the trio? In that case he might now be cursing the man who had annexed his car and The red light in front made a sharp swerve, and noting it, a moment later Pentreath became aware of the reason. In front of him was the taxi whose broken rear axle had been the starting point of this adventure. He could see it clearly in the moonlight, and beyond it observed another vehicle which seemed to project an arm upwards in the light.

"Um," he commented aloud, "Jehu got his break-down lorry; but not the char-a-banc!"

The red light swept forward. The saloon was increasing its pace. He himself accelerated and approached the broken-down taxi at a quite terrific pace. There was a wide, space the standing vehicles and the hedge which bordered the road, and as he approached it he slackened speed only the slightest. Then the thing happened. Without warning, when he was no more than a dozen yards away, the break-down lorry, with the taxi slung by a cable and resting on its fore-wheels, moved into the middle of the road. There was no room to pass, and no time to pull up; but Peter acted coolly and with promptness, knowing that he was faced with imminent disaster. In the same second he switched off the engine, threw out the clutch, and applied the brakes— hard. Immediately the car went into a skid, whirling round and round like a Catherine wheel. It. struck the disabled taxi heavily, rebounded, ricocheted in the direction of the hedge, came into contact with a milestone, rebounded again, and shot over, throwing Pentreath into the road; and as he crashed another man fell on him heavily, sprawling all over him, and in the second before he lost consciousness he had a flashing wonder where the man had sprung from.

2

WHEN PETER next became aware of himself he was lying flat on his back at the side of the road, staring up at the moon. There was the pungent sting of cheap brandy in his mouth, and a man was kneeling by his side with a flask in his hand. He heard the man give a grunt of satisfaction, and a second after he asked:

"Feeling better?"

The voice had a familiar ring, and he was trying to recall where he had heard it before when the man thrust the flask to his lips. "Have another nip, gov'nor; you sure need it after that bust up."

Then recognition came. The man was the taxi-driver from whose company he had parted ages ago. He swallowed a mouthful of the brandy which the flask held; then, as his mind quickened under the stimulus afforded, he remembered most of what had happened, and, a little anxiously, asked: "Any bones broken?"

"No! you're lucky. Cut on the head an' a bit o' concussion maybe— or a knock-out, but that's about all."

The man paused, then shot a question. "Where did you pick up that stiff 'un?"

"Stiff 'un?" asked Peter, a little bewilderedly.

"Yes! Stiff 'un, corpse, dead man, any darn label you like. Where did you get him?"

"I don't understand what―"

"Was in that fancy car that you turned into scrap iron, anyway," intervened the driver. "Must have been, unless he dropped from the moon; an' he was lying on top of you when we ran to see what had happened."

Recollection of the last moment before he lost consciousness came to Peter with a rush. He recalled the man who had fallen on him, and as he did so cried out....

"There was a man. I remember— he fell on me. Who was he? Where―"

"That's what I want to know, gov'nor, an' what I'm asking you. He's lying at the bottom of the bank there, clay-cold; an' 't wasn't the upset that get him—for he's been shot through the heart."

"Shot!— through the heart?" cried Pentreath, with an odd surge of superstitious fear that somehow that dead man whom he had left in the road had by some unknown agency been transferred to the sports car. "Are you sure?"

"Regular bull's eye."

"Was he— dressed?"

"Dressed? What are you gettin' at?"

"He wasn't only in his underclothes, I mean?"

"No! Nor yet in one, of them natty white shirts that's the parade, uniform for a funeral. He has a full suit."

"Then there's another man— up the road; also shot through the head."

"Lummie!" ejaculated the driver, incredulously; then added: "Better take another nip, sir. Your faculties are till a bit wobbly seemingly."

"But there is another man!" "said Peter a little testily. "He's lying at the side of the road half-way up a long avenue farther on. I saw him shot."

"The deuce!" cried the man. "You must ha' been goin' it since you parted from the old bus. Who shot the fellow?"

"I don't know the man, but he was in a saloon car which must have passed you just before I― "

"There was two!" interrupted the man. "They went by like the Flying Scotchman."

"You are right! There were two, and the man who fired the killing shot was in the second one."

"Love of Mike!" exclaimed the taxi- " driver in amazement; then again the incredulous note came in his tones. "You ain't pulling my leg, sir?"

"No; it is the simple truth."

"Simple It may be; but it don't sound so. Here's you, who stepped out of my old bus awhile since, come tearin' back like a fellow breaking a record at Brooklands in a car that I'll bet ain't yours, an' there's a deader that you know nothin' about, an' you say there's another up the road that you saw shot, an' that you was chasin' the guy who did the shootin'―" The taxi-driver broke off his inventory. "Maybe simple, but I reckon the police won't think so."

"The police! We must let them know at once."

"No need to worry. . That garage chap has gone off for 'em in his breakdown truck. They'll be here middlin' soon, I reckon. Where d'you pick up that car?"

"It was standing under the trees. I took it to follow, the murderer, and a girl, who, I think, was being abducted."

"Lumme! There's a girl in it then?"

"Two."

"Jehoshaphat! Two dead men, an' two live girls! There's a layout for you!... But about that cove there? You never saw him till he fell atop o' you in the road here, you say! Then he must have been riding behind you in the tonneau all the time."

"He certainly wasn't in the front seat. Give me a hand. I want to look at him."

The taxi-driver helped Peter to his feet, steadied him when he showed signs of dizziness, and then helped him to the place where the dead man lay stretched out at the foot of the bank. In the moonlight the face was clearly visible. The eyes were closed, the mouth had sagged slightly, but the aquiline features, the dark eyebrows and moustache were characteristically un-English.

"Looks like a foreigner of some sort," commented the driver; "one o'   them South Americans, I reckon."

"Or an Italian!"

"Jimmy! You've got it. But how in thunder did he get his?"

"That will be for the police to find out."

"Then we've got to wait till Judgment Day to know—unless the local cops call in the Yard."

"It certainly is all very mysterious and—" Peter gave a little lurch as he broke off, and the taxi-driver clutched him to save him from falling.

"Ain't feelin' well, I guess," he said with rough sympathy.

"A little dizziness."

"Natural after that header you made. Better park yourself in the old bus, sir, till the bobbies come. I don't reckon they'll be long now if that garage chap had any luck."

"An excellent idea," agreed Peter, and allowed the man to help him into the taxi. There, a little overdone, he leaned back and closed his eyes. His head throbbed painfully, and his left shoulder ached abominably; and for a little time he was content to remain quite still without trying to elucidate the mystery into which he had stumbled. The night was very quiet; and as the throbbing in his brain eased a little he sank into a somnolent condition which was as near to unconsciousness as it was to sleep.

From this he was wakened by the shriek of a klaxon, proclaiming an approaching car. Through the window he caught a gleam of lamps, which, a moment later, became stationary. The clash of a door smartly shut followed, then the sound of an authoritative voice.

"Where is the man?"

"Bottom of the bank. Gent's in the bus. He's a bit shook up―"

He heard the new-comer move towards the taxi, was aware of eyes staring in at the open window, then the man passed on. Presently voices reached him again.

"Shot through the heart. Murder for a certainty. How did he get here?"

"Gent, brought him along in that sports car. Never knew he had' him till he crashed into my old bus and then was thrown out with the corpse atop."

"That doesn't sound a very likely story," answered the crisp voice of the officer.

"Mebbe! But there's unlikelier things you'll hear yet, I guess."

"What do you mean, my man?"

"Gent'll explain, I reckon. It's his show."

"I'll talk with him in a moment; just help me. to lift this man away from the bank. I want to go through his possessions. We may find who he is."

Peter made an effort to pull himself together; then thrusting open the cab door stepped out into the road. He still felt very dizzy, and held on to the door to steady himself. Whilst he did so he heard the officer's voice in sharp comment.

"Ah! A pistol. Automatic— of an American pattern. Loaded. Not a very usual thing for a man to carry in England."

"No! But some o' them aliens—"

"What's this? A passport— American. Joseph Pasquali "

"Then the gent, was right. He's an Eyetalian right enough."

"That man there knew him?" asked the officer, sharply.

"No. I guess not. Knew his nation by the cut of his mug."

Peter, with one hand against the taxi to steady himself, moved to a position where he could see the pair.

The officer, in uniform, with a sergeant's chevron on his sleeve, was kneeling by the dead man. A handkerchief was spread on the ground in which the dead man's possessions were being collected; and without moving again he watched the search in silence until a rumble in the air proclaimed an approaching vehicle.

The officer looked up.

"That will be the ambulance, I fancy."

"Ambulance! It's a hearse that's I wanted, an' a double one at that if "What's that you say?"

"Oh, there's another stiff a mile or two up the road, unless the gent's brainbox has been rattled out o' plumb,'

"Another?"

"That's what the gent, swears!"

"Great Harry!" The sergeant hastily tied up the four corners of the handkerchief, and rising from his knees saw Peter steadying himself against the cab. He moved towards him quickly.

"You brought that man here?"

"Yes—unknowingly, sergeant."

"We will go into that later. What Is this story of another dead man?"

"Quite a true one. He lies in that avenue farther up the road. I saw him shot. A perfectly brutal murder."

"That's a queer story. What were you doing? But no! questions can wait. I must get along there. You had better come with me and act as guide. Just step to the car there; the ambulance is coming, and I must give the man orders."

Peter moved to the car, but did not enter, and half a minute later a closed ambulance drew up, and the sergeant gave his orders.

"Put that man inside. Then follow on up the road. You will find me somewhere in the avenue."

He turned to the car,, entered and spoke to Peter. "You had better sit beside me, Mr. — er — I haven't your name?"

"Pentreath. I am the nephew .of Sir James Pentreath, of Vanwood."

"Oh!" There was a notable change in the sergeant's tone. "You are staying with your uncle?"

"Yes."

"Take this seat, Mr. Pentreath. You can tell me what happened as we go."

Peter climbed into the car. The sergeant started it, and when he had changed gears spoke crisply.

"Now, Mr. Pentreath, I should like to hear your story."

Pentreath told the story, and the sergeant— a public school product— listened closely, with only two interruptions.

"You would recognise the man who fired that shot?"

"No. I never saw his face, clearly."

"Um! A pity. Please go on, Mr. Pentreath."

The second interruption came when he mentioned the unconscious girl who had been transferred from one car to the other.

"You say you thought you recognised her?"

"It may be no more than a fancy. She was very like a girl I saw in Tulsa― the oil town in Oklahoma, some months ago."

"Oklahoma is a long way from here. Unless you know that girl is in England—"

"I don't. But you haven't heard everything. To-night I went to the Palace. There was a girl there who sang a solo piece, who was so very like the girl in Tulsa that she brought the latter to my mind."

"May have been the same girl—but a chance resemblance is more likely to be the explanation. Or— by Jove!''

"What?"

"Has it struck you that the girl at the palace may be the one you saw carried from the car?"

"Yes! I thought of that. One thing— it will be easy to find out. I don't know the artist's name, but there would not be many lady soloists."

"No! There will be no difficulty in testing that. Let me hear the rest." Pentreath went on with his story, and as he finished the sergeant offered comment."

"A queer story. There must be something behind that exchange of luggage and the transfer of those two girls. You have presented me with a puzzling case. Mr, Pentreath. You didn't chance to notice the numbers of those cars?"

"Never thought about them."

"Unfortunate. But—ah!"

The car slackened pace, and looking through the wind-screen Pentreath understood the reason for the sharp exclamation. A score yards ahead, betraying itself by that exaggerated whiteness of light-coloured things seen in strong headlights, was the body for which they had come to look. The sergeant pulled up the car, stepped out, and looked down at the man. With an effort Peter also left the car and Joined him.

"Not much here in the way of information, unless there are laundry marks. The shoes are of American make, I fancy. Well, he's beyond our help. Where did you find that car you used?"

"Under the trees there, a little way back. I think I can find the exact place."

The sergeant produced a flash-lamp, and by its aid they easily found the place where the wheel marks showed at the edge of the grass, and followed them to the point where tracks revealed the car had been parked.

"Here, unquestionably," said the sergeant, and began to search, holding his lamp close to the grass. After a little while he stooped and picked up something.

"What is that?" asked Pentreath.

"A spent cartridge. I fancy that man who was in the sports car was shot here, possibly whilst he was watching the man in that first saloon. Don't suppose I shall find anything else. They must have taken him unawares. I'll take another look at that man over there."

Peter followed him slowly, and since his head had recommenced its throbbing seated himself on the running-board of the car. A little listlessly he watched the sergeant examine the man's underclothing. After a little time, as the lights of the approaching ambulance cut a great arc of light in the avenue, he rose and approached Peter.

"The man's underclothing has the tab of a Chicago store, and that other man had an American passport. Looks as if some of their ruffians were trying their games over here. If they―"

He broke off as the ambulance drew up, and gave orders concerning the dead man. Then he spoke to Peter.

"You'll want to get to Vanwood, Mr. Pentreath, and I want to get to the end of a telephone wire, quickly. Suppose I run you there."

"I shall be awfully obliged."

"Then we'll start at once."

Peter and the sergeant entered the car, and the sergeant drove at a good pace for Vanwood. Only once did he break the silence before they swung through the gateway of the old Tudor mansion, and then to ask a couple of questions.

"Did you notice those cars closely, Mr. Pentreath? I mean, could you tell me the make of them?"

"No; but I happened to notice that the smaller car was black or dark blue when the big car put on its headlights."

"And there was a man in chauffeur's uniform, and a girl in the big car; and two men and that unconscious girl in the small one?"

"Yes."

"Thank you."

They drew up in front of the house, which appeared to be in darkness, but before Peter could ring the bell the door opened, revealing an elderly man, who was plainly the family butler. His jaw dropped a little as he caught sight of Pentreath with the sergeant at his shoulder. Then he recovered himself and spoke with grave concern.

"Nothing wrong, I hope, Mr. Peter?"

"A little accident, Barnish," answered Peter. "The officer wishes to use the telephone. Just switch on the light in the library, and put the tantalus and soda there. After that you can retire. I'm afraid I've spoiled your beauty sleep."

"Not at all, sir."

The butler led the way to the library, fulfilled the orders given, and withdrew, then the sergeant went to the telephone standing on a desk.

"Perhaps you'd better be alone, sergeant."

"Doesn't matter. I'm only going to give instructions for a hue and cry for those cars; and get in touch with county headquarters. Nothing private."

Whilst the sergeant telephoned, Peter mixed himself a double brandy and soda and drank if off; then, seated in a chair with his eyes closed, waited until the other had finished.

"Help yourself, sergeant," he said, indicating the tantalus.

"Thank you! Don't mind if I do. Looks as if I shall be up most of the night."

Peter liked the man, who was young for his position in the force, and, recognising that he was a little out of the ordinary run of country constabulary, put a leading question.

"Public school, aren't you?"

The sergeant laughed. "Uppingham and Cambridge—The Law Tripos. Took this job because it offered a quick career, at any rate, quicker than the Bar in these days. My name is Grantley."

"Ah! I've heard of you. You follow the hounds in spare moments."

"I still keep a hack— but field days are few. An ambitious man has to stick to his Job, you know."

"Well, you've got a case that should help you know."

"If I can pull it off— yes— but the chances are slim. Those cars may be in London now— and my one hope is really Joseph Pasquali's passport. That may give me the thread that will lead out or the maze; or it may prove Just a-flying end—but I won't keep you out of bed. I shall need to see you in the morning, and you'll be wanted for the inquest. I shall find you here if I telephone?"

"Yes; till noon, at any rate. But I have to go to town in the evening."

"That will be all right, now."

He rose from his chair. Peter saw him to the door and watched him drive off, then, feeling utterly done up, went to his room. He washed the cut in his head, plastered it, and, after rubbing his aching shoulder with liniment, retired at once.

Notwithstanding the adventures of the night he fell asleep almost immediately.  But his sleep was broken by dreams, in which recent events, oddly Jumbled, were given the vividness of a nightmare. It one dream he was hurrying down a side walk in Tulsa with a dead man on his shoulders, when he ran into a grey-eyed young lady in the abbreviated skirts of a revue chorus who insisted on his singing a song he could not remember, which worried him amazingly; and in the other he was driving a big, red char-a-banc, when down the road came a car of monstrous size. There was no room to pass, and as they crashed he himself slid into the darkness of unconsciousness, from which he emerged, in the odd way of dreams, to find himself crouching behind a tree watching the chauffeur of the car, who was standing in the road with a pistol in his hand. He saw the man's face clearly for one moment, then the man raised the pistol and fired. With the shot he awoke.

It was still dark, but there was sufficient light to show him the long mirror of the wardrobe, an oblong of misty silver. His eyes fixed themselves on it absently, and stared at its blank surface whilst he recalled the terror of his nightmare. Then, whilst he stared hi abstraction, an odd thing happened. In the mirror a man's form shaped itself— the chauffeur of his dreams, and now he saw the face quite clearly— a bony face, eagle-featured, with, hard, cruel eyes, and a tight-lipped mouth. He saw it only a moment, but so vividly that he half turned to look for the man's presence in the room. Then he laughed at himself. But the vision remained with him. When he shut his eyes he could recall that phantasmal face, feature by feature, line by line; and it was borne on him suddenly that it was no mere figment of his troubled dreams, but actual remembrance of a face seen, recorded by his sub-conscious mind and fixed on the tablets of memory.

He drew a sharp breath. The mind was capable of odd tricks, and that picture was not evidence; but he was assured that, though he could not recall having seen the murderer's face in the dark avenue, he must have done so, and here was the abiding vision of it.

With the full morning Sergeant Grantley appeared, bringing news that the inquest was postponed until the morrow to enable further inquiries to be made. He brought other news also. First that Scotland Yard had been called in, and that he was to work with an inspector who was coming down to take charge; and secondly that Pasquali's identity had been established.

"Who and what was he?" asked Peter.

"A Pinkerton agent, over, here on business... Bit of a surprise that— hey? That car you smashed up had been hired for a week from a firm in Portland Street. The information gathered from them gave us his hotel, and a search of his belongings revealed his line. A cable has gone to Pinkertons, and when we get the answer we may learn quite a lot."

"I hope so."

"Dennis—that's the C.I.D. man—will want to see you. He has my report, but naturally he prefers a first-hand account. You will be at his disposal, of course?"

"Of course."

"Then I will go. I've a couple of men combing the scene of the tragedy, and want to be there in case anything turns up."

He went his way, and presently appeared Inspector Dennis, a man of surprising taciturnity. Having heard Peter's account, he departed without offering any comment.

Free of any further immediate need for his services, Peter departed for town, and at night kept the engagement which he had mentioned to the sergeant. This took him to a ball at Masborough House. His hostess was an old friend, who, when he arrived late, shook a delicate fist in his face.

"I could slap you, Peter," she announced. "But on my express desire, May Endicott has reserved a couple of dances for you... of which you will immediately request confirmation."

"I am willing to be offered on any altar for your sake, m'lady," he laughed. "But tell me, who is May Endicott?"

"The latest protégée of the Daneby Dowager."

Pentreath made a face. He knew the kind of protégée who sought admission to the sacred circles under the wing of Lady Daneby. His hostess saw his distaste and laughed. "Don't look as if you were invited to have a tooth out. This particular protégée is American, rich as the Queen of Sheba but the sweetest child; a little lily, quite an ingénue, who looks on men as gods who walk the earth."

"Then she is certainly an ingénue, the only one America ever exported to these shores. Where shall I find the treasure?"

"You couldn't miss her if I sent you in blindfold. The men are buzzing round her like swarming bees about the queen. But I shall take you to her myself."

"That is very sweet of your The rope is In your hand. I shall not drag upon it; lead on, m'lady." Lady Masborough led on, and inside two minutes Pentreath found himself facing the lily-maid, a vision in white, at whose face he scarcely looked when his hostess made the introduction.

"Miss May Endicott— Mr. Pentreath."

The girl made a little bow, and then peter met her eyes, and forgot to be polite. For a moment he stood like a man turned to stone; and Lady Masborough watching saw a look of what appeared to be startled recognition leap in his face.

"Ah!" she said. "You have met May before?"

"No!" he said recovering himself quickly, and wondering if his eyes were playing tricks. "No!" he repeated, and achieved a laugh. "The lady I met before was called Jane."

3

AS he spoke the name Peter watched her closely. Her resemblance to the girl who he had heard so addressed in the dark avenue was so striking that he was almost convinced of her identity, though there were subtle differences which were impressed upon him as he watched her. The girl, however, betrayed no sign of embarrassment. There was no change in colour; not so much as an uneasy flicker of an eyelid, and she laughed frankly with girlish zest. "Jane— Mr. Pentreath. Jane— what?"

"Jane nothing! Just plain Jane."

"And that is all you know about her?"

There was no sort of challenge in the laughing question, and nothing watchful in the dark eyes as if was asked. He began to doubt. The best actress in the world could scarcely look so charmingly innocent in such circumstances; for had his suspicions been right the name he had dropped must have been a very bombshell shattering her equanimity. He forced himself to Join in her laughter.

"Almost!" he answered, gaily. "But then my opportunity was not a great one. I fell in love with her in a dark avenue when she was changing cars, and l heard her name, and that was all. I had no opportunity to declare myself."

"A lost romance," the girl laughed, but it seemed to him that her laughter was a little strained.

"What nonsense are you talking, Peter?" asked Lady Masborough. "The only Jane you ever knew is your Yorkshire aunt—"

"Heaven keep me!" he broke in, looking hastily round. "She is not here? No!" He heaved a sigh of mock relief, then continued: "But you are mistaken, m'lady. There really was this Jane of whom, for a moment, Miss Endicott reminded me, and who withdrew from my ken in a spanking car— a fine ship that passed in the night."

"Oh, rubbish!" laughed Lady Masborough. "You must make allowances, May. Peter is never serious, and he is notoriously given to leg-pulling."

"A libel," laughed Peter. "Nothing so indelicate I assure you, Miss Endicott. But— hark! There's the music. Shall we dance?"

The girl laughed, looked doubtful, and glanced at her card.

"I am engaged for this dance," she said, hesitatingly. "Do you think I ought?"

"Why not? The laggard should be here."

"He is coming," the girl laughed, demurely as she looked beyond his shoulder. Peter looked round and saw his best friend.

"Dick Podmore!" he ejaculated with mock scorn. "He is unworthy of you. Let him kick his heels―"

"Oh, but—but I could not do that," answered Miss Endicott with shy trepidation. It would be too dreadful.... You... you must wait for the next but one."

"I shall eat my heart till then," laughed Peter, and had no opportunity for more at the moment since Podmore broke on them with cheerful understanding of the situation.

"Pirate!" he said with a grin, bowed to the girl, and led her out to the dance. Peter watched them go with speculative eyes.

Was it possible that he was mistaken? Allowing for everything— the change of scene, the difference in dress, the fact that she was hat-less, the girl was marvellously like that other girl who had changed cars after the tragedy in the Avenue on the road to Vanwood. There were differences, however, but they were those of demeanour rather than of feature. That girl in Podmore's arms with her air of innocence, her demureness and girlish frankness, was poles asunder from that callous creature who had laughed whilst a dead man— foully murdered— lay at her feet in the road. The likeness of feature was there; but the difference in personality was emphatic; and he could not conceive May Endicott witnessing the killing of a man, not only undisturbed, but utterly indifferent to the crime.

After all, he reflected, he had seen that girl Jane in circumstances that was not so favourable for observation as this well-lit ballroom was. And if by any wild chance she was the same girl, what was she doing here at Masborough House under the aegis of the Daneby dowager? The latter lady, as was well known, not infrequently sponsored entrants to the circle in which she moved, and rumour had it that the impoverished resources of the family were in her case materially helped by this social activity. It was not likely that the dowager would make a mistake and take up a young lady whose references would not stand the strictest investigation. She could not afford to do that.

"Ah!" Across the room, he had seen the lady who was in his thoughts, and recognising that opportunity was knocking on his door promptly made his way to her.

Lady Daneby received him graciously enough, and was in no way averse to talking of her new protégée once Pentreath had brought the conversation round to the girl.

"American, of course," she owned, adding with laughter, "Americans are the only people who have any money in these days, and the girl is enormously rich, or will be."

She looked at him a little quizzically. "If the Pentreath coffers deeded replenishing, I should say that here is your golden chance, Peter.... Oh, I know that you are lifted, above such considerations. Your uncle has not been a spendthrift, and has had the sense not to try to keep pace with the vulgar millionaires, and his estate won't have to be hammered to pay the death duties when the time comes for doing so... But May is really a parti, and she is unspoiled as you can see— virginal you know in— er― every sense!" She gave a laugh and continued. "She is very simple; but without gaucherie. There are multitudes of things that she doesn't know—socially I mean—but that is not surprising and she will be an apt pupil."

"Why is it not surprising?" ventured Peter.

Lady Daneby laughed. "Oklahoma is not exactly the social centre of the United States, you know, and May comes from there."

"She does!"

Peter was a little staggered by the news, and possibly showed it; for the lady looked at him sharply, and then continued: "You are surprised, Peter! I don't wonder. I haven't a notion where Oklahoma lies; it sounds like the edge of the world to me. But things are not quite so bad as they sound. May has had a season in Washington Her old grandfather has sense, and is ambitious for his granddaughter who, until ten or twelve years ago, was fated to be a milkmaid."

"Ah! The grandfather is a farmer?"

"Was," corrected the lady with a laugh. "To-day he farms oil. The farm of which he was the owner was just a reservoir of petroleum as it turned out, and old Endicott had the wit to keep it in his hands when the Tulsa boom in oil lands came."

"He is in England?"

"No.... But he is coming when May makes her bow at Court."

"She is to be presented?"

"I have secured her that privilege, -and she will do me credit, I am sure. The girl has character and— er— deportment, which for such an occasion I am cynic enough to believe is more Important. Observe how she dances."

Pentreath obeyed the instruction, seeking out the girl and her partner as they moved in the throng. The dance for which Podmore had claimed her had been encored, and at the moment, as it chanced, the pair were but a few yards away and in full view. The girl danced an ungraceful dance with grace, moving lightly as a feather, and obviously no apprentice hand.

"Yes," he agreed, lightly, "she should make her curtsey all right."

Thenhappened a thing which stirred suspicion in him again. Over the shoulder of her partner the girl's eyes met his and swiftly passed from him to the dowager. Was it fancy or reality that in them leaped a light of apprehension? He could not be sure; for a second later her face was hidden from his view. But as his eyes followed the pair in the throng, without appearing to do so, twice he saw her glance in the direction of Lady Daneby and himself— almost questioningly, he thought. Had she reason to fear his receiving information that the dowager might be giving him? As he asked himself the question, he saw the girl laugh at something her partner said, and was immediately in doubt once more. The gleam of merriment in her eyes was . too real to be stimulated; her laughter too natural for the best actress in the world to achieve; and yet―

He remembered a question he had to ask, and veiled his real interest with an affected nonchalance.

"Has she been with you long, Lady Daneby?"

"Exactly nine hours," answered the dowager with a little laugh, "and already she has put her spell on me."

Pentreath laughed with her and pursued his inquiries. "You mean she is new to England?"

"She landed at Southampton from the Homeric this afternoon."

Pentreath quickly saw the implication of that news. If the girl had landed at Southampton that day she could not be the girl of the Avenue on the road to Vanwood. But with the suspicion stirring in his mind he saw possibilities and asked a further question.

"She was alone. You met her at Southampton?"

"My dear Peter, I am an old woman. I never rise before 10, and it was not in the contract that I should meet her in Southampton. Things are not what they were in my youth; and a girl of 20 these days is perfectly capable of Journeying from Southampton to Town alone. Besides, she had a car and chauffeur waiting for her, both having come over on an intermediate boat."

Peter would have liked to ask for a description of the chauffeur, but, afraid of rousing the dowager's suspicion without cause, refrained, though his suspicion grew swiftly as Jonah's gourd. His mind, working rapidly, began to connect things, and to vision possibilities that had not hitherto occurred to him. He searched the crowd of dancers with thoughtful gaze, found the pair he sought quite close to him, and then as, over the shoulder of her partner, the girl smiled at him with innocent frankness, his suspicions received a check.

"A mare's nest!" he thought to himself. "What a fool I am!" But, though checked, the suspicion remained in the background of his mind. He looked at Lady Daneby again. "You say that Farmer Endicott is coming to England?"

"Very shortly. But I understand that he will not intrude. Not that such a thing would greatly matter." The Dowager laughed. "Honest worth― when it runs to millions— is accepted anywhere to-day, and Society is charitable to gilded quaintness."

Peter did not challenge the cynical utterance, and after a little more careless conversation drifted away; but he was at hand when the time for his own dance came. The girl was radiant, obviously happy, and her eyes he thought had the innocence of a child. His suspicions receded still further, and as they took the floor he was almost convinced that he must have been deceived by a chance resemblance. But presently the doubt came back.

"Lady Daneby tells me that you come from Oklahoma," said Peter to his newly-made acquaintance, May Endicott, as they commenced to dance. He spoke lightly enough, but was aware that she stiffened slightly as he mentioned the place.

"Yes," she said hastily.

"From Tulsa?"

"Yes," answered the girl, a rather sharp note in her voice. "Do you know It?"

"Fairly well, I was there at the height of the oil boom. I met quite a number of speculators and of people made suddenly rich by the 'flowing gold.'"

As he spoke he saw a keen look come in the dark eyes, and had an impression that the girl had grown watchful; but she answered easily and naturally. "Then perhaps you met my grandfather?"

"If I knew his name "he suggested, smilingly.

The girl gave a laugh.

"Edward Henry Endicott— but usually known as 'Ole Teddy' Endicott."

"Ah, I did not meet him, but I did hear of him, and once I saw him. Something of a character, isn't he?"

"Yes," the girl smiled. "He has his idiosyncrasies."

"One of which Is driving a pair of horses in a buckboard, rather than a petrol machine. Isn't that so?"

"Yes."

A reserve had crept into the girl's manner, and Pentreath was sure that now she was on her guard. He wondered to himself if snobbish instincts accounted for the change or whether there was some deeper reason, and, now, definitely probing, continued airily: "He was in the buckboard when I saw him, and as the horses were out of hand they had spread confusion far and wide in Main Street, which was full of crumpled wings and protesting auto drivers.... You remember the occasion, perhaps?"

"Yes," answered the girl with a little laugh. "Grandpa gave a graphic account on his return. He rather enjoyed himself that morning."

"He must have," Pentreath laughed back; and at the same time knew that he had caught the girl in a lie; for the story he had related was a mere invention, designed to prove her. The girl took up the cue given, and expanded on the driving adventures of "Ole Teddy" Endicott.

"He was always having trouble of that sort," she confided with a laugh. "He would drive half-broken horses, and what he spent in new buckboards would have bought him a first-class auto. But he would have none of them, and I never knew him even go for a ride."

"But his prejudices did not extend to forbidding you to have one? I understand you run a car."

For just the fraction of a second the girl hesitated, then replied lightly. "Oh, yes. Grandpa gave it to me for my twentieth birthday."

"A handsome present," he laughed. "I envy you."

"But you―"

"My bill for taxis keeps me poor. And last night the one I was being driven in broke down miles from anywhere. I had to walk, and it was then that I ran into the encounter with Jane."

"Jane!... Oh, the girl you mentioned. Tell me, I should like to hear of your adventure."

"Well, here's the dance ending, and there's the conservatory. If we pop in I can tell you the moving story without some wild-eyed man coming to annexe you when I am half-way through."

They entered the conservatory and found a secluded seat. Then, having her permission, Peter lit a cigarette, and proceeded with his narrative.

"My taxi broke down some miles from my uncle's place, and my driver having promised to send me a whole char-a-banc for myself I set out to walk— in pumps— through the moonlight. I came to a dark place under the trees, and saw a big car coming down the road towards me. Then I became aware of an unlighted saloon standing at the side of the road; and with a thought that Providence was being kind I began to move towards it. Then its lights winked in and out, signalling to the other car, and, interested in the phenomenon, I charged straight into another that was standing under the trees— empty as I thought."

"As you thought, Mr. Pentreath?" The girl's voice expressed deep interest. "Then "

"There was a dead man in it, as I discovered later when he leaped out on me."

The girl laughed suddenly.

"Now I know you are telling the tale, Mr. Pentreath, romancing, pulling the bow. Dead men do not leap out on live ones."

"This one did. You shall hear."

He continued his narrative, watching the girl closely, but without observing any sign of apprehension; whilst her interest was flattering. More than once she interrupted him with questions.

"Jane! You heard the name? You saw her?"

"A little indistinctly. But I caught the name clearly, and I heard her laugh with that dead man at her feet."

Miss Endicott shivered a little.

"How perfectly terrible! That girl must have a heart of stone."

"And nerves of steel!"

"Yes! I should have fainted. I am sure I should."

"There was that other girl, who had―"

"You saw her clearly?"

"Quite clearly! And the odd thing was that I thought I recognised her. I am sure that I have seen her before."

"Where?" The question came sharply, but the girl's manner expressed nothing tout a tense interest in his story.

"You will scarcely believe me," he answered lightly, "but it was in Tulsa, Oklahoma."

"Oh, no!" The girl's voice expressed scepticism. "You really must not expect me to believe that, Mr. Pentreath. The thing is too pat. It is like those dime-stories―"

"The truth, I assure you, Miss Endicott."

"But—oh, you must be mistaken!"

"I am sure I was not."

"Then you know her well?"

"I had spoken to her. Indeed, I think I may say, without boasting, that once I saved her life."

"Then you know her name?" The question was asked naturally. The girl's voice betrayed only curiosity, and her eyes indicated nothing beyond deep interest; and whilst at the moment Peter would have given a thousand pounds for the knowledge he was forced to confess his ignorance.

"No!" he said, regretfully. "I never heard it."

The girl gave a little exclamation of disappointment.

"Oh, that is a great pity. If she came from Tulsa, I might have known her.... But the rest of your story, Mr. Pentreath. Quick, I must hear it before I go."

Peter finished the narrative, and as he ended a young man came down the green aisle of the conservatory making for them. His purpose was evident, and as he drew nearer the girl rose to her feet. Pentreath rose also, and the girl turned to him laughingly.

"Mr. Pentreath, you have made me lose a dance. But it was worth it. You tell a story well, but— pardon me―" her laughter trilled again, girlish, carefree, "I really don't believe a word of it. Lady Daneby was right. You sure are a puller of legs! But you shall tell me another story when our next dance falls due. ... I am a whale for thrills.... And that's pure Tulsa, which Lady Daneby would shake me for if she heard me say it. ... Make the next story a good one."

She looked at him, laughing, and, turning to her new partner, moved away. Pentreath, all his ideas in confusion and his suspicions like a pricked balloon, watched her go. Where the green aisle ended at the silken curtain that gave admission to the ballroom she looked back over her shoulder. Her girlish lace was still wreathed in laughter and her eyes were dancing. She waved a hand impulsively, and then the curtain hid her. He continued to stare at the curtain absorbed for quite a long time. Then he gave a short laugh, and murmured to himself: "Maybe, I am just a braying ass, or I need spectacles! In either case―"

He did not finish the half-spoken thought. Retreating to the most secluded seat he could find he lit another cigarette and gave himself up to thought.

Some time passed; then he rose from his seat, his face that of a man who had taken some resolution. He walked towards the ballroom, and there came face to face with Lady Masborough.

"Well," she asked, lightly. "And what do you think of the latest protégée?"

"A lady of charming laughter!" he said, promptly. "Even now I am seeking her."

"She has gone!"

"Gone!" he echoed blankly, so that his hostess was misled.

"Poor Peter!" she laughed, commiseratingly. "But you will have other opportunities. The Dowager does her duty by her charges. And it all else fails, I will arrange a dinner for you "

"You light a taper for me," he said cheerfully.

"A taper! What are you talking about, Peter?"

He laughed as he quoted:

"Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,

Adorns and cheers the way―"

"Then I shall make It a whole candelabra!" laughed his hostess, and passed on.

HALF an hour later Peter left the ball to go to his club, where he proposed to spend the night. The weather was fine, and as he stood at the top of the steps inhaling the cool air gratefully he decided to walk, and set out on his way, strolling slowly; thinking over the events of the night.

Except for a few cars sweeping westward, and an occasional pedestrian, the Mall was deserted, and he was entirely unaware of a couple of men on foot who had followed him all the way from Masborough House, nor had he any eye for the large saloon car which, going at its slowest possible pace, seemed to be regulating its speed to that of the two men. A policeman appeared, and the car moved more quickly, drawing ahead of both the two shadowers and of Pentreath himself, coming to a standstill some fifty yards in front. When they had passed the policeman one of the shadowers left his fellow and, quickening his pace, passed Pentreath without so much as a glance, disappearing in the shadows of the plane trees.

A little farther on, quite close to the standing saloon, Peter was roused from his absorption by a man who suddenly presented himself, and, a little hesitatingly, asked for help. The man was quite respectful in his manner, and so far as Peter could see in the shadows, was decently dressed and by no means the usual tramp.

With a thought that here was some poor devil really down on his luck he stopped and put a hand to his pocket for a coin. As he did so he saw the driver of the saloon slip from his seat and open the door. A little curious, he watched the man, wondering if he were expecting a passenger, and at the same second his fingers - encountered the coin they sought—a florin. He drew it forth, and handed it to the man. "That will see you through the night," he said.

The man's band closed not only on the coin, but on Pentreath's hand also. The fellow moved like lightning, and changing his position jerked Peter's arm behind him, twisting it so excruciatingly that a sharp cry was torn from him.

"Stow the squawking, curse you, or―"

To Peter there came the sound of running steps, which his assailant did not seem to mind, the driver of the saloon was standing by the open door, watching apparently quite unmoved by the fact that a gentleman was being assaulted less than three yards away. In a flash it was borne on him what was happening; and whilst the other thrust his arm upward, causing him agonising pain, he kicked backward; his aggressor. He found a shin, and the man ripped an oath.

"Damn your eyes! You―" Peter remembered the constable, and shouted hoarsely: "Help! Murder!"

"Shut your month! Oh, curse it, Jake, slice the guy!"

Something struck Peter a shattering blow at the base of the skull. He was vividly aware of the impact, saw stars that seemed to be in collision; then felt himself falling, as it seemed, into a gulf of darkness beyond the edge of the world.

4

FROM the darkness of unconsciousness into which he had plunged, Peter emerged slowly, and when his mind began to function he realised, with some wonder, that he was in a closed car which was travelling at a great rate. He could tell that by the speed at which the telegraph poles flashed in to view in the car's headlights and were left behind. How had he come to be in that car?

For the moment, the answer was not forthcoming. There was a certain hiatus in his memory which made for difficulty in finding the explanation, and he began carefully to go over such events as he remembered in the endeavour to account for his presence in his racing car.

He had been to Masborough House, and had left with the intention of walking to his club. On the Mall he had been accosted by a man to whom he had given a florin. At that point the gap in his memory was bridged as by a flash of light. He remembered the man's sudden assault, the halted saloon with its chauffeur standing at the open door; the sound of running feet, and the voice of his assailant ordering some other man to "slice" him. He remembered a blow on the back of his head; and mentally ejaculated the slang word which explained what had befallen him.

"Coshed!"

But what was he doing in this saloon? The men who had assailed him had probably meant to rob him, and—

He lifted his head from the padded corner to look round, and as he did so a hard thing was thrust against his ribs, and a harsh voice addressed him.

"Better keep still, if you aint wanting a funeral!"

Startled, he looked to his right, and in the unlighted car dimly made out a man's form. Cautiously he moved a hand, and as his stealthily groping finger touched the something thrust against his ribs, decided to remain still, for, as well as if he had seen it, he knew the thine was the barrel of a pistol. The discovery was a startling one; but it did not disturb him unduly, and since the order to keep still was not one to keep quiet, he sought information.

"What's the great idea?" he asked with affected airiness.

The man with the pistol chuckled as at a Jest.

"Idea is that yew're needin' country air, an' that London's bad for y'ur nerves; so we're givin' yew a rest-cure"

"Very thoughtful of you, I'm sure'" retorted Peter silkily, "but if I may say so— damnably officious!"

The other man laughed.

"Take it cool. An' the pistol wont bang off."

Peter considered, remembered the name that he had heard on the Mall and put two and two together. Jake was pure American, and the man at his side spoke with the nasal accent characteristic of the States. He had little doubt that the men into whose hands he had fallen were the men whose nefarious activities he had witnessed on the previous night, but since they could not possibly have been aware of that fact, he was puzzled that they should have concerned themselves with him at all.

"Sure you're not making a mistake?" he asked, carelessly.

"Wot?"

"I mean that you haven't collared the wrong patient?"

At that the man laughed raucously.

"I guess y'are the right patient right enough— Peter Pentreath, Honourable an' all the other frills. Made sure of that when we got yew. It's fair wonderful how yew guys go round tabbed. Name in y'ur tile; there's a tab in y'ur pocket, another on your nose-rag, not to mention a card-case. I guess yew don't mean to be left wide to the world if yew loses y'ur memory one o' these days."

"You do seem to have overhauled "

"Wanted to make sure yew didn't get fresh. Was looking for a gun!"

"A gun! Good Lord!"

Peter's tone expressed ludicrous amazement.

"Never put eyes on one, I s'pose," grunted the other.

Only in a shop window," answered Peter, untruthfully. "There is a gunsmith in the Strand who makes a display. I have often paused to look. But we wander from the point. Why should you be so interested in my health? Such benevolence puzzles me, and―"

"Because yew've shoved y'ur smeller where it ain't wanted. That's why!"

"Smeller? Ah! my nose, of course I But you are not very illuminating, my friend. If I knew wherein my— er— smeller had offended "

"If yew can't guess. I ain't going' to tell yew. An' anyway, this interview is closed. Shut y'ur meat-trap and sit still."

Peter did both, since quietness and stillness were conducive to thought. If he were right in his surmise of his captors' identity with the ruffians of the previous night there could be but one reason for this violent abduction. They men must be aware that he had been a witness of their evil activities. But how had they learned that? Not from that altogether efficient sergeant, nor yet from the C.I.D. inspector, be was sure. There remained the taxi-man, possibly the garage man with the break-down outfit, and the men with the ambulance. But nothing was less likely than that the scoundrels had come in touch with these men at all. Yet they knew his name; had presumably followed him from Masboroogh House, and―

"Ah!"

He made the ejaculation aloud, and the man at side pressed the pick sharply against his ribs.

"Somethin' biting yew?" he asked, harshly.

"A hungry specimen of pulex irritans," he laughed back.

"Flames! what's that?"

"My friend, your education has been neglected. Pulex irritans stands for the common flea "

"Hone of y'ur sass!" interrupted the man rudely. "Yew'll find it don't pay."

Peter did not retort. Instead he considered the thought which had occasioned the ejaculation. He had spoken rather freely to that girl Endicott, indeed he had practically given her an account of the whole adventure of last night. He had wanted to test her and he remembered that she had left Masborough House early. That fact had surprised him at the time; but now, as he thought of a possible reason for it, he found it almost startling. Was she really the girl who had changed cars, and, realising the extent of his knowledge, had she gone to warn these men who had abducted him? The explanation fitted all the facts as he knew them. But was it the tight one? There might be a catch in it somewhere as in those cross-word puzzles where alternative solutions were possible, both fining the bill. The thing looked black against the sky but he could not be sure. He put the problem from his mind for a more Immediate one. To what place was he being taken, and what did his captors propose to do with him? Suddenly he Jerked a question at a man by his side. "I say, old top, how long does this joy-ride last?"

"Long as it takes this auto to get there!"

"There! Where?"

"Sanatorium, where room's reserved for yew."

Pentreath did not pursue his enquiries.

Instead, he watched the road hoping to learn his whereabouts, but he failed. The villages they raced through gave him no clue; but at the entrance to one small place an "A.A." sign flashed into view and he caught the beginning of a name, "Moul—".

Then, at a corner, a tradesman's advertisement leaped out and remained in his mind. "HANSOM'S HANDSOME HATS."

Beyond the village the saloon slowed down sharply and rough voices shouted to the driver. Through the wind-screen Pentreath caught sight of a road engine with a string of yellow wagons behind, and read a name on the post painted in 12in. letters. "CROWDER'S MENAGERIE."

The menagerie almost blocked the road. The driver of the engine pulled up and the saloon crawled by. Halfway through the crawl Peter realised suddenly that he was letting a golden opportunity slip by. He was next to a door. If he could turn the catch and open the door before the saloon accelerated again he might make a leap for liberty. Silently his left hand stretched and groped for the handle. He found it and pressed it down to release the catch, then holding the handle to prevent the door flying open suddenly he pressed steadily. The door did not yield. He leaned forward a little and to the pressure of his hand added that of his knee. The door remained firm, and, as he realised that it must be locked, a little thoughtlessly he let the handle go. The closing catch made a perfectly audible click, and the man at his side laughed.

"Too bad! Don't give a guy a chance, do it?"

Peter did not trouble to reply. It was obvious that his captors had taken all precautions, and in any case, as the saloon accelerated at the moment the chance he had dreamed of had gone by on the other side. He stared ahead. There were two other men in the car, one at the wheel and the other by his side. Apart from the threat of the pistol in the hand of the man seated beside him, it was clear that violence would not serve him. One man against three —all probably armed and quite ruthless— was not even sporting odds.

THE saloon slowed down again, made a turn to the left, and followed what was obviously a rather uneven lane; for the bumping was noticeable; and two or three times small branches in the hedge scratched squeakingly against the panes. Then the saloon pulled up, and one of the men in front descended.

Peter caught the screech of ungreased hinges, and guessed that a gate or gates had been opened. The man re-entered the saloon and they moved forward again. In the glare of the headlights the front of a creeper-clad house became visible, with a single lighted window, and at that window a white-clad figure momentarily appeared and then vanished.

Intrigued, Peter stared at the window until the saloon halted, but without feeing granted any further glimpses of the person whom he had seen. As the saloon came to a standstill one of the men in front descended, unlocked and flung open the rear door, and then moved to the house, where the opening of a door and the lighting of a lamp revealed a small hall, decorated with shields and spears and antlered heads.

The man by Pentreath's side spoke tersely.

"Git down. An' mind—no hanky-panky tricks."

He emphasised the order with a prod of the pistol, and Peter descended, the man following him closely. Then followed a new order. "Step out!"

The door of the house was indicated, and Pentreath stepped out, with the muzzle of the other's pistol in the small of his back. In the hall his guard was joined by the other two men, the door was closed, and in the light of the hall lamp Peter made a swift survey of his abductors. One of them was plainly the leader, and with something of a thrill Pentreath recognised the bony, eagle-faced man whose face he had visioned in the glass at Vanwood.

He had been right there. That was the man who had fired the brutal shot! The others were of a different type, dark-eyed, olive-skinned, with faces of brutal aspect; of some Latin race he guessed.

He had time for no closer observation; for the bony-faced man pointed to the staircase which opened from the hall.

"Up yew git," he said, laconically, and spoke to one of his companions. 'Do the honours, Tony."

The man to whom he spoke led the way to the stairs; the others closed behind Pentreath, and again the hard muzzle of the pistol was thrust against his spine.

"March!"

He marched, following the man Tony to a landing from which opened a second and smaller staircase. Then the man produced a flashlight and led on. Pentreath followed to a smaller landing from which two doors opened. The guide unlocked one of them and flinging it open stepped aside. The room was in utter darkness, and Pentreath hesitated on the threshold, a little apprehensive of what might follow his entrance.

The man with the pistol jabbed his spine cruelly.

"Get into the hutch, bunny."

He crossed the threshold and as he did so swung round to face the trio. The man with the flash-lamp directed its ray on his face, making him blink; then laughed. "Scared!... Won't give no trouble."

Peter thought it was time to lodge a protest.

"If you'll tell me what it Is all about; and why I am made the victim of this outrage―"

"Stow the blather, saphead, an' strip y'ur duds."

Again Peter affected innocence. "Do you mean that I shall take off my―"

"Strip, curse you." said the man, menacingly. There was it seemed nothing else for It, and slowly Pentreath took off his evening coat. His dress waistcoat followed; then his collar and tie, and there he stopped.

"I really must protest! This is indecent "

"Kick off them pumps! We'll leave you y'ur step-into's."

Understanding that he was to retain his nether-garments, Pentreath unprotestingly parted with his shoes. Then the man with the lamp turned its ray to a corner of the room, revealing a camp-bed, and the harsh-voiced chauffeur spoke again.

There's y'ur couch. Yew'll be as cosy as a flea in a blanket. Breakfast is at nine sharp, an' if yew ain't a bone-head yew'll just make y'urself at home. Windows are barred, an' the door has a patent lock. Yew can howl y'urself dumb an' nobody'll notice; but by gee if yew try it I'll come an' stop y'ur mouth with the butt of a gun. Git me?"

"I— er— understand "

"Gosh!" the man mocked, "yew sure are the guy for brains!"

He swung round to his fellows. "Pick up them glad rags an' shoes, Tony; an' bring 'em along."

The man addressed gathered up Peter's clothing and shoes, and the trio moved towards the door.

"Night-night, baby!"

The door shut behind them. A lock snapped. For a moment Pentreath stared into the darkness, listening; He heard the men descend the stairs; the sound of a door flung to rather heavily reached him, and a deep silence followed, then he whispered, feelingly: "Well, I'm damned!"

His first move was to grope his way to one of the windows through which came the gleam of stars. The bars of which the man had spoken were inside, strong from the feel of them, and rather close together. He spanned them with his fingers, and decided that a man would have to remove three of them before he could squirm through, which was a completely hopeless task for a man without tools. He felt his way to the other window. It was barred to match, and realising his helplessness he stood for a moment staring into the night. A misty sheen, well below, and apparently a little distance from the house, caught his eyes. He watched it curiously for a little time, then caught the rippled image of a star, and knew that he was gazing on running water.

"The river!" he whispered to himself, then grew suddenly alert at a sound which came from somewhere in the depths of the house. A door opened. The sound of footsteps in the hall below reached him clearly. He heard them begin to ascend the stairs, and with the thought that some evil might be intended against himself groped about until his hand encountered a chair. A poor weapon, he thought, against men armed with pistols; but with both hands gripping the back of it, ready for action, he waited.

The footsteps halted on the first landing, and faintly there came to him the click of a lock. Then through the utter stillness sounded the rumble of a voice. It seemed to come from beneath his feet, and guessing that the room below had an unplastered ceiling, he slipped quietly to the floor, stretched himself full length, and with his ear against the polished board strained to hear. The rumble was more audible, but no word reached him; until suddenly a girlish voice cried in anguished fear.

"I will not!.. I will not." Then a man's voice, harsh and dominant, sounded clearly.

"Stop that bleating. It ain't no good, prink this medicine an' be done with it. I'm y'ur friend. If them others hear, an' find yew moving about, as like as not they'll scupper yew an' drop yew in the river there... drink!"

A murmur followed, and a little anguished outburst.

"But why do they want―"

"S-s-s-s-sh! If they git the sound of y'ur voice There's the glass. Swallow the stuff—sharply, girl!"

For a dozen seconds Peter heard nothing, then the man's voice sounded again.

"That's sensible. Now lie down. Tomorrow I'll git yew out of this; don't yer worry about that, honey."

There was a noise of movement; a door below closed, and heavy feet descended the stairs.

Pentreath himself did not move. With his ear glued to the board he waited, listening. A desolate sound of feminine weeping. It fairly wrung his heart.

"Girl," the man had called her; and he remembered the white-clad form he had seen at the lighted window, and again remembered the unconscious girl whom he had seen transferred from one car to the other in the avenue on the road to Vanwood. He had no doubt that the weeping girl in the room below was the same one, brought to this house and kept there against her will. He wondered if he should try to communicate with her and assure her of the presence of a friend. If he tapped on the floor and spoke she would hear and—

The sound of movement and of voices downstairs deflected him from his purpose. The men apparently were ascending the stairs, no doubt on their way to bed. He would have to delay until they were asleep, or risk discovery. He decided to wait; and lifting himself from the floor his hand encountered the fine silver chain attached to a button of his trousers and running to one of his pockets.

"Duffer!" he whispered to himself exultantly, and thrusting his hand in the pocket drew forth the thin gold petrol lighter that was attached to the chain. As he opened it the flint sparked, the wick kindled, and almost the first things he saw by its tiny flame were a pair of candlesticks flanking a mirror on a dressing chest in the corner of the attic. He moved swiftly towards them, and discovered that in each was something like an inch of candle.

"Eureka!" he whispered, and, lighting one of the candles, looked round. The walls of the attic were papered with what was plainly a nursery subject— Noah's Ark preparing for sea; the animals, a long procession, marching in two by two, the bearded patriarch, at what looked like a buttery hatch, with the dove on his forefinger; and the lonely bird winging over the flood with the olive leaf in its beak. Plainly at some time the attic had been a nursery or a children's playroom, as that paper revealed, and he looked farther round.

Then his heart leaped, as overhead he caught sight of a child's swing looped up on a beam, with its double ropes twisted about the seat. Those ropes―

No! He remembered the bars at the windows. Unless he could force them the ropes would be of no use to him, and a very cursory examination revealed to him that the bars were solid and firmly leaded in the stonework. A little dashed, he continued his examination; and presently descried a thing that brought swift uplift— a man-hole in the boarded ceiling, quite close to the beam where the swing hung.

It was well out of his reach, but standing on the chair he detached the swing, tested the rope, and a moment later was pulling himself up, hand over hand. Grasping the hook to which the rope was slung, and clinging to the rope with his legs, he stretched a hand and thrust at the board covering the man-hole, which -was almost immediately above his head. To his delight with a little creaking sound it yielded at his first effort, and very cautiously he worked it clear of the hole until it rested on the ceiling.

His way was now open; and he hauled himself up until he was lying beneath, the tiles, listening to the sound of trickling water. He could see nothing, and deciding that he must have a light he descended, secured one of the pieces of candle, leaving the other burning, and once mere swarmed up to the roof. There with his lighter he lit the candle and looked round.

Two or three cisterns met his eyes, and a criss-cross of pipes with nothing else but the tiles so close that he had to stoop. He explored carefully, crawling from beam to team; and then as he had half-expected, came on a second man-hole. Above it, he listened carefully. No sound reached him except the faint one of trickling water. Cautiously he lifted the trap and peered down, holding his candle to give him a view of the room below. There was a hand-basin against the wall, with a tap left carelessly on; a table on which were photographic baths and other paraphernalia, which indicated that the attic was used as a darkroom.

Without wasting time he blew out his candle, putting it in his pocket for safety; and then lowered himself through the man-hole. He hung for a moment at the full stretch of his arms, and dropped to the floor. Shoeless though he was, he made something of a noise, his weight shaking the room and making things rattle more than he liked. For a little while he remained perfectly still, listening, assured that if any one chanced to be in the room beneath they must have heard the sound of his descent. He heard nothing, however, and reassured he lit his fag-end of candle once more and opened the door of the room.

The staircase was quite close, and the stairs themselves were a mere well of darkness. He moved towards them lightly and quickly; descended them with scarcely more noise than a mouse might have made, and found that the first landing was also in complete darkness. He did not linger there. Passing along it he reached the main stairs, and was half-way down them when, overhead, he heard the click of a catch which to his alert ears proclaimed the opening of a door.

"Some one heard!"―the thought flashed through his mind his first impulse was to blow out the candle; but, remembering that he would need its light to find the outer door he checked the impulse and hurried down the remaining stairs. As he reached the hall a voice hailed him from above.

"Say Jake, is that yew?"

He did not answer. The door was before him; and he saw that it was bolted and locked. He slid the bolt back, slipped the catch of the Yale lock; and opened the door. As he did so a voice roared from the stairs.

"By gosh!"

In the same second of time the staircase was filled with shattering sound. A bullet sang by him so closely that the wind of it extinguished the candle he held. The fact probably saved his life; for the next second there was another shot. The second bullet whined close by his head, and jerking the door behind him, with a thought that it would serve both as a shield and a check to pursuit, he ran forth into the night.

5

WHEN  Peter had entered the house, and later when he had looked from the attic window, the night had been clear; but as he ran for his life he was met by a chilly mist which blanketed everything. Remembering the nearness of the river, he was not surprised; but he found the mist very confusing, and since he had only the haziest notion of direction almost immediately he crashed in a shrubbery and stubbed his right toes badly against some obstruction. Behind him, he caught a clamour of voices, and with all sense of direction lost hurried on.

He heard the door behind him open. A flood of light streaming from the doorway was immediately swallowed by the mist, making no more than a slightly luminous patch. He tried to mark his position by this, but failed, and as he ran on went chest high in a bush. The impact almost knocked the breath put of him, and at the same time the noise indicated his whereabouts to his pursuers. Behind him a hoarse voice shouted directions. "This way—towards the river! Spread!"

The voice was like a spur. He leaped forward. His shoeless feet struck gravel, which hurt cruelly; but a second later he found the blessed relief of  turf, and spurted for his life. That he was on a lawn his feet assured him, and that was all he knew; but it flashed on him suddenly that since the road lay on the other side of the house, the lawn in all probability led to the river bank. It shelved sharply, was broken by a terrace down which he fell; but picking himself up swiftly, he ran lightly on.

Voices reached him out of the murk. They seemed very close; but the river was closer. He was on the bank of it before he was aware, tried to save himself, then fell in with a resounding splash. The shock of the unexpected immersion was considerable. He came up gasping, but despite his lack of breath, on the alert.

"There, by gee! Plug him, Jake!"

He struck out, knowing that he had been seen, and a little apprehensive of the bullet which he feared would find him. But the shot was not fired, instead there reached him the sound of a hoarse voice.

"Gone to water. Get that durned boat. Sharp, Tony."

Noiselessly he struck out, going down-stream, and now blessing heaven for the mist, which, lying thick on the face of the water, hid him effectually.

He heard the voices of his pursuers as they pushed off in the boat, caught the splash of oars clumsily handled, and in the same moment had a flashing sense of opportunity.

Unless there was some man whom he had not seen the house was left unguarded. The last thought in the minds of his pursuers would be that he would double back to the house from which he had escaped. But there was that girl whom he had glimpsed at the window and the sound of whose weeping had reached him in the attic. Now whilst those ruffians were seeking him in the river he might return to the house and possibly deliver the girl from their hands; at any rate he would satisfy himself as to her identity.

He could hear the oars splashing behind him, and whilst, in fog, sounds were very misleading, he was convinced that he could safely make for the bank. Swimming quietly across the current, he reached a place where shrubs overhung the water, and clinging to one of them heard the boat go by. Then he climbed to the bank, listened for a moment, and started for the house.

In the fog the going was difficult, and his shoe-less condition made things, worse. He was in a  copse, and there was a good deal of small undergrowth which tried his feet severely; whilst the necessity for keeping parallel with the river was another source of trouble, since, if he diverged, there was some risk of losing his direction and missing the house altogether. But thrusting his way through the bushes, dodging under small trees, he came at last to a boundary wall. Investigation revealed that it was guarded by a triple cheval-de-frise of barbed wire projecting outward and impossible to climb. He wasted no time in attempting it. Feeling his way to the end of the wall he slipped into the water and landed again on the farther side.

The short turf beneath his feet was reassuring. Somewhere in front of him was the house, and he began to move forward away from the river, presently he stepped on gravel; which made him wince. Then directly in front of him he saw dimly the outline of a gable. With his hand on the wall he felt his way round, turned a corner, and saw a luminous patch in the mist.

"The doorway!"

He had no doubt of it. In the hurry of pursuit the three men, as he had hoped, had left the door wide open. He moved towards it with confidence, reached the steps, and for a moment stood listening. The house was silent as a churchyard at midnight, and outside there was no sound but the drip of moisture from the trees. He took a long breath, then resolutely crossed the threshold and stepped into the trophy-hung hall.

The swing-lamp which bad apparently been hastily kindled was beginning to smoke; but by its light he perceived a candle and matches on a table. He lit the candle, and carrying, it with him swiftly mounted the stairs. Remembering the position of the lighted window at which he had seen the girl, it was easy to locate the door, and he was aided by the fact that of the five doors upon the landing one only was closed and had a key on the outside.

He knocked at the door and received no answer to his summons, tried again with the same result, then, since time was pressing, he turned the key, opened the door, and entered the room. It was a bed-chamber, and in his first glance round he knew that he had made no mistake, for on the high pillow of the bed a girl's fair head rested.

He moved swiftly nearer, and as he did so all his suspicions were confirmed. The sleeper was the girl whom he had seen transferred from one car to the other on the road to Vanwood, and, as he realised with a little thrill, she was the girl whose life he had saved in far-away Tulsa months ago. He had no doubt upon the matter whatever, and for a few seconds he stood there, looking down into the beautiful face, considering alt the implications of the things he had seen and heard and of her presence in this solitary house.

Then the necessity for action thrust itself upon him. He stretched a cold hand and touched her shoulder. He shook her gently, with the same negative result. He tried again, with more force, and the girl's eyes remained closed. He caught her shoulders and tried to raise her, and as he did so the fair head lolled back in the lifeless way of the unconscious. Then he remembered the urgent voice the man which he had overheard' in the attic.

"There's the glass. Swallow the stuff, sharp, girl!"

"Drugged!" he whispered to himself, and wondered what he could do.

There were two courses possible. He might carry her forth, unconscious as she was, or, leaving her in this strange house, go for assistance. But he did not know where the latter might be found or how far he would have to seek it, and in the meantime. He came to a swift decision.

"The strong man act!"

But in that very moment his intention was frustrated. From outside came the sound of voices. He listened tensely. The men who had gone out in the boat were returning. There was not time to carry out his purpose of taking the girl away. If the men returned to the house immediately he himself would scarcely have time to get clear before they reached the door. He wasted no time. Hurriedly, he left the sleeping girl and fled across the landing and down the stairs.

Not until he was in the hall did he remember that he had left the candle burning in the bedroom, but there was no time to go back, for through the open door came the crunching of feet on the gravel and distinctly the sound of a man's voice reached him.

"We'll have to get the guy, or the game is busted!"

HE slipped out into the mist, and in his stockinged feet tiptoed in a direct line across the gravel. He was only just in time to escape discovery. Scarcely was he out of the zone of light about the doorway when the footsteps of the returning men sounded more clearly, and he knew that they had turned the corner of the house and were moving towards the doorway. He himself tiptoed forward, hoping to find the gate. He stumbled on a border of turf, stopped, and with his hands felt that it was curving upwards the left— for the gateway he was sure.

Thankful for the relief it offered to his feet, he stepped on to the grass and followed the border round: Within three minutes he reached the-gate, and just as he did so he heard a shout from the direction of the house.

"Heckalorum! Look there, Jake!"

"Look―" began another voice to ' be interrupted. "That pool! That guy's been here. Doubled back in his tracks. There's his wet footprints going right to the stairs. After, that gal as like as―"

"Up yew go, Tony, sharp! Give us the news, an' we'll get the dub yet."

Pentreath silently opened the gate and slipped through, but as he pulled it to behind him his hand slipped on the wet bar and the gate closed with a loud clash. A voice roared through the mist.

"Perdition. That's the gate. The guy's just hoofed it. Come on, boys!"

There was a scurry of feet on the gravel as Pentreath began to hurry up the lane. It was, as he discovered, deeply rutted add rough with outcropping stone, which bruised his feet sorely. He heard the gate crash noisily, and from the sounds that reached him knew that all three men were following him.

To keep to the lane seemed folly. Booted as they were, and no doubt familiar with the road, his pursuers could run faster than he could, and between the hedges must overtake him. Swiftly he moved to the side of the lane, found a ditch, and crouched in it, and there heard the three men-go lumbering past, one of them carrying a flashlight. Beyond the ditch was a bank. He climbed it, thrust his way through a hedge, and dropped down on the farther side. He found trees there― a plantation he thought, They offered shelter; and he plunged into the thick of them with a reckless disregard of direction.

Presently he made the discovery that he was entirely lost; without any idea where lay the road that he must make for. The plantation as he had thought it, proved to be a considerable wood, and he wandered and stumbled among the trees and undergrowth for an interminable time, his feet suffering cruelly. At last, shivering with cold, his limbs aching, his feet as he could have sworn as full of thorns as a bramble bush, he stumbled on a fallen tree and sat down, with the thought that he must wait there until daylight or until the fog cleared. But scarcely had he seated himself when the night stillness was broken by a rumbling sound. He listened carefully— and recognised the noise for that of a heavy motor vehicle. That meant there was a road near at hand, and his ears told him that it lay somewhere to the right. In an instant he lifted himself on his bruised feet, and with an effort stumbled forward in the direction from which the sound came. He came to a rail which bounded the wood, slipped through the two upper bars, and found himself on the road.

"Thank heaven!" he ejaculated fervently, and stood there staring in the direction of the advancing vehicle.

About the highway the mist was less thick than in the neighbourhood of the river, and before long he saw the headlights of the vehicle, and then as it lumbered nearer made out the form of a motor lorry. The thing made a great din and filled the still night with its clatter, promising a not very comfortable passage. That, however, troubled him not at all. Anything was better than walking, shoeless as he was, and with his feet mere cushions stuck with thorns. As the vehicle drew nearer he stepped a little farther into the road, that the driver might see him. And when a few yards only separated them gave the man a hail.

"Ahoy!" he response was scarcely what he expected. He heard the man give a startled cry; and then the vehicle suddenly accelerated. It passed him within a yard, and by the light of a side lamp high up he saw the scared face of the driver as the man leaned forward from his cabin to stare at him. In that moment it flashed on him what an odd figure he must cut in his white dress shirt and trousers, with his hair all dank and plastered down over his eyes. No wonder the fellow was scared— taking him either for a ghost or an escaped lunatic. He waved a hand, and shouted reassuringly:— "It's all right!"

The vehicle sped on. Plainly its driver was taking no chances; and Pentreath with chagrin saw his opportunity of a lift hurrying from him That put him on his mettle. Determined not to be denied, he caught the tail-board of the vehicle as it drew level, ran behind for a half-minute, then gathered himself for a spring, and flung himself half over the tailboard. The rest of the scramble was easy, and he rolled over into the body of the vehicle, which but for some sacks appeared to be empty.

Lying there, through the window at the back of the driver's cabin he saw the man's head turned to look back on the road, and he laughed silently. The fellow had suffered a shock; but there was another to come to him presently when they reached a stopping place. He laughed again, then shivered. In his. drenched condition, and only partially clothed. he found the rush of the night air charged with moisture bitterly cold. For protection he pulled the sacks about him, making himself as comfortable as the circumstances permitted.

He began to feel warmed. The lorry passed through a village all in darkness, defying identification; and feeling unutterably weary he snuggled down into the sacks. He began to nod; was aware of the fact, but indifferent to it, and after a little tune his eyes closed; his chin slid downwards on to his breast, and he slipped into profound sleep.

From that he was awakened by the flash of a lantern in his eyes, and caught the sound of an astonished voice.

"The devil!"

"No! No! I assure you," he said with a laugh. "Just ah unfortunate gentleman emerging from a trying adventure."

"Gentleman? Yd' calls yo'self that?"

"I used to," retorted Peter, meekly. "Just now I imagine I look rather like a tramp."

"Or an' escaped looney. Where, did yo' break out from?"

Pentreath laughed. "I would give five pounds for that information, myself. Where am I now?"

"At Apple-tree Nurseries."

"That is informing, my friend. Apple-tree Nurseries are no doubt the, best of their kind; but how far would you say they were from Covent Garden."

"It's five mile to Reading an' then on, a matter of 43 miles all told."

"And the time? Have you any notion of that?"

"There's the church clock a-strikin' three."

"Uml An unconscionable hour to be out of bed." Then he sat up. "I want to get to London quickly. Is there a car of any kind that can be hired hereabouts."

"I've got a motor bike an' sidecar—"

"The very thing. I will give you five pounds if you will run me to London."

The man looked something more than doubtful.

"I doano about that!"

"I assure you I am not a lunatic," laughed Peter. "And five pounds is not bad for a 43-mile run. You will be back in time to feed the chickens."

"I might do it." The man meditatively stroked his stubby chin; and teen he said sharply: "Yo've lost yo'r boots? Yo' ain't one of them cat-burglars?"

"Neither cat nor dog. Just a plain gentleman who fell into the river in the mist and had to swim for it. And you swim, better without shoes, you know."

"Lor'!" The man ejaculated with relief. "Why didn't you say what had happened back along up the road? If I'd known that―"

"You didn't give me a fair chance, my friend," laughed Pentreath. "But 'all's well that ends well.'... What about taking me to London?"

"I'll do it for five pounds."

"Then get out your bike— and for heaven's sake lend me a coat, the heavier the better; and a rug if you have, one. I'm shaking with cold."

The man hurried away, and returned bringing the coat and an old army blanket, and ten minutes later Peter was comfortably installed in the sidecar, with the man in the saddle. They moved from the precincts of Appletree Nurseries, and when on the road to London Pentreath asked a question.

"What would you call that place where I was standing in the road waiting for you?"

"Don't know as it has got a name. Next village this side is Woodcote. My wife Is native there?"

"Thank you."

He had learned all that the man could tell him, and asked no more questions.

Somewhere on the river not far from Woodcote with a lawn running down to the water stood the house from which he had escaped; and where—held prisoner, as he had no doubt— was the girl from Tulsa, Oklahoma. His first business was to see that she was set free, and at the same time secure the arrest of the three men who, as he was convinced, were concerned in the murder of Pasquali and that unknown man who had been shot so callously on the road to Vanwood. He would go to his club, and from there telephone to Scotland Yard. If a raid were made at once the men might be taken before they could leave that solitary house; and with that girl to confront her it might be possible to test the bona fides of Lady Daneby's protégée.

But they would have to act quickly, or, knowing that his escape Jeopardised their own safety, the birds would have flown. When the cycle and sidecar pulled up outside his club Pentreath bade his Jehu wait, and crossing to the outside door pressed the bell-button. His summons was answered by a sleepy night porter, who, opening the door, stared from the dishevelled figure . before him to the waiting motor-cycle in growing wonder, then broke out in 1 wrath.

"What the 'ell gyme are you playin'? This ain't a bed-an'-breakfast place. Just cut along, sharp, or I'll teach you "

"Steady, Lepton. Look twice before you speak, and then shut your. eyes and look again."

Recognition came to the porter in a lightning flash.

"Lor', sir, I didn't know you in that rig-out. I beg pardon―"

"That's all right. Get me a stiff whisky, hot, whilst I go up to my room for money to pay the cabby. I'll work the lift myself."

"It's against the rules, as you know, sir―"

"All rules are off at four a.m.," laughed Peter, and went on his way. HE returned with a five-pound note and the coat he had borrowed, which Lepton took out to the waiting cyclist, and as he bestowed them winked broadly and sought information.

"Gent's been on the tiles, ain't he?"

"Must have slipped off 'en isto the river then— if he ain't been lying to me But his money's good enough, an' I don't worry."

"How far 'ave you drove him in that thing?"

"Matter of 43 mile."

"Love of Mike! An' he lives to tell the tale!"

"Well, if the gent, tells you as much as he told me, it won't take him so darned long," The man kicked his starter, and at the engine began to fire like a machine gun the porter hurried back to his duties.

He found Peter already in the telephone box with the door wide open, and strained his ears to catch what he could.

"That's Scotland Yard," he commented mentally, as Peter asked for a number. "Tiles or river, he must have been havin' a lively night."

Peter's voice reached him again.

"Get him, or send the Flying Squad. The business is urgent. Matter? Oh, just the murder of that Pinkerton man Pasquali, and that other man who was shot at the same time. I know where the men are. Yes— very sure. I'll be ready; but for the Lord's sake, hurry!"

Pete hung up the receiver, and spoke to the porter. "I'm going to change my clothes. l am expecting some officers from Scotland Yard; bur I shall be ready for them when they arrive. Get out a motoring map of the country round Reading, and have it ready for me when I return."

"Yes, sir."

He went to his room, bathed his bruised feet, put on thick woollen stockings and wide comfortable shoes; and clothed in a tweed suit went down to the hall again. The porter had the map ready for him, and quickly he began to follow the river beyond Reading, noting the villages particularly. Suddenly his moving finger ' stopped...

"Moulsford! Got it!" he ejaculated triumphantly just as a ring sounded. Lepton went to the door, and announced Inspector Dennis, who explained shortly: "Chanced to calf at the Yard. Lucky thing! What's this story?"

Peter rapidly gave him the outline of his adventure of the night, and at the end the taciturn inspector spoke sharply.

"Kidnapped you, hey? Wonder how they knew about you?"

"So do I," answered Peter.

"And you know this house?"

"I can find it. It's a turn off the road beyond Moulsford, I think."

"You think?"

"I only saw the beginning of the name— M-O-U-L— but there's no other village just there with a name that begins that way. And we can settle the things beyond question by 'Hansom's Handsome Hats' "

"What on earth―"

"Advertisement! Hits you in the eye as you go through. Can't miss it if you've the headlights on. The turn is towards the river, a rough lane some distance beyond the village."

"All right! Well get it. If you're ready well start."

Peter accompanied him to the waiting car in which there were two other officers. The inspector gave his orders and they started immediately.

Of the journey Peter himself knew little. Inspector Dennis seemed lost in thought; and, utterly weary as he was, Peter, soothed by the steady purr at the engine, fell asleep.

He was awakened suddenly by the inspector's rather penetrating voice.

"Here's Moulsford, Mr. Pentreath."

He rubbed his eyes and looked forth. The mist had thinned and a moment later he saw what he was looking for — Mr. Hansom's advertisement. "The three H's. I was right, Inspector. Somewhere beyond here― I can't be sure to a mile."

"All right!" The inspector gave an order. The car stopped; one of the men in front stepped on to the running board, and they went forward slowly. Seven, minutes later the car was pulled up at a sign from the man outside.  "Here's a likely lane, Inspector— on the river side."

"Well try it," said the inspector. He turned to the driver. "Wait here, Johnson, If you hear a whistle, come."

Peter accompanied the two officers. In the lane the inspector turned a flashlight on the road.

"Fresh tyre-marks," he commented. "We've hit it, I believe!" As they approached the river the ' mist thickened again.

Unexpectedly they came on the gate they were looking for. It was open, and slipping through quietly they made for the turfed border and crept forward.

As the approach turned they came in view of the house, its windows clearly visible through the mist by reason of a curious orange glow within. The inspector, who was leading, halted as sharply as if he had been shot. Then he sniffed the air; and in the same second his subordinate cried out "My hat! That place is a raging furnace!"

6

AS the officer shouted his conviction there came almost immediate confirmation. There was a sound of splintering glass, then a tongue of flame came into the open, licking a window frame. Again glass shivered and another window frame was bathed in blue and orange flame.

"Anybody in there is roasting," commented the officer.

"But I suspect there is no one there at all," said Inspector Dennis. "Even here I can smell paraffin. That means the place has been drenched and fired. We'll try the door."

He made a bee-line towards the house, the others following him. Reaching the door he tried it, and found that it was locked.

"No use ringing the bell―" he began, but Peter broke in, apprehensively. "But that girl. We must make sure. If they have fled they may have left her. It would be like the callous fiends. There are outbuildings. Maybe there is a ladder. If you will lend me your torch, Inspector, I will search."

The officer gave him the torch and he moved away. Within five minutes he was back, carrying a light extending ladder. He set it against the wall below the window of the room the drugged girl had occupied, then began to struggle with the cord. The inspector came to his assistance, and, as the ladder extended, spoke peremptorily: "You can't enter, Mr. Pentreath. Won't be safe, you know."

"I know! But I must be sure. Steady the ladder."

He began to climb, carrying the inspector's torch with him. When he reached the window he found the room was full of smoke, and he could ace nothing. He broke all the panes deliberately, and the inrush of air swept the smoke back.

Directing the beam of the torch in the direction of the bed, he saw that the latter was now unoccupied; then he searched the floor carefully. There was no sign of the girl, and a moment later he made the discovery that the door of the bedroom was standing wide open. The girl, as he was sure, could have been in no condition to leave the room herself. She had been in a drugged sleep— a sleep that was likely to last some hours, and that wide-open door seemed to indicate that she had been carried forth.

He went down the ladder and spoke to the inspector tersely.

"Gone!"

"Gone!"

"Others are gone, too, I'll warrant. Hand me the torch. I'm going to look at the garage." He moved away, and three minutes later was back again. "Garage door is wide, and from the wheel-tracks a big car has been there. Those fellows must have fired the house and quit. No use wasting time here. We'd better get to the end of a telephone wire and report fire, Johnson."

"Not much use, anyway," answered Johnson. "Place will be a shell by the time the brigade gets here."

"But we must let the nearest lot know."

"Yes."

Then left the burning house and returned to the car. The inspector gave the driver instructions, and they drove back to the village, where the inspector knocked up the postmaster and obtained permission to use the telephone.

When the car started on the return journey to town the taciturn officer unbent a little.

"There's a queer game behind this business, Mr. Pentreath. I can't get the thread of it. Who is that girl you have twice seen drugged? And what do they want with her?"

Peter had an idea that he could answer the first question; but refrained from doing so. If by any chance he were mistaken about Lady Daneby's protégée he would look a complete fool if he set the police inquiring there, and he decided that it would be wisest to make quite sure before starting that hare. He remained silent, and Inspector Dennis reverted to a matter he had referred to at the club.

"What beats me is how they got on to you. They never saw you last night, you said?"

"I am sure they didn't."

"So am I! You'd have been another casualty if they had. But it doesn't make things any easier, does it? You witness a murder without being seen; you are not called as a witness at the inquest, but to-night you are kidnapped by the men who committed the crime. How did they know about you at all?"

Peter hesitated. There seemed only one feasible explanation, but if he told the inspector... he suppressed the impulse.

"A corker!" he agreed. "Their intelligence department must be pretty good."

The inspector glanced at him, and seemed about to ask a question, then he shrugged his shoulders. No doubt, he thought, Pentreath, had talked to all his acquaintances about last night's business, and gossip had a way of travelling quickly. It would be a hopeless thing to follow that line.

"You were fortunate to get away to-night," he commented, with the idea of encouraging Peter to talk.

"I feel that way myself," owned the young man, cheerfully. "My lucky star was shining."

"Your escape sent that lot winging into the blue. They won't be easy to find again, but— well, you will, Mr. Pentreath."

"Meaning?"

"That you had better walk carefully for the next few days."

"If you know what my feet are like," murmured Peter ruefully, with deliberate misunderstanding, "you would know that you were gilding the lily. I walked miles in my socks—"

"Didn't mean what I said literally," broke in the inspector impatiently. "I meant that you stand in considerable peril. You are the only witness against these ruffians, and after what has happened they won't be squeamish, you know."

"Squeamishness doesn't seem to be their long suit," agreed Peter carelessly.

"I think I shall have to give you police protection, you know."

"Good Lord! You mean a man to follow me as the little woolly followed Mary?"

"Something of that sort. Man won't embarrass you in any way, and he may get track of those fellow if they try tricks on you."

Peter whistled; then added lightly, "Looks like interesting days ahead, and only yesterday I was complaining to my uncle that it was time the shooting season was advanced forward in the calendar."

The inspector lapsed into his customary taciturnity and maintained It for a full ten minutes. Peter lit a cigarette, and as he smoked wondered what had happened to that white-faced girl.

He remembered suddenly some words that he had overheard when the girl had been persuaded to drink what one of the ruffians had offered.

"To-morrow I'll get yew out of this; don't yew worry about that, honey!"

Had the girl a friend among those scoundrels, or was that merely a lying promise to induce her to swallow what was almost certainly a drug? He recalled the attitude of the three men towards himself. There had not been a pin to choose between them, and on reflection he was convinced that the man who had given that reassurance to the girl was deliberately misleading her. His meditation was interrupted by a sudden question from the inspector.

"You are in the Foreign Office, Mr. Pentreath?"

"My aunt! Who told you that? We never mention it at home, you know."

The other permitted himself a laugh. "I thought the 'F.O.' was quite a respectable job."

"When it's regular, it may be. But when you're only a casual, a day-jobber, not ranking for an insurance card or the pension list, it becomes almost disreputable. ... In any case, I'm an out-of-work at present.... Why did you ask me?"

"Because I can guess what the jobs are on which you are employed, and I am wondering if you have been as frank as you might be."

"As how?"

"Nothing in this affair that touches one of your jobs as a casual shall we say?"

"Nothing! Honest Injun, Bible-oath, and all that."

"And you've no idea what may be behind the affair?"

"Well now, I wouldn't say that," answered Peter with exaggerated caution.

"One can't stop the grey cells from working, you know. And I have thought that there may be a matter of substituting one girl for another for some— er— nefarious purpose, as your department would put it."

"I'm certain of it. But till we get hold of one of the girls we shan't be able to prove it. I wonder where that other girl went."

"If one knew that―" began Peter, and left it there. Then he asked, brightly: "What about Pinkerton Pasquali?"

"Over here on some private job. Was on extended leave."

"My own impression is that he was on the trail of something and wanted to gather the glory for himself."

"And instead he gathered a bullet. Rough luck! I've known two other men fall into the same pit. Human vanity is responsible for many disasters. What?"

The inspector agreed and again relapsed into silence.

WHEN they ran into London dawn was breaking, and as the car decanted him at his club Peter yawned prodigiously. "Me for bed!" he said. "Two night's excitements make for intensive slumber-culture. If you, should want me, inspector, for pity's sake don't call me before lunch. It won't be fair if you do."

"I won't, unless there's need."

"And that little lamb of yours— er— is he an absolute necessity?... I may want to go to a night club, you know."

"He'll wait outside," grinned the inspector, and went his way.

Peter went straight to bed, shut his eyes and refused to think, and for seven hours slept the sleep of a labouring man. Three-quarters of an hour later, refreshed in mind but sore-footed, regarding breakfast as out of date at that hour, he took a taxi and went to the Medici Restaurant where, in the foyer, he ran into his friend, Dick Podmore. The latter hailed him Joyfully.

"A friend in need "

"How much?" interrupted Peter, his hand going to the pocket that held his wallet.

"Not that way. I'm in clover. Did a double yesterday. But I need moral support. I'm here to lunch with two ladies, which is one too many. You share the responsibility, old boy, and I'll stand you the lunch. They're dowager and debutante, known to you Two ladies emerged from the cloakroom, Lady Daneby and Miss Endicott. At the sight of them Peter laughed with sudden understanding.

"So―"

"Headed the nail!" Podmore laughed back. "Look after the old dragon whilst I make the running."

"Delighted!" answered Peter with a sincerity that made his friend stare, and before more could be said the ladies reached them and Podmore explained.

"Pentreath is hungry, but hates a solitary meal. So with your permission, Lady Daneby, we will make it a foursome."

Lady Daneby, wise in the ways of a generation not her own, laughed and looked at Podmore.

"When did you telephone for Peter?"

"On my honour, Lady Daneby, I assure you I never did. But If I had thought of it―"

For his part Pentreath greeted the girl genially whilst he wondered if she had had any hand in his adventure of last night. Looking into her smiling face and the dark eyes which met his own in frank gaze he was immediately assailed by doubts, and his suspicions were almost routed when she laughed: "I hope you have forgiven my flight of last night. There was solid reason for it."

"I have yet to hear―"

"A disaster!" she thrilled. "I lost the heel of a shoe and could only move 'dot and carry one.' There was nothing else for it but to leave. I hope you found a nice partner "

"No,", he answered with a laugh. "Being disgruntled, I also left, and ran into an adventure."

"Not another Jane, I hope."

Her laughter was entirely natural. There was no hint of apprehension in her voice, and her dark eyes were gay. Peter did not know what to think. Here, at any rate, was the mask of innocence; but he remembered two things, one that only last night he had caught her in a lie, and the other the possibility that through her the man Jake and his friends had learned the fact that he had witnessed the murder of the chauffeur in the avenue. He was tempted to strike and strike hard; but temporised from motives of prudence.

"I was taken for a ride " he began.

"Oh!" she cried in a shocked voice, whilst a startled look came in the dark eyes. "You m-mean―"

"The Chicago version— more or less, though it didn't reach the final stage. I managed a— er— getaway."

"You must tell me," whispered the girl a little breathlessly. "It had to do with Jane?"

"Friends of hers arranged the business," he answered light, and was glad when Podmore's voice intervened.

"Lunch is served! And Lady Daneby confesses to an appetite. If you two are ready―"

They entered the restaurant, and at the table Peter found himself next to the dowager, with the girl opposite. The luncheon went merrily enough. Miss Endicott apparently had forgotten all about the matter of Peter's ride until Podmore related a hair-raising adventure in Baghdad which was more than half true; then she suddenly intervened.

"Bagdad! That is oceans away, But Mr. Pentreath finds his Arabian nights in London. He had an adventure no later than last night. I think he ought to tell it us."

"Seconded and carried unanimously," said Podmore. "Blow the trumpet. Peter! We all want to hear."

Pentreath looked at the girl. Her face expressed nothing beyond laughing curiosity, and there was no shadow of care in the fine eyes. It she were forcing him to speak, her manner gave no hint of it, and suddenly he made up his mind, he would tell the story and watch her. If she betrayed knowledge he would know how to act.

"If I must," he laughed, and without further preamble plunged into the story. "As I was walking along the Mall last night―"

He told the story well— with reservations, making no reference to the girl whom he had seen in that house by the river; and indeed avoided all mention of his re-entry into the house; and when he had described now the police had found the house alight and his abductors fled Podmore broke in: "Say, Peter, are you setting up to do a stage-thriller, or is this true?"

"Gospel, all of it!"

"But man, what did they want with you? Had you been stamping on their corns sometime in your moment of recreation as an 'P.O.' amateur ?"

"I saw one of them commit murder two nights ago."

"Oh, come! That Is pure romance. Tuppence-coloured and unadulterated cinema stuff. You ought to get a job at a film studio. You don't believe him, Miss Endicott, I hope."

"But I do!" The girl's dark eyes danced with excitement. "You see I know about the first part of the adventure. Mr. Pentreath told me last night at Lady Masborough's. There wag a girl called Jane in the story―"

"Jane," Podmore mocked. "That's a new one. Peter has kept her to himself. Fie! You philanderer! Tell us about Jane and leave that crude screen stuff―"

He broke off sharply as the girl by his side, in the act of raising her wineglass, set it down again so hurriedly that she upset it. The wine spread like a river that had broken it's banks and made a map of the Atlantic on the white cloth. "Oh!" cried the girl, in dismayed contrition. "How clumsy of me!"

"Not at all!" said Podmore, and signalled to the waiter, who hurriedly spread a napkin to hide the disaster. "Funny thing how much more there is in a glass when you tip it than when you drink it. I've noticed it often, and once asked a physics lecturer at Cambridge to explain the phenomenon. He couldn't deny the fact, but he had to own he was gravelled for the explanation. For my part―"

Podmore rattled on, and Peter watched the girl. Her face had a troubled look. There was something in her eyes that chagrin at the small accident did not explain. Then, al some stupid jest of Podmore's she forced a laugh, apparently recovered her sang-froid, and, the waiter having refilled the glass, raised it to her lips and sipped two or three times. Bui over the rim of the wineglass she stared down the room, and as she did so the tense look came back to her eyes. Peter marked it, and was tempted to turn round to. learn what had brought it there. He refrained for the moment, however, and then found himself suddenly challenged by his friend.

"But who is this Jane of whom we were hearing? There's no escape, Peter. Stand, and a round, unvarnished tale deliver.

May Endicott was looking down the room again. There was something or some one there that troubled her. Pentreath was sure of it, and watched her unobtrusively whilst he replied: "Jane is a girl who stood in a road and laughed, with a newly-murdered man at her feet."

"More Hollywoodian than ever!" jeered Podmore. "Peter, you're a fraud. Any film fan could invent a flim-flam yarn like that. I don't believe there was a murdered man, though I can swallow the Jane. In this overcrowded world, with the disparity between the sexes―" There was a sudden burst of applause, occasioned by the appearance in the orchestra of a well-known violinist whom the Medici had engaged for the week to provide fine music for its patrons. Peter seized the opportunity to turn round and inspect the clientele of the restaurant. The violinist began to play, and a great hush fell on the room, even Podmore's clattering tongue being stilled. Presently he saw what he was looking for, and suffered a little shock of surprise. Four or five tables away, with two others and a gentleman, was a girl who, allowing for the fact that she was vivaciously wakeful, was the breathing linage of the helpless girl whom he had seen in that house by the river.

In a flash he understood that here was the artist whom he had seen at the theatre and whose striking resemblance to the girl in Tulsa had recalled the matter to his mind at the beginning of the adventure into which he had stumbled. As the violinist played on, Peter flashed a sidelong glance at Lady Daneby's protégée, and surprised a troubled, questioning look in her eyes. Was it occasioned by the sight of that girl so like the one whom he had seen transferred in her unconsciousness from one car to another? He could not be sure. He would have given quite a large sum to be certain; but certainty was denied him.

The violinist finished his solo, there was a great burst of applause, and cries for an encore. The girl who had caught his attention was particularly enthusiastic, standing at her table and clapping so vigorously as to arrest Lady Daneby's disapproving notice.

"I wonder who that forward creature can be? ... A Thespian of sorts I should say.... Dicky, you go to all the shows in town— do you know the girl?"

Podmore looked and laughed. "I have seen her," he owned, refraining from confessing closer acquaintance. "She is Miss Billie Carlowe, of the Gipsy Girl Company. Gets over with a tricky song, and―"

"She is a minx to make herself so conspicuous," interrupted the dowager, disparagingly.

"Oh, come, Lady Daneby, you must make allowances for the artistic temperament, you know."

"Artistic balderdash!" commented the dowager, almost snortingly, and unexpectedly the girl at Podmore's side laughed. Peter met her eyes. They were frankly gay, without a shadow of the trouble he had seen there three minutes before.

"I like the girl," she laughed to him across the table. "Don't you, Mr. Pentreath? She has the courage of her convictions."

He laughed back. "I am prejudiced; I have heard her sing."

"And I should dearly like to," replied the girl, with another care-free laugh.

"Nothing easier!" intervened Podmore. "I will take a box. The night of this very day, if Lady Daneby will―"

Lady Daneby rose. "To-night," she said, "is out of the question. But to-morrow, perhaps―"

"An engagement! I will 'phone for the box at once."

"But first you will call for May's car. It is parked nearby. But the chauffeur will be at the door— a tallish man, in Lincoln green."

"Pleasure, M'lady," laughed Podmore, and with Pentreath accompanied the ladies out of the restaurant.

Lady Daneby and the girl turned aside for the cloakroom, and Podmore made for the glazed turnstile door. Peter followed him closely, eager for a glimpse of the chauffeur. If he proved to be the man who had driven the car two nights ago―

The chauffeur in Lincoln green was there— a stranger, and as Peter would have sworn English to the core. Podmore gave the man his order to bring the car to the door.

"I have it at the corner, sir. Her Ladyship hates to be kept waiting."

"You know her ways?" asked Peter, suddenly. "You've been with her a long time."

"No, sir. First day with her to-day. But she rubbed that in— punctuality and promptness. She said they would get even a chauffeur into heaven." The man grinned and went for his car, and as they re-entered the foyer Peter murmured aloud:— "First day to-day! A quick change if I am not mistaken."

"How the deuce do you know, that, Peter?"

"I'll explain— later, when the ladies are gone."

"You will, hey? And all that tommyrot you were spouting inside? May―"

"It was sober truth, Dick!"

"But, man―"

Podmore broke off as he caught sight of his friend's face. Peter was staring through the glazed door like a man dumbfounded by what he saw. Podmore followed his amazed eyes to learn what had occasioned the change, and near the step outside saw a tall man, with a bony face, tight-lipped mouth, features that suggested a bird of prey, with pale eyes that were as merciless as a tiger's. The man's eyes became aware of Peter's and blazed with sudden ferocity and in the same moment an incredulous ejaculation broke from Peter.

"Love of Mike!" Before Podmore could ask the meaning of things he jumped for the glazed turnstile and began to turn it like a man afflicted with sudden madness. So great was his haste that as his particular section reached the open he stumbled forward. Then Podmore witnessed what, in the circumstances, was an astonishing thing. The tall man took a step forward. His fist shot out in a terrific punch. It caught the stumbling Peter on the shoulder, though obviously meant for his face, and drove him back into the angle of the turnstile with extreme violence.

The next instant, before Podmore could move or cry out, the man slipped back from the steps, and was lost among the pedestrians in the crowded sidewalk.

7

THE stalwart commissionaire at the portals of the Medici jumped to Peter's help, whilst Podmore rushed to the twin turnstile and hurried forth. There was no sign of the aggressor, and Peter was already on his feet grinning ruefully.

"Who the dickens " began Podmore. but was Instantly checked by his friend.

"S-s-s-sh! The ladies."

The little crowd, its centre of interest withdrawn, was melting away. In three seconds more all would be normal, and Peter gave a quick warning.

"Not a word, Dick!"

Podmore nodded, met Lady Daneby and her protégée, and accompanied them to the car. Then he came back like an express train.

"You knew that vulture-faced bruiser?" he challenged. "Why did he go for you like that, Peter?"

Peter rubbed his shoulder ruefully, and laughed.

"He's part of the screen-story about which you guyed me."

"You mean he's one of those fellows you were joshing about just now?"

"The leader of them, I fancy."

"Phew!" Podmore's whistle was expressive. Then he looked at his friend, and for once his tone was serious. "Then that thriller of yours wasn't fiction!"

"No. Gospel truth!"

"Well, I'll be hanged!" Then the speaker looked seriously at his friend. "Going to trust me, Peter? I'd like to hear the whole yarn—and I'll try to believe it this time."

"Yes. We'll go round to the club."

"Right! Tell that son of Anak outside to get a taxi whilst I settle the bill."

The taxi was waiting when Podmore appeared, and within seven minutes they were at the club in a quiet corner.

"Now! The whole yarn, Peter."

Pentreath told the amazing story, and the other listened impassively and without interruption for quite five minutes: then he broke in. "You say that girl they handed out of one of the car to the other was like Billie Carlowe?"

"The image— a little quieter in style, perhaps."

"But it wasn't Billie?"

"No. It was a girl whom I had seen seven months' before at Tulsa, Oklahoma."

"You don't say!" Dick Podmore's eyes grew suddenly keen. Then he fairly snapped. "And the other girl—the one who drove away in the car, I mean?"

"Oh, she was quite wonderfully like the miss the Daneby woman is sponsoring."

"The devil!" Podmore's amazement was extreme. Then he broke out in protest. "Peter, you've got bats— badly. Must have! What you're implying would break a millionaire on a libel action. You—"

"Walt till you have heard the rest, Dick."

Podmore waited, and his interest deepened sevenfold as the story was unfolded; and as it ended he was plainly convinced against his will.

"But that girl," he protested, feebly. "If she's a fraud, Peter, she's the best actress in London! There must be a catch in the business somewhere."

"Just what I told myself. But I'll ask you—where?"

"Heaven knows!"

Podmore was silent for a moment then ne asked quickly. "You think when she tipped that wine she had just seen Billie Carlowe and had mistaken her for that other girl?"

"I am sure of it. I watched her. She was fairly out of her stride. But she got into step again when you gave Billie her name."

"Um! I can't contradict you. Doesn't seem worth while. But I ask you— what's the game? Can't be that the girl just wants to be presented at Court in another name than her own. There are American females who would go to some lengths to be presented; but I can't see two men-being murdered to achieve it. There's something else behind. Question is, what?"

Peter shook his head. "Don't know unless it is a case of kidnapping and holding to ransom."

"If it were that, why the' substitute? Seems an unnecessary embellishment Pity you didn't get that girl last night."

"I was lucky to get away myself."

"Quite. But apparently you're not out of the wood yet. That fellow who sloshed you may have been an accidental contact; but it looks as if they were camping on your trail."

"By Jove," ejaculated Peter, sharply. "What's hit you?"

"I've just remembered that Dennis, the Scotland Yard man, was to put one of his angel guards about me."

"He didn't do much guarding! Must have been taken on the hop."

"That's not the point. He didn't appear at all, but he may have followed that ruffian. In which case he will know where to find him, and possibly may discover the whereabouts of that girl."

"A possibility! But there's another way of getting at the truth. You haven't told Dennis about Miss May Endicott. If he heard your suspicions—"

"He's not going to hear them until they are precipitated. I don't mind being called batty by you; but no policeman is going to do it to my face. And there is a more solid reason for making haste slowly. Suppose I tell Dennis and he doesn't laugh at me; what is he going to do?"

"Interview the budding debutante, I suppose."

"Yes: and in that case what is going to happen to that girl from Tulsa whose place, let us presume for argument's sake, she has taken?"

"Phew! Of course. Those fellows would get the tip from Miss May and―"

"And what?"

"Well, they don't appear to be too squeamish. And having shot two men, another killing wouldn't give them insomnia."

"Exactly! That girl would be in extreme danger. We don't know why they are holding her; but if an occasion arose in which her existence Imperilled them, they would not hesitate to get rid of her."

"No! They'd drop her like a brick too hot for them."

"And they would make sure she could not testify against thorn." "Long odds on that, I should think."

"Therefore―"

"Reasoning sound, and conclusion evident. You've got to sit close on that little item of news until hatching time. That's pretty clear. Question is, what are you going to do in tho meantime?"

"Two things! Find that girl and get her out of the hands of Jake and Co., and meet the millionaire grandfather of Miss May Endicott, whichever of the two happens to be the true-born lady."

"Did you say a millionaire, Peter?" asked Podmore, earnestly.

"I did. Why?"

His friend made a gesture of mock despair. "You ask me that when I am making the running with the only reputed granddaughter? Peter, the tip that fellow gave you has rattled your brains."

"The old man will be able to put us right. He'll know his own grandchild and will award the palm. If we're wrong we can laugh at each other, but no one will ever know— and you can still make the running with the dark eyed May and invite me to be the best man."

"Solomon's your name and Israel's your nation, my soul!... But how are you going to find the old boy?"

"That will be easy. His granddaughter is to be presented at court―"

"The Dowager told me as much.''

"And old Endicott is coming over— for a guess— about the time of the presentation. He doesn't mean to intrude; but I'll wager he means to see his granddaughter before she starts; or waiting in the Mall; or at the photographer's; or possibly at one of the kick-ups afterwards. I fancy all his pride centres in the girl— that is the way with lots of the simple rich. And he will be here in time for the next Court— which is the last of the season. Sometime before the 14th he may be looked for r and a consultation of the sailing dates from, the U.S.A, will tell us what boats to meet."

"Do you think we shall be the only folk to meet the boats?" asked Podmore, quietly.

Peter started at the question, then for a moment sat quite still, frowning over some thought. When he spoke his voice was almost harsh in its intensity.

"Dick, I believe you have made a bull's eye. If we are even within a mile of the truth, those ruffians will know of his coming―"

"That girl will have the information. If she is Jane and not May, whatever the game you can't let him meet her, or the whole thing will go skyward. They will have to prevent that somehow―"

"They shot that Pinkerton man, and the chauffeur."

"And they may―"

"Anything is on the cards when knaves deal them. And how do we know that getting the old man over on this side may not be part of their game? That is worth thinking over."

"But why?"

"Don't know. The reason is just another piece of the jig-saw puzzle. If we could fit it in half the picture would lock into place, and if we knew why those bandits are keeping that drugged girl the other half would lock in, too.... Time we got busy, I think. We can con the sailing-list for a beginning."

A bell-boy appeared and touched a love-lock as he addressed himself to Peter. "You are wanted on the telephone, sir."

"I will come at once," answered Peter, and following the boy out of the room to the telephone gave the stereotyped call.

"That you, Mr. Pentreath?" came the answering voice.

"Speaking! Who―"

"Inspector Dennis. I want to see you. If you will remain at your club I will be with you within 10 minutes. Please oblige me, The matter is important."

"Very well. I will wait till you come."

"Good."

He went back to his friend and explained. "The C.I.D. man is coming here. There may be developments. He says the matter is important."

"Always is with a policeman," chuckled Podmore. "I'll fade out, and when he's been and gone we'll discuss the importance together."

Ten minutes later Inspector Dennis took the chair Podmore had vacated, and went straight to the heart of his business.

"Mr. Pentreath, this afternoon you were assaulted on the steps of the Medici Restaurant."

"Yes! I was knocked down."

"You recognised the aggressor? He was the man who killed that chauffeur."

"Yes! But how you know?"

"From the description you gave of him. Watson's tallied―"

"Watson? Pardon me. Who—"

"The man I set out to watch you for your good."

"Ah! He was there? He saw? I thought he might!"

"He followed the man to Waterloo. There he made a slip. Must have done, for the fellow went down the steps to the Underground, dodged, and ran up again. Watson, afraid of missing him, ran after him, and when he reached the top of the steps was met by the man he was after, and got a sledge-hammer blow between the eyes, which sent him skidding downstairs. He twisted a knee badly, and the fellow got away."

"Rough luck on Watson," commented Peter, sympathetically.

"What I want to know is were you aware the scoundrel was following you?"

"No! I don't think he was following me. I think the meeting was accidental,. I saw him through the glazed door, and was making for him when he knocked me down as your man saw."

"He spoke to you?"

"No. He wasted no breath, but Just tried to knock me out, then fled. Didn't give me a chance."

"You were fortunate to get off so lightly. I've been through Pasquali's papers. He was watching three men and a woman— the crowd who got him for a certainty. He had the names— a rather star collection."

"And the woman's name?"

"Cicero Jane!"

"Jane I know, and Cicero stands for the misspent hours of my youth. But the combination is strange."

Inspector Dennis expounded.

"The woman takes the front half of her name from a district of Chicago. She's a corker. Was at one time a cinema actress doing ingénue parts. Later decoy-bird for big blackmail, and since then anything that isn't the shortest between two points. The three men are among the most dangerous blackguards known to the Chicago police. So it will be well for you to be on your guard as I warned you."

Peter shrugged his shoulders.

"London is not Chicago."

"No! But if that man had drawn a gun he'd have had the street to himself in two minutes. Remember that. You were lucky he only tried to knock you out!... But we shall get him and the others yet.... Cicero Jane is distinctive, and I've cabled for her picture."

"I should like a private view."

"You shall see it. Heaven knows you may run against her in one of your nightclubs. Now, I must go on to Waterloo. May pick up something. The American boat trains start from there, you know."

Peter did know it; but had not remembered it until that moment; also, he thought, they arrived then, and, when the inspector had departed, he spent some time in reflection on those facts; He was still considering them in relation to the visit of his assailant there when Podmore returned with information.

"Berengaria berths at Southampton to-morrow afternoon about three. One of the first-class passengers is Edward Henry Endicott, of Tulsa, Oklahoma."

"How have you learned that?" asked Peter quickly.

"By using the resources of civilisation— to wit, the wireless. Sent an inquiry out in the name of May Endicott, and waited for the answer. Easy as eating pie, as Edward Henry himself would say."

"And I'll bet you a pound that the bony-faced Jake is on his way to meet him at this moment."

Podmore laughed.

"No takers. But why this superb confidence?"

Peter gave him the news the inspector had brought, and the other laughed again.

"Jake didn't go to Waterloo to buy a paper. That's a sure thing. I have what you may call corroborative evidence." His eyes danced as he looked at his friend, and he laughed suddenly. "Since leaving you I have seen a certain lady. She was in a spanking car going west."

"You spoke―"

"No luck. She was not alone. An American gent sat by her side― a cousin of her grandpoppa, and they were on their way to Southampton to meet the old man and greet him on his arrival."

"But how do you know?"

"There was a suit-case on the luggage grid which intrigued me. It looked as if she were leaving town, and I felt it Incumbent on me to inquire. So I taxied to the Daneby House. M'Lady was resting and not to be disturbed, for which I praised God, and slipped a note to James, the butler, who knew me when I was in creepers. 'But Miss Endicott is in, James,' I said, soulfully, 'and she will receive me?' 'Sorry, sir,' he answered, desolated to disappoint an old friend, 'Miss Endicott has just departed to Southampton to meet her grandfather, who arrives from America tomorrow. She has with her a cousin of Mr. Endicott's, who telephoned a little while ago.' I restrained my tears, and urged, 'But, James, you have the address? James was always a sport. He answered promptly, 'The South-Western Hotel, sir.' So there you are."

He laughed, then he quoted softly: " 'Where the carcase is, there are the eagles gathered together."

Peter looked perplexed. "But if she is really going to meet old Endicott―"

"I know. It is worrying. Looks as if we were stirring up the nest of the mare, and that she is the real granddaughter, or she wouldn't dare to meet the old man. But all the story of going to welcome Endicott to these alien shores may be just poppycock— an excuse to account to the Dowager for her journey; or, alternatively, she may vow to Endicott that she is deputising for his grand-daughter and pitch some cock-and-bull story to mislead him. You can take your choice. That young woman isn't going to Southampton for a joy-ride, whilst the betting is even that after smiting Dennis's man, bony-faced Jake took train to the same town. As like as not, the whole lot are gathering there, and a trip seems indicated for us."

We'll take the next train."

"No, we can do better. That car of mine is eating her head off in the garage. We shall get there as quickly, and the car may be useful. Pack your sponge bag whilst I run round for her."

Half an hour later they were on their way, buoyed up with the thought that soon they might get some clue to the mystery. But half an hour after their arrival, in an hotel in the High Street, they faced each other in a cloud of gloom. Podmore had been down to the South-western Hotel, and was reporting the result.

"Not a sign of the lady. No car like hers in the garage; no entry in the register; and no one of her description in the hotel. That information of the affable James was just a cloak spread by the lady to hide her real destination. We're sold!"

"But the Berengaria arrives to-morrow," commented Peter, clutching at the only consolation that offered.

"To-morrow is another day. When we've fed we'll go the round of this town. We may yet find some sign of our birds. Anyway we can try."

They dined, and afterwards made systematic calls at all the likely hotels without making any helpful discovery, and when they had quite given up, hope turned into a cinema that had a continuous performance, and there, luck, like the whimsical jade she is, suddenly smiled on them. Two men in the seats below them were laughing and talking, and without intentional eavesdropping Peter and his friend overheard all they had to say.

"Didn't expect to see you here, Jowsey," remarked one to the other. "Thought you were in for the billiards handicap at the Constitutional?"

"So I am," laughed Mr. Jowsey. "But it isn't every day a man can see himself on the screen. I've just dropped in for the gazette, then I shall cut. They tell me I came out very well. Seems to be my lucky day. Remember the President Garfield?"

"That old hulk of Randall's?"

"The same! I've got a tenant for three months."

"Never! What fool has rented it?"

"An American, just landed. Wants to make the place his headquarters, and paid the rent in advance to save worry about references."

"References!" the other laughed. "If he asked for them, now! Told him, I suppose, that John Randall cut his throat in the main cabin

"You bet I didn't!" Mr. Jowsey laughed at the idea. "Y'r not so green. A man who rents a hulk doesn't want a ghost, and he's not going to know about Randall; though if he did he's too hard-boiled to worry. But he has an invalid niece who wants quiet, and there's no sense in upsetting her nerves."

His companion laughed again. "Just as well to be considerate, and, anyway the niece'll get all the quiet she wants on the President Garfield. Ah! here's the gazette. Now for your noble self."

It appeared that earlier in the day there had been some civic function in the town, graced by the presence of a Royal Duke, and the gazette people having filmed the procession, with commendable promptitude had issued it for local .exhibition the same day.

"There you are!" Mr. Jowsey was exultant. "Jowsey and Jowsey come out well, doesn't it? Good advert for the old firm. What! And here's yours truly and the gent who's taken the President Garfield. Not so bad, hey?"

Peter's eyes, idly curious, found a sign which stood out well in the picture—"Jowsey and Jowsey, Estate Agents."

He glanced casually at the little group standing on the steps below the sign watching the procession. There were three men and a boy. The latter and two of the men were bareheaded, and no doubt represented the office staff of the estate agent, whilst the fourth man, halted, was obviously the client.

Peter glanced at the man's, pictured face and jumped as if he had been shot, for the man was one of the three whose too close acquaintance he had made after the dance at Masborough House. There was no doubt of it; and in his amazement he was moved to a whispered ejaculation.

"The devil!"

"Don't see him," retorted Podmore, flippantly.

The picture flickered out, and Peter gripped his arm.

"Come outside."

"It's a reflection on the show, but in the street Podmore looked at him enquiringly, and noting his manifest excitement said tersely, "Spill it!"

"I know where that girl from Tulsa is."

"The deuce! Where?"

"You heard those two fellows talking "

"Something about a hulk or a houseboat, the owner of which, tiring of life―"

"Yes! She's there. On that converted hulk— the President Garfield." "But how―"

"It was in the gazette. You didn't notice— and you wouldn't have known if you had. But I saw the offices of that firm— and the picture of the man who' had rented the hulk."

"You know him?"

"Know him! I'd know him among a thousand! It was one of those three blackguards— the one they call Tony, and it's certainly that his niece is that girl―"

"Phew!" Podmore's surprise expressed itself only through the whistle. The next moment he gripped his friend's arm. "There is a tide in the affairs of men— Peter; this is a spring tide. I can hear it booming. How soon do we put to sea?"

8

"THE first thing to do is to find out the whereabouts of that precious hulk," said Peter. "But there'll be no difficulty about that—Jowsey and Jowsey may have a picture in their window. Anyway, we can soon prove that. Their office is only a few yards down the street." They walked to the place. Messrs. Jowsey, being a go-ahead firm, spent money on electric light after office hours. Their window, a picture gallery of properties "To Let" and "For Sale," was illuminated for the benefit of prospective clients, and within a minute of reaching the window Peter gave an ejaculation.

"There!" he said, pointing to what obviously had been a schooner, but which was now dismasted, partly covered with an awning and flying a flag at the stern.

"The President Garfield," he read in jerks. "Comfortably furnished. ... All conveniences.... Moored in the most beautiful part of the Beaulieu River. Accommodation...."

"Beaulieu River!" interrupted Podmore. "I know it. It's pretty solitary even when the tourists are about. Wonder exactly what part, and which side the river."

"Doesn't say; and short of interviewing Mr. Jowsey at the Constitutional Club we're not likely to learn in this term."

"Jowsey is off. He might be curious to know why we were interested. But with the car we can be at Beaulieu in no time worth speaking of, and they'll know all about Randall and the President Garfield there."

"Then well start at once.''

They returned to the hotel, and as Podmore was going to the garage, he gave counsel.

"Better get those flashlights we brought, and the other flashing things. It's as well to go prepared for trouble."

"'Heeled' is the word!" laughed Peter. "When you're dealing with ruffians, do as ruffians do."

In ten minutes they were away, crossing the river at Redbridge, they swung left, at Totton, and presently were running on the skirts of forest land. At Marchwood it began to drizzle, and when they reached Beaulieu Heath the rain was driving smartly in the wind.

"Going to be a soaker, seemingly," remarked Podmore as they passed Hill Top. "but we shall be at Beaulieu in ten minutes."

Almost to the moment they skirted the lake, and running into the village pulled up at the hotel. Leaving the car in front they passed inside to the taproom as the likeliest place to learn what they wanted. There were six or seven men in the room playing the games that country inns provide, and three others at the bar gossiping —all plainly of the neighbourhood.

"Dirty night!" remarked one of the men, affably, as they moved to the bar.

''Very," answered Peter, and ordered a couple of double whiskies.

"No sort o' night to be driving . through t' forest," said another of the men.

"A true word," agreed Peter.

"The roads are tricky in the rain. But we shall find our way safely if only the ponies don't get in front of us."

Then Podmore steering the conversation skilfully, joined in with a laugh, addressing his friend.

'Remember that time when Randall ran into a cow on the Plymouth Road, Peter?"

"Yes, Randall was always a wild driver. Came of having been so long at sea. Used to so much elbow-room he never could fit in with the narrowness of roads."

"Did I hear 'ee mention the name of Randall?" asked one of the men with quickening interest.

"Yes. Know anybody of that name?"

"Used to! But he's in Beaulieu churchyard now— having suicided six months back"

"Good heavens! Whatever made the man do that?"

"Lor' knows. Some says 'twas because old Dan left him; but I'm not one o' them as believes that. I reckon that livin' where he did was enough to send any common man off his rocker."

"But 'twas old Dan's goin' as finished it," broke in one or the other men with conviction. "'Ee see sir, Dan was sort of cook an' bottle washer an' general handy man to Captain Randall, having followed the sea with him in the same ship for years, an' the Cap'n had come to depend on him, not being able to abide. An' one fine day Dan took a trip to Southampton an' run plunk into a female cousin, a widder, with a nice li'l inn somewhere up Salisbury way. They'd been sweethearts donkeys years ago, an' blest If they didn't go an' take up again, an' Dan went off an' wed the widder without giving Randall notice. Preyed on the old Cap'n's mind, I vow, for 'twas less than a month after that he cut his throat in the cabin of the old Garfield―"

"Cabin?" interrupted Peter. "Do you mean he was living in a ship?"

"Old wooden schooner he'd-bought."Turned it into a sort of house an' had it moored between here aft Buckler's Hard. Queer notion, I guess, but a chap who's lived his life on saltwater likes to hear it slappin' under -his bedroom window, I guess. Ship is to let now— 'house-boat,' feller up to Southampton calls it; but I reckon, it'll be empty till it rots, or till some tramping chap sets it afire. Nobody wants to picnic in a place where a feller cut his throat."

"Good heavens, no!" said Podmore, and jerked his head towards the door.

Peter nodded, and picked up his glass to finish the whisky.

As he did so the sound of a car moving in low gear reached him. The car pulled up in front of the hotel, but the soft throbbing of its engine still made itself heard, and a moment later the sound of a feminine voice reached his ears.

"Thank you. I shall be back in two hours. You will be here to garage the cart."

The voice was a familiar one, but the sound of it at that moment was so unexpected that, utterly startled, Peter dropped his glass.

Podmore laughed— now you'll have to have another, old man."  As he spoke he moved towards the window, and remained there, peering into the rainy night, whilst Peter, apologising for his clumsiness, paid for the glass.

The car that had pulled up outside the hotel moved off, and the two friends, with a nod to the company, passed out of the hotel. Once out in the night Peter whispered, sharply:

"You heard that voice?" You recognised it?"

Podmore chuckled. "I did more. I saw the lady."

"It was―"

"Yes, it was! Miss May Endicott is lodging not at the South-western' Hotel, but at the Montague Arms; and, for a guess, she has just gone to pay a call on the President Garfield."

"That means the others are there?"

"Some of them, no doubt."

"We have got to find that houseboat, Dick!"

"Sure! Somewhere between here and Buckler's Hard. This side of the river, seemingly; for which heaven be praised. We shall find it easily, I expect. That spanking car will be a signpost on the road," he chuckled. "Cars have their uses, I know; but you can't hide them in a rabbit burrow. The lady will have to leave it somewhere, and at least we know the place within a mile or two. Get in! No use wasting time."

Podmore started his car, and they left the village behind driving in the direction of the ancient Hard, where, in old days, a flagship of Nelson's with many another three-decker had been built. As they slipped through the rainy darkness, Pentreath asked a question:

"How will the girl know where that converted schooner is?"

"One of the crowd will be watching for her on the road; I expect. Thank Heaven, whichever of them it is, he'll be soaked."

They ran forward, the rain drumming on the hood and splashing on the windscreen. Both were on the alert, and after a time Peter saw something under the trees gleaming in the glare of the headlights. He gave a sharp exclamation.

"Something there!... A car's headlamps reflecting ours."

"I see! I'm going to run past. Can't stop at the exact place. That might give us away. We shall have to walk back."

Podmore slackened pace a little, and Peter saw quite clearly a large saloon car, all lights out, parked on the grass at the side of the road and well in the shadow of the trees. So far as he could see there was no one in charge of it, and he. said so to Podmore, who laughed:

"Might leave a saloon full of diamonds on this road on a night like this!... There won't be a soul abroad."

He ran on slowly for three or four hundred yards, then a strip of turf with a gentle slope towards the trees offered itself, and he turned the car on to it, and pulled up, switching off the lights.

Descending they stood listening for a moment. No sound was to be heard but the beating of the rain on the trees.

"All serene!" whispered Peter, and together they walked back towards the place where the other car was parked. The night was quite dark, and under the trees it was almost impossible to see anything. But, leaving the road for the soaked turf, presently they described the saloon in the shadow of a great tree.

"Wait!" said Podmore. "Be prepared to lend a hand."

He crept forward, an sound of his going lost in the swish of the rain and the drip from the trees. Within four minutes he was back again.

"No one there," he said.

"The saloon is locked... There's a green path running down towards the river. We shall find the President Garfield at the end of it, I'll wager."

They moved forward together; and entering the path which Podmore had discovered began the descent towards the water. It was difficult going, the path, sodden with the rain, being slippery; but there was no fear of losing it, since it had been cut through the undergrowth and apparently had been kept clear of the trailing brambles.

Then, out of the rainy darkness, a light gleamed below them.

"There!" said Peter. "Yes! Out on the water. The darned thing isn't moored against the bank. We'll need a boat as like as not."

Lower down, the truth of Podmore's conjecture became evident. The light, streaming apparently through a port-hole, revealed a dozen yards of  water between them and their objective. Carefully they searched the muddy bank, but found no sign of a skiff.

"Boat is over there," said Podmore. "Somebody would have to fetch that girl, and the boat will be kept at the hulk for landing purposes. What Is to be done?"

"Wait until the boat comes back with the girl," said Pentreath. "Whoever puts her ashore will probably walk up to the road with her. Then one of us can slip aboard."

They waited in the darkness, soaked by the rain and chilled to the bone. Almost an hour passed, whilst they watched the hulk dimly outlined on the water, silent as the grave, with only that single lighted porthole to reveal that there was any one on board.

At last, another light gleamed on the deck— that of a hurricane lantern, carried by some one whose legs were visible in its light. The sound of voices came across the water, too indistinctly, however, for them to hear what was said. The light moved downward, and Peter guessed that there was an accommodation ladder from the hulk deck.

"That girl is leaving," said Podmore In a whisper. "If the man leaves the boat there will be a chance. One or both of us must take it, and have a look at the hulk."

"I'll do that," said Peter quickly, with a thought of the girl who might be aboard.

Crouching in the shadow of the bushes, they saw a small dinghy make the bank. A man stepped out, and held the boat whilst his companion followed, then he tied the painter to a post, and, taking up the hurricane lantern, spoke to the girl as the light revealed the second person to be.

"I'll go first, Jane, an' light up this' darned track. Look out yew don't go slithering on your pretty face. It aint no joy-walk coming down, but goin' up is like walkin' up a hill of grease in your bare feet."

"All right, Tony. I'll dig my heels in!"

The pair began to ascend to tho road, and Peter whispered: "You heard the name he gave her?"

"Yes!" Podmore chuckled, softly. "And it settles one thing. Lady Daneby is cherishing a scorpion. Her face will be worth seeing when―"

"Time I was off," interrupted Peter, making for the boat.

Podmore went with him.

"Look here," he said, "how long do you think you're going to have before Tony comes back? Not sufficient time to run over that hulk, at any rate. Best thing is for me to go out with you, put you aboard and bring the boat back. That fellow will suspect nothing, and when you've made your examination you can easily drop into the boat Whilst he is aboard and return. Won't matter about marooning that scoundrel."

"Yes, that will be best. It will give me time." They cast off the boat and rowed to the hulk, where the solitary porthole still showed a light. Dimly through the rainy darkness, Peter perceived a short companion ladder. Pulling the boat alongside he stepped out, and for a moment stood listening. There was no sound but the ripple of water and the splash of the rain on deck and awning.

"All right," he whispered. "If trouble eventuates, flash that lamp of yours three times, Peter, and I'll hurry up to support, if I have to swim across."

He looked back towards the bank. High up, Tony's lantern gleamed through the trees, and then a great fan of light cut the darkness, illuminating the tree tops. "Jane's far away. Time I was getting this wherry to its mooring post. Good luck, old man." He pushed off, and without further delay Peter moved cautiously up the ladder.

When he reached the deck he halted and looked around, listening. The rain drumming on the awning deadened all other sounds there might be, but so far as he could make out he was alone on the hulk. He looked towards the bank. The fan of -light gleaming on the wet tree tops was still stationary; and the saloon had not yet moved off. As like as not the man Tony was exchanging a few last words with the girl, and he himself had just time to get a glimpse of that lighted cabin.

He moved quickly and silently along the wet deck, and found a companionway at the foot of which shone a light. As there was no lamp visible he knew that the light must come through an open cabin, the lighted port-hole of which had been visible from the bank. He slipped the pistol he had brought with him from his pocket, and, carrying it in his hand, swiftly and silently descended the stairs.

At the foot, six feet or so away, he saw the doorway from which the light streamed. Craning his heck, he found himself looking into a cabin which was plainly used for a living room, there was a table there, on which stood glasses and a half-emptied brandy bottle; besides the table a lounge chair, and a couple of the straight-backed variety, whilst along the passage drifted a little wave of heat, which proclaimed a stove of some kind. He listened for a No sound whatever came from that lighted room.

He looked in the other direction where there were two doors both shut, then he tiptoed towards the lighted cabin and looked in. It was a comfortable' room, small, with another lounge chair which had been concealed from his view by the door; and a set of bookshelves, three-quarters filled, largely with magazines and cheap paper backs. On the floor was a suitcase, open, and of masculine ownership, as its contents proclaimed. But there was no one in the cabin, and no sign of the girl from Tulsa, whom he had half expected to find there.

Going back to the foot of the companion-stairs he considered the other two closed doors, wondering if he had time to inspect the rooms to which they gave admission. Deciding that it would be as well to reassure himself on that score, he slipped up the stairs and examined the bank. All was dark at the water's edge, whilst up on the road a broad splash of light proclaimed that though the saloon's headlights had been switched on it was still stationary. He ran back and tried the first of the two doors. It was locked.

He knocked sharply with a thought that there might be some one inside. There was no response to his summons. He moved to the other door, and tried the handle. As it turned the door opened. Pulling the flashlight from his pocket, he pressed the switch; and surveyed the cabin— for cabin it was in reality, with a built-in bunk, a small fixed wardrobe, and a dressing chest. On the latter, as the beam of his lamp fell on it, something gleamed, catching his eyes.

Looking more closely, he saw a couple of keys threaded on string, with a small bobbin between them. He picked them up quickly, and going to the locked door, tried each key in turn. With the second he was successful. The lock turned, and be stepped into the room.

This also was a cabin, but of a different order from the other. It had, be noted, a white enamelled bedstead, obviously new. The bed-linen and the pillow had that shining quality that goes with linen that has never been wed, and the top of the sheets had been folded over as neatly as If a chambermaid had been at work Bung over that rail was a suit of silk pyjamas, obviously for feminine use; whilst on a chair was a lady's dressing-case, with a monogram, "M.E."

The room, prepared for occupation, with the dressing-case, was a revelation. The girl he had come to seek was not on the hulk, but obviously she was expected, and this cabin had been prepared for her reception. Assumed of that, he wasted no more time. Locking the door again, he returned the keys to the place where he had found them, closed the door, and hurried up the companion-way. He was little more than just in time. A light at the foot of the bank told him that the man Tony was in the act of, returning, and he had little more than a couple of minutes to find a hiding place.

Crouching low, though there was little fear of the man observing him, he hurried forward, and tame upon a small, glazed deck-house, the door of which yielded when he pushed it A rather damp, earthy odour mingled with that of decaying vegetation puzzled him for a moment, until, against the glass, he made out dimly the form of some trailing plant, and, groping, touched a couple of flowerpots.

Apparently, he reflected, the late Captain Randall had been something of a horticulturist, and had used this place to indulge his hobby. Well, he thought, if the new tenant chanced to share the other's taste for gardening, he would scarcely be so enthusiastic as to get busy with trowel or syringe at this late hour. Assured that here, for the time,, was the safest hiding-place in the hulk, he closed the door softly, and then, crouching low with his hat well over his face, waited for the arrival of the man with the boat.

Peter heard a bump which told him that Tony was scarcely an expert in the management of a row-boat, and a minute later he saw the man carrying a hurricane lantern mount the deck, move forward and disappear down the companionway, no doubt going to the lighted cabin. He wondered what he should do.

Podmore, crouching among the bushes, no doubt drenched to the skin, would be wondering what was happening, and since he proposed to wait and watch for further developments he cast about for some means to reassure his friend. The idea came to him at once. Podmore being a retired soldier would be familiar with the signalling codes, and the instrument for signalling—almost a perfect one— was to his hand in the flash-light. Opening the door of the deck-house, he listened. There was no sound of movement from below. Then he gave the calling signal in the Morse code. There was an instant response from bank, and he continued:

"O.K! Waiting developments."

"O.K." was the answer, and then came a surprise. The trees at the top of the bank were limned in blinding light, which grew brighter as the car from whose headlamps it came drew nearer. Then the lights became stationary, and a moment later a klaxon horn shrieked and shrieked again. He guessed a signal and waited breathlessly. The horn shrieked again— three times, as if the operator were impatient, and after an interval the man Tony appeared on deck carrying his hurricane lantern. As he did so, once more the horn gave its strident call, and the man bawled loudly. "Coo-00-ee!"

He went to the steps, cursing the impatience of the signaller on the bank, and two minutes after Peter saw his lamp in the boat moving towards the bank. Standing clear of the deck-house, he was able to follow the progress of the man, the lamp being plainly visible most of the way up the track to the road, and whilst he watched, low down by the water, Podmore's flashlight began to wink. He spelled out the signal: "Look out!"

Peter risked a single brief flash of his own lamp to show that he understood, then retreated to his hiding place and waited. He heard nothing, but at the end of five minutes the light on the road was suddenly doused, and again that of the hurricane lamp appeared, descending the bank towards the water. Crouching low, with his eyes only just above the level of the glass and his hat well down, he watched, and when the lamp reached the edge of the water he was able dimly to make out the forms of two or three men. After an interval the boat-pushed off, and again a bump announced its arrival at the foot of the accommodation ladder. Then a harsh voice sounded.

"Up yew go. Follow the glim— an' no hanky-panky!"

"Jake!" he whispered to himself, recognising the voice, and waited breathlessly. Tony appeared with the lantern, and obligingly held it up a little the person who was following, and whom Jake's rough words had been addressed.

A feminine form came over the side, and on the deck stood hesitating giving Pentreath a chance to see her face in the lantern light. He caught his breath at the sight, whilst his mind exulted.

"The girl!— the girl from Tulsa."

"Move on! Spry, if yew don't want prodding!"

The voice was Jake's, and as the girl gave an apprehensive start the man with the lantern spoke in tones that besides his chum's were almost tender.

"This way, miss! Mind yew don't slip! This rain makes the boards greasy."

They moved towards the companionway, followed by two other men, who came up the ladder, and the whole party went below. Peter thought quickly. The way was now clear for him to leave the hulk, but he had no intention of going. The girl whom he had come to seek was now almost within earshot, and he was determined at all costs to help her to get away from her abductors before worse things could befall her. But Podmore was still there in the darkness. Well, he could wait; but he must let him show his intentions. Guessing that his friend would be on the qui vive, he did not trouble to give the calling signal, but flashed his message at once.

"OK. Waiting!"

Then as a rumble of voices came up from the cabin, he stepped clear of the deck-house and strained his ears in the hope of catching what was being said.

9

FROM the point where he stood Peter could hear nothing clearly, and after a couple of minutes he moved forward a little. Then help came from an unexpected quarter. The harsh voice of Jake cried out complainingly loud.

"It's cursed stuffy here. Open that durned skylight, Tony."

Peter looked about him for the skylight, which the illuminated cabin below should have made visible. He could not find it; but a minute later he knew why. The sound of feet on the companion-stairs made him retreat sharply, and then Tony appeared carrying his lantern. Moving a little way along the deck he set the lantern down, and busied himself with something for a minute or two.

Then he broke out impatiently: "Confound it! I'll cut the thing!"

After a brief interval the man moved dragging something back, and immediately the light streaming upward revealed the skylight, which, as Pentreath guessed, had been covered by a tarpaulin.

Picking up his lantern the man returned to the cabin, and a minute or so later a pane of the skylight was thrust open some three inches. Pentreath exulted at the sight. The men below had unwittingly supplied him with a listening post, and after waiting for a moment he crept lightly forward, but, slipping to his hands and knees beside the open skylight, suffered an acute disappointment.

The rain pattering smartly on the glass, and splashing on the deck, made the voices in the cabin indistinct. Scraps only of the conversation reached him, usually when the man Jake raised his harsh voice.

"... Sure sick of this dilly-dally an' round-the-mulberry-bush game... The girl's a danger every moment... sooner we quit the better. The bulls over here are real smart, and graft cuts no ice with them... What's that?"

Some other voice made an answer that was lost in the splash of the rain, but the harsh voice, replying, came clearly.

"Yep! If that guy has blown to the Scotland Yard ducks the yarn he pitched to Jane... What are they going to look for? A missing young woman..."

"But, Jake, that girl ain't missing really, so far as they know. Jane's deputising for her―"

"Yep! That's a good reason for puttin' her on the missing list permanently. An' there's another— when 'ole man' Endicott shows up..."

A few words were lost to the eavesdropper in an increase in the rain which drowned the voices, but the next words he caught were significant.

"...Enough mud in this creek to hide an elephant, let alone a miss that ain't properly lost her milk' teeth, but the ole man will have to have an accident where he can be found an'..."

Again the sound of voices was lost, and it was the end of a sentence that drifted up through the skylight:—

"... Just a shot of dope, an' the water in the creek'll do the trick... Kid'll know less about it than a blind kitten dropped in a tub. An' if we're to touch them dollars we've sure got to give Jane a straight run."

"Dollars!"

Peter, appalled as he was at the callous discussion of contemplated murder, had a swift wonder where and how money came into the question, and then caught a sentence that threw a stabbing light on the mystery.

"Sure that lawyer guy is square, Jake?"

"Dead sure! Fellow's broke, an worse. He's got to git cash from somewhere sharp, an' he'll pass Jane's signature all right. He has them ready an' is bringing them over..."

The rest was lost to Peter but he found himself as he thought very near to the heart of the mystery. Old Endicott was rich. Apparently his grand-daughter was an only child. No doubt his fortune would pass to her on his death, and if he died in England, and the true May Endicott was out of the way, with the connivance of a lawyer who had charge of the old man's affairs, it would be an easy matter so to arrange things that the reputed May Endicott, accepted everywhere in England as such, should succeed.

Whilst he was reviewing this possibility which explained the substitution of the one girl for the other, he heard Jake's voice say with decision:

"Then that's fixed... To-night―"

To him there was something horrific in the finality of that last word. To what it referred he had no doubt whatever. The disposal of that girl whom he had seen brought aboard the hulk was decided upon, and the ruffians meant that she should die that night, as apparently her grandfather was to die to-morrow.

He did not know what to do. If the three men remained armed, ruthless as he know them to be, they would be more than he could hope to overcome alone. He wondered if he should signal to Podmore to come to his assistance. With one of them at the skylight, and one other at the foot of the stairs, they could command the cabin until the girl reached the boat and―

He got no further. There was a sudden move on the part of the trio in the cabin, and the harsh voice of the bony-faced Jake reached him.

"I'll put you ashore. You'll see to the arrangements for the old man, 'an' I'll fix things here."

In an instant he slipped away from the skylight, and hurried back to the hiding place in the late Captain Randall's greenhouse. Already he was revising his plans. He could deal with one man, even if that one were the ruthless Jake, and there was another use for Podmore. If, when the others had gone, he brought the car to the head of the green track it might save time in case of need.

He looked towards the companion-way. There was as yet no sign of the trio, and he took a risk. Quickly with his flashlight he gave the morse call again. To his concern there was no reply. He tried again with one eye on the companion-way, and again received no answer. Had some untoward thing befallen his friend? In this soaking weather he could scarcely have fallen asleep.

A light showed at the head of the companion-way, and a man appeared with a hurricane lantern. Two others followed, and all three moved towards the accommodation ladder. His heart leaped as he thought of the opportunity that might offer. If the man who was to bring the boat back went to the top of the path with his companions there would be time for him to speak to the girl, to get her to the deck-house, and for Podmore to bring the boat across. Then they could slip down river for a little way. But Podmore was not there. In his heart he cursed the man for what looked like desertion. He would have to depend on himself, and wait until the man with the boat returned. But if he got the girl to the deck-house it would make things easy. He heard the boat push off, watched its course to the bank, and by the light of the lantern it carried, he saw all three step ashore.

Wasting no further time, he left his hiding-place, hurried down the ladder, and knocked sharply on the door of the cabin where he was sure the girl was incarcerated. A little frightened ejaculation was his first answer. Then a quivering voice began,

"What―"

"I am a friend, Miss Endicott. I want to get you away. I'm going to open the door."

He turned the handle as he spoke. The door was locked. The key was not there. He ran to the cabin, thinking it might have been left upon the table, tout he could not see it, and ran back.

"I'm going to burst the door. Stand away!"

He got no further. Quite distinctly he heard something dropped heavily upon the deck, and knew as surely as if he had seen him that the man who had gone with the boat had returned without lighting the others up the track. He had less than a minute to make up his mind. The man must see him the moment he reached the head of companion-way, and down there, whilst the element of surprise would be his, he would be at a disadvantage. There was a better way than that.

Swiftly he spoke to the girl on the other side of the door.

"Be ready, and don't be alarmed at anything that happens. I shall be back again shortly."

He heard feet moving on the deck overhead as he slipped Into the cabin where he had found the keys on his exploration of the hulk, and as he softly closed the door the feet began to descend the companion-stairs. At the bottom they halted, and for a second he was tempted to open the door, and, pistol in hand, confront the man. From the sounds which reached him he had halted at the foot of the .stairs, and appeared to be listening, for now he made no sound whatever.

Then the stillness was broken by a laugh. Pentreath's blood chilled at the sound. Was the man aware of his presence, or did he find something grimly amusing in the thought of that helpless girl behind that locked door? Unexpectedly, the voice of the man reached him, apparently uttering his thoughts aloud.

"A royal flush! If the girl's got hoss sense. No harm in playin' the hand." He heard the fellow move. There was the scraping of a key in a lock; then he heard the door of the next cabin open.

"Don't be scared, missy," he heard the girl's jailer say as if anxious to reassure her. "I ain't meanin' yew no harm. I just want a little talk between pals. An' if you'll listen I reckon―"

The man dropped his voice, and to Peter, though he listened intently, it was no more than a murmur; but suddenly he heard the girl cry out in passionate repudiation.

"No! A thousand times, no! Not even to save my life!"

Peter had not the remotest idea to what the words referred, but apparently they stung the man to whom they were addressed, and moved him to anger, for he fairly roared.

"Perdition! Yew won't! By gee, for two cents I'd―" The man checked his wrath, and an odd, wheedling note crept into his voice.

"Yew sure have got sand, an' that's why I ain't anxious to see yew made a back number. But yew ain't got to think only of yourself. A slap-up kid like yew are wouldn't do that. There's ole Grandpa Endicott to think of."

"Oh, but you wouldn't hurt him, an old man. who—"

"Not me! I was sure brought up to respect grey hairs. But them others. Yew've seen 'em. They mean business, an' they ain't so tender as me. They'd gun their mothers an I never bat an eyelid. But if yew'll be sensible, honey, nought shall happen to the ole boy. We'll fix that as easy as winking, an' them others'll be in gaol before they know what's hit 'em, an' yew an' me'll be just as cheerful as a pair o' love birds on a bough."

Peter understood that the man was A proposing to the girl that she should marry him, whilst he doublecrossed his friends and saved old

Endicott from the fate which he had arranged with his fellow conspirators. That, he supposed, was in order to secure the girl's fortune undivided. The scheme, for so ruthless a villain, was not without its naiveté, and he was almost moved to laughter. He repressed his emotions, however, and judging the time had come for interference, he slipped from his place of concealment and presented himself at the door of the other cabin, pistol in hand. Then he spoke with cool imperativeness.

"Put up your hands, my man." The fellow swung round with the swiftness of an acrobat, his hand at the same time going to his arm-pit where, no doubt, he carried a pistol.

"No, by heaven " There was no need to finish the threat. The pistol directed at his heart with a steady hand was infinitely persuasive. The man put up his hands. Stepping forward and thrusting the pistol against his body, Peter, without moving his eyes from the mans face, with his free hand searched for and removed the man's weapon. Then he stepped back a pace.

"Now march to the cabin. Keep your hands up!"

The man obeyed him like a lamb, and Peter, following him, noted that there was a key in the lock on the inside of the door.

"Sit down in that chair," he ordered; "Put your hands out flat on the table." The man did as instructed, and Pentreath with a thought for the old man who would be landing from the Berengaria on the morrow, asked a question. "Where have those other two gone?"

The fellow laughed in his face. "Think I'll tell yew that, Cissy?"

"You will tell a great deal more, presently, when Scotland Yard gets its hands on you."

"Think so Yew sure born confident. An' them hands ain't on me yet." Peter considered. He did not quite know what to do. To attempt to tie up a more powerful man than himself was fraught with danger. He would need both hands for such a task, and even if he could manage it with one hand, if the fellow, accustomed as he was to firearms, risked a shot from the pistol anything might happen.

But there was that key in the door. The man broke on his thoughts again.

"Think y'urself middlin' spry don't yew, catching me on the hop like this? But yew ain't got that girl away yet, an' s'pose yew do, what d'yew reckon is goin' to happen to yew? Yew ain't used to our brand this side; but I guess yew heard a bit, an' yew can take it from me that one or other of us will git yew before yew're through with the game. If yew value y'ur young life―"

"It has attractions!" interrupted Peter, "but I haven't time to tell you what they are just now."

"An' yew won't have time to worry about 'em no more after yew've stopped one... What for do yew want to go buttin' into things that ain't no concern of y'urs when―"

Peter heard the words, but gave them no attention. The man's head was cocked forward and there was an odd look in his eyes. Was he expecting his friends to return? That was scarcely probable; but he determined to take no chances.

"Stand up!" he said, sharply. "Get into that corner. Hands up! Face to the panels."

The man obeyed each command in tum, and scarcely was he in the corner, when, with a quick move, Pentreath ran one of tiie heavy lounge chairs against his back, wedging aim there. The next second he was at the door changing the key to the outside. The man turned his head to see what was happening

"Face about! By heaven―"

He lifted his pistol and the man turned. Then, swiftly, Peter changed the position of the pistol, and fired at the lamp chimney. It went with a crash and the light was extinguished. He heard the girl give, a little cry, and as he banged and locked the door he called to her reassuringly. Then he pulled out the key and flung it. from him as he ran to the girl's cabin.

She was standing half-dressed, white-faced, with fear in her grave eyes; but us she saw him, the fear vanished, and an immense relief took its place, followed by recognition.

"You!" she stammered. "I remember ... in Tulsa "

"Yes!" he said. "Quick, we must get away at once. Never mind anything else. That cloak there will serve." He caught the cloak from the chair where it lay, flung it around her, them grasped her hand.

As Peter and the girl ran for the stairs, shouted threats and battering noises came from the main cabin. The ruffian was apparently trying to break his way out; but both the door and the lock were stout, and Peter was assured that he was not likely to achieve his purpose before they could leave the hulk.

"Go first!" he cried to the girl, and as he followed at her heels saw that she was shoeless. On the deck he caught her hand Again.

"This way—there is a boat." They reached the accommodation ladder, and as they did so the girl staggered and gave a little cry of pain.

"Oh!" she gasped. "I... I..." She sagged as if fainting.

It was no time for ceremony. Peter caught her in his arms, and in the same moment caught a sound of splintering glass. He looked round, but in the darkness could see nothing to account for the noise. He lifted the girl with the intention of carrying her down the ladder, and as he did so the darkness across the deck was stabbed by flame, a bullet "plunked" in the bulwark, and through the swish of the rain came the crack of the pistol that had fired it.

He looked swiftly in the direction from which the sound came, and, suddenly understanding came to him.

"The skylight!"

The man whom he had left in the cabin would be able to reach it from the table, and if he thought of a chair would even be able to climb out. Plainly he had another weapon, and was disposed to use it, which, considering the desperate crimes of which he was guilty, was not in any way surprising. The pistol cracked again, and more glass was splintered as Peter turned and set foot on the accommodation ladder.

The girl was now a dead weight in his arms, and he was sure that she had fainted, which, though having to carry her hampered his freedom of action, he thought was just as well. He was almost at the foot of the ladder when he heard more glass crash, and laughed a little exultantly as he thought that the ruffian was having some difficulty in getting out of the cabin.

"A fine plumber's bill for some one," he thought, and then looked for the dinghy; it was a moment or two before he saw it. A strong ebb tide was apparently running, and the boat was against the side of the hulk at the full stretch of the mooring rope. He had to set the girl down on the steps whilst he hauled in hand over hand, as quickly as he could.

The boat came against the tide slowly. He was in a fever of impatience, fearing the advent of the ruffian from the cabin all the time he hauled. He knew that now the man would be ruthless, that there would be no mercy either for himself and the girl, since their escape would infallibly ruin whatever purpose he and his fellows had in view.

At last the boat came alongside, and hitching the rope to the ladder, he picked up the girl, and stepped into the bobbing craft. He set his burden down in the stern, slipped the hitch he had made to the rail of the ladder, and was immediately carried to the end of the mooring rope by the pull of the tide. He groped for and found the ring through which the rope was passed, and then discovered that it was held in the ring by an eye-splice. For a moment he was almost in despair. He had no knife, and there was nothing for it but to haul at the rope until he reached the end by which it was moored to the hulk.

Desperately he began to do so, standing precariously and hauling, with each new reach of his hand bringing the boat back to the accommodation ladder- He reached it, and was struggling with the knot which the rain had tautened when he heard feet stamping at the top of the ladder, and knew that the man whom he had left in the cabin had freed himself. He had proof already that the man was armed, and feared the worst, but still gave his whole attention to the recalcitrant knot.

Then he caught a laugh so cruel in quality that involuntarily he shivered. The crack of the pistol which he feared followed. The rope with which he was struggling was jerked out of his hand, and the boat, released from restraint, whirled in the hurrying tide, throwing him from his feet. He fell in the bottom of the boat, felt a jerk as the boat reached the end of the painter, then heard a rending sound, and, like a hor. released from control, the boat bobbed forward.

"Thank heaven!" he whispered, and groped for the oars. He could not find them, though he tried again. Then, realising they were not there, he remembered the sound which he had heard from his hiding place in the deck-house— the sound of something heavy dropped on the deck, and knew that what he had heard must have been the sound of the oars as the man dropped them after carrying them up from the boat. There was nothing to be done but surrender the boat to the drift of the tide. He dropped to the seat, and, as -e did so, something struck him violently in the shoulder, jerking him forward, so that he fell in the bottom of the boat. In the same second he was aware of a searing pain.

That a bullet had found him, he guessed, and lay quite still, wondering how serious the wound was, and hoping that the tide would quickly carry the dinghy out of range. His hope was realised. He heard no more shots, and looking on the backward way, saw no spurt of flame Which would have proclaimed that the ruffian on the hulk was still firing.

Lifting himself up a little, he looked at the girl to save whom he had ventured so much. She lay where he had placed her, her white face just visible in the wet darkn.ss, the cloak he had thrown around her in the cabin fallen away, and revealing neck and bare arms. He made an effort, and crawling towards her, folded the cloak carefully about her, causing himself excruciating pain by doing so, the wound in his shoulder hurting dreadfully.

For a moment after making the effort he lay in the bottom of the boat, and then discovered that he was lying in water. That puzzled him for a moment, until he remembered that the heavy rain might account for it, but an instant later, as he heard a slight gurgling sound, he knew that it did not.

He groped for the plug used for  draining the boat, thinking it must have become displaced, and he found it. It was firmly fixed, and the rising water in the boat was not entering that way. Then he guessed the truth. The bullet which had severed the rope, or some other, had gone clean through the planking, and the water was pouring in as from a tap.

He listened and began to search for the leak, without finding it, however, and as the water mounted he grew alarmed. To be adrift on a hurrying tide, without oars, and with no control whatever of the boat, was bad; but to be adrift in a boat which was in process of becoming waterlogged was infinitely worse. There was no saying how long the situation would last. At any moment some disastrous thing might happen. But, with a wounded shoulder, he could do nothing. Lifting himself on to the thwart, he crouched there, beaten by the rain, shivering with the chill thus induced, hoping against hope that the tide would carry the boat into the bank. After a little time he lost that hope. He seemed to be drifting into a broader current— at any rate, the shadowy woods on either side seemed to be farther away. The boat was lower in the water. It was riding heavily, and he knew that it was only a matter of time before the water would swirl over the gunwale and the boat sink beneath them.

He stared ahead in the darkness, then closed his eyes for a little time, and opened them to see something directly in front. He had time to do no more than mark it when the boat crashed into it, and as the water came swirling over the side, he heard the girl, whom he had thought still unconscious, give a sudden sharp cry of fear.

10

PETER'S first thought was that they had struck the bank; but a second later he discerned the outlines of a small yacht. The boat drifted round, then bumped alongside, every second on the point of foundering. He groped for a hold and grasped a rope at the end of which a cork fender was hung. Then he cried out to the girl:

"Grip me, quick, for God's sake!" His urgency broke through the fear which had moved her to that sudden cry. Lifting herself she put her arms about him, and almost at the moment the boat swirled from under them, and they hung precariously at the yacht's side.

Peter cried out, "Don't he afraid. Hang on, and drag yourself nearer. Feel for my hand, and get hold of this rope. Got it? Good! Now reach up for the gunwale. It's a low one. Can you climb aboard, I can't help much. I have a crocked shoulder."

The girl under the spur of peril proved herself something of an athlete, and without help from him scrambled aboard the yacht. Then lying on the deck she leaned over with her face very near his.

"Did you say your shoulder―"

"A bullet hit me when we left that hulk. I can put no weight on my left arm."

"Then I must be your arm. I am strong. Wait!"

She altered her position a little, and gripped his coat, lifting as she did so, Peter shifted his hold from the fender-rope to the gunwale, rested for a moment,, then at a word from her lifted himself, whilst she hauled with all her might. He achieved the gunwale and rolled over on deck. The action wrung a groan from him, for the shoulder was very painful, and as he lay there gasping for breath he was conscious of a sudden feeling of nausea, and an overwhelming weakness against which he fought desperately. The girl's voice seemed to come from a great distance, and he could not catch clearly what she was saying. The swirling of the water was accentuated, and the yacht seemed to be spinning round in some extraordinary way. It made him dizzy, and he closed his eyes, then slid into a faint induced by loss of blood.

Quite a long time after he became aware of the girl's voice again.

"You must drink this. It will do you a world of good. There is no milk, so you will have to take it black. Don't move. I will raise your head."

He could see the speaker only indistinctly, but he was very conscious of the hand which lifted his head. The hot coffee, which he held to his lips, after the first few sips was more than comforting, stimulating him, and making him his own man again. He drank the whole cupful, and then asked:

"Where are we?"

"In that small yacht on which we climbed when the boat sank. I found matches and a spirit lamp and a whole cupboard full of stores, from which I looted the coffee. If the owner should happen along, heaven knows what will be our portion— gaol as like as not."

She spoke lightly, and as he remembered through what she must have passed Peter was conscious of a surge of admiration for her spirit. He answered her in the light vein she had adopted.

"Scarcely that! They'll treat us as first offenders and bind us over, or fine us―" He broke off and achieved a rather quavering laugh. "As a millionaire's granddaughter they'll make your fine a swingeing one, I expect."

"How do you know that I am―"

"I know all about you," he answered, "or at any rate, quite a good deal."

"But how? You heard in Tulsa, perhaps, after that crash among the crockery?"

"Ah! You remember me?"

"I remembered you when you came to that cabin, after you had taken away that vile man."

"Yes! And I remembered you before that, when I saw you being carried in an unconscious state from one car to another, and again in a house on the Thames, when you were drugged. I had meant to take you away then―"

"You have tried to get me from these men before to-night?" she broke in, quickly.

"Why, yes, I had tumbled into the middle of a mystery that intrigued me, and which I only really began to understand a few hours ago. I was indiscreet enough to relate the little adventure in which I had glimpsed you to one who participated in it, and who, I suspect, is impersonating you."

"Impersonating me!" exclaimed the girl. "Why? Who is she?"

"The name she is known by among her intimates is Jane— Cicero Jane, and I fancy that the aim of the impersonation is to get possession of your grandfather's fortune."

"But how absurd! Why, grandfather is coming to England in the Berengaria."

"Which arrives to-morrow," he said, quickly, with a sudden thought of what that arrival might mean, "or is it to-day?"

He looked at his luminous watch to find that it had stopped, and the girl replied: "It must be to-day, I think. You were a long time unconscious, and I dressed your shoulder after I got into this little cabin.... But if grandfather is due to-day that girl will be proved an imposter at once."

"Yes," answered Peter, and reflected that there was a possibility that it might not be so, if the ruffians who had left the hulk proceeded with their terrible scheme.

"If she knows that he is coming―" began the girl, and Peter with a fear that she might get near the truth, and be thrown into infinite distress and apprehension, hastily intervened.

"The luck will be if she doesn't. She will have the shock of her young life when he appears, or, for the matter of that, when you show up at Lady Daneby's. She is there, you know, in your place, though to-night she was in this neighbourhood."

"I do not understand―" began the girl, and stopped suddenly. "Oh!" she whispered, shiveringly, as if she had unexpectedly visioned terrible things. "Oh!... But it can't be!"

"What―"

"That man! I had almost forgotten. He talked about my grandfather. He hinted that the others— the others meant to kill him. And he offered if I would marry him "

"I heard him. The scoundrel!" said Peter guessing that the girl had at least a dim notion of the truth. "But don't worry. This is England. Things are not done here as they are done abroad, and the Berengaria does not arrive until afternoon. When daylight comes we shall get out of this and we shall warn the police, who are on the look-out for these ruffians―"

"How do you know that?" asked the girl, quickly.

"As I told you, I saw you carried from one car to another in an unconscious condition―"

"That must have been after I flew from Cherbourg—instead of coming over on the Homeric."

Peter remembered a certain discrepancy in the time relating to the other girl's supposed landing from the Homeric and thought to himself that here was a possible and complete explanation, but saw no need to mention it. Instead, he gave the girl by his side news of events which startled and shocked her.

"That night two men were shot. One of them, the man who drove your car, was shot before my eyes by the man who was on that hulk—"

"Dear God!" she whispered in horror.

"And the other, a Pinkerton detective of the name of Pasquali, must have been shot before "

"But—but—why?"

"I don't know. He must have known the men, been interested in their doings, and they discovered him. What is vital is that there were two men shot that night by these ruffians, in whom the police are more than interested. They will be glad to know of their whereabouts, and in the morning when we get ashore we shall send them word—"

"Yes! Yes! Or my grandfather—?" she stopped and he felt her shiver. "But for you, I—I—"

"Don't think of it, Miss Endicott. Try and put it out of mind. You are here and safe for the present."

"But when daylight comes?" She whispered a little shakily.

"We shall be safer then than we are now. This creek is a quiet one; but there will be some traffic up and down it, and no doubt houses near by. We shall get to one of them—"

"Listen!" she whispered. "Oh, listen!"

Peter listened, wonderingly, but heard nothing, and asked, "What is it? "I thought I caught the 'chug-chug' of a launch going by. Yes! There it Is again. Oh, if—if " She moved nearer to him like a child afraid of some unseen thing. Peter, who this time had caught the sound, put his arm around her.

"Steady, Miss Endicott. It may be nothing. Some local boatman running up to Beaulieu, perhaps.

"But if it is that man—" She gave a shudder, and to comfort her Peter spoke with dissimulation.

"I do not quite see how it can be. The man Jake was really marooned on the hulk, unless there was another boat."

"How do we know that there was not! There was another man on that old ship when these others took me there. He may have had a launch. I do not know this part of England—"

She broke off, and Peter grew thoughtful. It was possible, of course, that the man Tony who had awaited the others might have arrived at the hulk by sea. A quite small launch could easily make the passage from Hythe or even from Southampton, and there would be no difficulty in hiring one. He had seen no sign of any such craft about the hulk; though to be sure in the darkness he might easily have missed it.

There was another thing, also. He had spoken to the girl about some boatman running up to Beaulieu, but in his mind he was sure that the craft had been going down stream towards the sea, and why any man following lawful occasions should be abroad at that hour and on such a night was not clear. But he felt it incumbent on him to reassure his companion, and he spoke as lightly as he could.

"No matter! Whoever was driving that launch has gone on."

For quite a long time they were silent; but at last the girl spoke in a whisper.

"It is a strange thing that we should meet in Tulsa and that you should save my life there, and now here. And all for a girl you had seen once―"

"Not once! Three times."

"And you remembered me from the first?"

"All the time. And that girl with the grave eyes reminded me—"

"You think my eyes are grave?"

"I think them beautiful," he answered impulsively. There was a little pause, then the girl asked, curiously: "And that girl who is, as you think, impersonating me, she is pretty?"

"Handsome in her way." He gave a little laugh. "But when Lady Daneby sees you—"

"If she ever does."

"Oh, she will, I shall get you out of this and take you to her, and I shall say, 'Here is a lady you must know* Lady Daneby.'"

"I wonder what she will say?"

He laughed. "She will say a good deal. She has a tongue, and it has a rasp in it. But I know one thing she will say?"

"What?"

"I am not sure I ought to tell you. She will probably say it in confidence, though she is a capable of saying it before a roomful of people."

"I insist on knowing! Why should I be kept out in the cold? Tell me!"

"Oh!" he answered. "Since you must know she will say, 'Peter you ought to marry that girl!' "

He heard her laugh, softly, and was glad that she could in the circumstances. He continued cheerfully: "Perfectly brazen of her, of course, but she is a law unto herself, and lays it down, for other people to obey."

"And you," she laughed again, "of course will say, 'My dear Lady Daneby, I have seen the girl but four times, and saved her life only twice―' "

"No! I shall say I am on fire to obey, but I will not presume upon a girl's gratitude."

"And what will she say to that?"

"Call me a fool in her downright way! She may be right, you know."

Again a little sound of mirth came through the darkness, and for a moment it seemed that all fears were forgotten. Then, almost in a whisper came her answer.

"But it does not really matter what Lady Daneby says."

"No! It is what you say―"

"What!" The girl began and broke off suddenly—"Oh!"

The ejaculation came in a suppressed whisper, and Peter had no reason to ask for explanation. That was given by the steady beat of an engine not far away, and he knew as well as if he had seen it that the launch which had gone down the creek was returning.

"Keep quiet," he whispered. "Do not speak or move whatever happens."

GENTLY Peter freed his arm, and felt for the pistol which he had thrust in his pocket when he had carried Endicott from the hulk. It was damp, but he was pretty certain that its efficiency would not be impaired. He lifted himself a little, and twisted round so that he faced the entrance to the little cabin, keeping his head below level of the deck. He was resolved that for the sake of the girl by his side he would take no risks. If the launch stopped by the side of the little yacht, and any one stepped aboard he would fire, since it would be certain that some pursuer was seeking them.

Scarcely breathing, he waited. The launch, from the sound, was drawing nearer, making for the yacht. It came quite close, then apparently began to circle around, and whilst the pair crouched together in the cuddy, a beam of light cut through the night over their heads.

Peter was conscious that it was playing all over the little craft, and, convinced that whoever was directing that searching ray was seeking for them, prepared himself for extreme action. Then the ray lifted and disappeared, the steady "chug" of the launch up-stream was renewed, and as it grew fainter the girl gave a little gasp of relief.

"Thank God!"

Peter lifted his head and risked a glance, but so dark was the night that he could see nothing of either the launch or its owner.

"Who—who was it?" asked the girl.

"I don't know," he answered truthfully.

"But that light! The man in that boat was looking for something."

"Yes, for us I fancy. I must be that rascal whom we left on the Garfield or—" he broke off sharply as a new thought came to him.

"Yes?" asked the girl, anxiously. "Yes?"

"I left a friend ashore. He may have seen what happened, and possibly secured that launch to follow us. It has only just occurred to me. Perhaps I ought to have revealed our presence. But the risk would have been great. We are better as we are."

"But if it should be that other man, and if he should return—?"

"We shall be ready for him. Don't worry. He cannot take us by surprise."

They remained side by side, on the alert, ears straining, now and again disturbed by slight unaccountable sounds. But nothing happened, and after a long time Peter whispered confidently,

"He's not coming back, to-night."

"You are sure?"

"Quite. It cannot be far to the hulk. By this time he could have gone up and down two or three times in a launch."

"Then we are safe, till morning."

"And safer then, I think."

The girl made no answer to that, x but remained, silent apparently lost in thought or listening for the "chug" of that prowling launch. Then he felt her shiver.

"What is it?" he asked, thinking that some new fear was the cause. "I am c-cold!" she answered through chattering teeth.

He put down the pistol, and whispered back.

"No wonder. I had forgotten you had been in the water. Sit closer to me. It is the only means of warmth, unless we light that spirit stove again, and that might be dangerous." The girl slipped closer to him, and he put his arm around her. "You must not mind "

"W-why should I?" she interrupted, and forced a little laugh. "I want to be warm."

"Then―"

He drew her even closer to him. and for a long time there was silence again, then he asked: "Warmer?"

"Much; l am almost drowsy. I could go to sleep."

"Why not?" he answered. "If trouble promises, I will waken you."

The girl made no answer to that, but after a little while later he felt her body relax, and then her head slipped against his shoulder like that of a tired child, and he knew that sleep had overtaken her.

It was very dark in the cuddy, and her face was visible only as a white blotch against the darkness of his coat; but as he stared at it, he thought of it as a white flower, and then pictured the grave eyes kindling with soft light. Once in her sleep the girl shivered, and seemed to snuggle closer to him. and later she gave a soft laugh, and he knew that though she was dreaming, the terrors through which she had passed had no part in her dreams.

The night wore on. Twice he found himself nodding, and at last must have fallen asleep; for the next thing that he was aware of was that the rain had ceased, and that day was at hand; for whereas the darkness had been Egyptian, he could now make out the outline of things in the cuddy. His left-shoulder was throbbing painfully, and his right arm supporting the girl had a numb feeling, but not for worlds would he have disturbed her.

He listened. The only sounds were the girl's soft breathing, and the sluggish gurgle of water overside. He looked down at the face against his shoulder. It was flushed with sleep, and the beauty of it was in no way lessened by the dishevelment of her hair. Between the folds of the cloak that he had thrown around her, he caught a gleam of white arms, and remembered that when he had brought her from the hulk she had been no more than partially dressed. She was sleeping like a child, he thought, and with his thought she awoke, as a child awakens.

A little sigh, a movement of an arm that flung the cloak aside, then the long-lashed lids were lifted, and her eyes looked straight into his own. He saw wonder leap in them, then remembrance and comprehension, and the next instant her face flushed deeply. She made a movement as if to free herself, but he spoke quickly.

"No! No! Wait!" She laughed to hide her self-consciousness. "I have slept—all night— in your arms?"

"In one of them," he answered, cheerfully. "If Lady Daneby hears―" she broke off, and again a little laugh bubbled up— "she will be quite emphatic in her views."

"Quite. But we need not tell her! We can keep it a dark secret between ourselves."

"Yes!"

Again laughter went with the word, and she said merrily: "It reminds me of a verse I once read in Kipling: "If any young man should marry you―"

"I know," he laughed, and added: "Say nothing about the joke, That ever you slept in a sentry-box, Wrapped in a soldier's cloak."

"Discretion is a stop-gap to gossip. But when the soldier is going to marry the girl—"

"You mean that?" asked the girl, the laughter in her eyes again. "From my heart! There is nothing else for it."

A sea-bird screamed, suddenly, so close that the girl was startled.

"Oh!" Her hand clutched his instinctively, then he leaned over her. Their eyes met again.

Peter's were bright and eager; but those that he looked into seemed clouded with mystery or doubt. Had he made a mistake; presumed too far; was he taking advantage of an accidental situation? Then, whilst the questions were crowding his mind, he saw a soft light break through the cloud; the grave eyes kindled as he had never before seen a girl's eyes kindle, and he whispered exultantly:

"My dear! My dear!" But scarcely had the whisper left his lips when there came an interruption. Again the scream of a sea-bird sounded, was echoed by others, and through their rather plaintive cries, came another sound, duller in quality, but steady and regular like the beating of a heart.

"Chug chug—chug chug."

And as the meaning of it was borne on her, the girl whispered in sudden fear:

"That man! He is coming?"

"I don't know. It is possible! Keep quite still. In any case there is little to fear."

He slid his arm from her, picked up his pistol, and then, very cautiously, moved a little to get a view of the water. The girl watched him with eyes in which love was brighter than fear.

11

CROUCHING low, Peter looked forth on the creek, which, with the outgoing of the tide, appeared to have shrunk enormously. The sun shone on a comparatively narrow channel of water, flanked by flats of mud, beyond which were the banks grown with trees and bushes. Almost at the end of the mud, tall reeds lifted themselves in profusion. There was no house in sight, though some distance away there was a blueness in the tree-tops that suggested smoke. In the immediate foreground, but for the wheeling sea-birds, there was no sign of life, and the only visible moving things in the waterway were a pair of swans, foraging early for their breakfast.

He listened carefully. The beating of the motor engine continued, and after a little time he decided that the sound came from down river, and that the craft was drawing nearer. He caught the girl's whisper.

"What― That man?"

"I can see nothing at present," he whispered back, and waited.

Nearer came the unseen launch, and he waited for it to pass. But it did not do so. The beat of its engine grew slower, and he thought that whoever was regulating it had ceased to push forward, and was just holding the boat steady in the current. Was he examining the yacht? It seemed very likely, and he waited tensely for any sound that would Indicate that the launch was coming alongside.

The engine quickened a little, and as it did so, he gave a terse order to the girl.

"Lie down on the floor."

He heard a rustling which told him that his order had been obeyed, then waited, sure that in a moment ne would hear the bump of the launch as it came alongside or the rasp of the boat-hook as the man hooked the yacht. But neither belief was justified. The motor craft seemed to be moving away to the side, and, after listening intently for a moment or two, he resolved to get a glimpse of the man, since he might prove a friend and not the foe he thought him.

The cuddy had a small skylight with dainty chintz curtains at the side windows. Lifting himself upright, he peeped carefully round one of the curtains, showing but a fractional part of his face to anyone who chanced to be looking directly at the skylight. What he saw was profoundly interesting. The launch was there, on the west side of the river, creeping slowly across the channel, up which as he noted now, the tide was beginning to run. Apparently the steersman was uncertain of the depth of the water, and he was taking the launch towards the mud. As the man was seated, and his back was towards Peter, the latter could not be sure of his identity, but he thought it was the ruffian whom he had locked in the cabin of the hulk a few hours before. He wondered what the man wanted that he should risk fouling his craft on the mud, but a moment later he knew, for beyond the launch, half sunk in the mud he caught sight of a boat— as he had no doubt, the boat in which he and his companion had escaped last night, and which had sunk under them as they reached the yacht. The sight drew from him a whispered ejaculation.

"Ah!"

"You see him?" asked the girl, anxiously.

"Yes," he whispered back, and explained. "The boat we used has been left on the mud by the tide. I think the fellow wants to make sure that it is the one." He watched the man as he manoeuvred the launch forward up a channel between two mud banks, where, with the turn of the tide the water was deepening. Approaching the boat, the man stood up, and though his face was not visible, the long, lanky form was easily identifiable.

"It is that man—Jake!"

The girl gave a whispered ejaculation, and Pentreath continued to watch. The man in the launch moved still nearer the stranded boat, then apparently accidentally accelerated, and the launch, shooting forward, crossed a shallow place and embedded itself in the mud. But for the seriousness of the situation, Pentreath could have laughed aloud. As it was, he was moved to suppressed merriment, and in answer to the girl's question explained:

"Jake has stuck the launch on the mud close to the boat. Hell have to wait there until the tide rises."

"And we shall have to wait here— in full view."

"By jove!" he said softly. "I had forgotten that. We shall have to be very careful."

Apparently the ruffian in the launch was aware of his plight, and not greatly disturbed by it, for he made no effort to extricate his vessel, but gave himself to a close examination of the derelict row boat. The scrutiny lasted some time; then he seated himself, lit a cigarette, and from his glances first to one side of the river and then to the other, might have been calculating the distance from bank to bank. Peter was convinced that he was, and had no doubt whatever that the man was speculating on the chance of escape of anyone stranded there in that boat on such a stormy night as last night had been. Presently he saw the man look in the direction of the yacht, and as the fellow did so he hurriedly ducked behind the chintz curtain.

It was some time before he dared look forth again, and when he did so, very cautiously, it was to find the man still apparently staring in his direction. Did the fellow suspect? He could not tell, and he was unable to do anything. Nor until the villain made some move, was there anything to be done, and the fellow himself was condemned to inactivity until the tide floated his craft off the mud.

That happened about twenty minutes later. Watching carefully, Pentreath saw the other move from the mud bank in reverse. With the water deep enough to float his craft, the man easily made the main channel of the river, and thrilling, Pentreath saw that he was making for the yacht. Had some suspicion of the truth occurred to him? Did he mean to board her? The girl, seeing his anxiety, asked a question.

"You are afraid?"

"Not afraid," he answered, "but anxious as to what is going to happen. That fellow is coming this way."

"Oh, you think he may come aboard?"

"I think he may want to make sure. You see, the boat is very close to this yacht."

The launch passed out of view, but the throbbing of its engine was very audible, and presently he heard the launch crushing against the fenders at the side of the yacht.

"Move to the side," he whispered to the girl. "Quietly—there is going to be trouble."

There was no doubt that he was right. Sounds indicated that the man was climbing aboard the yacht. If he looked into the cuddy, discovery was certain. They heard feet stamp along the small deck, move round the skylight, and approach the entrance to the tiny cabin. A pair of legs quite close to the two steps came into view, and in that moment Peter acted quickly.

Stretching his one efficient hand, he gripped an ankle and jerked with all his might. The man fell with a crash and apparently struck the deck with his head, for when Peter, in pursuit of the plan which he had quickly devised, hauled him down into the cuddy he was senseless. He gave one look at the man's face to make sure of his identity; then he laughed in triumph and relief.

"My dear," he said to the girl, "here is our bird! If you will look round you may find a handy rope."

The girl moved quickly out of the cuddy, and Peter, taking advantage of the man's stunned condition, relieved him of the pistol which he carried. A minute or so later May Endicott returned at the run, carrying a coil of rope.

"Capital!" he said. "Now, if you will help me, we will bind the ruffian— so tight that he won't emulate Samson at Gaza."

Working together, they bound the fellow hand and foot, and, and Peter, for further security, made a slip-knot and passed a noose over the man's head, letting it fall to his neck, the fellow stirred and opened his eyes.

For a moment they had a dazed looks― then, as they fell on Peter, tumultuous rage flared in their chill depths.

"What's the game?" he demanded.

"That," answered Peter, quietly, "is just what you are going to tell me!"

"I'll see yew to blazes first," retorted the man with rude spirit "Possibly! But, all the same, you're going to explain. Miss Endicott, please go on deck and stay there till I call you. There are matters that I want to clear up."

With a little grimace the girl slipped past me man, and stepped out of the cuddy on deck. Peter waited until the sound of her steps grew faint then he addressed the man.

"Now, Mr. Jake, the tables are turned, and if you have any wit you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

"Going to let me off, if I spill the beans?" demanded the man with a scowl.

"No! answered. Peter with a shake of his head. "Not if you spilled the whole panful! You're not the man to bargain with, you know.

"And yew reckon I'll squeak— for nothing?"

"I have little hope," answered Peter lightly. "But if you w-re to tell me the whole story, I should be interested."

"Take me for a sap-head seemingly."

"The situation would almost justify me if I did so. But really. I don't. You are rather clever in your own line, and the idea of substituting Cicero Jane for Miss Endicott, and having her presented at Court in order to allay all suspicion had its points."

"Who told yew―"

"And to wait until old Endicott arrived in England b:fore--er—bumping is the world I believe—before bumping him off, is in keeping. It will save trouble—if it ever happens."

"Don't yew worry, it's goin' to happen all right."

"I don't think I would be so open about it, if I were you. Jake, and I am sure I should not be so confident."

"Tony and Dan will see to the ole man "

"Thank you!" Peter laughed, "That is just what I wanted to know. I thought perhaps that might be their allotted task. Now I think I will borrow that launch of yours and run Miss Endicott to Southampton. The tide is making nicely and I shall not be likely to stick in the mud. But before I go―"

He stopped, flicked the ruffian's own handkerchief from his pocket, and, one-handed as he was, contrived to gag him. Then he moved towards the stairs. "You will have rather a quiet time, I am afraid, but it will not be for long, I fancy. Good morning."

He went up the steps, closed the cuddy doors, and turned to the girl who was waiting for him.

"Come, my dear," he said. "We will go first to Hythe and run to Southampton."

"But why to Hythe?"

"We can get a policeman there— and possibly a coat for you and a surgeon for me, after which we may hear something of that deserter, Dick Podmore."

The girl stepped into the launch. Peter followed and without delay they started the run down Beaulieu River. The morning was warm, the air diamond-clear, and the waterway deserted but for the wildfowl and themselves. The fairness of the scene and the invigorating quality of the air with the sense of deliverance brought uplift to both of them. The terrors of the night seemed to have receded to a great distance, and as they drove in between the green banks the girl was moved to admiration.

"How beautiful!" she said.

"Yes!" he answered, smilingly. "It you want to see a river steal a launch. When we go honeymooning-—"

"You twang that string again."

"With a sure hand," he laughed. "If you do not marry me you will have not a rag of reputation— not that that is vital if one has diamonds! But that is neither here nor there; since we both know what is going to happen. And as I was saying, when we go honeymooning we will have a launch and explore the waterways of England."

As he accelerated and the launch swept forward a shadow came on his face. The girl noticed it, and asked:

"Something is troubling you?"

"Oh, my shoulder hurts rather."

"It was not that!" she interrupted, her eyes meeting his, challengingly.

"No!" he answered, candidly. "I was thinking of your grandfather."

"You are afraid for him?"

"I am not very happy. You see, there are two of those ruffians abroad. I gathered from that scoundrel whom we left on the yacht that it was their part of the business to— er —'see to him'― that was the phrase, I think. They will not know that their fellow-rogue is a prisoner, and that their plans for you have gone awry."

"And that means?" The grave eyes as they met his were quite steady; but there was a little quiver in her voice.

"It means that they will carry on, of course. But given luck, that will not matter quite so much as would appear on the face of it. We shall know where to look for them, and how to anticipate their possible action, and as they will not know that, it should be easy to checkmate them."

"Oh, I hope that you are not mistaken that nothing can happen to my grandfather."

"There is the wireless! We shall be able to get in touch with him and warn him."

May Endicott was silent for a moment or two, then she asked, "And that girl, Cicero Jane, what will happen to her?"

"All that she deserves, I hope. Don't waste any sympathy on her. I have in my mind the prettiest scheme if only the police will be sensible as they have been known to be."

"You won't tell me?"

"Not now. It would spoil a perfect night."

"What night?"

"The night when you go to Court with Lady Daneby, who, in any case, is going to have a shock."

The girl fell silent, and, busy with his thoughts, Peter himself did not speak. They swept into the Solent, rounded Stone Point and Calshott, and a little later ran into Hythe. where, armed with Peter's purse, the girl entered a ladies' outfitters, the proprietress of which was just opening the door for the day's business.

"Wait here! Don't go outside until I return," said Peter, and departed for the police station. There he found an inspector who listened to the story he told at first incredulously.

"But in Beaulieu River! Nothing ever happens there. I know the OUI hulk of Randall's. Nobody in his wits would camp there. Sure you haven't been having a night out?"

"I'm confoundedly sure I have had."

"Remember, it's a serious misdemeanour to hoax the police."

Peter lost silence.

"Hoax be shot! Take a look at my shoulder and then ring up Inspector Dennis at Scotland Yard. Give him my name, and tell him that one of the Pasquali murderers is down here tied up, waiting for him."

"But how do I know―"

"Do you think a man with a bullet wound in his shoulder runs into Hythe at eight in the morning to play practical jokes."

"What I was going to say is— how can I know the man is there where you say?"

"Well, man, you have my word, and you can go and fetch him. That's what I want you to do. The sooner the better. Telephone quick, or let me."

The inspector allowed himself to be impressed. He went to the telephone, spent a very few minutes there, and came back with a snap in his steps.

"You can go back with me to Beaulieu River?"

"No! I've something else to do. As I told you there's a young lady―"

"She will be safe in tho station here. My wife will give her breakfast and make her comfortable. I shouldn't like to miss that yacht."

"Very well! But call a surgeon here quickly. I want attention. While you're doing that I will fetch the lady." He left the police station and found May Endicott waiting for him, becomingly reclothed from head to foot, the lady outfitter having requisitioned the services of a shoe-dealer two doors away. Hurriedly explaining the situation, he took the girl to the station and delivered her into the care of the inspector's wife. The inspector, himself, his initial scepticism overcome, was proving himself an energetic officer. He had a subordinate waiting and a car at the door.

"Quicker this way," he explained. "We'll run over to Exbury and get a boat of some kind on this side the river. Save quite a lot of time. Hallo! Here's Doctor Tangey."

The doctor made a quick examination of Peter's shoulder and gave judgment.

"You're lucky, Mr. Pentreath. The bullet missed the bone and the wound seems clean. I'll wash and dress it, and you'll carry the arm in a sling for a few days."

A little while later Peter, bidding May Endicott good-bye, took his position beside the inspector in the car. In no time at all, as it seemed, they were at Exbury, and there encountered a man who was bemoaning the loss of a motor cycle of which he had been robbed. He had left it outside a farm, and whilst in the house had heard it start; but had not seen the man who had taken it.

The inspector looked at Pentreath.

"Maybe a coincidence, but―" He shook his head, ordered his subordinate to descend and obtain particulars, and drove on. At Gilbury Hard they found a boat, and leaving the car began to pull down river. Within seven minutes they rounded a bend of the waterway, and three hundreds yards or so away saw a yacht, with a boat tied to the rail, and a man busy at the paint work.

"There!" said Peter, with misgivings in his mind, and he saw the man with the brush.

"Too late, I fancy!" snapped the inspector.

They pulled down to the yacht, and the man at work broke off at their approach.

"Mornin', sir," he said to the inspector. "I can guess you've come about that poor chap who I found tied up in the cuddy here. Said he was going straight to the police; but he's been mortal quick if he got you at Hythe. Must have picked up a lift."

"How long has he been gone?" asked the inspector, sharply.

"Let me see, 'twas about half-past seven when I came across, an' found him. Never was a man so relieved. It seems he'd been set on last night by a gang of gipsies who'd robbed him and stowed him away on this boat―"

"And you set him ashore?"

"I did! Couldn't do nothing less. The poor chap―"

"That's all right!" He turned to Peter. "We're wasting time. That stolen motor bike was not a coincidence. He was the thief. There's nothing to be done here. May as well get back."

They returned to Exbury. where they found the policeman primed with particulars, and requisitioning a telephone the inspector promptly sent a call to various key offices, with instructions to broadcast them further, but he himself had little faith in the net he had spread catching the bird for whom it was meant.

"If he understands the machine hell have travelled, and he'll have the sense to leave the bike somewhere and maybe steal another. There's nothing more to be done here. May as well get back to. Hythe."

They returned to the police station, where, for a little time, both the officer and Peter were busy at the telephone, and an hour later, after borrowing a coat from the officer to hide his dishevelled condition, Peter crossed in the ferry to Southampton with the girl for company.

Driving to the hotel he inquired for Podmore. Nothing had been seen or heard of him personally by the proprietors, but his car had been delivered at the -garage in the small hours of the morning, and there was a note for his friend. The note scrawled on the back of the title page of an A.A. handbook was sufficiently cryptic.

"Hope you're O.K. It's a choice of evils, and I'm dividing forces to follow the pair who landed. They're for the air. Paris is indicated, and the oil king is in the shadow. His secretary seems implicated. Haven't anything too definite, but I think the other half of the plot is to be consummated on French soil. Will send message if possible. —Dick."

As he finished reading the note, the girl, noting the anxious look on his face, asked quickly: "You have had news of your friend?"

"No, not of him," he answered, then asked: "Your grandfather was coming direct to Southampton?"

"I don't know. He might land at Cherbourg as I did, and it is possible that he might go to Paris for a day or two if the idea occurred to him. Why do you ask?"

"Because I think those two men have gone to France by air. Podmore appears to have gone also... I think we must get in touch with your grandfather by wireless."

The girl looked quickly at the clock.

"If he were landing at Cherbourg he is already ashore."

"Then—" Peter checked what he was about to say, and asked instead. "His secretary is travelling with him?"

"Sure to be. My grandfather can't move without him. He is secretary, lawyer, and general factotum— a man I do not like, but who seems to be a necessity."

"Yes," answered Peter, carelessly. "Some men have the knack of making themselves indispensable."

At that moment a telegraph messenger entered the hotel, and went towards the office. Peter caught his own name and went forward. The message was from Podmore, and was laconic.

"Hope this gets you. Am sending Southampton and Club. We wait at Le Bourget. Have sent Dennis news. Could do with supports against this pretty pair, but shall carry on. Hotel du Louvre will find me.—Podmore."

Peter thought rapidly. Le Bourget was the air station for Paris. Clearly Mr. Endicott was expected to arrive there from Cherbourg, and possibly quick action would be taken. Podmore s evident uneasiness indicated that, and it seemed desirable that he should join his friend, though no doubt Inspector Dennis would immediately establish communication with the Sûreté at Paris, and would no doubt himself cross the Straits.

He turned quickly to the girl.

"My dear," he said, "I am going to Paris to see your grandfather if possible."

"And I?"

"No! You would not be safe. I have a sister who lives the simple life at Wishford, near Salisbury, a telegram will bring her here in an hour. You will be safe with her till we bring your grandfather to you. Please don't argue. Remember that man Jake is still loose in England here, and that he is a wolf! You must go!"

"Oh, if I must "

"There is nothing else for it, my dear. I would not have you in new jeopardy for worlds."

Two hours later, seated in an aeroplane, with the flat expanse of Essex slipping under him like a chequer-board moved by an invisible hand, Peter wondered what would be the issue of his Journey. Those two ruffians— Tony and Dan— would be aware that the purpose of their fellow-plotter had been thwarted. They would set out to accomplish their portion of the scheme— deliver the goods, as they would say.

Peter visioned an old man, white-faced and still, on those marble slabs at the morgue, shot through the heart, or fished from the Seine drowned, and felt a surge of despair at his own helplessness. May Endicott had been lifted from the shadow of peril; but it was deepening about that old man from Tulsa, and might deepen to utter darkness.

Repressing his impatience as test he could, he saw the shores of France spread themselves three thousand feet beneath, and at the same time became aware of another aeroplane flying on a parallel course. Irrationally, as he thought, he found his interest in it increasing— so much so, that when they had made the landing at Le Bourget, ahead of the second 'plane, he waited to watch the other descend. As the solitary passenger stepped out, his heart gave a leap, and he ran forward.

"Dennis!" he cried. "Dennis! By all that's wonderful!"

12

IF Inspector Dennis experienced any surprise, he did not betray it.

"Glad to see you," he said in a rather dry voice. "You'll be going to meet Mr. Podmore, I expect. Suppose we take a taxi and go to the Hotel du Louvre together? You will have things to tell me, no doubt."

"A truck-load," replied Peter cheerfully, infinitely relieved to find that Scotland Yard had been so prompt.

"So much! Well, I shall be glad to hear. But you have had an accident?"

"Call it a bullet. Our friend Jake," answered Peter as he entered the taxi which the inspector had summoned.

"He really got away this morning?"

"I'm afraid so. I'll tell you the whole story, which will have at least one surprise for you, l think."

He told his story, and the inspector listened without showing any surprise until he mentioned May Endicott's name as being that of the girl whom he had snatched from the hulk. Then he broke in:

"You knew, then, who she was from the first, Mr. Pentreath?"

"Suspected rather."

"And the other girl— Cicero Jane, shall we say? You know where she is, perhaps; since, if I guess right, she was substituted for Miss Endicott?"

"I have an idea, but if you keep things from coming out until the day after to-morrow I think, I can tell you her exact whereabouts in the evening."

"Where?"

"Buckingham Palace."

"Mr. Pentreath, this is not an affair for jesting! The night after to-morrow is a Court night. You do not mean to say―"

"But I do. Cicero Jane is one of the debutantes! She is to be presented!"

"The devil!"

"In Miss Endicott's place and name of course."

"But we must stop that. If it came out―"

"All in good time!" Peter laughed. "I know the appropriate hour. And there are considerations. That fellow Jake is loose in England. So long as Cicero Jane is loose, too, he may think there is a chance of pulling off the fine, scheme they planned. But suppose you arrested the sprightly Jane out of hand. If the hews leaked out— as it would— he would bolt. As it is, he may take a risk. And those others, who are probably in touch with her— they would vanish like snow on the desert's dusty face! But if you merely had Jane watched— you may find Jake through her, and you can gather her at the psychological moment."

The inspector nodded.

"But if you had been frank with me―"

"You'd have laughed at me. I didn't know for certain, remember, and my suspicions looked fantastic to myself, though I've run against some mad schemes in my time."

Inspector Dennis did not deny that he might have laughed; but reverted to the immediate task.

"I came over here in response to Mr. Podmore's telegram with the idea of getting that pair. He said nothing to me about old Mr. Endicott."

"What could he say in a telegram? But I haven't a doubt of the reason why those two have come here. I told you what I overheard."

"Then there's a crime to be prevented."

"Got to be! You can't have that old man butchered. And you know what Paris is. A man disappears— and turns up in the river; or is knifed in the slums; or he dies by accident— a car driven too fast; a collision in the Bois; any one of half-a-dozen things―"

"I hope your friend knows his whereabouts," interrupted the inspector, quickly.

"So do I! But he will probably be tailing that pair of scoundrels, who don't know him at all. And where they are I imagine Endicott will be."

"Yes! We shall find them that way, I hope."

But when they reached the Hotel du Louvre the hope was dashed. Inquiry revealed that whilst Podmore had booked a room quite early that day, he had gone out and nothing had been seen of him since. The news disturbed Dennis considerably.

"Are you sure that pair of scoundrels did not know Podmore?"

"Quite! Unless since coming here he has been indiscreet!"

"He may be trailing them, or—"

The inspector broke off significantly, then said tersely: "We must find Endicott. The Sûreté can help us there. A general call to the hotels will reveal his whereabouts."

"I'm not so sure of that. I should say he is not the man to affect the swagger places for all his wealth."

"Well, we can try, and in any case I must present my credentials. Perhaps you had better wait here in case of news arriving."

"Yes! That seems wise. I will wait your return."

The inspector departed, and Peter sat down in the lounge to wait. That Podmore had left no word disturbed him profoundly, as did the fact that Mr. Endicott's whereabouts was a mystery. Those two men. having decided on a desperate thing, would act promptly.

Used to the daylight shootings of Chicago, they would take chances in a city where such occurrences were rare, and even whilst he sat there, impatient and helpless, the thing he feared might have come to pass. In one thing only did he find consolation. The pair were more likely to try to attain their purpose by staging an accident rather than by direct methods, and that, with Podmore aware of their intention, might be more easily thwarted than the shoot-and-run affair indigenous to Chicago.

TIME passed slowly for Peter as he sat in the lounge of the Hotel du Louvre. Inspector Dennis's return was delayed, and there was no news of Podmore. An hour went by and then a telegram was delivered at the office, which a clerk promptly passed on to him.

"For you, m'sieur. No doubt from M. Podmore."

The clerk's conjecture proved to be right. The telegram was from Podmore, and had been handed in at Versailles.

"Cooks-touring. All the sights. Have the lot in front of me on a gay charabanc. E. in ignorance, I'll swear. Back for dinner; or will communicate. Dick."

He drew a breath of relief. He was glad to have the explanation. To go the rounds was just what any American would do, and for a simple millionaire a charabanc and the company of his kind, with a guide to enlarge on the things to be seen, would be attractive.

He smiled at the picture his mind conjured up, then suddenly his face grew grave. The wolves were at the heels of their quarry, following implacably, waiting for the moment to strike. He shivered as he thought of the possibilities. If anything happened how could he tell that girl, waiting in rural quiet at Wishford, and no doubt even now expecting reassuring news? He was helpless, tied hand and foot, unable to do anything until that touring charabanc returned to Paris. In the meantime—

The entrance of Inspector Dennis broke on his ravaging thoughts. He was beaming.

"There was news for me at the Sûreté," he explained. "That Hampshire man has got Jake "

"Got him?"

"Yes! Fellow charged a timber carriage on one of the forest roads, and is in hospital at Ringwood. Concussion and a broken leg. Fortunate thing, I reckon. He won't be able to pass warning to the other birds, and set them flying. When the officials at the Sûreté find old Endicott's lodging place as they will in a couple of hours or so—"

Peter handed him Podmore's message. The inspector read it, and whistled softly. "Something to go sightseeing with a pair of assassins at your shoulder blade. We'll meet that charabanc on its return to Cook's office."

"We've no guarantee that it is Cook's. Podmore would use that phrase as a matter of course. And how many tourists agencies there are in Paris, running trips to Versailles heaven only knows."

"Phew! You're right, of course. Fairly ties our hands. We've just got to sit it out till your friend turns up."

"And those scoundrels may act."

"They may! But not on the top of a tourist charabanc. Even Chicago brazenness will stick at that."

The waiting became intolerable. The hour when all the sightseeing tourists would be back In the city struck, and still there was no word or sign from Podmore. The inspector went into the restaurant to snatch a meal; but with a mounting sense of disaster, Peter remained in the lounge watching the doorway to the street. At last his patience had a thin reward. Podmore, his good-humoured face wearing a harried look, came hurrying in. Peter almost ran to him.

"Well―"

"Well!"

"The devil, no! I've lost them!"

"Lost them!—my God!" whispered Peter in consternation. "Kick me, if you like, Peter. I was done brown. We came in from that awful sight-seeing trip—got down from that loathly charabanc, and before I could wink the old man's secretary whipped him into a taxi, which promptly moved off. As they went I saw the secretary nod to that precious pair, who collared another taxi and went away in the opposite direction. I tried to follow the old man, thinking I had now a chance of warning him; but my taxi crashed at a corner and was put out of the running— and here I am. Where are you going?"

"The restaurant! Come along. Dennis is there."

Inspector Dennis, unperturbed, ate whilst he listened to Podmore's story, and at the end shot a question. "The secretary waved to those scoundrels, you say?" He nodded.

"A nod's as good as a wave. Implies understanding, and that's borne out by what Mr. Pentreath, here, overheard. That fellow holds a hand in the game! You've no idea where Endicott has taken up his quarters, Mr. Podmore?"

Podmore shook his head. "Haven't a notion. Remember when I flew here I was tailing that pair of scoundrels. I didn't know Endicott from Adam, and only learned his identity by discovering their interest in him."

"But you know where they are lodged?"

"Yes. Hotel New York, off the Place Pigalle. Nothing to boast of. At least, that is where they drove from Le Bourget this morning. But I'll swear they're not there now, for when I missed them I made a bee-line there, and watched the place for a while."

"Well, we'll soon find out. I'll get a man from the Sûreté to watch the place."

He left the table, went to the telephone, and after a very few minutes returned. The waiter wrought a dish that had been ordered, and the inspector looked at it distastefully.

"Mr. Podmore," he said, "you've spoiled my dinner."

"Sorry!' said Podmore. "The thought of that old man shadowed by assassins worries me more than anything I've run against for a while. He is here in Paris— unknown, those blackguards are at his heels kept in touch by his secretary, if I guess right, and we are here, out of touch with both. Anything may happen any moment— and we are helpless. We don't know where the old man will spend the evening, nor what move the scoundrels will make. If he were young we might anticipate with some certainty that he would go the rounds of gaiety. But what an old man will do "

"He's pretty vigorous from my observation," broke in Podmore. "But you can anticipate nothing of his action except that now he's probably dining."

"And "And we can't go the round of Parisian restaurants," commented Peter.

"No!" The inspector considered. "I think I'll go as far as the Quai de l' Horloge. If I were in London I should know what to do. But this is not my hunting ground, and the French police will do better than I shall or you either. You can give me Mr. Endicott's description?"

"Easily! Uncle Sam—goatee and tall, without the comic duds. Tall, lean face as pictured, brown, with keen grey eyes. Wide brimmed, grey, felt hat, suit and tie grey to match, long footed, and a boot without any toe ornament. Walks springingly. Looks sixty or a little more. Strap for watch-chain, and no jewellery."

"Sounds good!" said the inspector, making notes on the back of his menu. "Everybody knows that picture, and the Parisian police are pretty smart. May be able to pick him up, and will —if time is given. But there's the rub. Those scoundrels may act quickly. I will leave you now; but if there is any news telephone to the Sûreté without delay."

"Won't waste two ticks, Inspector."

The inspector went his way, and the pair seated themselves at a table.

"No use starving in our grief," said Podmore. "A full man makes a hefty one, and the wines of France are a fount of consolation. We can talk whilst we eat, and then go forth and throw ourselves on the mercy of the God of Luck. How did things go on that old hulk?"

Peter gave him a rapid sketch of events, and at the end Podmore com. men ted: "So the girl is safe. That's one to us, and Jake in hospital and out of action is another. But that old man, adrift in this city without a thought of what's coming, and with all the chances for ill-doing that the place offers. Peter, I'm scared!"

Peter also was afraid, but did not say so, instead he demanded: "What happened last night?"

"Oh, when the pair who came along here landed, I heard them talking to Jake. Paris was mentioned, and Le Bourget, and something about a wireless to some one on the Berengaria— not Endicott."

"That Judas of a secretary. I expect."

"Odds on that. But, listening, I learned they were going to Beaulieu to see Lady Jane, and slipping up through the bushes ahead of them I retrieved the car and passed them on the road. I didn't go straight to the hotel, but parked on the lakeside and walked back. I was in luck, I saw Jane come out of the hotel and enter a car where that pair were. I eavesdropped shamelessly, but the rain on the car hood drowned most of what they said. However, I heard enough to confirm what I caught down by the river. They were going to fly to Paris from the local aerodrome, and were expecting to meet Endicott at Le Bourget.

"I had to make up my mind quickly, and sure that you'd manage that fellow on the hulk all right I decided I'd meet both parties at the Paris air station. I sent the car to be garaged at the hotel, with a message for you―"

"I got it this morning."

"After that I caught the night mail to town, drove to Croydon and fixed things up, went to my chambers, and collected a suitcase and was at Le Bourget waiting when Tony and Dan landed.... Since then I've done Paris as good Americans do it, keeping an eye on the old man and those ruffians, only to be left on the kerb at the end.... Pretty rotten luck."

"The worst if we don't find him again," answered Peter quietly.

"Yes!" Podmore stared frowningly at his glass, whilst Peter, his eyes fixed on vacancy, thought of May waiting for the reassuring news that now he might never be able to send to her. There were so many ways by which a man's destruction could be achieved by ruthless men. A little morbidly he began to review them, and had considered half a score when Podmore's voice broke on his dark meditations.

"There are, I forget how many million souls in Paris— say about as many peas as there are in a sack. Pretty savage odds against finding three brown ones in the multitude of green, but empty the sack on the floor—"

He paused and looked at his friend, who asked, inquiringly, "Yes?"

"Sack is spilled in the street at this hour. May as well get into the open. Odds are a million to one against us running into any of the folk we want to see, but none of them is going to call here and drop a card on us.... If I don't get a move on I shall take to drink."

They left the hotel, and strolled on with the aimlessness of men without a definite objective, but suddenly Podmore hailed a taxi-cab and gave a direction.

"Place Pigalle."

"Why?" asked Peter.

"Somewhere to go. Take a look at the Hotel New York."

"But Dennis said he would put a man on there."

"Yes, I know; but— oh, I've a hunch something will happen."

Peter made no protest. He had known a man to follow a hunch on a hundred to one horse and carry the spoils home, and he hoped it might so happen now.

The streets were full; vehicular traffic was plentiful, and he was thinking that the needle in a haystack was a light proposition compared with their present task, when the taxi was halted at a crossing and an open car rolled alongside, nosing for precedence at the start.

Podmore drew his attention to something on the side curb, and it was only when the jam broke, and the taxi-cab began to move, that the opprobrious epithets of the driver drew his attention to the neighbouring vehicle. Then he had the surprise of his life, for he found himself looking straight into the face of the man whom Podmore had described so faithfully two hours before. His friend saw the man the same moment.

"Good Lord!" he ejaculated. "Uncle Sam!"

The other vehicle glided onward; another car slid after it— a powerful-looking sports model with the hood up, and whilst Podmore frantically shouted to the driver of their taxi to follow No. 1 and on no account lose sight of it, yet another car intervened. The driver waved a hand in understanding, and accelerated. Podmore, in his excitement, stood up to peer over the man's shoulder. They fell behind a little, and he shouted to the man in his native tongue:

"If you lose that car, I'll murder you!"

The man laughed over his shoulder, and accelerated. They passed car No. 3 and took its place, but the touring car and the one with their quarry in it were not to be overtaken. They kept ahead, and Podmore expressed contempt for the machine that carried Peter and himself.

Peter never heard him. He was watching the sports model which was gliding along just at the other's heels. With a clear road before to pass in, its driver made no attempt to do so, and suddenly he shot a question.

"Why doesn't that sports car pass?"

"Ask me another! In no hurry, I suppose." Peter continued to watch, whilst Podmore registered progress like a guide. "Madeline... Boulevard Malesherbes... Haussman... The Arc "

Then he betrayed sudden excitement. "Looks like going to The Bois.... Why?"

The sports car, like a grey shadow, glided along behind the other maintaining an unvarying distance between them. To Peter it became suddenly ominous of aspect. There was something implacable in that steady pursuit. It reminded him of wolves nursing a running moose— running, waiting their moment, taking no overt action. He wondered if he were fancying things; then again Podmore gave a name.

"Port Dauphine! He is for the Bois " His voice broke off, and took a sudden sharp note. "Peter, that other car! It is hounding him!"

"Yes!"

"And that means that we're to be in at the death. My God!"

Their own taxi swept through the gateway, and still playing follow my leader glided on into the solitude and shadows of the park.

Podmore tingling with excitement urged the driver on with almost scurrilous speech, Peter drew the pistol he had brought from England. The end of that pursuit, as he was convinced it was, would come quickly now. The shadows of the Bois de Boulogne with its night solitudes were favourable for crime. If that old man were killed it would be just one more of the Apache crimes which had made the Bois of evil reputation, and no one would suspect a couple of ruffians from Chicago. Suddenly Podmore cried:—

"Uncle Sam's slipped up the hood!"

"Why?" Podmore asked himself. Had be become aware of that second gar shadowing him like an implacable fate? But why had he ventured into the night solitudes of the Bois at all? One would have thought the lighted streets, the cafés, the places of amusement, the gaieties of Paris would have proved more attractive to a man from Tulsa, Oklahoma. Was his coming Hero part of some concerted plan in which... a sharp sound broke on his reflections.

"What's that?" ejaculated Podmore. "Pistol or back-fire?"

Peter did not know, but at that moment a swift change came over the scene. The sports car, which had been running with dimmed lights, suddenly lit its headlights blaze, illuminating the scene brilliantly. Peter caught the gleam of water, and knew that they were on the road bordering the lake; then he saw the car accelerate. It shot forward at a great pace, and it was clear that the car held in its headlights had not the slightest chance of escaping it by speed. He guessed what was going to happen, just the old Chicago trick of shooting a hail of bullets from an overtaking car. No fuss, no excitement, just a cool gunning of a man condemned by gangster law—deadly efficient—and a game those ruffianly pursuers had played a score of times no doubt. The driver of the taxi appeared to have lost his nerve. Possibly he sensed what was forward. At any rate he was slowing down. But Podmore leaned forward and trust a pistol in his back.

"Forward!" he roared, "or―"

"Mon Dieu!" cried the driver, and the taxi shot forward. The sports car drew level with its quarry Peter with forty yards between him and them shouted, hoping to deflect the scoundrels from their purpose, but as -he did so he knew the vanity of his action. A head and shoulders appeared at the window of the sports car. "Now!" yelled Podmore.

Then an odd thing happened. The taxi in which the quarry was seated with a harsh squeal of brakes stopped in its own length. The other car, its driver not anticipating such a move, shot by it like an arrow, and as it went past, at the window of the taxi-cab appeared a man's head and shoulders. There were double spurts of flame and the twin cracks of a pistol. The sports car swerved sharply, swung right round, did another half-turn, caught a tree, rebounded, and was flung over on its side. "My stars!" cried Podmore. "He's diddled them. Good old boy!"

13

FROM the car that had halted so suddenly thee men jumped out into the road, and to his amazement in one of them Peter recognised Inspector Dennis. He shouted to the officer, who acknowledged the hail and ran on towards the overturned sports car, followed by the other two men.

Peter and Podmore followed them, and as they reached the car saw that it was badly damaged, though the two men tangled in the torn hood were hurt but little. One of them was dragged out by Dennis, too dazed to offer any resistance, but the other— the man Tony— shaken as he was, groped for the automatic pistol which had been jerked from his hand at the moment of the accident. With him one of Dennis's companions dealt ruthlessly.

"Non, mon ami!" he cried, and catching Tony's collar dragged him from the ruined car and flung him on the road. A second later he stooped over the prone ruffian. There was a click and he stood upright whilst, dumbfounded by the sudden change in the situation, Tony gazed at the handcuffs on his wrists, as if they had been encircled by a rattlesnake.

Then suddenly he broke into a torrent of the vilest profanity. The Frenchman, an officer of the Sûreté, as Peter guessed, merely shrugged his shoulders: but whilst Dennis was  busy with the other prisoner, the man who Peter divined was May's grandfather stood stroking his goatee and listening with evident appreciation. "Say, that's a vurry fine performance," he commented when Tony paused for breath. "I hevvent heard the match of it since my old cow days in Arizona. But ye sure hev got cause. Thought I was a little woolly lamb to be butchered as easy as chewin' candy, an' find instead that ye're the boob. Well, I kin forgive ye that, being a Christian; but I ain't goin' to forgive what ye meant to do to my li'l gal— not this side of the lynching anyway."

Tony found his breath again, and resumed business.

The old man stroked his beard, and turned to Peter. "That's the way with these yere stick-up gents. Ye just kint get a word in edgeways. Well, let him blow on From what that inspector said as we druv along he ain't goin' to hev any too much time." He ceased to stroke his beard, and said, "One of you two gents, is Mr. Pentreath, I guess."

"Yes!" answered Peter. "I am."

The other thrust out a hand

"Shake!" he said. "I'm main proud to meet you, an' burstin' with gratitude for what you've done for my li'l May. I've heard the yarn from thet officer, and if there's a thing thet ole Teddy Endicott kin do for ye―"

"There is one," began Peter with a laugh. "Name it— this very tick," interrupted Mr. Endicott, eagerly.

"I think, Mr Endicott. I will leave it until you have seen May."

"Oh, ye will?" The old man chuckled. "Reckon I kin see how the cards are spread. An' I'll sure tell her what I think of ye―" He chuckled again. "An' ye'll be Mister Podmore?"

"At your service, sir."

"I marked ye this afternoon on that joy-ride. At first I thought ye were with these hold-uppers; but after a bit I made out thet ye were watching them."

"You knew about them?"

"Had a notion!" replied the old man, airily. "Pinkerton's had put me wise back along. That's why I sent Pasquali over to keep an' eye on the rips when they crossed over here just before my li'l gal. There's been too durned much kidnappin' in the States not to take notice when ye get the hint. An' I've known for five days that secretary guy of mine had gone off the level rails. But we kin talk him over back in the city. I reckon this joy-ride is about finished an' 'tis time we went celebratin'."

MR. ENDICOTT arranged the celebration, and, with the Prisoners safely bestowed, inspector Dennis joined in with a quiet mind and for once grew almost loquacious as he explained what had befallen.

"When I left you, Mr. Pentreath, I was feeling pretty bad. The fact that that pair had been trailing Mr. Endicott all day seemed ominous. I was afraid they were for instant action, and though I didn't tell you so I had a notion that the next thing we should hear of him was that he had met with an accident of some kind. I thought those two would not have left him as they did, unless there was a complete understanding that they would get in touch again, and the secretary's nod to them seemed fair evidence of that. But when I got to the Sûreté and went into the office of my friend here, the first person I saw was Mr. Endicott, who had been located."

"I sure give the French boys, an' Mosoo Aimaird here a ticket for smartness!" broke on Mr. Endicott. "The secretary had gone out when M. Aimaird called on our friend, and they were able to talk without interruption. Mr. Endicott had suspected Tony and Dan in the moment he had landed at Le Bourget, which was the reason that he went sightseeing with a crowd, and when he found them on the charabanc, and twice caught glances between them and the secretary, he was sure. He knew nothing then of what had befallen Miss Endicott, having, no later than last night, received a reassuring wireless message, from her as he thought―"

"Thet'll be Cicero Jane, I reckon!"

"Yes! And the secretary had another, as you know."

"Yep! An' May couldn't bide the fellow!"

"As I was saying, he knew nothing of Miss Endicott's perilous adventures; but when he heard that there was a man from Scotland Yard anxious to get in touch with him he at once went to the Quai de l'Horloge where I found him and was able to put him wise. Then we devised the little scheme to get hold of that pair. Mr. Endicott wanted to deal with them himself, but that was out of the question."

"But I guess I potted the tyre that busted their game," chuckled the old man. "

"You certainly did, sir, and it was excellent shooting. The trouble about the scheme was that we didn't know where that pair of scoundrels lodged, and they couldn't be arrested out of hand. The only thing was for Mr. Endicott to play stool-pigeon; to go for a night-life drive, and let those others follow— the night-life drive having been the secretary's suggestion for the evening which made it fairly certain that some sort of an attempt would be made to accomplish their purpose with Mr. Endicott.

"So the thing was arranged. Mr. Endicott went back to his apartments where, presently, an officer from the Sûreté arrived, and with the least possible fuss took charge of the secretary when he returned. At the appointed time, M. Aimaird, in character as a taxi-driver, arrived at Mr. Endicott's lodging with a taxi, myself on the floor out of sight, and when Mr. Endicott joined us we set out on our joy ride. We had gone but a very little way when we became aware of that following sports car, and by that knew that, the desperate game was to be played to a finish II opportunity offered. By means of a periscope arrangement we were able to watch them without their suspecting anything; and we picked up you following behind, as well.

"It was at the suggestion of my friend M. Aimaird that, after Mr. Endicott had made a call at a café, we went to the Bois where things could be done more quietly than in Paris, and no doubt that pair of rascals rejoiced when Mr. Endicott went that way."

"With the excellent reason!" broke in M. Aimaird. "In all the environs of Paris there is not any place that is more suitable for a crime of that nature. And if those men had accomplished it, no doubt, they would have robbed our friend M. Endicott, and left the Sûreté to search for les Apaches, who it would have seemed had committed the crime. For who would have suspected that the deed wrought in the Bois de Boulogne had been hatched in America? 'Les Apaches,' all Paris would have murmured, and for the assassins we should have searched in that tribe. But lam puzzled! I know that these two men and another desired to possess themselves of M. Endicott's wealth, but I do not yet comprehend how, when he was dead, they proposed to secure it. If you could that make plain, mes amis, I should be grateful."

Inspector Dennis spoke quickly. "Mr. Pentreath has a theory."

"And I guess I've got the fact stripped to the bone," said Mr. Endicott. "But I reckon I'd like to hear the theory."

"It is very simple," answered Peter with a smile— "that is if I am right. You see I have had the advantage of playing eavesdropper when those three men were talking frankly to each other. They guessed or knew that Mr. Endicott's grand-daughter would inherit his wealth."

"That's known to every citizen in my home-town!" broke in the old man.

"And to your secretary, who, from what Miss Endicott told me, acts as your man of business."

"Well knowing that Mr. Endicott's wealth would go to his granddaughter they kidnapped her and substituted an accomplished actress in her place, who, under the aegis of Lady Daneby, would pass everywhere for Miss Endicott, who was unknown in England."

"Not a soul who'd ever glimpsed her— a stranger in a strange land, utterly."

"Not quite, Mr. Endicott. I had met Miss May in Tulsa, and I had the luck to be a witness of the substitution."

"Luck! It was a providence, sir."

"It was at any rate very fortunate, and when Cicero Jane remembered an entirely mythical story about your driving a buckboard and turning all Tulsa Street into a circus I was sure as I had suspected that something was terribly wrong. But M. Aimaird will understand that the adventuress, assuming the identity of Mr. Endicott's granddaughter, would, with the Lady Daneby as sponsor, have been accepted everywhere in England, and as a matter of fact is even preparing to be presented at Court two nights from now "

"Tiens! But this Jane of Cicero― she has the nerve!"

"No doubt of that, but you will see.  Mr. Endicott suffers an unfortunate accident or, poking round the Bois de Boulogne at night, is assassinated and robbed by apaches. His granddaughter inherits, but she is out of the way. Mr. Endicott's secretary, being also his lawyer and in the plot, accepts the impostor for Miss May; passes her signature, and generally acts as if she were indeed the heiress— a perfectly feasible and indeed a beautifully simple scheme without a flaw and with only one weak point so long as she remained in England."

"That weak point, Mr. Pentreath."

"That was the chance that she might bump into someone who knew the real May Endicott in Tulsa and as things befell she ran against me. But there's the whole scheme. Cicero Jane, with the lawyer's help, remaining in England, would —er— scoop the pool, an' the others would share. That is the reading of it all, Mr. Endicott. Am I right?"

"To the last line dot, I reckon."

"Tiens!" cried M. Aimaird. "It is very simple and clever."

"There's a 't' I want crossing, though," said Peter. "Why was that chauffeur who drove Miss Endicott to the rendezvous shot so callously? He was expecting to find them there. He answered their signals, and Miss May was already unconscious when she was lifted out of the car, which looks as if he had been in the scheme."

"I guess there ain't no difficulty about interpreting that. You saw him shot, but you didn't see Joe Pasquali bumped off, did you, Mr. Pentreath."

"No. He must have been dead when I bumped into his car."

"Yep. He was shot first, an' those scoundrels recognised him. He was there spying on them, an' I reckon they thought that May's chauffeur had double-crossed them, not knowing that I'd hired Pasquali to keep an eye on things."

"I believe you're right, Mr. Endicott."

"You bet I am, Mr. Pentreath.... but what's going to happen to this Cicero Jane? You ain't going to let her go to Court? I've marked that down for May, so that nobody back home can crow over her."

"Oh, your granddaughter will go to Court, you may rest assured."

"An' that Jane's to get off scot-free?"

Peter looked at the inspector, who shook his head decisively. "To be an accessory to murder is a serious crime. Cicero Jane will be taken and will stand her trial with the others when the extradition proceedings are completed."

"And to think that less than a week ago I was making the running with her," cried Podmore. "In my old age I shall still grow hot at the thought."

Then he laughed suddenly. "But there is some one more completely sold than any of us— the Daneby Dowager."

"Some one will have to break the news to that lady," said the inspector. "Don't worry, Inspector. The bearers of ill news are never wanting. Peter and I will be the messengers. To tell the truth I wouldn't miss the sight of the good lady's face for a fortune."

"You'll play no tricks to make her nasty with May?" asked Mr. Endicott quickly. "I won't have her chances of going to Court spoiled by―"

"DON'T worry, Mr. Endicott. Lady Daneby will be only too grateful for having escaped the awful thing Cicero Jane had planned for her to make any sort of fuss. And she is honest. She'll do what she's paid for, and if I know anything her nerve will carry her through the ordeal without her needing a reviver from the powder-puff. She would fairly skin Cicero Jane with her tongue if―"

"She must not do that," broke in the inspector, hurriedly. "That would set the woman in flight, and we might lose her. Before we began supper, Mr, Pentreath told me of a pretty scheme of his to which I consented conditionally, but if―"

"The scheme will go through as I arranged, Inspector. Lady Daneby has a sense of the dramatic. She will feel that she is getting her own back, and the hope of doing that will keep her silent until the psychological moment. Podmore and I will see her to-morrow."

"If you boys are crossing," said Mr. Endicott. "I'd sure like to be in the company. I'm hankering to see my granddaughter after what she's gone through."

"A pleasure to have you, sir!" answered Peter.

"Then I'll charter an aeroplane to run us across. I've had all the sightseeing in Paris that I'm needing for a while."

"Enough is better than a feast," laughed Podmore, "and by charabanc it is too much."

ON THE following day they crossed to England, and Mr. Endicott went down to Wishford with Peter to see his granddaughter. On the way down the old man, who had been thoughtful for a little time, suddenly shot a question.

"Say, Mr. Pentreath, when did you meet my li'l gal back in Tulsa?"

"About seven months ago. I was there in Main Street when a heavy motor vehicle ran into the front of a dry goods store. Miss May was in the way, and I saved her from trouble by throwing her into the store. I believe she broke quite a lot of crockery when she fell."

"May told me of it! An' you were that man?"

"I was!"

"Looks a sight more providential than I said it was in Paris last night. If you hadn't saved her life in Tulsa you'd sure never have known her under the trees that night. It's mortal strange how things work out an' hang together."

"They haven't finished working out yet, Mr. Endicott."

"Nope! There's that Jane―"

"I wasn't thinning of her, but of May. You see, Mr. Endicott, I— er—we―"

"The pair of you, hey?"

"Well, that is it! I hope you won't think that I am a fortune-hunter. Really, I have no wish―"

"Dollars are always useful, boy, and in reason, the more you have the more you kin use them. Don't shy because May's going to have a few."

"But I would like you to understand. If May hadn't a penny―"

"Guess I get what you're after. Does you credit, boy; but if you take May in the end you'll have to take the dollars, too; but I'll vow you'll never find them burdensome."

"Then you don't mind?"

"Not a cent's worth! I reckon I know a man when I see one. If you please May I'll be more than pleased, so there's no more need be said till the gal brings you along to me. Git me?"

"Yes. I am very grateful―"

"Tut!—boy—tut! Where'd May have been if you hadn't happened along, an' come to think of it, where'd I have been, too? Guess if there's gratitood going, 'tis me that has some to pass along."

AT WISHFORD they found May walking en the lawn with her hostess. At the sight of the old man she broke into a run, and reaching him flung both arms about him.

"Oh, Granddad, how glad I am to see you safe and well! Thank God!"

"As you say, honey, thank God— but I reckon you can do it through this young gentleman whom I've brought along; or who has brought me, I ain't quite sure which."

May laughed. "You have come together, at any rate."

"An' you an' him mean to get through all the time together, I hear."

"Well, grandfather―"

"When do you start?"

"Start?"

"In double harness, I mean. Or, since you're affecting not to understand, when do you mean to―"

The girl suddenly put up an imploring hand.

"Wait, Grandfather, or you'll cover me with—with —oh, with―" She laughed with quick merriment. "You must know that I haven't yet been asked."

"But he's asked me!"

"Oh, if he wants to marry you―"

She caught the gleam in Peter's eye, and without warning ran round the gable of the house. He caught her by the door of the conservatory, and slipped inside with her for privacy.

Then he queried, "May, is it n-necessary that I should ask "

"Quite n-necessary!" she stammered, gaily. "I will not be deprived of my right of refusal."

"Then, May Endicott, will you marry me?"

"Peter Pentreath, I shall be happy to do so!"

"An' that," said a voice blandly from the doorway, "is the best thing I've heard for many a day!"

"And you were not meant to hear it. Grandfather!"

The Mall was packed. The long queue of cars with the debutantes, tor what was expected to be the most brilliant Court of the season was being scrutinised by the crowd of sightseers on the pavement, who, whilst not going to Court themselves, were interested in those who were.

One saloon attracted many onlookers, and Lady Daneby, knowing that the tribute of their eyes was not for her herself, but for her protégée, smiled a little grimly. Her companion, flushed of face, eyes sparkling, found the crowd amusing.

"Say, Lady Daneby," she said, lightly, "these folk sure think we are the goods."

"Yes," replied the dowager, cheerfully, "and it is amusingly ironic when one reflects how deeply they may be mistaken."

"I don't get you, Lady Daneby. I thought the folk who went to Court were the top of the cream-pan."

"They are— some of them. The others―"

Lady Daneby made a gesture, then cried cheerfully, "Why― there is Dicky Podmore."

She smiled and bowed, and Dick Podmore lilted his hand and approached the window.

Lady Daneby promptly lowered it.

" 'Evening, Lady Daneby," he said, affably. "I suppose you haven't seen  Peter Pentreath around. He's doing the line here with Miss Endicott's grandfather, looking for―"

There was a noise of something dropped in the car— and Lady Daneby's protégée stooped to recover the book which had slipped from her hand. When she straightened herself her face was rather white, and there was a sick look in her eyes. She looked quickly at the window, then sank back in her corner.

"Do you mind having the blinds down, Lady Daneby? I'm feeling not well."

"As you like," said Lady Daneby. "Perhaps it is the heat or the staring crowd."

"Yes, these folk on the side-walk—"

Lady Daneby pulled down the blinds on her side to shut out the gaze of the curious, and Dick Podmore, taking liberties, opened the door.

"I say, you know, Mr. Endicott is sure to want to see his granddaughter, you shouldn't— ah, there he is! Coming this way. In half a tick."

The door was suddenly snapped to from the inside, and Cicero Jane turned to Lady Daneby. "Get me out of this, I'm going to faint— l know I am."

"But the Court, my dear—" purred the Dowager. The girl forgot to be ladylike. In the stress of a moment that promised to be disastrous she lost her nerve, and quite overlooked the part she was playing.

"Damn the Court!" she said. "Get me away. Tell that Jehu to shove along and to step on the gas!"

Lady Daneby looked shocked.

"I'm afraid I cannot quite see how I am going to do that—"

"Stow the bat. Get me away sharp, or by gee—"

"I am helpless, but as I was about to say, here is someone who will help you— who, indeed, will get you away."

A car had drawn up on the off-side, so close that when the man inside opened the door it almost scraped the saloon. Standing on the running board the man opened the saloon door, which, as it opened in the reverse direction, made with the door of his own car a short corridor between the two cars.

"Who is that?" demanded Cicero Jane, harshly. "That, oh—"

The man addressed himself to the girl.

"I am Sergeant Grantley, of the Middlesex Police," he said, crisply, "and I hold a warrant for your arrest for conspiracy, and for being accessory to the murder of Joseph Pasquale and—"

Sergeant Grantley did not complete the charge at that moment, for Cicero Jane lost all savoir-faire. Turning to Lady Daneby, she spat viciously: "You old cat!"

She made to smack the dowager's face, but with great presence of mind, Lady Daneby ducked swiftly, as any boxer avoiding a knock-out blow, and Grantley caught the hand and held it.

Cicero Jane struggled and tried to reach her garter with her free hand; but at that moment Dick Podmore opened the other door and closed it again with remarkable swiftness. But in the brief interval between the two actions a man had entered the saloon. It was Inspector Dennis. He saw the hand groping at the knee, and was rude enough to forestall it. His hand came into the open again holding a small, lady-like automatic, which, despite its smallness, had an air of efficiency, which seemed to hypnotise the dowager.

"Dear! dear!" she murmured. "What a dangerous-looking article!"

"Just in time, hey, Jane?" said the inspector. "Now, step across, lively. Your presentation at Court is deferred till to-morrow morning. But that isn't long, and we'll put you on ice meanwhile."

Recognising the game was up, with the philosophy of her kind, Jane stepped across from running-board to running-board and disappeared in the gloom of the other car, which was instantly driven away. Lady Daneby smoothed a slightly ruffled gown, and again the near door opened, revealing once more Dicky Podmore's grinning face.

"Got a vacant seat, I see, Lady Daneby, but another passenger will fee along in a jiffy. I hope Jane went quietly?"

"The creature tried to smack my face," said Lady Daneby, "but missed."

"Rough luck!" laughed Podmore, without attempting to explain his rather cryptic remark. "And she had a pistol under her skirt—"

"Good Lor'! What a thing for a debutante. The Court officials would have a fit if they knew. There'd be an order to search all garters―"

"Shut the door, Dick Podmore, and don't be indelicate."

Dick Podmore laughed, and shutting the door, stood waiting and watchful. Again a car drew up on the off-side of the saloon. There was an opening and shutting of doors, a sound of voices within, then thrusting their way towards him through the curious crowd, came two men in evening dress  —Peter Pentreath and old Mr. Endicott.

As they drew near Podmore tapped brazenly on the window, and the curtain went up with a rush, revealing May Endicott blushing and smiling, with Lady Daneby still the polite chaperon. The two men raised their hats, and the two ladies bowed.

"All serene!" said Podmore.

"Boy," said Mr. Endicott, enthusiastically to Peter, "I've been down this line of youth an' beauty, an' there ain't one to match her." "You're right, Mr. Endicott. There isn't one to hold a candle to her." "I reckon you've the luck, boy."

"All of it," said Pentreath heartily. "But if Cicero Jane had been true blue the luck would have been mine," laughed Podmore and as the line of cars began to move slowly forward, all three stepped back, hats in hand, whilst Lady Daneby smiled cynically and May Endicott waved a jewelled hand.

End

Table of 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