Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Adventure
Description: In remote quarters of Sudan, and in Cairo, and Paris, and London, faint whispers can be heard: Jihad! Someone is fomenting a Jihad, but it is not a grass-roots campaign; it is orchestrated by a small coterie, and it is aimed at the British Empire. Michel Chevrell, returning from a safari, finds himself drawn into the chase, which climaxes on Dartmoor itself.

THE FLAMING CRESCENT

Ottwell Binns

1931

Serial, Telegraph (Brisbane) commencing 25 July 1931

Contents

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

Chapter 9 | Chapter 10

Chapter 11 | Chapter 12

Chapter 13 | Chapter 14

Chapter 15 | Chapter 16

Chapter 17 | Chapter 18

_____________________

1

BUT FOR THE occasional stamping of the mules and the faint rustlings of nocturnal creatures foraging for meat, the neighbourhood of the khor was very still. The bearers, fed to repletion, squatted round a small fire, and talking in low tones, were unobtrusive; and since be had his back to them, it was easy for Michel Chevrell, seated in his tent door, to imagine that he had the wilderness to himself. He was smoking, and though bone-tired, for the day's march had been a trying one, he felt no inclination to seek the shelter of the mosquito-bar, and sleep.

He was indeed conscious of a vague unrest or spirit, for which he could not account; and once or twice he stared round; wondering If his restlessness were a foreboding of coming ill. The khor, dry, save for the waterhole by which the camp was pitched, could hold no menace for him and his bearers, however; and the plateau beyond was inhabited by a friendly tribe from which there was nothing to fear. Yet his disquiet persisted, and was not to be repressed,  as if the softness of the wilderness night held some menace which, though unseen, was apprehended by that sixth sense which some men have.

A slight wind rippled the acacias nearby, from somewhere up the khor there came a little whimpering scream as some prowling creature made its kill; and then above the bush there was an access of light, as, sailing in the velvet night, the new moon came Into view― a slender crescent of silvery light holding a bright star between its horns.

Chevrell stared at the lovely thing with idle eyes, then his interest quickened a little. Never, in his remembrance, except of the flags of Islam, had he seen such a conjunction of the crescent moon and a star before. To him it was unique; but, as be reflected, in the ceaseless movements of the heavenly bodies such apposition must be a common occurrence; and be was dismissing the thing from his mind, when on the night stillness broke the sudden roll of a drum.

There was nothing new in that. Africa is the land of drums; and in the country where he travelled the throbbing of beaten skin might break forth unexpectedly at any hour of the day or night. But whilst he listened another drum began to beat from a totally different direction; then a third; and quite suddenly one of the bearers gave a grunting exclamation, and, rising to his feet, pointed upward to the moon's gleaming sickle.

Chevrell could see his black body shining In the light of the fire, and, as a dry branch crackled Into flame, he saw that the dark mask of the man's face was working with unusual excitement. Then the black's fellows broke into a quick babble, of which he could follow no word; and which reminded him of the chattering of excited monkeys. He shrugged his shoulders, remembering something which he had read about the rites associated with the new moon.

The natives on safaris with him had no doubt forgotten that the moon was due; and were possibly worried by their oversight, particularly as those insistent drums throbbing through the night proclaimed ritual festival. He lit a fresh pipe and, following vagrant thoughts suggested by the men's evident excitement, became lost In contemplation, out of which he emerged to become aware of the fact that, the sounding drums had been multiplied many times; and that now the night was filled with their monotonous but disturbing rhythm.

Something else he became aware of almost in the same moment. He was alone by the waterhole. His bearers, whilst he had been immersed in thought, had left the camp. He had not noticed their departure, and he found their absence a little startling. Where had they gone? And why?

A gabble of voices from the bank of the khor a little way to the left indicated the way the men had taken, but left the second question unanswered; and after considering for a moment, impelled by a lively curiosity he left his tent door; and turned to ascend the shallow bank, moving in the direction from which the voices came. Almost simultaneously the monkey-like chattering ceased; and on the stillness which supervened came a single cry; In which, to his ears ecstasy and awe were mingled. "Allahu Akbar!"

His curiosity quickened enormously. That ecstatic cry of Islam he had heard from a hundred mosques without any stirring of emotion; but in the desert night it had a startling quality. He began to hurry. Without the voices to guide him he lost his sense of direction; but reached the top of the bank as the drums in crescendo filled the wilderness with throbbing sound, then suddenly ceased, all but one, very distant, the measured throbbing of which was like a pulsating heart.

He looked round; failed to find his bearers: then tried to locate the drum— the sound of which seemed to come from all points of the compass at once. It was then that he saw the sign which to him was as utterly startling as the flaming bush of the desert to the ancient shepherd. Before him in the soft darkness, suspended like Mahomet's coffin between heaven and earth was a thing that in the wilderness was utterly astonishing— a crescent of green fire with, between Its horns, a single star blazing like an emerald.

For a moment or two he stared at it in amazement, then spared a glance for the horned moon with the silver star swinging between its points, and as he turned to the phenomenon anew he wondered what it might betoken. That it was of human agency was not to be questioned; the distant drum, throbbing through the stillness of the desert night, indicated that it was related to some high festival; but what was Its significance? He could not determine that, and, puzzled and watchful, wondered what was the nature of the thing.

It looked like a firework, but the radiance of it was too steady for that. He thought it might be an electric sky-sign. but in that case what was it doing so far from Leicester Square and whence was the power to give it incandescence derived?

Unable to answer any of the queries begotten in his mind, he stared at the flashing mystery for perhaps twenty minutes, then there sounded a sharp roll of drums: and the green symbol was extinguished as swiftly as by the flick of a switch. The roll of drums ended on a crashing note; and again deep silence prevailed over the wide plateau and the dry water-course behind him.

He waited for some minutes, with a thought that possibly the green fire might rekindle. But the darkness remained unillumined. no drum far or near broke the stillness; and assured that whatever it might mean, the performance was over for the night, he groped round for a piece of stick. This he set at the edge of the khor pointing in the direction where the mystery had manifested itself, and stumbled his way back to the camp.

He found his bearers already returned and curled up by the fire, to all appearances deep In slumber. But that their sleep was not so profound as appeared he had evidence a little while later, when, stretched on the camp-bed, there reached him the sound of low excited voices. He strained to hear what they sold, but failed. That the men were discussing the marvel he had seen, he was assured; and with a thought that in the morning he would question them, he composed himself to sleep.

But with dawn he received no enlightenment. His bearers, It seemed, were avoiding him; and not until he called the headman to him did he get any chance of questioning him. The man, who was of half-Arab blood, had a sullen, morose look, and received his questions with a deliberate lack of comprehension.

"Last night, Zirafi, there was a strange sign in the sky. Did you see it?"

"I saw the new moon, bwana, with a jewel in its arms."

"It is not the sign of the new moon that I speak of, but the green fire over there." He indicated the plateau beyond the khor, and then asked: "You saw it, Zirafi?"

"No, bwana, I saw nothing."

"But―" Chevrell checked his protest. The man was lying; and the wooden look on his face told the white man that to pursue the matter would be a waste of time. Any questions would be met with lies or evasions; and he decided to bide his time in the hope that presently he might surprise the man into betrayal of the meaning of the phenomenon which he had witnessed.

With a gesture he dismissed the man, but whilst breakfast was preparing he took his field-glass and walked along tho bank of the khor until he found the stick he had set there the previous night.

That gave him his direction, and staring across the bush-covered plain, he saw that it was broken by a strange conical hill which seemed to rise sheer from the plateau. There was no other elevation from which the green mystery that he had seen could be lifted so as to be visible above the miles of bush, and he nodded to himself. "There— for a certainty!"

Turning his glass upon it, he examined it carefully. The hill appeared to be a single piece of sheer rook, mostly barren of vegetation, but crowned by a hut-shaped structure of stone. Much intrigued and wondering who had his dwelling in that high place, he watched for some time, but saw no one about the hut. Yet he was sure that there the flaming crescent had been manifested; and aware that his bearers were watching him, he returned to the camp, and a little later tackled the headman again.

"Zirafi, who lives in the stone hut on the mountain over there?"

"No one, bwana!"

"Then who built It up there for the vultures to defile?"

"The vultures do not go to that' place, bwana, for a time long ago there dwelt there a very holy man, an Imam."

"Ah! It is a tomb then?"

"Not so, bwana. The Imam vanished in the days before the English came to the land, and the hut is there, waiting his promised return."

"Um! A pretty story," Chevrell reflected for a time.

He was aware of the Moslem legend of the Hidden Holy One who one day is to return to earth to become the restorer of Islam, and to establish It In worldwide power, and thought that here was some local variation of the tradition. Then he shot another question.

"It Is there the green fire burns as a sign?"

Immediately the man's face took on the wooden look, which had been there at the earlier questioning. He shook his head.

"I know nothing of the green fire, bwana."

Chevrell was conscious of bafflement and exasperation. That the man had seen the fiery symbol he knew; and he was assured that his ignorance was a pose; but he could do nothing to make the man speak, and finally dismissed him with a new order for the day's march.

"Very well. After breakfast we will break camp and march to the mountain of the Imam. I shall climb to the house that waits him."

The man's eyes flashed at the words, a look of something like anger broke up the wooden mask on his face, but without a word he saluted and turning away rejoined his fellows; from whom shortly afterwards came a babble of excitement and broken utterances which had a passionate note.

"Trouble!" said Chevrell to himself, and ate his breakfast philosophically: assured that the trouble, whatever its nature, would settle itself. But in that, as It proved, he was mistaken. He was enjoying his after-breakfast smoke when Zirafi approached him bringing an ultimatum.

"Bwana, the bearers will not go to the mountain of the Imam!"

"Will not go―" Chevrell rose to his feet in sudden wrath. "They will go to hell, if I order!" He cried, aware that in the wilderness the white man who cannot assert himself is lost "You will tell them It is my will— an order: you understand."

"Nevertheless they will not go; They are afraid, bwana. They will set down their loads and depart rather than march to the mountain."

In the face of this threat Chevrell knew his helplessness. To be left alone In the African bush, two hundred miles from the nearest Government post, was the equivalent of death. Besides, there were things in the loads, skins , and heads, trophies of his prowess as a hunter which he was loath to lose. But he felt, all the same, that he must assert himself.

"Zirafi— this is rank mutiny!" he stormed.

"Not so, bwana. The agreement was that we should take you to Malakal on the White River. And the mountain of the Imam does not lie that way."

That was true enough, as Chevrell recognised, and since he was helpless In the face of the bearer's obduracy, he took the chance offered to save his face.

"That is true," he said. '"We go to Malakal. But if baksheesh were offered—"

"They would not go to the mountain, bwana," said Zlrafi quickly. "To do so, they... are afraid. Sooner would they lose their wages."

"Then they are fools as you can tell them. Make ready the loads for the march to the river. We go at once."

FOR THE MOMENT the matter ended there; and during the week's march through the bush, not once was it referred to by either Chevrell or the headman. But when they reached the river station, and the headman had seen his goods safely disposed; Chevrell, paying off the bearers, tried to tempt the other to unfold the mystery.

Deliberately counting five English pounds on the table of the Residency where he was to wait the coming of the steamer due in two days' time, he looked at the other smilingly.

"Tell, me of the, green fire at the mountain of the Imam— and those are yours, Zirafi."

A covetous gleam came in the man's eyes. He was, it seemed, strongly tempted; then his dark face flushed, and he cried harshly: "By the prophet's beard! No! bwana."

Chevrell took up his five pounds, and when the headman had departed, the governor being absent, sought enlightenment from his deputy, a practical-minded young man of no great erudition.

"A crescent of green fire with a star— and on the night of the new moon!" The deputy laughed. "Some hocus-pocus of the local father in God, I expect. Come and have a drink!"

Chevrell did not pursue the matter further. The explanation the deputy offered was no doubt adequate for the fact, which he pigeon-holed in his . mind as one of the odd things which abound in Africa; and he scarcely thought of it again until he reached Cairo.

There, on the night of his arrival, on the terrace of Shepheard's Hotel, he encountered an old friend, Peter Maguire, who, being of Irish extraction, greeted him with exuberance.

"By the Powers! Mike Chevrell! The only flower in a waste where are tourists, tourists everywhere an' not a man to drink with. What will ye take, my paladin?"

Chevrell laughed and took whisky, whilst Maguire rattled on.

"Look at them, retired shopkeepers from Croydon, school-marms from Boston, U.S.A., an' all the culture-seeking lambs of the Polytechnic. A swate crowd to be sure! But ye're from the desert? I heard of ye from Hugh. On safari, he said. Good hunting; hey? I wish I'd been' with ye. But I'm tethered to this blasted city for the rest of eternity seemingly. But where the job is, there's the pay, an' it might be worse if I were in Tiflis or Basrah."

Chevrell considered his exuberant friend, remembered suddenly that he had some undefined post under the Foreign Office, and asked quickly, "Trouble brewing?"

"The devil's own broth, though the alarms there don't smell it; an' the little lambs unconscious of doom throw stones at the Sphinx. An'―"

He broke off sharply, gave an odd laugh, then added in a new voice, "Ye're in luck, Mike; for by the Pope's toe here's one of the witches that stir the pot."

He jerked a thumb in the direction of the entrance. A closed automobile had stopped there, and out of it had stepped a man who was holding the door for a lady from whose coiffure came the flash of some green jewel.

Chevrell, intrigued by Maguire's words, stared at the lady with lively curiosity. She was tall, dressed exquisitely in shimmering green, the gown indicating a beauty of body matching that of her face— which was ivory pale, crowned with hair of lustrous black, with eyebrows of the same colour, beneath which, from heavily fringed lids looked forth eyes of a soft, luring darkness; infinitely tender, wholly beautiful.

Chevrell, looking at her as she stood for a moment in the blaze of light at the hotel entrance, noting the mouth that was like a flower, the gleam of ivory arms half-concealed by a light cloak; the whole miraculous wonder of her, was moved to a quick protest.

"Witch, Maguire? Surely―"

"The three sisters of the blasted heath in one would be a suckling babe by. comparison. Look at the jewel in heir hair."

Chevrell considered the green jewel more closely. As he saw instantly, it was a crescent and star of emeralds, which blazed and scintillated under the electric light like living flame. For a moment, as he considered it, the terrace, the street in front of him, the exquisite woman faded from view; and he was back in the desert night, staring from the bank of the khor, at the green mystery lifted in the darkness, whilst far drums throbbed through the stillness. The next moment he swung hack again to present realities.

The woman, with superb grace, was moving towards the door; and Maguire's voice, excited and eager, sounded in his ears. "Ye've seen the d—d bauble before? Seen it lately, hey Chevrell? Away in the desert belike? I saw the look in the eyes of ye, just now."

Chevrell watched the woman as she mounted the steps, then he answered simply. "No! I saw no jewelled crescent in the desert; but I did see one of green fire, which was, a mystery."

"Mystery! The whole blazing thing is a mystery. Tell me what ye saw, my son. Maybe ye have the key that will unlock a door I've been hammering on this month or more."

Chevrell told him the story without frills; and Maguire listened in silence, but at the end burst out.

"That Holy Mountain an' the Imam's tent may be the heart of the business that's brewing, but I don't believe it is. What can a woman like that have to do with a crowd of dirty blacks? Tell me that if ye can, Mike?"

Chevrell did not try. The question propounded was beyond him; and he had a question of his own to ask.

"That jewel— it is the symbol of some society?"

"Ye may say so— but what? The devil only knows. I've been on the trail of it for a month; and I'm as wise as at the beginning... But the trouble's there— here— in a dozen places!"

"Who was the Johnny who was with her?"

"Don't know! He's new to me; but I guess he belongs to the fraternity of the green crescent. And— saints! He's there; going out again; and the woman!... I'm off! That fellow may give me a line on the business. Maybe ye'd like to come, Mike. If so—"

Chevrell rose with alacrity; secured his helmet, and by the time he had descended the steps, found a hired car waiting, with Maguire already within.

"Sharp's the word, my son."

Chevrell jumped in, and as he shut the door, the driver, already instructed, moved off. Maguire offered no explanation, beyond a laconic sentence. "We're following."  Thereafter, leaning forward a little, alert as an eagle, he watched the vehicle in front.

Chevrell watched both the saloon and his friend, wondering what was , behind the chase, and if it was in any way linked to the fiery manifestation be had seen from the desert khor. Presently his own interest in the chase quickened. They had left the great shops and the villas of the rich behind, and had entered the purely native quarter, and a Vanity Fair that perhaps only Sodom could rival and no city surpass. The narrow streets crowded with a-babbling medley of people— black and brown, yellow and white, fat Egyptians; grinning negroes, ringleted Jews, fierce-eyed Arabs of the desert. Greek traders, English soldiers out for a lark, tourists viewing the strange night life with its iridescent corruption. Through open doors and unshuttered windows, Chevrell glimpsed odd sights. Here a group of men caught by the gambler's fever, with neglected girls' looking on disconsolately; there a dancing quartet of lithe Nubian girls shivering like flame to the sound of drums and cymbals; and through another doorway a young Moorish woman of amazing beauty, who danced to the sound of pipes, whilst a pair of hooded snakes swayed sinuously on either side of her....

And there was embodied iniquity abroad. Men hailed them vociferously promising strange delights; women of half a dozen races and of wild beauty beckoned luringly from the lighted doorways; and once two girls, little more than children,  gaily bedizened, and wicked as sin, sprang on the running board, and hung there for a while, laughing luringly; a pair of butterflies bred in evil and battening on corruption.

Scarcely had they dropped back to the street when the crawling automobile halted; and the driver indicated the vehicle in front it had stopped at the head of a dark alley, and the pair within were descending.

Maguire regardless of the crowd which had instantly gathered round the conveyance, waited until the pair had disappeared in the alley; then he jumped out of the car, gave the driver swift instructions, and with Chevrell at his heels, hurried towards the alley from which the vehicle they had followed was already moving away.

At the entrance they paused to reconnoitre. The place was black as night's self, silent and sinister amid the din of the. vociferous throng which crowded the thoroughfare behind. Maguire sniffed the air.

"A very stews!" he said. "A foot deep in garbage by the stink, and dark as the vestibule of the pit But―"

He broke off swiftly, and clutched Chevrell's arm. "Allah!" he whispered in sharp excitement.

"What―" Chevrell checked his question abruptly as he saw what his friend had already seen— a green crescent and star; which seemed to be hung in the darkness of the alley; but which he guessed must be the glazed panel of a door, with a lamp behind it. A second later the light went out, and the symbol became invisible as the rest of that gut of darkness.

"Straight in front," chuckled Maguire. "Step delicately as a bird, Mike. We'll inspect this gay rendezvous."

They moved forward together. In comparison with the wickedly cheerful thoroughfare they had left the place was like a grave— and as silent. They reached the end of the cul-de-sac, and stretching a hand Chevrell made acquaintance with an iron-studded door. He had time for no more than that. There was a- slight sound in the alley behind them, then In a swift whisper came the voice of Maguire. "Powers of darkness! Duck! Against the wall!"

He had no time to obey the urgent command. There was a rush of slippered feet. He caught the sound of a blow, a grunt followed, and simultaneously there was a sharp clatter of steel on the stones. Then unseen arms propelled him forcibly forward against the iron-studded door. He felt It yield before his impact, and he shot onward in darkness, measuring his length on a carpeted floor.

Someone leaped upon him, holding him down. The door crashed. There was a rasp of rings as a curtain was drawn aside, and in a shaft of soft light which made the crescent jewel in her hair flash with green flame, he saw the woman whom he and his friend had followed, standing in an arched doorway, looking down at him with mocking laughter in her eyes.

2

THE WOMAN SPOKE a swift word in Arabic and the fellow on Chevrell's shoulders promptly removed himself, taking up a position against, the wall. Then the woman laughed again, as she addressed Chevrell in English.

"It is pretty to see you at my feet, Englishman, but you may rise."

Chevrell did so with deliberate slowness, to enable himself to take stock of the situation. The man against the wall, as he saw, was a gigantic Nubian, black as coal, whose big white teeth were displayed as he grinned broadly and fingered a long knife. The woman had put aside her cloak, and the very décolleté corsage, revealing shoulders and arms of gleaming shapeliness, hinted of other beauty but half concealed. She stood looking at him with mirth in her dark eyes, her scarlet lips curled with laughter, one foot forward, showing a jewelled shoe, one hand, on which flashed a single jewel, playing with a chain girdle of silver. There was an edge of mockery in her mirth; a little scorn in her glance; an easy contempt in her hearing, which made Chevrell feel that in her eyes he was no more than the small dust of the balance, a mere speck to he brushed aside.

But as, standing upright, he faced her there was a lightning-like change in her demeanour. Mirth, and contempt were obliterated by sheer surprise. She stared at Chevrell without any attempt to hide her amazement, then, swiftly as a striking snake, she turned to the Nubian and demanded in Arabic:

"Fool, who is this?"

The grin vanished from the black's face. His eyes rolled uneasily, and he was visibly troubled.

"It Is that one who―"

"No!" the woman interrupted In cold anger which made the black shiver. "It Is not the man. You have brought a stranger and let the other go. For two pips of a pomegranate I would whip you with my own hands. How came you to such folly? Quick," she cried with an impatient stamp of her Jewelled foot. "Quick."

The black was tongue-tied with fear. He stared at the prisoner and then back to the woman, unable to utter a word; and Chevrell began to glimpse a way out of the position in which he found himself.

"Madame," he said protestingly, "what is the meaning of this outrage? Why am I kidnapped in this scandalous way?"

The woman's dark eyes, flashing with anger, narrowed a little as they rested on him. She ignored his questions utterly.

"Who are you?" she demanded in a voice that rang like steel.

"If it is any service to you to know— my name is Michael Chevrell."

The woman considered a moment A little frown puckered the smoothness of her forehead, and there was a far-away look in her eyes as she made a visible effort to recall it. Then the shapely head was shaken.

"I do not know the name."

"No," answered Chevrell quickly. "It was not to be expected that you would."

"You are a stranger in Cairo?" asked the woman sharply.

"Not entirely, but I arrived only to-day from Malagal."

"Um!" The dark eyes resting on his face were bright and searching. "You are in the service of the English Government?"

"No! I have been on safari— a hunting trip, and am on my way home."

The frown on the beautiful face relaxed a little; then deepened and the eyes once more searched his face. "What were you doing outside my door?" she asked abruptly.

Chevrell did his best to look sheepish. Then he stuttered a little. "Well— Madame— you see―"

"I see a man without an excuse," she broke In harshly, her eyes flashing with suspicion. "Oh, I don't know about that," answered Chevrell, with the air of one pulling himself together. "A man must have his amusements; and if he makes a tour of his native town who is to blame him?"

Tho woman's frown relaxed again and the scarlet lips curled a little. "You came to see the dancing-girls?" she asked, a hint of contempt In her voice.

"Well, if you like to put it that way―" began Chevrell, only to be interrupted. "But that does not explain your presence in the alley," challenged the woman swiftly.

"That is just what It does. I was passing the end and I saw a green crescent, and a star shining in the dark, which took my fancy. Thinking that it was some special kind of show, I turned into the alley. Then the lighted crescent went out; and I was groping my way back, when I heard a racket and the next that I know I was flung against a door which opened, depositing me on your carpet with that black ruffian upon my shoulders."

The explanation was a natural one, and Chevrell gave it with an air of disgruntled sincerity that was very convincing. His questioner considered him closely. Her lips seemed to be appraising him afresh; and finally, a little irritated, he gave her stare for stare, standing truculently as a man might who had a grievance that irked him.

Then as she remained silent, he asked with well simulated impatience: "What about it, Madame? You're not thinking I am a thief who had designs upon your jewels, surely."

"No," was the woman's reply. Whilst her eyes fairly raked his face. "Nor, am I sure that you are the kind of man you hint. If I thought that you were one of those fools who come seeking garbage―"

She broke off, and snapped with a suddenness that no doubt was meant to surprise him into betrayal of himself.

"You know an Englishman — Captain Maguire?"

Chevrell never turned a hair. He had been expecting some such question, and neither by start nor flash of intelligence did he betray knowledge. He considered a moment, like a man searching his memory then he shook his head decisively.

"Never heard of the man. Why do you ask, Madame?"

Again the woman left the question unanswered; whilst the dark eyes continued their appraising gaze. Chevrell met them unwaveringly; and saw doubts cloud their brightness. The woman was uncertain of him, did not know what to think, and he made haste to press his advantage, speaking with simulated heat.

"Look here," he said, "I have had enough, if I'm to be questioned but not to be answered. Tell the black swine to open the door; and I'll make my way out of this."

Then the woman spoke coldly, but with a ring of decision that was unmistakable.

"You will go when I choose, not before."

Chevrell thought swiftly. He had no doubt that she meant exactly what she said, but decided to keep up his pose of angered innocence.

"Oh! That's the idea! Well, we will see about that. If you think you're going to keep me here at your own sweet will, you're mistaken. I am going, now, without your leave, Madame."

He turned his back upon her deliberately, and made a step towards the door. The Nubian took a firmer hold of his knife as he passed, but did hot attempt to detain him. The woman herself remained inactive; and with a wild hope that he was to be allowed to depart, Chevrell searched the door for the fastening. So far as he could see there was but a clumsy iron latch to be lifted; and he was in the very act of setting his hand to it, when the woman's voice cried out, ringingly:—

"Stay, fool!"

There was a warning as well as a command in the words, and though he was inclined to ignore the one and disobey the other, he glanced over his shoulder. What he saw froze him to inaction.

The Nubian stood with the knife ready to throw, whilst his mistress now held a small automatic pistol in her delicate hand, and was taking deliberate aim. Chevrell did not doubt and was disinclined to challenge her marksmanship; whilst the black looked thoroughly efficient. He weighed the risks swiftly and decided they were too great. Before he could lift that heavy latch, the pistol would speak and the knife flash; and between the two he would not have a dog's chance.

He faced half-way round, his truculence gone; his face and voice simulating fear. "My God! You never mean to―"

He got no further. A heavy body lurched against the door on the further side; a hand fumbled at the latch; then the door was thrown violently open, almost knocking him off his feet.

As he reeled, against the wall, a man— Turk or Egyptian—staggered in, his face all cut and bleeding, and as Chevrell recovered himself, the new-comer stared at him as a tipsy man might have done. Then sudden passion kindled in the bemused eyes.

"By Allah!" the man roared in Arabic. "We have one of the―"

Chevrell did not wait for the rest. In a flash he realised that there had been two men In the alley, and that the new-comer knew that he had been Maguire's companion— perhaps had followed them all the way from Shepheard's Hotel. Whatever his peril of the last few minutes had been it was increased sevenfold by this man's coming; and his opportunity was before him, for the door still stood wide open to the night.

He leaped for it. Heard the pistol crack behind him and felt something sear his arm, whilst a thing that gleamed flashed over his shoulder, and struck ringingly on the wall of the alley. But he was out in the darkness, and as he plunged forward towards the noisy street, he caught Maguire's laughing voice:

"Keep on. Turn right to the sherbet seller's at the corner. Wait there."

There was the sound of feet behind him, very close, as he ran on; then a crash and a groan, proclaiming that disaster had overtaken his pursuer. He heard Maguire laugh, and caught the clatter of his booted feet on the stones. As he reached the street his friend was at his side and grasping his arm.

"This way, Mike. Slow down!"

They were in the noisy throng again, and running in the crowded narrowness of the street was impossible. But that mattered little. The shifting throng was concealment. In no time at all it swallowed them in its noisy tide. They reached the sherbet-sellers' shop of which Maguire had spoken, and for a second the Irishman paused, and tiptoeing, looked backwards over the heads of the licentious throng. Then he laughed.

"Hounds at fault! Come."

They entered the sherbet-seller's, a mean enough place, but one of which the outward innocence was perhaps only a mask, since from somewhere in the depths of the place came the wail of a pipe, and the thud of a tom-tom. There were perhaps half a dozen people at the tables, two women and four men; who scarcely glanced at them as they entered, but a fat Levantine who Chevrell guessed was the proprietor waddled forward.

"The gentlemen will take sherbet?" he wheezed; his eyes glancing covetously.

"In your private apartment, Osman," answered Maguire cheerfully, and without more ado led the way across the dingy room with Its flyblown mirrors, to a doorway masked by a curtain. He lifted the hanging and passed through the door beyond, followed by Chevrell and the proprietor.

"Quick, Osman, your keys. I want the other way out―"

The man gave a grunt, und himself led the way through another door to a passage that was lit by a small oil lamp. There the thrumming of the tom-tom and shrill of the pipe which Chevrell had noted were accentuated; and as they passed an open doorway he glimpsed an interior, the far end of which was set for a stage, lighted, with five girls dancing, and not a shred of linen on them. Against the light he saw silhouetted a huddle of heads, and knew that sherbet-selling was the least profitable of Osman's business activities. They reached the end of the passage, passed another door and were out in the night under the stars, in an alley so narrow that they could move along in only in file.

"Mind your steps, Mike," laughed Maguire as he took the lead. The passage wound sinuously for some distance, then turned a comer, at the further side of which the Irishman came to an abrupt halt.

"Wait!" he said. A moment later a match rasped on metal, and the wood caught. By the tiny illumination it afforded, Chevrell glimpsed a huddled form against the wall, blocking the passage. Maguire stooped over it, then offered terse comment.

"Knifed. His troubles are over. Mind his legs, Mike."

Chevrell stooped over tho dead man, and they resumed their way, and presently emerged in another street, where pipes were shrieking and drums beating in barbaric rhythm. It was thronged with the like cosmopolitan crowd as the street which they had entered the sherbet-seller's house; and almost opposite them an arabeeyah was decanting a little party of tourists who had come to see the night life of this inferno. They paid the driver off; and Maguire promptly engaged him.

"Shepheard's Hotel, an' stop at nothing."

The driver grinned, and waved his whip in token of understanding; and they drove away at a pace that was regulated only by the traffic of the street. Not until they had left the hubbub of the Inferno behind them, and were in the broader streets where the moon light flickered, did Maguire speak.

"Ye saw the woman, Mike? She was in that house?"

"She was," answered Chevrell a little grimly. "She gave mo a love token―"

"A love token! The devil! Ye must have lost no time."

"There's a bullet or the sting of It in my left arm. She fired as jumped for the door, when that man whom you floored in the alley came in. He recognised me as having been with you, so that the tale of a man doing the sights which I had almost got away with broke down―"

"If the fellow knew you, he must have seen us together, and it means that I'm under surveillance."

"Not a doubt of that. The woman inquired if I knew you. I denied all knowledge of you, naturally; but— well! there you are."

"Tell me, Mike! Everything."

Chevrell gave him a minute account of his adventure, and the Irishman listened closely, and at the end said tersely:

"I knew that woman was in it! But it's news she knows I'm after her. I'll have to tread delicately now; or I'll slip off the pay roll mysteriously. This business is going to be as lively as buffalo hunting."

Chevrell remembered suddenly that he knew nothing of the nature of the business in which he had been so sharply involved.

"If you were to tell me what it is all about, Peter, I might―"

"I don't rightly know it myself, Mike. 'Tis one end of a string that's in my hand, and the ball is anywhere— Jerusalem Wall, Angora, Baghdad, Cairo, Peshawar or Timbuctoo. There's no saying. But the trouble is surely brewing; and that green crescent ye saw is the proof of it. An' ye have only got to think what the crescent and star are associated with to get an inkling of the fact."

"Moslem unrest?"

Maguire nodded. "Seems so! But the fact isn't clear. But ye know what happens when priests get busy, as they do every now and again. Then the wind lifts, the spark roars to fire, an' there's the devil to pay. That's happened again and again, as ye know. 'Tis something like fifty years since the last big dust up of the pious; an' that was here an' in the country ye've come from. Then Hicks Pasha an' Gordon went under, an' it took eleven years and an army an' Kitchener to settle that business started by Mohammed Ahmed. An' things don't change— not so much as they seem. Islam is a combustible faith an' any crazy fanatic can set it ablaze, an' if ye've a dozen fanatics with brains as well as faith then the world will burn.... And if I can see the drift of things that's what's in the wind.... Mind ye, I don't know. I'm only anticipating intelligently; but I'd wager a year's pay on it.... So there ye have it; an'— the gods be praised! Here's Shepheard's an' whisky for paying for.... We'll have a drink and get a sawbones to look at that arm of yours."

The arm, as it proved, had suffered only a flesh wound, but the nature of it was unmistakable; and provoked the doctor's curiosity. A friend of Maguire's, he looked at him knowingly.

"Been seeking trouble again, Peter?"

"A duel!" laughed tho Irishman brazenly. "Chevrell was my second an' got hit. Rotten bad shooting. What?"

"Rotten," agreed the doctor, and accepted the convivial invitation Maguire extended, without asking further questions.

They were still on the veranda when a cablegram was brought to Chevrell. He opened It immediately, and as he finished reading it, Maguire asked: "No bad news, Mike?"

"No! It's from my cousin Hugh asking me to get to Paris as quickly as I can."

"Then ye'll go by air," laughed the Irishman, "or maybe ye'll be too late for the wedding."

"Wedding?"

"Just a ' manner of speaking, ye duffer! But if Hugh Chevrell wants ye, he wants ye badly or he wouldn't fling money in cablegrams."

Maguire grew suddenly thoughtful. "He knows ye've been on safari in the Soudan— an' I'll lay a fiver to a shilling that 'tisn't elephants and hippopotami he wants to see ye about."

"But what on earth can Hugh want me for in such haste?"

Maguire laughed knowingly. "Maybe the boy's in some scrape. Paris is just the place for a virtuous lad like Hugh to step into a bog an'―"

"Oh, rot, Mike! Hugh's no chicken."

"No! He's a game bird, an' ready for the cockpit every time! One of the best an'―" Maguire broke off suddenly. "Ye'll go?"

"Of course."

"Then we'll look up the time-tables, an' book your seat, an' send a cable to Hugh. 'Tis always well to take time by the forelock."

AND SO it fell that four days later Chevrell drove up to the Hotel Westminster, where his cousin was domiciled, to find, on inquiry, that his cousin was not in the hotel. The reception clerk looked at him closely, and said quickly: "But the manager will see you, Monsieur Chevrell."

Chevrell stared at the man, and demanded: "You know me?"

The cleric smiled broadly. "Monsieur is very like his cousin. One cannot mistake. If you will come this way "

Chevrell followed him to a private office; and there from tho manager's own hands received a letter marked in red ink: "Urgent," Opening It he found a rather cryptic communication.

Dear Mike,

I have to go out and may not return before noon to-morrow, but there's a thing I want you to do for me. At eleven to-night go to the Cafe d'Armenonville, in the Rue de la Paix. Take a table close to the street in such a way that your face can be seen. Wait there for an hour and if at the end of that time you do not receive a message, return here and await my coming. I have reserved a room for you.

In great haste. So long.

Hugh.

That was all; and when he had gone to his room, re-reading the note Chevrell found it sufficiently intriguing. What curious business was Hugh engaged in that he should require such a service? And from whom, was the message to come— Hugh or another?

There were other questions, to none of which he could find an answer, but at five minutes to eleven he made his way down the famous street to the Cafe d'Armenonville, and took a chair at an unoccupied table facing the side-walk, which was in the full glare of an arc lamp. There he waited, sipping the wine he had ordered, smoking, and keeping an alert eye on the street; wondering if he would receive the expected message and who the messenger would be.

There was a constant stream of foot-passengers on the side-walk. Clients drifted in and out of the cafe. Tables contiguous to his own emptied and filled, and several times girls, hawking their youth and beauty, half paused with an expectant eye on the handsome Englishman who sat solitary and apart. Once or twice his own expectation mounted as one of these strollers approached him; then sank back as ho perceived there was no sort of recognition of himself; as there must be on the part of whatever messenger should come to him. The half-hour passed, and still he sat alone. Another quarter; and his vigil was yet unrewarded.

A little later he looked at his watch. Ten minutes yet to go and Precisely at that moment a taxi-cab drew up by the kerb and a girl stepped out and spoke to the driver, evidently giving him instructions to wait, for the man stopped his engine and proceeded to light a cigarette. Chevrell watched the girl who was walking slowly along the side-walk with her eyes in the direction of the cafe.

She was quite young, elegantly attired, undeniably beautiful, and carried herself with a free grace that was in refreshing contrast to the mincing gait of those who had sought an invitation to his table. She went the full length of the cafe front, then, as she reversed and began to walk slowly back, her eyes scanning tho tables as if looking for someone. It was borne sharply on Chevrell that here at last was the messenger for whom he waited. He had so little doubt of it that when she came opposite him, and rather clumsily dropped the little leather bag she carried, he came near to laughing outright at the simple artifice. Instead he retrieved it, and as he handed it to her, felt a folded, flimsy letter thrust into his hand.

"Do not look at it here, Mr. Chevrell," she whispered swiftly, and a second later she was thanking him prettily for restoring her bag. He indicated the vacant chair at his side.

"Won't you—"

"Impossible," she broke in swiftly, and the next instant was making a bee-line for the waiting taxi-cab. Chevrell watched her go with disappointed eyes; und just as she reached the vehicle became aware that he was not the only one who was watching her.

Standing on the side-walk, near a newspaper kiosk, was a tall man, fashionably dressed, with fat olive face, and dark, rather bulging eyes, for whom she appeared to have an absorbing Interest. How long the man had been there, Chevrell did not know, and so could not guess if he had observed the little incident between tho girl and himself; but as the girl entered the taxi-cab, the man lifted his arm in what was plainly a signal, and a second taxi-cab slid forward and the man entered. Then as the girl's taxi moved on in the stream of traffic, the second slid Into place at its tail; and in five seconds both were lost to view.

"Shadowed!"

Chevrell whispered the word under his breath, slipped the hand containing the folded note into a pocket, letting it remain there for a little time, before withdrawing, it empty... Then he-signalled a waiter, ordered a liqueur, and lit a fresh cigarette.

Whilst he smoked and sipped his liqueur he surveyed the boulevard in the neighbourhood of the cafe, with apparent nonchalance, but with real alertness, looking for any second watcher who might be interested in himself. He found none, and presently gave his attention to the cafe itself. There also ho drew a blank.

Reassured, he left the place, walked a little way down the boulevard, and engaged a taxi. Not until he was in the shelter of his own room did he take out the folded envelope he had received, and examine it.

Except for a number in one corner and the initials "H.C." it was without any inscription or address. These two letters, however, assured him that it had not come from his cousin, but that it was intended for him, and that he himself had been no more than a go-between, as possibly had the girl who had brought, the message, which Hugh had plainly been expecting.

But who was the girl? Someone apparently who was known to Hugh; and who had mistaken him for his cousin as he sat at the cafe table; which was possibly Hugh's intention in sending him to that rendezvous. Other questions came to him as he sat considering. That olive-skinned shadower who had followed the girl? Was he just a common boulevardier attracted by the girl's fresh beauty? Or was there some more serious and sinister purpose in his trailing her? And where was Hugh, and what business was he engaged in that he should have been driven to use the likeness between them to secure this message so surreptitiously delivered?

He looked at the flimsy, crumpled envelope with keen curiosity. If one knew what was In there he might possess the key to all the rest of the intriguing business, but till Hugh returned he must possess his soul in patience. There was nothing else for it; so, locking the envelope in safety, he retired for the night and promptly fell into the sleep of the tired man,

3

HE WAS AWAKENED at eight in the morning by a thunderous hammering on his door.

"Here's Cousin Hugh!" he laughed to himself as, leaping out of bed, he turned, the key and flung the door open.

Two men stood there, neither of whom was Hugh Chevrell. One was the manager of the hotel, whose bearded face wore a perturbed look; and the other was a keen-eyed man who; notwithstanding he was in mufti, had the look and bearing of one in authority.

"Police official !" Chevrell's mind commented, and with a wonder what was In the wind, without committing himself to speech, waited for the pair to explain.

It was the official-looking man who took that task on himself.

"Monsieur Chevrell?" he inquired.

"At your service," answered Chevrell.

"Monsieur Michel Chevrell?" asked the official with a passion for precision.

"Yes!" The terseness of tho reply stirred the official to explain his desire for exactitude.

"But the likeness Is wonderful, Monsieur! One might so easily mistake one for the other.... You will dress, Monsieur, please. I am afraid I must trouble you to come with me."

"But— the devil!— why?"

"I am Lacorte — from the Sûreté Generale, m'sieur comprehends?"

To the initiated Lacorte might be a name to conjure with, to Chevrell it conveyed nothing, but the name of the office from which the man came was illuminating; for he knew that the Sûreté Generale was the French Scotland Yard. He made no further demur.

"I will be ready to accompany you in ten minutes, Monsieur," he answered quickly, and the officer bowed and withdrew.

He dressed hurriedly, omitting both bath and shave, assured that there was deep trouble somewhere, and beset by apprehensions for his cousin, since the official's references left him in no doubt that his call was in some way connected with Hugh.

Twelve minutes later, when he descended, he found Lacorte awaiting him in the reception hall, and without further remark the officer said: "This way, M'sieur Chevrell."

Tho officer led the way to a side entrance, outside which a private car stood waiting.

"You will sit with me, perhaps?"

" Yes!" M. Lacorte took the wheel and with the officer at his side drove off. Chevrell waited, hoping that the officer would explain further, but the man did not speak, and his face was inscrutable as that of the Sphinx. Chevrell resented his silence, and at length asked impatiently; "What is it all about, Monsieur Lacorte?"

The officer lifted a hand from the wheel and waved It deprecatingly.

"Presently, m'sieur, presently!"

Realising that the man meant to keep his counsel, he stared in front of him wondering what lay at the end of the journey. The great pile of Notre Dame lifted directly, in front of them. They swung round it, and came to a halt outside a building which as Chevrell recognised it increased his apprehensions , seven-fold.

"The Morgue!" he ejaculated.

"Yes, M'sieur, the Morgue!" answered the officer.

Chevrell divined now what was before him, and as he descended and followed the officer into these grim precincts of the dead, he schooled himself for the ordeal which awaited him.

Without further remark the man led him into a room which had the chill of death in its air. There were marble slabs there covered by glass cases, and there was a swish of water which seemed to be the only sound in the place. They passed two of the slabs on which reposed the remains of two who had been found in the river, and came to a third; by which the official halted. "If m'sieur will prepare himself!" said the man grimly.

Chevrell was already prepared. His eyes went to the clothing hung above the slab by which the man stood. He noted mechanically that it was soaked and then he stepped forward, and looked down through the glass on that which reposed on the slab, with the water flowing to keep the stone cool. He saw his cousin's face, white in death, looking strangely boyish, and but for a little cut high up in the forehead without any disfigurement.

He had anticipated something of the sort since tho moment the car had stopped outside that grim building; but tho sight of Hugh lying there, naked on that cold slab of death, moved him deeply. For a moment he gazed down on that still, boyish face, then closed his eyes, whilst with one hand he clutched the edge of the case to steady himself.

Then on his emotion broke the voice of M. Lacorte.

"M'sieur recognises his cousin, M. Hugh Chevrell?"

"Yes!" he said stonily. "Yes!"

For a second there was silence, and his eyes wandered from the slab with his cousin's body to the soaked clothes hung above it. Then a thought came to him.

"He was drowned then, Monsieur?"

M. Lacorte, who had seen his glance, answered with a precision that seemed  characteristic of him.

"He was taken from the river two hours ago, M'sieur."

There was a dry significance in the words which Chevrell instantly noted.

"What do you mean?" he demanded hoarsely. "I asked you if he were drowned, and you say he was taken from the river."

"There is a difference, M'sieur Chevrell. Often it happens that men and women are. taken from the river who did not die there. You see a dead body . is a great inconvenience, and the river―"

"Then he was not drowned?" interrupted Chevrell harshly.

"No, Monsieur. He was stabbed— under the left shoulder. A death stroke that found the heart!"

For a moment, as the significance of tho words came to him,, Chevrell became blind. to the starkness of that grim chamber. He was back on the veranda of Shepheard's Hotel, and in his ears rang Maguire's laughing voice: offering an explanation of his cousin's summons to him to Paris.

"Maybe the boy's in some scrape. Paris is just the place for a virtuous lad like Hugh to step into a bog—"

Was that it? Had Hugh, with his bright youth and his flair for adventurous living, slipped in one of the noisome places with which Paris abounded? Had he been in some difficulty from which he could not deliver himself and so had sought help? So far he got when he became aware that the officer's eyes were watching him keenly, and that put a check to his questioning thoughts.

"Stabbed, Monsieur!" he said hoarsely.

"Yes, Monsieur. He was dead before he was thrown into the river. That is certain."

"But who―"

The officer shrugged his shoulders. "That is what I seek to discover, but as yet nothing is known. Monsieur your cousin left his hotel last night before your arrival, I understand?"

"Yes! He was gone from the hotel when I reached there!"

"But he left a note for you, M'sieur— an important note from the precautions he took to ensure its delivery to you?"

Chevrell did not hurry to give Information. He remembered the rendezvous at the Cafe d'Armenonville, and the charming girl who had kept that appointment. It was impossible that she could have anything to do with his cousin's death! and there was no occasion to drag her needlessly into the tragic business. He answered with reserve.

"As you say, Monsieur, he left a letter for me."

"An important letter?" Insisted the officer.

"A letter explaining that he had to go out and might not return before noon to-day."

"Ah! He said where he was going? Gave some indication of the nature of the errand?"

"Neither, Monsieur."

"But―"

Laporte permitted himself to look incredulous. "I do not understand. The letter was left in the care of the manager of the hotel with instructions that great care was to be taken of it; and that the manager would personally deliver it into your hands. M. Cesare was very clear about that. The letter also was marked 'Urgent' in scarlet ink, and you say it was to inform you that Monsieur your cousin had an appointment, and might not return before noon to-day— a trivial note for such precautions to ensure prompt delivery M'sieur Chevrell!"

"Yes!" agreed Chevrell with apparent frankness. "But there is an explanation of that. You see, my cousin had summoned me by cable from Cairo, and since he had to absent himself at the time of my arrival it was natural that he should desire to ensure I would receive the explanation of his failure to welcome me."

"By cable! Then the matter was urgent?" snapped the officer.

"Almost certainly. But of what lay behind the summons I have not the slightest notion, monsieur!"

His tone carried conviction. M. Lacorte stared down at the still form under the glass, and a frown gathered above his keen eyes. "But there was something," he said thoughtfully. "And your , cousin I cannot tell us— now. There is nothing in his papers. I searched: them before I had you called, m'sieur."

He broke off, and looked keenly at Chevrell; "You do not know what He was doing here in Paris?"

"No!"

"Nor what friends he had here?"

Chevrell glimpsed in vision the face of the girl who had mistaken him for Hugh, but shook his head.

"No, monsieur."

"Then we are— how do your com patriots say it?— at the dead end― yet there are things to breed thought. Your cousin is taken from the river with a knife thrust in his heart. On the surface the matter is simple. In a year— a hundred men— no! more! are taken from the Seine. Some are there of their own will— weary of life. Others have been thrown there— murdered! In half the cases robbery is the motive; and no doubt our Parisian savages, the Apaches, are the criminals.... But your cousin was not robbed! He had money. There was a stone of price in his tie-pin. They were left! That is very  significant, M'sieur."

"Yes! I should say so." M. Lacorte frowned thoughtfully: "There remains another explanation — la crime passionnel. Jealousy may be more fierce than covetousness.  Your cousin, M'sieur, was young, he had perhaps, an Intrigue?"

"None that I know of," answered Chevrell quietly. Again with a side thought for the girl who had brought the note to tho cafe."

"So! We are faced with the wall again. It was not for money he was slain; nor from the jealous motive. He had an enemy perhaps — one who cherished an undying hatred in his heart?"

Chevrell almost laughed at the question. Had the circumstances been less tragic he would have done so. Instead, he answered quietly.

"Monsieur Lacorte, you did not know my cousin. He was the most friendly of men. I will swear that in all. the world he had no personal enemy."

"And yet, M'sieur Chevrell, there was one who slew him— cruelly!"

"Yes!" agreed Chevrell, frowning. "That is true! But there is the possibility that the slayer mistook him for another."

"For whom?" challenged the officer. "Yourself? You are very like him."

For a second Chevrell's mind flashed back to that strange house in Cairo, and he fingered his bandaged arm thoughtfully. Was it possible that the slayer had mistaken Hugh for himself, as the girl, had mistaken him for Hugh? There was a wild chance of that, but one so remote that it was scarcely worth consideration. Then he replied.

"A possibility— but not very likely, I monsieur. For the last two months I have been In Africa I arrived in France yesterday by the air liner, and in Paris last night; and I know on one in the city who might desire my death."

"Then we not only face the wall, but we bruise ourselves against it, m'sieur! It appears that here is another of our mysteries of Paris! But there is a clue somewhere— a clue that would make all plain if we could but find it." He looked round the stark chamber distastefully. "But we shall not, find it here— no! for the dead do not speak.... Let us go. You will have, arrangements to make for your cousin's sepulchre; and I have my questions to ask elsewhere."

They left the gloomy building together, patting ht the door.

"If necessary I shall call on you later, M'sieur Chevrell.  Meanwhile I will see that your cousin's body is at your disposal. You will desire that, of course?"

"Yes."

Chevrell found a taxi and drove back to his hotel alone. There, in the privacy of his own room, he gave himself up to reflection on the tragedy that had befallen. Had Hugh Chevrell's death any connection with the matter for which he had summoned him from Cairo? If so, what could that be? Had it anything to do with last night's odd rendezvous at the Cafe d'Armenonville?

That was possible, and— he remembered the note which had been so secretly handed to him, and which most plainly had been meant for Hugh. That might tell him something— might yet indeed be the clue of which Lacorte had spoken; the clue that would make all plain.

Rising, he unlocked the valise in which he had placed the letter, and, taking it out, sat for a time considering the rather crumpled envelope. The number in the corner— F. 29— told, him nothing. The initials "H.C." were no more illuminating than they had been last night, telling him only that the missive was meant for Hugh. But Hugh was dead, foully murdered, and would never read it now, whilst it was incumbent upon him to bring the slayer to justice if that were anyway to be accomplished. If this letter should chance to hold the secret―

He ceased to reason. Impulsively he thrust a finger under the flap of the flimsy envelope and ripped it open. Within there was folded half a sheet of thin note-paper. Taking it out, he opened it and read what was there written.

The message was brief enough, consisting of no more than an address:

"At the Sign of the Golden Snail. Passage des trois Frerés."

That was all, but it was easy to deduce that the note, brief as it was, indicated some sort of assignation at the Inn of the Golden Snail, and that in all likelihood the writer was English. Further than that he could not get. Someone had sought to make an appointment with Hugh— someone from whom his cousin had expected to receive this message; but who could it be? Was it the girl who had brought the message? Had Hugh, after all, been involved in some love affair, which had brought upon him the resentful vengeance of someone who conceived he had a grievance. That was possible.

But that girl? He recalled her face with its delicate beauty. Somehow, he could not associate her with any merely vulgar intrigue; and Hugh, as he knew, had not been given to that kind of thing. The girl, he was assured, had but a slight acquaintance with his cousin, as was indicated by the mistake she had made in identifying himself with Hugh. But the address was something. It might lead him to the heart of the mystery surrounding Hugh's tragic death, and there was the possibility of its bringing him in touch with the girl, in whom he had an Interest which grew rather than declined.

He would find this passage of the Three Brothers, and visit the Inn of the Golden Snail. Reflection, however, decided him against a day-time call. Already he had been mistaken for his cousin, and it was inadvisable that he should take the chance of recognition when investigating in a neighbourhood where Hugh had been expected by someone, who might still be ignorant of his death. Nightfall was the time for such a preliminary investigation, and in any case he would have much to do in the next few hours in making the necessary arrangements for his cousin's burial.

It was raining, and had all the promise of a miserable night, when, after dinner, he took a taxi to Notre Dame. There he descended, and dismissing the vehicle, strolled on through the rain, making for the jumble of unattractive and dingy thoroughfares which lie almost in the shadow of the cathedral. He was dressed roughly; the storm collar of an old trench-coat buttoned to the chin concealed the lower half of his face; whilst a peaked cap of the type affected by Parisian workmen, pulled down, shadowed his eyes, for in those unsavoury streets it was desirable not to present any external sign of riches. There were loungers there who might or might not be honest men— probably were not. Here and there a mean café showed an aspect of Paris that was new to him, with rough men and women of brazen demeanour, who drank and danced or made violent love regardless of the conventions, and among whom most certainly were some who would knock a man on the head for a few miserable francs. Several turns brought him at last to a square meanly lighted, with two or three cafés, and a house of entertainment— a cinema by the look of it, though he was not sure; for the swishing rain obscured his vision.

Here for a moment or two he halted, uncertain of his way. Somewhere out of this square was the Passage of the Three Brothers, but as there were at least five alley-like streets leading from the Square he could not decide which was the one he wanted; and it was too dark to read the names even if they were inscribed; whilst to explore each one individually was to take risks that were best avoided. From one of the cafés came the crash of a piano playing syncopated music; and he moved in that direction; with a thought that if one had a drink it would be possible to make discreet inquiries for the place he sought

The cafe with awnings down, against the rain, was almost uncomfortably full, though, in a space reserved for dancing, not more than half a dozen couples were on the floor. He found a seat at a table which was just being vacated, and to be in keeping with his surroundings ordered a twenty-centime bottle of Bordeaux blanc which he was firmly resolved not to drink. Scarcely was he seated when a girl sidled up to his table and smilingly sought an invitation. Here, he thought was the opportunity to obtain the information that he needed, and as he nodded the girl took the second chair.

She was young, pretty, with the shrewdness of her kind, and quickly divined that Chevrell was new to the place.

"M'sieur is a stranger here?"

"I have never been here before," he owned.

The girl laughed.

"Then, Monsieur, will not know the celebrities of the Café Jarnac."

Making herself agreeable, she began to offer vivacious comment on those about her.

"That one who might be Saint Pierre in the flesh!" She indicated a man with silver locks and a beard like Aaron's. "He calls himself an artist, but he is the greatest liar in Paris. He is un mouchard, hand and glove with every agent in the quarter— a man to beware of M'sieur. One day he will be found in the Seine with a broken neck."

Chevrell nodded. If the man, as she averred, were a police spy, the fate she predicted for him was, he thought a very likely one.

His companion rattled on. "Then there is that woman with the red kerchief over her shoulders. She has been at Cayenne— one of the condemned, M'sieur understands, and she was once a holy nun. It is said she killed the man who stole her from her convent and for whom she had a great passion."

Chevrell found a passing interest in the story, and looked at the woman indicated— a woman of haggard beauty, with eyes like flame. As he did so the woman rose and left her table leaving a blank space through which he had a view of the tables beyond, and the next moment he was sitting bolt upright in his chair— the most startled man in Paris, staring at a trio— two men and a woman— who occupied a table immediately beyond the one just vacated. One of the men was dark-skinned— an Indian, he judged; the second was the big- olive-faced man who had shadowed the girl outside the Cafe d'Armenonville last night, whilst the woman— he had to rub his eyes and look a second time to be convinced— the woman was she of the green crescent and star whom he had seen at Shepheard's and with whom he had suffered the encounter in Old Cairo.

For a moment he stared incredulously. The woman was commonly and flashily dressed like many others in this café of the slums, but he had no doubt of her identity. The dark hair was coiffured differently, and no green crescent and star flashed in its raven blackness. She was, in outward aspect, one with the frail or fierce woman of this doubtful neighbourhood, but there was no mistaking that face, with its pallor; the flower-like mouth, the shapely brows, the soft, luring eyes so wonderfully dark.

Momentarily he was too stunned to wonder what she was doing in Paris; or how she had contrived to be there at all. He watched her as she lit a cigarette and turned laughingly to the coloured man at her side, then he caught his companion's voice, speaking in a chagrined voice. "M'sieur is interested in that woman?"

"Not particularly," he answered with a mollifying laugh. "But I have a fancy I have seen her before. Who Is she?"

"I do not know," answered the girl. "A stranger here at the café."

"And the man— not the dark-skinned one— you know him perhaps."

The girl made a face. "He comes often— an Egyptian they say; and a bad bargain! M'sieur sees the white scar by the ear? He threw a girl down the stairs of the Café Mirabeau, and she revenged herself— with vitriol. A citizen to be avoided, that one!"

Cherwell did not challenge the statement. His mind was busy with the possibilities of the situation. It was, he thought, an odd coincidence that the woman who, according to Maguire, was brewing hidden trouble, should be here in the neighbourhood of the Golden Snail; and even a stranger thing that one of her companions should be the man who had shadowed the girl who had brought that cryptic message for his cousin last night.

Was there, by any chance, a connection between Hugh's tragic death and the mystery of the green crescent and star of which Maguire had imperfect knowledge? It was more than possible; and as he considered the matter, the need to learn that which had brought him to the café, thrust itself upon him imperatively.

He turned to his companion, and answered her lightly. "A bully, hey? He had luck that the acid did not burn his eyes."

Deliberately he turned from the trio. That woman had sharp eyes, and though the peaked cap was well over his face it was possible that she might recognise and remember him.

He offered the girl his case, held the match for her whilst she lit a cigarette; then asked carelessly: "The Passage of the Three Brothers is somewhere near here, is it not?"

"Directly across the square, m'sieur!...You go there?"

"Presently," he laughed, :if the rain permits. I have an acquaintance who  lodges at the Golden Snail."

"But, m'sieur―" the girl broke off, and looked at him a little oddly. "What is it, Mademoiselle?" he asked, struck by the. expression on her face. "m'sieur does not know the place he seeks ?" "

"I have never seen it," Chevrell owned.

"Then, unless m'sieur must go, it is a place to avoid— a bad house, m'sieur comprehends, where even the agents de police do not go alone."

"So! As bad as that?" Chevrell drummed with his fingers upon the table, thoughtfully. It seemed that if he were to fulfil the purpose which had brought him to this dingy neighbourhood, there were risks that he had not contemplated.

"The worst rats of Paris nest there. M'sieur will be wise to arrange another rendezvous with his friend."

Chevrell was impressed. The girl could have no axe to grind and was plainly in earnest. Perhaps it would be wise to heed her warning. To take dangerous risks to a useless end was folly; and there might be other ways of learning what he wished to know. Then the stubborn fibre in his nature asserted itself. He laughed a trifle harshly; and parodied a famous saying:

"I would go, though there are as many rats as tiles upon the housetops."

The girl looked at him blankly, then shrugged her shoulders. "Je n'y comprends rien!"

"No!" he laughed, thrust a twenty franc note in her hand and rose to his feet. "Bon soir, Mademoiselle."

"Bon soir, Monsieur. Beware the rats."

As he moved towards the street he did not look round. a man sitting at a table in a crowded cafe might escape notice where a man upon his feet would attract it, and at the moment he had no wish to court recognition from the woman seated with tho two men, of whom one had a bad reputation. But though he kept his. face toward the door, and had his cap well over his eyes; he did not altogether escape recognition, for as he stepped into the rainy street a voice behind him greeted him crisply, in English:

"Good evening, Mr. Chevrell. Here's the devil of a night!"

4

STARTLED BY THE unexpected greeting, Chevrell swung swiftly round and halted to stare at the speaker. The man was almost at his elbow and must have followed him closely from the café. The light from the glazed door revealed him as tall and lean, but his features were in shadow, and Chevrell could make nothing of the face. The man, however, spoke again quickly before he could reply, and the voice was infinitely reassuring.

"Do not stand here, Mr. Chevrell, we may be followed; and this neighbourhood is unhealthy— in the rain."  The speaker laughed as he added: "You will observe that one cannot see far in this downpour."

Chevrell took a step or two forward making across the square, in the direction where he supposed the Passage of the Three Brothers lay; and as the stranger fell into step by his side, he burst out: "Who in thunder are you who know my name?"

The other chuckled, and replied: "To a friend of Hugh Chevrell's who has heard him talk of his cousin— the mighty Nimrod— your face is a revelation."

"Ah; you are a friend of Hugh's?"

"Why, yes! Friend and colleague. I think I may justly claim that, though I am also his senior officer."

Chevrell looked at the man. From the light way in which he spoke it appeared, that he was still in ignorance of Hugh's tragic end. He answered the man cryptically, leading to the news he had got to give him.

"But Hugh has left your command?"

"The devil he has!"

"He was taken out of the river early this morning."

"God Almighty! You don't say he was drowned?"

"No! He was stabbed. A heart-stroke from behind; and must have been thrust in the river afterwards!"

"Poor lad! God rest his brave soul!... Those devils got him, beyond question."

"If I knew to what devils you refer―" began Chevrell and was instantly interrupted by the other who spoke with cold passion. "Some of them are in the café we have just left. I think if they had seen your face, believing your cousin dead, they would have had the shock of their lives!"

The man looked back across the wet square as if to make sure they were not followed; then he added: "You are very like poor Hugh! He himself told me of the likeness; and it was because of that I suggested he should send for you, that we might put a Box and Cox scheme into operation."

"But I do not understand," exclaimed Chevrell.

"No! But you will, presently, when I explain," answered the man, then asked abruptly, "where are you going?"

"To the Golden Snail in the Passage of the Three Brothers. That is the passage isn't it?"

He Indicated a gut of darkness opening in front of them, as he spoke, and the other halted sharply.

"To the Golden Snail!" he ejaculated, then laughed with relief. "Ah! you saw your cousin before those brutes got him."

"No! He was not at the hotel when I arrived last night. I never saw him until I was taken to the morgue early this morning. But he had left a note for me, asking me to go to the Cafe d'Armenonville and sit there for an hour―"

"You got my message?" broke in the other. "Hugh sent you in his place? You read it―"

"Only after I learned that Hugh was dead," said Chevrell stiffly.

"My dear fellow, I never thought anything else. And I can see the rest. It was that note which brought you to this salubrious neighbourhood tonight. It is because of that you are making your way to the Golden Snail.... Well, since I wrote the note I am glad you read it. Come. We will go to the rendezvous together!"

The man looked back in the direction of the cafe. There were figures moving in the square which seemed to interest him, for he watched them narrowly. Presently they arrived in the zone of light in front of the cinema, and the light gleamed on tho white batons they carried in their hands.

"Agents de police!" ejaculated the man. "Come! There's no one following us. Don't stub your toes upon the cobbles."

He plunged into the dark, alley before them. Chevrell followed him closely. The passage was black as the pit. He could almost touch the walls on either side, and, above the overhanging windows seemed to blend in shadow. The passage was a long one. It turned twice before a glimmer of light showed in Its blackness— a rather murky orange glow which seemed suspended on nothing two or three feet above a man's height.

As they drew nearer Chevrell beheld the glow resolve Itself into a definite figure, and saw that it was a yellow lamp in the form of a snail. They had arrived then. Under the lamp his companion halted before a door which was blind to the night, an old door of stout oak, at the top of which something stuck out like the horn of a rhinoceros. The man set a hand to this and pulled it downward three times in quick succession and from within came three sharp whirrs of a bell. After a little time there was a sound of feet on the further side of the door, and a grille which Chevrell had not previously noticed was opened, and he saw dimly a white face and eyes which apparently scrutinised them closely.

Chevrell's companion approached the grille and spoke a single word in French. Instantly the grille closed, and there followed the noise of a dropping bar, a heavy key turned, and the door opened half way to admit them.

Chevrell followed the man into a dimly-lit hall with a stone floor, the dimensions, of which surprised him. Before them, the upper end of it lost in darkness, was a broad staircase, whilst from the end of the hall came a subdued sound of revelry. Here he thought was one of the old houses of Paris, but he had time for no further reflections, for whilst the man who had admitted them re-barred the door, his companion led the way to the stairs. "There are broken places. Keep close to the rail."

He followed the man upward, stumbled across a landing and then up a second and narrower flight of stairs. At the head of these the other halted, groped a little, then a key turned with a click, and a door creaked open.

"Wait, I will light the lamp."

Chevrell waited with intense curiosity. So far he had not seen his companion's face clearly, and it was more than interested in what the lighting of tho lamp would reveal. He heard the man moving in the room, there was the rasping of a porcelain shade against its holder, the splutter and odour of a vile brimstone match; then the wick caught, and as it turned up, the man regulated it to the proper height for the incandescent mantle, and spoke cheerfully.

"Come inside. Shut the door behind you. Make yourself at home. That chair by the stove is the most comfortable one."

Chevrell took the chair indicated and looked earnestly at his host, who was still busy with the lamp, stooping over it. The light revealed a thin, hawk-like face, a cropped moustache, eyes keen as a sword, deeply set under a high brow, dark hair streaked with grey; and a muscular neck that was innocent of collar.  So far his observations went; then, adjusting the lampshade, the man stood upright, moved across the room, and from a cupboard took out glasses, a siphon, and a bottle of whisky.

"Before we talk," he said, tersely. "I'm soaked; and a peg will help to keep under the fever that is in my bones. Besides, you've given me the greatest shock with your news of Hugh... Say when!"

Chevrell said the word; waited till his host had mixed his own drink, then as the man gave the catchword in vogue at the moment, drank, and, lighting a cigarette, waited for the other to begin.

He was, it seemed, in no hurry. His eyes scrutinised Chevrell's face with a thoroughness that would have been offensive if the younger man had not been assured of the friendliness their owner. Then the man spoke, abruptly:

"You and poor old Hugh are as much alike as twins."

"There is sound reason for that," explained Chevrell. "Our fathers, brothers, married two sisters who were twins; and, Hugh and I were much together in childhood."

The other nodded. "Hugh told me about you, and he was banking on the likeness to help in pulling off a little job he was engaged on with me."

"Anything to do with the way he died?" asked Chevrell.

"Everything, I should say," answered his host, quietly. "The job is a dangerous one."

Chevrell had an Inspiration.  He remembered the fat-faced man who had shadowed the girl outside the Cafe d'Armenonville last night, and who less than half an hour ago he had seen in association with the woman from Cairo; and recalling Maguire's interest in her and his jesting words, as to the possible reason for his cousin's cable, his mind made a connection that had not been there before.

"Something to do with the green crescent and star?" he asked quietly.

The result of his words astonished him. The other jumped clean out of his chair.

"The devil," he cried. ''What do you know about that?"

"Well, I met Peter Maguire in Cairo, and joined in a little adventure with him," answered Chevrell. "Also I have a bandaged arm as a souvenir."

The host looked at him in amazement, then he gave a short laugh.

"You seem to have taken a header into things. Your cousin was right about calling you to Paris; and I'm going to take you into my confidence. You know the game Hugh was in?"

"I have a suspicion. Something to do with the Foreign Office, wasn't he?"

"On its unpublished pay-roll— as am," replied the other crisply. "My name is Mackinder―"

"Colonel Mackinder?" asked Chevrell with quick interest, recalling a wild story he had heard.

"The one and only," laughed the other.

"No need to explain further, I gather. Is that the case?"

Chevrell nodded and the colonel continued, "Hugh was one of my subs; Maguire's a second, and there are others, all at this moment on the track of that green crescent and star you mentioned just now. Perhaps you won't mind telling me anything you know? I need not assure you that it may be important. First about your adventures with Maguire. I haven't received his report yet."

Chevrell gave a brief but lucid account of his adventure with the Irishman in Old Cairo, and as he finished the Colonel nodded thoughtfully.

"Maguire is on the track of things, apparently. I hope he doesn't get scuppered. Anything else, Chevrell?"

"Yes, something rather novel. You know I've been on safari in the Soudan.  Well, I had a little experience down there which may have to do with the matter you are following."

He told the story of that night in the desert where he had seen the crescent and star in green fire, and of Zirafi's refusal to say anything about it. Mackinder listened with intense interest, and at the finish was silent for quite a long time/ Then he spoke slowly:—

"This business is widespread!.... The crescent of green fire has been seen in two other places of which I have report— one on the North-west Frontier and the other on the Tigris above Baghdad.... What is behind these manifestations as yet is only to he guessed; but if I am not mistaken it is a big. blow-up. All the days of my life there has been talk of the jehad— the holy war which, cutting the whole of the Moslem races from their loyalty, was to break the British Empire to smithereens; and it looks as if something of the sort were In the wind now."

"But you don't think that possible?"

"Bigger things than that are possible, Islam is a fanatical religion— and a fighting one. People forget that, and there's no warrior like your man of faith... It is the fashion to think otherwise, and the Turks breaking from the Caliphate have put that kind of thing out of the calendar. But religion is never out of date. They are fools who think it is. It may lie flat for a time, supine, a lost cause seemingly. But history tells another tale. Look at Christianity, it has endless revivals, resurrections; and I know a fellow of Oxford, a sceptic from hat to boot-toes, who cherishes the notion that before long there'll be a new St. Francis or Wesley who'll set the world humming to hymn tunes again instead of jazz-dancing to the devil. These things run in cycles he says, and a new period of the saints Is due any time. . . . .

"And Islam is a more fanatical creed. It fires swifter, and its volcanic periods come oftener. It's fifty years since the last big flare-up, and that began where you've just come from, down, in Kordofan, when the Mahdi showed the world what faith can do. There have been other things since of course— small manifestations— the Mad Mullah in Somaliland; one or two dust-ups on the Indian border, the Moroccan business, and a secret manifestation in the Sahara which gave the French more trouble than they've ever owned to. But these are no more than the smoke and steam at the top of Vesuvius. They weren't the real thing. That's coming soon, or I'm a Dutchman. There are signs abroad.... You've seen one of them. And those with ears to the ground can hear the subterranean rumblings.... Islam is warming up. That's certain! And from the widespread data it's pretty clear that there's a concerted movement to get the blaze going— and I'm after the stokers if I can find them. The devil is they're so elusive, though I've got a line on one or two of them."

"There were two men in the cafe, with a woman―" began Chevrell.

"Ah! You saw them. A fat-faced Egyptian and an Indian. You know the pair?"

"No! The dark man I've never seen before, but pudding-face was outside the Café d'Armenonville last night, and I fancy he was shadowing your messenger—"

"Great Harry! And I thought Mary was beyond their ken!"

Mackinder whistled thoughtfully to himself, and there was a worried look on Ms lean face which made Chevrell wonder If he had more than a professional interest in the safety of his messenger, then he loosed his last surprise.

"But that woman— I know her in a way."

"The deuce you do!"

"Yes; she is the woman whom Maguire and I followed to that alley in Cairo!"

Mackinder stared at him in blank amazement; then he broke out: "God Almighty! Are you sure, man?"

"Very sure. I would stake my soul on it. You see I had a good opportunity for observing her."

"But she was in Cairo!" objected the colonel, and to my knowledge she has been In Paris two days!"

"Probably has a private plane. I waited for the air-liner."

"Yes!" the colonel nodded agreement. "Yes that would explain it.... I wonder who she is. Maguire didn't give her a name?"

"No! But she's not what she seemed in that café back in the square— no mere Apache doxy, I mean. She fitted at Shepheard's all right, carried herself like a princess and the green jewel in her hair was worth a fortune."

Mackinder considered for a moment or two, and having given all his information, Chevrell waited for the other to speak. When he did so, it was to the accompaniment of a harsh laugh.

"The woman is new to me— and a freak in Islam, which keeps the eternal feminine out of its political activities as a rule; though to be sure Ayesha— 'the mother of all believers', was a Moslem Deborah... I must get Maguire's report on her; and watch her activities here. She may be the key I want so badly. One can never tell, and I can't afford to neglect any chance."

He broke off, was absorbed in reflection a moment or two, then he spoke slowly:

"I am wondering about you. It was your cousin's idea to get you to pose for him, taking his place at the hotel and moving about Paris conspicuously to mislead any watchers whilst he followed some clue he had. That is off now, of course; but I think you might be even more useful to me— If you cared."

"How?"

"Well, those people who killed Hugh might be flummoxed to find him still in being, you know."

"You are sure this, particular lot were at the back of Hugh's death?"

"My dear chap, there isn't a doubt. Hugh wasn't the fellow to go roaming in the sewers, and from your account he was not robbed, which is proof positive that it was no Apache knife that killed him."

"Those who murdered him had a very definite purpose."

"And I've  got one,'' Chevrell interrupted. "I mean to find the man  who did it."

"Naturally... But you don't know the difficulties before you if you try to do that alone. Amateur detection of crime is the most puerile thing in the World." He paused, lit a cigarette, and then added quietly: "

"If you were to join forces with me and take Hugh's place, I mean, you might have a chance."

"I shall be only too glad," answered Chevrell eagerly.

"You seem to have stumbled pretty deeply into this business. You know that woman in what I imagine is her true character, and you've seen these two men who were with her, as well as the man in Cairo, which so far puts you one ahead of all of us, I fancy.  You could be very useful, and there would be the chance to square up for Hugh. There's no need to point out the risks. Your cousin is a sufficient warning."

"And more than a sufficient incentive, Colonel Mackinder."

"Yes! yes! I can understand how you feel.  But remember there's a bigger incentive than, the desire to revenge his death. There's this thing looming behind. That is what we have got to stop, and that must come first, as it would have done with Hugh."

"Of course, sir."

"I'm glad you realise that.... I've seen other men drop out, of this game,  foully slain, fine fellows all. They did not all go unrevenged, but the revenge was incidental to the fulfilment of the job they were  on... Hugh was one of the best. His account against the slayers will be squared when we scotch this affair, that is being arranged, and it will be the best kind of squaring— you must see that." '

"Yes!"

"Then I'll count you in. You will take Hugh's number and. it will interest you to know that in my time you will be the fourth who has borne it." He glanced at the clock, and whistled.

"Phew! It is getting late. Time you were at your hotel— and I have an appointment. I'll send someone to you to-morrow with instruction's; and meantime, if anything should eventuate and you wish to communicate with me, I'll give you an address that will find me."

He took a piece of paper, wrote for a moment, waved it to and fro to dry it, and laughed.'

''Blotting paper is dangerous stuff. Never use it When you write, Chevrell.. And always remember to have nothing under a telegram form when you indite a message. These simple precautions save endless trouble."

He looked at the paper, folded it, and handed it to Chevrell with a further  instruction. "That address is the covering one. The inside envelope you will leave quite blank but for a little cross on the left hand corner. Is that clear?"

"Quite!"

"Then I will see you as far as the square. Le passage des Trois Frères has its perils for the innocent."  He laughed as he spoke, then turned down the lamp, and led the way down the stairs. As they reached the flagged hall a door opened silently and a man appeared.

"All fight, Jules. I am going out."

The man nodded, unbarred the door, and the pair passed out into the rainy darkness. They reached the poorly lighted square without any misadventure, and, though it. was apparently empty, Chevrell's companion took his leave without pausing.

"Your way is to the right. You will hear from me in the morning as  I said. Good night, Chevrell."

"Good night, sir."

Chevrell made a direct line across, the square without looking round. Before he reached it a taxi-cab glided into the square and pulled up outside one of the decayed houses, where a couple of people descended. Then the taxi made a fierce sweep round the square, and as it passed him Chevrell, seeing it was empty, shouted to the man, who promptly pulled up, glad to get a passenger on his return journey. Giving him the address, Chevrell entered the taxi, and they moved forward entering the narrow, and now silent street which led in the direction of the cathedral.

A few yards down the engine of the taxi began to stall, and the driver, pulling up by the kerb, explained volubly that his tank was dry; but he had a tin, oh yes, and soon monsieur would be on his way again.

Chevrell lit a cigarette whilst the driver struggled with the tight cap of a petrol tin, and as he threw a match out of the open window saw another taxi come round a corner, moving towards them at a crawling pace not customary with Parisian vehicles. Something else he saw also. Between the lights of the two vehicles a girl hurriedly furtive, ran into the shadow of the dark houses. His interest quickened as he saw her look apprehensively backwards, and in  the same second he became aware of two slouching figures behind the girl, who plainly accounted for that swift glance backward. Almost simultaneously one of the slouching figures ran forward. The girl, aware of his coming, began to run; and, prompt to act, Chevrell jumped out of the taxi, just as her pursuer, reaching his quarry, swung an arm backward. Chevrell shouted, but the blow fell and the girl crumpled up on the pavement.

The ruffian who had dealt the blow stooped over her, and began to lift her whilst his companion hurried forward. Chevrell sprinted his best, and reached the man and the girl first. He did not stop to reason or argue but dealt the first ruffian a blow which toppled him against the jutting stonework of a doorway, which completed the effect of the blow, for the fellow slid down and lay. sprawling and still. His companion hissed something in the argot of the Parisian slums, something which Chevrell did not catch, but ho saw the life-preserver In the man's hand, and' understood his Intentions.

But he had not come unprepared for emergencies, and from the pocket of his. trench coat he produced an automatic pistol. At the sight of it the Apache, as Chevrell judged him to be, fell back, snarling; clearly unwilling to face a bullet. The crawling taxi cab which had been following the pair came to a standstill, and Chevrell, looking down at the girl, caught sight of her face in the light of the side lamp and suffered a stunning surprise as he recognised the girl who had brought the message to the Cafe d'Armenonville on the previous night. He shouted to his own taxi-man.

"Hurry."'

Then in a cold rage he menaced the snarling scoundrel in front.

"Back, you rascal, or by heaven—" Forgetful for the moment of where he was, he spoke in English; but the ruffian, whether he understood or not interpreted his attitude aright. He backed swiftly, and standing over the girl, Chevrell waited until he heard his taxi advance. He shot a glance over his shoulder, and cried to the driver to lend a hand. The man left the taxi and hurried to him.

"Place mademoiselle in the taxi," he commanded and himself held the ruffian off until the driver shouted; "It is done, M'sieur."

Then he himself backed to the vehicle and jumping in banged the door and shouted the order.

"Quickly."

The Apache, recovering his courage, ran forward and shouted to the  driver of the standing taxi to block the way. But Chevrell's man laughed, spiritedly, and accelerated. Before the other had restarted his engine he drew level with him, and was passing him when the Apache, spitting curses, leaped on the running board, and struck at him with the life-preserver. The driver ducked, and the blow missed him, smashed the windscreen, whilst the vehicle swerved dangerously on to the sidewalk.

Chevrell, leaning well out of the window, smote the aggressor a heavy blow behind the ear. The man shot forward and fell Into the street, the wheels of the taxi missing by a hairsbreadth. Then the driver laughed gleefully.

"Bon! Monsieur. A fine blow. That one has his medicine!"

An he shouted, with professional skill he swung the vehicle hack into the road; and then drove on through the narrow, deserted street at a pace that none but a Parisian Jehu would have risked.

5

THEY SWUNG into a broader thoroughfare, where the lighting was better, and Chevrell looked anxiously at his companion. She was sagging in the corner, the beautiful face very pale, eyes closed, and obviously still unconscious. He put an arm about her to lift her up higher to the seat; and then called to the driver, bidding him to pull up at the first cafe they came to.

Three minutes later the vehicle came to a standstill outside a cafe where the waiters were busy piling chairs and tables under cover preparatory to closing. He procured a glass of cognac and managed to pour a few drops of the liquor into the girl's mouth. After two or three minutes she began to show signs of revival, and presently her eyes opened and she looked at him vacantly. He put the glass to her lips.

"Drink," he said. "Do not attempt to speak yet. Explanations can be made presently."

The girl obediently sipped the brandy, and then moved a little, making as she did so a little moue indicative of pain.

"My head―" she began.

"Yes; you were 'coshed'— cracked on the head by one of the men who followed you."

"You... you brought me away?"

"Cabby and I managed it between us," he answered with a laugh. Then he thrust back the peaked cap; and let the light fall on his face. "Don't, you remember me, Miss— er— Mary?"

The girl raised, herself a little, looked at his face as revealed by the cafe lights, then a startled light flashed in her eyes.

"But— but―"

He waited, and then prompted her.

"Yes?"

"Oh, I heard that you were dead, Mr. Chevrell. I was taking the news to my uncle."

Chevrell made a guess at her uncle's identity.

"Colonel Mackinder already knows that Hugh Chevrell has been murdered. I gave him the news myself an hour ago."

The startled light in her eyes faded; and a look of bewilderment came on her face.

"But if Hugh Chevrell is dead, who... who―"

"I am his cousin; to whom you delivered Colonel Mackinder's note last night." He broke off, looked up the street and then added: "If you feel sufficiently well, we will move on, and I will explain. We may be followed, you know."

"Oh, please!"

Chevrell gave the taxi-driver directions, and re-entered the vehicle. As they moved forward the girl asked quickly;

"Where are we going?"

"First to an all-night pharmacy that I know. I am sure your head must be sore after that knockout."

"It is beating like a hammer on the anvil."

"I guessed that. But we shall find something that will relieve it. I think  it will be well for you not to talk for a little while.... We have plenty of  time for explanations."

The girl acquiesced and leaned; against the padded 'back with her eyes closed. Chevrell stole sundry glances at her, aided by the light of the street lamps, and found her even in repose, very lovely. Marking her delicate air and seeming fragility, he marvelled that she should have ventured in the quarter where he had found her, alone; and wondered that Mackinder should use her in such dangerous work. But the wonder lessened somewhat when, the taxi having drawn up at a small pharmacy, he assisted her to alight, for the hand that took his own was firm in its grip; and she crossed the pavement with a resiliency in her steps that astonished him.

"Steel under the softness," he thought and a moment later was explaining to the chemist Mademoiselle had suffered an accident― a fall— and a remedy was desired to relieve the beating of her head— if monsieur would oblige. The pharmacien, young and impressionable, was desolated that mademoiselle should have been so unfortunate, and would do his best. He disappeared behind a screen and Chevrell took the opportunity to examine the girl's injury. There was a hump on the back of her head, but the scalp was unbroken. Beyond the sedative the pharmacien provided, there was no need for his services, and within five minutes they returned to the taxi.

"And now," said the girl with a little laugh that was a testimony to her spirit, "I think it is 'home', Mr. Chevrell."

"And that is where?" asked Chevrell quickly.

"Near the Place Pigalle."

She gave precise directions, but Chevrell did not immediately pass them on to the driver.

"I should like a little talk with you," he said, tentatively, "where it is not yet too late for supper."

The girl smiled; and answered lightly; "It is never too late in Paris, which is the true city of the midnight sun." Then she added: "If that is an invitation "

"A pressing one," he answered eagerly, and gave the driver new directions.

In a little time they were decanted at a Bohemian restaurant in the Rue Pigalle, within easy walking distance of the girl's apartments. The rain had ceased, and the moon was shining on the wet pavements of the steep and apparently deserted street; for Montmartre, despite its reputed raffishness, is outwardly quiet at night.

But inside the restaurant the quiet was banished. The place was crowded with a clientele not found in the expensive restaurants of the Grand Boulevardes, and there was manifest a spontaneous gaiety that is wanting in these places of gilded vice. Here was youth and beauty and wit; the devotees of the arts, seeking relaxation, spendthrift of slender means; but rich in the capacity for enjoyment. There was no orchestra; but at the piano a long-haired youth, with a cigarette between his lips, improvised music that had a touch of genius, whilst over his shoulder he watched a girl who pirouetted alone on the floor. The dance ended as they entered; and in the midst of the applause, the pianist struck up a song of old Beranger's, which was instantly taken up with zest.

To the accompaniment of the chorus Chevrell led his companion to a table, and haying ordered a light supper and wine, spoke with directness.

"It is time we were introduced, I think. I am Hugh Chevrell's cousin —Michel, Mike to my friends; and to you I hope." He smiled as he glanced round. "The familiarity is in keeping here! I may say that I am newly enlisted under your uncle's banner."

"Meet Mary Frobisher— niece of the said uncle, who sometimes makes her his messenger."

"Which he ought not to do," answered Chevrell with prompt severity. "To-night for instance―"

"Yes," she agreed. "That was a little nasty, I will own."

"Nasty!" he cried. "It was dangerous. Those ruffians meant-to kidnap you. There was a taxi following them. I am sure they meant to carry you away."

"That is possible," agreed the girl with a little shudder that he thought was half-simulated, then her eyes, of a deep golden colour met his gravely: "I am much in your debt, Mr. Chevrell. Those men— what were they like?"

"Apaches, beyond question." .

The white forehead under the golden hair wrinkled slightly and a puzzled look came in her eyes.

"But I have no acquaintances among the tribe."

"Good Lord, I should think not."

Her face broke into a whimsical smile at the fervency with which he spoke, then she continued musingly: "You said they had a taxi following... They could not be mere prowlers looking for unconsidered scraps, or trying to snap up the unwary. I went from my apartments in a taxi, and had only a minute before I dismissed it, at the corner of the street! Those men must have followed me all the way. That means that someone knows."

"Knows ?" he asked.

"That I am my uncle's niece, shall we say. I must warn him. If they have discovered so much, they may know f his lodgings at the Golden Snail.... I must go there―"

"No!" he protested. "You must write to him. It will be safer, or if he must be warned I will take the message. But in any case we might not find him to-night. He had an appointment late to-night, and came out with me."

The girl considered a moment then, to his infinite relief, fell in with his desire.

"I will write to-night. He will get the message in a few hours at most."

"That is wise of you," he said, and as the waiter brought the food he had ordered, fell silent

The man departed, then the girl asked a sudden question.

"When did you learn about your cousin?"

"Early this morning. An agent from the Sûreté brought the news, and was anxious for any information I could give him."

"You gave―"

"I had none. I arrived from Egypt last night in response to a cablegram. He was out when I arrived. I never saw him; but there was a note asking me to take a table at the Cafe d'Armenonville and to sit there "

"He was to have been there himself. I mistook you for him."

"I think that was intended."

"But I should not make the mistake now. Your eyes are grey, his were blue. And there are other differences. He had a side tooth stopped with gold, which was visible when he smiled. Whilst yours―" She broke off with a whimsical smile that lit the golden eyes. "If I said they were perfect, it might make you vain."

"I should positively crow," owned Chevrell, conscious of a quickening of his heart-beats as his eyes met hers, provocative and filled with dancing lights.

Then before he could speak again, she gave a little start, the lights vanished, the beautiful face paled a little, and the charming mouth took a sudden severity.

"What is it?" he asked, sure that there was some strong reason for the swift change in her. demeanour.

"Someone has entered the cafe whom I― No!" she whispered urgently, "do not look round yet. He may not see me. But presently, when I give the word, you may look as casually as you can."

Chevrell waited tensely, wondering who the man was who had so moved her. Fully three minutes passed; before the word was given.

"Now!" the girl said, tersely. "But don't look round, the mirror there will serve. The man standing under that unframed picture of Andromeda."

With outward nonchalance he turned to the mirror she indicated, which reflected a considerable section of the cafe. He found the picture instantly, and dropped his eyes to  the man standing beneath it. The man was tall, with a slim gracefulness no other man in the room could boast, fine-featured, with handsome eyes, quick and bright as a bird's. His hair was jet, as was the small moustache which adorned his lip, and though his complexion was a little dusky, he was no darker than many Englishmen of Chevrell's acquaintance. His clothes were good, well cut, and as he lifted a delicate-looking hand and absently twisted the waxed end of his moustache, a jewel in his ring scintillated in a way that proclaimed a stone of price. The man was surveying the room apparently looking for someone, and sure that he did so unobserved Chevrell continued his appraisal.

"No European!" he decided, and then the conviction of the truth came to him.

He had seen small-handed men of that graceful slimness before, men as rarely handsome, who rode as born to a saddle, and who were of notably high spirit.

"A Rajput!" he commented aloud, and instantly Miss Frobisher asked a question.

"From India?"

"Yes; Rajputana. A man of breeding and ancient blood almost certainly. Why are you afraid of him?"

"I never said I was afraid."

"No. But―"

He broke off sharply. The man whom he was watching, still surveying the room, turned in the direction of the table at which they were seated. His flashing dark eyes staring in the mirror met those of Chevrell, and, aware of the latter's interest, stared at him superciliously; and as it seemed to the Englishman, a little contemptuously. That fact stung Chevrell a little. Being English of the English he would not suffer even a Rajput who might be a prince of the blood to hand him that silent insult unchallenged. He kept his eyes on those dark ones in the glass, resolved that the other should yield first, though they stared at each other all night,

The man apparently accepted the challenge. He stared back with interest, then came a subtle change. The dark eyes flickered; the level brows above them creased a little; then for one brief instant recognition showed in face and eyes. It was no more than a flash, apparent and gone in a moment; and again the supercilious look was back, but Chevrell had noted the change; and was sure of one thing― the man knew him. He had no doubt of that. There had been the unmistakable gleam of recognition in the other's gaze; and now, with a feeling that he in turn ought to know the other, he turned from the glass and stared at him deliberately.

There was something vaguely familiar about those finely-chiselled features and gleaming eyes, but he could not place them. But for the fact that the man had recognised him, he would have, dismissed the matter from mind, with the thought that! one gentleman of Rajputana may be like another, as one Japanese is like another to English eyes. That, however, he could not do. The monetary recognition told him that the explanation did not lie there; but somewhere and sometime he had met that man whose contemptuous eyes were staring straight into his. He strove to recall place and time, but his memory would not act and then came a second change in the man's demeanour. Indolently, with perfect aplomb, the Rajput's gaze turned slowly from Chevrell to Miss Frobisher.

Instantly, the man appeared to stiffen. His face grew eager and the dark eyes glowed. Watching him, Chevrell was conscious of a surge of anger. The man was plainly attracted by the girl; and Chevrell had a sudden understanding of the nature of her apprehension. The man, no doubt, had pressed his attentions on her, possibly pursued her, and―

He remembered those Apaches in the dark street with their following taxi. Had that man there, with passion blazing in his handsome eyes, been responsible for that attempted abduction? It was more than possible, and―

The man turned sharply as a waiter, hurrying by, cannoned against him, and for a second gave Chevrell a side-view.  There was something odd in the profile, something which detracted from the man's handsomeness, and in a second he saw what it was— the whole lobe of the right ear was missing, and what remained of the ear had a crumpled, deformed appearance.

The sight of it was like the white flare of a burning magnesium wire, illuminating the darkness of his memory. Once before he had seen a man with an ear so deformed or injured— a man of this man's race. For a moment he. had a flashing vision of a polo ground at Mount Aha, himself riding down the field with the ball well in hand, straight for the opponent's goal. He was almost there, about to make the stroke that would send the ball home, when one of the opposing side, a man with a deformed ear, had made, a foul, riding straight across his front. The collision had been a bad one. His pony had been so injured that it had to be destroyed whilst he himself had sustained a broken collarbone.

The vision flashed and passed in a fraction of a second, but as he saw the man again, conviction of his identity assailed him so strongly that he ejaculated aloud:

"By heaven— Rao Dara Lodi!"

"You know the man?" asked Mary Frobisher whisperingly.

"Yes! I can't be mistaken. lt isn't possible that there are two men marked as he is. Besides the fellow recognised me."

"You gave him a name. Who― I mean what is he?"

"A Rangar Rajput— princeling of one of the native States, but kicked out by the British Raj for a piece of rotten villainy. There was a girl at his palace, an English nurse—" He broke off. "No! I won't tell you that story. It's too bad.' But the mans a sweep, a swine—anything bad and black, you understand. That ear of his, if I have heard the story, is a legacy from one of his villainies.  A woman did it— with her teeth."

Mary Frobisher gave a little shudder.

"l wonder what he is doing here— in Paris."

"No need to wonder about that. It is just about the arena for a man of his type, with wealth at his disposal. The French don't worry over the colour-bar as we do,  but I should have thought Maxim's and the grand boulevardes more in his line than the Rue Pigalle." He broke off and inquired sharply:

"He has been molesting you?"

"He has spoken to me twice, and once he followed me to my flat He questioned the concierge."

Chevrell swore under his breath. Dara Lodi had an evil reputation. If he pursued the girl after the manner of his kind he might become a real trouble to her, and, as again he thought of the attack recently made upon her, and of that following taxi, he was moved by sharp anxiety, and his voice was grave as he asked:

"You have spoken to Colonel MacKinder about him?"

"No. It seemed too trivial a matter with my uncle so engaged."

"You must do so," he said earnestly. "Paris may be indulgent in these matters, but your uncle with have influence, and a word from him to the Sûreté will stop the annoyance."

The girl made no promise, and Chevrell looked across the cafe. Dara Lodi was no longer under the picture, but moving towards some stairs that led to another room in the basement. He watched the man disappear, then he looked at his companion, smilingly.

"To-night, at any rate, you will not be molested; for I shall see you to your flat if I may."

Mary Frobisher smiled back. "I should be foolish to deny you. Already I am m your debt."

"Debt!" he laughed."I  am happy to be of service. If I had not been there to help you, to-night I should have been desolated."

He spoke lightly enough; but his eyes as they, met hers were ardent,  and a little flush came in her face.

"It was fortunate―" she began.

"Providential!"  he  interrupted. "Fated. You may take your choice of words."

The girl smiled again. "You would have me believe that?"

"I believe in both," he answered, laughing. "Last night I kept an appointment with the unknown— and you came! To-night— a taxi- goes dry, and I am held up whilst the driver replenishes his tank; and you drift along followed by a brace of scoundrels. It might have been any other girl or any other man; but well— It was Just us. So— Q.E.D."

She . laughed back adorably.

"Q.E.D. ? I wonder, I am no logician. The long arm of coincidence perhaps — but Fate with a capital F, that is a big thing."

"Anyway. I shall be watchful for the third time."

"You think there will be "

"Bound to be," answered Chevrell with assurance. "Even if I have to jog the old lady's elbow."

Miss. Frobisher laughed once more.

"We shall see," she said, as she rose from her chair. "But It is time that I was 'homing!' I have forgotten my key, and shall have to wake the  concierge— who will be scandalised."

"A Parisian concierge! Impossible!" he laughed back; and, having paid the bill, passed out with her into the moonlit night.

There was but a little way to go, and the street, as Chevrell's eyes assured him, was deserted; but before they reached the door of the block of flats where the girl was domiciled his ears gave him other assurance. There was the sound of footsteps behind them.  He listened carefully to make sure, and presently located them in the shadows across the street. He refrained from calling his companion's attention to them, but with cars alert caught the sound again. That they were being shadowed he was almost certain; but saw nothing of the shadower until they arrived at their destination. Then whilst the girl hammered the door to awaken a slumbering concierge, he saw the fellow standing in the gloom of a doorway, watching. Still he said nothing, nor took any action. The moment for the latter would come presently. A grumbling, sleepy voice sounded on the other side of the door, and 'Miss Frobisher answered crisply:

"Cordon, s'il vous plait."

The door opened, and the girl turned with outstretched hand.

"Good night, Mr. Chevrell."

"Good- night, Miss, Frobisher."

A moment later, the door crashed behind her, and as it did so Chevrell turned, and with deliberation crossed the street, making straight for the doorway where the shadower stood. His move, no doubt, surprised the man, who probably thought himself unobserved, for the fellow left his doorway, and fairly sprinted up the street. Chevrell's first  impulse was to follow; but he checked it. He had no doubt who the man was, and where he might find him. Whilst the other disappeared round the first corner,  he himself made a direct line back to the café he had so recently left, walking as quickly as he could. Entering the place he made a swift but careful inspection of the room, but again drew a blank cover.

But as he ascended the stairs again and was perhaps three-quarters of the way up, he saw the outer door of the café open, and give admission to the man he sought.

For a moment Dara Lodi stood with his back to the door, his dark eyes flashing round the café as if he someone. Chevrell had the idea that he himself was the one for whom the Rajput was looking, but a second later, as the man signalled to someone in the room, he saw that it was not so. Then Dara Lodi pointed to the stairs. Realising that the man meant to descend, and consumed with curiosity to discover for whom the signal had been meant, Chevrell hastily retreated and ensconced himself In a corner behind a large imitation palm. The waiter hurried to him with a wine list and menu. He took the former and pondered it carefully, then, consulted the waiter, who, delighted, to offer advice, stopped with a finger on the card, unconsciously affording Chevrell the further concealment that he desired.

Over the waiter's head, he saw Dara Lodi come down the stairs with the second man at his heels. There was a shadow in the stairs; and not until the pair were well in the room did he see the second man's face clearly. When he did so he suffered a shock of surprise, for he was the fat-faced Egyptian whom he had seen with the woman and the Indian in the cafe in that dismal square where he had met Colonel Mackinder.

6

HE WATCHED the pair move to a table at the far end of the room, and saw the Rangar order wine. Then he drew back into the concealment of the palm; and, whilst keeping an eye upon the men, busied himself with the problem afforded by their association. Was that one of mere acquaintance; the companionship, of a pair who had foregathered in a strange city, and who, having the same tastes, had associated together in one of those friendships not uncommon among men in such circumstances? Or was there some deeper motive a community of secret, interests, which gave their association a significance beyond anything that appeared on the surface?

He recalled that the moon-faced Egyptian had been with the woman from Cairo, and that he had trailed Mary Frobisher from the Cafe d'Armenonville last night. Those, two things were prima facie evidence of the man's association with the mystery which was occupying Colonel Mackinder's attention; and in which he himself was now interested. Was Dara Lodi, so far from being a mere acquaintance of the Egyptian, also associated in that movement, and working to the same end?

The man was nominally a Moslem —though he sat there drinking the forbidden wine. By no stretch of the imagination could he be called a religious fanatic; but he was a man of unbridled passions, with a grievance against the British Raj, and one who no doubt resented the loss of his State. Such men are willing conspirators in the hands of others, and Dara Lodi, dispossessed, resentful, and of a high spirit, was just the man to fall in with any scheme that premised to restore him to his former state.

He remembered Mackinder's suggestion of a widespread conspiracy; of subterranean forces at work in all the widespread spiritual dominion of Islam; and realising that the forces of fanaticism must he directed by something besides religious fervour— that there must be cool, calculating brains behind them, saw possibilities that were not to be ignored.

Such directing brains would be swift to see the usefulness of the disgruntled: of men such as Dara Lodi with wealth to burn, ambitions to serve, and fancied wrongs to revenge. His kind were at the back of half the petty conspirators that disturbed the smooth working of civilised nations in the East; and in London itself, disappointing and ambitious men— men resentful of fancied inferiority thrust upon them― used the genuine fervour of fanatics to their own ends. It was easy to conceive the Rangar caught up in such a movement, either exploited by cleverer brains than himself, or proposing to exploit the religious fervour of his countrymen to his own purpose and the ends of those in whom he was in secret association. The man from his youth had wielded power― power of which he had been bereft by what, to him, must seem arbitrary action, and there was nothing more likely than that he should seek the return to his former state.

Watching through the half-withered palm he saw that the pair were in earnest conversation, heads close together, obviously guarding against  being overheard. In a café such as this men did not discuss light things with such care against eavesdroppers. The subject of their discussion must at least be of an important or secret nature, and in view of these things he knew or surmised  it was not difficult to conjecture what it might be.

The longer he watched, and the more he reflected, the more was the necessity for learning the truth borne upon him. He tried to think what Mackinder or any of the men who served. him―Maguire for instance— would do in such circumstances, and as the hour was growing late and the company in the café rapidly thinning, he slipped from his place, unobserved by either the Rangar or his companion, and went outside to make his dispositions.

By the kerb a powerful automobile was standing. As he glanced at the chauffer, a man of negroid blood, smartly uniformed, was assailed by a sharp, unreasoning conviction that the automobile was awaiting either one or both of the pair in whom he was interested― the Egyptian most likely. If he were to accomplish his purpose it was incumbent that he should be in a position to follow that car in the event of his conviction being justified.

He looked up and down the street. It was empty of life, and nowhere the learn of a taxi's lights. But he must secure a vehicle some how and quickly, before those two emerged. Perhaps if he went to the Place―

The thought was uncompleted when the whirr of an engine  broke the silence of the street. He swung around swiftly. A taxi was coming up the hill. He watched it eagerly.  It drew nearer, pulled into the kerb and halted within two yards of the standing saloon.  A man and a girl stepped out and paid off the driver. Here, thought Chevrell, was salvation, and in a twinkling he had dodged round the saloon and was talking in low tones to the taxi driver. The man listened intently, and measured the other car thoughtfully. Then he grinned.

"Oui! I can follow, but m'sieur understands that the speed of the saloon is great―  and to follow close may not be possible. But keep it in sight, oh yes, for out streets will be empty at this hour; and I am one who can drive. Also Marie is no common taximeter.  She also has power—having once been the property of a young gentleman  in the academy at St. Cyr― now in the sand with the Legion."

"Then it is understood. You go forward, reverse at the next turn and draw up a little higher up the street, at a point where I can watch the cafe entrance.   You will keep the engine running."

"Je comprendre!" answered the man with a laugh, and as Chevrell entered, promptly proceeded to carry out his instructions.

Within a couple of minutes the taximeter was in position, drawn up by the kerb less than ten yards from the saloon. The taxi driver lit a foul cigarette, and leaned back nonchalantly, whilst his engine purred with a soft note that told his fare the man had not boasted of its power without reason.

Chevrell watched the door of the cafe closely. If he should be mistaken in his conviction that. the saloon awaited the pair for whom he was watching, he might have to follow on foot; and it was well to be prepared for that possibility. Ten minutes went by slowly. The taxi driver yawned and lit another cigarette, then suddenly he spoke.

"M'sieur, someone leaves the café."

Chevrell was already aware of the fact of the opening door; and a second later he saw the Egyptian and the Rangar emerge, clearly, visible in the café's lights. They moved straight to the waiting saloon which Dara Lodi entered whilst the Egyptian spoke to the negro chauffeur.

"Ready!" said Chevrell to his driver and the man grinned over his shoulder.

The Egyptian entered the saloon, which promptly started: The taxi driver gave it a few seconds and followed it down the hill. Chevrell watched, the saloon closely for any indication that the occupants suspected they were followed. He found none, but nevertheless he continued to watch, so closely, that he lost touch with the route, that they were following; and when he awoke to the fact was aware only that they were moving along one of the boulevards.

The road was almost deserted and the driver of the saloon opened out, and the pace increased enormously. Chevrell's driver, responded; and at a great pace followed the tail light of the saloon beaconing like a red; star. The distance between the two vehicles increased.  Chevrell, fearing that the saloon was outstripping them and would leave them behind, shouted to his driver. The man laughed and accelerated, maintaining an; almost unvarying distance between himself and the car in front. They swept on at forty-five miles an hour. No face showed at the rear window of the saloon; and if its dusky chauffeur saw the reflection of the taxi's following lights in his driving glass, he apparently found no occasion for uneasiness; and as Chevrell told himself, was probably entirely unaware that there was any need for alertness.

Chevrell again spared an eye for the road in an endeavour to locate his whereabouts. He failed until they swept into a broad place and he saw the Arc de Triomphe lift itself in the moonlight against a stormy sky, Thenceforward he had little difficulty in following the way, and recorded the next landmark to himself aloud.

"The Trocadero!"

It appeared to him that the pair in front must be making for the Bois de Boulogne; but in a little time he guessed the truth.

"Passy or Auteuil."

It was Passy, respectable Passy that was the destination; for having run through it to the further side, the saloon turned sharply to the right, vanishing in the darkness.

"A side road," thought Chevrell.

The taxi, slowing down, reached the point where the other car had turned, and then pulled up a little. beyond the turn, with a sharp grinding, of the brakes. The driver gesticulated.

"Une porte particuliere, m'sieur. I cannot enter."

Chevrell, who had glimpsed an entrance gate embowered in trees, suspected that the man was right, and descending from the car, went back to investigate. As he did so he caught the complaint of unoiled hinges, and guessed that someone was closing the gates through which the saloon had passed. That made him cautious, and he waited for a moment at the corner, lest he should attract the attention of the man engaged at the gates. There was a crash, the sound of an iron drop-bar swinging into position, and a noise of stumbling feet. The latter were clearing receding, and, reassured, he went forward boldly.

What he had at first mistaken for a side road, he found was a wide entrance to some estate, flanked by high stone walls, and closed by a heavy, double wooden gate. He looked at the latter. It was at least seven feet high, and each half was surmounted by a cheval-de-frise, the spikes of which stuck out like huge thorns against the moonlight. He considered the walls. Splintered glass gleamed on the top, a formidable barrier to the trespassers. He whistled softly to himself and considered both gate and wall thoughtfully. There was, he decided, no entrance for him that way. Going back to the road, he inspected the wall before and beyond the entrance. Both ways the glass at the top winked wickedly in. the moonlight. The place, it seemed, was well guarded against intruders. But to such a property there must be a postern gate, possibly more than one, and he decided to search. Going back to the taxi, he instructed the driver to follow him, and began to walk quickly forward, skirting the wall, which, as he followed it, proved to be of considerable extent.

He reached a corner. A lane, darkened by trees offered itself. Here he thought might be possibilities, and he waited for his Jehu; and gave him instructions to wait. The man demurred, having, it seemed, suffered at the hands of bilkers. So long as he had his fare in sight he had not minded: but now that monsieur proposed to disappear down that gut of darkness he would prefer to see the colour of his money. Chevrell laughed understanding, looked at the meter; and gave the man his fare with a handsome tip in addition.

"Wait," he said, "and when we return to Paris you shall have more."

The man, now sure of his fare, laughed, and explained enthusiastically that he would wait until the crack of doom. Chevrell slid away, following the dark lane, keeping a hand on the wall lest in the gloom he should pass any possible doorway. He had taken sixty steps, counting them as he went, when his hand passed from the wall into vacancy. Here it seemed the wall ended or—

He groped about, thrusting his arm forward, and his hand encountered wood set with iron studs. He had found the postern he had anticipated, and now it remained to discover if it were of  any more use to him than the great gates of the main entrance.

Producing a box of matches, he struck one, and as the flame burned up, examined the door. It was deeply recessed in the wall, with a great iron latch of an antique pattern, but with, so far as he could discover, no lock.

"Bolted or barred, as like as not," he thought to himself, and with little hope set a hand to the latch; lifted it and put a shoulder against the door.

To his joyful amazement the door yielded, opening a couple of feet and then sticking as if held back by some obstruction. He thrust through and stared about him. Beyond, so far as he could make out, was a thick shrubbery, with overhanging trees; and some distance away light streaming from an imperfectly shuttered window cut the night, like a sword. Whilst he watched, that sword of light seemed to grow brighter, the gloom of the shrubbery denser; and glancing up he saw that the moon was being veiled by heavy clouds that held the promise of rain. Then he investigated the obstruction which prevented the further opening of the door, to discover an ancient rhododendron, which. sagging sideways, made the full opening of the door impossible.

Reassured on that point, he considered the light in front again. There unquestionably was the house to which the Egyptian and Dara Lodi had gone. He stared at it for some time, in deepening, darkness, until there came a sudden patter of rain, which held the promise of a real downpour. So much the better, he thought. A man did not want the moonlight when he was proposing a surreptitious, and entirely illegal survey of a mansion, where not only was he a trespasser, but, if caught, would find it difficult to furnish even the shadow of an excuse for his presence.

The thought of possible discovery reminded him of the taximeter. It was not wise to leave it in the street to attract the attention of any late bird among the dwellers in Passy, or of some curious agent de police. It would be, better for the vehicle to wait in the lane, lights out, and shrouded in friendly darkness...

With that thought he returned to his Jehu and made the suggestion that he should back into the lane, and extinguished the lights, since he himself might be some time on his errand. The man made no demur, but revealed some curiosity as to the nature of his errand.

"M'sieur," he said jocularly, "est un' cambrioleur?"

"No," Chevrell replied cheerfully, "he was not a burglar."

"Then he is an agent for the Sûreté?"

"Not from the Sûreté," he owned, with an air of mystery, "but he had his friends there."

"Ah!" The man comprehended. M'sieur's wishes should be observed. He would wait in the darkness under the trees, and M'sieur might go about his business assured that he would be there on his return.

Chevrell returned to the postern, groped about until he found a small stone with which he wedged it open, add, slipping inside, waited for a moment, watching, listening. It was now raining in earnest, and the swish of the rain on the leaves drowned all other sounds, whilst the light which he had previously observed wan no longer visible. After a little time he moved forward, following an overgrown path through the shrubbery, and presently reached a broad road which intersected at right angles the one that he followed. Beyond that there was what he took to be open ground, and, guessing a lawn, he crossed the road, found grass beneath his feet, and took a  couple of steps forward. Then he trod on vacancy, and shot down a sloping bank into the water,

He made a great splash, but the water was not deep— three feet or so at the most, and as he regained his feet, and shook the water from his eyes, he discerned dimly a square tank with the shadow of a fountain in the middle, and conjectured an ornamental fish pond, set, as it appeared, in a sunken lawn.

Scrambling to the side, he clambered out, and after shaking himself, stood peering through the rainy gloom, a little disturbed by his mishap. Whilst he so stared, the gloom was suddenly, irradiated on his right, and he found himself staring upwards at a great window from which the light streamed; and where, as he divined, the lights had just been switched on.

The radiance gleamed on balustraded steps of some, white stone, marble from its reflecting qualities, which led down to the lawn where stood, and apparently, up to a terrace in front of that lighted room. He moved towards them, and reaching them, paused for a moment, crouching against the balustrade, and wondering if it would be wise to ascend the steps in face, of that strong light. Finally he decided against it, and moving out of range of the light he dug his toes in the grassy bank, and that way made the terrace in front of the house, which so far as he could make put from its dim outlines was a very large one.

He looked carefully about him. The terrace, the whole neighbourhood of the house, appeared deserted, and there was no sound but that made by the rain, and a splashing from some trough where the spout was blocked. He found a border of grass at the edge of the gravelled terrace and moved forward towards the window from which the light streamed; then on hands and knees crossed the terrace to the window itself, which, was low, with a couple of steps leading to the terrace.

He reached the steps, and, lying on the flower border which flanked them, cautiously lifted, his head and stared into the room. It was a very handsome apartment, a, library apparently, for the wall was lined with bookcases in some dark wood, and the shelves were filled with volumes in rich bindings. That he noted in his first glance, then his eyes went to the centre of the room, where was a library table of the same dark wood, at which three men were seated—the Egyptian, Dara Lodi, and the dark-skinned Hindu, whom Chevrell had seen at the Café d'Armenonville earlier in the night

The Rangar had one corner of the table to himself, the Egyptian and the Indian were seated at the opposite corner, the former smoking, and they were apparently engaged In the merest desultory conversation. For a time this continued, but presently the Egyptian took out his watch, consulted it, and then glanced at the ornate clock upon the mantelpiece. It occurred to Chevrell that the trio were waiting for someone, and he was wondering who it could be when a klaxon shrieked somewhere in the direction of the road; and half a minute later the dark facade of the house was splashed with light. He turned his head swiftly, to see the broad fan of dazzling light made by the headlights of a car which was approaching the mansion at a good pace. Evidently the Egyptian caught the glare, for, rising abruptly from his seat, he moved to the window and stood there looking out into the night, then said something over his shoulder to the other two.

For his part Chevrell hugged the sodden earth, vividly aware of a strong odour of catmint, which he detested; a bed of which he guessed he must be resting in. To move was impossible with the Egyptian standing there; and soon he had a new cause for anxiety. The fan of light altered its position as the car followed the approach to the house, and for a moment, save for the light from the windows, he was in darkness. He considered the possibility of breaking away; he was on the point of doing so, when, as the car swung round, the glare of the headlights lit the terrace from end to end.

He did not know where the main door of the house was, but as the car slowed down, its lights fell on him, and he dug his face in the catmint and . buried his ungloved hands beneath him; knowing how any white surface must show up in that strong radiance. He heard the car stop, but dared not look up, voices drifted to him through tho rain, there was the sound of an, opening door, the crash of its closing: then the car moved slowly along the terrace. He thought discovery was imminent, and reflected rapidly what he must do— a bolt for the shrubbery and for the postern door would be the only chance, and if the driver of the car saw him—

The car slid slowly by him, and he drew a breath of relief. He heard the Egyptian turn from the window; and cautiously lifting his head, he risked a glance over his shoulder at the car. It had reached the end of the terrace, and was reversing. Now was his chance before it came back. He knew that, but he did not take the opportunity. Luck had been with him and he had an unreasoning conviction that it would hold; and since he desired to know for whom the three men in the library had been waiting, he once more buried his face in the detested catmint, waiting till the car should have returned. He heard it purr past him and drew a breath of relief. Clearly the driver bad hot noticed him, and lifting his head, he saw that the man had pulled up, at the point where he had previously halted; and where he guessed the entrance to the mansion must be.

Reassured, he lifted his head a little higher, and looked through the window. There were three newcomers in the room, one of them a tall, man elegantly attired, beneath whose dress and tie twinkled what he took to he the Jewel of some order; the second was a flabby-looking individual whose dress clothes fitted him like a waiter's— a man of coarsely Hebraic features, who had yet a hint of slumbering power about him; and the third was the woman of tho house in Cairo; whom he had seen an hour or two before so flashily dressed at the Cafe Jarnac. Now, however, she was attired as when he had first seen her, arms and shoulders gleaming above the sheening silk, her head carried regally; with the emerald jewel coruscating like green fire in its raven polls.

So much he had time to note when there was a sudden movement of those assembled. The stout-faced Egyptian made a sharp gesture. Dara Lodi and the Indian who had been seated, rose swiftly, and all six turned towards the door at the side of the room, with a look of expectancy in their eyes. Clearly, thought Chevrell, someone was yet to join the assembly, someone whose coming had been signalled. Who?

7

AS HE ASKED HIMSELF the question, Chevrell's gaze fixed itself expectantly upon the door, which' those within were watching.

Burning with curiosity, he was prepared for almost anything— except for that which he fell for as the door opened there stepped Into the room a youth, slim as a sapling, with a face of insolent beauty; a mobile -mouth, eyes flaming bright, of a high demeanour; which, in Chevrell's amazed eyes, set him far apart from those who awaited him. He was dressed in flowing robes of green silk, with a white turban, in the front of which gleamed a jewel like that in the woman's hair, a habit which became him, wonderfully, and which added to that air of remoteness from those in the room.

Having crossed the threshold this wonder youth halted and instantly, those, who waited him made obeisance. Dara Lodi, the Indian, the Egyptian and the woman, with a grace inborn, the Jew clumsily, and as it appeared to Chevrell's watchful eyes, a little grudgingly, some invisible hand, closed the door behind the newcomer, the others straightened themselves, and the youth advanced to the head of the table, where an ornate chair of the Empire period awaited him.

The six continued to stand, waiting; but he did not take the chair. With one hand resting on its gilded and inlaid arm, he made a slight gesture, at which the others seated themselves at the table. For a moment the youth stood with a faraway look in his burning eyes, and Chevrell took the opportunity to examine him more narrowly.

He had thought him a youth, and youth he was by Western standards; though in the Orient, to which, dress apart, he plainly belonged, he would he reckoned as of man's estate. His skin was dusky rather than dark, his face, had a disdainful beauty that reminded Chevrell of some of the portraits of Byron, and his pose was that of one, pampered and accustomed to expect obedience from those about him. There was, withal, a certain hauteur in his bearing, a remoteness as of one who knew himself lifted above; his fellows; a— yes! that was the word — a regal air, that despite his youthfulness was wholly impressive. With a feeling that here was the core of the mystery into which he had plunged, Chevrell watched him, wide-eyed; and when, the dark eyes no longer vacant, the youth began to speak, he leaned forward towards the window in the hope of catching the words he was saying. The drumming of the rain on the panes made that impossible. Now and again he caught the tones of a liquid voice, but indistinctly; and once when a couple of words reached him clearly they were in a language which he did not know.

The youth spoke for perhaps five minutes; and those about, him appeared to hang upon his words; all except the flabby-looking Jew, who watched him with speculative eyes and who, from the bored look on his face, probably was unable to follow what the youth was saying. Then came a pause. The youth ceased to speak; and the man with the jewel at his throat rose from his chair, with the evident intention of speaking in his turn. But at that precise moment there was an interruption.

The fat-faced Egyptian swung sharply round towards the door. The man with the jewel also turned; and Chevrell craned his neck to see what was happening. The door which he had previously noticed opened, admitting the strangest figure— an old man dressed in flowing robes, stooping heavily, with a face that was a positive network of tiny wrinkles; but in which were set eyes that had in them a flame undimmed by age; a wild light of fanaticism that was not to be mistaken. Looking on him, venerable, but with those undimmed eyes effulgent with the light of the untameable spirit, Chevrell had a conviction that here was a man of power; one of those men who, moved by fiery faith, are blind to mundane considerations, and capable of attempting the wildest purposes.

A moment later he had a further impression. The old man worshipped that youth standing by the chair. As the aged eyes turned to him the flame in them was softened till it became almost benign; and there was a deference In his bearing that was unmistakable. An odd thought came to Chevrell that so old Simeon must have looked when he chanted his Nunc Dimitis in the Temple, and then by association he recalled the aged man who, with the young prince of Kapilavastu in his arms, had found in his the secret signs of the Buddha. For it was so that the old man looked on the beautiful youth, with a veneration that was not to be mistaken, yet with a pride that it was granted to him to behold.

Chevrell, in his amazement, amid his rush of thoughts, had one thought that stood out clearly. This old man was in earnest. Whatever purpose was behind the gathering in that splendid room, he was of the true believers. The podgy Jew might be a political schemer or a financier or both; Dara Lodi might have personal ends to follow, the others might or might not be directed by impersonal motives in whatever thing was in hand, but the old mah― priest, Chevrell dubbed him in his mind— was flamingly sincere; a true man of faith.

Tremendously interested, Chevrell eager to see what followed craned forward until his nose was almost against the rain-splashed pane, then the disaster befell. The sodden earth on which his boot' toes were dug gave way suddenly, precipitating; him forward. Instinctively he thrust his hands out to save himself. He missed the stonework; and one hand went through the pane with a splintering crash. For a fraction of a second he had a closer glimpse of the room than he desired— and beheld those present turn startled eyes towards the window. Then, before he could extract his bleeding hand, the Egyptian was on his feet, running down the room with a pistol ready for action.

Chevrell wasted no time, knowing that if, as, he suspected, someone in this room had, been behind his cousin's death, there would be no mercy shown to him. He dragged his hand back hurriedly, sustaining a new cut as he did so, then, leaping up, began to run.

The course he took was straight along the terrace, past the waiting saloon; for whilst there was a risk that he might be intercepted, there were graver risks if he should lose his sense of direction, and lose himself in that walled-in park.

Beyond the terrace was the shrubbery with the postern-door that was safety; whilst in the rainy darkness the park might hold a hundred pitfalls; and he had no desire to be hunted like a stray dog by men who would be ruthless.

He reached the saloon just as the driver, who no doubt had heard the crash of the window, descended to investigate. They collided and the man went down,  whilst Chevrell staggered, then pitched down the balustraded steps to  the lawn below. Unhurt, he picked himself up, and knowing the need for haste ran across the sodden grass towards the fishpond which showed like a dim mirror in the darkness, and which gave him his exact location.

He heard voices behind him, there was a sudden blaze of light, from which he guessed that the headlights of the car had been switched on; and he took the water in front of him without a qualm, wading waist-deep to the further side He found the bank and scrambled up it. As he reached the top someone shouted, there was the crack of a pistol, which told him that he had been seen; and he fairly flew across the road, making for the path that would lead to the postern. In his haste he missed it; but with the sound of voices and pursuing feet to spur him, he plunged recklessly into the shrubbery, moving in as straight a line as was possible. His idea was that having missed the path he must make the wall and feel his way along it until he found the postern-gate. The idea was sound enough but the achievement was complicated a moment later by the action of his enemies; for, unexpectedly, the whole place was illumined by blinding light. Instantly he divined what had happened. His plunged into the shrubbery had been observed, and someone with swift resourcefulness had moved, the saloon so that its headlights might light up the bushes. But that action was double-edged. Whilst here and there the glare made spaces bright as day's self, it created shadows, and these he proceeded to avail himself of; creeping from one shadowed place to another; using bushes and tree trunks and all the cover that the place provided. The hunt was close and on a hot scent. Through the swish of rain he heard voices, and once, quite close, the squelching of feet.

One voice more insistent than the others shouted orders. The pursuers, he gathered, were spreading wide, and in a little time, unless he found the postern quickly, he might find himself pinned against the wall; or forced back into the unknown spaces of the park. He found a dark patch that was absolutely unillumined by the car's headlights, and began to creep through the bushes in the direction where he supposed the wall to lie. He was half way across it when, chancing to turn his head, he saw something that gleamed and flashed, apparently hanging in the boughs of a tree. For a moment he was puzzled, then the explanation broke on him. "The glass on the top of the wall!"

With relief burning in his heart, he turned in that direction and emerged from the bushes to find the lost path before him lit broadly by the car's lamps, which also showed him two things— the postern door, still ajar and a man running diagonally through the bushes in the direction, of it.  It was no occasion for finesse. The light which showed him the door and the way to it would' almost necessarily reveal him to his pursuers, but that was a risk to be taken. He must reach that door first, for  once it was shut against him he would be like a rat in a trap. The trap might be a spacious one for anything he knew; but with all ways of egress closed, and ruthless men to beat its bushes, the end was sure. He sprinted along the brightly lit path for the postern, desperate to reach it before that other hurrying man. He heard, an exultant shout behind him, a shot followed, but; unhurt, he ran forward, reaching the door in the wall almost simultaneously with the man who had been making for it.

The fellow laughed triumphantly and flung himself against the door. The stone with which Chevrell had wedged it held; and the man was a little staggered by the impact. A swift right-hander completed his discomfiture and as he crashed back into the rhododendron, Chevrell slipped through the doorway and pelted his hardest along the dark lane. He shouted to the taxi-driver to be ready, and, reassured, saw the rear-light glow suddenly. There were running feet behind him; but. still some distance away as he made the taximeter. The driver, plainly a cool and ready man in an emergency had the door open and his engine running. As Chevrell flung himself into the vehicle the man did not speak or trouble to close the door. Leaving that to his fare he let the clutch in, and started forward. They turned the corner, and a second later the man changed gears, accelerated, and they took the Paris road at a great rate.

The driver grinned cheerfully over his shoulder at Chevrell, and the latter looked through the little window behind. There was a man at the corner of the lane, who disappeared whilst he watched, and Chevrell had a notion that the pursuit was not yet over. They slid by the main entrance, which he had prospected an hour before. The great wooden gate now stood open to the night, no doubt to allow for the emergence of the saloon which waited on the terrace. The thought of that saloon troubled him a little. The direction he had taken had been seen by the man at the corner of the lane; and it would take but a minute or two to bring the saloon into action.

Whilst he attended to his injured hand, bandaging it roughly with his handkerchief, he considered ways and means of defeating any pursuit. Then he spoke to the driver, explaining what he feared, and suggesting a roundabout road rather than the direct one to tho city. The man laughed. The more his motor ticked the heavier his fare and his pourboir.

"M'sieur, I take you round the park. There we cheat the devil himself."

"Yes!" agreed Chevrell, and looked once more through the rear window. The road was empty behind them and, a little reassured, he leaned back in his seat and, taking a cigarette from his case, proceeded to light it.

Scarcely had be taken the first whiff, when there was a sharp noise; the car swerved and bumped along for a few yards before it cam to a standstill: Before the driver stroke Chevrell knew what had happened.

"Diable!" cried, the man, "A tyre has burst! M'sieur understands that, I must change the wheel."

Chevrell understood that well enough; and whilst the man proceeded to jack up the car, he himself watched the backward road for any sign of pursuit.

The man worked quickly, and soon had the damaged wheel off and the other in place. He was screwing up the nuts and had almost finished when the tops of the trees well down the road were illuminated suddenly. Chevrell knew what that portended and cried to the man.

"Quick! They come!"

The other worked his brace swiftly, looked up once to see the glare of the car just coming clearly into view, then tightened the last nut, flung the  brace into the taxi and sprang to his seat.

"We go like the wind," he laughed, "and in the park I shall them cheat, fear not, M'sieur."

They started, ran for a little way, then turned to the left .

Chevrell, on his knees on the back seat, watched the road behind. For a short time he saw nothing, and he was hoping they had not been seen, and that the pursuing car was swinging on the road to Paris, when he saw it come round the turn. There was no need  to shout a warning to the driver. The light reflected on his driving-mirror told him the pursuit was drawing near. He gave a laugh of excitement, and, accelerating, a moment later took another turn at a speed which made Chevrell gasp as spasmodically he gripped the arm sling. Yet another turn and a gateway come into view.

"Porte de Passy," shouted the driver to his fare, who still knelt watching the backward road. "Now I show you."

The pursuing car swept down tho Avenue Raphael into the Avenue Ingres just as they passed the gate. Chevrell saw it, and shouted to the driver.

"They follow."

The man took a hand from the wheel, waved it to show, that he had heard, laughed, and a little later; as they passed the Carrefour des Cascades and took the long sweep into the avenue, beyond, extinguished all his lights. To Chevrell's mind the act was one of madness, but the man raced his way  through the rainy darkness as if he were in broad daylight, and a little reassured, he looked back again to mark the progress of the pursuit.

The driver's trick to escape, as it chanced, had unlooked for consequences. At the Carrefour de Longchamp they came suddenly upon a couple of mounted sergents de ville, one of whom escaped the taximeter by a miracle. Both the officers shouted, and Chevrell heard them as they sped forward. The driver took no notice. Innocent his fare might be, but he himself was now guilty of offence against the law, and his purse and license, alike were in danger, and no more shouting would bring him to a halt. He swung into the Alle de Longchamp, now a road of the dead; for the hour was very late, and on such a night there were no lovers to linger in the park, and even the Apaches, who make it their hunting-ground, had withdrawn to their lairs. The road was clear before them, and the man was prepared to make full use of his opportunity.

They raced on. Chevrell soon lost all idea of their whereabouts, but was thankful when the necessities of a narrower road forced the man to switch on his side lamps. He had a glimpse of water, but whether it was the lake or the Seine he had no idea, and a minute later was aware that the pursuing car was at their heels again. The driver was also aware of it. Now he was bearing steadily to the right and Chevrell divined that he was making for one of the gates.

Watching the following car, It was borne on him that those in it were making no real attempt to overtake the taxi. Apparently they were content to keep the other vehicle in sight; for an almost uniform distance was maintained, and the Englishman could not believe that the saloon, going all out, could not have overrun the taxi. The pursuit was following some subtle plan, content, it seemed, to shepherd them without overtaking. What could be the purpose? Did they merely wish to discover his Identity and domicile? That was possible; but as he thought not very probable. The men who had not hesitated to fire on him in the garden at Passy, and who, as he believed, were responsible for his cousin's death, were scarcely likely to follow so tame a course. He was still puzzling over the matter when they reached another Carrefour, and at that precise moment there was a sudden intensifying of toe glare from the lamps of the pursuing car. Its electric horn fairly shrieked, and it swept forward, crowding them from a narrower road that led to the left into the wide road in front of them.

The taxi-driver drove on gallantly, though he must have known he was outclassed. A second later the saloon fell back, and once more followed tantalisingly at their heels. A moment or two later the taxi approached a gateway which Chevrell recognised.

"Port Dauphin!"

The driver, then, meant to leave the park. Having lost the game there, he proposed to continue it on the road to the city, in the shadows of the avenue, or in the smaller and darker ways that would offer. So he read his driver's mind, and tried to gauge the possibilities, whilst he prepared for the worst by drawing his pistol he had brought with him, and resting it handy on his knees.  If there were to be shooting, he would at least be prepared to reply in kind.

Then quite suddenly the truth broke on him. At the gate were three sergents de ville, their horses ranged to bar the way, arms in their hands. Those in toe saloon had neatly driven them into an impasse.

"Damnation!" The driver swore fervently, and indicated the officers  in front. "M'sieur! I cannot run through, them."

"No!" agreed Chevrell. "You will have to stop. But why they should hold us up?"

"M'sieur, they will charge us with anything. I had no lights when we  passed the others. They may have made report." Then the man laughed.

"But M'sieur is not a bandit. He will have his papers and will prove to these cockatoos that there was necessity and all will be well."

As the taximeter pulled up with a grinding of brakes, Chevrell devoutly hoped that the man might be right; but was beset with doubts. One of the officers slid from his horse and approached the tail. Chevrell, who at the moment was watching the saloon as it drew up alongside, scarcely noticed the man, who bade the taxi driver descend, and then, throwing open the door, gave a like order to Chevrell, who still had the pistol in his hand. The sergeant's eyes went to the weapon immediately.

"L'assassin!" he ejaculated, and put himself in a fighting posture.

Chevrell offered him the pistol, and the officer took it a little gingerly, then sternly bade him descend. He stepped out of the taxi, and saw that one of the men in the saloon was already talking volubly to the other two officers. He caught a: word— bandits— and in a second grasped the whole position. He was to be arrested, charged possibly with burglary or with some worse crime. The officers nodded to the vociferous man. They were impressed by the saloon, by the eminent respectability of the man laying the charge; whilst Chevrell, with the blood-stained handkerchief on his hand, commonly clothed, soaked, and generally bedraggled, was no figure to beget respect in suspicious mind. He knew it himself, and was far from being disturbed by the prospect of arrest. At most it would mean a few unpleasant hours in the Conciergerie, and at least he would be safe there. He was under no illusion in regard to the reason for his charge. He was sure that it had been no part of the original plan of the pursuit His mind saw the reason for it clearly.

That little encounter with the two sergents do ville at the Carrefour de Longchamp was responsible. The officers whom they had so nearly run down, had stopped the pursuing saloon, had heard some story of burglary, and, having come under close observation, the pursuers had been forced to adopt new tactics and so had laid this charge. Well, a night in the Conciergerie was better than a night in some dark road of the Bois-de Boulogne with a bullet in one's heart.

He lost interest in the volubility of the man who was. laying the charge against him, and considered the other man in the saloon. One of them was the man with the jewel at his throat, and the other Dara Lodi. Both of  them were staring, at him intently;  and suddenly the Hangar spoke a single word to his companion on whose olive face came am incredulous look. Then the man talking to the sergent de ville turned, and Chevrell recognised him for the stout-faced Egyptian who had been with the Indian and the woman at the Café Jarnac. A moment later an odd thing happened. The man started  as if he had been shot. A wild look came in his bulbous eyes; his fat face in the glare of the motor lamps seemed to grow green. He backed a pace, still staring wildly at the Englishman, then in a guttural voice, he cried out as if the name were torn from him by some strong emotion that it was impossible for him to control:

"Chevrell!"

8

THERE WAS A note of consternation in the man's voice that Chevrell was quick to note, and which, in conjunction with the man's wild stare, told. him the truth. The Egyptian mistook him for his cousin, Hugh; and was more than astonished to see him, as he supposed, in the flesh. On the heels of that realisation came a stunning conviction— the fellow had not only known Hugh Chevrell, but was aware of his death; and imagining him to be living after all was appalled. But Hugh's death had not been reported in the French papers. Chevrell, in conjunction with the officers of the Sûreté, had seen to that; and the inference to be drawn was very plain. As he had suspected, the guilt of his cousin's murder lay at the door of this man and his associates.

As the conviction assailed him he was shaken by sudden passion, and  came near to betraying the truth. But he checked the words of accusation surging on his lips, and, repressing the impulsive passion, he replied with contemptuous coolness:

"As you say, monsieur!"

For a full half minute the Egyptian was like a man recovering from a  knock-out blow. His stout face had a stunned look, his eyes wavered, his pendulous lips quivered; and when he essayed to speak he achieved no more than an inarticulate croak. Chevrell, watching him, was more than convinced of his guilt, and in response to the croak, answered frostily:

"You seem surprised, monsieur. One might think that you were discomfited at seeing me."

The secret sting in the words helped the man to recover himself. He smothered his apprehension in well-simulated anger.

"Surprised!" he vociferated. "No, I might have known— we have met before, bandit, but now―" He swung round to the sergents de ville, and fairly roared.

"Messieurs, I call on you to make the arrest. This is the villain who entered my house. You see the hand, all bloodied, with that he broke my window, and you have the pistol with which he fired on us in the garden when we sought to take him. And you know he would have hidden in the darkness, fleeing without lights. Do your duty, messieurs."

Chevrell laughed harshly as one of the sergeants produced and jingled a pair of handcuffs.

"Is that necessary?" he called, "for a man who desires that you shall take him speedily to Monsieur Lacorte at the Sûreté?"

The sergeant's jaw dropped a little. He was plainly nonplussed by the question.

"To M'sieur Lacorte?" he stuttered.

"My very good friend, I assure you he will be glad to see me."

"But―" the sergeant; broke off. There was a half doubtful look on his face as he stared at his prisoner, then he added, "M'sieur Lacorte is the great man."

"Do I not know it? I demand you take me to him at once. It is important."

The sergeant looked more doubtful; and Chevrell's accuser, conscious of lost ground, hastily intervened.

"What impudence! To claim Monsieur Lacorte, of le Sûreté for his friend. Though beyond doubt the bandit will be known to the great man.  But yes; and to others at the Prefecture, who will rejoice to send the villain to la Guyane. Monsieur you will manacle the ruffian. If he should escape—"

The sergeant made up his mind.

"Your hands, assassin!"

Chevrell demurred no more, but held out his hands; and the handcuffs were speedily snapped on. Then the officer looked at Chevrell's accuser,

"Your name, M'sieur; also the address? You will be required for the examination."

Chevrell waited expectantly, anxious to catch the name; but was disappointed, for the Egyptian produced a card, and handed it to the officer; who read it, and then grew infinitely respectful.

"Your highness may not be troubled after all. We have the bandit red handed, almost. But we shall see."

Chevrell caught a crackle of paper as the officer thrust a hand to his pocket, and understood well enough that the sergeant had received something beside a card; then the officer pointed to the taximeter and gave a harsh command.

"Enter, rascal."

Chevrell obeyed with alacrity. There was now no fear of immediate overt action on the part of the Egyptian and his associates. They had scotched him  temporarily; but their own hands were tied by their appeal to legal powers. He was now in less danger than he had been at any time since his hand had crashed through-the window of that room into which he had spied. From the window of the taxi he looked at the other smilingly.

"Next time you have a man thrown into the Seine, your highness, be sure that he is dead... Bon soir!"

The man flinched at the words, recovered himself and shook his fist.

"Scoundrel!" he spat, but there was consternation in his bulging eyes.

Chevrell leaned back in the taxi, well satisfied at the effect of his words. The man had not guessed the truth, and was at that moment more beset by apprehensions than any man in Paris. And his hands were tied. For the moment he could do nothing more. That was the beauty of the situation. There was a ceremonious leave-taking between the officers and Chevrell's accusers; then with one sergent next the driver and another by the prisoner's side the taxi moved on, following the Avenue du Bois in the direction, of the city.

For a time Chevrell did not speak, but sat in thought, reflecting on the position. The action of the men whom he had left puzzled him a little. That at the beginning of the chase they had meant his complete elimination he was sure; but the encounter with the officers had thwarted that! amiable intention and had forced them to a swift change of plan. But what could they possibly hope to gain by having him charged with common burglary? His mind supplied the answer in a single word.

"Time!"

Yes, that was it. If they had feared Hugh so much as to have him murdered, their fears would be doubled now that they believed him to be alive, however incredible that might be They would know that the ruse they had adopted would, at the most, serve them for a few hours, and would believe that in a very short time the knowledge which Hugh must have had would be used for their undoing. Beyond question they would use the few hours they had gained to remove themselves to some place where they could ripen their plans undisturbed. Convinced of that he turned to the sergent de ville.

"Monsieur," he said, "where do you I propose to take me?"

The sergent laughed. "For the night you will have a cell in the Sante."

"Then you do not take me to the Sûreté?"

"Pouf! No! That is not for common bandits."

"Monsieur," answered Chevrell patiently, "you are making a mistake. It will be wisdom if you take me directly to the Quai d'Horloge. It will probably save you an infinity of trouble."

The sergent only half suppressed a sneer; but he looked at his prisoner a little doubtfully.

"You still hunger for M'sieur Lacorte?"

"For no man more. You will find I that I am known to him."

"That is likely," the officer sneered.

"Yes! It is not to be doubted." Chevrell persisted. "Lacorte will not be pleased with the man who thwarts his plans, and who lets parcel of murderers escape him."

"Monsieur Lacorte would not be pleased with the man who fetched him from his dreams to interview a, ruffian charged 'with housebreaking."

'You believe that story then, monsieur ?"

The officer shrugged his shoulders and spoke contemptuously.

"What else can one believe ?"

"But one may go to a house for other reasons than robbery."

"For an assignation? Yes!" The man laughed. "And when one goes to a love tryst he takes a pistol, naturally."

"He may go to watch," answered Chevrell quietly, "and by his watching he may get great news for such as Monsieur Lacorte."

The man shuffled in his seat; and again shot a doubtful glance.

"You would have me believe you are an agent?"

"Yes. In the English service. That is why I would have you take me directly, to the Sûreté tonight, rather than to that cell in the Sante to wait for morning. There will be many hours saved that way."

"But―"

The man broke off and whistled thoughtfully. He was plainly in two minds, and Chevrell struck whilst the iron was hot

"You lose nothing that way, my friend. I shall still have the irons on my wrists: and the Sante will still yawn for me if Monsieur Lacorte has no welcome.  Also, as a man of discernment, you will see that a guilty man does not seek to draw the attention of the great ones of the Quai d'Horloge to himself."

"Dieu! And that is true! M'sieur, we will go to le Sûreté, and you should see M'sieur Lacorte as you desire. But I warn, you it will he worse for you if you have misled me."

"I have told you the truth, Monsieur."

The sergent gave the driver fresh directions, and in silence they drove on, and presently drew up on the Quai d'Horloge, and Chevrell and his driver were taken into a corridor, where waited two men, manacled, and a number of gendarmes. A plain clothes officer listened to the sergent's story, considered Chevrell keenly and then brusquely asked his name. When he heard it a perceptible change came in his manner.

"So! And you desire to see Monsieur Lacorte at once, Monsieur?"

"It is important that I should."

The other lowered his voice to a whisper. "Important, hey?"

"The business concerns one taken from the river."

"As you say, Monsieur."

"So!... But Monsieur Lacorte is not here, I must send for him."

"And l must wait." Chevrell smiled. "Better here than a cell in the Sante!"

"True! And this man?" He turned to Chevrell's driver. "Ah, it is you Chanaud! And the crime?"

The driver broke in volubly. His only crime had been to switch off his lights to save monsieur from those who pursued him, as monsieur would bear witness as an honest man. He appealed to Chevrell, who bore the required witness, and pleaded extenuating circumstances that he would explain to Monsieur Lacorte privately. Of what had befallen at the house at Passy, he assured the Officer, Chanaud knew nothing.

The officer nodded, and dismissed the driver.

'You may go, Chanaud; We shall know where to look for you. And in the matter of the lights if there is a sufficient explanation you may hear no more."

"Merci, m'sieur." The man, saluted; and looked at Chevrell.

"There is the little matter of the fare, m'sieur!"

"True," Chevrell laughed, "but you will have to pick my pocket, Chanaud."

The officer laughed. "That will not be necessary, Monsieur Chevrell. And it is not wise to teach our Paris drivers to help themselves. Already they know how to do that very well."

He procured the key from the sergeant, and. released Chevrell's wrists. He paid Chanaud handsomely, and the man departed smilingly, wishing him the best of luck. Then Chevrell was taken down the corridor to a room, nut before he entered he spoke to the officer.

"Monsieur, you are about to dismiss the sergents?"

"Yes," Monsieur Chevrell. Why?"

"There is a card that one of them has. It bears the name of my accuser. If it is possible, I should like to see it."

The officer laughed. "It is right that you should know the name of your accuser, monsieur. I will obtain the card."

Chevrell entered the room. The door was closed behind him, and he was left to his own devices for a space of ten minutes, when the officer, returning bearing the piece of pasteboard, said:

"I will leave this with you, monsieur, till such time as my friend arrives. I regret that my duties compel me to leave you solitary. But there are papers there―" and laughed and waved a hand— "that chair is better than a bench in the Sante."

"Much better, monsieur," Chevrell laughed back; and the door closed, he looked at the card In his hand and read:

PRINCE ACHMED MEDINEH

L'Ermitage

PASSY

"So," he murmured: "I have moved in high society."

He read the card anew. The name told him nothing, though he cudgelled his brains to remember it. He knew a dozen  Achmeds— donkey drivers, bearers, head men, dealers in curios; but none who had the right to such a prefix or would be likely to find a domicile in that mansion at Passy.

"But Lacorte may know— or Mackinder. At least the Colonel will be interested!"

The Colonel, he reflected, would be more than interested in his adventures of the night, and it was incumbent that he should know of them at the earliest moment. His thoughts went back to that room into which he had stared through the streaming glass.

That youth with his insolent beauty? Who was he? The others— all except the podgy Jew had shown him marked deference; and that Simeon-like old man looked on him with a veneration which had come near to worship. Was he the living heart of the mystery into which he himself had plunged; and in pursuit of which Hugh had died?

It seemed possible.

Every fanatical flare-up in the world centred round some living person, conceived as the embodiment of the principle which was its inspiration. The venerated one might himself be a leader; or a tool of the ambitious and unscrupulous, who exploited the sacred aspirations of true believers— but it made no difference so long as the fanaticism was fanned to flame.  And that youth might be either— leader or tool; prophet or dupe.

He recalled the others— Dara Lodi; the darker skinned Indian; the man with the jewelled order, the woman with her bizarre beauty, who was plainly. of some consequence in the movement; and then again considered the name on the card— Prince Achmed Medineh. "

Here, he thought, was no movement of the under-dogs pinched for food and galled by labour; but one with money and brains behind it, the participants in which were prepared for desperate courses, and whose activities were far-flung. Mackinder had heard of the Green Crescent flaming across the Nor-West Frontier, and far up on the Tigris. He himself had seen if on the edge of the Soudan, and heaven knows where else it had burned to fire the hearts of the true believers, and move far tribes with fanatical zeal.

He saw the possibilities, and realised, too, the danger in which he had placed himself. Hugh, beyond question, had been slain because of the knowledge he had acquired, and he had no doubt that from that night he himself would be a marked man. When Medineh learned the truth, as sooner or later he must, then peril would walk at his heels, and every dark corner might hold an assassin. The prospect in no wise depressed him. As he considered it, he was conscious of a thrill of excitement. It would be something worth doing to scotch such a conspiracy, moving all the time in shadowing danger. And then there was Mackinder's niece Mary Frobisher. He would be able to serve her, and perhaps―

A firm step in the corridor outside broke on his meditations; and two seconds later the door opened to admit Monsieur Lacorte.  He had been fetched from his bed, but he was spruce as one going to meet a mistress; and he greeted Chevrell genially.

"So Monsieur Chevrell, you have been arrested, and desire to tell me why?"

Chevrell considered how much he should tell; and began by asking a question.

"Monsieur Lacorte, you know Colonel Mackinder perhaps?"

"Ah!"

The officer's eye grew suddenly very keen. He nodded brusquely. "But of course. We at the Sûreté know Monsieur le Colonel very well."

"Then if I tell you that, this business has to do with him, you will realise the need for secrecy."

"Monsieur Chevrell, these walls"— he waved a hand— "are more secret than the grave." He looked at Chevrell with significance. "Your cousin, of course, was one of the Colonel's lieutenants. You did not tell me that when we went to the Morgue "

"I did not know. I learned the truth only to-night."

"Ah, you have seen Colonel Mackinder?"

Chevrell nodded without offering, any statement of the meeting, and added quickly. "And I believe I have seen those who were responsible for my cousin's death."

The officer showed no surprise.

"You know the names possibly ?"

"Of one―" Chevrell began, then remembering Dara Lodi, corrected himself. "No— of two! That is the card of one of them."

He flicked Medineh's visiting card upon the table as he spoke; and Lacorte picked it up, and considered it without any sign of surprise, having already heard the name from his subordinate. Then he smiled dryly.

"The name of your accuser, Monsieur Chevrell, hein!" He laughed suddenly. "You have, I understand turned burglar?"

"A false charge!" Chevrell laughed back.

"But made by so great a man— a serious one, you comprehend?"

"It will not be persisted in," answered Chevrell with conviction. "I am convinced it would not have been made at all, but for an accident."

"You think it is a ruse. Speak freely, Monsieur, I have heard your account from my subordinate."

"Yes—a ruse to gain time. But for those sergents in the park I think I might have had to fight for my life."

Lacorte nodded. '"That is possible," he said gravely, "if even that chance had been given you. I know something of this affair, I may tell you; and I think we will send for your friend, the Colonel. If you will excuse me for a moment."

He left the room, and presently returned rubbing his hands.

"Monsieur le Colonel will arrive very shortly. I have sent officers to arrest him—"

"Arrest?"

Monsieur Lacorte laughed. "An arrangement between us. He will understand the need is urgent and that the message is genuine. He is not without his enemies, my friend." Then he glanced at Prince Achmed's card again.

"An important man— that one! You think he knew your unfortunate cousin?"

"He mistook me for him to-night; and he left me under the misapprehension that I am Hugh whom he had believed dead."

"You are not imagining, Monsieur "

"Imagining! The man was appalled at the sight of me. I might have been a ghost— and he knew of Hugh's death. I am sure of that."

"But there is no evidence, for an arrest. Non! You may be right; but you will see that, Monsieur?"

Chevrell saw that clearly enough, and agreed whilst, the officer expounded further.

"And there is the more important thing, Monsieur, of which, you' are aware. Your cousin is taken from the Seine but his work goes on— and that is urgent; more urgent than the sending of one man to the guillotine or to La Guyane; as no doubt, Monsieur le Colonel will agree when he arrives."

TWENTY MINUTES later Colonel Mackinder arrived; and heard Chevrell's story, with Lacorte for a second listener. He made no comment whatever until the end, then he said quietly:—

"An unfortunate slip that, which sent you through the window.- It will have put the wind up that little crowd you have discovered, and I don't mind saying that your life would be uninsurable at Lloyd's if all the risks were known. But by the Lord, I believe you've hit the centre of things. Dara Lodi! I know that bird; and this fellow"— he flicked the cord— "he is high explosive sure enough. But that youth and the priest-like fellow are new to me."

"But the Jew," broke in Lacorte, "we might find him a name, hein?"

"Great heavens!... Stalkoff, of course."

"Who is forbidden the joy of France and of all her colonies," said the officer. "Monsieur, when the hour is ripe there is one arrest we can make and  possibly the man could be induced to speak."

"If you could gather him secretly," said Mackinder slowly, as if considering.

"Monsieur Lacorte laughed. .

"If he is still at that house at Passy we may have him here in time for breakfast ... I think it might be well if one took a look at L'Ermitage, Monsieur."

"But we must not scare the birds, that would be folly."

"To look— that is very simple. There is our young friend here, le cambrioleur. Prince Achmed has delivered him to the sergents de ville. There is a charge to be made; but one must save so distinguished a man all the trouble one can. So one goes to gather particulars. You comprehend? And if one has , open eyes―"

"Yes; I see."

"So, Messieurs, if you who are under arrest remain here I can run an eye  over L'Ermitage― and its owner― and if the course commends itself, compel him to attend before le juge d'instruction. At least, I can tell you, my friend, what is to be learned without hunting for you in strange places."

"Yes!"

"Then, Messieurs, I go to provide for your comfort for what remains of the night." He laughed. "I think we can do better for Monsieur Chevrell than le Sante, to which he should go."

There was a couch for the Colonel, a big chair for Chevrell; but neither slept. Mackinder made the young man go over his adventures of the night afresh; inquiring closely in each detail; and insatiable for particulars of the . youth who had been received by the others with such deference.

"If I knew who that one was it would simplify matters! He's the core of  the business, I'll swear, and he must be an almighty important personage., Medineh I know. He's ambitious, but I wasn't aware he was in this galley. Stalkoff I suspected without being aware of his direct association. He's been at. the back of every, subversive movement in High Asia since Russia ratted in the war. He was the fellow who collared the Bokhara treasury— thirty millions or so, for the Bolsheviks. He had a hand in that Afghan dust-up after the war; and I suspect him of being in the show which deprived Amunabdullah of an uneasy crown. Then there was the Afridi affair, of Peshawar. Stalkoff pulled the strings there; and if he's in this business whole-heartedly, it is serious enough in all conscience. For my part I shall be glad if Lacorte gathers, him in.... But I'm afraid he won't. The fellow is not persona grata in France as you have heard; but just now France is too concerned with possibilities in the Mediterranean to invite trouble with the Soviet Republics, though she knows that a real flare-up in Islam means difficulty in Algeria and the Sahara... However, we shall see. Lacorte is a good man, who does not let the grass grow— for want of treading it.  That I know."

But notwithstanding the Colonel's confidence for once the grass grew under the Frenchman's feet. Five hours later he brought the news which, made the Colonel gnash his teeth.

"Our birds— " he began in a voice which told Colonel Mackinder the truth.

"Hell!" he commented harshly. "They've flown?"

Lacorte bowed. "L'Ermitage Is an empty nest. All the windows are shuttered, only the concierge and a couple of gardeners remain."

"Perdition take them! Where are the others gone?"

"If! I knew that, my friend! The Concierge spoke of the Mediterranean, but it is as likely to he the moon. They went, at daybreak―"

"Five hours, ago. That is an age. But, Monsieur, we have to find them. There is no reason that we should remain here." Monsieur Lacorte shrugged his shoulders and masked his chagrin with a jest. "Our cambrioleur goes free!"

"I wish to heaven he didn't!... Come, Chevrell, you have a hound's nose for this crowd. Let us see if once, more you can get on their trail."

And with Monsieur Lacorte to guide them , they made their way to the sunlit street.

9

"WE'RE DEAD against the wall," said the Colonel, as he drank his coffee in Chevrell's hotel. "We don't know where that lot have gone— and from Paris the wide world is open to them."

"Are we quite sure they have left Paris?" asked Chevrell. "That closed house at Passy may be just a ruse."

"I have thought of that," answered Mackinder, "and I think it will he as well if I have. a look at the place."

"You won't see much from the outside, sir."

"There is that postern-gate you used."

"It Is probably locked and barred by now."

"Well, we can but try."

They drove to Passy together; and, finding the Hermitage, made a tour of its boundaries. The wall, crowned with glass and broken only by two posterns, in addition "to the main gates was a formidable structure, and moved Mackinder to remark:

'"Might be a fortress. Our friend Achmed means to have no intruders."

They tried both posterns and found them fastened, as Chevrell had anticipated; and, a little discouraged, moved round to the main gates again. Just as they reached them an elegant saloon car, all splashed with mud, drove up; and whilst its driver waited for the gates to be opened, a smaller car joined it, also much bemired. Both cars were without passengers, and whilst they waited the driver of the smaller car lit a cigarette and tossed an empty carton into the road.

Mackinder waited until the cars had passed through the gateway; then he retrieved the carton, and looked at it carelessly without expectation. Then he whistled sharply.

"What―" began Chevrell.

"Let us walk. We may be watched."

They strolled down the road together, and the Colonel spoke abruptly.

"Those cars have been on a considerable journey."

"Yes. And on wet roads."

"As far as Malaunay," said the colonel quietly.

"But how―"

The colonel thrust the discarded carton into his hand.

"Read— and learn the uses of advertisement, my boy."

Chevrell looked at the carton, which had held cigarettes other than the poisonous productions of the "Regie."  The name of the vendor was stamped . in blue across the carton.

"Jean Dupuy, Rue Havre. Malaunay."

Mackinder considered the carton again.

"Ten cigarettes. The man would smoke that number on the journey and  back."

"Yes," agreed Chevrell.

"And at Malaunay the railway divides for Deippe and Havre. A  jumping-off place for two ports, you observe."

"Yes."

"Someone must go to Malaunay and possibly to Dieppe or Havre or both. At one of these places the trail may be picked up."

"Yes."

"If you would take the job―"

"I will go like a bird."

"Good! Then we will consider the time tables."

"I can do better than that, sir.  Hugh had a sports car. I can drive and be independent of the railway."

"Excellent."

They drove back to the city, and on the way the colonel gave further instructions.

"If you strike the scent— follow it hard, but keep in touch with me by telegraph. The names of towns will be sufficient until you have something really important But don't take unnecessary risks. You know what that lot can do. You needn't spare expense. The situation may be getting critical. Medineh and company know that someone has wind of their little game; and that knowledge may spur them to hurry.  I shall work at this end. With Lacorte's help I may be able to get at those chauffeurs."

The Colonel lapsed into silence, lost in thought; but presently roused himself to give further instructions and cautions; and an hour later, driving his dead cousin's car, Chevrell left Paris, taking the road to Rouen.

It was almost four o'clock when, having parked his car, he strolled into the shop of Jean Dupuy, at Malauny. The proprietor was himself in charge, and Chevrell opened the conversation by making a purchase of the brand of cigarettes which the chauffeur had smoked,

"You sell many of these English cigarettes, Monsieur?" he inquired.

"Non! The price is prohibitive, M'sieur."

"But you sold a packet this morning," said Chevrell with a smile. "To a chauffeur on his way to Paris."

The man stared at him in amazement. Then he laughed.

"Ah, M'sieur got the address from my client?"

"From the carton," said Chevrell, producing it. "Tell me," he said, "you talked with, the man."

"But naturally M'sieur. The man and his friend sat with me in the cafe across the street whilst a tyre was repaired. If I knew why M'sieur inquired?"

"A matter of the police," said Chevrell quickly, "I have come from the Sûreté in Paris to make inquiry of those two men."

"Tiens! But who would have thought―"

Chevrell broke in on the man's astonishment. "They spoke of them

"Oui, M'sieur. They had driven from Paris to Les Ifs, in the rain of the night, and were returning very weary."

"Les Ifs?" asked Chevrell. "Are you sure of that name, Monsieur?"

"Very sure."

"They had taken someone there?"

"They mentioned no one, M'sieur. But there is a thing that I remember, that may be of interest."

"Tell me."

"Before we left the café the rain bad gone, and the day was fair. And the man who purchased the cigarettes remarked to his friend: 'A fair day for our bird-men, mon ami.'"

"Bird men?" asked Chevrell quickly.

"Oui—the aviators, Monsieur understands. I surmised from their words that they had friends who were to take the air."

"But there is no airport at Les Ifs!"

"Non! That is true. But between Les Ifs and Fecamp there is a private hangar at the Chateau Vaumont; which I have seen. It lies half way from Les Ifs to the coast."

"You know to whom it belongs?" asked Chevrell quickly.

"No; M'sieur; but the Chateau is well known, being much painted by artists in the summer. If M'sieur goes that way he will find it without glasses."

"Thank you. Monsieur—I shall go that way, for I am much interested In what you tell me. A private hangar is a rare thing."

"This one came from Le Havre, where the English had a great camp during the war, or so I have heard."

"You heard that pair speak more definitely perhaps?"

"No, M'sieur. Just that word of the birdmen and no more."

"I thank you. Monsieur Dupuy. Now I go, but you will understand that the words between us are secret."

"As the grave, M'sieur. I do not desire to quarrel with the Sûreté of Paris."

"I may see you again on my return," said Chevrell, taking his leave, "but now au revoir."

He left the shop, and, much exercised in his mind, walked to the  place where he had parked the car. If those whom he followed had a private aeroplane, then, unless he had the luck to hear of their destination, they would be difficult to find. His hope was low, and he was feeling infinitely depressed as he set the nose of the car in the direction of the coast, and drove at top speed.

An hour later he was at Les Ifs asking for the Chateau Vaumont. The place was well known; and in a little time he was in the neighbourhood of it. He found a road side inn, half tavern, half farm, a little way from the chateau, with a view from its mean window that took in the side of the house; and whilst he sipped at the sour wine which the tavern retailed, he developed an interest in the hangar.

"That is a strange building there," he remarked to his host. "I have seen nothing like it but at Le Bourget— the air station for Paris. But there I can be no aeroplane here in this rural place. The building is perhaps a granary for the chateau."

"No, m'sieur,"— the innkeeper spoke with pride— "it is not a granary. It is the stable of a great aeroplane."

"Indeed! you surprise me, Monsieur. The aeroplane is there now ? One might get a glimpse of it perhaps?"

"No, Monsieur! It went away this morning— that way, in the direction of the sea, and it has not yet returned." !

"So! An unfortunate thing. But another time perhaps the luck would be better. Monsieur does not know where the machine was going?"

"Who can guess the way of those who are like birds if the air— coming with a great roar and vanishing in the heights?  To Jersey perhaps; or possibly as far England. There is no certainty."

"No! As you say! There is no certainty in this world."

He offered the innkeeper a cigarette, lit one himself, and then remarked: "The owner of that fine house must be very rich to afford such an expensive toy."

"Undoubtedly Madame is wealthy."

"Madame!" Chevrell's face and voice expressed surprise.

"Yes, M'sieur! The owner of both the house and the aeroplane is very  beautiful woman— Madame Huseyn."

"Huseyn? That is not a name of Normandy."

"No, M'sieur. They say Madame is from Egypt or Syria, but I know not. There are times, however, when there is much coming, and going of men of foreign blood— great ones who are staying in Paris; and who visit Madame at the week ends."

"So!" Chevrell considered the hangar again, and asked a further question of the willing gossip. "Madame flies the machine herself perhaps?"

"Always! A wonder of a woman! There is also a mecanicien— an ebony giant—"

"Black!"

"As coal is black, m'sieur; but very skilled, I hear."

Chevrell pressed the sour wine on his host, and asked other questions as any gossipy tourist might; but without adding anything material to the information he had gathered, and presently took his leave.

But he did not go very far. To the left of the level pasture where the hangar was situated, and which was plainly the taking-off ground; there was a belt wood; and making his way there,  he hid himself in the undergrowth to watch.

The afternoon was warm, it was very quiet in the wood and in the neighbourhood of the chateau, and in a little time he grew drowsy. He awakened himself with an effort; but presently nodded again and. very tired after his sleepless night and strenuous day, he slipped into soundless slumber.

When he awoke it was almost dark, and more still than ever. Blaming himself for sleeping, he rose, stretched arms and legs and then considered first the hangar and secondly the chateau. Neither showed any sign of human activity; and he was fairly certain that the aeroplane had not returned, since the noise of it must have wakened him; but he determined it to make sure. After waiting, watchfully, for a little time, he left the wood, skirted the field, and reached the neighbourhood of the hangar. The size of it and the width of the doors told him that the machine it accommodated must be, a fairly large one, and a glance in. at the windows gave him the assurance he needed. The machine had not returned.

He looked round the private aerodrome. So far as he could see there were no preparations for a night landing; and assured of that he gave his attention to the chateau. Then he made a discovery. Since he had first seen it in the afternoon, someone had closed all the window shutters on the ground floor. That might be no more than part of a daily routine; but on the other hand it might mean that the return of Madame was not expected that night,  or even that she was going out of residence for some time. He wished he could make, sure; but it was not likely that anyone who could give him the information would do so, as Madame Huseyn would have little use for gossipy servants.

He watched the mansion for a little time, and then, creeping into a shrubbery, he began to move towards the near part of the house. There, rather unexpectedly, he came upon a lighted window; and scarcely had he done so when a near-by door opened, and a man came out.

Crouching low, he heard rather than saw the man pass round the house, and a minute or two later caught the sound of an automobile engine, and a touring car came round the house and halted by the open door. The man switched off the engine, and re-entered the house. Presently he returned with a second man. Between them they carried a large flat travelling trunk, which they placed on the grid at the back of the car. The pair went into the house and again emerged bearing a second trunk, and as they came out of the lighted doorway Chevrell saw the trunk was heavily labelled.

As they went back to the house, plainly for more baggage, Chevrell had an inspiration. Slipping from his place of concealment he ran lightly across the gravel, snatched at a dangling tag and back in his place, before the men returned, bearing suitcases, which they placed in the back of the car. In his hiding place, he gripped the label exultantly, and heard, one of the men say:—

"Voila tout, c'est tout!"

He called to someone within, and to Chevrell's surprise a woman emerged  and entered the rear of the car. One of the men went indoors, extinguished the light and locked the door behind him. A moment later both the men mounted the front seat of the car. One of them made a broad joke in colloquial French to the woman, who replied smartly, turning the jest on the man himself; and then the car moved on. Chevrell waited until the rear light was no longer visible; then hurriedly struck a match and read the luggage-tag he had filched.

Mde. M. Huseyn,

Passagere S.S. Le Havre,

Plymouth, Angleterre.

His heart leaped as he read. He had a flashing intuition of the situation. That woman whom the man had joked with had not been Madame Huseyn; but it might well be her maid following with the baggage; and Madame herself— He realised the truth sharply. The aeroplane had gone to England; and he had but to keep the maid in sight to learn the exact destination of the mistress.

"An easy lap!" he murmured to himself. "Le Havre will be the French liner, and I've got to catch her."

He hurried to Les Ifs, secured his car and took the road to le Havre. In a little time he saw the rear light of a car well ahead; and pressed the pace until, having passed the other car, he identified it as the one from the chateau. Then, calling at a petrol station, he let the car get ahead; and thence forward followed it steadily to the port; and to the quay, where he watched the transference of the baggage to the liner. When that was done, the car, with the two men in it, drove away, probably back to the chateau, he thought; and Le garaged his own car in the town, telegraphed to Mackinder and, securing his ticket,  went aboard.

There he had a great surprise; for standing on the deck, in the full glare of a lamp near the gangway was Mary Frobisher.

At first he could scarcely believe in his luck, and stood for a moment, watching her, to make sure that he was not misled by some chance resemblance. Then he knew that his first impression was right. The girl turned a little and their eyes met, and as he saw recognition leap in her face he started impulsively forward.

But, eager as he was, he was not permitted to renew her acquaintance at the moment. The girl made a sharp gesture to check him, looked swiftly over her shoulder, and shook her head, then walked away along the deck, in plainest intimation that for the time being they were to be strangers.

He found himself wondering why, and conjectured that there must. be some profound reason for her action; probably not unconnected with the secret business on which he was engaged. There could, he thought, be nothing else; and with an air of nonchalance he began to examine the other passengers. It wanted yet twenty minutes to sailing time, and travellers were still arriving, whilst others lingered about the deck watching the newcomers. Along the deck he saw the girl still with an eye upon the gangway; and realising that possibly he might be interfering with her purpose, he moved further away to give her a clear field.

A moment or two later she returned to the point where she had originally been, and resumed her vigil Watching, he deeded that she was on the lookout for someone who had not yet arrived; though her warning gesture and look backward had led him to believe that she had been loath to reveal her acquaintance with him to someone already aboard. Both possibilities might be facts, and hw interest grew as he divided his attention between the watchful girl and the other passengers. Among the latter he saw no one whom he could suspect of being associated with the Medineh crowd, and finally gave his complete attention to the gangway.

The time was growing short. Already the vessel's siren had sounded twice, and still Miss Frobisher watched. The siren bellowed again, and whilst its hoarse note drowned all other sounds, a man appeared upon the quayside and walked slowly towards the gangway as if he had the rest of the night in which to board the vessel.

Was this late arrival the man for whom the girl watched? Scarcely had he asked himself the question, when he was assured that it was so. For as the man passed her, she gave him a keen glance, then turned to watch him. Another man hurried out of the shadows to greet the last comer, and the girl moved forward a little, and stood with her back to them, in what, to Chevrell's vigilant eyes, was a listening attitude. The two men stood in the light of one of the arc lamps, and Chevrell stared at them intently. The late arrival was a stranger to him, but as he saw the other's face, he recognised him instantly for the man whom he had seen with the woman at Shepheard's Hotel. Cairo.

The pair moved along the deck towards the companionway, and Mary Frobisher followed them at a discreet distance. All disappeared from view. Chevrell remained where he was, hoping that the girl would return. The liner moved from the quayside and began to lift to the swell of the bay. Half an  hour passed and still Chevrell waited, pacing the deck, though most of his fellow passengers had sought their cabins. But it was not until an hour later that he saw a shadow steal along the deck, making his heart leap with anticipation of joy. It was the girl; , and, meeting him in the shadow of one of the boats, she greeted him as a friend, then whispered hurriedly:

"But, Mr. Chevrell, I did not know that you were to be here."

"Nor did I know that you—"

"My uncle sent me. He had word of those two men, from his friend, Monsieur Lacorte, and I followed one of them here. I am to report to him their destination, though I do not yet know where that is."

"It is the same as mine, I fancy," laughed Chevrell; cheerfully.

"But how can that be ?"

"Oh," he answered lightly, "I am dancing at the heels of a French maid."

"Mr. Chevrell!" she whispered with a mockery of outraged propriety. "How can you tell me―"

"A French maid and a stack of luggage that I'll swear is for her mistress, who had gone overhead to England."

"By aeroplane?"

"Unquestionably, I think. And there are others with her— one of whom knows more than he ought about my cousin's death. So I follow the maid to find the mistress, who a week ago gave me a love token."

"A love token!. You surprise me!"

"Of an unusual kind— a bullet in the arm."

"Oh!" whispered the girl.

"But she is a right handsome lady, with a way, and a pair of eyes—"

"We all have as much," laughed Miss Frobisher.

"Dark eyes— with fire in them. Made for conquest―"

"They seem to have a spell for you," came the interruption, still with laughter.

"No," he answered quickly. "There are other eyes have that. And they are not dark."

"Dear! dear!" she mocked mirthfully. "And the colour? You have not told me that."

"Golden!" he laughed back. At, least they have golden lights; and if you were to move the lamp there―"

'"Not even in my hunger for knowledge," she retorted again with laughter; then grew suddenly serious. "Mr. Chevrell, I came to tell you— you must not know me here, whatever happens. We are strangers— for the time."

"Thank heaven for the saving clause."

"I must go at once, having told you. If we should be observed together―"

She left it at that; and, slipping away along the deck, disappeared. Chevrell watched her go, then still lingered staring over the starlit sea, wondering why it was so urgent that they should not be seen together, and speculating as to the exact reason for. her presence on the vessel. Those two men, of course, or one of them―

His thoughts' became more personal; and he stared at the seas still, lost in dreams. From them he was awakened by a sharp sound which he heard through the drumming of the ship, and which made him suddenly alert. An officer raced by him excitedly.

"Mon Dieu!" he cried. "You heard, M'sieur ? A pistol shot!"

Chevrell had no doubt of that. The sound had been characterised by a quality that was unmistakable. He followed the officer down the companion way towards the private cabins; and when he reached them, heard at an open door a man shouting vociferously. There was a tang of burnt cordite in the air; and with a little stab of anxiety he recognised the shouting man as the one whom Mary Frobisher had watched. The fellow; had a pistol in his hand; and his face had a convulsed look as he stormed wildly at a steward.

"A thief.... A she-cat, who has robbed me of my papers— papers of an enormous value!"

"Mais, M'sieur—" the steward broke in protestingly, and then asked a question which set the other foaming.

"M'sieur is sure it is not le cauchemar— the mare that rides in dreams? He is a sufferer, perhaps, and—"

"The nightmare! Idiot!" The man fairly exploded. "I will have the ship searched, every woman stripped―"

The officer strode forward and inquired tersely: "The trouble, Monsieur. You have been robbed? How did it happen?"

"Happen?" the man vociferated.  "How can I explain. I wake from sleep, and there is a light in my cabin— the light of a flash-lamp. I hear a rustle; then I see a hand busy among my papers— a woman's hand, with a ring.  The papers are important, so I cry out and fire the pistol; but the woman shuts off her light and vanishes."

"She took the papers, M'sieur?"

"Some of them ?"

"You would know her again?"

"By the hand and the ring. I did not see her face; but Monsieur; I must have those papers, returned at any cost. You must the women parade—"

Chevrell looked over the heads of the little knots of passengers who had assembled in the corridor. Most of the cabin doors were open, with heads craned out, curiously. Almost at the end of the corridor where his own cabin was he saw Mary Frobisher standing, and as he met her eyes she beckoned, him, then disappeared. He got his, first inkling of the truth then. The man had not been dreaming. He had been really robbed, and Mary Frobisher was the thief, who, risking that pistol-shot; had purloined some of his papers.

Convinced, of that, Chevrell thrust his-way through the knots of excited . passengers, who, being mostly French, were voluble as the victim himself. He reached his cabin and thrust the door open. The girl stood there, her golden eyes dancing with excitement.

"You—" he began.

"Of course, dear man. For this I came a-voyaging. Quick! Your pencil. I have lost mine, and there is no time to, waste. If that noisy creature induces them to search— Don't say you haven't one or—"

Chevrell said nothing. He produced an ever-pointed pencil, and handed it to her. She took it, then with a little excited laugh commanded:―

"Shut the door. Bolt it. If I can get only five minutes it will suffice."

He obeyed her without question, and for further security set, his  shoulders against the door. The girl seated herself upon the cot; and he watched her curiously whilst, thrusting a hand into the loose neck of her dress, she extracted a folded paper. Opening it, she coursed it rapidly, then from a hidden pocket she produced a little wad of what might have been cigarette papers but were not. Setting a square of carbon paper between the upper leaves of this pad she began to copy the contents of the folded paper. She worked rapidly, and in a minute over the five she had desisted, looked up, and said with a little laugh:

"Finis! Now, Mr. Chevrell, there are two things you; can do for me."

10

"NAME THEM," said Chevrell with an answering laugh.

"There is this document." She held up the purloined paper. "They may search for it; and I want it to be found— but not in my possession. If you could drop it somewhere in such a way that it might look as if in the hurry of flight—"

"Give it me," he interrupted. "I understand."

"And the second thing is I want you to go to my cabin— and bring here the polished wooden box that looks like a microscope case, and is so labelled. Don't jolt it as you bring it, or you may attract attention. If you go one way down the corridor, and return the other— you will miss the crush coming back."

Chevrell nodded, and inquiring the number of her cabin, went his way.

The crowd was still in the corridor, and the owner of the lost papers was more vociferous, than ever, insisting that immediate search should be made for the precious paper. He joined the crush, dropped the document, at the heels of a lady whose rather old. fashioned peignoir swept the floor, and saw another woman trample upon it, then unobtrusively made his way to the girl's cabin. There he found the box she had indicated, and with out the remotest idea of what it contained, carried it on deck, and, walking round to the second companion way, reached his own cabin. There was an odour of burnt ceiling wax in the air, and the girl was busy sealing the end of two quills. As he saw her be guessed what was in the box.

"Carrier pigeons!" he ejaculated.

"Two!" she answered with a smile.

"My uncle has a loft. He will have those copies in the morning, and will no doubt find them interesting. It is a pity that man awoke when he did.... I didn't get all I wanted. But one can't have all the luck of the game."

"No!" agreed Chevrell. "Though I don't think you can complain."

He watched the delicate hands as they worked swiftly at their task, noted the ring on the left hand, which the vociferous man in the corridor had observed, and experienced a little disquiet. It was on the, ring-finger, and proclaimed to all the world an engaged, young lady. If it were so―

"Ready !" she said, disturbing his thoughts.

In no time at all she had fixed one of the quills in place on the first pigeon, and had moved to the porthole. There for. a second she stood listening and staring out on the starlit sea, then she released the bird, which disappeared in the night.

"No one will see it go," she laughed, "and these people will never suspect."

In two or three minutes the second pigeon followed, then she turned to him with a laugh.

"Time to end this impropriety!"

Chevrell let the little jest go by.

"That ring," he said. "I should remove it. If that man were to see it, he might recognise it and―"

"Of course! How stupid of me. I left Paris in a hurry or I should not have brought it at all, for I do not customarily wear it... It is a ring with associations."

"Naturally!" he said significantly. The girl's eyes met his. There was a soft gleam of mirth in their depths.

"Mr. Chevrell, you jump like a grasshopper!"

"I jump—"

"To conclusions, I mean!  And as it chances, you are quite wrong—"

Chevrell joined in her laughter, and answered cheerfully enough.,

"It is pleasant to find oneself in the wrong— sometimes."

"I have never found it so," she laughed back. "I should say the occasions must be very rare."

"For me, this is one of them," persisted Chevrell.

The girl met his eyes frankly, read something there that he was at no pains to hide, and a brilliant, flush came in her face. Then she laughed again.

"You ought to know." She made a move towards the door. "That case—"

"I will take charge of it."

"It is collapsible," she explained, "It will take up little room."

"I shall see you in the morning?" he asked.

"You may— as I cannot follow those birds. But I think you must not know  me. It is well that we should not be observed together. I shall be in England at least until I have discovered the destination of that man Whom I robbed. It is possible that we may find ourselves in the same neighbourhood—if you continue your dance at the skittish heels of your French maid; but even in that case I think we must remain strangers."

"Oh, confound it!"

"Twice over," she laughed back. "But secrecy demands it." She glanced at her watch. "Shades of Mrs. Grundy! Two-five, a.m. If I am observed leaving―"

She opened the door, peeped in the corridor; and, making a gesture of farewell, slipped away. Chevrell waited a little time, then he followed. All was quiet in the corridor, from which fact he deduced that the stolen document had been found. But with a desire to make sure, he went on deck, lit a cigarette, and pacing to and fro, presently encountered the officer who had spoken to him when the pistol shot had startled both of them.

"You found that thief?" he asked.

"No, Monsieur, but we found the paper that was stolen, which was perhaps better. Whilst that man was demanding that we search the ladies—think of it, Monsieur!— his precious paper was close at hand, being trodden on by those about. We found it when the spectators dispersed; and it must have lain there, dropped by the lady-thief, through all the noise."

"An important document, no doubt, for a lady to risk that pistol in order to secure it."

"That is likely. Monsieur. Not a case of common theft certainly. There is more than meets the eye. A matter of espionage, I imagine. And in that case, Monsieur, the lady would have the nerve, for her kind are the very devil."

Chevrell agreed, talked a little while longer, and having learned what he wished went his way to his cabin. There he spent some time reflecting on what had befallen. One thing appeared certain— Mackinder had received news which had put him definitely on the track of at least one of those associated with the mystery of the green crescent, and Mary Frobisher had been put to the dangerous task of following that trail. He felt a surge of resentment that Mackinder should expose her to the peril of such a task, then laughed a little ruefully at himself.

"She was cool enough," he reflected. "Probably is an expert at the game, whilst I'm no more than the duffing amateur."

His thoughts travelled forward a little. To-morrow—. A musing look came in his eyes as he considered the possibility of their being thrown together as they pursued their individual tasks. That, he thought, was likely enough.

The flight from Paris to England on the part of those whom he was trying to trace meant a new rendezvous, at which the leaders in the business would foregather; and whilst he followed the maid, Miss Frobisher, following the man whom she had robbed, would almost certainly arrive, sooner or later, at the same place as himself. She herself anticipated, something of the sort; and though outwardly they were to be strangers, he found the prospect of further meetings attractive.

It was late when he turned in, but he was astir early in the morning, alert for the girl's appearance, that he suffered a disappointment. She did not appear on the deck; nor did she put in an appearance at breakfast. Not until the actual landing at Plymouth did he see her at all; and then he was granted no more than a glimpse of her as she slipped into a taxi-cab. He had no time to give her further attention.

The French maid, very efficient, had already secured a porter, who was carrying the trunk he had brought to a large private car, driven by a man whom Chevrell had never seen before.

In no time at all she would be away. He looked hurriedly about him for a taxi. There was none that was not already engaged. Desperately he left the quay hoping that he might have the luck to pick one up, but was disappointed, and be was still searching when the car he had marked passed him with the maid by the driver's side.

Helpless to, follow, in dismay he watched it, go, automatically noting the number. When it was out of sight he looked around for Mary Frobisher —thinking that he could at least pick up the scent through the man whom she was to shadow. But she, also, had disappeared and he was left ruefully contemplating a lost trail. He had failed Mackinder utterly; and there remained nothing, but to report his failure and await instructions.

He spent some time in the telegraph office, booked a room at the hotel, and, having had a meal, at a loss what to do with himself, strolled, up to the Hoe, and after walking the length of it twice, seated himself upon one of the benches, end gave himself up to thoughts that were not of the happiest.

Concerned as he was for his. own failure, he was even more deeply concerned for Mary Frobisher. He had hoped to keep in touch with her, and now that hope was frustrated. The fact itself; made him unhappy; but reflecting on the possible consequences of it, he was troubled by apprehensions. The girl was alone on the trail of two men, who, as the pistol shot last night had proved, were, capable of desperate action. They had a tremendous secret to guard, a secret which had already been threatened; and they would be on the alert. His cousin's death was evidence that they would not shrink from the ultimate crime in order to keep their secret inviolate.

Apparently Mary was unknown to the pair; but at least one of those whom they were to join knew her, and suspected that she shared in the Colonel's activities. The shadowing of her, and the attempt to abduct her two nights ago, set that beyond all doubt, if, by any chance, they encountered her anything might happen.

He sat for some time the prey of gloomy apprehensions, and was quite unaware of the fact that a neighbouring, bench had been occupied by two men Until the rather noisy voice of one of them forced itself upon his attention.

"—a girt thing big as the barn, a'most. Scared the cattle an' the chicken to death, a'most, wold grammer too. Had to vetch out the brandy bottle to bring her round; and her'm still a-bed, zufferin' from shock the doctor d'zay."

"Enough to shock a stone image, I'd reckon," commented his hearer.

"Terrible I d'call it," said the first speaker. "Ought to be put down, by law. Be bad. enough to have they dumed motor cycles flying at ee like a big cockchaffer, hitting ee in the eye before ee can zee en; but when it d'come to―"

"Bobs-a-dies! There'm Tryphena!" broke in the second man, and started suddenly from his seat, putting an end to the conversation.

Chevrell watched. the pair, idly speculating what it was-that-ought to be put down by law; and, from what he had heard, divining a charabanc or a petrol-lorry which had administered a shock to some rustic household. Not until three hours later did another possible explanation occur to him, throwing him into a fever of excitement.

Tired of inaction and driven by the hope of some distraction from troubling thoughts, he had entered a big cinema which had a "gazette" feature in which up-to-date, events were screened. Most of them were of no mortal interest to him; but there was one picture which arrested his attention the moment it appeared; since it was that of a big aeroplane, on which mechanics were at work!

Apparently the machine had made a forced descent, and had narrowly missed a small moorland farm, for it lay with its great tail across the garden fence, which was crushed flat. As be looked at it with the several mechanics buzzing about it like bees, by some odd association of ideas, he remembered the fragment of conversation he had overhead on the Hoe.

Here, he thought, was its explanation. That which had scared the speaker's "wold grammer" so much had not been the charabanc or petrol lorry of his conjecture, but the great aeroplane which was pictured there, with its trail across the farmyard fence. A little amused at the coincidence he read the caption "Mechanics repairing the damaged aeroplane."

Then he looked more closely at the picture. The mechanics had shifted their positions, and to his astonished eyes was conveyed the knowledge that one of them was a black man.

So startled was he that he rose, abruptly from his seat, and almost in the same second the picture flickered out, and there flashed on the screen its successor: "H.M.S. Thunderbolt, leaving for the Chinese station."

He had no interest in the Thunderbolt. The picture of the aeroplane almost in the doorway of the little farm was a revelation. Here was the clue that would again set him on the trail he had lost. Blindly he groped his way between the seats, stumbled up the gangway, and at the top almost charged into the girl whose duty it was to light clients to their places.

"Excuse me—" be began.

"Might look where you're. going, clumsy," interrupted, the girl crossly.

"I am very sorry," he said. , "My eyes are dazzled by the screen." He found half-a-crown and thrust it in the girl's hand. "Also. I am in a. hurry to learn something. Perhaps you can tell me."

"Anything to oblige, you, sir," said the girl, mollified by his solid, proof of penitence.

"That aeroplane on the screen is somewhere around here, isn't it?"

"For sure I don't know, sir. I think nothing of 'The Gazette.' It's the comedies I like, an―"

Chevrell privately damned the comedies, and plunged, for the stairs.

In the gilded and spacious vestibule he saw the big commissionaire, gold laced and splendid; but, as he was assured, hopeless— as a fount of knowledge.

"Ah!"

A man In evening dress, with a shirt front that shone like a mirror and was obviously stiff as a board had joined the commissionaire and was speaking to him. He wore no hat, and was chewing the end of an unlighted cigar. Obviously the manager. He almost ran to the man.

'"Excuse me, sir, there is a little service you can do me, for which I shall be infinitely grateful."

The man looked at him with a hard eye, saw that he was not a beggar, and hardly the kind of client to come to him about a draught; and with a laconic habit contracted from long study of transatlantic films spoke a single word:

"Shoot!"

"On the screen, in 'The Gazette',  I have just seen the picture of a damaged aeroplane―"

"Yes! It's there!" Then the speaker essayed a joke. "You the owner—claiming copyright ?"

"No!" Chevrell forced, a laugh. "But I am interested. The plane, I am sure, belongs to— er— a friend of mine. Can you tell me where it crashed?"

'Shot if I know. Somewhere up on the moor— I've a notion; but it's all in the early editions of the evening papers."

"Thanks."

Chevrell took the steps to the street in two strides, the second of which was a leap which almost took him into the arms of a stout constable.

"Steady there!" continued the officer. "You'll he hurting somebody,"

Chevrell did not pause to apologise. There was a boy with newspapers at a corner, and snatching one he passed sixpence in payment and hurried to the nearest shop window. Rapidly he scanned the paper without finding what, he wanted. Three minutes later he was back at the corner, demanding an earlier edition of the boy.

"Earlier edition!" The boy looked as if he suspected him of lunacy. Never in his life as a vendor had he ever been asked for anything but the latest. Then he spoke sarcastically "Pulling my leg or what?"

Chevrell came near to puffing his ears, and restrained himself only by an effort.

"No, I really want one. Tell me where I can get all the earlier editions of the paper and there's a shilling for you."

"First corner on the left. Five doors, up. Tobacco an' news: He'll have 'em all."

Chevrell paid the shilling and following the terse directions found the shop.

"I want all the editions of the evening paper If you can oblige me."

"Right!" said the man, and began to count, them out: "Third, fifth, sixth, late extra. There you are, sir."

"But I want the first and second particularly," said Chevrell, protestingly.

"That's them,", laughed the man putting a thumb on the third. "Numbering is just a joke of the proprietors."

Chevrell hoped it was so, and paying for the papers asked: 'D'you mind if I look through them here?"

"No! There's a stool in the corner there."

He did not take the stool, but standing with his back to the man and to the light rapidly conned the third. Almost immediately he found what he wanted. -

CRASHED AEROPLANE AT

BUCKFASTLEIGH.

"We learn that the large aeroplane, which, as reported in yesterday's last edition, made a forced landing at Furzey Cross Farm, near Buckfastleigh, is a private machine, and not, as first reported, a bombing plane of the R.A.F. It is stated that it had come from Croydon with five passengers and was on its way to Penzance, when engine trouble compelled a forced descent, which came near to ending disastrously, the machine, according to the statement of an eye-witness, shaving the farm buildings so closely that when it came, to a  standstill the tail of it rested on the garden hedge. Fortunately the passengers escaped with a few bruises and shock; whilst the machine itself was not greatly damaged; testimony alike to the skill of the pilot and the increased stability of the modern plane."'

Chevrell did not trouble to even open the other papers. Here was the news he needed; and that was all sufficient. He left the shop, carrying the paper with him, his heart leaping exultantly. As he went, he was resolved to . depart on the quest of the damaged aeroplane without delay. A new chance was afforded him, and rather than miss it he would spend all the hours of the night in tramping to Furzey Cross by Buckfastleigh. But there was no need to tramp. A taxi-cab would be available or― By Jove! Yes! A motor cycle! That would be the very ticket; for on It a man might move swiftly, and attract far less attention than If he travelled in a taxi-cab.

Five minutes later he was in a garage,  asking for the loan of a motor cycle, and though the proprietor was at first inclined to refuse, in the end he yielded, tempted by the price which was offered him.

"You can have the jigger for the week for that, sir."

"Good! Then fill her up— oil— and petrol. I shall be starting in half an hour."

"Very good, sir. I'll have the jigger ready for you at the time named."

He went to his hotel and discharged his bill; having a fairly sure idea that he would not return there for some days. Then he hurried to the Post Office, reaching it exactly five minutes before it closed. After dispatching a second telegram, to Colonel Mackinder to inform him of his change of address, he filled in readdress forms for letters and telegrams; and with a feeling that all was in apple-pie order he went back to the garage to find the motorcycle was ready for the road. He got precise directions from the proprietors, and then started out at first carefully, but when clear of the own, after testing the engine's power and reliability of the machine, he went all out, racing along the embankment road and up the hill through. Plympton, to the high country beyond.

The road was good; the traffic of the day had thinned almost to extinction; and beyond a few private cars and motor omnibuses, there was nothing to hinder him. He hummed along at a great pace; flashed through Ivy Bridge on to South Brent, and then swung north for Buckfastleigh, arriving there a little under three quarters of an hour. Needing further information, he entered the King's Arms, and in the taproom, heard gossip which was helpful.

"Working like niggers they be—"

"One of them be a nigger, hain't ee?"

"Iss, an' a giant to work? Keeps th' others at it like ants. In a mortal hurry to get the job done, zeemingly."

"Trew, I've been up to Fuzzy Cross to have a look. The black-a-moor cursed me vor getting in the way uv 'en. Spectators an' such curious volk baint wanted up to Fuzzy Cross just now, I'll tell 'ee."

Chevrell could well believe that. The lees the attention of the public was drawn to the damaged aeroplane the better from the point of view of its owner, who would be anxious to avoid giving pointers to anyone who might be on the lookout for the passengers it had carried. He asked a question.

"How far is it to Furzey Cross Farm?

"Dwo miles as the crow flies, dree, or hear vour as the road goes."

"Which way does the road go?"

"Out to Wallaford Cross up througn  Cross Furzes an' Hayford. After that 'tis a god-forsaken lane ee've got to traipse, where a stranger mid break his neck in the dark "

"That so?"

Chevrell's voice indicated a waning interest, but presently, emptying his glass, he went outside, prepared to risk his neck. A boy put him on the road for Wallaford Cross and he departed at a good speed, with a well-defined fear for spur. Those mechanics in the picture had been buzzing like bees. He had the testimony of an eye-witness that the negro mechanic was driving the others like ants. That meant that there was an urgency to get the repairs finished and the aeroplane away. If the work was finished, it was possible that the black might already have flown the machine from the scene of the accident..

With that fear, he took chances on the moorland roads, arrived at Hayford, asked his-way again, and then, parking the motor cycle in a ditch, continued his way on foot, guided by a glare unusual on the moor at night.

The. rough track climbed upward; and quite suddenly as he reached the  top of the incline, he saw Furzy Cross on the further slope. Lights flashed to and fro. The head lamps of a great motor wagon threw their glare over the scene, cutting the house from the surrounding darkness. But the aeroplane itself was not visible. A little disturbed, he crept cautiously down the hill a little way; then quite suddenly the truth came to him. The body of the aeroplane was on the wagon— and the busy mechanics whom he had seen on the screen and of whose activities he had heard at The King's Arms had n been repairing' the machine— they had been dismantling it.

His heart leaped at the realisation. There was now no fear of his losing track of the aeroplane, a man on a motor cycle could follow that wagon through the length of England, run circles round it, lose it and find it again and no matter how far its destination, he in at the finish.

He lay down in the heather and watched the proceedings. An hour passed and still the activity about the farm continued. Another half hour went slowly by; then he heard a shout; one or two of the electric torches were extinguished, and the head-lights of the wagon began to move slowly forward, stopped and then started again, the engine of the vehicle sounding brazenly through the moorland stillness. He waited a little while until he was sure that the wagon was ascending the hill; then, at a run made for the place where he had left the motor cycle, and, crouching low in the ditch, waited  for  the wagon's coming.

11

THE WAGGON came rumbling down the rough, rutted road slowly, and as it passed his hiding place he looked at the glazed cabin in front. There were three men on the driver's seat; and dimly he discerned that the one in the middle was a coloured man— Madame Huseyn's black mechanic beyond all question. Where the aeroplane went he would go, and as Madame would no doubt require to know the latest news of her expensive toy, to trace her through the black would be the easiest thing in the world .

With a quiet heart he watched the wagon bump its way down the rough road, and when its rear light disappeared at a bead; he got out his machine, lit the lamp, but kept the flame low, and started in pursuit, moving at the slowest pace the cycle permitted: As he went he reflected that this night removal of the aeroplane was no doubt an attempt to keep its destination secret; and he found cause for satisfaction that it should be so; since, with proper management, the night would serve as a veil for his shadowing which day might have made almost impossible

Following slowly, he saw the rear light of the wagon swing into Buckfastleigh and on to the Ashburton Road The hour was late, and there was none to witness the passing of the plane; and he smiled to himself as he thought of what the gossip would be at tie King's Arms when its clients heard of this midnight flitting.

Once in the broad road, the wagon made a good pace, and, still with his light low, he was able to follow in greater comfort; though at such a distance that there were times when he lost sight of his quarry altogether.

He began to speculate as to the wagon's destination. Ashburton? Exeter? or further afield? He reasoned that the place it was making for could not be very far, however. The fact that the aeroplane coming from France had descended so far west, led him to infer that somewhere in this district had been the place it had been making for; and as the weather had been clear the pilot could scarcely have made a mistake, whilst the landing at Plymouth of Madame's maid and the two men whom Mary Frobisher had robbed was further support for that conviction. Soon he told himself he would be in touch with those whom he sought, and possibly with the girl herself.

Then, unexpectedly, he lost sight of the red light in front. His first impression was that it had gone out; and stopping his engine he halted to listen. The harsh drone of the vehicle he was following was distinctly audible through the night stillness. Whilst he listened it became more strident proclaiming the ascent of a considerable hill; and I though the road in front was almost straight the sound seemed to come well from his left

"Turned!" he ejaculated. Starting his engine he hurried forward and in less than three minutes reached a point where a narrow lane entered the main road at a sharp right angle. To listen he had no need to shut off his own engine; for insistently through, the stillness came the harsh noise of the wagon moving up the hill.

"There!" he said.

He waited at the junction some time, and not until the strident note sounding through the night was softened by distance did he set his machine to the hill up which the lane wound. It was a stiffish ascent, and when he reached the top he again paused to listen.

The wagon ahead was on another hill. He could tell that from the din it made; and for a time he remained where he was, watching the moon rise, assured that he could easily overtake his quarry, when occasion arose. He had no idea where the road went, but it was clear that the country about was sparsely populated, and when the moon sailed higher in the sky, against its bright disc, like a grotesque shadow, he saw the head of a lofty tor.

The chase, he surmised, was leading him anew, to the great waste of Dartmoor; and somewhere in its widespread solitude was the sanctuary to which Prince Medineh, Madame Huseyn and the others had fled.

He watched the moon rise higher, saw the stony head of the tor become more clearly, defined, and reflected to himself that there would be need for caution. In this wilderness  of heath and gorse, bog and granite anything might happen. A dead man might lie there without discovery until the ravens and carrion rodents had picked his bones clean; and a man might be murdered in open daylight without any eye save that of the slayer witnessing the deed.

The sound of the wagon was much fainter before he resumed his way. With the moon to light the road, be extinguished his lights, taking the inconsiderable chance of meeting some rural constable on his beat. The going was good; the road in fine condition for such a district; and between flanking trees he rode on. passed a short terrace of cottages, and once more plunged into solitude. He saw no lights anywhere; and the character of the country, as the moonlight revealed grew steadily wilder. Another steep ascent offered itself, and he was forced to take it at a rush, making a row that in the moorland stillness was like the fire of a machine gun. As he reached the top of the hill other tors lifted into view, austere and cold in the moonlight, whilst here the slope of a hill showed clearly, and there a valley was in deepest shadow.

Unexpectedly he came on a stream which crossed the road, and splashed through, throwing up a plume of water which drenched him. Beyond the road made an ascent, then forked twice, but on each occasion, like a guiding star, he saw the rear light of the wagon far away, for the road on the side that mattered had neither hedge nor wall.

He lost count of time and of distance. His sole impression was that the way was long, the country extremely solitary, the road at times very narrow, with not so much as a cottage to break up the infinite solitude. Then with the wagon well ahead, he came on houses, a village of sorts; and in the moonlight read an A. A. sign with the name that told him nothing since it was strange to him. He felt that he would have been more at home among the khors of Darfur or Kordofan than in this wilderness of his native land: and a moment later realised that the strident note of the powerful engine of the wagon had  ceased; and that only the insistent tack-tack of his own machine filled this English wilderness with alien sound.

He stopped his engine instantly, and, coming to a standstill, stared at the descending road in front of him. The red rear-light which he had followed over the moorland roads was no longer visible. The road in front of him was empty as a rifled nest. A little anxiously he stared further afield. At first he saw nothing The road here had trees and to right and left they shrouded the view; but presently he saw a place where the trees were darkly limned against a strong light. He considered the position of the moon. That light could not emanate from it; and he guessed that the radiance proclaimed, the headlight of the wagon, which must have left the road, and, as he thought, taken some side track. Had the vehicle reached its destination?

He could not tell, but it was incumbent on him to find out, and that without being discovered. Dismounting, he began to push his machine forward, looking sharply to right and left a? he went; and keeping his ears alert.

From somewhere beyond the trees he caught the sound of voices and a bellow of laughter, very clear in the moorland stillness; He pushed on,  cautiously, and five minutes later halted sharply as his eyes fell on something which shone whitely in the moonlight. He stared at it fixedly for a full minute before he realised that it was some kind of notice board—probably of the trespassers-will-be-prosecuted variety, he guessed.

Moving forward once more he reached the board which leaned drunkenly over a wall, and with some curiosity paused to read it. He learned that his conjecture had been wrong, the board announcing that this house was to be let furnished.

There was a house, then— a rather solitary house setback from the road, invisible by reason of the trees. He stared across the fence, and through the bordering trees saw again the radiance which he had previously noticed.

"The lights of the wagon," he told himself, exultantly, realising that he had reached the place, the discovery of which, a few hours before had seemed so remote.

The radiance faded suddenly, and only the moonlight made the trees visible. Evidently the wagon had reached its destination or was being parked for the night. He moved on again, following the line of the wall closely and on the watch for any break in it The wall was a long one, proclaiming that - the estate which it hounded was of considerable extent, but in a little while he came to a white gate, hung on a granite post; and standing wide open to the night. Conifers flanked the approach beyond, hiding whatever house was bowered there, and the gravel shone whitely in the moonlight

"Here!" he whispered and stared in at the open gate.

Again voices drifted to him, with the sound of laughter. The house might he to let furnished, hut at the moment there were people in residence, and it was incumbent on him to find out who they were. He considered the gravelled  approach then looked at the motor cycle. The latter, which had served him so well, had lost its usefulness for the moment, and the first thing to be done was to find a hiding-place for it.

Something to bolt on is as good as a bolt hole," he jested to himself: and leaving the motor cycle to take care of itself for a moment, he set out to find a place where it might be parked, unobserved by any passer-by. A little way down the road he found a second gate giving admission to an extensive copse, which, owing to the number and thickness of the trees, was in Cimmerian gloom.

"The very place."

Going back for his machine he returned to the gate, opened it very quietly and parked the motorcycle where he could get it quickly in the event of need for hurry.

Again he sought the white gate, stepped inside, and listened once more. The hooting of owls was the only sound that disturbed the stillness of the night. After a little time he began to move forward cautiously, keeping well in the shadow of the conifers, until he found a place where he could slip through. Then he followed the line of the trees, and in three minutes he had a view of the house, and of the wagon he had trailed from Furzey Cross.

The latter stood a little the side, lights out and plainly parked for the night. In the house two windows showed lights. The door was closed, and apparently there was no one moving outside.

He decided to creep nearer, and was in the act of doing so when in the upper story a third window was illumined and a woman came into view.

"Madame Huseyn!"

As he whispered the name exultatation surged within him. His long trail that night was completely justified. Here was the sanctuary of the people in whom Mackinder was so deeply interested. Assured of that, he stood debating what he should do. Would it not be wiser to make for the nearest town and at the earliest moment get into touch with the colonel giving him he news? Then he decided that there was plenty of time for that, whilst there was a possibility that he might learn something more that would be useful, if get a glimpse through those lighted windows on the ground floor.

Before he could move, however, his attention was arrested by a sound which came throbbingly through the Immense, silence. There was a car moving somewhere on the moorland roads, and as he listened, he wondered if it were coming to this house. That was just possible, and he waited to see if it should prove to be so, watching the lighted windows in the house carefully meanwhile.

Madame had withdrawn from the upper window, which, however remained illuminated. No one was visible at the other windows, but once from the rear of the house came a rolling sound of laughter— from the big coloured mechanic's throat, he guessed. It might pay to investigate in that direction presently, out for the moment. he remained where be was listening to the throb of the unseen car.

The sound, grew clearer. Unquestionably the vehicle was coming in the direction of this lonely house, and five minutes later he heard it stop outside the white gate. Then came the sound of light, firm steps on the gravel.

"A woman!" he whispered to himself. "At this hour! Who?"

He could see only indistinctly, for now the bright moon threw the shadows of the conifers across the approach, and the advancing caller was just a darker shadow to his view. The woman passed the point where ne crouched, and from the spring in her walk he guessed her to be young; then she reached the front of the house, crossed the zone of light streaming from one of the windows, and arrived at the door. Then followed a sharp rat-a-tan!

The door opened, and a voice drifted to him through the night— a voice the familiar notes of which stirred in him overwhelming apprehension.

Miss Frobisher! Why was she making this call at such an hour?

He caught the next words quite clearly.

"I'm awfully sorry to trouble you, but I saw your lights; and I have run out of petrol. I wonder if you would possibly oblige me with a tin, as I have still some miles to go."

Chevrell wondered if the explanation were a genuine one. If so she would not know who ' were the tenants of this solitary house. But he found that difficult to credit She had left Plymouth on the trail of the two men who had arrived by the steamer Le Havre, and one of whom she had robbed. Not for a moment did he question that this house had been their destination, and in that case, she must be aware of the fact unless she had lost them on the way, as he had lost the maid. The explanation was a perfectly reasonable one, and the plight she pleaded was commonplace enough; but he had a conviction that it was the merest excuse; and somehow at this hour, offered at this particular house, it sounded to him very thin and flimsy.

Beset with fears, he waited for what was to follow.

The sound of voices conferring drifted to him too indistinctly for him to catch what they said; then he heard Miss Frobisher laughing, care-free laughter, which he could not believe was simulated.

"Stupid of me, of course! But though I deserve the fate, I do not want to spend a night on the moor."

Male laughter joined with hers. He caught odd words... "Wake the chauffeur... If you will step..."

The rest he guessed, and from his heart he prayed that she would not accept the invitation to enter. But she did. With something very like despair, he saw her pass through the lighted doorway. If by any chance she were recognised anything might happen; and there was at least one man in that house, he was assured, to whom she was known.

He stood there in a quandary, unable to do anything, torn with acute anxiety. One thing only there was for his comfort—the door remained open from which he argued that so far her excuse had been accepted as genuine; and that she had riot been recognised by the individual who had answered her rat-a-tan. Five long minutes passed.  Laughing voices reached him indistinctly, and he conjectured that some animated conversation was preceding. Was the girl going to carry the thing through after all? It seemed very possible and―

A man appeared at the open door, a tall, slim man, whose face was in shadow. At the moment Chevrell did not recognise him, but he watched his actions with deepest interest Those actions were sufficiently intriguing. Leaving the doorway the man descended the step's, and then suddenly and silently as a cat moved, along the terrace till he reached the further illuminated window. There he halted, and, standing close to the stonework, peeped in at the window— a proceeding which struck Chevrell as being so extraordinary that he could find only one explanation of it; the man desired to inspect the late caller, without himself being observed.

New fears assailed Chevrell. There was one, at least, in that house who suspected the genuiness of the girl's excuse. He must warn her at once. But how? He could see no immediate way, yet one must be found. If only he knew what was happening in that room into which the secret observer continued to stare, it might be helpful. A little desperate, he decided to take a chance.

Leaving the shadow of the conifers, he crossed to those on the further side, making absolutely no sound in doing so. As he had anticipated, beyond the second line of conifers there was a well-kept lawn, smooth as velvet, over which he was able to move without noise. The moonlight was the trouble. It lit a large portion of the lawn so clearly that anyone walking there might easily be observed from the windows of the house. But there were shadows there too, ornamental beds with flowering shrubs, and by using these he was able to manoeuvre himself into a position whence he could look into that lighted room.

What he saw would have been a complete relief to his fears, but for that man peering in at the corner of the window. Mary Frobisher was seated in a big leather chair, with a  wine glass in her hand. One of the men whom she had trailed from Havre was standing on, the rug, laughingly, and waving a-hand, whilst Madame Huseyn was in the act of offering the girl a cigarette from a silver box. The girl smilingly declined the cigarette, and Madame herself lit one, and made some remark which caused both the girl and the man to break into laughter.

The friendliest scene on the face of it. Here were two people extending hospitality to a charming young lady unexpectedly stranded; whose difficulties they propose to remove in a moment or two. Nothing in the least suspicious or disturbing—nothing but that spy at the window.

He looked at the man again, and in that moment knew the worst. The fellow had moved his position a little, and now the light from the room streamed full upon his handsome face.

Dara Lodi.

As he whispered the name under his breath despair mounted within him. There was one man who knew the girl, who had seen her with him, and who was possibly aware of her relationship to Colonel Mackinder; and who unquestionably suspected her bona-fides. Desperately he strove to think of a possible diversion which might serve as a warning to Miss Frobisher. He could think of only one— and that was to himself attract the attention of that surreptitious watcher. But that would not help the girl; and might indeed make things worse; since it would precipitate to absolute conviction whatever suspicions the man already entertained.

An alternative occurred to him. Dara Lodi was absorbed watching the girl. It might be possible to creep forward and surprise him. One straight blow behind the ear would lay him out, and possibly, enable Mary to leave the house without her identity being proclaimed to the others. It was a desperate chance, but so far as he could see the only one, and he decided take it. At any and every risk to himself, he was resolved that the watcher should not re-enter the house before the girl had time to leave it.

He began to creep towards the next lot of shrubs; and as he did so saw a  second man enter the room where the others were, a man who carried a petrol tin in one of his thick hands— the Jew Stalkoff. Was the girl going to get away with it after all? It looked like it. Stalkoff was grinning genially, and as Mary rose and set down her glass, Madame beamed vivaciously and extended her hand.

The girl took it, and all of them moved in the direction of the door.

Dara Lodi remained where he was, though he must have seen what Chevrell had observed. Apparently he did not propose to intervene; and that contingency halted Chevrell in his place by the shrubs. So long as Mary Frobisher's welfare and freedom ware not threatened, there was no need for his interference.

Voices drifted through the stillness. laughter mingling with the sound. The party, was moving towards the door, no doubt to speed the parting and unexpected guest. He had a glimpse of the girl with the Jew by her side, petrol tin in hand.

Madame's voice sounded gaily:

"Adieu, mademoiselle, you will not forget your promise."

Then the man at the window moved with a swiftness that was utterly startling. Before Chevrell realised what was happening-he reached the door, and spoke with mocking politeness."

"But Mademoiselle Frobisher is not to leave us now. At this hour! We cannot so lack politeness. No; mademoiselle will remain. Yes, she will remain for the night, and in the morning—"

Chevrell heard no more, Plainly the man did not mean to allow the girl to' depart; and the moment had arrived to make a diversion. He ran forward, crying as be went; ,

"Break away, Miss Frobisher, Break-a—"

The girl made a darting movement, but Dara Lodi blocked the doorway, and made moves to intercept her. Stalkoff also moved, standing on the top step as he saw the Englishman running forward, he shot a word at Dara Lodi who turned swiftly. As he saw Chevrell and recognised him, an expletive broke from him: "Damn!"

Then the Jew acted promptly. He laughed brutally, and swinging the tin by its handle hurled it truly. It caught Chevrell in the abdomen causing him excruciating pain, and toppling him over on the gravel. Following his clumsy missile, Stalkoff leaped and throwing himself upon his victim, shouted for help, whilst his thick hands felt for the other's throat.

12

CHEVRELL, writhing with pain, with Stalkoff's hands feeling for his throat, knew that he had no time to waste. The others would come to the ruffian's help and in that case he would be undone. He acted promptly; First he butted the other's coarse face with his head; and as the Russian started back, with a foul oath, lifting his weight from him, he jabbed smartly with his knee. The knee caught the man in the stomach, and with a roar of pain he rolled back.

In a twinkling Chevrell was on his feet. Dara Lodi shouted; a pistol cracked and a bullet whizzed past him, and there was a sound of hurrying feet. It was no time for lingering. The men who had killed his cousin would be no more tender to himself; and for the moment he was helpless to serve the girl. He took to his heels; racing down the drive for the white gate, with, as he judged, four men in pursuit. He hoped that he might make the spinney where the motor cycle was hidden, but as he passed through the gate so close was the pursuit that he realised his hope was a vain one. Before be could open the wicket leading to the spinney the men would be on him. He kept on running like a greyhound; looking for a way off the moonlit road, on which he was keenly aware he offered a fair target for a marksman.

It was three or four minutes before he found what he sought; and in that time be grew to hate the high banks which are the pride of Devon lanes; and cursed the parallel line between which, it appeared, he was doomed to run for ever. Then the lane turned, sharply, and at the turn where a tree had fallen, and the roots had been hauled away, the bank had a break in it. He made for the opening as a bolting rabbit for its burrow, leaped through rind pitched among dry bents and heather.

He was up again in a twinkling, and racing down a slope, where at every stride, the heather, or some unevenness in the ground threatened to bring him down; but, by some miracle, he kept his feet. A voice behind him shouted directions.

"Par ici!"

He ran on without daring to look round. His pursuers, as he knew, were not very far behind him, and on the moonlit slope they could not fail to see him. He tried to veer to the left, with a thought that presently he might be able to work back to the spinney arid secure the motor-cycle, which would enable him to out-distance pursuit But as he did so he became aware of one of his pursuers, well out that way, running almost parallel with him. The knowledge that he must run into the arms of that particular man, if he took a diagonal way, forced him into the straight again; and as he ran he risked a glance over his shoulder.

In addition to the man on the left, there were four others, at varying distances, spread out fan-wise on the slope. To hope that he might slip between them was a vain thing, and he raced on, assured that his sole chance of safety lay in out-distancing those who followed him.

He reached the bottom of the slope. There was a small stream there, into which he splashed almost before he was aware of it; and beyond the ground heaved itself upward in a steep incline covered with rocks, which in the moonlight had the appearance of recumbent sheep. It occurred to him that he might shelter among these rocks, play hide-and-seek with his pursuers and finally break away from them altogether. In a single flash of thought he perceived the danger of any such attempt. His pursuers were bound to see him moving among the rocks. When he had hidden himself, they would beat the hillside like keepers searching for wounded birds: and though, for a little time, he might elude them, in the end discovery and capture were as certain as Judgment Day. There was nothing for it hat to take the line of least resistance, and for a time at any rate follow the meanderings of the stream on its downward course.

He turned that way. A shout informed him that his change of direction had been observed, and five seconds later another voice yelled warningly:

"Le bois petit."

He saw the small wood in question, almost at the moment the warning- was shouted.. It grew along the banks of the stream a little way ahead of him, offering blessed cover. He, made for it in the line of a crow's flight; . reached  its first shadows; and, panting heavily, drew a breath of relief.

He did not cease to run, but necessarily he slackened his pace; for the little wood of dwarf oak was full rocks and had snake-like roots, washed half-clear of soil, which might prove a death trap to a careless sprinter.

"Safety first!" he ,thought a little grimly, and trod gingerly.

It was well he did, for unexpectedly he caught a crashing sound in front of him; and almost in the same second, a dark form confronted him. It was that of the coloured mechanic, as he recognised by the whiteness of the man's eyes, which were very prominent in the moonlit wood. Taken by surprise though he was, the negro was even more surprised; and Chevrell acted first. He flung himself forward, and sent in a crashing blow which drove the negro backward. The man staggered and fell among the rocks, letting out a bellow as he went. His limbs twitched and he lay still, and Chevrell ran on....

"One!" he whispered to himself.

But there were four others― four that he had seen, and there might be more, four ruthless men, who would kill him like a rabbit if they caught him. His chances were not good. The recognition of that fact was forced upon hint when, reaching the limit of the copse, he saw a man waiting for, him, with something in his hand that gleamed in the moonlight.

He backed into the wood again; heard there a sound of stumbling feet approaching him and turned towards the hill. Apparently there was nothing for it but to take his chance among the rocks. He moved as silently as was possible, hoping that he might win dear whilst his pursuers were still beating the wood.

He cleared the trees without discovery, gained the rocky hillside, which was in full moonlight, and moved cautiously towards the first bunch of rocks. Unfortunately the hill was full of loose stone. One of them shot from under his feet with a clatter; and the man watching the edge of the wood must have seen him, for a bullet ricocheted from the rocks in front of him, and the sound of the pistol shot shattered the night silence. He ran on desperately and heard the man shout to his fellows:

"Up the hill. Among the rocks. We have him."

"Not yet," he thought, and dodged from rock to rock up the steep ascent

He gained the crest, and without pause plunged down the further side. Twice he fell; and once shot a great distance, with considerable damage to his clothing; but with nothing worse than bruises, and regaining his feet ran on, with the shouts of the pursuit sounding thinly in the wide reach of moor where he now was.

He ran until he could run no more, then fell into a walk, looking back over his shoulder from time to time, without seeing anything of the pursuers. He was under no illusion, however, that they had given up the chase. They could not afford to do that; and, as he was assured, would follow him to the bitter end.

The going was very bad, over heather, through fierce gorse bushes, sometimes across boggy places; now among rocks, and at other times across small streams. He lost all sense of direction and began to look for a road. How far he went, or how long he walked he had no idea, but the moon was sinking behind the tors when he struck what at some time must have been a cart track through the heather. The ruts were grass-grown, heather had crept over them here and there, but the track was still sufficiently defined for him to follow it easily; and it would surely lead him somewhere, perhaps to the road he sought.

As a matter of fact, it led him to a derelict farm; a group of decrepit buildings, surrounded by walls long fallen into disrepair that may be found in a score, of places in the moor, testimonies, to human enterprise defeated by the raiding heather and the fierce Dartmoor winters. He walked all round the ruin, hoping still to find the road he sought. His search was vain. The rutted, heather-grown track which had brought him there seemed to have been the one approach to this old-time farm set in the recesses of the moor.

He could not go back; for, doing so, he might walk straight into the arms of the men who sought him. To go forward was beyond him, utterly worn out as be was. The derelict farm would afford him some o t of shelter and hiding place where, he could wait for dawn, and find his. way out of the wilderness of the moor.

He stumbled his way to the front of the house. There was a porch there, and a closed door, seemingly as sound as when it was there.

A leather latch string hung outside, and a touch assured him that it was in constant use, since it had nothing of the mould which so swiftly attacks leather in a damp climate.

He stared at it doubtfully, then found an explanation. The place was probably used by keepers or water bailiffs as a shelter when overtaken by storms. In any case he was too tired, too desperately beset, to bother further about the matter; and if the place were Inhabited, he could easily plead he had lost his way, and bad money to pay for lodgings.

He rapped smartly upon the door. There was no answer to his summons. He rapped a second time, and then, pulling the latchstring, set his shoulder to the door. It opened quietly on oiled hinges; and he found himself staring into a dark room, the air of which, after the crisp night atmosphere of the moor,  seemed quite warm. He suspected a fire, and, staring round, saw a very faint red glow, which, as he stared at it, seemed to grow fainter.

The place then was inhabited, the owner probably sound asleep. He decided to make sure before going further, and in a voice that, to his own, bearing, seemed loud enough to wake the seven sleepers, he shouted hoarsely:

"Hallo! . ... Hallo, there?"

He tried again without eliciting any response, and finally, assured that the dweller in this, remote place was absent from home,. he closed the door, and advancing, into the room, struck a match. By its feeble illumination he made out a small table, a single chair drawn up to it, and on the table what looked like the debris of a meal; with a candle stuck in a beer bottle. His match burning out, he struck a second, lit the candle and then looked round again.

The table afforded him proof that someone had supped there within the last few hours, for there was bread there, cheese, a becrumbed plate with a table, an empty beer-bottle with a tin mug by its side. He looked round further, and a hammock slung from staples in the rough, oaken rafters, revealed itself, with a couple of blankets thrown untidily over it.

That hammock appealed to him as no feather bed had ever done In all his life. Dropping with fatigue as he was, it was like a glimpse of the gates of Paradise. He would curl himself up in it, and the empty beer bottle and mug caught his eyes again.

"I wonder," he said aloud, and began to search.

"Eureka!"

On a shelf set in the corner of the room were three other bottles—full. His temptation was to drink all three; but with en effort he resisted the temptation.

"No I The fellow will have to cart it— miles''

He drank the contents of one of the bottles— dinner ale, thin stuff, but with the tang of nectar to his thirsting palate; then leaving the candle burning, he climbed into the hammock, and drawing one of the blankets over him, began to think over the events of the night. He thought for the briefest time before slumber deep and profound overtook him.

He awoke with a sound in his ears that was like that of roaring waters. Someone was shaking him, rudely and roughly, and the roaring became that bf an articulate voice, questioning him.

"Now who the devil be ee? An' what in thunder be ee doing in my bunk; without go much as a by your leave?"

Chevrell sat up hastily and explained swiftly.

"I lost my way last night, and stumbled on this place. There was no one here, w—well, you see! I also drank a bottle of your beer, which I'll pay for a dozen times over, and if breakfast is available—"

"Well I be stunned. You'm a cool one vor sure. I reckon you'm that chap who broke prison up to Princetown last night? A desperate character is like as not."'

In spite of the awkwardness of the situation, Chevrell laughed.

"Do I look like an escaped convict?"

The other, a big, red-bearded, red haired man with a smack of the sea about him, considered him critically, then gave judgment candidly.

"The clothes be different, but vor the rest you'm as like one as two almanacs be like!"

Chevrell laughed again.

"Maybe—but things are not what they seem. I had a rough time last night, and I am afraid my clothes suffered."

"Suffered! They'm all to tatters. A scarecrow would blush to wear

Chevrell considered his raiment, it had suffered far more than he had realised, and the bog mud and slime which had splashed it were no  improvement. The man's description was more than justified.

"Pretty bad!" He owned lightly. "I'd no notion. I shall have to buy a new suit."

"That is if they don't catch virst! There'm vive pounds vor the man that takes ee in!"

"So much!" Chevrell laughed. "But, confound it, man, you don't really think that I―" He broke off sharply as a thought struck him. "What sort of men are the searchers— warders or civil guards?"

"Neither, zo far as I've a-zeen yet. They're out on the hill back ov here be sportin' gents with guns. They d'zay ee burgled their house las' night and took some clothes' an money off with ee, an' assaulted one ov their guests, so the no sworn to catch ee,"

Chevrell knew where he was now. "Asked you to keep your eyes open for me and report to them if you saw me. Promised you five pounds if you did, hey?"

"That's the ticket. Might have heard them talkin' by the way ee put it. vor ee have it so pat as a pound ov butter." '

"One of them a black man by any chance?"

"Now how the dickens did ee know that?" ejaculated the man in surprise.

"Others, foreigners of sorts, not a true blue Briton among them."

"Well," owned the man, "the two I talked with had that look vor sure."

"And you've seen no warders or civil guards or policemen beating the moor?"

"Devil in uniform," replied the man, his forehead puckering up a frown.

"An' that be queer, come to think, ov it."

"Very queer," agreed Chevrell. "Did you see any others about the moor on the lookout for a runaway?"

"No! But it be early yet."

"Not too early for the moorland, farmers or the villagers hereabouts," said Chevrell, and seeing agreement in the man's eyes, continued: "There are a good many queer things about the story you have heard, when you come to  think of it. If a convict escaped last night all the moor-folk would know it by this time, and would be out with the wardens searching, instead you have just certain foreign gentlemen with guns— you said guns, didn't you?—and a big nigger who might be the last match against a White Hope, with a yarn about a convict who broke to their house to steal, and assaulted one of them in the bargain... A fishy story in view of all the other things that are wanting, I mean warders and what not."

"Smells high!" commented, the red-haired one.

"It's rank! Rotten! A tissue of lies from beginning to end." Chevrell broke off, then added quickly. "They're foreigners, but you're English."

"Devon born and bred, and no man dare zay different. Served my time in the Navy, discharged A.B.— pensioned for shell-shock, back in the war."

"I'm glad to hear it; I mean that you're a Devon man and all that. I  shouldn't have thought of you as a shell-shock case. You don't look it."

"No! I be healthy enough, now; strong as a bull and all that; nerves like iron but vor one thing, an' that be that I can't stand a racket. Buses, motor cars, clatter of trams down to Plymouth drives me near off my chump in a day. That why I live up in the quiet— a blessed life."

"I daresay—if you like it.  And now I'm going to tell you something because I want your help. To begin with, those men who spoke to you are after me."

"I'd have bet my hat on it."

"And I did assault one of them who tried to strangle me― a fat Russian Jew who began to scrap first.  Also, I hit the black man and knocked him out.

"Excuse me?" The man gazed at him in unqualified admiration. "Did I hear ee right? You knocked out the nigger?"

"Yes. I know what you mean. A nigger's skull is thick. But I assure you he would have been counted out."

"I wouldn't have thought ee had the weigh," commented the man. "But go on. There's more to tell, I guess."

"A whole lot; and If you don't mind my lighting a cigarette I'll tell you the whole story. I want your help and am prepared to pay for it; but being the Briton you are, I'll vow you'll want to help me free, when you've heard."

"But money be always useful," protested the man. "Tell on."

Chevrell gave a bowdlerised version of what had occurred; and the man listened raptly till the end, when he broke out,

"You'm one ov the Secret Service lot, sir! Shake hands. I'm pleased to meet ee. Ee may command me against them niggers vrom now on, an' all the time. But that girl, she've sure got a nerve."

"In the best sense, yes. But I'm worried about her. You see, I had to leave her "

"To save the cause. Iss! I got that."

"But she is in danger every moment she is in that house."

"Worse than peril on the sea— which is shucks, vor all the hymn-singing volk."

"And I want to send word to those who will bring help and get this crowd."

"I'd like to scupper them myself. Ee want me to take a message."

"A telegram to the nearest telegraph office―"

"That'll be Bovey — call it eight miles."

"You'll go?"

"Like a lark."

"An perhaps you can tell me where the house that I saw is? It must be a mile from here."

"Haven't a notion. Over Manaton way, I should zay what ee tell me. I'll walk that way round when I come back."

"If you would I should be obliged."

"A pleasure. An' now I'll get us a bit ov breakfast, while ee've writing the message. A well-fed man goes to fight stronger nor an empty one."

"You've no writing paper, I suppose."

"Wrong! Once a week I writes to my wold mother to Saltash to let her know I be still kicking. I'll get it vor ee."

He produced paper and envelopes, scented and of a violet hue, also a pen and ink; and whilst Chevrell gave himself to his message, proceeded to light the fire, and prepare breakfast. The message was almost completed when the ex-A.B.'s activities took him outside for water. He was back in no time at all, his manner indicative of worry, but be spoke calmly,

"Ee've got to hide, One ov them sporting gents with a gun is coming this way. Means to call, by the look ov things. There'm the chimney, wide enough to take an ox, an' there'm the chamber above— though there ee'll have to lie still as a mouse, vor the floor d'creak worse than wold bones. Which will ee have vor a refuge?"

Chevrell looked at the chimney, considered the possibility of trouble from the peat smoke, and chose the chamber.

"This way—an' mind your steps. The stairs be stone, but they'm loose.

He followed the man up the steps, planted himself on the debris-covered floor in an easy position, and heard his host descend to the room below,  whence came sound of preparations for breakfast; which was evidence that, despite the shell-shock, the man was not easily rattled.

Then from outside came footfalls on toe stones, followed immediately by a thunderous knocking on to door.

13

CHEVRELL HEARD his new-found ally go to the door. Then came the brusque Inquiry.

Chevrell heard his new-found ally go to the door. Then came the brusque Inquiry.

"Well, my gentleman, what do ee want?"

He strained his ears for the reply, and caught it easily enough.

"You haf nothing seen of the man who broke from the prison — the man of whom I spoke with you, a little time ago?"

"Nothing!" answered the sailor with cheerful mendacity. "Wish to high heaven I had. Vive pound baint to be sneezed at by a man on an Admiralty pension!"

"No! It is much money to a poor man," replied the caller. "But if you find the man I desire to say that I will make it more, twice as much, you comprehend?"

"Comprehend! To be zure, zur! Twice vive be ten, an' ten's your offer, bain't it?"

"Ten pounds! Yes, that is the sum — and if you earn it, you will make me the happy man." '

"Then there'll be two ov us! Ten pounds! Vor sure it will be a small fortune."

"Quite a sum," agreed the caller, then asked tentatively: "Do you mind if I enter, and rest for a few minutes? I find walking through the heather very tiring."

A little anxiously Chevrell strained for the sailor's reply. He hoped that the man would not refuse, since inevitably that must arouse suspicion in the caller's mind. Then he drew a breath of relief as the sailor replied:

"Baint the place for the likes ov you, zur. There'm but one chair, an' I be busy preparing breakfast, but the place be liberty hall to ee, if zo you'm minded to come in."

"Thank you, I will. I am very tired."

Chevrell heard the man enter the house; and caught the owner's voice.

"There'm, the chair, and there'm the chimney corner. Ee can take your choice. All seats be free, though to be zur there bain't many ov 'em."

Chevrell heard the scraping of the solitary chair, and divined that the caller had chosen that rather than the chimney corner. At the same time his mind busied itself with a question. Why had the man desired to enter the house? Did he suspect the presence of the man he sought? It was more than possible; and he waited a little anxiously for the man's next words.

"You' smoke? You will with me take a cigarette?"

"Thank ee, no! Can't-a-bide the things. My poison be a pipe."

"You do not the cigarettes smoke?"

The question, came, with a snap which caused Chevrell to think furiously; for It was very clear to him that there was more in the question than appeared.

"As I told ee, a pipe be my way. To my thinking to zee a grown man a-smoking they things be like watching him suck a mint-ball."

"But, my friend, I observe a cigarette-end there on your hearth, which is a strange thing since you do not the cigarettes smoke."

Chevrell held his. breath, whilst he waited for the sailor's answer; Would the man be thrown out of his stride by the fact to which his caller drew attention; or would he have the wit to find a .ready answer Then came words that were reassuring.

"No, it baint. A friend happened along here yesterday, an' I reckon that be the stub of one o' they cigarettes that he d'smoke."

The explanation was a sufficient one, and the caller said no more about the cigarette, but harked back to his first subject

"Has it occurred to you that the prison-breaker may have sought refuge on these premises?"

"No, it haven't! An' if zo be it had I shouldn't worry. There bain't no where vor him to hide."

"There is an upper chamber?"

"Trew! I d'keep my traps an' tackle up there; an' as I've been up this morning, I can tell ee that the man baint there."

There followed a brief silence, which was broken by the caller.

"You have been writing a letter, I see."

'Then ee d' see wrong. 'Tis a pome."

"A poem?" There was amazement in the speaker's-voice.

"Iss. Telling about a man wot minded his own business an' grew to be Lord Mayor ov Lunnon."

Again there was a pause, and Chevrell strove with his laughter. His new-found ally was something of a treasure, "Ah! I see."

The speaker was scarcely cordial. From the sounds which reached Chevrell he had risen from the chair; and was moving towards the door. When he reached it he as certainly halted.

"You will be on the watch, my friend?"

"Trust me. I baint going to et ten pounds walk by my doorway."

"You will be foolish if you do; and more foolish still if you try to cheat the law. To harbour an escaping prisoner or to help his escape in any way is a felony, punishable―"

"Ee can keep yo'r breath. I've a-read the reggylations up to Princetown, an' I baint' a blazin' vool."

"No!" agreed the man. "No! You are an excellent illustration of the precept that appearance are deceptive."

"Now what the piggers d'you mean by that?" roared the ex-A-B., plainly a little touched on the raw.

"Nothing offensive— nothing, I assure you.... Good morning."

Feet sounded on the stones, and receded. Chevrell rose swiftly and moved to the boarded window. There was a gap between the two boards which covered it, through which he had a restricted view of the ground in front of the house. His eyes went immediately to the man who was walking away—a tall man, dressed in plus-four tweeds, with a gun of some kind carried in the crook of his arm. He could not see the man's face, and had no idea of his identity; out a couple of hundred yards away another man was leaning over a tumble-down wall; a man of heavy, gross face, whom even at that distance he recognised for Stalkoff.  He watched until the walker joined him, and the pair walked away together; then he heard his host go to the door, and clatter across the stones. He came into Chevrell's sight, bearing a tin kettle in his hands; and moved to a spout which supplied the place with water.

A phlegmatic man, thought Chevrell, or one who understood very well the art of keeping up appearances. The possible value of the latter was shown a moment later, when the two men turned and looked in the direction of the house. Apparently they saw the men busy at the spout, and saw nothing else; for they continued on their way, and presently were lost to sight in the fold of the moor. Then sounded his host's voice.

"Breakfast be ready. Ee can step down, now an' eat in comfort. That heathen be gone his ways."

Chevrell stepped down, and his first glance was for the cigarette stub which he had carelessly thrown on the stone hearth. The A.B. saw the direction of his glanced

"Iss," he said, "that spy saw it. He've sure got eyes like a hawk and a nose like that Sherlock Holmes I've read about.... But he didn't pick it up and put it in no envelope. If he'd tried I'd have set my heel on his fingers."

"Perhaps he didn't need to pick it up," answered Chevrell. "Seeing it there gave him an idea."

"Made the man suspicious, ee think?"

"Well, his words gave one that impression, don't you think?"

"I do. So zure as my name be Esau that waste end of baccy set his wits galloping. Shouldn't wonder if they keep a watch on this house."

"I shall be surprised if they don't. The sooner you are away with that message the better, I think."

"My mind to a T. But I don't like leavin' ee here. 'Tis a mortal lonesome place, an' them men be desperate or they'd never carry sporting rifles along."

"They are rifles?"

"The one that heathen brought in here was. I gave it a good look over, whilst he was starin' about an' asking questions about my correspondence. I reckon they d'mean to shoot ee like a rabbit, on sight"

"That is possible," agreed Chevrell. "But I have got to take a chance. That message must go as early as possible."

"There'm the police," said Esau tentatively.

"What are you going to tell them? That I am in your house and that there are men looking for me with rifles? They know you are a shellshock case, perhaps?"

"Iss. I see wot ee d'mean. An' I reckon just yet ee don't want thein butting-in, anyhow. Well. I'll start; but I hope ee'll lie low an' keep a bright look out. I don't want to find ee corpsed when I come back... If ee hear anybody stirring, I should take to the chimney, if I was ee.... So long, an' good luck."'

"Good luck to you, Esau."

The sailor went out, closing the door behind him, and Chevrell' immediately slipped up the stairs to his forme hiding place There through the crack in the boarded window he watched the other take his way across the moor, and then he let his eyes rove for any sign of those who might be watching the house. He saw nothing to disturb, him; and presently returned to the living room. The sight of two plates and enamelled cups and saucers upon the table awakened his sense of caution. The glimpse of a cigarette end had made the recent caller suspicious; if the man or any of his kidney should returned, two used plates, and cups where one man lived would beget absolute conviction.

He cleared one set away; leaving the other set where it was; then once more he slipped to the upstairs chamber to view the moor, and finding nothing disturbing, set himself to explore the house. There was not much of it, but a door across the living room led to what at some time must have been a dairy. It was a lean-to structure with a wide stone shelf running round three sides of it, and with a broken roof through which the daylight streamed. He mounted the shelf and cautiously looked over the edge of the wall. As he expected it gave him another view of the moor, and he watched that side for quite a long time without seeing anything moving except a bunch of wild ponies.

But he did not in any way relax his vigilance. The men with whom he had to deal were not men to be satisfied easily, once their suspicions were aroused, and his cousin's death was evidence of their, ruthlessness. He devoted his time between the dairy and the upper chamber, watching both sides of the house so far as the restricted view made possible; and about noon he observed two things—t he first that clouds of vapour were gathering about the top of the tors, and the second was a flock of moorland sheep, which, disturbed in their feeding, broke suddenly into a wild run, and then huddled together, their noses in the direction from which they had fled.

"Someone about!" he whispered, and being at the moment in the upper chamber, stared intently through the slit between the boards.

A minute or two passed without anyone appearing, then on an undulation- two men came into view. They were much too far off at the moment for him to see who they were; but one thing was very clear and that was that they were moving I in the direction of the derelict farm-house. He ran quickly down the stone stairs to the dairy, and surveyed the moor on that side. There was no one visible there; but the vapour which he had observed about the tops of the tors was here spreading over the moor in wisps like smoke.

He considered quickly. In the house with two armed men to cope with he would have little chance. For him the chimney had not the attraction as a hiding place that it had for Esau, and neither the upstairs room nor the dairy would go unsearched. His one chance was to leave the house, and return to it when the men who were approaching had assured themselves that he was not there.'

Once more he examined the moor at the rear of the house. It was blank of life. The mist was a little denser. At three hundred yards it would hide a man from anyone who was searching for him.  He made his decision quickly, and scrambling, up the rough wall of the dairy, dropped on the further side. There for a moment he listened, then, with the house between him and the two men advancing across the moor, he made his way cautiously to a broken wall, and dropped into the heather.

He looked carefully round. There was no one on that side of the house, he was sure; and he began to work his way towards the front, using all the cover which the heather and gorse afforded. When he reached a point which afforded him a view of the porch, he was less than twenty yards from it, bidden by the ruined wall; but himself commanding the approach to the house. The two men whom he had seen from the window, were much nearer. They had halted at what in old days had been the boundary wall of the farm, and appeared to be conferring together. Then they separated. One of them found a gap in the broken wall, passed through, and walked straight towards the house. The other disappeared from view behind the wall and with a thought that the man might be making a circuit of it, Chevrell deemed it prudent to draw back into the heather; and did so without delay.

His new position still commanded the approach to the farm, as well as the boundary corner of the old intake, and he lay quite still waiting for what was to follow. Within four minutes he had cause to congratulate himself for having taken precautions; for just as the first man reached the porch, the second came round the corner of the wall, moving in a crouching way; and with a thrill, he saw that the man had a rifle in the crook of his arm, and a second later he recognised Stalkoff. The Russian crept forward until he was exactly opposite the porch; then he arranged a couple of stones on the wall, rested his rifle between them, and stood there pretty much in the attitude of a man waiting for driven birds behind a shooting butt. He was less than a score of yards from Chevrell, and a little to the side, affording him a clear view of his gross face, which had an absolutely murderous look. He wondered if it would be wise to rush the man; but, deciding to wait what might happen, gave his attention to the second man. The fellow was now almost in the shadow of the porch. He also carried a weapon, but whether shot-gun or rifle, Chevrell was. not sure. The man took a step forward, then turned as if to assure himself that his comrade was in position. As he did so his face was clear in view— Dara Lodi.

The Rangar knocked heavily on the door. Chevrell heard the rapping clearly through the moorland stillness and waited with interest what was to follow. Twice more the caller rapped, then he pulled the latchstring and thrust open the door. He stood looking into the silent house for a moment, shouted, his voice sounding thinly in Chevrell's ears; and then, signalling his companion, he stepped inside. For his part Stalkoff moved to a gap in the wall, shambled across the open to the house, and also entered.

Chevrell conceived them searching for himself and laughed silently. No doubt they had watched Esau well away from the house, and had decided to take the opportunity his absence afforded to test the suspicions the earlier caller had shown. Well, they were welcome. They would find nothing, hot even the scent of cigarette smoke; for since the sailor's departure, he had carefully refrained from indulging himself, having had in mind some such call as this. The more they searched the better, he reflected; for once, they were assured that he was not at this derelict place, they would cease to be interested in it, and that would give himself greater freedom of action.

The pair spent some time in the place, and must, he thought, be making a very thorough search. It was fully quarter of an hour before they emerged, and, closing the door, stood together in the porch, talking.

Chevrell was too far off to catch anything of the conversation; but the burden of it was revealed to his eyes. Stalkoff made a gesture indicating the ruined farm buildings, and Dara Lodi answered quickly; then the pair left the house, and moved towards the ruins. Evidently they meant to be thorough in their search.

He watched them as from time, to time they came into view; and noted that the midst was drifting Jin thickening classes down the moor. In a little time it would hide the farm, itself. What if the pair were to take refuge in the house?

Scarcely had he asked himself the question when the two men once more appeared, walking together, and talking earnestly in French. They were moving in the direction of the wall; and occasional phrases reached, him.

"... was not mistaken. The man was here.... Cannot have left... That red-haired one.... when he returns. To-night... make him speak."

They drew hearer still, and Chevrell heard the Jew speaking angrily.

"That red one may have taken a message. He ought not to have been allowed to go!"

Dara Lodi laughed. "My dear Stalkoff, there is no need for so much energy. The man was followed. He will be stopped. If he carried a written message we shall know. All precautions have been taken to assure you. You are not the one with foresight..."

Stalkoff swore, and the pair passed out of hearing, and presently out of sight in the mist which was now sweeping down the hillside and filling the valley where the farm stood. Chevrell waited for a time to make sure the pair had really gone, then he returned to the house; and watched anxiously for Esau's return, beset by a double anxiety. If it were true the sailor had been followed and that he was to be-searched, in the event of the message coming to light, two things would inevitably follow. The men who were so anxious to find him would know beyond question that he was at the farm, and Mackinder would not receive the news which Esau carried. The latter possibility disturbed him profoundly. He was tempted to find a way' to some post office himself, but the reflection that he had not the slightest notion which direction to take; and that in any case he would probably lose himself in the mist kept him where he was.-

Hours passed and with the non-return of Esau his anxiety mounted apace. He fretted himself with fears for the man. Anything might have happened to him—if he had resented the attentions of those who had shadowed him. He might even now be lying somewhere on the moor wounded, helpless, perhaps dead.

It must have been quite three in the afternoon when his restlessness and anxiety drove him to the door for the twentieth time to. look for any sign of the man for whose return he fairly hungered. The mist was thinning a little; but beyond forty or fifty yards it still blanketed everything. He stared helplessly at the grey curtain, and listened with straining ears. There was absolutely no sound but the drip of moisture from the ruined eaves. He was on the point of closing the door, when most unexpectedly there reached him out of the mist a rumble of song.

"My father was a fireman

In the Elder Dempster Line..."

The performer was not yet visible; but Chevrell had no doubt of his identity, and he laughed with sharp relief. In his deliverance from apprehension he came near to shouting to his friend; but checked the impulse, since there might be others who would hear his shout. He retreated Indoors to await the other's coming; heard his feet rasping among the grass-grown stones, and hurried to the open door. The sailor, as he saw him, made an 'almost savage gesture of warning; and Chevrell fell back into the room. Entering, the man shut the door, put a package on the table and that done dropped the wooden bar of the door. Then he -spoke tersely:

"There'm a man out there. He've a-followed me nine miles that I d'know ov, an' how inuch more be in the Lord's knowledge; but not in mine."

"You  got through with the message?" asked Chevrell eagerly.

"Noa―"

"God Almighty! You mean to say―"

"There baint no need vor fireworks," interrupted Esau with a laugh. The. message be all right, I guess. Yo' zee 'twis this way. I hadn't got more than dwo hundred yards from the house, before I know that I was followed.... The chap was clever. Never once did I get a glimpse of en more than the top of his hat; but I guessed what he was after, an' led him a traipse for his money. But after dree mile an' b'vore I struck the road, I tumbled to' it that twasn't always the same head that I saw; an' that there, were a pair'ov the rascals...! That set my wits working. But vor the message I'd have faced the beggars, an' trounced   them, but. 'twas my virst business I reckoned to get that message to the post office; zo just as I hit the road I stopped to light my pipe. There'm one of they wold crosses up there, with the heath running thick at its base; an' twas just there I stopped; an' dropped my pipe. I knowed that the pair was watching me; but I managed to ram the message in the heath at the foot av tha cross; an' then I lit my pipe an' moved on across the road towards the bridle track.

"Twas there my gentlemen closed on me— two pasty-faced foreigners, one ov 'em with a gun which he shoved in my back, an' bade me stand still. Fair tickled to death, I stood, an'  pleaded that I was a poor man with hardly a copper in the world.

"Twas rich, I tell ee to see the look on the faces ov the pair, vor they was dressed, to the Nines. The one with the gun said somethin' in a foreign lingo to his mate, an' the blackguard went through my pockets an' hat, an' then made me strip till I was mother naked—vor which I'll break their heads next time I meet 'em; though I was more obedient than an infant, an' did just what they bade me.

"They went through my duds, an' naturally didn't find wot they was a. lookin' for; which seemed to satisfy them 'most as much as if they had; then, one of 'em said something foreign, gave me a pound note an' waved me away. I dressed an' went, with both ov 'em at my heels, an' the message at the foot ov the wold cross... I took care to zee they followed an di'n't go back; and then―"

"You doubled back for the message?"

"No darned fear! That lot be too fly vor a poor trick like that. I did , better. I walked on till I met Posty going his rounds an' naturally passed the time ov day with en, and gave on 'a. bare hint ov the trouble; telling; en there was a pound vor en if he got that message through safely.  Tom don't hold wi' foreigners anymore'n me; an' he damned my eyes about the pound, an' zaid he'd see the message O.K., which I reckon he've a done by this."

"You are sure—"

"I met en as I came back. He was a-pedalling his bike vor dear life, an' one o' they rascals being behind me, I waved Posty on but he tipped me the wink as he sailed by."

"Thank heaven! Those men followed you all the way?"

"Thic one without the gun. Wanted to see where I went zeemingly, zo I kept away vrom the post office an' had a drink at the Three Feathers: an'  another at the Peacock, then I went to the stores vor provisions an' so back home, an' that followin' fool; not a fording wiser. An' that be all, except that one ov them he out there in the mist, an If I catch en, I'll lambast en good an' proper, vor wot they did to me."

"Did you find that house?"

"I didn't look vor it, with that shadow at my heels 'would have given the whole circus away, an' have showed that I knew more than I'd owned to. But whilst I was having that talk with Posty, I asked en if he knower such a place; an' he says that  Squire Hannaford's house over Mattoon way be let vor six months to somebody foreign, but he don't know who, since 'tis off his rounds."

"You know the Squire's house?"

Esau, grinned. "I d'know the copses better."

Chevrell looked through the window at the mist. "You could find your way In this— on the edge of dark."

"Certain— zure!"

"Good."

"Maybe! But I just don't zee―"

"Oh! We're going there, if you will show me the way, and will take a chance with those guns. There is that young lady. I told you about―"

"Lor'. If I hadn't clean vorgot her. Go!... I'll go like a shot, l don't hold wi' foreigners at no time; an' after wot's' happened, just, gi'e me half a chance,  that's all.... But now I'll get us a meal, vor I be hungry as a Dartymoor pony in winter― as I reckon ee will be too."

And whilst the man bustled about preparing' the meal; Chevrell gave himself up to a consideration of a thing which had occurred to him whilst he had kept his vigil on the moor.

14

AT INTERVALS, whilst he prepared the meal, Esau went to the door, and stared forth into the mist. On the second occasion he explained to his guest.

"There'm that foreign spy out there. 'Twon't do to have en lookin' in at the window. I wish I'd kept a dawg to bark an' give notice ov company. There'm a shutter ov sorts, but to put it up would proclaim that there'm things to hide. I reckon ee'd best hide in that corner over there, Mr. Chevrell. Unless he sticks his head through the panes, the chap won't be able to zee ee there."

Chevrell recognised the wisdom of the suggestion, and took the corner Indicated; whilst the seaman seated himself at the table, and kept an eye on the window, whilst he ate.

"What be the plan when us get to Squire Hannaford's house?" he asked.

"I have none— at least nothing I definite," answered Chevrell. "I shall I be guided by circumstances, but possible I want to get speech with that young lady told you about"

"She'm your maid, I d'reckon?"

"Not exactly that!"

"Noa? But she'm going to be, I guess.... Had a maid myself once... She ran away with a Jonny Fortnight whilst I was at sea— an' a good thing, too, zay I. Maids, the best ov e'em, be terr'ble creatures vor spending a man's money.... Do ee mean to get the maid out ov the house?"

"If I can!"

"An' if ee can't?"

"Heaven knows! We shall see."

" S-s-s-s-h-h!"

Esau had his eyes on the window as he gave the warning; aid though I he had heard nothing Chevrell divined that the other's ears, quicker than his own, must have caught some sound outside. Then the sailor grinned and put his fingers to his nose derisively, and a moment later there came the sound of retreating feet on the stones. Esau laughed.

"Beat the vool that time! He was a-lookin' in. Didn't think I'd be watchin' out vor en! That be because he don't know the nights I've a-spent here, seeing volk looking through the panes, till I was near driven crazy."

"Seeing―"

" 'Twas when I first comed up here. 'Twas mortal lonesome then; an' the moor breeds queer fancies in a sick brain. The first winter I'd bear 'em tapping on the panes; an' wake to see 'em starin' in any more, than once I fairly crawled to get behind the door b'fore they could open it, when 'twas only the hail an' snow blown against the glass by the wind; an' the faces no more than a sick man's craziness, as I d'know."

"I can't think you how could endure it, Esau! It would scare most men to death."

"Not if ee be Dartmoor born as I be.... My girt grandfer took this I place in vrom the moor; an' my granfer lost it again to the heather; but 'tis mine, vor what it be worth; an' the quiet ov it have brought healin' to my nerves as I told ee.  But 'tis mortal odd to zee a real face at the panes, when ee a-zeen as many I as I have that wasn't ther at all."

Chevrell nodded his understanding; and Esau laughed.

"That be why I put my fingers to my nose. I've a-done it often on winter nights when I was half crazed with fears."

"Fears! Esau you're one of the bravest men I ever met."

Esau laughed. "Oh, just a broken sailorman, who'm goin' to start a hen-run when I've the shekels."

"A hen-run! When we're through this, man, you shall have hens enough to stock the moor."

The ex-A.B. flushed.

"'Twasn't vor that I mentioned the thing."

"Don't I know that, you modest old duffer?  But hens you shall have, cocks, chickens―"

"About this cutting-out expedition!" interrupted Esau, shuffling uneasily. "Us'll have to leave that zany outside wi' the notion that we be still in the house— leastways that I be."

"Yes! We can drop out of the dairy as I did this afternoon."

"An' leave a candle burning, with the shutter I told ee of in place. That'll mislead the guy proper, I reckon. Regular sucker he'll feel when he tumbles to it."

The mist thickened again while they waited; and presently the room grew so dark that Chevrell could scarcely see the other as he eat by the table. Then Esau spoke.

Time to light the dip, I guess, Mr. Chevrell, if ee'll go to the dairy. Then I'll fix the shutter an' us'll start."

Chevrell groped his way to the dairy, and waited until the sailor joined him; then they dropped to the grass-grown barton outside; and as silently as possible crept away from the house. When they reached the heath-grown road, Esau stopped to listen.

"Zilent as a churchyard. If that spy be still about he don't know the house be empty."

They moved on through the mist and the deepening dusk. To Chevrell it was a miracle how the other found his way; for to him in the mist there was no way at all; But his companion seemed to have a sailor's Instinct for the points of the compass, and after an hour's walking, a shadow loomed up in the mist in front of them.

"The wold cross!" explained Esau. "The road be b'fore us. Ee'll find it easier walking."

They swung down the empty road at a good pace despite the fog, guided now by the hard surface underfoot. An hour and a quarter later they turned into a corkscrewing lane, which switchbacked steeply, and at the end of that entered another road, along which they walked at least a mile, whilst Chevrell began to have respect for his own effort of the previous night.

Esau stopped at last

"There be Squire Hannaford's place." ,

Chevrell saw a long shadow, hedge or wall, in the mist he was not sure which; but he began to walk along it, until he reached a gate, grey and ghastly in the gloom. He stared at it thoughtfully. It was a white gate, but was the house which lay beyond the one he sought? It was necessary to make sure, he explained to Esau, and then he began to move along the wall until he came to the comer. Then he knew; for there; leaning over in its drunken way, was the To-Let-Furnished signboard.

"We are right!" he said. "Now I have to/find a way in."

"There'm the gate."

Chevrell laughed quietly. "Gates are not for use to-night. It's over the wall I must go. You might lend me a back."

"I be a-coming, too."

"There are risks, you know, Esau "

"Pooh!" retorted Esau.

"Well, if you must. And there's no denying you may be helpful."

The sailor made a back, and thus aided, Chevrell swung himself to the top of the wall, sat there for a moment staring into the misty darkness, then dropped lightly on the further side. Esau scrambled the wall easily, and in a moment was standing by his side. They began to move forward together, making for the place where a dull, opalescent glow showed through the mist, indicating the house, and presently struck the lawn with which Chevrell had previous acquaintance.

The glow became clearer, and immediately in front of them was a large window—with silk curtains drawn so that it was impossible to see into the room. How many people were in that room, Chevrell could not guess, and whether Mary Frobisher was still in the house he had no means of knowing; but he was determined to find out, and if she were there at all costs bring her forth. To that end, he decided first survey the whole place, and after whispering his intention to Esau, they started to make the circuit of the house together.

As they moved parallel with the terrace one thing immediately thrust itself upon Chevrell's notice—the wagon with the damaged aeroplane was no longer there; but presently the explanation of its absence was afforded him. As they reached the vegetable garden in the rear -of the house, without having seen anything to attract attention, a drift of voices reached them through the mist, then a sharp humming sound.

"A motor-car!" said Esau, gripping Chevrell's arm.

Chevrell started in the direction from which the sound came, and saw a blur of light in the mist. The engine stopped running, and the voices were audible again, the blur of light moved, and seemed to be drawing nearer.

"Someone coming this way," he whispered. "Lie low, Esau."

They crouched among the cabbages, and watched the moving light; Presently it resolved itself into a powerful electric torch, and the bearer of it loomed gigantic and shadow-like in the mist. He passed within four yards of them, and Chevrell recognised

'"The black mechanic," he explained as the man passed on.

"I don't hold wi' no foreigners,", commented Esau in a growling whisper,  "specially black ones."

Chevrell looked backward. There was still a light there in what he guessed must be a meadow; and occasionally the indistinct sound of voices. He knew now where the aeroplane was, and as the sharp tap of a hammer reached him, conjectured that necessary repairs were being pushed forward at all speed. That indicated the possibility of some further move on the part of those in the house; and strengthened his purpose of finding Mary Frobisher that very night.

They waited among the wet cabbages until, the black reappeared, carrying something, which to Chevrell looked like a tin of oil; and when he had disappeared, they resumed their survey of the house. The rear, like the side of the house they had already inspected, was in darkness; but on the further side the light of an upper window showed, its lower sash open perhaps six inches in spite of the mist. Chevrell stared at that open window so far above the level of his eyes, wondering who might be in the room; and' as he did so, heard a woman's voice that he recognised very well.

"You understand?... The time has arrived. We must know the truth. ... The girl will not speak for threats—but there is another way that I am going to try.' You must bring her down to me. Rao, and I will make her speak, perhaps, make her love you."

The speaker ended with a little laugh, provocative and cruel together; and another voice answered:

"You will have your way, Madame. But the lady must not be hurt."

"No!" again the knife-edged laughter sounded. "All the wings of the butterfly shall be left unhurt— for you to break, Rao, I promise you. . ... But I must have her to myself."

"You are going to try the globe— or the ink pool?"

"Neither."

"Some infernal drug?"

"At the last perhaps; but not unless there should be necessity."

"I do not want a sleeping doll."

"My dear Dara Lodi," laughed the woman, "when she has spoken I promise you she shall be warm and quick for your arms."

"Well—"

Chevrell imagined the gesture that went with the word, and knew that the man had surrendered to the woman's purpose, whatever that might be.

"We will waste not a minute. The I time is short, as you know .. . Those
others are engaged, and I will try the experiment at once."

A moment later the light went out, and the watchers were left staring up into the distance.

"I didn't understand that lingo—" began Esau in a whisper.

"I did," said Chevrell grimly. "And we've got to act, quickly, Esau. The girl I told you of is still here. There is some damnable magic to be tried on her. I've got to get into the house, and get her but— one time, you understand."

"Iss!... Goin' plumb up to the front door, an' walking right hey?"'

"No! The back," answered Chevrell with a sudden inspiration. "That black went in that way. I heard no key turned. The door is probably on the latch."

"An' me!"

"You stand by and watch. I believe that besides Miss Frobisher there are only two people in the house, man and a woman. The others, I fancy, are down there where the black I came from. The aeroplane's there. If they should return you must warnme somehow."

"A stone through a window— maybe. Ee'd hear that, I guess."

"Certainly... That window in front with the light."

"Right! I'll be findin' the stone," replied Esau, imperturbable as ever.

Chevrell left him with the assurance that at any rate he would have warning of the approach of these men engaged down there in the fog; and crept cautiously to the rear of the house. It was, he found, open to the garden behind, and. dark as it had been when they had inspected it a few minutes before.

There was stone underfoot, rough flags, which it was difficult to cross without making some noise; within three or four minutes he touched the house wall, and was groping his way along it, feeling for the, door, when he caught a faint sound, and a second later, a fanlight on his right was illuminated. There, at any rate, was the door; but the fact that a light had been switched troubled him profoundly, since from it he inferred that there must be someone moving in the rear of the house. A servant possibly or—

The click of a heavy latch interrupted his conjecture; and to the sound of an opening door he flattened himself against the wall. A full two minutes passed without anything happening, but. acutely aware that someone was standing in that open doorway, he scarcely dared to draw breath.

Whoever the person was he was in no hurry. Apparently he was listening to occasional sounds Which came from the darkness at the back of the house; and whilst Chevrell hugged the wall, the fellow struck a match and lit a cigarette, the heavy odour of which proclaimed one of the drugged Egyptian variety. Without moving, the man smoked on, whilst Chevrell, tied to the wall, cursed him from his heart. He was wondering whether it would be possible to surprise the smoker with a knockout blow when the whirring of propeller broke the stillness. At that the smoker tossed his cigarette away, and stepped out into the mist, closing the door behind him with a resounding crash, but for one second, as he stood in the light, Chevrell had a glimpse of him.

"Dara Lodi."

Scarcely had his mind registered the fact, when, before he could move, the Rangar stepped briskly off in the misty darkness, plainly moving in the direction of the unseen aeroplane. Chevrell had no thought of interfering with him. For. the moment the man might go to perdition if he chose—th- important thing was that the way into the house was open. He waited until the sound of the other's footsteps had died away, and then slipped forward to the door. Groping, he found a horseshoe shaped handle which lifted what must be a heavy and ancient latch. He looked round, listened, and boldly lifting the latch, thrust the door open.

Beyond was a long stone passage which appeared to run .the whole depth of the house, for at the further end he discerned a second door. A single electric lamp lit this corridor, along which rugs were placed at intervals but nowhere continuously; and at one point he saw handsome newel-posts which proclaimed a staircase. He stepped inside, softly closed the door behind him. and again listened. In the house there was absolute silence.

He moved forward a few paces to where a switch gleamed on the watt. He tested ,it quickly. It was, he proved, the switch commanding the light at this end of the corridor-like halt Having ascertained that he considered the corridor itself. Doors opened out from it here and there, and at one place there was a stone arch leading, he guessed; to some wing of the house. The furthest door on the right, Judging by Its position in relation to the other would be the one giving admission to the lighted room. Here he conjectured, he would find the girl he sought

He considered carefully the obstacles the corridor held. Here a table, there a stand of arms, at another place a big grandfather's clock, and near the stairs, a statuette on an. ebony stand. As far as possible he fixed the position of these in his and that done, switched oft the light

The corridor, with the passing of the light took on an inky blackness. It. was, he thought the darkest place he had ever been in, and but for the rugs underfoot with the, intervals of bare stone, and the fact that he had memorised the possible obstructions, he must speedily have met with disaster.

As it was he had to move slowly, and with exacting caution, groping every foot of the way. It seemed a infinite time before his outstretched hands touched the cross-piece of a great door, which further groping assured him must be the door at the front. Somewhere on his right now was the door of the room he sought. He looked round for any ray of light that would betray its position. He found none; nor did listening reveal any murmur of voices such as he had half expected.

He turned a half-right, and began his groping progress anew, and in another minute encountered a door jamb. Here then was the doorway he sought. There was skin rug in front of it, and on it he stood whilst he listened for any sound within. None reached him. He remembered the uses to which servants were supposed to put keyholes, and finding one belonging to this shut door, he made the experiment. All he heard was the beating of his own heart.

Utterly nonplussed, he stood for a little time, considering and hoping for some sound that would inform him of the girl's presence of the room beyond.  But the utter silence was maintained, and very conscious of the passage of time, and spurred by the thought that Dara Lodi and his fellows would be returning, he decided to take the bull by the horns. Quite deliberately, he turned the handle and gently, opened, the door. The room was in utter darkness, and to his listening ears, still as the grave. Then caught a sound— the tapping of high heels on a polished floor.

"Overhead!"

His lips shaped the word silently and he retreated to the corridor. As be did so the utter silence of the house was broken by a girl's cry.

"No! No! ...I will not. Why―" The cry had come down the stairs, the voice was Mary Frobisher's. He wasted no time. Taking chances, he hurried down the corridor, reached the stairs, and quietly and swiftly began the ascent. Half way up the stairs turned on a broad landing, and beyond, the prevailing darkness was broken by a gleam of light, which came, as he guessed, from an open door. That helped him a little; made him more sure of his steps, and in no time at all he had passed the last stair and was staring in the direction from which the light came— from an open door as he had guessed.

He heard sounds now— a murmuring, someone speaking in a low voice,, which though soothing in quality, had in his ears a note of infinite menace. He knew too much of the Bast to doubt that some strange evil thing was in  progress.

Dara Lodi's reference to the ink pool and the globe had given him a notion of it nature: and with toe conviction that some hypnotic experiment was ' Hw? made, he hurried forward, lightly as a cat. He reached the doorway from which ' the light streamed—the door standing a little ajar. There again he paused to listen. The murmuring soothing voice was audible again; but was too indistinct for him to make out toe words. An odour as of burning incense poured through the doorway on to the landing.

"Some infernal drug!"

Dara Lodi's phrase rang in his ears. It was no time for finesse. With such a woman as that who had shot him in Cairo anything was possible; and at any and every cost he must intervene. Gently, he thrust the door open, and slipped into the room.

15

THE SIGHT THAT met his eyes kindled amazement in him. As he had half  anticipated the place was a bed chamber, handsome with old furniture; but for the moment, half veiled in blue, aromatic smoke which came from a small ornamental brazier set on a table, near an old mahogany four-poster. In the bed itself, wan and frail, a dazed expression on her face, with an odd, unseeing look in her golden eyes, was Mary Frobisher; whilst at the side of the bed was the woman whom he knew as Madam  Huseyn. The woman's handsome face, had a set, intense expression. Her dark eyes were fixed on the girl's in a steady, compelling stare, whilst from her hand dangled— a silk cord, at the end of which some shiny thing—glass or diamond, Chevrell could not tell which, flashed and scintillated as she swung it to and fro as regularly as a pendulum.

All that he visioned in a flash as he stood, still in the shadow of the door. Then he saw that which kindled him to quick anger. On the table by the brazier was a small phial, and by the side of it a shining thing which he recognised for a hypodermic needle. So Dara Lodi's conjecture― and his own fear stood proved. Whatever that handsome woman's present activity, she was, it appeared, prepared to go to the direst limits to gain her ends.

So intent was the woman, so concentrated her gaze on the face of the hapless girl, that for quite half a minute his own entrance into the room went unnoticed. Then, though ne had continued to stand quite still, his presence, possibly because he was a hostile influence, forced itself upon Madame's consciousness. The shining, thing in her hand continued its pendulum-like swing, but slowly her gaze shifted, travelled swiftly round the chamber, and rested on him standing by the door.

The next moment lightning recognition leaped in the dark eyes. They blazed with tumultuous anger, and a sharp, intense look came on her face.

Then she laughed, hardly, mockingly, and cried:

"So Mr. Chevrell, you would beard the lion. Well—" Her hand swiftly went to the bosom of her dress; and before he could move she was covering him with a pistol— the same which she had used in Cairo, he would have sworn. The woman laughed again.

"Once before you dared to do the same thing, and you got-away; but this time you will not be so fortunate. If you move, I shall certainly fire."

Chevrell never, doubted it; but though he knew the woman was a marksman, he was in no way dismayed. He watched her as she backed towards an old-fashioned bell-pull— a scarlet cord which dangled near the fireplace, and was a little amused. No doubt, in her ignorance that he had left the house, it was the woman's intention to summon Dara Lodi. Well, let her, it would do no harm, for he would have staked his soul's salvation on the fact that except for the three of them in that room the house was empty.

He made no move. As the woman reached the scarlet rope he watched her tug it viciously; and as the tinkle of the bell sounded from somewhere below, he saw a smile of malice curl her red lips. He made a calculation. The switch of the electric light was close to his hand. If he plunged the room into darkness, the very faint light of the brazier would he no help at all to the woman. In two leaps he would be able to reach her; and all he had to risk was a blind shot in the dark.

Madame tugged the rope again, and preparatory to reaching foe the switch Chevrell glanced at the girl in the bed, and suffered a little shock. Her face had turned a little towards him. The dazed look had gone from her face, her eyes were bright with intelligence, and the white brow was contracted in a warning frown; whilst her lips moved soundlessly. He read in them the word she could not speak

"Go!... Go!"

Swift insight came to him. The hypnotic look which he had seen in her face and eyes had been no more than an elaborate pretence. Neither that heavy fragrance in the room, nor that winking toy in Madame's hand, nor again the woman's compelling gaze, had exercised the slightest influence over her. But she could not know what was purposed, and was, he thought, unaware of that syringe and phial by the smoking brazier. He rebelled against her silent command. He could not go and leave her there amid perils beyond that which she perceived.  His will to stay showed in his face, and again the lips shaped the soundless word.

She really meant it! She wished to be left there to accomplish some purpose to which she had set herself, and in doubt what to do looked at Madame again.  The pistol still covered him, and the hand held it was unwavering, but was a little disturbed light in the dark eyes which met his own.

Had she realised that they were alone in the house?  He that was more than likely; and a moment later was assured that is was so.

"I think, Mr Chevrell, you had better face the wall. Our mutual friends will be here in a moment. You hear them on the stairs?"

Chevrell did not hear them. He was sure they  were not on the stairs, and he could have laughed aloud  as the next moment she belied her own suggestion by a new tug on the bell-rope. But he did not allow his mirth the relief of laughter and turned obediently to the wall and  eyed with amusement the switch which commanded all the lights in the room, which was now so close, just beneath his nose, near enough to jerk up and plunge the room in utter darkness before the woman's capable and ready finger pulled the trigger of the pistol.  He would count three to himself and―

"One," he whispered, but never finished the brief count. there was a sudden crash at the window.  One of the panes shivered into a hundred fragments and something hard fell into the room and clattered against the brass curb by the fireplace.

A stone! Esau's warning!

There was an evident need for haste. In a very brief time, a few minutes at most, there would be someone to hear the woman's now frantic ringing and come to her help.  He had no time to waste. He must perforce obey the girl's command now. His hand shot up, hitting the switch in its upward swing.

Instantly the room was plunged in darkness, and he sprang for the door. As he reached it there was a spurt of flame and the room was filled with a crashing  sound, whilst a bullet plugged the wall where he had stood.  He laughed to reassure Miss Frobisher as he closed the door behind him, and as he did so his hand encountered a key on the outside. He turned it, and knowing that he was safe from Madame, groped his way to the stairs, ran down them as quickly as he dared, and for one moment in the corridor-like hall stood hesitating

"Back or front?"

He turned to the front door. Also, certain that if Dara Lodi and his companions were returning to he house, they would do so by the rear door which was the nearest for them, and he had no wish to walk into their arms.

He found the front door by running against it, found the spring lock which held it.  He slipped back the catch and tugged. The door did not open, but echoing up the hall, and mingling with the frantic pealing of a bell, came the sound of the back door being thrown violently open. The danger of which Esau had warned him was materialising. He groped desperately for the bolts which, as he suspected, still held the door. He found them, one at the top and one at the bottom; tugged  at them desperately,   and opened one half of the door to the tune of voices shouting in the dark hall, and one vociferous above all, demanding that someone should turn on the light.

The light appeared as he passed out of the house. He caught the gleam of it behind him, and very gently pulled to the door behind him. Out of the misty darkness came a low whistle.

"Right, Esau," he laughed softly and ran in the direction of the sound. He found his companion on the lawn.

"Quick!"  he said. "This way!"

Before they reached it the sailor asked asked curiously: "We'm hopping it?"

"At the double," answered Chevrell.

"But the maid us came to fetch?"

"Remains for the time... her own choice, you understand, Esau. I couldn't well force her to come with me."

''Noa! Maids be self-willed, zame as pigs! They'm difficult to drive," Esau looked round. "There'm the devil's own row behind us."

"All right, so long as it stops there. This way! Here's the gate."

Chevrell led the way out and turned in the direction of his flight on the previous night.

"T'other be the better way," said Esau.

"All right in a moment. Come this way just now. We may find a conveyance of sorts."

He led the way to the gate of the spinney where he had parked the motor cycle on the previous night. It was odds against his finding it, he knew; but there was just the possibility that no one had visited the place. His luck held. He found the cycle where he had left it; and inside three minutes had it out in the road. Another minute and he had both the lamps lit and the engine going.

"Now, Esau, you'll ride pillion, and we'll go up the road."

"Down, ee mean. There'm alight at thic gate back there. They'm lookin' vor us I reckon. Us can work round.... Thank God, I learned to balance on a bike when I was A.B."

They started, and as they did so heard confused shouts behind them. Seated on the pillion Esau gave instructions.

"Keep on vor a mile, an' turn when I d'tell ee. There'm a pony track lower down, works round to the upper end of the road. The rascals up there will never think to follow it, as they'll be in a car vor certain, they being bound to have heard this bike which is like a machine gun in action. Us'll have to shove it half a mile or zo, but that be no odds."

The mist was thinner down the road, but even so they could make no great pace, and as he steered the machine Chevrell wondered how soon they would know of the pursuit behind them. On such a night; he thought, the motor cycle might be as much a handicap as a help, and he was half regretting that he had troubled to look for it, when some kind of building loomed shadow-like in the mist, and Esau shouted:—

"Shut off steam. Easy... Here we be."

The track he mentioned began at a gate which had every appearance of being merely an entrance to a field; a very deceptive beginning for a path; and one that no one unacquainted with would ever have, suspected. As they passed through, Esau shut the gate, and for a second they listened. Somewhere up the road there was the purr of a motor engine.

"Hunt be out! Comin' this way."

"Yes!" said Chevrell, and promptly extinguished the light of the cycle.

They pushed on without waiting to see the pursuit go by. The track was as bad as it could be, and  if he had been alone Chevrell would have been tempted to abandon the machine altogether, but Esau was a tower of strength; and pushed it along the difficult way as he might have done a pedal cycle. In less than half an hour they were on the road, well above the house from which they had fled.

"Now," said th A.B., wiping the sweat from his brow, "us can light up an' ride. They heathens will never look vor us up here."

They took the road again, jogging along at a moderate speed, for the mist made the going difficult, and the very secondary moorland road was in a poor condition.

"Vive mile up," explained Esau, "an' then there'm a cut off to the right. 'Twill take us within a mile ov the wold varm. Us'll have to push the machine vrom there."

Chevrell had no relish for the latter part of the programme, but did not say so. A mile of rough going through the heather with the machine was preferable to the many miles walking which was the alternative; and as they rattled on, he fell to thinking of Mary Frobisher and the scene he had witnessed in the  bedroom. That the woman had been trying to hypnotise her he was certain; and notwithstanding the look in the girl's face and eyes when he had first seen her, he was assured now that the woman had failed; though the girl had looked like one passing under the influence of another's will. That had been mere deception. Mary was in full control of her faculties— and deliberately letting the other suppose her efforts were being attended by success. Why? Did she hope to learn something that way? What desperate game was she playing that, she should so imperatively bid him go and leave here there, in hands that could be so ruthless and deadly?

He could find no answer to these questions, and whilst he was still puzzling over them, his companion inquired over his shoulder:

"Wot happened in the house?"

He gave him a truncated account of his experience in the mansion; and Esau inquired.

"This woman be some sort ov a witch then?"

"A she-devil, anyway, agreed ! Chevrell fervently.

"Zame thing," remarked  Esau. "But wot be the maid's purpose to bide there when us' had come to deliver her?"

"I wish, I knew," answered Chevrell. "I'd no means of finding out; and your stone came through the window before I could do anything with that woman."

"Slice ov bad luck, that. ... But if those blighters had surprised ee 'twould have a-been worse."

"Much!"

They fell silent again. The road turned down hill, and on the slope the mist was denser. The headlight played tricks with it; and though Chevrell turned the light as low as possible; the going was exceedingly difficult, not to say perilous. Esau seemed not to mind it. He appeared to know every inch of the road, and gave instructions unconcernedly.

"There'm a turn just ahead, an' a bridge beyond it. Ee'll hear the water, which, be noisy among the rocks."

They passed the turn, and as Chevrell did not hear the water, and could see nothing he shut off the engine, and began to free-wheel with the brake on. Two seconds later his heart gave a leap of fear. The mist in front grew suddenly luminous.. A raucous voice shouted wildly, "Look out you damn' fool!"

Before he could do anything the accident came. The motor cycle, fortunately running easily, crashed straight into a standing car. Chevrell was flung straight over the handle bars on to a radiator which burned his hands as he touched it, and slid forward on the bonnet, fetching up with his hands against  the wind-screen through which he looked into the scared face of the driver. Esau was flung sideways into the heather bordering the road, j and, picking himself up, ran swearing to Chevrell's assistance.

Before he reached him the driver of the car, which, was of the genus ! taxicab, was out of his seat, shouting hoarsely, and hauling Chevrell from his sprawling perch upon the bonnet. When he found that he j was in no way hurt, he broke out I wrathfully:—

"You flaming fool! To come down a hill like that in this mist. What d'ye think you're doin'? A pair of crazy idiots―"

"Steady my man!" said Chevrell recovering himself quickly. "Look at your own car. Which side of the road are you on?"

The man looked and quickly changed his tune.

"In this d―d mist a man can't tell noways."

"To pull up on a hill and on the wrong side of the road in a fog is absolutely criminal," said Chevrell. "You might have broken both our necks."

"Well, sir " The man stopped and listened. "Curse it!" he broke out. "The radiator's gone.  I'm stuck here for the night."

There was a sound of splashing water on the road which bore out his statement; and Chevrell unshipped the acetylene lamp of the motor cycle, which had escaped injury, and flashed it on the radiator. There was no question of the damage. The radiator was badly lacerated low down. In three minutes it would be drained dry.

He looked at the motor cycle. The front wheel was buckled and the tyre burst. It also was beyond further use that night.

"It seemed that we are stuck, also and "

"What ees thee matter?"

At the sound of the new voice he turned sharply round, to find a youth had descended from the taxi-cab, and was staring with imperious eyes! He flashed the lamp in the speaker's face and suffered a shock far beyond that of the collision, then he replied, almost exultantly:

"The matter is a collision. The radiator of your cab is ruined, and the wheel of my cycle is buckled. So neither of us can go forward."

"But I must. Eet ees verre important that I complete my journey to-night," answered the youth staccatoing his words in the manner of one speaking an unfamiliar language.

Carelessly, Chevrell let the light of his lamp shine into the rear of the taxi-cab to learn if there was any one else within. There was! He glimpsed an aged face, bearded like Aaron's, and half hidden in a huge turban, eyes that were undimmed. and of eagle brightness, and as he faced the youth again, he was wondering how he could best use the amazing piece of luck that bad befallen him. The youth served him unintentionally.

"You must for help go," he said to the taxi driver. "I cannot stay here all thee night. Eet ees time I was at thee house to which you take me."

"Help!" the taxi-man groaned. "And where am I to get help in this god-forsaken country?"

Chevrell took a risk. The man might or might not know the road; but the he to get rid of him was worth trying.

"Garage— two miles or so up the road. Man lives on the premises."

"Sure? I don't seem to remember. But there, I haven't been this way for up five years, an' I was a fool to come to-night."

"New, since you were on the way. I expect.... But it won't take you long to go."

The man looked doubtful. "I don't know.... Don't seem right to leave these foreigners all by themselves in the middle of this blasted moor."

"Oh," said Chevrell, "they'll be all right, sat in the taxi-cab. What can happen to them?"

"Well, you happened along; and if you'd have been one of them motor coaches— we'd sure have been pulped."

"Motor coaches!" Chevrell laughed. "There'll be none in this hour, that is certain."

"No— er— but— I say, couldn't one o' you oblige me by slipping along to that garage?"

"Sorry," said Chevrell, "but we're long overdue, and shall have to push along. If the jigger had been undamaged we'd have slipped. backer one of us would. As it is, we shall leave it here, and you might give the garage man instructions to get it back to his place and put it right. Tell him the owner will I call for it in a couple of days."

The taxi man was still reluctant to depart in search of help.

"You don't think anything will happen along to give me a lift or take a message to the garage?"

"I should think it is, very unlikely!"

"Then I'll sure have to go, an' these gents can make themselves comfortable till I came back." The man explained to his fare, and the youth, not liking the fog, promptly got back into the taxi. Then the driver addressed Chevrell. "Both insured, I guess. I got your number an' you've got mine. The companies will make it fifty-fifty. I reckon. So long. Phew! But it's the deuce of a night to be running round Dartmoor."

He went off up the rand, and Chevrell pushed the damaged motor cycle to the side of the road, promptly abandoned it, and led the way in the other direction. Ten yards further, just across the bridge, Esau spoke.

"I don't call to mind no garage two miles back-along."

"No, I daresay not! There isn't one. But I want that fellow to go so far looking for it He deserves the; tramp after risking our 'lives by pulling up where he did."

"You'm just punishing en vor—"

"No! I really want him out of the way., Esau, the most gorgeous thing has happened. You remember me telling you about a youth I saw in Paris, who I believe was the heart and centre figurehead of this affair in which―"

"I mind," broke in Esau, a little excitedly.

"Well that's the youth back there In that taxi cab, with, old Simeon or what's-his-name with him."

"Glory be!" ejaculated .Esau.

"And Tm going to gather him. At the best we may scotch the whole business; and at the worst, he will serve for a hostage, ensuring good treatment for Miss Frobisher."

"Ee'd mean you he goin' to collar the youth?"

"Yes?"

"And that wold bird— Simeon?"

"No! We will leave him."

"Have to knock en on the head l expect. I got a glimpse of en. He'm not the sort to sit quiet in a scrimmage."

"No. He's a fomenter of war."

"Then that uses the sword— I zeem to remember zomething in the good book. ... If the wold bird gets his head broke, it is his own fault for meddling. I be ready."

"Then let us go back, quietly. We may surprise the pair."

As he spoke Chevrell turned in his tracks and, Esau turning with him, they crept silently forward till the red rear-light of the taxi cab showed dimly through the misty darkness.

16

WHISPERING TO ESAU to wait and stand ready, Chevrell crept forward, and from the side of the road looked into the taxi. He could see little for the fog seemed to swallow all the radiance from the vehicle's headlights. He listened, but there was no sound of voices. After a little time he conjectured the pair must be asleep, and was about to step forward and investigate when there was the sound of movement inside the cab, and a tiny flame lit the interior. One of the pair within had struck a match or— a petrol lighter! By Jove, that was it. The youngster for a certainty; since no one could possibly associate that turbaned old devotee with a thing so modern.

He crept a little nearer. Old Simeon, as he named him to himself, was sunk far back in the corner of the taxi, chin on his breast, eyes closed, overcome by the quick sleep which overtakes the aged that stand on the borders of that real old age on which senility waits. His luck, he thought, was holding marvellously. If he could attract the youths attention, induce him to step from the taxi-cab without wakening that sleeping old fanatic, the rest would be a complete and mysterious disappearance of the one whom they expected― a disappearance on which neither the taxi-man nor Simeon, sleeping when he should have  watched, could throw any light

Taking a quick step forward, he tapped lightly on the window of the taxi. The youth's quick eyes sought the glass with an odd look of expectancy, the interest in his beautiful face revealed to Chevrell by the small flame of the petrol lighter. Chevrell signalled to him; and the youth, plainly expecting nothing, opened the door, and stepped out of the vehicle.

"What ees eet dat you would say?" he demanded. Chevrell gave a covert signal to Esau, who drew nearer.

"You are going to that house, where Prince Achmed Medineh and Rao Dara-Lodi are awaiting you."

A flash of surprise came in the dark eyes of the youth; and for a second there was suspicion in his face. Then he smiled.

"Ah!" he said, groping for words that did not come to his tongue readily. "You be of the faithful."

"As you say, Prince!"  Chevrell risked the title the more easily as he saw Esau range himself between the youngster and the door of the taxi cab.  "But it was not well for that driver of the cab, who is less honoured than the dust touched by your highness's feet, to know the truth. Therefore I waited until—"

He gave a signal and Esau's arms went round the youth as if he had been a babe, one arm holding him close round the body, whilst the other went round the neck, the big hand covering the mobile mouth. A look of stark fear flashed in the dark eyes, a greyish pallor made the insolently beautiful face look very sickly, and Chevrell knew that they would have no trouble with the youth. He might be the figurehead of a conspiracy; the instrument in clever hands; but in his confusion he was not to be feared— a mere thing of lath and plaster, and no steel blade.

"Your highness will keep quite still!" he said. "No harm will come to you if you do not resist. But you must come with us— as a hostage for the good behaviour of the men with  whom you are associated, you understand? Gag. and bind him."

The ex-A.B. did both quite thoroughly, the first with a none too clean handkerchief; the second a leather belt, that was apparently an unnecessary part of his sartorial outfit.

"Now," said Chevrell, "we will go. But there is nothing to fear so long as there is no resistance. Is that clear?"

The youth nodded; and flashed a look at the sleeping old man in the taxi-cab. There was concern in that look, something very like affection, and Chevrell liked the youngster for it; then the dark eyes met his own and there was an inquiry in their depths that he understood.

"Yes! I am afraid that we must leave him. But he will be all right. The night in the taxi will not hurt him; and will I think be easier for his aged bones than the walk that we must take. It is—"

"S-h-h-h!"

The warning came from Esau, who was standing with his head cocked in listening attitude. Chevrell also listened; and clearly through the utter stillness caught the purr of a car moving, as the sound indicated, at a rate which on such a night proclaimed urgency.

"Yes!" he said, answering the question which Esau had not spoken.

"An' they'd meet the driver— an hear about these two zo like as not."

"Pretty certain, I should say.

"Then 'tis time to vamoose zo fast as us can step... Thank heaven the wold heathen sleepin' there will be able to tell 'em nothin, not even how long ee've been slumbering... let's be stepping up-along, Mr. Chevrell."

They stepped up-along with their captive between them. The youth attempted no resistance, showed no reluctance whatever, but walked for ward like one hypnotised by disaster or one recognising the truth of the old fatalistic saying that It was useless to kick against the pricks. None of them spoke until they reached the cut-off for which they had been making before the accident. There for a moment or two they rested and listened.

"Hear anything, Esau?

"Iss. Be fainty like an' far away, but I'll lay there'm the devils own row by the taxi-cab. I reckon those beauties from Squire Hannaford's have a-found wold Moses an be axing him more questions that he can find answers vor."

"Without doubt.... Let us go on."

They marched forward, turned in a path, where the growing heather heavy with moisture drenched their legs on either side; and half an hour later, to Chevrell's immense relief, for he had feared they might be lost on the moor, Esau announced;—

"Here be the wold varm— an' zo welcome as the swallows."

Chevrell could see nothing, but the sailor moved forward with confidence, then whispered:—

"Best call a halt, Mr. Chevrell, whilst I d'spy out the land; an' open the door. Guess I'll have to scramble through the dairy, us having left the door barred."

He went forward whilst Chevrell remained with his captive in the dripping mist which now seemed to be turning to fine rain. After an interval there was the slight sound of a lifted latch and a creaking door, and steps approached them.

"All's well, Mr. Chevrell."

Chevrell and his captive moved forward to the house, Esau closed and barred the door, then lit a candle. By the dim light it afforded Chevrell looked at the youth. The sick, grey look was still on his face, and he was shivering with cold, his clothing soaked with the mist. There was nothing to fear from him Chevrell decided, and, releasing his arms and removing the gag, he gave Esau instructions.

"Build up the fire. Brew some tea!"

He directed the youth to the seat in the chimney corner, and when the tea was ready he handed him a mug of it.

"Drink," he said. "It will take the chill from your bones."

The youth took it in silence, and sipped it apathetically, staring into the fire, as if his captors did not exist Both Chevrell and Esau drank tea, and the latter inquired, sotto voce:

"What be ees going to do with the boy?"

"Heaven knows? Keep him, I suppose, until, we hear from Mackinder.... He's the king on the other side of the chess-board, I fancy; and that means the game is ours."

"Don't know nothin', about chessboards.... But do ee reckon us can keep en here?...They heathens will be buzzing like wasps looking vor a lost queen come morning I reckon. If the bwoy be that important they'll turn every rock on the moor looking for en."

"Yes, that is very likely."

"We've got to hide en before daylight. This mist'll likely lift wi' the sun, an' his crowd'll maybe come here vor a first shot."

"Yes―" began Chevrell. who had been thinking precisely the same thing, then the sailor expounded further.

"Us have got to show a clean bill ov health, here, an' it can't be done with en about... My idea is to shift en on!"

"But where?"

"I've been a-thinkin' ov that, walkin' here. Two miles off as the crow goes, there'm another lone place like this, a wold pottery, an' more desolate than a vorgotten churchyard. Dartymoor's full ov such places if ee only know where to look vor en, wold houses, wold tin mines, wold mills, an' the Lord knows wot.... This bwoy would be zo zafe as eggs under a broody hen there with ee to look after en."

"Yes," agreed. Chevrell thoughtfully. "But there's Miss Frobisher. ... Ah, I have it. A note telling that crowd at Squire Hannaford's that we hold the boy there―"

"They'll sure know that, by now. An' in the morning they'll be offering the maid vor en, I'll warrant"

"But I can't let him go. I mustn't let them get wind of his whereabouts, until Colonel Mackinder arrives from Paris."

"Then the maid have a-got to take her chance?"

"God help her. Yes."

"Um! Be a stiff game you'm playing."

"And one to be played to the finish no matter what pieces are lost. That's the rule, Esau.... And there's nothing else for it. I must go with that boy to the pottery you mention."

"Right! Climb in the hammock, an' rest I'll watch till it be time to start."

"Rest!" Chevrell thought of that house across the moor, of the girl in the great four-poster bed, of the woman with her burning brazier, her swinging toy, and phial and needle, and cried in acute apprehension.

"Man, I'm burning with fear for... for―"

"The maid!... Well, by this I guess thic crowd of heathens be burning with fears vor the bwoy thee, zo things be all square."

The thought had its consolations for Chevrell. Guessing, as they, must, that he or those associated with him held the youth who, as he was convinced, was essential to their plans, the conspirators would scarcely go to extremes with Mary Frobisher. They would try to bargain. At any rate, ultimate action not be taken until they were assured of the failure of their efforts. And within the next twenty-four hours Mackinder would take hold; and relieve him of the' burden of the ultimate decision. Till then he would hold the youth who was so important a piece in the desperate game that was being played.

But he did not rest in the hammock. That was beyond him. At intervals he smoked, and talked in whispers with Esau, whilst the abducted youth, overcome with weariness and the warmth of the fire, slept with no more dignity than any other youth of his age.

An hour before dawn they wakened him; shared with him such breakfast as Esau could muster; and then set oft across the drenching heather. Before they reached the old pottery, the mist was blowing before the dawn wind, and as they made their destination, the sun shot clear above the tors, t thing the high rocks and the wide reaches of heather and uncurling bracken with spring sunlight. Warmed by its radiance, Esau was in high feather.

"You'll lie snug as a pair of foxes. An' none'll find ee till I bring ee the news to come forth... There'm the victuals, matches ee've got an' tobacco, and there'm water at the spring... A king can want vor no more."

With a promise that when there was news, or at the latest by sundown, he would return, the sailor went his way; and Chevrell settled himself to the weariest vigil of his life. His prisoner would not talk; held himself apart with a morose aloofness; and withal looked so ill that every time Chevrell looked at him he had a stirring of compunction. He had conjectured the part this handsome boy was to play in the conspiracy that the others were engaged in, but found himself wondering exactly how far the boy himself understood that part. Also, he wondered, who he was? Of no common clay he. thought, or a man like Medineh would not have shown him deference, nor would Dara Lodi have submitted himself to one who had not. inherited authority and a right to loyalty. He remembered the veneration he had seen in the eyes of the old priest at that house at Passy and found there a further pointer. The boy had race and breeding in every line of him, though his present apathy and listlessness under misfortune betrayed a heritage of weakness which was perhaps the fruit of racial indolence and Indulgence, or possibly of that strain of fatalism so characteristic of the Orient.... No ambitious plotter, at any rate, he thought, rather one taught to expect certain things as a personal privilege, and whose handsome person was no more than a tool in hands that, itched tor power.

So he conjectured whilst the time passed and he kept lonely vigil, watching the slopes of distant tors, and the nearer rim of the cuplike valley in which the derelict pottery was situated. For hours he saw no moving thing save a few sheep, a handful of browsing ponies, or a hovering kite. Then, about three in the afternoon,, he saw a human figure standing on the nearest slope, plainly considering the old works. He watched the man carefully. It was not Esau he was sure; and since he had no expectation of any other friend, he prepared to receive an enemy, taking from his pocket the automatic pistol he had brought from Paris; and putting himself in position behind a heap of tumbled masonry. One man he could deal with; and since he had every cause to anticipate  ruthless action, he was determined that at any rate he would meet the unknown man on equal terms.

His prisoner watched his preparations with an appalling apathy a indifference; as if whatever might befall was no longer any concern his; and assured that there would no interference from him Chevrell watched the man on the slope with increasing interest. The man left the rim and moved downwards to the valley, making a bee-line for the  pottery, a man clearly on some definite quest. Till he was a hundred yards away, he had no idea of the newcomer's identity. Then something familiar in the figure stirred suspicions of the truth, and he had throb of joyous anticipation; but kept the curb on himself till he was quite sure. Then he rose swiftly from his hiding place ,and moved into the open with a joyous:

"Hallo! Hallo, Colonel!"

The man was Colonel Mackinder; cautious as ever, for almost imperiously he waved Chevrell back under cover and gave no other greeting, whilst, halting, he turned and deliberately surveyed the valley. Then again he advanced, nonchalantly; paused again as he reached the old clay-pits as if his interest lay there; and after what seemed an interminable time, slipped into the ruined buildings and confronted Chevrell, his lean face wrinkled in a smile.

"Well, Chevrell, I'm glad to see you safe."

"Not half so glad as I am to see you, sir," Chevrell said fervently.

"So? Had a hot time, hey?...  And you've turned abductor, or so I've heard from that red-haired rustic over the hills there.... May I see your victim?"

"This way, sir."

Chevrell led him round a broken inner wall to the place where the youth was seated, elbows on knees, chin in hands. The colonel looked at him. and again more closely; then ah exclamation of extreme amazement broke from him:

"Great Jove!"

"What—?"

"I might have guessed it," cried Mackinder, "and didn't. Of all the triple, brass-bound numbskulls, I'm the one." He looked at the youth again, who still maintained his apathetic position, chin in hands, elbows on knees. Then, he spoke a name, softly, and as it seemed to Chevrell, with affection.

"Safdar Ali!"

At the words the youth slowly lifted his head, and looked ' at the Colonel. A blazing light of recognition came into his dreamy eyes, and he leaped to his feet, more animated than ever Chevrell had seen him.

"Colonel Mac-kin-der!" he cried in his odd staccatoed way.

"Yes! yes!" answered the Colonel, eagerly. "And you know me. Good."

He offered his hand and the youth took it willingly, about him nothing of the remoteness and air of austere authority that Chevrell had previously observed. Safdar Ali's demeanour was just that of a self-possessed boy meeting one for whom he cherished something of hero-worship.

"I am very glad to meet you, sir. I have not seen you for—"

"Ages! hey, Safdar Ali! Well, we meet now, in time to snatch you from trouble! Allah be praised."

"You are to take me from this man, and the other who―"

The Colonel broke in again, gravely this time.

"Safdar Ali, this man is one of the best friends you ever had, though now you do not know it.  When you do, you will thank him for what he did last night. I shall take you from him now. But to-morrow or the day after, you will meet him again, and if you are not grateful, then you and I are no longer friends. but When I have explained, I have no doubt that you will do so... You must excuse me now. There is much to do. I must speak with Mr. Chevrell but you may be of quiet mind. There is no more trouble for you, my friend." He turned to Chevrell. "Come. I must talk with you, and we must act quickly."

They moved a little , apart, and Colonel Mackinder laughed, with a note of excitement that in him was a rare thing.

"Chevrell you have the most extraordinary luck.... Here's a five year mystery solved; and the devil of a conspiracy fairly scotched. I haven't time to explain; but that boy there, as you seem to have guessed, is the ace of trumps in this business. And we have got to keep our hands on him at any cost! I must get him away from the neighbourhood with all speed .... Do you think you could get any sort of conveyance this way in an hour?"

"I can try, sir. Though  don't know the district."

"The main road lies over there.'

Mackinder indicated the direction. "There will be cars on it— certainly. Get one... commandeer it— in the King's name if you like, steal it— any dam' means so long as you get it here quickly."

"Yes, sir! I'll bring It"

The Colonel laughed. "I believe you will— and I'll bail you out. I must talk with Safdar Ali Kahn.... This is the most immortal piece of luck l ever ran against. As a nipper the boy was a friend of mine, and his father. But off you go. We'll have the palaver later. Better keep in cover. I fancy there's a close search for you and the boy, and I don't want to attend our funeral."

"I will go carefully, sir."

Chevrell left the old pottery and moved across the moor like a deer stalker, using all the plentiful cover It afforded. He kept his eyes open, -hut saw no sign of watchers, and as he went he had time to think over the amazing thing that had happened, and to wonder what was the mystery to which the colonel had referred. The name which Mackinder had given his captive, Safdar Ali Kahn had, as he thought of it, a familiar sound. He had heard it before somewhere, he was sure, and he had a dim idea of some unusual circumstance associated with it; but could not recall what it was... Anyway it was good to know that his banditry of last night was so important in its issues, and when he reached the top of the hill, with the main road showing like an undulating ribbon a mile away, with a very rough, overgrown accommodation road running from it in the direction of the old -pottery, he scanned the stretch of road offered with eager eyes.

It was as blank as a whitewashed wall, no car swinging along its length; no pedestrian footing it between the bordering heather. He continued his stealthy way towards it, using still his utmost caution, knowing that eleventh hour slips were the most disastrous of all. Then through the quiet of the afternoon came a rumbling sound, and a pantechnicon, with a trailer came in sight, travelling along the undulating road at what seemed to him a dangerous speed. He was about a quarter of a mile away from the road; too far to hail it, and in any case, it was not the kind of vehicle he needed. He watched it go, and made for the road at the point where the old accommodation road to the pottery ran into the heather. There were rocks there, and a patch of gorse. He lay down in the shelter of these to watch the still empty road. For quite a long time nothing came along it. He grew impatient of waiting; but schooled himself with the' thought that nothing he could do would fasten the coming of the vehicle that he wanted, and that there could be ho gain in moving along the road in either direction to seek it.

Somewhere in the Plymouth direction, a horn broke the stillness, and then, clearly audible, the sharp tuck-tuck of a motor cycle. That would be no use to him, but— the horn sounded again. Yes, the fellow was passing someone,' another vehicle probably, for even a motor cyclist did not toot his horn for the mere fun of the thing. Three minutes later the cyclist came into view, and a minute and a half more, flashed by him like a goggled fury, making the best of the empty road.

Chevrell kept his eyes on the Plymouth direction. The cyclist had passed something, and that, if it had any speed at all, was due to come into view any  moment. There was a longer interval than he expected, before a large saloon topped the rise which he watched, and there drew up, to take the view, as he supposed. He watched it for a moment, and was about to rise with the intention of running forward to interview its occupant or occupants when a thing happened which made him crouch low again.

A man stepped out from the car and stood surveying the wide reach of moorland with a pair of field glasses. In that there was nothing to disturb him. Any tourist might so take the view. But the man turned and signalled to the, white capped driver, who stepped from his seat, and joining the other in the road, took the offered glasses and put them to his eyes. He was a tall, powerful-looking figure of a man, and under the white cap his face was black as night.

"The nigger mechanic!"

As he made the recognition Chevrell , was conscious of a little chill along his spine, and with all his skin prickling to goose flesh, he crept hurriedly info the shelter of the spiny gorse, praying heaven that he had not been noticed by that pair on the hill.

Huddled like a rabbit that dare not make its burrow, through the spiny branches of the gorse Chevrell saw the pair return to the saloon and waited breathlessly. From his point of view the old pottery was invisible, but he did not know if it were equally invisible from the hill, and if the men up there had observed it, there was a possibility that they might have decided to explore, for he had not the slightest doubt that they were searching for himself and the lost Safdar Ali Khan. Also, there was the possibility that they had seen him, and as the car came slowly down the hill his heart was in his mouth. If the car stopped at that old accommodation road it would mean that they had seen him; if it turned into it, he would be certain that they had seen the pottery and were bent on exploring it.

Fortunately it kept on, moving slowly; and seated by the black driver, as it passed his hiding place Chevrell saw the fat-faced Medineh, his bulging eyes alert, raking the moor now this side, now that.

He drew a breath of relief as the saloon glided forward, but he did not move from his hiding place till it disappeared over the crest of the next hill. Then three minutes later the sound of, the same motor vehicle coming from the direction the saloon Tins taken threw him into a panic, for he thought that it must be returning. He plunged into the gorse again, and a moment after found that his fear had been a groundless one. The vehicle coming down the incline at a good pace was some kind of tradesman's van. In a twinkling he was in the middle of the road signalling to the driver to stop. The man had the choice of running him down or obeying the signal, so pulled up.

"What the blazes―" he began stormily, and Chevrell hastily intervened.

"Would you like to earn a five pound note?"

"Would I like―" the man began, then laughed contemptuously. "Whose leg are you pulling? You're no-blooming millionaire by the looks of you."

Chevrell, conscious of his damaged clothing and of the disreputable appearance he must present to unprejudiced. eyes, laughed, and, knowing how money talks, produced his wallet and took therefrom the promised note.

"Here's the money," he said.

"Stolen, I reckon, by the looks of you," said the man suspiciously.

"Looks are not everything," averred Chevrell lightly. "If you dragged a duke through those gorse bushes he would look like a escaped convict from Princetown."

Well, I'm jiggered! That's what you are, hey, and the money is stole?"

"No it isn't! Listen to me. You will earn this money honestly, and, having earned it, if you like you can drive me straight to the police office in Plymouth where I guess you are going."

'Well," owned the man eyeing the note covetously, "that sounds fair enough. What d'you want me to do?"

Chevrell explained quickly and tersely. The man listened, looked at the heather-grown road, and then nodded his head.

"A mile! I'm on. But I'll have "a look at that note first, I don't want no phony stuff from a racecourse putting on me."

Chevrell handed him the note. The fellow looked at it critically, felt the paper, held it. up to the light to examine the water-mark, then nodded.

"Seems all right. Climb up!"

Chevrell climbed up, and they turned into the heather. It was a bumpy, ride, but in less than ten minutes they made the old pottery, and Colonel Mackinder, who had seen them coming, addressed the driver with a crispness that made him jump.

"Turn your van, man, quickly."

"Yes, sir!"

The van was turned and then the colonel went for Safdar Ali. The van man was a little open-mouthed as he looked at the handsome boy, but he  jumped again when, with all aboard, the colonel addressed him.

"Now, my man, you will go your damnedest— straight for the citadel. If anybody tries to stop you on the moor take no notice, but keep on, as if Satan were at your heels. You understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then that's all right! Off you go!"

They moved across the moor to the high road, and once there the driver . made the van spin. In no time at all they were in Plymouth and decanted at the citadel. Chevrell kicked his heels whilst Mackinder interviewed the officer in charge, an old friend of his. He came hack without Safdar Ali Khan, and laughingly explained.

"The boy is all right; not even Stalkoff can bribe his way in there, and Safdar Ali will get a new outlook on life― and on the might of the British Raj— that will counteract the poison that I suspect has been poured into him during the' last five years... Now I think we will go and eat, and you. shall tell me all your story. I know an hotel here "

Chevrell looked at his clothing and laughed. "No hotel would admit me. A ready-to-wear clothier's shop is the first place of call, I think.".

"Sinful pride!" laughed the Colonel. But Chevrell had his way; and presently, arrayed in a sports coat, trousers of grey flannel, and a rather gorgeous pull-over, he was seated opposite the Colonel in the hotel that the latter knew. The Colonel himself ordered the meal, then, as the waiter withdrew, he spoke quickly.

"Now, Chevrell, a précis of your adventures— as brief as you can; but omit nothing essential."

Chevrell gave an account of what had befallen since he had left Paris, and Mackinder listened tensely until he had finished.  Then he nodded, and spoke praisefully.

"Good trailing... And you saw Mary in that house?"

"Yes, sir! And I've been unhappy about her ever since."

"No need to be! I'll back Mary against even that dark-eyed Madame."

"But Dara Lodi, sir."

"He is of dirty reputation. Yes! But you've left him and the others with their hands full by picking up Safdar Ali. They'll be so busy hunting for him that they'll have no time for Mary."

"I hope that may he so, sir, but―"

The Colonel laughed, and stretching his arm laid a friendly hand on Chevrell's arm.

"Don't worry, my son. In an hour that house will he watched more closely than the chicken the fox is after. Do you think I should be sitting here eating, if I were not absolutely sure of Mary's safety."

Relieved by the Colonel's confidence, Chevrell asked a question.

"But how did you get here s quickly?"

Colonel Mackinder laughed again.

"Air-liner from Paris, express train from London. Car from Plymouth; simple as cutting cheese, you see. I got your message, the one postman took charge of, and I knew things were pretty serious, as I had previously had a message from Mary―"

"Miss Frobisher sent before I did, sir?"

The Colonel laughed. "If you will remember there was a quite considerable interval between the time of the landing at Plymouth and the hour when she. called at that house to borrow petrol. Mary used it to send a full dispatch to me in Paris. She followed the two men you saw, located them here, then went back to communicate with me... I was more than glad to get her message, for the one she sent from the steamer by my pigeon was a very serious one— just a list of a score of names and a date, but standing for enough dynamite to blow up half the world if I may put it so... I spent some time cabling East after I  received it and there is now quite a number of important gentlemen in various gaols all wondering, to put it vulgarly, who has blown the gaff. The rest of them are here— at this moment hunting for Safdar Ali, who is the keystone of the arch that they were building."

"I guessed that he was something like that; though I confess I don't quite understand his importance, sir."

"No! I daresay not. Bu. you may have heard a whisper, five years back, of the disappearance of the son of a very distinguished native prince from a certain famous public school―"

"By Jove, yes! I thought I remembered the name."

"It was hushed up at the time— naturally. Certain people, not in the least  to blame I imagine, received a wigging, and one housemaster, now a vicar in Shropshire, was forced to resign... Safdar Ali's father is one of the greatest men in Asia; a wise old man, whose word would set many thousands of armed men racing for the Indian border... But he is more than that. He has a spiritual ancestry ... I don't pretend to understand it, but it is claimed that it goes back to the loins of the Prophet himself ... So you can guess his power... a man with that heritage, wise in counsel, and a great warrior. There isn't much that he couldn't do in the way of upsetting apple-carts if he inclined to that particular course— and now he is dying."

"Dying!"

"Of an incurable ailment; that has been eating his vitality for three years. He can't live, six weeks, according to the latest report, and Safdar Ali is his heir— successor to his prestige, his spiritual position, and his very real military power."

"By Jove! I begin to see things!"

"Yes. Doesn't need a magnifying glass... Safdar Ali, abducted five years ago, is to be the figure-head; whilst through the Moslem world, wherever there is dissatisfaction, the others light up the explosive elements. There would be the devil to pay if the fireworks got going, but with that boy in our hands we've fairly damped the powder, and when we get the crowd that means to use him, the danger will be over completely."

"You think that since Safdar Ali disappeared as a schoolboy this thing has been in train?"

"Haven't a doubt about it. The East is patient and secretive. It can wait and it can work underground. Those who kidnapped Safdar Ali had a long date in view— the date of his fathers death. Not a day earlier. That's my reading of the facts as we know them, and it is justified by information I received within the last two days."

The colonel broke off, and sat in thought for a moment, then he spoke again.

"Queer thing how one can know so much about a thing, and yet nothing  really definite and useful. For months I've known that there was some big thing preparing and that the thing, was widespread. I had a word from Baghdad, a whisper from the Pamirs, a report of that flaming firework you saw from somewhere else: a loyal Pathan was knifed in Peshawar after he had talked to one of my men about a great lashkar that was to gather in the hills; and down on the Red Sea, an Arab friend of mine was carried off in a dhow and found crucified on the coast below Yembo, with a warning that so all traffickers with Infidels would be served. There was a score of other things— fragments of information, stirrings of trouble in a dozen places, evidence of smuggled arms but nothing one could get his teeth into; and nothing that would connect one thing with another.

"I knew that certain men were dangerous, that they were working to some damnable end as I told you in Paris. ... But I hadn't the key piece. It was like a jig-saw puzzle with an essential piece missing— no, more like a solution, that needed a certain precipitating agent before one could learn its proper nature. Safdar Ali's my precipitating agent. I knew it as soon as I saw him in those old pot-works." The colonel laughed cheerfully. "They hoped to use him when that malignant tumour got his father. But they won't. I've six weeks and the boy is mine; and it is with me he will go over the frontier to receive his father's instructions. ... I shall start tomorrow, or as soon as I can get official sanction... And to-night we shall cut completely the wires which link this business together." He laughed once more. "Within a week there will be some men in high places scuttling for all they are worth, and some bold gentlemen with Russian rifles and ammunition' who will wonder what has happened when the word they are waiting for does not tome. It will be great.... But about to-night―"

"Must I wait here until then, sir?"

"What is your idea?"

"To join forces with Esau. He may be in some peril if the crowd tumble to the fact that he had a hand in Safdar Ali's abduction."

"But they don't know he was abducted."

"They may suspect. If that taxi man happened to tell them of the wild goose chase I sent him on, and mentioned that there were two men on the motorcycle, it would be an easy shot for them to make. And they might act in general principles "

"Yes! They would."

"And between us, we might be able to keep track of Miss Frobisher. I don't trust Dara Lodi."

"No. He's the pure breed swine."

"Then I may go, sir."

"Yes! But for heaven's sake take care of yourself.... The raid will be made at nine o'clock. Thank heaven the place is lonely— and there won't be any of those newspaper fellows to report it for tomorrow's Press."

"Then, with your leave, sir—"

"Off you go!"

Chevrell went in a hired car, which deposited him at the nearest point for Esau's dwelling, and leaving the high road he made off across the moor, keeping an alert eye for anyone who might be abroad there. He saw no one, and just on the edge of sunset, he approached the valley where the farm lay. Moving more cautiously, he reached the crest of the slope that gave him a view of it. The whole valley was in shadow, and the house was apparently deserted. But on the level ground at the side there was something which made him stare in wonder. From where he stood he could see only a portion of it, but unquestionably what he saw was part of a large aeroplane.

In a flash he understood: Those people at Squire Hannaford's house had grown suspicious. They had removed the machine here to provide them with the means of escape in case of need. But what had happened to Esau?

He lay down in the heather, very much-in a quandary. Some time that afternoon Esau had seen the colonel and sent him to the old pottery—but what had befallen since? The aeroplane had been brought here—yes! For anything he knew to the contrary it might have been used in the search for Safdar Ali; for though he had seen nothing of it whilst at the pottery, the configuration of the moor might account for that; and the plane itself circling over Dartmoor would occasion no surprise at all. With the military and naval establishments so near an aeroplane would be a common sight. But Esau?

Apprehension gripped him as he considered the possibilities. The ex. A.B. was a resourceful man, but he might have been taken by surprise or callously shot by those with whose secret affairs he had interfered. But how find out what had befallen?

To go down to the farm would be mere midsummer madness. Those who ha! brought that machine there were not likely to have left it unattended, and the house, "blind as the fool's heart" as it seemed, might he a mere death trap for himself.

Some time passed, and he still watched the house, without any sign of Esau. Then he carefully changed his position in order to get a full view of the aeroplane. As he. did so he saw that his idea that the machine would not be left unguarded, was the right one, for in the driver's seat apparently busy at some small repair he-saw the big negro who had driven the car.' He considered the house again. Within there was no sign of movement; but Esau might well be there in his own dwelling— a prisoner, or even injured or dead.

It was important that Colonel Mackinder should know about the removal of the aeroplane, since if those whom he was interested in were contemplating flight it was almost certainly from here that the start was. to be made. But notwithstanding that urgency, he felt he could not go away without ascertaining his friend's fate.' The fact that apparently the black was not troubling himself about the return of the owner of the house had an ominous look, but he must, know the truth before he went.

The negro was still busy, there was no sign of anyone else about the place, and finally he made up his mind. Swiftly and cautiously he descended to the house, making his approach from the farther side with the house' between him and the great machine. As he drew hearer he had an inspiration. Before him was the dairy with its broken roof— and a way in without-going to the door. By careful manoeuvring he arrived in the shadow of the wall. Through the stillness there came the occasional tap of a hammer, and once a snatch of crooning song— a negro spiritual very popular rat the moment, which struck him as being very grotesque in the circumstances.

Whilst the sounds continued, however, he was safe from any interference from the black mechanic, and slipping off his shoes, and thrusting them into the pockets of his sports coat he swarmed up the wall, with some  damage to his recently purchased  attire. As he leaned over, preparatory to swinging his leg astride, ready for the drop on the farther side, he suffered a surprise which came near to making him cry out.

Trussed neatly as a fowl, gagged most scientifically, lying on the stone shelf of the dairy, and looking up at him with, dancing eyes, was Esau. There was a nasty cut at the side of his head which had been left without attention, and with the congealed blood looked worse than it perhaps was. The man, however, was vigorous enough if his eyes were any witness, and after, his first recognition of Chevrell he flashed a warning glance in the- direction of the living-room.

"Anyone beside the black?" asked I Chevrell in a low whisper; and for answer got a shake of Esau's red head.

"Good!"

He dropped down to the stone shelf, and with his pen-knife cut the sailor's bonds, then the gag, whispering a warning as he did so.

"Careful.  The negro is outside working at the aeroplane."

"Right," the other whispered back,  Then crept carefully into his living room, and returned a minute or so later carrying with him. a heavy  holly-stick.

"For Sambo," he explained with a grin. "I owe him one. 'Twas en that dotted me this one with spanner."

"How long ago?"

"Half an  hour or so after the colonel gentleman was here. Dropped down zame as if he was a-comlng home; an' when I went out to zee what his business was he clipped me over the head without a word. I. reckon I mus' have a-been knocked put, vor next I remember was that I was tied up there on the shelf; an' that be all, vor I've a-zeen nobody zince. The colonel gentleman found ee, I reckon."

"Yes! And he is making arrangements for our friends over at Squire Hannaford's. They will be taken to-night."

"If they don't go b'fore.. Wot's thic airplane doing here? D'strike me they've a-got wind ov things, an' be going to shift quarters."

"A possibility! I have thought of that. But when we've, dealt with the black and with the aeroplane I'm going over ,to Hannaford's house, and I will let Colonel Mackinder know of the possibility— somehow."

"The air-plane, what―"

"Scotch it good and true! If we empty the petrol tanks and carry off the spare tins they will carry—"

"Glory be; ee've got the head, Mr. Chevrell. Only idea I had was to set the thing alight."

"No! We want them to come here, if they are coming, in the idea that all is square."

"They'll be properly sucked in!" chuckled Esau, and then gave a quick hist. Outside there was a sound of heavy feet, and of a voice singing.

"Sambo! Coming to the house!"

The guttural voice chanted hoarsely: "All God's children got wings. All―"

"There'm one ov God's children goin' to need 'em, double quick. Wait here, zur. Rush when I d'give the word. Here be where I cry quits with Sambo."

He slipped out of the dairy into the living-room and, as Chevrell saw, took up a position near the door.

The latter was thrown open, carelessly. Through the opening he glimpsed the negro. The latter stepped forward,  and was still chanting his faith that all God's children would fly, when the hollystick fell. The surprise was complete, the blow that of an expert, and the negro went down like a man stricken with sudden death. Then Esau's voice sounded.

"All serene, zur. If ee'll help with the tyin' of en, I'll be obliged."

17

THE BLACK WAS tied up and gagged as Esau had been, and in his turn taken into the dairy to recover, and then Chevrell gave himself to the problem of the aeroplane.

Reconsidering his first idea of emptying the tank, he decided on the removal of the essential parts. He knew nothing about aeroplane engines as such; but he was familiar with those of cars, and decided that the removal of the carburettor and of a feed pipe would be sufficient for his purpose; and that done, with these essential parts hidden away from the house where they would not be discovered, he turned his thoughts to other things.

"Esau, I'm going how to that house before it is dark. Miss Frobisher is still there, and I want to be present to help her when the final act begins."

"What be the matter with I comin' along with ee, zur. Sambo's zo zafe as a rat in a trap, an' nobody in this world can fly the machine as she d'stand."

"Nothing the matter— if you care to join me."

"Care, zur! I'm just eager."

They set out together. The westering sun was. dropping behind the tors when they started, and by the time they reached their destination Chevrell calculated that it would be dark. There was no wind. The evening was utterly still, and the failing light gave the moor an aspect that was benign and peaceful. They made a good pace, and were a mile on their way when in a dip between two undulations Chevrell became aware of two people moving across the cropped sward. He whispered a warning to his companion, and they dropped behind the nearest cover— a scatter of rocks cast down from the tor in some ancient time. Then Esau whispered sharply:

"A skirt—an' a pair of breeches! But no sweethearts by the look ov things!"

Chevrell stared at the oncoming pair earnestly, but in the twilight failed to recognise them. He could, however, make out sufficient to justify Esau's comment. The woman walked a little in front of the man, and not side by side with him as she would have with a lover, whilst he seemed to be holding something in one hand; as a man might hold the reins of a horse, carelessly. Then, like a flash of lightning, the truth flamed in his mind.

"Mary Frobisher!"

"That's zo, zur? An' the man?"

And the man? That was the question he was asking. himself as he watched the pair . approaching through the dusk. That they were making for Esau's house, and the waiting aeroplane, he had no doubt, and without knowing who the man was he found, himself conjecturing his possible purpose in taking the girl there. Doubtless she was to be held for a hostage— possibly as a means of bargaining for the return of Safdar Ali, who Medineh and his friends must have guessed, by this time, was in the hands of those hostile to their plans. So! But the man? The man?

In his heart was the knowledge that was still denied to his eyes. He remembered Dara Lodi's manifest interest in the girl at that café in Paris, and the attempt to abduct her in that mean street near the Passage of the Three Brothers; and like hammers beating at his brain there was a remembrance of the words which he had heard the Rangar say to Madame Huseyn:—

"I do not want a sleeping doll―"

The conviction grew to a certainty. Here was the discredited rajah at his old vile game; jeopardising even the cause with which he was associated in order to follow a personal end. Well He drew a sharp breath, then whispered to his companion:—

"Look after Miss Frobisher, Esau... The man is mine."

"Right, zur!"

The pair drew nearer, and through the dusk Chevrell saw that he had been right. The woman was Mary Frobisher, white-faced, wide-eyed with fear; and the man was the Rangar. There was a link between them— that depended from the girl's neck and which the man held In his hand. A leather strap, no! by heaven, a dog-leash!

The realisation of the truth was too much for him— the insult to that white girl a thing beyond endurance. Reckless of all considerations of prudence he leaped to his feet, and barred, the way of the pair across the heather. The girl recognised him at once.

"Mr. Chevrell!" she cried— appeal in her voice which told him how great was her apprehension.

Dara Lodi was almost as quick in his recognition.

"By Allah!" he exclaimed and jerked the leather thong sharply, flinging the girl down. Then he backed a yard, and stood with a pistol in his. hand.

"A step," he cried, "and there's the end of this charming lady."

Chevrell had his own pistol ready for actions but the threat as good as disarmed; him. He stood, fronting the Rangar challengingly, but really helpless, and the other laughed in a high-pitched way, then spoke mockingly:

"An interesting situation!

"What have you done with Safdar Ali, Mr. Chevrell?"

"That you will know very soon!" answered Chevrell. "Release that lady—"

Dara Lodi laughed mockingly.

"On terms, Mr. Chevrell! I had other ideas— but I am. willing to forego them. This lady has occasioned much trouble, and if others had had their way would not be here now.. But I will make a bargain with you. Miss Frobisher for Safdar Ali; the queen for the king, hey? Fair exchange.... If not, since you have intervened in this little affair—"

He made a ferocious gesture with the pistol, and as he did so, Chevrell leaped twice. The Rangar had no time to aim, but he fired and missed; then turned swiftly to the girl. But Chevrell was upon him. He knocked the pistol up and tried to grapple with the man.  But Dara. Lodi was quick, supple as a boy, and slippery as an eel. Chevrell's imperfect grip failed to hold him, and as he slipped away he fired a running shot, which drew a cry from the girl and a shout of wrath from Esau.

A madness fell on Chevrell at the girl's cry. Without a word or a look backward, he ran at the man who had fired that dastardly shot. Dara Lodi, smitten with fear of his own vile deed or of the vengeance which threatened him, turned in his tracks and fled like a hare, Chevrell after him, in the grip of a great passion.

With the moor wide before him and night failing Dara Lodi had the odds in his favour. If he could run long enough and far enough, when, the darkness came down from the tors, he could shake off the pursuing fury of an Englishman; or at the first convenient rock he might dispose of him, finally, with a flying bullet.

The rock offered itself. The Rangar dropped behind it, and lifted an. unsteady hand The crack of his pistol sounded thinly in that wide place; but Chevrell still ran, unharmed, a man without fear. Dara Lodi, with the advantage on his side, could not wait the onset. Leaving the sheltering rock, he ran on. Chevrell still followed, wondering how far the other would run, assured what the end must be.

The man whom he pursued was in no condition for a race across such a wild country. Urged by a great fear, he ran blindly, without looking where he was going—the worst of all ways in rough country. Twice the trailing heather caught his feet and flung him down, heavily, but he rolled over and ran on again. The slope of a hill presented, itself. It was strewn. with rock, lichen-grown and slippery. He took it recklessly, without thought of anything but the man behind him. His boots were polished by the passage through grass and  herbage. They had no nails, and afforded no foothold. He stepped off a piece of sloping granite, and disaster overtook him. His foot shot forward. He tried desperately to save himself, but failing crashed into the next rock, twitched a little, and lay still.

Chevrell reached him within a minute, looked down at the greying face, the half-closed eyes, the mouth twisted by sudden agony, and knew the truth.

That terrific crash against the rock had been the end for Dara Lodi. Passion died out of him as he looked at the crumpled form lying head against the body of the heather. Passion died, but he had no pity for a man who deserved none; no feeling except that the man had been happier in his death than the circumstances warranted. He knelt down beside the man, examined him to make sure, then rose up.

"A broken neck! Better than his deserts."

He turned in the fading light and, leaving the Hangar lying there, began to hurry through the heather back to the point where the chase had begun. The shadows were coming on apace, and when he came to the undulation above the dip where the encounter had taken place, he could see nothing of either Mary Frobisher or Esau. In a fear that he had mistaken the place and lost himself, he risked a hail.

"Co-oo-e-e! Esau!"

"A-a-hoy!"

The answering hail came from the end of the dip, and he ran in that direction. A sound of trickling water reached him, and beyond an outcrop of rock he came on a smalt stream, and through the dusk saw Esau busily laving the girl's face. As he reached them he asked in a shaking voice:

"Dead, Esau?" .

"No! A shoulder wound. Bullet I gone right through an' the punctures be small and clean. Nothing to worry over in healthy flesh. Fainted again through the joltin' when I brought her here to the watter— which be good vor anybody that be still quick an' breathing. How about this heathen— zur?"

"Dead!"

"'Ee killed en then?" Esau's voice was cool and level as he made the inquiry.

"No! He fell and broke his neck."

"Well, that d' save trouble. Ee can kill a man wot deserves somethin' worse, an' zave the law an' the judges an' hangman trouble; but they be terr'ble jealous ov their privileges, an' don't forgive ee easily. Zo maybe 'tis just as well ee was saved the deed!... But about the maid, zur? Us can't take her back to the house, where there may be doings, soon. What―"

"Leave her to me. One of us must get to the neighbourhood of Squire Hannaford's and find Colonel Mackinder to warn him of the fact that these people may have left the house.... There's no time to be lost. They may be on their way here now."

"Well, t'will be a nice little trap vor them, when they d'get here," Esau laughed cheerfully. "Cherish the maid; zur; an' I'll find the Colonel."

Without more ado, he stalked off in the, dusk, and as he disappeared, Chevrell gave his whole attention to the girl. A quick examination told him that Esau had bandaged the wounded shoulder with a handkerchief, with a skilfulness proclaiming one versed in first aid requirements and reassured on that point, be set to work to restore her; laving forehead and lips with the cold, spring water. A few minutes later she opened her I eyes, then stirred quickly and gave a little cry of pain.

"Steady," he; said quickly, "you've been hurt, you know. Nothing to fret over, but if you move it must be gently."

"Oh!" she whispered. "You—Mr. Chevrell―"

"No; not Mr. Chevrell— Mike. We've qualified so far, I think―"

"That man―"

"He will trouble you, no more," he replied tersely.

"He—he—is―"

"Yes!"

"Oh! You... you killed him?"

"No! I might have done, for what he did to you, and he shot at me, so it would have been justifiable homicide. But―"

"You are hurt?" she asked quickly.

"Not a scratch. A man who has been racing across heather hasn't a steady hand. He missed―"

"And... and, oh tell me!"

"He slipped among the rocks when I was almost on him. There were rocks in front and he hit one of them— more fortunate than he deserved to be."

"Yes!" she whispered and gave a little shiver.

Chevrell did not ask her how she had come to be on the moor; with Dara Lodi. Knowing the man, he guessed some evil purpose, and for the moment left the matter untouched father than stir memories of fear of which that shiver was evidence. Instead he asked: "Those others? They are still at the house?"

"Yes, but I think they were preparing to leave. There was much haste and going to and fro. Something had happened which upset them fearfully. I do not know what."

"But I do!" Chevrell laughed.  "You heard Dara Lodi mention a name— Safdar Ali?"

"Yes! Yes!"

"He was the keystone of the arch that crowd were building. Esau— that man I was with— and I abducted him last night. He is now in safe keeping with friends of the colonel―"

"My uncle! He is here? You have seen him? He got my message?"

"Yes, and one of mine also, I imagine he is somewhere in the immediate neighbourhood now. He told me the crowd were to be arrested at nightfall. What can't understand is why you ever entered that house, after locating those people there?"

"You think it was foolish? No! You didn't say that! But there were reasons. You see we didn't know the truth. I only knew that the two men whom I had followed had gone there; but I didn't know If the rest were there. My uncle had information about one of those men whom I robbed

"But when I entered that house and found you―"

"Did you enter it to find me?" fervently. "That was very brave and kind of you."

"Kind! Get the truth! I couldn't endure the thought of you in that peril ... I'd meant to carry you out In the face of everything. And when I found you―"

"Poor boy!" she laughed softly.  "And I wouldn't go. Well, there were still sound reasons. That wicked woman was trying to hypnotise me. She meant to get information from me, I imagine, and I meant to pretend, and get information from her, for questions can be very revealing. But you upset that little apple-cart."

"And another as well. You don't know everything. Dara Lodi was behind that as well. I heard him and the woman talking. When she had finished with, you, he— er— was to take a hand."

"I... I... did not know that."

The girl shivered so violently that Chevrell put an arm round her, and kept it there, and she added: "You saved me from more than I know. If I had known that―"

"You would have come with me?"

"Yes!"

"Well," he laughed quietly. "You are with me now, and, do you know I think I shall never let you go again."

"Not if... I want to!"

"No!... I've earned the right to say that!"

"You think so?"

"Haven't I?" he demanded promptly.

"Well perhaps―" She broke off and laughed softly, happily; and he gathered her to him.

"My dear!... You and I―"

Then directly to their front, unexpectedly, came a broad ray of light, cleaving the dusk like a sword.

"My God!" he whispered hoarsely. "Quick, my dear! Lie down. We must not be seen. Bury your face in the heather. Those people—"

The girl gave a little gasp of pain: as she obeyed him, and as they lay there, side by side, out of the shadows in front came a woman's voice, speaking in French.

"... Yes! Selim will have all ready. Before midnight we shall be at the air station at Le Bourget ... By morning at Les lis."

"But Safdar Ali―"

Apparently the speaker stumbled and the words were lost, but Chevrell felt the girl quiver.

"That woman—" she breathed softly.

"Yes," he whispered back. "But she will not reach Le Bourget tonight nor Les Ifs in the morning . There's a surprise for her ahead."

"What―"

A sound of hurrying feet and a low urgent voice cut the girl's question in half.

"Extinguish the light... we are pursued... There are men on the moor. Haste! Haste!"

The light was switched off. Feet stumbled by the listening pair in the dusk. and lifting his head Chevrell saw five people hurry through the gloom, like shadows. The sound of their going died away; then utter silence fell on the moor, whilst Chevrell waited anxiously for the denouement that he was assured must come.

18

THE SILENCE lasted an unconscionable time— to Chevrell's thinking. Listening anxiously, he had a fear that things had miscarried, and the girl at his side moved uneasily.

"You are sure they cannot get away?"

"Very sure! Unless they walk."

"But on the moor, here, in the darkness—"

"Listen!"

A sudden babel of distant voices reached them, nothing clear, but Chevrell, interpreting the sounds, laughed with relief.

"What is it?" whispered the girl.

"They are just discovering the surprise I told you of. A dismaying one for them."

"I do not understand―"

Out of the gloom away to the left of them a man's laugh sounded unexpectedly, and Chevrell, laughed again

"There is someone who does. Listen, my dear."

There were men, many of them, crashing through the heather in a way that proclaimed haste, and once  a man's voice reached them clearly.

"Bear left. It be all straight goin' there."

"Good old Esau!" laughed Chevrell.

He rose to his feet, and stared through the darkness in the direction of the farm, whence still came" the babel of excited voices. Then, after what seemed an interminable time, the babel grew suddenly louder, and through it came several sharp sounds which he interpreted to the girl.

"Pistol-shots! The battle is joined... My dear, if you could walk, we might see the end of the game."

"I could— if I had help, I think."

With his arm about her in support, they moved forward. The din of vociferous voices still reached them, but there were no more pistol shots. In a little while they caught the flash of torches, and as they approached the farm saw men moving in the front of the house. They emerged from the darkness into the zone of light, to be half blinded by the bright rays of a torch flashed straight in their eyes.

"My stars!" shouted the holder of the light. "Here are two more of the scoundrels. Somebody―"'

"No! numskull!" broke in a rousingly exultant voice. "They be Mr. Chevrell and his lady— the colonel's niece. Hooray, zur, us collared the whole flock."

Esau appeared out of the shadows, grinning like a schoolboy. "They put up a pitiful fight, an' now them in the house be handcuffed, and that woman be spitting at the nigger like a tiger-cat vor letting 'em down. Her tried to shoot the colonel, and—"

"Ah, Chevrell, here, you are. And Mary. My dear, I hear you are hurt."

"In the shoulder, uncle. That man Dara Lodi—"

"Yes! Esau told me. We must get you back to that house, and obtain a doctor as quickly as we can. I shall be free in a little while. Our business is through, thanks to you and Chevrell. In a few minutes I will devise, some way of getting , you across the moor. This crowd will be shepherded to the road, where there is a prison van awaiting them."

"May I see them, sir?'' asked Chevrell.

"Why, yes. They're a pretty bunch to look at."

Chevrell entered the house with Mackinder. The first person he saw was Madame Huseyn. At the sight of him, her dark eyes flamed hatefully.

"You... you!" she cried, then broke out maliciously. "But your golden mademoiselle, you have not found her. And Dara Lodi―"

"A mistake, madam," interrupted Chevrell, smoothly. "Dara Lodi lies dead out on the moor, and mademoiselle— my wife to be— is outside. So―"

"The curse of Elis on you both!" she cried, and turned her back on him to hide her chagrin.

Chevrell looked at the five men there; then turned swiftly to the colonel.

"That old priest-like fellow! You have not got him."

The colonel smiled.

"Oh, yes, we have that old fanatic safely under lock and key. He was taken two hours ago, on the road looking for Safdar Ali, who appears to me more than the apple of his eye to him. He is the only man of the crowd that I am sorry for— since he is sincere, and really believed that Safdar Ali was destined to lead Islam in some bold crusade― others just exploited his sincerity as they exploited Safdar All himself.... If I have any say in the matter, that old fellow goes back to his hills to dream of what might have been."

Chevrell looked at the prisoners again and saw Medineh— the moonfaced man who had given him in charge to the sergents de ville in the Bois de Boulogne. The man, as their eyes met, had the shrinking look that had characterised him on their first encounter. In obedience to a sudden impulse he strode up to him.

"You," he said accusingly, "killed my cousin, Hugh Chevrell."

"No! No!" cried the man in extreme agitation. "That was the deed of another."

"But you knew of it, you were party to it. You mistook me for him on the night in Paris, and you were afraid. You thought―"

"It is no matter what he thought, M'sieur Chevrell," broke in a familiar voice behind him. "It is what we know that is important. Yes!... and we know what we know— for at the Sûreté we already have one who told us much— a native of India who was with these. That is why I came here in haste with my friend, Monsieur le Colonel.... One hand held the knife which slew your unfortunate cousin, but many brains directed the hand, and those who hatched the crime share the guilt of the deed. These!

"And we are not like you, no! We do not treat our criminals tenderly In France. That is to encourage evil. These all will go to Cayenne. I promise you,  when the tiresome formalities of extradition are completed."

Monsieur Lacorte laughed harshly. "They will go for the foul murder of a brave gentleman; but we―" He made a gesture which took in himself, Chevrell, and Mackinder. "We know why they go; but we shall keep that knowledge secret, for it is not wise to tell the world all that one knows. There are things that are to be avoided as— par example― the climate of Cayenne, which I am told is very trying."

Again he laughed unfeelingly, and assured that Justice would presently be done,  Chevrell went outside to find Mary Frobisher.

FIVE MONTHS later, in the lounge of an hotel in Paris, on the eve of his marriage at the Embassy, from the lips of Mackinder and Monsieur Lacorte, Chevrell heard the last word of the affair into which he had been drawn.

"Yesterday, mon ami, those whom we knew sailed from Marseilles, and they will not again trouble the superstitious with their flaming crescents.  Do you know that as far away as Walata, which is deep in the Sahara, one of those fireworks set our colonials agape with fear and wonder, as might the sign of a new star have done."

"But they were not fireworks," protested Mackinder, laughing. "They were electric sky-signs with an attachable battery, governed by clockwork—a most ingenious contrivance. And they were made— you will never guess where."

"In Paris, perhaps, my friend."

"Or in London?" laughed Chevrell.

"No, in Christian Birmingham, which supplies the world with idols. I traced the maker from the papers that we found. He had a stock of the contrivances— an order you understand, and he is anxious to find the foreign gentleman who was to have taken delivery."

Monsieur Lacorte laughed.

"If he dispatched them to Cayenne they might serve for illuminations on gala nights. Inform him, my friend. It is folly that such ingenuity should be wasted. Give him the news, also, that others have looked for his foreign gentleman vainly in the past few months; but have now given up the vigil since there is no news of the Holy war."

"And Safdar Ali?" asked Chevrell.

"Where he should be— on his native heath, and occupying his father's throne... An English resident is to go there."

"Tiens. It is true then, the whisper that I heard; that you, my friend, were to bury yourself in those great hills and to— what is it that your poet says?— Ah! I have it, 'to shape the whisper of a throne?'"

"It is not an interment!" laughed the colonel. "It is work for a man."

"For a man, yes! And it is thus you English conquer so much of the world by the power behind the thrones. Good luck, my friend, when you go to those savage hills. But there is one of whom I would have news—that man with the fiery head who served you and mademoiselle so well."

"Esau? A great fellow."

"As you say, mon ami, of the best. A very giant, in loyalty: What of him?"

"He comes with us to my house in Dorsetshire, where he is to feed the poultry and the pigs and rear the pheasants," laughed Chevrell. "He finds the ruined house on the moor too quiet after these stirring hours."

"And the brave mademoiselle―"

"Shall speak for herself. Monsieur Lacorte.  For here she comes with Madame her sister."

Monsieur Lacorte rose swiftly to his feet; and a moment later bowed as only the men of his race can.

"A happy reunion mademoiselle," he cried effusively. "And on the morrow―"

"A happier one," laughed Chevrell and, looking into his sweetheart's eyes, found smiling assent.

THE END.

Table of Contents

- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18