Author: Ben Bolt (Otwell Binns)
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Thriller
Description: Ben Bolt was a pseudonym of Ottwell Binns (1872-1935), a prolific author of adventure and thriller novels. Ut's hard if not impossible to tell the difference between the two, so the psuedunym was probably just to ease the burden of having 2 or 3 or more novels publuished each year by the same author. This is an adventure thriller, set in and around London, involving a kidnapped son of a Chicago millionaire, the son also being a diplomatic courier in possession of secret documents. There are Chicago gangsters behind the kidnapping, and to complicate the issue, Japanese secret agents are in purs

THE GREEN LANTERN

Ben Bolt

(Otwell Binns, 1872 - 1935)

1935

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 1

A Derelict Car

DUSK HAD fallen. A wet mist rolling over the downs was spilling itself on the road, and visibility was distinctly poor. The Honourable Bill Pallisier, however, knew no dismay. He was due to reach town in time for dinner and he meant to keep the appointment. With two hours left, fifty or so miles to go, and a car, the cruising speed of which was anything one liked over forty, there was nothing in the circumstances to daunt one, and as he himself would have inelegantly summed up he could do it on his head.

But the chances of a darkening road in mist are many, the name of those which make for delay is Legion, and in the course of half an hour it seemed that he encountered most of the brood. First a wandering cow, alarmed by his headlights, turned tail and raced up the road, now on this side, now on that, after the exasperating habit of its kind. So, for quarter of a mile, with the car purring gently after it, in the hope that thus the creature's lost nerve might be restored. But the hope was vain. For a few yards the creature ran on, halted, looked back and lowed, but as the car approached once more it raced forward, keeping the crown of the road in defiance of the code, or zig-zagging in a way that made it impossible to pass.

Finally, the Honourable Bill, in desperation halted the car, descended, and as the beast came to a standstill also and turned round to survey the cause of its fright, he manoeuvred himself into a position on the further side of it. Then he sprang forward, smote its rump, smartly, and at the same time emitted a howl that would have scared a buffalo. The cow, startled by a new fear. leaped forward, and staying not on the order of its going, departed at a great rate in the direction in which its head was pointed, leaving the road clear.

The Honourable Bill laughed cheerfully and meditated aloud. "Roast beef of Old England. What? All right when it isn't on the hoof. When it is it's just a bally nuisance." He resumed his way, but two miles farther on encountered a flock of sheep herded by a man on a cycle and assisted by a young dog that was yet in the stage of learning its business. Again there was a delay, a minute or two of raging confusion, in the course of which the cyclist fell off among its flock, which like a white wave in the headlights brimmed this way and that and broke wildly in every direction. There followed an exchange of words that were not pleasantries between the shepherd and the motorist, in which the latter offered sound counsel, albeit not in the right spirit.

"Your own fault, my Corydon! For driving sheep you need a crook― with ribbon on it to do the thing in style― not a bike. Any darn fool knows that."

"A crook wi' ribbons!" cried the shepherd, diverted from his first complaint. "What do ye take me for― a dam' lunatic?"

"Not at all! Not at all! But the tip's a sound one. Sell the bike, buy a crook, steal a new pup from somewhere and try herding donkeys. You should get along very well with them... Night night!"

He left the herder of the sheep spluttering, and accelerating rather more than the visibility warranted, a little farther along, had a narrow shave when out of a by-road flashed a vermilion-coloured van the driver of which was travelling on its lawful occasions in a most unlawful fashion. He saved the other and himself by a violent swerve to the bordering turf, and as the mail-van swept on he murmured feelingly: "Georgius Rex! Really, somebody ought to tell Hore-Belisha!"

Thereafter he proceeded with caution, though for three miles he encountered nothing bigger than a rabbit, which, a silver grey sprite in the glare of his headlights, stood for a second as if turned to marble. He touched the button of his horn. The screech broke the spell and the rabbit bolted wildly for safety. The road descended, and in the hollow the mist thickened, causing him to brake and hug his near side carefully. Then quite suddenly out of the night ahead of him came a sound as of a car back-firing badly, and on the heels of the explosions a confusion of voices.

"Somebody in trouble!" he thought, and pulled up his car to listen. Again he heard shouting, then a moment later, the zoom of a high-powered car, moving uphill.

"All serene!" he murmured, and resumed his way. The road turned, and as it did so faintly through the misty dark came a red beam. It was on the near side and stationary, and since it seemed to be elevated a little above the ordinary rear-light of a car, he made a natural deduction. "Road up!...Proceed with care! You have been warned!"

He changed to a lower gear, pulled out a little, and then as he approached the red light realised his mistake, for with a nearer view he discerned a whitish beam on the flank of the warning red, which in a blurred way illuminated a number plate.

"My stars!" he ejaculated. "A car badly ditched by the look of it. Hope there aren't any casualties." He drove on until he was sufficiently near for his headlights to reveal the situation, despite the mist. The car, an elegant saloon, was titled on its side, supported by the steep bank, its near wheels in the rather wide three-foot ditch.

"Hugging the near side and hit the ditch," he diagnosed quickly. "Bit of a mess. A breakdown car or shears and tackle will be needed to lift her out."

He looked closer. The rear light still functioned, but the head-lights and side lamps were dark; though the roof light within illuminated the interior. There was no one about. the saloon appeared to be quite deserted, and he thought it rather odd that the interior light had been left burning, but found an explanation that seemed adequate.

"Bit shaken, I expect, and forgot it when they hoofed off for help." He hesitated for a moment. There was nothing that he could do; and there was no one to whom he could offer help or a lift or anything of that kind, as he put it to himself.

He was on the point of driving on when again his eyes marked the lighted interior, and he decided that It might be as well to investigate. There was a flash light in the pocket of the door of his car, and securing it he switched off his engine, and descending moved to the derelict saloon. As he did so he became aware of some dark thing lying half on the running board and half on the road.

The beam of his flashlight revealed that it was a fine fur motor-rug, and he considered it a little wonderingly. It looked as if someone descending in a hurry had dragged it out with him, and careless of its value had left it there for any passing tramp to annex. But even people who were as rich as the owner of that fine car must be were not usually so careless of valuable pos-sessions, and as he picked it up and felt its quality, he was more intrigued than ever.

"Expensive thing to leave lying around!" he commented to himself. "Owner must have been pretty badly shaken."

Climbing on to the running board, an awkward thing owing to its list, he peered into the car through the window of the rear door. He could see the interior clearly. There was no one there. On the floor there was a litter of magazines, an open book, and a small attaché case, all jumbled together against the bottom of the near-side door, whilst on the seat, reposing under the armrest, was a lady's vanity bag, a scrap of lace that was probably a handkerchief, and a small silver cigarette case, which from its size and daintiness was obviously of the feminine persuasion.

He considered them with curious eyes.

"Wonder who's the missing lady?" he speculated. "And where is she?" There being no answer to these questions, he looked towards the driver's seat, and saw that the windscreen, of patent glass, had suffered oddly. The light from the roof showed curious cracks radiating from three different points, one towards the top and two low down, and in the centre of each set of radii was a small hole. The glass had exactly the appearance of a sheet of young ice on which someone had tossed pebbles which had broken through― small irregular cracked discs, lined like a spider web, with a tiny hole in the centre and those other radiating cracks not unlike a futurist drawing of shattering lightnings.

Those small holes intrigued him. He had smashed windscreens in his time, both on the highroad and on the racing track at Brooklands, but he had never seen anything like those holes before, and they stirred his curiosity. Jumping from the running board, he moved towards the front of the car with the intention of examining them. From the position in which the saloon lay that was not easy to do from the outside, and determined not to be baulked, he made a shift to open the door next the driving wheel with the idea of investigating from the interior.

Then for a moment he stood as if turned to stone, for on the floor of the car, lying in crumpled position between the steering column and the farther door, was the body of a man wearing a chauffeur's uniform. His peaked cap had fallen away, and in the centre of his forehead, just above the blood had dribbled down the still, waxen-hued face. The eyes were half closed. The sagging jaw had opened the mouth, revealing the tobacco-stained teeth, and with that first startling glimpse it was borne on him that the man was dead.

"My God!" he ejaculated in a horrified whisper, and without further investigation understood the meaning of that punctured windscreen. Bullets were the explanation. Someone had fired on this fine saloon, and one of the bullets, drilling its way through the patent glass, had found a further billet in that man lying crumpled there in a way that no living man could lie. His mind, after the first shock of comprehension, shaped a single word:

"Murder!"

He had no doubt of that whatever, and as the word flashed through his mind, on the heels of it came a vivid remembrance of the sharp reports which he had taken for back-firing, and the confusion of voices which he had heard a little while before. Here, he thought, was the real and quite horrific explanation. The reports had not come from the saloon's exhaust, but from some lethal weapon― a pistol for a guess― and the confused babble which had followed indicated that several people had been engaged in the affair.

But in God's name what did it mean? Why had the poor fellow been shot? And what had become of the lady who almost certainly had occupied the rear seat of the saloon? Obvious answers to the questions were not forthcoming.

Without a key to the affair it was a complete mystery, and a pretty shocking one at that, the very last sort of thing one might expect to run against on a quiet countryside, and a little nerve-shaking to a man stumbling on it unexpectedly as had done. He looked at the dead man again, shivered slightly, then abruptly closed the door, and slipped back from the running board to the road. For a second or two he stood considering, then he nodded his head.

"The police! They must be informed. The sooner the better― if the perpetrator of the crime is to be taken."

He delayed no longer. Returning to his car, he climbed into the driver's seat, gave one glance at the derelict saloon, shivered again, and drove off into the misty darkness.

Beyond the hollow where the saloon was ditched the road climbed steeply, but the ascent though sharp was short, and two minutes later, he changed gears, and opened out on the flat, travelling as fast as he dare in the mist which in the slight breeze blowing on the level swirled about him like smoke. He had travelled but a little way when his head lights picked out something moving along the road ahead. Staring through the vapour-obscured windscreen he decided that the moving object was human, and five seconds later made out a woman, who almost in the same instant came to a halt, turned in the direction of the car, and blinking in the glare of his headlights signalled to him frantically, plainly desiring him to stop.

A stunning thought that here was the lady missing from the derelict saloon shot into his mind, and thrusting out the clutch and putting on the foot brake, he pulled up his car no more than five feet away from the waiting pedestrian. He had a swift impression of a lovely white face framed in a high fur collar, of fine grey eyes, of a head of chestnut hair, in which the gathered moisture from the mist glistened, of a delicate ungloved hand on which gleamed an expensive ring, then the girl, for she was plainly still sufficiently young to be so described, stepped out of the glare into the shadow. In a twinkling the Honourable Bill was out of his seat and in the road. Two strides took him to her, and he hastily enquired "There is something I can do for you?... You need help?"

"I do― very badly" The voice had a pleasing crispness with a faint accent that he easily placed. "Transatlantic. Good old U.S.A.," his mind registered, "One of the upper forms!" Then he said quickly, "Command me ! I am at your service."

"It is very good of you to say so," answered the girl, hesitated for a second and then, with a calmness that in the circumstances was amazing, asked: "You saw a ditched saloon down the road?"

"Yes," he answered tersely. "I stopped to see if I could help. There was a dead man in it."

"The chauffeur," explained the girl without a quiver. "He was shot through the windscreen by some ruffians who attacked us."

Pallisier had a side wonder how many people the pronoun covered. "Us" might indicate a saloon full of people, or again it might stand for no more than the chauffeur and herself.

"I saw that he had been shot," he answered, and waited.

"There were three of them," continued the girl, still in the calm, matter-of-fact tone which had astonished him. "I do not think they meant to kill Parry. They were shooting at the tyres to compel him to pull up!"

"The deuce!" ejaculated the Honourable Bill. "Must have been a nice crowd. You know who they were?"

"No!" answered the girl. "They were strangers."

"Well, the sooner the police are told the facts the better. I was on my way to inform them about the saloon when I saw you."

"The police!" There was a doubtful note in the girl's voice, and a slight pucker in her smooth forehead.

"Necessary in this country," he said glibly. "You can't leave a dead man lying round like that. We're a law-abiding lot, and the police coddle us as if we were babes at the bottle... You just can't leave the thing as it is. There'll be the very devil― I mean there'll be no end of a row if you do. They'll get after you, and when they've found you as likely as not they'll put you in quod until the affair is cleared up. They're bright enough in their way but some of 'em lack horse sense. They might say you'd done the thing―"

"Oh, but that is absurd!"

"Know it! But you'd have to persuade them you hadn't, so if you'll just step into the old 'bus we'll tool along to the next A.A. box and telephone the facts."

"But there is someone else I must get into touch with first. There is much more behind the affair than the police can deal with."

"No difficulty about that at all. If the one you want is on the phone you can get two birds at one shot, or with one barrel after the other― first your friend and then the police."

"If I must― I must!" replied the girl, then took a step towards the car.

He turned and hurried forward to open the door for her, and when she was seated, went round the car and took his place at the wheel. A moment later, they were moving on, with Pallisier mentally pinching himself to make sure that he was not dreaming. For a little while neither of them spoke, but as they drove on through the patchy mist, Pallisier was perfectly aware that the girl's wonderful grey eyes were scrutinising him closely, if unobtrusively. Then, after they had travelled a mile or so, Iris companion broke the silence.

"You will be wondering what it is all about?"

"Can't help wondering," he answered. "Grey matter will be active, do what you will, but as a kid I was brought up to mind my own business. First ditty the lady governess taught my lisping tongue was about a nasty child called Meddlesome Matty... learned to hate her ways and shun them... er... you know, Sound idea-what?"

"I'm sorry I can't explain," replied the girl. "I would if I could. Honest Injun!... You deserve it for not asking questions."

The Honourable Bill almost grinned at that, and would have done, had he not had that murdered chauffeur much in mind. As it was, he was a little gratified by the compliment, and more than a little piqued by the girl's reserve. But he kept his feelings to himself, and answered lightly:

"Awfully good of you to say so."

Again there was an interval of silence, which was broken by the girl.

"I think I should like to know your name, if you don't mind."

"Mind? Not in the least. Delighted. Christening name of William― Bill to my friends― name I was born with is Pallisier; first-known owner of which name came over with the Norman filibusters. Probably as big a brigand as the Conqueror himself. Anyway, he annexed a goodly portion of Somerset, and passed it on to his progeny in tail. Good thing, too! Don't know what we'd have done without it in these hard times."

"Ah!" ejaculated the girl, in a way that stung Pallisier's curiosity.

"Seems to surprise you," he said quickly. "Shocks you, I expect― to know we're such sharks."

The girl ignored this levity.

"I think I have heard of you from a common friend, indeed I have, if you are the Honourable Bill Pallisier."

"I am," he owned lugubriously. "Doomed at some distance date to walk the House of Lords!... God help me!" Then he flashed quickly: "I guess you heard nothing good. People never do till you're dead, and then they take it with salt.... But who's our common friend?"

"Peter Quincy Randall !" "P.Q.R.! You don't say! But that's great. He's a topping fellow; stout man of his hands, too! Knocked out the Wapping Wonder in four rounds, and can paint real live models which makes you wonder where he hides his models. He's by way of being a diplomat―"

"Yes, I know. But I hadn't heard of the Wapping Wonder."

"Was a promising light-weight until he met Bill―"

"A prize-fighter?"

"Well, professional, you know. Rather a come-down for him to be put to sleep by an amateur like old Peter."

Again the girl fell quiet, and, glancing at her, the Honourable Bill saw that her beautiful face was set in grave lines, and that the grey eyes were clouded with care.

"Thinking of that grisly horror down the road!" he told himself, and since such thought could not be good for her, he deliberately gabbled on in the hope of diverting her.

"We must meet P.Q.R. Have an evening together, dine, do a show, and afterwards go down to the Old Willow Plate―"

"What is that?" demanded the girl. "Dancing place― euphemistically yclept a night club. Best private band in Town, with a saxophone player who could make a scotch Elder dance the Can-can! There's a chef there, too, who―"

He broke off his catalogue pl of gaieties suddenly.

"Ah!" he said. "There!"

"What?"

"A.A. Box. Cymbal of Civilisation! Now you'll be able to get in touch with your friends."

He pulled up a yard or so before they reached the black-and-yellow kiosk, and, slipping out and round the car, opened the door for her to descend. They moved forward together, and as Pallisier producing his key-wallet, selected that key with the A. A. monogram, he distinctly heard the tuck-tuck of a motor cycle somewhere on the road behind them. Pausing, with the key in his hand, he looked back.

"There's someone: coming along," he said. "Wonder if by any chance he looked into your saloon?"

"I hope not," said the girl quickly. "

"I wouldn't worry," he answered lightly. "Those two-wheel Gatling-gun fellows are usually in too big a hurry to stop for anything that doesn't get in their way-and not always then."

He opened the door of the box, indicated the telephone instrument and the call book, and, turning away, walked back to the car. Standing on the farther side of it, he lit a cigarette. The din of the motor cycle grew more pronounced. Looking down the road, he saw the thin mist like a luminous vapour, then the head lamp appeared.

"Solo!" he commented, and in the same second heard the girl's voice, little raised, give a number which sounded familiar in his ears. Not wishing to play the part of eavesdropper, he moved farther away, and watched the advancing motor cyclist, wondering if indeed he had looked into the derelict saloon and suffered the same shock as himself. Then as the machine drew nearer he realised that it was slowing down.

"I'll lay a shilling he's stopping to broadcast the news," he thought to himself, and a moment later the cycle passed him and pulled up exactly opposite the box, in the full glare of the headlights of the car. He saw then that the man wore a uniform cap with the yellow oilskins of the patrols of the Automobile Association. The man looked at the car, and from that glanced to the box, which was partly illumined by the headlights.

Palliser had no doubt that he means to use the box, for dismounting he dropped the back-rest of his machine and stood waiting. With the stopping of the cycle's engine the night seemed to have grown amazingly silent, and the girl's crisp voice was distinctly audible. Even at the distance he was the Honourable Bill could not help hearing a few words.

"No... They took him away... kidnapped him. Parry was shot... Accidentally, I think―"

Palliser was utterly startled by the revelation in the words which he had accidentally heard. There had been someone in the saloon besides the chauffeur and the girl; someone― a man― who had been kidnapped by the ruffians who had shot the unlucky chauffeur. What on earth did it all mean?

Who was the individual who question in his mind was not completed, for the reason that at that precise moment his eyes chanced to rest on the man standing by the motor cycle. He had his back to the telephone box but he stood in a tense attitude; his head was cocked a little sideways, and he was plainly listening with both ears. Palliser felt a little surge of anger at such impertinent curiosity, and decided to stop the listening-in at once. He moved quickly toward him, and as he approached him the fellow's tenseness visibly relaxed.

"Good evening, my man," he said. "Do you want to use the telephone?"

The man touched his cap as he replied, "Yes, sir!"

"I am afraid you will have to wait... As you see, the box is engaged."

"I have observed that I must, sir. I shall have the patience."

There was the slightest accent in the man's voice which struck Palliser's ear at once. But there was more than that. The man's phrasing was peculiar, his words too precisely spoken for an Englishman, and an A. A. Scout at that. He was puzzled by the man, and moved a little to get a better view of his face. As he did so, the girl's voice broke on the momentary silence.

"Yes. Yes!... I am going to re-port to the local police at once, and―"

The Honourable Bill saw the fellow start at the words, wondered why he should, and then had a clear view of his face. It gave him a little shock, for it was as un-English as it could he. The broad features, the black eyebrows and slight moustache, the dark complexion, and above all the black slant long eyes, proclaimed the man belonged to some Eastern race― Japanese for a guess. But what on earth was the fellow doing in that familiar uniform? Palliser was very much on Englishman. He did not suffer from the fatuous sentimentality of those who are concerned for all men other than those of their own country; he believed in an Englishman for an English job, and he was annoyed to think that here was one more outsider who had usurped a Briton's place.

"Hello." he said sharply. "You are not an Englishman, are you?"

"Yes! yes, replied the man hurriedly. "True blue! Born in the Cardiff city. My father he was of the mercantile marine, and my mother she was of... of Singapore."

"Singapore!" ejaculated Palliser, and then proceeded to deliberate rudeness. "Maybe! But I'll bet if you'll look up your family tree you'll find its roots in Yokohama or Nagasaki. If you're not of the stock of Nippon I'll eat my hat."

"Nippon! No, no, sir! I do assure you I am of―"

The Honourable Bill chuckled and let the man go on with his assuring protestations. Whilst the fellow was talking he could not be listening to what the girl was saying in the telephone box. Then it struck him that the man was altogether too anxious to convince him of his English status.

"My Lord," he quoted to himself, "the lady doth protest too much." He looked a little more closely at the man, particularly at the cap. It had an A.A. badge, but there was no patrol number. That at once increased his vague suspicion, and other things gave them definite form. The man's arrival had been very opportune― that might be a mere coincidence of course― but he had certainly tried to listen-in to the girl's telephone conversation, and so far as he himself remembered there was no A. A. night patrol of this particular road. Was the man really what he pretended to be, or―

An odd idea shot into his mind. Could the fellow possibly have any connection with the scoundrels who had raided the saloon? It was highly improbable, yet it was not impossible in view of he had noticed, and quite suddenly he interrupted the man:

"I say! You've lost your numberplate, haven't you?"

"Number-plate!" The man's eyes went at once to the motor-cycle. Then he pointed.

"But no! It is there, sir."

"Don't mean that one," answered Pallisier sharply. "Reference is to the one that should be on your cap."

The man was plainly put out of countenance. He shuffled a little, fingered the article of attire in question, and began confusedly; "I ... Oh, yes! It has gone! It must have fallen―"

"Or never was there," said the Honourable Bill accusingly. "I wonder if you've dropped your armlet, too? Might just take a look, and make sure, hey?" As he spoke his hand shot out and gripped the man's left upper arm. There was no armlet there. To his mind that was convincing.

"You're a fraud, my man!" he said challengingly. "You are not―"

The other did not wait for the full charge to be made. His left arm shot up in front of him with lightning swiftness, and then came down in a chopping blow, hand full stretch, fingers close to each other. The side of it, hatchet-wise, caught the Honourable Bill below the chin on the Adam's apple. The impact was severe. It knocked him backward into the road, whilst the pain was so distressing that for a moment or two he was compelled to remain where he had fallen, squirming, gasping, and coughing helplessly.

The roar of the motor cycle's engine broke through his distress. With an effort he sat up, then raised himself to his feet. He was still coughing painfully, there were tears in his eyes, phantom noises in his head, but through the tears he was able to discern the receding tail-light, as the machine, its rider taking chances, roared away in the misty darkness. Then with a thumb and two fingers gently massaging his hurt throat he murmured hoarsely:

"Well, I'll be hanged!"

"Why?" asked a voice behind him. He turned swiftly. The girl had left the telephone box and was standing just behind him. Her eyes as he saw were following the red glimmer in the mist. He had time to observe no more when again he was overtaken by a violent fit of coughing. When the paroxysm passed, the red light had quite vanished, and the girl was looking at him sympathetically.

"You seem to have a very bad cold," she said.

"Yes," he croaked painfully. "Caught it from the fellow who was here just now. If ever I come up with him―"

"Who was he?"

"A fraud of frauds! He was masquerading a little imperfectly as an A. A. scout, but if he wasn't a Jap―"

"Jap?" interjected the girl, in some excitement. "You mean a Japanese?"

"I sure do!" he croaked. "A son of the Rising Sun, a worshipper of Fushiyama, and an expert in ju-jitsu or I'm―"

"Oh, quick !" broke in the girl on his forced levity. "Let us go!  There may be others. You do not understand."

She was entirely right there, thought Pallisier; but there was no question of her earnestness, and he did not linger to seek enlightenment. He looked at the telephone box. She had left it open, and he could not leave it like that. The doors must be closed, according to the handbook, to prevent access by unauthorised persons."

"Get in the car!" he said, still in his crow-like croak. Then whilst she turned to the car he ran to the box, close the doors, and hurrying back took his seat at the wheel. A gust of wind momentarily broke the mist, and, far away, he caught a red gleam like a distant star.

"Tally-ho!" he ejaculated, then as fresh vapour came swirling along, he started the engine, put the car into gear, and they glided forward in the wake of the now vanished rear-light.

Chapter 2

The Spiked Harrow

AS HE DROVE on, Pallisier's mind was in something of a whirl. Someone― a man― had been kidnapped from that derelict saloon, in which the chauffeur lay by his wheel, shot dead, by accident seemingly. But the shooting itself must have been deliberate― the thrice-punctured wind-screen was evidence of that. Some persons unknown, at all costs, had meant to stop that car, and to abduct the man who had been the second passenger. That was quite clear from what he had seen and from the illuminating words which he had chanced to overhear; but a great deal was left obscure― the identity of the vanished man; the reason for his kidnapping: and the girl's obvious reluctance to communicate the facts to the police. And now to deepen the obscurity there was that Jap masquerading as an A. A. scout, and her quite certain fear that there might be others of his kidney in the neighbourhood.

"Mysterious doings you've tumbled into, my lad," he told himself, "but intriguing, and the girl's a high-stepper, anyway."

As he reflected, the mist thinned, and the visibility improved considerably. But there was no sign of the motor cycle and its rider, who presumably had taken risks to escape any possible pursuit. That fact was displeasing to the Honourable Bill, who liked to square his accounts with others in good time; and the treacherous cut which had left his throat so sore was to his mind an unforgivable thing. But since the man had vanished the debt must wait, and there were other things to engage his attention― and not least his companion.

She was silent.  An occasional stolen glance at her face revealed her as being deep in thought, her brow a little creased, her eyes fixed absently on the screen. Those eyes grey and wide were the most wonderful eyes he had ever seen. The face in profile was even more lovely than he had thought when he had seen it full in the glare of his headlights, and it was not every likely looking face, as he knew, that could stand such blinding illumination. The light from the dashboard lamp played tricks in her chestnut hair. It shone on the shapely hands in her lap, and made the ring which he had glimpsed in the moment of their encounter, flash its inner fires. The girl did not belong to the poor of the earth; not even to the new poor who had been fleeced of their possessions by the squandermania that like an infectious disease had overtaken all the politicians.

Something else they revealed also to his wondering mind. Whoever the men who had been responsible for the disaster to the saloon they had been no mere motor bandits. If they had been, the ring could scarcely have escaped their attention, and even the coat―

His reflections were broken in unexpectedly by a question from the girl. "How long shall we be in reaching London?"

"Depends on the mist. If it gets no worse― within two hours. If it thickens― heaven knows."

"But I must get there quickly. Are we in the neighbourhood of a railway?"

"Southern runs nearly parallel. You might have luck at Basingstoke, and again you might not. If you had to wait you'd waste time. And trains are so confoundedly inconvenient. Men who draw up time-tables are an inhuman lot. They never consider the real needs of the travelling public. My advice is to stick to the old 'bus. It we run out of the mist zone we shall be able to hop, you know."

The advice might have been sound in the circumstances, but it certainly was not disinterested. At the moment the very last wish of the Honourable Bill was to be parted from the lovely lady whom a kindly fate had thrust on him; nor had he any desire to drop out of the mystery into which he had stumbled. It promised to be intriguing, and that was so infinitely attractive that the thought of being excluded from further participation in the mysterious affair was definitely disturbing.

As the girl made no reply he proceeded to paint the lily.

"I know London like a book. When we get in the neighbourhood of it, we can cut straight to your destination. Save you any amount of time that way."

"Are you sure, Mr. Pallisier?"

"Dead sure!" he averred stoutly. "That slogan of the railway companies about it being quicker by rail is all my eye. The open road, a good car, and a man at the wheel who knows his job will get anyone to anywhere, hours ahead of the steam horse."

He knew that was not strictly true; but the end justified the means, and he drew a little breath of relief when the girl without disputing his assertions asked tentatively:

"Do you know the American Embassy?"

"Know It as well as the home hearthstone. Grosvenor Gardens, S.W.1. Was at a dance there last week that ever was, P.Q.R. having scrounged a card for me and― Ah !"

"Ah― what, Mr. Pallisier?"

"That number you rang up just now. Couldn't help overhearing it, you know. And it toned familiarly on the ears. It was―"

"Yes. I had to communicate with the Embassy at once, and it is there I wish to go."

"Call it done," he said quickly, whilst he permitted himself to wonder what might be involved in her urgent need to communicate with the highest representative of her country.

"Nothing is ever done until it is completed," said the girl sententiously.

"Oh," he said, "you mustn't be pessimistic. I'll get you there without fail or bust."

Then, lest her thoughts should revert to the advisability of travelling by rail, he proceeded to a diversion.

"You rang up the police station as well as the Embassy, I suppose?"

"No," confessed the girl. "I didn't."

"Phew! But―"

"I was instructed not to do so... You see, the matter is not for the local police."

"I only hope they'll take that view," answered Pallisier cheerfully. "They're a jealous lot. One division mustn't meddle with another's job. Watertight compartments aren't in it with the local forces. Wonder they don't sport a keep-off-the-grass notice in every station... But you won't be able to stall them off, y'know. An abandoned saloon with the chauffeur lying shot isn't the sort of thing they'll overlook."

"No. But the matter will be reported to them from London."

"From the Embassy?"

"From Scotland Yard, I expect."

"You think they'll be told not to poke their noses in too deeply?"

"I don't know. Very likely, I think. The matter is very important."

"Must be!" he said, and added an encouraging "Yes?"

"Oh, I can't tell you more, Mr. Pallisier!"

"Political," commented the Honourable Bill to himself. "Affairs of state and all that truck," whilst aloud he said:―"I can understand that, and I've no wish to muscle in as they say in your native land. But there's a thing you might tell me, I think, without giving any great secret away."

"Yes?" asked the girl in a tone of reserve that was not encouraging. "Well― er― your name? It would make it easier to talk you know. If you don't mind― Of course, if it's a secret― "

"It isn't," answered the girl. "I am Joy Swinnerton."

The name stuck familiarly on Pallisier's ear. And in two seconds he remembered the association.

"No relation of the American Swinnerton who set out to teach the Chicago gunmen a lesson when they shot one of his clerks?"

"Daughter" answered the girl quietly. The Honourable Bill almost whistled. There had been the power of really big money behind the police drive which in defiance of all precedent had sent three gangsters to the electric chair for the murder of a subordinate clerk, and all the money had belonged to John M. Swinnerton, whose daughter now sat at Pallisier's left hand.

"Delighted to meet you, Miss Swinnerton," he began. "I hadn't a notion and―" He broke off sharply as an idea occurred to him, so suddenly that it moved him to what to the girl was an unintelligible ejaculation. "My hat!"

The girl flashed at him a look of surprise which was extended to the headgear in question, and interrupting the glance he made haste to explain.

"Common ejaculation indicative of surprise amounting almost to a knock- out. You get me? What?... Just had a quite dreadful idea. That man who was taken from your saloon― I heard that much when you were telephoning, you know. Needn't say I wasn't listening, I hope, and I didn't mean to let out I heard you, and least of all did I mean to ask questions about him: but he wasn't by any chance your father? You needn't answer if you don't want, but there can't be much harm in my knowing that much."

"No! It was not my father."

"I'm glad to hear it. I―"

"It was my brother!"

"God save us!" cried Pallisier. "That's bad, Miss Swinnerton―"

"It is much worse even than It seems," replied the girl a little shakily. "I can't begin to tell you how very bad it is."

"Please don't try Miss Swinnerton. I can imagine how cut-up you must be... But y'know its mortal queer that an affair of this sort should happen in England. Kidnapping isn't a staple industry here as it is in the U.S.A. Our criminals haven't the nerve, I suppose... But there's no call for despair. Nobody can get away with that sort of thing here, not for long at any rate. Country's too small, and anyway the population won't stand for it... .Nip off with anybody from a baby to a grandfather and every parish in the county would beat the bounds with bloodhounds and― er― anything that took its fancy: but between them they'd find the lost treasure."

He spoke emphatically, almost convincingly and if silence was any indication, the lady was convinced, but he had an uncomfortable feeling that the task was not yet accomplished, and went off on another tack.

"Then there are the police. The locals may not be too bright and brainy, and even the Flying Squad isn't all that the late Edgar Wallace made out; but they are the Old Incorruptibles, all of 'em, and barring a black sheep here and there, no more to be tempted from the path of rectitude than the great George Washington himself. Offer one a fiver to remember he was looking the other way when your car wriggle-waggled and zig-zagged up a quiet street like Piccadilly at two in the morning― and you're for it at Marlborough-street next day. Charge― attempt to suborn the police. An awful business, and you're lucky to get out of it with a fine... That's this great country in microcosm, and―"

"You sound as if you knew all about it," interrupted the girl. "I do!" owned the Honourable Bill with feeling. "The fine was five pounds and costs, and the old magistrate bird said he took a lenient view of the case on account of my youth and ignorance of the law― and all I was doing was attempting to save my licence from endorsement."

"Did you succeed?"

"Yes! The magistrate, busy directing my erring steps, forgot to make the order... Point of all this is that here the police know their job, and can't be bought off; so trusty and true, they can be depended on to find your brother in no time at all. You'll see."

"I'm sure I hope you are right, Mr. Pallisier."

"So do I," he answered with entire sincerity, and then waited, hoping that further confidences would be forthcoming. As they were not, he put a leading question. "I suppose your brother is in business with your father?"

"No, Michael is in the diplomatic service. It is dad's idea that he should serve his country."

"Does Mr. Swinnerton credit! 'They also serve who only stand and wait'. Who was the Johnny who wrote that? I can't remember. But the poem was in honour of the Diplomatic Corps, I'll wager―" And he broke out with an ejaculation: "Great Juno!"

Joy Swinnerton was growing accustomed to the Honourable Bill's method of registering surprising ideas, and this time she commented quietly:

"Another great thought!"

"You've said it, Miss Swinnerton. Though how you knew beats me. But the idea whacks the nail bang on the head, I'll vow."

"I should like to hear it," said the girl.

"Don't know that I ought to tell you. Might look as if I were dangling the worm."

"Dangling the worm?" echoed Joy wonderingly.

"Fishing, y'know. Angling with a forbidden bait! But I'll take the chance and you can please yourself about telling me whether I'm right or wrong. Idea is that those trepanners carried off your brother just because he was in the Diplomatic line. What?"

He waited, wondering whether his idea would be confirmed or the girl keep the truth to herself, and was immensely gratified when she gave him her confidence. "I think that possibly you may be right!"

"Gee-whizz!" exclaimed Palliser. I'd have bet my socks on it... Then there's excitement ahead for the hush-hush men both sides of the Atlantic, what?... I'm going to get sworn in as a special and help in the hunt? P.Q.R. should be able to do it; and if he can't then I shall play a lone hand. I've been in at one little affair with him, entirely sub rosa and private, and I liked the game. Pulled it off too, spankingly, between us. You must use your influence; you really must, Miss Swinnerton. I wouldn't be left out in the cold for a kingdom. And He broke off sharply and tooted his horn savagely as he saw a broad beam of light coming from a side road under the trees. Then he realised the beam was stationary, and drew breath.

"A mistake," he commented. "Thought some fool was going to ram us in the flank."

As they swept past the connecting lane, he glimpsed a man standing under the trees, besides a motor cycle; and thought he caught a flash of yellow. An idea that it might be the man with whom he had had the little encounter at the telephone box crossed his mind, then he dismissed it. The fellow, after fleeing as he had, would never have waited there in plain sight of anyone who chanced to be on the look-out for him. But the idea was not to be shaken off, and whilst he drove on, talking to distract his companion, he glanced from time to time at his driving mirror.

Presently he saw it illumined by a following light, and, at the next descent, shutting off his engine, through the night silence distinctly caught the popping of a motor cycle. At that he set his engine going again and with the mist now no more than drifting wisps, he began to make the pace. As he drove, he continued his frequent glances at the mirror.

The following light did not gain. The rider of the motor cycle seemed content to maintain a uniform distance in the rear, possibly because its rider was content to let the car make the pace. But there might be another reason for that, and he determined to put the matter to the test. Slowing down, he looked at the mirror; travelled on at the much slower pace for three or four hundred yards, then glanced at the mirror again. The following machine had maintained its distance.

"Peculiar!" he murmured aloud.

"What is?" asked Joy Swinnerton.

"The fact that a following motor cycle does not pass a car when it has the chance. Usually they go roaring by like bulls of Bashan!"

"Ah!" said the girl, turning quickly to look back through the rear window. "You think we are being pursued?"

"Wrong word!" he said, "Shadowed is better."

"But who?"

"The little ju-jitsu gentleman from Nippon, who until I interfered was listening to the message you sent by telephone a while back."

"You are sure?" asked Miss Swinnerton sharply.

"As sure as one can be of anything in this uncertain world. And for two pins I would wait for the man and try to settle a little account with him."

"I hope you will remember that it is urgent that I should get to London at the earliest moment," said the girl quickly.

"I shall not forget it, Miss Joy. But it is well for you to know that you are being followed."

"We shall lose him in London. I expect.... But in any case it is of no great moment. If his knowledge is such as to induce him to follow me, probably he is well aware of my destination. So long as he does not actually interfere his shadowing can matter little, now."

"Oh, if you don't mind, he can follow as faithfully as Mary's little lamb, for me."

They passed through Basingstoke, and on the farther side found the motor cycle was still at their heels keeping its distance admirably.

"Old faithful with a vengeance." he commented to his companion. "Keeps up as if we had him on a tow-line. I wonder how far he has come."

"All the way, perhaps. Michael and I landed from the Berengaria late this afternoon. Parry was waiting for us with the car, and we left Southampton as soon as we could."

"But the fellow can't have been following all the way unless he was attached to those ruffians who took away your brother. If he had been up to time he must have witnessed that affair.... And remember he came up behind us when we were halted at the telephone-box."

He drove on lost in thought for a little time than he asked suddenly:

"Those scoundrels who took away your brother, they had a car of course?"

"Yes."

"Did they meet you or were they waiting for you?"

"They passed us on the top of the hill. Michael had a notion they had been following us a little time."

"Wonder how he got it?"

"Oh, because like that man behind us now they kept a uniform distance. As we went down the hill we could see nothing of their lights―"

"Mist might account for that."

"No! They must have extinguished them. Quite suddenly we saw our lights reflected on their back window, and in the same moment three men appeared in the road, signalling for us to pull up. Michael, already suspicious, told Parry not to stop but to drive... like―"

"Hell? Yes?"

"It was then they began to fire, all three of them, and we heard bullets smash against the wind-screen. Then Parry gave a groan and collapsed. The next moment we were in the ditch and those ruffians were at the door, ordering Michael to step out. He refused, and one of them hit him with the butt of his pistol, and dragged him to the other car and drove off."

"They came this way?"

"They went in the direction we had been travelling― up the hill."

"Um... That makes our little Japanese gentleman behind more of a mystery. He can't have anything to do with the first lot. If they got what they wanted, as presumably they did, there'd be no sense in shadowing you. It beats me hollow... Might pay us to stop and compel the Jap to own up. I owe him one for―"

"No!" said the girl emphatically. "If anything went wrong the position would be worse than ever. I must get to London quickly and give the full particulars to the people at the Embassy."

"Daresay you're right. We'll keep going."

The girl closed her eyes as if disinclined for further conversation, and at last winning altogether clear of the zone of mist Pallisier concentrated on his driving.

The speedometer needle crept up steadily. Soon it touched the forty-five mark, and with a steadiness that proclaimed the skill of the driver it remained there for miles. From time to time Pallisier glanced at the mirror. The motor cyclist was keeping pace. Occasionally on a hill or at a turn in the road the mirror grew darker as the light it reflected vanished, but always it was re-illumined and the lamp from which it came remained at about the same distance.

"A sticker!" commented the Honourable Bill mentally. "But when I've decanted the lady at Grosvenor Gardens, if only he will continue, that lad shall have the shock of his young life."

They passed Hartford Bridge, took the ascent at a good pace, flashed through Bagshot going for Shrub's Hill, and there the girl opened her eyes, and asked a sudden question.

"How far yet?"

"Twenty-five miles or so to Hyde Park Corner."

The girl looked back. "That man is still there."

"Fairly haunting us," he chuckled. "Hope he'll keep it up." The girl did not ask why, and a moment or two later Pallisier's attention was arrested by a broad fan of light on the higher ground to which the road climbed. The light pro-claimed a car, but as it did not travel forward he made the deduction that the vehicle must be stationary. Then the light went out. A second later, however, it was in again: and at intervals of seconds it flashed out and in, out and in, in an intriguing way. His mind almost immediately found an explanation of the phenomenon.

"Military! Doing night stunts... Signalling to an aeroplane."

The sudden savage blare of a klaxon behind diverted his thoughts to the shadowing cyclist. The reflected light in his mirror increased in intensity, and as the klaxon sounded again he heard the sharp tuck-tuck of the motor cycle through the steady purr of his own sweetly running engine.

"Great Scot!" he ejaculated "The fellow's going to pass."

Scarcely had the words left his lips, when the motor cyclist drew level, passed, and as the machine roared on its way at a desperate rate, in the broad light of the car's head-lamps he caught the gleam of yellow oilskins.

"The Jap," he said to the girl with a touch of excitement in his voice. "Now I wonder why he has deserted us?"

"Tired of following, perhaps," suggested the girl, as the cyclist disappeared round a bend of the road.

"Perhaps;" said the Honourable Bill a little doubtfully. "But it's queer he should have followed so long to vanish now."

He was still wondering what the incident might portend when they reached the top of the hill Before them was a level stretch bordered by tangled copses. There was no sign whatever of the cyclist, but that might be accounted for by the fact that, a little way farther on the road seemed to run slap into the trees in a way that indicated a sharp bend. They reached the bend, passed it, and as they did so Pallisier beheld not the cycle, but a fine car, with only its side lights burning, pulled up on the near side of the road less than a dozen yards away. He saw a man run from the offside of the road to the car, caught the gleam of something beyond the car, and in a flash recognised the motor cycle, then a thing worse than a motorist's nightmare presented itself in stark reality.

The standing car was well out in the road. It left a space sufficiently wide for him to pass; but on the newly-gravelled road it seemed that dragon's teeth had been sown and had sprung up lustily. Familiar from childhood with all the implements used in agricultural pursuits, he realised the truth instantly.

"By God," he cried. "A spiked harrow!" In was indeed that implement-and it was upside down with its spikes sticking up like a cheval de frise. He had not finished the exclamation, when ne pressed both feet down-hard, one on the foot-brake, the other on the clutch, in a swift endeavour to avert disaster. But there was not time. One front wheels were on the spikes before the momentum of the car allowed the brakes to act fully. There were two small explosions as the tyres went plop; and as the car stopped, divining that there was peril in the situation he swiftly flung open the door.

"Come!" he cried to the girl. He was out of the car quicker than ever he had left a car in all his life. His hand went to his companion, and he dragged rather than assisted her past the wheel. As he reached the road a man came hurrying round the back of the car, and there was a sound of others following.

"Run!" he cried to the girl, and, as she obeyed him he faced the man who had come up to intercept them. He squared up with his fists, but that was no more than a feint. It was no occasion for niceties, and as the unknown man halted, showing fight, the Honourable Bill's foot shot out and upward in the deadly kick of the Parisian Apaches. It caught the man in the abdomen, doubling him up, howling, and two other men, charging round the car, cannoning into him, all three fell in a tangled heap. Pallisier saw them fall, and followed the girl. He overtook her just as she entered the copse.

"Quick!" he urged. "We haven't a minute!"

They plunged into the darkness of the trees, and were immediately lost to view from the road.

"This way," he said, grasping her arm, and instead of running deeper into the copse, guided her in a direction parallel with the road. There were shouts behind them, and more shouting in a speech that Pallisier did not understand. Then suddenly the tops of the trees in the copse were lit up as by a searchlight.

"Crouch low," he whispered, "but keep going."

The light grew broader. They rounded clump of hollies, and as they did so found the light shining dazzlingly in their eyes, while there was a rumble of heavy traffic in the night. The light came from their front, and the lamps of at least half a score of vehicles contributed to it. Pallisier saw them in a long line, and gave a quick cry of relief. "My stars!... Here's the blessed army to our rescue... No need to run more, Miss Joy. Listen."

Through the heavy rumble of the advancing vehicle there sounded the sharp waking to life of a motor cycle's engine. Then followed its swift tack-tack as warming up it sped away. The staccato explosions in turn were followed by the sound of a car moving off in low gear, and, looking round, Palliser saw the broad fan of its headlights sweeping the dark boles of the trees which lined the road. And as it moved off he laughed with excitement.

"Going, Miss Joy," he cried. "Our luck is in after all!"

Chapter 3

In Grosvenor Gardens

MISS JOY SWINNERTON gave a little cry of relief, then stared at the long train of lighted vehicles moving along the otherwise empty road.

"What are those?"

"Army Service Corps, I should say, flitting a regiment or two or victualling an army on manoeuvres. Doesn't matter a button either way. They're here in the nick of time, which is a way they have in the army. What?... Let us go back to the car. There's no damage, I imagine, beyond the busted tyres: and heaven be praised, I've a couple of spares. Those fellows will help us out of the mess in five minutes."

They began to hurry back to the car, and as they went the girl asked a question.

"What are you going to tell those soldiers? Not the exact truth, I hope, or it will be blown far and wide, and if it gets in the newspaper―"

"Shan't. Not in its naked simplicity. Can't say that we found it lying there and took the car across to the wrong side of the road to commit hari-kari with the tyres. That's too tall a story. But a tale of motor bandits will serve. There's an epidemic of the blighters in town just now, and it's not un-natural that they should spill over into the rural districts. Leave the story-telling to me." He laughed gleefully. 'Use is second nature. What?"

When they reached the car Pallisier waiter until the first of the advancing vehicles was within fifty or sixty yards, then he began to switch the headlights on and off, and on and off without cessation, until he saw the driver in front begin to slow down. Then the turned them out altogether and continue the signalling with the sidelights only.

Twenty yards or so up the road the line of vehicles came to a standstill, and a moment later two men in khaki greatcoats and service caps marched down the road.

" 'Ware wire!" cried the Honourable Bill in warning, as the pair looked as if they were going to march straight on the spikes. The pair halted, and one of them on whose, sleeve was a triple chevron demanded brusquely: "Wot the 'eIl's the idea?"

"Motor bandits, sergeant!" answered Pallisier. "At least I think that's what they must have been. They were parked on the other side of the road, sidelights only on; and forced me to take the off-side. Too late I saw this contraption and though I put on the brakes hard I popped both front tyres."

"Heck!" cried the sergeant's companion. "It's a harrow, spikes up!"

"Yes! And a very efficient way of making a car pull up. Regular magic carpet."

"BIazes!... But where are the bandits?"

"Cut for it! When they saw your flood-lighting on the tree tops. They'll be a mile away now."

"In a cawr?" asked the sergeant.

"Yes! But one was on a motor bike and he was dressed like an A.A. Scout."

"Blow-me-dickey!" ejaculated the sergeant's comrade. "I never heard the like in my born days. Carn't think what things are coming to..... It's like a gangster reel at the cinema. Good thing we rolled up, hey?"

"Best possible!" agreed Pallisier heartily. "And thank God I've got a couple of spare wheels, if you fellows will just help me out of the mess." The sergeant stopped and examined the wheels, then he announced:-

"Fairly impaled. Best thing will be for me and Tom to stand on this end of the spikes whilst you back her off, sir."

"Yes." agreed Pallisier. and quickly took his place at the wheel. "When you're ready!" he cried, and started the engine.

"Ready now sir," bawled the sergeant. "But go slow― or you may jerk us on to the prickles."

Pallisier reversed and took the car back at the slowest pace. Quarter of a minute later he felt the deflated tyres bumping on the road. The sergeant lifted a hand.

"All clear, sir. Shut her off."

Pallisier stopped the engine and descended. The sergeant and his man stopped to haul the harrow out of the way.

"What a lousy trick," commented the former. "Might have broke your neck, sir. We'll chuck it in the copse there, Tom."

The harrow was promptly dragged to the trees, and the private went off to the lorry for a spring-jack whilst the sergeant addressed Pallisier.

"If you'll hand me your wheel-brace, sir, I'll tackle the nuts."

Pallisier handed him the brace, and began to unstrap the spare wheels. Within a quarter of an hour the damaged wheels were replaced by the sound ones, and the car was ready for a resumption of the journey.

Both men were tipped generously, and before they returned to the lorry the sergeant asked a question: "What were those fellows like, sir?"

"Foreigners of some kind," answered Pallisier with deliberate vagueness.

"Aye, they would be. That's not an English trick. Didn't notice the car number?... No! That's a pity, sir. for I was thinking that if they turned round to follow you and we met 'em we might teach 'em a lesson. But if I were you, sir. I'd hop it pronto!"

"I will. Thank you, and good-night sergeant."

"Best of luck, sir." The car moved off, and a minute later the convoy resumed its way, and as the last of the lorries was left behind Joy Swinnerton asked a question.

"You saw those men clearly?"

"Yes. They were Japanese."

"Ah!" said the girl enigmatically, and left him to draw his own deductions. A moment later she asked a further question.

"You don't think there is anything in the sergeant's idea that the hold-uppers may double and pursue us?"

"No! They'll keep going. They'll know that we should inform the men of that convoy what had befallen, and they will scarcely take the chance of being caught out.... We shall have a quiet run to town now, I fancy."

And so it proved. They reached Grosvenor Gardens without further incident, and as the car pulled up a tall young man in evening dress brushed by the hurrying man-servant, and reached the car door first.

"P.Q.R." chuckled Pallisier. "Working overtime! Sweating over it, too."

Peter Quincy Ringrose threw open the door, and his young face at once betrayed immense relief.

"Thank heaven, it is you. Miss Swinnerton. Knowing you were with Bill I was beginning to fear you were piled up somewhere. We've waited centuries, and the secretary is fairly fuming.... Old man is away somewhere in the wilds of Galloway, visiting the lowly home of his ancestors and kicking off at a football match. We haven't been able to get in touch with him yet!... Mind the step. You'd better wait, Bill. Secretary'll want to interview you, sure, and if he doesn't, I shall. Step inside and―"

"I'll wait here till you're ready, P.Q.R."

"All right! I'll give you the tip when you're required. This way, Miss Swinnerton."

The Honourable Bill watched the girl disappear in the Embassy, then he leaned back against the padded leather and felt for his cigarette case. Selecting a heavily-doped Egyptian as conducive to contemplation he lit it and inhaled luxuriously. Then nodding to his own image in the windscreen he murmured aloud:

"Gay doings my lad!... Hope they'll continue in our next." A reflective look came in his grey eyes, and he no longer considered his own image, but dwelt on a vision conjured up by his vivid imagination, the image of Joy Swinnerton as he had first seen, her half veiled in mist in the glare of his headlights.

"Perfect stunner!" he commented mentally. "Cool as snow, and fair as Sharon's rose.... Wonder what her brother is like and what the coil in which he is involved. A pretty awkward one, I'll wager, if those Japs are responsible for it. But I can't see that they were, unless they suffered a second thought, and decided to take the girl along too. It's all dark to me, and mysterious as... the devil. .... But maybe P.Q.R. will be able to elucidate... If he can't, we shall have to do some sleuthing on our own account. It will add salt to these dull days... Also I owe one to that motor-bike masquerader."

He had reached the third cigarette and was in the act of lighting it from the glowing stump of number two, when a man strolled past the car and deliberately stared in at the side-window. He was a smallish man, with an expanse of white shirt-front, which made Pallisier think that he must be in evening dress. He did not see the man's face clearly, but as he passed on Pallisier deliberately switched on the head-lights to get a better view of him.

The view told him little. The man wore an opera hat, a dark evening overcoat, and his patent leather shoes glinted in the light. He did not turn round as Pallisier had hoped when the lights leaped up, and as he continued on his way the lamps were switched off again, and Pallisier commented aloud:

"Inquisitive beggar!... If only he would do that again I'd give him a lesson in manners."

Five minutes went by, and he was beginning to wish that instead of remaining in the car he had accepted P.Q.R.'s invitation to step into the Embassy, where no doubt whisky and soda would have been available whilst he waited, when his request was suddenly banished. By the light of a street lamp, farther up, he saw a smallish man in a high hat coming towards the car.

"My aunt!" he chuckled. "Peeping Tom returns! Wonder if he means to have another squint?" Then he laughed. "Tit for tat's a sound rule."

He climbed quickly over the back of the seat, assured himself that the body of the car would hide him from the view of the advancing man, and, opening the off-side door, he slipped out and stepped to the back of the car. It was the dinner hour, and there was little moving. Quite distinctly he caught the sound of light feet approaching the car, heard them slacken and pause, then, he stepped out. The man was at the window, but in the very act of moving on when Pallisier appeared.

"Want to see me sir?" asked the Honourable Bill politely, planting himself in the other's way.

"No, sir, I do not want―"

"Bit curious, though, aren't you? Just now you had your nose at that window, hadn't you?"

"Sir, you are offensive―" began the other blusteringly. but, as Pallisier noticed, keeping his face in the shadow.

"Well," answered the Honourable Bill, "that's nothing to what I can be when I try. For instance―" His hand shot out and caught the brim of the other's hat in front, thumb on the top, forefinger broadside on, underneath. In a twinkling, certainly before the other could guess his purpose, the hat left its owner's head, and, shooting forward, was deftly caught between Pallisier's left arm and his chest. The victim of this trick, taken by surprise, spluttered with outraged dignity.

"Sir, I will the poleece have―"

"Fetch 'em, my cherry-blossom!" laughed the Honourable Bill, as he saw quite clearly the man's swarthy face, the beady, slightly oblique eyes, and the black wiry hair worn en brosse. "But you'll need your topper. Here it is."

With the swiftness of a conjurer he restored the hat to the head of its owner, and before it was fairly in place smashed it downward with a clenched fist.

"Now whistle the bobby. He's at the end of the Gardens. Having seen your handsome countenance, I'll cheerfully pay forty shillings and costs. But if I catch you spying in my window again, my Samurai, there'll be real trouble."

At the moment the little man was beyond whistling. The blow full on the crown of the hat had driven it downwards so that the brims were almost touching the wearer's ears, and he could scarcely see the aggressor. He struggled to dislodge it, fairly dancing with wrath, and at the moment P.Q.R. appeared at the door of the house.

"Ready, Pallisier―" he began, and broke off a little wonderingly. "What's the matter with that gentleman?"

"Something gone wrong with his chapeau," explained the Honourable Bill. "Got wedged, I fancy. Awkward sort of thing, what?"

He turned towards his friend and, as he did so the little man got his head free, and waving his battered headgear, rushed wildly after Pallisier with the plain intention of attacking him.

"Look out, Bill! That―"

Pallisier, well aware of the little man's rush stepped aside, whirled, and thrust out a leg in the very nick of time. The Jap shot over it, spread-eagled himself on the pavement, and as he picked himself up, one hand still grasping his hat, Pallisier joined his friend. A wild torrent of words broke from the Japanese. He waved his arms like a windmill's sails, and though his language was utterly unintelligible to his hearers, it was clear that it embodied threats.

"Steady, little man!" said the Honourable Bill soothingly. "If you suffer from blood-pressure―" The other, almost foaming, flung the hat at him. Pallisier ducked and the hat suffered further damage by contact with the wall. Then from behind the angry little man came the sound of a voice lifted in authority.

"Here, what's the meaning of this?" The man whom he addressed gave one look over his shoulder and bolted.

The Honourable Bill deftly kicked the battered opera hat to the policeman's feet. "The gentleman's forgotten his tile!" he said cheerfully. "Better take charge of it, constable. Send it to lost property office at one-two-one-two. What?"

"But what was the man doing?"

"Trying to convert my friend here to Shintoism," answered Pallisier blandly. "A most earnest missionary though a little out of season―"

"Missionary!" ejaculated the constable. "Sounded to me as if he were calling down fire and brimstone―"

"My friend is a hard case!" laughed Pallisier. "Takes some melting, you know―"

"It's all right, constable." intervened P.Q.R. :The gentleman was certainly a little heated, but there's no harm. done except to that tile. All's well."

The constable marked the open door of No. 4, and P.Q.R.'s bare head, and drew his own conclusions.

"Oh, if you say so. sir―"

"I do, most emphatically."

"I― er― corroborate! That's the word, isn't it, officer? There's really nothing doing, y'know... Good night."

He took his friends arm, and turned towards the open door. The constable watched them enter, then he considered the hat lying at his feet. There are few men who are not boyish enough to yield to temptation in such circumstances, and he proved that youth still lingered under his uniform by kicking the hat with energy. The kick was a good one. The much misused hat sailed high and fell into the middle of the road. Then with a glow of satisfaction he continued on his heat.

Plonk! Plonk! Plonk! Within the sacred precincts of No. 4, P.Q.R was demanding information of his friend.

"What the deuce was it all about, Bill?"

"Man was of the East― Eastern. Showed a curiosity in me that I resented, that's all."

"He was a Jap. I saw that. But―"

"You'll cotton to things when you've heard my unvarnished tale―"

"I've heard Miss Swinnerton's version. You think the fellow was watching you?"

"Lay you five to one he. was hanging round to see us arrive."

"Phew, phew! Quick work. But come along. Mistley is waiting."

They passed into a large room, plainly a library, and the first person whom Pallisier saw was Joy Swinnerton, seated in a chair that was at least two sizes too large for her. Her face was pale but composed, her eyes were steady and bright, and his first impression of her beauty was more than confirmed as he saw her seated there under the soft glow of the shaded lights. He smiled at her by way of acknowledgment, whilst he made a mental comment to himself.

"No hysteria... Clean grit right through. Wouldn't shirk her fences for a kingdom."

"Mr. Mistley― Mr. Pallisier."

Mr. Mistley was a wiry-looking gentleman in the late thirties, with a sharp-cut face, whimsical eyes and a polished manner that must have been an asset in his calling. The whimsical eyes measured the Honourable Bill swiftly, and a half-smile lit them as he held out his hand.

"Very glad to see you, here, safely, Mr. Pallisier. Ringrose had put the wind up me with accounts of your driving. But you seem to have had adventures by the way."

"Two!" answered Pallisier. "And one after landing!"

"Another?" ejaculated Mr. Mistley, and P.Q.R. hastily explained.

"Japanese outside showed too much curiosity which Pallisier resented. Man... er... bolted!"

"Tell me," said the secretary tersely. "The last affair, I mean."

"Not worth mentioning in itself," answered the Honourable Bill cheerfully, noting at the same time that two other men were in the room, listening, one with a pencil and a notebook in his hand. "Links up with what happened on the road up, though, I fancy."

He gave a succinct and humorous account of the incident in the street, and Mr. Mistley's whimsical eyes lit with appreciation.

"Odd thing!" he said. "But the man couldn't have learned very much If he were in touch with the crowd who tried to scupper us with the harrow he would know that we had arrived here safely."

"Yes. That of course." The secretary paused a moment, then he said: "We have heard Miss Swinnerton's account of the occurrences on the way here. Would you mind giving us yours?"

"Not in the least," answered Pallisier, and promptly began. He had proceeded but a little way when the secretary interrupted. "You are quite sure about the nationality of the motor cyclist, Mr. Pallisier?"

"Quite!"

He resumed his narrative, and, when he reached the adventure of the spiked harrow suffered a second interruption. "You say those hold-ups were Japanese?"

"I do. They were. I'd stake my life on it."

"So Sorry to interrupt so. I desired to make sure. Please continue."

There was little more to say, and quickly reaching the end of his story Pallisier finished nonchalantly:

"That's all, I think."

"Not quite all, Mr. Pallisier," said the secretary smilingly. "I have a question of two I should like to ask. First― are you sure that the motor cyclist who was with those stick-up men was the same man who tried to listen-in whilst Miss Swinnerton was telephoning?"

"I didn't see the man the second time, but in view of everything it's a natural inference. The man had followed us for miles, but when that signalling started he shot ahead."

"Yes!... You think the signalling was meant for him?"

"I've had that idea since."

"I daresay you are right. But there is another question. Would you know the men who attacked you when your car was stopped?"

The Honourable Bill shook his head.

"No. I didn't see them clearly, and those fellows are much of a muchness, you know. Unless you're among them pretty often it's like picking a particular currant out of a bun and calling it by name.... The motorbiker and the little man whose hat I bashed are the only two I can be reasonably sure about."

"That is something. Where they are the others will probably be found."

Mr. Mistley was silent for a moment, and was very obviously considering something carefully. Thee he began tentatively:

"You have had a little experience of this crowd. I think it is possible that they may be far more dangerous than they have already shown themselves... I suppose you wouldn't care to take the risk of helping to find them? You see―"

"My dear chap, I'd fall over myself to grab the chance. You don't think they'd anything to do with shooting up Miss Swinnerton's car do you?"

"Don't know what to think,"― answered Mr. Mistley in a worried way. "If Miss Swinnerton is right in her view that the men who took away her brother were not Asiatics, there is an element in the situation that I cannot fathom at all."

"May have been in with the Japs, sir," hazarded P.Q.R.

"I don't think so. The Asiatics would have handled the matter themselves, without confederates.... What do you think, Sullivan?"

The man who had been taking notes, spoke tersely. "Sure thing! They ain't the crowd to call in other guys to do their stick-up for 'em." "That means that there were two distinct groups."

"Yeh!... Both laying for young Mr. Swinnerton." Mr. Mistley nodded. "Certain, I think. The Japanese one might have anticipated; but the second crowd mystifies me. I can think of no one who might be so interested in.... er... Mr. Swinnerton as to―"

"If this had been li'l ol' New York or Chicago," interrupted the note-taker, "I'd have understood it. Regular gangster trick to spray lead into the tyres of an automobile to stop it. But in this law-abiding country it just ain't done― not by the native citizens anyway... My idea as regards this stunt is that it would pay cent for cent to run round this li'l ol' town an' find out who's over here from Cicero, Chicago. Things hev been middlin' warm over there lately, an' there's a nice bunch who've made a run to find a refrigerator by all accounts."

"But Sullivan, Mr. Swinnerton wasn't travelling in diamonds."

"No!...But I gather what he had in his inside vest pocket what was worth more nor diamonds, and with no big rake-off for the fence― if offered to the right party."

"But no Chicago gunman could possibly have any idea of that!"

"Who's to know? Crooks hev their own intelligence bureau, an' it ain't no ways lacking in efficiency. An' since the repeal of the Volstead Act they's been active in other things than rum running an' wood alcohol. The kidnappin' business is a new development an' the pay is good. an' no questions asked. You get me, Mr. Mistley?"

"You think that Mr. Michael Swinnerton has been taken to be held for ransom?"

"What else? They can't be going to put him in a freak show. His old pop is just plastered with dollars, an' he ain't going to see his boy pass out for the sake of a few bucks."

"You think so, Sullivan? Then tell me why they took Michael and left his sister here. Mr. Swinnerton would be more likely to pay handsomely and more quickly to ransom his daughter than his son, I fancy."

"Can't explain!" said Sullivan shortly. "Maybe they didn't know about the missy here. Or, again, they did know why Mr. Michael was coming to London, and saw that he was bigger game than his sister.... Guess we've got to find out that."

"A second string!" agreed Mr. Mistley. "In the meantime it will be as well to get into touch with those Japs... There are two of them whom Mr. Pallisier thinks he might recognise; and if you know any place where men of their race congregate―"

"The Cafe of the Golden Carp!" interjected the Honourable Bill. "It's in Soho. I know the place. It's little Tokio right enough; I've been there and was nearly poisoned. Sake by way of liquor. Raw fish with young seaweed flavoured with soy and eaten with the aid of chopsticks-and a whole menu of perfectly ghastly stuff from sea urchin roe to fried cat. Safest thing to do if you're going there to dine is to carry an emetic along with you and take it steadily between the courses. You can miss the mortuary that way by a hair."

Mr. Mistley's whimsical eyes grew brighter. They beamed on the Honourable Bill.

"I wonder if it is too much to ask you to visit the place."

"Give me supports and I'll risk it," laughed Pallisier, "but you'll be called on to foot the bill at the nursing home after."

The secretary smiled and looked at Mr. Sullivan, who hastened to explain. "I'm dyspeptic. Got the beginning of a duodenal ulcer. A menu of that sort sounds like death and glory for me, an' a pension for the little woman back home.... But if you say so, well, I'll escort the Honourable an' give little Tokio the once over."

"And as Miss Swinnerton is safely here," suggested P.Q.R., "I'll barge along with these two, Mr. Mistley. In a job of this kind three are better far than two for counsel or for fight."

"Fight!... I hope you will be discreet, Mr. Ringrose, and not give your pugnacious propensities rein. This is a very delicate matter."

"Know it!" P.Q.R. grinned. "I'll wear gloves. Don't worry, sir."

The secretary permitted himself to be reassured.

"Then this is in your hands... One of you will report as soon as possible."

He looked at his watch. "I am expecting a man from Scotland Yard any moment. The authorities there are taking charge of the derelict car and the dead chauffeur, but it is possible they will want to interview Miss Swinnerton, who will remain here for the present and for the next few days."

"Good thing too," answered the Honourable Bill, with a remembrance of the events on the way up. He smiled at Joy Swinnerton, and then looked at his supports.

"I haven't dined and the hour grows late. Time we were earning the martyr's crown at the Golden Carp, where the evening garb of civilisation is not de rigueur. Fall in."

As he rose to depart, Joy Swinnerton hurriedly crossed the room, her hand held out to him.

"I haven't thanked you, Mr. Pallisier, for―"

"Please. Please, Miss Swinnerton," he protested as he took her hand. "A pleasure― barring the circumstances, of course― I assure you! I hope that soon we may have good news of your brother, restore him to the bosom of his family and all that, you know. Then we'll have that celebration at the Old Willow Plate. All of us. What?"

He spoke lightly, but his face was earnest, and as his gaze met the soft grey eyes shining with gratitude, his own flamed with sudden ardour.

"Don't worry," he said quickly. Then without more ado turned and left the room. As he waited for his supports in the hall he hummed softly to himself, and when they appeared he led the way to the car.

"Pile in!" he said. "An' may the Lord give us good adventure."

Chapter 4

At The Golden Carp

THE GOLDEN CARP was tucked away in a poorly lighted cul-de-sac into which Pallisier carefully backed the car, instead of running it forward, a manoeuvre which Mr. Sullivan regarded with entire approval.

"Don't mean to be caught with your head in a bag, hey, Mr. Pallisier?" said Sullivan.

"You've got the eye for a situation, brother," answered the Honourable Bill cheerfully. "If we should have to hop it pronto, it's well to have sea-room. What?"

"You think there may be trouble?" asked Ringrose quickly.

"My dear fellow, I even hope for it... It's the only compensation for the menu. You'll see!"

The restaurant to which he led them held out the bush in the form of a transparent fish, dangling from a pole, and lighted from within electrically. All the windows were discreetly veiled, and in its doorway hung a lantern of noble proportions, but with the mini-mum of illuminating power. As they reached the threshold, P.Q.R. stopped and asked doubtfully: "I say, Bill, do we squat on mats?"

Pallisier laughed. "The place has chairs and tables on the lower floor― a concession to the stilt-kneed West. Aloft― heaven knows!" He waved a forward signal, thrust the door open, and grinned over his shoulder. "All hope abandon―"

Then he stepped inside.

The shades over the lamps dimmed the lighting, but the first impression of Pallisier's companions received was of severely white walls, relieved only by three or four unframed Japanese pictures hung on rollers. At the far end were a number of girls squatted on the floor, amid an arrangement of ferns and imitation peach blossom, who were making weird music by means of samisen, drums, and a kind of triangle. The girls were radiantly flowered kimonos; and the waitresses were also clad in the garb of old Japan.

A maitre d'hôtel, a Japanese, wearing the swallow-tails of his profession, received them with a profound bow.

"The honourable gentlemen will dine?" he asked, in excellent English.

"The honourable gentlemen will try," replied Palliser, with perhaps an excess of caution, and they were forth-with conducted to a vacant table half-way up the white room. Once seated, P.Q.R. instinctively turned to the pictures, whilst Mr. Sullivan and the Honourable Bill surveyed the diners. They were mostly English, couples or little parties, obviously pursuing new sensations. There were perhaps half a dozen Japanese men present, four of them with white girls. The sight of the latter made Mr. Sullivan rumble: "Ought to be sent to the penitentiary― the hussies!" Then he considered their escorts.

"Know any of those fish, Pallisier?"

"No," answered the Honourable Bill. "Though there's a family likeness―"

"I say, you two," began P.Q.R., enthusiastically; "there are one or two stunning pictures here― Japanese style, of course. That bird over on that single stalk of bamboo―" He rose and crossed to the picture in question, whilst his friend watched him with amusement.

"P.Q.R. is absolutely nutty about art, if you don't know it, Mr. Sullivan. Watch him! You'd think that he expected that confounded canary to warble out loud like a Hartz Mountain roller. He― um! The swallow-tailed gentleman is eyeing him, moving towards him. Another enthusiast, I'll bet."

It appeared that he was right. Ringrose was conducted in turn to the four pictures in the room, and at each there was gesticulation and earnest speech, and then, whilst Mir. Sullivan was struggling gallantly with the menu card, the Japanese enthusiastically indicated a staircase which led to the floor above, and with sundry bows they parted. P.Q.R. returned to the table, and at some ribald remark of his friend laughed quietly.

"Never been upstairs, Bill, I suppose?"

"No. When I came here with a merry crowd we were forbidden the stairs."

"Upper floor is private. Reserved for the true sons of the Rising Sun and their women. Kind of club, I gather, but when we've fortified the inner man―"

"Poisoned him. you mean!"

"I'm going up there to a sort of private view. There's a picture, a topping thing, painted by some old priest two hundred years ago. Subject, a Japanese beggar―"

"You're here to look for a live beggar or two, and not for a Methuselah hobo who's been dead―"

His friend laughed. "I inspect the picture, and also I take a look round the sanctuary where―"

"My hat!  I get you! P.Q.R., I'm going to join you. You don't know the beggars we're looking for, and they don't know you. But they know me, and if they're there they'll give themselves away. You will explain to Swallow-tails that I'm the President of the Royal Academy, and dotty on the art of Japan, also that I shall perish of chagrin on his doorstep if I am not allowed to inspect the masterpiece of his great country. From what I say he's as cracked as you are about art―"

"A connoisseur in his way!" owned P.Q.R. "And an enthusiast."

"Good! Then he'll swallow anything if it's in the line of his craziness. We go together and―" He broke off quickly.

A Japanese girl in a kimono, with white socks and un-English slippers, had approached their table, and was bowing till she almost touched the floor with her knees, thus intimating that she awaited their commands.

"Hades !" ejaculated Mr. Sullivan, eyeing the menu fiercely. "This has me beat."

The Honourable Bill laughed, and took the card from his hands. Then he smiled affably at the doll-like waitress.

"Gyunabe!" he said, indicating both his companions and himself. The little lady swept another of her inimitable curtsies and withdrew. Mr. Sullivan watched her depart, then he spoke forcibly.

"What the Hecuba is Gyunabe?"

"Only dish in the place that won't set your duodenum prophesying a melancholy end-beef, onions, soy, sugar, and rice. Nice combination. What?"

The American looked his despair, and demanded, "Eaten with two pieces of firewood?"

"Chop-sticks―yes!"

Mr. Sullivan looked disturbed.

"Don't serve the liquor with chopsticks do they?"

"No!" Then I'll take a drink if you'll ask me, Honourable. Seems about all I'm going to get for my money."

Pallisier laughed. "Sake is heady stuff."

"Ain't afraid of my head," averred Mr. Sullivan, "not so long as the duodenum don't assert itself too strongly―" He broke off, and then ejaculated suddenly:

"The club upstairs is a popular one. There's the seventh of the members gone up whilst we've been sitting jawing here."

His companions looked towards the stairs, and as they did so a girl walked across the room moving towards the staircase. She was so slim of figure that she looked taller than she was. Dressed fashionably in an evening gown, with a V slit from the delicate shoulders to the small of her back, she walked with the tiniest mincing steps, proclaiming that she was more used to the hobble kimono of her native land than to the ultra-western garb, but her movement was inimitably graceful, and as she reached the stairs she set one small foot on the lowest step, and, halting, languidly turned to survey the restaurant. As she did so the Honourable Bill gave an ejaculation.

"My hat! There's a doll come to life!" There was much in his comment, but much more in the girl who had occasioned it. In her way she was perfect to look upon― no artist in marble could have produced more delicate lines or daintier modelling of slender limbs. The coal-black hair, without a wave or crinkle in it, was piled high above a smooth broad fore-head, the ears were tiny, the full-lidded eyes dark brown and slanting, the nose aquiline after the Manchu type, the mouth a crimson flower, whilst the cheeks, no doubt owing something to art, of a shade that recalled the peach blossom. The effect of the whole was exotically beautiful, bizarre and vivid and challenging.

"Doll!" echoed P.Q.R., his artistic enthusiasm stirred deeply. "She's like some marvellous figurine, carved by an old master come to life. I never saw the like in my days."

"Neither doll nor figurine. I'll lay." grunted Sullivan unromantically. "If that ain't the most dangerous piece of goods in this establishment, then you can buy my ticket home."

The girl's eyes, roving slowly round the rooms, swept over the three in a calm survey that was almost insolent in its leisureliness, and as they passed on the Honourable Bill chuckled.

"Les than the dust in the balance, that's what we are, brothers. The East has read us and finds us wanting. Three vulgar fleas under a microscope would be infinitely more interesting... But saw you ever such detached insolence?... Where's the sake? I need a plaster for my wounded vanity."

The girl, her survey of the room ended, faced the stairs, and ascended slowly. All three watched her until she disappeared, and then Sullivan spat like the Irish-American policeman he had formerly been.

"You boys keep off the grass," he said in fatherly counsel.

"I've seen that breed of Jane before― in Frisco. A serpent's got warmer vitals, an' its venom ain't half so poisonous as what that Lamia carried round with her."

Pallisier laughed. "You're prejudiced, Mr. Sullivan."

"Sort of prejudice you learn young in my profession. Honest, I'd sooner face a gangster's gun-Moll going strong with a gat in either fist than the piece of Satsuma ware if she were laying for me. I'd be safer by a darn sight."

The coming of the food checked further comment. They made a shift to eat with the chop-sticks, and drank sparingly of the sake, and presently Sullivan announced gruffly:― "I'm through!... Seen anything to interest you, Mr. Pallisier?"

"Not yet! Middling slow, isn't it? No what you'd call go-ish, old top. What?"

"Depends, sonny. Have you watched that stairway while you've bin trying to commit stomachic hari-kari?... No! I guessed not. But I've kept tall an' since we sat down to this funeral feast thirteen Japs plus that serpent kid have climbed that staircase. Must be a whole crowd up above, an' may be if Mr. Ringrose could collar that artist pal of his an' inspect the hot picture, you might glimpse some of there little fellas you've exchanged wore with... Swallowtails is propping up the door post an' is at liberty."

"Right!" said P.Q.R. "What about you, Sullivan?"

"I'll sit tight and watch the stair case.... I ain't interested in hobos painted or natural. You just trot along, boys, an' take a look at the inside line."

P.Q.R. led the way to the maitre d'hôtel and introduced Pallisier as the son of the famous collector whose special interest was the art of Japan. The man was really an enthusiast, and he welcomed the Honourable Bill as a brother. Two minutes later the watchful Sullivan saw the trio go up the stairs, and as they passed from view he settled himself more firmly is his chair and sat with his eyes half closed, but facing the staircase. Beyond his view the two friends were already taking the first step to adventure, for at the head of the stairs were at least a score of pairs of shoes.

"It is the custom of my country," complained their conductor as he kicked his own footwear. "Very old and honourable custom. The honourable gentlemen will not care to offend?"

"By Jove, no" replied Pallisier cheerfully. "Sound practice when in Rome to be Romish. But I hope no blighters will collar my pumps. They're an outsize, an' hard to come by in a hurry."

He slipped off his shoes, set them carefully beside his friend's, and again surveyed the orderly lines of footgear with a measuring eye.

"Boy," he whispered to P.Q.R., "what a bag for a merchant from Petticoat Lane."

P.Q.R. frowned upon this levity, and they followed their guide past a brocaded curtain into a chamber which took them utterly by surprise. It was a white room. On the floor were beautifully soft mats, with a number of cushions arranged about the floor. In one corner was a shallow alcove, with a slightly raised platform. On this a large vase stood, with a few tall-stalked flowers, whilst the walls boasted a solitary picture, mounted on silk with a roll at the top and bottom. There was no other furniture.

About the room in little groups, some eating, some drinking tea, some playing games, others smoking and talking, were the frequenters of this home from home. Some of them were in dinner dress, others in ordinary day attire, but all were shoeless, and squatted on cushions on the floor. In a first swift survey Pallisier counted five ladies, and then choking down an inclination to whisper a ribald remark to P.Q.R., he walked with him towards the point where the famous picture hung, and watched his friend as he was caught up in a fine rapture. Having an entirely false reputation to maintain, he slipped a finger and thumb into his vest pocket produced a monocle and screwing it into place before his right eye, he considered the picture.

As a work of art― Japanese art― it was sufficiently striking, grotesque in detail, full of impossible things, but amazingly vigorous in its execution. The beggar was a beggar, there was no doubt of that. His face was mostly bone. His hands and feet were claws. His garments were tatters of odd stuff, his bleared eyes expressed the woes of all the centuries; and yet the whole in the Honourable Bill's judgment was "a damned absurdity."

He heard P.Q.R. and their guide fairly launched on a tide of enthusiastic appreciation. and gave himself to his real task, well aware that his friend had shifted his position ever so little, that he might view the room as well as the picture. Nonchalantly he stared round the bare chamber. His eyes passed quickly from group to group. No one appeared to be taking the slightest notice of either P.Q.R. or himself; then, as his eyes encountered the remarkable girl who had been the subject of comment downstairs, he found occasion to revise his conclusion. The girl, seated with a man, beside a vacant cushion that silently hinted the expectation of a guest yet to arrive, was drinking tea, and though her heavy-lidded eyes seemed half closed they were, as he realised with a little shock, fixed on himself in a speculative stare.

"Watching like a cat" he commented silently, as, taking out his monocle and polishing it with the corner of his handkerchief, he stared casually round the room and then made opportunity to look at her again. The girls position was absolutely unchanged. The slanting eyes were is exactly as they had been―  fixed unwinkingly upon , himself.

He had a sudden sense of discomfort. There was something almost baleful in that steady stare. He began to reflect on what he had heard and seen of hypnotism― mostly culled from faked exhibitions in places of entertainment- and he did not find his vague knowledge consoling. But there was one safe card that could be played.

The eyes, if he remembered rightly, were the points of hypnotic contact; and you could not hypnotise a fellow through his back hair. Calmly he restored his monocle to the right socket, and turned round. Then he suffered a major shock, which caused a tension of his facial muscles. The monocle was jerked from its place, but he caught it deftly, and stared towards the entrance with un-clouded vision, the enigmatic lady behind him momentarily forgotten.

The brocaded curtain at the entrance had been pulled aside, and two men were standing there surveying the room as if searching for someone. Both were short men, both Oriental, and one was in swallow-tails, whilst the other wore a suit of blue reach-me-downs, with a khaki-coloured shirt and flaring tie. The little man in swallow-tails wore his hair en brosse. Across his forehead just above the eyes was angry red line, which on each side where the forehead became the temple had broken into small abrasions.

All that Pallisier noted in a flash, and at the same time was assailed by the stunning conviction that here was the gentleman who departing hurriedly had left his hat in Grosvenor Gardens. He gave a swift glance at the other man. There was something familiar in his aspect. The broad face might be that of the man motor-cyclist on the Southampton-London road. He could not be sure, having seen it under such unfavourable circumstances and for so brief a time. But, he thought he might know certainly within a minute or two if the man walked down the room, for P.Q.R. and himself, as the only Englishmen in the chamber, were bound to take the fellow's attention.

The man in the swallow-tails signalled to someone at the far end of the room, and began to walk in that direction. Of him Pallisier had no doubt at all; and since there was no need to court recognition, he turned swiftly on his heel and set his back to the oncoming man. In doing so he met the eyes of the little lady seated beside the vacant cushion. They were still watching him, but now the heavy lids were slightly lifted and the dark. brown eyes were blazing with unconcealed interest.

"Phew!" The whistle was inaudible to anyone but himself. "That femme knows something or suspects. Wonder if swallow-tails is her man?"

Setting his eye-glass he stared at the picture, and edged a little nearer his friend. The maitre d'hôtel. was still eloquent, and as he was facing P.Q.R. there was no possible chance of warning the latter without the other observing him. But convinced that there was need for action, he tugged his friend's sleeve gently, and then broke on the Jap's eloquence with a perfectly devastating criticism.

"A work of genius, yes!" he said, eyeing the picture distastefully. "But it gives me the shivers. Why a man who could paint like that wanted to portray such a bony scarecrow has me guessing. And that fly on his claw is―''

"Fly!" exclaimed the man, "but honourable sir, there is no fly. That is―"

"Sure?" demanded the Honourable Bill aggressively. "Then what's that smudge on the knucklebone? Looks to me like some insect that the fellow was too lazy to brush off, and so―"

The maitre d'hôtel almost whirled to face the masterpiece, and Pallisier took the chance. "Man at the door, watch him. Little rat coming down the room is the goods. Time to quit."

"Honourable sir," came the enthusiast's voice in protest, "you make the error. There is no insect in the picture at all―"

"Then what d'you call the feller himself?" asked Pallisier truculently. "If he isn't an insect then he belongs to the genus Coleoptera―" The little man, conceiving his beloved masterpiece dishonoured, was developing a cold rage. "I do not comprehend the word but―"

"A beetle, my honourable sir," answered Pallisier, noting in a swift glance that swallow-tails had joined the doll-like lady and was staring at him incredulously. He gave his friend's sleeve another tug and turned to go.

P.Q.R. understood the hint, but stayed a moment to mollify the connoisseur. "You must not notice my friend." he said excusingly. "It is your sake that is too good, and not for a man whose brain is easily fired. He is not accustomed to such strong liquor, it makes him see insects where there are none, and a little later it will be frogs, or―"

Someone shouted a single word was beyond P.Q.R.'s understanding. A sudden silence fell on the chamber, and Ringrose left his slanderous apology uncompleted. He swung round. His friend had halted to wait for him and was in the act of tucking his monocle into his vest pocket. Two or three men were already moving unobtrusively towards the entrance, and there was no question whatever that it was time to go. He hurried to join Pallisier, who as he reached him renewed his way.

"Trouble brewing!" he announced. "It was that little runt by the curtain who shouted. That means he knows me, and means too that he was the man on the motor bike and― Ah, you hear that?"

A door had crashed somewhere in the direction of the curtain. The little man who had been standing at the entrance moved forward a pace into the room, and P.Q.R. remembered something.

"Gee! There was a door... head of the stairs. Gave on to the shoe department―"

"And some blighter's shut it on us."

"Tightish corner― chance for the nobler art― what?... But 'ware ju-jitsu. It's the deuce. For me, I'm going to do the all-in stunt... Wonder if Sullivan noticed the shutting of that door?"

He had opportunity to wonder nothing more. They had almost reached the point where stood the man whom he suspected was the motor cyclist, and with three steps to go and the man's face clear in the light het had no doubt at all.

"Hallo, Yoshida." he cried in cheerful greeting. "We meet again. Perfectly ripping of you to come all this way to greet―"

Another man slipped from behind the brocaded curtain and stood to bar the way. Pallisier marked him and in a low voice gave P.Q.R. counsel. "Hit that one-hard!... Now!" He himself made a sudden leap towards the man who had dealt so treacherously with him by the A. A. box. As he leaped his arm shot out in a travelling blow that was perfectly timed and placed. It caught the man smashingly in the mouth, jerking his head back, and almost n the same second Pallisier's right drove a terrible jab at the heart.

The man, already reeling, fell backwards, crashed on the boards, kicked a second or two and lay still. Others were hurrying. The Honourable Bill saw them over his shoulder. and with a definite purpose in his mind he sprang to the brocaded curtain and dragged it aside, revealing the closed doors. At that precise moment. P.Q.R. dealt with his own man in style, knocking him out with scientific precision.

"Get that confounded door opens" cried Pallisier. "I'm going all-in!"

He laughed as, stooping, he caught in a small armful of shoes. The nearest of the men who had started to intercept them was no more than six yards away― and offered a perfect target. The first shoe caught him clean in the face. He gave a scream and checked with his hands to his face.

"A bull's eye!" registered the Honourable Bill aloud. and heard P.Q.R. behind him.

"Blazes!... The dam' door's locked."

A second shoe was launched at a man who was preparing to rush. He also be-came a casualty, and fell sharply back on three others, one of whom, seeking to avoid him, stumbled over a cushion and went down. As he started to pick himself up a heavy brogue found him, and he went down again and began to crawl out of range.

Behind him, Pallisier heard a panel smash, laughed oddly, and scooped up a fresh supply of ammunition. Then he went berserk, and gave an exhibition of straight throwing that would have done credit to a juggler. The white chamber in front of him was in pandemonium. Men who plainly had no part in this trouble backed to the walls out of range, belligerent ones shouted counsel to each other, and dodged the rain of footwear as best they could, whilst plainly preparing for a rush. The odd thing to Pallisier was that none of them thought to pay him out in his own coin, for there were missiles in plenty lying around on the floor.

"Bally fools!" he chuckled, and behind him heard another panel go.

Then appeared the girl whom he had compared to a doll, but her face at any rate was no longer doll-like. It was that of an evil witch, twisted with passion, and the slanting eyes blazed under their heavy lids. She spat a word at a man in front of her. The man swiftly jumped aside, and walking unhurriedly with short mincing gait that was characteristic of her, she moved towards him.

"Nasty sort of lady!" muttered Pallisier. "Ought one to make a cockshy of her or―"

A second later he knew. The girl's hand which had been at her side swung suddenly up and backwards. He caught a gleam under the shaded lights, and cried to his friend.

"Drop, for God's sake!" Something covered the space between him and the lady like a moving beam of light, but he was already on one knee with head lowered. The thing swished over him. Behind him there was a sharp rapping sound which told him that the knife must have found its billet in wood, then he straightened himself, raging. That missile might have split his face, pierced his heart, struck P.Q.R. like a sheep. The thrower deserved no mercy, and should have none. His own hand swung back and flung. But the girl, divining she was the target, leaped nimbly aside and the shoe took one of the men behind her. She laughed mockingly, held his attention for so long as it took him to assure himself that she had no other knife, then suddenly and most unexpectedly the curtain was thrown across the open space, the rings slithering easily and the brocade blocking his view.

From beneath hands gripped his legs and jerked forward. He went down with a force that jarred all his bones, and before he could roll over and pick himself up, there was something like a howl, the curtain was flung wide, and he had a view of half a dozen men closing on the entrance, with one man past it and almost on him. The man was too near for any offensive action on Pallisier's part save one. It was all-in fighting, and something more, and that one way was justified.

Lying on his back, he drew his right leg up, and at the precise second straightened it, with an upward motion, regretting bitterly that he was shoe-less. The thrust was a forceful one. To its recipient the impact of the flat broad foot on his middle was like that of a battering ram. It flung him reeling backward on his fellows at the curtained entrance, causing confusion. Pallisier rolled over like an acrobat, and was in the act of picking himself up, when a raucous American voice broke like music on his ears.

"Say, you gents, what's all the racket about?"

Chapter 5

At Silas' American Bar.

NO ONE ATTEMPTED to satisfy Mr. Sullivan's disingenuous curiosity, and for an appreciable space of time the whole place was still as the palace of the Sleeping Beauty before the moment of the miraculous kiss. Then, his question unanswered, he broke the spell by further speech addressed in the first place to his young friends.

"Grab your footwear, boys." At that the Honourable Bill, having recovered his breath, looked round and laughed.

"Can't be done, old cock, not under half an hour. They've been used for cockshy stuff and will take some finding. What?"

"Then scoop the next best pair."

"No use," answered the Pallisier with another laugh. "There's nothing left but number fours. I can't climb into anything less than nines."

"Eights for me!" said P.Q.R. "We'll e'en have to walk in silk, and―"

"Hi, you there," interrupted Mr. Sullivan snappily to a man who had moved. "Just hold still. I ain't through yet; when I am I'll let you in... Who's got the key of this blasted door?" The maitre d'hôtel took a few steps forward, and began feverishly: "Honourable sir―"

"That ain't me," said Mr. Sullivan dryly. "I ain't in that high line except when using firewood for cutlery. My name's Sullivan. I'm a bull, a cop, a policeman, if y'get me, an'y'can cut the frills. Where's the key?"

"Honourable, there is no key. A spring works the door―"

"Oh, it does. Well since y'know the trick, just step forward and operate it, quick as y'know how, an' no hankypanky, or there'll be real trouble in this soy-hash joint. An' y'can bet your last lone dime on that. Now! Shun! March!"

The unhappy maitre marched. He touched a spring concealed in the jamb, then he thrust the shattered door open. "Fine!... y'deserve a medal honourable sir. Now just hop back an' clear the gangway, for them two big friends of mine. An' keep it clear. Y'get me? First guy that's steps over the mark gets pilled as sure as Sunday... Now, you boys, lively."

In stockinged feet Pallisier and P.Q.R. picked their way through the splinters to the stairs. There they paused.

"Keep goin', boys. I've got footwear an' you haven't! Any bare toes that trot along will get trod on― hard!"

The friends reached the lower floor, which, at the hint of trouble in the upper storey, but for three of the Japs who had been dining, had cleared like magic.

"Reminds me of the Sahara!" quoth the Honourable Bill as they moved towards the outer door. "Those three birds only add to the desolation. Wonder why they lingered after their mem-sahibs departed. Bit curious, what?...Hallo!"

One of the lonely trio had risen. There was a gleam in his beady eyes, and a look on his face which proclaimed he was a trouble-maker. His hand was stealing towards a wine bottle and his gaze was fixed on Joseph Sullivan, who had just reached the lowest stair. His arm went back with the bottle in hand, but before he could throw the Honourable Bill leaped and the man shot over the table under the impact of a blow that must have been the most surprising thing in his experience.

"Hurry up, old top!" cried the aggressor to the American. "And 'ware the rearguard."

"I get you, sonny! Step out and start the flivver. These guys may try a rush, an' if I shoot up the place, there'll likely be the heck of a row."

"I'll support!" jerked P.Q.R., and most reluctantly the Honourable Bill made the outer door, and passed to the ill-lighted street. It was surprisingly uneven and bumpy to a man running without shoes, and as a ratepayer, by the time he reached his car, the Honourable Bill was a disgruntled man.

"City fathers!" he grunted scornfully to himself. Ought to be made to do a fox-trot in the street barefoot!.... That 'ud teach em― Damn!"

The expletive proclaimed a stubbed toe, but he did not pause for soothing massage. Behind him where the Golden Carp made a tiny oasis of light, there were sounds that indicated strife― a crash of glassware, shouts in a tongue to him unknown, and finally a pistol-shot.

"The deuce!" he thought. "Things are livening up!"

He reached the car, started the engine, and thoughtfully threw open the near door of the tonneau. Then he let in the clutch, and as the car began to move saw both his friends emerge from the ill-lighted vestibule. He quickened the pace a little as they ran towards him. Other men broke from the restaurant to the street, and looked as if they meant to bar the way. He laughed at the idea, and as P.Q.R. and Sullivan reached the car, he shouted to them.

"Shut the door after you!" He heard the door crash, changed gears, and switched on the headlights. The glare lit the cul-de-sac to its farther end, and revealed to him something like half a dozen men in front prepared to oppose his passage. He chuckled as he accelerated, and wondered if a coroner's jury would make the verdict Hari-Kari or Justifiable Homicide.

The car swept forward. Three men, greatly daring, held the middle of the narrow street, whilst the others clung to the edge of the pavement. The whole strategy was clear to him. The three men in front designed to make him slow down whilst the others boarded the car.

"Well!" He set his teeth and drove on. With two of the men it was touch and go. They jumped aside in the nick of time, and in the same second one of the men on the pavement leaped for and achieved the running board. Clinging to the edge of the door with one hand, the man clutched for the wheel with the other. The car swerved violently. One wheel bumped and mounted the pavement.

Then the Honourable Bill's right fist shot through the open window and the boarder disappeared. The car straightened out, found the level, turned the corner to a wider thoroughfare, turned yet another corner and slid into the traffic of Shaftesbury Avenue. Its driver switched off the headlights and regulated its pace to that of the taxis gliding westward.

"London! London!" he ejaculated.

"What's that?" demanded P.Q.R. behind him.

"Quotation!" he laughed back. "Poet of the nineties before you were born, Peter. Fellow made a song about it.

"Dear City of our delight

Dear City of the midnight sun!"

"It ain't midnight yet!" broke in Mr. Sullivan, who by nature of his profession was a realist. "But I'll say the City is all right, an' Little Tokio has no flies on it.... We beat it at the― what the heck's the word?"

"Psychological moment!" suggested Ringrose.

"That's the bird!"

"...On the tick! Another minute and they'd have shut the street door with us inside."

"I heard a shot―" began Pallisier. "Moral suasion!" laughed Sullivan, "Real shooting ain't permissible over here. But it served to scare the guy who was making to shut us in ... What happened upstairs?"

"Tell him, P.Q.R: Art side of it is your long suit."

Whilst P.Q.R. gave a faithful account of what he called the doings, the Honourable Bill, with commendable skill, considering his shoeless condition, drove the car steadily westward, and presently pulled up in front of an aristocratic set of flats that once had been a peer's town house.

"Where's here?" demanded Sullivan tersely.

"Callington Mansions. There's a boot-rack I want to raid... Also a tantalus and siphon. If you care―"

"Care?...Lead me, boy! Lead me! Anything to wash the flavour of sweetened bean-soup out of my mouth."

"Bean-soup! You didn't―"

"Wrong! I fell for it when you two boys were investigating that work of art .... Alongside it molasses and stewed haricots would be nectar― or is it ambrosia?"

"Both, I should say," laughed Pallisier. "Whatever made you try that bilge?"

"Spirit of adventure! From now right on I stick to mother's cooking."

They hurried across the pavement to the entrance of the Mansions.

Rankin, the valet caretaker, was in the hall engaged in the unprofitable but engrossing task of picking winners from the list of to-morrow's events in a late edition. As he looked up and saw Pallisier and P.Q.R. in shoeless condition he exhibited no astonishment. To be sure the sight stirred his curiosity a little, but he had been too long in his present service to be really surprised at anything that young gentleman about town might do; though to have them march in on him in stockinged feet was a new experience. Mr. Sullivan's profession he guessed at sight.

"Bobby! Plain clothes!" he thought. "Hope the Honourable hasn't been gettin' into trouble again."

He moved to the lift, and as he unlocked the gate he ventured to indulge his curiosity. "You're lost your shoes, Mr. Pallisier?"

"Pawned them to pay the taxi-man," answered the Honourable Bill cheerfully, and, stepped into the lift. "Mind Mr. Ringrose's toes with those tanks of yours, will you, or he'll be an ambulance case."

Some men might have taken this flippancy for a rebuke. Not so, Rankin. He found it reassuring.

"Honourable's all right," he told himself, as he started the lift. "Nothing to worry about. Thank God."

His passengers were decanted at the second floor, and before the lift de-scended the caretaker received instructions.

"Just telephone to the garage. Ask them to send a man round for the car, pronto. I don't want another summons for obstruction. And tell 'em to give first aid to the two damaged tyres!"

"Right, sir!"

"And if a copper does happen along to take the number, shoo him off."

"Yes, sir. Do my best."

Pallisier led the way into his flat, switched on the light, set glasses, siphon and tantalus on the table, and waved an invitation. Then he moved to a camouflaged boot rack and carefully selected two pairs of shoes. One pair he set at the feet of his friend.

"Daresay you'll be able to turn round in them," he grinned. "But they're the best I can do."

He slipped on his own pair, and bending only at the hips, tied the laces, then he helped himself to whisky and soda, took one long drink, and considered his companions with a beaming eye.

"Well?"

It was Mr. Sullivan who answered, slowly, as one weighing pros and cons. "I ain't certain that's the word, Honourable."

"Why not? We're here, safe and sound, with no more loss than the quartermaster's department can make good, and we've learned... er... things. Little gentleman who was doing sentry-go in Grosvenor Gardens is the pal of the motor bike feller, and hand an' glove, I'll lay, with the crowd who put the harrow in the road. Also there's that lady-serpent―"

"Yeh!" interjected Mr. Sullivan. "But it don't give us a line on young Mr. Swinnerton, And that's the crying need."

"But we know they were interested," commented P.Q.R., "or why did they go after Miss Joy?"

"Search me... May have thought she had the goods."

"Is it too much to enquire the nature of the goods?" enquired Pallisier. "I don't want to barge in, but― er― you know, working in the dark an' all that sort of thing is confusing. What?"

Mr. Sullivan looked at P.Q.R., who nodded emphatically. Then he explained. "Young Mr. Swinnerton was a special envoy, carrying private― very private an' important― documents. Documents have to do with the naval conversations going on over here. He had word of mouth instructions as well. Naturally one country that un like to get a peep at said documents is Japan―"

"Ah. That explains―"

"It don't explain who lifted young Swinnerton outa that car, not if Miss Joy is right in her idea they weren't Asiatics."

"No!...That's a corker."

"Leaves you guessing and then some more." Mr. Sullivan drank off his whisky, followed it with a chaser of soda-water, and then helped himself again to spirit.

"I've a notion that we aren't on the mark at all in this business yet."

"But those Japs―" began P.Q.R. "Wait, boy. Let me unload. Those Japs, you say. Well, if you ask me, I'd say they were just as keen as we are to get in touch with young Mr. Swinnerton. It's a dead cert that they were laying for him; but I reckon it's a deader cert that they missed him, an' whilst they're watchful they know no more nor we do where he is."

"But someone got him," said Pallisier, "and took risks over the job. That dead chauffeur is enough to hang the lot of them."

"Yeh! When found― and not before. Question is, who are the guys?"

Mr. Sullivan paused, felt in his pocket, took out a green-looking cigar, bit the end off, lit up, and then continued: "I've got a notion that there was something in that hold-out an' kidnapping business that ought to put us on the scent. Over here, kidnapping ain't the industry it is in the States. More reasons nor one for that. You haven't had a Volstead Act to foster a thriving business in boot-legging liquor, an' to nourish a brood of gangsters an' hold-uppers worse nor any stick-up agents when the west was wild. An' again you haven't had that special class put clean out of a business they make their own by the repeal of the liquor laws.... You get me?"

"Matter of common knowledge," said Ringrose. "Yeh! But look at it. Bootlegging being off, that crowd has to look for a fresh racket to keep 'em on Easy-street, where they're accustomed to take the air. Half of 'em are Wops, an' half the Wops were chased out of Sicily when Mussolini had the Mafia broke up, an' this snatch racket kinda comes natural to 'em."

"Snatch racket?" asked Pallisier. "I don't―"

"Kidnapping an' ransom," explained Mr. Sullivan, "an' no guarantee that you ain't just ransoming a corpse. It's a big business. World's heard of Colonel Lindbergh's baby, but doesn't know of the fifty thousand bucks paid by Benjamin P. Bower of Denver for his release, nor how Michael H. Katz of Kansas City shed a hundred thousand to get back to his home, nor how Earl L. Yocum, banker, of Galva, Illinois, was snatched by three kidnappers with guns when coming out of a movie house in his home town on a Saturday night an' paid up fifty thousand an' nothing said to the police. That's how the racket goes― an' it's a big one. Cases mentioned are just drummer's samples. There's hundreds of 'em, an―"

"You think Michael Swinnerton is another one?" snapped P.Q.R.

"I reckon it's possible. If Miss Swinnerton is right, 'twastn't the Japs that snatched him. They wanted him, well, but let him slip... Maybe others wanted him for the same reason as they did, an' some of the secret-service operators aren't noways particular if they can get the goods. But I'd put my bet elsewhere.... Old man Swinnerton's mortal proud of his boy. Means him to cut a figure in the world, an' maybe hit the White House... That news-gossip, back home... But the old man ain't loved by the lawless in the States. He's one of the strongest backers of Chicago's 'Secret Six' crime-fighting organisation, and his money sent three men to the electric chair who'd bumped off one of his employees... S'pose the racketeers are trying to get even... Swinnerton Junior is his vulnerable point. That's where he can get hurt-hard! Daughter isn't quite the same. There ain't none of the livin'-in -the- country's story idea for her whilst the boy's the apple of his eye.... You get me?"

He lifted the whisky, swallowed it, and neglected the chaser.

"That's my notion. Mr. Mistley, being fixed in the idea that politics and politics only is behind this snatch business, won't listen to my theory. But I reckon it'll pay to take a run round this big village, an' see who're over here from New York and Chicago, an' that's what I'm reckoning on doing."

"Someone must report to the secretary," said P.Q.R.

Mr. Sullivan grinned affably. 'That's sure your job, Mr. Ringrose."

"But confound it, man―"

"An' you, sure can't go running round in footwear you'd fall out as you pedalled, boy."

"But I can follow you, pick you up later!' protested P.Q.R. "I'm not going to be shoved out of any fun that's going."

"Well, there's that!" Mr. Sullivan looked at his wrist watch. "Might try Silas' American Bar, ten forty-five. An' after closing hour, the Paon d'Or, which is situate―"

"Oh! Teach your grandmother!" interrupted P.Q.R., and rose from the lounge. "I'll hop round to Number 4―"

"Ok, sonny. An' if Commander Patterson is still camped there, y'might pass the word to him. Maybe he'll stroll along with you."

"Right. I suppose you'll bring Bill―"

"Don't talk bilge," interrupted Mr. Pallisier. "I'm a fixture in this business, an' Mr. Sullivan knows it... What?"

Mr. Sullivan's silence gave consent, and P.Q.R. having departed, he in turn prepared to go.

"Got to climb into a boiled shirt! Doesn't matter at Silas', but the Paon d'Or is a tony place, an' y'don't get in without a wedding garment...  Meet you at Silas', if that suits you, Mr. Pallisier."

"Suits me, topping."

The American went, and Pallisier hurriedly changed, and, chartering a taxi, arrived at Silas's ahead of time. The bar was very full, and the nasal speech of many of its clientele proved that Silas or his cocktail shaker was popular with his own countrymen. It was only after watching a couple de-part that Pallisier found a seat, and having made sure that Sullivan had not arrived, he lit a cigarette, and whilst sipping his Manhattan considered the assembled company.

The men present were mostly young or running in the thirties; the few ladies were rather obvious, and among the men was only one who really held his attention, and that by virtue of his colossal ugliness. The fellow was about five foot eight inches in height, but so broad was he that he looked shorter. His black head was close cropped, his broad face, with its eagle nose, was olive skinned, the jaw protruding, whilst his small eyes were like black beads and quick as a bird's. The lobe of one ear was missing, and in the other, as if to emphasise the fact that it was still undetached, was a small gold earring. In evening dress, broad as a barrel, with legs that seemed to be designed by nature for sitting astride one, he was as odd a figure as Pallisier had ever seen, and as he watched the man, who was talking animatedly with a most obvious Neapolitan, he summed him up in a series of mental comments.

"Genus! Wop! As Brother Sullivan would hay. Probably a bruiser... But for his beak might be a gorilla in trousers. Ugly customer. Takes all sorts to make a world. What?"

Then Mr. Sullivan arrived, saw Pallisier waiting for him, made straight for his table, dropped into a chair, and gave one swift look round. Then he swiftly tipped his hat over his eyes and grabbed for a discarded evening paper which lay on the table, whilst from his lips broke a single word.

"Gee!"

"Something biffed you, Sullivan?" asked the Honourable Bill with pardonable curiosity as the other hurriedly spread the news sheet in front of him, upside down.

"Yeh! Right in the bellows .... I want a drink. Call that booze, slinger."

Pallisier signalled a waiter and Mr. Sullivan gave his order tersely. "Scotch. A double one."

Then he addressed himself to his companion. "Don't want to be glimped. There's a guy over there, looks like a man-ape in a circus garbed to do his knife an' fork stunt―"

"Yes," said the Honourable Bill. "Spotted him five minutes back. What about him?"

"Didn't know the fella was on this side the water!... He's a bad man― as bad as they're moulded."

"Looks it!" agreed Mr. Pallisier heartily. "Regular heavyweight... But wouldn't it be advisable to turn that newspaper right side up? Keep up appearances and all that― what?"

"Heck!" grunted Mr. Sullivan with some feeling, and following the suggestion looked over the top of the paper towards the door. "Listen to me, Honourable, careful. Outside this joint there's a fella standing at the kerb, selling lights. I want you to just glide out an' buy a box."

"Matches!" Pallisier's hand went to his pocket and produced a gold petrol lighter. "You're not up to the times."

"Bu-r-r-r!" The sound of which Mr. Sullivan was the producer might have been anything, but in its inception was really an oath. Pallisier recognised the authentic note and answered apologetically.

"Sorry, old top!" My mistake. Continue the spiel. I visit the kerb merchant and buy― er― lights. Yes?"

"Tell him to look out for Monkey Spano an' tail him to his kennel. Say if he misfires I'll have his neck dislocated, sure." Pallisier rose, glanced at his patent leathers and murmured:

" 'How beautiful upon the mountains―' "

"Whatcha chewing, Honourable?" snapped Mr. Bill Sullivan.

"'―Are the feet of them that bear good tidings.'" Pallisier grinned.

"I'll get the lights; and I'll warn the vendor about his neck."

He moved towards the door, whilst the other, watching him over the top of his paper, beamed approval.

"Right stuff! Don't know how they mint his brand over here, but they sure are the goods!"

For his part, Pallisier, pausing in the doorway, saw the match-vendor standing at the edge of the pavement, full in the light― a thin-faced, tight-lipped young man, shabbily but neatly attired, a plain case of one who had seen better days. The man's attitude was listless, the box-tray slung from his neck held half a dozen or so boxes of matches, and plainly he had omitted to take one of those courses in salesmanship which set a man's feet on the golden stairs.

As the Honourable Bill walked straight across to him, an obvious purchaser, the man fingered one of the boxes in a mildly tentative way, and his customer laughed as he set sixpence on the tray.

"Yes," he said. "I'll, take it, an' don't mind about the change. There's a message for you from a friend of mine in there. He says you have got to look out for Monkey Spano and tail him to his kennel.... If you misfire he'll have your neck dislocated. You've got that?"

"Sure," answered the man with a chuckle. Then he thrust the matches into Pallisier's hand. "Better take 'em, boss. Never know who may be orbing us."

Pallisier took the matches and carried them to Mr. Sullivan, who ostentatiously struck one and lit the cigar he was chewing.

"Unfortunate case, the match-seller!" commented Pallisier. "Drink, I suppose?"

"Drink!" Mr. Sullivan, not yet completely acquainted with the workings of the younger man's mind, stared at him blankly. "What the blazes d'you mean?"

"Brought him to the gutter an' all that, you know," answered the Honourable Bill, a mirthful gleam in his eyes.

Mr. Sullivan saw it, and, understanding, laughed.

"That boy is the best tail that ever was. Once he's on the lay a man would easier step away from his own shadow. I'll know where Monkey Spano has his burrow once he goes there and―"

"You think it's worth knowing?"

"To a man in my profession it's always worth knowing where Spano lays his ugly head on the pillow... That fella has Satan knows how many killings to his account. Acquainted with a good half score myself... Used to be in the booze racket with Al Capone That racket having dribbled out, or as good as, Spano has had to seek new pastures. Behind that snatch racket I was tellin' you about there's a gang, organised, and I've heard It whispered that Monkey was one of the high lights in that new craft-guild Don't know for certain― but you couldn't surprise me if you proved he was the Big Shot in it―" He broke off, and then added: "If you ever run against him― look out. He's a perambulating field-battery."

The Honourable Bill was deeply interested. "The real thing! What? Well! Well! And all alone in London. Poor fellow―"

"Don't y' get any idea of that sort in your nut, Mr. Pallisier. Fellas like Spano have always got pals handy. Gangsters aren't ever on the lone wolf lay. They hunt in packs, and though I don't glimp any of Spano's pals around y'can lay long odds that if a shootin'-party started here, right now, his friends would walk straight into the picture― with the first shell popped "

"You don't say? Well, if they're as handsome as he is they'd make a real beauty chorus!... Wonder how he lost his other ear-ring?" (To be Continued)

"Shot away, when the O'Banions raked Capone's headquarters in Cicero with machine-gun fire. ... That's known. Know too that he settled accounts by helping in the torpedoing of Dion O'Banion. The Monkey pays his debts... an' now I'll tell you something that'll make you whistle. One of the three men that Pa Swinnerton sent to the chair was Spano's younger brother."

"Phew!" The Honourable Bill's whistle was emphatic. It revealed that he understood quite well the implication of the other's statement, and he looked at him incredulously.

"Y'get me, Mr. Pallisier? I ain't joshing. That's why I'm having Spano tailed. It's even betting that he knows about this snatching of young Mike Swinnerton, an' as I said the Monkey pays his debts. He-"

The speaker broke off sharply, and then nodded in the direction of the man of whom he had been speaking.

"Going! Now just you watch how many other fellas quit at the same time, an' if any, make a note of 'em."

Monkey Spano, using the mirror behind the bar, adjusted his hat at a rakish angle, pulled his coat together, revealing a fine diamond ring on one of his hairy hands, and then looking nonchalantly round, nodded to no one in particular. As he did so, two men rose from different tables. One, as Pallisier instantly recognised was what the American would have called a Wop― a short, olive-skinned man with a star-like scar on his right cheek. The other was taller, with a ruddy face, more freckled than any Pallisier had ever seen, with eyes of a cold blue, and carroty hair. At his side he heard Mr. Sullivan give a half-suppressed ejaculation of surprise, then he saw that as the bulky figured Spano moved towards the door, the two men moving in converging lines followed closely. As they disappeared, he turned to the American.

"Two," he announced, and then said challengingly: "You knew one of them old top. What?"

"I sure did! That ginger-haired fella. How I missed him in looking over this crowd I can't think. Must have been hidden by others."

"Who is he?"

"Mat O'Hagan, otherwise Spotty. A gunman." Mr. Sullivan looked towards the door, and then back again. "Y'd expect a man with a head like that to be a bit hot in the temper, wouldn't you?"

"That's the traditional idea."

"Well, Spotty's the man who gives the lie to it. He's the coldest killer that ever loosed a trigger. An' he's over here with Spano!... Why?... I want to know. He―"

"Time, gentlemen!" interrupted a voice from the neighbourhood of the bar. Mr. Sullivan did not complete his remark.

"Got to quit," he said tersely. "Mr. Ringrose and the commander haven't arrived. Maybe we'll meet 'em at the Paon d'Or. Likely, too, that we'll pick up more news there. But we shall have to be wary."

"Pull up the old socks. What?"

"You bet!" said Mr. Sullivan with a forcibleness that was impressive, then he led the way to the exit. As they stepped outside Pallisier looked round. The match vendor was no longer at the kerb.

"Your friend has gone," he remarked casually as they began to walk away. "Yeh! An' I 'most wish he hadn't. The Monkey's bad enough, but Spotty is just frozen hell... I hope the boy'll mind his step."

Mr. Sullivan was plainly concerned, and Pallisier sought to reassure him.

"Oh, you know, Sullivan, this isn't Chicago!"

"No," replied the American almost savagely. "It's a blame sight worse with Spotty the gun poking round."

The Honourable Bill, divining that Mr. Sullivan was just the least on edge, thoughtfully refrained from pointing the moral that Spotty was an entirely alien element in London's life― and noticing the gravity of the other's face, he held his piece until they arrived at the Paon d'Or.

Just as they did so a taxi drew up, and two men stepped out. Pallisier saw them first, and his natural gaiety asserted itself as he chuckled. "P.Q.R. And another!... We're to be the merry party, after all."

Chapter 6

Amritsar Lodge

OUTSIDE SILAS' AMERICAN BAR, in the interval between the Honourable Bill's purchase and the emergency of Monkey Spano and his friends, a little comedy was enacted. The match vendor, after pocketing the largess received for the box of lights, rearranged his stock, and in doing so dropped one of the boxes in the road. As he stooped to pick it up, two things happened. A taxi-driver on a short rank across the street promptly started his engine and began to move, running away from Silas' place of refreshment, and a constable who had been watching the match vendor took a few strides forward and in an officious voice issued the command:

"Move on, you!"

The match vendor grinned.

"All right bobby, as soon as my car comes along."

"Your car!... Don't be so darned clever. Step it! Sharp."

The kerb merchant laughed, stuffed the boxes of matches in his pocket, un-slung his tray, tucked it under his arm, and stepped from the kerb to the pavement. Then he laughed again.

"I can wait here, I guess."

"No, you can't―"

"And this," protested the match seller, "is the country of the free." Then he thrust something under the constable's nose.

"Read that, flatty." The constable, a devotee of the cinema when off duty, was familiar with the term which indicated his American brother in uniform. It hurt his vanity a little, but what he read on the card exhibited for his inspection choked the angry word which surged to his lips.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I couldn't be expected to know."

"'Course you couldn't brother. And I'm proud you took me for the match merchant― strictly retail," answered the other. Then he glanced down the street, The taxi, having reversed in a cul-de-sac lower down, was returning. The man jerked a thumb in its direction.

"That cab is pulling up here, for me. If it waits an hour, which it won't, you've no cause to interfere. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly, sir."

"That's O.K. then, and you'd better vamoose. Won't help me if we're seen jawing together... My compliments to the li'l girl at home!"

The constable moved on, but at the next corner paused and watched the taxi pull up outside Silas's place of refreshment. He watched the seller of lights step in, and as the door closed, addressed an electric sky-sign at the corner.

"Wonder what the game is?... Something off my beat, I guess."

Curiosity held him at the corner to the neglect of the duty of trying various doors to make sure that the owners had not overlooked the fact that it was the duty of citizens to turn keys behind them when they left business for the domestic hearth.

Thus it happened that he saw the men emerge from the American Bar and approach the taxi by the kerb. The driver of the taxi pointed to his flag, and shouted to one of his fellows across the street.

A second taxi repeated the manoeuvres of the first, ran a little way down the street, reversed in the cul-de-sac, and running back pulled up in front of the one in which the light-merchant was seated. The three men entered it, and the second taxi moved off, followed after the briefest interval by the first. The constable watched them disappear in the stream of traffic running through Leicester Square, and once more addressed the sky sign.

"Now I'd give tuppence to know what was up."

The bid was not excessive, and the match-merchant in the second car, as it chanced, would have gone considerably higher. Mr. Monkey Spano he knew, his activities in the old home town were a fable, but the reason for this tailing was dark to him, and beyond the fact that he was to follow Monkey to his roosting place he was in ignorance of everything; but since his entirely natural curiosity could not at the .moment be satisfied, he smoked on philosophically, and concentrated on the duty in hand. The pursuit took him across Westminster Bridge, through Kennington to Brixton and thence into suburbs which were to him as the wastes of the Sahara. The chase was a long one. Something like three-quarters of an hour passed, the taxi bowling steadily along; then its pace slackened a little, and with a thought that they might be reaching journey's end, he looked out of the window. They were running along a dimly lit road shadowed by trees. There was little vehicular traffic, and so far as he could see no foot passengers at all, though here and there between the trees gleamed lighted windows. Curious as to their whereabouts he picked up the speaking tube and made an enquiry of the driver.

"I'm not quite sure," was the answer. "Somewhere in the neighbourhood of South Norwood Hill, I think. Other fellow doesn't seem very sure. He's running slower, looking for his turn, I guess."

That was not very satisfactory to the match-merchant, and he spoke tersely.

"Make sure of your bearings. I must know the exact location when we stop." The taxi-driver lifted a hand to signify that he would do his best, and they rolled on.

A car with its headlights on overtook and passed them, and in the broad fan of light, a little way ahead, the match vendor saw a small kiosk that showed whitely in the light.

"Telephone box!" his mind registered, and then his driver slackened suddenly, and looking ahead he saw that the red rear light of the car in front had vanished. Applying himself once more to the tube he asked, "Other car's turned, hasn't it?"

The driver nodded, and received instructions. "Speed up till you get to the corner. I must know where it stops."

The taxi swept on, reached a corner where a side road swung up-hill, and thirty yards or so up the ascent, the match-vendor saw the rear lamp of the other car at a standstill.

"Pull up!" he said quickly as they passed in turn, The driver stopped with commendable promptitude, and his passenger descended, and gave swift instructions. "Run up the road and turn the cab and wait for me by that telephone kiosk. I may be back in five minutes or in an hour, but wait; an' be ready to hop it sharp... You get me?"

"Yes! I'll keep the engine running."

The match-vendor ran lightly back to the corner. As he reached it, the car which had gone up the hill, began to run down in reverse, its rear light advancing slowly. The shadower flattened himself against a wall under overhanging bushes, carefully noted the number of the taxi, and stared into the rear of it as it went slowly by. But for the driver, it was empty, and having assured himself of that, he waited until the vehicle reached the main road, then following the way went on his way, counting his paces carefully. He reached a gateway, and, close by, peeping over the wall cheek by jowl with each other, saw a couple of house agents' signs, proclaiming a "House to Let-Furnished."

There were three more enamelled plates on the gate, which was closed, and for a moment he stood in doubt. Was this the gate at which the taxi had stopped, or was there another just beyond? He decided to make sure, and walked on. He went at least twenty yards without finding another entrance. and then assured that he was over-shooting the mark, returned In his tracks. When he reached the gate again he halted and stared over the top of it. In the starlight he made out a carriage-way, bordered by trees and shrubs, but could see nothing of the house to which it led. He listened, but heard nothing save the thrumming of a car down in the main road. Then taking from his pocket a small flashlight, camouflaged as a fountain pen, he switched it on, and by its tiny beam read the name upon the gate.

"Amritsar Lodge."

He turned the flashlight to the handle of the gate. There was a chain and padlock on it. That fact worried him considerably. It looked as if the house beyond might he untenanted, and it was necessary that he should make sure. After considering a few moments he looked up and down the road. In the darkness and under the shadowing trees he could see nothing whatever.

From the road below he caught again the zoom of a car, and watching saw its lights pass the end of the road in which he waited. Quarter of a minute later the sound ceased, and he nodded to himself. The vehicle that had gone by was his own taxi which having reached the telephone box had come to a standstill.

"Good! he commented in a whisper, and then stood listening.

He heard nothing whatever. The night was still as the grave, and no sound revealed that the hidden house was in occupation. But he felt that he must know beyond question. Sullivan was not the man to listen with patience to the story of an empty house with a locked gate, in the neighbourhood of which Monkey Spano and his satellites had disappeared. He would demand something more definite than so lame a yarn. After a few moments further consideration, he nodded as one who reaches a decision, and climbing the gate dropped noiselessly on the farther side.

He found himself on a gravelled drive which did not promise the noiseless approach that he desired, but once more turning on his flash-light, he saw a broad green border running parallel with the approach. Stepping on to the grass he followed it cautiously, making no more noise than a cat, and keeping well in the shadow of the bushes, though in the night, faintly lit with stars, that was scarcely necessary.

He came in sight of the house quite suddenly, as the curve of the approach road gave on a circular lawn. The house was a fairly large one, its size in keeping with the grounds in which it stood. For a moment he had an impression that it was in complete darkness; which puzzled him a little, for the three men who had so lately arrived could scarcely have tucked themselves in bed in the brief time that had elapsed.

"In the rear, perhaps," he thought, and began to move in that direction. The grass border and shrubbery ended, giving place to a flower border, which he trampled rather ruthlessly in order to avoid walking on the sounding gravel. He had not gone very far when he stopped. Through a chink in the window-shutters at the side of the house a narrow beam of light broke the darkness.

"There!" He considered the shuttered window carefully. Between it and the place where he stood was a gravel path. In the stillness, if one walked upon it, the crunching sound that would follow must almost inevitably be heard in the house. Yet he felt that he must take a peep through that chink, and make sure that the men whom he had 'tailed' were in this house.

In something of a quandary he considered what he should do, then after listening and waiting for a moment he took out his pencil flash-light and sent its tiny beam across the gravel. It was but an in-and-out flash, but it sufficed to reveal a strip of grass on the farther side, which ran up to a flower border under the window. Assured of that, he moved on cautiously, hoping to find a way of crossing over in silence further down. Luck was with him. A few yards further on he reached a point where the gravel path ended and smooth turf took its place.

He crossed to the house side, and as he did so heard the hum of an automobile somewhere down in the main road. He halted and listened carefully, and whilst he waited, heard the car stop, and after a moment or two resume its way. There was nothing in that to cause any alarm. Some resident in one of the houses, the lights of which he had glimpsed through the trees, had made a late arrival home― nothing more. Continuing on his way, he reached the window, and as he did so suffered a disappointment.

The chink, whilst it. was sufficiently wide to let through that thin beam of light, was too fine to give him any view of the room beyond. He could hear, however, a rumble of voices, and with his ear almost touching the glass, he waited tensely in the hope of learning something that might serve him. Two or three minutes passed, then suddenly above the rumble a voice broke out in anger.

"Hell, no! Yuh can't do it thet way. You must be daffy to think it, Spano.... It's the bucks we're after, an' not―"

Spano! That was all he needed. Here was confirmation of his conviction that this house was the domicile of the men whom he had followed, but he lingered still in the hope of picking up something that might be useful to Sullivan. A minute later, he heard a sound which gave him a little shock-the crash of feet on the gravel in the direction of the gate. His mind instantly interpreted the noise― someone had entered the grounds of Amritsar Lodge, as he himself had done, by climbing the gate, but without the same caution.

Who? As he asked himself the question, he gave his whole attention to the newcomer. Flattening himself against the wall, he waited breathlessly. He saw nothing of the man, however, and for a long time heard nothing. That seemed to him a little odd. The man on entering had made little attempt to do so quietly, but now, unless he had remained by the gate, he must be moving with infinite caution. He found the silence a little disturbing, and was wondering if others besides Sullivan were interested in Spano's domicile, when he heard three sharp steps upon the gravel, then the door at the front opened, and a moment later closed resoundingly.

The shadower drew a little breath of relief. Whoever the newcomer was he had entered the Lodge openly, and had apparently no suspicion of himself by the shuttered window. He transferred his interest to the room. He heard a voice speaking quickly, without any word reaching him clearly then a rumble of other voices, followed by sounds of movement and again silence. The silence was broken by the unexpected opening and closing of the front door, and a man passed out and went down the drive whistling cheerfully. The whistle was almost infinitely reassuring. No one in the house was troubling about any shadower, and apparently he might remain by that window until morning if he chose.

Once more he strained his ears. But now he heard nothing. There was not the faintest sound from within, though the light still beamed through the chink. He found that silence curious, a little puzzling, and then somewhere up the hill he caught the faintest click of a lifted latch; it was as if an alarm gong had been suddenly struck. It was time to go. He had learned the certain thing he wanted, and there was no sense in courting discovery.

He left the window, and walking along the grass, reached the farther side of the gravel without making a sound. Then he moved swiftly and silently in the direction of the gate. Before he reached it he came to a standstill― as on the still air there reached him the unmistakable aroma of an Egyptian cigarette. He heard no sound, saw no one; but he was assured that somewhere near the gate there was a man watching, and whiling away the time of his vigil with a smoke.

But for whom was the unseen smoker watching? The question, with the almost inevitable answer flashing on the heels of it, sent him back in his tracks. To essay the gate was impossible and he must find some other way out of the grounds of Amritsar Lodge. He remembered the click he had heard a little while back. That implied a gate somewhere higher up the hill― probably the tradesman's entrance, and he was on the point of going to find it, when a better way occurred to him.

If, as he now feared, his presence in the garden were suspected that gate would be of no more use than that at the main entrance. But there remained the wall, and striking at right-angles from the border, as silently as possible, he made his way through the bushes, and reaching the wall looked down. The drop was nothing, six feet or so, and in a twinkling he as in the road and crossing to the farther side.

Scarcely had he reached it, when from the main road, in the direction where his taxi should be waiting, there came three sharp toots of a horn. His driver it seemed was growing impatient, yet until he had passed the main gate of Amritsar Lodge, it was not possible that he could hurry. On his side of the road the trees overhung. He was in dense shadow, and as he drew level with the Lodge gate he gave one swift glance in its direction. Almost at the height of the top bar of the gate a faint red glow brightened and faded, and he chuckled to himself as he passed on.

Ten yards farther on he began to hurry, running lightly down the hill. Only as he turned the corner into the main road did he look back. The entrance to Amritsar was invisible to him, but he was sure that the smoker still kept his vigil, and he slowed down to a quick walk. Ahead the red rear-light of the taxi gleamed brightly, and as he hurried on he thought of the news he would have for Sullivan. The sooner he heard it the better.

He remembered the telephone kiosk close there by the taxi. His instructions were that as far as possible he was to keep in touch, and before he had taken up his stand outside Silas' Bar, Sullivan had given him the number of the Paon d'Or. He would try that, and if he had the luck to get Sullivan at least three-quarters of an hour would be saved.

He looked back over his shoulder. The road so far as he could see was deserted. Nearing the taxi he came to a sudden halt and listened. The stillness of the night was unbroken save by the sound of the taxi's engine slowly turning over.

"Time to burn!" he whispered as he resumed his way. He reached the telephone box, and as he took hold of the handle over his shoulder he spoke to the man at the wheel of the taxi. "Ready in two ticks. I'm just going to 'phone a message."

The man growled disgruntedly, and he slipped into the box, not quite closing the door behind him. To sort out the coppers and to read the number on the card which Sullivan had given him he made use of the miniature flash-light, and still holding it in his hand he waited for the answer to his call. It came with a celerity that would have delighted the heart of the postmaster-general.

"Is that the Paon d'Or? Yes. Well, I want Mr. Sullivan― an American gentleman―"

"He's waiting," came the answer, and a moment later he heard Sullivan's gruff voice. "That you, Teddy? Okay?"

"Double Okay!" he answered back with a laugh. "I―" There was a little sound behind him. He turned swiftly. The flash-light in his hand revealed that the door had swung open. It revealed something else also― a red-haired man with a ruddy freckled face, and ice blue eyes that gleamed cruelly. In a flash he understood, and in the stress of the moment cried out: "My Gawd―"

There was a muffled sound, not at all like the ordinary sharp crack of a pistol, but which nevertheless was made by a pistol's discharge. The little flash-light slipped from his grasp, but, as he swiftly crumpled up, like a sack suddenly emptied, his arm tangled in the flex, dragged the receiver from its fastening, and it fell with a clatter to the floor of the booth. The man in the doorway stooped and retrieved the little flash-light, and calmly turned its tiny beam on its owner's face. He gave one long look at the thin features, the half-closed eyes, the sagging mouth, the puncture dead in the centre of the forehead, then coolly turned to the man on the taxi. "Sharp, Angelo! Lend a hand b'fore any flatty gets nosing round―"

The man was already on the running-board. He stepped to the road, opened the rear door, then went to the other's help. The man so suddenly wrenched from life was no great weight. They dragged him out of the booth and slung him into the back of the taxi as callously as if had been a dead sheep, shutting the door with a bang. Then the man Angelo took the wheel, the red-haired man climbed to the seat at his side, and without delay the taxi moved off, and a minute later its receding rear light was no more than a small red gleam far down the dark road.

THE PAON D'OR was one of the dancing clubs that so far had not found it expedient to migrate up-river in the direction of Maidenhead, and it was a much more cheerful resort than many that had made the flitting. It was well lighted, gaily decorated with frescoes which, if a trifle risqué, were well done; its dancing floor was good; its band was better; and its catering was excellent. Those who patronised it were Bohemian; lovers of bright nights, always a goodly sprinkling of rich cosmopolitans and Americans, with the "hawks" who inevitably hover where pigeons for the plucking may be found. (To be

At the moment when the Honourable Bill and his friends entered it was fairly well filled, but by no means crowded. Both supper and dancing were in progress, and it was possible for the strenuous to combine both if they so desired; but for the moment the first three appealed most to three of the quartet. Pallisier laughed as he led the way to a table.

"Here's where we fill the aching void acquired in little Nippon... We can jolly well look round while we feed. Anybody who doesn't like the programme can fox the trot...

"Yes, John"― this to the waiter― "we eat and we drink while the golden hour lasts, but none of your dud champagne. Bring the wine list."

A few minutes later they combined the acts of eating and looking round, and presently P.Q.R. asked a question.

"See any birds of doubtful feather. Sullivan?"

"A few, but not of the flock we're after, I guess. Maybe they're too busy just now for this sort of thing, or we're a bit early."

"It's only on the off-chance that we're here. I suppose?"

"Right, Mr. Ringrose. Same as when you're fishing, you drop your worm in the likely pools."

"Worms, my dear lad!" chimed in Pallisier, in a shocked voice, "it simply isn't done! P.Q.R. could have you for criminal libel on that charge. But the idea's sound. An' if the fishing's bad, the bait is topping. Have another glimp at the menu and lift up your heart... The night is still youthful. There's time enough for anything to happen."

He considered the long-shanked bottle in front of him and remarked cheerfully: "More hock is indicated, I think."

He signalled the waiter, and gave him the order, whilst Mr. Sullivan gave private instructions of his own.

"I'm expecting a telephone call here any time. Name of Sullivan. It is important that I don't miss it― you get ne?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then see I'm called sharp."

For the next half-hour time for Mr. Sullivan seemed to move with feet exceeding slow. In the Paon d'Or things were warming up. Parties from he theatres had filled the place to overflowing. The dancing space was crowded. P.Q.R., having encountered two or three friends from Chelsea, was engaged in the latest shuffle, and Pallisier, having lost a partner in the crowd, had sought the table anew for a little refreshment, when Mr. Sullivan quite suddenly dropped an expletive.

"Gee!" Pallisier and Commander Patterson turned swiftly to him. The detective's face was eager, his eyes keen.

"Something up, old top?" demanded the Honourable Bill, "Speckled flock coming home to roost. What?"

"Mebbe!" answered Sullivan, brusquely. "Don't know. But there's something blame queer happening. Commander, just take a glimp at the party coming in. The lady with the foreign gent, I mean."

Pallisier's eyes were even quicker on the spot than the commander's. What they saw was interesting enough, but not altogether unique as a combination. A thin Asian gentleman, most correctly dressed, was standing with a lady who was obviously of the Occident― and a remarkably handsome representative of her race― slim, but not thin, the figure of a mannequin specialising in the more intimate displays, features that might have posed for a Madonna of the Italian school, with blue-black hair that bore the hall-mark of an exclusive coiffeur. Her eyes were dark pools, unruffled, and softly radiant, and she was gowned simply, but certainly expensively, her whole ensemble that of an innocent ingénue, unspotted by any close acquaintance with the wicked world.

"Charming, Sullivan," commented the Honourable Bill. "Very charming indeed. A lily in this―"

"Lily!" grunted the American. "The sort they rear in Hell!... Know her, Commander?"

Commander Patterson shook his head. "No! She's a new one to me. But the gentleman with her seems familiar. I shall remember him in a moment.... Who is the lady?"

"Lady, be shot. She's Ip, which is short for Ippolita, and God knows what beside, and as hot a coal as ever glowed in Cicero, Chicago."

"A hot coal! The speaker was Pallisier. "I simply don't believe it, Sullivan. The little lady reminds me of pictures of the Madonna and―"

"Gangster's gun-moll an' everything else that's wicked and off the square. Carries more than one notch on her gun, and runs in harness with Monkey Spano and his crowd. Don't know what the hell-cat is doing here, or the identity of the guy she's paired with―"

"I can tell you, Sullivan," broke in the commander quickly. "I thought I knew him. That man is Chojiro Ritsuo, of the Japanese Consulate―"

"Oh, he is! And what the blazes is he doing so far from Broad-street Place?" Commander Patterson grinned.

"I should have thought that was pretty obvious."

"Maybe! But there is a whole lot that ain't. How did he click with Ip or Ip with him? What's a Chicago gun-moll doing with an official of―" He broke off sharply as a waiter approached quickly.

"Your telephone call, sir, urgent."

"Thank heaven!" ejaculated Sullivan, and disappeared promptly. Palliser and the commander looked at each other, and the former grinned.

"Trifle heavy handed with that little lady's reputation, isn't he, Commander?"

"Possibly. But Sullivan's a good man, and knows the underworld of Chicago as well as you know Piccadilly. That's why he's over here just now. If he says the lady is a tough she is, and on his word I'd sign the certificate."

Pallisier considered Miss Ip once more as at her escort's side she moved down the room, with a bowing waiter looking for a table. Then he whistled softly.

"We live and learn," he murmured. "Now I'd have given the lady a halo. She looks the part. You'd swear she'd never tasted cream and that butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. Ye gods and little fishes! How simple men may be diddled! Never trust my young dreams again. Mr. Chojiro ought to be warned that he's taking a hot coal to his bosom―"

"He'll make the discovery for himself if Sullivan hasn't gone wide," laughed the commander. "And we can leave him to it, if he doesn't already know,"

"You think he may?" asked Pallisier quickly. "The conjunction of East and West intrigues me as much as it does Sullivan."

"I get you. He's an official and she stands in with Spano, and you're thinking that both may be interested in Michael Swinnerton―"

"Well. I hadn't got quite so far. You see-" he broke off and rose sharply to his feet. "Hell!" he ejaculated forcefully. "What's happened to Sullivan!"

Chapter 7

The Cicero Madonna

SULLIVAN'S STRONG ruddy face had lost something of its colour. The hard lines in it were accentuated, his eyes had a stormy look. It was clear that something unusual had occurred. As he reached the table, without a word spoken, he poured out a glass of wine and drank it off, and then the commander asked quietly:

"Something wrong, Sullivan?"

"The world's wrong," he blurted. "Those devils have got Teddy."

"How do you know?"

"I heard 'em. The boy had rung me up. I heard him speaking― then he broke off sharply, and fairly shouted, 'My Gawd!' Those were his last words, the last he'll ever speak. Then― 'Plop!' I know a gun with a silencer when I hear it... Those devils got him at the telephone... God!" he cried hoarsely. "Can't you see how it was― the door opening quietly behind him, and as he turned― the gun! God's curse on the killers!"

The detective, accustomed as he was to the crimes of gangsterdom in his native America, was plainly much shaken. He poured out another glass of wine and gulped it; then he spoke with an unaccustomed quiver in his voice.

"That boy― he was like a― a son.... And I... sent him after that crowd!.... He knew Spano, but he wasn't wise to that ruddy murderer O'Hagan. An' they got him when he was going to spill the glad news. 'Okay?' I asks. 'Double Okay,' he laughs, and then― they got him― cold."

"But the number―" began Pallisier.

"Yeh! You'd think sol I tried. Some dam' public call-box, which ain't easily traceable...Operator was pert― I shook him up a bit when I told him there'd been murder done in one of his blasted kennels, and I got on to the Yard. They're sending out an S.O.S. to all divisions. We'll hear the fact soon, I guess, for your folk here are right smart when they open out.... I'm going over to the Embankment to tell 'em what I know, an' what I guess. Last will be wasted breath. Over here law's so darned tender to the criminal classes. You mustn't pull a ruddy murderer in an' ask him questions so as he can incriminate himself. No. You must get him with the corpse on him, or―"

He broke off sharply, his eyes across the room. Pallisier followed them, and saw the dark eyes of the Chicago Madonna watching Mr. Sullivan with undisguised interest. That the detective had observed the fact also was clear, for a second later he spoke brusquely, more himself than he had been since leaving the telephone.

"That Ip Jane is ogling me. Guesses there's something in the breeze. Doing a think-up, an' when she gets the news will put two an' two together. Let her, dam' her! If I don't get a pair of ratchet bracelets on her an' on every man-jack of that ruddy gang before I'm through with this, then may I be incinerated.... I'm off now... You boys watch that tiger-cat an' the Jap. See what you can pick up, but for the Lord's sake go careful. I ain't wise to Mr. Chojiro Ritsuo, he's off my beat, an' may just be a plain sucker; but that Jane was sure spawned in Hades. If you bung against her, then grab her leg― the right one, an' grab first, for it's a grand to a peanut that there's a gun slung to her garter. So long. I'll meet you later at Number 4, maybe."

He marched off, a strong man deeply moved, and as he passed the door, Pallisier looked in the direction of the Cicero Madonna. She was watching Mr. Sullivan's departure with speculative eyes. But there was no hardening of the lines of the gentle face, and when her escort spoke to her she turned and smiled divinely. A moment later the pair were in deep converse, tête-à-tête, and as Pallisier could have sworn, heart to heart.

"Bad job about that boy!' said Commander Patterson thoughtfully. "You knew him?"

"Was in my department― loaned to Sullivan, whom he'd worked under in Chicago... Was smart, too. If they bumped him off then nobody's safe."

The Attaché paused to light a cigarette, then continued: "Things are puzzling. They have me guessing. Heard from. P.Q.R. of that little fracas at the Golden Carp.... Interesting, that! You made contact with those two― fellow who left his tile in Grosvenor Gardens, and the pseudo A. A. scout who chopped you in the neck on your way up, and there was a set-to to prevent you quitting. Doesn't look at all like a private quarrel."

"It wasn't!... I'll bet anything on that."

"No! I'm with you there And now there's this. S'pose Sullivan's right that it was Monkey Spano or one of the crowd who got that boy― why did they get him?"

"Because he had shadowed them and they'd tumbled to it and got the bally old wind up, if you ask me. Guess they were afraid of him or of what he had learned, and fear makes men both desperate and reckless."

"But why the scare?"

"No use asking me conundrums, I'm no blinking good at that class of thing. Always was at the bottom of the form at question time, y'know. So you'd better unload your mind openly."

"Well, what if Teddy had found out that the Spano crowd had got Swinnerton junior, whom we as good as know the Japs wanted for their very own?"

"Phew!"

"It's inside the ring of the probable, which the bumping off of Teddy without adequate cause isn't. Even gangsters are careful, over here. They know that graft won't carry them out of the jurisdiction of your courts or Habeas Corpus writs .... And have in mind that it's the most moss-grown habit of the gangster crowd to shoot-up a dangerous witness."

The Honourable Bill conceded the point.

"Would explain a lot."

"Everything!"

"No."

The reply was emphatic.

"Something in your mind, Pallisier?"

"It's across the room there― the Cicero Madonna and the Jap! Doesn't explain that combination. To my mind that's absolutely fishy, utterly fishy, utterly rank, and mysterious. Sullivan says that Ip runs with Monkey Spano, and you say Chojiro is at the Japanese Consulate. If Ip were on her own, or Chojiro worked an import business― well, you'd say it was the old, old story of a gentleman having a night out and running wide. But Ip is Spano's lass, and Chojiro is at the Consulate, and the pair are sitting there as thick as thieves, though you'd say the lady might look higher among those of her own colour... What about it?"

"I can't begin to guess unless―" The commander broke off sharply as a new idea overtook the one he had been about to give utterance to.

"Gee!" he ejaculated. "S'pose we're right about the Chicago lot having got Michael Swinnerton, who we know is wanted by the Japanese crowd?"

"Yes?"

"Then that combination over there may be discussing terms."

"Terms?"

"Of exchange, ransom, purchase, any darned thing you like to call it. . Assuming we're on the facts, it's to be remembered that Spano and his lot didn't snatch Swinnerton just to amuse themselves. They're on the make always―"

"You're forgetting something, Commander!"

"What's that?"

"The Senior Swinnerton's civic activities in Chicago. I gathered from Sullivan that Spano might have an account to square with him for that. One of the three men whom he as good as sent to execution was Spano's younger brother. Revenge is a pretty powerful motive, y'know. What?"

"But dollars talk with gangsters. S'pose they've snatched Mike so as they can make old man Swinnerton squeal. They'll make him pay stiff ransom and as like ac not hand over his son's corpse... That's possible―"

"Not in England, old top!"

"Anywhere," asserted Patterson, "unless you can make the pace too hot right from the start... But there's the thing I was going to say and which is just as likely― Spano and his gunmen have got Mike Swinnerton, and the other lot want him, or the information he carries, real bad. Maybe they'll outbid Pa Swinnerton right off and if they got him, why the onus of what follows would be on them and not on Spano, and there's the old man knocked just as much as if Spano had done the hitting himself. They'd get the dollars and Spano would have squared the account he thinks he has with the old man, without putting his head into a noose... A neat job!"

"But there's the original kidnapping?" objected Pallisier.

"So there is!" agreed Patterson. "What about it?... We can't prove that Spano and his lot were in it. Miss Joy couldn't swear to them, all she could tell us is that they weren't Japs. We can guess, we may be as sure as can be-but that's not evidence here, any more than it is in the U.S.A."

"Then we are up a tree?"

"A pretty tall one, I'd say. Unless this shooting of Teddy gives something on which we can get going, I guess we've got to wait until the other side move, an' that won't be so darned long. Wouldn't surprise me if there was a cable from Swinnerton in the morning."

"So soon. Pushing things a bit, aren't you, old man?"

"No. This business has been planned all the way. It's as sure as eggs that back in Chicago there's some gangster guy who's got the word 'go' cabled to him, an' that there's a letter being mailed to Swinnerton telling him just what he's got to do and to pay without asking questions and without setting police traps if he wants to shake hands with his son again... That's the way of it, and Spano's lot are old hands at the game, know it backwards... You've no idea of things over here―"

"Not being God's country. What?"

"Hallo, boys. Where's Sullivan?"

Both turned to find P.Q.R. regarding them with questioning eyes.

"Gone," explained the commander. "Destination― Scotland Yard. There's news!"

"Then if Sullivan's gone up the embankment, it's bad news." He dropped into a chair. "Tell me."

"That lot whom he was tailing or some other have got Teddy."

"Got? You mean―"

"Bumped him off, or so Sullivan is convinced."

"Good God!"

"I'll tell you the story."

The commander told the little that was known, and while he was so engaged, Pallisier's eyes turned towards the table where Chojiro Ritsuo had been seated with the lady from Chicago. The table was vacant.

"Gone?" As he asked himself the question his eyes roved searchingly round the room. Then he drew a quick breath of relief. The pair were among the dancers shuffling it as enthusiastically as any couple on the floor. So patent was their enjoyment, and so absorbed in his companion did Mr. Ritsuo appear to be, that the Honourable Bill found himself wondering if Patterson were not wrong after all.

It was so easy to reason fallaciously when one had to guess the premises, and that pair up the room apart from the diversity of race were no more unusual than many another couple keeping time with the music. Having found them, he continued to watch them without appearing to do so, and once or twice saw Miss Ip's dark eyes turn in the direction of his own table.

Presently their gaze met, and instantly he made his own eyes light up as with sudden ardour. The lady smiled with apparent understanding, and Pallisier chuckled softly to himself.

"Used to the game," he thought. "Expects to have fellows fall for her on sight... If only Mr. Chojiro Ritsuo would remember some neglected duty."

With a plan forming in his mind, which Mr. Sullivan would have condemned as "nutty" if it had been put to him, he stretched his hand to his glass, and watched the lady until her liquid eyes should once more turn in his direction. He had no doubt whatever that they would do. It was one of the facts proved by experience that eyes that have once met with mutual interest must inevitably meet again. That was the way of the world at least so far as the Paon d'Or was any epitome of it.

His confidence in this cardinal principle governing the beginning of light affairs of the heart― and indeed of more serious ones― was entirely justified. Miss Ip's dark eyes once more glanced in his direction, and instantly he lifted the glass to his lips and bowed.

The response was all that he could have wished. Over her partner's shoulder the lady smiled. To say that the smile became her would be an appalling understatement. It was a transfiguration that set the Honourable Bill's head whirling. The halo he could have imagined vanished to the heaven where it properly belonged. The liquid eyes danced and sparkled. The Madonna-like face took a sudden witchery to itself, the lips promised things not to be spoken, and, as the turn of the dance took her from view, he drew his breath sharply.

"Madonna mio!" he thought in mockery of his own early judgment. "Circe is the lady's first name if Ip's the second. But there's a distinct 'click!' Lord send it isn't that of a pistol."

He watched the couple closely― and had them in sight when the dance ended. They stood for a moment or two at the end of the room in conversation, then Mr. Ritsuo looked at his wrist-watch, and spoke again.

"Going?" speculated the watcher, then his heart gave a jump.

The gentleman was bowing to the lady in obvious farewell, and Pallisier chuckled.

"The luck of the Army! Here's where I step into the old 'bus. Hope I'm not taken for a ride of the Chicago special brand!"

Mr. Chojiro Ritsuo made for the door, and the lady watched him thoughtfully until he had quite disappeared. Then she turned and the gaze of her meek eyes travelled down the room until they met the now ardent gaze of the Honourable Bill. For a second time the lady gave an exhibition of the transfiguration which a smile may effect― and this time there was unmistakable invitation in the glance.

"'Scuse me, you fellows," he said cheerfully as he rose to his feet. "I'm going to take a turn."

"With whom?" demanded P.Q.R.

"Watch― not too closely. You'll see !"

He negotiated his way up the room. The lady, to do her justice, on her part met him half-way, just as the band struck up "The Man on the Flying Trapeze."

He grinned broadly. "That's me, my dear! I wonder if I may have the pleasure?"

"Sure," said the lady with just the least flavour of Chicago's well-known accent, and a smile that, as Pallisier thought, would have set St. Anthony stepping like the front row of the chorus. They slid into the dance and as they did so Commander Patterson uttered an expletive that came naturally as life to a gentleman of the sea.

"Why?" asked P.Q.R. in complete ignorance of Mr. Sullivan's spoken dossier of the little lady from Chicago.

The commander told him, tersely and vividly, and made wild suggestions for Pallisier's rescue. Ringrose listened with absorbed interest. At the end he shrugged his shoulders.

"No use talking of a cutting-out expedition― not unless he sends out an S.O.S. Bill wouldn't thank you, and he would go his own gait all the same."

"But it's sheer darned craziness when he knows what the woman is."

"That's just the spice for Pallisier. Crazy he may be, but there's method in his craziness, always. I'd give a dollar to know what exactly is under that golden thatch of his at this moment. Some hare-brained devilry that he'll turn into something rational, I'll bet. We won't interfere. Let the lad enjoy himself."

"Well, you know him―"

"I do, and I've seen him in action― real action, you get me? And I can assure you that when he's well under way, Pallisier's worth seeing. Also, what's likely to happen here? It's a hundred to one that Miss Ip of Chicago hasn't the ghost of an idea that Bill has the remotest interest in Monkey Spano's affairs. How can she have? She's probably never seen him before―"

"Couldn't help seeing him here with Sullivan."

"True! But what of it? Girl may know Sullivan for a Chicago policeman, but nobody in their senses would ever take Bill Pallisier for a cop. He looks what he is and he is what he looks, and I'll bet the little gun-lady is wondering at this moment if she can do a chorus-girl slide into the Peerage."

Miss Ip might or might not have been contemplating the gilded slide that so many light-toed and gay-hearted ladies had achieved, but at the instant of P.Q.R.'s wager, she was certainly prospecting the ground. Moulding her charming figure to Pallisier's she was smiling her transfiguring and witching smile.

"Any Jane could tell at a glimpse that you were English," she said, her eyes on his handsome face.

"Sure!" he answered cheerfully. "And any guy who doesn't need a dog and a white stick to get about the world with would know that you were Transatlantic."

"I guess you refer to my brogue?"

"No, I don't, though there's that as well, and it's as pleasing a sample of American-as-it-should-be-spoke as I ever had the luck to meet with. I just love to hear you talk, but I can't place the state where you were reared― not that you've done growing up yet, anybody can see that without goggles."

The lady laughed, good, sincere, laughter, and the ripple of it made the Honourable Bill think conventionally of a shallow stream with plenty of stones to move it to song.

"You sure do go it," she said. "And you can't guess my home State?"

"Only place I can think of is Heaven, and that's anticipatory. What?... Break It to me gently, sweetie."

"Virginia," breathed the lady softly, watching his reaction in a sidelong way.

"Ought to have spotted It right off," he averred emphatically. "Oldest Colony, soft southern tongue and all that. And I'll wager a florin― no a dollar, that's more expensive― that you take your name from your State."

"Why?" demanded the lady.

"Well― er... you look the part― the name as I should say."

"Oh," answered the lady again with a witching laugh. "I'm no angel."

"Well, if you aren't, Mae West hasn't a kitten's chance besides you."

"And say you lose the bet!"

"I do? It isn't-it isn't Virginia?"

"Nothing like it," laughed the lady. "It's in old name going back to Colonial days."

"Breathe it, child. I'm dying for the news."

"Minnehaha," answered the lady without a blush. The Honourable Bill crinkled his brows. The name had a familiar ring, but for a quintet of seconds his memory did not function. His partner watched him, one hand on her shoulder, and her face very close to his, then she saw the light break. "Got it," he laughed.

"Knew I'd heard it somewhere... It's mentioned by that Longfellow fellow. I learned gallons of his bilge in the nursery. 'Minnehaha, laughing water, loveliest of Dacotah women.' By Jove, your godparents ought to be triple-crowned― gold, diamonds, rubies, pearls and all the rest of the truck."

"Why?" demanded the self-styled Minnehaha.

"For hitting the nail so plump on the head. Prophetic souls they must have been. 'Laughing water!' When you let the risibility rip just now that was what I thought of! I just loved to hear you... And there's the other part. 'Loveliest of Dacotah Women.' Don't know where Dacotah is, and don't care a dam'. Drop the place, and the description fits one little girl I know to a T."

Minnehaha demonstrated once more the fitness of her name.

"You're having me for the little guy," she retorted.

"'Pon my soul, no, my honey. Every word is scripture― or ought to be. Name and you are as much the hand and the glove business as anything I ever knew.... You were born to it, and it was created for you. Knew what they were about in Virginia in the old Colonial days. What?"

"You take me for a simp," asserted the lady, still laughing.

"Simp! Simp!" The Honourable Bill's brain echoed the word in a double-barrelled way. Then re-acted with the interpretation― "Middle-west for fool," and he replied with quite convincing sincerity:

"That I don't. Wouldn't dream or doing so, and it's I would be the simp if I did."

His earnest sincerity almost convinced Miss Ip, yet there were lingering doubts, and half-way through the third dance, having prevaricated for ten minutes in a way that would have left Sapphira at the starting-point, it was borne on her that Instead of stringing him along as had been her intention she herself was being led like a penitent in the Confessional. With that realisation she took a firm hold of things.

"You got my name," she said. "And exchange is no robbery."

"You've said it," he laughed. "My name's Bill to my pals. Family name's Pallisier, and one of these fine days I shall bury all the joy of life in that Mausoleum― the House of Lords."

The girl looked at him sharply.

"Honest Injun?"

"Ab-so-lutely!' If you don't believe me ask the waiter there. He knows me."

''My!" said the girl, visibly impressed as Pallisier had hoped she might be. Then she asked another question which showed him how the wind was veering.

"And those gentlemen you were with, are they peers in the bud as well?"

He shook his head and laughed. "Not a hope for them. They belong to your own great country―"

"Americans?" snapped the girl, a thought too eagerly in Pallisier's judgment. "All of them?"

"All," he said, and elaborated. "Don't know much about them. Met two of them for the first time to-night, y'know. Tall one back there at the table I've known for a goodish bit. He introduced me to the others, but for the land's sake don't ask me to name them, for I can't. Awful memory, you know, real affliction and all that." Then quite deliberately he added nonchalantly. "Didn't care much for the chap who has gone. But I'm sorry for him. He's had a perfectly awful shock."

He felt the girl stiffen suddenly in his arms, and wondered if it implied knowledge of the tragedy that had befallen. Then he dismissed the idea, remembering that it must have happened since her arrival at the Paon d'Or. A second later the question he anticipated came.

"What sort of a shock?"

"Investments have flopped. Fairly flattened on the Wall Street pavement. He's been expecting to hear something all day, and just now his secretary rang up from the hotel. There was a cable, and the secretary 'phoned hereby arrangement. Rough luck I call it―" The lady accepted this tarrididdle at its face value, though she must have known it was not the truth if she were acquainted with Sullivan's real activities. But Pallisier's nonchalance would have convinced a judge of his own innocence in the matter, and Miss Ip deliberately broke the thread of the conversation.

"How thirsty dancing makes one. I'd like to moisten my throat."

"You shall," he said quickly, steering her to a table. "I ought to be kicked for not asking you before." He looked at the clock, and laughed. "Sun's gone down behind the yard-arm right into the sea. It's zero-hour! But where there's a will there's a way. We'll call for two of the driest gingers."

"Hog-wash!" commented Miss Ip in a voice of gloom.

"Wait!" he laughed. "Maybe you'll find it none so bad for prohibition hours... But remember, if there's anyone who looks like a copper steps in, you swallow the whole dose, tumbler and all, pronto! You get me? Costs the management five shillings a year to be registered, and they wouldn't like to lose that crushing figure."

He signalled a particular waiter, gave an order, and a private sign, and presently, from a bottle which bore a label that belittled its contents, the lady was moistening her throat with a passable champagne. When the moistening was completed she smiled her transfiguring smile. "Now I call that real good, Mr. Pallisier."

"None so bad, none so bad!" he agreed. "But what about a little more of the light fantastic?"

"My dogs are tired," said the lady, glancing down at her dainty feet. "Time too that I was getting to my hotel."

The Honourable Bill was pleased to hear it, but nevertheless expressed regret, and ended with the declaration, "Can't let you go alone. Wouldn't be decent at this hour. I'll see you to the steps."

"That's fine of you," answered Miss Ip. "Sure you don't mind?"

"Mind?" I'd be cut to the heart it you denied me the pleasure."

The lady laughed. "Then in five minutes."

She moved off in the direction of the cloak-room, and Pallisier promptly crossed to his friends .

"So long, boys, for the present. See you later at―"

"You're never going with that Jane―" began Patterson.

"You've got it wrong, old chap. The lady's name is Minnehaha; and Sullivan was quite mistaken in the notion that she comes from Chicago. Virginia is her stamping-ground―"

"Don't be such a blithering ass- "

"S-s-h-h!.. How about following on, and taking a compass-bearing of the course, Commander? As a navigator that should be in your line. What?"

The commander was dumb for a moment, then he laughed sharply. "My apologies.... I took you for a dam' fool. Of course we'll follow― and we'll get a line on that crowd. Off you go, and don't look behind you."

The Honourable Bill answered gaily.

"It will be eyes right all the way― unless Minnehaha sits on the left. Ta-ta!" He secured his hat and coat, gave instructions for a taxi to be called, and waited for the lady to appear. When she did he caught his breath. The white fox evening coat enhanced her beauty amazingly. Her eyes by contrast with the whiteness were mystic pools of darkness, but luminous as moonlit tarns. Her lips, parted in a smile, were sheer allurement. Her small head carried regally―

"Steady the Buffs!" he whispered to himself, and sternly repressing the emotional excitement she aroused offered his arm. She took it, and as he could have sworn gave it a little playful squeeze. Then they moved towards the door. Before they reached it, it was opened from without and two people entered at the sight of whom Pallisier caught his breath, and gave a start which made the girl at his side look at him with swift curiosity.

The pair who had entered were the neat little man who earlier in the evening had left his hat in Grosvenor Gardens, and the languid lady of the Golden Carp. It was the lady who recognised him first. He marked the flame that leaped in her slanting eyes, heard the couple of words she spoke in her own tongue, and saw recognition in the man's eyes.

"Now for a holy row!" he thought, but met the venomous gaze of the pair with a stony British stare, unwinking, annihilating, curious, but without a spark of recognition. The pair stopped, but Pallisier, unconsciously urging his companion, kept right on. As he passed them, the pair were plainly uncertain what to do, and Pallisier was conscious of goose-flesh between his shoulder-blades as he wondered if Lamia had retrieved that thin knife of hers.

The stalwart uniformed doorkeeper stepped inside to hold the door wide for them, affording cover for which the Honourable Bill was fervently grateful. His companion looked back over her shoulder.

"Say," she asked curiously, "who was that sleepy-looking Jane?"

"Lord knows," he answered, and in the same moment became aware of another Japanese gentleman, who was in the midst of a hot argument with the taxi-driver from whose vehicle the pair must have descended. He caught sight of the man's face and came near to whistling in astonishment as he recognised Mr. Chojiro Ritsuo.

"Seemed to know you!" said Minnehaha, too engrossed in following the hare she had started to note the arguing pair.

"Lots of people make that mistake," he said cheerfully, and led her to the taxi waiting a couple of yards or so in front of the one where the dispute was being waged. The driver, good man! had the door open, and having helped the lady in Pallisier breathed a silent "Thank Heaven!" and asked aloud:

"Where do we go?"

"London Palace."

He gave the driver instructions and stepped into the taxi. As he closed the door he was aware of his friends emerging from the Club, and as he saw them bolt for the second taxi, he chuckled softly.

"What a lovely sight!" he said as he settled down by the lady's side. "A pity you have to hurry."

"Think so!" the lady laughed. "What if I hadn't?"

"We could do the parks-by starlight. Thing not to be missed by any visitor to London."

"My! You don't say?" answered Minnehaha in tones that were distinctly encouraging.

"But I do." He reached the speaking-tube. "What about It?"

"Must I―" little laugh― "shout it?"

Pallisier joined In her laughter and gave the man revised instructions ending with a special one.

"No need to wear out the accelerator!"

No change of mind on the part of his passengers can surprise the London tax-driver, particularly when there is a charming lady in the case. The man signalled his hand and manoeuvred his vehicle into the Mall. As they slid into that fine thoroughfare the girl looked out of the window, stooping forward a little as she did so. Then she turned and faced him, and the next moment the Honourable Bill suffered the most complete shock of his life.

In the light streaming through the window he saw something in her hand that gleamed. A further second of startled observation revealed that it was an automatic pistol, lady's size, and then her voice broke on his ears crisply, with a ring in it that proclaimed the speaker was not to be played with.

"Now, you swell bonehead. Just spill how you stand in with Bull Sullivan from Chicago, an' be darn slick about it!"

Chapter 8

A Ride in a Taxi

FOR A MOMENT the Honourable Bill let surprise have its way with him, then the humour of the thing struck him and he laughed, and laughed again. The lady did not approve of his mirth, and intervened peremptorily.

"Stop that. An' spill the beans!"

Pallisier's mirth continued in spite of the glinting pistol, but at length he managed to burble a few words.

"Say, Minnehaha... you're full of surprises... Quick-change artist and all that, what?"

"Stow the gab an' get down to it, sharp!"

The lady's voice was like the ring of tempered steel, her face, as he saw in the light of one of tie lamps as they passed, was vicious and hard, whilst the dark eyes were blazing. With well-simulated amazement be allowed the truth to dawn on him.

"Good Lord !" he ejaculated, half, rising. "Y-you― you're not in earnest, me dear?"

"Sit down," said the lady, "or you'll sure find out that I am."

"But, Great Scot! You....you―"

"Chuck that blather," commanded the lady brusquely. "An' come across with it. Where d'you link up with that skate, Sullivan?"

"I don't just get you, Minnehahha. You see―"

"Liar!'" came the rude Interruption. "I guess you're one of those fancy new cops they're turning out over here. Regular dudes, I've heard. You didn't think I swaIllowed all that poppycock about the House of Lords, by any chance, do you?"

"Well," owned the Honourable Bill in a grieved voice, "I thought you'd recognise the truth when it was spoken... What?"

"Still taking me for a boob?"

The lady's voice had a snarling note, and it dawned on him that her feelings were really hurt by the notion. Also, he realised that there were unpleasant possibilities in the situation and that it behoved him to step warily. London was not Chicago, but Minnehaha might not have grasped that fact, and there was a kind of bulge at the end of the automatic in her hand which he guessed must be a silencer, though he was quite unacquainted with the gadget. That meant that in the traffic the sound of a muffled shot would not be heard, and the lady would only have to stop out at the next traffic hold-up, and she could get clean away. It was as well perhaps to avoid exasperating one who lived so adventurously as this Cicero Madonna.

"I assure you, no!" he answered with placating earnestness. "I should never dream of doing so. Anyone looking at you would whisper to himself that such a charming head must be full of the little grey cells which―"

"Aw! Damn!" broke in Miss Ip. "You'd sure jaw a corpse till it 'ud get up an' walk away out of earshot. Put the lid on that stuff an' come to the brass nails. What about Sullivan?"

"Lady, I told you the whole truth back there in the club. I never saw that unfortunate gentleman in my life before to-night and―"

"You won't see him again, ever, if that's the line you're going to take. . Come clean an' cut the frills, or I'll corpse you. Where d'you stand in with Sullivan, and what's his li'l game just now? He's on me, I know. I saw him glimp me in that dance-joint, an' I guess it wasn't to just step a fox-trot or two that you tipp'd yo'r benny to me."

"My dear," complained the Honourable Bill, "do talk my native tongue, and give me a chance to please you. This Benny fellow whom I'm supposed to have tipped, I never heard of him―"

"Hell!" broke in the lady, in a baffled exasperation. "There's no fella in it. A benny's a hat."

"Oh, I get you. A wonderful language this trill of American undefiled. 'Pon my word I'll take conversational lessons―"

Miss Ip checked the further utterance of this good resolution by a sudden sharp dig with the pistol.

"Reach for the roof," she said snarlingly.

"You mean― er― put 'em up?"

"So you've got that much sense? Wonderful!... Up with 'em."

The Honourable Bill put them up, murmuring aloud a line of his favourite poet:

" 'Where the strong command obedience is best.'"

"You're clean dippy. .. Water on the brain, I guess.... But y've sense enough to get this― if yo' don't spill the beans by the time I do the count out, I'll put the kibosh on you for keeps."

That the lady meant exactly what she said Pallisier never for a moment doubted. The pistol was pressed hard against his ribs, and he wondered if it. would go off if he brought one of those raised hands of his down on her charming head. Then he remembered the notches which its handle was supposed to bear and decided that the odds were a little uneven. Meanwhile Miss Ip began to count.

"One... two... three... four―"

He intervened before she could say "five," and his own voice had a ring which struck freshly on the lady's ears.

"It isn't fair to you, Minnehaha, to let you go on. I really must tell you." "What the blazes d'you mean?"

"If you look out of the little window behind, I'll bet you half a crown that you see there's a taxi following us middling close."

"Hell!" exploded the lady. "We're being tailed?"

"We say shadowed over here― but I believe it has the same meaning."

"Who?" snapped the lady. "Not that ruddy skate, Sullivan?"

"I regret to have to say no. Those two revellers who were at the club couldn't bear to see me go off with you― We're like brothers, good brothers are shockingly jealous of the ladies who take the fancy of―"

"Bunk!" barked Miss Ip. "If y'think y'are are going to get away with a bluff like that―"

"It isn't a bluff. I'll make a bargain with you. Take a look out of that window. I promise I won't so much as wink while you do it, and if you're not satisfied we can― er― continue the doings."

The lady lifted herself with remarkable celerity, and a second later was standing with her back to the driver. "Drop those paws to yo'r knees. Keep 'em there. If you move I'll get you, even if I go to the hot chair."

"There's no electrocution this side," he said. "I shouldn't like you to act under that misapprehension. We're so out of date that we use the rope here still.... But my paws are on my knees, and I give you my word― the word of a Pallisier―"

"Word of―" jerked Miss Ip rudely, but nevertheless she accepted it, and for a little time looked steadily out of the window. What she saw was no doubt convincing. After a few seconds she spoke harshly.

"Don't move till I pass the word."

In a twinkling she was back in her seat again, but with the pistol still at cover.

"I know when I'm beat. Where's this whereabouts?"

The Honourable Bill smiled and looked out of the window.

"Constitution Hill Top end."

"Pick up that tube. An' listen close. Y'are goin' to tell the driver to stop. When he stops you step out of this flivver. Then y'tell the fella to take me on―"

"Where?"

"Aw, to Hell!"

"Outside the radius, I'm afraid," said the Honourable Bill cheerfully, "These taxi-boys are wonderfully obliging, but―"

"Anywhere, you Rube. If you've got the wit to savvy."

"I get you, Minnehaha! And then?"

"You behave natural. Say au revoir, same as to a lady-"

"That means I kiss you!"

"The Heck it does... We'll cut that!... An' you'll stand by till I shut the door, which won't be till he moves off. I shall have you in sight all the time remember. An' If you give a sign―"

"Pop goes the weasel, what? I'll see we don't part in anger, Minnehaha!"

"Then get busy. An' remember I've got ears."

"Noticed 'em long ago," chuckled Pallisier, reaching for the tube. "In a beauty show they'd take top prize." Then he put his mouth to the speaking-tube.

"Slow down and stop at the next lamp."

"What for the lamp?" demanded the lady suspiciously. "Must give the man something definite," he answered, as the taxi began to pull up. "There's no catch in it, my dear."

The taxi came to a standstill, and he made for the door on the near side, brushing past her to reach it. She gave him a dig with the pistol by way of a reminder as he stepped out. Then leaving the door open he gave the driver direction as instructed, noting as he did so that the taxi-cab with his friends in it had come to a halt some distance away.

"I step off here, Jehu," he said. "But the lady wants to go to Paddington. What's the through fare?"

The driver made a pretence of looking at his meter. "Five bob will do it, sir."

"And cheap at the price," laughed Pallisier. "it's been a wonderful ride. Never knew the parks so gay. Here you are."

The driver grinned as he took the fare and the tip, then Pallisier turned to close the door. The pistol still covered him, and he grimaced at it mockingly.

"Good-bye― no! Confound it! I was forgetting― Au revoir, Minnehaha, and as dear Henry Hall says so sweetly to the listening world daily: 'Here's to the next time!' I hope it won't be long: It's been; a perfectly ripping time and―"

"Shut the blasted door!" said the lady curtly, and as he shut it and raised his that she slithered across the seat to the opposite corner where the speaking-tube was handy.

"Right, John!" said Pallisier, and waved his hand energetically to the taxi behind ill signal to advance at Speed. The response, however, was not immediate and wondering what , was wrong he hastily slewed his head round to get the number of the taxi he had left. He repeated it to himself rapidly several times to memorise it, whilst he watched the driver of the second leave his wheel and move to the front of the car.

"Engine stopped!" he muttered. "Self-starter a dud."

He glanced round at the vehicle which held Minnehaha, then added a little savagely: "That's torn it to tatters."

A quarter of a minute later the taxi carrying his friends pulled up the door already opening for him. The car the had left was out of sight.

"Paddington!" he snapped to the driver of number two as he climbed in. P.Q.R. banged the door behind him.

"Why Paddington, Bill?"

"On the offest of off-chances ! Don't suppose Miss. Ip will go there though she's a starter. We ought to have been at her heels."

"Engine stalled!" explained Patterson.

"It just would," said the Honourable Bill gloomily, "and now we've lost that charming little lady, I'll bet a pound."

"We've got the number of her taxi―"

"So've I, my sleuth," answered Pallisier, and repeated it glibly. "Fat lot of good it will be to us. There are no flies hovering round Minnehaha's shapely head. By this she'll have hopped from that taxi to another, and is now tooling gently on her way to the place I hoped she might have taken me, which I'll wager isn't the London Palace."

"Where does that caravanserai come in?" asked P.Q.R.

"It is the address Minnehaha gave before we decided to take the air in the parks. False, of course."

"How d'you get on with the lady?" asked Ringrose.

"Oh, topping!" The Honourable Bill leaned back and laughed. "I wouldn't have missed the experience for worlds. I was taken for a ride― Chicago style― almost."

"You don't mean―"

"Automatic against my ribs, old son, all the way from the Admiralty arch on. Most poignant position with me, doing gym. stunts, reaching for the roof of the cab with both hands whilst Minnehaha invited me to spill the beans about Sullivan and you two. Wouldn't believe me when I swore I'd never set eyes on Sullivan before tonight―"

"She's wise to him then?" jerked Patterson. "Very wise, and more than doubtful of my veracity. Don't know just what would have happened if you fellows hadn't been tooling along behind. She was giving me the count-out, when I begged her to take a look through the rear window. That put her out of her stride a little, and she decided we had better part― and here I am."

"And here's Paddington.... Do we get out?"

"Any taxis down the approach?"

The commander put his head out of the window and announced curtly: "One. Wrong number. Waste of time to hang about I should say. Better get in touch with Sullivan as soon as we can. May be glad of anything we can tell him, y'know."

"Right. Give the shuvver the office, P.Q.R. You're nearest the speaking gadget."

Ringrose gave the taxi-driver fresh instructions, and a moment or two later the Honourable Bill, remembering something, asked a question.

"You two meet anyone as you left the Paon d'Or?"

"Heck!" ejaculated P.Q.R. "I should say we did! I'd forgotten. The swallow-tailed little man and the geisha Jane who were in that dust-up at the Golden Carp were just entering."

"Haven't wondered what they were doing there, I s'pose?"

"Why, no! That club is popular with all sorts―"

"Didn't notice the fellow who was having a row with your cabby when you took it?"

"No; we were too keen to get after you. Who was he?"

"Your chum Chojiro Ritsuo!"

"The deuce!"

"As I see it he had returned to the Paon d'Or with that pair you met, and now, having time, I'm asking myself why?"

"Any answer?" asked Commander Patterson brusquely.

"Why, yes! Grey matter is fermenting strongly. I'm thinking of what you and I were discussing at the Paon d'Or. What if he had brought that pair to have a little talk with Minnehaha, after first exchanging ideas with her himself?"

"Why should he?" asked P.Q.R.

"Well, she's running with Monkey Spano, isn't she, or Sullivan is all at sea; and someone has got Michael Swinnerton. What?"

"Phew!" whistled P.Q.R. "You think one or other holds him and that they're getting together... Middling long shot, isn't it?"

"I'm waiting for any other explanation of the facts," answered Pallisier quietly. "Queer thing that Chojiro should hurry back to the Paon with that pair so promptly, when you think of it. And you and I know. that the swallow-tailed gent was doing sentry-go in Grosvenor Gardens. Put three and three together an' add all the etceteras and the result is one to make you think and then think again. Looks as if those two crowds had joined up with the Froth-Blowers and were singing the anthem, 'The more we are together―' "

He broke off, and then added in a voice wrung quite dry of all persiflage: "That match-merchant of Sullivan's seems to have run against it finally, and he was following Spano's crowd. You and I were up against the Japs at the Golden Carp, a Japanese official was hand and glove with Minnehaha at the Paon d'Or and same man after an affectionate farewell with that little Madonna returns to the club with two of his friends to―to― What d'you think?"

"To meet that Madonna gun-moll!" answered P.Q.R.

"Yeh! As the lady might say. And what about her being a sort of liaison officer between the two parties?"

"There are wilder ideas, Bill," said Ringrose. "You can bet. on it that there are," replied Pallisier quickly.

"One of them being that the Lady Ip may be entirely on her own in the business," broke in the commander brusquely.

"My stars. I never thought of―"

"No need to, Bill," averred Ringrose. "If Patterson is thinking that girl is some way crossing Spano and her own crowd he's off the road. Among gangsters that sort of thing simply isn't done. Ip would know that once it was known she'd be bumped off within twenty-four hours. Gangsters don't squeal. They're loyal to their own lodge, and even when shot up never give away their killers. It's an axiom back home that 'Gangsters die dumb.' "

"Maybe," conceded Patterson. "But if enough were offered― here in England― there's no saying that the temptation would be withstood."

"Well," answered P.Q.R., "ask Sullivan. He knows the tribe and he'll tell you."

Mr. Sullivan was available when they arrived at Grosvenor Gardens. He was deep in consultation with a gentleman from Scotland Yard, of the name of Inspector Godbold, who immediately recognised the Honourable Bill.

"You in this business, Mr. Pallisier?" he asked quickly.

"On the rim of it," laughed Pallisier. "Acting special constable you know, an' enjoying the luck of the amateur." Then he added firmly: "I won't be bundled out of it, Godbold. If you try, I'll start a P.E.O. and show your department how things should. be done."

"What's a P.E.O.?" enquired the inspector with a laugh.

"Private Enquiry Office," answered Pallisier promptly. "Sort of institution that shows the C.I.D. how much better things can be done by fellows who know their job. What? An' remember, if you kick I've got the start of you, which is the way it always is in― er― real life."

"All right, Mr. Pallisier." The inspector grinned. Then the glint of mirth died from his eyes, and his face grew grave. "Learned anything fresh?"

"Picked up several pieces of the jig-saw puzzle I think. Want fitting into place, and all that, but I've a notion they'll be in the picture all right when you fit in the locking piece."

"I should like to hear, and so would Mr. Sullivan, I'm sure."

"Spill it, Mr. Pallisier," said Sullivan. "I'm worried to death about that boy."

'"Nothing heard of him?" asked P.Q.R. quickly.

"Nothing."

"My story concerns a lady―"

"Ip?"

"Ip, alias Minnehaha, which name is plagiarised from one of your national bards. And story will interest you, I fancy."

He gave an account of his clicking with the gun-moll and of his adventurous ride with spirit and some drollery, and more than once brought a grin to the inspector's face, though Sullivan remained wrapped in gloom. But when as a tail-piece he related how Chojiro Ritsuo had returned so quickly to the Peon d'Or with the pair from the Golden Carp, Sullivan broke out sharply:

"Gosh! You're sure right about the jig-saw pieces! Though how they fit in I can't guess― not rightly."

"Discussed that coming along," said the commander quickly. "Pallisier has an idea that this Ip Jane may be a sort of liaison officer between Spano's lot and the others. I've a notion the lady may be working on her own."

"Selling Spano?" interjected Sullivan. "You can drop that idea, Commander. Ip knows better than to play any little game of that sort."

"You think so?"

"Sure!" answered Sullivan emphatically.

"There's another thing," said Inspector Godbold. "And that is that there is no proof that this fellow was ever interested in Mr. Swinnerton."

"Proof!" barked Sullivan. "Maybe not! But it's a ringer all the same."

"If we knew―"

"You'd walk right in on them with a habeas corpus writ, hey?"

"No! Sullivan. With a warrant! You're overlooking the dead chauffeur. Whoever they were who got young Mr. Swinnerton have that crime at their doors."

"But it's Swinnerton who is the star individual in this coil," commented Patterson. "He is wanted badly. And the papers that he brought with him are tremendously important. If we don't find him, apart from the trouble Swinnerton senior will raise, things will be damnably awkward."

"One thing will lead to another," said Godbold quietly. "That crime on the Southampton-road―"

"Japs are out of that," broke in Sullivan brusquely. "Miss Joy's testimony gives them a clearance."

"Yes. and remember it doesn't in any way incriminate Monkey Spano. that's the cold fact. I'm not saying that Spano's crowd won't bear watching. I think they will. I don't challenge the idea that they may be behind the whole business of the kidnapping, but it has to be borne in mind that there may be others who might be responsible... Lots of folk would give a goodish sum to know the details of a pact between U.S.A. and this country, you know."

"Yeh. Daresay! Got a notion of any of 'em?" asked the American tersely.

"Not yet," owned Godbold. "But it's best to look all round―"

"And while y'are taking the stroll round, what d'you reckon is happening to young Swinnerton?... Another thing! There's Teddy, somebody got him. I heard the shot, and he ain't in any o' the hospitals. He was tailing Spano― just on the off-chance. There's nothing on Monkey over here, 'cept this business, that I know about. And as he must have left America on a clean passport, he'd no call to worry about extradition. Back in Chicago nobody wants him 'cept the detective squad. And they ain't keen, knowing that what with graft politicians, crooked attorneys an' other cattle, they couldn't pass him through the District Court to the hot chair, even to save their lives. Yet Spano has bumped off―"

"An assumption, yet, Sullivan," interrupted Inspector Godbold.

"Y'have said it. That's a fine word. But on this job it stands for cold fact with me. Let it be that for argument's sake. And I'll ask you one question. Why did Spano bump off Teddy If he wasn't in this snatch racket, and bodily scared with the idea that the lad was wise to it.... You can look all round. Godbold. I'm not hindering you. Maybe we'll hit the same spot in the end, but I guess I'll be there first .... And I'll say them jig-saw bits of the Honourable's here have a mighty interesting look to me... There's something doing between them parties .... That Ip Jane an' Chojiro didn't foregather at a dance drive just to hop round together. An' if Mr. Pallisier is right about him coming back with that pair from the Golden Carp―"

"Gospel!" broke in Pallisier.

"Then I guess Chojiro carried news to Lamia an' her little friend in the swallow-tails who was waiting outside here when Miss Swinnerton arrived. Looks to me as if the news was good to that pair, and that they'd hurried along to meet Ip. and missed her by a hair... If  y' ask me why they wanted to see her, I'll say I don't know for certain, but I'll make a darned good guess that young Mr. Swinnerton is in the picture somewhere. But we're just tied up till you find the taxi that took Teddy tailing Spano, or the one Spano and O'Hagan and the Wop used."

"I expect the news shortly. There's a call out. First rank either of them stops at we shall hear. The big companies have the word, too. Every licensed taxi-driver in London will hear what's wanted before morning. If we have the luck, any minute may bring the information."

"Luck. Yeh. That's the policeman's friend sometimes, an' sometimes it ain't, so for a bit it seems we've got to twiddle our thumbs an' see which way it goes."

"Seems so!"

Pallisier looked at his friend and jerked his head in the direction of the door. Then he yawned, looked at his watch, and rose from his chair.

"I think I'll toddle along," he said tentatively. "Seek the downy pillow. and all that. But I'll drift this way in the morning to be useful, if I can. What?"

"You'll be useful right enough, Mr. Pallisier, having those Japs taped better nor any of us," said Sullivan. "Don't make it too late."

"I'll be up with the birds, and here with the milk," answered Pallisier, and took his way, P.Q.R. accompanying him to the steps.

"Better take a taxi, Bill," urged Ringrose. "Safer, you know. There may be someone watching―" Pallisier looked round and laughed.

"Copper at the corner. Only creature in sight. Don't worry, old top. I'll pick up the first pirate who is flying his flag.... But if anything turns up about the match-seller, I'd like to hear."

"I'll 'phone."

"Thanks awfully."

He moved off in the direction of the policeman, and when he reached the corner, no taxi offering itself immediately, he strolled on. Once, or twice he looked behind him without seeing anything to cause him concern, and presently catching the eye of the driver of a disengaged taxi, was driven to Callington Mansions.

There the caretaker gave him news of sorts. "Lady been asking for you, Mr. Pallisier― your cousin from New York."

"Cousin from― Somebody's been pulling your leg, Rankin. What was she like, this cousin of mine?"

"Very nice-looking young lady, sir. Dressed to the nines. 'Ad an American voice and a face like a virgin in a stained-glass window."

"By Jove!" The Honourable Bill laughed suddenly. "You're an artist, Rankin. Your picture recalls the forgotten lady to my mind. Must be my cousin Minnehaha. Leave any message?"

"No, sir! But she did make a very curious enquiry―"

"Cough up, Rankin. Don't try to make a thriller of it, and leave me gasping.; What did she ask you?"

"Well, sir, she wanted to know if it was true what she'd heard, namely; that you had joined the C.I.D.?"

Pallisier broke into sudden laughter.

"May hat! .... Hope you told her that I had been made Chief Commissioner and that the pursuit of criminals was my chief joy?"

"No, sir, I didn't. I just laughed at the idea loudly!"

"Rankin, I'm surprised at you. And she a lady! I hope she welted you a good one."

"Didn't seem to mind, Mr. Pallisier. Laughed herself and said I needn't answer, as the look on the old dial was enough."

"Old dial?"

"American for face, sir― mine."

"I'd never have believed it of cousin Minnehaha," said Pallisier, "not if I hadn't your word for it, Rankin. Used to be such a refined girl... And after?"

"Shot me half a crown, sir, an' blew me a kiss as she got into a taxi."

"Blew you- Rankin, you were honoured above common mortals. Last time I saw the lady she emphatically declined to― er― I hope you returned it?"

"Yes, sir, only polite thing to do."

"Of course! Of course! Keep it lip-the politeness, I mean, and some day you'll wake up with an O.B.E. pinned to your pyjamas!... I'll take the lift, thank you, the old dogs, as cousin Minnehaha would say choicely, being weary."

"Yes, sir!"

When he reached his landing, he stepped out of the lift, and then spoke tersely.

"Just wait whilst I get the door open and the light on, Rankin."

"Lor' sir, you're not expecting trouble?"

"One never knows after that little affair of last winter.... And the hour is late!" He fitted his key, and, opening the door, switched on the light and looked round. Everything was normal. He went in turn to the bedroom and bath-room, then, assured that all was well shouted to the caretaker:

"All serene, Rankin. Good-night."

When the lift had slid downward, he closed and locked his door, extinguished all lights, and went in turn to the two windows that looked down on to the street. There was still plenty of traffic, with a fair number of pedestrians, but all the latter seemed to be hurrying as if to get home. There was no loiterer watching Callington Mansions, and certainly there was no one about who looked at all like Miss Ip who had so thoughtfully called, and about whom he wondered a good deal. When, having switched on the lights and mixed himself a whisky and soda, he gave himself to reflection on the many events of the night.

"That little woman is the goods in her own way," he thought. "Must have a nerve to look me up.... wanted to make sure, I suppose.... Question is, how did she spot the flat? I never told her."

He reflected for quite a long time on that problem, then a light broke on him.

"Telephone directory, of course. Went to the nearest call once, and looked up the name on the off-chance. Must have driven straight here, just to clear her mind of lingering doubts about my calling in life. Well! she's thorough, I will say."

He mixed himself a second night-cap and was moving towards his bedroom with the intention of retiring when the telephone bell whirred.

"News!" he ejaculated as he ran to the instrument. "The light merchant for a pound."

But he was mistaken. Having given the conventional Hello! a voice answered which at first he did not recognise.

"Is that Pallisier?"

"Speaking!" he answered. "Who―"

"Never mind who. There's a warning for you, an' if y'have sense y'll sure heed it-"

Then he recognised the voice, and laughed.

"The little Minnehaha," he cried. "Well, this is true kindness. Anything that you have to say, cutie, shall have our most earnest attention."

"Well, listen, Saphead."

"Ears are burning. Give you my word! A warning did you say?"

"Yeh!... Keep off the grass! That's all!"

"Oh, I say, that's too cryptic. You must... Are you there? Are you there?"

The line was dead as Queen Anne, and assured of that he did not trouble to ask exchange for the number which had called him, certain that would be a mere waste of time. Hanging up the instrument, he stood for a little while considering, staring at a vase of flowers.

One of the flowers had flopped over, and stretching a hand with the intention of straightening it he ended by taking it out, and then absently began to pull the petals.

"She loves me, she loves me not! Keep off the grass. Keep off the grass!... Keep off the grass!. Powers and kind Saints defend us! Why the warning?"

Chapter 9

At Swingler's Wharf

THE QUESTION worried him long after he had retired to rest. Beyond a possible desire to scare him out of the game, the reason for the warning was utterly obscure. That the woman was in ally way concerned for his safety he could not believe, but the fact that she had made sure that he was not a policeman before giving him the warning seemed to have a certain significance.

Beyond that, thought led nowhere and presently he fell asleep and lay sound until Rankin hammering on his door wakened him to deliver the morning mail. He received the letters in bed, told the man to turn on the bath-tap and gave instructions for breakfast in twenty minutes. then gave casual attention to his correspondence.

The only item in it that stirred interest was a postcard addressed in a sprawling hand, and with its message printed in block letters on the other side.

"TAKE HEED."

There was no signature, no indication whatever of the sender, but after the telephone call he needed none. "Minnehaha Ip, of course. Means to drive the thing home." He laughed shortly. "Well, since the grass is forbidden, and the forbidden is always a challenge, we'll walk on the turf and see what befalls. It should be interesting."

Whilst he breakfasted, he made a diligent search of the columns of the sensational morning journal which was his usual breakfast reading. He found nothing of the affairs in which he him self had been so unexpectedly plunged on the previous night.

"Hush-hush brigade at work," he commented. "Didn't think they'd be able to pull it off. Good thing they have, I suppose."

Having breakfasted, he drove to Grosvenor Gardens, and there found Mr. Sullivan and P.Q.R. in deep consultation. On his enquiry if anything had been heard of the match seller, Sullivan answered tersely: "Not a word... Not a whisper of those two taxis, either; seem to have run clean off the map... But there's news from the other side. Mr. Ringrose will tell you."

"Long cable from John M. Swinnerton. The gist of it is that we are to pay a hundred thousand dollars to whoever may demand it for the ransom of his son, and no questions asked. After that we are to go all out after the kidnappers."

"But how on earth can Swinnerton know? Did you cable him?"

"No!" answered Sullivan. "But I'll tell you the way of it. The thing was all cut and dried before young Swinnerton left New York. Spano, or whoever is running the racket, just left a typed letter ready for delivery as soon as word was passed by cable that the snatch had come off. Swinnerton senior would get that letter by hand, within half an hour of the cable being delivered― get it, remember on a difference of time that would give him the news in business hours, an' you can bet he didn't waste time in sending the credits across. He knows the gangster crowd, and he'd be in a sweat for his son. And we've just got to obey instructions that'll come through on this side... We can't move a hand till the dollars have been handed over and young Swinnerton released.... If we do it's a million dollars to a pea-nut that we sign the boy's death warrant. Y'get me?"

"I do! Young Swinnerton is not merely a prisoner held to ransom, but a hostage for the good behaviour of his friends. What?... But, I say, how does Godbold regard this state of affairs?"

"Doesn't know yet! He's busy chasing those two taxi-fellas. But how he regards it don't matter two hoots. What John M. Swinnerton says goes, an' the inspector will just have to sit still and twiddle his thumbs same as me till Michael Swinnerton is handed over. Mr. Mistley's laying down the law now to the Yard, an' if the Commissioner doesn't agree it will be as good as a casus belli for any officer butting in is going to be morally responsible for that boy's funeral... That's what it amounts to― an' if any smart Aleck insists, he'll just find a corpse at the other end."

"Then we're helpless?"

"As babes in swaddling clothes. That's how this sort of racket gets you. Y'are fairly euchred. Can't move officially without making man you'd help a martyr to the cause of law an' order. Blackmail's an innocent pastime along this snatch racket... John M. Swinnerton took his own risks when he stood up to the crowd in Chicago, but I guess he don't feel it's a parent's duty to see his son bumped-off in the interest of civic righteousness. And y'can't blame him! It's that sort of thing that beats the police back home every time; and I reckon it'll beat 'em over here, if ever the racket gets going. Natural human affection don't care two bad cents about good administration of the law when it's up against it like that. Even Colonel Lindbergh went by the police and turned to the underworld, an' parted with the dollars to try an' get his li'l boy back and there's a whole crowd of others who've acted similarly."

"But if Spano and his little lot were arrested on suspicion―"

"How'd y'know y'had 'em all? An' how long does it take to pop a man off with an automatic? Thing isn't as simple as it looks. In a game of this sort all the partners aren't sitting in the shop window. Start arresting and some guy in the background would get rid of the evidence, which is Michael Swinnerton, an' that would be done without turning a hair... I'm telling you! We've just got to wait till the snatchers issue instructions what we're to do."

"But if we found out where Michael Swinnerton is confined?"

"If y'can do that, Mr. Pallisier, I'll hand it to you for smartness... I've a notion that you could comb this town to-day and get never a glimp of Monkey Spano and his pals. They got Teddy last night. Lord knows where and how, and they'll suspect somebody's wise to their little doings. And the way that Ip Jane stuck up you―"

"Reminds me," interjected Pallisier. "I've heard from the little lady―"

"Perdition! y'have?"

"Twice. Once by 'phone, once by mail. 'Phone message was just four words. 'Keep off the grass.' Other one is shorter still. Here it is!"

The Honourable Bill produced the post-card. Mr. Sullivan took it and considered it carefully.

"Brief, bright and sisterly. What?" asked Pallisier.

"Beats me!" grunted Sullivan. I just can't get the reason why that Jane should go to the trouble."

"Grand passion," chuckled the other. "Took the little lady suddenly last night... Anyway, she called at Callington Mansions, pumped Rankin quite cleverly to find out If I belonged to that noble corps, the C.I.D., and, I suppose reassured, rang me up to give me her little warning, and as you see repeated it by post this morning. Very thoughtful of her. Swamps one with gratitude, what?"

Sullivan looked at the card again and remarked quietly: "Sort of warning to make one step careful, I'd say."

"Seems so," agreed the Honourable Bill.

"So I guess you'll fall out?" said the detective tentatively.

"You guess what? Don't be a dam' fool. Sullivan. From earliest childhood I never read a notice about keep off the green without stepping on the turf and just stamping with both feet, hob-nails and all."

"I'd give a dollar to know why it was sent," commented Mr. Sullivan thoughtfully.

"An' I'd double the sum.... Find out in time, I suppose. But it's a straw in the wind in another way.... Seems to indicate that Minnehaha Ip is in a little game that she's nervous about. What?"

"Hasn't a nerve in her carcase that isn't chilled steel," answered Sullivan with conviction.

"Well, it's a case of the road-mender's happy slogan, 'You have been warned'; and so one clamps down the accelerator, hard. What?"

There was a knock on the door, and before P.Q.R. could finish his invitation to enter, the door opened, and a man-servant appeared.

"There's someone 'phoning Miss Swinnerton. She asked me to tell you, Mr. Sullivan."

"Gee !" Mr. Sullivan vanished at a run. Pallisier looked at his friend.

"News?"

"Possible! Sullivan has a notion that those who kidnapped Michael will communicate with Miss Joy. And unless you count in the Japs, there's nobody outside this house but you and the police who is aware she is here. We'll know in a minute."

It was nearer five minutes when Sullivan returned. His ruddy face was a little flushed, his eyes were bright with excitement, and he carried a paper in his hand.

"The game's opening out," he snapped. "I thought how it would be. Those guys have got the word that Mr. Swinnerton will pay, and there's a message for Miss Joy to go an' collect a letter that's waiting to tell her what to do. Address is here― S. Antonio. Number 6 Vezey-street, East India Docks-road. Place is sure to be just an accommodation address. Won't tell us much. I guess. Barber's shop, or a cigar box, as like as not; one of those places where letters are called for an' no questions asked so long as you pay up."

"But why didn't they send direct here?" asked P.Q.R.

"Search me! These guys have their own way of doing things, an' just run naturally to crookedness every time. They's snappy in action though. Shows the business is worked out from A. to Z I reckon."

"But why must Miss Joy go?" asked the Honourable Bill sharply.

"This has me guessing," owned Sullivan. His forehead creased in a deep frown, then a light of understanding leaped in his eyes.

"Got it," he said. "I've been puzzled all along why they didn't snatch the girl as well as the boy. I guess the reason is that she's to be the go-between, all through. Idea will be that nobody'll dare make a move against them whilst the thing's going through for fear of involving the girl an' putting her where her brother is― in Queer-street, I mean. She'll be a sort of second hostage as well as agent. I reckon that's the notion, an' it's a ringer from their point of view."

"Vezey-street, East India Docks-road," said Pallisier harshly. "Miss Swinnerton can't go down there alone. Don't know what sort of a hole Number 6 may be. Anything might happen. The whole thing may be just a plant to get Miss Joy away from here."

Mr. Sullivan shook his head.

"No," he said with decision. "If they'd wanted her they'd have scooped her when they took her brother... But there's no call for her to go alone. I'm best out of it, an' besides, news about Teddy may blow In any time. But there's no reason why somebody shouldn't go with her an―"

"My privilege!" broke in Pallisier quickly. "As well you as any other, Mr. Pallisier. I guess if Godbold were here he'd go himself or send a policeman, but I ain't of that mind. Till we're wise to just where we are, the less Mulberry-street or Scotland Yard figures In the limelight the better... Don't matter much if they spot you. They know you ain't a dick, an' that's what matters. Not that I reckon you'll run against the guys at all. If they're about, they won't be seen, y'can bet. I guess they know how to take cover, an' do all the watching they need to at the same time... But there's no reason why you shouldn't keep your eyes open, an' if you can find out who arranged for Miss Joy to call there for her mail, so much to the good. Though I'll tell you that I'm not standing on the tiptoe of expectation about that... Crowd we're dealing with knows how to take care of itself, y'can bet."

And so it fell that half an hour later, Pallisier found himself with Joy Swinnerton in a taxi driving eastward through the city and making for the East India Docks.

The girl looked pale and tired, and it was clear that a sleepless night had been her portion, and equally clear at first that she was disinclined to talk. For a little time. she stared out of the window, and Pallisier, whilst burning to comfort her, respected her silence. Then, suddenly, as they turned out of Aldgate into Commercial-road east she asked a question.

"Mr. Pallisier, do you think my brother is alive?"

The question, revealing the fear that burdened her, shook him a little, but he replied with conviction:

"Certainly, Miss Joy. Scoundrels who kidnapped him are after the shekels. Wouldn't pay them to do anything but return him sound in wind and limb. Besides, they'll think of their precious necks and―"

He broke off sharply, remembering the dead chauffeur, and the girl, as if she had read his thoughts, fixed on the thing had had checked his assurance.

"But they shot Parry."

"Accidentally, you said last night, and I think you were right. All the same, I suppose that wouldn't help 'em much before a judge and jury over here."

"No! And it will make them reckless. I can't help feeling that."

"Possibly! But England is not America, and those fellows will know they can't diddle the law here as they do in their own country by hopping from state to state. Also, when It comes to getting away they'll have to pass through one of the ports, and they're easy to watch. They'll know that, and they'll be careful not to stimulate police activities more than necessary."

He spoke with assumed confidence, but did not believe his own words. If Sullivan's idea about the match-seller was right, it was clear that the kidnappers were acting as recklessly as they were accustomed to do on their native heath. And that was no good augury for the safe restoration of Michael Swinnerton.

"I wish I could think so, Mr. Pallisier, but Detective Sullivan knows these men and he is greatly worried."

"Only natural, I suppose," he answered, without referring to the facts which might account for the American's concern. "But it's well to keep in mind that things are working more or less to schedule. The ransom has been demanded, the agreement to pay has been made, and now we're going to find out how the thing is to be done, all of which is middling straightforward. What? Next thing will be the payment of the ransom, and the freeing of your brother, you'll see."

"I hope so," answered the girl. "But I can't help recalling things that have happened in America. There are terrible stories―"

"Put them out of your mind," said the Honourable Bill, with unaccustomed earnestness. "The worst things in life don't usually happen, and it's old advice not to cross the bally old bridges till you come to them. Always best to keep the upper lip stiff, and go on as if nothing in the world could move you. Nil desperandum, and all the copy-book stuff, you know. Sound philosophy, really, though we do grin at it... Ah! Fellow's slowing down. Must be approaching destination. We'll know where we are in two jiffs, now."

The taxi pulled up, and the driver asked a question of a policeman, who pointed down the street and gave directions.

"Second turn, left. You'll see the place on your left again. It's a barber's and tobacconist's shop. No class." Pallisier caught the words, and put his head out of the window.

"No class, did you say, constable?"

"Correct description, sir. Man's a foreigner― one of Mussolini's lot, an' no credit to him."

"Cut your throat as soon as shave you. What?"

"Well, I wouldn't go as far as that, sir," laughed the constable. "but it you're having dealings with him it'll be as well to keep your eyes open."

"Always bargain with them shut," laughed Pallisier. "But thank you for the tip... Good morning."

"Good morning, sir." The taxi moved on, and on Pallisier's instruction halted at the next corner.

"We'll get out here," he said to the girl. "Better than driving up to the door and attracting attention. I'm going with you all the way. Can't let you go along after hearing the bobby's opinion of Signor Antonio, you know."

After giving the driver instructions to turn his vehicle and wait for them a little farther on, they walked on, whilst Pallisier gave Miss Joy precise instructions.

"Nothing to do, but just give the fellow your name and ask for the letter. He'll probably say there's something to pay, but there'll be no trouble at all.  You'll see."

They reached the corner, where stood a public-house of such noble dimensions that it was clear that it represented one of the chief retail businesses in the district. Its windows had wire blinds. one of which bore the legend "Bar Parlour," and as they passed it, a man who stood behind it stared at them very intently over the top. Neither of them noticed him, Pallisier himself at the moment being engaged in a swift inspection of the street.

It was dismal, but reassuring, being exactly like a hundred similar streets in that forlorn district. A moment later they reached Mr. Antonio's establishment, a frowsy-looking shop, with a grimy window filled mostly with showcards and faded-looking cigarette cartons, with on the middle pane a notice― "Letters may be addressed here."

It was almost exactly the sort of place that Pallisier had expected, and he found its aspect comforting.

"Nothing to worry over," he whispered as they passed through the open door. The interior was in keeping with the outside, and the proprietor with both. Curiosity shone in his dark eyes at the sight of his unusual clients, but it was evident to Pallisier that the man had no more than a tradesman's connection with the business that had brought them there.

"I have called for a letter," said the girl in a steady voice. "It is addressed to Miss Joy Swinnerton."

"Yees, signora, eat ees here. Dora is-to-pay―" he hesitated, and then finished―"one sheeling."

Pallisier laughed. Beyond doubt in that moment of hesitancy the price had quadrupled. He put the shilling on the counter, and the man, opening a drawer, took out a letter, which bore no stamp.

"Miss Joy Swinnerton! Dat ees de one, signora."

He passed it to her with a polite bow, and as he did so Pallisier sought information.

"I say, who brought that letter here, Antonio? Not the postman?"

"No, signor, eet was deliver by hand The man who leave eet sat eet weel be called for very soon, he expec', en' dere ees not time to end eat through de post, so he leave eet heemself."

"What was he like?" The barber shook his head.

"I do not see heem. Eet is my womans who take in de lettaire."

"I'd like a word with her―"

"Dat eese impossible, signor. She ees not here." The man was plainly speaking the truth, and Pallisier made no further effort.

"That is unfortunate," he said, as he took the girl's arm. "Good morning."

They left the shop, and out in the street Pallisier, noticing that Joy was still carrying the letter in her hand, asked:

"Shall I take charge of that, Miss Swinnerton?"

"Please do," answered Joy, handing the letter over. As they walked on, Pallisier thrust the letter Into an inner pocket, buttoned his coat and then, lifting his head, found himself looking straight into the eyes of the man who had watched their progress to Antonio's shop. The man's eyes were fixed on him with a look of extraordinary interest, and as their gaze met, the fellow ducked suddenly out of sight.

"Ah!" ejaculated Pallisier.

"What?" asked the girl quickly.

"Gentleman who delivered the letter by hand to Antonio's woman has been watching for you, I fancy."

"Where?" asked Joy, with a swift glance round. "Not in the street . . . Don't look. His watchtower is the bay window of the public house there. For two pins I would tackle him."

"No! No!" said the girl quickly. "This is not a nice neighbourhood. If there were trouble and his friends intervened It would be awkward. Far better to let him think he was not noticed, and our real concern just now is with the letter, you know."

"You're right, Miss Joy. Can't start a scrap with you here, and the sooner the letter is under consideration the better."

They found the taxi waiting for them, and as they drove westward the girl asked: "Ought I to read the letter now?"

"I think not. Better leave it intact for Sullivan to see."

He took it from his pocket, considered the address, then turned the letter over.

"Outside won't tell him much. Cheap envelope, blocked address, sealed with green wax. Nothing remarkable. But you never know what a policeman may find in the simplest thing. The lynx eye, I suppose."

Whether Detective Sullivan's eyes merited the Honourable Bill's supposition or not, they found nothing of importance about the envelope. After a cursory inspection he took out the double sheet of thin notepaper and swiftly read what was written there. Then he looked up.

"Usual procedure, snore or less. Money, in notes of small denomination, and not newly issued or with numbers seriatim, is to be packed in a suitcase an' delivered by Miss Swinnerton. I guessed right about her being the go-between, hey?"

"Where?" asked Pallisier tersely."

"On an old barge, moored off some helluva place called Swingler's Wharf. Direction given is Erith Reach, half a mile below Cold Harbour, if y'know any such place."

"Down-river, towards Purfleet," answered the Honourable Bill. "There are rifle ranges down there. Was there once for a shooting match."

"Miss Joy's to take the hoof there, alone―"

"I'll be shot if she shall," cried Pallisier, "Why, down there is a more desolation, Marshes and God knows what."

"There'll be a boat to take her off to the barge?"

"She's to plant the money in the cabin, and leave it there with the case, handy for carrying away."

"And what about Mlichael Swinnerton? Is he to be handed over in a suitcase on the barge?"

"More likely he'll be turned loose on some road miles away. That's the way the snatch racket's worked, Honourable."

"Oh is it? And when is this precious transaction due to be carried through?"

"To-night is the time given. Eight o'clock or thereabouts. I'll say that crowd don't waste the golden hours."

"And Miss Joy is to go to some damned wreck of a barge, rowing herself out, and plant the money in the cabin all alone? Sullivan, you're whiffy, crazy! Might as well hand her over bound hand and foot, and gagged. You don't know the guys you're dealing with. If Miss Joy won't take the risk―"

"I shall, Mr. Sullivan," interrupted the girl.

"But you can't go alone, Miss Joy," protested Pallisier. "You don't know―"

"I know this is the way my brother can be saved. And that is my only concern."

"But it is madness!"

"It is the way that Michael can be delivered! I shall go. Someone can drive. me down―"

"You've to board the barge alone, Miss Joy," broke in Sullivan. "There'll be a green light showing, so as y'll make no mistake. An' when y'have delivered the goods you row back and go right away without looking round the craft. Them's the instructions, and if I know anything about these gangster guys. the programme's got to be carried through or―"

"Yes, I understand!" The girl's voice had a slight quiver, but her eyes were steady. "I shall do my part. Nothing shall stop me. We must get Michael free. I shall leave myself in your hands, Mr, Sullivan. You will make the arrangements and I shall carry them out."

She rose as she spoke and left the room.

The three men looked at each other, then the Honourable Bill broke out stormily:

"Sullivan, this is damned craziness. It will be criminal to let Joy go down there alone―"

"Only boards the barge alone!" said Sullivan quietly. "Some of us can go down with her, and we shall be near enough to take a hand, if there's real trouble. Y'know the place, Mr. Pallisier. Y'can drive the car―"

"No!" answered Pallisier sharply. "Don't count on me!"

"Oh, but I say, Bill―" began P.Q.R.

"Shall be otherwise engaged," answered his friend. "Don't ask me how. I've got to think it out. You can do the driving down, P.Q.R... I'll give you directions, and―"

"What's in your mind, Honourable?" asked Sullivan quickly.

"Don't know that you'll agree, Sullivan," was the reply. "But I've a notion someone ought to be on that barge when Miss Joy boards it. And I just mean to be that one. What?"

"There are risks―" began Sullivan, but without disapproval.

"I'm going to take them. Think what you're asking Miss Joy to do."

"There ain't anything else to be done. This game is being run according to the usual plan. S'pose y'load that barge with cops? Or plant 'em all about? The guys who're managing the racket'll know. They won't go near the barge, and as like as not that'll be the end of Michael Swinnerton. He'll just be rubbed out. Our trouble is that the scoundrels who're playing this game make the rules, and we've got to follow 'em!"

"Yes! But I'm going to work round them. Don't ask me how. I don't know. But I'm going down to the neighbourhood of Swingler's Wharf pronto―"

"Y'won't give things away Mr. Pallisier?"

"Don't worry. I shall be discretion itself. And I shan't board that barge till it is dark, and you can take my word that anybody on her won't know when I step aboard."

"Y'won't interfere unless there's cause?"

"A mouse in a cheese won't be more quiet. Don't harass yourself."

"I don't, Mr. Pallisier. I'm darned glad you'll be there. I don't really like this notion of Miss Joy boarding that barge alone no more than you do. An' if y'can manage to be there―"

"I'll be there. Be sure of that! And I'll tell you something, Sullivan. If Miss Joy leaves that barge safely, I stop to see who gathers that suit case... May as well when I'm on the spot. What?"

"I don't say there ain't sense in that. But there are risks―"

"Oh, drop that fat boy business! I'm going, and there's an end of it. P.Q.R., get out your motoring maps, and I'll show you the whereabouts of Swingler's Wharf. It's the deuce of a place to find."

IN THE LATE afternoon Pallisier drove himself to Purfleet, parked his car, and tramped back across the rifle range of Aveley Marsh, to a point a little away from Swingler's Wharf. There, lying in the rushes, with a pair of field glasses he picked out the barge moored in the stream, a craft plainly decrepit with age, and desolate as the Ark when Noah and his fellow voyagers had left it stranded high on Ararat. So far as he could see, there was no one aboard, and diligent observation revealed no one in the neighbourhood of the decaying wharf.

He watched through the hours of daylight without seeing anyone, and having refreshed himself with sandwiches and the contents of a flask he had brought with him, in the dusk of evening he moved nearer the wharf. He watched the river and the marsh alike, alertly, but saw no one, and with the dark settling, and the lights of ships beginning to gleam on the river, he reached a clump of willows which offered the cover he needed.

There, for a little while, he waited, listening and watching. He saw nothing, heard nothing, save the piping of sea birds and the hooting of ships going up and down the river. Then he began to strip himself, and presently stood clothed only in a bathing suit, and, after listening again, made the shore and slipped into the water. The ebb tide was running, and it was an easy swim to the barge, which as he reached it was all in darkness. He swam all round to make sure that it was deserted, then he climbed aboard.

The craft might have been a tomb. There was no sound save the swishing of water alongside, and it did not take him long to convince himself that he was absolutely alone. Assured of that, he crouched in the bows and waited developments.

Twenty minutes or so passed, then from the direction of the wharf there reached him the sound of rowlocks. Lifting his head, he caught the gleam of a green light advancing towards the barge.

Someone, it appeared, was bringing the lamp which was to indicate the barge to Joy Swinnerton when she arrived. A little breathlessly he waited for the boat to make the barge, wondering if the person who was in it would come aboard, but not daring to lift his head to mark progress.

He heard the boat bump against the barge's side. There followed a moment or two in which he heard nothing beyond a slight scraping noise, then again the sound of rowlocks broke the stillness.

Very cautiously he lifted his head. Overside the water sheened greenly, and whilst he could not see the lantern, he knew that it must have been hung on the barge somewhere, probably fastened to some gadget in the bulwarks. The boat was a mere shadow on the water. The person who was sculling was quite invisible to him, but he heard the boat make the wharf, thought he caught a sound of steps, then once more silence settled on the deserted shore. The next spell of waiting seemed interminable, and crouched against the old timbers of the barge, clad only in his bathing-suit, he was glad that the night was warm and still, since wind or cold would have compelled him to give up his vigil.

Time went slowly, but at last the darkness ashore was broken by a sudden gleam of headlights and he caught the humming of a car being driven along some lane in the direction of the wharf.

"Coming!" he whispered to himself, and crouched closer, for if the car were driven right up to the wharf the beam of its head-lights might easily reveal him to any watcher ashore.

He heard the car arrive, heard its driver manoeuvring the vehicle, and then the barge was bathed in light.

"Oh, confound it," he thought, and hugged more closely the shadow cast by the bulwark. Voices drifted across the water. He thought he could make out Ringrose's accents, and certainly identified the harsher voice of Detective Sullivan.

Then once more the clack of rowlocks reached him and he knew that Joy Swinnerton, bearing the ransom money, was on her way to the barge. He waited, not without anxiety. Now, he thought, if any hostile action towards her was intended, it would develop. But everything in the neighbourhood of the barge remained quiet, and after a brief wait for the second time he heard the boat bump against the barge's side.

There was a short interval in which, from the slight sounds which reached him, the girl was engaged in tying up the boat, then he heard her step aboard, and move quickly along the deck. He could not see her, and certain there must be a watcher ashore he dared not lift up his head.

For a moment the footsteps, passed out of hearing, then he heard them returning and guessed that now the suitcase with the ransom money was in the cabin of the barge. He did not move or anyway reveal himself, but he drew a deep breath when once again he heard the clatter of rowlocks and knew that Joy was moving towards the bank. Four minutes later, he heard the car start, the bright gleam of its head-lights passed on, leaving the barge almost completely dark, and as he ventured to stretch himself he stared towards the wharf, whilst his mind shaped a question:

"What next!"

Chapter 10

The Gun-Moll

THE LONG interval which followed was a trying one. He had no notion how many persons might board the barge to secure the fortune lying in the cabin. There had been only one person in the boat when the lantern had been brought to the barge, but there was all the difference in the world between a lantern and a suitcase crammed with Treasury notes, and it was possible that Spano's crowd might not trust each other too well.

If the gangsters came in force he would have warning, and he would be able to slip overboard and drift quietly away with the tide. And if only one of the gangsters came?

"Nothing!" he whispered to himself. Sullivan had the rights of the thing. Until Michael Swinnerton was at liberty the hands of his friends were tied. The most that he could do would be to get a glimpse of the fellow who came to collect the loot, and possibly to shadow him to the place where the others awaited him...

But to do that he would have to secure his clothing first. One couldn't chase round the country side in the dark dressed like a channel swimmer. He considered the problem carefully, and in the end thought he saw a way. Whoever boarded the barge would no doubt tie up the skiff he used whilst he went to the cabin. If he slipped overboard, and untied the boat, the tide would carry it away, leaving the treasure gatherer marooned on the barge until he could devise means for getting ashore. If the fellow could swim that would be simple enough, but if he couldn't he would have to wait until his fellows came to look for him, and no doubt there would be time enough to get to the willows and dress and make all the dispositions he wanted before the others arrived.

A slight sound like that of a stumble came from the wharf. Instantly he froze to attention. He heard voices without being able to distinguish the words. That meant that there were at least two persons on the wharf. Would more than one board the barge in search of the loot? Scarcely had he asked himself the question when the answer was given unexpectedly.

"Sit ye in the stern, I'll scull."

"Two!" he whispered, and as the clack of the rowlocks reached him, he crouched low in the bows. The boat drew nearer, but he dared not look. Then again information came to him unexpectedly.

"Steady, Mat, or we'll take a helluva bump!"

He recognised the voice instantly.

"Minnehaha!"

A second later, as he thought of the name she had given her command, a cold aura passed through his veins, and the skin down his spine prickled to gooseflesh. "Mat!" That would be Mat O'Hagan, otherwise Spotty, whom Sullivan had described as the coldest killer that ever loosed a trigger.

"A tough pair!" he thought. "You'll have to tread delicately this time, my son."

He heard the boat reach the barge, and during the process of tying up, reflected that it would be easy for him to slip overboard on the other side and win clear away. But curiosity held him where he was, and a moment later he heard the man speak.

"Just unhook that lantern, Ip. Ut'll come useful while we're looking things over, and it ain't no use shoutin' the news to folks ashore that this old coffin is occupied."

He saw them climb aboard, the girl carrying a hurricane lantern which had green glass. On deck. O'Hagan halted and appeared to be looking round.

"This is shure ther right place for a hide-away."

"Good enough!" answered Ip. "Let's get the business done. This way, an' mind yor steps."

Carrying the lantern and holding it low, she led on to -a small companion way, which, as Pallisier guessed, led to the barge's cabin. He was con-firmed in that opinion when a skylight on the deck was suddenly illuminated. Then he heard O'Hagan give a shout of excitement: "Dibs are here, if thet case ain't faked!"

"Faked! Don't be a―"

The rest was lost to Pallisier. and with a thought that in the event of discovery he could easily plunge overboard, he slipped along the deck towards the skylight, his bare feet making absolutely no sound. The skylight, however, revealed little. It was thick with grime, and whilst it permitted the light to come through, it was impossible to see anything clearly. But light streamed up the companion-way, revealing the open door at the bottom. and he moved to the head of the steps and stood listening. The first words he heard evidently had reference to Spotty's suggestion, and the lady was the speaker.

"Sullivan ain't the sort of silly skate to play a bum trick like that Old man Swinnerton passed to word to pay, an' y'can lay the bucks are there―"

"Mebbe, but the blame thing's locked. An' there ain't no key," announced O'Hagan.

"Key! Gosh! Whatcha want a key for? Use y'or bean, Mat. Ain't yer got a knife? Slit round the lock. Case ain't made of steel."

There was a brief interval, during which no sound whatever came up the companion-way, at any rate none of sufficient volume to be heard above the rip of the tide against the barge's timbers, then there came an exultant shout.

"Okay! Ip. Ut's ther goods. Packets av hundreds, all rubber-banded as natty as ye please."

Miss Ip gave an excited laugh.

"Look good to me. I ain't soon so much hoof in all my li'l life b'fore. An' fifty-fifty just means fifty thousand dollars apiece. Guess I'll be a lady yet with an automobile an' a li'l dawg an'―"

"Ye ain't afeared av Spano, Kid?" asked the man with sharp curiosity.

"Ain't afraid of nothing in pants. An' Monkey Spano's a cracked egg, sure. Sullivan's wise to him. You can lay on that. An' he'll pin the killing of that chauffeur fella on to him, fairly nail him on the button, an' that'll be Monkey Spano's long farewell . You can't pass a wad to a judge on this side an' walk out of court on a not-proven verdict same as y'can back in Chicago.... An' I'm just fair sick of Spano an' his way of tippin' a thin rake-off from a fat wad when you've done the job, while he pockets the wad―"

The lady broke off, and then cried sharply as if some entirely unexpected idea had come to her. "Gosh, Mat, you ain't tellin' me you're getting cold feet an' backing out."

"Cold feet! Hell. Naw. Not wi' this wad under me fist!"

"Half of it!" snapped the lady tigerishly. "Other half's mine. Don't try to forget that!"

"Aisy, Kid aisy! I ain't denying ut. Fifty-fifty was ther bond, an' ther same wi' what's coming fro' thim Japs for―"

In his amazement at the suggestion contained in the words, the Honourable Bill missed what immediately followed, but he caught Ip's strident laughter and heard her answer:

"Monkey's fixed, sure. Them Japs are just the most cold-blooded li'l devils that ever was. Gee, I'I like to see his face when they make their li'l request. He'll think he's goin' into a mental decline an' hearin' things that isn't... An' if he kicks, well, Sullivan maybe'll gather in his corpse an' send a wreath... Between this an' them we've sure gummed his game up for keeps. All we've gotta do is to divide the bucks an' quit."

"Whatcha goin' to do, Ip?"

"'Op it!" answered the lady promptly. "I'm through wi' this sort' o' racket.  when y'ave raked in a wad, it's time to quit, while y'can. Them as is greedy an' hang on get bumped off unexpectedly, or when there a civic clean-up an' somebody's got to be made a burnt offerin' they catch it. You're passed along to the hot-chair or sent to the penitentiary for 50 or 60 years― I've watched things, an' they're just as I'm telling, Mat, an' y'know it. So I'm 'opping East all the way to California, where the climate's good an' a lady can live healthy. Got my steamer check this afternoon, an' I quit day after to-morrow, which is a day too much for me, but can't be helped ..... How about the divide? May as well do it here as anywhere else."

"Guess ye're right. But how are ye goin' to carry ther goods?"

"Me! Whatcha think? In the case― of course."

"Can't be done, kid. How'm I goin' to tote a hundred or two packets of currency notes round without aught to stack 'em in... We'll shure hev to make the divide somewhere more convenient."

"My hotel, then," snapped Miss Ip. "An' I carry' the case."

O'Hagan laughed as at a jest. "Ye're a trustful Jane, ain't ye, Ip?"

"I was stung when I was a kid, an' I ain't really got over it yet. What about quitting this old barque."

"Right! But we gotta fasten this case, first. My belt'll do ther trick."

Pallisier slid away from the companion, and rapidly considered what he should do. If he took the boat or let it drift with the tide the pair might be marooned on the barge. There was now it seemed no question of the safety of Michael Swinnerton to be considered. That precious pair in the cabin were playing double, and Monkey Spano was likely to have his hands quite full, without troubling too much about Swinnerton, who , it what he had heard was true, was due to be snatched again, if indeed the event were not already a fait accompli. He was in a quandary, not knowing how to act for the best, and before he saw his way the decision was taken from his hands.

A greenish light shone up the companion stairs, and Mat O'Hagan, carrying the lantern, appeared on deck, closely followed by Miss Ip, bearing the suitcase. They moved to the side of the barge where the skiff was moored, and O'Hagan spoke nonchalantly.

"I'll step into ther boat an' ye'll hand the boodle down-"

"You'll step into the boat after me, Mat, an' I hold the loot until―"

"Thor blazes ye will?" There was a ferocious note in the shouted question, and things began to happen suddenly. The man dropped the lantern on deck, and made a swift attack on the girl apparently trying to seize the case. The girl backed to the bulwark and swung round.

"Hades!" she cried. "So that's your game, well―"

There was a flash of light, a soft report, and a grunt from O'Hagan, who reeled against the low bulwark, collapsed, and falling, slid over it into the water. Pallisier, a mere spellbound spectator, saw the whole thing, and not until he heard the splash overside did he realise all that had happened.

A second later, Miss Ip picked up the lantern, and, holding it over the side of the barge, with what to the Honourable Bill was quite astounding coolness, calmly searched the water. Then she gave a callous little laugh and exclaimed aloud:

"Finis, Spotty! Just as well. Meant to diddle me!"

She set the lantern down, then dropped the suitcase into the boat, and climbing down, began to busy herself with the painter, whilst the Honourable Bill slipped lightly along the deck. The painter proved troublesome, and struggling with a knot, the girl voiced her exasperation.

"Curse the thing."

Pallisier crouched behind the low bulwark and waited. When he heard the rope flop in the boat he raised himself to spring. The boat was already moving, and the girl was slipping the oars into the rowlocks when, in the green light from the lantern, she saw him rising above the bulwark like a ghost. Sudden terror gripped her― the terror that goes with superstition. A gibbering sound broke from her, then a single word: "Almighty!"

Pallisier jumped for the moving skiff. He reached it safely and instinctively dropped on all fours, badly bruising his bare shins in doing so. The girl gave a low cry of fear and threw up her hands. The skiff rocked as if it had been struck by the tail of a cyclone, and the oars loose in the row-locks were jerked out and drifted away in the strong tide, before Pallisier had time to even think of them. The skiff bumped against the barge's stern, cleared it and swirled right round and then caught in the tide, straightened and steadied, and began to bob forward.

Pallisier at the moment was concerned with one thing only. With a remembrance of the flash and muffled report which had preceded Mat O'Hagan's plunge into the water, he sprawled across the thwart and grabbed the girl, who, obsessed by terror of the unknown, gibbered again.

"Where is it?" he demanded curtly. The sound of his voice braced the gun-moll and steadied her terror-shaken mind.

"Satan!" she cried. "Y'are human!"

Pallisier groped for and found her hands. They were empty, but he was sure that the girl would not have thrown away what he sought, and again he made his demand: "That pistol? Where―"

The girl, by a sudden wrench freed a hand, and it went downward towards her feet. In a flash the action brought to his mind Sullivan's indelicate counsel about grabbing this particular lady's leg. It was no occasion for prudishness, and he was only just in time. Miss Ip was jerking the hem of her skirt when he anticipated her. He found a holster buckled to a leather garter, and his hand closed on a small automatic it held a second ahead of the owner's hand. He jerked it clear, sufferer a smart blow in the face, and slipped bark into the stern seat, facing her.

"Now Minnehaha―" Things had happened so quickly that following her first superstitious fear the girl realised nothing beyond the fact that she had to deal with a man; but now the name he gave her revealed him.

"Holy Gee!" she cried in amazement. "You're, that whiffy loon."

Pallisier laughed at her unflattering description of himself, and his laugh annoyed Miss Ip intensely, but newly recovered as she was from the shock of his unexpected appearance.

Apparently quite unconscious of the fact that he held the upper hand she demanded savagely:

"Where the heck did you spring from?"

"Off the barge," he answered briefly.

For three or four seconds there was a dead silence, then in a challenging way Miss Ip shot a question. "Then you saw that skate O'Hagan go for me an' try to shove me in the water?"

"No," he said.

"Y'didn't?" the girl gasped.

"No! What I saw was that you shot him," answered Pallisier with a purpose behind his words. "And I hold the pistol. When the police find him―"

"Self-defence!" snapped the girl, promptly.  "A girl's a right to look after herself. That skate would have drowned me like a kitten if I hadn't bumped him off sharp."

"Well, of course you would say that. Every woman who shoots a man and doesn't want to be hanged puts in that plea, and for your sake I can only hope the jury will accept the story. Be a trifle awkward for you it they don't. What?"

"Aw!" retorted Miss Ip in a devil-may-care tone. "What's a jury to do with it?"

"Nothing at present, absolutely nothing. That comes later. Usual procedure is first the coroner's court, magisterial hearing, then the Assizes, with the jury of twelve good men and true, though with a feminine accused they'll probably swear in a couple of ladies―"

"Don't be a goat!" interrupted the girl rudely. "You ain't going to slip me over to Bull Sullivan or any of them C.I.D. crowd, are you?"

"Why not?" demanded Pallisier in a surprised tone. "As a plain citizen. who has witnessed a murder―"

"Don't be a saphead," broke in Miss Ip lightly, but with an uneasy note in her voice. "Y'know as well as I do that 'twasn't a common killing: it was― er― a―"

"Justifiable homicide. What?"

"Them s the words I wanted."

"Well, you'll be able to make the plea. But I wouldn't build on it if I were you."

"What for not?" asked the girl, sharply.

"Well, Sullivan has your record. It isn't a lily-white one. What? And this little weapon I'm grasping― yes― Sullivan was right. I can feel them―"

"Feel what?"

"Two little nicks in the handle. You know what they stand for. Sullivan―" "That low down liar―" Her voice was lifted in sharp exasperation, and in the same second her dainty foot shot upwards in a swift kick that was meant for Pallisier's pistol hand. It missed by a hair, but the vicious energy of her action was such that she overbalanced, and shot backward into the bottom of the boat. One slender limb lay across the thwart, and despite the violent rocking of the skiff Pallisier made haste to grasp the ankle, making it impossible for her to rise.

"Keep still," he said harshly, "if you don't want to be drowned."

"Drowned, you mangy skate―"

That was but the beginning. That which followed was too choice to be recorded. Pallisier, still holding the ankle he had gripped, let the scream run unchecked, the girl's exasperation at the failure of her sudden endeavour to get rid of the incriminating pistol was no more than natural, and there was much in her tirade that was novel to his ears, and more than interesting. He let her work to a conclusion, and then he laughed.

"Well, I will say you have the golden tongue, Minnehaha. You leave Demosthenes panting far down the course. Not that I quite grasped all you said, but the spirit of it―"

"Aw! Tie it up an' muzzle it!" cried the recipient of this praise rudely.

She made an effort to rise, but Pallisier's hold on her ankle made that impossible, and as the tried, again he spoke sharply.

"Drop it. You will do very well as you are, and if you don't keep still, I give you my word that I will tie these number threes of yours with the painter. I don't want to be rough, it's so bally unchivalrous. but―" He broke off, and asked suddenly: "Can you swim?"

"Like Heck, I can!" snarled the lady.

"American for 'can't', I suppose," he chuckled. "Well, listen, Minnehaha. This craft isn't the Olympic. Twice we've had luck tonight. Once when I Jumped aboard, and again just now when you tried that little goal-kick of yours. Either time we might have been overturned, and as your aquatic education has been neglected the consequences of a spill would be unpleasant for you.... You get me? Tide's running like a mill-race. We've got all we need to be going on with there. We've no control of this craft, and where we shall fetch up Heaven knows. But take it from me that if you hit the water you'll never stop this side of Sheerness, and when they fish you out― But there, no need to go into details that aren't nice for a lady's ears...I don't want this boat with all this boodle on it to be upset―"

"Satan!" There was the startled note of utter amazement in the gun-moll's voice, "Y'are on the cross! Coveting that currency! An' I took you for a square guy and a saphead, who―"

"Softly. Minnehaha, softly! Don't deride your own judgment. First impressions, you know, and all that. I'm not above turning an honest penny on the Stock Exchange or on the racecourse, but I'm not after those notes, handsome total as they make―"

"Y'don't want 'em?" Miss Ip was wholly incredulous.

"Not a blessed one. But there's a thing I do want, and you can hand it to me in exchange for that suitcase if you like. John M. Swinnerton being what the soap-box crowd in Hyde Park call a bloated plutocrat, will never miss that little lot, and that it is here shows his willingness to pay―"

"Y'wan to make a deal with me?" cried Miss Ip in gasping amazement.

"Should say I was offering you something off the bargain counter, if you ask me."

"Get on with it," barked the lady eagerly. "Whatcha want?"

"Just information of the present whereabouts of young Michael Swinnerton."

"Aw!" The ejaculation itself conveyed nothing to the Honourable Bill's mind, but the tone of it was a revelation. It meant that he had asked something beyond the girl's expectation, if not beyond her power to answer. But he gave no sign of understanding.

"Aw!" he said. "Does that mean that we make the deal?"

"You bet," answered the girl promptly, "but I'se got to have guarantees that y'ain't goin' to cross me at the end of it. A hundred thousand bucks ain't worth no more nor so many bricks if y'are in gaol for a twenty-year stretch."

"Give you my word! Can't do more in the circumstances, but there's a banker's reference ashore if you like to take it up― when we get there. So far as I am concerned I won't lift a finger to prevent you going off with that bag if you come straight with the information I want."

"Then I'll tell you. A guy who can turn down that amount of dollars is either nutty or honest."

"Or both," suggested the Honourable Bill. "But we'll make it honest so that my feelings shan't feel hurt. Now, tell me, and then with all unfriendly differences banished you shall sit up to gable again like a good little girl."

"Well, I'll hand it to you. Swinnerton, Junior, is at a house named Amritsar Lodge, at a place called Norwood Hill, where Spano is holding him―"

"Is, or was, Minnehaha?" interjected Pallisier.

"Is, or was? What in thunder d'you mean, boy?"

"Just that. Is, or was? What about that deal with the Japs that you ands O'Hagan were discussing. Seems to me it has a bearing on the situation. I gather that Spano is to be relieved of responsibility for―"

"Where d'you get that?" asked Miss Ip, in evident concern.

"From headquarters!"

"Heck! Y'were on that craft! Y'heard Spotty and me jawing?"

"I did. There are occasions when eavesdropping is not so reprehensible as it is made out."

"Aw, blazes!" cried Miss Ip feelingly, then added in a tone of resignation: "Well, y'know― or seems so."

"Only seems. Do I gather that certain Asiatic gentlemen are to remove Mr. Swinnerton from Monkey Spano's tender care?"

"Something like that."

"You― er― arranged that with Mr. Chojiro Ritsuo last night, I suppose."

"Golly!" ejaculated Miss Ip. "There ain't no flies on your intelligence bureau. Mr. Pallisier!"

"Then I am right . .... When do they... er... take over?"

"How'm I to know? . . They'll pick their time. All Japs are cunning guys, an' Spano is a man y'can take only on the hop. Maybe to-night! Maybe to-morrow. I wasn't informed."

"We'll leave it at that for the moment! But there's another thing which has me guessing. How did you get in touch with the Japs?"

"Got the idea from Spano― me and O'Hagan. Michael Swinnerton had papers on him. Spano read 'em and said he reckoned Japan would pay handsomely for them... That set the yeast fermenting. I've been in London three weeks, an' I met Chojiro at that dance-dive first week. When we talked it over, Spano had a notion we might draw twice― once from Pa Swinnerton, an' again from the Japs. Notion was a good one, an' when I let on that I knew Chojiro. Spano told me to get in touch, which I did by telephone, an' there was no trouble at all about that end of the deal. An' me and Spotty just took over the idea― seeing the bucks would roll in from both ends. All we had to do was to pass the news where Michael Swinnerton was to be found. Chojiro's lot would do the business themselves, an' may have' done it now for what I know―"

"Ah. Is that so?"

"I can't swear to it, of course, but I'll lay a wallet full of dollars that if Monkey hasn't shot-up the lot they've got young Michael at this minute. Japs is regular go-getters."

"So!" Remembering his own adventures on the Southampton Road and at the Golden Carp, Pallisier was inclined to share her idea, and promptly asked another question.

"And where do the Japs propose to take Michael Swinnerton when they...er ... snatch him?"

"Lor' knows. I don't! Honest to God, I don't... And that's straight talk."

The Honourable Bill did not challenge the statement. Miss Ip's words had the accent of sincerity, and he divined that she had completely unbosomed herself. For a moment he did not speak. There was, it seemed, new necessity for action, and for the moment the possibility was denied him.

He stared into the darkness. Distant lights told him that they were well out on the river, racing with the ebb and with no means of getting the boat inshore. How far they had already drifted down-river he had no idea, but the possibility of being carried well down towards the estuary was infinitely disturbing in view or what might be happening to Michael Swinnerton. He might swim ashore― The thought was dismissed before it was completed. He could not leave a girl― even this Chicago Madonna― to drift Heaven knew where in a flimsy skiff through the night. It occurred to hint that if he leapt overboard, swimming astern and clinging to the skiff, he night be able to shape its course shoreward. That idea also was dismissed as soon as it was born.

Apart from the difficulty of pushing the boat across the ebb, it was as certain as Christmas that once Minnehaha was free to act, she would take her shoe and knock him on the head or beat his hands until he loosed his hold of the boat. He was still considering the problem, when the girl's voice broke on his thoughts.

"Say, Mr. Pallisier, there's something hard at the bottom of this boat getting my back. What about it?"

He let go the ankle he held, and gave permission. "You may resume your seat. but no tricks remember, or- "

"Shucks!" intervened Miss Ip. "I know when I've got a break."

The girl shuffled from her undignified position, achieved her knees, and then clinging to the side of the boat, remained quite still as if suddenly all power of movement were denied her. He could not see her face clear enough to mark its expression, but he caught the half whisper of stark terror that broke suddenly from her lips.

"My God!"

"What―" he began, astonished, and a moment later understood. Through the lap of water against the sides of the skiff and the rush of the tide he caught suddenly a throb of engines to which in his engrossment he had been hitherto oblivious. He swung round instantly and in the darkness behind caught sight of a towering shape, with lights shining seemingly so high up that they might have been stars. He had time to no more than mark that a huge wedge was cleaving the water almost immediately behind him, and to realise that the skiff, frailer than a leaf by comparison, was in the direct path of a sea-going vessel, when the girl gave of scream of fear. and moved suddenly, as if grabbing for something that might mean salvation.

"The loot!" he thought, and even with that great wedge threatening destruction was aware of the ironical humour of the thing. Then before he could move or even shout counsel to the girl the wedge was on them. He heard the hiss of the plumes of water thrown from the bow, saw the bull looming gigantic, and waited for the stroke that would cleave the skiff as easily as a hatchet might cleave a match-stem. But the great bow missed the skiff by a hairsbreadth. It was the hull that struck a glancing blow delivered with a giant's power. The side of the skiff crumpled like a match-box under the impact of a steam-hammer. The little craft was jerked aside as if it had been a stick opposing the way of a charging elephant. With its side crumpling it was thrown clean over, and as he struck the water a heartfelt prayer that he might miss the whirling propeller rose to Pallisier's lips.

Chapter 11

The House On The Marsh

AS PALLISIER came up, gasping for breath, the wash of the steamer caught him and flung him against something which, at once, he instinctively gripped. it was the girl, who immediately began to struggle violently.

"Steady, Minnehaha!" he shouted, and managed to make himself hears against the throb of the steamer's screw and the seething of the water. "Don't struggle, for God's sake."

The urgency of his cry steadied the girl. She was game in an emergency, and now she was prepared to listen to the voice of reason. But before Pallisier could give instructions something drifted against his ribs, which he managed to grasp with one hand before it floated away. It was wood, a goodish piece of the skiff so far as he could make out, and it would help enormously. "Grab hold!" he said to the girl sharply.

Miss Ip grabbed with one hand whilst he supported her with one hand and himself clutched the wreckage with the other.

"Both hands!" he said brusquely.

"Not on your life!" gasped the girl. "If y'think I'm going to let go a hundred thousand bucks―"

A little mouthful of Thames water, which is not nectar, choked her utterance, and she spat violently, whilst Pallisier could not forbear a chuckle. The little lady had hold of a fortune, and meant to keep hold, and in the circumstances to his mind that revealed a quality of spirit beyond mere covetousness.

"Well," he said, "I can't blame you, but you must trust me a little, and we'll get both ourselves and the― er bucks ashore, with luck. Hand me the suitcase: you'll never be able to hold on to it till we make the bank."

"If it sinks, I sink too !" asserted Miss Ip.

"Well, I'll see it doesn't."

"Whatcha goin' to do?"

"Place it on this board. Then you'll be able to hold on to both whilst I float the lot of us shorewards, that's all."

"Honest to God?"

"Honest to God!"

"I'll trust you. Where's your hand? Ain't wanting any cup-an'-lip accidents. Got hold?... Well, hoist whilst I help."

The suit-case was lifted on wreckage, and Miss Ip held it by the handle with one hand, whilst with the other she clung to the wood.

"Now," said Pallisier, "as we move let yourself float as if you were a swimmer. Don't get the wind up. Unless some other ship happens along, we're as safe now as we were in the boat. Safer, maybe."

"How d'you make that out?"

"Well, now we're making for shore instead of heading direct for the North Sea," answered Pallisier. "Excuse me from any more polite conversation. I'll need my breath, I fancy. The tide's strong. But if you feel anything going wrong, don't be afraid to mention it, will you?"

"I'll not shout unless there's need!"

"Good!"

Guiding the little raft as well as he could, Pallisier began to swim, using his legs only. The tide was running strongly, and it was only by a long cross-drift that he could hope to make the shore. Far below he saw a stationary light which he thought must come from a house, and making that his goal he kicked steadily forward on a diagonal course.

Ten minutes or so passed, and the light showed much more plainly, and whilst it, seemed certain that now they would not make the precise spot where it shone it was clear that they were approaching the shore. The girl observed the light, and breaking a long silence asked a question: "That's a house, ain't it―"

"It is."

"If we howled, think they'd hear us―"

"They might, but it isn't likely.... Don't worry. We're getting on all right. In another ten minutes we'll hit the mud."

"Nice state we'll be in," commented Miss Ip. "Where's your duds "

"In a bunch of willows. Near that old wharf."

"You'll have a nice trot back to retrieve 'em," answered the girl.

"Good thing the weather's mild, or you'd be sneezin' as if y'had spilled the pepperpot."

Pallisier chuckled. "Feeling sorry for me, Minnehaha. What―"

"I'm thinkin' I owe you one for this. I guess I'd have been fish-bait if you hadn't collared me, hey―"

"It's possible," agreed Pallisier. "But there's no need to rub it in, old thing. I don't want a certificate on vellum from the Royal Humane Society recording the good deed."

"But how'm I going to square up with you for it―"

"Don't let it worry you, m'dear. We'll settle that when we hit the bank. There'll be lots of time then." They passed the house at no more than twenty-five yards― a solitary place, thought Pallisier, as he made out the shadowy forms of stunted trees through which the light in the house gleamed. Four hundred yards farther on they were caught in a swirl which carried them inshore, and as he made out the dim dark outline of the land he dropped a leg tentatively and touched bottom.

"Eureka!" he cried with a little laugh of triumph.

"What's that―" demanded Miss Ip.

"Greek! Free translation is that we've hit it. Gentleman who first called attention to the word must have been an ancestor of mine."

"Y'are guying me."

"Not a bit of it, my dear. The old thing was running naked through the streets, having deserted his bath, when he shouted it, as I'll be doing in no time at all― Ah! drop your feet, little lass, but mind you don't bump your heels off or lose a shoe."

They were sufficiently close inshore to wade-the girl breast-high. With the tide in a quick ebb the water shallowed swiftly, and soon the piece of wreckage was a hindrance rather than a help.

"Let the old ark go!" said Pallisier, stretching a hand for the suit-case.

"I'll heave that along," snapped the girl.

"It's mine."

"As you will, Minnehaha," laughed Pallisier; "but anyone seeing us would say I was no gentleman."

"Poppycock!" said the girl. "Who's to see? From its look this place ain't seen a human being since the Flood."

They waded through 'shallow water, struck a patch of slippery mud, and then a harder patch where rushes grew in clumps.

"Well," laughed Pallisier, "we've done it, Minnehaha, and―" As he spoke he set his bare foot on something very sharp― the splintered breast-bone of a sea-bird's skeleton, though that he did not know at the time. As it pierced his foot he gave a sharp grunt, leaped up, stumbled, and fell prone in the rushes. Before he could pick himself up, when indeed he was on his hands and knees, Miss Ip leaped tigerishly forward. The only weapon she had was the suitcase in her hand, heavy with its bundles of paper money, but with that she proved herself a boon improvisatrice. Swinging it back and then forward she brought the corner of it against Pallisier's right temple. The weight of the suitcase bowled him clean over, the stunning force of the blow knocked him senseless.

Miss Ip looked down at him, and considered further action. Had she had the pistol which he had taken from her, and which now lay at the bottom of the river. she would have shot him as callously as any gangster in Chicago shot a comrade who was ordered to be taken for a ride.

That he had saved her from the river was nothing. Her mind went further back than that. He was the cause of her present situation. If after she had disposed of O'Hagan he had not jumped in the boat, by this she would have been in London with that suitcase and its precious contents safely cached in her hotel or in the cloakroom at Victoria ready for her departure east, all the way to far San Francisco. He deserved to be bumped off, but the easy means was lacking. She looked in the direction of the river and wondered if she could haul him so far, then decided that the exertion was not worth while.

It was enough that he could not interfere with her activities, and that she was free to go without being tailed by him. She kicked him lightly in contempt.

"Bonehead!" she said in much the same tune as Vivian must have cried "Fool!" to Merlin when he had succumbed to her wiles and fallen victim to less violent spells. "Bonehead!" again, and then with a curse for the wet skirts that impeded her movements, stepped away in the darkness carrying with her the suitcase that for her was the promise of a new day and of a life in which such men as Monkey Spano and O'Hagan had no part.

It was a whole ten minutes later when the Honourable Bill opened his eyes and stared vacantly round in the darkness. Overhead there was the light of stars, in his ears the ripple of the receding tide, and his hands groping made him aware of the rushes among which he lay. But for the moment there was no co-ordination of these things. The one fact which obliterated all others was that he had a headache, not the sort of headache that three aspirins taken without medical advice would lull, but one, the violence of which was such that it overpowered all things else, and made him feel very sick when he attempted to move.

With the wisdom of remaining still thus impressed upon him, he lay where he was, blinking at the stars and trying to recall anything that would account for his present parlous condition. One by one he recalled the events of the night up to the moment when, having safely brought Miss Minnehaha ashore, he had stumbled in the rushes where he now lay. He had a dim remembrance of a shattering blow, of flashing stars and of a falling through space which had ended heaven knew where. He searched his mind for anything that would account for the knock-out.

More than that he groped with his hands among the rushes for any stone contact with which he might account for his sudden plunge into the darkness of unconsciousness. He found none. The ground about him was soft, the rushes though their points were prickly, were not rooted among rocks. After groping for a little time he was driven to a conclusion.

"Minnehaha!... Knocked me out with the treasure sack.... Well! A privilege to be knocked out by a hundred thousand dollars― I suppose. But lumme! it makes the old top hum!"

A now question thrust itself upon him. Where was the girl? Without lifting his aching head he stared about him in the darkness, turning his eyes now right, now left, and again directly to his front, but without seeing anything, except the points of rush clumps dimly outlined against the stars. He listened. The night was windless. The only sounds were the swish of the outgoing tide against the shore, and the hoarse siren of some sea-going ship, proclaiming to the world that a new adventure was under way. He was, he decided, absolutely alone.

After all that he had done for her, Minnehaha had fled, leaving him to such mercies as the night might hold.

"Fairly diddled me!" he murmured. "Hadn't a notion that I was playing square, and that I meant her to slip away.... Confounded ingratitude, I call it. What?"

He lay for a little while longer, waiting for the drums in his head to cease their throbbing, then he slowly raised himself to a sitting position. He paid for that effort by a new roll of drums in of Miss Ip was his brain. But having achieved an upright position he kept it, and, as the violence of the throbbing died down again, gave himself to consideration of the immediate future. Pursuit of Miss Ip was out of the question. He had not the slightest idea of the direction she had taken, he did not know how long she had been gone, and he had no particular wish to find her.

His first business was to get back to Lon-don with such information as he had gathered, and the accomplishment of that did not promise to be the easiest thing in the world. To begin with, there was the question of clothing. To think of retrieving his own from the willows where he had left them was for the moment the most hopeless thing. He had no idea how far he had drifted from Swingler's Wharf, and the idea of finding his way there, barefooted, in the darkness, was utterly impossible.

But the question of clothing remained. He must obtain something, if only an overcoat, before he could venture into the streets of any village or town, unless he wished to attract more attention than his modesty desired. Then again there was the question of his whereabouts. He stared round in the starlit darkness and then nodded to himself.

"Somewhere in the Essex marshes," he murmured. "and a goodish step from everywhere else. Minnehaha will enjoy her little jaunt to town."

But, as he suddenly remembered, there was a house somewhere farther up, and that could be no great distance away. If he could find it, he might be able to obtain the clothing that he needed, ascertain his whereabouts, and possibly obtain a conveyance that would take him back to town. The prospect after all was not so bad as it had seemed, and forthwith he began to start up-river in the hope of seeing the house. There had been a light, he remembered, and on a night like this it must be visible for a mile.

He failed to find it, however. Even when he managed to stand upright the light was not to be seen. But he knew the house was there, and he had only to follow the bank up-river to find it, which he at once proceeded to go. He had not proceeded very far, however, before he was brought to a halt by the sound of running water directly in front of him. There was, it seemed, some stream or backwater out of which the water was running with the falling tide. He peered down at it, trying to estimate width and depth but failing to do either finally marched forward a rifle recklessly and found himself wading through water that was no more than waist-high. But on the farther side there was a stretch of mud into which he sank to the knee at every step, and since the mud seemed to grow deeper as he proceeded he was fain at last to return to the water and wade upstream until he came to a place where the banks were closer together, and there found what in his mind he called a fisherman's bridge― and which was indeed no more than a thick plank connecting the two banks.

With an effort he scrambled on to it, crossed to the side where he knew the house was, and struck a well-defined path through the rushes and marsh grass, which made travelling much easier, though by no means a pleasure. Trodden tufts hurt the soles of his feet, frequent pebbles or patches of gravel were more unpleasant, and the sharp points of dried rushes pricked his bare legs until they stung again. There was, however, nothing for it but to keep on, and to squeeze what comfort he could from the fact that the path was certainly bearing him in the direction of the river, and as he hoped, was leading to the house, which was for the moment the goal of his desire. The hope, as it chanced, was fulfilled.

Quite suddenly he became aware of a high wall to his front, and above the wall saw the tops of trees outlined against the stars.

"Hit it!" he whispered to himself, and wondered curiously who on earth could have chosen this solitary house for his dwelling-place. "Find out, I suppose, when I ring, if I'm not immediately clubbed on the head for a wandering lunatic."

Dressed only in a bathing-suit, plastered with mud as he must be, and with a bump above his eye which had swelled to a quite respectable size, he knew that he must seem a wild figure to anyone who should answer his summons when it was made.

"Heaven send it isn't a woman," he murmured as he began to skirt the wall looking for the entrance to this solitary demesne. The height of the wall lowered sharply, being continued by a lower stretch surmounted by an iron railing through which boughs of shrubs had forced their way. He peered through them, without, however, seeing the house, and then felt his way along the wall, knowing now from the swirling sound of water which reached him that the river was not far away. In a little time he came to a corner, where the railed wall turned and ran parallel with the river.

This he guessed must be the front of the house, and for a moment he stood listening, and peering through the trees. He heard nothing, nor could he see the light which he had observed from the river. But that as he told himself meant nothing. The light might have been extinguished or again it might have come from some window at the farther side of the house, and he continued his search for the entrance. He came upon it quite suddenly, an ornamental iron gate, hung on a stone post, and, as he discovered almost immediately, it was chained and padlocked― an altogether unlooked-for thing.

"Check!" he murmured to himself, and stared over its ornamental spikes towards the house which now was dimly visible in the starlight. It seemed to be a place of considerable size, possibly he thought at some time the country residence of some East India merchant long gathered to his fathers, and now little used except in the height of summer or possibly at the wild-fowling season by some sportsman of the marshes.

But the thing which interested him most that it was in complete darkness. In his rather unpleasant situation that disturbed him considerably, until he again recalled the light which he had seen, and reflected that such a house as this, isolated in the marshes, would scarcely be left without a caretaker.

"Gone to bed," he whispered, and for a moment pondered what course to pursue. That there must be another entrance was certain― probably on the farther side of the house or at the back― and for a moment he was inclined to continue his explorations. Then the reflection that almost inevitably he would find it locked caused him to change his mind, and without further consideration he swung himself on to the wall, stepped over the railings, and lowered himself gingerly among the shrubs on the farther side.

Thrusting through them, he reached a lawn, and found the short, turf cool and soothing to his bruised soles. He walked along the grass almost up to the front door, and as he neared the house perceived that the bay windows on either side of the door were shuttered on the inside with shutters that painted white were perfectly visible in the darkness. The door also was white, and in the centre of it there was a heavy ornamental brass knocker of a bygone time. He groped and peered about without finding any trace of a bell, and at last had recourse to the knocker, giving a sharp double rap which sounded thunderously in the night stillness.

Then he listened.

There was no sound of movement within to announce that his summons had been heard and was by way of being answered. The place was silent a cemetery at the witching hour.

"Sound sleeper!" he muttered. "Must give a regular tattoo." He lifted the knocker again and began a continuous rapping calculated to wake the very soundest sleeper, and was still so engaged when a sudden light flashed on his face from one of the side panes of the bay window on his right. He turned swiftly, and, blinking and half blinded by the glare, saw that a little square in the side shutter had been opened, and that from it the bright beam of an electric torch was focused on him.

"Urm!" he commented under his breath. "Shutter has a Judas hole. Well―"

He raised a hand to shade his eyes, and stared at the open space through which the light streamed. The observer within was perfectly invisible, and he was plainly determined to satisfy himself about the caller before answering the door, for the beam of the torch travelled down Pallisier's whole form, a little to his amusement.

"Wonder what the gentleman is making of it?" he chuckled, and then, as the light lifted to his face once more, he began to pantomime, energetically indicating his unfortunate condition, and pointing from himself to the river, which, as he thought, if the fellow had a grain of sense, was merely painting the lily. Then the light switched off, the Judas was closed and be was left wondering.

"To be or not to be?" he asked himself. "Fellow may be too scared at the picture I make, or, again, he may have a tender heart." The latter it seemed was the case. for from within he caught a sound of footfalls, and saw the half-moon of glass above the transom illumined.

"Coming, Heaven be praised!" he murmured, and immediately began to concoct a story that might have an air of probability. He heard two bolts unfastened in turn, a heavy lock turned,, and then the door slowly opened, revealing a small-ish man who stood with his back to the lighted lamp which had been set down on the hall table a little distance away. Pallisier could not see his face clearly, since it was in shadow, but he noticed that the man kept one hand behind his back, and he found that fact more than a little intriguing.

"Scared half to death," he thought. "Taking no chances. I'll be peppered if I'm not careful."

Then whilst he was still reflecting on the possibilities of the situation the man spoke.

"What do you want? Why you come here?"

"Alien!"

Pallisier's mind registered silently, whilst aloud he said:

"Awfully sorry to trouble you, sir, but, having had a little accident and a narrow escape from drowning, I'm in need of help."

"A little accident?" asked the man.

"How you mean?"

"Well, I was swimming out to a yacht up on Reach in the dark for a bet, you understand, when I was caught by the ebb and carried down-river. Then I had an unfortunate encounter with a barge at its moorings whilst trying to board it. I slipped, bumped my head fiercely― I expect you can see the bruise― and fell into the water again, with just enough sense left to lie on my back and float with the tide. I made the bank a little below here, and tumbling on this house decided to ask for help, which I'm sure you will not withhold if you're a Christian man."

"I am not!" replied the man with some emphasis. The Honourable Bill was really taken aback by this frankness.

Even Minnehaha, he thought, would not have repudiated such a claim made on her behalf, and he wondered what sort of a fellow this was who could do it so as pointedly. But he did not allow the surprise to deflect him from his purpose.

"You're candid at any rate," he laughed, "and anyhow there's nothing to prevent you doing the good deed for the day. You see how I'm fixed. I can't go rioting through half Essex in this garb, and I'm dead sure my feet wont stand the roads unshod. So if you can oblige me by the loan of a few clothes and a pair of boots or shoes I shall be infinitely obliged. Whilst if you've got a car or any. thing in the way of a vehicle that I can charter― "

"I have none!" said the man breaking in suddenly.

"Well, the clothes then―"

"But, consider―" The man lifted his hand and with a quick gesture indicated his own rather diminutive stature. "Meaning I'm an outsize, and that you are small men's. What?... It is a corker, I'll own....Looks as if I should have to be content with a blanket or― But I say, you must have something that I could creep into? There's an overcoat there on that stand. That might partially cover my nakedness―"

He broke off at some round which appeared to come from the direction of the river and half turned to look in that direction.

"Thought I heard something―"

Then he suffered one of the minor shocks that the unexpected occasions sometimes hold. The man in the hall had evidently caught the sound which he himself had heard, and had cocked his head sideways the better to listen. The light front the lamp now illuminated half his face, and with something of a thrill be recognised that the man was not merely an alien, but that he was a Japanese. Scarcely had he realised the fact when the little man made a quick decision.

"You will please step in, sir. I give the coat... Maybe I find shoes. We must be merciful, yes."

"Thank you. I only want to borrow―"

"Quick," interrupted the man. "I close the door. There is a strong draught."

"Strong―" The Honourable Bill bit off the words he had been about to utter. In his damp swimming-attire and half-nakedness he was in a better position than the other to judge whether there was a draught or not, and he would have sworn that there wasn't so much as a zephyr drifting through the open door-way.

The fellow was disturbed by that sound which they had both heard and for some reason was mortally anxious to get the door shut. Well, he thought, the Jap could shut it for him, so long as he provided the body covering required. He stepped inside. The Jap promptly closed the door and turned the key, but did not shoot the bolts, then with the pistol which his caller had suspected openly displayed, he indicated the coat.

"You take. You try it, sir!"

Pallisier wasted no time in accepting the invitation. Ignoring the pistol, outwardly, but inwardly praying that the fellow would not shoot, he stepped to the hall-stand where hung the coat which he had observed. A flood of relief surged in him as he noted its size, which would have served as a winding-sheet for any two sons of Nippon that he had over seen. It was, moreover, of good Harris tweed, faded and worn with much service, but the kind of coat for which an out-door man cherishes an affection and is loath to throw aside. No Jap had ever worn that coat; and as he took it down and slipped his arms into it, he found time to wonder who the owner might be. Some sportsman certainly, he thought, as he noted a leather shoulder-patch such as a man who frequently carries a gun may wear, and then became aware of the Jap with his head again in a listening attitude.

"Fellow's expecting someone," he thought, "or fears another caller. Which?"

Aloud he said: "The coat is a gem. Might have been made―"

"You take, sir. I make the gift. Now you go―"

"Oh, but I say," protested Pallisier. "What about the footwear you mentioned? I can't go tramping over half of Essex in my bare feet, you know. And I will return the articles―"

The man gave a sharp ejaculation of impatience and hurried away. The ejaculation was not English, but of its quality the Honourable Bill had no doubt whatever. Its tone made itself revealing. "Swear-word" he commented mentally. "Probably an importation from Tokio... But why is the fellow in such a shocking hurry to speed the departing guest?"

He was still puzzling over this when the little man returned carrying a pair of rubber waders of a size that matched the coat. Pallisier fell on them with avidity.

"The very thing, brother. They'll hide my shanks, and I shall walk boldly abroad. Till my dying day I shall be grateful to you."

"You like them. I give them. Now you go quickly, hey?"

"A moment, my friend. I must have the name and address that I may return these things―"

"No! Not There is not any need. I make little gift―you keep―"

"But. my Good Samaritan I simply can't―"

He broke off as he observed the man's eyes. They were not looking at him. they were staring beyond him at the door, and there was in them a look of startled expectancy. Now in the name of Heaven what was the little man about that―

The questioning thought was unfinished when, suddenly the rapping of the knocker filled the hall with crashing sound.

Chapter 12

A New Mystery

ALMOST AT the precise moment when Pallisier and the Jap were startled by the sudden rat-at-an on the door, Inspector Godbold was in conference with Bull Sullivan in the former's room at the Yard.

"News did y'say, Inspector?"

"Of sorts. And pretty startling at that"

"Shoot !" said the American laconically. "Well, first your man Teddy has been found, also the man who drove him." Mr. Sullivan's voice betrayed no emotions but his face was hard, and there was a stormy gleam in his eyes as he waited for his English colleague to continue. Inspector Godbold, knowing his man, did not try to soften the blow he had to deliver.

"Dead!" he said quietly. "Both shot."

"Knew it last night― about Teddy," answered Mr. Sullivan in a harsh voice which covered a depth of feeling that was not otherwise revealed. "Told you so. I heard the shot. Where did you find 'em?"

"In the taxi, south side of the river. There's an old factory there, was used for munitions during the War, and has been left to the rats ever since, with 'To Let' notices plastered all over it. Has a big wooden gate at the entrance― padlocked, and nobody ever goes near the place, except the young limbs of the neighbourhood, who sometimes climb the wall at the back, and play larks as lads will. Seems that three of them went over the wall to-night, playing― God save us― at detectives. They had flash-lights and were barging about poking in holes and corners when in an old shed where the lorries used to be stabled they came on the taxi standing all dark.

"You know what lads are. The taxi was a find. What it was doing there they hadn't a notion, but it fitted in with the game they were playing, and one of them crept forward in the approved style, opened a rear door and turned his flash light on. Then he went off into hysterics prompt as a firework. Other two thinking there was someone in the cab who'd scared their chum an' would nab them for trespass just cleared as fast as they knew how, leaving the other with the job. They got on top of the wall, and there, when they were ready for dropping off, they took thought for the one they'd left and looked back to see what had happened to him. All they could see was his flash-light lying on the ground and lighting up the wheel of the cab, kid having gone off into a swoon, though they didn't know that. They waited a bit without anything happening, then they dropped from the wall and sneaked off home, a badly scared pair, having agreed to be dumb about the business.

"But their luck was out. Other lad was missing, and as he was known to have gone out with the pair when his mother went round enquiring. the whole thing so far as they knew It, which didn't include what was inside the taxi, was told. Mother being a woman of sense took the two youngsters to the constable at the next corner, and guessing he was on something queer, Officer went off, at once to investigate what a taxi was doing parked on premises that had been empty for donkey's years.

"He found the kid lying there in a swoon, flashlight still burning, and when he took a look inside the cab he came near going off himself. There were two men inside― your man Teddy and the taxi-man. Teddy piled on the other as if they'd been dead sheep. Constable didn't waste time. He read the taxi-number, looked up his notebook and compared the numbers with the one of which all constables have had notice, and telephoned to the Yard immediately. And that's that."

"Um! And doesn't tell us much that we hadn't guessed," commented Sullivan. "Only new item is the taxi driver. Bumped off to shut his mouth, I guess... And we haven't a notion where Teddy and he were when the thing was done. Wasn't in that works yard, I'll swear."

"Miles away, I expect."

"Only hope is the driver who took Spano and his crowd where they wanted to go. Queer thing he ain't turned up. Looks as if he might be bumped off too."

"He wasn't. I've found him- "

"Gosh! Y'don't say―" began Sullivan in sharp excitement.

"Isn't much use at the moment,' interrupted the inspector. "He's in hospital. Bad concussion and other injuries. Can't be questioned― and if he could, he's beyond answering at present. I've a man sitting at his cot-side, waiting, but Heaven knows when we'll get the news. His taxi was badly smashed up last night by a motor pantechnicon down South Norwood way. Accidental, but if he goes out the pantechnicon man is in the soup. He was cornering wide, and hit the taxi all to pieces―"

"South Norwood. Then it's likely that it was down there that he took Monkey and his pals."

"There's confirmation of a sort," answered the inspector. "This morning latish there was a complaint that somebody had been monkeying with the instrument in a telephone box on Norbury Hill. Lady wanted to use it, and found the mouth and ear-piece lying on the floor with the flex detached. Gave information from another box, and the telephone people instructed their repair outfit to work round that way and put the instrument right. They didn't get there for an hour, and when they did, one of them noticed a dark patch on the cement flour. He was one of the chaps who went through the War, and he'd seen patches like that before.

" 'Looks like dried blood,' he told his mate, who made a joke of it. 'Fellow who burst the instrument must have hit his nose with it,' he said, and the pair of them left it at that.

"They'd a goodish few calls to pay, and they made 'em last out the working hours, but when they got back the ex-army fellow mentioned to an inspector about the black patch, and, thinking there might have been trouble of some sort, the inspector 'phoned the facts here... As a general rule nobody would have worried. A possible row in a telephone box about which there've been no complaints naturally isn't a thing to make the Flying Squad turn out. But somebody remembered that your man had used a telephone-box to make his call, and passed the news to me. I'd just got word about the taxi-driver, and the conjunction of Norwood Hill and South Norwood fairly shouted. I went down at once with a police surgeon. The black spot was blood right enough-human blood, so it's a round to a penny that it was in that box whoever was responsible got your man―"

" 'Whoever' be shot! It was Monkey Spano, I tell you!"

"Maybe! I daresay you're right, Sullivan. But that remains to be proved. To me the question is: Are the men who are in this business at the other end― that is where young Swinnerton comes in― camped in that district, or did they just lead your man there at the end of a string to get rid of him when the chance offered? The last seems to me to be the likeliest thing. But you never know what criminals'll do. And we want young Swinnerton―"

"We'll get him, or news of him, any hour," interrupted Sullivan. "The dollars have been paid over―"

"If I'd known what was contemplated―" broke in the inspector with some heat.

"Yeh! You'd sure have planted uniforms about that shore till it would have looked as if the force was holding a review. An' that 'ud sure have been the end of Michael Swinnerton... Y'don't know the crowd we're dealing with, Godbold. Only thing possible was done. When John M. Swinnerton cabled those credits, he knew, you bet. An' I know, though I've taken a chance in letting the Honourable Pallisier keep a lone watch... But he isn't a policeman, an' he's a sporting young swell who knows what he's about."

"You didn't see anything of him when you went down there?"

"Not a hair. An' Miss Joy is prepared to swear there wasn't a soul on the barge."

"You drove away immediately?"

"Just as soon as Miss Joy could get in the car. That's the only play, an' where the Honourable was I haven't a guess except that he was planted somewhere near the spot if he did what he meant to do."

"And you haven't heard from him yet?"

"No. But that ain't anything to get the wind up about. May be hours before anyone calls for that currency... I've known a wad of twenty-five thousand to lie in the roots of an old tree for three days without the lot who'd issued orders for it to be put there going near the place. Then one dark night the wad was lifted, and the kid for whom the cash had been paid walked in on his mammy at breakfast time next morning.... And Monkey Spano knows this sort of racket backwards. He'll not hurry, maybe. But young Mike Swinnerton may walk in on us any minute, if Spano plays the game straight."

"Youl think he may not?"

"I'll own I'm worried about that. Y'see, Godbold, this ain't just an ordinary case. If the Honourable an' Miss Joy were right there are others interested in young Swinnerton―others, mark me, who were half-expected to be interested in him. It possibly ain't just a straight case of snatching an' gathering the bucks. There's politics, big politics, mixed up in it, and back home, an' most other places I guess, politics is the crookedest thing going... If these Japs know that Spano has young Swinnerton, an' they want him badly, then Spano, having gathered Pa Swinnerton's bucks, for a consideration, mark me, may hand over Michael to the other lot, an' step clean out of the business, if y'get me."

Inspector Godbold nodded.

"I've had Chojiro shadowed all day. Reports are commonplace. The Golden Carp is under observation. Nothing unusual there. If there's anything in your notion it was all fixed last night. There hasn't been anyone of Spano's lot in touch with that crowd, I'll take oath."

"Good!... I hope I am just chewing wind... But about this Norwood Hill... Whether young Michael walks in on us or not. I don't mean Monkey to walk out. Not if I can help it. I'll have his neck for thus business of Teddy― I owe it to the lad's memory― and I can get it here, better than in Chicago. Y'can't stop out of a killing over here as easy as chewing gum, an'..."

"Nothings being overlooked. Z division is combing Norwood now― going through it with a dust-comb. Takes time, that sort of job, as you'll know, Sullivan, but as soon as there's news I shall get it, and Spano's not a man to be so easily overlooked, from your picture of him."

"Nor Mat O'Hagan, either!"

"No. They're pretty distinctive. And they'll have to lie very low to be passed by."

"Well, I guess I'll run over to Number 4 an' see if there's news of young Michael yet. Not that I'm living in hope. It's a thundering sight more likely that we'll get a wire from him saying he's been turned loose on some God-forsaken road Land's End way or Dartmoor than a next-door street in the City. But you never know. I'll give you a call if there's news, Godbold."

"Same here," answered the inspector.

Mr. Sullivan took his leave, and as the night was fine and mild decided to walk to his destination. He was in no hurry, for his expectation of early news was small, and he liked strolling in a city at night. As he walked he meditated on the news he had heard from his friend and colleague and found some satisfaction in the thought that Spano was surely for it. London was not Chicago, where a killing more or less was the daily routine. He had the American officer's scorn of the tenderness of the English Police for persons merely under suspicion, and a contempt for the regulations that made anything in the nature of the third-degree methods of his native land taboo, but he was prepared to hand the palm to the English courts every time.

"Spano's stepped into it up to the chin," he chuckled to himself. "He's wriggled out of the hot chair oftener than any skate ought, but he's for the rope now, sure."

As he strolled on, an elegant young gentleman turning to look at a pretty lady who was stepping into a taxi collided rather sharply with him, and was instantly apologetic.

"Awfully sorry, sir. I hope there's no damage done. Very careless of me. I happened to be looking elsewhere and―"

"Yeh!" said Mr. Sullivan. "I saw her, brother, and I'll forgive you. But one o' these days if you ain't more careful y'll walk into a 'bus-end. an' then y'll be real sorry."

"I expect I shall― Jeremiah!" laughed the youngster, and passed on. "They're all alike," mused Mr. Sullivan. "Gay as larks even when they're going through it. Now there's the Honourable Pallisier―"

His easy reflection broke off sharply, and his heavy brows creased over the keen grey eyes. "I sure hope nothing's gone wrong with that hid. He's a goodish time in reporting. Ought never to have let him take on that job... But who the heck could stop him?"

The little uneasiness invoked by the remembrance grew as he walked on, and presently became such a ferment of disquiet that when he came to the next telephone booth he entered it, and after hunting up Pallisier's number rang up Callington Mansions. He did not get Pallisier, but was answered by the voice of Rankin.

"Who's that?" he demanded, and being informed asked if Mr. Pallisier was in his chambers.

"No, sir," came the answer. "He went out this afternoon and has not yet returned."

"Sent no message, I guess?"

"No, sir."

"Um!... If he comes in soon ask him to ring up Sullivan at Number 4. You got that?... Right! . Don't forget it. It's real important."

"I won't forget, sir," answered Rankin reassuringly.

Leaving the box he strolled on, trying to forget the disturbing thoughts which had awakened in his mind. He did not immediately succeed, but a little while later they vanished at a stroke. He was held up at a crossing and whilst he stood there, watching the stream of taxis and private cars glide by, his attention was suddenly arrested by a face at an open window― the face of a man whose eyes blazed with sudden rage as they met his own. It was no more than a glimpse he had, the clash of eyes brief as a lightning flash, but sufficiently long for recognition.

"By God," he ejaculated aloud in his surprise. "Spano."

He looked round for a taxi with the thought of following the gangster. But no empty vehicle was immediately available and by the time one appeared, pursuit was beyond hope. Chagrined and disappointed, he took the taxi that offered itself and drove the rest of the way to Grosvenor Gardens. He was in the act of paying the driver, when Ringrose ran from the house and across the pavement.

"Get in, Sullivan. "There's news. I'll tell you as we go."

Then he snapped directions to the taxi-driver. "Amritsar Lodge, Anthea-road, Norwood Hill."

The taxi-man looked a little doubtful.

"Getting late," he said. "And it's a longish way out o' my beat." "Oh, get on, and step on the accelerator. Charge what you like an' lie abed in the morning.... This is a police job."

"Very well, sir."

Ringrose followed Sullivan into the taxi slammed the door, and as the vehicle rolled off the detective demanded sharply, "What the heck's up?"

"Amritsar Lodge is the nesting place of your chum Spano. Had a message a quarter of an hour ago from Inspector Godbold. He was starting there right away, after telephoning Z division to close all boltholes."

"He won't get Spano!" replied Sullivan with conviction.

"Why not, you old duffer?"

"Because he ain't there. I glimpsed him in a taxi, not ten minutes back, looking savage as a bear."

"They'll be there to welcome him when he arrives."

"How d'you know he ain't departing? Looked to me as if somethin' had put his liver out of order."

"Well, we shall see!"

"Where did Godbold get the news?"

"From that taxi-driver at the hospital. Seems the poor chap revived long enough to answer the question which Godbold's watcher put to him, and the message was telephoned to Godbold right off."

"Must have got there just after I left," commented Sullivan.

"Yes! And if that lot had Michael―"

"That's a cert !"

"Then we'll find him at that house."

"I ain't so sure of that― Monkey Spano is a downy guy, an' thrifty, too. He ain't going to leave nothing valuable lying round... If he was quitting then I'll lay a hatful of dollars that Michael Swinnerton had been quit before, and if he ain't been turned loose is safely cached in. some new place or is laid out for keeps."

"I hope to Heaven you're wrong, Sullivan."

"So do I, boy. Trouble is that I'm tolerably certain that I ain't. Monkey Spano has had a jolt and wasn't feeling good about something or other. But we'll see. Y'have heard all the other news, mebbe?"

"Most of it, but nothing about Bill Pallisier."

"No. He ain't reported yet. I rang up his number just now. I. hope no harm has happened to the boy. He takes big things as if they were a lark. an' while high spirits are all right in their way―"

"Don't worry about that side. Pallisier isn't so hare-brained as he makes out He'll show up in the end with some tall story of his adventures which will make us all laugh."

"Well, I hope we get the laugh all right, but as y'know that Swingler's Wharf was a darn desolate place just handy to carry away the evidence."

"Sullivan, that liver is out of yours is out of order badly, to-night."

"Mebbe! Mebbe!" agreed the detective, and stared out of the window. Then he asked suddenly: "What sort of a place is this Norwood Hill?"

"Don't know properly. Never drifted that way. But I've a notion that it's a suburb of the better-class sort. Very respectable and so on, you know."

"Um! Spano 'ud pick that sort of show for cover. Nobody 'ud think of looking for a racketeer among the bourgeois. Odd thing too that these fellows most have a hankering to be reckoned respectable and to run with decent folk in the end. Trouble with 'em is that they can't shed the gangs they run, an' are kept at the wheel until they get bumped off for good."

The detective produced a lank cigar, lit it, and smoked in silence, whilst Ringrose stared out of the window immersed in his own thoughts, and remained so until the taxi pulled up rather sharply. Then he heard the driver's voice asking for information.

"Say, old man, where's Anthea-road?"

"Second turn farther up! Who're you looking for?"

"Dunno the name of the party. House is Amritsar Lodge."

"The deuce it is! You wait a minute."

A helmeted head appeared at the window, and P.Q.R. glimpsed a uniformed policeman.. He let down the window, and met the glare of a flash-light, then heard the officer's voice.

"You two gentlemen going to Amritsar Lodge?"

"Trying to," snapped P.Q.R. "Turn that dam' thing out of my eyes. Want to blind me?"

"That's all right, but―"

"Don't be an idiot, constable. We're all right, having an appointment with Inspector Godbold; I suppose we'll be stopped by half the Z division before we get to him."

"Shouldn't wonder," laughed the constable, reassured. "There's a raid or something on. Don't know what the trouble is exactly, but―"

"We do! Second turn farther up, did you say?... Go ahead, driver."

The taxi moved on, but was stopped at the turn by two officers, one in plain clothes and one in uniform. The plain-clothes man spoke to the driver, and then gave his attention to the passengers, but Sullivan cut in on his scrutiny:

"All right, brother! Here's the password!"

He thrust a card under the officer's nose, and they were passed on to Amritsar Lodge. As they stepped out at the gate, three officers appeared closing on them, and again the card was produced, inspected, and they were passed through.

"Godbold's sure doing the thing in style," chucked Sullivan. "Hope he's not wasting energy."

They took a turn and came on the house, its door standing wide, the hall brilliantly lighted, with two uniformed men at the entrance. As they reached the steps, one of the officers moved forward, but at that precise moment Inspector Godbold himself came out of a room into the hall. He saw them, and gave the officer the word to pass them. As they entered the hall, Sullivan shot a swift glance at his colleague's face, then asked tersely:

"Quit?"

"Perdition! Yes!.. How did you know?"

"Saw your eyes brother! 'Nother thing, I had a glimpse of Spano in a taxi― Westminster way just after a quit your office. Couldn't tail him, but when I got your message from Mr. Ringrose here, I reckoned right off that it would be a case of love's labour lost."

"You're right. But there's been some queer goings-on in this house."

"Sure think if Monkey Spano had his domicile here. Any sign of young Swinnerton?"

"Hat an' coat, both with his name tagged, in a bedroom. That's where they held him, I guess. There's a drug bottle there, too, an' a couple of syringes, Guess they must have kept him doped."

"Likely thing!.. Must have shifted ground."

"Think so? You haven't heard everything, Sullivan, and there's things you haven't seen. When we got here the door was wide same as you see it now, though the place was dark. Had only to walk in and switch on the lights to take possession. But step this way and I'll show you the exhibits in the case."

They followed him into the room from which he had recently emerged, and he waved a hand.

"There," he said, "what do you make of that?"

The first thing that P.Q.R. was aware of was the confusion of the room. Two overturned chairs, a table-cloth half dragged from the table with a litter of glass and dishes and cutlery and food on the handsome carpet. Whilst on the polished table, side by side in uncongruous apposition, stood a dainty feminine shoe and a blue-black automatic. Then he heard Sullivan whistle, saw him step sharply forward, and in the next second he became aware of a man lying crumpled on the carpet at the far end of the table. He himself stepped forward to look at the man, and heard Sullivan comment tersely:

"Wop! One of Spano's crowd for a dollar!"

The detective looked round. "Must have had a dust-up in the family. That'll be Ip's shoe, I'll bet. About her size, I'd say... Got that wad of Pa Swinnerton's I'd say and had a row over the division of it. Shan't know till we get hold of one of the crowd, an' maybe not then. But where the heck is young Michael?"

"That's the one thing that matters," said P.Q.R. savagely. "And if he's all right, why were his hat and coat left here?"

"Search me!" replied Sullivan. "But Spano's on the run in London, an' if your lot can't get him, Godbold, there'll be no end of trouble No use waiting here. Yo' have gotta block the ports and the airdromes, an'―"

"Headquarters had instructions half an hour ago," said the inspector quietly. "So there's no need to get jumpy. Just go with me through this place, old man, and see if you can spot anything I've overlooked."

Chapter 13

Two Ladies

WITH THE NEW caller still thundering on the door, the little man with the pistol made a sign for silence to Pallisier, and vanished through a doorway which from its position, led to the room which had the Judas in its shutter.

"Gone to take a peep!" thought the Honourable Bill. "Natural maybe in a lonely house like this. But I'll swear the fellow's mortal afraid of someone showing up whom he has no wish for me to see."

He waited wonderingly. The clatter on the door continued for a moment, then ceased suddenly.

"Has the search-light on him," he chuckled. "Fellow's too astonished to knock any more. Wonder who―"

There was a sharp sound which he interpreted as being made by the Judas being too energetically closed. The Jap appeared and hurried past him to the door. He unlocked it and threw it open, and then there came the sound of the caller's voice.

"Say, mister, I'm strayed an' wants know―"

"Minnehaha!" Pallisier came near to shouting the name, and backed hurriedly into the doorway of the room from which the Jap had so recently emerged. Just as he reached it he heard the visitor ejaculate in amazement.

"Strike me blind― if it ain't Kano. Well, who'd have―"

The Japanese intervened swiftly with a word which Pallisier did not catch, but which he guessed must be a warning, and then quite clearly he heard the man say:

"You walk in, Miss?"

"You bet I will―" Pallisier could not see, but that the lady had walked in was evident, for he heard a sound of heels and there followed the closing and locking of the door. For a moment he was in a quandary. That the girl and the Jap were acquainted was certain, and as he stood there wondering what that might forfend, he had a sudden dazzling glimpse of possibilities which decided his action. Without another second's delay he stepped out of the shadow of the doorway into full view of the girl. He saw amazement leap into her eyes, followed almost instantly by recognition, then the girl broke out:

"Blazes! You?"

"None other, Minnehaha. A little surprise. What?"

"Surprise! Hades!" She moved swiftly. Before the Jap could divine what she was about she had snatched the pistol from his hand, and was covering Palliser, whilst she demanded of the Jap:

"Kano, where d'you pick up this skate?" It was Pallisier who replied before the wondering Jap could speak.

"Pick up ! Be reasonable, Minnehaha! The thing's a physical impossibility. But since you are in quest of information I may say I just wandered in through the front door, much as you have done yourself. Only difference is that I don't know the gentleman as you appear to do."

"Smart Aleck, ain't you?"

"I assure you, no. 'Pon my honour. Always a modest position low down the form at school―"

"Cork it," interrupted Miss Ip tersely. "I've heard about enough o' your Kano-"

"I assure you―"

"Liar! Y'know why you blathered your way in here―"

"True. For this coat and these handsome waders with which this little gentleman has been kind enough to outfit me―" He broke off and grinned. "You look as if a change of clothing might be desirable for yourself, old thing."

Miss Ip's clothing was certainly in a lamentable condition. Her silk skirt and once handsome coat were not only soaked, but splashed with mud. Her shoes and her silken hose were thick with it. There were splashes of it on her face, her hands might have been gloved in it, whilst her dark hair was all rat-tails, which clung dankly about her ears and cheeks and neck. It was clear to him that she must have struck the same bank of mud that he had discovered or another of the same brand, and he was really astonished to see that she still had the suitcase with its precious contents.

"Don't concern yourself about my duds," snapped the lady, plainly resenting his untactful reference to her appearance. "Y'aint no oil-painting y'self, an' y'have sure got enough in worry over without shoving yo'r beak in other folks' affairs."

Then she added viciously: "That welt I passed you ain't improved your appearance none."

Palliser touched the "mouse" above his right eye a little gingerly and shook his head.

"That was unkind of you, Minnehaha, to welt a man when he was down!... And I man inform you that in the new society to which you aspire it simply isn't done... But I bear you no ill-will―"

"Y'ain't goin' to get the chance yet awhile," snapped Miss Ip, and set down the suitcase between her muddy feet. "Now just listen to me, you skate, an' listen hard... Step across to the wall there."

With the automatic in her hand she indicated the opposite side of the wall, and Pallisier looked at the wall and then back to her.

"Suppose I don't?" he asked.

"Then you'll get one― an' a lasting one. Don't go thinking it's a bluff. It ain't. Y've seen me bump off one man―"

"Yes. I had the privilege of being the only witness―"

"Saphead! Y've said it!"

The girl's eyes gleamed wickedly, and Pallisier realised instantly that he had allowed his tongue to outrun discretion. The girl had jumped to the fact now if not previously that in the matter of O'Hagan's death she had no one to fear but himself. He gave no indication of understanding what was in her mind, however, and Miss Ip snapped again: "Well, I guess y'know it ain't a bluff. March to the wall there. Face it, an' don't make a move, while I have a li'l chat with Kano. here."

Pallisier considered swiftly. He could not guess what night he the issue of that little chat, but there was nothing to be gained at the moment by refusing to obey. He marched, or rather he clumped his way across the hall and faced the wall as directed, straining his ears in the hope of hearing something of the whispered conversation between the pair. His effort was a vain one. He heard nothing, and when he ventured to look over his shoulder, with a view to learning something that way, instantly the girl revealed that she was on the alert.

"Keep your nose glued to the wall."

He faced the wall again, and as he did so became aware of another sound above the whispering voices. His first thought was that it was the throb of a steamer's engines going up or down the river, but three seconds later he realised the truth.

"Motor-car! Coming this way. Now who―"

In the same instant Kano caught the sound and gave a sharp exclamation.

"They arrive. Miss! I hear―"

"S-s-s-h-h! Don't make such a damn racket. Listen! Might be somebody else blowin' in. This guy's teamed up with Bull Sullivan―"

She broke off her explanation to listen. Pallisier himself listened his very hardest, not that he entertained any hope of Miss Ip's suggestion materialising.  For Sullivan, or Inspector Godbold, or P.Q.R., or his friend Patterson to appear at this lonely house so apropos would be in the nature of a miracle, and the age of miracles was long past. The approaching car drew nearer, then the girl barked:

"Go! Take a peek, Kano. Can't take no tall chances.... I'll watch this boob." Kano hurried up the hall, passed Pallisier and disappeared in the back regions. As he did so, a little way off, a motor-horn sounded three times― one long and two short hoots.

"Guess that's a signal," remarked the girl. "Know it. Sappy?"

"I regret to say I do not."

"Y'll regret a whole lot more inside five minutes if they're Kano's pals. I guess they'll, jump at the chance of gettin' square on that li'l rumpus at the Golden Carp last night,"

"Last, night... Good Lord! Seems ages ago. But who put you wise on that little fracas, Cutie?" He turned his head as he spoke, wondering if it might be possible to make a, breakaway, for an encounter with that crowd whom he had treated to so fine an exhibition of boot-throwing was really not desirable. Miss Ip did not trouble to answer his question.

She was standing with the pistol ready for instant action, but at the moment she was less concerned with him than with the sounds outside, and her eyes were, staring, beyond him with a listening look in their dark depths. Pallisier's eyes turned swiftly to the wall. Close by, almost within reach of his hand, hung a small sporting print of the historic fight for the championship between Gentleman Jackson and Dan Mendoza the Jew. The cord by which it hung was brown and old, rotten as punk he was sure, It was the only possible weapon that offered, and a poor enough thing against that blue-nosed automatic. But as a missile― He acted with the swiftness of light.

His hand lifted, jerked at the picture, and as the denatured cord snapped like thread he flung the picture straight at Miss Ip, and crouching low leaped after it. Almost in the same second the pistol cracked. The glass of the picture shivered whilst it was a yet in the air. One flying piece cut Pallisier's ear, the most fell near Miss Ip, and he was on her just as she pulled the, trigger a second time. A sweep of his left arm drove her pistol hand aside and as the bullet plugged the wall he gripped her wrist, tore the weapon from her grasp and turned for the door.

But the, gangster-moll was game. She flung herself upon him like at wild cat, and she clung, impeding his way to the door, trying to trip him like any wrestler and screaming like a virago all the time.

"Let go," he said desperately, "or―"

"Y'daren't," she gasped. "Haven't got the sand."

It was true enough. in a way, only it was not the lack of what she called sand. The threat of the pistol with him could be no more than a threat where a woman. was concerned, and the girl had the intuition to know it. She clung to him, and whilst he strove to break her hold he moved toward the door, carrying her with him. He reached it and groped for the key. Miss Ip clutched still with both hands, her lissom legs twining about his, her damp head bumping his face. He found the key, and laughed in sheer excitement. Once out in the garden and the darkness he could free himself from his incubus― or was it succubus―? But with the thought uncompleted, he knew that lie had lost. Behind him someone was shouting, and he heard the noise of running feet.

The moll gave a shrill laugh of triumph, and someone landed on his back with an arm round his neck in a stranglehold. Miss Ip loosed her hold suddenly, and, with a mind for essentials, promptly gripped the hand which held the pistol. She tried to wrench it free, failed, and swiftly her small sharp teeth closed on his little finger, which was the handiest for her purpose. The thing so astonished him that he looses, his grip. The girl caught the weapon as it fell, then with the arm of the man upon his back half choking his, he felt a sharp dig in the middle rib. Something hard remained pressed there. He had time to think that the renewal of experiences was not always pleasant when he caught Miss Ip's voice terse and vibrant.

"Reach up. Sharp!"

Remembering that she might welcome any cause for unpleasant action that would be the end of the story for him, he obeyed and, as his arms went up, the man who was doing his best to throttle him fell away.

"Put your back to the door and keep 'em stretched," commanded Miss Ip, and breathing more freely he obeyed her willingly, since that would give him a view of the hall, and of his latest assailant. The latter interested him enormously, for he proved to be the man who had masqueraded as an A. A. man on the Southampton-road, The fact surprised him into an ejaculation that was reminiscent of Miss Ip's when he had stepped out from the doorway a little while ago.

"The devil. You?"

The man scowled at him but made no reply, and a moment later his attention was diverted by the entrance of several people from the back regions of the house.

The first was the doll-like Japanese girl of the Golden Carp, who had flung the knife at him in the midst of the Aunt-sallying with the shoes of those assembled. She moved forward without haste, then at the sight of the little tableau by the door she stopped. A look of wonder came on the exotically beautiful face, then the heavy lids lifted and the eyes glowed with recognition.

"Lamia knows me!" he thought. "Well―"

Other people were entering the hall, three of them in line-all men, the two outsiders as it appeared supporting the third. As his eyes rested on them, he recognised one of the for the man whom he had dubbed "Swallow-tails." The other two were strangers to hint, the outside one an obvious Oriental, the man in the middle, with a bandage round his head. as obviously of Anglo-Saxon race. As he recognised that he heard Miss Ip laugh.

"See that guy there, Rube?" she enquired.

"I do. He looks like a third-class life," he answered with an indifference that was meant to be provocative "What's happened to him? Has he fallen downstairs or―"

"Fallen, heck!.. D'you know him?"

"Never seen him in my life b'fore," he answered glibly. "Take a Bible oath on it, Minnehaha. Who is he? The Emperor of Manchuria or the President of Paraguay. "

"He's the guy your wanting-Michael Swinnerton, an'―"

"You don't say, Minnehaha?" he cried, affecting a surprise he did not feel, for from the first he had guessed that the bandaged, young man supported by the two Japanese, who moved like a man in a dream, could be no other than Joy's brother. Then he shot a question.

"But what's he doing here?"

"Ask him," answered Miss Ip curtly," though sure he don't look in a condition to tell much about himself, which ain't surprisin' considering the dope that Spano has pumped into him these last forty-eight hours."

"But... but I thought he was to be released when you got those hundred thousand dollars?"

"So he was, but seemingly these Tokio fellas have a grievance against him, an' have lifted him on their own."

"Or bought him from Monkey Spano's friends? What?"

"It's you who's the clever guy," sneered the girl. "Don't josh. I reckon you tumbled to that when you were listening-in on O'Hagan an' me a while back."

The Honourable Bill did not reply. He was interested in watching the other people in the hall, particularly the pair who had charge of Michael Swinnerton. They were conducting him to the stairs which ascended in a fairly broad flight from the middle of the hall. He watched as they reached the top where a landing was dimly visible in the light of a lamp that someone had kindled. He noted care fully that they turned to the right, and as they disappeared heard Miss Ip's gibing voice.

"Marking the hide-away, Mister? Well, I tell you there ain't no need for you to worry about it... You'll be the lucky bird if y'don't hit anything worse in the next ten minutes... That Jane across there has her lamps on you, an' they don't seem no ways a friendly."

Pallisier glanced in the direction of the Japanese girl.. Miss Ip was quite right. Lamia was regarding him in a that seemed distinctly unfriendly whilst she talked to the man on whom he had inflicted such indignities in Grosvenor Gardens. Apparently from the man's glances they were discussing him, no doubt deciding what should he done with him, and that there was, some difference of opinion on the matter appeared to be indicated by the man's vehemence and the girl's argument, he glanced at the gun-moll.

"Say, Minnehaha, I don't like that Jane across there one little bit." "Nor me, either," answered Miss Ip. "Makes me think of the serpent house in a zoo, with the slimy things crawling round flicking out their tongues. Them orbs of hers make me feel cold. All the same I'm going to borrow a change of duds from her before I quit."

"Think they'll let you quit?" he asked quietly.

"Why the heck not?" she snapped.

"Well," he answered, "there's that loot of yours―"

"They ain't interested in that, not one li'l bit. So y'can put that notion out of your bean, right away."

"But they may have other reasons for―"

"If they start trouble I'll shoot up the lot," answered Miss lp with a little snarl. Pallisier hesitated. The pair near the foot of the stairs were still discussing, the man who had admitted him to the house was busy hurrying from the back regions with a tray full of viands which he carried into the room that had the peep-hole in the shutter. Only the woman and the man whose hat he had bashed seemed to be concerning themselves about him at all. There was the faintest chance that if he could get the door open he might slip away in the darkness, But to do that he must first persuade the girl at his side, "Say, Minnehaha, what will you take to let me open the door―?"

"Bank of England!" answered Miss lp with a grin. "Y'can't buy me. I got all the boodle I want."

There was a decisiveness in her tones which told Pallisier that that line might as well be abandoned forthwith.

"No use reminding you that but for me the boodle and you would have been at the bottom of the river?"

"Meanin' y'saved my life. Hey?"

"Well I don't wait to boast―"

"No ! Am' I ain't going to lose what y'went to so much trouble to save. That's handing it to you straight.. Besides, y're' forgettin' a whole lot. First is that if you hadn't jumped into that darned boat, I'd have heels back at my hotel all nice an' cosy instead o' shivering here all grimed like a sewer-man, so I ain't got no cause to be the grateful kid. Second is that I don't want no witness to start extradition when I'm settled down as a lady. An' as there's only one― Y'get me, mister?"

Pallisier did get her, and made no further attempt at persuasion.

"Minnehaha," he said, "you never will be a lady. You lack the finer feelings. Better stick to your present line of business. You'll never shine at the other."

"Aw! Tie it up! Your turn is comin' now."

The two men who had conducted Michael Swinnerton upstairs were back in the hall again, and Swallow-tails, as Pallisier still dubbed the man who had been discussing with that exotic girl, was giving them directions in their own language. That those instructions had to do with him was clear from the man's gestures, and as the pair began to move towards him Miss' Ip spoke again.

"Told you eel... Guess I've gotta say au revoir, mister."

"Au revoir. but not goodbye, Minnehaha. We shall meet again, I hope." "Not if I can help it."

"You won't be able to avoid it, old thing. I have a― er― hunch―"

"I've got one too, and it ain't the same as yours.  I'll lay all the bucks in that case that by this time to-morrow y'are in the river again with a couple of hefty stones tied to your dogs. D'you take me, honourable?"

The girl grinned maliciously, and Pallisier grinned back. "I'll take the bet. Do we shake hands on it or―"

"Hades! No! Keep 'em up!" The two men drew near, and one of them produced a pistol, while the other gave the order quietly.

"You walk up the stairs!". That was all, but the brevity. left nothing out.

The man with the pistol took Miss Ip's place, and the girl gave him a mocking good-bye.

"So long, mister."

"Au revoir, Minnehaha!" he replied, and by reason of the clumsy waders clumped along the hall towards the staircase.

'To reach it he had to pass the pair, who had been settling his fate. The man watched him intently, but said nothing and gave no sign of recognition, but the girl's eyes had a gleam that was almost baleful, and the Honourable Bill permitted himself a mental comment.

"Ip was right. Trust a woman to know a woman. The reptile house at the zoo's your proper home."

As he reached the stairs one of the conductors― the man with the pistol― slipped behind him, and he felt the muzzle of the weapon as it was thrust against the small of his back. The other man walked by his side. When they reached the landing, which was ill-lighted with a cheap oil lamp resting on a bracket, there was a halt whilst one of the men secured the lamp.

Pallisier took a swift look round. There were four doorways opening from' the landing, two on each side, and behind one of the two on the right, as he guessed, Michael Swinnerton was confined. More than that, he had not time to mark, for, having secured the lamp, the man lead the way to a short corridor communicating with what appeared to be the servants' quarters. There he indicated a door which stood open, and the man with the pistol gave a little dig which was silent command. Pallisier passed through the doorway into a sparsely furnished room, which had a wallpaper in which all the characters of the nursery rhymes so dear to childhood were portrayed. There was a folding bed in one corner, a cane seated chair, and a small table― nothing else that he could see in that first appraising glance, except a cupboard built in a recess. He was given time for no further observation. The door closed behind him, a key was turned, and he was left in complete darkness, save for the gleam of stars through the window.

He lowered his arms and groped his way to the window. As he had half expected, after his glimpse of the wallpaper, he found it was barred. He peered out into the night. Before him there was a blankness that he guessed represented the saltings where he had wandered before finding the house. Further away there was the moving lights of ships. Nothing else was visible save the stars. He groped for the bars. Touch told him that they were not the flimsy things he associated with the nursery of his childhood, but string stuff of a triangular pattern that would defy any assault by the naked hands. Then he whistled softly to himself.

"So that's that," he whispered, "and the deuce at that!"

Chapter 14

Bull Sullivan's Hunch

"WELL, SULLIVAN, what do you make of it?" asked Inspector Godbold. "Find anything I missed?"

"Not so much as is worth mentioning. Where d'you find that shoe?"

"Outside, between here and the gate."

"That means that whoever dropped it was quitting in a hurry, an' hadn't time to retrieve it."

"That is evident."

"An' the gun?" "It was on the floor near that man's hand. For a guess I should say it was his!"

Mr. Sullivan looked at the pistol closely without touching it, then he nodded.

"Likely. It's an American make.' He looked round, and then his gaze came back to the inspector. "An' what d'you say has happened to Michael Swinnerton?"

"God knows!" answered the inspector not at all piously.

"We've got to find the boy, quick, now!" said Sullivan tersely. "Something's happened here that's put a new face on things."

"Looks as if there'd been a row among the kidnappers," commented Godbold. "Probably about the division of the cash."

"Think so?... We ain't sure that they've collected it yet. But there's sure been a helluva dustup, an' after it everybody quit in a hurry an' took young Michael with 'em― you've been through the garden?"

"Pretty thoroughly. But I've three men going over the shrubbery again. You're thinking―"

"Just wondering why taking him they let' his hat an' coat! Mebbe they thought he wouldn't be needing them, where he was going."

"You don't think they'd be so infernally brazen as to... to..."

"You ain't acquainted with that kind of crowd over here. Snatchers aren't particular whether they hand you back a corpse or not so long as they get the dollars... And there's an element in this case that's different."

"You mean the political one?"

"No. There's that, of course. But I'm thinking of John M. Swinnerton's activities in Chicago. As I informed you, one of the fellas who went to the electric chair as a result was Spano's younger brother. If that suitcase has been collected, Spano may have been taken by the idea to even things up a bit more by rubbing out Swinnerton Junior... But I'm hoping not. Something's happened here that gave him a shake up. I saw him in a taxi after I left you an' he was just raging. Looks as if his little game had somehow got a twist.... You've got to find him, and ask him to explain things. He's loose in London somewhere, though he may be trying to make a getaway. There are the others, too― Ip, and Mike O'Hagan. You've evidence now on which to run 'em in. That hat and coat'll need a bit of explaining, as well as that corpse, and I reckon you'll be able to hold 'em all right.... That's your job. Mine's to find young Michael dead or alive.... There's a telephone here y'say―"

"In the room across the hall."

"Then I'll just step across and use it, while your men finish their combing of the shrubbery."

He left the room, and as he went P.Q.R. looked at Inspector Godbold. "Looks bad, Inspector."

"As bad as can be. I should never have agreed to the payment of that ransom if I had known it was in contemplation. In a way it's like compounding a felony, almost, and in my judgment it was just asking for trouble. Suppose by any chance we nabbed this Spano lot? Who'd we have to rely upon to secure a conviction― the victim of the kidnapping. No one else, unless one of the lot turned King's evidence."

"Not much likelihood of that. Inspector. It's an axiom in the U.S.A. that gangsters don't squeal. Man who ventured to do so wouldn't get far. There's been big rewards offered in Chicago that have gone unclaimed though a score of people could have furnished the information required."

"Well, scoundrels may be loyal to one another. Over here I haven't known it to happen. There's usually one who's willing to own up to save himself a stretch in Dartmoor. But that apart, seems to me that to hand over that amount of money without the hostage being delivered on the nail, or without giving the police the chance to get the criminals is just the way to make them go to the limit and get rid of the one essential witness."

"Know how you're feeling, Inspector. But John M. Swinnerton is a big man― and his instructions were peremptory, to pay promptly and secretly, and move out on the racketeers only when his son was safe. Mr. Mistley, my boss, was of the same mind. But this business here, whatever it means, has fairly crashed things―"

A man in plain clothes appeared at the door and Inspector Godbold shot a word.

"Well?"

"Not a sign, sir. We've paced the whole place. If anybody living or dead was in the garden we couldn't have missed him."

"Very good, Hardman. Just keep an eye on things outside until the surgeon comes."

"Right, sir." The man withdrew, and a moment later Sullivan returned and heard the result of the search. "That much to the good then. But there's no news of the lad at Grosvenor Gardens, so unless they've loosed him in some desolate spot, it's likely they're still holding him... Another thing, there isn't a word from Mr. Pallisier. He hasn't come back to his flat, and he hasn't sent any message."

"You left him down there?" snapped Inspector Godbold.

"Don't even know. if he went down to the neighbourhood. But― my stars! I'm goin' batty."

"You ought to know, Sullivan. And there's enough in this business to shake us all. What's impressed it on you. that you're―"

"That barge! It's a likely place for Spano's crowd to park Michael Swinnerton after lifting the currency. Place is lonely as y'could wish. S'pose they put the lad on the craft and left him there to be gathered by somebody―'

"Objection to that, Sullivan," intervened P.Q.R., "is that Michael can swim like a fish. I know. We were at Harvard together, and I camped  with him three summer vacations in the Adirondacks."

"Mebbe! But there are those dope-squairters upstairs. Might account for a whole lot. S'pose they gave him a shot that u'd keep him quiet for half a day or so―"

"That wouldn't account for the Honourable William Pallisier," said the inspector.

"Mebbe not!" agreed Mr. Sullivan. "I don't reckon to be omniscient. But I do reckon it's worth while taking a look at that barge. You've got hold of this end, Godbold, an' all you've got to do to clear up this infernal mystery is to nab Spano or O'Hagen or Ip and persuade whichever you catch to talk... Michael Swinnerton's my job, and I'm going to see to it, if I can get a taxi-driver in London to take on an all night job."

"I'll come with you. Sullivan," said Ringrose quickly. "And there's no need to worry about the taxi. We'll run into town and pick up my car. No need letting any curious taxi-man into the business."

"That's verra good of you, Mr. Ringrose―"

"Oh, rot, Sullivan. Bill Pallisier and I are pals, and Mike Swinnerton's an old college mate. Say what you've got to say to the inspector, and we'll start."

He left the room and went out to the steps where he stood storing into the shadows of the garden until Sullivan joined him.

"Ready, Mr. Ringrose."

THREE-QUARTERS of an hour later, with Ringrose at the wheel, they left town, made a good pace through the silent city, and along the roads eastwards, now almost deserted by traffic. When most of an hour had passed they reached the deserted by-road which led to Swingler's Wharf, and Mr. Sullivan spoke praisefully.

"I'll hand it to you, Mr. Ringrose, that y'can make a car hop. If ever you're broke, which you ain't likely to be, I reckon y'won't need to starve. Smoother travellin' I never had, but I guess it's time we hoofed it. Don't want to shout to the wide world that we've come to take a look round."

"No," agreed P.Q.R., and driving slowly came on a gate that opened on rough pasture. There he parked the car, and after extinguishing the lights, they went forward on foot. They had the world to themselves. But for the occasional hooting of a steamer down-river and the cry of some wandering bird the world was absolutely still with a stillness that moved Sullivan to remark upon it.

"Might be out in the salt sage of Arizona. Y'wouldn't think that the biggest city in the world was anywhere on the map. This place was made for a hideaway, I guess."

"Pretty solitary," agreed P.Q.R. "Doesn't seem to be a house anywhere. But of course by this everybody will be abed."

In a little time they reached the immediate neighbourhood of Swingler's Wharf, and went forward cautiously and in silence. Then suddenly, Bull Sullivan gripped the arm of his companion and both halted.

"What―" began P.Q.R. in a whisper. "Look, there away to the left." Ringrose looked, and through the darkness made out a greenish light, which seemed to be diffused rather than focussed in a point, the source of it being quite invisible.

"What d'you make of that?" whispered Sullivan.

"Don't know. The light is green, and there was a green lamp on that barge when Miss Joy rowed out to it."

"Yeh! It was hung overside. But now, Mr. Ringrose, that lamp's been shifted. Y'Can't see it, but it's there on the deck, shadowed by the bulwarks."

"And that means that someone has been aboard since Miss Joy."

"Yeh! Who?"

P.Q.R. did not attempt to reply to the question, though there was the obvious answer that those who knew the suitcase was to be placed aboard the barge had been to fetch it, and were probably there now. He stared steadily at the green light, wondering what its changed position might for-fend, and a moment later caught his companion's whisper.

"Looks as if there might be some guy aboard that craft now."

"Guess we'll go slow an' not make direct for the wharf. May be somebody waiting an' watching there. S'pose we turn up-river an' come down that way. If Spano's lot are there they'll plug its on sight if we march straight forward, an' I ain't craving to be corpsed yet awhile."

On the right of the road there was a rough bank, a relic of some far day when some hopeful spirit had tried to cultivate the land beyond it. They climbed the bank and, moving as cautiously as they could, presently reached a position above the wharf, and were able to see that Sullivan's guess was the right one, and that the green lamp which had previously hung overside now stood on the barge's deck...

Halting, they watched the barge for some time, and as well as the darkness permitted inspected the derelict wharf, Nothing moved either on the wharf or the barge, and there was no sound but the swirl of the water. At length, Sullivan spoke.

"See anything?"

"Nothing!"

"Hear anything?"

"Only the water."

"Don't believe there's a soul about, unless he's on that craft.... But somebody may be watching. Guess we'll wait awhile."

They waited quarter of an hour. Nothing happened, nothing moved either ashore or on the barge, but the green light still shone. Then Sullivan rose and stretched himself.

"We'll give the wharf the once-over. Have a notion we'll draw a blank. Tread carefully, brother."

They moved nearer the wharf. and then, quite close, once more halted to inspect it. It was dark, but silent as the grave. Mr. Sullivan pulled something from under his coat.

"Guess y'didn't think to bring a pistol Mr. Ringrose?"

"No!"

"Then grip this, an' if any guy shows up and interferes, hit first an' hit hard. Fella who takes it will howl. I got a gun an' I'll do the shooting if there's need."

The thing which he thrust into Ring-rose's hand was a rubber truncheon― a very effective weapon when handled by an expert.

"Right!" whispered P.Q.R., then with an occasional glance at the barge, but with more attention for the wharf, he followed Sullivan.

The wharf was absolutely deserted. Not so much as a rat ran across its decaying timbers. And being assurers of that both gave their attention to the barge, which remained silent as a tomb. The detective moved towards the edge of the wharf, stared around, and downward, then gave a half sup- pressed ejaculation.

"Jee-rusalem!" "Jerusalem, what? Speak plainly, Sullivan."

"The boat's gone! It was moored here, the rope round this bollard. That means some guy has annexed it."

"Have to, if he wanted to get to the barge, unless he swam for it.... I expect it is no tied up to the craft."

"Y'think so? Can y'see it Look hard, brother."

"No. I can make out the shape of the barge pretty well, but there's no shadow at its side that might be the boat. If it's there it is tied up on the farther side."

"Yeh! Know any reason why any one taking a row out to that craft should tie-up outside her? That ain't human nature. The tie-up would be at the side nearest. It ain't as if he hadn't left that lamp burning. Then I'd have understood that he wanted to keep the boat out of sight. But the lamp gives the show away an' just shouts that there's someone aboard."

"Well, what's to be done?"

"Nothing in a hurry," answered Sullivan. "We'll just keep watch for a bit. Mebbe the guy will step on deck."

"If Mike Swinnerton is on that barge doped, according to your idea, Sullivan, he isn't going to walk on deck for a goodish bit, you know."

"Guess you re right. But we'll lose nothing by waiting and going cautious. If he's aboard, another half-hour there ain't going to hurt the lad, an' it there's anybody else there we'll get news of 'em. That shed there looks a likely place."

They retreated to the shadow of a ruined go-down, and there for a time sat watching the barge with the green light illuminating portions of the deck. Nothing moved aboard her and no sound from her came across the water. After a time Sullivan whispered:

"Got an idea about that boat. S'pose Swinnerton Junior is on the barge. Them that put him there wouldn't want him to get away in a hurry--so they took the boat so as anybody happening along would have to get another before they could board the barge―"

"And left that lantern burning to show them the way, hey?"

"Well, that's sure a corker!"

Time passed slowly. Well out on the river a tug went noisily downstream, and once a launch went up also well out, but nothing happened on the barge. Then suddenly P.Q.R. whispered: "Sullivan, that lantern's going out."

"Heck! If it isn't."

"I don't believe there's anybody aboard that barge that we need to be scared about. I've half a mind to take a look round her."

"How are you going to get aboard?" asked Sullivan.

"Swim out to her. Do it in a minute an' a half."

"Well, sure there that way. Bit of a risk, though."

"Risk be hanged. I'm tired of waiting here, when we can settle things one way or the other in two jiffs."

He did not wait for Sullivan's approval, but immediately began to strip Inside two minutes, he stood mother naked in the dark, then he spoke again.

"Going now! If anything happens here, grab my garments and make for the car. I'll get there somehow."

"Right, my son. But when y'get to that craft listen-in careful before y'step aboard."

"Don't worry."

Ringrose moved to the edge of the wharf and lowered himself into the water, then he swam quietly towards the barge. Listening keenly Bull Sullivan heard not so much as a splash, and did not know that P.Q.R. had reached his objective, until he saw him standing on the barge's deck, a tall ghost-like figure in the green light of the lantern. He watched anxiously. Nothing happened.

Then he saw Ringrose approach the bulwark, pick up the lantern with its dying flame, and move swiftly along the deck. He disappeared from view, and Sullivan, hardened as he was to desperate situations, held his breath. If there was a trap on that barge, now was the moment when it would be sprung.

Nothing happened. There was no shot, no outcry, no sound of any kind, and when P.Q.R. reappeared and began to make a complete tour of the barge, whilst Mr. Sullivan permitted himself to breathe freely once more, he was conscious of a pang of disappointment.

"A blank!" he whispered. He watched P.Q.R. set down the lantern in the exact place where he had found it, and slip over the side of the barge into the water, then after a swift glance round he moved to the edge of the wharf to help the swimmer to land. He waited with deliberate patience until Ringrose reached his clothing, then he asked:

"Well?"

"Nothing! There's no one aboard that craft, nor sign of anyone. But that suitcase has gone."

"The devil! It has?"

"Sure. Lend me your handkerchief, old man. Don't want to dress wetter than I need. Ought to have brought a towel along."

Mr. Sullivan produced the handkerchief, and whilst P.Q.R. made a pretence of drying himself before donning his clothes, he stared out to the dark water, completely nonplussed.

The hunch that he had followed had completely failed him, and beyond the knowledge of the fact that the suitcase with its contents had been collected, there was nothing as a reward for this long journey from town in the middle of the night. And though he would not have owned the fact to Inspector Godbold, for worlds, he was at the moment completely at a loss. His silence revealed something of his feelings to P.Q.R., who, having reached the stage of searching his pockets for his collar-studs, braced by his swim, was not feeling so depressed as perhaps he ought to have been.

"Well, old bean, what's the next move?" he asked cheerfully.

"There's only one that I can see," answered Mr. Sullivan. "And that's to find Spano or Spotty or Ip."

"An' what about Bill Pallisier?"

"I'd sure give a year's cheque to know where that sparkling young gent is, an' I'd give the next year's cheque to know just who he saw collect that bag."

"May know that without being so reckless with your money when we get back to town. Or again we may not. What about Pallisier following them on? If I know him he'd have his car parked somewhere middling handy."

"S'pose he did? Where would he go? Amritsar Lodge! And once he'd tailed those birds to their roost, what'd he do― but hunt up the nearest telephone and put us wise, which he ain't done, not yet?"

"May be waiting for us now, with without having had the chance to 'phone, you know, Sullivan."

"Yeh! But he wasn't at Spano's heels or I'd have seen him, or he'd sure have spotted me perched on the edge of the sidewalk."

"May be waiting for us new, with the news. May even have Mike Swinnerton with him. Sure to have if there's anything in your notion that those snatchers might park Mike on the barge when they lifted the ransom."

"Heck! I never thought of that. I'm going nutty." The detective's spirits rose several degrees. "I sure hope you're right, Mr. Ringrose. And the sooner I know the better for my health."

"Well, we'll hop back and ignore the speed laws of this great country. Won't be much on the roads at this hour."

They returned to the car, walking at a brisk pace to avert any possibility of a chill for Ringrose, and soon they were on their way along the road which led to the high road for town.

But as it chanced fate took a hand. On the outward journey neither of them had noticed that at a point not far from the highway the lane they followed forked, and when they reached the fork, without a thought of anything wrong, P.Q.R., watching the ancient ruts rather than on the lookout for any turning, kept straight on, to discover presently from the windings and twistings of the lane that he had somehow missed his way. He swore disgustedly when he made the discovery, but consoled himself with the motorist's philosophy that the road was bound to come out somewhere, and that with a good car a mile or two was of little importance.

The by-road came out at long last on the main road. and as they made it, and turned London wards, chancing to glance at the oil-gauge, P.Q.R. discovered that his oil-level was alarmingly low.

"My hat!" he ejaculated. "I've got to get Castrol from somewhere."

"Y'have?... Then we're beat. This countryside ain't likely to specialise in all-night garages."

But luck was with them― and brought with it further luck utterly unhoped for. Half a mile up the road they came on a wayside garage, where two men were at work on a big vehicle of the type used for the conveyance of livestock, and through the wooden bars of which a handsome shorthorn bull peered with angry eyes and from time to time made rumblings that spoke of ruffled feelings.

As they pulled up, the proprietor of the garage left the cattle vehicle. P.Q.R. made known his requirements, and the proprietor hurried into the garage to get the oil. As he went Ringrose's eyes followed him and caught sight of something which drew from him a single word expressive of complete amazement. "Gee!"

"What―"

"That car there inside the garage. It's Bill's, or my eyes are going wonky. Can you read the number, Sullivan?"

"AYA 592!" snapped Sullivan. "Bill's then! But in heaven's name what's it doing here?"

He stepped quickly from the car to the road, and strode to the door of the garage. Sullivan followed him and they met the proprietor as he emerged with the oil. Instantly P.Q.R. shot a question.

"That car there― how long has it been here?... It belongs to a friend of mine for whom I've been looking half the night."

"It was left here this afternoon, by the owner, a nice young gentleman of the name of... er... well now―"

"Pallisier," suggested Ringrose. "That's it, sir. Queer how a name will slip you just when you're going to speak it."

"Was he alone?"

"Quite alone, sir. He said he didn't know how long he would be gone― he was going for a stroll across the marshes, Purfleet way; but he expected to be back for the car before bedtime. I hope nothing has happened to the gentleman."

"So do I... It's odd that he should be so late. But if he shows up just say that P.Q.R. has been here looking for hint and ask him to phone Number 4 at  once."

"Yes, sir. 'P.Q.R.,' " The man repeated the directions. " 'Number 4.' Easy enough to remember, and I'll not forget to tell him. We're on the phone, so he'll be able to get through right away."

Neither Ringrose nor the detective spoke whilst the man was pouring in the oil, but scarcely had the car begun to move when Sullivan exploded. "Hades! That's put the lid on your notion that the Honourable will have toted young Swinnerton along home with him!"

"Fairly torn it to tatters!" owned P.Q.R. humbly. "But in Heaven's name, where has Pallisier hidden himself?"

"Don't know. Looks to me as if he'd joined the casualty list. That was always a possibility. And if he has―"

"Can't do anything till we know!" interrupted P.Q.R. "And I hope to God you're dead wrong in the idea, Sullivan. Bill's too good a man to be shot-up by a handful of Cicero gunmen..... And if he has been, I'm almost sorry for your Spano lot. This country will harry them till their boots are worn out add the skin is off their feet― and, it'll get them in the end. There's nothing wrong with the Judiciary over here, and the biggest racketeer in the U.S.A. couldn't bribe his neck out of a noose that was fitted on this side."

"Y'have said it, Mr. Ringrose.. But if this young Honourable is still kicking, he's another we've got to find, and it's likely that if he ain't been rubbed out, we may find him and Michael Swinnerton together... If only we could get one real decent break―"

"Got to 'make one for ourselves... Pallisier came down here and he's slipped out of sight. That Spano crowd had fixed the barge as the place to deliver the goods, and Michael Swinnerton has vanished from Amritsar Lodge.  Where've they taken him? Down here for a dollar... And it's down here I'm coming to look for Bull in the morning―"

"I'm coming, too, Mr. Ringrose, Godbold can handle all that Norwood end of the business. Except for what we know, that house won't be worth no more than a last year's nest. Monkey Spano's through with it. But he ain't through with everything. Something's raised the devil in him. That was writ in his eyes when we clashed up Westminster, and when Monkey Spano gets really going― he just goes berserk, runs amok, goes bald-headed at them he's after, and there'll sure be ructions heard somewhere in London City... But I'm leaving that to Godbold, till we get track of our two young gents, then after, well, if Spano is still runnin' loose, I'll go after him as I'd go after a dog with rabies-that is with a gun, which is a weapon that Brother Godbold despises... Talks high falutin' of the Majesty of the Law. But all I gotta say is that I ain't going to provide the corpse that brings the Majesty into action, not if I can help it, an' thank Heaven I got a good eye an' a quick trigger-finger."

"Maybe we shall hear things when I we hit Number 4."

"Mebbe! But I'm not feedin' hopes to myself.  They buoy you up, but the're liable to let you down, like a busted balloon. I'm clinging to the ground with both my dogs this time. Facts an' facts only is the goods in this game, an' it's facts I'm craving for badly just now―there's a sight too many things that are just in the air around the corner, out of sight."

...And when they reached Grosvenor Gardens there was a little of hard food for which Bull Sullivan craved awaiting him― one small fact fed to him over the telephone by Inspector Godbold, whom he rang up to give him the particulars of the nocturnal excursion down-river.

"Well, Sullivan, I've got something for you, too― may be a straw in the wind, or again it may be nothing."

"Cut the frills an' pass the meat, brother. I'm real hungry."

"It's about Spano. Twenty minutes or so after you saw him in Westminster, he was at the Golden Carp, demanding to see some Jap fellow who wasn't there. He wouldn't accept the assurance of the management, and started to smash up the place."

"He sure would if he was feeling bad... Wonder he stopped at that."

"He might not have done, but he wasn't an expert in Japanese methods. Two of the waiters ju-jitsued him into the street, chock in to the arms of a policeman―"

"Y'got him, brother?" cried Sullivan almost ecstatically.

"No!"

"Well, of all the blasted―"

"S-s-h-h-h. The 'phone is holy. It's sacrilege to swear and there's a penalty. What happened was that the constable gripped Spano, and held him, but the proprietor of the Carp declined to make a charge. So the constable gave him sound advice and sent him away with a flea in his ear―"

"Man's born lucky or he'd have got something harder in his own! Go on."

"Constable hadn't a notion of his identity till he was going off duty, when he chanced to read a telephoned description of Spano and the others at Vine-street. Then he knew the treasure he'd let slip, and like an honest man reported what had happened. Immediate enquiries at the Golden Carp brought nothing. Spano was a stranger enquiring for another stranger of whom the proprietor had never so much as heard, and so forth. He sat tight on that, and I am sure that nothing less than a charge of dynamite would lift him off it.... But you'll see the significance of Spano's visit to a Japanese cafe, Sullivan?"

"Yeh! I reckon I can see through a ladder like other folk."

"Another thing. The lady's shoe at Amritsar Lodge―"

"Ip's?"

"Has Miss Ip recently been in Tokio?"

"Tokio?... Don't know where that hen-racketeer may have been. If she'd made a trip to Hell an' back it wouldn't surprise me. Why?"

"Shoe was purchased in Tokio. It has the retailer's stamp. I had to get an interpreter to be sure―"

Sullivan whistled sharply, then he said: "I get you, brother. Ought to be in bed, but I'm coming round at once if I can find a taxi... wait for me. I'm hanging up."

He hung up the receiver and turned to P.Q.R.

"Y'heard a little. Set you wondering, I guess, Mr. Ringrose. Haven't time to elaborate, but here's the facts. Spano's been playing the housebreaker at the Golden Carp. And that shoe at Amritsar Lodge was bought in Tokio... Y'can put two an' two together as well as I can. Didn't belong to Ip. Likely owner is that lady who tried to knife you at that chop-stick place. This thing's growing more complicated, an' yet if y'get me its opening out. I'm off to see Godbold right away.... But if I don't see you before breakfast time, an' you see anything Jappy― hang on to it. So long."

And without more ado Bull Sullivan departed, leaving P.Q.R. to make the little addition of two and two which the other had propounded.

Chapter 15

Good News

FROM AN UNEASY SLEEP, the Honourable Bill awoke in a weeping dawn, and lay for a moment listening to the heavy patter of rain on the window. Then, feeling warm and comfortable in the blanket in which he had wrapped himself before lying down, he looked carefully round the room, one by one verifying details he had observed in the brief time afforded him before his captors had withdrawn with the light. The window was heavily barred. Besides the bed on which he lay, the only furniture was a' chair and a small table. On the floor lay the Harris tweed overcoat which he had discarded before getting into bed, and in the bed itself, as he knew, was the swimming suit which he had placed between a folded sheet in the hope that the heat of his body would suffice to dry it whilst he slept. The waders were lying near the coat-looking very muddy and untidy in the light of the morning. "Well," he murmured to himself. "I seem to be in a nice little hole. What?" He considered the hole for some time longer, without seeing any way of climbing out of it; and in the course of his reflections his mind wandered to Michael Swinnerton, who was in a hole that was at least as deep as that in which he found himself. Without knowing anything of Amritsar Lodge and the mysterious events that had befallen there, it was not difficult for him to conjecture how Michael Swinnerton had come to be a prisoner at this house on the Marshes. Despite Sullivan's conviction to the contrary, Minnehaha and Spotty O'Hagan had double-crossed Spano, and sold the news of the whereabouts of Michael Swinnerton to the Japs, who wanted him even more urgently than Spano himself. By some means they had obtained possession of him, and recalling Monkey Spano's reputation as set forth by Bull Sullivan, and his own dealings with the Japs, he had little doubt that the means must have been of a violent nature. Well, there was no occasion' for tears where Monkey Spano was concerned. The man was a cold-blooded killer, and if he had been killed himself, it was a better fate than he deserved. But there was Michael Swinnerton to think of. Why had his new captors brought him to this lonely house; and having obtained possession of him, what did they mean to do with him? There were those papers he was supposed to be carrying. Had they secured possession of those with him, and if so, would they let him go? Or was there something more, something which had not been commit-ted to paper at all and which they had hoped to make him reveal? The last possibility, he thought, was very likely. Just now the relations between Japan and the Anglo-Saxon powers were a little strained, not so much perhaps as those between Russia and Japan, but sufficiently so to cause anxiety, and her withdrawal from the Naval treaty was a matter of portent. That Michael Swinnerton had come to England with special secret proposals from Washington he had gathered, and that it would be to the interest of Japan to discover what these were was so plain as not to be challenged. All that, he thought, coupled with the fact that the Japanese agents had plainly been on the look out for him on his arrival in England, made things look rather black for Swinnerton, and―"

"But what in heaven's name can I do?" To have learned the whereabouts of the missing envoy, and to be unable to use the knowledge, was the most galling thing in the world. It made it impossible for him to lie there thinking of his own helplessness, and slipping out of bed, with the blanket wrapped round him to cover his nakedness, he stepped to the barred window and looked forth.

The prospect was not an exhilarating one. The rain made visibility poor, and beyond the garden which surrounded the house he could see nothing save a stretch of the marsh where he had wandered in the night, and a grey reach of river, with a steamer and a tug with a string of lighters going up with the tide. He searched the forlorn landscape thoroughly, but with the area of vision shortened by the rain failed to discover any other house.

"Wouldn't matter much if there was one," he thought. "Anyone with a house down here probably gives strict attention to his own business, and nobody would believe that two young gents with good connections were being held prisoners in a lonely house on Thames-side. The thing is too utterly un-English."

Turning from the dreary prospect outside, he stepped lightly to the door and examined it, a thing he had not been able to do on the previous night. It was a strong door, with stout panels of oak, and obviously made before the days of those machines dear to the hearts of jerry-builders, which turn out doors by the hundred, doors through which, however locked and bolted, a resolute man would have no difficulty in making his way. He looked at the lock. It was a stout affair, old-fashioned, with big screws that appeared to be rusted in.

He shook his head as he considered it. With a hammer and a cold chisel, or even with a strong screwdriver, something might be done; but for a man whose only tools were his hands it represented an insurmountable obstacle. Assured of that, he stood listening for any sound outside. He heard nothing. Apparently he himself was the only person yet awake, a reasonable enough thing considering how late the other' people in the house had been abroad last night.

"Slug-a-beds," he murmured. "Ought to―"

He broke off suddenly as a new idea occurred to him. What if he were alone in the house? Suppose the others had departed, secretly leaving him cooped up in this room to make his way out the best he could, or if unrelieved from outside to stay there until he perished? He shrugged his shoulders as the question shot through his mind.

"Cinema stuff!" he murmured. "It isn't done― outside Hollywood!"

But whilst the thing might not be done, the possibility was a sobering one. In the last few days he had taken part in so many things that to say the least were very unusual that, despite his little gibe, he knew there was nothing inherently improbable in the possibility; and whilst he hunted out the bathing suit his ears strained for any reassuring sound in the house. The bathing suit was dry and warm, and he slipped into it. Then he donned the overcoat, and pulled on the waders, and, having done all that he could in the way of dressing, he seated himself on the bed and waited listening, a vague apprehension gnawing at his heart; for to be cooped up in a lonely and deserted house, with no means of breaking out, was not a comforting prospect.

He heard nothing, but after a while relief from tension came to him through another sense than the one on which he was relying. An appetising odour spreading through the house penetrated to his prison.

"Savoury pottage!" he murmured, more relieved than he would have owned. "The cook is still here at any rate."

The odour stimulated appetite. Since eating sandwiches, whilst waiting on the marsh last night, he had been without food, and he began to feel ferociously hungry.

"Hope they'll be Christian enough to feed the enemy," he thought. "If not it's wicked to let him smell the grub."

Then he heard sounds of movement. Light feet pattered along the passage past his door, and appeared to be making for the stairs.

"lp or the lady from Nippon?" he queried, and a couple of seconds later heard the tuneful sound of a gong.

"Breakfast bell. Well―" The sound of others moving about the landing reached him, voices speaking an an unknown tongue, and then a little burst of feminine laughter. "Ip!... Still here!"

The sounds passed on, and he was left considering the previous question. "To feed or not to feed?"

It was a full twenty minutes before the question was settled to his satisfaction. Two people came along the passage and halted outside the door. Someone began to fumble with the lock, which was stiff, and the Honourable Bill, unable to help, waited, whilst his mind propounded alternatives. "The waiter or the Lord High Executioner?"

The door opened and he drew a breath of relief. There were two men outside neither of whom he recognised. One of them carried a pistol openly displayed whilst the other bore what at the moment interested Pallisier more― a tray on which reposed a bowl of steaming soup and three slices of bread with a jug and a glass. The man with the tray advanced into the room and set the burden down on the table whilst the other man kept guard at the door.

Neither of them spoke but the man who had carried the food made a gesture that might have been an invitation to fall-to. Pallisier accepted it for what it appeared to be and pulling the solitary chair up to the table prepared to eat. But before he could do so the man with the pistol producing a packet of cigarettes and a folder of paper matches tossed them on the bed.

The Honourable Bill marked their fall with gratified eyes. Repressing his hunger, he rose and bowed to the donor profoundly, having react somewhere that the Japanese were above all a polite people. The other upheld the reputation of his nation by returning the bow, then both men. withdrew, locking the door behind them, neither having uttered a word.

No matter, thought Pallisier, actions speak louder than words, and promptly began his meal, The soup, some compound of beans, fish, meat, and green vegetables, was more savoury to smell than to eat, but to a hungry man it was satisfying if unattractive; and when he had finished a cigarette from the packet the man had tossed on the bed rounded off the meal very nicely. It also induced reflection and the reflections were not of the rosiest.

It seemed that he was not to starve, but apparently it was the intention to detain him there for just as long as his captors wished. That did not suit his book at all, and he had no intention whatever of tamely acquiescing in the arrangement, provided there was any other course possible. He felt to devising plans for freeing himself. If the opportunity were given he might fall on the man who brought his food, and choke him into silence, for at least a sufficiently long period to enable him to get away. But so long as the man was accompanied by the man with the pistol the opportunity would not be forthcoming. Some other way must be found.

He cudgelled his brains in the endeavour to find a possible plan, but failed, and he was reflecting gloomily that he would have to tackle the guard first and the waiter after, when he heard the whirr of a car starting up. The sound came from the rear of the house, where I supposed there must be a garage, and whilst he was listening, he heard light feet patter along the passage, and someone tapped on the door.

"Come in," he said facetiously.

"Still kickin', mister?" The voice was the voice of Miss Ip.

"Oh, it is you, Minnehaha?"

"Come to say good-bye, I'm skipping. Just knocked to letcha know I'll order a wreath for you―"

"Now that's real thoughtful of you, Minnehaha. What a heart you've got, for sure."

"Well yours'll sure have stopped tickin' before I get back to the old homeland."

Then he laughed and quoted: "'Ave, Caesar, morituri le salutant!' "

"Aw. What's that stuff?"

"Latin, and free translation fitting the circumstances is:―'As one about to perish I kiss you, Cutie.' "

"Y'll kiss something harder than me―" "No! No! Minnehaha. Don't slander yourself like that. Besides you, iron is―"

The screech of a klaxon broke on his words as if summoning someone. and without a word Miss Ip hurried away. He heard her heels pattering on the landing, and die away, and a minute or two later caught the sound of a car receding. Then he laughed softly.

"Exit Minnehaha, boodle and all! Quite an experience. What?"

He seated himself on the bed, pulled a blanket over his knees to keep them warm, and having lit a second cigarette, once more gave himself to thoughts of escape. He stared straight in front of him, his eyes fixed absently on the built-in cupboard which he had observed on the previous night, but which now, in the concentration of his mind he could not have been said to see.

But after a little time, passing from the thoughtful abstraction, he suddenly became aware of it, and with a thought that it might be as well to examine it he threw aside the blanket and crossed the room. The cupboard had a double door, without a lock, and held together by a simple catch fixed to a knob. As he turn'ed the knob and gave a gentle pull one half of the door came open, and he found himself staring at a collection of children's toys such as one might have looked for had the room been devoted to its customary use. He gave a wry smile as he stared at the collection, then threw open the other half of lthe door to obtain more light. As he did so, his eyes fell on a box thrust in the farthest corner on which there was a picture of a boy in cap and aoron planing wood on a carpenter's bench, with a superscription:

"Every Boy's Handy Outfit."

"Ye gods," he whispered, and stooping swiftly slipped the catch of the box. The miniature chest was half full of tools― some damaged, some useless for any purpose of his, but some that in the circumstances might have been an answer to prayer. He found two screwdrivers, a quite good wood chisel, and a pair of pincers. Carrying these to his bed. he hid them under the mattress. Then he carefully shut the tool chest, closed the cupboard door, and once more gave himself to thought. But now he was almost singing with hope.

With those tools he should be able to remove the lock of the door, and once free of this room to get away fromn the house should not be difficult. He would of course have to wait until nightfall, or at any rate until he was assured that there was no one in the upper part of the house. But there was no reason why he should not begin to make his preparations at once. To work on those rusted screws in the dark would be difficult, and if he loosened them in the daytime it would simplify things enormously.

He crossed to the door, looked at the lock, and then broke into soft chuckles as by some obscure working of the mental law of association he remembered a thing that was poles asunder from his present circumstances, but which suggested something that was infinitely useful. The remembered experience had to do with a college rag in which he had been. one of the victims. A hint of what was forward had been passed to him by a friend, and on retiring to his bedroom he had most carefully locked the door, and would have taken an oath that a battering ram would be needed to open it. Instead, in the small hours of the morning, as if to some magic sesame of the raiders, the door had opened in the easiest way imaginable, and he had been peppered with paper bags of flour which had left his room and himself snowed under with flour.

In the morning, examining his door for an explanation of that easy entrance, he had made the discovery that the screws of the socket had been drawn, the holes enlarged and stuffed with soap, and the screws reinserted in such a way that no one unacquainted with the trick could possibly notice what had been done, whilst a very little pressure from without had sent both socket and screw flying into the room. That experience brought fruit now.

He did not need to trouble with the heavy rusted screws of the lock at all. All that he needed to do was to withdraw the two screws of the socket, work it loose, so that the tongue of the lock could slip, and leave the screws slack ready for the moment of action.

Exultant at the discovery, he waited until the upper part of the house was quite silent, then, taking the larger screwdriver, he set to work.

ABOUT THE same time P.Q.R. and Bull Sullivan stepped from the former's car in the neighbourhood of Swingler's Wharf, and despite the pouring rain began a minute search of the neighbourhood for any sign of their missing friend. It was a full hour before Ringrose, entering the willows which Pallisier had used for a disrobing place, came unexpectedly upon a suit of clothes, shirt, and underclothes and cap, all marked with his friend's initials. There was also a pair of opera glasses with his initials engraved on them.

For a moment, he stared at them in dismay; then he called Sullivan, who swore harshly as he looked down at the neat rain soaked pile.

"Those devils got him, Mr. Ringrose. That's as sure as we're standing here. I reckon the Honourable stripped here an' swam out to that barge same as you did last night.. Either he was seen, or he was found when the racketeers went aboard for the loot.... They got him― plugged him as like as not, an' just shoved what was left of him into the river. Something like that, or what are these duds doing here, an' his car back there in the garage we struck?"

"Heaven knows!" said P.Q.R. harshly. "He can't be roaming this county naked, Mr. Ringrose. Somebody 'd be sure to see him an' report him for a lunatic. Folks ain't used to Nudists round here, I guess... If he were alive he'd have somehow been at the end of a telephone wire hours ago... That's certain! He was a bright lad, and he'd have wasted no time in reporting who called for the loot on that barge... There's nothing for it but to take those duds along and report to Godbold. Only comfort is that it's sure another nail in Spano's coffin, for it's a sure thing that the Japs had nought to do with this end of the business."

"But I can't believe that Bill Pallisier's gone, Sullivan."

"No? 'Tain't easy to believe that a fellow y'saw kicking like a two-year-old, at breakfast is laid out for keeps at lunch-time. All the same it happens, y'know."

"But―  Oh! confound it! Bill Pallisier!... It's just incredible. He was no man's fool, though he talked so-so imbecilely at times. That was no more than a pose."

"Mebbe!... But with them clothes there, what's he posing as now, in this rain, and where?"

"The Lord knows. But I'm going to hunt further. I'll find the truth―"

"Y'll find it when he's fished out of the river by the water-police or some longshoreman down-river, and I'll lay the truth is just the size of a nickel-nosed hurler... You'll be just wasting time to go poking round―"

"Possibly. But I'm going to poke. Tell you what, Sullivan, you can drive. Just take the car and run back to Town to Godbold, with the news. He'll send searchers down and warn the police all down-river-for Bill Pallisier isn't a day-labourer, and there'll be a regular to-do it he's missing and foul play is. suspected... You go. Don't mind about me. I'll find my way back, and if I find anything of Bill, I'll get to a telephone somewhere and let you know at once."

Mr. Sullivan hesitated. There was reason in Ringrose's suggestion, but looking round the dreary prospect, the rain-soaked marsh, the grey river and the desolate wharf, he was reluctant to, act upon it, "I don't half like leaving you―"

"Me! Blazes!" cried P.Q.R., his nerves a little ragged by the thought of his friend. "What do I matter? We've got to think of Bill, not of me... Push along. And I'll cruise round for any sign of the boy!.. If those racketeer devils did got him―"

"Sure thing, I reckon."

"Oh, you old raven, go! Get Godbold and his crowd on the job, pronto!... There's no sense in wasting time."

Bull Sullivan went-most reluctantly, and went because whilst he honestly believed that Pallisier was not only missing but entirely lost, any hope that there might be for him lay in the immediate activity of the Metropolitan Police and the immense resources at their command.

P.Q.R., left to himself continued his search, moving and tramping in a constantly enlarging half-circle which had Swingler's Wharf for the centre point of its radii. The rain continued to fall, but he did not desist, until, late in the afternoon, drenched to the skin, at a point well down-river, he decided that further immediate search was hopeless.

Almost dropping with weariness, utterly dispirited, instead of returning to Swingler's Wharf, he began to make a bee-line across the marsh with the thought that when he struck the main high-road it would be easy to persuade some passing motorist to give him a lift Londonwards.

As it chanced, in the rain he completely lost himself and it was on the edge of dark when he struck the turnpike, in a state of extreme exhaustion. Walking dispiritedly up the road, hoping that soon some good Samaritan of a motorist would overtake him, he came to an inn, standing solitary, but which had a notice in the window― "You may telephone from here."

He went inside, ordered bread and cheese and beer, and when it was brought made enquiries about a car to take him to London.

"There's a garage where they hire out― three miles down the road. sir," explained the inn-keeper, "Truscott is the name, an' I reckon he'll be I glad of the job. If you ring him up―"

"S'pose you do it for me, landlord, whilst I feast, I'm famished. Tell him to bring the car as soon as he can."

"I will, sir."

The man disappeared, and after a minute or two returned.

"Truscott is out, sir, just gone when I got through. He's delivering a car to somebody, an' the apprentice has gone with him on a motor-cycle to bring him back, so there's nobody but his wife at the garage. Says she'll tell him and send along soon as ever he comes back, an' if he's not to come I'm to telephone, please."

"I'll wait," said P.Q.R. wearily. "'Phone the woman, and tell her that her man's not to let me down on any account whatever."

"Right, sir. But yo' can be sure Tom Truscott won't let ye down, no ways. He's the hardest-working chap in all Essex, I'll bet.... He'll be here as fast as a car can bring him once he knows he's needed."

The inn-keeper withdrew once more. Ringrose gave himself to the consumption of bread and cheese and beer, His meal ended, he sat smoking in front of the fire, with the rain lashing the windows. His impatience mounted. Would the fellow never come?

He lit another cigarette, looked wearily at his wrist-watch, and was on the point of going to the telephone to make enquiry if the trustworthy Tom Truscott had started on his way. when he heard a car stop in front of the inn. Instead of going to the telephone he went towards the door. A man was just entering.

"Here's Tom come for you at last, sir," said the innkeeper, leaving his bar.

"And very glad I am―"

P.Q.H. stopped suddenly as he recognised Mr. Tom Truscott as the proprietor of the garage where the Honourable Bill had parked his car.

"Hallo!" he ejaculated. "You?"

"Yes, sir," said the man, recognising him, "Sorry to have kept you, sir. When your message came I was away delivering your friend's car to him down at the Marshman's Arms. He―"

"You were what?" almost shouted P.Q.R., in his amazement. "Say that again, and say it slowly so that I can take it in."

The man, his face betraying his astonishment, repeated the information. and P.Q.R. demanded swiftly: "You saw him?"

"I did sir.'' The man did his best to repress a grin.. "He had a young lady with him, en' he was persuading old Marlowe― that's the landlord― to lend him a suit of clothes, as he was wearing nothing but a bathing suit, a topcoat and a pair of waders. The landlord thought he was a lunatic escaped from the county asylum. It was only under strong persuasion he's sent his grandson off on his cycle with the message for me, and till I showed up with the car, he wasn't inclined to part with any of his clothes. Then he let him have his second-best suit, and giving us both his name and address, which wasn't necessary for us, having read it on the plate in the car, he drove off with the lady and the landlord's fowling-piece―"

"A gun? Great Scot!"

"And ammunition, sir. Seemed it was a matter of life and death that he should have them-and he had them in the end, being a most persuasive gentleman."

Chapter 16

A Critical Moment

MR. BULL SULLIVAN, a tired man, sat in his friend's room at the Yard relating his adventures in the Essex wilds. Inspector Godbold listened carefully without interruption, save an occasional question on little points that required elucidation, and at the end Godbold asked a question the answer to which to Mr. Sullivan's thinking was so obvious that the question almost moved him to a contemptuous retort.

"And you think that Pallisier has gone under?"

''What else? Them clothes there in the rain―"

"Don't agree. You see, Sullivan, I know that young gentleman. I've seen him in action before. He'll fall on his feet somewhere―"

"Yeh! Bottom of the tideway down the estuary somewhere."

"No. Might be in a police station for running round improperly dressed or something of that sort, but nothing so bad as you're thinking."

"Well, I hope y'are right, Godbold. Trouble is that y'don't seem to have got hold of the class of bus 'are dealing with―"

"What I have got hold of is that they've hit some sort of trouble, badly. If they haven't had a row in the family they've been raided by another crowd―"

"That Jap lot?"

Godbold nodded, and looked at the dainty shoe which reposed on his desk, side by side with pistol from Amritsar Lodge.

"There's that little exhibit." he said. "And there's the fact that Spano went to the Golden Carp and made that row. The connection may be a little obscure, but it is certain. I went down to Broad Street Place and interviewed Chojiro Ritsuo. Fellow was as bland as bland can be, and as communicative as an idol of Buddha that was on his mantelpiece. He'd never heard of Monkey Spano, nor of young Swinnerton."

"He's a liar!"

"Exactly. But he owned to having met your little Lady Ip. Said he'd met her once or twice at the Paon d'Or, and had taken her out to supper. Though she was some little swell. American lady having a lark―"

"Then all I got to say is that Chojiro ain't acquainted with any swell American dames or he'd never spin a yarn like that. Go on."

"There's nowhere further to go at present. I've got pickets out Broad Street way and at the Golden Carp―"

"Waste of time! The guys concerned won't go near either place. They'll have changed their stamping ground, certain."

"Well, we shall see. And there's a drag-net out for Spano and any of his crowd, so far as we know them. Ports are being watched. Shipping offices visited, and air-ports are under extra surveillance. We shall get on something definite soon."

"If y'would get on Michael Swinnerton y'would please me, as I would stand you a champagne dinner Godbold."

"That's a bet," laughed the inspector. "Which I hope y'will win, sharp... Now I'm going to my hotel, but I'm relying on you to send a shout to the river-police to look out for young Bill."

"Don't worry. It shall be done at once. Not that I think there's any desperate need for it, but because you wish it, Sullivan."

"Friendly gesture between two great English-speaking nations, hey?" asked Mr. Sullivan with a touch of sarcasm. Then he nodded in a friendly way. "I know,. old man!... Just think out the menu of that feast I hope y'are going to win in time for to-morrow."

He took his departure in no better spirits than he had been at the beginning of his call, and ten minutes or so later had the most amazing piece of luck that ever fell to his policeman's luck.

As he reached his own hotel, a taxi with a couple of light suitcases on the roof stopped. A lady stepped out, and without paying the driver ran up the broad marble steps with an agility that was commendable in a dame whose hair was a becoming grey and who was obviously past her first youth, and who, despite her slim figure, might well have been a grand-mother.

At the top of the steps, before passing the glazed turnstile, she stopped and looked back into the street. There was something rather furtive in the action which arrested Mr. Sullivan's attention, so that he moved a little aside that he might ob-serve without himself being observed. Whilst he watched, it was clear to him that the lady was on the look-out for something, or some likely someone, and was plainly a little agitated, for in adjusting her slightly tinted shell glasses she got the ends tangled in her hair, and fairly jerked them loose in her hurry to adjust them, and for one fleeting second the detective saw her eyes, dark and wide, and as he would have sworn, bright with fear.

Mr. Sullivan was a specialist in eyes. It was a means of identification that he had found very useful when thumb-prints, by reason of the circumstances, were not available, and he would have confidently undertaken to identify any criminal in whom he had had anything more than a passing interest by that means alone.

So it fell that as he glimpsed the grey-haired lady's eyes he made a quite startling discovery.

"My Gee. Ip!"

It was an incredible piece of luck, but he did not immediately rush up the steps. He wanted to know for whom or what she was watching the street so intently, and to that end shifted his position a little that he might better see the rather thronged pavement.

A rapid survey of the people contiguous to the hotel revealed nothing, but as a taxi-cab drew up at the kerb opposite the hotel, and the stalwart commissionaire moved across to open the cab door, with the tail of his eye he saw the grey-haired lady turn swiftly and make for the turn-stile.

"The taxi," he thought, and threw a swift glance at the vehicle in question, hoping to get a glimpse of its passenger. The bulky form of the commissionaire intervening dashed his hope, and since a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush, he raced up the steps in pursuit of the hurrying Ip.

She was well ahead, but he glimpsed her as she turned the corner of the office counter, where the clerks were busy with new arrivals, and he guessed instinctively that she was making for the luggage entrance. More than that he divined at the same moment that driven by fear she was quitting the hotel. He was confirmed in that opinion when, reaching the exit, he saw the lady fairly running along the pavement towards a taxi halted farther up― a taxi with two suitcases on the roof.

At the exit there stood another taxi, the driver of which was just touching his cap in acknowledgment of the tip he had received. The door of the cab stood open, and Mr. Sullivan, seeing that the baggage had been cleared, calmly stepped into it and gave its driver directions in a voice so official that it brooked no refusal.

"Follow that taxi ahead when it gets going. Don't lost it for your life."

The driver, like the rest of his class, beyond surprise or astonishment, merely nodded, and thrust down his flag. Mr. Sullivan closed the door and watched Miss Ip enter her own taxi, then as it began to move, and his own driver let in the clutch, he turned and stared through the rear window. There were two taxis, immediately behind, and a third coming round the corner from the Strand, but he had a notion that none of them was the one which he had seen pull up at the front entrance, and he forthwith gave his attention to the quarry in front.

There was a run-round of connecting streets at the back of the hotel, and within a couple of minutes the two taxis were in the Strand again, and working across the traffic to be absorbed in the stream running, westward. Watching carefully, he noted that the vehicle, which had been in front of the hotel, was no longer there, but did not trouble this time to look back to see if it were following, since one taxi is much like another, and in the thronged thoroughfare any sure identification was practically impossible. Besides, as he told himself, if Ip was being "tailed," the tail would be revealed when the destination was reached.

The run was not a very long one, and in a little time the taxi pulled up.

"Lady's going into the City Palace, sir," said the driver, putting his head round the corner to communicate through the open window.

"Yeh. I see. Wait to see if the baggage goes in."

There was a brief interval, then the driver spoke again.

"Stopping, sir. Cases are being handed down."

"Good."

Mr. Sullivan descended, paid the man generously, considered the street behind him for a moment without appearing to do so, and finding nothing to hold his attention, strolled through the noble portals of one of the most popular of London's mammoth hotels.

The great lounge was very full, but knowing the geography of the place, he planted himself where he could see the office, and had the luck to see Miss Ip in the act of producing a telegram. Plainly, he thought, the gun-moll had already booked her room at this particular hotel, and that call in the Strand had been no more than a blind for someone whom she knew or suspected had been following her.

He watched carefully, saw her fill up the register, and then accompanied by a porter, make for the lift. As she did so twice she looked round over her shoulder a little nervously, but in the throng she could, he thought, have seen nothing of anyone following her with the least discretion. He waited until she entered the lift and was whirled out of sight, then he murmured softly to himself a single word:

"Parked!"

He walked straight to the desk and read the register sheet where the gun moll had inscribed her name.

Mrs J. Sullivan,

Dearborn St.

Belfast.

British.

A grin came over his face as he read. J. Sullivan was his own name and the humour of her choice tickled his fancy. Dearborn Street was in the Loop district of Chicago, and if there was one in Belfast, then the gun-moll had shot better than she herself knew.

"Well, Ip," he commented mentally, "I'll sure hand it to you for having a nerve, Mrs. J., which is Joe Sullivan! Y'are a real humorist, even if y'are scared."

He walked to the telephone booth, and rang up Inspector Godbold, and giving him the glad news besought him to hurry along and bring with him two or three of his minions in mufti.

"Why such a crowd?" demanded his friend. "Can't you arrest one lone girl without calling a squad?"

"Ain't going to arrest her not yet. Tell you why when I see you. Just hop along as fast as one o' them fancy flivvers of yours can bring you. It's real important."

Assured that Mr. Godbold would take wings to the City Palace he forthwith ordered refreshment and took a seat not far from the main entrance where he could watch unobtrusively all who came and went. Once or twice his eyes grew keen as they focused on some entrant, then the light in them faded, and he continued to watch until Inspector Godbold, entered, followed quite unobtrusively by three men who, without taking any notice of their Chief, disposed themselves strategically about the entrance.

"Well,. what's the great idea of waiting, Joe?" enquired Godbold.

"Idea is that Ip is being tailed by some guy, or thinks she is, and is pretty badly scared."

"How d'you know?"

Mr. Sullivan recounted what he had witnessed at his own hotel. His friend listened carefully, and then offered comment.

"May have been no more than a precautionary manoeuvre executed on, well, general principles."

"Y'think so. Well, all I gotta say is that y'would think different if y'had seen her. I know Ip an' I tell you she was real scared!"

"Scared of whom?"

"Well, 'twasn't you an'. I'll swear 'twasn't me. But I can think of a couple that might scare her cold― one's Spano and t'other's Spotty O'Hagan."

"There are those Japs―"

"Yeh! But Ip isn't likely to be put out of countenance by any Jap."

"But why should it be one of those others unless there's been a break between them?"

"Y'can turn my pockets out! I don't know. But it's for one of them two guys I'm lookin', and if one of them don't happen along I don't know who will. Now listen to me. You get on the management, brother, and make it clear that Mrs. J. Sullivan doesn't quit her room without one of your men, two of whom'll be adjacent, being immediately informed. Then pass the word that any anxious enquirers for Ip or Mrs. Sullivan at the office shall be pointed out to you― not that that's likely, for if the fellas who are after her come here, they come because they know, but it's well to take precautions. Also, we're to get the office if there's, any Indication of a move on the lady's part. May just have taken a room here temporary to throw off the fella who's tailing her or to lull him into the belief' that she's parked here till morning. Ip's as cunning a little hen as was ever reared in Cicero, an' she'll try. hard to cover her tracks in the hour of trouble."

"I'll attend to that, Sullivan."

"Do, an' I'll watch the door."

Inspector Godbold departed, and presently two of his men followed. Then when the inspector returned the third of his men was brought into conference with Mr. Sullivan and was greeted with remarks that surprised him.

"Take a look round the room, brother, an' tell me how many carroty-headed guys y'can see."

The officer surveyed the room carefully and then answered "Don't see any man with red hair, but there's a girl '

"There are two old men, but we ain't looking for ginger-headed Janes just now. Now take another glimp an' see if y'can find a fella who looks as if he'd been sitting' astride a hogshead of hootch legs being that crooked. Fellow's a Wop, an' has lost the lobe of his right ear, so if you can get him that side y'can't miss him. Other car may have a gold ring in it, but also may have been removed. He's broad as a gorilla, with a chin to match, eyes like black buttons an' quicker nor a hen's, five foot eight or thereabouts, an' looks as if he could shift a dray with his shoulders... See him?"

The officer looked round carefully then made answer.

"No!"

"If y'd said yeh y'would have given me a shock. He ain't here yet to my knowledge, but I'll lay five cents to dollars that he or the other fella ain't far away. Now what you gotta do is to go to the side-entrance an' watch out for those two guys. It's likely enough that half the carroty-headed gents in this city will show up here in the next five minutes, an' if there don't happen along enough bow-legs to set up a front row in the ballet I'll be surprised, that being the way of things when y'are on the look out for a rare specimen. Collar one o' them baby bell-hops an' take him with you, an' send him along with the news as soon as y'have got it. This one'll do. Here, sonny―"

A small boy with a salver under his arm responded to the summons, was bidden to look carefully at Inspector Godbold and Mr. Sullivan so that he would know them again, then when with a boyish grin he professed himself satisfied was led away to his chief, and released from Hotel duty was temporary enlisted in the Metropolitan Police, and carried off to his new service. Mr. Sullivan and his friend smoked, partook of alcoholic refreshment and watched the main door mostly in silence.

At the end of his second pipe Inspector Godbold voiced a doubt.

"Joe, you're wasting time."

"Not with Ip on the premises."

"Why not pick her up and make sure?"

"I'm making sure of bigger game. Curb your impatience, brother."

Godbold relapsed into, silence and proceeded to fill another pipe. The great lounge was more thronged than ever, and round the dining-room door a queue began to form. Then one of the two men upstairs appeared bringing information.

"The lady has left her room and is dressed for dinner."

"Good!" Call your colleague brother, an' bid him stand by down here and when I lift my hand the pair of you close round on me, an' it I tackle a man watch out for a gun. Y'get me!"

"Yes, sir." The man departed, and Mr. God-bold offered comment. "You seem confoundedly sure, Sullivan!"

"Reason for it. I saw Ip's eyes. Y'didn't. If she comes into the open the tail'll show up, too, y'will see."

"If she's expecting trouble she has a nerve to think of dining."

"Has that! But may think it safer to be in the crowd. which is a mistake."

"How?"

"Well, remember that newspaper fella, Jake Lingle, about whom there was such a dust-up in Chicago a few years back?"

"Of course. He was crooked―"

"Crooked as Hell. But that ain't the thing. Point is that Jake Lingle was shot in the Illinois Central Subway when there were hundreds of folk round. Man who fired the shot was seen. He got away. A crowd is good cover and―"

"But good Heavens, man, you're not thinking that―"

"Told you las' night that Spano was running loose in the City and that he was sore mad with someone. Who? y'ask. Can't say, but if it's Ip then he's the fella that she's running from. Get me?... An' if I'm right we'll nab him here. An'― There she is. Swell dame, hey? Knows how to look a part. Forty-five's her age now, an' she ain't one to mind a few grey hairs showing, proud of 'em. in fact―"

"You mean that lady there in the horn spectacles walking towards the Queue?"

"I sure do―" He broke off sharply as the bellboy appeared.

"Well, sonny?"

"Gentleman sends message that a red-haired man has just come in by the side entrance."

Sullivan turned swiftly, saw a stout man with fiery red hair entering the lounge, and then laughed.

"So there has, sonny. I've seen him. He's a dud. Tell the gent to watch out for another."

"Yes, sir."

The boy hurried away, and before Sullivan could resume his broken remarks his friend intervened.

"Look here. Sullivan, if you think there's going to be the sort of trouble you're hinting at, I can't stand for it. If there's shooting here it will start a panic. Besides― oh. damn it. man, what it comes to is that you're baiting a trap with that girl!... It's rotten."

"Trap's baited. Not my doing. And anyhow, it's only putting out a wild cat to catch a tiger. Ip's a killer herself―"

He broke off sharply. "Gee! Y'can't spring the trap. Signal them fellas of yours an' come on! Sharp!"

He himself was already thrusting his way up the rather full gangway with a lack of ceremony that was rude in the extreme. Inspector Godbold signalled his men and followed, staring as he went, but without seeing anything to account for the other's sudden burst of energy. He looked at the lady. She was at the moment glancing across the wide lounge, and her place in the queue was almost exactly opposite the side-entrance. She was standing quite alone, and immediately before her prospective diners were lined up mostly two by two, which was the way in this mammoth eating-house, as no doubt it was the way in the Ark...

Everything looked absolutely normal, and he was thinking that his friend, yards ahead of him, must have a be in his bonnet, when a man wearing a slouch hat emerged from behind a big ornamental fern, and with amazing swiftness moved towards the queue. He caught a little gleam of gold in his ear, and having the man's description off by heart knew the truth.

"My God!" be whispered, and flung forward. He saw the man reach Ip, and then at some word the girl turned. A sick dumb took swept all the pseudo middle-aged beauty out of her face, leaving it like some gargoyle expressive of pure terror. The man laughed.

Godbold saw the laugh, saw too the sharp movement of the man's hand. He felt like a man in a nightmare held by invisible hands, when every demand was for action. The feeling lasted less than a second whilst he swatted for the killing shot, then he saw Sullivan launch himself in a flying leap, with something in his hand with which as he landed he struck savagely at the still laughing Spano. The latter went down as if he had been hit with a shell. As he crashed something dropped and fell at the feet of a woman in the line, who, seeing the incredible in the form of an ugly automatic pistol, promptly emitted a scream and went into hysterics.

There was a sudden uproar, a surge of men towards the man whom they regarded as the aggressor, and Bull Sullivan's voice roaring above the shouting:

"Police! Keep back you darn fools!"

Godbold and his men closed in, the latter speaking with authority. "Keep back, there! Keep back!"

Sullivan swung round to make sure of Ip, but found there was no immediate urgency, for its the split second between her glimpse of Spano and his downfall for the first time in her adventurous days she had fainted.

"Well," quoth Bull Sullivan astonished beyond measure, "I'd never have thought it of you, Ip. Never in this world."

Inspector Godbold with the crisis passed was attending to business in a voice from which every trace of emotion had been wrung.

"Handcuff that man, sharp. Williams, get a taxi. Abingdon, you take charge. of this woman's room and all in it. And less than ten minutes later, with Sullivan sitting opposite him in the taxi, and both prisoners coming-to nicely, he listened to his friend's drawling voice.

"Gave you both the bait and the tiger, Godbold― What? as the Honourable would say."

"You gave me the scare of my life, Joe. For two pins I'd punch your head."

"Aw now, brother, aw! Go easy! What is it the bard says? 'Tis sharper than a serpent's tooth To have a thankless child'― or words to that effect. Learned that at school. Just chew it over, and y'will stand me the swellest dinner that this old town can put up."

"Well," agreed the inspector with a laugh, "maybe I will―"

"It's a deal!" answered Bull Sullivan, and with tender care leaned forward to make Ip's lolling head more comfortable in the corner.

Chapter 17

Home, James!

THE SCREWS of the socket proved far more tractable than Pallisier had hoped from their general rusty appearance. He drew them one after the other in turn, replacing them, and again drawing them until as he put it to himself they were loose as old hag's teeth. Then after chipping the wood about the socket so that it would easily yield to pressure, he carefully picked up the small chips, and gave the wounds on the woodwork the appearance of age, by licking his finger and clawing the chimney soot and rubbing it on the chisel-marks. Then he sat himself to wait.

The time of waiting seemed interminable. He heard the car, which as he believed had carried Miss Ip away, return, and once several people, at least five, ascended the stairs in a batch, and as he thought went along the landing to the room where― if he were right in his conjecture― Michael Swinnerton was confined. They were there for some time and when they emerged, there was much excited talk in a language which he did not understand.

At about two o'clock, lunch was brought by the two men who had brought his breakfast, and again one man stood by the door with the pistol, whilst the man bearing the tray entered the room. With the food he left a little handless cup and a small bottle of classic outline, which investigation revealed contained sake.

"Doing me proud!" he chuckled to himself. "If I lodge here for long I'll grow obese."

Having eaten he considered the bottle and the cup for quite a long time. There were several ways in which a man might be bumped off, and poison was one of them. But, he reflected, food as well as drink: might be poisoned, and the food which he had eaten was in his judgment poisonous enough to conceal any toxic thing on earth At last he decided to take a chance. He filled the small cup and held it up, and grinned.

"Here goes! Death or glory !" The sake tasted as sake should, and he was tempted to a second cup. A little while late, whilst smoking a cigarette, he found that the liquor was of a potent quality beyond expectation, going to his head more quickly than might have been anticipated, and with a thought that it might have been drugged after all, he found himself growing very sleepy, and was driven to lie down on the bed.

He quickly drifted into sleep, and must have slept for three or four hours, for when he awoke it was falling dusk.

Rising, he made the discovery that in the interval the room must have been entered without his knowledge, for the luncheon-tray had been removed. Naming himself for several kinds of fool, he went to the door and inspected his handiwork. It was as he had left it, and plainly had escaped, the notice of whoever had carried away the tray. Relieved by that knowledge, he stood listening to sounds which apparently came up the stairs― voices and laughter indicative of the presence of several people.

A little while later he distinctly heard a car leave the house, and still later heard the door open and close as someone passed outside. He continued to listen. Whoever had gone forth did not return, and complete silence for a time held the house. He wondered if his moment had come, and was still wondering when he heard a door open and someone begin to ascend the stairs. Light feet made the landing, light heels tapped along the passage and paused at his own door. Someone, it appeared, was listening. Then he heard a distinctly feminine laugh, caught the swish of skirts; and heard the heels receding.

"The reptile lady for a pound!" he thought, and still listened. Presently he heard the feet again They went along the landing and downstairs, and following that there came a murmur of two voices, and as they ceased once more the outer door opened and closed, and complete silence fell on the house. He had a conviction that now, save himself and Michael Swinnerton, there was but one person in the house. He thought that he might never have so good an opportunity to escape again, and that now was an excellent time.

Swiftly he drew the screws, pressed back the socket, and pulled gently. The door opened at once with the slightest creaking noise. He stood with the door ajar, listening. The house was silent as could be, but in the hall be-low a lamp was burning. He opened the door further, then, with the screwdriver held in his hand dagger-wise in case he should have need of a weapon, he stepped out into the passage. The utter stillness of the house was maintained. For a moment he hesitated looked this way and that, then slipped along the passage to the landing.

Again he paused, heard no sound indicative of movement, and reassured, moved across the landing to the door of the room where, he was morally certain, Michael Swinnerton was He found the handle gently, and pushed.

The door remained firm. He put his shoulder against it heavily, but still it did not yield.

"Locked!" His disappointment was extreme. but after looking round and listening. he tapped lightly on the panel, keeping an eye on the stairs as he did so There was no response from within. He tried again, and a third time with no result. Either the man within was sleeping or― He remembered suddenly Ip's statement about the dope that Spano had used no doubt to keep his captive quiet. The Japs might be doing the same thing, in which case Michael Swinnerton would be in no condition to do anything for himself.

Outside help must be obtained, and it was up to him to see that it came. He turned from the door, recrossed the landing, halted at the head of the stairs to listen once more, then began his descent. When he was a little more than half-way down he was brought to a sudden halt by a sound that set his nerves tingling.

"Flip-flop! Flip-flop!". Someone in ill-fitting slippers was coming along the passage from the rear of the house. There was no time to go back, and but one chance in a million that, standing there, almost on a level with the lamp below, he would not be discovered. He tautened himself to spring, and watched tensely. Then a man came into sight― the fellow who had acted as waiter. He flipped-flopped to the foot of the stairs, and then turned to ascend. As he did so his jaw dropped and his beady eyes fairly bulged with amazement, but before he could move, the Honourable Bill launched himself upon him. Thirteen stone of living bone and muscle directed by hostile purpose are more than the average man can stand when they take him suddenly and overwhelmingly.

The little man flopped, struggled with spasmodic feebleness for a moment, and then lay quite still. Pallisier, with the first point scored, lost no time. Picking up the senseless man he carried him down the passage to the rear of the house where a light was burning, and looked round for some means of making the man secure.

Overhead was a hanging rack, used in many houses for drying clothes. In a trice he had lowered it, and searching for a knife to cut the rope, found a big chopping knife, efficient almost as a cleaver. His eyes gleamed as he picked it up-here was a weapon that in an emergency would be very useful. He cut the rope, bound and gagged the still unconscious man, an that task finished, looked round the kitchen.

His eyes fell on an electric torch lying on a shelf of a dresser. He picked it up, tried it, found it in working order, and put it in the pocket of his overcoat. Then carrying the broad-bladed knife, and carefully closing the kitchen door behind him, he returned to the hall. Then he considered a moment, looked up the stairs as if he were tempted to return and force a way into the locked room, then shaking his head, he moved to the hall door.

Turning the key and shooting back the bolts, he opened the door and stepped out into the rainy dusk. He listened. There was no sound but the swish of the rain, and after five seconds or so, he closed the door behind him, went to the garden wall, climbed it and dropping down on the farther side made his way to the rear of the house. There as he had expected he found a road of sorts, making in an almost direct line across the marsh, and without more ado proceeded to follow it, clumping along in the clumsy waders at a good pace.

As he hurried forward, he made his plans. At the first house he came to he would secure help, send a message to the local police, and another to Inspector Godbold, then return to that house and mount guard until help arrived.

Then suddenly he remembered his own car. If he could secure that he could remove Michael Swinnerton to a place of safety without delay, always provided that he could get there before those people who had gone forth returned.

The thought fired him. As the dusk became complete darkness he squelched on at a greater pace, keeping the road as best he could, and refraining from using the torch in his pocket, knowing how clearly the gleam of a light shows on a wet night. Presently he was glad he had exercised that restraint, for out of the darkness ahead there came quite suddenly a bright beam. It was moving towards him, following the road, as he guessed, and whoever bore it belonged almost certainly to the crowd who were using the house from which he had escaped.

He looked hastily round. Near him was a broken wall flanking one side of the road. And as touch assured him grown over with ivy. He slipped through a breach, and crouching low down behind the wall, waited until the oncoming pedestrian should be revealed.

"If there's only one," he thought, "I might fetch him a knock-out, and keep him from making that place until I get help."

As it chanced, there were two. He gathered that from the sound of their squelching steps, and though he could see nothing but the beam of the flash-lamp which one of them carried, from the feminine quality of a voice which reached him he discovered that one of the pair was a woman.

"Who?" he asked himself, and a moment later found the answer. "Lamia!"

The light came nearer. The squelching became more pronounced. The pair were within half a dozen yards of him, when one of them slipped, and, from the sudden jerking of the light, was apparently saved by the other. Then a voice that was utterly startling in his ear, remarked clearly:

"This is a really terrible road, Miss Ito."

Joy Swinnerton! The thing was incredible. He could not believe his ears. He must be going cracked to think― Then another voice broke on his uncompleted words in a staccatoed way that was utterly foreign. "Yes. It ees leetle used, Miss Swinnerton!"

Ito! Ito! The name was hammering in his brain.

"Miss Ito!" That would be the Japanese doll. She was taking Joy Swinnerton to that house where her brother was incarcerated. How it had come about he did not know, but he remembered the attempt to secure the girl on the Southampton-road, and he glimpsed a whole devilish scheme in a single flash of his mind.

In a second he had slipped through the breach to the road, making considerable noise in his passage, and so heralding his coming. Almost in the same instant the flash-light in the hand of the Japanese girl picked him out of the darkness. With the broad knife in his hand, gleaming in the light, tousled as he was, his waders revealing his bare knees, the light making him bulk large in the thick Harris tweed, he was a rather startling if not terrific figure.

That the holder of the light found him so, was clear, and she cried to her companion. He was not sure what it was, but he thought he caught the word, "Run," and immediately he shouted. "Stay where you are, Joy. It is I, Bill Pallisier!"

He fumbled for and found the torch in his pocket, pressed the button, and as the light beamed found Miss Ito in the act of levelling a small pistol, Instantly he doused his light, dropped to his knees, and saw the flash of the pistol. Then he raised himself and leaped twice. The pistol flashed again, and as the bullet sang by him, in the flash he saw the Japanese standing resolutely in the middle of the road. Luck was his way. He caught the outstretched hand and jerked it up.

"Drop it," he said. The girl struggled. It was no time for niceties. He forced the hand farther back. The girl gave a moan of pain, the pistol dropped and rebounded, then he gave a hard laugh.

"Now! You've a knife―"

A twist and the girl wrenched free, and fled away in the rain, making across the marsh. He made as if to follow her, really to speed her going, and when he heard her splashing in water, well away from the road, he hurried back. Joy Swinnerton was standing against the wall, as his torch revealed, white, and self-possessed.

"In God's name what are you doing here, Joy?"

"I was going to Michael. That girl was taking me. She sent me word that he was very ill, and wanting me. I was to come alone by a particular 'bus to the Marshman's Arms, where she would be waiting to take me to him... If anyone else came with me, she would not reveal herself, and―"

"But surely you guessed it was a most obvious trap?"

"No! I thought it might be true about Michael's illness, and there was a little note from him enclosed―"

"You are sure it was from him?"

"Quite. It was that which influenced me. He said that I must come to him as there was something he wanted me to get for him, something that he couldn't write about. And―"

"If he wrote that he didn't know what he was doing, I'll swear. He's back in a house over there. A sick man or a drugged one, and a prisoner, having been passed to the Japs by an American gangster crowd."

"Oh, then I must go to him―"

"Not on your life! That is just to play the game that woman and the others want. Michael will be all right I am on my way for help, and I can't let you go on alone. Besides, without a guide you'd never find the place. Where's this Marshman's Arms you mentioned?"

"Only a little way back down the main road out of which this one runs."

"Good! Give me your arm. We'll go there, and send for the police. Also for my car, which is parked in a garage Somewhere not very far away. We'll need it or another to get your brother away. Don't worry. Now that we know where Michael is the game of the lot has just gone phut. They'll know it, too. If they tried to take your brother away it wouldn't serve them at all, as we know who they are. Now, your arm-and step out."

They stepped out together, and as they went on through the rainy darkness, Pallisier asked a question.

"Seen anything of P.Q.R.?"

"Not since I went to that barge, last night. I heard that he and Mr. Sullivan had gone off to look for you, as you had not returned."

Pallisier chuckled. "Had a fairly lively time after seeing you off that barge."

"After seeing me off―"

"Yes. I was on the barge―"

"You were on―"

"Lying doggo. Didn't mean to let any of that gangster crowd serve you a nasty trick, you know. Couldn't let you take the risk. What?"

"But I didn't know!" gasped the girl. "I was not told. Why should you take such risks?"

"Like 'em," answered Pallisier cheerfully. "Had another reason, too, better one, perhaps."

"What?"

"Oh― er― a private one, you know."

"Tell me!"

"Can't. Wouldn't be fair. Look as if I were taking advantage of the circum-stances. What?"

"I don't 'what' at all. I can't think what you mean, Mr. Pallisier. Will you please make yourself clear?"

The Honourable Bill was in a corner, and saw no way of wriggling out of it. "Well-er-you know―"

"I don't know. Tell me."

"Well, it was you who were going to board that barge with all that boodle."

"Yes?"

"Well, that's it! Just you, Get me, Miss Joy."

"Not... not exactly."

"To make it clearer. I should have to― to― er― propose."

"Propose?" cried Miss Joy. "To me?"

"Nobody else in sight is there?"

"Oh, but it is absurd!"

"Knew you'd say that," said the Honourable Bill with conviction.

"And... and in the rain, too!"

"Not responsible for that. And it's sound counsel to snatch your joy when you can. What's that poet fellow say. 'Gather ye rosebuds whilst ye may.' Topping advice that. I never did believe in wasting. time, and this is the first opportunity I've had to―"

"You're not serious. You can't be, Mr. Pallisier."

"Never was more serious in my life. Been thinking of it ever since my headlamps put the spot light on you down on the Southampton-road. That's a solemn fact.... Had an idea I might just broach the subject when we had that little evening at the Old Willow Plate which you promised me―"

"I didn't promise―"

"No?" Boot must be on the other leg, then. But it's a promise still-so is all the rest, though having started the hare it seems a pity not to―" Squelch! Splash! "Dash it! We're off the road. Comes of being so interested in the deep things of life and love, What?... This way."

They regained the terra firma, and the Honourable Bill gave a sigh that was audible through the rain."I could go on in this way for ever!"

"In the rain?"

"Anyway, if I'd your arm in mine, and―"

Miss Joy, in spite of anxiety and everything else, was moved to sudden laughter.

"Do you know what they would call you back home?"

"Haven't a notion, Nothing good, I daresay, and likely enough to be true. What's the slander?"

"It isn't exactly that. It is― er― rather complimentary."

"Then I'm dying to hear it,"

"Well, the name is 'Go-getter.' "

"Go get-her!" The misquotation was almost ecstatic. "That's me! Just what I'm doing. Miss Joy-honest to God― I want you. If I hadn't to keep hold of this damned carving knife I should just do the strong man act, clip you up and―"

"Ah! There are the inn lights across the marsh,"

"Um!..Then the session stands adjourned... But only adjourned. I can renew it... What?"

"Well, if... if you really want―"

"My dear girl, is there any need?"

Miss Joy Swinnerton's answer was lost in the swish of the rain, but when they reached the inn, in her grey eyes there was a little-glow that was rather more than admiration as she watched him, to all appearances a tousled, unshaven ruffian, hiding his nakedness under a borrowed coat and little else; cajoling a reluctant landlord, convincing him that he was not a lunatic, and getting his way in all things that he desired― even to the double-barrelled shot-gun which was the apple of its owner's eye.

"What' do you want a gun for?" demanded the landlord.

"To shoot the early birds."

"Are none―"

"There are a special sort. Migrants from Japan―"

"Dear me! That lot over at Saltings House?"

"Don't know the name of the place, but I've got to have the gun, landlord... A carving knife is such a messy thing. I might have to use it, but the sight of the gun will set these Ornis japonica on the wing."

He had his way in everything save one.

When his car arrived, Miss Joy resolutely refused to be left behind. He pleaded, but she was adamant and they set off together. In the car it did not take them very long to splash their way to Saltings House. They saw nothing of Miss Ito on the way, and Pallisier was sufficiently hardhearted to chuckle as he thought of his own little excursion in the marsh last night. As they approached the house he shot a question.

"You drive. m'dear?"

"Of course." "Then you'll take the wheel. I'm going to step out with the gun and investigate. If you see the flash and hear both barrels go off quickly, just reverse and scoot for all you're worth and get help. If I whistle. drive forward and pull up at the back of the house."

He pulled up, stepped out, and with the gun ready for action approached the house. Joy Swinnerton waited for what were the longest five minutes she had ever known. Then a shrill whistle sounded.

"Thank God!" she whispered, and drove forward. When she reached the rear of the house she found him waiting.

"Turn the car," he instructed. "Put out the lights and keep a look out. If you see a car coming, or anyone moving, throw a stone at the nearest window, I'm bound to hear that."

The stone was not thrown. Within ten minutes, Pallisier reappeared, heavily burdened with her brother over his shoulder, wrapped in blankets, but in something less than a semiconscious condition, The. girl cried out as she saw him, but he reassured her.

"Don't think there's much wrong that a doctor won't put right in an hour. He has been drugged. Marks of the needle are in his arm in a dozen places. Open the. door, and we'll make him comfortable as we can and have him in London in an hour."

They placed the half-comatose man in the rear of the car, made him as cosy as the circumstances permitted, but when Joy proposed to join him, Pallisier intervened.

"No, m'dear. You're wanted at the wheel. I've got to be free to fire off this pop-gun in case of need. There's going to no slip of the cup and the lip this time if I can help it, and a shotgun is ripping for peppering people, as they know in your little home town. There's quite a lot of moral suasion in a charge of duck-shot. What?"

Joy Swinnerton did not reply, but started the car, and drove steadily forward. They encountered nothing until they were approaching the main road, then suddenly the lights of a car cut the darkness ahead like a great sword.

"Um!" said Pallisier. "Keep going― whatever happens, keep going!"

"You think those lights mean trouble."

"Can't mean anything else that I cans see. Must be those Jap birds coming back. If so they'll want to know who we are, and we won't trouble to tell them."

"That car has stopped!" announced the girl a moment later.

"Yes," answered P.Q.R., and deliberately knocked out the mica of the windscreen on his own side. "There's a man stepped out. He's signalling."

"He'll be dancing in another minute if―"

"Oh, I believe― Bill―"

"Delighted!"

"It's P.Q.R."

"P.Q.R.!" Pallisier put his head out of the broken screen to make sure. Then he laughed with relief. "You're right, Joy.... Where he's come from I don't know, but he's had a narrow escape."

Ten minutes later with Joy beside her brother, and P.Q.R. at the wheel, there were mutual explanations, which with the news that had to be exchanged lasted almost till they reached Grosvenor Gardens.

As they drove up a man who had just descended from a taxi and was walking towards No. 4 paused to observe the car. It was Mr. Bull Sullivan, fresh from his triumph at the City Palace, and anxious for news of his friend the Honourable., He got it first hand, when Pallisier with a double-barrelled sporting gun stepped out on the pavement.

His surprise was complete, his joy as unbounded, if expressed a trifle unorthodoxly.

"Hell!" he said tersely. "Where―"

"S-s-h-h-h, brother. Ladies― or one lady, present. I've got a little surprise for you, if you'll step this way and lend a hand."

Mr. Sullivan's second surprise was almost' a shock, As the Honourable Bill opened the door of the car, and the other stared in he was dumb-founded for a moment. Then he broke out:

"Y've got him, boy! Y've got young Michael? Well―"

"Yes! And I've got something better."

"Can't have!" said Mr. Sullivan with conviction. "What-"

"Tell you later, you inquisitive dick, cop, bull― or whatever you call yourself. ―Lend a hand, brother."

Mr. Sullivan was only too willing, but retained his curiosity, and when all explanations had been made, two hours later. genial with the influence of good whisky and the consciousness of a tricky job happily ended, he saw Pallisier to his car. With one hand on the door he leaned forward.

"Say, Honourable, that 'Something better,' it has me guessing!"

"Bet you a fiver you. can't guess right, brother." Mr. Sullivan calmly offered his hand. "Well― shoot!"

"Lend me your ear, boy. No need to shout it to the street."

The Honourable Bill duly lent his ear, and Mr. Sullivan registered his guess in a hoarse whisper, then demanded aloud: "I draw?"

"You sure do," laughed Pallisier. "But how the deuce you know ,when I'm not sure myself―"

"Saw Miss Joy's eyes, boy! That's the way to find out truth."

"And you're sure, Sullivan―"

"Bet all I've got on it."

"Then-shake, Bull, shake, and if you hear that I'm locked up for being in charge of a car whilst under the influence of alcohol, come an' bail me out. It won't be drink, but you dicks are such blind owls."

"I get you, boy," laugher Mr. Sullivan. "But drive carefully There'll be excuse for any dick who runs you in to-night. So long! And the best of luck.

IT WAS five weeks later when the promised night at the Old Willow Plate materialised, and there were present not only Joy and Pallisier and P.Q.R., but Michael Swinnerton and Bull Sullivan and Inspector Godbold.

The party was a very merry one, especially for two who had a merry secret of their own which they proceed to fire off all in good time. But in the midst of the merriment there were a few moments of utter seriousness, when Godbold and Sullivan, professional always and fresh from the New Bailey, gave news.

It was Sullivan who began it.

"Spano's got his! Ip's testimony dished him. He was the fella who shot the chauffeur down on the Southampton-road.... And he can't wriggle out of what's coming to him over here, thank God, same as he could have done in Chicago."

"No. We don't do things that way this side," agreed Mr. Godbold. "But I think Ip got off pretty light, even taking account of her turning King's evidence. Three years isn't much for one of her type... What beat, me is what became of that carroty-headed O'Hagen, who was responsible for shooting Teddy and the chauffeur. Seems to have vanished off the earth."

"He has!" said Pallisier quietly.

Mr. Godbold looked at him searchingly. "What do you mean, Mr. Pallisier? You seem to know something."

"Lo!... Tell you under seal, and on your word that no professional use will be made of it."

"Well, it is a bargain!"

"Ip bumped him off. Justifiable homicide, I'd say, since he tried to put it across her first. I saw the whole thing that night on the barge, but I suppressed it. Wasn't going to prejudice Minnehaha's case before a jury just because she wiped of a scoundrel like that. Hope you'll forgive me, and all that on this joyous occasion―"

"All right!" said Inspector Godbold. "Saved the hangman's fees, I reckon.... Wish we could have got those Japs though, but interest of state and all that truck put the kibosh on any proceedings. They've quit these shores though, the Lord be praised!"

"Amen!" chimed in Mr. Sullivan.

Then the talk drifted to pleasanter things, and a little later Mr. Michael Swinnerton rose in his place.

"Gentlemen," he said. with the paucity of speech of one who believed in open diplomacy. "I've a toast to propose― The Honourable William and Mrs. Pallisier."

For a moment there was something like a stunned silence.

P.Q.R. stared at his chum, Bull Sullivan did likewise, Inspector Godbold set down his glass in fear of letting it fall, then the Honourable William laughed.

"I was only married this morning, if you can call two-forty morning. If you think it's too early to toast so young a married couple―"

"Bill, you old sinner," cried P.Q.R., "is this one of your infernal leg-pulls or―"

"Ask Joy, she can tell you better than I can!"

"Well, of all the―"

"Gentlemen, the toast," intervened Mr. Michael Swinnerton. "It Is-"

"Oh! we know, Mike. I can believe Joy;' The toast was drunk; there was a rather uproarious time immediately after, and an hour later, when- Mr. Sullivan and his friend were deep in discussion, and P.Q.R. and Joy's brother otherwise engaged, the Honourable Bill steered his bride across the crowded dance floor towards the exit. As they reached it she laughed joyfully. "That was a ripping tango."

"Topping!" he said. "Be quick, my dear!"

He was waiting for her when she came from the cloak room, and outside there awaited them a new saloon, with an old servant from Somerset is a new livery. He held the door open, and when they had entered and were comfortably seated he looked at his young master.

"Where to, zir?"

The Honourable Bill looked at his "Where to, zir" eyes.

" 'Home, James, home― and don't spare the horses.' "

End

Table of Contents

- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17