Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Rousing 1930s action novel ranging from Rotterdam to Paris to the penal colonies in French Guiana, as a British secret agent and his French secret agent friend hunt spies snd a missing colleague, as well as hunting down an exiled Russian princess's stolen pearls... OOne of Ottwell Binns's last novels.

Hubin 1935

THE LAST DOOR

Ottwell Binns

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 18

_____________

Chapter 1

The Watchers

THE Café van Tromp had a great name, but in Jeff Torrance's opinion it had little to recommend it. The lighting was poor, the beer indifferent, and its clientele was largely composed of firemen from the steamers in the river. To be sure, there was a sprinkling of girls of the class one might expect in a place that was little better than a seamen's tavern; also three or four men who plainly were not mariners and who looked as if they might have come to the van Tromp by mistake. Over the top of his newspaper, Jeff Torrance surveyed the latter with surreptitious tare. Two of them were together at a table drinking schnapps, and apparently engaged in a desultory conversation. The others were at separate tables. One of them, who had a Jewish face, shared his table with a girl, who was dressed a little less flashily than the others of her sex in the Café. The pair were both smoking and, whilst the man seemed to be talking earnestly, his companion as earnestly watched the door as if she were expecting someone to enter.

Torrance wondered if by any chance it were for himself she was looking. Then he decided that it was not; for she was not in the least like the girl whom he hoped to meet; being small and dark, and lacking the tell-tale mark on her cheek, for which he had been told to look. He considered the man again, cautiously, but with the keenness of a man who knew that there as in other places he carried his life in his hand. One of the schnapps -drinkers held his attention and induced thoughtfulness, for two or three times he surprised the man, in the midst of his conversation, staring in the direction of himself.

The fellow was noticeable. He was big and florid, with steel blue eyes, straw-coloured hair worn en brosse, and a Vandyke beard of the same hue, with a moustache the ends of which turned fiercely upward in the fashion so popular before a certain War Lord slunk to exile at Doorn.

He did not tone with the cafe or the company, any more than an eagle would have toned with an aviary of jackdaws. He looked like a Viking in mufti, he might be the skipper of a ship from Oslo or Stavanger; or again he might be an artist— a race that still affects the manly beard; but he certainly was not of the stoke-hold or a deck hand as were most of the men in the cafe. He dressed well, there was the gleam of a jewel in his tie, and he had the demeanour of one who was accustomed to have his way among his fellows.

Jeff Torrance wondered who he was, but forbore to ask for information from the waiter, who on his signal, supplied him with a fresh tankard of. beer. Engaged as he was on a secret mission, it was as well not to be obviously curious as to the identity of men who might hear of his interest, but he was sure that something more than a desire to escape the damp outside had brought that fine bird to the mean house of entertainment. He glanced at the man's companion— a rat-faced fellow, slender and small, with a pair of beady eyes that were the most restless he had ever seen, darting now here, now there, resting nowhere longer than a moment.

"A shifty customer!" Torrance commented mentally, and then as the outer door opened and the man turned swiftly he noted that he had lost an ear. He followed the fellow's gaze towards the door. The individual who was in the act of entering was as much out of keeping with the cafe and its general clientele as the florid man with  Vandyke beard. He was a fellow of amazing roundness, moon-faced, with twinkling eyes, and the owner of a moustache so waxed and twisted that the points of it stuck out a good inch and a half on either side of his soft, red mouth. That he was something of a fop was betrayed by his attire which was of the extreme Parisian fashion; and, as he stood just inside the door, both hands lifted to twist the wire-like ends of his moustache, a ring on either little finger revealed itself in the light of the lamp above the doorway.

Watching, Torrance saw the twinkling eyes make a swift survey of the café, rest for a second thoughtfully on himself, then pass on to the rat-faced man who gave an. almost imperceptible shake of his head and turned away. The newcomer seated himself not very far from the entrance, called a waiter, gave an order, then taking a case from his pocket selected a cigar and proceeded to light it. The waiter brought a glass of schnapps, and with his cigar well alight, the moon-faced man sat staring at the door. Torrance remembered the girl who was watching the door, and glanced slowly round to learn if she were still maintaining her vigil. She was, and as he noted that the beady eyes of the rat-faced man, in their restive glances, turned frequently towards the entrance, he decided that ne also was on the look-out for someone who was due to arrive at the Cafe van Tromp.

"Three of them— on the look-out!" he whispered to himself.

He found the fact more than a little interesting. Were all three of them watching for the same person? In the case of the moonfaced man and the beady-eyed one he had no doubt at all. The very slight head-shake which the latter had given the latest comer on his entrance indicated previous acquaintance and, he thought, complete understanding; whilst since both watched the entrance, it was odds that they were watching for the same individual. The girl, however, was a more doubtful case. He had seen no indication of acquaintance between her and the other two, and it was probable that she was looking for watch. The clock was a minute fast, and there were still three minutes to go, before he could know whether he had wasted time in waiting at the van Tromp.

In the three minutes a change came over the arrival of some person other than the one for whom they watched. For a time nothing of moment happened. The watchers maintained their vigil; two or three tipsy sailors departed noisily, and behind his paper Torrance himself watched the cafe doorway. Then he saw the moon-faced man take out his watch and compare it with the cafe clock. The latter registered two minutes to nine, and as nine o'clock was the hour of his own appointment, Torrance followed the other's example and checked the clock's time by his own. There was a change in the people whom he was watching. The beady-eyed man's gaze became fixed on the entrance. The twinkling eyes of moon-face were riveted there also; the girl with the Jew was staring at the doorway as if she were hypnotised by it; and about all three there was a tensity that was noticeable. Evidently the moment for which they were waiting was approaching, and it was an easy guess that nine o'clock was the time.

Then the clock gave a preliminary whirr, like the wheeze of an asthmatic man, and began to strike the hour with a swiftness that in a sentient thing would have indicated a desire to get the job done with. As the last stroke sounded, there was a noise of footsteps outside, and in the eyes of all those who had his interest there was a light of expectation that was not to be mistaken.

Torrance spared a glance for the blond man with the Vandyke beard. He suffered a little shock when ne realised that the man's light eyes were concentrated on himself, and in that moment he was assailed by a thought which disturbed him profoundly. Nine was the hour of his own appointment as plainly it was the time for which these apparently disassociated watchers were also waiting. As he heard the door opening, the coincidence struck him disagreeably. Was it possible that they were waiting not merely for the advent of the same person as he had previously conjectured, but for the girl for whose coming he himself was watching?

The thought was a sufficiently wild one; but as he moved in a world where wild things were not uncommon, and where what wore the mask of sheer coincidence was often the result of deliberate planning, he refrained from looking round to observe who the latest customer of the cafe might be. He heard the door swing backward, caught a light step on the linoleum-covered floor, and then, from the sudden cessation of sound, knew that the newcomer had halted just inside the doorway. He still did not look round; but as well as he could gathered information from the faces of those who watched.

A swift glance told him that the newcomer was not the one for whom they were waiting. Was it the one with whom he had the appointment? Lowering his paper, he looked in the direction of the door. A girl was standing there surveying the customers in the café. The class to which she belonged was fairly obvious, and from the cool and deliberate manner in which she stared round the room it appeared that she was appraising the men there with a view to the free advances of her kind.

Torrance looked at her closely. Her right cheek was towards him, and he waited patiently till a turn of her shingled head brought her left cheek into view. It was flawless as the right, without the little crimson birthmark the size and shape of an orange pip, for which he had been told to look. His interest in her wilted, but almost immediately revived as he saw the girl's blue arm of a chair opposite his own.

"You are solitary, mynheer? You wait for Lisbeth?"

He saw her eyes rest for a second on the miniature button with the colours of the Union Jack in the lapel of his coat— purchased from a street pedlar on Ludgate Hill for the sum of one penny— and then meet his own in silent interrogation. That interrogation might have D meant little or nothing, but he had an almost overwhelming intuition that it had more than the usual significance. He answered it with a slight nod, and the girl, after a further look round, moved forward approached his table, and as she reached it set her hand on the chair.

"Yes," he said tersely, knowing his intuition had been right. "You come from her?"

The girl pulled the chair out and, without invitation, seated herself. "As you guess, mynheer."

Then the girl laughed— a little strainedly. "You must not be too solemn. There may be someone watching."

"More than one, I think," he answered tersely. The laughter died on the girl's lips, and for a second there was a flash of fear in her eyes. She made as if to turn, but Torrance checked her.

"Do not look round," he said quickly; then, as a waiter approached, he asked with forced gaiety, "Wine, schnapps, or beer?"

"The wine, mynheer, if you will be so kind."

He gave the order, and when the waiter departed the girl spoke swiftly.

"Lisbeth thought there might be those who would watch. Your letter was stolen from her apartment yesterday. But if there are watchers they cannot know me, for I am a stranger, and arrived from Delft only four hours ago."

"You bring a message from her?"

"Yes, mynheer." The girl took off her gloves and threw them carelessly on the table, from one of them peeped a little triangle of pasteboard, the corner of a card.

"You see it? When it is safe to do so, you will take that, mynheer. It is Lisbeth's card with her address."

As the waiter returned with the sherry that had been ordered, she broke off, and carelessly pushed the gloves further on the table. As the man set down the glass, Torrance pulled the gloves to one side, quickly palmed the card and, thrusting his hand into his pocket for the money to pay the man, left the card there. Then, as the waiter retired, the girl continued her explanations.

"You are to go there, late, at eleven o'clock. There is no bell, but Lisbeth will be waiting at the door, and you are to knock thrice and she will admit you. Is that clear, mynheer?"

"Quite clear!" He produced his cigarette-case. "You will smoke?"

The girl took a cigarette, and he struck a match and held it for her, before helping himself. Striking a second match, he lit the cigarette, and as he did so glanced round the cafe with affected nonchalance. His survey did not make for peace of mind. Those who had watched the door had transferred their attention to the girl and himself. As he glanced round, he met the gaze of the rat-faced man whose beady eyes were hastily averted. The round man with the spiked moustaches met his careless glance almost challengingly, whilst the Jewish looking man and his companion, almost head to head in earnest conversation, were watching the girl who had brought the message. Only the blonde Viking was indifferent.

The transference of interest from the clock and the doorway told its own story. The watchers no longer expected the arrival of the person for whom they had waited; and however unacquainted with Lisbeth's messenger they were concerned with both her and himself.

The stolen letter gave the place and hour of his appointment with the girl, and mentioned the little coloured button which was in the lapel of his coat Anyone interested in their meeting could scarcely fail to identify him, though Lisbeth herself had not kept the tryst And that the watchers were interested was only too apparent.

He whistled softly, and as his gaze returned to his companion he saw that she was in the act of gathering up her gloves.

"Wait," he said quietly, "You must not hurry. When the time comes we must leave together."

"But, mynheer―"

"Believe me it is better so. Those who are watching may be misled. We will drive to my hotel together, and after a little stay there you may go your way. You are lodging with your friend, perhaps?"

"No."

"So much the better. No doubt when we leave here we shall be followed; and it is wiser that you should not return to Lisbeth.... Drink the wine, and I will call the waiter."

The girl obeyed him, and signalling the waiter, he ordered beer for himself and wine for the girl, and when the man returned, he thrust a florin in his hand, and asked him to procure a taxi and have it at the entrance in five minutes' time.

"With pleasure, mynheer," answered the man, and a moment later left the room by a side door.

Whilst waiting for the time to pass, Torrance smoked a cigarette, and talked to the girl, studiously refraining from looking round. Four minutes passed, then the waiter reappeared and signalled that the taxi was waiting.

"Good," said Torrance, and addressed his companion. "Drink up the wine, and prepare to depart. Do not hurry and do not look round. When you are quite ready lead the way to the door."

The girl followed his instructions very naturally, using her powder puff, and touching up her lips before pulling on her gloves. Then, tucking her handbag under her arm, she rose, smiled at him, and led the way towards the swing doors.

As he followed her Torrance was aware of the moon-faced man in the act of rising to his feet; and when he had passed the threshold, over his shoulder saw him signal to the beady-eyed one. But the taxi was there waiting, and as there was no other in sight, he knew that there could be no effective pursuit. He gave the driver swift instructions.

"Hotel de Maas. Quickly, my friend."

The man had his engine running, and as Torrance slammed the door he moved off, just as the moon-faced man and his companion emerged from the cafe. Looking through the rear window, he saw the pair staring after them a little blankly, and chuckled to himself.

"First round to us!" he said cheerfully to the girl. "There will be no need for you to enter my hotel. When the man has dropped me he can take you to your apartment, which will perhaps be the better way."

"As you say, mynheer," answered the girl, and did not speak again until the vehicle stopped at the hotel on the Boompjes. Then, after he had paid the driver and given him instructions where to take the girl, the girl said earnestly— "Mynheer, you will be careful— for Lisbeth's sake. She fears those men greatly, I think."

"I shall be very cautious," he reassured her cheerfully. "Have no fear."

But when she had been driven away, as he entered the hotel, black care was at his shoulder.

He had left behind him at the van Tromp the men whom he suspected were interested in his mission: but the advantage he had gained was of no real value. They might not know his address; but they would know that of the girl whom he was to meet and as like as not her apartment would be watched. He spent some time wondering how he could evade them before he looked at the card with the girl's address, which was not that to which his letter making the appointment had been sent.

The address surprised him. It was an alley leading from the Ziegelstraat down to a boatstairs on the canal— the last place where one would have expected a girl to have her apartment: for it was a region of warehouses and offices of shippers, a humming hive in the daytime; but at night, save for a watchman or two, as deserted as a graveyard. He wondered why a girl should choose to have her lodging in so outlandish a place. He failed to find a reason, and after a little time he dismissed the matter from his mind.

But as he considered the address further a frown gathered on his face. The district might be undesirable for a lodging place, but it was ideal for anyone contemplating action that necessitated solitude. A dark cobbled alley, in a deserted quarter, leading down to the canal was made for crime. To go down there almost at the dead hour of the night in view of all the circumstances would undoubtedly involve a considerable measure of risk; and it would be well to be prepared for an emergency. He must go armed, and exercise all the caution possible, for whilst risks were unavoidable tor a man in his profession, there was no need to be foolhardy.

He sat in the lounge smoking and reflecting until twenty past ten, then, having made his preparations, he left the hotel. He found the Boompjes hidden in dripping doom, a white sea-mist having drifted up the river and spread a pall over the city. The fact momentarily dismayed him. But reflecting that whilst the fog might afford concealment for those who might be inimical to him, it also provided cover for himself, he found a taxi and was driven to the Ziegelstraat. Descending at the western end. he waited until the vehicle had driven away, and stood listening. No sound reached him save the hooting of steamers somewhere down river and the drip of moisture from the eaves. Reassured, he began to follow the cobbled street towards his destination.

There were street lamps here and there, but in the mist they afforded little help. He passed warehouses and offices all in darkness, but encountered no one whatever. Apparently he had the whole of Ziegelstraat to himself, and, with the rubber pads on his shoes to deaden the sound of his steps, despite the cobbles he made scarcely any noise. Presently he reached the alley for which he was making: and before turning the corner halted to listen. The place was utterly silent He remained there for quite five minutes, standing against the wall . and practically invisible to anyone two yards away. He heard no disquieting sound whatever, and as the clocks of the city began to boom the hour he turned into the alley.

The fog was denser there, the darkness more opaque, and there was need for care. He did not know how long the alley was, but he knew that it ended at the canal; and that on such a night it would be easy to step off the edge into the water. The door he had to find was the very last one on the right side, which meant that the canal must be quite near; and, remembering that those men who had been at the Cafe van Tromp might be here waiting for him, he dared not make use of the flashlamp in his pocket Cautiously he groped his way from one door to another. Then out of the darkness in front of him came a sudden plopping sound which brought him to a sharp halt, his heart beating like a drum, his ears straining. He heard a sharp squeak, a scurry of small creatures in the darkness, then another plop. The explanation came to him suddenly— Rats!

The neighbourhood, with its many warehouses and the canal, must swarm with the creatures. But the plopping sound that he had heard meant water, and water here indicated the canal. He must be very close to his destination, and certainly too near to the canal to go further without being sure of its actual position. He stared around him in the misty darkness, and as he did so became aware of a faint luminosity almost directly over his head. That must be a light in an upper window, and as he so interpreted it, he whispered under his breath.

"Eureka!"

Convinced that he had reached his destination, he groped along the wall until it was broken by a doorway, and further groping revealed a stout nail-studded door. He waited for a moment listening. The alley was absolutely silent. If there had been anyone near he must have heard them breathing, and. completely reassured, he gave softly the threefold knock that would inform the girl of his arrival.

Almost instantly he heard the click of a catch as it was slipped. He waited for the door to open, but it did not do so immediately. Then he became aware of something white in the dark oblong of the door, about the level of his own face. The truth broke on him. There was a Judas grille there, and someone was examining him through the wires, though if the person could see no more than he could it was wasted labour. Then a voice whispered through the Judas:

"Who is there?"

The voice was feminine, and, assured that It was that of the girl whom he had come to see. he answered the question with directness:

"It is I— Torrance."

"Mynheer Torrance!— Wait one moment." There was a little flick, then a ray of light came blinding through the grille. The girl, it seemed was taking nothing on chance. He laughed softly as he blinked in the light.

"Lisbeth, you will blind me."

The girl was apparently satisfied, for the light was switched off. The Judas closed with a snap A catch clicked as it was withdrawn, then the heavy door opened softly on well-oiled hinges.

"Enter, mynheer."

Torrance could see nothing save the girl's face, and that very indistinctly; and for anything he knew to the contrary there might be someone else in the darkness behind her. But he accepted the invitation and, stepping smartly across the threshold, at the second step was brought up sharply by something against which his foot kicked heavily.

"Gently mynheer!" warned the girl. "The stairs are in front of you."

He heard the door softly closed, and caught the click of the lock. Standing there in the utter darkness, he was vividly conscious of the possibility of treacherous action. His hand went to the pocket of his overcoat and closed on the butt of an automatic pistol which the pocket held. As it did so, the girl switched on the flashlamp again, revealing the stairs of which she had spoken. The flight was steep, and there was evidence there that rats had been at work, whilst some of the worst places had been repaired with sheet lead. That he marked in a single swift glance, then the girl spoke:

"I will lead the way, Mynheer Torrance, and light the stairs for you."

She brushed past him and began to ascend, directing the beam of her lamp downwards to illumine each step for his feet. And with the thought that if there were risk for him in this odorous old place it was not upon the staircase, Torrance mounted after her to the landing, which, like the stairs was in darkness.

Chapter 2

Through the Grille

ACROSS the landing there was a door set in the massive posts of a bygone period, posts black with age, the door itself a stout one. The girl led the way to fit, and thrust it open, letting out a flood of soft light which came from ah ornate hanging lamp standing aside, she waited for her caller to enter, and as he did so Torrance suffered a little shock of surprise.

He had expected something in the nature of a cheap bed-sitting room, but the apartment was far beyond that. To be sure, there was a  bed there, partly hidden by a screen of Spanish leather: but all the appointments proclaimed that here was no lack of means.

The carpet was a rich one, the two-winged chairs drawn up near the stove were genuine antiques. A tapestry covered the whole of one wall; and on the others were pictures that proclaimed the connoisseur. On the table near the. centre of the room stood a decanter of good glass, a couple of tall wine glasses with spiral stems, and an old silver box, richly chased, as the open lid revealed, now used for holding cigarettes. There were other things revealed to him in that, first appraising glance round, all surprising, which it is needless to catalogue, but all combining to make an apartment which was astonishing for the Ziegelstraat; and which anywhere would have been evidence of the luxurious taste of its owner.

Concealing his surprise as well as he could, he looked at the girl. In her way she was as surprising as the room, of fine figure, a rarely beautiful face, with eyes as blue as any Torrance had ever seen, and hair the colour of light gold. On the left cheek, in no way a disfigurement, but enhancing its fairness, was the tiny birth mark of which he had information. Here beyond question was the Lisbeth with whom the appointment at the Cafe ran Tromp had been made.

He stood  waiting until, having closed the door, the girl indicated one of the chairs.

"Be seated, please, mynheer." He took the chair to which she pointed, and then the girl asked politely: "You will take a little refreshment, perhaps? No!... But a cigarette— one talks and listens so much better when one is smoking...." She held the silver box towards him, and when he had taken a cigarette helped herself to one, and a moment later was in the chair opposite him, staring at him steadily through the smoke. Then abruptly she asked a question.

"You saw Gertrude at the van Tromp?"

"If that is the name of your friend, yes."

"Tell me," asked the girl, "did you see anyone there who appeared to be observing you?"

"Why, yes! At least three men and a woman."

For a second there was a flicker of anxiety in the blue eyes, then the girl asked quickly: "You noticed them carefully. You can describe them?"

"Sufficiently, I think. One was a twinkling-eyed man as round as a cheese, with a face like a full moon, and a moustache that had the ends so twisted―"

"Karl Wiederman!" ejaculated the girl. "And the others, mynheer?"

"The second was a thin little man, with a mouth like a rat and eyes like black boot-buttons, a―"

"Louis!" interrupted the girl again in swift recognition. Then she leaned forward in her chair. The beautiful face had a tense look, and there was a gleam of fear in her eyes.

"And the third?" she asked in a quivering voice. "There were three, you said, mynheer?"

"A large man who made me think of the old Vikings. A fellow with straw-coloured hair and beard, with moustaches turned up like a cow's horns―"

He broke off sharply as the girl fell back in her chair; her face grown suddenly ghastly, the gleam that had been in her rare eyes a flaming thing.

"Dear God!..." she whispered shudderingly. "Dirck―"

She looked as if she were about to faint, and, rising hastily, Torrance snatched up the decanter, filled one of the tall glasses with wine, and carried it to her.

"Drink this. Lisbeth," he said, and set it to her lips.

The girl fairly gulped the wine. It braced her, but it did not drive the pallor from her face or quench the flame of fear in her eyes. After a moment she recovered sufficiently to speak, in a choking voice that was very near a croak.

"Mynheer— you must leave— at once!"

"But the story you were to tell me. The information you have about my friend―"

"Go," interrupted the girl. "You do not know.... They will kill you. If they should guess that you have come here. They may.... The letter that came from London in answer to mine was stolen.... And now I can guess the thief."

She rose a little totteringly from her chair and steadied herself by clutching the wing of it with both hands.

"Oh, go! I implore you, go!" There was no doubt about her earnestness. She was in a panic of fear. That was very plain to Torrance, but he was loth to go without the information that she could give him.

"It will take such a little time to tell me―" he began.

The girl made a gesture of mingled alarm and impatience. Then leaving the support of the chair she fairly ran across the room, opened a small cabinet, and came back with a letter in her hand.

"Take that! It will tell you much. And the rest I shall write. But now leave me I beseech you, for since Dirck, who should have been in Paris is in Rotterdam, any moment he may come―"

She broke off sharply. A strained listening look came on her face, whilst the fear burned in her eyes. She lifted a hand with index finger outstretched.

"Listen! Oh listen," she whispered distraughtly.

Jeff Torrance listened as she exhorted him. The hour was late. Under the blanketing fog the city was very still, and but for the far grunt of a fog horn, the night was soundless,

"You alarm yourself needlessly," he said soothingly.  "There is nothing, Lisbeth, not a soul beside ourselves in all the Ziegelstraat . We―"

Then he knew that he was wrong, and that the girl's ears sharpened by fear were quicker than his own. From somewhere outside came a faint sound of feet moving cautiously in the cobbled alley. His blood chilled as he heard it and the skin along his spine prickled to goose-flesh. The girl looked at him wildly and read the truth in his eyes. Then she whispered despairingly:

"You heard? You are too late. Already they are in the street... And there is but that one way out... You are lost; and―" She broke off shudderingly, and buried her face in her hands.

Torrance, with a conviction that if those men who had been at the Cafe van Tromp were in the alley things were just as had as they seemed to her, looked round the apartment.

There were windows on two sides of the room. He divined that one was over the alley, and from the position of the other which must be in the gable guessed that it looked out on the canal. There might be a chance that way. As the thought crossed his mind, the girl roused herself from the immobility of fear to frantic and ill-considered action. Before he had realised what was in her mind she ran to the centre of the room lifted a hand to a chain which hung from the lamp and gave it a sharp tug. Evidently that chain was attached to the extinguisher for a second later the room was plunged in darkness.

"Why―" he began, and out of the blackness came an interrupting whisper.

"If they find the place dark, they may think you are not here, and go away."

Remembering how he had seen the luminous patch in the fog which had revealed a window unknown to him he was convinced of the futility of her action. Anyone familiar with the position of the apartment, moving down the alley must already have glanced upward and marked the light. The dousing of it would merely confirm suspicions already entertained. But he kept his thoughts to himself, for the girl was already so near to sheer distraughtness that any indication of the truth might be the last straw bringing about utter collapse.

For a few seconds, which to Torrance seemed an interminable space of time, both of them remained completely still. Listening, he thought he caught , the rasp of a shoe on the cobbles of the alley, but was not sure; then a second later he heard the girl moving in the darkness, going, he thought, in the direction of the door.

"Where are you going, Lisbeth?" he asked in a quick whisper.

"Down the stairs to the grille," she answered back. "One may hear something there."

"Better not," he whispered, divining that the which she seemed to have achieved was the stoniness of stark despair. "You locked the door?"

"Then, they cannot enter at present. It will be wiser to wait until they summon attention by rapping on the door, as they will."

The girl made no reply, and an instant later he knew that she did not mean to follow his counsel, for there reached him sounds which told him that she was kicking, off her shoes.

Before he could move or speak he heard the door of the room open, and then soft footfalls revealed that she was crossing the landing. He felt it incumbent on him to follow her, and in pitch darkness, but for the dull glow of the asbestos stove, he groped his way to the door. When he reached the landing slight creaking sounds proclaimed that already she was on the stairs. Gingerly, he felt his way, found the head of the staircase and there waited. From outside came a faint rumble of voices, then a cackle of thin laughter which in the situation seemed to him extraordinarily callous.

That a man who almost certainly purposed murder could laugh so carelessly was a revelation of the character of the man with whom the girl and he had to deal.

"Wolves!" he thought. There were men who were no better, packs of them, as he knew, men who would shoot a man for a score of guilders, or knife him for a pound. And those men outside had a greater stake. They, as he was sure, did not play for small pools and, though he had but the dimmest notion of the enterprise in which they were engaged, he had no doubt whatever that they would be as ruthless as any Apache in the slums of Paris, and as callous as the gangster of Chicago or cruel as a nervi of Marseilles.

Standing at the head of the stairs, he waited tensely, aware from the sounds that the girl had completed the descent. The rumble of voices, with a faint shuffling of feet on the cobbles, reached him again, and then both sounds suddenly became much clearer, and he knew that the girl must have opened the shutter of the Judas. He strove to hear what those outside were saying, but failed; then befell a thing that was as shocking as it was startling.

There was an abrupt cessation of talk beyond the door; and as instinctively he divined that the man in the alley must have observed the shutter had been opened, suddenly as a flash of lightning a bright beam shone through the grille, directed from outride. For one dazzling second he saw the girl's fair hair sheening in the light. Then she shrank a little and threw up her hands as if to shield her eyes from the glare.

The second after there was a popping sound not unlike that made when the cork is blown out of a child's toy gun, and the glare was a little obscured by a small opalescent cloud of smoke. The girl's hands jerked upwards, her knees sagged, and she dropped out of the range of the flashlight, in the little square between the stairs and the door. For a moment he stood quite still, frozen with horror at the shocking thing. The girl had not cried out. Not so much as a sob of fear had broken from, her lips, and the only other sound beyond that "pop" had been that of her fall, but he knew as surely as if he had been standing by her side that she had been shot, by a "silenced" pistol fired through the grille, the aim of the killer directed by the bright ray of the flashlight.

As he stood there he caught the acrid odour of burnt cordite, and saw the wisps of smoke curling in the beam that still shone through the grille of the Judas. A voice broke on the tremendous stillness that had followed the faint. report of the shot and the sound of the girl's fall; and this time he heard the words clearly:

"A clean shot!"

The assertion was made in French, and it was followed by a suggestion, made in the same language, but a little haltingly, as if the speaker were using a foreign tongue.

"It will be well to make sure, Louis. The little traitress may be playing pussy."

"True, my friend. That is an easy task."

The ray of the flashlamp was directed downward at a sharp angle, and. staring down the dark staircase, Torrance watched the bright disc of light find the girl's body, travel along it, and come to rest on the white face. The latter appeared ghastly in the strong light, and from the head of the stairs he could see the sagging mouth, the closed eyes, the dark puncture in the very centre of the forehead from which there was a tiny trickle of blood. He heard the murderer laugh, and give the information:

"Dead as a mummy!"

That laugh; stridently Callous as it was, broke the spell of immobility set on him by the horror induced by the shocking crime. Wrath surged in him like a flood. His hand went to his pocket and drew forth the automatic he carried there. It would be easy to aim at the grille, and he could scarcely miss the unseen man on the further side, who, as he was sure, had fired the murderous shot. He lifted the pistol, was in the very act of taking aim, when the beam of the flashlight was unexpectedly withdrawn, leaving he door and the staircase in complete darkness.

A whispered oath of chagrin rose to his lips, as the opportunity thus passed by. He was in two minds to descend the stairs and wait in the darkness behind the door for any chance that might come. But soberer thoughts checked impulsive action. Wicked as was the crime that he had witnessed, in view of his errand his first duty was to get clear with the information which, as he hoped, was contained in the letter the dead girl had given him.

And that did not promise to be an easy thing. The girl had said there was but one outlet from the premises, and with those men outside, suspecting or knowing of his presence, there was no escape for him that way. As like as not he could be shot on right. Whilst these thoughts were yet in his mind, he had news that the villains were aware that he was there; for suddenly from the door below there came a scraping sound, as if something had touched the wire grille.

Then once more the beam of the flash lamp cut the darkness of the staircase like a sword of light. This time it was directed upward and he had only just time to slip back when the light focussed on the stair head. He watched the disc which the end of the beam made on the old panelled walls of the landing, saw it move here and there, like a wandering eye; and in the angle where he stood out of its range there reached him a rasping voice.

"Not there. Must be in the apartment!"

"The window is dark, Louis."

"So is a rat's hole when it crouches there waiting for pussy to depart We must pick the lock."

"Wait! Listen, my friend."

Torrance accepted the invitation for himself; straining his ears to catch what the last speaker might have to say. Instead of words, he heard a man whistling. The whistle grew clearer; and he recognised it as a quick-step of the Foreign Legion.

Someone it seemed was coming down the alley―"

"Dirck!" ejaculated a voice. "He will have his key and―"

Torrance waited no longer. Moving from his corner, he slipped baric to the apartment: and then, taking the small flash-torch shaped like a fountain pen which he had brought with him, he pressed the switch.

Keeping its thin ray directed to the floor, he crossed to the window set in the gable. it was a leaded window of many panes; and one half of it opened on hinges. In a twinkling he slipped the catch, and opened the movable half. Then, leaning over the sill, he looked forth. In the fog and darkness he could see absolutely nothing. He flashed his tiny light downward in the opaqueness, but it failed to penetrate. He listened, but no sound of any kind came for his information; yet he felt that he must know what lay under the pall of fog before dropping out of the window. He hoped that it was the canal, and that the gable ran sheer to the edge of it, as did many of the old houses in the city; but it was necessary to make sure.

Then he saw a way. Turning into the room, he flashed his lamp here and there, until the light rested on a bronze figure, standing on the floor, a grotesque image of Pan that was evidently used for a doorstop. He ran to it, picked it up, and hurried back to the window. Then, leaning out, he dropped the figure as near the house wall as ne could without it actually touching. Three seconds later there was a considerable splash, as the image struck a watery surface.

"The canal!" he ejaculated in a whisper of relief. "Thank heaven!"

He wasted no further time. First taking his pistol from the pocket of his overcoat, he wrapped it in a silk handkerchief and transferred it to his hip-pocket. Then he threw off the coat. A man could not swim in that, and it would have to be sacrificed. Next he kicked off his shoes, and tied them with the laces to the buttonholes of his coat.

He worked quickly, spurred by words which came up the stairs; and when he was ready, switching off his flash-light, he began to negotiate the window. The lattice was none too wide, and his difficulties were increased by the fact that the flat bar on which it slid ran in a slot which was leaded into the stone sill, and could not be cast loose. With the aid of a chair, however, he managed to get his legs through the lattice, and, turning over, to wriggle his body partly out. Then came a hitch, as he was caught by his shoulders, which wedged in the narrow casement.

He struggled desperately to wriggle free, and whilst he was so engaged heard voices which came from the alley. Two or three words reached him rather indistinctly... Boat... window... may slip...

His way of possible escape had been anticipated. The broken words told him that, and possibly the boat of which the ruffians spoke was waiting at the stairs. He struggled desperately. With a great effort, he heaved himself back half way into the room. As he did so, he saw the landing was illumined by a light which jerked up and down in the hand that carried it. Some man was already ascending the stairs— the man Dirck, who since he had the key it seemed was the owner of the apartment. The situation was utterly desperate; but he did not lose his nerve.

Clinging to the casement he wriggled himself side-ways, his ribs resting on the narrow sill, feeling as if they must crack. Hunching up his knees against the lattice to relieve the pressure on his side, with his shoulders free, and. clinging desperately with one arm inside the room, he saw the light that had been on the landing turn searchingly into the room, and knew that the man who carried it was just beyond the threshold. Then he released his hold.

He fell like a stone, making a great splash as he struck the water. The. height was greater than he had anticipated; and his plunge was correspondingly deep. He came to the surface gasping and spluttering and nearly sick with the taste of unclean water in his mouth. He heard an angry voice shouting overhead; the rattle of rowlocks less than half a dozen yards away; but in the darkness, with the mist lying thick on the surface of the canal, he could see nothing whatever.

"There!" shouted a voice from the boat. as he guessed.

"I hear―"

He sucked his lungs full of air; and with no more sound than a seabird plunging for its prey, dived and swam under water, until the necessity for breath once more forced him to the surface. Already, he had lost his sense of direction; but behind him there was a babble of voices and a noisy rattle of oars handled by men who were not experts. He shook the water from his eyes and gave a little chuckle.

So far, at any rate, the game was his; and with the fog and darkness to cover him, he had little doubt of ultimate escape, so long as he did not unconsciously double in his tracks. Treading water he listened carefully. In the mist sounds were confusing, but he was. certain the voices were behind him, a little to his right Assured of that he resumed his way, using a breast stroke, and swimming as silently as possible with a thought that be would make the further bank of the canal.

Chapter 3

A Friendly Thief

IN the fog and darkness to make the opposite bank was not so simple a matter as it seemed. He had nothing to guide him but the sound of the pursuing boat and the voices of the men in her, and was very like a man adrift at sea without star or compass to guide him. Once, he knew for certain that he must have swam in a half circle, completely reversing his course, for suddenly he heard the voices directly to his front, and with the voices a heavy flailing of the water by the amateur oarsmen.

Swiftly and silently he moved away at right angles, and presently, through the moist darkness, became aware of a strong odour of cheese. Realising that be must be near a warehouse, he followed the scent, and half a minute later came to a small wharf, which was in complete darkness. Landing there, he listened for a moment without hearing any sound of his pursuers; and then decided that he would put on his shoes.

Not until then did he make the discovery that he had lost one of them, probably at the time when he had been struggling to get through the lattice. One shoe was worse than none at all, he thought, so he threw the one that remained into the canal, and began to feel his way forward, very cautiously, keeping to the side of the warehouse until he readied the end of the building. There, running between it and the next building, a narrow opening offered itself. Hoping that H might lead him to a street, he turned into it, limping on the cobbles, and still guiding himself by the wall. - As it chanced the passage did not run straight. It turned at the back of the building which he was following, running between it and yet another warehouse— a mere dark' gut which he perforce followed. The passage, however, was short, leading to a wider alley which it entered at right angles, offering him a choice of ways. As he reached this wider place, he halted for a moment to consider his way. Recalling the turn of the passage he had followed, he ' judged that to go left would merely lead him back to the canal; and he was in the act of moving off to the right, when he suffered a considerable shock. In the darkness close at hand there was a sound of quick movement: a flash-lamp beamed suddenly In his eyes, and a rather officious voice called on him to halt. He could not see the man, but after the first shock of surprise, he realised that he had run against a watchman going his rounds of the warehouses under his charge, and suppressing his first impulse to run, he waited for the inevitable question.

"What are you doing here?"

"Trying to find my way to the Boompjes, he answered cheerfully.

"Yes!" said the man sceptically. "That is a pretty story."

"A true one, my friend," answered Torrance without resenting the man's tone. A light was lowered from his face, travelling down the whole length of him until it rested on his stockinged feet. "Heaven!" cried vie man. "Your shoes; where are they?" ... "Lost You see, I have been in the canal "Thunder! Why?"

"An accident" answered Torrance. On such a night it is not difficult to lose one's way, and it is easier to swim without shoes. "Yes," retorted the man in a tone that implied he knew a lie .when he heard one. "Also a thief moves mine softly when .he is unshod. And you come from the warehouses W "Between them," interjected Torrance. "I chanced to land on the' wharf below them and It "That you might not be seen, hey! I understand, quite well. You took to the water like a rat that unobserved you might reach the warehouses. It is an old trick―"

"Oh, don't be a fool, man! Do I look as if I had a cheese in my pocket?"

"There are other things in the warehouses, besides cheeses," retorted the watchman. "Money, for instance."

"I smelled none," began flippantly. "The cheeses—" He broke off , abruptly, as from the darkness in the direction of the water there came the sound of a hoarse voice excitedly demanding to know if someone had got that damned thief of an Englishman; and it was borne an him stunningly that his aquatic efforts had merely resulted in bringing him back to the alley which led from the Ziegelstraat to the canal stairs, where the pursuing boat must have returned. The watchman could not help hearing the words, and plainly they confirmed his suspicion. He gave sharp exclamation. .

"Donder!" The beam of his lamp came bade blunderingly to Torrance's eyes. "An English thief. That is unusual... But I was right. And it was not cheeses you were after, rogue; but Mynheer van Slyck's safe. That is his voice asking for you—" he broke off abruptly, and before Torrance could guess his purpose, roared down the alley, "Hallo, Mynheer Dirck, Here is your damned English thief. I have―"

The situation was desperate, and Jeff Torrance dealt with it accordingly. He could not see the watchman's face, but the roaring voice was some guide, and his right hand swung in a really fierce upper cut which knocked the Dutchman off his feet. He went down noisily, his flashlight flying in one direction, his baton in another; and as Torrance dodged to avoid him, and began to run up the alley, from the canal end there was a sudden roar of voices. Before he reached me Ziegelstraat, he heard the watchman shouting explanations, and a second later was aware of running feet crashing on the cobbles. His own feet made no sound, but the cobbles hurt them cruelly. That, however, could not be helped; and he ran as never in his life before.

Mynheer Dirck van Slyck was evidently known. There had been a certain respect in the watchman's hail which, with the mention of the safe, indicated that he was a man of substance, possibly, to his fellows, a most worthy citizen. And there was that dead girl to be taken into account If he were overtaken and not dealt with immediately, he might be charged with the crime.

His story, if told in a court of law, would sound almost fantastic; and the watchman, with his conviction that he was a thief, would give evidence coloured by his belief. Flight, and successful flight, seemed to be his only chance.

As he reached the Kiegelstraat he swung round the corner and followed the way by which he had arrived; running, silently, and thanking heaven for the fog and darkness, which now were all in his favor. But racing along the cobbles practically barefooted was painful work. He stubbed a toe so violently that he thought it must be broken, and a moment later his sole came down on something sharp and penetrating which made him leap and almost cry out with pain. The clatter of feet behind him told him that the pursuit was gaining on him. He feared that he would be overtaken before he could reach the sad of the deserted street, and his pursuers, he was convinced, would stick at nothing. Resistance would be an excuse for slaying him, and at the very best non-resistance would mean an appearance in the limelight of a Dutch criminal court, with an almost certain adverse verdict He began to think of some other way out.

If he could double back― Scarcely had the thought crossed his mind when the necessity for some such strategy increased sevenfold, for from somewhere ahead of him there came a noise of hurrying steps. In the deserted quarter, at the hour of the night that, meant that almost certainly a watchman or policeman was approaching. As he readied the conclusion, one of his pursuers, no doubt hearing the approaching man, gave a shout: "Seize the thief!"

So, he thought and, acting swiftly, darted into a deep doorway. He heard the approaching man call out; and, with the pounding feet of his pursuers drawing nearer, he huddled against the door. To his extreme amazement he felt it yielding and, as it opened on him out of the darkness a voice hailed him in a swift whisper:

"Quick, comrade!" He slipped forward in the dense darkness, . and heard the running men pass on. Someone moved beside him, the door was closed very gently, a bolt shot home, then a chuckle came out of the blackness:

"Cheated the watchdogs, hey, my cock? This way. Your hand, I'll lead you. A light here might be seen."

He felt a hand groping for him, and suffered himself to be led forward. His guide gave a warning:

"Beware the steps. Count four."

He found the first step, counted the others carefully and as he became aware of a strong odour of spices, the man released his hold, laughed, and switched on a torch. Bathed in the light of it, Torrance waited, aware that he was once more under scrutiny; then the unknown man laughed again.

"You have been in the water, comrade."

"In the canal," answered Torrance accepting without demur the other's judgment of him as a brother thief. "I had to swim for it"

"The devil! That was bad luck. The watchman surprised you, perhaps."

"Not the watchman. The owner of the apartment"

"Apartment!" There was a note of surprise in the man's tones. "There are few apartments hereabouts."

"This one is in the alley leading down to the boatsteps, a little way up the street―"

"Towers of darkness!... You don't mean van Slyck's treasure house?"

"Treasure house. I didn't know―"

The man's cheerful laugh broke cm the words. "Then you flew higher than you knew, my friend. If you had seen the inside of his safe, and would have felt like Aladdin in his wonderful cave."

"You don't say?" Torrance's tone was eager. "But why does a rich man live in an alley off the Ziegelstraat?"

"You haven't heard?" The man chuckled as at a jest "Then you're new to the profession."

"A mere apprentice," owned Torrance.

"You must be," the other laughed. "But I will tell you. Mynheer van Slyck has the name for being an eccentric. That explains his choice of residence. In the Ziegelstraat he is known as a merchant of cotton goods— and he has a warehouse under his apartment But not all who go to his warehouse buy Manchester goods. Some go to sell other things. That is known to those who sell. I have the news from a cousin. If this place held precious stones, instead of mace and nutmegs and pepper, and I crammed my pockets with them, guess to whom should I go to sell them."

"Not to van Slyck!"

"To that very man."

"Then he is a fence?"

"The biggest in the Netherlands, unless my cousin lied. Jewels filched in London or Paris or Berlin or even in New York come in the end to the Ziegelstraat."

"Saints above!... I might have lifted a fortune. What internal luck to have missed it."

"Nothing to weep ever, old bird.... Van Slyck would have got track of you. He has many scouts. Wherever you offered the spoil he would have heard. And the end for you would have been something more disagreeable than a swim in the canal. You were lucky that you did not skin his safe, and―" The man broke off sharply. "Listen!"

Jeff Torrance strained his cars. From outside there came a sound of voices, and the other pointed out the significance of them.

"Beating the street for you, I'll wager. Van Slyck will have set a watch at both ends. He means to know which of his secret clients meant to rob him." The man laughed cheerfully. "He'll not suspect a 'prentice hand, and will watch the street till daylight I daresay."

"Then I must stay here."

The other chuckled softly. "If you wish to be taken and charged for a warehouse rat, yes." His chuckle broadened. "I have a boat full of spices below that window there. The owner of this warehouse will miss them in the morning and if he found you here―" He broke off. "I cannot save you from van Slyck and leave you to bear my sins. Name of a name, no! We are told to help one another, and there will be room in the boat if―"

"Comrade, for me you cannot start too soon."

The other laughed, and directed the ray of his lamp across the warehouse. "There is the window, my cockerel. And from it dangles a ladder of sorts. And since we are of one mind to leave, now is the time."

Torrance, blessing hi s luck, accompanied the man to the window which was standing wide to the night. As they reached it, the man doused his lamp.

"You must move quietly, comrade, and have a care. The sill is or wood and it is so rotten the hooks have bitten deep and may go through I will go first and hold the ladder steady for you."

In a twinkling the fellow was out of the window, and descending to the boat which was invisible in the mist. A moment or two later his whisper sounded.

"Now, my friend." Torrance felt about, and discovered an iron bar, hooked at either end and in the middle. From it a light rope ladder hung, a neat contrivance for the purpose for which it was used. In a moment he swung himself over the sill, and made the descent without difficulty.

"Steady... There! Kneel. The skiff has but one thwart... Hold her to the wall whilst I unship the ladder. There is a rope... you have it. Yes. Hold her taut."

The fellow lifted something, a boat hook, as Torrance guessed; and neatly dislodging the hooks of the ladder from the sill, lowered the contrivance to the boat "That is a handy thing," whispered Torrance.

"My own invention," laughed the other, softly. "It serves very well, when one's approach is from the canal. I hoist it with the boat-hook, then put my weight upon the ropes to make the hooks bite, and there remains nothing but to force the window. But of course, the night must be dark."

"Of course," agreed Torrance cheerfully.

"On a moonlight night one would be as visible as a fly in a white-washed wall."

"You have the idea, comrade." laughed the man, taking up the oars and beginning to pull. "But it is surprising what fools these merchants are. They have their watchmen tramp the rounds, but never send a boat down the canal."

"I never thought of an approach by water, myself," owned Torrance. "And van Slyck's apartment lends itself to that."

The other answered quickly.

"For myself I would sooner raid a lion cage in the Diergaarde, with the lion at home. Mynheer Dirck is not a man to play with. And the canal is so handy to his rooms."

To that Torrance made no demur. He had no doubt that the other had the right measure of Dirck van Slyck, and he was anxious, if possible, to learn more of the man from whom he had escaped.

"The devil of a fellow, seemingly."

"As you say, comrade. And you do not know all."

"There is more?" whispered Torrance. "Something you have not told."

"A rumour only. Van Slyck is a man of many journeys, and it is whispered that they have not all to do with cotton, nor yet with his secret trade in jewels. I have heard that be deals also in information―"

"Information! You mean for the newspapers" The other laughed.

"No, my friend. There is information that is not meant for publication. Secret news for which I have heard enormous sums are paid at times―"

"Ah! A spy?"

"One has heard it whispered. But I think so one would dare whisper it to his face, and rumour is a lying jade."

"Yes," agreed Torrance, and waited, hoping that the other would have more to say.

But the man tell silent, plying his oars steadily, and so quietly that it was evident the rowlocks must he muffled. Making but the faintest sound, they went forward. Neither fog nor darkness seemed to trouble the man. who no doubt knew the canal as well as he knew his own threshold.

Torrance, staring into the mist, wondered if what the man had hinted was true. Did van Slyck add to his other activities that of espionage. It was more than possible. The men of the underworld knew more of each other than ever the police could hope to know: and if the great blond Dutchman were a spy, it would account for his interest in the rendezvous at the Café van Tromp, which had nothing to do with cotton, nor, so far as Torrance knew, with jewels.

He was still considering the possibility when the man swiftly drew in an oar and the boat slid alongside a barge, the outline of which was but dimly visible.

"Home, comrade." said the man, and proceeded to tie up the boat. When that was done, he spoke again.

"You have but to step across the barge and you will be well away from those searchers m the Ziegelstraat."

"Thanks to you. my friend―" began Torrance, only to be interrupted.

"Oh, you are of the Lodge. And birds of a feather help each other. That is but natural."

"It is more. It is almost Christian," laughed Torrance, then added. "I wonder if you have a spare pair of shoes that I might purchase! It is poor walking in one's socks."

"Step on the barge, comrade. I have a pair of rubber soles to which you are welcome."

Torrance stepped on the barge, and was taken to a tiny cabin, fitted with the canvas shoes, and in entire good fellowship compelled to drink a glass of the national tipple. Then, having enquired his directions, he took leave of the friendly thief, and set out on his way to his hotel.

Among the wharfs and canals of the city it was not easy to find his way in the fog, but after a little time he had the luck to meet a taxi-cab, the driver of which having first demanded payment, took him to the Hotel de Maas, where the night porter at first regarded him with suspicion, and then, assured of his bona-fide, with furtive grins, which Torrance, knowing the bedraggled figure he must present after his swim in the canal, suffered cheerfully, and ordered the man to provide him with a hot drink in his room.

When the man brought the drink, Torrance was already half-stripped, and the porter allowed his curiosity to find voice.

"You have been in the water, mynheer! An accident, perhaps."

"As you say!... A slip in one of your confounded canals. Can I have my clothing dried?"

"Certainly, mynheer. Dried and pressed if it is desired."

"It is!" said Torrance, tersely. "Return in ten minutes for the clothing."

"Yes, mynheer."

The man withdrew, and when the door was closed, Torrance quickly emptied his pockets, transferring his pistol to his suitcase, and putting the letter he had received from the murdered Lisbeth carefully between the pages of a book.

Not until the porter had returned and departed again with his clothing did he attempt to inspect the letter, and when he did so he suffered a little pang of dismay. The flimsy envelope was soaked, and the gummed edges had fallen apart. The stamp had been torn off, and what remained of the postmark, three letters only NNE — conveyed nothing.

Using extreme care he took out the folded sheet it held which was of paper of the poorest quality, and his dismay increased. The writer of the letter had evidently used a copying-ink pencil, and the paper having been soaked, the writing had rim to such an extent as to be almost undecipherable. He stared at the violet smudge a little hopelessly. There was so much that he wished to know and which the letter might have made clear, that at the first sight of the sodden sheet he was almost in despair. Then refraining from any attempt to unfold it, he switched on the electric fire with which the bedroom was provided, and set the sheet within range of its heat to dry.

Whilst he waited he smoked a cigarette and tried to recall the names of places ending in NNE. There might be hundreds for anything he knew to the contrary but he remembered only a few. Bayonne was the first that came to his mind, and there was he remembered a place of that name in New Jersey as well as in France. Guyenne, Jenne, Yonne, Framenne, Carcasonne, Cayenne.

He stopped there, and chancing to glance down at the letter now beginning to dry and the edges to curl a little, his eyes fixed on a word, which, though the ink of the pencil had run until the letters look as if a drunken spider had made them, he was able to pick them out Added together they made a name Laurent He looked at the word proceeding them. It was made up of two letters, one only of which, the first, was decipherable. It was an S, a capital letter, and the second was easy to guess.

"St. Laurent!" he ejaculated in a whisper. "And that is in French Guiana. So Cayenne is the postmark."

Patiently he waited until the letter was quite dry, then taking it up, he unfolded it. That which was first revealed was more than half-expected. Everywhere the copying ink had run, soaking through the flimsy paper, and making the fine writing which was on both sides of the sheet look like a palimpsest which someone had inked over and whilst the ink was wet had deliberately smudged. As he quickly perceived, the letter was in Dutch and the address confirmed his conjecture for it was that of the prison of St. Laurent in French Guiana.

Taking note-paper and a pencil he began to transcribe the letter as well as he could, translating into English as he did so. Some of the smudged words he had to guess at. There were two or three whole lines of which he could make nothing at all; but at the end of half an hour he had completed the task and found the result both revealing and exciting.

The letter had been sent to the girl from whom he had received it, and was from her brother, who was a prisoner at St. Laurent, and who earnestly begged his sister to make an effort to help him to escape. There was a reference to that devil van Slyck whom he accused of being responsible for the imprisonment of the Englishman and himself, having arranged that they would be accused of some crime of which they were innocent. If money could be found, the escape could be facilitated by a certain warder whose name was riven; and if his sister could not cajole a sufficient sum from her Judas of a lover; there was another way in which the tiling might be done. It was the second suggestion which stirred Jeff Torrance to sudden excitement.

"The Englishman has the fever," he read, "and is a very sick man. Here the brutes do not trouble about that, but I have cared for him as much as is possible. If his friends, knew of his misfortune they would surely come to his aid; and might be induced to help me, your suffering brother also.... But alas, he is too worn by sickness to trouble, and―"

The break of two lines which he had been unable to decipher occurred at this point, and the resumption of the letter was at the most exciting point —

"―he is close-lipped, even when the fever shakes him; but in a moment when he was very weak I obtained from him the name of a friend. It is Mynheer Torrance, and the address is Greengate, Shaldon, England. I beg of you Lisbeth to communicate with this gentleman at once on receipt of this, and promise him all the particulars of his unfortunate friend, with which you are acquainted on the condition that I receive from him an equal assistance, with which I am sure he will at once agree. If you do so, van Slyck will be made to pay for his devilish treachery and you as well as. I will be delivered. But haste! The Englishman is very sick, not only with the fever but also from a blow Which he suffered in Paris when we were taken. I have room for no more, except to say that the warder whose name is given must be communicated with, if the affair is to be arranged.

"Praying you to make speed, your unhappy brother, Willem Schouten."

At the end of his reading the transcript, Jeff Torrance whispered softly, then whispered his conviction. "Devil's Island― or at any rate Cayenne.... Basil is there!... and van Slyck is responsible."

For some time he sat staring at the glowing wires of the electric fire, his mind busy with the letter, and with other things that were to be considered side by side with it.

Seven months before, a man had been taken out of the River Maas, who had been stabbed. Papers found on him indicated that he was Basil Shenstone, of the Intelligence Department of the Foreign Office, of which Jeff Torrance was also a member. No one of the department had seen the body, but the identification had been made by Shenstone's nearest relative, a cousin whose name Torrance did not remember at the moment. With that Basil's name had passed from the roll of the Intelligence Bureau, and most, of his colleagues who were aware of the facts had accepted the account of his death without challenge. It was just another case of a man caught at an unwary moment, or assassinated by some brutal agent less scrupulous than himself.

And now he read the letter again. It did not tell him all that might have been revealed by the girl shot so ruthlessly in that alley of the Zeigelstraat. There was no mention of his friend's name; no indication how he had become involved in any affair in Paris resulting in his transportation to Cayenne, but he had no doubt of the fact. He could think of no one else who would have given his name as one to whom an appeal might be made, and now there was but one thing to be done, and that was to go to the help of his friend.

He remembered that the warehouse thief had hinted about van Slyck. If the big Dutchman were indeed a secret agent for one or more of the Continental Powers then the explanation of Basil Shenstone's disappearance was not far to seek.  But before he returned to London with his startling news, he must acquaint himself with all the facts as far as possible. To do that it would be necessary to journey to Paris, and learn the details of the conviction which had sent Basil Shenstone to Cayenne to Cayenne, no doubt under an assumed name, whilst a man who had been murdered in Rotterdam had been given his name and identity.

Why the last should have been necessary he could not conceive. That was a problem which required solution, and the fact that Shenstone's cousin should have made the identification made things no easier. Had the fellow seen the dead man at all, or had he merely made an assumption from Basil's papers and  effects, without facing an obviously unpleasant task? That was a likely thing, but he would make sure on his return to England and with all the facts in hand lay the matter before the head of his department. .

The city clocks were striking two when he retired, and they were chiming eight ,when a sharp rapping on the door awakened him from dreamless sleep. A man's voice jounced that his clothing was ready if he would receive it. He received, it and calling the man inside commissioned him to purchase for him a pair of shoes. By the time the man returned he was dressed: and relieved to find that his clothing, after the careful treatment it had received, showed no sign of the immersion it had undergone.

The lift being full, rather than wait he descended by the stairs, and, a moment later was glad that he had done so. For as he stepped into the hall, he saw two men. Waiting outside the entrance to the lift. One of them, a tall dark haired man about his own age, with a look of an Englishman, was a complete stranger; but the other who wore an overcoat and had hat and stick in his hand, was the moon-faced man—Karl Wiederman— who had been at the Café van Tromp on the previous night.

He was startled by the unexpected sight but swiftly turning his back on them, he moved to a point where he could watch the pair without being noticed by them. It was clear that they were not strangers, and there was a familiarity in their bearing to each other, which indicated something more than mere hotel acquaintance. As the lift emptied, took the other's arm and. a moment later, they were carried out of sight.

Torrance whistled thoughtfully, and all idea of breakfast banished, remained where he was, watching the entrance to the lift; and wondering what the moonfaced man with the twinkling eyes was doing there at the breakfast hour. Was he resident in the hotel or merely calling on the man with whom he had entered the lift? Did they propose to breakfast together; and who was the Englishman who was on such terms with the moonfaced scoundrel?

He watched for quite ten minutes. At the end of that time the Englishman emerged from the lift alone, looked round as if in search of someone, and began to pace to and fro, obviously awaiting the coming of some person or other. Torrance naturally concluded that he was waiting for his tubby friend. In that however, he was wrong, for presently when two ladies emerged from the lift the waiting man hurried towards them with a smile of greeting on his face.

Torrance looked at the ladies and as he did so suffered a little shock of surprise. One the ladies was middle-aged, the second quite young, and it was her presence in the hotel plainly on good terms with the friend of the moon-faced scoundrel, which brought  a light of amazement to his eyes. He watched the trio exchange greetings and then move slowly towards the restaurant. For a second he hesitated. He looked towards the staircase; and again to the left. There was no sign of the man who had been at the Café van Tromp, apparently he was not to breakfast with the Englishman.

Assured of that, Torrance rose, abruptly, and walked quickly across the hall, taking a line that would enable him to intercept the trio just before they reached the restaurant door.

Chapter 4

At the Hotel

HE reached the door with no more than a yard to spare; and as the boy in charge swung it open for him. he stepped politely aside to give the ladies precedence. In doing so, he caught the younger lady's eyes, and saw recognition leap in them. Then she gave a little welcoming laugh.

"Jeff Torrance! what are you doing here?"

At the mention of his name he saw the man at the girl's side stiffen, whilst a sudden keenness came in his face. So, he thought, the man, though a stranger, knew something of him. He betrayed no reciprocal interest however. and answered the girl lightly.

"I am a mere bird of passage resting between flights. Here last night, and going today. But news for news Miss Freda!" he added gaily, and echoed her question. "What are you?"

At his laughing question the brightness vanished from the girl's eyes, and the charming face was swiftly clouded. That his light words had somehow unseated a spring of trouble he was instantly aware, and was at the same time conscious of a sudden discomfort in the demeanour of her companions. He was wondering what could possibly have occasioned it, when the girl in a low and troubled voice, answered.

"I have come to visit Basil's grave."

"Ah!" he said with swift understanding and choked back the other words that surged to his lips. There had, he remembered, been an understanding between his friend and Freda Wynne, and at the moment he would have given much to have revealed to her what he knew. But until he had ascertained the whole truth, it was folly to raise hopes that might not materialise. Also there was that keen-eyed man who was staring at him with unconcealed interest.

He was at least an acquaintance of the moon-faced Karl and the latter hunted with Dirck van Slyck, who in some way was concerned with Basil Shenstone's vanishment. Until he knew more it was unwise to speak; and above all to reveal the knowledge that had come to him. So to his ejaculation of understanding he added quietly, "I am sorry, Miss Freda. Perhaps I ought to have known."

"How could you?" answered the girl, with a little tremor in her voice. Then she regained complete self possession. "May I introduce my aunt— Miss Norman, and Mr Dashwood, who is Basil's cousin."

She glanced at her companions and gave his name. Mr Torrance, who was Basil's dearest friend. The lady and the man acknowledged the introduction with the politest of stiff bows, which indicated no desire, to pursue the acquaintance; and Torrance made a return that-was equally stiff. But as he did so, his mind was in ferment. The name of Shenstone's cousin which he had failed to remember last night was Dashwood— Spencer Dashwood; and it seemed that here was the man who had identified the body taken out of the Maas as that of Basil. But it was incumbent to him to make sure...

"Dashwood?" he said with unconcealed interest. "Mr Spencer Dashwood?"

"Spencer is my baptismal name, replied the other curtly.

Torrance ignored the tone.

"Ah! I guessed right. Poor Basil mentioned you to me on several occasions " He did not add that Shenstone had spoken of his cousin as an unmitigated blackguard; and Mr Dashwood showed no interest in the matter at all.

"Honoured, I'm sure." Then, turning his back on Torrance, he addressed himself to the ladies. "Breakfast waits," he said; "also the time is speeding, in half an hour the taxi will be at the door."

He nodded off-handedly to Torrance, bowed Miss Norman forward, waited for her niece to follow, and took up a position as rearguard, quite effectively blocking any further conversation between the girl and Torrance. The latter shrugged his shoulders, but made no attempt to thwart the manoeuvre. The fellow, no doubt, had private reasons for his rudeness, reasons that might be very interesting if one knew them; but which were not likely, to be discovered.

As it was, he had abundant food for thought, and whilst he breakfasted alone his mind was busy with the new aspect of the mystery which he was investigating. What on earth was Shenstone's cousin doing hand in glove with that tubby scoundrel, Karl Weiderman? The latter was van Slyck's man or his partner, and that letter from St. Laurent left no doubt that the Dutchman was responsible for whatever had befallen Shenstone. Birds of a feather flocked―

He checked the triteness before it was completed, and turned to .another aspect of the situation. Freda Wynne had proclaimed the reason for her presence in Rotterdam, and he found it a moving one — but why Spencer Dashwood? The fellow, to be sure, had arranged for the burial of the. murdered man whom he had identified as his cousin. He would be able to take her straight to the grave. Was that the explanation; or was there some more intimate reason? And again, in view of the letter that had come into his possession in such tragic circumstances was, it fair to give the girl no hint of the possible truth?

The answer of his mind to the last question was emphatic. For the moment Freda Wynne must remain in ignorance. Any inkling of the developing situation, however welcome to her, would almost certainly be conveyed to Spencer Dashwood. And in view of all the circumstances, that was profoundly undesirable. If as now seemed probable, his identification of the murdered man had not been a bona fide one, there must be some strong reason behind the action. He wondered what it might be. and meantime watched the door for any sign of the moon-faced Karl. The latter, however, did not appear, but just before he finished his meal he saw Dashwood make a signal to someone out of the restaurant, who was out of range of his own vision.

With a guess at the unseen one's identity, he left the table and moved quickly to the hall. Karl Weiderman was just leaving the hotel, and no doubt he was the man to whom Dashwood had signalled. He did not return to the restaurant, but ascended by the lift, and went to his bedroom. The moment he entered it he knew that someone had been there, and had searched his belongings; for his suitcase, which he had left locked, was open, with its contents in disarray.

"Um!" he ejaculated. "Our tubby friend, without a doubt. But why?"

None of the men concerned in the affair in the Ziegelstraat could possibly know of the letter which the murdered girl had given him; and he could think of nothing else for which the intruder might have been looking. Probably. he reflected, that little crowd of .scoundrels, aware of his identity, had desired to learn more about him. He shrugged his shoulders. They were welcome to anything they had learned, he thought; and stooped over the case to re-arrange its contents. As ne did so, a folded half-sheet of note paper pinned to one of his shirts in such a way that could not be overlooked, caught his eye.

"Ah!" he whispered. A message, no doubt.

Withdrawing the pin, he opened the paper, to find his anticipation verified. There was a message, and a very pointed one.

Return to the Z before noon that which you stole last night, or you will be shot.

He whistled as he finished the brief communication. It was unsigned, but he had no doubt that the writer .was the man whom he had seen leaving toe. hotel. The message itself was perplexing. The laconic threat was plain enough, the Z unquestionably indicated the Ziegelstraat but what was to be returned there left him puzzled and wondering.

Beyond the letter which the girl Lisbeth had given him, he had taken nothing from the place, and he was sure this curt demand and iconic threat was in no way concerned with that. But something had apparently vanished; and something of sufficient importance to bring a member of that villainous gang to the hotel to search his room and to leave the message behind him. He stood for a time lost in thought trying to think what the thing was that he was supposed to have stolen, then, baffled, he shrugged his shoulders. In an hour he would be on his way to Paris; and the activities of Dirck van Slyck except in so far as Basil Shenstone came into the orbit of them, did not concern him in the least.

He packed his case, locked it and, ringing for the attendant, prepared to leave the hotel.

In the vestibule he had the luck to meet Freda Wynne again, and for the moment she was alone. They were old friends, and the girl moved impulsively towards him.

"You are leaving?" she asked quickly.

"Almost at once."

Freda Wynne nodded; and then spoke again a little haltingly.

"I expect to return to England by the night boat; as soon as I have... have..seen―"

"I understand," he answered gently.

"But do you?" she asked swiftly. "It isn't a matter merely of a pious pilgrimage."

She looked round as if to make sure that she was not overheard. "It is the idea of my Aunt and Spencer that I should see the grave in order to convince me―"

"To convince?" he asked, as the girl broke off in some emotion.

"Yes. To... to convince me that Basil is really dead, you know."

For a moment he did not what answer. He might tell her what he believed to be the truth; but against that he had already decided. Then with a side thought that the girl might have some inkling of the facts, he asked another . question.

"But why, Miss Freda? Have you any reason for believing that Basil is not dead?"

"Heavens, no. Just a difficulty in realising that he is not alive.... When a person is away as much as Basil was, and anything happens, so that he will not return again, it not easy to realise the truth. One has the feeling that death that has not been seen cannot have taken place, that at any moment the dead one may come round the corner, or walk into the room, or― But you must understand, Mr Torrance."

"Perhaps I do" he answered, quietly and sympathetically, then said tentatively, "There is, perhaps, a special reason why you should desire to be convinced?"

A look of something very like misery came in the girl's fine eyes, and there was an expression of desperate trouble on her face. She looked swiftly round, then nodded.

"Spencer Dashwood wants me to marry him. My mother is eager, and my aunt is pressing. There are reasons— private reasons― why I―"

Her voice quivered and broke, then she whispered, half-distraughtly. "I do not know what to do. I have a feeling that perhaps at Basil's grave I will find guidance. And Spencer is his cousin. He has succeeded to the inheritance that would have been Basil's own if―"

Torrance found the last news utterly startling. It was like a flash of lightning revealing that had been steeped in darkness, things so amazing that his surprise was manifest even to the girl's distraught eyes,

"What is it?" she asked swiftly. "There is something of which you have thought. You were Basils friend―"She checked sharply.

"My aunt is coming. Quick! Tell me."

"There is nothing I can tell you," he said hurriedly "But I want you to promise some―"

"Yes! yes! Explain, oh, quickly."

"It is that you will take no decisive step until you hear from me."

"There is something?" Then her eyes flashed a warning. "So pleased to have seen you―"

Torrance played up to her lead, divining that the oher lady must be within earshot.

"Pleasure is mine, you know... And we're bound to meet before long. Good-bye Miss Freda."

Without looking around, he made his way to the office. Even then, whilst waiting to discharge his account, he did not turn his head to see if Dashwood had joined Freda and her aunt. That gentleman's associations were such that it was unwise to display any interest which might lead to suspicions that he was concerned in his affairs. But all the same, at the moment the interest was dominant.  Freda Wynne's reference to her lover's inheritance had thrown quite a lurid light on Spencer Dashwood's recognition of the body fished out of the Maas as  that of his vanished cousin. There had been great inducement to make a false indentification if he had felt safe in doing so.  And, friendly as he was with Van Slyck's moon-faced associate, no doubt he was well-informed as to Basil Shenstone's real fate.

"Great Heavens," he thought; "The  blackguard may have devised the whole thing!

So absorbed was he in contemplating the possibilities that as he left the  hotel for the taxicab which was to take him to the airport, he did not observe a watcher loitering near the entrance, who promptly signalled another vehicle, which was waiting in the shadow of the trees. As Torrance drove off, the other cab slid forward; and the man who had signalled its driver ran alongside, and, opening the door, jumped in without waiting for the vehicle to stop.

He was the rat-moutoed Louis who had been at van Slycks table at the Café van Tromp; and as he stared after the cab ahead, his beady eyes flashed with a mocking light.

"A fool!" he chuckled to himself, "just a fool!"

But presently the light of mockery died out of the dark eyes.

"We do not make for the quay," he said to the driver through the open glass shutter, "nor yet for the railway station. "No! For the airport."

"But that is the devil, Otto."

"Maybe," grunted the other, as if the matter did not greatly concern him. "He may go anywhere— Brussels, Paris, London, and I cannot follow until Dirck has word."

"You can telephone from the airport."

"Yes! But we must learn his destination.

"If one is close behind him—"

"That must be you, Otto. He may recall me, having seen me with Dirck."

And so it fell that when Jeff Torrance purchased his ticket for the liner to Paris, and doing so took a stock of those about him, he paid little regard to the nondescript-looking man nearby, who a moment or two after walked to his taxi and, through the half-open window, shot the information:

"Brussels— Paris!"

The rat-mouthed Louis laughed. "And after that, Paris— Hades! Ring up Dirck, and ask for orders."

The taxi -driver disappeared, and presently. "You are to await Dirck's arrival. He brings Karl with him. The matter must be important."

Louis's eyes gleamed like a snakes. "As Important as six hundred thousand florins, my friend. That Englishman has outsmarted our Dirck, and robbed him of a great prize, which presently he will lose again."

"Hemel!... But I am sorry for the man. He is young to die. But, see, he goes abroad. If that craft takes the air before Dirck arrives, he may win clear."

Louis showed his teeth in an evil laugh.

"You know better, Otto. Dirck would follow the man he wanted across the zones. In Paris there will be a man waiting who will have the Englishman's description. If we follow on, the name of his hotel will already have been ascertained, and any move will have been recorded. Also, if, he is not a corpse when we arrive that will no doubt be remedied when Dirck has recovered the thing he has lost." He chuckled ferociously.  "The Seine is as convenient as the Maas and more used as a sewer for― er― junk."

Unconscious of toe. watchers, from his seat in the air-liner, Torrance stared absottly forth, reflecting on what was accomplished, and on what remained to bet done in Paris. Now that he had the, key to Basil Stenstone's disappearance, and was assured that he did not die in Rotterdam, his task was grpatly simplified. Particulars of the Englishman who had been sent to Devils Island would not be difficult to obtain. The files of the Temps might give them him; if not, there was his friend Jules Fanchon, who would be able to obtain them for him.  And once he had those particulars―

Signs of activity in the immediate neighbourhood of the giant airplane thrust themselves upon him. The steps were wheeled away from the side of the liner. The door into the saloon was closed. The propellers began to whirr, setting up strong vibration. Then, as they warmed up to their work, someone; shouted, a man waved his arm, and the great machine began to taxi over the turf, droning like all the bees in the world. It bumped a little, and then left the ground, and even  as it did so a taxi rolled into the aerodrome and a man jumped out. He recognised the big blond fellow instantly for van Slyck. Two other men were hurrying towards him. One of them he was sure was a stranger; the other he was not certain about; but as the fellow swung round and pointed towards the great air-liner, he guessed instantly that he had been shadowed from the hotel, and that van Slyck was being informed of his presence aboard. He saw the big Dutchman's head jerk back as he stared upward, and repressed a boyish impulse to make a long nose at the scoundrel.

The huge machine had begun to climb, and van Slyck was in the position of a fox that has missed its prey and, with chagrined eyes, watches it winging, towards the tree-tops. Then as he saw the Dutchman leave his companions and begin to run, his little glow of triumph faded. He had not yet done with that blind Scoundrel and his associates. No doubt the fellow was for the telegraph office to get a message to Pans, or possibly to Brussels ahead of the liner. But forewarned, he could be as watchful as another; and at least this trick was his.

The aerodrome was left behind, a huge expanse of flat country stretched itself out like a carpet, oddly patterned, with the grev sea away to the right; and settling himself well down in his chair he closed his eyes and gave himself to reflection. Clearly in the pursuit of himself by the big Dutchman and the others there was more than he had realised, certainly more than there had been at the time of his call on Lisbeth in the alley off the Ziegelstraat. Was if because he had witnessed their ruthless action and theywere afraid of his testimony against them? That was possible; but somehow he did not think that was the explanation, and finding that side of the problem baffling, his mind turned to that aspect of Spencer Dashwood's association with the criminals. Dim glimpses of the truth were afforded him. A score of conjectures came to his mind. A very host of dark suspicions, all grouping round three sinister facts. The first of these was Spencer Dashwood's false identification of the murdered man at Rotterdam, the second that he had succeed to an estate which was Basil Shenstone's, and the third that he was seeking to many Freda Wynne who had been engaged to his cousin. He was still considering these significant facts, when the airplane banked steeply, then in a long gradient swooped earthward. Opening his eyes he looked round.

"Brussels!" he ejaculated mentally, and as the plane made the sward of the aerodrome, dismissing all problems from his mind, he was alert and watchful, knowing that here he again make distant contact with Dirck van Slyck.

Chapter 5

Tricked

HE saw nothing to disturb him. Five passengers left the liner and four joined.  To the newcomers he gave careful if unobtrusive attention. Two of them, a middle-aged pair, were obviously man and wife, the latter plainly taking her first air-trip than a tittle nervous over the.venture. The other two, a man and a girl, clearly strangers to each other, were not difficult to catalogue. The man was a pursy, elderly individual, and who looked like a business magnate. The girl, elegantly attired, rather dusky complexion, with the blackest hair and brows and the darkest eyes that he had ever seen, he decided must be the daughter of a Dutch planter or East India official who had married a Javanese. Anyway nothing to worry over.

He looked round the aerodrome. There was no one there to stir suspicion. If there was to be trouble it certainly was not to manifest itself here. But not for a moment did ne believe he was to escape it altogether. Dirck van Slyck was not a man to be turned easily from any purpose on which his mind was set. No doubt he would strike when the opportunity offered.

"At Paris for a certainty!" he thought. As he knew, for a man moving outside the law there were few restrictions, van Slyck might follow a dozen lines of action that would never occur to the mind of the ordinary decent citizen, and by rascally means achieve his purpose without let or hindrance., By the native of his calling, he was acquainted with quite a number of the tricks by which the big Dutchman might seek his undoing; and fell to devising ways and means by which any nefarious attempt might be thwarted.

When the air-liner arrived at Le Bourget, he did not hurry to alight but made a careful inspection of the neighbourhood of the landing plane. He saw no one who appeared in tne toast suspicious, and when he left tne aeroplane still watchful, observed no one who displayed the least interest in himself. A little relieved, he made his way to the telephone office, and endeavored to get in touch with Jules Fanchon, the friend on whose help he was depending for securing information relating to Basil Shenstone's condemnation. His friend was not at home at the moment and he was only able to dictate an urgent message asking him on receipt of it to go at once to the address he gave which was that of the hotel at which he proposed to stay.

When he emerged, from the office, the official vehicle which runs between the airport and the city had departed; and he saw nothing of any of his fellow-passengers. Securing a taxi-cab he was driven to a quiet hotel in the Rue du Louvre, where having registered, he waited the coming at his friend, keeping to his room in the meantime.

An hour passed without any sign of Fanchon, then there came a knock at his door, and a voice outside announced visitors.

"Two gentlemen to see you, sir."

"Two!" As he echoed the word under his breath, he moved to the door, and as be opened it, suffered a little shock of surprise. There were two men there, one of whom was in the uniform of police-agent, the other in private clothes. It was the latter who asked in a voice of authority:

"You are Monsieur Torrance?"

"As you say," answered Torrance quietly.

"Then, Monsieur. I must ask you to accompany me to the Sûrété."

"Why, monsieur?" asked Torrance.

The man took an official looking paper from his pocket and consulted .it before answering.

"It is in the matter of the death of one Lisbeth Schouten who was shot at Rotterdam last night, and whose body was taken from the canal early this morning."

"But why on earth—"

The man interrupted him sharply. "You will not deny you are ftam Rotterdam this morning, monsieur?.

"No... You mean that you are charging―"

"No! No! you travel too quick, Monsieur. It is merely desired that you shall go to the Sûrété and answer a few questions. A very different matter; and one most simple."

Torrance considered. If he refused to go he would bring suspicion on himself, and would, no doubt, be taken to the Sûrété willy-nilly. It seemed wisest to agree cheerfully, when one could not help himself, and he nodded to the man.

"Of course I shall accompany you, monsieur. But how did you know that I was here?"

The man laughed, genially. "You pay the officers of the Sûrété no compliment, my friend. We had word of an Englishman who left Rotterdam by the air-liner this morning. There was the name, also a description— a very good one. We missed you at Le Bourget, but an enquiry at the hotels soon revealed your whereabouts, and behold here we are... You will desire to put on your coat and hat, the matter is urgent; but no doubt you will be detained at the Sûrété but a very little time... No one but a lunatic would suspect you of crime. You are not the type, monsieur."

"I am glad you think that my friend," answered Torrance lightly, and without more ado proceeded to slip on his coat and then, hat in hand, turned to the officer again.

"I am ready. But must I be taken from the hotel like a thief?"

"No. No. There is no need," answered the man, and, turning quickly to . the uniformed one bade him wait in the street. The agent saluted and withdrew. When he had been gone a little time, the plain-clothes officer, spoke again. "Now, monsieur, if you are ready!  The moments fly."

He waited in the corridor whilst Torrance locked his door and accompanied him down the lift to the Hall. There Torrance gave up his key, and, leaving a message for his friend, in case he mould arrive before he returned, left the hotel with the officer who, as they readied the street, made a little jest.

"Monsieur will enjoy his dinner when he returns."

"I hope so, my friend."

The uniformed agent joined them in the street, and, opening the door of the taxi, stood waiting for them to enter. The plainclothes officer waved Torrance forward and just as he stepped into the taxi with the other at his heels, he glimpsed a second agent who had halted by the hotel entrance watching the proceedings with professional interest. The man by the taxi-door grinned at him and gave him a mock salute, then he entered, banged the door, and began to unfold one of the swing seats facing the rear of the vehicle. Before the operation was complete the taxi-cab moved off with a little jerk which caused the agent to lose his footing. He shot forward, sprawling over Torrance.

A second later the latter was aware of a pair of strong hands gripping his throat, and in a flash realised that he had fallen into a trap. He kicked and struggled, and tried to shout. The hands gripped throttlingly.

Then the man in mufti joined in. Seizing Torrance's hair he thrust his head back and clapped a pad of cotton wool over his nose and mouth, holding it there whilst his companion, suddenly releasing his throat-Hold, fastened on the victim's wrists. Knowing perfectly well what was happening, for the life of him, with that strangling throat-hold gone. Torrance could not help inhaling deeply. After the first gulping intake he held his breath, but it was no use, and he was forced to inhale again and again. He tried to kick, whilst the other, thrusting his head into the corner, kept the pad in place.

A minute passed, two- minutes, while the taxi-cab glided forward along ,a quiet street, then Torrance ceased to struggle, and lay huddled in the corner in limp unconsciousness.

The man in mufti laughed harshly.

"Strong as a lion, Jacques.... Phew! This medicine will make me sick."

The uniformed one opened the window. A motor dray heaped with baskets of fruit was passing at the moment, and, screwing his pad into a ball the other neatly tossed it on to the dray.Then he spoke a couple of words. The agent produced a pair of regulation handcuffs and snapped them on Torrance's wrists. Next, from his pocket he fished a gag, scientifically constructed, and stooped to adjust it in the victim's sagging mouth.

"No," snapped the man in mufti. "Wait!"

A few minutes passed, then Torrance opened his eyes.

"Now!" snapped the, other. The man adjusted the gag. Torrance moved feebly in a way that could not be called struggling, then his eyes closed; and . little while later opened once more and stared absently to his front. His brain was still clouded by the chloroform. He could not think intelligently, though he was vaguely aware that some untoward thing had befallen him. But presently the rush of air through the open windows revived him sufficiently to take a real interest in what was forward. His eyes lost their vacant look, and he stared about him curiously.

The first thing he saw was the dull blue barrel of an automatic pistol, pointing at his stomach, distant no more, than a couple of feet. The sight stimulated him to further investigation. The elbow of the man whose hand held the threatening pistol was resting on the fellow's knee, and the hand, he noticed, was very steady. His gaze travelled upward, noted a uniform, and came to rest on a hard face, with mocking eyes. Then the owner of the eyes addressed him in French:

"Well, my poodle?"

No answer was possible, and resentment was futile; so he turned his gaze away, and discovered the second man on the seat beside him, watching him with an easy nonchalance that somehow was harder to endure than the mockery of the man with the pistol. The fellow caught his eyes and grinned, then he glanced at his fellow.

"A sheep!" he commented. Torrance caught the word, and thought the description a trifle libellous, but had to be content to let the thoughts go unexpressed. He moved an arm, felt the restraining steel and, looking down at his manacled wrists, realised his utter helplessness. The realisation of his situation was disturbing, and as his brain cleared further and he began to recall what had happened, the truth was borne on him with overwhelming force. He had been outmatched, and had fallen victim to a trick that was so simple that he felt ashamed to have been caught by it.

"Van Slyck!"

As he thought that he must have fallen into the hands of that blond villain, he wondered what was to follow. Nothing pleasant, he was assured; for the Dutchman and his associates were mere wolves. He looked out of the window to learn, if possible, where the men were taking him. The neighbourhood was a frowsy one; but told him little, except that he was still in Paris and travelling through one of its meaner quarters.

Five minutes or so passed, then the vehicle came to a standstill. Torrance looked swiftly through the window. The house in front was a tall grey place, with the paint peeling from the door and windows, the latter fating heavily curtained. Just as he stared forth, the door opened, and he suffered yet another shock of surprise, for in the portal stood a girl, dark-eyed, black-haired and dusky-hued.

"The deuce!" he thought "The Javanese half-caste!"

He understood in a flash how his captors had known he was at the hotel. The girl, no doubt following van Slyck's instructions, had boarded the liner at Brussels and shadowed him in Paris, and never once had he suspected her. Whilst this thought was still in his mind, the man in uniform tapped him on the knee with his pistol.

"Listen, fool," he said harshly. "From the taximetre it is perhaps three strides to the doorway there. When you step out to the pavement you will cover the distance like a foot-racer. If you attempt to bolt I shall shoot you like a rabbit. Is that clear?"

Torrance nodded, and tried to look up and down the street, with a hope that help might be forthcoming. The man apparently divined his thoughts, for he grinned and spoke:

"There is no chance of that, my sheep. This is a street where each man minds his own affairs, and does not poke his nose into those of his neighbour. You will be well advised to make directly for the doorway there." As he finished speaking, he turned the catch and flung open the door of the cab. The man in mufti stepped out and stood wafting.

"Your turn, my treasure," said the uniformed one, and prodded Torrance with the pistol. Torrance stepped out Instantly his arm was gripped by the waiting man. The bogus agent followed, banged the door of the taxi, and slipped to the other side of Torrance.

"March!" he said laconically, and dug his pistol against the prisoner's ribs.

Torrance marched with the pair flanking him. He caught a glimpse of the narrow street with its tall houses, and saw that the pavements were quite deserted, whatever might be the case with its windows. As they reached the doorway he heard the taximetre move off, and at the same time saw a flash of wicked mirth in the girl's dark eyes, a hint perhaps that he had been easy game. She stepped to one side as he passed, and one of the men prodded him forward along a passage towards a flight of stains.

"Mount, my jewel." He had no choice, but to obey. The stairs were uneven, worm-eaten here and there, plainly old; and as he thought, by no means too safe. They reached a landing. Other stairs offered which he was bidden to mount; and at the top of the flight there was another landing with yet another flight of stairs, narrower this time, and in a state of considerable disrepair.

"Up!" commanded his captor. "You go to heaven that you may the swifter plunge to hell!"

The stairs were awkward to negotiate. In the very middle of them, where they turned, there was a door, which, as he touched it in passing, revealed itself as iron.

"So, he thought, "Here's a gaol."

The last flight ended at a door, which also was of iron, with a small grille in it and with heavy bars on the outride. One of the pair opened the door and gave a laconic order.

"Enter!"

As he obeyed, he looked swiftly round. The room was merely a spacious attic running apparently across the whole width of the house, with a couple of windows like small dovecotes jutting out under the roof. In one corner there was a camp bedstead; against a wall a table and a chair, and fixed in the floor was an iron plate with a staple to which was attached a long chain which at its free end had what was plainly an anklet opening on a hinge. The uniformed one gripped him suddenly from behind, at the elbows, jerking his manacled hands against his body, depriving him of all power to resist save with his feet But resistance would have been, a mere vanity, and he stood quite still whilst the second man dipped and locked the ankle-ring about his right leg. When that was done, his hands were freed, the gag was removed, and the man in mufti waved a hand to indicate the whole attic

"My friend, you are free of the palace.... From the window you will have a fine view over the roofs of Paris.... You have cigarettes and matches in your pocket and time for contemplation will be ample."

Torrance's head was throbbing, but his mind was' clear, and though he guessed a good deal, and was certain that van Slyck was responsible for what had befallen him. it seemed wise to pretend ignorance.

"What is the meaning of this outrage?" he demanded a little hoarsely, for his throat was still sore from the throttling he had suffered. The man whom he addressed laughed.

"You should know that better than we do, my innocent... We but obey instructions... But I will give you advice. That chain is a strong one. I have known a man break a bone trying to free himself from it... The windows as you see, are high, and it is a long drop to the street Furthermore, there are two iron doors between you and the lower apartments. A situation, as you will see, for reflection rather than action. And I commend that fact to you."

He turned to his companions and spoke a couple of words. Both men turned and left the attic. The door clanged, the bolts were shot and Torrance heard the feet of the men on the rickety floor and stairs. There was a second clang of an iron door, a further sound of bolts shot home; then, save for the hum of a passing car in the street, no sound at all.

For a moment or two, Torrance remained perfectly still, staring about him, and vividly aware of the clutch of fear at his heartstrings. That his situation was desperate he did not attempt to conceal from himself. He was in a very tight corner. No one save the taxi-man and his captors knew his whereabouts, and. in that eyrie, set above a mean and rather sinister Paris street, anything might befall him, and none of his friends be aware of his fate.

To be sure, there was his friend Jules. He would receive his message, call at the hotel, and learn that he had been taken away, ostensibly to the police headquarters in the Quai d'Horloge. No doubt he would hasten there to make enquiries. The ruse of his captors would be discovered, and after that— a blank wall. Nothing would be known. Without a clue the most astute officer at the Sûrété would be helpless; and his whereabouts would remain undiscovered. Paris was a city of disappearances. Every year scores of persons, both men and women, vanished completely from the ken of their friends, and of the police, or were taken from the Seine to await identification on those cold slabs at the Morgue.

It was a daunting prospect, but Jeff Torrance whilst fully aware of the possibilities did not allow himself to be unduly dismayed. After a time he walked to one of the dormer windows and looked forth. The houses opposite were not quite so high as the one where he was imprisoned; and as his chief captor had said he had a fine view over the roofs. Almost in front of him, well away over the wilderness of roofs and chimney pots, he saw the massive structure of the Church of the Sacré Coeur, lifted above Montmartre, and picked out one or two other buildings with which he was acquainted; but there was nothing helpful there; and he gave his earnest attention to the street below.

From his eyrie he could only see the further side of it; and there was nothing to kindle hope. The houses were old. At some period no doubt they had been inhabited by rich people; but now they had a faded look, and in some cases were badly in need of the repairer if not of the housebreaker. Most of them had curtains which covered the windows and one or two had the shutters closed.

Whilst he watched a man and a girl came out of. a house a few yards up the street. The girl was flamboyantly dressed and carried herself with a mincing air; the man, a slouching fellow, had a sidling walk, and the furtive look of one whose activities were of a secretive and nefarious kind— a man who in every line of him bore the hall-mark of the Apache. Torrance, watching the pair pass along knew that there was no hope for him in any of the inhabitants of this declassé street. Unquestionably his captor had been right they were of a class which did not poke its nose into its neighbours' affairs.

After a little time he began an inspection of the attic. Its inner walls as he saw from places where the plaster had broken away were of brick and to break a way through a crowbar would be required. There remained the roof and the floor. The latter was old, but sound save at one place which had been covered by a piece of sheet iron, whilst the former was of bare tiles through the overlappings of which there was a faint percolation of light. There were possibilities there, if no other way offered; but before they could be tested he must be freed from the chain which held him like a dog.

Clanking his way to the chair, he rested his foot on it and made a careful examination of the anklet. It did not take very long to convince him that the steel locked round his ankle could not be broken or forced. Without the key, it was certain that if he made his escape the ring of steel must go with him.

There remained the chain. It was not a heavy one, but it was strong. Link by link he inspected it in the hope of finding some flaw, but there was no weak link that with luck might be broken. Assured of that he retreated to the bed and seating himself, lit a cigarette and carefully reviewed the situation. But thought brought no consolation. Without outside help he was a prisoner for just as long as his captors chose to hold him.

The time passed slowly. No one came near him. He heard no movement in the house, and nothing happened in the street. It began to grow dusk. In half an hour it would be dark, and what the night would bring he could only, conjecture. He watched the shadows deepen, and again moved to the window. There were lights in the house now, and on the hill he saw the lamps were kindled.

Then down the street came the gleam of a car's lights. He watched them keenly with an odd intuition that at last something was going to happen. The driver of the car seemed a little uncertain, and slowed down, as if he did not know the street or was searching for a house with which he was not familiar. Once he stopped altogether and finally pulled up in the street, almost exactly below Torrance's high look-out. A moment later he resumed his way; but as he went, somewhere in the house, faint to Torrance's ears, but still clear, came the sharp whirr of an electric bell. Listening carefully, he heard the street door open and then close with a crash, and knew from these signs that someone had entered the house.

"Who?"

He found no answer to his question, but he was not left to wonder for very long. Seven minutes or so passed then he caught the clang of the iron door on the stairs.

"Coming!" As he whispered the word, noiselessly as the chain allowed he retreated to the bed. There followed a tramping of feet on the remaining stairs They readied the landing and at the same tune there was a glimmer of tight through the grille in the door. A man said something which he did not catch. Another man laughed harshly the bolts were drawn back, and the door opened admitting three men. The first of them carried a lamp, and by its light, towering above the leader, Torrance caught sight of Dirck van Slyck.

"So," he thought, "the hour strikes!"

He stood up as the men entered the attic and braced himself for what was to come. At a curt word from the big Dutchman the lamp-bearer set the lamp down on the table. Another quick order and the second man placed the chair near the table, then van Slyck addressed Torrance in English.

"Come here."

Torrance resented his tone, and remained where he was. It would have been better for his own comfort had he obeyed, for the Dutchman gave a sharp laugh, and shot a question.

"Stupid, hey?"

As he spoke, he moved swiftly, caught the chain lying on the floor, and gave a tug so forceful that the prisoner was jerked off his feet. The bed saved him from a complete crash, but from it be rolled to the floor. Van Slyck hauling at the chain hand over hand simply dragged him across the attic to the chair, then commanded contemptuously:

"Now, fool! Stand up."

Torrance rose quickly, raging at the other's treatment of him. and fiercely resenting hi tone. As he rose his eyes fell on the chair. In a second he had gripped it and swung it to strike the man down. But the Dutchman was wary. He side-stepped the swinging chair and his foot shot out in a savage kick which sent Torrance to the floor again, where, for a moment, he rolled in agony.

The big man watched him with a light of amusement in his steel-blue eyes, then again he gave a quick order. One of the two men accompanying him righted the chair; then with the help of his companion swung Torrance to his feet and thrust him in the chair, where he sat limply, feeling very sick, and with no heed for anything but the agony which he was undergoing.

The two men, taking an arm each, pulled him upright in the chair, and van Slyck laughed ferociously.

"That, my jewel, is but the beginning," he said. "A hint of the pleasures to come if you do not speak quickly... now tell me, fool, what have you done with it?"

Dimly Torrance understood that he was being asked a question that was in some way linked with the message that had been pinned to his shirt at the hotel in Rotterdam. With an effort he pulled himself together, and began shakingly:

"If I knew... what you... were talking about―"

He got no further.

Van Slyck took a step forward, swung his left arm, and knocked him off the chair. As calmly as automatons the other two men picked him up, set him in the chair again, and waited. The Dutchman watched with coldly calculating eyes. Torrance, with his head reeling from the blow, and with the pain of the brutal kick still twisting him, was very near fainting. No one spoke for a full minute, then on signs which indicated that his victim was recovering a little, van Slyck again broke the silence.

"You have heard of the third degree — the American brand? It is a persuasive thing, but it is butter and honey to what will be your portion if you do not own the truth, swiftly."

He broke off, stooped a little, his steel-blue eyes gleaming ferociously in the lamp-light, then he demanded harshly. "Where is the necklace?"

"Necklace! What necklace?"

Torrance's surprise, being genuine, must have convinced a judge and jury, but van Slyck was unconvinced.

"The one you stole last night from my apartment in the Ziegelstraat. Where is it? Quick, fool! Lies will avail you nothing."

"I know nothing of any necklace."

The answer fired the other's cold rage. He roared like a bull, three words only being clear to Torrance's ears. "You infernal liar!"

"I assure you—'

To the Dutchman the words were the last straw. He lost all self-control, became utterly inarticulate in his rage, and lumbering forward struck at his prisoner again and again. Torrance staggered to his feet, and tried to guard against the hammer-like blows. But no man in the evil case he was in could successfully fend off those fierce lunges of a man so powerful, who was a mere volcano of passion. A tremendous left, with the man's whole weight and strength and passion behind it, crushed through his guard, reached him about the heart knocked him violently backward over the chair to the floor, where he squirmed and sprawled for five seconds, and then lay still as a dead man.

"God!" shouted one of the two men with the Dutchman, "you've snuffed out his light, Dirck!"

At that van Slyck's rage passed swiftly as lightning. He passed his hand across his eyes and then stared down at his senseless victim like a man undone.

"Hemel!" he cried hoarsely. "But that cannot be! He must tell!... The fool must tell."

Chapter 6

In the Attic

SOME time after, Torrance revived with the sting of brandy on his lips. He was lying on the bed. One of the men who had brought him to the house was stooping over him, with a wineglass in his hand. The other man stood nearby, and Dirck van Slyck was at the foot of the bed, staring at him like a demented man. As he realised these things hazily, the man with the wine glass cried out:

"Reviving, Dirck!"

The Dutchman gave a grunt of relief, and spoke tersely.

"More brandy! He must not slip the hooks before speaking."

The note of anxiety in the man's voice was noticeable. Even Torrance was aware of it, and since he was in no condition for further questioning closed his eyes again; and though he swallowed the brandy offered to him, made no movement that might lead the terrible Dirck to think that he was on the way to quick recovery.

The brandy stimulated him. His mind began to work almost normally, and though he felt much battered and bruised, in the course of a few minutes he was much more himself than the three men realised. Once or twice he opened his eyes languidly, stared absently to his front, but gave no sign of having any interest in the things about him. He was however on the alert, listening for every word, and hoping to hear something that might be useful. For a time little was said of any moment, but van Slyck began to grow impatient and, swearing coarsely in his native Dutch, ordered one of the men to shake the victim of his savage assault.

"Better not, Dirck," counselled the man. "That was a smasher you delivered. The man isn't going to be ready for much questioning tonight. At least not for an hour or two."

"But he must speak," roared the Dutchman. "I must know what he has done with the necklace since it is not found on him or in his baggage... Every moment it may be going further away."

"That is probable! May have posted it to someone here; or hidden it at the hotel... Not that I think he did that; for when I went back for his baggage I searched the room minutely."

"The more reason why he must speak... I must know the facts quickly."

"You don't think he was by any chance speaking truth just now, before you hit the extinguisher on him, Dirck?"

"The devil, no! Why should you ask that?"

"Well, it sounded to me to be the right stuff."

"The fool was lying. He must have been. The necklace was safe when he went to that sister of Judas at my apartments and it had vanished when he left. No one else could have taken it!"

"How about the girl? chimed in the other man. "She wasn't above reproach apparently.

"Impossible!" cried van Slyck. "She never left the apartment and—" He broke off sharply as if some new idea had occurred to him then cried explosively. "The devil! There was that other girl who brought the message to this fool... She may have been a go-between, but I cannot think so. No!... Lisbeth would never have trusted her with the necklace. A fortune by itself."

"But she trusted the other with a message. What was it about?"

"It was to tell this ninny to go to the Ziegelstraat, I think. You recall that affair of the Englishman here who was involved in the affair of the necklace―"

The other laughed shortly. "That's a good one, Dirck!"

Van Slyck grunted. "It cleared us of complicity in the matter; and caused the Englishman to be sent to Cayenne as a spy and a killer."

"And Schouten also."

"Someone had to be involved with the Englishman. Schouten was already more than half a traitor. It was right that he should go for an example to the others. You comprehend?"

"Perfectly.... But it was not nice. I do not like betrayals. We ourselves should have dealt with Willem Schouten. But that is not the point. What I do not understand is how this one comes into that affair?"

"He is a friend of the other one. I have that from the best of sources. Also, he is himself engaged in espionage, and if by any chance he found his friend, who knows so much―"

"If that man at Cayenne is dangerous there is a way."

"I know," van Slyck chuckled ferociously. "That is already arranged. The English do not take kindly to prison. Sooner or later that one will attempt to break away as so many do; and when he does―" The man broke off leaving the rest to the other's intelligence.

Plainly he had no difficulty in understanding what was in the Dutchman's mind, for he shot a name.

"Pascaud?"

"As you say, my friend. Pascaud! He is dead shot. I have written for him to arrange an escape. If the Englishman avails himself of the opportunity, Pascaud will do what is essential and the sharks will do what remains."

"A pretty scheme!... And this one?"

"When he has spoken, the river," answered van Slyck with a cold-bloodedness that induced a prickling of the skin along Torrance's spine. "But he must speak first and soon."

The man whom he addressed stooped and deliberately pinched Torrance's arm. It was a savage pinch, the kind of thing that ordinarily would have made him jump upright; but he had felt the man's finger and thumb groping for the flesh through his sleeve, and he was able to suffer it with no more than a slight movement and a languid lifting of his eyelids.

"You see, Dirck. For the present you might as profitably interrogate a dead sheep.... Better give him more brandy, and leave him for a couple of hours to recover. There's nothing to be got from him now."

"Diable!" cried Torrance's second gaoler. "And that's sound counsel."

"Ach! Gott!" roared van Slyck. "Two whole hours! That is an eternity. An hour— no more; and then if he will not speak I will shake him till his teeth fall out of his mouth. And after that we will try the vitriol and other persuasive things. Give him the cognac! Drench him! But when I come back, Gott in Hemel! if he does not tell where the necklace is, he shall squirm like a worm cloven with the spade!"

The Dutchman turned on his heel and left the attic still rumbling threats as he went down the stairs. The pair whom he had left looked at each other. Then one of them said in a low voice: "If this fellow does not speak then he will scream. Mynheer is in earnest."

"That necklace―" began his comrade.

"Unquestionably the one of which we know. Dirck has lost it and thinks this fool has stolen it."

"As his friend stole it from―" The other's laughter broke on the words.

"That was the story, yes, a pretty coq-a-l'ane, food enough for the secret police at the Sûrété. But there are those who know, yes; and it is possible that Dirck thinks this one is among them. In which case―" The man shrugged his shoulders. "But we will obey orders like good citizens. Pass the cognac, Henri."

The man administered more of the spirit to Torrance, who was now very aware of all that was passing. Then the pair followed van Slyck, taking the lamp and carefully bolting the door behind them.

Torrance waited until the door in the stairs clanged: then he lifted himself up on the bed.

An hour, van Slyck had said. That meant that he had rather less time than that in which to escape from his perilous situation, otherwise it seemed he was to suffer torture to induce him to reveal the whereabouts of a valuable necklace on which he had never set eyes. The position was an utterly desperate one.

Chained as he was, to escape was almost impossible, yet he must make the endeavour. As he slipped off the bed, he felt very sick and sere, and his first steps were stumbling ones. Then a thing happened which brought him to a sudden halt and made him forget nearly all his aches and pains.

Through one of the dormer windows came a small beam of light cleaving the darkness of the attic like a sword. For perhaps a couple of seconds the end of the beam flashed a distorted disc on the tiles, and was withdrawn. But a second later it was there again, in and out in a dot-and-dash way that made it clear someone was signalling to the attic.

He watched spellbound for perhaps half a minute. Then, gathering up the chain and holding it and paying it out as he went so that it could not rattle on the floor as he moved, he made his way to the window through which the light flashed. As he readied it, the beam was extinguished: but a second later it was there again, striking on his eyes almost blindingly.

It came from a house across the narrow street, and, assured that it was a friendly hand that directed it, he stood there quite still, blinking his eyes as little as possible while the light rested on his face. So he stood for a moment; then the light was withdrawn, but a second after was turned on to the face of  the operator, as if the man wished to reveal himself to him.

"Jules!" As he made the recognition and whispered the name of his friend, the beam once more flashed across the street, and he swiftly lifted the chain so that its steel links gleamed in the light. A hand was thrust into the path of the beam, waved reassuringly, then the light was finally withdrawn.

Flushed with hope, his sickness and pain forgotten, he stood waiting, watchful, his ears alert for any sound in the house or on the staircase. He heard nothing to alarm him, but as the minutes passed without anything happening he began to grow anxious. Jules had found him and meant to deliver him: but by what method he could only conjecture. And the time was short. Van Slyck's impatience might get the better of him and bring him to the attic before the hour was through.

He began to think what he could do to delay the Dutchman's entrance into the attic. There was the bed, the table, the chair, he might wedge them against the door. A few minutes would be gained that way; but if Jules entered the house and sought him―

His thought broke off half way as he caught a sound which came from overhead. He stared upward into the darkness, heard the sound repeated, and almost instantly realised the truth. There was someone on the roof, someone who was moving with all the caution he could command.

"Jules!" As the name leaped in his mind, he heard the man on the roof stop almost immediately over his head. There followed a sharp rasping sound which set his teeth on edge. Jules it seemed, designed to reach him through the tiles. He waited motionless, fearing that the noise might reach the ears of van Slyck and his companions.

No sound, however, came from the stairs. The harsh noise overhead continued, then something slithered down the steep roof. There followed a brief interval of silence, which was broken by the sound of a crash in the street From overhead came a sharp whisper.

"Sacré!"

He guessed what had happened. A dislodged tile, slipping from the hand of the man on the roof, had fallen to the pavement He waited breathlessly, fearing what might follow. Nothing happened. Either the crash had gone unheard or the inhabitants of this sinister street, following their code, had refrained from meddling in a matter which was not their affair. From above came sounds of renewed activity, and presently came a whisper.

"Are you there, my friend?"

"Yes," answered Torrance.

There followed the flash of a pocket lamp, directed to the floor, then another sharp whisper.

"Stand clear, Jeff. I am going to drop something into the room."

He stood clear, and heard a little thud as something— a rope— hit the boards. A second later his friend slipped down, hand over hand: the light flashed again, found his face, and as Fanchon marked its bruised condition, he whispered sympathetically: "You have been battered, my poor friend."

"Manhandled by a brute of a Dutchman!"

"Perdition! That giant.... But we will make him pay the penalty, one day. First, however, we must get you from this rookery."

"There is a chain―"

"So I saw from across the street I have with me the means of cutting it That man from whose apartment I watched is a housebreaker, with a choice equipment of tools. In three minutes you will be free. Hold the lamp, Jeff."

Torrance took the flash lamp, and concentrated its beam on something which Fanchon took from a small leather bag slung over his shoulder by a strap. The thing was a small blow-lamp with a fine, but powerful, flame. On being lit it made a sound that, in the silence of the attic, was like a rush of wind.

"Noisy!" whispered Jules. "But that cannot be helped. We must take the chance, which is the way of life. Pull the chain taut with your ankle, my friend. Point the lamp downwards."

As he spoke, he slipped to his knees, and whilst Torrance held the light, he directed the flame of the blowlamp on a point where two of the fine links of the chain met. He kept it there for some minutes, and as the links grew red-hot, he chuckled.

"Soon, my friend."

A minute or two later, he set the lamp on the floor, and. directing Torrance to hold the chain in the flame, produced from his leather bag, a small steel wedge with a broad base and a fine edge, also a short heavy hammer.

"Now!" he laughed softly. Setting the glowing links across the edge of the wedge, he struck twice sharply. Noise was inevitable; and as the links were severed both men listened. They heard nothing.

"Good!" commented Fanchon. "When those links that you must carry with you have cooled a little, we will depart... You can climb a rope, I know, Jeff. Also you can creep on the tiles like a cat. Five houses away there is one, the owner of which is absent, and his house has a sky-light. That is our way to the street, and—"

He broke off sharply, as from somewhere beyond the door there came a noise that indicated a bolt shot back.

"The devil; What―"

"Someone comes!" answered Torrance swiftly, extinguishing the flash lamp. "There will not be time to use the rope."

The Frenchman laughed softly. "Dieu! Then we must use the door, which is better.... But you must watch the chain, my Jeff, or you will burn your shoe, and maybe your foot. This way. Drag the drain, noisily, if you can."

Already a glimmer of light showed at the grille, and, as they reached the door and took up their stand behind it, Fanchon thrust a pistol into Torrance's hand. "You will know what to do with that my friend. For me a more modem weapon will serve."

He still held the blow-lamp, and chuckled a little as he screened its blue flame with his body. Outside there was a clatter of feet on the bare boards, and Torrance whispered softly.

"All three!" He waited tensely. If any of the men held up the lamp and glanced through the grille before opening the door, he must see -the dangling rope; whilst the roar of the lamp inevitably must be heard. He had proof of that a moment later when one of the men gave an exclamation.

"There's an odd noise within."

"The roar of the wind under the, roof, Henri," laughed another.

"But—  Gott! There is no wind," roared a voice which Torrance recognised as that of van Slyck. "Open the door. Quick. There―"

Someone fumbled at the bars, and Fanchon pinched Torrance's arm gently, and whispered in his ear.

"Run when the lamp falls. I shall be at your heels. Do not fire the pistol without need."

The door was flung open, and a man plunged forward into the room— the Dutchman, as the light behind him revealed. The other two men, one carrying the lamp, entered almost at his heels. In a second Fanchon slid forward and directed the flame of the blow-lamp at the hand that held the light. The man gave a scream of agony and dropped the lamp. As it crashed on the boards its light was extinguished, and the only illumination was that of the blow-lamp.

Swiftly the Frenchman turned its searing flame on the second man. who emitted an agonised yell, staggered back, and collided with his comrade. Both went to the floor, and Torrance, leaping for the open doorway, heard Fanchon laugh.

"Hemel!" roared van Slyck's great voice. There followed a plopping sound. Something, which Torrance knew was a bullet, glanced off the iron door and plugged the staircase wall. He heard his friend shout, and turning, saw the blow-lamp describing an arc in the air. There was an explosion, and van Slyck bellowed inarticulately. Fanchon leaped for the door, banged it after him, tried ineffectually to bolt it, then, switching on his flashlight, lit the way down the staircase.

Wild voices sounded behind them. A clatter of feet was on the stairs as they passed the second door. This time it was Torrance who closed it and shot the bar. As he did so Jules Fanchon laughed.

"Trapped! I hope that attic kindles. The earth will be the cleaner!"

They reached the narrow landing. From overhead came a stamping of feet, and the sound of van Slyck's voice bellowing orders.

"The mattress, you lunatics!"

"Sufficient to hold their attention, apparently," commented Torrance, and led the way to the next landing.

When they arrived, there, they heard only what seemed like a distant shouting, which ceased suddenly, and as they took the last flight of stairs which led to the passage and the street door, he wondered why the sound had come to such a sudden termination. There was no one to oppose their going and opening the door they stepped outside. There the Frenchman gripped Torrance's arm.

"Look across the street, my friend. At the upper windows of the houses."

Torrance looked. They were bright with reflected light. Fanchon laughed.

"That rat-hole burns, and the rats must scurry or roast. Come, we will learn what it is."

He led the way across the street at a run. They reached a tall double door, which Fanchon opened, and, closing it behind them, led the way to a staircase, which appeared to lead to several apartments.

"Softly, my friend," whispered the Frenchman as they passed a doorway. "This is an aviary of strange birds."

Within two minutes they stood at the window under the eaves from which Fanchon had flashed his signal. A single glance across the street revealed that the room which they had left was a veritable furnace. The ancient flooring, dry with age, and seasoned to kindling wood by the heats of years, soaked with the petroleum of the shattered lamp, and kindled by the blazing spirit of the exploded blow-lamp, was blazing like a firework.

"It burns like a tar-barrel." chuckled Fanchon. "And that rascally trio are shut in with their own door of iron."

"You are forgetting something, Jules," said Torrance quietly, as he peered at tile dark roofs and the chimney stacks across the street.

"And what is that?"

"The rope which you used to descend to me, and by which we were to climb forth."

"The devil! You are right. I had forgotten... But maybe that bull of a man could not climb a rope."

"A man desperate for his life can do unexpected things."

"And the rope," groaned Jules, "was a strong one. Knotted in all its length.... What a misfortune.... But let us hope that it was the first thing to kindle."

Torrance was not so steeled as his friend. To die, trapped in that blazing attic, seemed to him a terrible end for any man, however wicked. He shivered a little and stared at the burning room, of which from his lower standpoint he could see little more than a section of the rafter. There was a faint sound of glass splintering on the pavement below. Murky smoke clouds shot with ochre-coloured flames poured from the window from which he had taken the view so recently. A roaring sound filled the air; and below in the street there was the shouting of excited voices and a clatter of running feet. The secretive inhabitants of this sinister neighbourhood, it seemed, could drop their reserve to take an interest in a conflagration which might destroy half the street.

"The rats begin to scurry," commented Jules. "They are afraid their holes may burn. It is the way with such―" He broke off abruptly, then cried. "Name of a name! It is time for you to go, my friend."

"What―"

"Away there on the right. By the chimney of that house with the illumined upper windows.... You see?"

Torrance stared in the direction indicated. Through whirling smoke shot through by the glare of the fire he glimpsed dimly a couple of shadowy forms.

"There are but two―" he began.

"And that for you, Jeff, is two too many. It is time for us to leave, if we should meet them in this street of wolves the pack might fall on us and rend us. Come!"

He led the way from the attic to the street which now was alive with men and women who were plainly predatory breed— men who would knife a man for his purse, women who were decoys to snare the unwary to their undoing and stripping by their ruthless partners; and who together represented the wolfish element to be found in all great cities. But for the moment these human beasts of prey were too interested in the fire and in the two men on the roof-tops to notice the two friends who gained a broader thoroughfare unhindered; and there Jules Fanchon laughed.

"That, my friend, is almost the worst street in Paris. Not a Mum, no! but a place where the wolves pack. No agent dare go through it alone at night; and even in the day they make the patrol in pairs. We are well out of it." They came on a taxicab prowling for a fare, and Fanchon signalled the driver.

"Where shall we go?" he asked.

"To my hotel" suggested Torrance.

"No! No! Now it is you who forget. Those two on the house tops who took you to that house from your hotel, they want you badly, hey? They will look for you again, and naturally they will watch the hotel. We will go to my apartments, of which they know nothing; and there you shall tell me the whole story of how you came to be in that crow's nest of the almost worst street in Paris."

He gave the driver of the taxi-cab instructions, followed Torrance, into, the vehicle, lit a cigarette, and leaned, back.

"Now, my friend!"

"No!" said Torrance with a laugh. "Your turn first; I am dying to know how you found me in that place."

"Pouf!" Jules Fanchon grinned. "That was easy as winking. I had your message, and after receiving it I went straight to your hotel. There I was told that you had been arrested by two agents from, the Sûrété. 'Arrested' I said. 'Someone has made a bloomer'— as you so often say. So I drove to the Quai d'Horloge, where I am welcome, having many friends. There I learn that for a whole month no Englishman has been arrested by the police; and I conjecture that there is some scheme for your undoing by someone who owes you a grudge. I explain my views, and my friends at the Sûrété agree. They send out a call for information, and presently an agent is found who saw your friend and those masqueraders leaving the hotel. Naturally he had been interested and by chance had noted the number of the taximetre. That made the matter very easy. In no time at all the driver of the vehicle was discovered. Then the authorities at the Sûrété were disposed to take charge, and to arrest the masqueraders for posing as police agents, forcible abduction and God alone knows how many other crimes. But I remember that like my own your work is secret, and I think that it is possible that you may not wish the officers of the Sûrété to spoil your game, so I dissuade them from action until I have time to investigate."

He broke off and laughed. Then resumed.

"You and I have friends in strange places. I know that wicked street very well and I have acquaintances there who I think may be useful."

"The burglar whose apartment you used was one of them?"-

"As you say, Jeff. He has helped me in one or two little affairs when it was necessary to break a safe to learn what I wanted, and by good fortune his apartment was in the right situation for watching that house. When the rest of the house showed a dark face to the street there was a tight in the attic; and I had a thought that there are two places where a kidnapped man is likely to be held— one is the attic and the other is the cellar. So I watched that lighted attic. I saw two men there, then a third, a big man, who appeared to be beating someone— "

"He knocked me clean out, Jules."

"So! The brute!... We will make him pay for that yet! But, to continue my little narrative. When the light went from the attic, and all the front of the house remained dark, it was easy to guess that those whom I had seen were in the rear premises, so I took a chance and flashed a light through one of those windows. Then I saw you, and gathered you were chained, so I wasted no time. I borrowed the tools I needed from my friend; and took my way across thee street to the apartment of another acquaintance, who has a skylight The rest was simple. I have walked among the chimney-pots before, and the tiles were not difficult to remove, though one—" He broke off sharply. Spoke through the speaking tube to the driver, and as the taxi-cab drew in by the kerb, excused himself and slipped away. Five minutes later he returned, and as Torrance looked at him inquiringly, he laughed.

"The telephone!" be said. "A useful invention. I have told my friends at the Sûrété that if they are very quick and have luck they may pick the masqueraders from the tiles, as I hope they will... And now, my friend, it is your turn... Why did those men trick you to that house? Who are they? And why were you so urgent to see me? Quick!... I burn with curiosity."

Chapter 7

Unexpected Callers

TORRANCE did not tell his story until they reached Fanchon's apartments. He began with a question which made his friend jump.

"Jules, do you know at an Englishman who in the last few months has been sent to Cayenne for being concerned in the theft of a valuable necklace?"

"Diable! Do I not? You speak of the Romenev pearls?"

"I don't know. With the Englishman there was condemned a man from Rotterdam of the name of Willem Schouten—"

"Then it is of the Romenev pearls you speak... A queer case, and a daring coup, with a killing included in its accomplishment. But there was more behind than that, or I should not have been in it... I, as you know, my friend, am no thief-taker."

"Ah! you were concerned in the affair?"

"But yes! The Englishman was a trafficker in other things than jewels. He was a spy."

"As you and I are, Jules!"

"No," said the other sharply. "I serve France. You serve Britain. This man served himself. He stole secrets and sold, them to the one who paid the most That was evident from his papers, and from secret witnesses. He was an international scoundrel of the kind we both know very welt And in my bureau he was a man whose activities had long been marked without his identity having been discovered. In war, he would have been shot forthwith; as it was, the Romenev affair offering the excuse, after a secret trial, we were, nappy to ship him to Cayenne."

"You have his name, Jules?"

The Frenchman laughed hardily. "Name? He had passports in three names, but that is nothing. We had the man taken red-handed— as you say― with the goods upon him."

"The necklace?" asked Torrance quickly.

"That he must have passed to an accomplice, it was not found. But there, were copies of secret plans of the Verdun field fortifications; letters of negotiations with a certain power that is not loved here in France were found hidden in his apartment. Those things cooked the goose for him. But what has the scoundrel to do with the events of tonight? You were to tell me the story—"

"Patience, Jules. I am asking you these things that the story may be quite clear when it is told.... You say this Englishman had three passports. Do you remember the names?"

"Yes. One was in the name of Andres Flamencos, issued in Madrid; the second was Spencer Dashwood―"

"The deuce it was!" cried Torrance in amazement.

"You are surprised, Jeff?"

"Never mind. Continue. The third? Quick."

"The third was Basil Shenstone; and both two and three were issued in London."

"Then he is my man for a certainty. In what name was he condemned?"

"In his own— the second one. You see, we had known of his activities for some time without being able to identify him, though his name was whispered; and at the Sûrété, where he was also something of a mystery, he was suspected of many things that were sufficient to condemn him could they have been brought home to him."

"And he made no protest when he was condemned?"

"No!... But perhaps there was a reason for that. When he was arrested he suffered a blow on the head which shook his wits a little. He was taken from the hospital to the court; and again from there to the convict ship.... That was unmerciful, you think, my friend; but when you have the snake looped by the neck, you do not loosen it because it is sick, hey?"

"So!... Now, Jules, it is your turn for the surprise. The man was not Spencer Dashwood."

"But―"

"He was Basil Shenstone, my friend, and my colleague. Spencer Dashwood— his cousin —was in Rotterdam this morning. I saw him and spoke to him."

"Name of a name! You cannot mean it, my friend?" cried Fanchon. "You pull my leg?"

"No. It is the simple truth. Shenstone was my friend and, as I said, my colleague. Months ago he disappeared. A body was taken from the river at Rotterdam which, from the papers found upon it, was presumed to be his. The identification was made by his cousin, whom you thought had been sent to Cayenne―"

"Perdition!"

"And Basil Shenstone's reputed death cleared the way for Dashwood to step into an inheritance that otherwise must have been his cousin's."

"The villain! He holds it now?"

"Yes, and is seeking to succeed his cousin still further by marrying the lady to whom Basil was plighted."

"What a scoundrel!... But if the account of your friend's death was accepted, how comes it that the matter should have been revived?... He contrived to send a message from Cayenne, perhaps?"

"Not a word. I fancy he is in no condition to do so; and even if he is, if he suspects the truth that his cousin conspired to send him there, he will be chary of writing anything that might lead to his further undoing. A scoundrel like Dashwood, having gone so far, would not hesitate to take the ultimate step."

"God Almighty! No!"

"And there were others in the plot, who, I fancy, got that necklace which came in the case. Do you know anything of a Dutchman of Rotterdam whose name is Dirck van Slyck?"

"Dirck van Slyck!" Fanchon echoed the name thoughtfully. "I have heard the name before in some connection."

"He is a fence, a receiver of stolen goods. So I learned in Rotterdam; also, he trades in the secrets, which you and I seek to discover; or, so my informant, who is a thief asserted."

"If I could remember the connection " Jules Fanchon scowled in an effort of remembrance. Then suddenly he gave an exclamation. "Thunder!.. I have it. It was in the matter of the sale of the plans of a gyroscope which one of the departments was considering. They were stolen by a poor devil of a clerk who, when the theft was brought home to him, cut his throat. His affairs were much involved, and there was a heavy obligation to a moneylender of the name of van Slyck, who had an office in Paris. It was supposed that Slyck was pressing him and that hoping to obtain money to settle, he had stolen the plans of the gyroscope.... There was something else―" He paused and struck his forehead . "It will not come!...The matter was not my affair, or I must have remembered... Wait!"

He hurried across the room; and a moment later Torrance caught the sound of his voice engaged in a conversation over the telephone. There followed an interval of silence, then again Fanchon's voice sounded in a quick fire of "Yes! Yes!" When he returned to the table his eyes were dancing with excitement.

"I have the rest. Your Dirck van Slyck is a speckled bird. When that poor devil of a clerk cut his throat there was a secret investigation of the money-lender's files. Nothing incriminating was found, but it was discovered that he had a number of clients who were in Government employment, in the departments, in the army and the navy— a suspicious circumstance. So his office was closed, and he was requested to move himself from Paris at once―"

"He is in Paris at this moment!"

"The devil! You know it? One of those three—"

"The big man who led the way- into that room. That was Dirck van Slyck. He was responsible for my capture."

"Then I hope he burned.... Tell me the rest."

Torrance gave a straightforward account of his adventures from the time of receiving the letter making the appointment at the Cafe van Tromp until Fanchon's descent into the attic; with details of the conversation he had overheard. When he finished the other cried out sharply:

"That is a devilish plot against your friend.... To arrange for his escape... that he may be shot. Already, the thing may be in train."

"It is more than possible. Van Slyck said it was arranged."

"And we can do nothing at the moment. I can pull a wire, make the explanation of the mistake; but these things take much time. The minds of those who sit in the offices of departments run in grooves, slowly. All things must be done in order. Documents must be initialled, signed, and as like as not taped and docketed and it may be a month or so until some one remembers the matter has urgency... We must think of some other way― A cable to the governor, perhaps. There are those in my department who must know him.... But until the morning I can do nothing by those means."

"I am on leave," said Torrance quietly. "I shall go to Cayenne at the earliest moment."

"Saints!... An idea! I wish I could join you." He considered a moment then added. "Possibly I can, if you are willing, my friend."

"Willing! I should be indebted beyond—"

"Indebted! Pooh. Often have I thought that I would go to Cayenne to see the place where I have helped to send more than one man... I must see what can be done.... But we shall need money. An escape, unless it is a mere wild dash into the forest, is expensive. There are rogues to be bribed; a launch, at least, to be hired—"

"Money need not stand in the way, I have more than will be required."

"And you do not grudge it for a friend? No! That is my Torrance— the loyal comrade.... We must go into matters at once. I know a man who was at Cayenne. A political— you understand. A good fellow with some foolish ideas of government. His knowledge and experience will be useful. Presently I will find out if he is in Paris.... At the moment, however, there are other things; I have not dined."

"Nor I."

"Well, you cannot go to a restaurant, with that ring and chain about your ankle. I must find someone to remove it— a picklock, I think... . If you will be patient I will be no longer than I must. And there is the whisky and soda, for refreshment, my old one."

He went out, and left to himself, Torrance reviewed carefully all that he had heard from his friend, and all that he had overheard in that sinister attic, and found the facts very disturbing. It was clear that Basil Shenstone had been the victim not merely of a mistake, but of a dastardly plot. Someone had so arranged things that his identity had been confused with that of his cousin, who must have been in the affair from the beginning and not merely entered on it at the moment when he had made that false identification at Rotterdam.

But, since he was prepared to go so tor, why had Dashwood shrunk from the ultimate crime? If that dead man taken from the Maas had really been his cousin it would have made his position absolutely secure; which it could not be whilst Basil Shenstone lived, even though he were shut in that hell at Cayenne. He pondered that problem for some time, and at last the solution of it occurred to him. Spencer Dashwood was not merely the general bad egg of his cousin's description. He was a man whose activities were thoroughly nefarious. And he was not only a man with whom the French Secret Service was concerned as a filcher and trafficker of international secrets, but one in whom the Sûrété also had an interest, and that implied downright criminal practices.

Stepping into his cousin's inheritance no doubt he would desire to shed his unsavoury past as a snake sheds its skin. If a man bearing his name and his identification papers were taken red-handed and sent to Cayenne, no more attention would be given to himself, and he would be free to come and go without fear of sudden arrest Further Cayenne was a mere stage on the way for Basil Shenstone. Once there, anything might be arranged; and as the conversation he had overheard revealed what might be anticipated was already in trim. Basil Shenstone, with knowledge that was dangerous both to his cousin and Dirck van Slyck was to be disposed of in a way that would cast no shadow of suspicion on any one. Thus, not only would the Dutchman be delivered from apprehension of what Shenstone might reveal; but Spencer Dashwood would be secured in the position he had usurped.

Something of that kind, he thought; and he found himself considering the question of the necklace which he was supposed to have stolen. Clearly it had vanished from van Slyck's apartment in the Ziegelstraat, or the Dutchman would not have been so furiously concerned. Of the whereabouts of the treasured thing he knew nothing whatever, of course; but the fact that it was the same necklace in the original theft of which Basil Shenstone was involved, as in the murder associated with it, was interesting. How had his friend chanced to be mixed up in such a disreputable affair? He must ask Jules for particulars―

The buzz of the telephone broke on his reflections. Moving to it. he gave the stereotyped response to a summons; and a second later caught his friend's voice.

"God be praised! It is you, Jeff!"

"Yes," he answered. "But why such fervency?"

"Listen, my friend... At once you will slip the catch of the door of my apartment and you will open to none, until you bear my voice at the door. Is that clear?"

"Quite. But―"

"Do as I say at once. I will hold the line, and explanations will follow." Setting down the instrument, he followed the instructions given, and then returned to continue the conversation. 'The catch is in. Now will you tell me why it must be?"

"Because I was followed from my apartment, from which it appears your presence there may be suspected, that is all. Someone must have seen us when we left the apartment of our house-breaking friend. Who that one may be I cannot imagine; but a few yards from this telephone kiosk a man is watching and waiting. I want to find out things, and propose to make 'him travel, so the dinner hour must be postponed. Till I return, you will sport the oak, as you say, and if there are troublesome callers, in the top left drawer of my bureau you will find what may be useful. It is already charged, and is meant to be fired in the face of an aggressor; as you will know.... That is all, except that I hope you are not too hungry. Au revoir!

"But I say, Jules— "began Torrance hurriedly; and even as he did so knew that he was too late. The exasperating fellow had rung off. But Jules was not the man to make such a call needlessly. So, moving across to the bureau, he opened the drawer on the left and took from it a rather curiously shaped spring pistol.

"Um!" he commented. "Ammonia! Our Jules always had a taste for odd weapons."

He carried it to the table, and set it close to his chair then, since it appeared that dinner was to be indefinitely delayed, he went to the. small sideboard and rummaging there, found biscuits and a small Roquefort cheese; and having mixed himself the whisky and soda which his friend has suggested, proceeded to take the edge off his hunger. He was so engaged when again the buzzer of the telephone whirred.

"So!" he thought. "Jules again!"

But it was not Jules. Before he could give the usual hail, a feminine voice demanded: "Are you there? Are you there?"

The voice was an unfamiliar one, and with a thought that it might be one of Jules lady friends, he was about to explain that Fanchon was out, when he caught a couple of words spoken by a masculine voice: "What matter—"

That voice he identified immediately. It was that of the man Jacques who bad been one of his captors; and the identity of the feminine caller was not difficult to guess. Without replying, he restored the receiver to its hook, and returned to his chair. His friend's warning, it seemed, had not been a needless one; and as he interpreted the call, an attempt was being made to learn if he were in Jules apartment He considered the situation carefully for a little time, then with a thought that if undesirable visitors came it might be as well if they were to find the windows dark, he switched off the light.

He had not very long to wait. Within five minutes light feet tripped across the landing, and then came a couple of light taps on the door. He made no move to open it; but waited with interest what was to follow. The tapping was repeated, and was followed by a feminine voice speaking softly and alluringly.

"Jules, my dearest—"

He still maintained the silence of the dead, thinking that if he were mistaken the caller would depart and a second later, as he caught a little grating sound that might have been caused by the insertion of a key in the lock, for a moment he was in doubt. After all, the caller might he some lady who had the entree to his friends apartment In that case the situation was a trifle ridiculous.

But as the grating sound continued, he dismissed the thought. No one possessing a key would be so long in opening the door: and, assured now that the lock was in process of being picked, he took up the pistol from the table, and tip-toed silently across the room. Scarcely had he readied the neighbourhood of the door, when a sharp click told him that the catch had been sprung.

Swiftly slipping into a position where he would be hidden by the door if it were opened from outside, he remained quite still, waiting for the intruder to reveal herself. Following the click of the catch there was a brief interval of silence. Then the knob was turned and the door was opened, swiftly. Someone stepped into the room, making the faintest rustling sound. A second later a feminine voice whispered softly:

"No one, Jacques."

So there was a man on the landing. With the realisation of that fact, Torrance acted swiftly. Sure that the intruder was clear of the entrance, he banged the door sharply. The catch clicked, proving that it was in working order, and as a startled gasp reached his ears, he was knocked backwards against the door by the intruder's spring for the entrance. He heard something ring faintly against the wall, guessed the noise was made by a knife of some kind and, groping for the switch, turned on the lights. As he did so the visitor leaped backward; his first glimpse of her was a startling one. She was poised on her toes, the right hand flung back, with a long-bladed knife between finger and thumb.

He had no more than time to recognise her for the half-caste Javanese, and to drop on one knee when, like a gleam of light, the knife flashed across the short space between them. He heard it strike a panel of the door. The man outride spat a single word in a ferocious voice:

"Damnation!"  There was a fierce rapping on the door as Torrance straightened himself. The girl stooped and groped about her fashionable skirt and, as he jumped forward, presented a small but efficient-looking pistol. That she meant to use it was evident; and, remembering the nature of his own pistol and convinced that it was meant to disable rather than kill as Fanchon had instructed the weapon should be used, he fired it directly in her face. The result that followed was half expected by him. The girl gave a sharp cry, and her pistol dropped to the floor as her hands went to her face.

She reeled backwards, whimpered as if in pain, then screaming and seeming to remember her pistol in a blind way groped for it on the floor. Torrance himself stepped forward and secured it; whilst the girl, foiling to find it straightened herself, with her bands at her eyes again.

Tears trickled through her fingers, as she moved backward with uncertain step. That she was temporarily blinded by the lachrymatory gas the odd pistol had discharged was clear. She groped about unseeing. The tears welled in her eyes, broke and ran streaming down her cheeks. She stumbled on a chair, fell into it, and groped for a handkerchief. The wisp of silk she produced was soaked in no time at all and still the tears, welling freely as Niobe's, continued to flow.

Torrance had never seen such weeping in his life, and, whilst he was speculating what he could do to check the lachrymal flood in which it seemed the girl might dissolve, became aware of a sharp rapping on the door.

"Friend Jacques!" he thought.

Moving swiftly to the door, he wedged it with a chair, then gave his attention to the girl once more. She was still in no condition for conversation, and he waited, dividing his attention between her and the door. From the landing came a voice whisperingly urgent:

"Mina! Mina!"

The girl made a move, gave an inarticulate cry, and fell back in the chair.

Then for the third time the telephone buzzer sounded, Torrance moved to it quickly and. standing in such a position that he could watch the weeping Mina answered the call.

"Hallo!"

"Ah! All is well with you, my friend?" It was the voice of Jules, and before Torrance could answer his friend continued, "But you have had callers; I know, I saw them enter―"

"They're still here," answered Torrance as quietly as he could whilst remaining audible. "I have a lady visitor inside and a gentleman without, who is inquiring most anxiously for her."

"The devil!" There was a hint of laughter in Fanchon's voice. Then he resumed: "I must return immediately. I may surprise the anxious gentleman. ... Be ready for surprises, and if I call out open the door quickly."

"Where are you, Jules?"

"Across the street, my Jeff. A cock's stride! I shall be with you before you have finished consoling the lady."

Torrance looked at the weeping girl. At the moment she was sitting rigid in the chair, the wisp of silk at her eyes, but plainly in a listening attitude. The sting, which induced the copious flow of tears was no doubt become less violent, and she was able to take an interest in event. Torrance did not mind. She could have learned little from what she might have overheard; and the anxious Jacques, waiting outside the door, was due for a surprise in the course of the next few minutes.

"Mina!" the man cried again. "Mina! what has befallen?"

This time the girl answered: "Tear-gas. I am blinded. Better leave me, Jacques! You also may be taken―"

"Name of a name!.. No!" the man cried back. "I shall not leave you."

A second later there was the sound as if a heavy body had been thrown against the door. The sound was repeated and. glancing at the door. Torrance smiled. A stout door is not easily opened by a man throwing himself against it; and even a very moderate panel will resist a shoulder for some time, as he knew from experience. Jacques was more likely to hurt himself than the door, and in a minute or two, if Jules Fanchon followed his purpose, would have other things to engage his attention.

But he himself must be ready to help Jules and, moving to the door, he removed the chair that he might be ready to open the door swiftly when his friend's command was given. He heard heavy breathing beyond the door; the unseen man grunted, a sound of footfalls followed, and he divined that the man was about to make a new rush at the door. In that second a thought flashed in his mind. Jules must be on the stairs now. If one slipped the catch at the proper moment, and the door unexpectedly opened, Jacques's rush must throw him to the ground, and with Jules to help―

He had not time to complete the thought. He heard the unseen Jacques making his run, and his hand went to the catch at the exact moment, whilst from the landing came Fanchon's voice:

"Open!" The shoulder of the rushing Jacques hit the unresisting door. The latter jerked backward and, as the man lurched wildly into the room striving to keep his footing, Torrance's right arm shot out in a hammer-blow which sent the fellow sprawling on the carpet. He heard Jules Fanchon laugh. Then the laugh broke abruptly, and there came a shout of warning:

"Attention!" He looked swiftly round. The girl Mina had risen from her chair. Her eyes were still streaming, and her pretty half-caste features were disfigured with distress; but she had one of her own dainty shoes in her hand, and there was purpose in every line of her.

Before Torrance realised what she was about, she made a spring. There followed a crash of glass and, as the electric globe shattered, the room became suddenly dark.

Chapter 8

The Café Moscov

TORRANCE wasted no time. Leaping forward in the darkness, he crashed against the girl, who fell down. Stumbling over her, he gripped a forearm and held on. A second later there was a sharp pain in his hand, arid he knew that the girl had bitten him in the hope of releasing herself. He thrust the pistol be held into his coat pocket, released his hold for a moment, and as the girl made to move, gripped her with both hands and swiftly turned her over on her face. She kicked end struggled, compelling him at last to sit upon her legs, and then, with time to breathe, he was aware of a sound of struggle in the direction of the door.

Scarcely had he become aware of it, when a yelp of pain sounded. A scrambling sound followed, the door crashed, and there was a noise of feet hurrying across the landing. Fear for his friend gripped him.

"Jules!" he cried. "Jules!"

"All right, my friend, but I have lost that ruffian. The little tiger-cat―"

"Here!"

"Bravo! Wait! I will make a light."

He heard Fanchon scramble to his feet and begin to cross the room. A match was struck. The flame was applied to the pair of candles on the mantelpiece, and then Fanchon. looking round, laughed.

"You are not polite, my friend. To sit on a lady's extremities— Ah! you are hurt?"

"Nothing much The lady used her teeth!"

"A cannibal! Phew! But I will fasten the door and repair the light: then you may allow the lady to rise. She should be able to tell us interesting things, hey?"

He crossed the room, made the door fast, adopted Torrance's plan of a chair to wedge it. From the bureau he took a new lamp, put it in the holder, and as the room was flooded with light he said cheerfully:

"Now, Jeff, you may become a gentleman once more If you offer the lady a hand to raise her— who knows?— she may forgive your little lapse in good taste."

Torrance leaped up and offered the hand. The girl ignored it. and scrambled to her feet Her eyes were still red and weeping, but through the tears there shone a flame of anger, and it was clear that she was raging. Fanchon regarded her smilingly.

"So," he said, "it is the little Mina— and in tears. The day of miracles begins anew."

Through her tears the girl stared at him a little doubtfully, then swiftly the raging light in her eyes died, and an expression of fear came on her face, and she visibly shrank from him. Whether Fanchon noticed the movement or not, Torrance could not tell. There was no alteration in his demeanour, and as the girl made no reply, he continued with gay insouciance.

"It is quite two years since we met at Geneva, and two years is a long time, but even if it were a whole eternity, one would not forget. No! And now you do me the honour to call on me―" He broke off. His manner changed. And when he resumed his voice was harsh and stern. "You will tell me why?"

The girl did not reply. She stared round, saw the chair which she had previously used, and finally flopped into it. The soaked handkerchief went to her eyes, and Torrance saw that the shapely little hand that held it was shaking as if its owner were afflicted with the palsy. That between the girl and his friend there was something which had nothing to do with the night's events, was clear, and he was wondering what it might be when Fanchon spoke again.

"Ah!" he said. "You are dumb. The little tongue that charmed my friend to his undoing is silent.... But not so silent as poor Sebastien. No! Do you know that when we fished him out of the lake there was a little blue puncture between his eyes―"

The girl made a sudden gesture, and cried out in shivering protest "I did not kill him!"

"You did not fire the pistol, no. He did that himself. It was all that was left to him when you had robbed him of honour— and the papers that he carried. He knew it, and he took the only way possible— that boy was my friend. But you, little Mina. were responsible. He left papers behind him. It fell to my lot to read them. And there was a letter— a most pitiful thing, for his sister!  Mon Dieu! What a heart of brass you must have! But it is no time for compliments. No!... It is the hour of confession; and you shall tell my friend and me how you came to be here in my apartment: and why you are here? And you shall tell us quickly. Yes— for we have not yet dined; and Torrance is hungry."

"I shall tell for nothing! Nothing," cried the girl, a little wildly.

"No?" Jules Fanchon's voice was scarcely raised, but there was a challenge in it. Without further words he crossed to the telephone. The girl's still dribbling eyes watched him intently, then she broke out, "What are you going to do?"

"Ring up the Sûrété. There are gentlemen there who will be very glad to know that Mina van der Werf is in Paris. Is it not so?"

The girl shivered. An almost desperate look came on her tear-stained face, then she whispered gaspingly, "What do you want to know?"

"I have already explained, but I will repeat. How do you come to be here in my apartment; and why are you here?"

"I... I followed your friend and you from that house where he was."

"Yes?" said Fanchon encouragingly. "On Mynheer van Slyck's orders."

"No! He was not about when you left the house "

"A mistake," laughed Fanchon. "He was on the roof or climbing to it. But continue. You followed us here? Yes. And then you went back to the big Dutchman, and received orders, hey?... Very well, you shall tell us what the orders were."

The girl looked round fearfully. "Have pity! You ask me to sign my death warrant."

"You are afraid of van Slyck? Well, that is a chance to be taken. The alternative you know―" He glanced meaningly at the telephone, then added: "The days pass slowly at Cayenne, and each night is a night in hell. Twenty years spent there is an age."

The girl dabbed her eyes fiercely, made a gesture as if recognising the situation was too much for her. and then spoke tonelessly. "I was to search for the necklace that your friend took from Mynheer van Slyck's apartment. It was thought he might have sent it to you."

"Ah! The necklace! Was it by any chance the Romenev necklace stolen here in Paris some time ago?"

"I do not know. It is of fine pearls, with a diamond clasp. That is all that I was told. I have never seen it. I had no part in the Romenev affair."

"A lie!" answered Fanchon coolly. "It will be wise to tell the truth, little Mina. When Willem Schouten was taken― Ah! you know him? I thought as much." He laughed hardly and, crossing to a bureau, unlocked a drawer. Taking from it a long envelope, from its contents he extracted an unmounted photograph, Returning to the girl, he held it for her inspection.

"You should know yourself."

"I cannot see clearly," answered the girl, shaking her head. "My eyes―"

"To be sure," commented Fanchon. "I was forgetting. A dose of xybyl bromide is disturbing to the vision. But you may accept my assurances. The little portrait is excellent. It is unmistakable. And it was found in Schouten's wallet, when he was arrested in the Rue du Paradis. Such men do not carry the snapshots of unknown ladies; but they do treasure the pictures of their friends, hey?... So, little one, it was the Romenev necklace you came to seek, was it not?"

A quick nod from the girl was her only answer, and Jules Fanchon accepted it with a smile.

"Good." he commented. "That means that Dirck van Slyck had the pearls when Paris was being raked for them, also that he had them as late as last night?"

"Or thought he had," the girl answered. "They were not missed until this gentleman had visited Van Slyck's apartment in Rotterdam They were kept in a secret place, and were gone when Dirck looked for them."

Fanchon considered a moment; then he said tentatively: "It is possible that Dirck van Slyck is playing the cheat with his associates. That he has the pearls and means to keep them for himself "

"No!" interrupted the girl, with conviction They are really lost; and Dirck is almost mad to find them again."

"Maybe! My friend knows nothing of them, that is certain. Someone else robbed van Slyck and―" He broke off. "The devil!" he cried, as if assailed by a sudden idea. "That may be the explanation, of course."

Mina van der Werf brushed the moisture from her eyes, and looked at him shrewdly. He caught the look and laughed.

"No, little one, no! I shall not tell you the thought that came to me. One does not give the game away. But it is possible that those pearls on which my friend Jeff has never set eyes are in Paris at this moment.... Yes! It is possible. But there is other information that you burn to impart For instance, there is that Englishman whom Karl Wiederman met at the Hotel de Maas, in Rotterdam, this morning, whose name is Spencer Dashwood "

The girl made a little gesture. "That one is in Cayenne."

"No," corrected Fanchon, smilingly. "The real Spencer Dashwood was at Rotterdam this morning. The other one— bah! We know the truth, little Mina. Why seek to mislead us? That Dashwood— the authentic one was in the Romenev affair? Tell me the truth."

He waited, and the girl gave an almost imperceptible nod.

"So!" he resumed, "and it was he who suggested that the other one should be credited with the crime of killing Dmitri? Yes! But there is more than that" Again he waited. The girl remained dumb, and after a moment he spoke harshly; "You shall tell me everything, or you go to the Sûrété. Why did van Slyck agree to incriminate the Englishman and send him to Cayenne?... That other one, Dashwood, wanted him out of the way. That is known, and the reason also. But why did van Slyck agree? Tell me that?"

"If... if I tell you―"

"You would bargain with me? But yes, that is the order of things. Well, I give you my word of honour that, if you speak the truth, you shall go free of this room, and have a whole hour in which to run from Paris. Not a jot beyond that. I do not forget my friend, Sebastien. Some fine day that account of the dead will be settled; but now I think of the friend of my friend starving at Cayenne, and the living claim more than the dead. But you must speak truly if you would have that precious hour."

The expression of utter fear was back on the girl's face. She shivered again, and her brimming eyes turned towards the door. Jules Fanchon made his own interpretation of the glance and, walking swiftly to the door, threw it wide. The landing was quite empty. He closed the door and slipped the catch.

"You saw?" he asked. "There is no one there to overhear. You may speak secretly, but it is well to be quick.... Why was van Slyck a party to that deception?"

"He... he feared the one who was sent to Cayenne. The man had discovered things."

"About van Slyck?"

"Yes."

"One may guess! Yes! The Englishman who went to Cayenne had learned that to his professions of thief and receiver of stolen jewels Mynheer van Slyck added that of espionage, hey?"

"Yes!... He was very near the truth; and for the moment van Slyck dare not have him killed. He was afraid the Englishman's papers might reveal things, so he had him involved in the affair Romenev."

"A neat plan. No doubt he would make arrangements at Cayenne to do what could not be done in Paris?"

"I do not know! By the Holy Mass, that is the truth. Dirck is very secret when he chooses, and it is not wise to seek to know too much."

"That I can believe.... And there is nothing more you can tell me, little one?"

"Nothing."

"But there is something which you can tell me," said Torrance quietly. "That man who worked with van Slyck— the real Spencer Dashwood— he still works with him?"

"No!... But I think that he pays money to Dirck, having entered unexpectedly on a rich inheritance."

"Blackmail?"

"Tribute, Dirck would call it."

"Mynheer Dirck is of a nice mind, my friend," laughed Fanchon. "You must not hurt his self-esteem by bluntness. There are more questions perhaps?"

"Only one." Torrance looked at the girl. "Who stole the letter to Lisbeth which I wrote from London?"

The girl shook her head. "I do not know. I was not in Rotterdam. But Dirck and Lisbeth kept house together, and if she were careless— you understand?"

"You mean that van Slyck purloined it himself?"

"It is likely, mynheer!" The girl wiped her eyes, and looked appealingly at Fanchon. "I have told all. I may go?"

Fanchon glanced at Torrance, who nodded, then he went to the telephone.

The girl's face became suddenly an image of stark fear.

"Mynheer―" she gasped.

"A taximetre, only, Mina. You cannot walk the streets of Paris weeping like Rachel mourning for her children. It will not come here, lest your friend Jacques should be watching. I will give directions for it to be at the corner where there is a stand. At this hour it will be the only one there, and it will wait for you. You will give your own directions, and you have an hour in which to leave Paris... If I were an agent, as I am not, you would go to the Sûrété, as it is―"

He broke off, shrugged his shoulders, and proceeded to telephone, the girl obviously listening to every word. When he hung up the instrument, he said tersely, "In five minutes. It will take you three to reach the stand, and if your eyes trouble you, you can find your way by the wall." He crossed to the door, opened it, and waited.

Mina van der Werf rose slowly from the chair, wiped her eyes once more, then without so much as a glance at Torrance hurried to the open door. As she passed him she flashed a glance of hatred at Fanchon, who gave her a polite bow.

"Au revoir, little one."

The two men watched her cross the landing and disappear down the staircase, then Fanchon closed the door. The candles on the mantelpiece were still burning, and he crossed to them and blew them out in turn.

"Pouf!" he said quietly. "It is so that the little one will go— if she is not very quick."

"You think―"

"My friend, you told me how you saw that girl shot through the grille in the Ziegelstraat and you ask me that?... I would not give a cock's feather for that one's life, if that fellow Jacques is waiting.... He will guess that we have not let her go free for nothing. But that is her affair. If she is very quick she may slip away. Yet I would not wager on it.  Dirck van Slyck is not a man to play with, no."

He lifted his shoulders expressively, then moved over to the telephone, and rang up a number. After speaking to someone, he explained:

"The picklock. He was waiting my word to come. In three minutes he will arrive, and when you are free of that borrowed shackle we will go out and stay our hunger. For dinner we are too late, but not too late for supper at the place to which I shall take you."

The man of locks arrived. He might have been an honest workman, but from his demeanour and his laugh at a jest which Fanchon made about the locks of sides, Torrance suspected that he was one of the curious acquaintances of which his friend had quite a number, and whom he did not scruple to use in his calling, when such help was useful to him. A safe cracker as like as not.

It did not take the man very long to unfasten the shackle, and when he had received his pourboire and departed, Torrance's suspicion was confirmed.

"That man is the best hand with a lock in all Paris. It is his speciality―" Fanchon laughed. "He looks at a keyhole, whispers into it 'Open Sesame,' and someone's treasure chamber is at his mercy. Never does he break a lock or leave a tell-tale scratch.... A very useful man in an emergency, I assure you. Jeff."

He laughed again and indicated the bathroom. "A wash and a brush up for both of us; and then we will drive down to the Cafe Moscov. There we shall be received by a Grand Duke and served by princesses, which is the way in these democratic days. Also I do not think that Mynheer van Slyck will venture near the place... But one never knows, and I had an idea a little while ago―"

"Which you refused to tell to Mina van der Werf."

"Yes," laughed Fanchon, "and which I shall still keep secret until we reach the Cafe Moscov, where we can test It. So, my friend, the bathroom, whilst I call for a taximeter."

Twenty minutes later they entered the Cafe Moscov, which was situated In Montmartre— an ordinary cafe without, a surprising place within, furnished with futuristic taste, lighted with shaded lamps, and with rather startling pictures on the walls. The maitre d'hôtel who received them was impressive enough for a Grand Duke even if he were not one, whilst the waitresses might very well have been the princesses that Jules had averred they were. A string band discoursed Russian music. Part of the floor round which the tables were set was reserved for dancing, and the clientele was obviously of the intellectual Bohemian type, whose chatter as Torrance caught the blast of it was of books and pictures and music. Fanchon indicated the gathering with a nod.

"A public restaurant— but the finest salon in Pans, with more brains to the centiare than any other place in France."

He looked around, marked a table, and led the way to it; then as they took the vacant chairs he stared around once more. A light of pleasure came into his eyes, and he laughed cheerfully.

"My dear Torrance, we have good fortune."

Torrance looked about him for anything that might have occasioned the remark, but found nothing. "If you will explain in what way, Jules, I shall be obliged."

"It is that we are about to be served by a real princess, which I daresay is a new experience to you."

Torrance laughed. "Oh!" he said, "I have taken one in to dinner in my time."

"But you did not have her take your orders and serve your viands, my friend, as this lady will. And I will swear that your princess was not so charming and gay as this one who hurries to meet our wishes."

"If you would point out―"

"To point is rude. But if you will look for the most beautiful woman in the room―" began Fanchon.

"Ah!" ejaculated Torrance, and said no more, lest he should betray to his friend's shrewd mind the sudden tumult of emotion which had overtaken him.

A waitress was approaching their table. She wore a simple uniform of blue like all the women attendants, and was obviously on the waiting staff of the restaurant. Many of the others were attractive and unusual, with the ineradicable stamp of breeding which neither uniform nor a simple occupation could hide; but in sheer beauty the girl who had occasioned his ejaculation surpassed them all. She was of rather more than middle height, slim but shapely as the uniform which fitted her like a sheath revealed. Her small head, with the dark hair parted in the middle and twisted in a simple knot behind, was carried regally, whilst the blue eyes under the arching brows looked forth with a sparkling gaiety that in that alien world proclaimed a brave spirit undaunted by the steep vicissitudes of life.

Torrance gathered that impression in a flash, and then was aware of his companion's laughing voice.

"You have found her, my friend?"

"Yes," said Torrance with conviction.

"And you find her beautiful?"

"Wonderful!" His friend laughed again.

"You are not the only one. There are experts with hearts of chrome-steel who have found her that. The great Duelin, whom rumour avers refused a commission from a queen, went on his knees to her; and her portrait as a demoiselle de restaurant was in last year's salon, and is now in the painter's salon. Rumour says that he refused an offer of a hundred thousand francs for it, made by a rich American, and the gossips say that Duelin is in love with the original, and that always there are rare orchids in a silver vase before the portrait. I do not know if it is so; but these artists are all mad, and Duelin is capable of any extravagance. They say―"

He broke off as a lady at a neighbouring table interrupted the girl's progress, and rising kissed her on both cheeks.

"We must wait, it seems; but we can feast our eyes, hey?"

He glanced at Torrance, then in mock reproach rattled on, "You are not listening, Jeff. I waste my sweetness on the desert air."

"Oh, go on! Tell me more about the lady."

"Ah! Already you fall victim," Fanchon laughed. "You shall hear. Her name is Anna. She is of the Russian dispersion. I forget how many thousand versts Trotsky's peasants stole from her family in the revolution. I know that they killed her father with a scythe and burned the great house that was her home, and that Anna escaped across the steppes in the depth of a Russian winter, dressed as a droshky driver, and that once when she was in danger of discovery she drenched the suspicious one with vodka and left him under the table— and she a schoolgirl at the time. Such is romance in this great age of the people, my Jeff."

"Yes! Yes!"

"You would hear more?"

The Frenchman chuckled. "I mean that you shall. It was to that end I brought you here."

Jules Fanchon, noting his friend's eagerness, broke off once more, and with slow deliberation selected a cigarette from his case and lit it. Torrance schooled his impatience, and then spoke nonchalantly. "You have not told me her name, Jules."

"But I have... It is Anna."

"Anna— what?"

"No! No!" Fanchon laughed. "As the storyteller I will not be robbed of my climax. You must have patience. But there is no long time to wait; for see, the lady comes. And now I beg you to school yourself, for l have a little surprise that may take your breath."

He rose as the waitress readied their table.

"Princess Anna," he said with a bow, "may I present my friend who is new  to the Cafe Moscov though not to the city from which it takes its name."

The waitress turned to. Torrance, who bad risen. The blue eyes, gay and brave in their outlook on her topsy-turvy world, met his in level glance, then kindled with quick interest, and as he bowed over her offered hand, Torrance was aware of Fanchon's voice with a little significant note in it that pointed his climax beyond mistake.

"Captain Jeffrey Torrance; the Princess Anna Romenev!"

Chapter 9

The Faithful Moujik

"MY OLD one," laughed Fanchon when the aristocratic waitress had departed with their order. "That is the answer to the question you nave not asked. The Princess Anna is rightful owner of the Romenev pearls which you are suspected of having lifted from van Slyck's apartment in the Zeigelstraat. So my cat is out of the bag!"

"Only its head!" said Torrance quickly. The tail has yet to emerge. There is that idea you mentioned "

"Ah! That was a mistake. I have suffered a grievous disappointment. I had a lunatic idea that the Princess Anna might be wearing her pearls tonight. A fantastic notion, but in keeping with this place where the world stands on its head; and where a late Captain of the Imperial Guard grills your chop."

"You thought that some friend of the Princess's might have recovered the necklace for her?"

"I cherished. the hope. You see, there is a mystery about those pearls. You know nothing of them; and van Slyck, whilst suspecting you, is only certain that they have vanished. No common thief would raid the great Dirck's safe and steal only the pearls. There would be other loot that a professional bandit would have taken." He broke off, and after a pause resumed, "You must see that, Jeff. Whoever took those pearls went to the Ziegelstraat for nothing else."

He looked round the Café.

"There are those here who would go to any length to serve the Princess Anna— who is of so brave a spirit. If one of them had had wind of the whereabouts of her necklace van Slyck could not have kept it, and his life.... Possibly we shall learn presently."

"Meanwhile it would be well if I heard the story of those pearls," said Torrance. "You forget I have no more than a hint of it."

"It is quickly told. When the Romenev mansion was raided and burned to clear the way for Heaven by the holy peasants, the necklace was the one thing that Anna Romenev could snatch before she ran for safety. But the pearls were famous, and there was a steward of the estate who had joined the Communists in the hope of securing them... He failed of his purpose, and, chagrined, sought for the Princess, guessing that she must have them. His purpose was known to a moujik who had heard words that he had dropped in his rage. The man whilst in the employ of the steward who had become a damned commissar of the district was faithful to the Romenev or at any rate to the single one who had escaped the massacre and the holocaust. In the course of the search he recognised the Princess in her character as a droshky-driver. But he said nothing to the steward-commissar; and took opportunity to warn the girl as she was then of the search far her and the necklace. The Princess moved on at once; but before going she put the necklace in the care of the faithful moujik until better times should arrive and he could safely deliver them to her when she asked for them it."

"A rash thing to do," commented Torrance.

"Possibly. But that is Anna Romenev. You are trusted wholly, or not at all my friend.... And her trust in the peasant was not misplaced. It took her the most of the year to reach Paris, and there was a dark period of illness when her life was in jeopardy. When she was sufficiently well to think of things once more, Lenin was in the saddle, and to get a letter to Russia without betraying the moujik was almost impossible, for the man could not read. So for a time―"

"Softly, Jules. The lady comes."

The erstwhile Princess arrived with a tray. Her blue eyes had a light of mirth and she was smiling as at some amusing thing.

"What is it, Princess Anna?" asked Jules with the freedom of a privileged friend.

"A droll happening," she laughed. "You know how cosmopolitan is this café of the exiles— and how selective."

"Yes the sieve through which your clients pass is a fine one."

"How would you have it, Jules?... We are exiles. We talk secrets as well as gabble about the arts. Those who come here are our friends, and the others are not encouraged."

"That is known. "

"But not to all," the lady laughed. "Just now the most impossible creature sought to enter, and when he was refused he made a request to speak with me, having, he declared, something of importance to communicate." She laughed again. ''You could not guess his business in a year."

"Then I shall not waste a year," answered Fanchon, cheerfully.

"It had to do with my lost pearls.... He was a dealer from New York and he wished to buy them."

"Ah!" ejaculated Jules. "He had not heard of your loss?"

"You are mistaken, my friend. He had heard that— and more, for he had the information that they had been restored to me."

"Heavens! I hope the information was right"

"It was quite wrong; as I told the man, who was desolated to know the truth."

"You asked him where he obtained his misinformation, I hope?"

"I did. It was from the gossip column of a New York paper."

"Um! Then he might have known it was a lie.... But what kind of man was he?"

"Oh, a barrel of a man, elegantly attired; with a face like the dial of the clock there, and eyes that had a humorous twinkle—"

"And pointed moustaches as straight as the dock fingers when the time is Quarter after nine, hey?"

"But how did you know, my friend?" asked the lady quickly.

"Fran here you would not see him "

"Your description was sufficient―" Fanchon shrugged his shoulders. "The man is one of the greatest rogues in Paris, Princess. Have nothing to do with him at any time. If he believed you had your pearls he meant to steal them."

"You cannot get wool from the sheep that Is already shorn, laughed the Princess. "But I delay your meal, and there are others who grow impatient."

She slipped away and Torrance watched her go, with admiration in his eyes. Then his friend spoke.

"You admire? yes!...and justly. It is a brave spirit that can be gay in adversity. So I suppose, the nobility of France went m the tumbrils, to the guillotine with the wolfish women howling around them. There is more in breeding than the many realise.... But already we have learned more than I hoped when we came here. The first thing is that the Princess has not recovered her pearls, and the second is that I was not the only one to think of that possibility. That fellow―"

"Karl Wiederman!"

"As you say. His coming here means that van Slyck is turning every stone. He means to have those pearls back at any price, and he is following all the lines along which they may have vanished. Also he is not wasting the flying hours... I wonder who had the courage to steal them from him.... That girl who shared his apartment, perhaps? In that case, if they were hidden by her, since she is dead, only an accident may reveal their whereabouts. But the Princess is the last to trouble her head about them, and we will eat, and talk afterwards."

"You did not finish your story, Jules."

"Patience, my old one. You shall hear all in good time.... And there is the sommelier!  We will drink as we eat."

He signalled the man in question, who approached him as a friend, exchanged greetings and received the order all with an air of perfect qualify. And when he had delivered the wine, Fanchon explained. "That gentleman was the most renowned bear-hunter in old Russia, and his father's estate was half a province. But now he serves wine in this café of the exiles, and, as you will observe, does it with grace. I doubt if the usurpers are fit to tie his shoes. There is more in the aristocratic spirit than the levellers know, as they may yet discover, for it is the spirit that triumphs in the end."

Twenty minutes later Torrance lit a cigarette, and leaned back in his chair.

"And now, Jules. I will hear the end of the story of the moujik's adventure with the pearls."

"You shall, my friend. It is a story of tragic faithfulness. As I told you, a letter was impossible, for the moujik could not read, and the new Russia is as full of spies as a hive of bees. But there were other ways. When the story of Anna's pearls was known, one of her friends, a mere boy, went back to Russia, risking his liberty, if not his life. The moujik was not to be found — which, in the welter that was Russia, was not surprising. It was thought that he might have perished in the great famine on the Volga, and in that case, of course, the pearls were gone forever.... However, that thought was a mistaken one. The years went by. If anyone vexed themselves over the Romenev necklace, it was not Anna; though possibly, there were others who had a thought of it at times, when they saw her working in the studios, and serving here in this Café, which is a co-operative effort of the exiles.... Then last year something happened."

Fanchon paused, lit a cigarette, blew a cloud of smoke, and resumed.

"It is not all clear what occurred; but it is certain that the moujik arrived here in Paris, and that he had the necklace with him. That was proved; and the rest was conjectured, and inferred from the facts. The moujik, a sick old man, knew no language but his own, and no doubt made many inquiries before he found someone who grew interested in him.... One can only guess who that one was... But there was a man with whom that unknown one was acquainted who knew the Russian tongue, and that one―"

"Shenstone!"

"Unquestionably. It was proved that the moujik was taken to the apartment of that man who was sent to Cayenne; that he told something of his story, and mentioned the Princess Anna's name. Then he was taken by a fit, which kept him prostrate for hours, and in that time the man in whose apartment he lay— your friend Shenstone— was surprised by a visitor at a moment when be held a fine pearl necklace in his hand, which he at once made haste to put out of sight— a suspicious circumstance; or thus it was regarded.... There is a gap in the story here, a little hiatus that was not abridged, though possibly your friend may be able to complete the account. . The moujik was found in your friend's apartment, murdered. A shabby leather case, that had undoubtedly held the pearls, was found in the mattress of the bed, where the stitching had been cut and the mattress resewn, but the necklace was not found."

"A moment, Jules. Who found the body of the moujik?"

"A journalist!... By an odd little coincidence be had heard Anna Romenev's story; and, chancing to hear of the moujik from a cafe acquaintance who had run against the Russian, he put two together; and then, to obtain a romantic story that would appear in every newspaper in Europe and America, he set out to find the Russian. He traced him to your friend's apartment and, arriving there, obtained no answer to his summons. But he was a determined fellow and, finding the door was not locked, he entered without having seen anyone.

"He found the old moujik dead on a settee, stabbed to death by the owner. Sure that the dead man was the one whom he himself was seeking, and that here was the romance he had imagined turned to tragedy, he at once telephoned to the Sûrété.... When the police arrived, the journalist explained his business there, and his suspicions of the identity of the dead man. He was promptly arrested, not because he was suspected, but to prevent his writing an account before the officials were ready for the story to go to the world. Then the apartments were searched minutely for the pearls. They were not found. The worn old case was dug out from the mattress, which was held to be evidence that the pearls had been there, though now they were missing. But in the course of the search, which naturally was a thorough one, the secret papers and two of the passports of which I spoke were discovered— clear evidence that whilst the owner of the apartments might be a jewel-thief on the side, his real line of business was espionage... Word was passed to my branch at once, aim when the name of Dashwood appeared, there was a little exultation, for there was a man much sought after delivered red-handed to us....

"The faithful old Russian was left lying on the settee, and whilst some scoured Paris for the owner of the apartments, four men remained there in concealment in case he should return there.... He did return, about nine in the evening when it was dark, and with him was the Dutchman who in the end accompanied him to Cayenne. The four men who were concealed did not wait for him to make a light. They rushed out. It is possible that your friend had the idea that he had to do with Apaches, for there was a struggle in which he received a nasty crack on the head which shook his wits, so that weeks after he was still dazed; though there were those who asserted that he was foxing, and knew very well what he was about... But that was neither here nor there. Those who guard the heart of France cannot be squeamish with those who traffic with her defences.... And as you know the pair went to Cayenne on the evidence of the documents and on suspicion as the murderers of the old moujik— who certainly had been robbed and killed."

Fanchon broke off, then added: "That is the story, my friend, the story not as told in the newspapers and I hope you find it illuminating."

"I find in it one thing that is curious."

"Yes?"

"That the officials of the Sûrété did not ask themselves why a man should go to the trouble to hide an empty jewel case in his mattress, when he might have dropped it in the street or thrown it into the Seine?"

"Perhaps they did, my friend. But after searching your friend's apartment they were more concerned with the spy than with the thief.... And after al even criminals have their lapses and do foolish things."

"But Basil Shenstone was no criminal."

"We did not know that! On the face of things he was as guilty as Cain.... And you know how it is here in Paris. We suffer from spy-mania— not without reason. So, my friend, you must make allowances.... A mistake has been made. No doubt when the truth is known it will be rectified, but before that―"

"Before that Basil Shenstone must be snatched from that place of the damned. If we wait for the wheels of officialdom to revolve "

"Pouf. I have said so. I shall help you as if Shenstone were my brother. One can say no more.... And now since for the moment we can do nothing, let us emulate these exiles and be gay in the time that is granted us. Life is too short to be spent in regrets that are useless.... And in a little time, if you are lucky, you may perhaps dance with Anna Romenev."

At the mention of the lady's name, Torrance looked quickly round the cafe, without however seeing anything of the Princess. A look of disappointment clouded the interest in his eyes.

"She has gone," he said.

His friend laughed.

"For a little while, perhaps. But she will return. And then she will not be the demoiselle de restaurant. No! She will be Anna Romenev— a princess of the Exile. That is the way here. One is served and pays for the service; but when the hour is over— one bows over the hand that carried the dishes, and is honoured to have the privilege. That is because all who come here are friends."

"It is an odd enterprise," commented Torrance.

"But not more odd than life, if you will remember how Anna Romenev and your friend are unconsciously associated with each other, with Dirck van Slyck the enemy of both. That is odd, and it is even more odd that you, my Jeff, having met van Slyck, should now be watching the door for the lady whom that scoundrel robbed."

Jules Fanchon laughed at the slow flush which spread over his friend's face.

"Touché!" he added. "But you are not alone. We are all in love with her whilst she loves none and is the friend and comrade of all."

He laughed again. "Anna Romenev is as Galatea and none has yet kissed the marble to life. So there is hope―" He interrupted himself. "Look towards the inner door, my old one, and behold a new miracle of transfiguration."

Torrance looked swiftly in the direction indicated, and as he did so his heart leaped. Anna Romenev was just re-entering the cafe. The dainty blue uniform which she had worn had been discarded for a black evening gown, revealing beautiful arms and shoulders, and with her radiant eyes and fine features she was unquestionably the loveliest lady in the room.

"You find her charming, Jeff?" asked Fanchon, with a twinkle in his eyes.

"Entirely beautiful!" he answered without reserve.

Fanchon nodded. "Of course. We all do. And it is a beauty that is not all of the flesh― rather an effulgence of the spirit. But she is entirely human, and loves dancing. Perhaps, if you cared―"

"Jules, you are a friend in need. Take me to her―"

"No! No!" laughed his friend. "There is no need. This is the most cosmopolitan and the most truly Bohemian café in Paris. Russia in exile does not stand on ceremony. You may ask Anna to dance as you might any grisette in Montmartre. She will agree or she will refuse and there will be no feeling in the matter. It is all very free— but that those who come here are known! And you have one thing in your favour, you are an Englishman, and Anna has a regard for your stolid race that is hard to account for. Off you go, Jeff. If you are quick you will be the first―"

Torrance left his friend immediately; and a quarter of a minute later was bowing to the Princess.

"If I may have the honour—"

Anna Romenev remembered him and laughed.

"Ah, you are Jules' friend. Captain Torrance? If you wish―"

A moment later they were gliding over the polished floor, and Torrance was thinking that his companion might very well have chosen another occupation than that of waitress in this cafe of the exiles; for she danced with a grace and verve that would have been no discredit to the Russian ballet itself. After a little time she spoke.

"You like our Café Moscov, Captain Torrance?"

"It is an interesting place," he answered. "And I am very glad that Jules brought me here."

"I wonder why he did," said the lady carelessly.

"I think it was that I might see you," he answered more fervently than he realised.

"No! No!" Anna Romenev laughed. "There are many more notable people here."

"Nevertheless, it is the truth. And there was a reason for my visit other than a mere ordinary interest―"

"A purpose?" Arm Romenev laughed lightly again, but there was a swift flash of interest in the blue eyes. "What can it possibly be?"

"It was that having met you he might tell me the story of your stolen necklace. "

"That is an old story," laughed the lady. "And―" She broke off abruptly. A speculative look came on her face, then she said sharply, more to herself titan to him, "But that is very odd."

"I do not see why," he answered. "I found the story tremendously interesting."

"I was thinking that it was odd that you should be interested in my pearls so quickly after that fat Adonis had enquired about them," she replied smilingly. "A small coincidence of course. One of those odd little things that happen at times."

"Something more than that Princess!" he said earnestly and at once had her grave attention.

"Ah!" she replied quickly. "You know that man against whom Jules warned me."

"I have made his acquaintance in the last two days and I can guess the true reason for his visit here. He told you that story of the New York paper— a mere invention— that he might leant if the pearls had been returned to you."

Anna Romenev's interest grew sevenfold.

"But why should he even think that possible?... Thieves do not steal, and stealing murder a poor old man, and then return the stolen treasure."

"He thought that one of your friends might have acquired the pearls and restored them to you."

"One of my friends." She looked round expressively. "They are mostly as poor as mice in an empty granary. He must have been a fool to think such a possibility."

Not a fool! A scoundrel. If he had seen me here―"

"You! Captain Torrance! You! What can you have to do with my necklace?"

"Oh―" laughed Torrance, "I am suspected of having stolen it from the possession of the real thief!"

"St. Peter!" cried the Princess. "You cannot mean that?"

"It is the truth," he answered smilingly. "Because of the suspicion for twenty-four hours I have been in jeopardy."

"Then you must tell me all the story. I insist. I have no hope for my pearls. They are gone. I never expect to see them again. And if you brought them to me I would give every single one to see old Dmitri hobble into the room that I might kiss him for keeping faith.... Alas! that may not be.... But! am interested in anything that concerns my pearls and his unhappy end.... Over there in the alcove we may talk unrestrainedly. If you will be so good―"

They moved towards the alcove and dropped out of the dance. The alcove was small, with a settee; and as they took possession of it, the Princess accepted a cigarette, and then sprite eagerly, "Now, my friend."

Torrance told her the whole story. She listened spell-bound until she heard of his escape from the attic, then she broke in, "I am glad you were free. I shall thank Jules for that! But there is more. I must hear.... all!"

He continued his story, giving her a full account of his adventures, his discoveries and his suspicions, and at the end there was a tragic look in her blue eyes.

"But," she whispered, "it is terrible that your friend should suffer in that dreadful prison. And with his life threatened! You must deliver him, or I shall go sorrowfully all my days.... My pearls! Pouf! They are gone. They will not return. They are dust. But that an honourable man should be tormented for them is not to be endured.... He must be delivered, quickly!... And there is that English lady whom he loved to be thought of.... She also must be delivered.... Is it not so?"

"Yes!" "But there Is hope for Monsieur Shenstone. You are his friend, as Dmitri was mine. You will rave him. You must— for my sake. I cannot endure to think of his sufferings—"

She broke off. There was a flash of tears in the blue eyes, a shadow of trouble on the beautiful face. Her emotion moved Torrance profoundly.

"I shall do what I can," he said simply.

"But I know that! Yes! The English are loyal in friendship.... But there will be danger for you, perhaps? You must be cautious, my friend.... That terrible Dutchman―"

She broke off again. Her concern was very sincere. In her agitation, she stretched a hand and rested it lightly on Torrance's arm. As he met her eyes, apprehension for him shining through her tears, his heart leaped. He was conscious of a wild impulse to gather her in his arms and reassure her; but instead he stooped, set his lips to the hand resting on his. then he looked up.

"I shall be careful," he said quietly. "And I shall not fail, for, now, I dare not."

A shadow darkened the entrance to the alcove. It was Jules. There was a flash of excitement in his eyes. His voice was tense and vibrant as he began to speak.

"Pardon the intrusion, Princess. There is important news for my friend, which will not wait!" He looked from her to Torrance. "It is from Cayenne," he said. "Yesterday there was trouble among the prisoners working in the forest at St Laurent There was an organised attempt to break free, and two men were shot―" Torrance found a significance in his friends words that did not appear on the surface.

"Two, Jules." he said. "Two!"

"That is the report, according to the Echo, which I have just seen.... Two!"

"Not―"

"The name of one of them is given as Schouten―"

"Good God!" continued Torrance hoarsely, "And the other?"

"It is not known!... But can you doubt? Van Slyck would not leave one and take the other, since both were a danger to him. I am much afraid that his little plan—"

"You are afraid for that Englishman?"

It was Anna Romenev who cried the question, a little distraughtly, as she rose. "Oh, but what you fear cannot be. The good God would not permit it!... You must not believe it you must not!... Evil cannot so triumph!"

"And yet it may!" raid Jules Fanchon, with a shrug of his shoulder. "For God is in heaven— and that, Princess Anna, is a long way from Cayenne."

Chapter 10

At St. Laurent

CAYENNE may be a long way from heaven, but as all the world knows, it is almost in the same street as hell. For those condemned to its frightful regime there is no respite from horrors, and that man should risk fearful punishments in an effort for freedom, taking the risks of the terrible jungle or of the shark-infested seas by the way, is in no way surprising. The way of escape may be under the shadow of death, but for men driven to desperation by unmitigated horror and suffering, the hope of freedom is a resistless lure; the terrors of the jungle shadowy beside those daily endured and nightly suffered.

So it fell that when a soldier passed the word to Willem Schouten that friends were arranging an escape for him and for the Englishman who had been condemned with him, the Dutchman leaped at the opportunity offered, finding in it, indeed, the response to the appeal he had sent to his sister Lisbeth who lived with van Slyck in that alley off the Ziegelstraat, Rotterdam. In this conviction he was confirmed by the instruction that in making his breakaway it was an essential condition that the Englishman should accompany him. To him that was plain proof that the Englishman's friends on whom he had counted were behind the arrangements that were being made, and he listened eagerly to the details whispered to him by the soldier, whilst he worked in the jungle. That the soldier's name was not that which he had given to Lisbeth was a small matter. Pascaud was as good as another, if he were willing, and no doubt the Englishman's friends would bribe him heavily. The directions given were simple enough.

When the day or night came the two were to make a break for the Maroni river, where at a certain point a canoe would be found concealed in the undergrowth. Reaching that point, if they made it in daylight they were to wait until it was completely dark, then paddle down river until they saw a green light, which would be on a launch that would carry them to a waiting yacht and so to safety. Schouten was to prime the Englishman with details, and since ne was a sick man to give him every aid when the moment for the breakaway arrived, which could not be until both were together in Pascaud's gang. The Englishman, worn by fever and the horrors of the prison, seemed to become a new man when the proposal was communicated to him. The cloud which had been on his mind since the affair of his arrest in Paris broke; and whilst he was weak in body, he once more became keen in mind, and so improved in appearance that from sweeping the road in St. Laurent, under the charge of a negro overseer, he was transferred to the forest contingent; and to the squad in which Schouten laboured which had Pascaud for guard.

What backstairs influence had been used to bring this fortunate thing to pass, the Dutchman did not know. It was sufficient that the hour was drawing near, and one did not look a gift horse in the mouth. On the morning of the third day following the transfer, as the squad reached the jungle which it was engaged In clearing, Pascaud passed the word to the Dutchman.

"At the last hour before the return march, you will run into the forest and make for the point of which you know."

"Yes!" said Schouten. "When you run I shall be compelled to fire after, you but I shall be careful that the bullets hit the tree-tops, you comprehend."

The Dutchman grinned.

"They will do no damage there except to the parrots, who do not matter."

"You will warn the Englishman, and see that you go together."

"Have no fear," answered Schouten. "He will understand."

"Then I shall not speak with you again. I do not wish to be suspected of connivance, you comprehend. But when the hour comes will give you the signal— and may God go with you!"

"God or devil matters not, if we win dear," answered Schouten.

"There is no doubt of that if you follow directions," answered Pascaud with conviction. "You will never see the prison again, I promise you."

Of the ferocious purpose behind this benevolent utterance Willem Schouten had no idea. Pascaud, in his conception, was a well-paid tool, who no doubt was anxious to secure some extra bonus that a successful escape might ensure; and if he played his part as he plainly meant to do, all would go well Exulting he communicated to Basil Shenstone the details of the conversation.

"It is for this afternoon. An hour before the return march. Pascaud himself will give the signal; and he will shoot his bullets at the parrots."

He chuckled grimly. "I hope the good fellow does not hit one, or that may reveal his little game. But, damnation, that is his own. affair. Ours is to find that canoe and the launch with the green light."

"Yes." answered Shenstone. and as Pascaud, no doubt to keep up appearances, shouted angrily, resumed his work with the mattock light-heartedly, a light of hope beaming In his eyes.

The day wore slowly on. The convicts toiled through the heat of it, without respite, their half-naked bodies burned almost black with the sun, hordes of insects feasting on their thin blood; the warders beating them harshly with the butts of rifles at any sign of slackness. The heat mounted until it became unendurable to men compelled to labour without cessation. Tempers gave way. Twice there were little quarrels between prisoners, in one of which an unfortunate man was struck down with a mattock; but wounded, with the blood caking and the flies buzzing around him in hordes, was compelled to renew his task.

With the mounting heat there came a darkening sky. There was not a breath of wind. One or two of the soldiers, and several of the. convicts, looked a little anxiously at the tree-tops where the birds were crying and flying as if apprehensively. Then suddenly there came an order. The convicts were to line up, two hours before the regulation time for the return to prison. That a storm was approaching and that the threat of its coming was the occasion for this break with routine was clear to all the prisoners, but two of them heard it with dismay.

"What do we do. comrade? asked Schouten in a voice of despair.

"We might make a break for it," answered Shenstone, his thought only on the hidden canoe and the launch supposed to be waiting for them.

"But those others? Pascaud may shoot the parrots. The others will fire to kill. There is no mercy for a runaway prisoner. Pascaud may give the sign, yet If he does—"

A scream of pain broke on his words. A prisoner, a little lame from a chain he had worn, had been kicked on the ankle by. brute of a guard. It was the very last cruelty the guard perpetrated. The victim of the uncalled for outrage snatched at a mattock and struck before the tormentor could guess his purpose. As the officer fell, two things happened. The darkening sky was lit by a vivid flash of lightning, and a rifle fired by another guard broke the momentary silence.

The first was the signal for the loosing of the elements. The rain come down in a very deluge, obliterating everything beyond a radius of four yards. The shot which killed the prisoner who had made the attack was the signal for another storm. Tempers strained by the sultry heat, sharpened by the sense of intolerable wrongs, broke as suddenly as the deluge. Pent up passions breaking through all restraint roared forth like a torrent. One man gave an almost inhuman cry, a cry akin to that of a wolf when it calls to its pack to the kill. It was responded to by yells that made themselves heard through the din of the elements, and there was in them a ferocious note.

The guards were taken by surprise. In the small area of vision possible in the swishing rain, Shenstone saw a half-naked convict throw himself upon the warder who had fired the shot and who, with his rifle still smoking, was taken by surprise. Both men went down, fighting like dogs, and a second convict snatched the fallen rifle.

A voice roared through the storm.

"Down, you beasts, down!" A savage howl of derision was the answer. There was a surge forward of the tattered-horde of convicts, the most of whom were for the moment beyond reason; and all of them beyond the fear of death, since life held no promise but unendurable suffering. They were armed with the tools of their forest task— mattocks, hatchets, machetes, spades, crowbars, all terrible weapons In the bands of desperate men. And most of the attackers were mere than desperate, for the moment they were ravening beasts, whose one lust was to kill.

The guards, with their charges quite out of hand, bunched together for their own protection, and began to fire steadily. The rain fell with increased violence. In ten minutes the forest would be an impassable swamp; and the chance of escape would be gone. Basil Shenstone realised this, and gripped the Dutchman's arm.

"Run!" he said. "Run!"

They began to run through the torrential rain. Two other men, inspired by their example. followed at their heels. Scarcely had they started when they . almost ran into a couple of guards who were moving towards their companions. One of the men was Pascaud. As he saw them, a grin of recognition came on his face. He shouted something to his fellow, and instantly both guards levelled their rifles. The range was short, but the terrific rain was blinding. The crash of the rifles was scarcely heard through the drumming of the storm. But both bullets found a mark. One of the two prisoners who had joined the flight flung up his arms and crashed to the ground with a bullet in his brain. Schouten cried out stumbled, and fell in the wet undergrowth.

Instantly Shenstone halted to help him, whilst the fourth convict, thinking only of himself, vanished in the trees.

"A leg wound," said the Dutchman. "Gott in Hemel, that does me."

"Try and stand," urged Shenstone. "If there are no bones gone―" He broke off and looked round. The veiling downpour hid everything, and there was no one to be seen. But occasionally sharp sounds through the rush of falling water indicated that the guards were still firing, whilst ferocious yells proclaimed that the convicts were still bent on avenging years of suffering.

"Time, still!" said the Englishman. "Your hands, Schouten. I will help you up. Quick!"

He stooped, caught the other's hands, and was in the act of helping him to rise, when Schouten cried out in anger: "Ach! the dirty traitor."

Basil Shenstone looked quickly round. Breaking through the veil of the rain a man had appeared. It was Pascaud, and he was so near that the mocking grin on his face could he clearly seen. He lifted his rifle. That he meant to fire was plain; and Shenstone, recognising the truth, agreed with the Dutchman's judgment.

"Run. comrade!" cried Schouten.

"No!" said Shenstone between set teeth and releasing the other's hands, dropped swiftly into the lush undergrowth, hoping that the downpour would put the guard off the mark. That, however, was achieved most effectively by an utterly unexpected intervention. Out of the rain-mist behind Pascaud emerged a man in a flying leap. He struck the guard a ferocious blow at the back of the ear. The victim of the sudden assault jerked his arms like a marionette. His rifle hurled forward into the undergrowth; whilst the man himself flung forward on his face, squirmed and lay still. The newcomer looked down at him, laughed savagely, and then proceeded to annex his carriage belt. Carrying it in his hand, he retrieved the rifle, looked back over Ids shoulder, and then plunged into the forest.

"Red Jacques!" commented Schouten. "They will never re-take him alive."

Shenstone, thankful for the intervention, troubled no more about Red Jacques. He himself was free to go; but he would not leave Schouten without an effort to save him.

"Quick!" he said, and helped the Dutchman to his feet. Through the ragged linen trousers, drenched with the rain, two red blots were rapidly spreading half-way between the knee and the thigh of the man's right leg.

"A double wound!" commented Shenstone. "The bullet must have passed right through. If it missed the bone—"

Schouten swiftly proved that by setting his foot to the ground and striding forward.

"A flesh wound, comrade.... No more.... let us You can bind me later." They moved forward. Under the trees the impact of the rain was less severe, but still fell in a veritable cascade. As they went forward, Shenstone assisting the other with a shoulder, the water began to gather in pools, through which they splashed recklessly, knowing that soon the whole jungle must be flooded and transformed Into a veritable swamp. They struck a track down which the water poured like a stream. It was the path that led to the Maroni River, where the canoe should be waiting. But now Shenstone had no hope whatever that they would find it. That the man Pascaud had played double was clear. Someone had paid him to arrange their escape; and, having taken the money, he had most deliberately attempted to thwart them; had, indeed, fired to kill. That being so, it was not in the least likely that he had made the arrangements of which he had informed Schouten. There would be no canoe, and no launch with its green light waiting down river.

That the Dutchman shared his conviction was proved a little later, when he suddenly shot a question:

"You think we shall find the canoe, comrade?"

"No."

"And the launch that should wait in the night?"

"An effort of imagination."

"Ach! That Pascaud was a rogue. If I had him here I would break his neck."

"I fancy It may be already broken," said Shenstone. "That blow would have floored a gorilla."

He looked round. In the deep gloom there was little to be seen. He listened; there was no sound but the tremendous drumming of the rain. They were absolutely alone In the forest The opportunity seemed a good one.

"Schouten, I will examine your leg—"

"No!" interrupted the Dutchman, stubbornly. "We will continue till we reach the river. On the further bank there are my own countrymen. We may find a friend."

They splashed forward again. The jungle was becoming a morass, everything sodden, the lush tropical undergrowth beaten down by the weight of water. The darkness of the storm was deepening to the darkness of night. The bush trade was swamped utterly. Still they squelched forward, a common fear as much as the desire for freedom spurring them on through the storm. Once when they halted to consider the way Schouten voiced the fear.

"Powers of Darkness, if we should be taken now! We had better go to hell. It will be said that there was insurrection, and, as some soldiers must have perished, if we are taken it will mean at best the guillotine; at worst what devils could devise.... Let us limp on, comrade. The river, if we can find it, has sharks more merciful than the men we have left."

They resumed their uncertain way. The storm slackened, and with the sudden cessation of the rain a few stars gleamed over the tree tops. They splashed on, and after a little time were in water continuously. Then ahead Shenstone saw a place where the stars were to be seen double— overhead and on the level of the earth in a quivering reflection. He gripped his companion's arm.

"Schouten," he said exultantly, "we have found the river. We are marching in its overflow."

"Hemel," cried the Dutchman with a laugh of excitement "We shall be wet if we keep AM » OA

They held a consultation. Up-stream, as the Dutchman knew, there was an Indian village. The natives there were not friendly to escaping convicts. At St Laurent there were five men who, making the village in their attempts at prison breaking, had been returned to the authorities for a meagre reward.

"We must go there, comrade, but secretly."

"Why?" awed Shenstone.

"Because we must have the canoe that Pascaud did not provide, the rascal. It is three-quarters of a mile to the other side with a shark for every few yards, so that one dare not swim it."

Shenstone remembered something— an incident which leaped in his mind swiftly, cut of the haze which had clouded it at the time of his arrival at St. Laurent. The incident flashed before him like a picture on a screen. He saw a prisoner running, in broad daylight, for the river bank. Behind him pelted three guards. The man reached the bank, plunged into the water, and began to swim. He was a good swimmer. One of the guards raised his rifle to fire; but a second thrust it up and laughed cynically.

"Wait!"

All three waited. The watching convict! waited also— all staring with wide eyes, as if fascinated by that man swimming to freedom. On several faces there was a look of horrified expectancy. Ten yards, fifteen, he swam, drifting a little with the current and making diagonally across the river.

Then suddenly his arms shot up. A dreadful scream came across the water, and be disappeared entirely, in the centre of a great swirl. The guard who had prevented his comrade from firing laughed again.

"You see, comrade!"

One of the convicts gave vent to a shivering oath; then the sergeant bawled to the shuddering criminals to resume their labours. They had received their lesson. The incident, except for an entry in the prison records, was finished.

Recalling it now with the river in flood between than and possible freedom, Shenstone knew that the Dutchman was right. No man, not utterly desperate, would attempt the long swim of the Maroni to the Dutch bank.

"Yes!" he said. "We must have a canoe, or a raft!"

"No raft for me," said Schouten quickly. "A raft is awkward to control. It may take you anywhere. I have heard stories since we came to this hell. Last year, three men broke away together. They made a raft and went down the Maroni in the night. Nine days later the raft was sighted at sea by one of the patrol boats. There were two of the men on it— dead, shrivelled in the sun. The third had vanished.... Hemel! Better the sharks than a slow broiling in the sun... If you will bind my leg, comrade, we will follow the bank up-stream. That must bring us to the village."

Shenstone did what he could with a makeshift bandage torn from his ragged cotton shirt, and they resumed their march. With the water well out in the jungle, it was dreadful toil. Slipping and splashing they went forward, on a via Dolorosa that must have broken the hearts of men who had not the hope of freedom at the end. After an hour the moon rose, shedding its silvery light over the jungle and flooding it with odd shadows. Once, Shenstone touched something hanging from a bough, a liana, he thought. But under his touch it grew suddenly quick, and he was just in time to avoid the darting head of the snake. At another time, a tribe of monkeys disturbed by their passage broke into excited chattering, filling the night with clamour, and once Schouten gripped the Englishman's arm and pointed.

Shenstone looked in the direction indicated, and saw the moonlight shimmer on something which rested in a tree-fork at twice a man's height from the ground.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Look carefully, comrade," answered the Dutchman with a chuckle.

Shenstone stared again and made out a dark body resting against the tree-bole.

"A man," he whispered. "

"Yes!" answered the Dutchman, laughing softly. "With a rifle. Red Jacques resting by the way. We will leave him undisturbed. Two are better than three in this work; and Jacques is a wolf."

They slipped quietly on. The ground grew higher and, finding a track, they travelled for a time without splashing through water or soft earth which sucked at their bare feet like tome. They reached the crest of the rise and looked downwards. Low bush, dotted with trees; covered the slope, and they had a clear view of the landscape ahead. The swollen waters of the Maroni, rolling to the sea, were like a great ribbon of silver under the moon. The flood water on the low-lying land at the foot of the slope gleamed and shimmered as If a shoal of small fish disturbed its surface, and east and west and south, great masses of forest made a dark blot in the silvery night.

But none of these things held the eyes of the fugitives for longer than it took to see them. Diligently they searched the landscape for the native village which was the next station on their road to freedom. It was Shenstone who discovered it.

"There!" he said, pointing to a slope across the lake of floodwater.

"Gott!" cried the Dutchman, exultantly. "We have made the passage of the forest. Soon we shall make the passage of the river. But we must go carefully. These Indians know the value of a hundred francs; and you and I taken alive are worth that much each.... It is a noble sum, comrade!"

They went down the hill, swam the swirling flood water in the valley, and cautiously faced the slope. Luck was with them. They had not taken a dozen steps before they came on three canoes, each tied to a tree out of the reach of the overflow from the river.

Schouten was shaken by ecstatic relief.. Afraid to speak lest he should be beard by someone in the village above, he pantomimed and questioned almost frantically, setting his hand to the twisted lianas that served for a rope of the first canoe. Shenstone, more methodical though not less excited, examined each dugout in turn. The first two had no paddles, but the third, which was of lighter make, had three.

"This one," he whispered. "It is the best." They loosed the canoe, and half-carried, half slid it down to the water in the valley. It was not easy work for two men, for the craft was heavy, being little more than a shaped and hollowed tree trunk, but at last, without having attracted the attention of the visitors, they reached the edge of the floodwater, and three minutes later were afloat.

Within a short time they slipped out of the flooded creek to the broad surface of the Maroni, where they made a conspicuous mark on its shimmering waters. Shenstone noticed the fact.

"We will cross over, Schouten." he said. "If any of the soldiers should be on the bank this side, they might guess we were escaped prisoners, and fire."

"Gott! To be sure. And on the further side there are no guards, except unofficial ones― Indians and settlers who are willing to gather a hundred francs. But we can promise more."

"But I have nothing, except in England―"

"I said promise, comrade. There are men who can be tempted to wait for the two birds in the bush; and my countrymen are a thrifty race. We may have the good fortune to find one of the breed we want."

They made a diagonal passage across the river, and presently were well away from the. French bank, and that without having been observed. Then, as the Dutch bank drew nearer, Shenstone asked, "Where do we make for, Schouten?"

"Albina is the nearest place. It is no more than eight miles away. But it is too near, and too many fugitives have been returned from there to St. Laurent for one to be tempted. Then there is Paramaribo; it is a town of many niggers, and with white officials who regularly receive descriptions from the French of the men who escape from their prison. But there are smaller places― fishing places on the coast. It is there our hope lies. Fishers are honest men. They are trustful. If we can make such a village—"

"We must!" said Shenstone: and that was all.

"As you say, comrade."

They paddled on through the whole night; and at the first hint of dawn found themselves on the edge of a great marsh, it looked an unhealthy place: but it offered concealment and, with the certainty that the prison patrol boats would be out, they could not take the risk that daylight would bring. Thrusting their way among giant reeds and succulent tropical growths, they concealed the canoe, carefully marked the place, and set out on the quest of dry land and food and a place where they might sleep.

They had not gone a hundred yards when a clear path offered itself across the marsh, evidence that the neighbourhood was not without its inhabitants. Cautiously they followed the track to higher ground. Then a clearing in the jungle appeared, and in the centre of it was a building of wood and palm thatch, obviously not of native design. Crouching in the thick undergrowth, the fugitives stared at it wonderingly.

"Gott!" whispered the Dutchman "Who chooses to dwell in such seclusion?"

Almost on the second the answer was given. The door of thee house opened, and a tall man stepped across the threshold— obviously a white man. white-bearded, with a leonine head and face, and eyes that as they stared above the tree-tops at the broadening light, had a curiously absent look.

"A personage!" whispered Schouten. whilst both still watched. Then a thing happened which for a moment held the pair silent The tall man slipped to his knees and began to tell the beads of a rosary which hung from his neck.

"Hemel!" ejaculated Schouten softly "A Christian who prays in the dawn! Maybe he will be as good as he seems. Shall we reveal ourselves to him. comrade, and hope tor Christian mercy?"

"Wait," said Shenstone.

They waited until the man had finished his orisons, then as he rose from his knees the Englishman gave the word. "Now!"

He slipped from fire undergrowth to the clearing, followed by the limping and as they moved forward, the other, becoming aware of their presence, watched them incuriously, betraying neither fear nor concern

Chapter 11

A Good Samaritan

SHENSTONE and his companion approached, the man considered them with apparent indifference, and made no move towards them. That a pair of gaunt scarecrows, one of them limping badly, should suddenly appear in the neighbourhood of his solitary home might have been the most commonplace happening in the world That apparent indifference lasted but for a moment however. A little flash of interest chased away the absent took in the man's eyes, and it was apparent to Shenstone that he recognised Schouten and himself for what they were, which, in view of their tattered prison clothing was not surprising. The man, however, did not move forward to meet them. He remained immovable, until a half a dozen yards separated then; then he suddenly lifted a hand and in a gentle voice cried out in Dutch, "Hall my sons! We must talk before you come nearer."

Shenstone halted, and he heard the Dutch-man growl savagely as he pulled up.

"Silence, Schouten." he whispered, and then the man spoke again.

"You are from the prison, runaways," he said gently, in a matter of fact way, without any sign of the apprehension that most men, faced with a couple of escaping convicts of the most desperate type in the world, must have shown.

"That is so, yes." He glanced over his shoulder towards be house. "There is the City of Refuge. You are very welcome. But first you must be warned."

"Ach!" cried Schouten. "The officer from St. Laurent have been here―"

"My son," was the reply, "you are quite wrong. This is Dutch territory, and the officers of France do not come here to search for prison-breakers."

"Then what is this talk of warning?" demanded Schouten. "Are there Dutch officials in the neighbourhood?"

The man smiled, and with the smile his face seemed transfigured. "Have no fear, my son. The officials from Paramaribo do not venture here. They are afraid."

"Hemel!... You never say? Of what—?"

From somewhere in the jungle behind the house there came unexpectedly the mellow sound of a bell. It continued to ring, and a look of almost comical wonder came on Schouten's face.

"Ach!" he cried. "A bell? There is a church?— a village?"

"A small colony of afflicted men, whom I serve, sharing their affliction."

"Ah!" exclaimed Shenstone, in the voice of one to whom has come a sudden revelation. The old man looked at him, and smiled. "So there is no need for the warning. Now you must excuse me. That bell is calling to duty. But if you are not afraid, the house is open to you as if it were your own."

He waved a hand, and moved away. The convicts watched him until he disappeared in the trees, then the Dutchman gave an ejaculation.

"Gott!"

"What's troubling you, Schouten?"

The other jerked his head in the direction which the owner of the house had taken.

"That old bird." he said, grinning. "He takes us for a pair of innocents. We are to go into the house if we like— and wait whilst he gets help to seize us. A pretty scheme! But, like a good Christian, he gives us a warning that we go away and spare him trouble. Perdition, but it is a nice Christianity―"

"You are quite wrong, Schouten," broke in Shenstone. "So far as that old priest is concerned―"

"Priest! You think he is that. I do not like priests. I was brought up a Protestant.

Shenstone, remembering the little he knew of the man's life, was unable to forbear a smile. At the best, he knew the man for a thief, and he suspected far worse of him. He replied with a laugh:

"A Protestant, are you? Then, naturally, you are prejudiced. So many Protestants are reared in the belief that any priest is just the devil in disguise, which is silly. But I have known some fine men who Wore the cassock, and I am not sure that the one whom we have just met is not one of the finest"

"You think he does not mean to betray us?"

"I am certain he does not."

"But the warning. That was an odd thing."

"The act of a gentleman who desires to save his guest a sudden discomfort of mind."

"Gott! Can you not speak plain?"

"Why, yes! Are you afraid of leprosy, Schouten?"

The Dutchman stared at him amazedly. Then he broke out, "That one is a leper?"

"I am sure of it. His ears and that leonine head betray him, and he owned as much without using the words. He is a priest and a leper, and I should not wonder if the little colony to which he ministers is made up of men afflicted with the same disease."

The Dutchman shivered and looked across the clearing.

"Then it is time to go, comrade. We breathe tainted air. We may take in the germ. I have heard a little, and once in Java I saw a woman Come! Let us quit. We cannot go too fast for me, though my leg throbs like a piston."

Shenstone made no move to go. Instead he looked at the silent house, and said quietly, "The priest offered us the freedom of his house, and to him we are no more than a brace of runaway convicts. I should not insult him by going―"

"You mean to stay?... The thought makes my flesh crawl."

"He will listen to us. He will hear our story, and he will help or suffer us to depart without hindrance."

"But the risk? Have you thought of that?"

"Yes!"

"And you will go in there?" asked Schouten, nodding towards the house.

"Yes. But I shall wait until the priest returns."

"Any port in a storm, you think, comrade―"

Schouten broke off and shivered again rather violently, and, looking at him closely, Shenstone saw that the hollow cheeks had a flush, also that the eyes in the sunken sockets had a more than usual brightness. The shiver, he was sure, had nothing to do with the fear of dread disease, and he guessed there was a physical cause.

"You're feeling overdone, Schouten?" he asked quickly.

"Limp as a soaked rag! My leg is thumping like a machine hammer."

"Um!" Shenstone felt his hand. It was burning. Then he spoke tersely. "Better make up your mind to the risk, Schouten. It is a very small one. You have a touch of fever, and with that wound it will be impossible for you to travel. There's nothing for it but rest, and that is impossible in the jungle. If you have to lie up there, you will be eaten alive, between ticks and insects and leeches."

The Dutchman passed a hand ever his eyes, looked round, appeared to consider the jungle in the direction of the river, then he gave a quick nod. "Maybe you're right!... But we'll wait till that one returns. He may have an outhouse where I can rest."

"There's a seat over there. Let us go to it."

They moved to the seat which Shenstone had indicated, a home-made affair made of split trunks, and painted with some preservative meant, from the smell of it, to keep off the ants. Seated there both men were silent for a long time.

Then Shenstone asked a question: "Schouten, who was arranging for our escape?"

"I am not sure. I sent a letter to a sister in Rotterdam. If she could get the money to bribe those brutes at St. Laurent she was to make the arrangement; if not, she was to write to one who is a friend of yours— Mynheer Torrance, and I think that he―"

"But how did you know of him?" asked the other wonderingly.

"You spoke of him when you were sick. I got the address by asking you where he lived."

"I do not remember.... And you think that he was helping us?"

"He would if he knew of my plight. He is my friend, as you say. But what reason have you for thinking he is the one rather than your sister?"

"Because that Pascaud insisted that you were to go as well as myself. Lisbeth would have thought of me alone. You were nothing to her, and the price of an escape for two is double that of one.... But why should that soldier-Judas have sought to slay us when we ran? All night I have thought of that."

Shenstone shook his head.

"There is no explanation except that the man was a traitor to us, and to those who employed him cm our behalf."

"There is another thing that I do not understand... Pascaud? Why was he chosen? I gave the name of another guard who was to be trusted. When Pascaud spoke to me about an escape for both of us that was being arranged by a friend I was surprised; but too eager to wonder why he should be the chosen instrument rather than the man whose name I had given.... But since Pascaud tried to kill us, I have been wondering how Lisbeth or your friend came to know of him or to trust him―"

"It has an odd look."

"Odd! To me as I think, it is most mysterious. But there, what matter, since we are away from that hell-hole?"

For a little time Schouten remained silent absorbed in his thoughts, then suddenly he broke the silence.

"I shall kill that one if ever I get to Rotterdam."

Shenstone looked at him sharply not having the key to his thoughts. Schouten was staring directly to his front, and there was a ferocious look on his face. For a moment he thought that the fever which he had observed was mounting and making the man delirious, but the next instant he put the idea from him. Schouten was as sane as himself.

"Of what man do you speak, Schouten?"

"Of Dirck van Slyck. The scoundrel! He sent us both to Cayenne by a trick, whilst he took the pearls of that old Russian... I have thought it all out.... He was afraid of you. That is understandable. You knew too much for his comfort Also there was another who had a grudge against you, and who wanted to be rid of you."

"Who was that?"

"One who worked with van Slyck, and whose name was on the papers which were the undoing of both of us when we were taken before that secret court of soldiers. He was an Englishman and his name was Dashwood."

For a moment Basil Shenstone remained quite still. There was a startled look in his eyes, and if his companion had chanced to look at him he must nave known that he had given the other amazing information. But with his eyes fixed on the trees opposite the Dutchman did not observe the effect of his words, and continued.

"I think that van Slyck and his friend must have thought that the French would shoot us for espionage, or send us to the guillotine for the murder of the Russian.... Dead men are dumb men. They do not whisper secrets which others are afraid may become known. That precious pair hoped for our death; and every day they must be afraid lest the things of which we know should be flashed across the ocean from Cayenne―"

"My stars!" broke in Shenstone.

The Dutchman laughed almost inanely. "You did not know all that I have told you? Now, when we get to Europe you will want the blood of Dashwood as I want that of van Slyck, hey?"

"You have told me more than you know, Schouten, much more. For instance, you have explained the mystery, of Pascaud."

"I do not comprehend."

"Yet it is quite simple. Dirck van Slyck has reason to be afraid of both of us— and of me more than of you, though you may not know that. We both of us have secret knowledge of his activities, which proclaimed in the proper quarters would send him to gaol for the rest of his life. He had hoped the French would silence us forever instead of which they send us to Cayenne "

"A grave in hell!" broke in Schouten.

"But a grave from which men may return," continued Shenstone, "as we are in the way of doing, though it was not meant that we should."

"Gott!" cried Schouten. "You think that van Slyck―"

"Who else?" asked Shenstone. "Anyone making arrangements for an escape would see that the thing was done before paying the full reward to those who conducted the affair. But one who wished to be assured of a prisoner's silence might arrange an escape and a shooting at the same time. He would only have to find a scoundrel among the guards―"

"Pascaud!"

"As you say, Pascaud!"

"And Dirck van Slyck has the cunning of Satan."

"Even Satan over-reaches himself at times."

"Donder en Bliksem!... You have the truth!" Schouten gave a ferocious laugh. "And that devil van Slyck will have a fine shock when he walks up the stairs to find me waiting for him in that swell apartment in the Ziegelstraat."

"We are a long way from there yet, Schouten."

"But we have slipped from the grave." The Dutchman laughed with a savage mirth. "And when he sees me that one will think I am a ghost. He will gibber with fear and I— do you know what I shall do, my friend?"

He fell to detailing things which made Shenstone shudder, things born of a fevered imagination and a mind that had been evilly inflamed by contact with men most brutal and degraded. But after a time, he fell into a meditative silence broken only by an occasional chuckle or grunt of satisfaction, and Shenstone, who was feeling very tired, was content that the silence should continue.

Presently his weariness asserted itself more. He began to nod, and finally slipped into sleep, his chin on his chest undisturbed alike by Schouten's grunts and chuckles, and the cloud of flies buzzing about his head. Out of this slumber he was awakened by Schouten's voice crying almost in his ear.

"Wake up! The leper comes."

He looked round. The priest was just entering the clearing. As he saw Shenstone took in his direction, he waved his hand in a friendly way. Shenstone waved back, rose stiffly, and then glanced at the Dutchman. What he saw was not reassuring. The flush which he had previously observed in the man's gaunt face was more noticeable, and the hard glitter of the sunken eyes was accentuated. The fever, which he had suspected. was mounting, and in a little time he was sure the victim would feel the grip of it; if already he did not do so. Suddenly Schouten spoke.

"You are going into that house, hey? And I shall go with you. But there is a promise you must make, my friend."

"Yes?" encouraged Shenstone. "It is that you do not let the priest dress my leg. He may be a Samaritan with a taste for doctoring. And I do not know the way in which his disease grips a man; but a wound must be like an open door for the germs to enter.... You get me?"

"I understand... Whatever is to be done; I will do myself."

"Spoken like a Christian. Now, when we are, asked we will enter; for I have the jungle fever in me; and in an hour, as like as not I shall be babbling."

The priest came forward, smiling.

"Well, my friends, you will breakfast with me? Yes! Then let us go to the house, where after eating we may talk together."

They followed him into a simply furnished room, which had many books, and a cupboard with glazed doors plainly full of medicines. Schouten's fear, it seemed, was not groundless, this Samaritan was a healer as well as a priest. As the Dutchman's eyes fell on the rows of phials he made a grimace at Shenstone, who nodded reassuringly, then on their host's invitation they seated themselves at a table, which was already laid for one.

The priest excused himself, and, leaving the room, presently reappeared hearing a wicker tray on which reposed a tea-pot with two extra cups and saucers.

"It Is rare that I have guests," he said, as he seated himself at the head of a small table. "I will beg of you not to stand upon ceremony. No doubt you are hungry; and, whilst the fare is simple, it is better than they serve in that unhappy place from which you flee."

"Biscuits and honey! Bread and eggs, and fruit! Tea! Hemel!". cried the Dutchman. "I have forgotten the taste of them."

Their host smiled, looked at him keenly, and gave invitation and counsel.

"Then, my son, fall to and renew old acquaintance. You are most welcome, but for all that, were you, I should eat sparingly."

"Ach! You think I have the fever. Father? And you are right I burn in my head; but at my back is a block of ice.... But with so much clean food to tempt one―"

He laughed a little hysterically, and reached for bread and the honey-pot "I have a sweet tooth. Back there in hell I stole a few cubes of sugar from a broken barrel. I was whipped for it, and the scars will be on my shoulders till I die. But now―" He spread honey on the bread, and began to eat At the third mouthful he almost choked, and pushed his plate from him.

"My throat is like a furnace ... I cannot swallow.... Perhaps some of your tea. Father, would slake my gullet."

The priest nodded sympathetically. "It is tea of the country, my son— mate— but it will refresh you more than the tea of China.... There is no milk, but a little lemon―" He poured the mate, brewed as in the case of the true teas in a pot and not in the way of the country, passed the lemon, and watched the Dutchman whilst he gulped the hot liquid avidly. Then he said quietly, "In the next room there is a hammock. It will serve you better than bread and honey, my son."

Schouten scoffed at the idea, tried the bread and honey again, drank more mate, and then surrendered with reluctance.

"Perhaps you are right Father... I have a trouble of which you do not know. A leg through which a bullet has passed "

"My poor man!"

"Shenstone will dress the wound for me." The Dutchman glanced at the glazed cupboard. "No doubt among all those phials you have an antiseptic; and in those packets, clean bandages.... I should not like to lose a leg, for I need it to run after a scoundrel, whom a one-legged man could scarcely hope to catch."

"My simple remedies are at your service," answered the old priest amiably. "And it is well that a gunshot wound has immediate attention, for tins climate is full of dangers.... Perhaps I can advise."

Breakfast was postponed. Shenstone. under the old priest's supervision, cleaned and dressed the Dutchman's wound, and when that was finished helped him to the hammock slung in a neighbouring room. Then, with their host, he returned to the breakfast table.

There the priest looked at him quietly and asked a question: "Who is the man whom a one-legged man could not hope to catch, my son?"

For five seconds Shenstone did not answer. But at the end of that time, reflecting that no harm could follow the truth, he answered harshly: "A scoundrel of Rotterdam, of the name of Dirck van Slyck."

"Ach!" cried the other. "I have heard of that one. He is indeed an evil man."

"You have heard―" began Shenstone, in amazement, and then broke off. staring round and permitting himself to wonder how, living in this place, the old man could possibly have heard of van Slyck.

The priest smiled. "You are surprised. But the explanation is very simple. Nine years ago, before my thorn in the flesh manifested itself, I was in Rotterdam. One night I was called from my hotel to hear the confession of a dying woman— one of the most terrible things to which I have ever listened. It was a dreadful story of sin and utter evil, and that man's name came in it in relations that I must not mention.... That is all I can tell you, my son."

He was silent for a brief space. Then he continued: "It is odd that I should hear his name again in the Guiana bush. And that one there your friend―"

"Fellow prisoner, rather," interrupted Shenstone. The priest nodded shrewdly. "I had guessed as much already. But, my question! When he finds this van Slyck, what will he do?"

"It would not surprise me if he killed him. There is sufficient cause."

"There is never sufficient cause for great sin, my son. But perhaps you will tell me the story whilst we eat."

"There can be no harm in that," answered Shenstone, and for the first time, as well as he knew the details, told the story of his betrayal, which, later, he was to tell to Torrance. The priest listened closely, and at the end asked a question: "But why did you take Willem Schouten with you to your apartments that day when you were taken by the French police?"

"That is simple. He was to give— no!— sell me certain, information, which I was seeking. In my calling of secret agent one uses the instruments he finds. But the fact that Schouten was taken in the way he was. now makes it clear that he was the victim of van Slyck's machinations.... That, of course, is only a deduction of my own, though, as you heard, Schouten is of the same mind."

"And those pearls, my son?"

"Old Dmitri had them on his person when I left him. I had gone out to make inquiries for his mistress— there are, of course, many Russian exiles in Paris, and I had not heard her name before. As things chanced, I was drawn aside from that purpose by my own affairs, affairs that duty compelled me to follow, you understand, and—"

"You met Willem Schouten, of course."

"As you say. And no doubt that was arranged by van Slyck, who, I imagine, had heard of Dmitri and the treasure he carried, though how, I cannot guess."

"You think van Slyck stole the necklace after murdering the faithful old man?"

"Either he or one of his associates?"

"And to divert suspicion from himself he made you appear guilty— you and that man in there?"

"Not to divert suspicion from himself, for there could be none. It was to ensure my conviction, and possibly send me to the guillotine. You must know I had recently learned something about van Slyck that was of tremendous importance. And a great threat to his well-being. He was not only a wealthy receiver of stolen jewels, but conducted a kind of clearing-house for international secrets―"

"Ah! a spy!"

"The chief of an association of mercenaries engaged in espionage. A man for whom I had been looking for some time.... Naturally, he wanted the but of the way; and as I told you, there was another, my cousin, who it appears from Schouten's account, worked with him; and who, as I hinted, had his own reasons―"

"Covetousness is the root of most villainies," broke in the priest, then added quietly, "and you have suffered for another's sin."

He sat for a moment staring out of the window, then he asked abruptly, "Your friends?"

"They knew nothing. I was not my own man at the time of the secret trial, having suffered a blow which left me shaken in my wits, and I am entered on the prison records in my cousin's name."

"But if they knew of your case—"

"It is possible that even now they are at work to deliver me. As I told you, Schouten had written to his sister, who, in case of her own inability to help him, was to communicate with a friend of mine on behalf of both. Both he and I were under the impression that my friend was behind my escape until an hour ago; when we found I the explanation of Pascaud's vile treachery in some secret action of van Slyck's."

The priest nodded. "I think you are right I there— that evil man; or the other one, your  cousin. But whichever it was, the purpose miscarried. You are free of St. Laurent and its horrors."

"But a long way from England, Father. I do not know the Guianas well; but I have B always understood that escaped prisoners are returned to the French by both the Dutch and my own countrymen."

"There is sound reason for that. There are many desperate men who break from the prison, men given up to crime, and who would return to it once they were free. Neither the Dutch nor the English colony wants such men running loose within its borders.... The colonists must be protected.... But you are a different case, an innocent man, though I the officials at both St Laurent and Paramaribo would not agree.... I think I must help you."

"You, Father!"

The old priest smiled. "In my calling, I side with the cause of the innocent; and serve the true justice, which is not always that administered by law.... I could not rest at night if I failed to help a truly innocent gentleman in so bad a case."

He thought for a moment, then he said reflectively, "You have money in England?"

"Plenty."

"Money will be required; and I have none." He smiled as if he found the lack of cash amusing. "Money is only useful to the man who has need for its use. Here in the forest we do very well without it But at Paramaribo it is a different story. Shipmasters will demand money on the nail. But that can be arranged. I have no money," he laughed again, "but I am known. I have the good name; and I know a man who will take my bond. He is no Catholic— a Chinaman, but better than most Christians, and a faithful man. I might send to him "

"I pray you will, Father."

"He would arrange for you―"

"And Schouten?... He must be helped also. I will pledge myself for the money. Since we are in this together, I cannot leave him to shift for himself."

"I did not think you would, my son.... But I think you cannot go together... By this time the description of you will be at Paramaribo, where there see few strangers. The officers will be watching for you. Two strangers together, coming from nowhere, Dutch and the other English, would be suspect. You might be challenged. Your passports and other credentials demanded; and if you were detained, officials from the prison might identify you. That is a risk not to be taken unnecessarily. And you will, I think, do better apart. It is easier to hide one man than two.... But we will take the views of my Chinese friend on that, and abide by his decision, for he is very wise."

"We are in your hands. Father," answered Shenstone, with some emotion.

"No. my son, in the hands of heaven, which are surer than mine.... But now, having eaten, you would like a bath, perhaps; and later a hammock. After your wild journey, you must be very weary.... I will make the arrangements."

He left the room; and whilst Shenstone stared absently through the open jalousie, busy with his flooding thoughts, he heard the priest moving to and fro in the recesses of the house, caught the clink of a pail against pottery, and the splash of water repeated at intervals, and suddenly it was borne upon him that the old man was himself attending to the need of his unsought guest At the realisation he was again shaken by grateful emotion. Old words leaped to his mind, remembered only brokenly, and he whispered them to the silent world without:

" 'I was in prison.... a-hungered' —God be kind to that one in his affliction."

Chapter 12

Luxembourg Gardens

ON the morrow of his visit to the Café Moscov, Jeff Torrance sat in the Luxembourg Gardens, by the Fontaine de Medicis, where the one-eyed Polyphemus surprises Acis and Galatea, and the river-gods eternally empty their urns. Nearby a long-haired musician made melancholy music on a violin; and a little further away, a model who for the beauty of her form might well have taken the place of one of Ottin's figures, sat sewing a camisole whilst waiting watchfully for her student lover. There were other interesting people in the neighbourhood of the fountain— notably a young negress, black as coal, but comely, with an air that the Queen of Sheba herself might have worn when she first entered the courts of Solomon.

Torrance was interested in her as in others about the fountain. From her frequent glances towards the gate, it was clear that she expected someone, that in fact to her, as to himself. Debrosse's masterpiece was a mere rendezvous, where perhaps die also was to meet her lover. He wondered idly what manner of man he might be, whilst he himself kept a watchful eye on the approach to the fountain, for he also awaited an advent at least as eagerly as the n egress.

The minutes passed slowly by. Influenced no doubt by the brightness of the morning, the fiddler forgot his melancholy and played a livelier air. The comely negress began to tap the gravel with her toes, then swept out of restraint, she rose from the stone bench, and pirouetted halfway down the long basin of the fountain in the direction of the gate. Torrance laughed softly to himself. Here, he thought, was black youth that would have its fling as naturally as its forbears under the moon of African nights.

Then quite suddenly the dancing lady stopped; and began to walk slowly forward as sedately as if there were no music in the world that could set her toes tripping. He followed the gaze of the girl's dark eyes and suffered a little shock. Two people were approaching, not together, but with no more than. half a dozen yards between them. The first was the Princess Anna, and the man behind her was the moon-faced Karl Wiederman.

His first idea was that Wiederman was shadowing the Princess and anger surged in him as in a flash he thought of the evil the scoundrel might be plotting. A moment later however the idea was dispelled. The black Venus by the fountain waved her hand impulsively, and Karl Wiederman waved his hat in return. He drew a breath of relief. Wiederman had no eyes for Anna Romenev, was, as it appeared, entirely unconscious of her proximity, and his presence in the gardens was accounted for by the dark beauty who waved to him with such enthusiasm.

But immediately following his feeling of relief he was assailed by a new anxiety. Anna, walking ahead of Wiederman, was already making for the seat where he waited her. So far, Wiederman had not observed her, but if he stood up he could scarcely escape the scoundrel's notice; and for the Princess Anna to be seen meeting him in the Luxembourg Gardens would not at the moment conduce to her interest.

Wiederman, as he had shown last night, had entertained a thought that the Romenev necklace, vanished mysteriously from the Ziegelstraat might have found its way back to the rightful owner. That thought no doubt had been shared by van Slyck; and whether as a result of the fat Karl's visit to the Café Moscov the scoundrels had been convinced that the idea was wrong was a matter of conjecture. But if Wiederman saw Anna Romenev meet the man who was suspected of having removed the pearls from van Slyck's apartment, the idea would be revived. And with such scoundrels, eager to recover the lost pearls, such a conviction was certain to be followed by violent action.

All these considerations passed through his mind with the swiftness of thought, and with the Princess no more than a few reds away, he was in a quandary. He could do nothing to avoid Wiederman's notice. His one hope was that the fellow might be so interested in his dark inamorata that he would have eyes for no one else. The hope was not realised. The black Venus made a little dart forward, and Wiederman with a Romeo-like air that sat oddly on him greeted her with a kiss on each dusky cheek. In the same second the Princess held out her hand to Torrance who had risen from the stone seat.

"Bonjour, mon ami―" she began gaily and then stopped as she caught the warning flash in his eyes.

"Turn your face, quickly, Princess," he said whisperingly. "There is a man over there who must not see― Ah! it is too late."

Over the shoulder of the negress Karl Wiederman had already seen them standing together; and in the fellow's usually twinkling eyes amazed recognition was blazing as his hands still on the negress's arms, he continued to stare.

"What is the matter, Captain Torrance?" asked Anna Romenev, wonderingly. "Why is it too late?"

"Because already we are observed," he answered with a rueful laugh. "And in the circumstances we ourselves may as well become the observers. If you will be you can look in the direction of the water and tell me if you have seen a certain man before. The man is with a negress―"

"Tiens!" cried Anna, as her eyes turned swiftly in the direction indicated. "It is the dealer to gems from New York."

"Yes. ... Do not let him see you recognise him. I am afraid the encounter is a little unfortunate, but it is as well to appear unconcerned as tor as possible."

"Why is it unfortunate?" demanded the lady quickly.

"It may confirm the idea which brought that scoundrel to the Café Moscov last night. He may think that, despite your denial, you have the necklace; and set out to secure it afresh for the man with whom he works."

"But," laughed Anna, "as I have not got it―"

"That makes no difference if he and those others think you have. They will back their belief by action."

"But I shall have nothing to do with the men."

The answer was lightly made, revealing that she was in no way troubled about the matter; but Torrance was far from easy to his mind. Van Slyck and the moon-faced Karl were not to be so carelessly dismissed, and that the latter was already on the alert, and whilst talking to the dark beauty was watching the Princess and himself, was not of good omen.

He was moved to give a warning:

"Nevertheless, you must be careful, Princess. Those men are capable of desperate things, as you must know, when you remember that almost certainly one of them murdered Dmitri for your pearls."

"If I knew which of them did that," was the answer, given with a sudden touch of passion, "I would have him slain, though the law allows him to go free. I have friends who would―"

She broke off, shrugged her shoulders, and then continued quietly: "Have no fear for me, my friend.... But tell me what is arranged by you and Jules.... I am anxious for that poor friend of yours who suffers at Cayenne."

"We are to start for the place tomorrow. Jules has obtained leave of absence, and there is no difficulty that way. The real trouble is that we do not know whether Shenstone is still at St Laurent or even whether he is alive. The trouble at the prison, at which we had the news last night according to the paper this morning was rather grave. Two warders were killed. Five convicts were shot and three escaped. The difficulty is that no names are reported, except that one of Schouten which we heard last night Basil Shenstone may be one of those who broke free, and unless help reaches him in a few days he is almost certain to be recaptured.... The forest is almost impassable, you understand, for a man without stores and suitable equipment. The Indians of the few villages to which a runaway must have recourse in the end, are always eager to receive the hundred francs which is paid for the return of an escaped man. The Dutch across the boundary, which is a river full of sharks, invariably send back any convicts they find; and whilst if Shenstone could make New Amsterdam or Georgetown, to British Guiana, he would be able to establish his identity, for one situated as he must be, it is a tremendous undertaking."

"Ah! the poor man!" cried Princess Anna, with emotion.

"This possible escape complicates things enormously, for if Shenstone is free we shall not know where to look for him.... But we have the name of the soldier which Schouten sent to his sister, and we shall get to touch with him. He will be able to tell us whether my friend is at large, or still in prison, or among those who were shot―"

"God forbid!" whispered the Princess, to any case, we must learn the truth, and that is not possible here. The prison authorities are reticent. No one in Paris troubles because a convict is toot trying to escape; and Jules vows that at least two or three weeks will elapse before a full report is available. By that time―"

"You may be able to send me the good news."

"It is a rather desperate hope,"

"But you must turn it into a fact, Captain Torrance. You must work the miracle. Last night Jules told me of other desperate things that you had done, brave things―"

"Jules ; is enthusiastic over his friends," laughed Torrance. "He is generous by nature "

"No! No!" interrupted the lady. 'You must not belittle the things done. I shall not like that. All women love heroes. There are so many of the others who make one scornful.... And you, my friend, must not pretend you are of the ruck. When this adventure is over, you must come back to Paris and tell me the whole story, I shall love to hear it."

Her beautiful face was eager. Her eyes were shining her voice had a pleading note. "You will promise that?... You see, as my pearls were in part the cause of your friend's condemnation, I feel almost personally responsible. So you will bring me the story, and you will ensure that it has the ending for which I pray?"

"I shall do my best, for my friend's sake—" began Torrance.

"And for mine! For my peace of mind! Remember I shall be unhappy until I have the good news. You must not forget that I am involved, that I shall be waiting!—"

"Oh, I shall remember that more than all other things," cried Torrance, swept out of all reserve by her emotion and her sincere concern, which gave vividness to her beauty, and gravity to the blue eyes. He spoke with more ardour than he realised. But Anna Romenev was not offended. Her face flushed a little, a flash of comprehension came in the blue eyes, and the made a little friendly gesture.

"So!" she whispered softly. "And I... I shall not forget to pray for the good fortune."

Then she looked away, her eyes full on Karl Wiederman who, with his black companion, had taken one of the stone' seats a little distance away. The fellow was twisting one wire-like end of his moustache, and staring at Torrance and her with absorption, while the negress had a petulant look. Her eyes grew suddenly gay. She laughed mirthfully.

"My friend," she said, touching his arm, "together we have taken the sunshine out of the morning for those two over there. The man is burning to know what we say to each other, and his black lady cannot think why she is neglected."

Torrance glanced at the pair, and was himself moved to laughter by the angry, petulant look on the dark face, like that of a spoiled child.

"That fat ape will have to plead for forgiveness in a little while," laughed Anna Romenev. "The lady is not pleased, as what one would be?.. Black or white, we are the same— we do not like to be neglected.... Perhaps if we wait we shall see the stout ox on his knees―"

She broke off.

"Ah! he is to have his lesson. The black one is rising. She means to leave him to his— No!" the laughed gaily, "it was but a manoeuvre to gain his attention. She seats herself again. She has not the courage of conviction; or perhaps she adores her tot lover, who now remembers his duty."

Torrance laughed at her interpretation of the little scene, noted that Karl Wiederman, talking volubly, was for the moment engaged with his companion, and saw an opportunity to slip away.

"Princess Anna, I think we might leave that pair to settle their affairs."

"And continue our own, unobserved," Anna Romenev laughed with understanding "There is wisdom in that."

They rose together, and turned in the direction of the gate. When they had proceeded half a score of yards, the Princess threw a bird-like glance over her shoulder, and reported.

"Those two follow us, my friend, the lady's arm in the fat one's. A beautiful sight!"

Torrance himself glanced backward. It was as his companion said. The pair, arm-in-arm, were following— as odd a pair as might be found in all Paris, where such oddities are not rare. He could not help joining in the Princess Anna's laughter, though the fact that Karl Wiederman should apparently be following them made him a little uneasy. Then the Princess gave a little cry of surprise.

"Why, there is friend Jules!... How blind we have been not to see him."

Torrance's eyes followed the direction of her gaze. Jules Fanchon was on one of the seats, apparently absorbed in a newspaper; but that he was not so absorbed as he appeared was proved when, looking up, he caught his friend's eyes, and flashed a meaning glance at the following pair. Torrance nodded understanding, and spoke swiftly his companion,

"Princess," he said, "we will continue in our blindness. Jules does not wish to be seen. His interest is elsewhere."

"In the fat one? Yes! Then I must, not again look round at those loving ducks behind us. Is it not so? They follow us, and are in turn followed by Jules. That is droll. So you shall take me to the Café Moscov, where those others must kick their heels; and Jules can tell us of the incidents by the way."

"Then outside the gates we will take a taximetre," said Torrance with decision.

Twenty minutes later they listened to Fanchon's report of his shadowing. "I saw that Wiederman by accident when I was strolling outside the Gardens. He had air of purpose that intrigued me, and I decided to follow and learn what was making his feet bustle. Just before he turned in the gate, I saw you. Princess; and thought that I understood. But I was wrong. As you beheld, that stout rogue had an assignation. But watching I saw him become aware of you and my friend, Jeff; and when you left, he and the African lady followed you―"

"All the way?" asked Torrance quickly.

"As you say! To the very threshold."

"I wonder why?" asked the Princess Anna.

Jules  Fanchon shook his head.

"That no doubt will presently appear. Plainly the rogue is interested in the conjunction of the stars you represent. He does not know what to believe" His eyes met Torrance's for a moment They had a grave look which his friend understood. The Princess Anna, however, found the situation amusing.

"It is droll," she laughed. "No doubt he is thinking of my vanished necklace."

"No doubt!" said Jules, joining in her laughter.

But a quarter of an hour later there was no laughter, when left alone with Torrance he spoke abruptly; "I do not like it at all, my friend."

"Nor I.... For two pins I'd break the fellow's neck."

"He betrays too much interest in our Princess Anna."

"Yes! He was not satisfied with the answer given him last night. After seeing the Princess and myself together, his suspicions have revived. And that is unfortunate, since it may mean trouble for her."

"But there is nothing to fear." Jules Fanchon looked round the café. "Here there are a score of men who would fight for Anna Romenev."

"Possibly. But van Slyck is secret and cunning; he could not have put that crime on Basil Shenstone if he had not been. Also he is ruthless; and one cannot conjecture what he and his crowd may do."

"Well sit the worst he will learn that she knows nothing of the necklace; and at the best he will burn his fingers, for I shall whisper a warning to some of Anna's friends, who will deal with anyone who may trouble her.... So we will put foreboding from us and turn to our own affairs.... I have booked berths in the night train for Marseilles, and I have the tickets for the steamer, Rochelle, which is to take us to the Islands of the Damned. Also, if there is news from Cayenne after we have left Paris, it will be telegraphed to the Rochelle at Marseilles, that as you say, we may be up-to-date.... If any arrives earlier I shall receive it here, where I shall wait whilst you, my friend, go out to purchase what you need for the voyage."

Torrance went out in no very happy mood. The fact that Wiederman should apparently have again turned his attention to Anna Romenev was distinctly disquieting. He dwelt on it whilst, with a taximeter waiting for him outside a well-known colonial outfitters, he purchased various light clothing; and as he came out, accompanied by a porter carrying his parcels, his attention was arrested by two things. One was an inked, makeshift poster outside a newspaper kiosk on which was announced the single item: "Latest news from Cayenne": and the other was a pair of elegantly clad legs, part of a rotund body, and two beringed hands that held an open newspaper which hid the face of the man behind it. The ensemble despite the unseen head was unmistakable. Here, whether by accident or of set purpose he could only guess, was Karl Wiederman. If he were waiting for his own emergence from the stores, either he was contemptuously careless, or was so absorbed in the contents of the newspaper that he had forgotten his immediate task. It would have been easy to slip away; but since that poster intrigued him, and suspecting that what it proclaimed was the reason for the other's absorption in the news-sheet, he made no attempt to do so. Instead he made a little circuit to the kiosk, which was open on two sides, purchased a newspaper, and, having made sure that the reading man was really his game, quietly approached him from behind. He heard the man whisper to himself. "Hemel!" Karl Wiederman, it seemed, had suffered a little shock, and a second later Torrance administered another.

"Disturbing news for you, Wiederman?"

The man jumped as if he had been shot, letting the newspaper fall. He swung round to find Torrance confronting him with smiling eyes. Torrance had no idea what the further news from Cayenne was; but it was very clear to him that the arrow fired at a venture had made a bull's-eye; for the other's moon-like face bore all the signs of sheer consternation. Into his normally twinkling eyes there came a flash of recognition, which vanished as quickly as it appeared, and the round face became as expressive as a bladder of lard.

"Comment!" he said woodenly. "You mistake me for another, monsieur."

Torrance laughed. "To be sure". he said. "But you are so like the gentleman from Rotterdam, though now I perceive you are the dealer from New York, whose speciality is pearls."

"Diable! But monsieur is a lunatic!"

"No. Merely an Englishman with a word for your ears."

"You can have no word for me— a stranger!" answered the stout rogue, still faithful to his bluff.

"A mistake, Karl!" As he made the reply, Torrance in sheer mischief dug a straight finger in the region of the others waistband. The man winced, and a look of vicious anger convulsed his fat face. He backed a pace, found himself up against the kiosk, and looked swiftly to right and left as if contemplating flight. Torrance laughed contemptuously. To such as the dead Lisbeth, Karl Wiederman might be a terrible man, but he cuts a poor figure in a corner.

"Don't run," he said. "There is no need; and I really have a word for you... It is about those pearls you wish to purchase. You went to the wrong shop. The lady knows nothing of their present whereabouts, but if you would like to make an offer—"

"Ach!" ejaculated the other, his eyes quick with excitement "Yes?... You are prepared to deal?"

"For a friend, yes!" The fat scoundrel's excitement trebled.

"His name, monsieur?" he said, his pose completely forgotten. "It is permitted to know that my principal will require to have the name of the gentleman for whom you act. You will understand that?"

"Yes," said Torrance, amused by the other's conception of him as a simpleton. "One understands that in a transaction of such magnitude he will require something of that kind.... But there is not the least difficulty in the world. The name―"

"Yes?. Yes?" cried the other eagerly, almost dancing with impatience.

"The name―" Torrance hesitated. If he were wrong! Then he found assurance. The poster there had moved Wiederman to purchase the newspaper. The news which the rogue had read had disturbed him profoundly. That meant bad news; and bad news from Cayenne could mean only one thing. He lowered his voice as he answered with a confiding air,

"The name, Mynheer Karl, is Basil Shenstone, lately of St Laurent but now of the wide, wide world."

The other leaped as if he had been stung. His round face grew ashen. A light of stark fear gleamed in his eyes. His puny lips shaped a single word:

"Gott!"

Torrance, his purpose achieved, laughed. Again his straight finger shot out and this time the poke was a really vicious one. The stout man doubled to it and before he had straightened himself, Torrance was in the taximetre giving instructions to the driver. As the vehicle began to move he put his head out of the window.

The stout Karl, with both his jewelled hands at his waistband, was leaning against the kiosk for support. His round face was white as death, and there was a sick look in his eyes.

Torrance laughed unsympathetically, withdrew his head, and swiftly opened the news-sheet he had purchased. He found what he sought within seven seconds. His friend Jules had maligned the authorities at Cayenne, for here was an abstract from the prison governor, first the names of the soldiers who had been killed, then the names of the convicts who had been shot in the struggle, and last the names of the three runaways:

"Fontaine, Jacques. Schouten, Willem. Dashwood, Spencer."

As he read them, a surge of relief passed over him. "Thank heaven!" he whispered. "The cards were behind the bluff after all, as that fat scoundrel knew."

Chapter 13

To Paramaribo

IT WAS a whole fortnight after their arrival at his jungle presbytery when Father Pieter, the leper priest announced to Shenstone and the Dutchman, recovered from his fever and his wound healed, that the time for their departure was at hand. He explained carefully the arrangements made, with the aid of a rough map.

"You will first have to cross the swamp, along this line; a rather perilous way, for those unaccustomed to the country, but with the patrol boat from St Laurent still on the watch, you cannot go by water. On the third day you should arrive here."

He touched a dot.

"That is New Delft, a mere fishing village on the Atlantic seaboard. You will hide in the neighbourhood of the village till dusk, then you will go down to the beach; and there you will find a fisherman in his boat waiting. His name is Jan Langenberg, and when you approach him, you will say, 'It is a fine night for a sail, Jan!'

"He will answer that it is a very fine night; and he will give you passage to a point near Paramaribo. Then he will leave you and you will follow the bank of the river and enter the town that way. Near the wharf you will find a Chinese store, a small place, so far as the frontage is concerned, but with warehouse room behind. The name of the proprietor is Tai Ling, and in front of the store a red paper lantern will hang, so that you cannot make a mistake.

"Tai Ling will shelter you until two nights later, when you will be smuggled on a Dutch ship, the Saint Bavon, which is bound for Rotterdam. Captain Marck, who commands her, has helped escaping men before, for a handsome consideration, since he is an avaricious man. But he is to be trusted, and that is the thing that matters, for men who having no passports have to rely on his good faith.

"After that," Father Pieter laughed, "you will send me your greetings from Holland and England, with, perhaps, a little gift for my Mission; and we shall all be happy as the angels. Is it not so?"

"Father Pieter," said Shenstone, with emotion, "the little gift shall be commensurate with the service—"

"Ah! But you must not make us too rich, my son. You might tempt us from the ways of simplicity."

"It will be a gift of gratitude... and... and— love"

The priest laughed gently. "One should never be afraid of a fine word, my son.... And the gift with which loves goes is the best in the world.... But we are not at the end of our explanations yet; and you do not know what I have in store for you."

Once more he laughed, and made a gesture.

"When you do—"

He left the room, and returned with a parcel. He opened it, revealing some very nondescript clothing. A dirty drill khaki tunic, with two buttons missing, a faded scarlet shirt and a pair of pyjama trousers, with the buttons cut off. and with an odd patch at one knee. Putting these in a little heap, he laughed as he turned to Shenstone.

"That is your uniform, my son, and if on the way you should meet Solomon in all his glory, I am sure he will feel that you put him in the shade. But it is better than prison raiment, hey?"

He laughed again, and looked at Schouten.

"For you, my friend―" He spread an ancient pyjama jacket of once vivid hues, a decrepit cotton shirt, and a pair of ragged shorts. "A pretty assortment" he commented. "but the worst of it is yet to come."

The worst was contained in a kerosene tin; and was a stain that was of chocolate hue in the mass, but which, as he explained, would be lighter when applied.

"A necessity," he said, with a smile. "Paramaribo is largely a town of coloured men. White men are noticeable. They are known to each other. If you were observed, with your descriptions abroad, you would be challenged; and that would be the end... But as half-castes of dusky hue you will pass in that fine raiment, therefore you will stain your skin and scare the mosquitoes away. And it will be well to do the thing very thoroughly for piebald men are rare.... There are sponges with which the stain can be applied."

Schouten laughed, looked at the things displayed. and then said quickly, "There are no shoes. Father―"

"That is not an oversight," answered the priest. "The men of your new order go barefoot"

"And the stain. Father Pieter?"

"It is proof against water; and wears well." The priest laughed as at a jest. "Emery might remove it

"Hemel! Are we to be niggers till we are coffined?" cried Schouten.

"Warm oil, well rubbed in, will bring you to resurrection when the time comes. So you need have no fear, Schouten."

"Good!" said the Dutchman.

"Before you go aboard the Saint Bavon, Tai Ling will supply suitable clothing; but if you are wise you will keep the stain until you are outside the radius of search.... And now, my sons, fall-to... In an hour you should be on your way."

It was nearer two hours when, at the edge of the clearing, they knelt for the leper-priest's benediction: and as they stood Shenstone offered his hand, an act from which throughout their stay Father Pieter had refrained. He looked at the Englishman with tender eyes. "You are not afraid of the uncleanness, my son?"

"No!... And if I were―"

The priest took the hand and shook it warmly. "God go with you. my son." Schouten stood shamefaced, then he also offered a hand. Father Pieter shook his head smilingly.

"No," he said. "The man who is afraid is in jeopardy of all diseases.... Go your ways, and avoid evil as you would the living death."

THEY left him standing there, watching them. Before the jungle finally hid them, both turned and waved hands. The priest waved back, and a moment later was lost to view. For a time neither of them spoke, then as they squelched a way over pulpy greenness the Dutchman asked a sudden question:

"You believe in heaven, comrade?"

"More or less. Why?"

"That one"— Schouten jerked his head backward— "will be met by Kings when he passes the gates. He is Gott's own good man, in whom till now I did not believe. All other men I have known were rogues."

"All?" laughed Shenstone, with a thought of the exception of present company. Schouten did not reply to the question. He marched ahead in silence, until the tormenting insects wrung from him an oath; and not until night, when they camped with a smoky fire to keep off the mosquitoes as well as they could, did he refer to the matter again.

"The priest is Gott's good man," he said suddenly after a long interval of silence. "But I know a man who is Satan's own." It was easy to guess the reference and, hoping to learn something, Shenstone did so aloud.

"Dirck van Slyck?"

"The man," replied the other. "When I get to Rotterdam it will be the end for him, foul betrayer that he is! He sent me to you that we might be taken together; and I shall kill him for both of us."

The man spoke solemnly, without heat or emotion, in the manner of one announcing a decision arrived at after much thought, and it was clear that he meant to do just what he said. Shenstone made no effort to dissuade him. If the man chose to square accounts that way the world would be no worse for the passing of van Slyck. who no doubt deserved whatever end Schouten designed for him.

"He is a terrible villain."

"If you knew everything that I know," began Schouten, broke off to squash a mosquito that had settled on his hand, and then, to Shenstone's disappointment, did not continue. But presently he gave a chuckling laugh, which moved Shenstone to a question.

"Something amuses you, Schouten?"

"An idea! One gets them at times, and this one is good." The man laughed again, and the other waited, hoping that he would explain, which, after a moment or two, he did.

"When we get on that vessel I shall not ask for anything to remove this stain. I shall keep it until we reach Rotterdam, and as a nigger I shall present myself to Dirck. He will not know me, and I shall have the pleasure of explaining and watching the fear creep in his eyes as he realises the truth."

"You think he will be afraid of you, Schouten?"

"I am sure. I shall take him by surprise. I shall give him no chance to act; but, before I kill him, he shall taste some of the medicine I had at St. Laurent and he shall howl for mercy.... No one will hear him, and there will be no interference. That is the advantage of the apartment that Dirck has off the Ziegelstraat. At night it is solitary. There is no one in the alley, and scarcely anyone in the Ziegelstraat But I shall not go that way. It will be a foggy night when one can move unseen, and I shall take a boat and go up the canal to the stairs at the end of the alley. Dirck will be out at the hour of my arrival, but Lisbeth will open the door to my summons―"

"Your sister will still be with van Slyck after his treachery to you?"

""She has no choice. Van Slyck has a hold on her, you understand, as he had on me. But I shall send her out. She will appear in public places that she may not be suspected of complicity. And when I have killed the villain she will be delivered— free to go her ways, and we will go to New York together, and live like princes."

"You have money then?" asked Shenstone curiously.

"Not a guilder," Schouten laughed harshly. "But when I have been through Dirck's safe I shall be a rich man." He chuckled and then added, "I may even find that old Russian's pearls."

"You're likely to find yourself in a gaol again, Schouten, if―"

"No!" laughed the other. "If I am seen entering— who is it that will be seen?.. A half-caste nigger— the kind of man who might easily kill and rob van Slyck. But by the time the police have the news I shall be myself, a fair-skinned man with hair like straw; for I shall have the means of cleansing waiting; and whilst the police are still looking for the nigger I shall be on my way across the Atlantic.... It is all as simple at that. No one will associate a man who is supposed to be a life prisoner in St Laurent with―"

"You forget! The escape will be reported; has probably been reported already."

Schouten flicked a finger and thumb scornfully.

"In France, yes. Because all Frenchmen are interested in Cayenne. But in Rotterdam, no! It's nothing to the Netherlands if a brace of convicts break gaol in French Guiana. I, who am a Netherlander born, know that... And you will see. You will read in the newspapers of the affair in the Ziegelstraat and you Will say to yourself Schouten was right and he has pulled the trick, without mishap.... Also you will rejoice that van Slyck has paid the price of treachery."

The man laughed quietly, but with an undertone of ferocity in his mirth, and added nonchalantly, "Now I shall sleep and dream of the great hour."

Sleep he did, with a soundness that a more virtuous man might have envied; and, seated with the smoke of the fire drifting over him Shenstone, reflecting on the man's declared purpose, thought that very likely he would accomplish it with impunity. He was a villain, as anyone who had worked with Dirck van Slyck must be; but he had a bitter grievance which almost amounted to a justification of the deed he proposed, and if he chose to snatch a wild revenge he was, it seemed, prepared to face the risks...

With daylight they resumed their heartbreaking way. The vast swamp they were traversing was a poisonous place of which the crawling slime was far from being the worst feature. The winged insects were in myriads, settling everywhere — lips, eyes, nostrils— each one a new torment that, as it was brushed aside or slain, left a burning spot. Leeches clung to the bare skin of the legs, and ticks, fixing themselves, grew hideously as they sucked the blood that was life.

Once Shentsone set his foot on a snake, which promptly struck, and then slid away in the succulent green stuff that flourished in the morass. They halted at once to doctor the wounds. In the semi-dusk neither of them had marked the snake closely, and in any case their knowledge of poisonous reptiles was negligible. But among the supplies which Father Pieter had provided was a stick of caustic, and within a minute the Dutchman, following Shenstone's swift instructions, had thrust the burning point into the tiny puncture in his leg left by the snake's fangs, and then they waited anxiously for effects of the poison to be revealed.

Fortunately, beyond the local irritation, there was no indication of trouble, and they resumed their way more cautiously, watchful for any signs of the reptiles which had their homes in toe. swamp. At the end of the day they were not far from their first rendezvous on the coast, and before noon of the day following they were in sight of the sea. Making the coast in the early afternoon, two miles away they saw the village which was their destination, and, keeping in the shadow of the trees, moved towards it slowly, that they might arrive somewhere about the appointed hour, and within half a mile of it halted to rest.

Twenty minutes before sunset they resumed their way, cautiously, watchful against any encounter, since a meeting with a too curious villager might prove their utter undoing. Avoiding a track which led straight to the village, and keeping at the edge of the trees and undergrowth which ran right down to the shore, they met no one, and reached a point no more than a hundred yards from the village where they were able to watch the beach.

The place itself was little more than a collection of huts, with a few canoes and three or four larger boats on the foreshore. A light wind blowing across the village from the sea brought with it- an odour of cooking, proclaiming that the evening meal was in preparation; and, from the fact that there was no one visible about the boats or the huts, it was to be inferred that the inhabitants of this solitary and rather forlorn place were all indoors waiting for the meal to be served.

Both men scanned the shore and the boats narrowly, and at last Schouten whispered hoarsely: "There is no one! Gott! If we have come to the wrong place―"

Shenstone did not share his companion's apprehension. He had no doubt they had arrived at the right village. The only question was how long it would be before the fisherman put in an appearance. But as the minutes slipped by without any sign of the man he began to grow anxious, and found himself wondering if the man had forgotten, or perchance had suffered an accident, or, an even worse contingency, a change of mind. The sun went down, the swift dusk fell. The face of the sea became like a dimmed mirror. Lights twinkled in the huts; the beach was scarcely distinguishable, and there was no sound of movement anywhere. Schouten's fears grew, as did Shenstone's disquiet.

"Hemel!" whispered the Dutchman, "If we are sold, and the officers should be waiting."

Then in the neighbourhood of the village there came a quick rush of light, which appeared and vanished all within half minute. But in that space of time Shenstone perceived a man, a mere flat figure against the light, and knew that a door had opened and closed, and that someone had left one of the huts. It might be or might not be their deliverer, and he watched tensely a lighted window which the man would have to pass if he were on his way to the shore. For one second the light was partially obscured as a figure slipped by it, and in that moment he gripped Schouten's arm.

"Come," he said with conviction. "Our man has gone down to the boat."

"Ach! How do you know?"

"I saw him. Let us go. We must not keep him waiting."

They hurried along the shore, careful to make as little noise as possible. Stars gleaming overhead were reflected distortedly in the sea. and in front of them there appeared suddenly a little flame that shone for a moment and vanished. Schouten, his apprehension abated, laughed shakily as he whispered: "That Jan Langenberg lights his pipe!"

Dimly they made out the shape of a boat with a man resting against it. The odour of rank tobacco was noticeable, and they moved straight -towards the waiting man. He heard them coming over the sand and straightened himself. Shenstone spoke to the man whimperingly: "It is a fine night for a sail, Jan."

"A very fine night, mynheer!... If you and your friend will help me to put the boat into the water we will start at once."

Just that; nothing more. When a man is suddenly relieved from tension small things are often amusing, and Shenstone could have laughed aloud at the man's phlegm. If he had not exact knowledge of the fact, he must have guessed that they were fugitives from the penal settlement, and that he himself was taking some risk in helping them. But the adventure left him cold, and he was plainly a man of few words.

"There are grooved logs. She will run easily. Do not push too heavily."

The boat slid down to the sea. All three climbed in, and the passengers poled her out whilst Lagenberg busied himself with a sail.

"In a little while we shall not need this," he said, and, as he caught a whiff of kerosene, Shenstone understood.

"You have an engine?"

"Yes, mynheer. But it fires like a gun. I shall not start it till we have passed the point there. Neighbours are sometimes curious, you understand."

They made the point the man had mentioned in less than twenty minutes, when Langenberg started his engine, and they chugged along noisily down the coast in the direction of Paramaribo. The owner of the boat had little to say. His passengers were too full for speech; but suddenly Schouten broke the silence.

"Gott!" he whispered hoarsely. "If we met a patrol boat now!"

"They do not come so far, mynheer!" said Langenberg reassuringly. "Only the gun boat―"

"And if we met that?"

Jan Langenberg laughed. "She might hail us, ask if we had picked up fugitives.... I have known that happen. But have no fear. We should hear her a mile away, and should have time to make for the shore."

They chugged on. An hour later they made the estuary of the Niekeri River, and saw the lights of Paramaribo gleam through the tropic dark. Langenberg pointed.

"There! We go further up. You will walk back to the town. It is better so, since on the quay a landing might be observed." He ran them to a point above the town, gave them quick directions and, with a friendly wish of good fortune, promptly moved off downstream.

Shenstone led the way to a road which, between an avenue of huge tropical trees, led straight to the town. They came on houses, painted white, gleaming prettily in the light of the rising moon. In a little time they began to meet people, from their chatter mostly laughing negroes. Now and again a woman in a billowy starched white skirt, with an enormous white head-dress and a face that was black as coal, drifted by humming a wooing song; and not infrequently the voice of a white man made itself heard without its owner being distinctly seen.

The road was of fine sea-shells. Under their bare feet it made a rustling sound—a sound that, as they advanced towards the town, meeting more and more people, was reproduced all around them, and, anxious not to be observed, Shenstone turned down a short alley lined with palms which he guessed must lead to the waterfront.

Within two minutes they saw the estuary sheening under the moon now swinging high in the velvet sky. The clang and clatter of derricks broke the stillness, and the warm air was heavy with a sickly, rather pungent, smell. Ahead there was a steamer which was being loaded with sugar. As they approached it, by the light of the lanterns swinging from her rigging, toey saw the crew and a number of negroes busy at work, and Shenstone, with a sudden intuition of the truth, passed near enough to read the name on her stern: "Saint Bavon. Rotterdam."

He caught Schouten's arm. "There's our ark!"

The Dutchman laughed like a tipsy man and sniffed the sugar-scented air.

"It has the odour of Paradise. Quick, comrade. There is the adage of the cup and the lip. Lead the way to Tai Ling's.... To be retaken in sight of heaven would make hell sevenfold bitter."

Beyond the steamer they came on a comparatively deserted stretch of wharf. Then a little way ahead, as they moved round the jutting gable of a warehouse, a splotch of red showed dully in the moonshine, hanging over a doorway.

"Tai Ling's lantern," cried Shenstone. unable to keep the exultation from his voice.

"Gott!" answered Schouten. "I cannot believe. But it must be so."

There were people approaching the shore from the further side. They could hear the voices, and were able to make out the forms of three men.

"We must not meet anyone now!" whispered Schouten, almost in an agony of fear.

The store itself was the nearest shelter, and toey hurried to it. The door was standing wide, the interior rather poorly lighted by a hanging lamp.  Seated at a table was a stout Chinaman apparently busy with his accounts. On their entry he looked up considered them with grave eyes. Then he rose and, as he did so, Shenstone spoke.

"Good evening. Mr Tai Ling. You are no doubt expecting us. We are from Father―"

The Chinaman stopped him with a quick gesture.

"Names are not needed," he said in Dutch. "I will close the store and afterwards―"

He broke off at the sound of steps outside. A guttural laughing voice outride spoke noisily.

"This is Tai Ling's store, mynheer. And he is at home, as you―"

"Quick," said Tai Ling. "Someone comes."

He led them into the recesses of the store. A door offered and they passed through into an odorous darkness. Tai Ling shut the door, leaving them to wait until he had disposed of his callers. The night was very still; the warehouse, but for the humming of some night insect was silent as the grave; and through the thin panel of the door quite distinctly they heard the Chinaman greet his new callers, giving them a good evening in Dutch.

Then a voice answered which made Shenstone cry out in a startled whisper:

"God Almighty! It just can't be."

Chapter 14

At Tai Ling's Store

IN the darkness the Dutchman made a blind movement. A second later his groping hand found Shenstone's arm.

"What is it, comrade?" he demanded in a ferocious whisper. "Those devils have found us, hey?"

"Someone who―"

"Donder en bliksem! I knew it But I will not be taken!"

"Silence, Schouten. I want to listen. It is not as you think, but I am not sure―"

The Dutchman's hand left his arm and he heard him move stumblingly in the darkness. A moment later a match was struck, and as the tiny flame grew he saw Schouten staring about him. Then the man gave a sharp exclamation.

"Ach!"

The match went out. The Dutchman's stumbles were renewed, making it impossible to hear the voices of the men in the store; then there came a rasping noise, and something clanged on the wooden floor. A whispered oath broke from Schouten. He struck another match, and by its dim light Shenstone saw him stoop and pick up a small jemmy, of the kind used for opening cases. He balanced it in his hand and gave a savage-chuckle. There was an utterly desperate look on his worn face.

"Gott!" he whispered like a man on the edge of lunacy. "The very thing. I will not be taken— alive. But first I will kill―"

"Schouten! For heaven's sake―"

The match burned the Dutchman s fingers. With an oath he dropped It to the floor and set his foot on it as he strode forward in the direction of the door, brushing, past Shenstone as he went― a man who for the moment was more than half crazed by the thought that his hard-won liberty was in jeopardy. Then he came to a standstill, apparently to listen, and was groping his way towards him.

Shenstone whispered hurriedly in his ear. "Schouten, you are making a mistake.  One of those men out there is a friend of mine, I think. But we shall know presently. Do nothing until―"

From beyond the door there came a sound of voices speaking in a subdued way, then there was a laugh, and Tai Ling's voice sounded clearly.

"But I already have the men. They are in—"

"Gott! The son of Judas! He would sell―" Schouten flung open the door, and with a fierce roar sprang into the shop. Two men were standing there talking to the proprietor, their backs towards the door of the warehouse, whilst Tai Ling was between them and the door to the street. A look of amazement came on his yellow face as he saw Schouten running towards him brandishing the jemmy.

"Villain!" roared the Dutchman as he struck what must have proved a killing blow had it reached its mark. Tai Ling, however, was more active than his stout figure indicated. He leaped aside and fell to the floor. The blow spent itself harmlessly, and the Dutchman sped on towards the door,  which was still ajar. In a twinkling he flung it open and fled out to the darkness of the wharf, whilst Tai Ling picked himself from the floor.

The two men whose backs had been towards the warehouse turned swiftly as Shenstone merged. One of them was a stranger to him, but the other was the friend whose voice he had recognised, but heard in such circumstances had doubted.

"Torrance!" he cried. Then he hurriedly slipped past all three men to the door, where he cried again,

"Schouten! Schouten! Come back!"

There was no answer to his hail. He looked this way and that along the dark wharf, but saw nothing, heard nothing save the whirring winch of the steamer loading, further up. Any pursuit would be in vain; and, after waiting a moment, he re-entered the store. The three men were waiting him; but it was Tai Ling, unperturbed by what had befallen, who spoke first.

"That one―" he said, touched his smooth forehead with a fat forefinger, significantly. "Yes, he was half-crazed. He heard you say that you already had us, and he thought you meant to betray us."

"Ah!" said Tai Lang, and for a moment his placid face had a hurt look. Then he spoke like a philosopher. "The civil in a man's heart discovers evil in the hearts of others where it dwells not.... But when he finds the truth, he will return, maybe."

Shenstone hoped he might, for whilst Schouten might be a scoundrel, he had been a faithful companion in misfortune. But there was nothing to be done; and for the moment his friend claimed him.

"Basil, old man, is it really you? But for your voice I'd never have recognised you in that guise and that scarecrow rig-out."

Shenstone laughed a little shakily.

"A better rig-out than I had in that prison-hell. France wastes no money on tailoring for her convicts in St. Laurent.... But I am thankful to see you, Jeff.... You were behind our escape after all.... You arranged that Schouten and I should get away, though that villainous Pascaud would have betrayed us?"

"No, Basil," exclaimed Torrance quickly. "I had nothing to do with it. When I learned the truth a fortnight or so ago, and discovered you were a prisoner at St. Laurent, I was preparing to come to your help immediately. But almost at the same time the news came that you had already broken prison... If there was any arrangement for your escape made from outside—"

"There was. Someone paid Pascaud―"

"An enemy and not a friend, Basil; a man, or perhaps two men, who desired to see you―"

"My cousin, perhaps?"

"That is possible. I do not know certainly. But there was another man―"

"Van Slyck!"

"Yes. He, as I know, was behind the man Pascaud who arranged the escape―"

"And who tried to shoot us, the treacherous dog!"

"That was part of the plan. He was paid to do that, I fancy. Van Slyck was afraid—"

"I have him between my finger and thumb!" cried Shenstone, and then Tai Ling intervened.

"I suggesting that since the honourable gentleman who had escaped through the swamps must be weary and might like to converse in comfort, a more private place than the store was desirable."

He led the way up a narrow stair to a really comfortable living-room. There having set rum and rice and wine and cigars upon the table, he withdrew, explaining that he would first close the store, and then look about for the man who in his foolish mistrust had fled into new danger.

Then Torrance introduced Jules Fanchon by name.

"Ah!" said Shenstone quickly, "I have heard of you."

"Name of a name! No wonder! I helped to send you to Cayenne, a mistake which will keep me humble till I step into the grave. But it was an honest mistake. Like others, I was tricked by a parcel of rogues. And you will bear me no grudge, I hope... Together we will bring the blackguard responsible to a judgment."

"If you are thinking of van Slyck―"

"Of none other, my friend."

"Then we shall have to be quick. If by any chance Schouten should get to Rotterdam before we do, he will kill van Slyck, for he knows that the scoundrel betrayed him; and even seven months in St Laurent is a life time in Hades."

"It is not a rose-garden, no!" agreed Fanchon.

"I do not wonder that Schouten means to kill van Slyck. But we must be in the field before he passes the gate, as we shall be unless he returns here. For, with the best of luck, it will take him some time to get to Rotterdam without means of passport, and with a watch being kept for him."

"I am not so sure of that. Up the wharf a steamer for Rotterdam is being loaded― the Saint Bavon. The Captain is expecting Schouten and myself, having been paid to convey us to Holland—"

"Not by van Slyck, surely?" cried Torrance in surprise..

"No. Tai Ling, on the word of a friend, has advanced the money, which I am to repay."

"He must be a trusting old bird," said Torrance.

"The man who gave his word for repayment is a man whom anyone might trust, though be I hasn't a guilder— an old priest, a saint, afflicted with leprosy."

"He befriended you?" cried Fanchon.

"Both of us!... Without him I think we I should never have won so far. He kept us, arranged everything, clothing―"

"It did not break even his poor purse," said Fanchon with a laugh.

"No! But it fitted the characters we were to assume, and that is what matters."

"But yes. That much one can guess! It was but a little jest I made. But Jeff and I would like to hear the whole story. It is not every day that one meets a man who has won clear of St Laurent with its guards, its sharks, and the dry guillotine."

"The dry guillotine—" began Torrance.

"The forest, my friend," explained Fanchon quickly. "That is the name the convicts give to it since for the men who break from the prison, the forest is almost as deadly as the guillotine itself.... At the prison they keep a record of those whom the forest has slain— and it is a long one.... But our friend's narrative? We will hear it, hey?"

The two heard it with deep interest and at the end Fanchon broke out:

"There are many villains in the world; but I now I know there is one Christian— your good Father Pieter, he is a trump!"

"Yes!" answered Shenstone with emotion. "He is what Schouten called him: God's good man!"

For a moment all three men were silent; then Shenstone turned to his friend.

"Your turn, Jeff. Remember, I know nothing of what followed my arrest except that I was condemned to St Laurent and what I have learned from Schouten... I should like to know how you got trace of me."

Torrance explained how he had received a letter from Lisbeth Schouten. and told of his visit to the Ziegelstraat with its tragic end for the girl; and as he reached that point was interrupted.

"And Schouten does not know!... He thinks he will find his sister there to open the door when be goes to seek van Slyck. But perhaps he will get the news before he pays his call. I hope to heaven he does!... But continue." Two minutes later he was interrupted again by a snapping question.

"You say you saw Spencer Dashwood? I did not know you were acquainted with him."

"Nor was I," answered Torrance a little uncomfortable at the question which he saw was looming ahead. "I was introduced to him in the Maas Hotel."

"By whom?"

Short of a lie, there was no escape, and, sooner or later, Shenstone must be told. Torrance recognised that, and rode straight at the fence.

"By Freda Wynne. She was there with her aunt―"

"...And Spencer.... Why? It is not a combination I should have looked for."

Torrance had no choice, and he answered tersely, "Your cousin was to show Freda your grave that she might be convinced of your death.... He, as I told you, had identified that unknown man as you, and was responsible for the burial in your name. There is a head-stone, I believe "

"Some day I shall go and see it," Shenstone laughed harshly, then demanded quickly. "Freda was to be convinced of my death as a preliminary to marriage with Spencer, I suppose?"

"Something of that kind, I believe," answered Torrance. "I fancy there was some sort of pressure bring used—"

"There would be, since my cousin had stepped into my shoes. He always wanted Freda; and there are always women who will sacrifice their relations on the social altar."

He paused, and then added, "It is time I was in England... Mrs Wynne is a Christian, but her sister would wear down the heart of a rock, let I alone that of a generous-natured girl like Freda.... But continue.... How did you chance to come here to Tai Ling's? You could I not know that I should be here."

"Meeting you is a piece of glorious luck.... We wanted news of you— so Jules and, after being certain you had really broken free, went straight to Cayenne. From there we went to St. Laurent, and interviewed the warder whose name Schouten had sent to his sister as a likely man to help him and you. He was not difficult to bribe and he gave us quite a lot of information. Pascaud, who it appears had confided to a friend his purpose of arranging an escape and thwarting to it with a couple of bullets, had died of a broken neck—"

"Red Jacques did that. He was desperate and the blow was a terrific one... I think I he saved the lives of both Schouten and myself.... Pascaud meant to have us and we were at his mercy."

"There was news that you and Schouten to had made for the forest together. There was other information about that canoe you filched, to which was found drifting in the estuary on the Dutch side—"

"Ah! Father Pieter thinks of everything. We left it in the swamps. He must have remembered it, and set it adrift."

Torrance nodded, and continued, "Schouten being Dutch, it was a fair presumption that he would make for the Dutch colony in the hope of finding help, for both you and himself. We thought, as there was no news of you having been recaptured that you might still be in the forest on this side the Maroni, and we got Tai Ling's name from the soldier as one who was known to one or two of the guards as a man who belonged secretly to the Brotherhood of the Coast which appears to be a regular organisation for getting men free of the prison―"

"Yes. I had heard of it."

"There was another consideration which moved us to seek out Tai Ling. His business with the interior is considerable. He has agents right up the Maroni and the Nickeri Rivers, and in the interior. If you were abroad in the colony there was more than a possibility that he might have the news. So we came up here to consult him with the idea of persuading him to help—"

"And he told you he already had us. We heard him.  It was that— or his misinterpretation of it— which foully sent Schouten off at the deep end... I hope no harm comes to him. He was an innocent agent in my affair, and van Slyck put it across him as he did with me.... I should not like him to be sent back to St. Laurent. It would probably mean the guillotine for him... We must do something."

"Tai Ling has already  gone to look for Schouten," said Fanchon. "He will know every corner of the town, and no doubt will have sources of information which we cannot tap. It will be wise to wait for his return. Possibly he will bring the Dutchman with him."

"Yes," agreed Torrance. "If we go wandering round asking questions, we shall merely make people inquisitive, probably arouse suspicion. We must leave the matter in Tai Lings hands, I think."

Even Shenstone, anxious as he was for the man who had been his companion in misfortune, was forced to agree, and waited with impatience for Chinaman's return. That was long delayed; and when he came he was alone.

"I have no word of your friend," he said apologetically to Shenstone, "but I may have news in the morning. No doubt for the present he is hiding like a rat in his hole. Or he may have found a friend among his countrymen here."

"What about Captain Marck?" enquired Torrance suddenly. "Schouten knew that the passage to Rotterdam was arranged. He may have gone to the ship."

Tai Ling struck his chest and swore in Dutch. "Gott in Hemel! That is a possibility, honourable sir. I will talk with Captain Marck, at once."

He departed forthwith, leaving the three to their consultations. Half an hour passed before he returned, and when he came the information he brought was nebulous.

"The honourable Kapitein takes oath that he has not seen the man; but he insists that since the passage has been booked, he must the money retain. It is nothing to him, he says, if the man does not take the berth retained for him. He is, pardon me, honourable sirs, a man to make the hard bargain. I have had dealings with him often, and he is one to gather the guldens."

"Regular Shylock, hey?" asked Torrance. "Do you believe him, Tai Ling?"

The Chinaman made a gesture of disbelief and shook his head.

"No," he said thoughtfully. "When I ask him if his countryman had boarded the vessel he laugh. 'Donder!' he cried. 'No! Tomorrow is the day, and I will not have him or the other one until we are ready to cast off!' But all the time he laugh as at a secret jest; and I think he is not so ignorant of that one, his countryman, as he pretends. He found something that amused him in the situation."

"The money paid for the passage," suggested Fanchon. "He was, as my friend Torrance would say, in the pocket; and as a driver of bargains was pleased."

Tai Ling acquiesced.

"To the covetous money is happiness.... But there is more than that.... Kapitein Marck was amused. Like a man who has a secret jest. I watched whilst we conversed, and there is something that he knows, but will not tell."

"You don't think that he knows Schouten's whereabouts, and means to betray him to the authorities here?"

Tai Lang shook his head. "No," he said emphatically. "That is not the Kapitein's way. He worships the gulden, but he is faithful to the man who pays."

"Father Pieter said as much," remarked Shenstone. "Marck, he declared, was an avaricious man, but one to be trusted."

"An odd combination," remarked Torrance; then turned to the Chinaman: "But if he knows where Schouten is hiding there is no reason why be should not tell you, Mr Ling."

"There is the reason that he does, not make known— the one which moves him to laughter. As I told you, he has his little jest. But now I am not afraid that the one who ran away will fall into, trouble... I think he has found refuge."

"On the Saint Bavon, I'll wager," exclaimed Torrance, and Tai Ling smiled a little inscrutably.

"And I will not take the wager, for Kapitein Marck laughs as he would not laugh if his countryman were in danger―"

"Then, Shenstone, it is no use worrying over Schouten. If he's safe, he's safe, and there's an end of it," remarked Torrance. "And, since you're booked as a passenger on Marck's vessel,  and as we must keep in touch, I think we will  persuade him to take us along as well.... Do you think Marck will make any difficulty, Mr Ling?"

Tai Ling laughed. "Not if you go with money in the hand."

"As we shall," laughed Torrance, and turned to Fanchon. "We might see the man at once, Jules, and get the matter fixed. We don't want to be stuck here, or have to go down to Cayenne or up to Georgetown to get a passage to Europe."

"At once, my friend," answered Fanchon.

Torrance rose. "Well leave you here with Ling, Basil. He knows the ropes. If there's any sort of trouble he will know what to do—"

"There will be no trouble" said Tai Ling confidently. "And even if an officer should come, he will not find your friend. There is a way―" He broke off and laughed. "The Dutch are very simple. Have no fear for the honourable gentleman's safety... I shall guard him as my own father.... But it will be wise not to return until morning. Then you come to see me on business, you know, and no one will mark the visit at all, or think it strange, as at this hour they might."

"I understand," said Torrance. "So long, Basil, old man. We shall see you in the morning."

He went out with Fanchon, and together they sought Captain Marck, master of the Saint Bavon. The coolies were still working, and a Dutch mate, who was in charge, directed them to the cabin, where they found the avaricious mariner indulging in gin. At first he was stand-offish, but when he heard the purpose of their visit, he found dean glasses and pushed the stone bottle towards them.

"You will help yourself, mynheer," he said to Torrance, "also your friend. In this rotten climate, it pays to oil the wheels." Possibly because lubrication pays, there was no sign of the captain's reputed avarice until the question of the passage was fairly broached. Then a covetous gleam came in his blue eyes, whilst his voice took a doubtful note. "

"The Saint Bavon is not a passenger packet," he said. "And the only spare cabin is already engaged "

"Yes! By a friend of ours."

"Lieve Hemel!" cried Marck. "You are the friends of those two runaways."

"Of one of them," answered Torrance smilingly.

"Which, mynheer, which?" with an anxiety that the question scarcely seemed to warrant.

"The Englishman."

Captain Marck 's stout face at once indicated relief. He laughed cheerfully.

"I thought it might have been the other one."

"Ah!" said Torrance. "You know where he is?"

"I know what I know, and I'm saying no more, except that you've no need to worry over the man.... You can leave him to me." The mariner laughed again. "Everything's arranged there. But about you two... I'd have to ask the mate to give up his cabin, and that will cost you a whole handful of gulden, in addition to the usual rate. The mate being a thrifty fellow, and a stickler for his rights."

Torrance, who had seen the mate, doubted both assertions, but did not say so. Here was the Captain's own trait asserting itself, and it was to be met in the gate.

"We should be prepared to, make reasonable compensation for disturbing him―" he began.

"How much?" interjected the mariner, like a dog snapping at a bone.

"Oh, say, fifty gulden."

"Neen!  A hundred!" answered Marck, the gleam of covetousness in his eyes. Torrance, who would have paid twice the sum, shook his head stubbornly.

"Seventy-five, if you like, Captain. That's the limit."

"Eighty," urged the Captain. "Mate will have to go in the bath room―"

"No need!" laughed Torrance. "My friend and I could manage very well there, and save―"

"I wouldn't hear of it," said Captain Marck, vigorously. "Passengers are passengers, and have a right to such comfort as there is.... But eighty is fair compensation—"

"Then eighty let it be!" answered Torrance, and the bargain was clinched.

"You'll come aboard tomorrow, gentlemen, and leave your friend to Tai Ling. He knows what to do, and there are always sharp eyes about looking for what isn't their business."

"About the Dutchman—" began Torrance. Captain Marck waved the question aside with a fat hand. Then he grinned amiably. "You ask no questions, and I'll make a bargain to show you him when he goes ashore at Rotterdam. But not before, mind you. Not one minute before! I'll keep the contract to deliver him in the Netherlands... You'll see, you'll see, mynheer."

And Torrance did see, in company with Jules and Shenstone. For almost a fortnight later, when the Saint Bavon dropped anchor in the Maas, and the port officers and customs had paid official visits, and departed, Captain Marck kept his word.

"Before you go ashore, Mynheer Torrance, there's a thing I promised you. But you'll have to wait till the dark comes. Half an hour yet. Time for a cigar and schnapps, then I'll run you to the quay myself."

All three waited curiously. Then with the lights on the quay kindled, and the lamps in the rigging lighting the steamer's deck, he took them on deck.

"Keep your eyes on the forecastle companion," he said with a chuckle. There was a lantern near, so hung that anyone coming from the forecastle could be seen quite clearly. Three minutes passed, then the light gleamed on a pair of eyes set in a dusky face. A tall man, clad in grimy dungarees, made the deck, stood for one second looking about him, and then crept to the side. A second later there was a splash as he plunged in the river.

Captain Marck chuckled.

"Schouten! Going ashore. He came aboard that night, desperate as a wolf. He wanted to work his passage, and, having his description from the port authorities, I knew him in spite of his black face. Being a hand short in the stokehold, I let him―"

"But you knew his passage was paid."

"Of course. Cash down in a shady transaction is a sensible man's rule. But there's reason on my side. Schouten isn't in the same class as you gentlemen. Father Pieter passed the word that there was a difference between the two runaways to Tai Lang; and I'm not one to set a criminal to eat with honest men. But I kept my word to bring him to Rotterdam―"

"My God! Yes!" cried Torrance tensely, staring across the dark water. "Get your launch! Put us ashore as fast as you know how, or there'll be murder done."

"Murder!"

"Just that! When Schouten came to you he was desperate as a wolf, you said. Now he's a wolf let loose on the blood trail.... Get the launch! Sharp. Damn you! I know where he is going... We must get ahead of him or—"

Captain Marck's whistle cut on the words, and two minutes later all four were in the launch running for the quayside.

Chapter 15

At Waterloo

NEAR the quay they found a taxi-cab and, leaving Captain Marck to his reflections, the three friends entered it.

"The Ziegelstraat," said Torrance to he driver. "The western end. As quick as you can."

As they moved off, Jules Fanchon spoke.

"But I do not comprehend, my friend Jeff. Why should we disturb ourselves because Schouten means to kill van Slyck? The man is a rascal who deserves to die. He will be no loss to his nation— nor to any other, as I see it―"

"He is necessary for Basil's complete vindication. It is better that he suffers at the hands of the law than as the victim of a man avenging himself. But there is also the matter of the Princess Anna's necklet―"

"But the man has lost that, we know, my friend. He suspects you of having robbed him of it."

"He may have found that he is mistaken; and by this time have suspicions of another thief... I have a desire to see the Princess wearing her pearls."

"But if van Slyck has failed to recover them, my friend?"

"I hope that he has not failed. As a receiver in a large way, he is bound to have heard of them if they have been offered on the .underground market, and. if I know him, he will have spared no pains to recover them."

"And if he has retrieved them―"

"Well, you heard Basil's story. Schouten has the necklace in mind. He means to annex it; and if he gets away with it, the Princess Anna will 'never see it again."

"You assume too much, my friend. The man who took those pearls would not wait for van Slyck to get on his track. Nor would he offer the necklace in any market where the other was bound to hear of it... He would remove himself and the necklace to America or India, where there are rich men still, with money to purchase so great a treasure.... But we shall see!"

The taxi-driver did his best; and in a remarkably short time they reached the Ziegelstraat There they left the taxi, and followed the street on foot. It was as deserted as it had been on the night when Torrance had kept the appointment with the unfortunate Lisbeth— not even a watchman going the rounds in sight When they reached the alley leading to the boat stairs on the canal they halted to listen. The alley was silent as the tomb, and no light showed in any window.

"We're ahead of Schouten," said Torrance. "But seemingly van Slyck is not at home... We will, however make sure."

He led the way down the alley to the door with the grille. Pausing there, he glanced upward. The window of van Slyck's apartment looking on the alley was dark, and no light showed at the transom of the door opening on the stairs.

"We are out of luck." he whispered. "But it is as well to be certain."

He hammered on the door, and scarcely had he done so, when out of the shadows emerged a man, who flashed a torch in their faces, blindingly. Torrance, with a remembrance of past experience, whispered quickly:

"Watchman!... May get news from him."

A second later he spoke to the man. "This is Mynheer van Slyck's house, is it not?"

The watchman apparently reassured as to the character of the three strangers, answered civilly:

"Yes, mynheer; but he is not here at present"

"Ah! You mean he is away from home, travelling or visiting somewhere?"

"Yes, mynheer. I have special instructions to watch the apartment. Mynheer van Slyck had business in London; and there is no one here."

"Then we have wasted time!"

Torrance considered; then said tentatively, "Mynheer van Slyck is perhaps a good friend of yours?"

"Not so good a friend as some," answered the watchman "There are more generous ones."

"Many rich men are mean," answered Torrance, with a laugh. "That is how some of them grow rich, by taking care of the cents. But a man ought to pay for service rendered. And I shall be willing to do if you will help me."

"If you will explain, mynheer, I shall be ready."

"It is a simple thing. I want to see Mynheer van Slyck at the earliest moment. Tomorrow I myself go to London, and I may have the luck to meet him there. But should miss him and he returns here, I shall not know for a few days."

"If you were to leave your name, mynheer, I could inform Mynheer van Slyck—"

"No: no! That would not do at all," Torrance laughed easily. "As an old friend whom he has not seen for years, I wish to surprise him. If a telegram were sent to me―"

"That could be arranged, mynheer," replied the man quickly.

"Good! If you will hold your lamp that I may see I will write the address."

The watchman obliged and Torrance, writing an address on the back of a card, handed it to the man. Then he produced a couple of ten gulden pieces.

"I am a trusting man," he laughed. "I pay for the service before it is rendered. If you fail me―"

"I shall not, mynheer. I am an honest man."

"I hope so. And honesty will be further rewarded when I pay my call on my friend Dirck.... You understand. I shall get your name from him―"

"You can have it from me, mynheer. It is Jan Wessels, if you will write it in your little book."

Torrance wrote as requested.

"And the address?" The address was also written in the book, and then Torrance laughed once more.

"The secret is between us. My friend Dirck is not to hear or our pleasant surprise will be like a burst balloon, you understand, Wessels?"

"Quite, mynheer. That is all right Now I think—" He broke off, at a sound which came from the canal-end of the alley.

"What is that?"

"Someone arrives at the stairs," said the watchman quickly. "And that is strange at this hour. I must learn who comes."

"Do!" answered Torrance. "We will wait for you."

The watchman with his lamp extinguished, moved towards the stairs. As he did so Jules Fanchon whispered laughingly. "I will wager a hundred francs that the newcomer is Schouten."

Neither Torrance nor his friend took the offer. All three waited, listening. Then they heard the watchman challenge. His light beamed suddenly in the night, and almost immediately there was the sharp rattle of rowlocks. The watchman shouted again. The sound of oars grew fainter, and after a few minutes the man returned.

"A thief, I will warrant," he said. "They are worse than the rats. And that one was a man of colour. I must be going... Having been scared from here, he may try further up.... But I shall not fail you, mynheer "

"You will be the richer for remembering, watchman," laughed Torrance, and led the way out of the alley. Not until they were well out of hearing did any of them speak. Then Shenstone said quietly,  "A man of colour. That would be Schouten."

"Yes," chuckled Fanchon. "I should have won my wager. But if the watchman is right, and mark you, that is not certain, van Slyck is out of harm's way in London. That one can do nothing until he returns."

"And before then Schouten may have learned the truth about Lisbeth." commented Torrance. "I would not give a shilling for van Slyck's chance of life."

"He will know Schouten is free." said Fanchon. "He will perhaps be on his guard. Maybe, he will strike first... It is perhaps because he knows that Schouten is at large that he has gone to take the air in England."

"Possibly! If we should meet him there―" began Shenstone.

"What can you do?" interrupted Fanchon. "He has broken none of your English laws, so far as we know. He is a spy of spies! Yes! But pouf! In England that is nothing unless he is taken in the act. In France it is otherwise. We should take him on suspicion, and not wait until he steals the horse. He is a receiver of stolen jewels— we know that he had the Princess Anna's pearls— but that was not in England. No!... So the most that your police will do will be to send him back to Rotterdam as an undesirable alien."

"And Schouten will be here, a raging wolf," commented Torrance.

"You trust the watchman?" asked the Frenchman "You think he believed that, pardon me. this story of a friendly surprise you had planned?"

"I trust his love for gulden," laughed Torrance.

"And you gave him your card, my friend. That was not discreet. If he thinks that van Slyck might forget his stinginess and pay for the information―"

"Van Slyck will learn little. The card was that of the Jewish gentleman who dealt in Guiana diamonds who called on us at the hotel in Cayenne―"

"Good ! That will set him thinking hard!... But the pencilled name, my friend, and the address to which the watchman was to send the telegram that will give the matter away. When he reads your name―"

"He won't He will read the name of the porter at my club."

"Heavens! ' Fanchon laughed. "He will still . be puzzled. I congratulate you, Jeff. There is however a possibility that van Slyck is not in London at all Such men as he do not proclaim their movements unless they wish to deceive... We know he was in Paris, and he may have returned there. If so. I shall find out: and I think when I have driven the truth home to my department it will gather that big Dutchman and send him to fill our friend Shenstone's vacant dungeon at St Laurent."

"That would be poetic judgment!"

"More so than Schouten's knife!" . . . But there is another whom 1 should like to snatch; and that is the one whom we thought we had when we sent our friend here to Cayenne. That Dashwood is as bad as van Slyck himself."

"You may leave him to me." said Shenstone quickly. "I shall know how to deal with him."

"You will send him to your Dartmoor, hey?"

"Once he has seen me, I don't think he will wait for that!"

"No!" laughed Fanchon. "He will cry avaunt! and flee from the spirit of the man whom he swore was dead. My friend, I envy you that dramatic moment Almost I am tempted to go with you, to see the villain, and to say, "Monsieur, I have a friendly ghost waiting outside the door there I am sure you would like to make his acquaintance— then the door would open— Mon Dieu! The climax!. I think Paris can wait... one day two. or three. If it is permitted, I will accompany you. Yes! I would not miss it to be made President of the Republic.... The three of us! That Dashwood will think that all the Fates are knocking on his door at once."

"There will be four of us, when we call on Cousin Spencer." said Basil Shenstone a little grimly, "and the fourth will be an unprejudiced witness."

The fourth was a dry old family lawyer, who. two mornings later, when Basil Shenstone walked into his office, stared at him as if he were indeed a man returned from the dead.

"You, Basil!" he said, after the first shock of amazement. "You— er— do not look well―"

"As well as a man may hope to look who has newly escaped from hell," replied Shenstone a little harshly. "

Um!... I... er... am not an orthodox believer, Basil. I dropped Hell out of my creed in my early years at Oxford."

"You can re-insert it under the name of St Laurent. Mr Charteris. You will be quite safe in doing so."

"I do not remember—" began Mr Charteris.

"—Cayenne, Devil's Island, St. Laurent and a seven-fold hot spot known as Charvin, they are all parts of an infernal region."

"Ah!" said the lawyer. You have been there? Now I understand.... But how on earth did your cousin Spencer make the mistake of identifying that man murdered in Rotterdam―"

"It wasn't a mistake." said Shenstone grimly. "It was part of a plan, of which St. Laurent was another part. I know it, and others know it, Mr Charteris."

"H'm!" The lawyer took up a paper knife considered it critically for a moment, as if he were interested in its chased blade, then he asked quietly.

"You are quite sure of this, Basil?"

"Quite!"

"Then Spencer Dashwood is the scoundrel I always thought he was.... And I am due to dine with him tonight!" He tapped papers in his desk with the paper knife.

"These are to be signed," he said, with a note of significance in his voice that did not escape his caller's ear. "Do you know what they are?"

"Documents relating to he estate." suggested Shenstone.

"In a way, yes... Marriage settlements, Basil."

"Ah! It has reached that stage? I can guess the lady's name."

"You can?  Well, that obviates the necessity for explanation . But Dashwood will never sign these documents now."

"No! Thank heaven! I am in time."

The lawyer glanced at him sharply.

"In time?" he said. "Yes. But even if they were signed, the settlements would be void in the circumstances."

"Possibly it is the lady of whom I am thinking. If she were married to Spencer―"

"The marriage is fixed for today fortnight."

Basil Shenstone laughed oddly. "That is a whole eternity away.... How long does it take to procure a marriage licence, Mr Charteris?"

"For a special licence, a day will suffice," answered the lawyer.

"Then the day after tomorrow I hope to be married."

"The deuce!" cried the lawyer.

"To the lady whose name is in those documents."

"My dear Basil!" The lawyer was almost breathless. "I do not understand.... You think the lady will so swiftly transfer her affection―"

"I think there will be no need for that, when Freda knows that I do not lie in that grave which Spencer showed her in Rotterdam. But we shall see!" Mr Charteris found his breath , again, and pot' "'it firm ground.

"The legal position—"

"Is for you to deal with, Mr Charteris.

When Spencer Dashwood and I have had our little interview I imagine there will be no difficulty on his part... We can talk over that later. Just now I am pressed for time. I have much to do, and we must arrange about tonight. Where are you to meet my cousin?"

"At his flat in Dunster Mansions— one of those transformed palaces that are the monuments of the passing of ancient families and the homes of the newly rich. It is the last word in the way of sumptuous apartments—"

"I know the place. The scaffolding was still up when I departed for Cayenne... And the hour you are to dine, Mr Charteris?"

"Eight o'clock!... But you have already spoiled my meal."

"Sorry for that, sir... I will make atonement in due time. But if you will fall in with my arrangements—"

"I shall be glad to hear them," answered the lawyer, "and if I can decently do so to further them.... You have no idea what an overbearing cub your cousin can be when he is discussing affairs. Tell me your idea."

Shenstone gave him particulars, and Mr Charteris smiled a little grimly.

"Of course," he said. "I win play my part. The affair will be some compensation for my spoiled dinner... At quarter to nine, I shall expect the signal. And after Basil, what do you think that he will do?

"He would shoot himself if he had any rags of decency left. But he hasn't, and he will run for it. and team up with his old shady partners again if I know him."

"He has drawn fairly liberally, on the estate. I was compelled to put the brake on a month ago— pleading the last instalment of the death duties, by way of excuse; but I have no doubt he will have means to take him to Paris."

"That will be sufficient. If he goes there I have no doubt that in a short time he will be travelling further at the expense of the French authorities.... But now I must go... I have as I told you quite a lot to do; and in twenty minutes I have an appointment with my chief at the Foreign Office... When that is over I am driving down to Warborough."

"Ah!... Miss Wynne knows?"

"No!... But the news of my resurrection will be broken gently by a friend."

"I wish you joy, Basil."

"Thank you. Mr Charteris.... Till tonight."

Basil Shenstone took his leave, and an hour and a half later having had an interview with his chief, which the latter found more than interesting; he drove down to Warborough with Jeff Torrance, leading Fanchon to interest himself in Town in his own way. When they arrived at the Oxfordshire village, Torrance drove on a little way; and pulled up at the gate of a small Georgian house, the front of which was hidden by trees.

"You wait here, Basil. When I have broken the news your moment will come."

He left the saloon, passed the gate, and following a curving approach came a little unexpectedly upon a lawn, where a young lady was seated in a rustic chair, lost as it seemed in rather melancholy reverie. The lady was Freda Wynne and, as, blessing his stars for the opportune meeting, Torrance began to cross the lawn, she looked up, and recognising him, promptly rose and hurried to meet him.

"Jeff!" she said a little breathlessly, her face very pale, her eyes burning. "Jeff, why have you come?"

"Well." he answered a little evasively, for even good news may be a shock. "I heard you were to be married shortly, and I remembered that you gave me a promise to take no decisive step—"

"Oh!" broke in the girl, hopelessly. "What is the use?... I saw Basil's grave. There is something very convincing about a tombstone... And as I told you there were reasons why— why— I should accept Spencer's offer."

She looked round end waved her hand —"This, all of it, must go if 1 don't. My mother's fortune and my aunt's have vanished in the slump.... And Spencer is generous. He offers—" She broke off and shrugged her shoulders. "There's the whole story, with Basil gone, nothing else matters, and as I did not hear from you―"

"I was to blame there. But I went abroad almost immediately. I ought to have sent you — er— the news."

"News!" The girl cried tensely, whilst again her eyes burned.

"There is news!"

"The best," he answered. "Basil had been unfortunate. He was a prisoner in Cayenne―"

"Dear God! He is alive?"

"He is here! Waiting for you at the gates, where―"

Torrance got no farther. Freda Wynne was already running like a deer across the lawn, and he forbore to follow. Smiling to himself he felt for his cigarette-case, took out a cigarette and was in the act of lighting it, when from the door of the house two ladies emerged and began to make a bee-line towards himself. The leading lady he recognised instantly for the one to whom he had been introduced at the Maas Hotel.

"Aunt Norman!" he murmured. "A dragon breathing fire... Well, there's a quencher waiting."

His glance went to the other lady, who had nothing of the aggressiveness of Miss Norman, and he guessed that the must be Freda's mother, and much under the sway of her younger sister. As they drew near, he raised his hat politely.

"Good afternoon, Miss Norman."

The lady adjusted her horn-rimmed glasses and began frostily: "I am afraid we are unacquainted "

"A mistake," he said genially. "Your niece introduced us in Rotterdam a month ago―"

"Ah! I remember Mr Dorrance."

"Torrance, Miss Norman— with a T."

"Well, Mr Torrance―" the lady broke off and looked round. "What were you saying to my niece just now to set her running like a hoyden "

"Oh," he interrupted, still genially. "I told her that Basil Shenstone was waiting at the gate."

"Basil Shenstone? Stuff and nonsense... He is dead." cried the lady, scornfully.

"Well!" He looked round at the sound of voices. Shenstone, with his arm round the girl, was just stepping off the gravel to the lawn. "If you are acquainted with Basil, you will perhaps believe your eyes "

"It is he!" cried the other lady. "Oh, thank God!... Now Freda may be happy. I thank you, sir, for bringing―" She broke off and began to run towards her daughter, whilst Miss Norman glared incredulously.

"But that grave which Spencer showed us?" she said harshly. "The man whom he identified?"

Torrance, who did not like the lady, laughed a little grimly.

"Ask Spencer, if ever you see him again. He knows what others only suspect. His explanation, if truthful, should be interesting, even more so than Shenstone."

He left the lady still staring, and as he met the trio moving up the lawn, he laughed cheerfully at Freda, who was tearful and happy.

"I hope that you believe in this resurrection, Miss Freda; your aunt still doubts."

The girl clutched his arm. "You will come to the house, Jeff. You will tell us how―"

"No! No! I'll leave that to Basil. Another time I'll supply the footnotes. Now I must get back to town. See you later, Basil. Seven, at the hotel. Don't forget."

He went his way, and as he took the London Road, before him saw a girl's eyes, tearful and radiant with happiness; but presently he visioned another pair of eyes, blue as the sea, with a sparkle of gaiety that was an effulgence of the spirit, and he murmured to himself:

"I must send a telegram.. She will be waiting to hear."

He stopped at the very next post office to send the telegram to the Princess Anna at the Cafe Moscov, then continued on his way to London. At the hotel he found Fanchon bubbling with excitement.

"You have three guesses, my friend. Tell me whom I have seen in this beehive of a city?"

"No, Jules," Torrance laughed. "We will not waste time "

Fanchon looked at the hotel clock.

"We have got a whole hour, before I take you to see the lady."

"Lady?"

"The little Mina," answered Fanchon, quickly.

"Alone?"

"So she thought. But it was a mistake."

"You mean there was a watcher?"

"Two. The gentlemen with the moustaches like bayonets, and the man Jacques, who was with her when she made her little love-call at my apartments."

"Phew! And she does not know?"

"She does not appear to know. But one cannot tell with such as Mina. She may see whilst the wears the look of the blind.... But those two are watching her hotel— a poor place— off the Euston Road— at this moment, will know."

"And you have an appointment with her?"

"No! No! We go to watch an appointment that the has made for five o'clock."

"With whom, Jules?"

"With a certain gentleman at Dunster Mansions."

"Ah!"

"You comprehend? Then I will explain, my old one. When you went away with Shenstone, I had the idea that I would take a view of the fine place where we go tonight So I took an omnibus, and was set down almost at the door, but not quite. As I stepped on the pavement, I saw the little Mina entering the palace-like door; and a moment later I beheld Jacques and Wiederman reading the names which are in brass at the fine entrance. Then those two went hack a little way, to wait; and, to avoid their observation, I took one of your Belisha crossings to the other ride of the street, where there is a station of the Underground. Watching four minutes, I saw Mina van der Werf emerge from that fine place, and take the crossing to the station, with those scoundrels following. I was at pains to avoid being seen; and so we all went to the platform together, a little behind each other; and presently we take the train to Euston, where the little Mina descended, and went to her hotel; those others following, and myself following all three. When I had semi them all safely bestowed, Mina in her hotel, and the others one at each end of the street, I returned to the underground and went back to Dunster Mansions. There on those brazen tablets I read the name of Spencer Dashwood; and asked the man in the fine uniform who watched the hall where I might find our Basil's cousin.... It appeared that Mr Dashwood was out. The uniformed one was desolated to tell me that; but there was no help for it; and as I was even more desolated than he was by the news, I remembered suddenly that I might leave a message.... The concierge— or whatever you call him— was sweet reasonableness itself. He produced a pad of paper and a pencil. The paper was thin, and the message of a previous caller had left a readable impression, which I read. It was signed Mina. and it made an appointment for five o'clock— very urgent. Having read, I wrote a nonsense message in Dutch and signed it with an Italian name, and returned here in the hope that I might find you...I have the good fortune, and presently we will go once more to the underground near Dunster Mansions, and see what is to be seen. We may learn that which will be helpful, yes."

Torrance, not particularly attracted by the notion of spying on the girl, but anxious to know if the two men who were following her were still so engaged, permitted the other to have his way. Ten minutes before the appointed time, the pair were watching the fine entrance of Dunster Mansions, from across the street, when a fine saloon drew up by the kerb. An elegantly attired man stepped out, gave some directions to the chauffeur, and entered the mansions.

"Dashwood!" said Torrance, laconically. "And there is the little Mina," added

Fanchon, as the girl, slipping from the stream of passers-by, followed Dashwood into the building, swinging a lady's satchel as she mounted the steps. Torrance noted the last fact, because, whilst handbags are usually provided with a strap or handle, custom and fashion decrees that the handle shall not be used. Then he asked a question:

"But where are Jacques and Karl?"

The precious pair were not to be seen anywhere; and Fanchon chuckled.

"Mina has cheated them... She must have known they were watching her. But what urgent business has she with that rogue Dashwood, my Jeff? Tell me that, if you can."

Torrance made no attempt to do so. He watched the entrance to Dunster Mansions and its immediate neighbourhood closely; and at the end of ten minutes, saw the girl appear on the steps, her bag, as he noticed, now tucked tightly under her left arm, with her right hand gripping the end of it. It was as if the bag, previously carried in a way that was a temptation to any bag-snatcher, had taken on a value that made such careless usage inadvisable. An odd suspicion occurred to him, a suspicion which, fantastic as it was, he could not dismiss. It was, indeed, so ridiculous that he did not mention it to his friend, who shot a question:

"Why does the little one wait? One might think— Ah!" A taxi-cab with luggage on the roof had pulled in opposite the mansions. As it did so the girl left the steps and began to cross the pavement towards the cab, and in the same moment at the window of another cad, half a dozen yards behind the one which the girl was obviously making for, Torrance caught sight of a man's face.

"Wiederman!" he ejaculated. "In that second cab.... Quick, Jules." A little distance away there was a short taxi-rank in the middle of the street, with a couple of standing cabs. As the traffic was halted by a red signal at the corner Torrance made a dash for the rank, and swiftly explained his wishes to the first driver of the two.

"Those taxies over there.... I want you to follow them... You understand?"

"But if they go different ways—" began the man.

"They won't!... But if they should, follow the one with the baggage."

Two minutes later the standing traffic was released; and Torrance's driver quickly manoeuvred into position at the tail of the other two.

"Where are we going, my friend?" asked Fanchon.

"One of the railway termini, I fancy.... We shall see shortly."

A little while later he announced: "Waterloo."

"A name of ill-omen for one of my race," laughed Jules. "But when we arrive I want a word with Mina. So you, Jules, will distract the attention of Karl Wiederman. you understand."

"But if he will not be distracted―"

"Stuff!" laughed Torrance. "You must do it forcibly.... If necessary. I'll bail you out."

As Mina van der Werf descended from the taxi, having paid her man and given instructions to a porter, she looked quickly round. There were several taxies pulled up behind her own, but she saw nothing to disturb her, and after another word with the porter, she turned and moved to the platform. Then behind her there was the sound of a sharp altercation, which made her look swiftly round.

What she saw drove the blood from her dusky face. The moon-faced Karl, his face purple with rage, was being challenged by a lithe young man, who was shouting vociferously in French, while a policeman was already moving towards the pair. Then she drew breath. That Karl had followed her, she had no doubt, but she snatched at the moment's grace that was offered her, and began to hurry up the platform.

As she did so, Torrance stepped to her side.

"Nothing .to-be afraid of. Miss Mina," be said smilingly. "Karl, with your friend, Jacques, has been following you all the afternoon―"

"Hemel!" whispered the girl tragically, and looked as if she were going to faint, tottered, and dropped the tightly clutched hand-bag. Torrance retrieved it, and kept possession of it.

"Take toy arm," he said. "You want the boat train, I imagine."

The din of altercation behind grew more, pronounced. He looked over his shoulder. A little crowd had already gathered, and Jules and Wiederman . were swallowed up in it; though the helmets of two policemen were visible in the centre of the crowd. He laughed.

"You'll have time to tell me," he said. "My friend Jules will keep Karl engaged sufficiently long."

"To tell you―" began the girl.

"Why you went to see Spencer Dashwood this afternoon, and again just now?"

The dusky face expressed surprise. "But why should I tell―"

"If you would rather tell Karl Wiederman there is still time for that also." interrupted Torrance.

"Ach!" whispered the girl hoarsely. That!... you can guess why he and that Jacques follow me?... You will not allow him— No! For I shall tell you. I go to Mynheer Dashwood for money. I depart for New York tonight, and I am a little in need. Mynheer Dashwood is an old friend, also there are little things I know―"

"You did not go to receive from him the Romenev pearls?"

"Hemel! No!"

THE look on her face proclaimed the truth; and Torrance saw his fantastic ideal wilting like a tropic flower in an arctic blizzard. Nevertheless he was stubborn.

"You are sure?" he said, and deliberately set his thumb and finger on the catch of the bag.

"Oh!" the girl laughed almost hysterically. "You have my permission, mynheer."

Torrance availed himself of the permission, and opened the bag. It held nothing hut feminine nick-knacks, a handkerchief, some loose change, and, in the inner pocket, a little sheaf of notes held together by a rubber band — the spoil, gathered from Spencer Dashwood as he guessed. He closed the bag, and gave it back to her.

"You are disappointed, mynheer? she asked.

"Shockingly."

"And so you did not take those, pearls that night, as Dirck and the others believe?"

"I'd never heard of them at that time."

"And you thought that Dashwood might have them—"

"He was in Rotterdam that night."

"Gott! — you do not say. Now that is strange thing."

"Yes: and this afternoon when heard ot your urgent call on him and heard also that you were being followed―"

"Followed! Hemel! yes. Because, that Jacques he knows that I betrayed them to you that night in Paris... Because of that I go to New York... But about those pearls I have a fancy of. my own, which I will tell you when you have put me into the train, and detained that Karl till I depart."

Torrance looked back once more. Jules and Wiederman were now out of sight; and the roar of an engine blowing off steam drowned all other sounds. But from the absence of the usual station loungers at the far end of the platform, and the fact that many of the staff were staring towards the entrance, it was easy to deduce that Fanchon was still continuing his diverting tactics. Then he looked at the clock.

"We have four minutes." he said. "One to reach the train, and three in which you can tell me what you know "

"What I know is little,'' she said, when they had passed the barrier, with half a crown doing duty as a platform ticket for Torrance. "What I guess you shall hear, mynheer. That Dirck he is an odd man. He knows of so many safes that are opened that he does not trust even his own— which once a clever Spaniard unlocked without a key.... The richest things, as that necklace which I have not got; he does not put in the safe at all.... No! He has odd little hiding places. Places where a thief would not look at all And these are changed -frequently, so that when he has been at the schnapps he sometimes forgets. ... Now -I think he has forgotten once more "

"Why?"

"For the reason that on the night when you were at his apartment, Jacques told me that he did not go to the safe at all. He looked round the apartment and then he cried out and swore the necklace had been stolen. They turned the apartment upside down, you comprehend, but it was not found.... And since the dead Lisbeth had not it; and you did not take it, the hiding place of the necklace I think Dirck has forgotten."

To Torrance it sounded a fatuous explanation; but it was clear that in giving it the girl was quite sincere.

"But," he said as she prepared to step into a compartment, "you are forgetting that Spencer Dashwood was in Rotterdam that I night."

Mina van der Werf gave a little nod. "There is that, yes, and he is a cunning one though Dirck makes him pay, I have heard—"

"Blackmail?"

"If you like. A word is nothing... And Mynheer Dashwood may have thought to pay Dirck with his own coin—"

A guard came along shutting and locking the doors. The girl stepped back, then reappeared at the open window. "It would, be a droll thing that," she said smiling. "Almost as droll as your idea that I was taking them with me to New York." Then her face grew sober.

"If I had them, mynheer, I would throw them from the window— so," she illustrated, "for any beggar I to take. I would not hold them for twice their value."

She broke off. The guard's whistle was sounding, he was standing with his I green flag still lowered. "In a moment we I go. she said exultantly, "and that Karl―" There was a little commotion down the I platform. A porter with a man at his heels was running for the nearest compartment. The guard ran with them and unlocked the door. It crashed; and then Torrance was aware of the girl tearing, at the handle of her compartment.

"Open, mynheer!" she cried, hoarsely earnest. "Lieve Hemel! Open!"

Her dusky face was ashen grey. Her dark eyes were stark with terror, and clearly she had forgotten the door was locked.

Torrance could do nothing. The guard's green flag was waving. The train gave a little lurch as it began to move, and the girl was jerked backwards, falling sideways on the seat. In a twinkling she was up again, and at the window, revealing a tormented face. She cried something to him which was lost in the clatter of wheels, then the train slid on, leaving him wondering what had induced that frightful I spasm of pure terror.

Chapter 16

A Confrontation

HE was still wondering as he passed the barrier to the station hall. That the girl had seen someone, the sight of whom had thrown her into a panic seemed unquestionable; and from her urgent desire to leave her compartment it was an easy deduction that the person whom she feared was aboard the train.

He recalled the last minute passenger to whom he had given little attention. Was that the individual who had thrown Mina van der Werf into such apparently unreasonable terror? That was possible, but since he had not seen the mans face he could not be sure, and of one thing only was he certain, and that was that the man had not been Karl Wiederman. Of that he had certain proof a moment later when that tubby scoundrel passed him at a run, racing for the boat train platform, without sparing him so much as a glance.

He looked towards the entrance for Jules Fanchon, and was moved to sudden laughter as he saw him. The Frenchman was talking to one of the station policemen, gesticulating violently; whilst a little tail of onlookers followed them from the main hall, evidently in anticipation of further excitement. It did not seem quite the psychological moment to intervene; for Jules could easily have severed relations with the policeman had he wished; which apparently he had no desire to do.

Torrance, knowing his friend, kept on his way, and, as Jules, advanced, watched him closely. He was very voluble— in French, with which language, not being a graduate of the new police college, the officer was obviously not acquainted. Moreover, he appeared to hold so much unintelligible eloquence boring; for just as Fanchon, meeting his friend's gaze, gave him a sly wink, the officer halted, and tapped the Frenchman on the shoulder.

"You go home," he said, "and get someone to put an ice-pack on your nut, or you'll go clean balmy. An' thank your stars that you're well rid of that old girl of yours, for any skirt that would go off with that roly-poly, I pudding-faced Lothario you were complaining about isn't worth a sneeze.... Besides, a railway station isn't a laundry for dirty linen, as you're old enough to know. So just sling your hook, an drown your sorrows at the nearest pub."

"But the friend whom I meet," protested Jules. "I cannot him desert.... Tiens! there he is! The God be praised!" He broke off from the officer and, running to Torrance, I grasped him by both hands and kissed him on both cheeks, crying "Mon ami! Mon ami!"

Torrance submitted meekly, whilst the policeman laughed and addressed himself to a grinning porter:

"These foreigners are all cracked as old pots! Did y'ever see such slobberin'?"

Then be spoke to Torrance:

"Take the gent away. There's Lothario coming this way, an' if there's another scene like the last, I'll have to lock up your gent."

Torrance looked back over his shoulder. Wiederman was prancing towards them and, with Jules in the mood he was, there was a possibility of real trouble. He gripped his friend's arm firmly, and piloted him towards the exit, past a laughing group of onlookers. A taximan who had just got rid of his last fare looked inquiringly at Torrance, who nodded promptly, and within half a minute they were in the taxi, gliding down the slope.

With the door shut and the vehicle moving, Fanchon threw himself into a corner and yielded himself to uncontrollable mirth. It a was a full minute before he managed to gasp:

"You saw, my old one?... You heard? That Karl he was— what is the fine word?— I have it. He was flabbergasted."

"What happened" asked Torrance.

"Oh, when he descended I made the diversion you desired. I seized him by the lapel of his fine coat and I shouted, 'Thief! Thief!' in English that the fool officer who was near would hear and understand. He was very prompt that one, and he came to us at once. The crowd also came, and there was Karl in a ring from which be could not break away.

"I still called 'Thief!' and whilst you vanished with the little Mina, the officer demanded to know if I accused the man of stealing. "J'accuse!' I shouted. 'J'accuse!'

"But that was not sufficient The officer required to know what Karl had stolen; but there was a difficulty in making me understand, until a meddler who knew my native tongue, translated, the question for my understanding. Then I became more indignant

" 'My wife!' I shouted. The villain has stolen my wife.'

"At that the onlookers laughed, and the officer laughed also.

" 'Your wife!' he said contemptuously. 'If she has let this hogshead steal her, she's not worth making a song about. Besides, I'm not the Admiralty and Divorce Division; and a stolen wife doesn't come in my jurisdiction.'

"Yes," laughed Jules, "he used those very words; but I was not consoled, no, and I still protested and made the song, until I think you have had the time you need; whilst every moment I expected that policeman and his comrade who arrived to take me to the lockups, where I did not want to go. So I released Karl, and. shook my fist in his face, crying, 'Sacre. Go, you villain, before I slay you.'

"He was anxious to be gone, as you guess, and he ran like a hare—"

"I met him!"

"He was too late, my friend, hey? Do not say I released him too early."

"No! He was too late to interfere.... But there was another one, I think―"

"Jacques?"

"Maybe! I did not see him— or if I did, I failed to recognise him. But there was a man who caught the train at the very last tick; and in that moment Mina was taken by a paroxysm of fear. She would have left the train, but the guard had locked the door, and the train was moving before anything could be done."

"So! There is someone aboard the train of whom the little Mina is deadly afraid. Well, I do not weep. No, I remember my friend, Sebastien.... But tell me all."

He listened carefully whilst Torrance gave an account of his interview, and at the end spoke thoughtfully.

"That is an odd idea that van Slyck may have forgotten his own hiding place; and that the pearls are still in his apartment in Ziegelstraat. You think it possible?"

"Possible, yes; probable, no! Even drunk, Dirck van Slyck would not forget where he had hidden a great treasure."

"No! That is true There remains the other possibility. That Dashwood is a rascal, and is very likely a thief. He was hand and move with the blonde ruffian; and no doubt knew Dirck's trick of hiding things; and very possibly had the run of his apartment."

"But there's no evidence at all except hat he was in Rotterdam that night, and we have the explanation of his presence there."

"True!... But maybe tonight we may learn something when Dashwood is taken by the surprise of our friend's resurrection.... We shall see!... I live for that moment, my old one, and there are hours, to wait. Perdition! What a nuisance time can be!"

THAT EVENING, Mr Charteris, eating delicate food which seemed devoid of flavour, and watching the clock had a similar conviction. Tempus fugit! He thought ironically. What an old lie that was on occasion! Time crawled. It suffered surcease. Its moments became years, and for him, making small talk as best he could, and behaving as naturally as possible for a man waiting for a climacteric moment the time between eight o'clock and eight forty-five was a whole eternity.

Just as the gong of the fine clock on the mantelpiece chimed the third quarter, he lit a cigar, refused another glass of port and whilst he made some utterly inane remark, cocked his ears. There was a sound of foot-steps outside, and a second later a knock on the door.

"Yes!" cried his host. A man-servant appeared, his manner a little apologetic.

"There are three gentlemen who wish to see you, sir. I have told them that you are engaged, but they say their business is urgent and that they must see you, sir."

The lawyer, watching his host saw that he was a little disturbed by the unexpected callers, and the tone in which the man shot a question was a further indication of disquiet.

"What sort of gentlemen, Brierly?"

"Oh, er... pukka, I should say. sir."

"They gave their names?"

"No, sir. They preferred to be unannounced."

"Oui!" said a voice behind him. "And behold here are two who will introduce themselves. The third―" Jules Fanchon pushed by the man, followed by Torrance, and the Frenchman continued gaily. "But where is the third, my old one? He has vanished, and―"

Spencer Dashwood rose sharply, his face had a troubled look, and eyes showed disquiet. Nevertheless, he spoke as a man might in the face of an unwarrantable intrusion.

"What the devil is the meaning of this, Mr Torrance?" he demanded angrily. "And who is this fool you bring with you?"

"That fool," Torrance smiled grimly, "is Captain Jules Fanchon, of the French Intelligence Service. I imagine you must have heard of him—"

"Never! And I have no desire to make his acquaintance, or to further the thin one I have with you. So will you please remove yourselves or I shall send for the police."

"Diable!" cried Fanchon. "I would not do that... They might not go away so quickly as they will come."

The disquiet in Dashwood's eyes was accentuated. Plainly, he did not know what to make of the words, but that he was conscious of the covert threat in them was revealed by his mollifying answer. He looked at Torrance.

"Captain Torrance," he said, "perhaps you will explain. You, I imagine, have no desire to appear at Marlborough Street in the morning. But there are limits to impertinence, you know."

Torrance looked at the waiting man-servant a little significantly.

"Our business is of a rather private nature "

Spencer Dashwood took the hint, and spoke sharply to the man-servant.

"Go to the kitchen, Brierly. If I ring twice get a policeman at once. You understand?"

"Yes. sir."

"Then go. You may leave the door open."

The man disappeared, then Mr Charteris said quietly. "I think we might close the door now, Captain Torrance."

Spencer Dashwood. with a swift apprehension of the situation, swung round on him. "You are in this, Charteris?" he cried savagely.

"Solely as a spectator, I assure you, Mr Dashwood."

"But you know what is behind it?... Will you explain what it is all about?"

Before Mr Charteris could reply, there was a sharp threefold knock upon the door. Instantly the two callers turned towards it. The lawyer's gaze went expectantly in the same direction: and his host's disquieted eyes also stared at the door. For two seconds there was a dead silence: then Dashwood spoke harshly:

"Yes?" The response was another threefold knock, and Dashwood, with an oath, hurriedly crossed the room and flung the door wide. "What the blazes—"

The words broke off sharply. For a moment he stared wildly, and then staggered back as he cried in a strangled way:

"You... you―"

Basil Shenstone advanced into the room, and as he did so, Jules Fanchon's voice sounded on the tense silence:

"Enter the Ghost!"

"But no disembodied one," said Mr Charteris drily. "Mr Dashwood, I think we should like to hear your explanation. Close the door, Captain Torrance. Brierly may not be in his kitchen."

Torrance obliged and then, with the others, he stood waiting, watching the man who, fronted by a living accusation, was utterly dumb. For an appreciable time Dashwood remained quite still; his face ghastly, his eyes burning with mingled rage and fear; then he broke out savagely:

"A pretty piece de theatre!"

"An effective one, at any rate," commented the lawyer frostily. "We are waiting for your explanation, Mr Dashwood."

"You can wait till the cows come home, damn you!" cried Dashwood, his rage overmastering his fear. But Mr Charteris was not so easily dismissed as that. He smiled a little grimly.

"Captain Torrance," he said, "you are the nearest. Will you oblige me by ringing the bell— twice."

Torrance moved towards bell, and remembering his own instructions, Spencer Dashwood's fear surged in flood.

"Wait!" he cried hoarsely. "What is it you want to know?"

"Everything!" answered the lawyer tersely.

The other shuffled a little, then spoke savagely.

"Is there any need to prolong the agony?... You know everything, I guess."

"Sufficient I think, to send you to gaol for seven years, Mr Dashwood."

"But you won't do that?" cried Dashwood, half-assertively, half-pleadingly. "The scandal―"

"Would leave your cousin untouched," said Mr Charteris drily. "And in any case you have scarcely qualified for merciful treatment.... You were party to sending him to Cayenne."

"That was van Slyck!" broke in the accused man.

"You were as much involved. You were wanted by the French military authorities for spying; and you arranged that your delinquencies should be borne by your cousin, who—"

"Dirck, again."

"No! Both of you, acting in concert— van Slyck, that he might get rid of a man who was a danger to him, and you, that you might step into your cousin's shoes. It is no use to deny that. No one would believe you after that false identification in Rotterdam.... And that requires a little further elucidation. I wonder which of you provided that corpse which was fished from the Maas so opportunely―"

"I'd nothing to do with that, beyond the identification, I'll swear," cried Dashwood, a little frenziedly.

The lawyer looked sceptical, made a pyramid of his hands, and looked over it at his host then continued quietly: "There is that other affair in Paris— the murder of that faithful old Russian Dmitri in your cousin's rooms, and the disappearance of the Romenev pearls."

"I know nothing of that!" cried the other, hoarsely. "God Almighty! You're as good as charging me with murder!"

Mr Charteris was in no way moved by the protest. He nodded almost cheerfully.

"Suppose I am," he said. "In view of recent revelations, I do not feel that I am doing you any grave injustice."

"I tell you I know nothing about it!" answered Dashwood, wildly. "I was not in Paris at the time―"

"And I'll tell you, you were privy to the whole affair. It was all part and parcel of the precious scheme for getting rid of your cousin."

"I didn't know they meant to kill that old man―"

"But you knew of the necklace? You knew it was to be stolen?"

"And if I did? That doesn't make me the thief."

"I do not know the position in French law; but in the eyes of the law over here it makes you accessory, and an accessory, whether in theft or murder, ranks with the actual criminal in guilt."

"But I swear I hadn't a notion that―"

"Have you a notion where those pearls are now," broke in Torrance.

"No! Dirck had them. He was to share the proceeds when they had been disposed of safely. But I heard they had been stolen―"

"On a night when you were in Rotterdam," interrupted Torrance meaningly.

His intervention brought the information he was seeking. Dashwood stared at him with sincere amazement Then he laughed harshly.

"Hades! You give me credit for that?... I wouldn't be such a complete idiot as to touch that necklace. It's plain you don't know van Slyck. When he comes up with a thief he'll skin him alive."

The lawyer looked at Torrance, who, quite convinced that his suspicions had been groundless, nodded, and the lawyer resumed.

"You see the position, I am sure, Mr Dashwood. We will leave out the matter of those pearls and the murder of old Dmitri for the moment. There remain the questions of the false identification of your cousin, and of your assumption of the rights of the heir-at-law, when you knew the truth— both very dastardly actions, and on conviction, punishable by penal servitude; and, in view of everything, penalty would be imposed."

Spencer Dashwood shuffled uneasily, and looked towards the closed door. Torrance noted the action, and changed his position. The man whose mind he had read scowled, and again Mr Charteris spoke.

"You were to sign certain documents tonight―"

"Well, that's a washout, anyway," replied Dashwood, with a harsh laugh.

"As regards those particular documents, yes! But I have another document here that I shall ask you to sign. It has been rather hastily prepared, but it will, I think, meet the case."

He rose and crossed the room to where a small attaché-case rested on a bureau. Unlocking it, he took out a long envelope, and returned to the table.

"It is a wise thing to read all documents before signing, and we will wait until you have read this one. It should not take you long."

He took a folded sheet from the envelope and handed it to the other, who accepted it with a sneer. "A confession, I suppose?"

"You have discernment."

Dashwood began to read. Then his sallow face flushed, and he cried angrily: You want me to incriminate myself to the hilt I'm damned if I'll sign―"

"There is still the bell," answered Mr Charteris in a dry voice. "Two rings, you know, and Brierly will act. I am straining my legal conscience now; and once the policeman appears I shall allow my scruples to prevail."

"And if I sign, you'll leave me―"

"No! No!.. you will leave us; and this fine flat with all that it contains, which belongs rightfully to your cousin."

"But—" Dashwood exploded. "There are things, private papers―"

"I am sure of it," interrupted the lawyer imperturbably. "And they must remain. From all that I have heard of your activities, they should prove very revealing.... The utmost I can offer you is that Brierly shall pack a suitcase for you―"

"I'll see you—" The floodgates of passion gave way at last; and the man's vile soul revealed itself in a spate of vituperation that was shocking in its vulgarity, and frightful in its intensity. There was a complete unveiling of the corruptness that had been masked by the gentlemanly exterior. Torrance looked at the man in wonder; Jules Fanchon with the interest of a specialist in the underworld of Europe; the lawyer stared coldly, waiting for the man to exhaust himself, then, whilst the vileness was still in full spate, his cousin cried out:

"Ring the bell, Fanchon. We'll have no more of this."

The spate was checked in full flood. Dashwood became suddenly as dumb as he had been atrociously eloquent. Fanchon moved to the bell, but with his thumb on the button, looked at the lawyer for instructions. Mr Charteris' eye signalled him to wait. Then Dashwood spoke again...

"It's sheer blackmail!" he said in cringing protest.

"Possibly. I daresay you are an expert in that line of business.... The question is, will you sign? Yes or no?"

"When the devil drives—" The man laughed a little hysterically "Where's the pen?"

It was Torrance who obliged with a pen-pencil. Dashwood signed and threw down the pen. Mr Charteris took it up, wiped it with his napkin, then looked at Torrance.

"I have left space for two witnesses. You will oblige, Captain Torrance, and you Monsieur Fanchon?"

Both signed, and after waiting for the signatures to dry, the lawyer folded the document, replaced it in the envelope, and then gave warning. "This, as you had the discernment to see, Mr Dashwood, is a very incriminating document. It does not leave you a loophole. You may accept my assurances on that point... And I give you my solemn word that if after tonight I hear of your presence in Great Britain, I shall send the document to the authorities at New Scotland Yard. That is all!... Now, Monsieur Fanchon, one ring, and Brierly no doubt will appear without the police."

Fanchon pressed the button, and the men-servant duly appeared and, standing by the door, stared curiously from one to the other. Mr Charteris gave him his instructions.

"Brierly, Mr Dashwood is going away for a little time. How long will it take you to pack a week-end case?"

"Ten minutes, sir."

"Then do so. and tomorrow you can pack all his other clothing to wait his instructions for forwarding."

"Yes, sir." Brierly remained where he was standing for confirmation from his master, who suddenly broke out:

"Get busy, you fool!"

"Yes, sir."

The man withdrew hurriedly, leaving the door slightly ajar.

The five men in the room remained as they were in a strained silence. Then Jules Fanchon lit a cigarette.

"It is good for the nerves," he began, and broke off at a sound of movement on the landing.

"Someone has arrived." he said. "He is coming here."

There was no question of that. The newcomer, humming to himself, was almost at the door. In the three seconds that elapsed before the unseen visitor reached the door Torrance glanced quickly at Spencer Dashwood, and surprised a look of startled amazement on his face. The fellow knew who was coming, and found the call genuinely surprising.

"Who―" The question had scarcely time to take shape in Torrance's mind, when the door was kicked open and the caller stepped into the room. Then a sharp cry broke from Basil Shenstone:

"My God!.. Dirck van Slyck!"

Van Slyck it was. For two seconds he stood there staring at the five men in the room as if they hypnotised him. Then he also cried out: "Donder en bliksem! Shenstone!"

Jules Fanchon was the first to recover himself, but the big Dutchman was a good second. As the Frenchman launched himself across the intervening space, van Slyck's long leg shot out in a savage kick that was own brother to the one Torrance had suffered in that garret in Paris.

It stopped Fanchon as a battering-ram might have done, doubled him up and sent him squirming to the floor. Torrance leaped right over his fallen friend, but the door banged in his face, and by the time he had opened it, van Slyck had gone. Nevertheless, he ran out on the landing, collided heavily with Brierly emerging from a doorway with a suitcase, got tangled up with the latter, crashed, and by the time he had rolled over and regained his feet knew that any pursuit was vain.

Chapter 17

In Paris

"NAME... of... a name!" gasped Jules, as Torrance re-entered the room. "That one has— the kick— of— a camel!"

He was seated on the floor, a very sick look on his face, and Shenstone was hurrying to pour brandy from a decanter on the table. Spencer Dashwood stood at one side, a light that was not that of sympathy in his eyes; whilst the lawyer had risen from his chair, and for the first time that evening was showing signs of perturbation.

"He is a violent ruffian!" he commented, by way of answer to Jules's gasped words. "He ought to be gaoled for the rest of his life."

"He will be," said Torrance, "when he is caught, as some day he will be. with the goods on him. The sooner that happens the better for the world."

Shenstone carried the brandy to Jules, who sipped it slowly, offering remarks at intervals. "Some time I will teach that buffalo... yes! a kick that is not in his repertory.... One is not acquainted with Apaches for nothing. No!"

Presently he was assisted to a chair and, sipping more brandy, was soon very much his own man again. "But, tell me, my old one," he said suddenly, "why did that Dirck come here tonight? He could not have known of our little soiree."

"Perhaps Dashwood will tell us?" suggested Torrance.

But Spencer Dashwood, who did not know, would not have obliged if he could. He was, however, careful to hide his ignorance, and said that the Frenchman might ask his grandmother if he wanted to know; but he would get nothing out of him.

"No," answered Fanchon, with a grin of understanding. "One draws no water from a well that is pumped dry... But one can make the guess, yes, and you, my jewel, can do no more. You also wonder why Mynheer Dirck called here so unexpectedly... Well, perhaps he will tell you, when you meet, as some day you will, in Cayenne, if the Dutchman does not perish before he can be sent there."

"You mean you're going to―"

"Not I, my Spencer.... No!... But the man who sent my friend Shenstone to Cayenne, and arranged for that escape-trap, loosed a tiger on the world―"

"Schouten!" Dashwood spoke contemptuously. "Dirck would stick his fingers to his nose at the fellow, and I―" He broke off, realising that he had been on the edge of an indiscretion.

Jules Fanchon laughed. "Yes, and you, my cock!... I was waiting for that. It is as well that you should realise that Schouten has a tongue, and the knowledge he may have you will know―" He interrupted himself as Brierly appeared at the door and announced:

"The case is packed, sir. You would like it labelled?"

"To Vladivostock or Terra del Fuego," mocked Jules. "Those are safe places for Mr Dashwood."

"Leave the labels!... Call a taxi," said Dashwood angrily.

"Yes, sir.... And the matter of wages?"

"Don't worry about that Brierly," intervened Shenstone. "I will be responsible. Mr Dashwood will need all his ready cash."

"Yes," confirmed Mr Charteris. "Before the bank closed today I had a word with the manager... No more cheques on the estate account will be honoured; and, if any are presented, proceedings will be instituted for endeavouring to obtain money by fraud.... That is clear to you, I hope, Dashwood?"

That it was only too clear was revealed by the man's scowling face. He watched Brierly depart with the suitcase, then he looked round.

"Well," he said, with an attempt at jauntiness. "You've done your worst―"

"No! I assure you," interrupted the lawyer.

"I can go, anyway."

"Permission given with pleasure."

Dashwood moved to the door. At the threshold he turned as if to say something, failed as it appeared to find words adequate to the situation, and merely spat in vicious contempt. Then he went.

The lawyer smiled.

"Mr Dashwood's manners are atrocious!" He looked round. "A most trying business, gentlemen, but it is not yet completed."

He glanced at the clock. "I think, Basil, that you and I must go through the papers about which that scoundrel was anxious. They may tell us something that we ought to know.... No doubt Brierly, when he returns, will be able to indicate where his late master kept his private papers."

"And Jules and I will go to my club," said Torrance. "If you want us, you will find us there.... Hey, Jules?"

"But we will go by taxi.... If I try to walk after that camel kick, I shall waddle like a duck."

They departed forthwith, and when they arrived at the club Torrance had a new glimpse of the duplicity of human nature. The hall porter touched a lock as they entered, and gave Torrance information.

"A gentleman called to ask for you earlier in the evening, sir."

"He left his name?"

"No, sir. I asked him for it, but he said it would be unknown to you."

"Um!" Torrance was immediately suspicious "What sort of a man was he. James?"

"A big man, straw coloured beard and Kaiser moustaches. From his accent, he was a foreigner of some kind— German, I should think."

"Then you think wrong, James. He is Dutch.... Thank you. If he calls again let me know at once."

"Yes, sir."

"Dirck!" commented Jules, as they moved on to the smoking room. "Yes!... That watchman undoubtedly sold us. And van Slyck, with the name of the club in his possession, came here to verify his suspicion, by asking for me. That way he learned of my membership―"

"And went off to consult with that Dashwood. Yes. It is all clear."

"Then he learned something that surprised him."

"Shenstone! Yes. No doubt he thought that he was still wandering in the Guiana forests... To know that he was in England, and to behold him in that room with us and with Dashwood was a shock to him.... He will think that we know all that Shenstone had to tell."

"Yes!"

"Then we may anticipate liveliness, my friend. Van Slyck is not the one to lie down whilst we walk over him."

"No! And if he and Dashwood, make connection we may reckon on a combination against us, with that fat villain Wiederman―"

"And Jacques and the others."

"With Schouten on our side engaged on a private foray. If we're to bring van Slyck's crimes home to him. we shall have to be both careful and quick.... When Schouten is aware of Lisbeth's death or disappearance, he will stick at nothing to get square with. Dirck."

"Also, he wants the Princess Anna's pearls, which he does not know have vanished. Coils within coils, and at the centre I will wager at least one man with his throat cut— We shall have to tread delicately, my friend."

"Nothing new in that, Jules," laughed Torrance.

"No.... But this affair will grow desperate.... Van Slyck will have much at stake, and that Dashwood will not forgive us for his downfall. But what matter? We shall do what men may do, and what will be, will be! Tomorrow I shall fly to Paris, and have an interview with the director of my department. After that, if Mr Dashwood appears in Paris he will certainly be taken, and then he will find that Cayenne, so far from being an ocean away, is just round the corner."

AS IT CHANCED, Fanchon did not fly to Paris alone. Torrance, at the last minute, went with him; moved to do so by a telegram the naiveté of which made him grin. It purported to come from the watchman Jan Wessels, and was of quite generous measure. He showed it to Fanchon, who laughed.

"So van Slyck goes first to Paris, and tomorrow to Rotterdam. Tell me, old me, how does this simple Jan know that?"

"He says it is reported, you will observe."

"Van Slyck is the reporter, hey, Jeff?"

"It seems likely; and neither the simple watchman nor the cunning van Slyck has remembered the call the latter made at the Club, which gives away the honest watchdog."

"The most cunning slip-up at times, my friend. But this is the fowler, unaware, spreading the net in the sight of the bird.... A trap for you, hey?"

"Which I'm going to spring. I shall accompany you to Paris."

"And when I have done my business there we shall go together to Rotterdam, and to the Ziegelstraat... Perhaps, after all, we may find Anna's pearls in one of those queer hiding-places of which that girl spoke."

"You think so, Jules?" asked Torrance, with a smile.

"Between you and me and the moon, no, my Jeff. If Dirck cannot find them in his own secret place, then someone else has already found them. That is certain, and our Anna will not see her necklace again, unless she marries one of those Americans with money to burn, who might purchase it for his bride through the underground channel."

"But there is no American?" asked Torrance quickly.

"No!" laughed his friend, with understanding. "There is no one yet; so, like the rest of us, you may live in hope."

THEY went to Paris together, by the afternoon's air express, and, whilst Jules went to consult his superiors and to set before them the facts relating to Shenstone and his cousin, Torrance himself drove to the Cafe Moscov.

For the moment he was out of luck. The Princess Anna did not take up her duties before nine in the evening, and there was still two hours to go, but no doubt she would be at her little atelier, off the Place Pigalle, where, in the intervals of waiting, she dabbled with the arts. He would certainly find her there if it was urgent that he should see her at once. It was very urgent. He was quite sincere in his statement, and, armed with her address, he departed forthwith to the Place Pigalle and to the street where the Princess had her studio.

It was growing dusk. Light for painting had gone some time before, and he had a fear that, driven from the easel, the Princess Anna might be taking the air before going to her job at the cafe. His fear, however, proved groundless. He found the street and the atelier without much difficulty. It was a poor enough street, consecrated to the sacred cause of Art which, as everyone knows, like the brothers of St Francis has poverty for bride; and the atelier itself was one of a suite, set round a tiny court, with a very deaf old woman concierge at the tiny lodge.

With an effort he made her understand what he wanted. Yes, he was informed, the little one was at home, but he was not the first to seek her. There had been another gentleman, a most generous one, who— Torrance repaired an omission, handsomely, and, clutching the note in her hand, the old woman chattered on. The other, the first, caller might be there still, and again he might not. For half an hour she had left the concierge to procure a cure for a toothache, and it was possible that in the interval the first caller had departed. These artists came and went at all hours; but at the head of the last stairs he would find mademoiselle's atelier with a white door and he would learn about the caller for himself.

He set out to do so. The stairs, three flights, were rather an adventure, being old and twisting and quite dark; and as he thought unnaturally silent Groping his way by the rail he reached the second landing; and there saw a door ajar, with a thin beam of light thrown right across the landing. From the room from which the light came, there sounded a sudden burst of music— a piano and violin in duet. Then the music broke off. A girl laughed, cried a mock reproach apparently at the piano player, and as a new chord was struck, Torrance reached the foot of the third flight of stairs. The music continued and drowned the sound of his stumbles as he climbed the last stairs. He reached the landing. There was a skylight there, and in the dim light that came through he discerned two doors. At the foot of one was a thin line of light whilst the other was quite dark. Moreover the door with the line of light at the floor was white or had been once.

"There!" he whispered to himself. With the music from the landing below swelling to crescendo and swamping the sound of his movements he crossed the creaking boards. At the door, with his knuckles ready to give the summons he listened for two or three seconds. His heart was throbbing with excited anticipation and as he thought of the Romenev he smiled. Then the music stopped with the suddenness of a broken string, and in the silence, from beyond the white door came a man's voice, quiet, but coldly ferocious.

"Where are they? I give you two minutes. Then I shall cut the pretty throat, you comprehend?"

For a moment Torrance was almost stunned by horrific surprise. The generous caller of whom the concierge had spoken had not terminated his visit as the old portress had suggested. He was still there, and he was threatening the princess, and the reason for his threats was revealed by the nature of his question— since to Torrance's mind it could relate to nothing but the lost pearls. The man spoke again in low rumbling voice that was like a suppressed roar.

"Quick! The seconds fly. And I am in earnest Where are they?"

This time Torrance recognised the voice, and was shaken by a surge of anger. Without more ado he set his hand to the old-fashioned latch that fastened the door. The latch did not move under the pressure of his thumb and he guessed that it was wedged. A thought crossed his mind that it might be wise to summons help, but his flaming anger made against more cautionary measures. Besides there was no time to waste. In the time that would take sheer tragedy might happen behind that dingy white door.

Without more ado he drew back three or four paces, and rushing flung himself against the door. Its timbers were stout but the latch was old, something snapped— the catch, as he knew later— and the door burst open. He saved himself by clutching at the jamb, then as he straightened himself for what was to follow, he had a swift impression of the lamp-lit disordered studio; with an easel not far from the window; a divan in one corner, with the rugs tossed on the floor; a small iron stove in the centre, two or three canvases against the wall; a table and a couple of chairs in one of which, Anna Romenev sat, white of face but with eyes that whilst they had lost their gaiety showed no sign of terror; whilst less than a yard away from her stood Dirck van Slyck; in his hand a long-bladed knife which gleamed wickedly in the lamp-light. There was a look of sheer amazement on the Dutchman's bearded face. It was evident that he had been taken by surprise, but the inaction induced by amazement lasted no more than a couple of seconds. Before Torrance could move to intervene further, the man gave a ferocious grunt

"Gott!" he cried in a raging way. "The damned Englishman... So l am right?"

The knife that held the hand flung back. A streak of light flashed across the room. Torrance saw it coming. He had no time to jump aside but he stooped swiftly, on knee bent in the attitude of a runner waiting for the starting signal. He heard the knife strike the door jamb, then he launched himself at the would-be killer, sending in a smashing left which made the recipient, big as he was, whirl half way round. But in a twinkling van Slyck recovered and aimed one of his ferocious kicks. But having both suffered and witnessed his friend Jules suffer that particular piece of savage ruffianism, Torrance half expecting it, was ready for it. His right leg lifted swiftly to guard, the foot thrust a little forward, and van Slyck's shin crashed heavily against the boot heel of Torrance's lifted foot. The Dutchman's shin bone escaped the fracture that might have resulted; but the impact was so painful that the man gave a short yelp of sheer agony, and the impact of the kick was so heavy that both men were thrown to the floor.

In a twinkling Torrance rolled over and regained his feet. The Dutchman was almost as quick, and as he lifted himself up, he was blaring with anger. His hand went to his pocket, and in a flash reappeared, holding a small pistol with a silencer at the muzzle.

"Now, you English swine―"

It was touch and go. Torrance knew that. One might dodge a flying knife, but not a speeding bullet. So short was the distance between them, that even in leaping forward one must meet the bullet; but there was no sense in waiting to be shot like a sitting bird, and he leaped. In the brief time before the shot, two things happened.

Van Slyck laughed in ferocious triumph, and the Princess Anna launched herself from the chair like an acrobat. Her light form thrown against the Dutchman's bulky figure, to an onlooker, must have seemed a gallant, but hopeless, effort. It was, however, sufficient to spoil the man's aim. Her hands, at the full stretch of her arms, found the centre of his broad back. The man, jerked by the suddenness, as much as by the force of the impact, was thrown forward to meet Torrance's rushing attack. The pistol went off with a sound no more noticeable than that of a popping champagne cork, but almost instantly was followed by a much sharper sound, the crash of glass upon the landing and the stairs, as the skylight was shattered by the flying bullet.

Van Slyck had no chance to fire again before Torrance's fist, with all his weight and the energy of his leap behind it, found his right eye. The blow was a terrific one. Its recipient reeled forward, reversed direction, and reeled backward. The skin and flesh of his eyebrow caught between bone and bone, split like paper; and a red gash appeared, from which the blood welled in a blinding trickle. The blow was followed by a second, as severe as the first, meant for the bearded chin. It missed its mark, but caught the thick throat— a painful blow which made the Dutchman grunt, and caused him to jerk his arms like a marionette, the pistol slipping from his hold to the floor.... There was a sound of voices, of feet pounding on tire stairs.

Clearly, the crash of the falling skylight had given the alarm, and van Slyck, reeling under the hammer-blows knew that it was time to go. He made a feint at Torrance, dodged, and leaped through the doorway. Running blindly, he encountered a man just topping the stairs, and behind the man discerned dimly the face of a girl. He could not avoid the pair, and he crashed into them. All three went down the stairs in a flying tangle, the girl screaming wildly.

Torrance reached the stairs in time to see the big Dutchman lift himself from the floor of the landing below. By the light streaming from the open door of the studio from which the pair had emerged, he saw the Dutchman gain his feet, kick the other man brutally, shoot a glance of almost demoniac rage at him, then leap for the lower stairs. He followed as quickly as he could. The pair on the second landing obstructed his way, the man groaning and rolling on the floor, the girl sobbing hysterically. As he stepped over the man and reached the first flight, he heard the porte-cochere crash noisily, and realised that he was too late, and that the girl was still sobbing over him, The man groaned again, and clapped a hand to his side.

"That beast―" he began.

"He is worse than that," said Torrance, as he gave the man a hand; and helped him to his feet. "That skylight was shattered by a bullet. The man is a potential murderer. You were lucky to escape with a kick."

"A lunatic!" cried the man.

"No! A villain. But there is a lady in the atelier―"

"The Princess Anna Romenev, yes."

"Then you will understand, monsieur. She has suffered a shock. I must go to her―"

The man waved his hand, bowed, and groaned, together. "But of course, monsieur. I shall manage."

Torrance took the stairs two at a time, slipped on the broken glass on the landing, and, going down, cut his hand. He was up in a twinkling, and with no thought for his hurt hurried into the atelier. Anna Romenev's eyes lit with relief.

"Ah, my friend, you are safe. I was afraid... But you are hurt? Your hand! That ruffian—"

She broke off, ran to him, and dragging a silken scarf from her neck, began to bandage the wound with a skilfulness that proclaimed training. Torrance suffered her to do it. Her nearness, her concern, the touch of her fine hands, was almost intoxicating. Then she looked up. The blue eyes met his own and grew suddenly gay.

"My friend " she began, toughing tremulously.

"No!" he said. "No! my dear."

She laughed again, a little shakily, as he caught her in his arms and kissed her. Then she said in a gay whisper:

"Fie, my Torrance. What would the world think?  That I let you kiss me, with never a word of love between us!"

"There's no need for words, Anna, between us two.... You know it. I know it Have known it from the moment that we met.... But, thank God, I came here tonight, in the nick of time. That villain―"

"But how did it chance that you came when you were sorely needed?"

"I arrived in Paris late this afternoon. I went to the Cafe to find you and give you the good news I brought from Cayenne―"

"Ah! That poor friend of yours―"

"He is safely in England. And already vindicated."

"Heaven be praised! But I knew you would not fail."

"Oh," said Torrance, "there is no credit to me— or Jules. Shenstone had found a friend. He would have reached England without our help."

"But you went— and the brave intention was there. You must tell me―"

"But first you must tell me what befell here." He looked round the disorder of the studio created by the brief struggle between van Slyck and himself. A shattered day figure of a leering Pan that had been coloured bronze, lay almost at his feet. An odd fight flashed in his eyes as he saw it, but he kept back the question which rose to his lips, whilst Anna explained:

"It was all very simple and terrible. All day I have been working here and, with the light going bad, I lit the lamp, thinking I will have tea, before I go out for exercise. There was a knock, and, as I have many friends who come here, I cry, 'Enter', without going to the door. It opened immediately, and that big man stepped in, closed the door behind him, dropped the catch, and then turned to me grinning like a gargoyle. I recognised him for your van Slyck, and I was terribly afraid, but I hope I did not show it. Then he made his demand.

" 'Princess,' he said, I have come for that necklace, which the Englishman Torrance restored to you.' He pulled a knife from his pocket, slowly fitted the blade— slowly, I think, that he might make me afraid; then he spoke deliberately; 'There will be no trouble if you hand it over, If you don't—' He waved the knife like a savage, and then added, But you will not make the trouble. You are a clever little lady. You know how the bread is buttered. Where is the necklace?'

"I assured him that I did not know, and he glared at me murderously, then stored round the atelier. You tell me that―" he cried suddenly; then he did a mad thing. Crossing to that image that now lies there broken, and which was on the pedestal there, he caught it by the head and raised it as if he meant to strike me with it Then an odd look came  on his face. He weighed the image in his hand. As he did so it broke at the neck, as that soft plaster will at times, and the body of the image crashed to the floor, and was broken as you see.

"With an oath he flung down the head, and began to rave at me. I cannot remember much that he said. Sometimes he spoke in French and sometimes in Dutch, which I do not understand; but the burden of it all was my pearls. "Then he began to question me, first about you How long bad I known you? How had We come to meet? Was it true that we were lovers, and, if not, why had we had a rendezvous in the Luxembourg Gardens on the morrow of our meeting?... Other questions —with the pearls for a motif running through them all. That he did not believe my denials was sure. Then he bade me sit in the chair where I was on your entrance, and he began to search."

" She looked round the atelier, shrugged her shoulders, and gave a little laugh. "It is a poor apartment. There are not many places where one could hide a treasure, and soon he had searched them all, and was at me again with his questions and his horrid threats. It was then, my— deliverer, that you broke open the door. And now, all is well!"

"No!" he said stubbornly. "Not while that man lives, or is allowed to run  free. He is crazy about those pearls. He thinks that you and I have knowledge of than. That pretended dealer from New York was of the same conviction, and he is van Slyck's lieutenant. There can be no safety for you whilst they entertain that conviction and are free to act upon it... My dear Anna, you must not take risks... Until the matter is settled and these men taken, you must not come here any more.... You must be where friends can guard you all the time."

"You think he or the other bandit will come again?"

"I don't know. But it is possible."

"Then, cher ami, you shall take me to my friend— the Archduchess Olga, whose house is in the Champs Elyseés, and who will be glad to receive me. There I shall be safe—"

"Until I come for you!" he broke in.

"I did not say that, my Torrance."

"But I do," he said masterfully. "And we will go at once, for I must see our friend Jules, and start the hunt for van Slyck at once. The matter is now too serious for delay.... Come."

They left the atelier and waited in the little conciergerie whilst the deaf old portress secured a taximetre. Then, unobserved so far as Torrance could see, they drove to the Champs Elysees where the Archduchess, who was little older than Anna herself, received her friend joyfully; and looked at Torrance with approving but enquiring eyes.

"And this, gentleman, Anna?" she asked. "You have not introduced—"

"St. Peter!... I had almost forgotten him."

Her blue eyes shone with the old gay light.

"This gentleman, Olga, is Captain Torrance, whom I am going to marry though so far he has not asked―"

"Anna!" The Archduchess laughed, as she looked at Torrance.

"But," she said to him laughing, "there is no need that you should ask if Anna has resolved. No! In such circumstances St. Anthony himself would be a lost man."

Then, since there was need for haste, with many injunctions to be careful. Torrance went his way to find his friend. Jules Fanchon listened to the story of van Slyck's visit to the atelier with a darkening face.

"Mon Dieu!" he cried at last, "It is time to act and already the wheels are turning to bring that one to the Sûrété. But he will not be found in Paris. No! After what has befallen he will know there is no immunity for him here. Already he will be in flight―"

"He will go to Rotterdam!"

"That is certain. But even there he will not be safe, and he will know it. For now, all other things apart, the Sûrété has a case to act upon. The man has committed himself; and the police at Rotterdam may be moved to action.... But we shall make sure of the man by going ourselves. For once perhaps I. may become an agent and go to Rotterdam as an envoy of the Quai de Horloge.... But we shall see... Come my friend and you shall tell your story to my friends, the thief-takers. They will be charmed to hear it."

Chapter 18

In the Ziegelstraat

THE fog was like a blanket on the river where the steamers' sirens shrieked warning to each other. It was even thicker in the city, making the coming and going of men on their lawful occasions very difficult; but it was thickest of all in the Ziegelstraat which at the hour of eight in the evening was as deserted as some abode of the dead, and as silent as the desert, as it had been since the invading fog, causing a cessation of all its customary labours, had sent those who there earned their bread back to their homes in the more habitable quarters of the city. The warehouses were deserted. The offices were in darkness, not a merchant eager for swift fortune was at his ledgers; and so far as pedestrians were concerned the street might have been in the middle of the Sahara.

But when the clocks of the city boomed the hour mentioned, the silence of the street was broken by the footfalls of one who, hurrying, walked its length with confidence, which the fog did nothing to impair. The pedestrian was Dirck van Slyck; and he was not merely in a hurry; but in a hurry that had fear for its inspiration. Things had gone utterly wrong. He was sure of that in one of the English continental editions he had read a brief account of the arrest of Jacques for an attempt to throw that little traitress Mina from the boat express to Southampton. There was no word of Karl; and his own misadventure in Paris had sent him in headlong flight, fearful of what might overtake him if he remained in the city. And he knew, by the intuition which is as much the endowment of the wicked as it is of the innocent, that it was time to quit. The hounds would be on the scent now. The messages would be flashing from one police headquarters to another; and worse than the police, would be the men like Torrance and his French comrade who would be in touch with sources of information that he could only guess.

For him the Romenev necklace— a fortune which he had meant to keep for himself despite Karl and the others— was irretrievably lost; but; there was money in two banks abroad, one of them in South Africa, and the other in Brazil. Also there was a valuable assortment of stolen jewellery hidden in his apartment waiting a favourable moment to realise. It could all be packed in an attaché-case; and in an hour he would be well away, leaving no trace for either the police or his cheated to follow. The desperate game he had played was over; but he had scooped the pool— all except the Romenev pearls— and it was time to leave the table.

He reached the corner of the alley in which his apartment was situated. There he halted to listen. The watchman might be about; and having been at some trouble to reach the city unobserved, he wished to avoid any encounter with anyone who could give information that he had ever arrived there. The alley was quite deserted; and after listening for a full minute he turned into it, and hurried on. He did not look up at his window when he reached the door;  and even if he had, it is possible that he would have observed nothing to cause him alarm, for the mist was very thick; and a small light would have been invisible at the distance of a few feet.

He found his keys, groped for the patent lock, and opened the door. As he did so he thought he caught a faint movement overhead, and in the little square at the bottom of the flight where the body of the murdered Lisbeth bad lain, before being sunk in the canal, he stood to listen. A sharp squeaking under the stairs reassured him.

"Those damned rats!" he whispered, and softly closing the door, he ascended the stairs. Until he reached the door of his apartment, he did not trouble to make a light. There, however, he struck a wax vesta, used its light to find the tiny key-slit of a lock that, was specially made, and that had not its like in all Rotterdam. With the key in place, he turned it heard the double click of the lock, and, thrusting the door open, entered, and, reclosing the door, charefully shot the catch. His match guttered out and, before striking another. he moved towards the window that looked out on the alley, with a thought that he would draw the curtains. He found them already drawn.

For a moment after that be stood quite still, with fear drumming a very tattoo in his mind. Those drawn curtains were wholly inexplicable, save on the one supposition that someone had visited his apartment. Whenever he was away from home it was his practice to leave the curtains wide; since curtains drawn in the day time merely advertised their owner's absence to the predatory-minded.

To be sure, he might have forgotten them. He had departed from the Ziegelstraat after nightfall, and an oversight of that kind was easy to make; but somehow he did not find that thought reassuring; since the habit of years would almost certainly have prevented such a casual departure from invariable practice.

His alarm grew. Hurriedly he struck another vesta, and by its faint illumination looked round the apartment He saw nothing to justify his apprehension. The fine room, save that the stove was cold, wore its everyday aspect. Everything was in its place, and there was no sign of the visitation he suspected.

"I must have forgotten — after all!" he muttered in relief, and without more ado proceeded to light the hanging lamp. When the operation, was finished, and the apartment flooded with the soft light, he looked round once more, without seeing anything to disturb him; and was so completely reassured that, after throwing off his hat and coat, he lit a cigar.

Then he became very busy. From a cupboard he took out the attaché-case which had been in his mind as he had walked down the Ziegelstraat It was made of good leather, but had a rather worn and battered appearance which suggested that its owner was compelled to exercise economy— not the sort of case a thief would snatch; though, in its time, it had held what most people would have reckoned a considerable fortune. It was due to hold another one now; for, setting it wide open on the table, Dirck van Slyck proceeded to pack it with valuables that he extracted from various hiding places.

A panel which no one would have suspected, and which was masked by a fine picture, yielded several jewel cases. A jardinière filled with flowers of Bohemian glass, which had a hollow base masked with a china plug, provided other cases, and one of the winged chairs, when its fine tapestry was ripped with a knife, proved to be another hiding place, its interior woodwork having been drilled to hold small tubes, the drilling being hidden by dummy wooden pegs which matched the other pegs in the chair.

That the tubes held valuables— probably stones, was shown by the careful disposal of them in the attaché-case. Had he been privileged to watch van Slyck's operations, Jeff Torrance would have been moved to own that Mina van der Werf's statement about the Dutchman's disposal of ill-gotten treasure was utterly right.

For twenty minutes the man worked steadily, then he paused in his labours; went to the sideboard, helped himself to schnapps, gulped the drink in two mouthfuls, and crossed the room to the loose tapestry which hung on that side. It was a valuable piece, but from the ruthless way he tore it aside, it was evident that for him it had now no worth. The bare wall space revealed nothing: It was covered with a patterned paper, and the uninitiated might have searched in vain for any break in the pattern. But van Slyck went to a point midway in the uncovered space, and pressed a particular square in the pattern. Almost immediately a portion of the wall opened, revealing the steel door of a small safe.

There was nothing elaborate in its construction. It was, indeed, of a surprisingly common pattern, not the kind of thing that one would have thought would find favour with a man of Dirck van Slyck's profession. But the Dutchman, as the little Mina had informed Torrance, put no trust in safes. The position of this one was known to his associates; certain valuables were kept there as a kind of window-dressing, and, provided that his other hiding-places remained secret, in ordinary circumstances he would have viewed the rifling of it, if not with equanimity. certainly without great concern. He fitted a key, tugged at the steel knob and, as the door swung open, stooped.

Then he straightened himself sharply; an incredulous look in his steel-blue eyes. He stooped again, struck a match the better to see, then a single word broke from him: "Gott!"

The safe had been emptied. There was no questioning that. Someone acquainted with its position had opened and rifled the safe of all its contents, for it was bare as Mother Hubbard's cupboard. He looked at the curtained window above the alley. Someone had drawn those curtains, after all.

"Who?"

Curiosity rather than, wrath dominated him. He thought of the Spaniard who had opened the safe four years ago, with whom, owing to the man's complete disappearance, he had never been able to square accounts. Had the fellow returned and―

He turned to the safe again, slipped to his knees the better to inspect it, and stooped forward. As he did so he caught the sound of a soft footfall behind him, glanced swiftly round, was aware of a thin dark-faced man very near him, and, before he could rise from his knees, suffered a shattering blow from a life-preserver.

When he revived he found himself bound to one of the winged chairs, helpless. He looked round dazedly, and saw the man who had knocked him out in the act of snapping the attaché-case with its precious contents. The sight moved him to a groaning exclamation.

At the sound the intruder swung round, revealing his dark but not negroid face. There was something familiar in the man's features, then the recognition came like a flash of lightning:

"Schouten!"

"Back from, hell, Dirck," said the man with a ferocious grin. "And with questions to ask, before I kill you. Why did you sell me to the Parisian police?"

"Sell!" van Slyck's voice expressed amazed indignation. "There is some mistake, a bad mistake. Donder! for weeks I have been arranging with one of the guards for your deliverance from Cayenne!"

"Bah! that arrangement. Pascaud! That was the guard's name; and he was almost as great a Judas as you, Dirck. He was paid to arrange the escape, and paid even more to shoot―"

"You're crazy, Schouten!" broke in the other. "That place has shaken your wits, or you would never dream―"

"l do not dream! I know! And there is another question— Where is Lisbeth?"

In spite of his iron nerve, van Slyck quailed a little at the question. His eyes flickered, he made an uneasy movement with his head, which was the only part of him that he could freely move; then he said a little hoarsely:

"I do not know! She went away, left me, you understand, weeks ago. I have not seen her since."

"No!" There was a terrible quality in Schouten's voice which, though quiet, was as ferocious as a tiger's growl. "No! And I will tell you why? Because on a night when an Englishman, the friend of the Englishman whom you sent with me to Cayenne, came here to see her, you had her killed―"

"I swear, Schouten, that is not the truth— That she―"

"Donder! Why lie to me? I know the truth. Twice I have been here without finding my sister. I made inquiries. I have a message from her brother, the convict in Cayenne, you understand. And I was told she had not been seen for weeks. At that I begin to guess, and then only tonight I had a rare slice of luck. I was on the quay where the boat arrives from England. The taxi-cabs cannot run for the mist, and one of the passengers with a heavy suitcase required a porter. It was Karl Wiederman, and he did not know me. I went with him to his apartment, which is almost as quiet as this, and when I had set down the case, whilst he was opening his purse to pay, I treated him as I have treated you. With the door locked, and Karl fastened in a chair with the straps of his own case, I sat by him, with this knife in my hand"— he produced a seaman's sheath knife as he spoke; and held it for the other's inspection. Then he resumed:

"Karl was a fat man, and a great coward when he was caught as I had him. He told me all about the affair in Paris, and about Lisbeth and how she had sunk in the canal further up―"

He moved across to the other.

"Lies!" he said. "They will not serve— no! They would not save you, if only because of those months in Cayenne.... But you murdered my sister because she would have helped me; and Gott! you shall pay to the last cent for that wickedness. Pay as Karl payed―"

He broke off sharply as he caught a change in van Slyck's demeanour. The man's head was inclined sideways and his pale eyes had the tense look of one listening keenly to something imperfectly heard. Schouten himself listened. Out in the alley there was a sound of footsteps, footsteps of several men. Then a voice with an authoritative ring enquired sharply—

"You are sure that he has arrived, Wessels?"

"Certain, Mynheer. I saw the light through the curtain chinks before the fog thickened."

"Good! Then we will give the summons!"

There was a sharp rat-a-tat on the outer door. Schouten laughed.

"You know that voice, Dirck?... It is that of Chief Commissary, Gysbert. We have both heard it, hey. And he comes for you— tonight of all the nights."

He laughed ferociously— "Well I shall ensure that he find you. But first—"

As the rat-a-tat was repeated he ran to the lamp and extinguished it. Then the beam of a flash light broke the darkness, gleaming on the blade of the seaman's knife. Van Slyck's nerve broke completely. He shouted frantically to those outside "

"For God's sake, hurry!... Break in the door or―"

"That," said Schouten, "will take a little time, for I remember it is of stout timbers." He flicked off his light. There was an appalling scream from the big Dutchman, then a gurgle; and a second later all sounds were drowned by those made by men attempting violent entrance quite reckless of any din they might make...

It was nearly nine minutes later, when with the lamp re-lit, Mynheer Gysbert and four officers, with Torrance and Jules Fanchon looked round that fine apartment with amazed horror in their faces. Dirck van Slyck was still in the winged chair— his throat cut from ear to ear. The attaché-case was no longer on the table. The window through which Torrance had escaped on his previous visit to that apartment stood wide with the fog rolling in; and securely held by iron hooks on the frame of the lattice was a rope ladder.

Mynheer Gysbert considered what was to be seen.

"A thief!" he said laconically. "He surprised van Slyck and then emptied the safe. He was known to the man, as by your account many thieves are; and that van Slyck might not tell, he silenced him— thus; whilst we were rapping at the door. Then he left by the window, below which he would have a boat waiting... A cool hand, gentlemen.... And we shall not find him in this fog, no! though we must make the endeavour."

He turned to his subordinates and began to issue orders.

Torrance caught his friend's eyes. Fanchon's lips shaped a name, soundlessly.

"Schouten?"

Torrance answered with a flash of his eyes and then walking to the window stared curiously downward as if seeking to pierce the mist to see the water below. But the canal was quite invisible.

IT WAS LATE afternoon on the following day and in the lounge of the Maas hotel. Jules Fanchon spoke protestingly to his friend.

"But I do not understand these preparations, my old one. Why have we purchased this tackle? A grappling iron, a small drag net, another net with a pole like a weaver's beam "

"A shrimping net, Jules."

"We are going shrimping?" mocked the Frenchman. "No, if the fog holds we are going eel-fishing. There are many. I am told in the canal by the Ziegelstraat―"

"Perdition! You will not tell?" .

"I may be wrong and you shall not laugh until have put an idea to the proof, Jules. In addition to those purchases of which you know there is a skiff with two boat-hooks which waits us on the wharf almost opposite to van Slyck's apartment. It will be nearly a direct line across, and even in the fog we shall be able to make it."

"But why, if you are going to raid that apartment all these preparations for eels and shrimps?"

"I am not going to raid the apartment, which was so carefully locked and sealed by Mynheer Gysbert.... When we get to the place, you will see."

"Not if this sea fog holds, my friend. In such a mist most men are blind."

"Well," laughed Torrance, "there is still the sense of touch."

"Imbecile!" said Jules. "I will have a schnapps at your expense, or I will crack your head."

The fog persisted. The wharf by the canal was deserted and silent when Torrance and his friend pushed off in their skiff. They made the further side almost at the boat-stairs, and carefully poled the skiff until, as near as Torrance could judge, it was directly under the window of the dead van Slyck's lodging.

"Hold her there," whispered Torrance, "The boat hook will reach the window ledge."

Fanchon held the skiff, and for three or four minutes Torrance poked in the water at the side of the house with the second boat hook. He found soft mud; then a hard bottom, and at last, against the house wall, something heavy, which moved slightly as he touched it.

"My aunt!" he whispered in excitement―

"The lady is dead — of curiosity!" said Jules.

Torrance manipulated his hook very carefully, felt it catch, and then whispered exultantly— "No need for the grappling irons, Jules. Hold the skiff very steady."

Carefully he lifted the boat hook, hand under hand, raising the pole vertically until it was nearly all out of the water. Then he stooped, caught something with one hand, and flung the boat-hook over his shoulder clean into the canal with the other.

"Eureka!" he whispered in sharp exultation.

"Which means you have caught your eel, my old one. I cannot see, but it was promised that I should feel. I cannot do that while I hold to this pole."

"Let the skiff go!" whispered Torrance. "We will return to the wharf."

Fanchon released the hook, lowered it carefully to the boat then stretched a hand, groping for the thing which Torrance had retrieved from the canal. His hand encountered something hard and cold, and as it seemed, curiously shaped.

"My sense of touch," he whispered, "has been neglected, Jeff— what is this iron thing?"

"It is not iron. It is bronze. The image of Pan which I dropped out of the window to test the distance to the canal that night when Lisbeth was shot."

"Poof!" said Fanchon in affected scorn. "You want him for a souvenir?"

"As you say," laughed Torrance, as with a bump they made the wharf. I—

HALF an hour later they were in Torrance's room at the Maas Hotel. A couple of soiled towels lay on the floor, and the bronze statue all mud cleaned away, stood on the table, whilst Torrance stooped over it examining it carefully. Then he took the horned head in the way he might have taken a bird to wring its neck. He exerted pressure. The head began to turn on a screw. In half a minute it came away, and, setting it down, he carried the headless God to the bed and shook it gently.

A narrow silken bag slipped out. He dropped the bronze, took up the bag, slipped the string, and, inch by inch, drew out a long string of perfect pearls.

"Mon Dieu!" cried Fanchon. "The Princess Anna's pearls.... Dunderhead. That I did not guess till you began to wring Pan's neck. How did you find the secret?"

Torrance laughed excitedly.

"Van Slyck, as that girl Mina said, was a man of strange hiding places. That set me thinking... when we went to Anna's atelier and he betrayed so quick an interest in her image of Pan, I guessed the secret. And well, there the pearls are!"

"But they would not have been bad you not dropped that pretty door-stop into the canal, my old one, no! But you have your souvenir, and a fine wedding gift for Anna... You must keep the secret till then. I insist. It is always good to distract a bride from absorption in heir frills, with a pleasant surprise."

"Sound advice," laughed Torrance. "I shall follow it."

THE SURPRISE was as perfect as it could be, and more pleasant than most. At the wedding breakfast held at the Cafe Moscov, Jules Fanchon, moving the. toast of the bride and bridegroom, stopped suddenly, and with gay laughter said:

"Now, my old one, the crowning gift!"

Torrance slipped the pearls from his napkin and, standing, fastened the diamond clasp at the back of the bride's neck. For a moment there was an amazed silence. Then someone cried out: "The stolen necklace. Mon Dieu!"

Anna looked at Torrance amazedly.

"Where... how―"

"That," said Fanchon, "is a tale to tell. It will be the making of my oration."

And it undoubtedly was!

The 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
- Chapter 18