"So, if there's anything shady in the transaction?"

"Nothing."

Richard fixed on Cranbourne. "Political?"

"No."

"You've stirred my curiosity, gentlemen."

Mr. Torrington leant forward and laid a hand on his arm,

"To this extent we can satisfy it," he said. "We three are engaged upon an operation of considerable magnitude."

"I guessed that much, sir. When three men like yourselves forgather one can generally look for balloons in the sky."

"Just so. A gentleman in whom we are interested requires latitude to conduct certain important activities with freedom from observation. To provide latitude it is necessary we should persuade our opponents that the gentleman is peaceably residing at his own home."

"Half a minute. You want to get Barraclough out of the country or somewhere and I'm to fill his place."

Mr. Torrington nodded. "Am I like Barraclough?"

"Remarkably so."

Suddenly Richard sprang to his feet and brought his hands together. "Tell me," he cried. "These opponents—have they made a blockade—to prevent him getting away."

"A most effectual blockade."

Richard threw up his head and laughed.

"Lord, so that was it. They tried to stop me at Earl's Court Station day before yesterday. Oh, this is great, gentlemen. Come on, I'm your man."

"You consent?"

"I consent all right."

The three men exchanged glances of satisfaction.

"Then if you will kindly ring the bell," said Cassis, "your servant, Doran, will correct the details of your wardrobe."

"So I have a servant."

"You have everything this flat contains and five thousand pounds at the end of three weeks."

"Oh, what a lark," said Richard gaily.

"I only hope it will prove so," said Mr. Torrington.

"Was wondering where I'd sleep tonight."

"I wonder where you will."

"All right, gentlemen, you can leave it to me. I shan't let you down. If you'll excuse me I'm going to have a bath. In the event of our not meeting again you might post that cheque to care of Porters, Confectioners, 106b, Earl's Court Road—my town address." He stopped at the room door and grinned. "Please help yourselves to a drink or anything you fancy. My entire resources are at your disposal. Goodnight."

The door closed and a moment later came the sound of water splashing into the bath.

"Well, what do you think?" Cranbourne demanded enthusiastically.

"A nice boy," Mr. Torrington returned. "Straight. I'm wondering how much he will have to go through in the next three weeks."

"Yes, but from our point of view?"

"Ah, from our point of view I think we might declare a dividend. If you would lend me an arm, Lord Almont, we will speak a word of farewell to Barraclough through the wine cellar door."



CHAPTER 8.

INTRODUCING A LADY.

It was Cranbourne, who at the door of the flat thought of a final precaution, excused himself to his companions and asked leave to enter the bathroom. Richard was standing on a cork mat, rubbing himself with a Turkish towel and, after the fashion of all good men, singing lustily in time with the exercise. He favoured Cranbourne with a grin as he materialized through the wreaths of steam.

"Hello, back again!"

Cranbourne nodded and cast an appreciative eye over the well articulated muscles of the stripped figure before him.

"Just one thing," he said, "if you don't mind."

"Fire away."

Cranbourne produced a notebook and a pencil.

"Scribble your signature on this bit of paper."

"I see. My writing. Here you are."

Richard took the pencil and book and sitting on the edge of the bath—and without thinking—dashed off his own signature. When he had finished he handed it to Cranbourne who shook his head sadly over the result.

"No good?"

"'Fraid not. It was hardly to be expected. Whatever you do, don't write."

"I won't."

Cranbourne glanced at the page again.

"This is your real name, I suppose."

Richard started, hesitated a bit, then nodded.

"There was a Frencham Altar mixed up in that Patagonian business."

"My father. Went broke and shot himself, you know."

"I remember. Left you on the rocks, so to speak."

"Yes, and wedged there good and hard. You see he aimed at my being a gentleman and nothing else—never was taught how to earn a living. That's why I'm cutting rather a deplorable figure now."

"I can't agree," said Cranbourne generously. "I think your father realised his ambition. Goodnight."

"Night-oh!"

At the door Cranbourne paused.

"I'm almost ashamed of having dragged you into this business," said he.

"Don't you fret, my dear fellar. I'm delighted. I've been spending that five thousand in imagination ever since I heard of it. Think I'll emigrate in the fine style."

"Hm!" he paused. "Altar! I shouldn't really tell you this, but you're likely to be kidnapped tonight."

"What?"

"I thought you might like to know."

"Thanks very much."

"That's all."

"Hang on a minute. Do you want me to defend myself? I'm pretty useful with my hands or a gun either for that matter."

"It would help us if you did nothing at all—except comply."

Richard's face fell for he loved a good mix up.

"Oh, very well, if you say so."

"Thank you," said Cranbourne. "The best of luck, old chap."

"You bet."

Cranbourne went out and a moment later the front door slammed.

Then Richard began to laugh.

"Kidnapped, eh! What a game. Doran!" The last word rang out imperatively.

"Sir," came the reply.

"Have I got any clothes?"

"In the bedroom, sir."

"Righto." He put his feet into a pair of slippers, donned a bath gown and shuffled into the adjoining room. At the door he paused to survey the appointments.

"I think this is a nice bedroom of mine, don't you?"

Doran signified assent with a smile.

"Very nice flat altogether. What sort of taste have I in the matter of clothes?"

"Pretty good, sir. I've laid out a blue cheviot."

"Aha! And an M.C.C. tie. Shan't wear that."

"No, sir."

"I'm not a member."

"But in the circumstances, sir."

"P'raps you're right. A sound taste in shirtings, I see."

"Rather a strong feature with us, sir."

Richard whistled cheerfully as he dressed himself. The clothes fitted him astonishingly well—even the collars were right to a quarter size. In the intervals between whistling solos he put questions on a hundred matters.

"Am I a fairly decent sort of chap, Doran?"

The question received a frowning affirmative.

"Splendid! You stick up for me."

The rattle of enquiry proceeded. How much did he drink? How long had he had the flat? What were his clubs—games—favourite restaurants? What was his telephone number? Did he smoke to excess—go out much? Was he fond of reading? Had he got a profession?

"Ah! and this is important. What about money?"

"There's seven pound ten in that note case, sir."

Richard verified the statement.

"Suppose I want more?"

"There's about two hundred in the second drawer of the bureau, sir."

"That's the sort of bureau for me. And I can get some food here?"

"I shall look after that, sir."

"First rate. Everything seems snug and in order. Let's take a look round the flat."

They inspected every corner, with the exception of the wine cellar, paused for a moment in the hall to try on hats and finished up in the dining room where Doran presented him with a bunch of keys, explaining their various uses.

Richard dropped into a saddle bag chair and smiled expansively upon a friendly world.

"A very pleasant finish to the day," he remarked luxuriously. "If you'd mix me one small drink and put the cigarettes in reach, I'll bother you no more tonight."

Doran was moving toward the decanter when a low knock sounded at the front door. He stopped, raised his head, listened, and stood quite still. The knock was repeated.

"Better find out who it is," Richard suggested.

"Yes, sir," said Doran, but made no move.

"What's the matter? You look worried."

Doran admitted that he was worried—very worried.

"But good heavens, why? Tough looking chap—ought to be able to look after yourself."

"I can, sir, but I was forbidden to do so. And I was wondering if it's to be a bar of lead or a sponge of chloroform."

"Oh, rats," Richard laughed, "you go and find out."

"Very well, sir."

Doran took a grip on himself and marched out.

"And now," said Richard to himself, "I suppose the fun is going to begin."

He lit a cigarette and waited. It was quite a long time before the door opened and a woman came quickly into the room. And she was lovely. She had a mass of black hair swept clear of the brow. Her eyes were black, large and luminous. She was unnaturally white but her lips were scarlet. It was a beautiful mouth, shapely, sensuous, sensitive, but with a hint of strength. Her brows very straight and as thin almost as pencil lines. She wore a flame-coloured evening dress—'Tout feu' as a ladies' journal would describe it—and a cloak of smoke colour which fell from one shoulder and double draped the other. There was nothing ordinary in the appearance of Auriole Craven. She attacked the eye and held it captive. A woman would have declared her to be overdressed—outre—almost demi mondaine—would have denounced the white face and the red curled lips—would have criticised the uncanny knack of falling instantaneously into attitudes of flowing lines. But to a man the subject of these criticisms was matter for appreciation. By her very daring she stirred a spirit of adventure. Richard checked a gasp of admiration—of surprise—rose to his feet and bowed, but other than by settling her eyes upon him the girl gave no sign of recognition. Clearly it was up to someone to make a move, wherefore Richard politely offered her "good evening."

"Is that all you have to say?" came the answer.

"Of course not," he laughed, "but I make a point of saying that first. Do sit down, won't you?"

She occupied the offered chair and looked up at him.

"At least I thought you'd be surprised," she said. "Still it doesn't matter."

"P'raps I am," he admitted reluctantly, "but my surprise was drowned in a very natural pleasure."

"Pleasure?"

"It was awfully nice of you to look in like this. Been to a theatre or something?"

"No."

"No?"

"I came to talk."

"Fine! We—we've every facility."

"Yes." Her head was slightly raised and she seemed to be listening. "Yes."

"I didn't hear anything, did you?" said Richard gaily.

"No. Nothing." But again she raised her head.

"I say, are you sure you're all right?" he asked.

"Yes, perfectly."

"'Cause if I can get you anything——"

"You can hardly expect me to be normal," she retorted with a flash of bitterness.

It was difficult to know what to say, so he nodded understandingly. An inspiration suggested the offer of a cigarette, but she shook her head.

"I prefer my own," she said, and drew a gold case from her bag. "Try one."

He took the case and she nodded toward it.

"I still carry your gifts."

Richard turned it over and read the inscription "Auriole Craven from A.B." It was a stroke of luck to get her name without asking. He smiled and handed it back with the words,

"Ungallant of me to expose your identity and conceal my own behind initials."

Auriole laughed shortly.

"Perhaps A. B. guessed that a day might come when his name engraved on a present to another woman would be a mistake."

"Give him a chance," said Richard. "He hasn't all that subtlety."

"Men change their views very readily, Tony."

"Only men?" he countered.

She jerked the reply at him over her uncovered shoulder.

"My being here, you mean? My having joined the other side?"

This was a grateful piece of intelligence but Richard preserved a stern expression.

"Since you suggest it yourself——" he admitted.

"Do you hate me for doing it?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Not at all. I'm sure your reasons were adequate."

"They were. Still I thought you'd be surprised."

It was clearly evident that some sort of emotion would have to be expressed. Richard passed a hand across his forehead and walked to the fireplace.

"My dear Auriole," he said, "did I ever strike you as a man who betrayed my real feelings?"

"I always knew them," she returned.

"Then you must know how hurt I am—how very hurt—to think that you—well, I mean, it's dreadful—most—er—most dreadful."

"Were you expecting loyalty from me?"

"There are degrees," he replied with a reproachful glance.

"Wonderful," said Auriole. "It's wonderful really." Her voice dropped and she looked him squarely in the eyes. "Tony, you're not really in love with that girl, you know."

He was concealing bewilderment behind the action of mixing a drink, but the statement so startled him that he sent a column of soda water straight into his shoe.

"Look here," he declared, vigorously mopping his sock with a handkerchief. "If you're going to say things like that I simply——"

"You can't love her."

A tinge of scarlet showed upon her white cheeks. Evidently the girl was in earnest. It was useless to flirt with the situation.

"I am not going to attempt to prove it," said Richard very gallantly.

"In fact it's an offence for me to mention her name."

"You haven't—yet," he observed tentatively.

And as she took this to be a challenge, she leaned back in her chair and said "Isabel Irish" with very little charity of inflexion.

"Please!" said Richard—but what he really meant was "Thank you." Inside himself he was thinking "Damn that fellow Doran! Why the blazes didn't he tell me about all these girls."

The sound of Auriole's voice brought him back to the necessity of the moment.

"So sans gene," she was saying, "so innocent—so unworldly. I wonder what her views would be if she learnt you had entertained a lady in your flat at midnight."

"As the lady came uninvited," Richard returned, "I am hardly likely to refer to the matter."

"Suppose I referred to it—advertised the fact. Do you imagine she would marry you then?"

Richard smiled.

"I should say she'd be as likely to marry me then as she is now."

"A girl brought up as she has been?"

"Aha!"

"You're very confident. Tony, there are people watching this flat to-night."

"Dear, dear!"

"People who will talk tomorrow morning."

"What, the chatty-at-breakfast-kind. How dreadful."

"If you wish to stop them, there is only one way."

"Yes—tell me. Always believed they were incurable."

Auriole shut her hands tight and spoke with difficulty.

"Tony, I don't know how real your affections are for this girl, but I know this. If you refuse to answer our questions your chance of marrying her is worth—nothing. Understand? Nothing."

And all at once Richard became serious.

"Will that please you?" he asked.

"Perhaps."

"I don't think so. I don't think it will please you, really."

"What do you mean?"

"You're too good a sort to enjoy spreading rotten fables about people who are in love with one another."

She echoed the words "too good a sort" rather faintly.

"Yes. I suppose you—you're jealous or something—angry because my feelings have changed. I understand that—it's natural, and I don't defend myself, you know. It's natural you should want to hurt me, but aren't you choosing rather a rotten way of doing it, 'cos you're hurting an innocent girl into the bargain. It's way down below your form to side up with these men who are against me—isn't it, now? As a friend, I'd drop out of this deal—clean out—it—it's not up to your standard."

"Why do you say this to me?"

"Because I like you too well to associate you with——"

"You like me?"

"Yes."

"Still?"

"Not still," he answered, truthfully, "but now."

She was silent for a long while, then she shook her head.

"No good, Tony. It wouldn't make any difference if I dropped out. I know it's beastly, but that can't be helped. They mean to have their answer, whatever happens."

"They've come to the wrong house to get it," said Richard and he folded his arms very heroically.

"You refuse to speak?"

"I do."

"Mr. Van Diest would pay you—enormously."

"Course he would."

"Twenty per cent after exploitation and a million down."

It was a staggering proposition, but Richard preserved his calm and remarked humorously:

"I'll take it in copper, please."

Auriole sprang to her feet and put her hands on his shoulders. Her face was lovelier at close range. A faint and delightful perfume came to his nostrils, her eyes burned brightly and the scarlet mouth, with its moist trembling lower lip, was an exquisite invitation. This indeed was a very woman, he thought, a striking contrast to the small and wistful Doreen. With sudden intuition he realised he had but to open his arms and she would enter—willingly, anxiously. An insane desire possessed him to do this thing. She was adorable, desirable, magnificent, and he was certain beyond doubt she loved him. With a catch of the breath he raised his hands and in so doing his glance fell upon the sleeve of the coat he wore. The cloth was of blue Cheviot which reminded him abruptly that he was Richard Frencham Altar masquerading in someone else's clothes, a circumstance which in no way admitted him to the use of short cuts to the affections of their real owner's admirers. It is disappointing to have to acknowledge that someone is violently in love with someone else that you happen to resemble and the reflection sobered him quickly. With an awkward laugh he turned away and repeated:

"Yes, tell him I'll take it in copper."

"Tony!" she said, "Tony, don't fool with it! Don't you, realise how frightfully serious it is? Haven't you any imagination?"

Apparently he did realise—apparently he had some imagination, for he replied:

"I imagine it is much too late for us to be talking here together. I'm going to ring the bell."

"No," she cried.

"My man will get you a cab."

"If you ring you'll be sorry."

"Life is full of regrets," he answered, and pressed the button.

He saw the startled gesture she made to prevent him and simultaneously the hall and the bedroom doors were thrown open and three gentlemen, each levelling a revolver at his head, advanced into the room.



CHAPTER 9.

AN INVITATION TO STAY.

To a person of less even temperament than Richard the unexpected appearance of these three gentlemen marching in the wake of nickel plated shooting irons might well have aroused feelings of alarm and indignation. But for a matter of some four years Richard had been shot over pretty thoroughly and the lessons of calm learnt in the hard school of war did not desert him in the present situation. He felt, moreover, a curious certainty that the chance of bullets flying around was pretty remote. The primary necessity was to keep his head and avoid any word or action that might betray the fact that he was not the man they believed him to be. The name Van Diest, which had occurred in his conversation with the girl, came quickly to his brain and he glanced from one to another in the hope of determining whether its bearer was present.

His eyes were held by a short rotund person of advanced middle age who occupied the centre of the room. In outline this person was distinctly Dutch. His face was heavily pleated, with dewlaps pendant from the jaw. He wore side whiskers that did not make a good pair and dark bushy brows almost concealed his small, twinkly eyes. He possessed very little hair, but what there was had been pasted in thin separated strands across the shiny bald pate. A low collar of enormous circumference encircled his short neck and his tie was drawn through a Zodiac ring. His clothes were ill-fitting—shapeless trousers and a voluminous morning coat, in the buttonhole of which was a pink carnation with a silver papered stem, an immense watch-chain spread across a coarsely knitted waistcoat of Berlin wool. And he seemed out of breath. The pistol in his extended hand vibrated in sympathy with an accelerated pulse rate.

Richard's left hand wandered carelessly to his hip.

"Look here, Mr. Van Diest," he said, "were you never taught that it's rude to point?"

A twang like the snapping of a 'cello string brought his head round sharply.

"Hands away from your side pocket."

It was less of an invitation than an order.

The speaker was a big, broad-shouldered American of the thruster school, heavy jaw, black hair and hurry. He held his gun dead rigid against his thigh and there was that in his eyes which foretold that where he looked he could hit. This was Ezra P. Hipps.

"Set down and don't move—this thing goes off," he said.

Richard considered the proposal and the speaker and judged both to be sound.

"Thanks," he said, "I'd like a stall for this entertainment," and dropped into a chair.

The man who was standing behind Van Diest came forward and smiled gracefully. He was sleek and too well dressed and gave the appearance of being out of his natural element and ashamed of the one in which he found himself.

"You remember me, Barraclough, old fellow," he said, swinging his pistol as though it were a cane.

"I'm a terror for forgetting trifles," Richard replied sweetly. "Remind me."

"Oliver Laurence. Met you in '11 at old Dick Harris' place."

"Good old Dick," said Richard in the spirit of the scene. "But as I was about to remark, here we all are, gentlemen, and what happens next?"

Hugo Van Diest flickered his eyes at Auriole and asked in a soft guttural voice:

"You prevail—yes?"

Auriole shook her head.

"Mr. Barraclough refuses," she said.

Van Diest drew in his breath between shut teeth and Oliver Laurence sighed sadly.

"Refuse."

"'Fraid so," nodded Richard.

"You know vot is it dot we ask?"

"Perfectly, but if you'd care to repeat it——"

Ezra P. Hipps rapped his free hand on a chair back.

"Don't get fresh," he snapped, "we're after business."

"Sorry," said Richard. "Thought it was a kind of Wild West act."

Evidently Van Diest wanted to avoid a row. He approached the subject in his most agreeable tone which sounded like a puma purring.

"Twendy per cent and a million pounds for der map. A man like you he can't spend a million pounds in a lifetime."

"Don't be too sure," said Richard unwisely. "I might have inherited the knack."

"Let's hear a price."

Richard turned to the American with a grin.

"Honestly," he replied, "anything you got from me would be dear at a shilling."

The friendly quality died out of Van Diest's voice.

"We was very sincere, Mr. Barraclough."

"Oh, that's fine," said Richard.

Oliver Laurence laid a soothing hand on his shoulder and the touch of the man was beastly. It inspired an instant and substantial dislike. Richard rounded on him with his first show of temper and brushed away the hand.

"Look here, Daisy," he said. "Better not touch the exhibits unless you want to be hurt."

And at this point Ezra P. Hipps showed himself a man of action.

"Guess what you won't give we'll have to take. Keys?"

"Take 'em by all means," said Richard, fishing the bunch from his pocket. "Tell me if you find anything."

"It will save a lot of troubles to you if we find something," murmured Van Diest.

There was a distinct menace in the words but Richard was too interested in the activities of Ezra P. Hipps to pay heed to that. With lightning-like rapidity the American had unlocked every drawer in the bureau, withdrawn them from their runners and laid them in a precise row on the floor.

"Guessed it," he ejaculated. "Simple. One of 'em is shorter than the rest."

He dived a hand into the cavity lately filled by the short drawer and produced a small steel despatch box.

"The goods!"

Richard leaned forward with a sudden impulse to prevent the box being opened but the caressing muzzle of Van Diest's revolver coaxed him back to the chair.

"Very simple," said Van Diest. "Maps inside. Open it."

Hipps wasted little time trying to find a key that would fit. He put the box on the floor and kicked it scientifically. From the wreckage he rescued a neat roll of parchment with a tape round its waist. Once again he remarked "The goods!" whisked off the tape and spread out the parchment.

"Writing."

"Read it."

And he read.

"That would be altogether too easy, gentlemen. Perhaps there isn't a map after all."

Richard settled himself comfortably with a sigh of satisfaction and the three men turned to look at him.

"Don't blame me," he said sweetly, "I never said there was a map, did I?"

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Auriole with a flush of what might easily have been taken for pleasure on her cheeks. It was very perplexing.

"Hm!" Van Diest nodded. "Hm! A wise man keep this sort of informations in his head."

"'Course he does."

"Yes, yes. Mr. Barraclough, a great deal you oblige by coming with us to an apartment we have prepared for your receptions."

"It's nice of you but I'm very comfortable here."

"I'm afraid we must insist."

"Since you're so pressing."

"And as a gentleman you make no troubles—no noise."

"There's no such thing as a noisy gentleman."

Ezra P. Hipps rapped the butt of his automatic on the table top.

"You can keep the cross-talking for the automobile," he said. "We're through here—step out."

As they moved toward the door Laurence slipped a hand through Richard's arm.

"My dear old fellow," he said, "if you only knew how distasteful all this is to me."

Richard drew his arm away sharply.

"So's that to me," he said, brushing his sleeve with the deliberate will to offend. Then he turned and bowed to Auriole. "Your friends are amusing but I'm afraid they are going to waste a lot of time. Are you coming our way?"



CHAPTER 10.

NERVES.

The clocks were striking seven when Anthony Barraclough descended the stairs of the flats and hailed a taxi. The street was deserted save for a policeman and an old hag who was sorting over the contents of a dustbin outside the adjoining house. She shot a quick glance at Barraclough and broke into a cackle of thin laughter.

"Didn't take you long to come up in the world," she piped. "Always thought you were a bit of a fraud."

Barraclough gasped. The disappointment was so cruel.

"You are making a mistake," he said and opened the taxi door.

"You've had a shave, that's all, but, bless you, that don't deceive me."

"Look here——" he began.

"You don't want to be recognised, my dear. I can easily forget, you know, if I'm encouraged." She stretched out a filthy clawlike hand.

There was something queer in her manner—a difference from the rank and file of Van Diest's regiment.

Clearly, too, her poverty was genuine. With a little tact her allegiance might be diverted. He pulled a note case from his pocket and detached a fiver.

"Take that," he said, "and if you want more——"

He rattled off Lord Almont's address in Park Lane.

"Save my soul!" gasped the old woman. "Are you crazy? Didn't expect more'n a florin. Bless your pretty heart. You must be badly frightened of something."

But Barraclough waited for no more. He jumped into the taxi with the words 'Westminster Bridge' and drove away, swearing to himself.

"Of all rotten luck. Yet I can't help feeling she didn't belong to that gang after all. Wonder if I've made an almighty fool of myself."

For the first time in his life his nerves were beginning to fray. His fingers drummed a tattoo on the leather seat of the cab and, despite the chill of early morning, his brow was hot and clammy.

"Likely enough it was just a begging stunt."

He put his head out of the window and said 'Waterloo Station.' A sudden memory persuaded him to glance above his head and reassure himself no other passenger was concealed upon the roof. The action in itself was fresh evidence of nerves.

"Must pull myself together," he said. "Those infernal hours in the wine cupboard have shaken me up."

To a man of action nothing is so wearing as inactivity. It had been intolerable sitting in the darkness while the new proxy had borne the enemy's assault unaided. He had heard the rumble of talk which had followed the first stifled cry from Doran when the sponge of chloroform was thrust into his face, and every now and again he had heard Frencham Altar's voice ring out high and mocking and exasperatingly like his own. Finally the front door had slammed but he remained concealed for over an hour in case of misadventure. Doran was lying in the hall when he stepped from his hiding place. Barraclough knew a little of the rough science of medicine and very heartily cursed the man who had doped his servant. A little more of the anaesthetic would have put a period to Doran's career. There was an hour's hard work with ammonia and respiratory exercises before the good fellow blinked an eyelid and made the wry faces of recovery. After that Barraclough stewed himself a cup of coffee, broke a couple of eggs into it and made ready for departure. Altogether it had been a trying night as his nerves were beginning to testify.

It was encouraging to find no suspicious watcher at booking office or barrier. He passed through unobserved and entered an empty first-class compartment in the 7.30 to Southampton. There were ten minutes to wait before they were due to start—minutes which dragged interminably. But at last the green flag dropped, the couplings tightened and the train began to move.

"Thank God for that," he exclaimed and relaxed against the cushions of the seat.

But his relief was short lived. A large man, running at full speed, came abreast the carriage window which was lowered, a suitcase came flying through and landed on the opposite seat, while the man himself leapt to the running board, threw open the door and sprang into the carriage.

"Jing! but that was a near squeak," he exclaimed. "Another half minute and you'd have beaten me."

Barraclough's muscles tightened and his mouth went hard and straight. So the bluff had failed after all. He was spotted. That idiot from the benches had given them away.

The man opposite did not appear to have lost his breath through the race and was looking at Barraclough with an expression of good-natured humour in a pair of twinkly blue eyes. He was of very powerful physique, broad-shouldered and bull necked. Also he had the appearance of being uncommonly fit. In any other circumstance Barraclough would have taken him for a pleasant, likeable fellow, who might have helped to pass the tedium of a long journey. But his actual feelings were far removed from any such consideration. The smug affability of the man coupled with his obvious strength aroused such indignation in Barraclough that he was scarcely able to remain seated. The difference in their weight and stature precluded all chances of a successful frontal attack. It would be sheer waste of energy to seize this intruder and try to chuck him on the line. But, on the other hand, something drastic would have to be done. At such a stage of the game it was intolerable to contemplate defeat. He thought of his words to Mr. Torrington the evening before and of the assurance he had given to Isabel. Then there was the immense prize that success would award him. Was everything to be lost because of one piece of infernal bad luck. If he could reach Southampton unobserved he was confident that the arrangements he had prepared would baffle observation. Besides the presumption was that the watchers had been called off and this infernal smiling idiot on the seat opposite had failed to receive new instructions and was acting upon the old.

In Barraclough's right hip pocket was an automatic pistol but between its butt and his hand was a thick buttoned upholster. Any attempt to reach the weapon would surely result in an immediate counter offensive, with himself at a disadvantage. No, he must think of something subtler than that.

On the seat beside him lay a packet of Gold Flake cigarettes, bought from a trolley on the platform. It gave him an idea. He put one in his mouth and began to slap his pockets as though searching for matches. He might have saved himself the pains for the man opposite produced a lighter and offered it with a friendly word.

"Always keep one handy."

Barraclough, silently swearing, thanked him and lit up.

Clearly his companion was a person of some geniality. He spread out his legs, cleared his throat, and observed:

"All's well as ends well. Still, I didn't expect to catch you."

Barraclough assumed an air of indifference.

"Did you not?" he said.

"It's a fact, I didn't. Lying in bed I was twelve minutes ago. Used some words, too, when they called me up on the 'phone. But, all said, it was worth the rush. Means a good deal of money to me."

This final remark did little to improve Barraclough's temper. However, he preserved an outward calm and said he supposed so.

"I'm tenacious," said the man. "That's what I am—tenacious."

"A fine quality."

"And pretty useful in my trade."

"Must be."

Barraclough's mind was concentrated on finding a weak spot at which to attack and already a delicate idea was maturing. In the rack above his companion's head was his suitcase, the handle projecting outward. Apparently it was unusually heavy for Barraclough had noticed with what a resonant whack it hit the carriage cushions when thrown in through the window and also that it was only lifted to its present position with an effort. If that suitcase could be persuaded to fall on its owner's head it was reasonable to suppose the result would be anesthetic. And in Barraclough's hand was a crooked stick. The association of idea is obvious.

"Going far?" came the pleasant enquiry.

In common with all South Western Railway carriages, the wooden partitioning above the upholstery was decorated with choicely coloured views of cities and country-side.

"Since there would appear to be no point in hiding anything from you," Barraclough replied, "there is a picture of my destination behind your head."

"That's funny," said the man and, responding to natural curiosity, turned to examine the picture, while Barraclough embraced the opportunity to slip the crook of his stick through the handle of the bag and tug hard. But the bag was heavier than he had imagined. It scarcely moved and only by bracing his foot on the seat opposite was he able to upset its balance. Just a fraction of a second too soon the man turned. Conceivably he saw murder in Barraclough's eyes or else he was unusually quick at grasping a situation. He flashed his eyes upward at the moment the bag was toppling, realised it was too late to save himself, and dropped his head forward. He caught the weight of the bag on his massive shoulders and, as though it were a pillow, slewed sideways and heaved it straight on to Barraclough's chest.

And Barraclough's lungs emptied like a burst balloon. Next instant he felt himself lifted into mid air as though he were a child.

"I've a damn good mind to pitch you through the window," said the man. "I would, too, if I didn't reckon you were mad. As it is, I guess I'll stick you up in the luggage rack out of harm's way."

And this he did without apparent effort.

"Damn me!" he went on. "What's the game?"

"The game," replied Barraclough, "isn't played out yet."

Which was true, for in the tussle his overcoat had rolled up under his arms, the pistol pocket was clear, and a blue black automatic flashed dully in the man's face.

"If either of us leaves this carriage I fancy it's going to be you."

To do the man justice he betrayed more amazement than alarm. He backed away a pace and his hand travelled upward to the communicator.

"If you touch that cable I'll put a bullet through your wrist," said Barraclough. "Sit down and attend to me."

He obeyed, shaking his head perplexedly.

"Damn me, if I can get the strength of it."

"Then listen," said Barraclough, steadying his aim along the ash rail of the luggage rack, "and keep your hands in your lap. I'm going to carry my scheme through even if I have to shoot you and lots like you. My patience has run out—understand? I've been fooled and badgered and headed off and shot at for as long as I can stand. The boot's on the other leg now and whoever tries to stop me or follow me or get in my way will find all the trouble he's looking for."

"Yes, but it seems to me," said the big man plaintively, "that it's you who's looking for trouble. Been a nice thing if that bag had caught me on the lid. There were two fifty pound bells inside and a coil of wire for my trapeze act."

"Your what?" said Barraclough.

"Trapeze act. Done in my tour nicely, that would."

Barraclough's eyes narrowed and he looked at the man closely.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "What's your name?"

"My real name's John Lever," he replied, "but I'm better known to the music hall public as Madrooba, the Muscular Muscovite."

"Madrooba—the chap who lets eight men stand on his chest?"

"That's me."

"Then what in blazes were you following me for?"

"Following you?" repeated Mr. Madrooba. "Never set eyes on you before. Run after the train 'cause I got a contract to appear in Paris tonight."

Barraclough lowered the point of his pistol slowly.

"And you've never heard of Van Diest?"

"Never! Van Biene I know and Van Hoven, but——"

"Then it looks to me," said Barraclough regretfully. "It looks to me as if I've made a pretty substantial fool of myself. If you're big enough to accept an apology, Mr. Madrooba, I'd be glad to come off this perch and offer it."

"I reckon if I can stand eight men on my chest," came the reply, "I don't need to take a lot of notice of this little misunderstanding. Let yourself drop and I'll catch you."

And from sheer relief Barraclough began to laugh—and laughed solidly for ten miles of the journey.



CHAPTER 11.

OUTLINING A PROGRAMME.

Richard Frencham Altar was exceedingly affable in the car. It was a big, comfortable, Rolls saloon, and he sat between Van Diest and the American. Laurence occupied the seat next to the driver.

He had tried to say a few words to Auriole before taking his place in the car but she had merely shrugged her shoulders and entered a waiting taxi. The two vehicles drove in opposite directions, from which it would appear that her task in the affair was accomplished.

"I hope I shall see some more of that young lady," he remarked. Van Diest nodded gloomily and Hipps jerked out:

"Probably will."

After that they drove in silence.

"Forgive me for criticising your methods," said Richard at last, "but shouldn't I be blindfolded or something? I'm familiar with all these roads and could walk back without even asking the way."

"There might be difficulties."

"Oh, quite. It was only a suggestion. I want to keep up the spirit of the thing. If I have to be Shanghaied I'd like it to be done properly."

"You wass very high spirited, Mr. Barraclough."

"Why not? Comfortable car—pleasant company."

"Yees. With us this was a very serious business."

"That's all to the good, but let's keep in humour. By the way, since everything's open and above board, where are you taking me?"

"Laurence's house."

"Wanted to know 'cos of getting my letters forwarded."

"There won't be a whole lot of communication with the outer world," said Hipps.

"I see. And how long are you proposing to keep me there?"

"My dear old fellow," Laurence spoke over his shoulder, "that depends entirely on yourself."

There was deeper significance in the tone than in the words.

"That's cordial," said Richard, "downright hostly."

"But paste this in your hat," said Hipps ominously. "Conditions won't improve by outstaying your welcome. It'll be sweet if you make it short—if not——"

He did not complete the sentence.

"A declining stock," Richard smiled then shook his head reproachfully. "You know, gentlemen, yours is an extremely heterodox way of doing business. You must be feeling pretty hopeless to have resorted to measures of this kind."

"I guess the market'll improve," said Hipps and relapsed into silence.

It seemed ages before the car slowed down and entered the gates of a solid mid-Victorian house, isolated from similar houses by two or three acres of treeful grounds. The front door was opened by two men-servants of none too prepossessing appearance, who came down the steps as the car pulled up. It was significant of precaution that they tacitly formed up one on each side of Richard and escorted him within.

"The only thing lacking," he remarked, "is a red carpet and an awning."

But his disposition toward gaiety was unshared by his companions. The two servants conducted him mutely into the dining room where a meal was awaiting them. Van Diest beckoned him to a place at the table and, tucking a napkin under his left ear, seated himself and began to attack the victuals without comment. Ezra P. Hipps turned the key in the lock and dropped it in his pocket before occupying the chair facing Richard. As the ostensible host Laurence sat at the head of the table and instructed the servants to open the wine. The change of courses was effected by means of a small service lift inset in one of the walls.

Not the smallest effort was made at conversation—dishes came and went, glasses were filled and emptied in absolute silence. There was something ominous in this freedom from talk and the quiet broken only by the tinkle of table implements and the rather noisy character of Van Diest's feeding. Richard was struck by the old man's prodigious capacity for devouring food. He ate with a calculated energy as though the safety of nations depended upon his sustenance. Apart from the ordinary fare, he demolished about eighteen inches of a long French loaf at his side, tearing pieces from it with his short stubby fingers and filling his mouth with great wads of crust and dough. Richard afterwards learnt that this voracity of appetite was nerve begotten. In moments of acute agitation it was Van Diest's custom to eat enormously on the theory that a full belly begets a placid mind. His little piglike eyes darted to and fro among the cates before him assuring themselves that he was missing nothing.

In direct antithesis to this wolfish feeding were the manners of Oliver Laurence. He toyed with his victuals, cutting them into the littlest pieces and almost flirting with his glass of wine.

Ezra P. Hipps ate and drank, as he did everything else in life—thoroughly and with conviction. The meal finished he pushed back his chair, unlocked the door, tilted his head to indicate to the servants that they could get out, locked the door again and crossed to the mantelpiece.

"Cigar," he said.

Laurence provided one and offered a light. Hipps shook his head and sticking the cigar in his mouth he proceeded to eat it with a curious rotary motion.

"Now!" he said and it sounded like a blow upon a gong.

"Curtain up," said Richard and steeled himself for any eventuality.

"You're caught, Mr. Barraclough."

"But not caught out," came the instant reply.

"Ever handled a cheque for a million pounds?"

"I have not."

"Van!"

Mr. Van Diest felt in his pockets and produced a banker's draft which he laid on the table before Richard. It was payable to the order of Anthony Barraclough.

Richard flicked it aside.

"Old ground," he said. "No good to me, gentlemen."

"Let's talk."

"Fire away."

"I needn't repeat what you have to do to earn that trifle, Anthony, but here's a point worth considering. Doubtless you got the idea the price we're willing to pay'll rise. You're wrong—it'll fall. If you speak tonight that draft's yours and an interest beside, but every day you keep us waiting'll cost you fifty thousand pounds."

"Thank God I can afford it," said Richard.

"Roughly speaking it'll pan out over a period of three weeks, at the end of which time you get just nothing, savez?"

"I savez that you and I will be in the same position at the end as we are at the beginning."

Ezra P. Hipps shook his head gravely but his metallic blue eyes never shifted their gaze for an instant.

"Tony boy," he said. "The price isn't solely financial. There's a little physical programme in the skyline. Get me?"

"Sounds like a threat."

"And is," came the rejoinder.

"Interesting."

The American took three steps forward and leant across the table.

"For example," he said, "you smoke too much and smoking'll be curtailed."

With a quick movement he plucked the cigarette from Richard's mouth and threw it into the grate.

A dull red surged over Richard's face as he sprang to his feet.

"I warn you——" he began, then checked himself at the sudden memory of Cranbourne's words. He was not allowed to put up a fight.

"Well, what?"

"Oh, nothing. I've neither the mood nor the patience to teach you manners."

His hand went out to take another cigarette from a silver box at his side.

"No smoking," repeated Hipps in a level voice.

"Don't be asinine, my good fool."

His extended hand trembled, yearning to knot itself into a fist. The silver box was just beyond the American's reach but seizing a small glass jug he threw the contents over Richard's hand, drenching the cigarette he had picked up and half filling the box with water. The quickness and effrontery of the action, its insolent disregard of all the laws of courtesy acted on Richard's temper as a spark on gun cotton.

"I'm damned if I'll stand for that," he shouted and kicking his chair out of the way made a dash round the table toward Hipps. It was Laurence who shot out the leg that tripped him and before he could scramble to his feet both the American and the Englishman were sitting on his back.

"Steady, steady, old chap," Laurence beseeched him. "It's an almighty pity to start this way."

Hipps' long fingers had closed scientifically on the back of Richard's neck and were paralysing the movements of his head. His nose was pressed good and hard into the pile of the carpet. It was all very painful.

"Are you going to quit fighting, Anthony?"

After all there was no particular value in adding to one's discomfort. They were three to one and in a locked room with reinforcements outside. Moreover, had there been a chance of requitals or escape he was under orders to accept neither. But in his existing state of indignation Richard could not induce himself to acknowledge defeat. The fighting strain in his nature could only be satisfied by getting in at least one substantial return for the indignity put upon him.

He was lying near to the grate, his head having narrowly missed the fender rail in the fall. His right hand, which was free, lay across Dutch tiling within easy reach of the open fire from which was projecting conveniently a blazing log. The end nearest him was as yet untouched by the flames and, without considering consequences, Richard dragged it out of the fire and viciously thrust it upward. More by luck than judgment the burning brand scorched across the side of Hipps' face.

"Hell!" came the cry and instantaneously the weight on his back was gone and he was free to rise.

Oliver Laurence, to avoid danger, had thrown himself backwards and was now under the table, looking very like a child playing hide and seek. The American had backed against the buffet but his general dignity suffered a reverse from the fact that his first thought was of remedy rather than revenge. He had picked up a piece of butter and was rubbing it vigorously on his burnt cheek. In the shadows Mr. Van Diest was shaking his head in sorrowful disapproval of the whole proceedings. For the life of him Richard could not help laughing.

"I'm extremely sorry, gentlemen," he said, "but you did ask for trouble." He raised the corner of the table cloth and addressed Laurence. "If you've quite done amusing yourself under there you might come out and give me a cigarette."

Laurence, looking painfully ridiculous, emerged and handed his case to Richard who took one and lit it slowly from the glowing brand which he still retained.

"I think we had better come to an immediate understanding," he said. "I am perfectly prepared to treat you all with civility as long as I receive the same treatment from you, but please understand that I will not tolerate any funny business." An idea flashed suddenly into his brain. "Just one thing more—there was some talk earlier this evening of trying to poison the mind of my—my fiancee in regard to a question of my morals. That was a particularly offensive idea and I want your assurance that you'll drop it. Otherwise——" he took a few paces toward the window, "I shall set fire to your curtains and keep you gentlemen busy until the woodwork has caught. I imagine you aren't wanting the fire brigade or the intrusion of any other respectable force at the moment."

"Seems to me, my son——" began Hipps.

But Van Diest interrupted him.

"Let us agree to this suggestion," he said. "For my part I wass very sorry to make enemy of our goot guest. S'no troubles about that."

"Thank you," said Richard. "Then if you've nothing further to ask me I'd be glad to turn in."

Hipps walked across the room and unlocked the door. The two servants came in.

"Show this gentleman to his apartment."

"Goodnight, everyone," said Richard.

He was passing out when Hipps laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Say," he said, touching his cheek. "You fired me with some ambition to see your flag at half mast. Admire your spirit and all that, but it kind o' gets my goat being branded by a youngster. Ain't used to it. We want that inf. o' yours and want it quick. My advice to you is, don't monkey with our patience. It won't pay."

"If you count this as a day," Richard replied with a grin, "it's cost me fifty thousand already."

For a moment Hipps made no reply and when at last he spoke his remark appeared to have no bearing on the matter in hand.

"In France during the war?" he asked.

"I was."

"Awkward stuff, that poison gas."

"Very awkward."

"Beastly smell."

"Horrid."

"Makes me cry to think of it."

"But you're a born sentimentalist."

"Ah. Goodnight. Shan't be meeting again for a few days. But Laurence here'll bring any messages."

"I shan't trouble him," said Richard.

"No? Well, that's your concern." Once again he relapsed into silence, then very suddenly flashed out the single word "Pineapple."

Richard was accompanied up the stairs by the two silent servants. They ushered him into a room on the top landing, bowed and retired. The door closed with a metallic ring. He heard the sliding of a bolt, the jingle of a chain and the sound of footsteps descending. And all of a sudden he felt very lonely.



CHAPTER 12.

PINEAPPLE.

The room in which Richard found himself was of modest size and unpretentious in decoration. Its walls were panelled in white and below the fireless grate was a second door leading to a small bedroom. There were no curtains to the windows which were closely shuttered, the shutters themselves being made of steel plates rivetted together and held in place by a series of dropping bars. Apparently some system of burglar alarm had been installed, an exceptionally large electric bell being fitted in the framing where, normally, the cornice poles would have run. Glancing over his shoulder Richard observed the absence of a handle to the door through which he had been admitted. A plain deal table occupied the centre of the room, with a couple of hard upright kitchen chairs, one on either side. There was no carpet nor any rug upon the floor. A single unshaded electric light bulb hung from the ceiling.

"Hospitable sort of place," he remarked and passed through to the bedroom, the door of which was on a spring and closed behind him.

Beyond the presence of a bed of extremely uncomfortable appearance the same severity confronted him. There was neither washstand nor dressing table, chair nor picture. Nothing to read, nothing to look at. The windows were shuttered and, as in the other room, a single light point was the only illumination. High up above the bed was the mouthpiece of what looked like a motor horn. This and an iron ventilating register let into the wall a couple of feet away from the pillow were the only objects that provided any variety in the way of decoration.

The atmosphere of the place, though chilly, had a distinct sense of oppression. There was no vitality in the air—it breathed mossy and damp.

"Do with an open window," said Richard and moved toward the shutters. He had hardly covered half the distance when the lights went out with startling suddenness. There was something distinctly eerie in the absolute darkness in which he found himself. He stretched out a hand and felt for the nearest wall like a blind man, groped his way to the door and opened it. But the other room was also in pitchy blackness.

"Fuse gone somewhere," he conjectured. "May as well try and get to a chair and wait till the lights come on."

Roughly memorising the position of the furniture he made for the centre of the room with hands extended. The effort was a failure and brought him to the opposing wall. Accordingly he turned and tried again on a slightly altered course. He had hardly taken three steps when he received a shock. His left hand touched something rough but soft. There was a sense of warmth about it but no movement. Richard started violently and caught his breath.

"What's that?" he cried.

But there was no answer.

Standing very still he listened. The house was deathly silent and he could almost hear the pulsing of his heart. Then very faintly he became aware of another sound—the gentle hiss of a man breathing.

"Now we know where we are," thought Richard bracing himself up. "Sneaked in while I was looking at the bedroom, I suppose. Not going to let those idiots frighten me with bogey tricks."

As quietly as possible he went down on all fours and ran his fingers across the floor boards in a semi-circle. They had not travelled very far before encountering the hard edge of a boot sole. That was good enough for Richard. Judging the distance nicely he seized its owner's ankle in an iron grip and springing to his feet lifted it high into the air and flung it backward. There was a squeal and a crash as the chair went over and Richard broke into a laugh.

"Look here, Laurence," he said. "I've had enough of your practical jokes tonight. You'll get hurt one of these days if you go on being so funny."

And without warning the lights went up.

Laurence was scrambling to his feet, rubbing the back of his head ruefully, and there were two other men in the room. The first was a stranger to Richard and the second, who stood by the door, was one of the servants. The stranger was a shrewd-looking young man of moderately prepossessing appearance. He nodded to Richard as to an old acquaintance.

"We meet again," he remarked affably, "though you don't appear to recognise me."

"Well you're not much to remember," replied Richard whose temper was a little frayed.

"My name is Smith. Had the honour of sharing your taxi to Hendon the other day. You were good enough to ask me in for a drink."

It was clearly the moment to be noncommittal.

"If you've come to get it," said Richard, "you'll be unlucky."

"Just thought I'd like to take a look at you, that's all."

He rose to his feet, for he had been occupying the second chair and scanned Richard's face closely. A shadow of perplexity showed in the wrinkles of his forehead.

"Sorry I'm not looking my best," said Richard, with an uneasy feeling of having been detected.

"Hm!" said the young man called Smith, "I'm not very often wrong about things like that but I can't remember those humorous lines at the corners of your eyes."

"Ah!" said Richard, "but I hadn't seen the humour of the situation when last we met."

"Bad light, I suppose," the young man nodded. "Still, it's rather surprising. Thanks, Mr. Laurence, I think that'll do. Goodnight, sir."

"Oh, goodnight. Drop in whenever you feel like it."

"I may." He moved toward the door then turned suddenly. "By the way, I've a message for you."

"Yes?"

"Pineapple." He spoke the word incisively.

Richard shook his head.

"Haven't the smallest idea what you mean," he said, "but not to seem lacking in appreciation, bananas or any other fruit you've a fancy for."

The door opened and closed behind the three retreating forms and once again the room was plunged into darkness.

The business of getting into bed was embarrassed by the constant reverses of light into darkness and back again. There appeared to be no specified period for either—sometimes the light would burn ten minutes—sometimes two and sometimes would merely flash up and down. A more successful irritant could hardly have been devised. The shock of the extreme contrast was in itself enough to infuriate an ordinary individual. Richard would gladly have accepted total darkness in preference to the blinding changes. This, however, was no part of his tormentors' programme—it was clearly evident they intended to prey upon his nerves as actively as possible. He reflected that no doubt many other devices were in preparation to induce him to speak. There was this talk of pineapple which appeared to carry with it some kind of threat.

"Pineapple. Why the deuce should pineapple loosen a man's tongue?" he said aloud as he struggled into a pair of pyjamas that had been laid on the bed. "Might make his mouth water perhaps but——"

At this particular moment the lights came on and he was able to finish undressing and nip between the sheets before the darkness fell again.

He observed with satisfaction that there was nothing funny about the bed. It was soft and "cushy" and there were ample coverings. It was vastly more comfortable than the bench which had supported him during the preceding nights and this in itself was something to be grateful for. After all, even if these earnest financiers perpetrated a few ill-humoured practical jokes upon him he was being absurdly overpaid to endure them.

Five thousand pounds for a fortnight's badgering. Who wouldn't put up with a bit of discomfort for that. The wily Hun had handed him over far more substantial terrors than these gentlemen were likely to command and his pay for enduring them had worked out at approximately three pound ten a week. He fell to considering in what manner he would invest his earnings and a very attractive farming scheme in New Zealand began to formulate prettily. Farming had always appealed to him and there was a spot in the Canterbury district which had taken his fancy when he had visited the South Island two years before. There were green plains there and lettuce green woods and it was watered by a network of fast running streams, great and little, where fat rainbow trout sunned themselves in the shallows or leapt and jostled where the water tumbled creaming over rock and boulder. By Gad! it would be something like to build one's house in such surroundings—and maybe later on to marry and——

It was the word marry that switched his thoughts up another channel and in imagination found him once again standing beside the girl with the splendid eyes who called at Barraclough's flat two hours before.

"Wish she wasn't mixed up in this outfit," he said to himself. "A girl like that! Perfectly ripping creature. By jing! put her alongside a man after her own heart—some decent fellow with the pluck to stand up against that wayward strain—and there might be a good deal of happiness knocking around for the pair of them. I suppose that ass Barraclough turned her down. Pretty hard to please. Wonder if he got away all right. Ripping scent she used. Coty, I believe, something Jacque Minot."

As a man will who is trying to revive the impression of a scent he sniffed the air gently with his eyes shut, only to open them with an expression of surprise. Surely it was no imagination but the odour of Rose Jacque Minot, taint and exquisite, seemed to hang in the air. Thin waves of it growing and diminishing in intensity were wafted across his head almost as though directed from a spray.

"If that isn't the oddest thing," he gasped. "Now I wonder——"

The light flashed up for a second—just long enough to reveal the fact that the room was empty.

"Damn funny," he said and sat up in bed puzzling. He remained thus for several minutes but no solution to the mystery presented itself. Moreover, the scent had gone from the air and nothing but the memory remained.

"Suppose I can't have been fool enough to imagine it. Never heard of a man being haunted by a perfume."

He lowered his head to the pillow feeling, for no explainable reason, strangely disquieted, only to rise again almost instantly exclaiming:

"'Tany rate, this is no imagination."

For the reek of onions was in the air—gross and nauseous. You could have cut it with a knife.

Probably Richard's most violent antipathy was for the smell of onions. He abhorred it as the devil abhors virtue. With an exclamation of disgust he disappeared beneath the bedclothes and stuffed the sheet into his mouth. He lay thus for a long while before venturing to emerge and sample the air. To his relief he found the detestable taint had vanished and the atmosphere had recovered its original slightly tomby flavour.

"That's a blessing any way," he said. "I suppose it's no use wondering how it's done or why it's done. Better get to sleep and ask questions in the morning."

And quite unexpectedly he found he was afraid—filled with a kind of nameless dread—a horrible prescience of some villainy about to happen. There was a motive in this programme of changing scents, a deeper significance than the mere will to annoy. He knew without even asking himself how he knew that the smell of pineapple would be next. But why he should fear pineapple was not at the moment apparent. He only knew that when it came he would have to command every nerve to prevent crying out.

Sitting up in bed he sniffed the air tentatively.

"Nothing! (sniff) No, nothing. (sniff) Wait a bit, wasn't that—? No. (sniff) No—"

And then it came—pungent, acrid, bitter sweet, gathering in intensity second by second.

With a stifled cry he clapped both hands over his mouth and swung a leg to the floor. His eyes wide open in the dark began to sting violently. He caught his breath and burst into a spasm of coughing. Somewhere from the wall by the bedside came the faint sound of gas hissing from a cylinder.

"Phosgene!" shouted Richard Frencham Altar. "You dirty swine! Phosgene!"

It is a smell that once learnt can never be forgotten—a smell pregnant with memories. As it invades the nostrils the doors of a dreadful past fly open. The white mist hanging over the sunken road, the clangour of beaten shell cases ringing out alarm, the whistle of the warning rockets and the noise of men choking in the spongy fog.

Richard struggled back to the farthest corner of the room. He had picked up his shirt and thrust it over his mouth and nostrils but even so his lungs were nearly bursting. "You rotten, rotten swine," he repeated. "I'll make you pay for this."

And a voice answered out of the dark:

"If you find the atmosphere oppressive, Mr. Barraclough, why not go into the next room. It's perfectly clear in there. But don't wait to collect your blankets because we're going to intensify this little lot."

There followed a louder hissing from the cylinder and Richard waited for no more. Somehow he located the door, dashed through into the adjoining room, and fell gasping on the uncovered boards. For several minutes he made no effort to rise, then he sat up and shivered. The air was like ice. A bitter freezing draught swept across him, cold as winter spray.

His inquisitors were following up an advantage. There was to be no remission in the warfare. Dark, poison and cold. These were the instruments of torture devised to make him speak.

Richard struggled to his feet and stood with clenched hands.

"All right, my lads," he said. "You go ahead but I'll see you damned before I talk."

He could hear the ice-cold wind whining through the registers as though in derision of his boast. It cut him to the bone through his thin silk pyjamas.

For the rest of the night Richard Frencham Altar paced the floor, stamping his feet and beating one hand against the other.



CHAPTER 13.

HARRISON SMITH.

When the young man named Smith left Laurence's house after his interview with Richard he was slightly angry and not a little puzzled. The cause of his perplexity was the humorous lines round Richard's eyes and the cause of his anger was his failure to have noted them when first they met in the taxi and travelled home together on the Golders Green tube.

He had remarked on the peculiarity of this circumstance when he found Hipps and Van Diest in the dining room and had received no other comment than a snub from the American for his lack of observation.

These two gentlemen were in a state of exaggerated well being induced by enthusiasm over the capture they had made. Hipps was laying odds that after a course of treatment Anthony Barraclough would not only give away the secret but would breathe his first sweetheart's pet name. Van Diest was more concerned with details for the notation of the future radium company.

They appeared to regard the intrusion of Mr. Smith as a nuisance.

"Seems to me, gentlemen," he said, "there's something queer about the whole business. Barraclough was known to be starting tonight—and instead you succeed in laying him by the heels."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing—except that it was all so infernally easy. Then again the fellow seems in such high spirits."

Van Diest wrinkled his forehead and nodded at this but Hipps waved it aside.

"Take it from me, he's in darn sight lower spirits than he wants us to think. Anthony's a sport and he'll sure pull the cucumber act as long as the cool weather lasts."

"You may be satisfied, gentlemen, but I'm not! You don't think he'd have given the information to anyone else."

Van Diest looked at the young man with a pitying smile.

"If you wass possessed millions and millions of pounds, my friend, iss it very likely you would trust anyone to look after it?"

"Perhaps not——"

"Very well then."

"Still I'm sure there's something fishy. If I might be allowed to investigate——"

But Van Diest negatived this suggestion very heartily. He argued that persons prying about at this stage of the game would bring suspicions on themselves.

"Mr. Torrington and all those peoples are very happy to believe that Barraclough hass given us the slip. S'no goot to make them miserable."

"Still if—without attracting attention——"

"You run along and play," said Hipps.

And so the interview ended.

Smith was heartily offended to be brushed aside in this fashion. He had served his employers faithfully and with sound intelligence. Practically the entire control of the ring which had prevented Barraclough's escape on the preceding days had been in his hands. Earlier in the night he had received telephone instructions to call off his watchers and having done so he had driven over to Laurence's house to satisfy himself that all was in order.

It was quite absurd he should be assailed by these feelings of doubt. Barraclough had been caught and there the matter ended. But in his own mind it refused to end. Why hadn't Barraclough put up a fight and how had Barraclough grown funny lines round his eyes? These were mysteries which for his own peace he was bound to elucidate.

It was four o'clock when he got to bed but he was up again in good time next morning, roughly sketching out a programme for the day.

At nine fifteen precisely he was standing by the ticket barrier at Liverpool Street station awaiting the arrival of the Woodford train. Presently it steamed alongside the platform and one of the first persons to get out was Nugent Cassis. He was swinging his cane and mirabile dictu he was whistling. In his buttonhole he wore a flower.

From a distance Smith had studied Nugent Cassis on many previous occasions and knew his peculiarities by heart—also he knew that there was no single precedent for this rare display of jauntiness.

Harrison Smith shook his head hopelessly. It was inconceivable with all their immense resources that Torrington's crowd had set no watch on Barraclough's movements over night. Surely they must be aware that his intended flight had been frustrated. Why Barraclough's servant Doran would surely have rung up and informed them. He was confident that somewhere a breakdown had occurred.

As he passed by Nugent Cassis said "good morning" to the ticket collector—a thing he had never done before.

Harrison Smith got into a taxi and drove to Shepherd Street, Mayfair. He sent up his card by the parlour maid with the request that Miss Craven would grant him an interview. He was asked to wait and was kept waiting the best part of three quarters of an hour while Auriole completed her toilet. When at last she entered she did not show the least enthusiasm for his presence but asked rather shortly what he wanted.

"I'm tired," she added, "so be as quick as you can."

"All right," he said. "It's only this. You were an old flame of Barraclough's?"

"Well?"

"How long is it since last you met?"

"Until last night—four years, I suppose."

"Hm! Had he changed at all?"

"Changed?"

"In appearance—er—manner."

She tapped her chin thoughtfully.

"Bit more amusing perhaps—less of a prig."

"Ah!" said Smith. "Go on—anything else?"

"He seemed to have learnt how to smile."

Harrison Smith leapt to his feet and paced up and down.

"I knew I was right," he said, "but what the deuce does it mean? Anything else to tell me?"

"Yes. Sit down, for Heaven's sake. My head's aching and you irritate me walking about."

He obeyed and continued his interrogation.

"In love with him once, weren't you?"

"Once," she replied.

"And you've no very good reason for wishing him well?"

"I've a very particular reason for wishing him ill."

"Hm! His engagement to Miss Irish?"

"Perhaps."

"How did you come to be mixed up in this affair?"

"I happened to know Mr. Hipps and heard what was going on through him. It was my idea—kidnapping Anthony. Doubt if they'd have had the nerve to think of it for themselves."

"D'you think they'll get him to talk?"

"I don't think they will get him to talk," she replied, "but——"

"Yes?"

"But I could. He's a tough proposition among men but a woman can worm a secret out of him—at least——" She stopped and shook her head.

"Yes?"

"That used to be my impression."

"Has it altered then?"

"I'm not quite so certain as I used to be. He was different last night——"

Harrison Smith leant forward.

"Tell me," he said, very earnestly, "did you notice anything queer about his eyes?"

"I don't know."

"Try to remember."

"Four years is a long while."

"But to a woman like you."

"I believe something struck me—they puckered at the corners a bit—rather attractively."

"That's it," said Harrison Smith. "That's exactly it. Lord, I wish I could understand."

"What's troubling you?"

"Just a crazy idea—probably it's nonsense. By the way, I've had orders from our employers to leave it alone so you'd do me a kindness by saying nothing of this visit."

"All right," she replied listlessly. "But I don't see——"

"It's solid in my head that a muddle has been made—and between you and me, I'm going to sift it out."

"I shouldn't," said Auriole. "You won't be thanked for disobeying orders."

"Must take a chance of that," he answered. "Only learnt yesterday what it was all about and the size of the deal has got me gasping."

"Pretty tremendous, isn't it?"

"Big enough to be worth taking some private trouble over. You don't imagine Barraclough would have deputed anyone else to get the concession?"

She shook her head.

"Neither do I. But if it isn't that why does his crowd sit still and grin?"

"I suppose they don't know of his capture."

"Maybe. 'Tany rate, it's what our folk believe. I have my own views."

"Tell me."

"They're a trifle too fantastic for publication yet awhile." He rose and buttoned his gloves. "There's to be a meeting at Lord Almont's flat this morning. I'm going to hang about and study character."

"Better not be seen."

"Trust me. I'll take cover in the motor show rooms on the street level and watch 'em as they come out."

"Hm! Goodbye." And she held out her hand.

"Au 'voir. You look a bit down this morning."

"Don't feel up to much."

He scanned her face quizzically.

"Those tender feelings haven't revived, have they?"

"What do you mean?"

"For friend Barraclough?"

"Idiot," she retorted. "As if I had any feelings."

"He's a decent looking chap."

"Oh, go away," she said.

And he went—smiling.

Auriole waited until the front door closed, then picked up the telephone receiver and gave a number.

"I want to speak to Lord Almont Frayne. Oh, is it? Good morning. Yes, that's right. A. B. was kidnapped last night at twelve thirty. They've taken him to Laurence's house in Totteridge. What? Yes, perfectly satisfied. One of their agents, a man named Harrison Smith, has been here a minute ago. He seems to be suspicious about something. Thinks you all seem too contented. He'll be hanging about outside your flat this morning. Yes, that's all. Oh, Lord Almont, wish you'd explain the situation to me—can't understand it at all. Wouldn't make any difference. No, but what was to be gained by letting Anthony Barraclough be kidnapped? If you won't say it doesn't matter but it seems stupid not to trust one's own side. Oh, Mr. Cassis. I doubt if he'd trust himself. 'Bye!"

She hung up the receiver with a little gesture of annoyance and crossed to the writing table. From a small drawer above the pigeon holes she took a photograph of a man in flannels. It was signed "Yours for keeps, Tony." She read the inscription and smiled—and it was not a very kindly smile.

* * * * * *

Harrison Smith, as a prospective buyer, proved extremely tiresome to the staff of the Motor Show Rooms in Park Lane. He shilly-shallied from one car to another asking rather stupid questions for the best part of two hours. The exquisitely dressed salesman poured forth his eulogies in vain. Nothing could make Mr. Smith decide. He would listen attentively to long recitals of the respective virtues of this make and that and then would gaze out into the street as though lost in contemplation. In the midst of listening to a highly technical discourse on the subject of cantilever springs, without a word of warning he leapt into the interior of a big Siddeley Saloon and closed the door behind him. The salesman looked at Mr. Smith in amazement but Mr. Smith was looking into the street along which three very serious-looking men were slowly progressing. Two of them supported the third who was very old and very bent. His face was set in an expression of acute anguish. They helped him into a waiting automobile, shook their heads at each other and proceeded in different directions. The automobile started up and moved away. The old man's head was sunk upon his chest.

When all three were out of view Harrison Smith emerged from the Siddeley Saloon, glanced at his watch, thanked the salesman, said he would call again and passed out of the showrooms. On the pavement he halted and, like the three gentlemen who had occupied his attention, he too shook his head.

"They seem pretty well in the depths now," he reflected. "Wonder if I'm making a fool of myself."

He would have wondered even more acutely had he seen Mr. Torrington straighten up and smile as the big ear turned into the Park through Stanhope Gate. Every trace of anguish had gone from the old man's face. To speak the truth he looked extremely well pleased with himself.

Harrison Smith walked slowly down Piccadilly debating in his mind whether or no he should abandon his investigations.

He stopped at the bottom of Clarges Street to allow a taxi, laden with luggage, to pass. The taxi had its cover down and inside he had a glimpse of a girl with a happy, smiling face. The girl was Isabel Irish and the brief glimpse decided him.

"One more cast," he said and jumped into an empty cab that was coming down the slope.

"Follow that chap in front," he cried. "The one with box on top. Don't lose sight of him whatever happens."

He slammed the door and settled down on the cushions. Pursuer and pursued threaded their way through the traffic to Waterloo Station.



CHAPTER 14.

"OFF THE BEATEN TRACK."

Anthony Barraclough's mother was seventy-eight and still a sport. She loved her garden, she loved her son and she loved adventure. She was very fond of life, of punctuality, of the church, and of good manners. She was deeply attached to the memory of her late husband and her late sovereign, Queen Victoria, upon whom, with certain reservations, she patterned herself. The reservations were a taste for stormy literature and a habit of wearing her ice-white hair bobbed. The bobbing of her hair, and it used to be waist long, was a tribute to patriotism. She sacrificed her "ends" in 1914 to give a lead to hesitating girls of the neighbourhood. This she conceived to be a duty and one that would materially expedite the close of hostilities.

Mrs. Barraclough lived in the sweetly named village of Clyst St. Mary where you will find Devon at its gentlest. She was waited upon by four strapping girls who bore the names Flora, Agnes, Jane and Cynthia. These young women arrived in a body during the spring of 1919 and took possession of the house. Flora who was spokesman of the party bore a note from Anthony in which he wrote—

"Mother Darling,

Am sending these girls to look after you. No more servant worries. They are tophole. Flora and Jane saved my life when I was in France.

Love, TONY."

That was all.

Being a dutiful mother, Mrs. Barraclough asked no questions;—instead she arranged accommodation and bought some new dimity chintzes for the top floor bedrooms.

As Anthony declared, the girls were certainly tophole and made their mistress so unreasonably comfortable that she greatly feared the risk of being spoilt. It is true they perplexed her not a little, since no single one of them bestrewed the house with fallen aspirates, sang while sweeping nor spoke ill of her fellow. Herein perhaps they provided some small ground for disappointment for, in company with many ladies of the older school, Mrs. Barraclough dearly loved bestowing an occasional rebuke in words calculated to improve and uplift. This, however, was a trivial concern weighed against the obvious advantages of loyalty, good nature and efficiency.

The house in which Mrs. Barraclough dwelt was called "Chestnuts" and it lay a few miles off the London Exeter main road. To reach it by rail you alighted at Digby Halt and were met by either a car or a governess cart. Mrs. Barraclough possessed both and invariably despatched the governess cart to meet her favourite guests, on the theory that a horse is more of a compliment than a "snuffly engine." As a matter of fact the car was a very sterling, if rather old, Panhard Levassor and in no sense could be accused of snuffling.

When once an enquiring visitor, after vainly searching the garden for chestnut trees, asked why the house was so named, Mrs. Barraclough replied—

"The chestnuts apply to myself and not to the vegetation. I am an old woman with an incurable habit of repeating the same anecdotes over and over again."

To this sanctuary of mid-Victorian calm Isabel Irish came in the late afternoon of the day following Anthony's departure into the unknown. To wait in London for three weeks without word or message was more than she could tolerate. Accordingly she sent a wire to Mrs. Barraclough and followed close upon its heels. Of the presence of Mr. Harrison Smith in the next compartment of the corridor carriage, she, of course, knew nothing, and this circumstance provided that enthusiastic investigator with every opportunity of studying her without attracting attention to himself.

On the pretext of smoking a pipe he lounged up and down the corridor, every now and then glancing at Isabel, who sat alone with compressed lips and chin sunk on her chest. He concluded from her attitude and expression that she must have heard of Barraclough's capture but later on another impression superseded the first, for every now and then a light of excitement and enthusiasm would leap into her eyes as though in imagination she were following her lover along the ways of desperate adventure. Harrison Smith shook his head.

"Don't know what to make of it," he muttered. "Certain sure they've got the man yet—I don't know——"

Once he saw her do a very odd thing but foolishly enough paid little heed to it. A sudden blank look came into the girl's face—the kind of look people wear who have suddenly forgotten an important matter or discovered a loss. Her lips moved rapidly and her brow creased under an intensity of thought. She turned and breathed on the window glass and with quick movements of her forefinger wrote upon it half a dozen figures and characters. But before he had properly noted what they were the moisture evaporated and the glass was clear again. It did not occur to Harrison Smith to worry over his failure to read what she had written, since he regarded the action as symptomatic of mere nervousness, but he noted with surprise that after this little episode the girl seemed to relax and her face assumed lines almost of contentment. After all, no one could blame him for failing to realise the true significance of that hurried, transient scrawl. One does not expect to find the map reference of probably the greatest source of wealth the world has ever known scribbled across the window pane of a South Western Railway carriage by the fat little forefinger of a girl scarcely out of her teens. Such an eventuality never even crossed the mind of Harrison Smith. Nevertheless the girl puzzled him more than he cared to confess.

To reach Digby Halt necessitated a change. Harrison Smith took good care to make his descent from the train as far as possible from Isabel's carriage. He watched her enter the governess cart and drive away before attempting to leave the station. Prior to this it struck him that he might have difficulty in obtaining lodgings in the neighbourhood without bag or baggage and this being probable he had resorted to the unpleasant expedient of stealing a suit case. Its owner, a clergyman, was at the time enjoying a cup of tea in the dining section—the risk therefore was small. The suit case bore no initials and might have belonged to anybody. Harrison Smith showed as little as possible of his face as he passed through the wicket gate. He turned in the opposite direction to the one taken by the governess cart, waited till he was out of sight and climbed through a gap in the hedge. Ten minutes later, dressed as a clergyman and looking very good indeed, he marched down the road in the direction of the village.



CHAPTER 15.

TEA AND TEARS.

It was Flora who drove the round, short legged pony, who drew the dog cart, and because Flora had driven a high power car in France during the war and had earned a reputation as a merchant of speed she looked, as she was given to look on these occasions, a shade sorry for herself.

Also, because she had an admiration for Anthony that was little removed from adoration she did not attend greatly to the business in hand, but instead engaged in a critical survey of the girl he was to marry. She decided that Isabel was very pretty but a shade too serious. She wondered if her nerves were any good. She wished she had been allowed to fetch her in the motor as there were one or two sharp corners on the way home which, taken fast, provided a good test of a passenger's courage. Perhaps it was as well that permission had been denied, she reflected, since had Isabel screamed or turned even the least bit pink she, Flora, would certainly have hit her with a spanner.

In extenuation for these violent emotions please remember that Flora, in company with Jane, had been instrumental in saving Anthony Barraclough's life when they found him lying on the roadside bleeding like a stuck pig during the great retreat of 1918. After all, a girl is justified in feeling strongly about a man's choice of a wife when he owes his life to her. She is more or less responsible.

Isabel said nothing for perhaps a quarter of a mile, then suddenly exclaimed:

"I say, this is beastly slow."

She could not have made a happier remark. Flora relaxed instantly.

"Isn't it chronic," she returned, "but the old lady was firm about it. If I'd had the car we'd have whooped it up a bit."

"Wish we had. Can't stick this jogging—want to get out and run."

"Fond of speed?" said Flora.

"Um, rather. That beastly old train—then this. I'd half a notion to fly down only I didn't know any landings round here."

"You've flown then?"

"Yes, lots."

"Who with?"

"By myself a fair amount."

"Got a pilot certificate?"

"Yes, ages ago."

"I say!" said Flora and began to feel quite hopeful about Anthony's future. "Agnes was in the Flying Corps, you know."

"Agnes?"

"She's housemaid. 'Course she's been up dozens of times but she never handled the joystick. Ever looped?"

"Often."

"You must talk to Agnes," said Flora.

There was a bell under the pony's chin strap and it jingled continually. From her chair by the open French window Mrs. Barraclough could hear the jingle as the cart turned into the lane. Herein lay the essence of using the cart for particular friends, for Mrs. Barraclough knew that as soon as she heard that sound there would be just time to walk down the garden path and be at the gate to welcome the arrival. With the car one could never get there soon enough and to her way of thinking the hospitality of a house should be offered at the entrance to its grounds. She liked to stand under the arboured gate with extended hands and from there to speak the first welcoming words and then to link arms and lead the visitor indoors with promises of tea or fires in bedrooms and little kindly appreciations of the fatigue of travelling. She would as soon have omitted any of these gentle rites as have neglected to satisfy herself that the sheets were properly aired or the carpets swept beneath the beds.

Of course, with Isabel the welcome extended beyond the mere taking of hands. There is a proper way of embracing your son's affianced wife; that is, of course, if you happen to be of the same period as Mrs. Barraclough. A kiss on the forehead, one on each cheek, an examination at arm's length, and finally, after a perfect duck of a shared smile and a murmured "my dear," the gentlest kiss imaginable on the extreme point of the chin. It is at once a tribute and an acceptance—the cashier's neat initial that honours your signature to a cheque drawn on the account of happiness.

Alas, that some of our modern mothers have lost the knack of this pretty exchange. Their greeting is of a harsher tone. They bridge the separating gulf between youth and age with talk of Auction. They speak to the girl of "making a four" after dinner when the only real concern is that she should make a two that is spiritually one. And because this is so the modern mother will remain more often "in-law" than in heart, which is a very great pity indeed.

They had never met before but Isabel knew at the first touch of those sweet prim lips that Anthony's mother was also hers—was also a darling—was also a trump—was also every kind of good thing that she ought to be.

"Oh, I'm so glad I came," she gasped. "It won't be half so bad with you to help me wait."

And Mrs. Barraclough, who hadn't the smallest idea what she was talking about, nodded and replied:

"Of course not, my dear, of course not."

Inside the drawing room tea was waiting on a silver tray, with a silver kettle throwing out a hiss of silver steam. Never had Isabel seen any silver that was as bright as this. It shone with the innocent lustre of wedding presents and even the little methylated spirit flame that boiled the water looked as if it had been polished with a chamois leather.

There was a walnut tea caddy studded with brass that had to be unlocked, and inside were two compartments with tin-foil linings in which the precious leaves guarded their aroma and defied larceny. Mrs. Barraclough took two spoonfuls from one side and one from the other that the correct blend might be achieved and these she mixed upon a tiny square of white cartridge paper. Then the cups were warmed and the water was put in—and some muffins and Jane, who had apple cheeks and smiling red lips, came in the room and the business of pouring out began, which is almost as great and almost as lost a secret as the varnish of the violin makers of Cremona. And Isabel felt good all over because she knew that Mrs. Barraclough, and the room, and Jane, and the muffins, and the tea, and the evening were all the right temperature—warm—mellow—comforting. Outside the window was a thrush who sang. He was a soloist, and when he stayed to fill his throat a chorus of sparrows, close packed upon the upper branches of a tilting cedar, chirped gladly with a single voice.

And listening and tasting and feeling all the sweetness of the countryside, the fairness of tradition, the delicacy of age and custom, a lump came into Isabel's throat—hot, angry and convulsive. For somewhere out beyond was her man—facing unknown dangers, taking terrible risks, followed by relentless men.

Yet all this was his and he had left it. She was his and he had left her—deserting both at the bidding of that frightful master who commands us all—that ruler of men's destinies whose initials are L.S.D. [Transcriber's note: abbreviations for Pounds, shillings, pence.]

She put her tea cup on the tray with a little tinkle and suddenly covered her eyes with the palms of her hands.

"Oh, oh, oh!" she cried. "Why couldn't he have been satisfied?"

"What is it, my dear?"

"Money," she answered with a staggering breath. "Money. And it couldn't buy a moment that was as sweet as this."

The fair curly head tilted forward into the black silk lap. Mrs. Barraclough's hands went round the girl's shoulders and held them tight. They were shaking so.

A clergyman passing down the road halted for a moment and peered over the yew hedge into the open windows of the room. But nobody took any notice of him and he couldn't hear the words that were spoken. Had he heard he would not have understood for they were only the kind noises with which one woman will comfort another.

Mrs. Barraclough could almost feel the hot tears soak through the fabric of her gown.



CHAPTER 16.

A HYPHEN.

When first the question of radium arose in this chronicle it will be remembered that Barraclough, under considerable pressure, yielded the secret of the map reference to his fiancee, and by this very act made a present of it, through the pages of narrative, to whosoever might chance to read.

It would seem a perfectly reasonable supposition that there must be many avaricious persons to whom the possession of untold riches would prove more attractive than a mere interest in the doings of another man. Let it be said at once that although Barraclough certainly confided the correct map reference to Isabel, that reference, for the purposes of caution and public safety, underwent several important variations before passing into my hands. The reason of this precaution will be readily appreciated by the thoughtful however great may be the disappointment it provides to the adventurous. A memory of average length will recall the high percentage of disaster, of wrecked hopes and of ruin pursuant upon the gold rush to Klondyke at the close of the last century. Barely one man in a hundred made a living—barely one in a thousand saw the yellow specks in his shovel that shone so bright among the brown. Those who had set forth, buoyed up with boundless belief, dragged back to where they had started from broken in purse and spirit, barren of hope and faith.

What then would be the result if the illimitable source of wealth upon which by chance and a whisper Barraclough had stumbled should be revealed to the world? A panic—a mad headlong exodus of men and women too. Unequipped and unqualified they would pour from city and country-side, leaving desk and furrow, in a wild race to be first upon the scene—to stake a claim—any claim—to dig—to grovel—to tear up the kindly earth with fingers like the claws of beasts. Wealth, upon which our civilisation has been built, is the surest destroyer of civilisation. What it has given it takes away. Dangle a promise of gold before the young man at the ribbon counter and behold he is become a savage. Whisper it never so gently—and it will sound as the roar of torrents in our ears.

Brewster's Series 19. Map 24. Square F. North 27. West 33. Look it up for yourself. It exists all right but there is no radium there, not any within a thousand miles for aught I know to the contrary. In that location and over a large stretch of surrounding country-side the earth's outer crust is mainly argillaceous with here and there an outcrop of sandstone. There is not the smallest indication of pitch-blende anywhere in the neighbourhood, and radium, as even those little versed in chemistry or geology are aware, is only to be found in that particular ore.

It would be well, therefore, to think twice before embarking upon a fruitless treasure hunt after reading what has here been set down. It was the knowledge of the inevitable consequences that would result from incautious confidence that sealed Barraclough's lips and made his movements on arriving at Southampton so secretive. It is known there was a fog over the Solent on the afternoon in question and that a small brown-sailed boat with a man sitting in the stern put out from the shore and was presently swallowed up in the white tasselled wreaths of mist. That same boat was discovered minus its passenger in the early hours of the following day. A coastal collier, racketing into port in the quiet of evening, brought the tale of a seaplane that narrowly missed crashing into her deck house. Long after it was out of sight the crew heard its engines droning overhead. Then for a while there was silence during which a curious pinkish glow appeared to the starboard and died away. This glow was repeated three times and at the third repetition the waterplane engine was again audible, increasing in volume every moment. Presently it cut out and nothing was heard for several minutes. When it started again it must have been quite near at hand for the sound of water cut by the floats was detectable. The engines howled and whined until the roar diminished to a sound no greater than the buzzing of a bee fading into nothing over the wake of the little steamer.

Whether or no these recorded circumstances have any bearing on the mystery of Anthony Barraclough's disappearance it would be impossible to say but the Harbour Authorities who were questioned as to whether they had knowledge of the movements of this particular waterplane replied with a regretful negative. They neither knew where it came from nor whither it went and there is a strong rumour that one or two quite important persons got into severe trouble for their want of information.

The one thing that is positively known is that Barraclough arrived in and disappeared from Southampton in a single day, but whether he went North, South, East or West is a matter for speculation.



PART II.

CHAPTER 17.

A DOUBTFUL ALLY.

"That guy," said Ezra P. Hipps, "that guy is some stayer."

Hugo Van Diest, from the deeps of a big arm chair, omitted a kind of rumbling affirmative. He was smoking a porcelain pipe enamelled with roses and forget-me-nots. His fat, short fingered hands were spread across the waistcoat of Berlin wool, his chin was sunk and his bearing that of a man who is out of humour.

Gracefully disposed upon the hearthrug stood Oliver Laurence, an excellent advertisement for his tailor.

Ezra P. Hipps, hugging one knee, sat upon the centre table and he was looking at Auriole Craven with much the same expression as might be seen on the face of a slave buyer in an African market. He had passed her shoes, appreciated her stockings, nodded approval at her gown and millinery and was now observing with satisfaction that the gloves which she was peeling off revealed two arms of perfect proportion.

"That guy," he proceeded, "has got to be made to talk. Looks like. He's made fools of us too long. Looks like," he threw a glance at Laurence, "your durn psychology isn't worth a hill o' beans."

"We haven't given it a chance yet," said Laurence in defence of his method.

"Seventeen days," grunted Van Diest. "And no progress—nothing. This was not an ordinary man."

"Am I to see him today?" asked Auriole.

Hipps shook his head and the girl brightened perceptibly.

"Seems to please you."

"No, it doesn't. I'll go up if you want me to—only——"

"Get on with it."

"I can't help thinking it's a mistake. Can't help thinking that somehow that minute I spend with him every day strengthens rather than breaks him down."

"Guess you're right—it would me," Hipps agreed. There was a shade of gallantry in the tone.

"I take leave to doubt that," said Laurence. "I'm positively sure that if a man is feeling the pinch all day long and everybody he comes in contact with is definitely against him, a momentary glimpse of someone who is seemingly sympathetic is far more likely to weaken his resolve than strengthen it. It makes him relax and even though you relax only a trifle it's the very deuce to get a grip on yourself again. You can see it when chaps are training—that extra cigarette—the whiskey and soda that isn't allowed plays the devil with their constitution. I know when I was at——" He stopped for Auriole's large eyes were looking at him critically.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing," she replied. "Nothing." Then to everyone's amazement burst out: "What a mean rotter you are, though."

"Here——" he began.

"I honestly believe you enjoy all this beastliness."

"Enjoy? My dear girl, do be sensible. Damn it, no one enjoys having to put on the screw. It's a case of necessity."

"Yes, yes, I suppose it is," she acquiesced hurriedly in an effort to regain her composure. "Only it seemed to me—but never mind."

Ezra P. Hipps crossed the room and put a hand on her arm.

"Come on, dear. What's the trouble?"

"I wouldn't mind," she returned, "if he weren't so—so desperately plucky."

"Hm!" said Van Diest. "I think it was a goot idea that you don't go to see this young man any more."

"That's nonsense," she replied hotly. "I'll see him. Besides he's used to my coming and if I didn't turn up he——"

"Disappointed," suggested Hipps.

"Exactly," said Laurence. "Perhaps it 'ud be a good idea to vary the programme for a day or two. Use the siren a bit more freely at night and cut down his water supply. If he isn't ready to talk in another forty-eight hours I'll be surprised."