"Had a word with him yet?" demanded Hipps.

"Not this morning."

"Then you and Van try a few sweet speeches."

The Dutchman rose heavily from his chair and nodded.

"It was a bad business all this," he said. "You come with us—no?"

"I'll be right along in just a minute."

He tilted his head a fraction toward Auriole and laid a finger on his lips.

Van Diest and Laurence went out. He waited until he heard their footsteps mounting the stairs before he spoke again. Auriole was looking through the window at the trees margining the little estate. She presented a charming silhouette against the light.

"Say, you look very womanly in that fawn outfit," said Hipps. "Where did you get it built?"

She turned with a smile that was a shade cynical.

"I'm glad you like it, Mr. Hipps."

"I do—fine."

"I'll wear it again."

"You've passed down the wardrobe hooks pretty prodigal these last few days. What is it—a dress parade?"

"One changes," she replied.

"That's sure what I'm frightened of."

"If you'd rather I appeared in a blouse and skirt——"; but he interrupted the sentence with an uplifted hand.

"I've a fancy we'll cut cross talking," he said, "and come to grips."

"About what?"

"This young fellow Barraclough has cut ice with you?"

"I thought you knew my feelings about him."

"To borrow from your vocabulary—'one changes,'" he replied.

"I haven't changed."

"Glad to hear it."

"I admire his pluck."

"It's a dangerous quality—admiration. Sure the old 'pash' hasn't looked up a bit?"

"Quite sure."

"Still it 'curred to me you were shaken some at the treatment we're serving out to him."

"That's not surprising. I merely wanted to get my own back, not—not——" She left the sentence unfinished.

Ezra P. Hipps took a cigar from his waistcoat pocket and chewed it reflectively, his eyes never leaving the girl's face.

"Women are queer ships," he said, "and never too even on the keel. You've an important hand to play and kind of to keep your mind from revoking here's a proposition to think over."

"Revoking?"

"That's the word. You're in this deal on a jealousy outfit and we're not after any renunciation, splendid sacrifice and that gear. We want you dead hard and seemed to me to get that I might do well to tie you up a bit closer to the cause."

"What do you suggest?"

"You're an ambitious woman."

"I suppose so."

"I suggest this child." And he tapped his chest with the chewed butt of the cigar.

"I don't see——"

"This child thrown in as a sweetener."

For a moment she flushed, then the colour died away and was replaced by a smile distinctly crooked at the corners.

"Are you making a proposal of marriage?" she asked.

"I sure am."

"Oh!"

He stretched his legs and rattled the coins in his pockets.

"I've a hell of a lot of money and damn! I've never asked a woman this question up to yet."

"Have you not?"

"Mention that fact 'cos I know they fall for molasses."

"You're very wise about women, Mr. Hipps."

But the irony was wasted.

"I read a bit of heart stuff in the trains sometimes," he said.

Auriole began to draw on her gloves.

"Isn't this rather a queer place to settle one's future?" she said.

"Donno—is it? Struck me it 'ud keep you from side-stepping having me on the horizon."

"I see. And do you always mix love making with business?"

"Sure. Marriage is a business and bank books talk sweeter than the long haired boys."

She flashed a glance up at him and there was a definite appeal in her eyes.

"Are you in love with me?"

The question seemed slightly to take him off balance.

"Damn! I think you're fine," he said.

"That is—splendid," she replied and turned her head.

"Feeling good about it?"

"Who wouldn't be?"

"Thought you took it quiet."

"I'm sorry."

"Maybe you had some hopes along this street?"

"I guessed there was something doing," she answered in an echo of his tone.

"It's all fixed then."

"I suppose so."

"Say I don't want you to think I'm only doing this out of expediency."

"You're not?"

"Not altogether."

"Better and better," said Auriole.

"I must scrape half an hour for lunch one of these days and we'll talk over settlements."

"That will be—jolly."

"I'll get right upstairs now."

"Goodbye."

He made no effort to take her hand or to kiss her and she offered no encouragement. At the room door he turned.

"Paris for the honeymoon?" he asked.

"Wherever you like."

He looked at her critically and she met his eyes without flinching.

"And you feel kind of strong—soft spots eradicated?"

"Naturally."

"I'm a hell of a tonic," said Ezra P. Hipps and closed the door behind him.

Auriole stood where he had left her. Presently she raised her hands and they were clenched so tightly that the knuckles were white as ivory.

"How utterly, utterly awful," she said to herself. "How unspeakable."

She picked up her bag and the other odds and ends a woman will carry and passed out of the house with flaming cheeks.

The chauffeur of the little two seater car that stood by the gates asked where he should drive.

"I don't care," she replied. "Anywhere you like. Get on a hill—some place where I can breathe."

The little Wolseley Ten wound through the green lanes and presently mounted a pine fringed slope. Away to the west hung the smoke of London with the pleasant countryside in between.

Auriole touched the chauffeur on the arm and he stopped. Alighting from the car she scrambled over uneven ground and presently threw herself down under the shade of a tree. Somewhere overhead a lark was singing and the air vibrated to the drone of summer insects. The day was blue, peaceful, sweet. A thin breeze rustled the foliage, and golden sun spots dappled the brown carpet of pine needles upon which she lay. A single cloud travelled in the sky and its shadow fell across the house and grounds in which Richard Frencham Altar was imprisoned. Auriole clenched her hands tightly and bit her lip. Somewhere behind those shuttered windows on the second floor the inquisition was going forward. Three men to one. The relentless interrogation. The same question repeated in a hundred ways and the same unshakable refusal to give an answer. It was fitting indeed that nature should cast a shadow over such doings.

"And I'm part of it," said Auriole.

Her thoughts flew back to her first meeting with Barraclough during the war. She was nursing then at a hospital in Eastbourne. He had had a bullet through the foot and was sent to the sea to recuperate. Strange how instantly they had liked each other. His good nature, pluck, generosity, were splendid assets in a friendship which went floundering loveward after the fashion of those crazy days. There was the fortnight they spent together in Town—perfectly respectable if a little unorthodox. He had money to burn and she helped him burn it. He had never asked more of her than companionship. Of course they kissed each other—everyone did during the war—that was understood; and he bought her presents too—ripping presents—and took her everywhere—theatres, undreamed-of restaurants, dances. A glorious time they had. He had denied her nothing except the offer of his name. After all there was no particular reason why he should have asked her to marry him—theirs was a mere partnership of gaiety added to which she knew well enough that it would not have been practicable. They were of a different mould. His blood was of the Counties and hers—Lord knows where she came from—"the people" is the best covering phrase to employ. She had been a mannequin in a Bond Street shop before the war. But was it fair—was it just to engender a love of luxury—to introduce her to all that her nature—vulgarised by unfamiliarity—coveted most! If he had proposed likely enough she would have been generous and refused him. But he didn't propose—he took it for granted that they were no more to each other than the moment dictated. There was a kind of long headed caution in his diffidence with regard to the future. He was exigent too in his demands and would not tolerate her being pleasant to anyone else. It was her nature to be pleasant to all men and restraints were odious and insulting. That was how the row came about. It took place on the night before his return to Prance. It was her fault no doubt because really he had been a ripping friend and loyal and trustworthy but the little climber felt that for once she had failed to climb. She was left, so to speak, in mid air, inoculated with the germs of all manner of new ambitions no longer realisable. Wherefore she forgot her affection for him and forgot all the lessons of politeness so studiously acquired in the years of climbing and let him have her opinions hot and strong as a simple uncultivated child of the people. The expression on Anthony Barraclough's face read plainly enough relief at his escape. He packed his valise and departed wondering greatly at the intricacy and unreasonableness of women. It did not occur to him that he was greatly to blame for having given her such a good time. Such a consideration was as remote as the thought of congratulating himself on his generosity. He was only awfully sorry she should have turned out as she did and rather perplexed at the apparent want of reason. And Auriole with the disposition to like him better than any man of her acquaintance suffered an entire reversal of feeling and went headlong to the other extreme in a spirit of unbecoming revengefulness.

And in the valley below, under the shadow of a cloud, this man was being tortured.

"I never meant that," Auriole cried. "I never meant that—did I—did I? I just wanted to pay him back. I just wanted——" She bit her lower lip and choked. "What a fool I am," she gasped. "Haven't I won a millionaire out of it? What's it matter if he does suffer a bit—he wouldn't be the only one. A millionaire," she repeated, "a millionaire—the wife of a railroad king. That's worth something surely."

A couple of unruly tears trickled out of her eyes and fell on her lap. It is really too absurd that even the thought of a million pounds cannot prevent a girl from crying.



CHAPTER 18.

HOLDING OUT.

Richard Frencham Altar had a sense of humour but never before in his hitherto easy going life had he so earnestly needed it. A sense of humour in a queer abstract way provides a quality of companionship—it gives a man the power to be a pal to himself—to talk to himself aloud—to laugh at adversity—to spot the comic side in the most pathetic predicament. Each day provided something new in the matter of discomfort or alarm. The calls he was obliged to make upon his resources of humour were therefore severe and exacting. Over and over again he had need to remind himself that there was something classically funny in three financial giants demanding from him information of which he was entirely ignorant and, technically speaking, putting him on the rack in order to obtain it. The fun was grim but it existed. No one ever thought of mentioning what it was they wanted to find out—doubtless assuming that to do so was waste of time. For his own satisfaction Richard would dearly have loved to ask point blank what it was all about, but to indulge curiosity to that extent would be to imperil the safety of the cause he represented.

To keep a record of days he made a scratch on the wall paper each morning with his finger nail. There were seventeen scratches in all and he was as proud of them as an old campaigner of his medals for they stood for seventeen successful engagements. Whoever it was had charge of arranging his persecution lacked nothing in the way of imagination. Methods of destroying his repose and a course of rigorous fasting were prominent features but these were varied with details of a terrifying and sometimes abominable kind. On one occasion thirty or forty rats were introduced into his apartment where they fought and squeaked and scurried all night long. But Richard's experiences in France had robbed him of any particular fear of rats. If anything he welcomed their appearance and devoted the short periods when the light was on to shooting at them with a catapult fashioned from the elastic of a sock suspender and a piece of angle iron detached from the underside of a broken armchair. For ammunition he used a few bits of anthracite coal which he found in the sitting room grate. Altogether he accounted for seventeen before the servants arrived and deprived him of his weapon. The remainder of the rats were corralled and carried away rejoicing. This little entertainment took place during the first week of his imprisonment and served the unhappy purpose of convincing his captors that Richard's nerves were not susceptible to frivolous attacks. Thereafter they concentrated on sterner measures. Food was reduced to a minimum and frequently doped with chemicals that caused him acute internal suffering. When the pain was at its height either Van Diest, Laurence or Hipps would pay him a visit and over and over again the question would be asked.

Times out of number sheer desperation and want of sleep almost induced him to give away the secret but something inside his nature—some fourth dimensional endurance over which he appeared to have the most astounding control—checked the impulse. Often he wondered at himself and questioned how he contrived to face the pressure put upon him, but the only motive he could trace beyond the stalwart desire of every decent man to take his gruel without squealing was an ambition to be able to meet Auriole Craven's eyes squarely when she came to see him and say "I'm afraid your friends haven't got my strength just yet." She would shake her head at that and reply cynically—"It's only a matter of time, Anthony." But at the back of her eyes was a light that seemed to read "Well done you."

He was in a sad enough plight on the morning of the seventeenth day when the door opened and Van Diest followed by Laurence entered the room.

Van Diest was chanting a German hymn, a habit greatly affected by him in moments of perplexity. With thumbs tucked in his waistcoat and fingers drumming upon the resonant rotundity of his waist line he marched slowly up and down moaning the guttural words in a melancholy and tuneless voice. Richard had learned to hate that song as cordially as its performer.

"Take it down another street," he implored.

Van Diest stopped singing long enough to shake his head and Laurence who had seated himself with crossed legs on one of the hard upright chairs said "Barraclough" with a note of pseudo-friendly warning.

"Why not have a shot at 'Avalon,'" Richard suggested sleepily. "Suit you, that would, and make a nice change for me." His throat was burning and talking was painful.

"Hm! A change," said Van Diest. "I wass thinking you would want a change very soon. It is tired you look this morning."

"That's queer, for I had a splendid night." Richard's hollow, dark rimmed eyes gave a lie to his words.

"Hm! Laurence, they use the siren—yes?"

Laurence nodded.

"Had it going every ten minutes. Didn't give him much of a chance last night."

"So! But to these young boys sleep comes very easily—I think—think it wass a goot idea to take away his bed—yes."

Richard rolled his eyes threateningly toward the speaker and checked a sudden torrent of abuse that sprang to his lips.

"It iss bad for these boys to have too much comforts—s'very bad; with the sleep fogged brain a man loses so much the intelligence. You will arrange—yes?"

"Of course I will if he insists," said Laurence.

"Oh, you swine," said Richard staggering to his feet. "You rotten blasted swine. Aren't you satisfied with what you've done—isn't it enough that you make the nights into a hell for me—a screaming hell. Sleep? How can I sleep? How can I sleep when——"

A violent, paroxysm of coughing seized and shook him this way and that.

"Tut, tut, tut! You haf a very bad cold there," said Tan Diest sweetly. "You must eat one of these lozenges."

Richard struck the box out of the hand that proffered it and fell heaped up into a chair beside the table.

"No pleasure to us you stay awake, eh, Laurence, eh?"

"'Course not. Now don't look at me like that, old fellar, I was thundering decent to you when first you arrived. Barring smoke, literature and alcohol it was a home from home. It's your own pigeon things have got a bit tight. Doesn't pay striking out against the odds."

"You little rat," said Richard turning a bit in his chair. "I'd like——" and he closed his fist.

"Silly talk, old chap, waste of time."

"I could waste a lot of time that way."

Laurence humped his shoulders.

"What are you to do with a fellar like this?"

Van Diest drew up a chair and smiled over the rims of his glasses.

"Of course we let you go to sleep if you waas sensible. Consider now the small shareholders that look to us for their little incomes. All these widows from the war. You speak and you wass a rich man all at once. Very soon forget the discomforts of these three weeks. S'no goot—no goot to make a fuss."

"I have nothing to say."

"Ach!" said Van Diest and rose. "I'm afraid, Laurence, we must take away this bed."

But Richard raised no further protest and somewhere below stairs a gong rumbled for lunch. It was part of the programme to emphasise the arrival of meals and in spite of himself he could not resist starting hungrily. Such signs and tokens were watched for. Laurence laid a hand on his shoulder and whispered:

"There's a fourth place laid, old friend."

"Why not join us to the lunch," said Van Diest coaxingly, "just a word spoken and—oh, it's goot the lunch."

"Thanks, but I'm rather particular who I sit with," said Richard and moved unsteadily toward the fireplace.

"It's rather a special menu," Laurence remarked. "There's a lobster Americaine—that was in Hipps' honour. But perhaps you don't care for shellfish, Barraclough."

"No, no, thank you. Prefer a Spartan diet. Glass of water and a piece of bread."

"Bread? Yes. I hope the baker remembered to call. Be awkward if—— Well, come along, Chief, no good letting things get cold."

They passed out of the room and the bolt slammed home.

With a crazy impulse Richard staggered across the floor, seized the door handle and shook it violently. One of those violent paroxysms of hunger suddenly possessed him which while they endure are acute agony. The longing for food gripped at his vitals like an eagle's claw and drove reasoned action from his head. He knew well enough that there was no escape to be made through the shuttered windows but ignoring the knowledge he leapt toward them and seized the iron cross-bar. As he lifted it from its slot the alarm bell above the frame rang out a fiery summons.

He fell back a pace beating the air impotently and whining. The door opened and Blayney and Parker, the two men servants, entered. Parker placed a tray on the table, then returned to stand in the open doorway. Blayney, ignoring Richard's presence, replaced the shutter bar in its old position and the bell stopped ringing. Then he turned and said:

"I shouldn't advise you, to try the window, sir. There's a strong electric current passes through the catch."

"Thank you," said Richard and slouched despondently toward the table where his glance fell upon the tray. Whatever victuals had been provided were concealed beneath a small silver cover but there was a napkin, a knife and fork and a cruet. On the whole it looked rather promising. Then suddenly he noticed that the glass beside the plate contained barely an inch of water.

"I say," he exclaimed, "look! Can't I have a jog of water? There isn't——"

"Not today, sir," said Blayney.

The very courtesy of the man was an incentive to fury.

"Yes, but——"

"Not today, sir."

Parker in the doorway grinned.

"Don't smirk at me, blast you," said Richard.

Blayney nodded toward the bedroom and changed places with his companion. When Parker came out he was carrying a great pile of bedclothes.

"Here, what are you doing? Put 'em down. D'you hear me?"

"My orders were to take them away, sir."

As Laurence had said it was useless to fight against present odds. Richard shut his teeth tight.

"Obey your orders," he said, but as the door was closing the craving for drink mastered his pride. "For God's sake," he cried, "for God's sake give me some more water. I'll give you twenty for a jug of water—honest I will—twenty——"

Blayney laid a finger to his lips and went out. The gesture might have meant anything. With trembling hand Richard seized the glass of water and drained it at a gulp. There was miserably little—it barely cooled the heat of his throat. Whimpering he set the glass down and lifted the cover from the plate. Underneath was a cube of bread the size of a lump of sugar. With a savage cry he picked it up and flung it across the room but a moment later was on all fours gathering up the broken bits and pieces and eating them wolfishly.

Blayney found him searching pathetically for the last crumb when he came stealthily into the room and put a tin mug on the table.

"I'll collect that twenty later," he said and vanished.

Almost like a miser Richard took the mug in his hands and purred over it possessively. With a sigh of absolute content he raised it to his lips. Then a scream broke from him—harsh, strident, savage. There were no soft spots in the walls of Hugo Van Diest's fortress. The water was salt.



CHAPTER 19.

AT THE CHESTNUTS.

Mrs. Barraclough was one of those old ladies who are constantly being surprised. She courted surprise. She never forestalled a climax and of the hundreds of sensational novels which she so greedily devoured never once was she guilty of taking a premature peep at the last chapter to ensure herself that right would triumph. "I shall find out all about it in good time" was the motto she affected. This being so she made no effort to secure Isabel's confidence but simply waited for Isabel to speak. The same reticence possessed her in the matter of the four mysterious serving girls. She hadn't the smallest idea why Anthony had suddenly transformed himself into a domestic agency although, at the back of her head, she guessed at a deep underlying motive. It gratified her beyond measure to be surrounded by unfathomed waters and frequently as a corollary to her prayers she would thank God for the little excitements and mysteries He sent to flavour her declining years.

After the uncontrollable rush of tears on her arrival Isabel pulled herself together and made a show of gaiety and preserved it nobly for nearly three weeks. Anthony had gone and gloomy forebodings were of no service. Accordingly she helped Mrs. Barraclough in the garden and made the very best friends of the four girls. Perhaps she was the least bit resentful on finding out that they knew almost as much of Anthony's plans as she herself.

"But did he tell you?" she asked in surprise.

"It's like this," said Flora who generally spoke for the company. "Jane and myself were with him in the Secret Service during the last year of the war."

"He got us the job," Jane interpolated. She was a big, bonny girl with broad shoulders, steady blue eyes and a complexion that would have advertised any health resort. "Cook kicks herself that she wasn't in that show."

It was at this point Mrs. Barraclough came into the room.

"Kicks herself! What a very unbecoming expression, Jane."

"Sorry, madam," said Jane and she and Flora sniggered uncontrollably.

"You girls perplex me greatly," said Mrs. Barraclough. "You do not laugh in the least like ordinary servants."

"How do ordinary servants laugh?" Jane asked.

"Generally speaking, in a high note that echoes distressingly throughout the house, whereas you laugh like young ladies."

"Oh, you old darling," exclaimed Flora with sudden impulsiveness. "I suppose if a decent education and upbringing counts for anything that's just what we are."

Mrs. Barraclough sat down rather abruptly on a small upright sofa in the centre of the room.

"Then for goodness sake tell me what you are doing in my kitchen."

There was no escaping the explanation especially when Isabel contributed:

"Come on, Flora, out with it."

"It's this way, madam. Lots of us went broke after the war—lots of us who'd only fifty quid a year to live on."

"Quid?" said Mrs. Barraclough. "Isn't that something to do with sailors and tobacco?"

"Pounds, then. We ran across Mr. Anthony out in France."

"Picked him out of a ditch near Arras with a bullet through his foot," Jane contributed.

"And after that got most awfully friendly and kept knocking up against each other."

Mrs. Barraclough shook her head.

"It must have been very painful for him with a bullet through his foot."

"When he heard we'd gone broke he said—just like him—'my mother's a sport, go and look after her.'"

"So I'm a sport," said Mrs. Barraclough with a smile. "But even so, why should I want looking after?"

"That's what puzzles me," said Isabel.

Jane and Flora exchanged glances.

"I don't know whether we ought to," said Jane.

"He's my fiance," said Isabel, "and you're jolly well not going to keep me in the dark."

"And quite incidentally," Mrs. Barraclough remarked, "he's my son."

"Oh, very well," said Flora. "It seems he was all over some great big, get rich quick scheme—and there was a chance anyone connected with him might be got at."

"Got at!" Mrs. Barraclough's dark eyes opened a little wider.

"Um! A tough crowd was up against him you see."

"I see." The old lady nodded gravely but there was a sparkle of excitement in her expression. "So you and Jane and Cynthia and Agnes are here to protect me against the assaults of—of a 'tough crowd.'"

"We're here if we're wanted," said Jane robustly.

"And somehow," said Flora, "I think we shall be wanted."

Mrs. Barraclough's hands went out and she drew the two girls a little closer.

"My dears," she said, "I don't know why but lately I've had a pringly sort of feeling—as if something were going to happen. It's a sense of adventure perhaps. I used to be a very wild girl myself."

"But you mustn't worry," said Isabel. "It's sure to turn out all right, you know."

"I'm not worrying. I'm only hoping that if anything does happen I shall be in it."

"But look here," exclaimed Flora, "that's the very thing he wants to prevent."

"Yes, yes, but I know my Anthony, bless him. It would be so beautiful to help him again after all these years." She smiled retrospectively. "When he was a little boy he was always coming into conflict with his father. Poor Mr. Barraclough, he was a very austere man and Anthony's scrapes inspired from him the severest judgments. Tony had a little signal—he was much too proud to speak—he used to take out his pocket handkerchief and quite carelessly tie a knot in the centre. Whenever he did that I used to come to his aid. Dear Tony, I was always the one to rescue him from difficulty."

"He gets his pluck from you," said Flora.

"His father was a brave man too, until he had a little misfortune with a mule which rather upset his balance."

"Generally does," Isabel laughed.

"Mental balance," Mrs. Barraclough corrected. "For the last few years of his life he thought he was Archbishop of Canterbury and if dead people think I'm sure he believes he is buried in Westminster Abbey. There, run along, my dears, and leave me to collect my thoughts."

But she kissed Flora and Jane before letting them go. Isabel stayed in the room.

"So my boy is in danger," said Mrs. Barraclough with the least touch of tragedy in her voice. Isabel came forward and put an arm around her neck. "You knew, my dear?"

Isabel nodded.

"They oughtn't to have told you."

Mrs. Barraclough snorted defiantly.

"Stuff and nonsense. Think I hadn't guessed? After all, a proper man ought to be in danger. Besides," she added, "he's a good enough reason, hasn't he?"

"What reason?"

"Doesn't he want to marry you?"

"I know," said Isabel forlornly, "but that would have happened in any case."

"Don't you be too sure, my dear. Now I'm going to let you into my confidence—mind I'm only putting two and two together but I'm pretty sure I've got the total right. Did you know that Tony had put every penny he possessed into this enterprise?"

Isabel started.

"No. What makes you believe that?"

"Because all I've got is in it too, and he would never ask of me what he feared to do himself."

"Then you know all about it?"

"Hardly anything."

"But he oughtn't——"

"I think the risks and dangers came afterward."

"Even so," said Isabel, "it's just for money. That's what I hate so."

"Isn't it just for you," said Mrs. Barraclough gently. "Just because if he failed he wouldn't be able to make you his wife."

"He never told me."

"Of course he didn't. How could he?"

"Are you sure of all this?"

"Practically certain. You see his Uncle Arthur is executor of Tony's affairs. Executors are not supposed to speak but Uncle Arthur was an exception who proves the rule."

"For me," said Isabel slowly. "For our marriage—for us. Oh, I'm so glad it wasn't for cash." A cloud came over her brow. "But it makes it frightfully difficult for me supposing I had to——"

"What?"

"I mustn't say—even to you."

Mrs. Barraclough didn't press for an answer. She was pleased there was a little bit of mystery left over.

Isabel kissed the old lady very tenderly and walked out into the rose garden by herself. There was a glow on her cheeks almost as pink as the roses themselves. It was a sweet relief that Anthony had gone into these dangers more for her sake than any other reason and that their happiness and future rested on his success. In her twenty-one years of life she had come too much into contact with men whose ruling passion was the dollar to the exclusion of all else. At the back of her head the fear had haunted her that Anthony had been bitten by the money bug—the hateful contagion that straightened and thinned the lips, chilled the emotions and case-hardened the kindliest natures. But now that fear was gone to be replaced with glad assurance.

On a semi-circular stone bench that backed the roadside hedge Isabel sat and hugged her knees and here a few moments later she was joined by Flora.

"He's a topper, your man," said Flora. "A downright first rater."

Isabel grinned an acknowledgment.

"Did he have any trouble in getting away?"

"Awful, I believe, but—but they had a plan which he said would make it easy."

On the road side of the hedge, barely three feet away, a clergyman, who apparently was seeking protection from the sun, moved sharply and cocked a listening ear.

"What plan?"

"He didn't tell me that and anyhow I shouldn't be allowed to repeat it."

The listening clergyman looked disappointed.

"Do you know what he was going after?"

"Yes, I know."

"Wouldn't care to tell anyone, I s'pose. I'm as safe as a house."

"I'm certain you are, only——"

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter so long as he got away all right. He did get away all right, didn't he?"

"Yes, I—I think so—he must have or his servant, Doran, would have told me."

Harrison Smith, on the far side of the hedge, pushed back his clerical hat and frowned deeply.

"And you had no message?"

Isabel shook her head.

"None. So I just tell myself everything is all right."

"Oh, I'm sure it is—certain," said Flora ecstatically. "It's bound to be. Mr. Anthony'd never let himself be beaten by any crowd." She paused. "If only one could be in it—but nothing ever happens down here. Are you staying much longer?"

"Going back tomorrow or the next day. I must be in Town on the night of the 18th."

"That the day he's expected?"

"Yes, at eleven o'clock."

"Wish I could be there to give him a cheer when he comes in."

Isabel slipped an arm through Flora's.

"It's great of you to be so keen," she said.

"Think so," Flora replied. "Jolly sporting of you not to mind. We've got a bit of a 'pash' on Mr. Anthony, you know."

"I thought you had," said Isabel sympathetically.

"Kind of hero worship it is. Nothing to bother about 'cos as matter of fact we're all engaged—'cept Cook who hates men. But even Cook can't help admiring him. Be a sport and let us know if he gets through all right. You could 'phone."

"I will."

"Any notion which port he'll arrive at?"

"Couldn't say. I've a sort of idea that it might be one of the little Cornish fishing villages."

"What makes you think so?"

"No particular reason only——"

"Yes, go on—be a pal."

"You won't repeat it?"

"No fear."

"There was a West Country guide book on his table one day and I happened to glance at it."

"Um."

"Ever heard of Polperro?"

"Yes."

"On one of the maps Polperro had a pencil line ringed round it and a couple of very small dots marked in certain places."

"That might have been years old."

"It wasn't. I had lent him a blue pencil a few days before—rather a funny colour it was. He'd used that pencil."

"You're a bit of a Sherlock."

"I oughtn't to have said anything about it."

"It's safe enough with me," said Flora. "You can bet your boots I shan't blab."

A silvery toned bell sounded from the house.

"There's tea," said Isabel.

The two girls rose and moved away arm in arm.

Mr. Harrison Smith pulled out his watch and looked at the dial.

"With luck I can catch it," said he.

And through the drawing room window Mrs. Barraclough saw the unusual spectacle of a clergyman running like fury in the direction of the railway station. As she remarked a few moments later:

"This is indeed an age of speed. Even the delivery of the Gospel is conducted by express service."



CHAPTER 20.

A LITTLE HOUSEBREAKING.

The train which conveyed Mr. Harrison Smith back to London stopped at every intermediate station and did not arrive until after ten o'clock. He, therefore, was given leisure for thought and the result of his thinking was to bring him perilously near the truth.

He began with the premise that somehow Anthony Barraclough had succeeded in making good his escape—that he was even now obtaining the concession—that he would return to London on the night of the 18th instant at eleven o'clock in all probability carrying the document upon his person. All this was plain sailing but against it was the established fact that Anthony Barraclough was imprisoned in Laurence's house. If this were indeed the case further investigation was useless. But was it the case?

The girl Isabel Irish had said there was a plan to make his exit from London easy but no evidence had been given to suggest that this plan, whatever it was, had been put into operation. Torrington's syndicate was not composed of fools and yet the kidnapping of Barraclough had been mere child's play without a speck of opposition. His own side had been guilty of an act of crass stupidity in failing to carry off the servant Doran as well as his master. It was one of those tragic oversights which occur in the most carefully laid plans. Unquestionably Doran would have told his employers what happened on the night of the 27th and they could hardly have failed to guess the truth. And yet, as private information assured him, not the smallest effort had been made to rescue the man in whose brain was a secret worth millions. And quite suddenly the truth, or a guess at the truth, dawned upon him. Torrington's crowd must have been aware of the intention to kidnap Barraclough and for a reason known only to themselves had deliberately allowed it to take place. Why? Had another man been sent in Barraclough's place? He dismissed that theory without dissection. The shape of Barraclough's jaw and the line of his mouth belonged to the type that does not unduly trust his fellow men. Why? Was another man occupying Barraclough's place—deputising for him in his absence?

Harrison Smith struck one hand against the other. "By God," he exclaimed. "It's the most unlikely thing in the world but I'm going to believe it. I'm going to believe that the chap with the humorous lines round his eyes is no more Barraclough than I am."

He alighted at Waterloo Station aglow with excitement. His first thought was to proceed post haste to Laurence's house and lay before them the result of his deductions, but a second and more personal consideration dissuaded him. There had been little enough encouragement when last he interfered. He had been rudely ordered to leave things alone. No, he would work out this deal himself and if anything came of it approach Van Diest and Hipps for a lion's share of the plunder. Weeks ago it had been arranged; if by any means Barraclough succeeded in slipping through the outposts and obtaining the concession, he was to be quietly thugged on his return and the paper destroyed. As Ezra Hipps had said, "If we fail to get it for ourselves it's damn sure no one else is going to profit." Wherefore all he had to do was to intercept the returning treasure seeker, put him securely away and then talk business to his own employers.

Harrison Smith hailed a taxi and told the driver to go down the Commercial Road as far as the Poplar Town Hall. This was not a job that could be tackled single handed—on the other hand it would be unwise to admit more people to his confidence than were absolutely necessary. He dismissed the taxi and proceeded on foot down one of the narrow crooked byways abounding in that region. The place was quiet and deserted save for a few Orientals—Lascars and Chinamen—who leaned against the walls of their dwellings in silent contemplation of the stars.

At the side door of a small and disreputable public house he paused and knocked thrice with the handle of his cane and presently the door was opened by a girl. She was a Jewess and lovely to look at, with the fresh, shameless beauty peculiar to very young girls of that faith. Recognising Harrison Smith she smiled a welcome and said:

"You're in luck—he's sober! Upstairs, in the front room."

She smiled again, revealing a perfect row of little white teeth which mocked the string of cheap pearls at her throat. As he climbed the stairs Harrison Smith speculated on the odd contrast this girl presented to her surroundings. The silk of her stockings, the bangles and gewgaws, the ultra patent leather of her shoes, bore so little relation to the squalor of the narrow passage with its damp stained walls, carpetless floor and hissing gas jet. Probably nowhere in the world do greater incongruities exist than in the East End of London.

Mr. Alfred Bolt, minus coat, collar, tie and shoes, was seated in an arm chair, his feet reposing upon the mantel-piece. At his elbow was a glass of whiskey and water with a slice of lemon floating on the surface. His waistcoat was undone and the white of his shirt emphasised the enormous girth of his corporation. His legs were short, his hands fat, his face round and margined with a half circle of hair beneath the chin. At the first glance you would have taken him for the model from which Will Owen must have illustrated the stories of W. W. Jacobs. One would have expected him to remind the passer-by that it was "a nice day for a sail" or alternatively to demand "Any more for the Skylark?" But a closer inspection would have shaken the foundation of so simple a belief for Mr. Alfred Bolt's eyes were not of the honest kind worn by men who go down to the sea in ships. They were close set, narrow lidded, cunning, piggy little eyes that caused unrest to look upon.

At the sight of Harrison Smith he removed his feet from the mantelpiece and extended an open armed welcome.

"Welcome and thrice welcome, my dear brother," he intoned in an admirable imitation of the accepted ecclesiastical method. "I rejoice indeed to observe that you are now in Holy Orders." Then with a drop into the vernacular. "Blind me, Smith, what the hell are you doing with your collar back to front?"

Harrison Smith gave a hurried explanation.

"But I thought that job was cleared up," said Bolt.

"Maybe it is, but there's a chance of a big coup that no one expected. Now, if you care to take a hand."

Mr. Bolt fancied himself as a mimic, indeed he harboured the opinion that he was a peer even to the late Sir Henry Irving in the matter of "take offs." He could imitate a cat or a Chinaman, while his thumb nail impressions of sundry Hebraic neighbours were only rivalled by his flawless caricatures of natives of Germany or the New Hebrides. But best of all he loved to assume the inflexion, guise and bearing of a member of the clergy—a circumstance very possibly explained by the fact that his own private life was as far removed from the office of virtue as could be imagined.

"Be unafraid, my son," quoth he. "If your heart is full speak into my listening ear and may a blessing fall on your confession." Then fashioning a trumpet with his two hands he bellowed like a fog horn: "Becky! A drop of whiskey hot for the gent." And while the refreshment was being procured he observed parenthetically: "A nice little piece, ain't she? Very smart and dossy. Come on, Smith, my boy—my jolly old beau—dear old cracker, soak up the juice of the barley and expound the tale of woe."

Harrison Smith wasted no time in explaining the case while Bolt listened with great concentration, nodding approval at this point or that.

"Hm! Worth trying anyway," he agreed. "What do you want me to do?"

"Take over my place at Clyst St. Mary. Can't explain why but I've a sort of notion things may happen there. It's a queer household—lot of smart girls looking after an old woman—Barraclough's mother."

"What's she like?"

"Never got near enough to find out. Decent enough old thing. Goes to church a lot."

"Shrewd?"

"Never struck me so at a distance. Might be anything—bit of a fool—mostly are—that old country sort."

Mr. Bolt mused.

"Goes to church, does she." His eyes travelled over Harrison Smith's black garments. "Why didn't you call?"

"Didn't strike me. Fancy she knows very little."

"'Curs to me," said Bolt, "I might do the clergyman stunt myself in those parts. I've got some stuff. A bit of the old Wesley—'Quiet harbourage from the turmoil of city life, my dear lady. An occasional hour in your beautiful garden.' That's the ticket."

"Then get off straight away. There's a train at five a.m. from Waterloo. You can have my room at the pub. I'll give you a note to the proprietor."

"And assuming I meet brother Barraclough?"

"Get him," responded Harrison Smith laconically. "Make as little fuss as possible but get him."

Mr. Bolt nodded and the piggy little eyes twinkled greedily.

"Trust me," he said. "Anything else you want?"

Harrison Smith thought for a moment.

"That chap Dirk," he said. "Could you find him for me?"

"Sure."

"Then tell him to meet me at Paddington tomorrow morning 9.50."

"Right."

"And you might lend me that bunch of spring-lock keys."

"Going to have a squint at that guide book?" queried Bolt shrewdly as he turned over the contents of a table drawer in search of the keys.

"Going to have a try," came the answer.

Bolt rippled out a fat, greasy chuckle.

"Pleasure to work with you, Smith," said he. "Yes indeed. Though it's a bit risky putting one over on the Dutchman." He fell into a thick, guttural "S'bad—s'bad pizness. Dese servants wass ver' insubordinate. S'bad. Well, good luck, ole boy."

They shook hands cordially.

The Commercial Road was deserted when Harrison Smith came out of the narrow byway. The chance of finding a conveyance was small but his practical sense suggested turning into the West India Dock Road where, at the gates of the dock, he had the good fortune to secure a dilapidated four-wheeler. Progress was painfully slow and hours seemed to pass before they finally turned out of the broad cobbled highway and passed through the silent empty city. Two o'clock was striking when he dismissed the cab in Piccadilly. At his own rooms in Crown Court, St. James's, he changed into ordinary clothes and proceeded on foot to Albemarle Street. Before the entrance to Crest Chambers Harrison Smith stopped and broke into a torrent of imprecation. He had forgotten that the downstairs door would be shut. It was of heavy mahogany and secured by an ordinary variety of lock against which the bunch of keys in his pocket were of no service whatsoever. He was shaking his fist angrily when the sound of footsteps accompanied by a snatch of song attracted his attention. A young man in evening dress, wearing an opera hat at a raffish angle and carrying his hands in his trousers pockets turned out of the adjoining side street and approached the spot where he was standing. A single glance was enough to convince Harrison Smith that the young man was in a state of spiritual exaltation bordering on ecstasy. The words of a song he sang sounded unnaturally clear—like music from another planet.

"I'm one of the ruins that Cromwell knocked about a bit," he sang over and over again as though the words contained relish enough to justify any limit of repetition. Coming abreast of Harrison Smith he halted abruptly and, rocking on his heels, broke into a cherubic smile.

"Goo' man," he said. "Les-see, it's ol' Petersh, ishn't it?"

"That's it," said Harrison Smith, "old Peters."

With startling suddenness the young man produced a latch key and thrust it into Harrison Smith's palm.

"Ope' th' door, ol' top. Ope' door an' we'll have a quick lil' spot together."

Here was unlooked for good fortune of which Harrison Smith lost no time in availing himself. Lending a trifling support to his impromptu host they entered the building and ascended in the electric lift to the fourth floor. There was a brass plate on the front door which informed the curious that the owner of the flat was called Royston.

"Just a quick one," said Smith as they entered a comfortable sitting room adorned by photographs of lovely ladies. "I've had a trying day and want to turn in."

"T'hell with that," said Royston. "Wha's matter with seein' in the dawn?"

He produced a bottle of whiskey and two glasses—not without casualties among their fellows—set them on a coffin stool and fell into a deep arm chair.

"Help 'self and help me—'cos I'm ver' tired—ov' tired."

Harrison Smith embraced the opportunity of pouring out a perfect deadener for his host into which he discreetly added a pinch of cigar ash from a convenient stump (a concoction which in the absence of more potent drugs will produce very gratifying results).

While he was so employed Mr. Royston descanted freely on the subject of lovely women in the choice of which he declared himself to be an epicure.

"See that one—pho' frame—piano. Tho'bred—perfect tho'bred—a darling—love 'er—love 'em all."

"That's the talk," said Harrison Smith who was cursing the enforced delay. "Drink her health, old man, and no heel taps."

Mr. Royston rose nobly to the occasion and swallowed the contents of his glass at a single gulp.

"Blesh 'em!" he said. "Blesh 'em."

He seized the arm of his chair while the room spun round him in a dizzy whirl.

"Blast you, Petersh," he cried. "Thash pre-war whiskey. Sh-shot me clean through the brain pan. C-caught in the brewersh web."

He swayed a little and settled down on the floor by sections. Harrison Smith stooped and put a cushion beneath his head.

"All ri' soon—qui' all ri'. Fac' is I'm one of the ruins Crom'll knocked about a bit." The voice tailed away into a deep, slumberous groan.

A minute later Harrison Smith was at the door of Barraclough's flat on the landing below. The fourth key on the bunch turned the latch and silently as a cat he slipped into the hall. A quick observation of the chambers above had given him a fair idea of which room was which and he had no trouble in locating the study door in the dark. Before turning on a light he assured himself that the window curtains were drawn. He realised the need to be very silent in all his actions since Barraclough's servant was in all probability sleeping on the premises and ex-service men of the regular army have an awkward knack of sleeping lightly. He closed the door without even a click from the latch, then turned up a standard lamp that stood on the writing table. In the pen tray beneath the lamp was a blue pencil—a new one—since obviously it had never been sharpened and the chalk point was scarcely worn at all. The other end of the pencil had been deeply bitten in a dozen places, a circumstance which Harrison Smith noted with satisfaction. The other pencils and pens in the tray bore no teeth marks. It was reasonable, therefore, to surmise that its owner had been engaged in some knotty and puzzling problem at the time of use.

"I believe the girl was on the right track," he muttered to himself and turned his attention to the bookshelves. One of the cases was given over entirely to a collection of local guide books surprisingly complete in map and detail. There were four volumes dealing with Cornwall and it was only the matter of a moment to find the one to which Isabel had referred. Bringing it to the light Harrison Smith hastily turned over the pages until he came to the squared map that showed the village of Polperro. But here disappointment awaited him—for not a sign of the blue pencil mark showed upon the page. He was on the point of closing the book when he made a discovery.

The light striking across the paper revealed the fact that the surface in places bore a polished appearance. The reason was significant. Barraclough, leaving nothing to chance, had erased the pencil marks with indiarubber. If anything could emphasise the value of his discovery surely it was this and Harrison Smith fairly tingled with excitement. He picked up a magnifying glass and closely examined the erasement. There had been a line drawn round the village and on the outskirts, where three cottages clustered together, was the impression of a single dot. At roughly a mile inland from the village where a footpath converged with the road was another dot, seemingly situated in the middle of a clump of trees.

Harrison Smith was satisfied. He hastily dropped the book into his pocket, restored its fellows to their former position on the shelves and tiptoed across the room to extinguish the light. Thus far Fortune had favoured him, but she is a capricious lady wont to change her allegiance with startling suddenness. If there had been a length of yellow flex to the electric standard the accident would never have happened. It is simply asking for trouble to use red flex on a red carpet. Harrison Smith's foot tangled in the wire and down came the table lamp with a crash. Simultaneously there came a shout from another part of the flat. For a second Harrison Smith stood spellbound at the disaster he had caused—robbed of the power of action.

It was the sound of bare feet pattering on the parquet of the hall that restored his senses and as the door of the room flew open he stamped on the still burning electric bulb lying at his feet. The detonation as it flew into fragments came simultaneously with the sharp, stinging report of a small calibre pistol. The room was plunged into utter darkness in which could be heard the sound of two men breathing and the zinging of the mantelpiece brasses from the double explosion. Then silence—no movement—and the mind of Harrison Smith worked like a streak of lightning. His hand was on the back of a heavy arm chair and the touch of it suggested an idea.

He gave a thin, whispering sigh and cried out in a high pitched voice.

"My God! You've killed me!"

Then he tilted back the arm chair and allowed it to fall with a soft thud to the floor.

Another silence, then the sound of a man moving forward. Harrison Smith side stepped and, keeping in touch with the wall, navigated through the darkness toward the door.

"Serve you damn well right," said Doran in a voice that was startlingly near.

Harrison Smith's luck had returned. He found the door and passed through it and down the hall as quietly as a draught. He heard a click as Doran switched up the lights, followed by an oath. Then he streaked down the main stairway with a flight and a half start. A second was lost at the hall door fumbling for the latch and in that second Doran fired again but missed. As Harrison Smith shot out into Albemarle Street he collided heavily with a constable, attracted to the scene by the noise of the shots, but him he overturned to such good effect that he was crossing Piccadilly before the blast of the inevitable whistle screeched through the night. There was no further opposition to his progress and in St. James's Street he fell into a walk and finally entered his own apartment unobserved.

A little breathless but entirely satisfied he flung himself on the bed for a couple of hours' sleep.



CHAPTER 21.

THE CORNISH RIVIERA.

In the summer time all the best people, and many who fall short of perfection, go westward to the Cornish Riviera. It is the thing to do. The taxi, the station 'bus, the private automobile, and even the almost extinct four-wheeler, high laden with luggage, by common consent roll down the slope into Paddington and deliver up their cargoes. Long are the queues at the booking offices, thronged the platforms, and loud the voices of those who command. Each little party of voyagers would seem to have its own alarums as an inevitable adjunct to excursion. The genius for organising is manifest on all sides with resultant chaos. Orders and injunctions are flung broadcast—misinterpreted and sometimes abused. The germ of panic infects the multitude.

There was nothing Freddie Dirk liked better than a holiday crowd. They inspired in him a sense of profound gratitude. Their generosity was boundless. To a gentleman of his skill in the matter of property exchange they represented a fortune. Whatsoever the imagination might picture and the heart of man covet could be had at the mere turn of a hand.

His appointment with Harrison Smith was for 9.50, but Freddie Dirk arrived half an hour ahead of time and this grace he put to excellent account. He had learnt from Bolt that Cornwall was their destination, wherefore his first care was to procure two first-class tickets for Plymouth from the cuff of a gentleman's raincoat—a feat in strict accordance with the laws of economy. The high cost of living had of late reduced his supply of ready cash, on which account he could hardly be blamed for taking possession of a wad of notes carelessly entrusted to a side pocket by another passenger who was seeking to economise by carrying his own bag. Being an essentially practical man Freddie Dirk resisted the temptation to acquire a suitcase in crocodile by Pound. Reticence in the matter did him credit and he rewarded himself with a single stone diamond scarf pin that greatly enhanced the appearance of his own cravat. He was debating with himself the question of a string of pearls of no very great value when Harrison Smith's hand fell upon his shoulder.

"That's a blame silly thing to do," said Dirk when he had recovered from his initial surprise. "Blame silly. Might 'ave a bit more respec' for a man's nerves."

Harrison Smith cursed him fluently as he led the way to a Ford car standing in the yard.

"Lot of use to me you'd have been if the splits had got you. It's a big job we're tackling and I don't want it spoilt by dam-fool sneak thief tricks."

Freddie Dirk apologised and explained his distaste for idleness.

"Ain't we going by train—'cos I got the tickets."

"No."

"Well, 'ang on a minute while I gets the money back."

But even this business coup was denied and with a sense of opportunity lost he entered the car.

There was nothing prepossessing in Freddie Dirk's appearance. He was of the low brow, heavy jaw, bruiser type. The term a "tough" fits him closely. He had a punch like a kick from a dray horse but when called upon to use his hands he preferred to rely upon his mascot to ensure success. Freddie's mascot was a few lengths of whalebone bound with twine and socketed into a pear-shaped lump of lead. Scientifically wielded it would go through the helmet of a City policeman like a hot knife through butter. He had a healthy dislike for firearms which was perhaps the primary cause of his failure to serve King and Country in the late war. His skill as a draft dodger had earned him a great reputation among many of his fellows equally diffident in their will to serve.

"I've got you into this," said Harrison Smith as they chugged up the station incline, "because I want a man who'll stick at nothing."

Dirk nodded.

"There's a chance we may have to——"

"That's orl rite—least said soonest mended."

"Barraclough is a bit of a bear cat and if he's got the concession on him you can lay odds he'll fight."

"If he's got the blinking thing don't see 'ow we're going to make much aht of it."

"Wouldn't his own side pay a goodish cheque? And wouldn't old Van cash in to have it destroyed."

Dirk grinned very prettily revealing his broken front teeth in all the glory of the morning sun.

"I get you. A private deal, like, favouring whichever market pays best."

"That's the idea. There's a fortune in it if we get him tucked away in some quiet place."

"It's a treat to work with you," said Dirk enthusiastically. "I'll lay a quart there ain't a finer 'ead piece than yours from 'Oxton to 'Ammersmith."

"Thank you," said Harrison Smith. "Try and remember that and obey orders quick as you get 'em."

"That's rite, captain, that's the talk. Give me a man wot talks strite."

A Ford is a marvellous eater up of miles and Harrison Smith did not spare his engine nor linger upon the way. Evening was falling when at last they descended the hill into the little fishing village of Polperro. They ran into the inn yard and tried to bespeak a lodging for the night but in this they were unlucky for there was no accommodation to be had. The best obtainable was a shake down in the stable loft, granted on a promise to refrain from smoking. Having refilled the petrol tank and assured themselves that the Ford was in sound running order against the morrow's needs they entered the inn.

"We'll get a snack now," said Harrison Smith, "and after that take a look round and make a few enquiries."

The schooners of ale provided by mine host to wash down the simple country fare were entirely agreeable to Freddie Dirk's parched palate. It had been a long day and, as he pointed out, refreshment had been all too scarce. Harrison Smith might be, and undoubtedly was, an excellent fellow but he did not understand the urgent need for beer without which no good man was at his best. It was all very well going out and asking questions and poking one's nose into this, that and the other but far greater advantage was to be won by poking one's nose into deep foaming tankards of beer. Closing hour came all too soon and it would be time enough to seek fresh diversion after that unhappy event.

Wishing to remain in the good graces of his companion Harrison Smith shrugged his shoulders and sallied forth alone in the direction of the quay. The tide was out and from the mud and sand came the pungent ozonous smell of rotting sea vegetation. Dazzling white gulls wheeled and hovered in the air or noisily disputed the possession of fragments of fish and the offal of the market. In the pool a dozen trawlers, green striped and numbered, with furled brown sails and slackened rigging rode sweetly at anchor. A knot of seamen leaned against the outer stone wall of the pier smoking pipes and gazing idly across the opal coloured sea. A couple of artists were wrestling valiantly with the thousand subtle difficulties of the scene—trying to transmit to canvas the changing lights upon the water, the pink blush on the white-washed houses and the dull grey shadows on the mud. It was a scene calm and sweet enough to awaken gentleness and set romance astir but in Harrison Smith's mind it inspired no more than a sense of doubt and disappointment. Surely this tiny harbour was an unlikely landing for a man to choose who carried in his pocket the key to millions. No decent sized vessel would ever put into such a port. The place was asleep—dead almost.

A blasting conviction that the marks in the guide book had no connection whatever with the business in hand came over him. Barraclough might have put them there expressly to deceive the girl. He was subtle enough to employ such a device. What if after all the others were right and it was indeed Barraclough they had kidnapped? A pretty fool he would look then.

Shaking himself out of these melancholy forebodings Harrison Smith approached an old seaman with the offer of a "good evening" and a fill of tobacco.

"Pretty quiet hereabouts," he remarked.

The old man nodded.

"Still I dare say you get steamers and such like popping in every day to liven things up."

"Bearn't draught enuff for steamers. They doan't bother us much, steamers doan't."

The reply was not encouraging.

"I see the fishing fleet is at anchor. Weather too calm?"

"Couldn't say thaat."

"Going out tonight?"

"Med-do."

"And how do you get rid of your fish?"

"Us sells 'er."

"I mean do you send it up by road?"

"Naw!"

"Steam trawler comes in to collect it?"

"Doan't come in—not very often it doan't."

Harrison Smith turned away with a sigh, leaving the old man sucking at his pipe and spitting reflectively. There was no illumination to be found in that quarter.

More than ever doubtful of success he passed slowly through the village to its inland outskirts and there he paused to study the map. It might be worth while taking a casual glance at the group of three cottages marked by Barraclough with the pencil point. They were easily located but their outward appearance suggested little enough connection with the mystery. They were fashioned of grey Cornish granite with slate roofs and the inevitable fuchsia bushes in the front gardens. One of them boasted a small stock yard roughly cobbled, an open cowshed and alongside a stable with a heavy double door. As a mere matter of form Harrison Smith determined to take a glance inside but on approaching the door he found it was fastened by an iron crossbar secured to an eyelet by a large and well made padlock. The door fitted closely into its architrave and there was no crack through which a man might see into the stable. Once more his excitement revived. With a quick glance over his shoulder to satisfy himself no one was about he scrambled over the shale wall of the stock yard and passed to the rear of the building. High up under the gable a few pieces of stone had been removed for ventilation. A broken horse trough placed against the wall served him as a ladder and a moment later he was peering through the gap into the inky darkness of the stable. Nothing could be seen so, with some difficulty, he struck a match and dropped it into the space beyond. It went out in the fall but in the brief space while still alight it revealed the bright parts of a long, low racing car.

Harrison Smith dropped silently to the ground and his breath came short and sharp.

"I was right—I was right," he gasped. "Hispano Suisa by the look of it—and fast too. Shouldn't have much chance against that outfit."

Naturally enough he resolved that it would never do to allow Barraclough to get as far as the stable. On the other hand it would be a wise precaution to disable the big automobile in case of accident. But between him and the carrying out of this resolve was an iron bar and a padlock. To attempt violence against the door would surely attract attention from the house. And all at once a simple and effective alternative suggested itself. If he himself were unable to enter the stable he would take measures to prevent the entrance of any other person. There was no difficulty about that and when five minutes later he strolled down the road toward the inn it was with the comforting reflection that the keyhole of the padlock was entirely filled up with clay and grit in such a manner that no key could ever again force its way in.

He found Dirk already settling himself down for the night and Harrison Smith smote him boisterously on the back.

"A red hot scent, my son," said he. "We're on the winning side. Success, my boy—success."

Freddie Dirk smiled beatifically through a fog of beer.

"Goo' ni'," he murmured.

"It's up with the dawn for you and me—and then success."

Curious how success reacts even on the best balanced brain and obliterates the most obvious considerations. Harrison Smith entirely forgot the second blue dot on the map—the one situated a mile outside the village where a little footpath converged with the high road.



CHAPTER 22.

PLAIN SAILING.

The steam trawler "Felice" out of Cherbourg was not much to look at, but none the less she was a lady of virtue and of good intention. Her engines had lost the sweet voice of youth through long argument and bitter contest with the stern affronts of life. Where once they had hummed and purred now they racketed and nagged, but they got through the work none the less well on that account. The life of a fish wife hardens the temperament and loosens the tongue and the "Felice" was no exception to the rule. A plain, strident, powerful old woman bucketing through calm and trouble with the same reproach for either. The "Felice" wore rusty black—coarse and patched. She had long ago forsaken her girlish waist band of royal blue esteeming such fallals better suited to the children of the fleet. She was a no-nonsense lady, one of the "up and doing and you be damned" sort, but she boasted at least one unusual feature, the pride and envy of her fellows. She was fitted with an aerial, the relic of an age when small vessels went forth to sweep up big mines very often to be swept up themselves while so engaged and to mention the fact by wireless in the short interval between being struck and sinking.

Anthony Barraclough, wrapped in a suit of borrowed oilskins, leaned against the deck-house and grinned at the breaking day. Like a fire opal the sun rose out of the sea, its first rays dissipating the ghostlike wisps of fog that drifted over the water. The "Felice" was shouldering her way up channel against the slap of a running tide and the greeny-black waves, as yet undyed by the morning blue, spumed and spattered over the bows and wetted her decks with a sharp salt rain.

"Oh, Lord!" said Barraclough, dashing the spray out of his eyes. "Oh, Lord! it's good to be alive."

His hand travelled to an inside breast pocket and stayed there, his fingers lovingly caressing a case of morocco leather.

"And it's good to have brought it off. Damned good." His eyes looked aloft to the sagging wires of the aerial.

"Wonder if I dare send 'em a message. Better not perhaps. Besides, I want the fun of springing it on 'em myself. Still, I might give 'em a hint—something to set 'em thinking."

He puzzled for a moment then broke into a fresh grin for a dainty little code had suggested itself. It would be rather amusing to talk to a group of financiers in the language of flowers. A memory of Isabel's last words put the idea into his head when she had given him the dog rose on the evening of his departure.

"It means hope, Tony," and "Hope it is," he had replied.

He turned to the little companion ladder and shouted into the dark beneath.

"Ohe, Jean Prevost, half a minute."

And in answer appeared the head and shoulders of a short, thick-set, twinkly eyed, unshaven man who gruffly demanded "Quoi?"

Jean Prevost, skipper of the "Felice," was not an "oil painting" to look at but he was just as reliable as the craft he commanded. He and Barraclough had had dealings together during the war and they respected each other. If Jean Prevost were proud of anything it was of his acquaintance with Barraclough and the knowledge he esteemed himself to possess of the English tongue.

"Fizz me off a message on the wireless, there's a good soul."

"Hah!"

"Gerard, Regent Street, W. Deliver immediately single dog rose to Lord Almont Frayne, Park Lane Mansions."

Jean Prevost nodded and repeated the message verbatim.

"That's it. Quick as you can."

"I send 'im now, I blerdy will. We find ze trawlers blerdy soon."

Jean Prevost showed a regrettable liberality in the use of this popular adjective which he firmly believed lent vitality and refinement to any sentence.

"That'll set them thinking," said Barraclough, as he turned away with a smile. "Ha, the Eddystone!"

In direct line with their course rising like a thin twig out of the sea showed the silhouette of the lighthouse, while between it and the now faintly discernible mainland tiny dots of brown showed upon the water.

Your true Englishman is an absurd creation for he cannot return to his native land even after the shortest absence, he cannot see the faint familiar landmarks, the nestling villages, the rolling downs, the white chalk or grey granite of her battlements, without a throb of honest grateful pride. An imperial singing sounds in his ears—tuned to the measure of breaking surf—such a song as lovers sing whose single words are no more than this, "I am yours and you are mine."

"Tonight," he said. "Tonight I shall see her again."

There was the appointment at his rooms at 11 o'clock when he would place the concession in Mr. Torrington's hands. That would be a big moment. He could imagine Cranbourne's unbridled enthusiasm, Lord Almont's congratulations in the style of P. G. Wodehouse, and Cassis, that person of dry ashes and parchment, unbending to the greatness of the occasion. He, Barraclough, was a made man, every newspaper in the country would send its reporters to clamour at his doors, every charity seek his aid when the story and the magnitude of his find became known. From an ordinary commonplace individual, he would be transformed into a figure of the age, the observed of all eyes, the target of every tongue. And yet, the world at his feet, the wealth, the prominence, the power, the achievement, faded and dwindled into nothing at all beside one absurd but adorable longing. It was the thought of Isabel sitting on the floor, hugging her knees, resting her chin upon them, looking at him with great wide open eyes, smiling at him with moist trembling lips.

Over head the aerial fizzed and crackled as his message voyaged forth into space. The tiny dots between the Eddystone and the land took form and detail and became the brown sails of a fishing fleet lolling idly in the bay.

A hand on his shoulder aroused him from his reverie and he turned to find Jean Prevost standing beside him.

Barraclough pointed to the North East.

"Number fifty-seven," he said.

The old skipper focussed a pair of binoculars and steadied them against a stay of the funnel.

"Zere," he said, and pointed at a solitary sail to the West of its fellows. "Heem! You see?"

Barraclough nodded.

"Diamond's a reliable chap. Always as good as his word. How long shall we be?"

"Quarter hour—ten minit."

Nothing more was said until the "Felice" came alongside the solitary fishing boat from the bows of which a tall bronzed seaman gave them a welcoming hail.

"Good-bye and good luck, Jean Prevost," said Barraclough. "You'll hear from me in a day or two."

"And blerdy good luck to you," said the Frenchman gripping the extended hand.

Barraclough dropped over the side and landed on the stern sheets of Number 57. A bell clanked and the "Felice" lurched away ruffing the glassy water with her screw.

"Be ye right?" demanded Diamond, drawing up the cable of his anchor.

"Sure thing," said Barraclough. "Let her go."

The anchor came out of the water with a plop, the brown sail was twisted and a little auxiliary oil engine began to snort.

"Wind's settin' just right," said Diamond, the sheet in one hand and the tiller in the other. "Ye 'ad a good time?"

"First rate. Tell you all about it one of these days."

A friendly puff of wind from the South East filled the canvas and drove them shoreward at a slant, the water lapping gently against the bows. It seemed a very little while before they rounded the headland and entered the narrow funnel of cliffs leading into Polperro. Not a soul was to be seen at the breakwater, a circumstance Barraclough noted with satisfaction, although he had no reason to expect opposition. They lowered sail at the harbour mouth and came alongside a slippery wooden ladder stapled into the stone wall of the pier.

"Ye'll take a bite o' breakwus?"

"Not this journey, Jack. I'm getting off as fast as I can. Here, you'd better freeze on to these oil skins. No good to me." He stripped off the coat he was wearing, shook hands, and mounted the ladder.

"Thanks awfully. I'll be down this way for my honeymoon. Good-bye."

With a cheery wave and a smile he started down the jetty at a brisk walk.



CHAPTER 23.

AN ENCOUNTER.

Anyone who is acquainted with the village of Polperro knows the stone jetty which runs parallel with the horizon line of the sea. In length it is perhaps eighty or a hundred yards. At its Western end it turns at right angles past a terrace of old houses whose foundations are washed by the tide. Barraclough had almost arrived at this point when two men turned the corner and came toward him. One was a presentable enough fellow, but his companion was a person of low class. They were obviously in the heart of an altercation for the words, "You fill yourself up with beer like a blasted barrel," preceded their appearance.

Now there was one thing Barraclough never forgot—a man's voice—and as the words came to his ears he stopped dead. The moment of mutual recognition was almost instantaneous, but Barraclough had precisely one second's start to recover from his surprise. Behind him was the jetty surrounded by the sea, and the narrow passage in front was blocked by enemies.

Harrison Smith wasted a fraction of time crying out the name "Barraclough!" Dirk fell back a pace fumbling for the pocket in which he kept his "Mascot." It was a fatal mistake. Running down the length of the jetty between the two men was a fisherman's net, and as Harrison Smith sprang toward him pistol in hand, Barraclough ducked, seized the net and raised it in the air.

It was the barest fluke that the manoeuvre should have worked so well. Harrison Smith stumbled heavily, grabbed at Dirk and missed him. Barraclough's foot just above his waist line destroyed the last of his equilibrium and over the edge he went into the shallow water below. Unquestionably the beer was responsible for Dirk's failure to win the engagement. His quarry was before him in an open position. He should have used his Mascot and used it hard. It was sheer criminal stupidity to have looked over the edge at his fallen commander. Maybe the angry scarlet of Dirk's complexion provoked Barraclough's attack and before the poor man had recovered from his surprise a heavy lobster pot came smashing down over his face with agonising force, the splintering basket-work playing havoc with his features. Then he, too, experienced the unique sensation of gliding downward through space, a delight somewhat marred by the rudeness of its finish.

Barraclough did not stay to behold the result of his offensive, but picked up his heels and ran. Just beyond the open fish market he saw a neglected Ford car and hesitated an instant to debate whether or no he should appropriate it. At the time he did not connect it with the two men wallowing in harbour waters. Had he done so he would certainly have driven it over the edge of the quay into the mud. His own car was waiting less than a quarter of a mile away—an Hispano Suisa built for speed—and the sense of speed ran through his own veins. As he raced up the narrow, twisting street the good wives of the village turned on their doorsteps, open mouthed, to watch him pass. He scarcely bothered to glance over his shoulder satisfied that he had gained an easy five minutes' start. Coming abreast of the three cottages he vaulted the stock yard wall, threw open a gate and made for the stable door fumbling in his pocket for the key of the padlock.

And suddenly an oath broke from his lips crisp, concise, and covering. The first trick had been scored by him but undoubtedly Harrison Smith had won the second. The blocked up keyhole told its own tale. He knew the door very well and it would be half an hour's work to break it down, also he knew the padlock having bought it himself. The Hispano Suisa would have to be abandoned.

He did not waste time cursing, but instead leapt the shale wall and took to the fields. A little footpath lay among the trees at the meadow end and Anthony Barraclough made for it with all possible dispatch jumping a brook and forcing his way through a fringe of thorn and bramble. There had been no rain for some weeks and the going was dry, a circumstance he noted with satisfaction, for your average Cornish footpath is as much a waterway as a thoroughfare for pedestrians. It was half a mile to his destination, a spot where the path converged with the high road and as he ran, Barraclough covered his face with his hand to avoid the swinging branches. A gap in the trees gave a view of the village and as he flashed across it increasing speed to avoid the risk of being seen he had a momentary glimpse of a Ford car with two men in it stopping at the gate he had recently opened.

"How in blazes they found out beats me," he gasped.

A sickening fear assailed him that his second line of escape might also have been blocked and, at the thought, he put out every ounce of speed he possessed. It was better to know the worst at once. The path widened out into a cart track and through an aisle of trees the white patch of the high road came into view.

A casual passer-by would never have noticed the low built pigsty that butted on to the hedge, its roof and sides being almost completely masked with brushwood and bramble vine.

Barraclough could not resist an exclamation of joy as he noted that the big piles of carelessly thrown kindlings were apparently untouched. He kicked away great bundles of them with his foot, produced a key and opened a small solid door. The relief was almost unbearable, but he did not linger to offer up prayers of thanksgiving.

The motor bicycle flashed bravely as he dragged it out into the sun, turned on the petrol and set the controls. He shoved the gear lever into second, lifted the exhaust and pushed, and the willing little twin fired its first spluttering salvo as he bumped out of the rutted lane into the main road.

Concentration on the single object of getting away had dulled his ears to other sounds, for normally he could not have failed to hear the chuff-chuff of the approaching Ford. As he swung into the saddle he saw it out of the corner of his eye and ducked. The vision of two men—an excited yell and an oath—they were almost on top of him when the twin took a healthy dose of the mixture and got away. Another second and they would have ridden him down. Barraclough swerved to the left to cut a corner and opened up. Harrison Smith did likewise, choking his engine with too wide a throttle and losing a dozen yards in half that number of seconds.

"Shoot, blast you! Shoot, you blasted fool!" he roared at Dirk.

Barraclough heard the order and swept over to the right to disturb the aim as a couple of leaden hornets buzzed angrily past his ear striking the macadam a hundred yards ahead and whining away into the distance.

Freddie Dirk's execution with an automatic was below the quality of his Mascot work. He cursed fluently as the shots flew wide and tried to steady his aim by resting the Colt on the iron crosspiece of the wind screen.

"Take the wheel—take the wheel, damn you," cried Harrison Smith, snatching at the pistol with his left hand. "You can't shoot that way."

Somehow they contrived to change places. A sharp rise in the ground had perceptibly slackened the speed of Barraclough's mount and he reduced his lead still further by hanging on to the top gear a couple of seconds too long. The Ford, on the other hand, was beginning to improve and leapt at the hill eagerly. No more than fifty yards separated pursued from pursuer.

Harrison Smith sat on the back of the driving seat and bided his time. A glance ahead showed him the road winding up interminably at the very incline at which a Ford car develops its greatest efficiency and goes sailing past nearly everything else on the road.

"Got him," he said, "got him cold."

This comforting reflection awoke in his breast a sporting fancy. After all it was more fun to shoot a man than to ride him down.

The little twin in front was labouring bravely at the hill, but its muffled exhaust was pleading unmistakably for still another change down. Barraclough knew very well that were he to accept this invitation he would be lost. The only hope was to keep in second and pray hard that the engine wouldn't conk out. A glance over his shoulder revealed the Ford bounding up the hill toward him. Then it was Harrison Smith fired. Barraclough saw the flash out of the tail of his eye and simultaneously his motor cycle seemed to leap forward with a noisy roar. The bullet had struck the exhaust pipe cutting it clear of the silencer and making him a gift of five miles an hour. A new life seemed to run through the veins of the machine and the hill flattened out before him like a level track. As he realised the charity of Fate, Barraclough lifted a gladsome "Yoicks" and waved his right arm above his head. Again the pistol cracked and a red hot knitting needle seemed to pass through the palm of his hand. As he brought it back to the handle bar he saw a pale blue circle between his first and second finger bubble into scarlet and black.

"You scum, you dirty scum," he cried, "but it'll take more than a bullet through the hand to bring down my flag."

He jerked the gear lever back into top and shot full bore at the down grade before him. As the Ford car breasted the top of the hill its passengers were rewarded by the sight of a tiny speck of dust tearing along a ribbon of white in the valley below.



CHAPTER 24.

RIVAL FACTIONS.

Everyone agreed it was a difficult morning on the Stock Exchange, although for that matter a great many mornings during the past three weeks had been the same. The bottom had fallen out of innumerable cans. Persons with scarlet or greenish white faces were waving their hands and calling on the Deity to explain the collapse of cast iron securities. If there had been a threat of war things could hardly have been worse. The worst of it was that none of the big sellers seemed disposed to give their reasons for unloading. Mr. Hilbert Torrington, when asked why he had sold huge quantities of oil shares, courteously replied to all and various that he had no observations to make. The oil market, particularly that controlled by Hugo Van Diest, had slumped fifteen points in three days and the others had fallen sympathetically. And now, as though the oil collapse were not enough, appeared Ezra P. Hipps unloading Estuary Rails at a price that would hardly pay for printing the scrip. Ten days earlier the Estuary had looked like a cinch and Nugent Cassis, who had a reputation for sanity, had been buying it by the yard. Here was stock at nineteen shillings being offered at fivepence, and no rush to take it up even at that price. Everyone knew that Hipps was the moving spirit in the Estuary. His holdings were enormous.

"In Heaven's name, man, what's the idea?" was shouted at him from every side.

"I'm getting out," was the only answer he condescended.

Nugent Cassis was beginning to lose his nerve as emphasised by the fact that he was continually winding his watch or pulling at his precise grey beard. His usual air of calm ill-humour had deserted him and, as Lord Almont laconically remarked, "Poor old Cassis is flapping in the wind."

"Can't understand their motive," he repeated over and over again. "If they believe they've got Barraclough tucked safely away, what can they gain by this stock juggling?"

"They are laying a false scent presumably," said Mr. Torrington.

"They must be aware that we know about the kidnapping."

"I imagine so. At any rate Cranbourne intends to put them wise."

"Then where's the object?"

"Our friend Frencham Altar has disappointed 'em perhaps, so they turn their attentions once more to our humble selves."

"Makes me almost wish we'd left the whole thing alone. Seventy thousand pounds in three weeks. Appalling! Appalling!"

"But consider how we shall be requited when Barraclough turns up with the concession."

"If he turns up."

"We shall know at eleven o'clock tonight."

"That's purely hypothetical."

"My dear Cassis, the world is made up of hypotheses—dreams that sometimes come true. What are you doing with your holdings in Estuary?"

"I'm selling."

The old man's eyes blazed.

"On the contrary, my friend. This is a fight and we fight to a finish, please. By your leave we do not take the count until tomorrow morning."

"I'm not made of money," Cassis complained.

"Very well then, if you are determined to sell—sell to me."

"Are you crazy?"

"Possibly. Come over here."

Mr. Torrington took Cassis by the arm and led him to the excited group surrounding Ezra P. Hipps. The American's head and shoulders appeared above the crowd. He was offering Estuary Rails at fourpence three farthings. Catching sight of Nugent Cassis he broke into a grin, shook his head sadly and asked:

"Coming to join the party?"

"We are," replied Mr. Torrington, "in the form of purchasers. I'll buy at four-three."

The American frowned.

"Say, you serious, Mr. Wise Man?"

"Perfectly."

"What'll you take?"

"All you've got."

The news went round like wild fire and half an hour later the price of Estuaries was running up like quicksilver dipped in hot water.

"What in hell do you make of that?" Hipps demanded of his chief.

Hugo Van Diest shrugged his shoulders.

"He wass a doughty adversary, dis Mr. Torrington," he replied. "Must egshpect dis sort of ting."

"Guess there's more behind it than that. What are they hoping on, anyway?"

"Donno—donno."

But the sudden appearance of Sydney Cranbourne did something to enlighten them.

"Forgive my intrusion, gentlemen," he said, "but could you give me a possible date on which we might expect the return of our mutual friend?"

Neither Hipps nor Van Diest betrayed the smallest surprise.

"Our mutual friend, Mister Cranbourne?"

"I was referring to a gentleman whose initials are A. B."

"A. B.! Wasn't that the guy who went out to look for a radium field three weeks ago today?"

"The same," said Cranbourne sweetly. "But we had reason to believe he changed his plans and accepted another invitation."

"You've been dreaming, dear," said Hipps.

"Perhaps I have, Mr. Hipps. The matter is of no great importance but I dreamt of the Old Bailey among other things and of three gentlemen, prominent in financial circles, who were charged with unlawfully detaining someone against his will and endeavouring to induce him to confide certain information."

"And then, I suppose," remarked Hipps, "you woke up and knocked over your cup of early tea."

"Why, no," replied Cranbourne. "I sat up in bed and worked out details for the flotation of the Radium Company in which I have an interest."