Hipps looked at Van Diest, shook his head and tapped his brow.

"Sure it's the heat," he said. "There ain't going to be any flotation that I've heard of."

"Think not? It would be a pity if you gentlemen gave way to overmuch expression of optimism. It hardly accords with your actions of the last few days."

Van Diest smiled expansively.

"Ver' distressing dis uneven market."

"I imagine you must have found it so."

"Poor Mister Cassis—he was ver' green dis morning."

"Our dear Cassis is a born actor. Well, gentlemen, I won't keep you any longer except to offer my sympathy that you have found A. B. so indifferent a confidant. Good day."

And with a polite bow he turned and mingled with the crowd.

"Can't quite get the strength of all that," observed Hipps as he and Van Diest passed out of the main door, "but one thing sticks out a mile. We can't hold our prisoner indefinitely. He must be made to talk right away."

"Dis evening we make the big effort."

"And assumin' it fails?"

"Dat would be a peety—such a peety."

Hipps stood thinking for a moment.

"I've half a mind to turn on the girl again. Let her vamp the secret out of him. We don't progress, you know. Say, you don't think they've a line on where we've got him hid?"

Van Diest waved away the suggestion.

"No, no, no. S'all right. S'arranged too well."

"Then I'll trot up West and buy Auriole a lunch. What time tonight?"

"At nine o'clock."

"I'll be along."

He jumped into a taxi, drove round and collected Auriole and carried her off to the Carlton Hotel. She seemed tired and lacklustre, a circumstance he noted with some small annoyance.

"See here, kid," he said. "We've a big set piece scheduled for tonight and you're a participant."

"I am."

"Sure. Our friend has proved a disappointment in the talking line."

For a moment a flash of enthusiasm burned in her eyes.

"The persecution has failed then?"

"It's early to say so but we've a notion it 'ud do no harm to accelerate a trifle."

"You'd hardly dare torture him more than you've done already."

"We thought of trying out one or two new effects but supposing they fail then it's up to you to take a hand."

"No," said Auriole, "no. You found me a failure before—let's leave it at that. My part's ended."

"Haven't you kind o' forgotten something?"

"What?"

"My offer to you was made providing we pull off this deal. Failing that it's cancelled."

Auriole's expression, seemed to go very flat indeed. There was a look of disgust in her eyes.

"What do you want?"

"Maybe we shall call on you for the 'whisper and I shall hear' act. It'd make a nice variety for Anthony after the shouting."

"You want me to make love to him?"

"Sure. And I'll try and govern my jealousy for a short stretch."

She was silent for a longish while, then she nodded.

"But only as a last resort," she insisted.

"That's a bet. Me and Van'll be trundling along in the Rolls about ninish—care to join us?"

"No, I'll use the two seater."

"Back your fancy. But see here—no back sliding, mind. A hell of a lot hangs on his being made to talk—a hell of a lot," he repeated seriously.

"What do you mean?"

"Never do for a fine chap like him to die young."

"Die? You wouldn't dare."

"It's certain sure we wouldn't dare turn him out in the world again after what's happened."

"Do you mean you'd——"

"Think it over."

And she thought it over while Ezra P. Hipps addressed himself to a liberal helping of saddle of mutton smeared with great dollops of red currant jelly that looked to her like blood.



CHAPTER 25.

MR. BOLT DROPS IN.

An undercurrent of suppressed excitement pulsed through Mrs. Barraclough's household on the day of the seventeenth. You could feel it throbbing like the beat of a distant drum. Voices sounded different, eyes shone strangely, feet touched the ground as though it lacked solidity. A sense of electricity was in the air, like the unnatural calm that is herald to a storm. Mrs. Barraclough herself was the one person outwardly unaffected by the general mood and set about her daily duties as though nothing were happening. She never even mentioned Anthony's name but instead freely discussed the imminent confinement of Mrs. Brassbound, the wife of the village policeman. She loved babies and it struck her as a happy omen that the little arrival was expected on the very day that should mark her son's return from excursions and alarums.

Isabel rang her up during the morning—a trunk call—with the brave intention of expressing firm and unshakable optimism but the effort was pathetically tremulous and finally petered out with inarticulate sobs and chokings.

"Oh, dear, dear! That will never do," said Mrs. Barraclough, mastering a powerful desire to kiss the microphone into which she spoke. "You mustn't even imagine anything could go wrong. Now, what are you going to do this afternoon?"

Sniff! "I donno—nuffin'," came over the wire moistly.

"Then I'll tell you. You'll go round to your dressmaker's and try on your wedding dress and pretend you're walking down the aisle with your hand on Tony's arm."

"I c-couldn't—b-but it's a l-lovely idea."

"Of course you could and you've got to. After all, it's what you'll be doing in real earnest next Thursday."

Mrs. Barraclough could almost swear to having seen the smile that dried up those tears that fell a hundred and fifty miles away.

"I'll t-try," said a tiny voice. "You are a d-darling." And later in the afternoon the telephone bell rang again sad the same voice, with a brave ring to it, announced "I've got it on."

After that Mrs. Barraclough was perfectly sure everything would be all right and walked down to the village to enquire about the prospective mother.

Shortly after she had gone Jane, who was entering the drawing room with a silver tea tray, had a real adventure. On pushing open the door she had an impression of two black coat tails disappearing through the French windows into the garden. With perilous despatch she set down the tray and rushed out to the gravel path, calling loudly to Flora. Flora, arrayed in a greasy blue overall, came hurrying from the garage where she had been spending the day tinkering with the car.

"Yes, what is it?" she cried.

Jane was pointing down a grove of Dorothy Perkins at the end of which a stout figure in black was retreating.

"That old clergyman!"

"What about him?"

"I'll swear he was in this room when I brought in the tea."

"You sure?"

"Positive. I saw him pass the house two or three times this morning and yesterday too."

"Half a mo," said Flora and hurried over to the writing table. "I say, haven't these papers been moved?"

"Yes, they have. My eye! it's exciting. What do you make of it?"

"Something fishy."

"Do you think—do you possibly think it's anything to do with Mr. Anthony?"

Jane's eyes sparkled like jewels at the very thought of anything so adorable.

"I bet it has," said Flora. "What else could it be?"

"Might be just a rotten burglary."

"Chuck it," said Flora. "Don't spoil a decent show."

"I don't want to. But didn't she tell you Mr. Anthony had spoofed the crowd that were against him?"

"Um! But they were a downey lot and p'raps after all they didn't buy the spoof."

"Wouldn't it be terrific," exclaimed Jane, clasping her hands, "wouldn't it be terrific if there was a dust up down here and we were in it."

"Shut up," Flora implored, "it's a jolly sight too good to be true. Better light the spirit lamp, the old lady'll be in to tea directly."

The words were scarcely spoken before a shadow was cast across the floor and Mrs. Barraclough appeared at the window carrying a basket of roses.

"Conybeare," she said, addressing the old Devonian gardener who was trimming the borders a few yards away. "Conybeare, I am going down to Mrs. Brassbound later in the evening. I want you to cut me a nice bunch of grapes and some vegetables—nice ones."

The old fellow touched his cap and moved away. Mrs. Barraclough entered smilingly.

"And I shall want the car, Flora."

"It's all ready. I'll bring it round, madam."

"There's no hurry. Aren't these roses delicious?" She buried her face in the orgy of pink, crimson and yellowy-white blooms. "Give me that bowl, my dear."

And while she took a few from the basket and arranged them in the big silver bowl she continued pleasantly—

"I always wish I were a girl again when I pick roses. There's a sentiment about them—and perhaps a danger—a nice sort of danger. You know, it's very sad to reach an age at which danger no longer exists. By the way, a very singular thing happened to me on my way to the village. I was followed, Flora!"

"Followed! But who'd dare?" said Jane.

Mrs. Barraclough pouted pathetically.

"Please don't say that," she begged. "It makes one feel so old. After all, there is no law to prevent one being followed unless it is the law of selection."

"Who followed you?" asked Flora.

"A man," replied Mrs. Barraclough with ceremony. "A very respectable man. He revived a sense of youth in me by wearing elastic sided boots."

"What was his face like?"

"In the circumstances, Jane, I kept my eyes discreetly downcast, but I had a fleeting impression of clerical broadcloth."

"That man!" exclaimed Flora with sudden emphasis.

"My dear, it is most unbecoming to speak disparagingly of a member of the clergy. As a girl the word curate inspired in me feelings of respect and sentiment."

"There's not much to get sentimental over in that old beast," said Jane. "He's been hanging around since yesterday evening and what's more, I'll bet he's up to no good."

Mrs. Barraclough had her own opinion of the mysterious parson who had addressed her in the lane but she preferred to arrive at the opinions of others by her own method.

"I am sure it is very wrong to bet on clergymen as though they were race horses," she replied.

"But honestly," said Flora, "I believe he is a bad hat."

"Well, well, well," Mrs. Barraclough acceded, "if he isn't he certainly wore one—a black and white straw of a shape and pattern which I believe you moderns call 'boaters.' There, the kettle is boiling. Run along and leave me to myself."

After the two girls had departed Mrs. Barraclough stroked the end of her chin with a sensitive forefinger and murmured:

"I wonder what that man is here for? It's queer—I wish I didn't think—Oh, well!"

She leaned forward and poured herself out a cup of tea. A discreet cough caused her to start and rise quickly.

In the centre of the room stood Mr. Alfred Bolt, looking for all the world like the comic paper idea of a parson. A huge, black frock coat hung in festoons over his globular form, his scarlet face was wreathed in smiles. In his hand he carried a black and white straw hat and a pair of black kid gloves. He placed the hat in the middle of his waist line and bowed apologetically.

"I beg your pardon—I do indeed beg your pardon."

Mrs. Barraclough was equal to the occasion and presented a perfect example of mid-Victorian austerity.

"May I ask, sir, why you enter my house other than by the front door? And also what persuaded you to address me in the lane this afternoon?"

"My dear lady," protested Mr. Bolt with a world of unction. "I come from a part of the country where formality is unknown and where a minister—a minister of the gospel—enters into the hearts and the homes of men and of women by the shortest possible route."

"Fiddlesticks," said Mrs. Barraclough uncompromisingly.

At which her visitor expressed himself as greatly shocked and turned his eyes heavenward.

"I remark with sorrow," he observed, "that you are not a true believer. Your faith is not of the simple kind."

He could hardly have chosen an unhappier argument. Mrs. Barraclough's devotion was a byword in the parish. To be treated thus by a totally unknown clergyman was not to be tolerated. Her doubt as to the probity of this person fostered by Jane and Flora took definite shape. She decided to interrogate and, if necessary, expose him without further preamble.

"It is customary for visitors to be announced," she said. "I would be obliged if you would tell me your name."

Mr. Bolt sighed and seated himself heavily on the sofa, his little pig-like eyes roving round the room.

"My name, madam, is the Reverend Prometheus Bolt."

"And why have you called upon me?"

Mr. Bolt faltered. He did not like this lady who pointed every question.

"An act of civility, my dear madam. I am staying a few days in this enchanting vicinity and hearing of your benevolent character was persuaded to pay my best respects."

"My benevolent character! You are collecting for a charity? You are proposing to hand me a tract?"

"No, indeed no. My visit is connected with this world and not the next. I was informed in the village that this house was to let."

"You were misinformed."

"Furnished—to let furnished. Yes." This was a happy thought and he followed it up closely. "I should consider myself indeed fortunate if you, dear lady, would conduct me round its various apartments."

"The house is not to let under any consideration."

"Dear, dear! How disappointing."

"So if that is your only object in calling——" Her hand went out toward the bell.

"I pray you will allow me to remain a moment and recover my breath. The heat of the walk, you know. I am not as young as I was."

"No one is," replied Mrs. Barraclough uncompromisingly.

"How very, very true," said Mr. Bolt with outward benevolence but inwardly with a powerful inclination toward violence. "Yes, very true, although it is bitter indeed to be taunted with lack of youth. In the words of the Gospel 'do unto others as you would be done by.'"

"In what particular part of the Gospel does that phrase occur?" demanded Mrs. Barraclough shrewdly.

But Alfred Bolt was not a man to be caught out in the first over.

"I can only recommend you a closer attention to the Book," he replied. "Search its pages yourself, dear lady, and treasures of gladness shall be yours."

It was a nimble evasion and he could not resist a smile of self-satisfaction, but to avoid further interrogation on Biblical derivations he hastened to lead the conversation into safer alleys and ones more relative to the object of his visit.

"I am informed in the village that you are the fortunate possessor of a son."

"I have a son," Mrs. Barraclough admitted.

"A priceless gift, dear lady. I should like to shake him by the hand."

"Why?"

Really this woman was too trying and the directness of the question for an instant deprived Mr. Bolt of his sense of character. Before he had time to collect his thoughts he had rapped out the reply:

"Needn't jump down a man's throat like that."

His effort to recover and mask this piece of startled irritability with a vague platitude did not deceive his audience in the smallest degree. Doubt became conviction in Mrs. Barraclough's mind. She did not know in what way this man was connected with her son's affairs but none the less she was certain he represented a positive barrier between Anthony and success. To denounce him as a spy might, however, do more harm than good, accordingly she took up the bell and rang it, with the words:

"My son is away and has been away for several weeks, nor is there any likelihood you will meet him when ultimately he returns." Then to the glowering Jane who had answered the summons of the bell; "Kindly show this gentleman out."

"Pray do not disturb yourself," said Mr. Bolt with dignity. "I can find my own way."

And with astonishing speed for a man of his build he seized the handle and threw open the door of Mrs. Barraclough's bedroom. The action was deliberate since he desired to find out who might possibly be concealed in the inner room and its advantages were immeasurable for at the very moment his back was turned Anthony Barraclough, dusty and spent, stumbled in through the French window.

Jane gave a short, stifled squeak and pointed and he was out again and ducking behind a rose bush before Bolt had time to turn and apologise for his mistake.

"Show this gentleman through the gate and down the road," said Mrs. Barraclough in a voice that did not betray her excitement by a single tremor.

"I thank you for your hospitality, dear lady," said the Reverend Prometheus, "and I trust I may have the pleasure of bettering our acquaintance."

As he bowed himself out he discreetly dropped his gloves behind a cushion on the sofa.

"This way, please," said Jane. "This way."



CHAPTER 26.

AMONG ALLIES.

The door had scarcely closed upon the retreating masquerader when once again Barraclough slipped into the room. His clothes were white with dust, his eyes hollow and deep set, but around the corners of his mouth was just such a smile as any mother might hope to see.

"Bless your sweet bobbed head," he whispered, throwing an arm affectionately about her shoulders. "Though why in blazes you entertain well known crooks to tea gets me wondering."

"Oh, my dear, dear boy, wherever did you come from?" she cried, patting him all over to convince herself of his reality.

"Down the chimney, mother, like Santa Claus."

"But why and without a word?"

"Hadn't a notion I was coming," he replied dropping on to the sofa and spreading out his legs. "I was whacked to the wide and had to stop somewhere and get me breath."

The door was flung open and Flora and Jane burst in.

"I say, that was a near shave," gasped the latter. "Where did you spring from?"

"Somewhere t'other side of Plymouth. Keep your eye on the window, Flora. Don't want that old blackbird to get a view of me. Thanks! Fine. See him down the road, Jane?"

"You bet."

"It's damn bad luck him being here at all. When did he first show up?"

"Last night."

"There's been a mess-up somewhere and I was looking for a clean run home."

"Home, dear?"

"Um! Back to London. How's mother's old car going, Flora?"

"Tiptop."

"Good, I shall need it. I say, I apologise for not saying how-de-do but things have been moving today. Everyone feeling good? Fine. Lord, I'm tired." And he passed a hand tied with a bloodstained handkerchief across his brow.

Mrs. Barraclough was first to notice it and called for an explanation.

"Oh, that's all right—a scratch—bled a bit. Nothing to bother about. Flora, if you leave that window unguarded you're sacked. Jane, if you love me, a large and a small."

"But what is it all about?" Mrs. Barraclough implored after shaking her head at the thought of whiskey.

"Money, dear—money and a bit of paper I carry in this note case that is earnestly coveted by quite a number of people it doesn't belong to. When I asked for a large and a small, Jane, I was endeavouring to convey the idea that I was thirsty."

But Jane was reluctant to go and only consented to do so on a promise that no secrets should be revealed in her absence.

"Be a darling, mother dear, and fill me a pipe."

It was characteristic of Anthony Barraclough that the entire household revolved round him from the instant of appearance.

"Then there is something wrong with your hand," said the old lady filling the pipe and putting it in the corner of his mouth, while Flora risked a month's notice by rushing forward with a lighted match. "I shall tie it up while you have your smoke."

Anthony's protests were unavailing when the ministering angel mood descended upon his mother. At such a time she was inexorable. She called upon Flora to fill the slop basin with warm water and provide scissors (always so elusive when needed) and naturally Flora, who was entirely absorbed in the adventurous side of the proceedings, could only find the rose cutters which were entirely useless.

"It's a bullet wound," Mrs. Barraclough declared. "You can't deceive me—it's a bullet wound."

"Well, p'raps it is, mother, but since it was never intended for my hand we needn't bother about it."

"You must have it bandaged and go to bed straight away."

"Bed!" He threw back his head and laughed. "It's likely."

"And you'll want a sling."

"Not for this David, mother. A sling would be a fat lot of use against the Goliaths I'm dealing with. Mother, I'm within a hundred and fifty miles of being one of the richest men in the world and, as far as I can see, they'll be the toughest miles I've ever covered in my life."

And suddenly from the window came Flora's cry of "Look out!"

Anthony did not waste time looking out but instead flung himself behind the upright piano which stood out from the wall. Nor was he a moment too soon for the massive form of Mr. Bolt was framed in the French windows. Mrs. Barraclough took three steps toward him as also did Flora, thus preventing a definite intrusion into the room.

"I beg your pardon—I do indeed beg your pardon," said Bolt in tones as rich as the fat of pork, "but I fancy—I rather imagine—I—yes, to be sure, left a pair of gloves on your sofa."

"If you had rung the bell, sir, your property would have been restored to you in the usual manner. I cannot——"

She stopped as her uninvited guest was sniffing the air suspiciously.

"Mrs. Barraclough," he observed, shaking his head sadly, "I fear I have caught you smoking."

Behind the piano Anthony was feverishly extinguishing his pipe with the ball of his thumb.

"I smoke all day," replied Mrs. Barraclough.

The door opened and Jane came in with an abnormally large whiskey and soda which she nearly dropped at the sight of the visitor.

"Oh! Mrs. Barraclough!" said Bolt, pointing an accusing finger.

But the old lady was equal to the moment.

"And drink," she said, seizing the glass and swallowing an immense gulp that almost paralysed the muscles of her throat.

Mr. Bolt smiled cynically and took his gloves from Flora's outstretched hand.

"Gloves are so expensive nowadays, are they not?" he asked.

"To be frank, Mr. Bolt, I do not wish to discuss with you either gloves or Christianity," said Mrs. Barraclough. "I would be glad if you would kindly leave by the way you came."

"I was about to do so, madam, after first thanking you for your hospitality."

Maybe it was appreciation of his mother's inflexible bearing that caused Anthony to relax, but whatever the reason the result was disastrous. There was a small table alongside of where he stood hidden upon which was a vase of sweet peas. Anthony's elbow struck and overset it. There was a splash of water and a tinkle of glass.

The three women held their breath and Mr. Bolt's eyebrows went up and down twice very quickly. Then he smiled.

"Once again allow me to thank you for your hospitality," he said.

"Show this person out," said Mrs. Barraclough.

And under the escort of Jane and Flora he was peremptorily bustled off the premises.

"H'm," said Anthony, coming out from behind the piano. "That was a pity."

Mrs. Barraclough was almost in tears.

"Do you think he realised you were hidden there?"

"Vases don't tumble over by themselves, mother dear, and our friend is not a fool." He tapped his teeth with a thumb nail reflectively. "Yes—yes—yes. We must curtail his activities. Can't have the old viper sending messages. Settle down at the telephone, best of mothers."

"I do wish you would not address me as though I were a sitting hen," said Mrs. Barraclough, drawing up a chair to the writing table.

"The telephone, mother, and ask for the police station."

"But the policeman is sure to be out."

"Then talk to his missus."

"That would be impossible, dear, Mrs. Brassbound——"

But Anthony did not listen to the objection.

"Tell old Brassbound," said he, "to run in friend Skypilot if he gravitates near the post office."

Mrs. Barraclough picked up the receiver and asked for the police station and while waiting to be connected remarked weakly:

"There is no law to prevent people sending telegrams, dear."

"Then we must make a few to fit the occasion."

"Is that you, Mr. Brassbound?" said the old lady in answer to a voice on the wire. "It's Mrs. Barraclough speaking. I wonder if you would very kindly arrest a clergyman for me."

"Put a bit more sting in it, mother—ginger."

"Ginger," repeated Mrs. Barraclough into the mouthpiece. "No, no, I didn't mean that. He's grey and elderly."

"Say he pinched something," Anthony prompted.

Mrs. Barraclough nodded.

"I rather fear he has appropriated a cream jug. Yes. I thought perhaps he might send it off from the post office. Thank you. And how is your wife progressing? Yes, of course she is. Yes, I am coming down to see her this evening if I can get away. Goodbye."

"What's wrong with the policeman's missus?" demanded Anthony.

"As you're not a married man, Tony, I shall refuse to tell you," said Mrs. Barraclough in the manner of Queen Victoria.

"Going to see her?"

"I was going to take her this basket of roses and some vegetables, but as——"

"No, no, you take 'em and I'll go down to the village with you in the car and take it on. You won't mind walking home across the fields."

"Anthony," said Mrs. Barraclough seriously. "Is it very real danger you're in?"

"Pretty solid but don't you fret, I'm equal to it."

Flora and Jane came in from the garden.

"We've seen him down the road," they announced.

"Good. Now, look here, everyone, I've wasted a deuce of a lot of time when I ought to have been on the way. Here's the position of affairs. Flora, you're going to drive me to London."

"Right," said Flora with sparkling eyes.

"Jane! Still got that old service revolver I gave you?"

"Um."

"Keep it handy. Likely enough there'll be a couple of visitors here before long and you've got to detain 'em somehow."

"I'll keep 'em till they grow roots," said Jane stoutly.

"It's a damn shame, dragging you into all this, but that bullet did me in as a driver. It's no joke shoving a motor bike along with a bullet through your hand."

"But how did you get the wound, dear?"

As hurriedly as possible he outlined the day's happenings from the moment of landing at Polperro.

"Who are these men?" Flora demanded.

"Couple of spies belonging to a crowd that tried to prevent me leaving London three weeks ago."

"But what do they want?"

Anthony held up the morocco letter case and restored it to his pocket.

"Just this. I've given 'em a pretty good lead all day—played hare and hounds all over Dartmoor best part of the morning but somehow I don't believe I've shaken 'em off."

"Where did you leave the bike?"

"Couple of miles back on the main road. Shoved her in a thicket. Front tyre burst and that settled it. There's a bare hope they may have been kidded into believing I'd gone straight on but it's slender enough. Comberstone knows I have a home hereabouts and they're pretty certain to have watched my tracks on the road. Mother's old bus is going well you say?"

"I can whack her up to about a thirty average," said Flora.

"Thirty, and we've a hundred and fifty to go. Yes, yes—ought to be in Town by eleven."

"Easy."

"Then I'll just swallow a snack of grub and push off straight away. Get your engine started."

"There's a lovely pie in the larder, dear," said Mrs. Barraclough. "Just the sort you like best. Jane! My motor cloak and bonnet."

She took Anthony's hand and they hurried kitchenward together.

Flora and Jane looked at one another, their eyes adance with excitement.

"Oh, isn't this gorgeous," said Jane.

"Simply topping," echoed Flora.

"You lucky beast to be going up with him."

"I like that, when you've got a shooting programme."

"Oh, well, I suppose the honours are divided. Good luck."

"Same to you."

They parted with a wave of the hand, Jane following her mistress and Flora into the garden at a run. But she had scarcely reached the path when two men came round the corner of the house and bore down upon her.

Harrison Smith was too good a strategist to announce his arrival by driving up to the front door. He had left the Ford at the end of the lane and entered the grounds by way of the kitchen garden. At the sight of Flora he bowed very politely, greeting her with a charming smile and an allusion to the clemency of the evening. It is possible these social amenities might have carried some weight but for the appearance of Freddie Dirk, whose heavy jowl, grimed with dust and perspiration, was not consistent with the idea of an afternoon caller. Flora fell back a pace into the room, wondering fearfully what course she should pursue.

"Don't be frightened, my girl, don't be frightened," Harrison Smith agreeably beseeched.

"Who are you? I don't know you," said Flora.

"We're friends of your master's, of course."

"That's it," said Dirk, huskily. "Pals of 'is, see!"

The tone was hardly convincing.

"My master is away, and has been away for some weeks."

"Yes, yes, yes, to be sure. But he's come back."

"No," said Flora.

"Look 'ere, girl,"—Dirk's fat, short-fingered paw fell on her shoulders—"we ain't soft—do you get me? We knows what we're torkin' abaht. Mister Barraclough is 'ere and the sooner——"

"Tut, tut, tut," Harrison Smith interrupted. "Don't talk like that, Dirk—you're scaring the girl. Now listen to me. Your Master has enemies, we're his friends. It is of the utmost importance we should see him at once." He moved away and opened the door of Mrs. Barraclough's bedroom. "As a matter of fact his life depends upon it."

"Yus—'is life," Dirk echoed.

"I tell you my master is not here."

"Isn't 'e—isn't 'e." Dirk's two hands fastened on Flora's wrist and twisted the flesh in contrary directions, a domestic form of torture known to the initiated as the Burning Bracelet.

"Let go, you brute—let go," she cried, and with her free hand caught him a full swinging slap across the face.

What particular line Dirk's resentment would have taken is unknown, for Harrison Smith came quickly between them with a muttered order and at the same time the door opened and Jane ran in. It speaks well for her courage that she did not cry out or betray alarm.

"Jane," gasped Flora very quickly, "these men want to see master—I've told them he isn't here——"

"Quiet you," said Dirk threateningly, while Harrison Smith descended on the new arrival under a coverlet of smiles.

"Come along, my dear," he said, "you're a sensible looking girl. Now where's Mister Barraclough, eh?"

For a second Jane seemed lost in consideration, then shook her head stupidly and replied in a rich brogue:

"Maister Bar'clough—doan't know 'un—never clapt eyes on 'un. 'Tis on'y larst week I took sarvice 'ere t'oblige."

"Have you seen anyone strange about the premises today?"

"Noa."

"A man—tall—broad shouldered—wearing a blue suit and cap."

"Oh 'im," said Jane, her face lighting up with a semblance of intelligence. "I did see some un 'bout 'arf an hour ago, 'twas."

"Yes, yes. Go on."

"Come out of tool shed at garden end and kept low by the 'edge."

"Did he enter the house?"

"Noa. 'E lit off down the road as fast as 'e cud make."

"Damn! We've missed 'im," roared Dirk.

"Which direction?"

"Away from village 'twas."

Dirk was tugging at Harrison Smith's sleeve and dragging him toward the French windows.

"No, no," cried Smith, "the front way—it's quicker."

The two turned at the exact second Barraclough, entirely oblivious of their presence, walked into the room. The light flashed dully on the barrel of Harrison Smith's automatic.

"Put 'em up," he said, "put 'em up"—and as the order was obeyed—"Well met indeed, Barraclough, well met indeed."



CHAPTER 27.

A KNOTTED KERCHIEF.

The timing and arrangement of the situation was flawless. Barraclough with his hands upheld, Harrison Smith masking the persuasive automatic from the view of the two girls and Dirk's fingers travelling caressingly toward the pocket in which his mascot reposed. It was hugely dramatic. Flora and Jane, robbed for the moment of the power of speech and action, clung to one another on the far side of the room, their gaze riveted on their hero, who, in this moment of crisis, was whistling a bar of ragtime and accepting defeat with smiling eyes.

Harrison Smith's left hand ran professionally over the contours of Barraclough's coat to satisfy himself that there was no concealed weapon.

"Most opportune," he remarked, "and we had almost despaired of seeing you." Then in a lower voice—"All right, but no games."

"Thank you," said Barraclough, and lowering his arms he walked slowly to the writing table.

"And now you two nice little girls," said Harrison Smith, rubbing his hands together, "cut along and pick flowers. Much too nice an evening to be spending your time indoors. Off you go."

There was certainly a better chance of getting help if they could escape. Nothing was to be gained by staying. As they passed the table by which Barraclough was standing he whipped an envelope from his pocket and thrust it in Flora's hand with the words:

"Post that for me—quick."

Flora seized the envelope and made a dash for the window but hardly covered half the distance before Dirk and Smith closed in upon her, fighting for possession of the paper. It was given to Jane to translate the actual meaning of this extraordinary performance and she alone saw Barraclough take the note case swiftly from his pocket and bury it under the foliage in the basket of roses. The others were too busily engaged to attend to such a trifle.

"Let them have it, Flora," said Barraclough, sweetly. "They are friends of mine. Do as I tell you."

"You girls get out," gasped Harrison Smith, coming down breathlessly with the envelope, and after Flora and Jane had escaped into the garden, "Cornered, Mr. Barraclough, and we've got the goods."

Anthony was smiling.

"Hadn't you better make sure?" said he.

The envelope was ripped open and a letter withdrawn.

"What's this?"

"I don't know—something my mother wrote. Oh, I wasn't born yesterday and if you think I carry the concession—search me." And to emphasise the uselessness of such a course he pulled out the lining of his inner pocket.

Dirk and Smith closed in threateningly.

"We mean to have that paper," they said in a single voice.

"Haven't you chosen rather a public place to get it?" he answered steadily. "Oh, I realise I'm cornered, but is this the place for the kill? After all, I'm not much good to you without that paper."

"Where 'ave you put it?" hissed Dirk, edging closer. "Where 'ave you put it, eh?"

"Aha, my friend, that's the point. But it won't be cleared up by breathing hops in my face."

The barrel of Harrison Smith's pistol pressed unpleasantly into his short ribs and Dirk's mascot "whump-whumphed" in the air above his head.

"A little persuasion."

"No, not even with a little persuasion." His voice rang high on a note of challenge. "If you want that paper, you'll have to accept my terms and my terms are stiff."

"I can tell you 'oo'll be stiff ternight if he don't——"

The sentence was never finished, for from the hall outside came the sound of Mrs. Barraclough's voice:

"I may be a little late for dinner, Cook, so don't put on the potatoes till the half hour."

"My mother," said Anthony, warningly.

With a curse and a growl Smith and Dirk backed away, pocketing their weapons, as Mrs. Barraclough in a long motor cloak and veil came into the room.

For a second she stood in the doorway, her eyes travelling from her son to the two men and back again. From the astonishment on her features Anthony read plainly enough that Flora and Jane had failed to find and advise her of the danger.

At this perilous stage a false move might mean the loss of everything. The one hope was to preserve a seeming of normality and at the same time convey a message as to the real significance of the situation. And like a flash came into his head a memory of boyhood scrapes and a mother who had never failed him in the hour of need. He whipped out his white handkerchief and with a single hand, an old conjuring trick, threw a knot in the centre and dangled it before Mrs. Barraclough's eyes. No message by wire or wireless ever reached its destination in quicker time than that old S. O. S. of school boy fame. He saw her tap out the "received" signal with a forefinger on the front of her cloak, then turned with a wave of the handkerchief to introduce the visitors.

"Mother dear, these are two friends of mine, Sergeant Hammersmith and Mr. Cappell." They were the first names to come into his head. He added—"This is my mother, gentlemen, and I am sure you will be grieved to hear she has lately suffered from very indifferent health."

To give herself a moment for reflection, Mrs. Barraclough removed her veiled motor bonnet and put it on the couch. Then she turned and descended upon Dirk with outstretched hands and a high pitched falsetto that fairly rang with welcome.

"Oh, my dear Sergeant Hammer, this is indeed a pleasure. How very kind of you to drop in. So few people drop in now-a-days; dropping in seems to have quite dropped out and I do so dearly love seeing anyone from Town. Of course we are so old world and out of the way down here that we never see anyone—no one at all—nobody and to hear news direct from——" She broke off abruptly, fixed her glasses and fell back in an attitude of amazed rapture—"Anthony, dear, do look. Isn't Sergeant Picklesnip exactly like the vicar—the old one, not the present incumbent, he's too high for me. I do hope——" She descended upon Harrison Smith and wrung him warmly by both hands—"I do hope you agree with me that the Roman influence is most dangerous." And before he had time to reply—"Ah, but I wish you had known Anthony when he was a little boy and wore sailor suits—white on Sundays with a cord and a whistle round his neck. My poor husband could not endure the whistle, so he took the pea out of it and then it only made an airy noise instead of a blast."

"Mother dear," Anthony interposed, "aren't you going down to the village?"

A suggestion to which Harrison Smith proved a ready seconder.

"Don't let us detain you, Madam," he beseeched.

"No, I won't, I won't. Besides, I mustn't be late. As Mr. Gladstone said in '84—and oh, what a hot summer that was—he said—'Detention is the mother of time.'"

At which Freddie Dirk, who knew something of both detention and time, shivered uncomfortably and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Never be late," continued Mrs. Barraclough, rallying her resources for a new oration, "although I was late once for a flower show at Weston-super-Mare—or was it a funeral, Anthony? At any rate, there were a lot of flowers there, so it may have been a wedding or a garden party. But really, I mustn't stay a moment longer. I've got to see a Mrs. Brassbound—poor dear, she's—Anthony, go away, you mustn't listen—I'm going to treat you as friends—there's going to be a baby—she's the wife of our village constable, you know—such a nice man—but as I've always said, Policemen will be Policemen."

"Yes, yes, yes," said Harrison Smith, whose patience was running out, "very interesting. I have a friend staying at the hotel. I wonder if I might use your telephone."

Mrs. Barraclough caught the warning in Anthony's eyes as she gave her consent. Also she caught a glint of light from the rose cutters that lay on the sofa.

What more natural than for a hostess to be seated while her guest made his call and what more fortunate than the fact that the telephone wire passed over the arm of the sofa on its way to the insulator in the floor. The snip of the scissors as she cut the wire was quite inaudible because of the good lady's flow of remarks on the subject of telephony.

"They may keep you waiting," she said and kept on chattering until Harrison Smith hung up the receiver in despair of being connected with his ally Bolt.

"And now, Madam, I feel sure we have kept you much too long," he said.

"You'd better be off, Mother," said Anthony, who although vaguely aware that she was endeavouring to create an atmosphere of vacuity, could not fathom the advantage to be gained.

"I'm going, dear, I'm going. I was thinking, that's all."

"Thinking," came from Dirk.

"Wondering if you two gentlemen could eat mutton. My dear brother who died in '93 had very strong views about mutton, especially when it was cold. He said——"

But the prospect of hearing what he said so shook the good manners of her visitors that they almost breasted her toward the bedroom door. They would probably have succeeded in their object had not Flora hurried in from the garden.

"The doctor is with her now," said Flora. "I've got the car ready."

Mrs. Barraclough became almost hysterical. There was no limit to the instructions she showered upon the hapless Flora. Were the vegetables in the car? Had she been sent for? Was Mr. Brassbound there, and finally, had Flora put the "you know" into the basket?

"The 'you know,'" said Flora, hazily.

"Silly, silly girl," wailed Mrs. Barraclough. "Sergeant Ealing, do excuse me whispering to my maid, but it is so difficult to speak out in public."

She dropped her voice to a confidential whisper only for the briefest space and Flora nodded gravely and said:

"Yes, Madam, I quite understand," and went out.

"And now I really must be going," said Mrs. Barraclough at her bedroom door. But she descended again upon her visitors, now purple with exasperation, and possessed herself of their hands.

"I have enjoyed your conversation so much, Mr. Ravenscourt, and yours, too, Sergeant Chiswick, but even the best of friends must part; as Anthony used to say when I bought him his first comb. Goodbye—goodbye." She paused dramatically. "Oh, I nearly forgot my salts—my salts. It's most important. The doctor said that I should never go anywhere without my salts."

It was only by exercise of something approaching violence that the garrulous old lady was finally induced to enter her bedroom and the door closed upon her.

"If ever anyone ought to be certified," declared Harrison Smith blindly.

"I am very much obliged to you, gentlemen," said Anthony. "I don't imagine she will be long now."

"For everyone's sake I 'ope she ain't," Dirk contributed.

But as though to discount this pious ambition came a call from behind the closed door.

"Anthony, dear, Anthony! Will you ring the bell for Jane, please?"

"The bell is at your elbow," said Anthony. "It is for you to decide, sir, whether it should be rung."

Harrison Smith tugged at the bell pull viciously.

"And, Anthony, dear, will you bring me my motoring bonnet?"

Anthony pointed at the motoring bonnet lying on the table next to the rose basket, wherein, hidden by the stalks and leaves, was the morocco letter case.

"Take the damn thing in yourself," said Harrison Smith.

It was Dirk who moved forward suspiciously as Barraclough picked up the bonnet and moved toward the bedroom. Harrison Smith waved him back.

"There's no other door. Keep a watch on the window," he ordered.

Anthony entered unmolested and at precisely that moment Bolt came in from the garden.

The united forces did not waste time in greetings.

"We've got him," said Harrison Smith. "He's in there with his mother."

This was evident enough, for the sound of their voices was audible, Mrs. Barraclough's high pitched tones crying out:

"Don't sit on the bed, dear, it creases the quilt."

"Better look out," Bolt warned. "He's as slippery as an eel."

"Trust me, we're just waiting to get rid of the old woman, and then——"

The other door opened and Jane scampered in, crying:

"Did 'ee ring, marm, did 'ee ring?"

"Put that basket of roses in the car, Jane," Mrs. Barraclough replied, and as Jane turned to obey, from the garden in rushed Flora and Conybeare, calling on their mistress to hasten.

"Mrs. Brassbound, Mrs. Brassbound," cried Flora. "There's not a moment to lose."

"Terrible bad she is, and cryin' out for 'ee, m'am."

In the midst of this confusion appeared a veiled and cloaked figure, apparently belonging to Mrs. Barraclough, who nervously flapped hands and hastened, surrounded by a babbling mob of servitors, toward the nearest window.

It did not occur to Barraclough's enemies to offer any resistance to this general exodus, their attention was absorbed by the bedroom door, which had shut with a snap and the click of a key. They waited just long enough for the party of cackling females to get out of the room and down the path, then rushed at the door with foot and shoulder. It stood up longer than might have been expected, but Bolt's weight was more than ordinary woodwork could withstand. The lock burst—the headings split and it fell inward with a crash.

Standing by the window, waving a knotted handkerchief to a disappearing car was Mrs. Barraclough. She scarcely wasted a glance upon the intruders.

"Damnation—done!" roared Harrison Smith, as the truth dawned upon him.

In a solid block they swung round to find themselves staring down the black barrel of a service revolver held dead rigid in the hands of Jane.

"Hands above your heads, please," she insisted.

"And if you'll first wait till dear Anthony turns the bend of the lane," cooed Mrs. Barraclough, "I'll go through their pockets and take away any nasty things I may find there. You put the roses in the car, Jane?"

"He's got it all right," came the answer.

"Dear roses," said Mrs. Barraclough, sentimentally.



CHAPTER 28.

SAND.

A panel is not beaten into shape by force but by recurrent blows, light and accurate, and by the same cumulative process, Van Diest and his colleagues sought to shape the will of Richard Frencham Altar to their intention.

The fact that their effort had so far failed in no way discouraged the belief that eventually it would succeed. There was no doubt in their minds but that in time he would be brought to speak, but Cranbourne's unexpected disclosure that the opposition knew of their captive's whereabouts robbed them of their most valuable asset. Time, so to speak, was no longer to be relied upon and they were compelled to resort to a more expeditious method.

True it would be easy to remove the captive elsewhere but easy matters are apt to go wrong on performance. A clue might be provided where at present no clue existed. If Torrington brought a charge it would be based on hypothetical evidence and come to nothing. On the other hand unpleasant suspicions would certainly be aroused and neither Van Diest nor Hipps greatly desired to attract the attentions of the Police.

If Barraclough could be persuaded to disclose the secret all would be well. He would be generously rewarded not only for his confidence but also for a guarantee to disclose none of the privations to which he had been subjected. The affair would end in an atmosphere of sweet accord. Torrington's crowd would be knocked out of business and a spirit of peace and harmony would descend like a benison upon the hard working trio.

Could any solution be more satisfactory, but there was a fly in the ointment. Barraclough's resolution strengthened with adversity, he kept his tongue behind locked teeth and said precisely nothing.

At nine o'clock that night the Dutchman's big Rolls Royce delivered him and Ezra Hipps at Laurence's abode and Laurence himself came out to meet them.

"Well?" said Hipps.

But Laurence shook his head.

"Nothing doing at present."

"Has he had any food?"

"Not today. He's weak enough in all conscience."

"Sleep?"

"Damn little. He dropped off two or three times and I got the chaps to spray him with cold water. That kept him lively. Blayney and Parker are sleeping in the room now and taking shifts to watch him at night. Awfully sorry, you two, but I've done my best."

"I'll get right up," said Ezra P. Hipps. "Say, Auriole'll be along presently. Tell her to stand by. She may come in useful."

He marched heavily up the stairs and entered Richard's room.

Blayney was on duty sprawling watchful on a camp bed, his elbows propped on a kit bag.

"Get out, you," said Hipps, and the man obeyed. Then he turned to Richard.

The last few days had wrought a desperate change in his looks. Caverns had sunk in his cheeks and his eyes were ringed with black. That he stood in earnest need of a shave heightened the pallor of brow and temples.

He was seated, cramped rather, in an upright chair with chin down. His left hand beat a tattoo on the table top and he sucked the thumb of his right hand like a badly trained child at a make-belief meal.

"Taste good?" asked Hipps. "If I'd known you'd a fancy that way I'd have brought along a soother."

Richard removed his thumb and said, "Go to Hell!" very distinctly.

Hipps walked a few paces toward him and remarked:

"Still pretty fresh, I see."

"Leaking badly, but still afloat," came the reply.

"Durn me! but you're a sound citizen, Bud. I respect sand but I despise a fool."

"All right you do," mumbled Richard sleepily.

"Pretty tired?"

"Not sufficiently wide awake to listen to your talk, damn you!"

The American smiled nastily.

"Maybe not, but this is a case of having to. Say! ever been in one of those big machine shops and seen a giant flywheel swizzling round at three hundred revs. a minute? Guess you wouldn't be gink enough to put out a hand and try to stop it. Never saw any machine yet that develops more power than I can."

Richard shrugged a shoulder; it was too great an effort to shrug both of them.

"And I guess you ain't going to stop the fly-wheel of my destiny."

"You've had a sample," he replied with a touch of spirit.

Hipps came a step closer and hooked his foot round a leg of Richard's chair.

"Know anything about the third degree?" he demanded.

"What you've shown me."

Richard's voice sounded far away and disinterested.

"Show you some more. Stand up! Stand up! I can't bear a drowsy man." And he kicked the chair half across the room. "Don't hang on to that table—stand on your legs," and grasping Richard by his shirt front he forced him into an upright position and held him there. His voice hardened and rasped like a cross cut file as question after question boomed out with the relentless quality of minute guns.

"A year ago you went travelling."

"You say so." The replies were barely audible.

"During that time you tumbled on your find."

"If I did, I did."

"When was it you struck?"

"That's my affair."

"I've made it mine. When was it you struck?"

"During the six months," said Richard with a twinkle of dying humour.

"That answer won't do."

"Only one you'll get."

"I'm pretty close behind you, Anthony Barraclough."

Again the twinkle came and went as Richard gave answer.

"Still behind?"

"Anthony Barraclough, I've a complete list of the places you visited."

"Been buying a pocket atlas?"

"The actual places."

"Fine!"

"And I could hazard a guess where the locality is. Like me to try?"

"If it amuses you any."

The American's voice rose and filled the room, reverberant as thunder.

"P'r'aps it isn't so far away after all."

And out of the wreckage of his resources, Richard Frencham Altar brought up his big guns for a final effort at counter battery.

"P'r'aps it isn't, p'r'aps it is," he cried. "Why, you blasted fool, you'll get nothing from me—nothing. If you know so damn much go and find the place yourself."

Ezra Hipps seized him by the shoulders and flung him back against the wall.

"We mean to find out."

"Not from me—not from me," Richard repeated, but the power which had upheld him was dwindling fast. He knew, knew beyond question that in a few more moments the truth would be shaken out of him unless he could devise some means of slackening the strain. And then he had an inspiration.

"You fool! You fool!" he cried. "Can't you see what you've done, you and your idiot crew? As you've driven health from my body so, by your blasted privations, you've driven memory from my head."

He tottered drunkenly toward a chair and sat down all of a heap.

"What's that?" demanded Hipps, with real alarm.

"I can't remember," Richard laughed hysterically. "I can't remember what you want to know," and his head fell forward into his hands.

For nearly a minute, Hipps looked at him in silence and his face was very white indeed. Then with the breath escaping between his teeth he turned away.

It was sheer lunacy on the part of Richard to peep through his fingers to judge the effect of his words. For it is an established truth that the nerves of a man's back are sensitive to another's gaze.

Ezra Hipps swung round so quickly that Richard failed to cover his face in time. The mischief was done.

"Very clever," said the American and laughed. "Very clever and I nearly bought it, but not quite." He seized Richard's wrist and twisted it downward. "A word of advice against the future, Mister Barraclough. Next time you're working a crumple-up don't let the chap you're pulling it on see you looking at it between your fingers." He strolled up to the door whistling pensively and halted with his hand on the latch. "I'm doubting if you're going to be a whole lot of use to us for you're a tough case. When it comes up at Committee my thumb points down."

He went out and the bolt shot home behind him.

For a long while Richard rocked in his chair muttering. He felt very lonely and his throat ached, his head ached—he ached all over—a childish desire to snivel possessed him and could not be subdued. If only there had been a shoulder, some sweet, kind, soft shoulder to soak up the tired angry tears that fell and fell. A kindly shoulder, a gentle voice to drive away the horror of these nightmare days. Was all sweetness gone out of the world? Was the world no more than four square walls peopled with devils who asked and asked and asked? Was there nothing else but greed of money, hatred, want, and damnable persecution? A voice within cried aloud: "Why suffer it all? Why bear the brunt of other men's adventure?" Five thousand pounds. Was it a fair price for breaking one's body against rocks, for shattering one's soul against man unkind?

Wild uncontrollable resentment seized him and in its wave tossed him against the door of his prison battering at the panels with bare fists and shrieking aloud in a voice he could not recognise as his own.

"Gentlemen! Gentlemen! You've made a mistake. I'm not Bar'clough, nev' met him. Richard Frencham Altar I am—father shot himself—Torrington paying me five thousand—keep it up for three weeks—but you've made the course too stiff. I can't stay the distance. I can't stay the distance."

His knees gave way beneath him and he fell to the floor beating the boards and blubbering like a school-boy.

But there came no answer from the hollow empty house and presently the paroxysm passed and he looked up slowly seeing, as it were, a vision of himself false to every tradition of manhood he had held most dear.

"Coward!" he said. "Rotten blasted coward! Three weeks and this is the last day." He looked at his watch. "Only another hour and then I'm free to speak. Stick it for another hour. Stick it for another hour."

And the very saying of the words seemed to increase his stature, swell his chest, revitalise his manhood.

When a moment later the door opened and Van Diest chanting his perpetual hymn came quietly into the room he found Richard rocking on his heels beside a chair beating time to the music with a shaking forefinger while from his parched lips he emitted a pathetic pretence at whistling the same tune.

"S'bad," muttered Hugo Van Diest. "S'bad business. Must tink all the time and be worried by dese things. For God's sake you don't fidget. You tink all the suffering was wit you, but it was inside of me where the pain live."

"Ha ha!" said Richard.

"Discomfort is nutting. I haf before me the prospec' to be beat. It wass the torture to be beat. You know that."

"Not yet."

"Mus' be taught."

"Ha ha!" said Richard again and banged the dish cover against the table implements of a foodless tray that had marked the hour of a meal time.

"Don't fidget!" roared Van Diest, emitting a cloud of tobacco smoke.

"Don't smoke!" Richard countered in the same tone.

"I shmoke on purpose."

"And I fidget on purpose."

With a sweep of the hand he sent the tray with a crashing to the floor.

"Ach! Ach! Ach!" cried Van Diest, and was almost choked with a violent attack of coughing.

"I make you to speak! I make you to speak! What if I burn you with my cigar—what if I——" he stopped abruptly and dropped his voice almost to a whine. "You don't know how goot I make myself to you. I wass a very kind man. At my home I keep the birds."

"Poor darlings," said Richard.

"The canaries; and you look what I haf here. A portrait of my little granddaughter Sibelle. She sit on my knee the Sunday afternoon and listen to the tale of Hansell and Grethel. She call me Grandparkins."

Richard swept the photograph aside with the back of his hand.

"I'm not sitting on anyone's knee, Grandparkins," he said.

A bright purple ran over Van Diest's features in blotches and streaks. He rose to his feet and held out a quivering forefinger.

"You pay very heavy to make fun of my heart, Mister Barraclough. If you haf any senses at all you know that all mens wass the two mens—the home man and the business man—and the one hass nothing to do with the udter."

"Leave it at that," said Richard. "I'm not feeling altogether at home just now."

"That was your last word?"

"My last word."

"So!" said Van Diest. "So!" His eyebrows went up and down and he seemed lost in thought for a moment. Finally: "You go into the bedroom now please."

He gave the order slowly and to Richard's hypersensitive ears it held a threat of real and imminent danger. It sounded as the burial service must sound to a man who stands upon a trap with a knotted cord around his throat.

"No!" said Richard. "No!"

"The bedroom."

"No!"

An impasse. They stood like duellists trying to read intention in each other's eyes.

Hugo Van Diest made the mistake of his life when he abandoned mental force for violence. The hand he raised to strike Richard across the face never reached its mark; instead he felt himself go tottering backward across the room. There was not much force in the blow Richard struck, but the science was good and he put his weight into it. Van Diest took it on the point and as he measured his length on the floor he saw Richard make a dash for the door which had remained unlocked during the interview.

Ezra P. Hipps caught him on the landing outside and put on a jiu-jitsu armlock which closed the argument and sent Richard staggering toward his bedroom beaten it is true, but absurdly enough triumphant.

"Listen you," he gasped, his back against the panel. "You think I can be made to speak—you're wrong—You think I can be tortured and beaten and bullied into giving up the secret. You're wrong—wrong. There's something inside of me that'll lick you, lick you hollow. Do your damndest, my lads, my breaking point is outside your reach." And as a Parthian arrow he said "Blast you!" and banged the door.



CHAPTER 29.

INDIVIDUAL RESOURCE.

A point of interest arises as to how long one determined girl armed with a revolver can hold up three desperate men also armed and further fortified by greed of gold. Your average tough is not greatly alarmed by a pistol in the hands of a woman. He banks on the theory that so long as she thinks she is aiming in his direction, he is moderately secure from harm. It is when she is pointing at some other object fear arises as to his safety and well being.

In this particular instance, however, there was an unusually threatening quality in the demeanour of Jane. She trained her gun like any artilleryman and in a manner not lightly to be dismissed by the casual process of a rush. Added to which the position in which these adventurers found themselves—a compact mass in a single doorway—did not offer good opportunities for acts of individual or concerted heroism. They formed, as it were, a unified target, the bull's-eye of which was the centre of Alfred Bolt's immense corporation. To suppose that any marksman, however indifferent, could fail to register a hit upon so broad an invitation was to betray unreason.

Dirk who had had previous experience in similar situations remarked with melancholy that the steely eyed Amazon who commanded their destinies kept carefully out of reach of his foot. This was a pity since he was contemplating trying the effect of kicking her on the knee-cap, a proceeding which if performed adroitly is often fruitful of happy results. Bolt, too, knew a very effective means of ramming his head into the solar plexus of an adversary, but this again was a form of attack dependent on proximity.

It was Harrison Smith's able staff work that won the day. An old enough trick, heaven knows, but one that generally works. He waited till her eyes were upon him, then shifted the direction of his gaze to a point somewhere behind Jane's back and nodded very quickly.

She is hardly to be blamed for having swung round, but in the second before she had recovered her wits and realised the bluff, the pistol had been snatched away and the three men were pouring through the French windows into the garden.

It was Mrs. Barraclough who caught her by the arm and prevented her from following.

"Oh, oh, oh!" cried Jane. "I've failed, failed."

"Nonsense, my dear," said the old lady. "You girls have been just wonderful." She pointed to an horizon of trees a mile away, where a cloud of dust showed against the shadows. "Look what a lovely start he has. My Anthony would never let himself be caught by a pack of such—such——" She hesitated for lack of a word and added "Dirty dogs" with astonishing vehemence.

"But what are we to do now?" wailed Jane.

"Let us walk down to the village church together and I don't think it would be wrong if we said a little prayer."

They had reached the front garden when the Ford car, making a considerable fuss about it, banged and snorted past the front gate.

There are those perhaps who will condemn Mrs. Barraclough's action, but let them remember she was a mother. After all it stands to the credit of any mid-Victorian lady who, notwithstanding the ravages of seventy years, is able to pick up a flower pot and hurl it accurately into a moving vehicle. The Reverend Prometheus Bolt caught the missile full in the side of the head and the last view the old lady had of him was under a shower of dirt and broken pottery, while from his lips arose a cloud of invective more azure than the skies.

From where the car had been standing appeared Cynthia the cook. In her hand she carried a watering can, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes wild.

"I'd have done in their car if you'd held 'em a moment longer," she panted indignantly. "Didn't have time to slash their tyres but I did manage to get about half a pint of water in the petrol tank before they slung me into the hedge."

And very valuable was the help thus afforded for within a mile the Ford had banged and snuffled itself to a standstill and twenty minutes were lost draining the tank and blotting up the rust coloured drops from the bottom of the float chamber. Both Dirk and Bolt were in favour of returning to the house in order to conduct a punitive campaign, but Harrison Smith would not hear of this.

"We must push the damn car all we know how," he said, Working feverishly at the union of the induction pipe with a spanner that didn't fit. "If we haven't caught up with them by eight o'clock I shall drop Bolt at a post office and he must get through to the Chief."

"What, the Dutchman?"

"No choice. It's infernal luck, but better that than let him get through with the thing."

"If you ask me, Smith," said Bolt critically. "If you ask my opinion I'd say you've made a bloomer of this show."

"You can keep your opinion till I do ask for it," came the retort. "Get in. She's clear now."

He took a heave on the starting handle and jumped to his place at the wheel.

"Keep your eye on those tyre marks, Dirk. If you lose 'em I'll break your head."

And from the spirit of this remark it will be seen that kindliness and fellowship had gone by the board.



CHAPTER 30.

THE TRUE AURIOLE.

Hugo Van Diest struggled to his feet gasping for breath and stroking his chin with sympathetic fingers. Comparatively speaking, Richard's blow had been a light one, but the Dutchman's training had not fitted him for taking punishment. He was hurt, outraged and resentful.

"This young man wass very violent, Hipps," he muttered jerkily. "I donno—s'no use—seems."

"Are we beat, Chief?"

"I don't like this word 'beat.' Mus' be a way." He paused for a moment to recover his breath then turned to Laurence. "This Miss Craven, she hass not arrifed yet?"

"She's here. Came five minutes ago."

"She know how we stand, yes?"

Hipps nodded.

"She don't quite register on the line we've adopted to make him talk. Kind o' kept that in the background. Women are soft."

"Ask she come up," said Van Diest.

And Laurence went out passing Blayney who was on duty outside the door.

"What's the bend, Chief?" demanded Hipps.

Van Diest shook his head thoughtfully. "Donno, donno. Wass awful if we mus' do someting. Eh? Hipps, eh?"

And he tilted his head suggestively toward Richard's bedroom.

"His own damn fault," came the answer.

"But it wass a man's life, Hipps."

"I've no choice that way myself."

Van Diest began to pace the floor, his fingers tattooing on his chest and his head going from side to side.

"We ought to haf read better the character of this man. S'no good to know about the monies and not about the mens. We find ourselves in a terrible position. Ss! Terrible—terrible."

There was a clatter of footsteps on the stairs and Laurence, a telegraph form in his hand, burst into the room.

"What you haf there?"

"Can't make head nor tail of the damn thing. Read it aloud," cried Laurence excitedly.

Ezra Hipps moved over to his Chief's side as the old man picked out the code words and translated them aloud.

The message was simple enough.

"'Saw Barraclough Polperro this morning. Been following all day. Escaped in Panhard, probably will enter London by Portsmouth or Great Western Road. Am pursuing in Ford car. Obstruct. Harrison Smith.'"

It was handed in at eight o'clock and postmarked Wimborne.

"Saw Barraclough!" repeated Hipps. "Harrison Smith's gone crazy."

For a moment Van Diest said nothing, then remarked:

"Smart man, you know. Smart man."

"He's made a mistake," said Laurence. "How in hell could he see Barraclough when——" There was no point in finishing the sentence.

"S'not often he make a mistake. Our opponents haf been ver' quiet, you know, ver' quiet. Perhaps now they draw the kipper across the path."

"He's got bats," said Hipps. "Been standing in the sun."

"I'd ignore the whole thing," said Laurence. "Ten to one it's a trick. A stunt put up by our adversaries."

"In our private code, Laurence? No, no, no. I tink it wass well we take some precautions with this gentlemen who wass so like our guest. You will telephone to Mr. Phillips please that I would like some of those roads that lead into London made—difficult." Then as Laurence seemed disposed to argue: "You haf your orders," he thundered.

As Laurence was leaving the room, Auriole came in and stood hesitating on the threshold.

"Ah! Miss Craven," said Van Diest stooping to kiss her fingers. "For you a little work. You will talk to our guest, yes? So stubborn he wass. You ver' clever woman, ver' gentle. You put your arms around him—so! You whisper, you beseech, you ver' sympathetic. P'r'aps you make 'im cry. Then he tell you what he refuse to tell us. S'understood?"

"Yes, I understand," said Auriole in a small voice.

"Goot! Then we go downstairs now. Come, Hipps." At the door he paused. "S'ver' important you succeed because we haf tried all the rest." He spoke the final words slowly and with great meaning, then turned and went out.

Auriole caught Ezra Hipps by the sleeve as he passed her.

"What does he means—'all the rest?'" she questioned.

The American scarcely paused in his stride. "Think it over," he said, and closed the door behind him.

With a heart that thumped hammer blows against her side, Auriole turned toward Richard's bedroom and paused with her hand on the latch. She felt as a traitor might feel who was seeking audience of his sovereign. For a traitor she was. False to her original employers, to her ideals and to a man who, even though he might have stirred in her the hope of a wedding had never willingly wrought her a single wrong. A dozen times in the last three days her hand had gone out to the telephone and the will had been there to confess to Cranbourne that her allegiance to his side existed no longer, but even in this her honesty had broken down. She saw herself, as she hesitated on the threshold, a wretched mercenary creature—the sport of greed and jealousy—self-centred and governed by thought of gain. It was not a pleasant reflection. For the doubtful blessing of being wife to an unscrupulous millionaire she had deafened her ears to the call of every decent instinct.

And now the Fates had so contrived that it rested with her to make the supreme final appeal and on her success or failure depended the safety and future of the man within. A horrible conviction came over her that these men who held Barraclough captive would indeed stop at nothing to gain their ends and that the innuendoes they had uttered were terribly in earnest. Unless he were persuaded to speak his very life would be forfeit, and it was this consideration that fortified her to make the effort.

Richard was sprawling on the wire mattress when she threw open the door. He raised a pair of hollow eyes that looked at her without recognition. Instinctively she shrunk away from him appalled at the changes in his face and bearing.

"What have they been doing to you?" was startled from her.

Richard hitched himself into a sitting posture and coughed.

"Who are you?" he said.

"Don't you even know me?"

He thought before replying.

"Yes, I know you. You're the woman who was jealous of someone."

"Someone! Is that how you speak of your sweetheart!"

"Wait a bit. It's coming back. Isabel, wasn't it? Isabel Irish. Well, what do you want?"

She came a little nearer.

"To be with you. I haven't seen you for a long time, now."

"You deserted me, didn't you? I m-missed you at first. Th' one bright spot your coming."

"Was it?" she whispered.

He staggered to his feet and walked rockily into the inner room.

"No! What'm I saying. Man with a sweetheart doesn't want you."

"Tony!"

"No, no. 'Cos you're the worst devil of the lot. Decoyed me to this damn place."

"Tony, I'm so sorry," her hand fell on his sleeve, but he drew away.

"Don't come near me. Don't touch me. I mustn't be touched."

"Then I'll sit over here," said she.

"Yes, there. No, get out. Leave me alone, d'y' hear?" His voice pitched up high and imperative, but as suddenly dropped again. "I beg your pardon. I'm not much of a man to talk to a woman jus' now."

"I think you're a very fine man, Tony."

"Ha! Yes. A devil of a fellow!"

"But so stubborn," she whispered.

"There you go," he cried. "I knew it. I knew you came here for that."

"Tony! Tony!" she implored. "This has gone too far. You've been splendid, but what's the use. Just think, my dear, how rich you'd be."

"I don't want to be rich. Rich men torture each other," he cried, steadying himself against the back of a chair.

"You've only to say one word and you can walk out of here without a care in the world."

The sound of violins was in her voice. The promise of life care-free and full of sunshine was in her eyes and the curve of her smile.

He tried to look away, but the appeal was too strong.

"I can walk out of here," he repeated. "Out of here!"

"Such a lovely world, too."

The touch of her breath on his cheek was like a breeze and the smell of her hair like violets.

"Yes, yes."

"A great big garden of a world," he crooned, and no song ever sounded sweeter.

He felt his power to resist was ebbing away—falling from him like a cloak. With a mighty effort, he replied:

"A garden full of Eves."

And he sat humped up upon the camp bed. Auriole glided toward him and slipped her arms round his neck. He made no effort to escape.

"Eves are rather nice," she whispered.

His head tilted back against her.

"Rather nice," he echoed. "Rather nice. Soft shoulders where a man can rest his head." A glorious drowsiness was stealing over his limbs, a blessed sense of drifting into unknown contentment. She drew up her knees and they sat huddled together on the narrow canvas bed like babes in a wood. He was barely conscious of her voice. It came to his ears as gently as the sound of waves running over sand.

"—all the wonderful things we could do, Tony. The plans we could make come true. We could go out to a fairy-like dinner together—in one of your wonderful cars you could fetch me—and the streets would be twinkling with lights like jewels in Aladdin's cave."

Then he found he was talking too.

"A farm in New Zealand," he said. "Great flocks of sheep and herds of cattle. I know the place. There are mountains with snow caps, green grass plains, black firs and running water. I could have all that—if only—But no."

"Nothing is out of reach, Tony. Everything can be yours at the price of a little sentence—just a little sentence."

"No, no."

"Yon need never see those others again, but just tell me. Men tell everything to women, they can't keep a secret from a woman. Nature never intended they should. That's why Nature made women the mothers because the first secret of life is theirs, and all the rest follow after."

"You're bad, bad," he moaned. "A cheat trying to get at me by kindness."

"And isn't kindness worth a little? Come, kneel down and whisper. It will be easy with your head in my lap and my arms around you. Kneel down and whisper."

Heaven perhaps could tell where Richard found that last speck of sand which gave him the power to spring to his feet, to shake off the subtle influence of touch and voice, and to answer in a voice that fairly rang with resolve:

"No, nothing—nothing."

To Auriole he looked almost godlike as he stood with clenched fists and every fibre quivering. It was in that instant of admiration and amazement she recognised him as another man and the cry burst from her lips:

"You're not Anthony Barraclough!"

Richard wavered visibly and for the first time she saw real fear in his eye.

"What are you saying? You're mad," he answered.

"You're not Anthony Barraclough!"

"I am. I am."

"No!" She seized him by the shoulders and stared into his face. "You're different, your eyes, your mouth. Who are you?"

"Anthony Barraclough!" he cried.

"It's not true. Anthony would never have stood this. The men, yes. The torture, yes, but he always gives way to a woman. Who are you?"

"I've said," he answered brokenly. "I've said."

A turmoil of thoughts raced through her mind and she spoke them aloud.

"Anthony away getting the concession. You here taking his place. It was clever—clever. Damn them for letting you do it. And you've done it so wonderfully—borne all this when at a word you might——"

"Talking nonsense," he moaned desperately.

"And you don't know what the secret is. No one but Anthony does. That's true, isn't it?"

"I do know. I do know—won't say."

"You can't know. That's true, isn't it? Answer me—answer!"

And quite suddenly Richard Frencham Altar's world went all black and his knees gave way beneath him. He fell with his head in his hands crying and gasping like a broken hearted child. And Auriole came to him and put her arms round him and kissed his neck, his hair, and his poor thin hands.

"And I've helped in the torture," she sobbed. "Broken you down. Oh! what a beast. What a beast I am."

"Very tired," said Richard. "Want to go to sleep."

"There's no sleep for you in this house except——"

The door opened and Ezra Hipps walked in.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, "but how's things?"

"I was just coming," said Auriole with a quick pretence at light heartedness. "I have something important to say."

Hipps shook Richard by the shoulder.

"How's that memory?" he enquired.

Once again the last reserves were pushed into the line.

"Bad," said Richard. "Damn bad."

"Then I guess that ends the play," said the American.

"I want you," said Auriole. "Please."

They went out of the room together.



CHAPTER 31.

A WAY OUT.

When Auriole slipped quietly into the room five minutes later she found Richard asleep on the camp bed with Blayney's kit bag tucked under his head.

Below stairs there existed a state of turmoil. She had exploded her bombshell as to Richard's false identity secure in the belief that it would result in his immediate liberation.

"But Hell! what are you thinking off?" Hipps had roared. "D'you imagine we can pass him out after what's happened? So long as the fellar's above ground we ain't safe."

"You can't mean——" she had cried.

"We're busy. Keep out of the path, kid."

She had left them rattling instructions through the telephone to a person called Phillips. The need of the moment from their point of view was to waylay the returning Barraclough.

Van Diest was shouting for his car and from the jargon of voices, Auriole learnt their intention of making an immediate descent upon the rival camp to demand terms. In the midst of the chaos Auriole slipped away, snatched up a bottle of champagne and some biscuits from the dining table and ran up the stairs to Richard's room.

Parker, who was at the door, shot the bolt after she entered and in so doing destroyed a foolish hope that she might succeed in getting Richard out of the house while the excitement relaxed observation. Her two seater car was under the trees at the end of the road and if they could reach it——

She seized Richard's arm and stifled the cry he gave with her other hand.

"Hush, hush, for pity's sake," she implored. "Here's some champagne—drink it. No, no, it isn't poison—drink—drink," and she filled a glass that stood upon the table. "Eat these biscuits too, and listen to me."

Of course he did not understand. He drank the champagne and ate the biscuits wolfishly while she talked. It was clear something had happened—some unlooked for reversal of feeling—but beside the food and drink nothing seemed to matter. The good wine felt like new life blood flowing through his veins.

"They're downstairs now," she said. "Making up their minds."

He found intelligence enough to ask:

"They know I'm not Barraclough?"

"I told them, yes."

"You shouldn't," he said simply.

"I thought they'd let you go."

"Well?" He refilled his glass.

"They said it wouldn't be possible now. That's why I've got to get you away—somehow—somehow."

She was moving desperately up and down the room as though by very desire she would create an opening in the walls.

"Get me away!" he said stupidly. "Why do you want to get me away?"

"Because you're a different man, a splendid man. And they're beasts and brutes."

It was all very confusing, very unbelievable. Richard had a faint impression that it was happening to someone else or in a dream. Why was this wonderful creature worrying about him. The wine was mounting to his head.

"A splendid man," he repeated senselessly. "And you want to get me away. Tha's kind—kind."

"I've a car outside if we could only reach it."

That was a droll thing to say, but it sounded real. He answered as though someone had actually spoken of a car outside and a chance of reaching it.

"Not a hope."

The bottle was empty now, which was a good thing.

"There must be. The windows!"

He shook his head as she ran toward them. If the beautiful lady wanted to play the escape game he might as well take an intelligent interest and play it sensibly.

"No good," said he. "Soon as you lift the shutter bar an alarm starts ringing and they all rush in."

"S'pose we did that," said Auriole with a sudden idea. "Worked in the dark, started the bell, and when they came in made a dash for it."

Sensible talk this, he must reply sensibly.

"No good. One of 'em always stands in the door."

"Then somehow we must get them away from the door into your bedroom."

That was logical, interesting, too.

"Of course we must get them away from the door. Tha's the idea. Tha's the idea," he said.

"Oh! can't you think of a way?" she begged.

It wasn't fair to ask questions. The game was of her invention, not his. Still, in common politeness one must take a hand, show a willingness. It would be awful if she lost patience with him and left him to his loneliness.

He answered that unspoken fear simply as a child.

"But you won't leave me alone again, will you?"

"Can't you realise I'm on your side," she said, shaking him by the arm.

"My side, yes," he repeated. "I'm glad you're on my side. We're friends aren't we?"

To this pleasant reflection he sat down on the hard chair and smiled happily. Friends is a lovely word to play with when one has been over long neglected. He wished she would sit too, and make a pillow for his head, but instead she was flitting from place to place acting in the oddest way. From the camp bed she had dragged Blayney's kit bag and was buttoning it into an old dressing gown provided for his use.

"I must have a head," she was saying, which sounded idiotic to Richard who saw that her own was beautiful.

He pointed to a bronze bust of Van Diest which had been placed on the mantelpiece a few days before, presumably to act as a reminder of the influence dominating the apartment.

"Try that one," he suggested, laughing inanely.

But Auriole did not laugh. She gave a glad cry and called on him to help. Together they carried the bust and soon had tied it securely inside the dressing gown.

It did not occur to Richard to ask the reason why this strange dummy had been created. It was all of a piece with the dream-like spirit which pervaded everything. Her explanation was voluntary.

"It's to put in your bed," she said. "We'll take out the electric bulbs, then start the bells going. When they come in and you don't answer they'll go into the bedroom. They'll find this and think it's you."

"Think this is me!" said Richard. "That's funny." He broke into a storm of laughter which ended as abruptly as it began, ended from a sudden realisation that all this folly and mummery was a real and solid effort to compass his escape. "Wait a bit," he said, rubbing his brow fiercely. "It's coming back. I see the idea. Bless you, for trying. We'll have a shot."

He dragged the dummy into the inner room by the waist cord of the dressing gown which was tied about its neck. The brain fog was gone. He was surprisingly clear headed now, and an unnatural vitality buoyed him up. The bedroom door swung to behind him and he heard Auriole cry:

"I'm doing the lights, be quick."

And at that moment he had a notion and acted upon it quickly. An old gas bracket over the door helped the operation. When he had finished he kicked over a chair and re-entered the now pitch dark room.

"I've got hold of the shutter bar," he heard her cry.

"Let her go," he answered.

And down in the hall below they heard the big alarm bell clang out the warning.

Clinging to each other's hands they waited, their backs flattened against the wall. And presently it came; the sound of men's footsteps dashing up the stairs. The door burst open and a number of dark shapes poured into the room. Framed in the open doorway, a black silhouette against the light from the well of the staircase, stood Blayney, a pistol in his hand.

There was a veritable hubbub of voices. "What's the matter with the lights?" "Where are the switches?" "Hell! that sucker is trying to put it over on us!" "The bedroom shutters—He's trying to escape." "For Lord's sake where's the door?"

Someone found the knob in the darkness and the bedroom door was flung open. There was a scream from Laurence. Then Hipps' voice bellowing:

"Great God! he's hanged himself."

Swinging from the lintel, shadowy against the grey light beyond was, apparently, the figure of Richard Frencham Altar dangling on a rope.

Even the perfectly trained Blayney deserted his post to leap forward and see, and in that instant of neglect, Richard and Auriole darted from the room and slammed and bolted the door.

Nor could Richard resist the temptation of lifting an exultant cry of, "Good-night, gentlemen," ere he was seized by Auriole and hurried down the stairs.

As they passed through the front garden and ran stumbling toward the waiting car they could hear above them the sound of curses and hammer blows echoing through the house.



CHAPTER 32.

THE APPOINTED HOUR.

Hilbert Torrington was first to arrive. His big car deposited him at Crest Chambers at ten forty-five, a quarter of an hour before the time promised for Barraclough's arrival. The ever attentive Doran took his hat and coat, turned on the table lamp and provided him with a pack of Patience cards.

"You look hopeful, sir," he remarked.

"I always expect the best till I have knowledge of the worst," came the smiling rejoinder. "I trust you have quite recovered from the effects of the anaesthetic."

"Thank you, sir. But my recovery'll date from the hour the Captain gets back."

Doran liked to refer to his master by the military rank he had borne during the war.

"To be sure," said Mr. Torrington. "That will be a welcome event to all of us."

Next came Cranbourne, very anxious and ever pulling out his watch, tugging at his lower lip or pacing up and down.

"Why not take a chair?" suggested Mr. Torrington.

"Can't! I feel things y'know."

"All my life I've been feeling things without showing it," came the reflective observation. "If only I had that two of diamonds! It's sure to be the last card."

"How you can sit there playing cards!"

"I'm too old to walk about."

Cranbourne stopped and looked at him.

"Mr. Torrington," he said. "Has it occurred to you that in undertaking this thing we have been guilty of grave wrong-doing? To line our own pockets while we stayed safe at home men have gone out at the risk of their lives. We may talk of adventure—the romance of business—we may call our job by a dozen pretty names, but it analyses out at something fairly damnable when we apply the supreme test."

Mr. Torrington nodded.

"And yet what is the alternative?" he asked. "Life is only a matter of diamond cut diamond."

"It's a scavenger's job," said Cranbourne. "And you can't get away from that."

"Without conflict there would be no progress."

Cranbourne shook his head angrily.

"What right have we to control other men's destinies?" he said. "Where is the justice that puts such men as ourselves in command?"

"Opportunity does that, not justice," said Mr. Torrington slowly. "My first employment was cleaning windows. I saw a man, who was so engaged, fall from a fourth floor sill into the street. I picked him up dead, carried him into the building and I asked for his job. A nasty story isn't it?"

Cranbourne snorted.

"It covers us all," he said. "We spend our lives robbing flowers from cemeteries, keeping our souls in our trousers pockets along with the other small change. Hullo!"

Doran opened the door and announced Nugent Cassis. That meant that all over the town clocks would be striking eleven.

"Any news?" he rapped out.

"None."

"But there wouldn't be," said Cranbourne. "He promised to send a message when he was nearing home. It's time he was here." The little man was plainly agitated.

Hilbert Torrington smiled at him over the carefully arranged playing cards.

"They tell me, Cassis, your wife has been indisposed. I trust she is better."

"I really don't know," came the irritable response. "You can hardly expect——"

"These trifles so easily escape us," murmured the old man.

Nugent Cassis scowled and turned to Cranbourne.

"How's that other fellow getting on? What's his name—Altar?"

"He's holding out."

"At Laurence's house?"

"I believe so."

"You've heard from the woman lately!"

"Not lately."

"I've a doubt about that woman. She's been seen a good bit with the American. I've had them watched. Nothing would surprise me less than to hear she'd given us away."

"That's hardly likely, Cassis, since she believes it is Barraclough they've got hold of."

"Women are very tricky. I don't trust 'em! Suppose they've made it uncomfortable for Frencham Altar, what? Well it was only to be expected."

The callous practicality of tone fired Cranbourne to answer:

"Expected, yes. But one of these days if there's any justice knocking about this old world of ours we shall have to pay."

"Five thousand was the price," retorted Cassis.

It is probable there might have been a row had not Mr. Torrington intervened with the suggestion that Frencham Altar's cheque should be signed while they were waiting. Cassis obstructed the idea. He thought tomorrow would be quite soon enough. He scouted Mr. Torrington's statement that on the morrow they would have to see about Frencham Altar's release. He said that this was a matter dependant on Barraclough's return.

"Our contract with Altar terminated at eleven tonight," insisted Mr. Torrington. "Kindly sign this cheque beneath my signature."

And very grumblingly Cassis obliged.

"We have staked a lot of money on this affair," he said.

"Yes, and not a little reputation," replied the old man.

"Don't follow your reasoning."

"I'm getting old, Cassis, reaching the age when the hereafter becomes the nearafter."

"Then I should retire from business before you waste any more money," said Cassis with surprising venom.

But Mr. Torrington did not resent the remark since he knew how nerves affect certain dispositions.

The arrival of Lord Almont Frayne, resplendent from the Opera, relieved the situation of tension. It would have taken a very practised eye to detect anxiety under the mask of bored and elegant indifference he had assumed. He apologised for being late, but had been button-holed by a fellow in the foyer who wanted to talk polo. Very disappointing evening altogether. The prima donna had sung flat and an understudy was on for Tenor's part. It was only as an after thought he mentioned the object of their meeting and he touched upon it in the lightest vein.

"Nothing doing?"

"Nothing."

"Ah! well, it's early yet. Hot ain't it? Mind if I get myself a peg?" He was crossing to the decanter when he stopped, drew an envelope from his pocket and placed it on the table before Mr. Torrington.

"What do you make of that?" he asked. "Came early this morning, no post mark—nothing—just slipped through the box."

Hilbert Torrington took from the envelope a single flower pressed almost flat. It was a dog rose.

"Odd," he muttered, "distinctly odd." He weighed the flower in his hand and sniffed the envelope critically. It had no scent. "You have no one, Almont—I mean, there isn't anyone who'd be likely to—Well, you're a young man."

"Oh, Lord! no, nothing of that kind."

And Almont's inflection suggested that the very idea of such a thing caused him pain.

Hilbert Torrington pursed his lips and stared at the ceiling.

"What does a dog rose suggest to you, Cassis?"

"A silly interruption," replied that gentleman sourly.

"Yes, yes, but was there not—dear me, it's so long ago I've almost forgotten—was there not some floral Lingua Franca—Ah! the language of flowers."

Cassis snorted, but Cranbourne was at the book shelves in an instant.

"It's printed at the back of dictionaries," he said. "Here's one!" He took out a volume and turned over the pages as he spoke. "This is it. Rose—Love. Yellow rose—jealousy. White rose—I am worthy of you. Dog rose—Hope."

"Hope," repeated Mr. Torrington.

Lord Almont struck the table and sprang to his feet.

"By God!" he cried. "Barraclough's going to win through."

In the midst of a babel of tongues the telephone rang imperatively. Mr. Torrington picked up the receiver.

"Yes, yes," he said. "Who? You are speaking for Mr. Van Diest."

The three other men came instantly to attention and exchanged glances. There was a pause. Then Mr. Torrington said:

"Indeed! Oh, very well—delightful," and he replaced the receiver.

"What's happened?" Almont demanded.

"I don't entirely know. But it appears that Van Diest and his amiable colleague Hipps, are shortly paying us a visit—here."

There was a moment of consternation.

"But Good Lord!" exclaimed Cranbourne. "That may mean anything."

Nugent Cassis threw up his hands desperately. Every vestige of his quiet business habit had vanished and instead he was a nerve-racked exasperated man who paced up and down jerking out half sentences, reproaches and forecasts of failure.

"It's that fellow Frencham Altar given us away. Damn stupid introducing the type—man on a bench—Means ruin to the lot of us. Coming here are they? Refuse to see them. I knew there'd be a break down somewhere—felt it in my joints—If everything had gone according to schedule, Barraclough would have been back by now—Punctual man—reliable——"

"Big stakes involve big risks," said Mr. Torrington sweetly.

"And haven't we taken them?" Cassis barked. "Good Heavens alive! why—What's that?"

There was a murmur of voices in the hall, the room door was thrown open, and Isabel Irish came in breathlessly. She threw a quick glance round the circle of faces as though seeking someone.

"Where is he? Where's Tony? It's after eleven—half past—Why isn't he here?"

Mr. Torrington rose and offered a chair, which she refused with a gesture.

"We are waiting, my dear."

"But why isn't he here?" she repeated.

"How can we possibly say?" ejaculated Cassis testily. "In a venture of this kind——"

She caught up the word "venture" and threw it back at him.

"No message, nothing."

Cranbourne was about to answer, but Torrington interrupted him to tell her of the dog rose Lord Almont had received.

"That was from him—that was from Tony," she cried. "I gave him a spray of them on the night he started."

"That's encouraging," said Lord Almont.

But Cassis was not in a mood to be encouraged.

"It may mean much or little," he snorted. "Still, there is nothing to prevent our hoping."

Of all worldly trials, waiting is the severest, and tatters the nerves quicker than any other. Isabel Irish did not like Nugent Cassis—he belonged to the money people who had no real existence in her reckoning—but ordinarily speaking she would never have lashed out at him with such vehemence. The fire in her voice and eyes entirely robbed the little man of power to retort. Nor was the tirade she uttered levelled at him alone, everyone present came in for a share. One small girl with a shock of curly hair whipping with scorpions the heads of a mighty financial concern.

"Hoping he'll get through with the cash," she said, "so that you can have money and more money and then more money. That's all he counts for to you—a machine to fill your pockets—— Doesn't matter if he gets broken throwing out the coins, wouldn't matter if he never came back at all so long as the concession came safely to hand. Oh! it makes me sick—it makes me sick." Her voice broke, but she forced the tears back by sheer strength of will. "He may be dead—anything may have happened to him—— And you could have prevented it all, sent an army to protect him. But no, that wouldn't do—too conspicuous—other people might find out—profits might have to be divided—so all you can do is to sit in a circle waiting—waiting—like a dog with a biscuit on its nose for the words 'Paid for, paid for.'"

And having emptied out her soul's measure of resentment she threw herself onto the sofa and sobbed and sobbed with her curly head in Mr. Torrington's lap.

No one spoke, not even when Doran came in and whispered that Van Diest and Hipps had arrived and demanded audience. It was Cranbourne who came forward and picking her up in his arms like an injured child carried her into the other room and laid her on Barraclough's bed.

"We haven't lost yet, my dear," he said, and stroked her forehead.

He left her crying gently on the pillow, her little pink cheeks all shiny with tears.

Mr. Torrington waited for Cranbourne to return before giving Doran instructions to show in the gentlemen. To Cassis' unspoken protest he replied:

"They evidently have some information which we lack. It would be wise to find out what it is."

Ezra P. Hipps was first to enter. He came in like a triumphant army occupying captured territory. Close upon his heels was Hugo Van Diest, smiling ingratiatingly and bowing to the company. Hilbert Torrington rose and returned the courtesy.

"An unexpected pleasure, gentlemen. And what precisely do you want?"

"I guess it's a talk to the man who shoots the bull in the ring," Hipps replied, and added: "That substitute trick has exploded and the chap who pulled it has done a guy."

Mr. Torrington and Cranbourne exchanged glances.

"Am I to understand that Mr. Frencham Altar has found your hospitality too oppressive?" he asked.

"Put it how you like, but that's a side show," came the answer. "We're here on business."

Nugent Cassis had recovered some of his self-possession and remarked crisply:

"We are very busy, Mr. Hipps."

"And since the light came into the temple, Nugent Cassis, we've been busy ourselves. Struck me one or two little matters need adjusting."

"Your treatment of the substitute for example," said Cranbourne.

"Not unlikely, but that job'll keep, and it's in hand already under Laurence."

"Dear me, we are being very frank, are we not?" murmured Mr. Torrington.

"Gentlemen, it's come to our ears that a certain Mr. Barraclough is taking grave risks tonight to get home."

Cranbourne flashed an eye at the bedroom door. "Go on!" he said. "Talk straight, man."

Hilbert Torrington held up a hand.

"One minute," he suggested. "I imagine Mr. Hipps is reluctant to speak out before so many witnesses. It would be better perhaps if Mr. Van Diest and myself discussed this matter in private. Is everyone agreeable?"

There was some small demur, but it was finally agreed upon. The others went out into the hall, leaving Mr. Torrington and Van Diest alone.

They were both very smiling and scrupulously polite, but the air of the room seemed to crackle with stored electricity. The Dutchman was given a chair by the writing table and cigarettes were placed at his elbow. Indeed, every social amenity was observed before Hilbert Torrington fired the first round.