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Title: The enterprising burglar

Author: Hearnden Balfour

Release date: July 5, 2026 [eBook #79026]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1928

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79026

Credits: Tim Miller, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ENTERPRISING BURGLAR ***

THE ENTERPRISING BURGLAR

BY HEARNDEN BALFOUR

Author of 'A Gentleman from Texas'

BOSTON AND NEW YORK

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

The Riverside Press Cambridge

1928

COPYRIGHT, 1928, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Riverside Press

CAMBRIDGE · MASSACHUSETTS

PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

TO

ALL THE SHAREHOLDERS

IN

NEW BELLS, UNLIMITED

When the enterprising burglar's not a-burgling, not a-burgling,

When the cut-throat isn't occupied in crime, 'pied in crime,

He loves to hear the little brook a-gurgling, brook a-gurgling,

And to listen to the merry village chime, village chime.

GILBERT AND SULLIVAN

('The Pirates of Penzance')

CONTENTS

I.

'A POLICEMAN'S LOT ...'

II.

VIVE LE SPORT

III.

FOG

IV.

THE MEETING OF THE FRATERNITY

V.

'TWINKLING WILLIAM'

VI.

AN ULTIMATUM

VII.

'IF THE FEMININE ELEMENT CROPPED UP IN THIS ...'

VIII.

'MINE'S BEER, TOO'

IX.

SIR TOBY IS AMUSED

X.

THE FEMININE ELEMENT

XI.

JERRY STRIKES OUT ON HER OWN

XII.

'BAKERLOO'

XIII.

TO BE LET OR SOLD

XIV.

TWINKLING WILLIAM'S DIARY

XV.

BOBBY'S THEORY

XVI.

NICK REFUSES TO EXPLAIN

XVII.

NICK MAKES AN ALLY

XVIII.

NICK EXPLAINS HIMSELF

XIX.

SIR TOBY IS SURPRISED

XX.

MICHAEL IS CONVINCED

XXI.

JERRY EXPLAINS HERSELF

XXII.

JILL HAS THE LAST WORD

XXIII.

MR. ROBERTSON

XXIV.

THE TENTH OF JUNE

THE ENTERPRISING BURGLAR

CHAPTER I

'A POLICEMAN'S LOT ...'

It was a bitter November night. Spike Moseley, trudging along the Embankment, shivered, and cursed under his breath. He was far from happy. He was cold and tired, and, worst of all, desperately nervous. As he stumbled along he suddenly checked, listening. Was that a step behind him? He swung round, his pulses thumping, and stared through the mist that drifted up from the river. Was it a trick of the darkness, or had he seen a dark figure take cover in the shadow of that shelter? Spike waited a moment, his heart in his mouth, and then trudged on.

He was afraid, and fear was a rare emotion in him. Spike had been a crook all his life, but he had always prided himself on the steadiness of his nerves. He had been in a score of tight places, and had extricated himself ably, but this was a different matter. Again he checked, every nerve taut. He knew, as a wild animal knows, that he was being followed, and his mouth dried as he listened. But he could hear nothing, except the far-off wail of a ship's siren, down river.

Spike set his teeth and went on again. Maybe it was only his imagination; the fancies that come to a sick man. For Spike felt very sick that night. His head was heavy, and he could hardly drag his feet along. It had come upon him suddenly. He had been all right an hour ago. Then, after that pint he'd had in the Four Feathers, he'd begun to feel queer. He wanted to lie down and sleep, but that was impossible. He had made up his mind to see this thing through. He had decided to tell Mr. Strickland what he knew. It was a poor thing to turn copper's nark, but it seemed the lesser of two evils. Spike turned up his coat collar and struggled on.

The policeman at the door of Scotland Yard eyed him with disfavour.

'Mr. Strickland about?'

His voice sounded queer. It was oddly difficult to get the words out. The policeman told him curtly that Mr. Strickland was busy. Spike fumbled in his pocket, and produced a grimy piece of paper and a stump of pencil. Laboriously he wrote a few words, folded the note, and gave it to the policeman.

'For Mr. Strickland,' he explained. 'Tell'm I'll wait by the bridge. 'S important.' He turned and shambled across the road.

Detective-Inspector Strickland was not in the best of tempers when he received Spike's communication. He had just been given marching orders, which meant throwing up a case that was absorbing all his interest. He knew it to be important—even urgent—but Authority had smiled, and had given him to understand that he was shying at a mare's nest. Just when proof seemed to be within his grasp, his Chief had seen fit to send him abroad.

Spike's note gave him a flash of hope. He had long believed that Spike could give him the information he wanted. He had tried to get it before, but without success. If Spike really intended to make a clean breast of it this time, there was a chance that he might be able to convince the Chief. He flung on his hat and coat and went out to find Spike.

The mist had thickened, and as he hurried towards Westminster Bridge he failed to see a man who was waiting in the shadow of the Embankment wall. The man saw Strickland, though, and smiled as he crouched below the balustrade. Then he followed, moving very softly for so big a man.

Spike Moseley was sitting on the steps, his head in his hands, and did not look up as Strickland approached.

'Well, Spike?'

Moseley raised his head, and stared at Strickland vacantly.

'You wanted to see me?'

A flicker of intelligence lit in his eyes.

'Thash right. Want see yer. Got suthing ... tell yer.'

'Go ahead.'

'Thishyer gang you're after ... preachin' bloody war, they are ... do it, too. 'S Gawd's truth. Won' stop't anythin'....'

His speech was blurred and indistinct.

'You know 'em?' asked Strickland.

'Know'm a sight too well. But t'-night ... foun' out ... bloke's name....'

His breath came in gasps.

'Who is he, Spike?' asked Strickland urgently.

'Nev' guess ... kill me, 'e would, 'f 'e knew wot I 'eard ... watch out, er e'll get you ... an' no jury'd convic' ... man like 'im....'

Spike's head sagged forward into his hands. The words were clotting on his tongue.

'What's his name?' asked Strickland desperately.

Spike tried to lift his head, but failed. His lips moved, but no words came. Then he swayed over drunkenly, and Strickland caught him as he fell.

Spike lay very still. Strickland laid a hand on his heart, and then straightened himself, his face very grave. For a moment he stood still, staring down at the huddled body. That message would never be delivered.

The man who had been crouching in the shadow noted the abrupt silence. He moved away, soft-footed as a cat, and then made his way back again, tramping heavily along the pavement. When he reached the top of the steps he checked, and allowed himself to catch sight of Detective-Inspector Strickland.

'Could y' spare us 'arf a dollar, sir?' he asked huskily. 'It's an awful night, sir, an' I ain't 'ad no work fer months.'

Strickland looked up sharply. It was hard to see the man clearly in the mist and the dark. He was a tall chap, a navvy, by the look of him.

'Yes, you can take a message for me,' he said. 'Here's half a crown. Go over to Scotland Yard'—he pointed across the road—'and ask Inspector Barrett to come here. Tell him to bring a constable with him, and say I sent you—Strickland. Hurry!'

'Inspector Barrett. Right y'are, sir,' said the navvy, and set off at a lumbering trot.

Strickland waited, shivering a little in the bitter wind. He was very angry; a cold fury that included the Commissioner, and Spike, and the men Spike had intended to betray. If only Spike had lived to tell him that name ... if only the Chief could be induced to take this matter seriously ... if only he himself had not received orders to go abroad.... Jack Strickland felt it to be a deliberate insult on the part of the gods.

The arrival of a policeman and a burly man in plain clothes interrupted his thoughts. In a few words he explained to Inspector Barrett what had happened.

'Sounds as if he'd been doped,' said Barrett at the conclusion. 'Well, I'll deal with this if you like. You were on your way home, weren't you?'

'Yes. If I'm wanted, let me know. By the way, I'm off next week.'

'So you couldn't convince the Chief?'

'No.'

'I'm sorry. I think he's wrong.'

'So do I,' said Strickland, 'but there it is. If only that poor devil'—he nodded towards Spike—'had been able to tell his story I might have made 'em believe me. As it is ... oh, hell! Good-night, Barrett. By the way, where's that navvy I sent to fetch you?'

'He pushed off as soon as he'd delivered your message,' said Barrett. 'At any rate, he wasn't there when I came out. Good-night, Strickland.'

But Inspector Barrett was wrong. The navvy had only just gone, and was at that moment standing by the statue of Boadicea trying to light a stumpy cigarette-end and sheltering the flickering match with his cupped hands. Strickland passed him, unnoticing. The navvy grinned, and then began to whistle a gay and lilting tune.

Strickland heard it as he made his way home. It was a familiar air, and as he listened the words suddenly clicked into place.

'When constabulary duty's to be done, to be done,

A policeman's lot is not a happy one!'

For a second Strickland checked in surprise, and swung round. But there was no one in sight, and with a grin he dismissed the matter and continued his journey.

CHAPTER II

'VIVE LE SPORT'

Detective-Inspector Strickland was a busy man. On the evening of the day after the affair of Spike Moseley he did not get back to his flat in Buckingham Gate until after ten. As he struggled out of his dripping overcoat, his twin sister appeared at the door of the sitting-room and surveyed him gravely.

'Hallo, Jill. Filthy weather. I'm drowned.'

'Better change,' advised Jill.

'I hope there's a decent fire,' pursued Jack Strickland, ignoring the advice.

Jill smiled, a swift, flickering smile that lit up her small, delicate features.

'Fed?' she inquired.

'Mentally or physically?'

'Physically. The other thing's fairly obvious.'

Jack grinned.

'As a matter of fact, I could do with some food; but Kate's gone to bed, hasn't she? I saw a light in her window.'

'Trained observer,' said Jill, in a soft, abstracted voice. 'Nothing escapes the eye of the great detective. I can cook, though. What will you have?'

'Angel! Eggs, very much in the plural, and gallons of hot coffee, and possibly bread and cheese. Can do?'

'Can do,' said Jill with a nod, and without more words went off to the kitchen.

Jack, shivering, made for the sitting-room and pulled up a chair to the fire with a sigh of relief. For a minute or two he sat in drowsy contemplation of the blazing coals, and then he reached up to the mantelpiece for his evening's mail. There were three letters there, all with typewritten addresses. Two of them had halfpenny stamps, and these he threw unopened into the waste-paper basket with an accuracy suggestive of long practice. The third he opened without much interest, and then sat up with a jerk. It contained only a visiting-card; a small piece of pasteboard on which were printed the words: 'Vive le Sport.' Jack turned it over, and on the back was written, in a small, neat hand:

I propose to call upon you between eleven and twelve to-night, and hope to find you enjoying an hour's holiday. In other words (one can't make oneself too clear on this point), I am relying on you not to arrest me.

NICK

Strickland grinned. 'Thoroughly characteristic!' he murmured. Then his eyes shifted from the card in his hand to the fire, and the smile faded. When his sister entered the room some minutes later, she noticed his worried frown, but refrained from comment. Instead, she laid a place at the table and set down a large dish of eggs and bacon.

'Supper's ready,' she mentioned.

Jack rose slowly to his feet.

'I'm expecting an old friend to turn up to-night, Jill,' he said.

His sister stared at him with wide grey eyes.

'Not—not Nick?' she said.

'Guessed it in one,' said Jack, with the sudden surprise that her intuitions always awoke in him, even though he almost expected them.

'But, Jack, how splendid! Aren't you longing to see him again?'

'Of course I am. But I wish to goodness I were a bank clerk or a bus-driver, or anything but a blinking cop. Here's the best friend I've got in the world, and he must needs turn burglar. It's so damned difficult.'

The exasperated twinkle in his eyes woke a response in Jill's.

'You're off duty now,' she suggested.

'Woman, you have no more conscience than—than Nick himself! Here's his communication.' He held out the card to her.

'Oh, that's all right,' said Jill when she had read it. 'I believe he's going to reform or something.'

'Something, perhaps,' conceded Jack, hungrily attacking his eggs and bacon.

'Don't you believe he'll ever give up his burgling?'

'My dear, the man took up crime because he found life so dull after he came out of the Army. He wanted excitement, and, by Jove, he got it! He's had eleven narrow escapes from being quodded to my certain knowledge.'

'He'll get tired of excitement soon,' said Jill.

'Didn't look like it last time I saw him,' said Jack, with his mouth full.

'When was that?'

'Two years ago. Over that Fairleigh case. I begged him then to chuck it, and he only laughed and said he was enjoying life enormously. Since then he's pulled off two really big hauls, and got away by the skin of his teeth the last time. That was about a year ago.'

'He'll give it up when he falls in love,' said Jill gravely.

Jack chuckled profanely.

'That gives him plenty of time,' he observed. 'Nick's a jolly sight too popular with women to apply his mind seriously to any one of them.'

'When he marries——' began Jill, unruffled.

'For Heaven's sake!' protested Jack. 'Give the man a chance, old lady. We don't know what his trouble is yet, but there's no need to assume it's impending matrimony.'

Jill smiled tolerantly, and held her peace until her brother had finished his meal and settled himself once more by the fire. Then she looked up from her knitting to ask:

'Have you any idea at all why he wants to see you?'

'Nick? Not the slightest. I hope it's just a friendly call.'

'That's not likely,' said Jill, with serious decision.

'Aren't you a little unflattering?'

Jill blinked, and then smiled.

'Owl! You know what I mean. Jack, you've often talked about Nick, but you've never told me very much about him. Why did he start burgling?'

'Sheer desire for excitement. Nick's half Irish, you know; and I believe it's that strain that gives him his light-hearted love of danger. I first met him in France, at the beginning of the war. He was the best subaltern I ever had. An absolutely first-rate man.'

'I should have thought he lacked discipline,' said Jill, who knew how to get information out of her brother.

'So he did, but it didn't matter. Nick was always sneaking off by himself to explore, but no one seemed to realise he'd gone until he returned; and not then, unless he brought something with him—a wounded man, or a prisoner, or some valuable information. I've never met anyone who took so many risks, and yet, unlike most of these reckless devils, he never ran his men into unnecessary danger. They adored him, and would have followed him to blazes if he'd asked them to. I tell you, the man was wasted in the Line; he ought to have been in the Secret Service, but the powers that be had a positive genius for using razors to cut grindstones. I tried to get him shifted when they transferred me to the Intelligence, but it was no use. Nick would have been far better at the game than I.'

'And then?' asked Jill.

'Oh, I lost sight of him after that, and didn't see or hear from him again until 1919, when he turned up at the Yard and we had lunch together. I told you about that, and how he said he was going to be a burglar because everything else was so tame in comparison to the war. I laughed at him. Never dreamt he meant it. He went off saying: "Henceforth we meet as foes, worthy, I hope, of each other's steel. Vive le Sport!" It wasn't till we found his card in the safe, over that jewel robbery, that I believed it.'

'Did he laugh too?'

'Yes, like anything. But Nick always seems amused, whether he's serious or not. Oh, confound the man! I wish he'd chuck it. And yet ... his motive for burgling does call for one's sympathy.'

'I know he always robs profiteers,' said Jill.

'Yes; and practically all the money he gets goes into anti-Bolshevik propaganda. He's jolly well-off, you know; he doesn't have to earn his living, either honestly or dishonestly, now; but the curse of it is that I am paid to catch him, and every failure I make is a smack in the eye to my reputation, even if it's a relief to me personally.'

Jill shook her head.

'It's stupid to try to catch him,' she said. 'He's like a rook; he does more good than harm.'

Jack laughed outright.

'What a gloriously unflattering simile!'

'Nick wouldn't mind,' said Jill.

Jack looked at her. 'How do you know? You've never met him.'

''Deed I have. You brought him here once when you were both on leave. He stayed for three days.'

'By Jove, I'd clean forgotten! So he did. That was twelve years ago. And you remember him?'

'Rather!'

A shade of anxiety crossed Jack Strickland's face. He glanced at his sister, and then quickly transferred his gaze to the fire. Jill watched him with quiet amusement.

'Don't worry, old man,' she said soothingly.

'What d'you mean?'

'I mean'—she spoke slowly, with soft deliberation—'that although I am very fond of him, I'm not the woman Nick's going to marry; nor do I want to be.'

Jack grinned rather sheepishly.

'You're a dashed sight too quick,' he said. 'It's positively indecent. Anyway, I shouldn't mind if you were. Nick's the best——'

He was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell and leapt to his feet. Jill rose, and shifted the débris of his supper to the side-table. As she removed the last crumbs, Jack returned, ushering in a tall man, whose steady eyes and friendly smile seemed as familiar to her as if she had seen them only yesterday.

'You remember my sister?' said Jack.

'Of course I do! How are you, Jill? It's a long time since we met, but you don't look a day older.'

Jill put her hand in his, and studied his face with her odd, searching regard.

Nick smiled down at her. 'Well, what's happened to me?' he asked.

Jill twinkled. 'I believe you've grown bigger,' she said.

'Heaven forbid! It's an awful curse being such a size. Apart from the expense of clothing oneself, it makes one so conspicuous, which is a terrific drawback in my profession. I wish I were a little chap like Jack. For instance, I have to escape him in the guise of a Robert or a coal-heaver; but he can pursue me as anything, from a Chinaman to a smart young lady. It's much easier for him.'

'Less of that,' advised Jack, grinning. 'Will you have a drink?'

'An admirable suggestion. Thanks awfully. Jill, I look towards you.'

Jill smiled her thanks and gathering up her knitting, made her way to the door.

'Don't go,' protested Nick.

'Don't you want to talk to Jack?'

'Yes, but it isn't private to you. Come back.'

With a flush of pleasure Jill returned, and curled herself up in a chair by the fire. Nick, sitting on the wide club fender, smiled at her. Jack came to anchor on the other side of the fire and pulled at his pipe contentedly, watching Nick's face. The man looked older, he thought. There was something behind those eyes that was new.

'How's life, Nick?' he asked.

'Getting more interesting every day,' said Nick, striking a match for Jill's cigarette.

'I'm afraid I was hoping that you'd had enough excitement.'

'It's not exactly that,' said Nick slowly, 'but, as a matter of fact, I rather want to return from South America, where I have been since the war, and I thought I'd better hear what you've got to say about it.'

Jack grinned.

'Let's be a little more explicit,' he suggested. 'Are you proposing to come back as a dual personality, so to speak: burglar by night, and man-about-town by day? Or do you mean Vive le Sport to die, while you rise, phœnix-like, from the ashes?'

'Again, not exactly. Vive le Sport, the burglar, has been dead for more than a year. Hadn't you realised that?'

'I realised his inactivity, and was devoutly thankful for it, but I hadn't been optimistic enough to assume him dead.'

Nick chuckled.

'We mustn't be ungrateful. He has provided you with a great deal of beneficial exercise, both mental and physical, and has bequeathed me a very nice income. I owe the burglar a great deal, for besides that, he's shown me a game really worth playing. The only difficulty is that it definitely requires the coöperation of a man-about-town, as you put it.'

'What is this game?'

'I'll tell you in a minute. Am I right in thinking that you've been investigating a case on your own lately?'

Jack Strickland stared.

'You are,' he said at last. 'Do you know anything about it?'

'A little. I've been interested in that crowd for the last year. Do your superiors take it seriously?'

'No. I wish to God they did. I know there'll be big trouble sooner or later.'

'I think you're right, but it's a queer business. What have you made of it?'

'Enough to give one to think. It's a revolutionary movement that has got a firm foothold in every industrial centre in the country, and it's more confident and yet restrained than anything I've so far come up against. I know these secret societies come and go, but there's one point about this show that's new. As far as I can discover no foreigner is on their list of supporters.'

Nick nodded slowly.

'That's what makes me think, too,' he said. 'It's quite true. We don't like aliens, as a nation, you know, but a revolutionary movement that is exclusively British is a little unusual. Jack, do you know who's at the head of the show?'

'If I did, I could get something done, perhaps. Do you?'

'No. I've been trying to find out for months, and I've now come to the conclusion that I'm looking for him in the wrong place. Jack, the man's a genius. He's organising this show with cold brains, not fanaticism, and his methods compel one's respect, if not one's admiration. He isn't collecting fanatics to fight for him; he's getting sober, hard-headed business men, and winning them over by sheer brain and personality. The queer thing is that though they are unanimous in their admiration, no two men describe the fellow alike. I've had some startlingly varied descriptions of him, and the only conclusion is that he's of every class and every temperament. To one man he's a "real gent;" to the next he's "a son of the People." He's a passionate crusader, calling in words of fire for adherents to a sacred cause. He's a thundering good fellow, ready to share a pint of beer and a joke. He's going to alter the world; he isn't going to do much more than break up a Trust or two. I tell you, it's bewildering, and there's only one explanation. He's genuinely all things to all men. He has the power to make each individual man feel that he's his blood-brother—and a better man.'

'Hypnotism?'

'Perhaps. What's in a word? Anyway, that power he must have, and surely it's inevitable that he should want to use it. Only a saint could refrain from action under those circumstances. He must see himself as all-powerful—as Dictator—knowing what he can do. I tell you, Jack, the hold he's got over his men is amazing. As far as I can discover, none of them knows who he is in private life. They call him the Chief, and speak of him with a reverence that is most impressive. They don't even want to know who he is. They say we've had enough of Party Government. What we want is One Good Man at the Top—all in capital letters—and they add with absolute certainty, "and we've got him."'

'But they don't know who he is?'

'No. And they don't care. Now, I'm absolutely convinced that if I'm going to find him at all I've got to look for him in the top drawer, as it were, and that's why I want to return in glory from South America. Vive le Sport can still keep an eye on the rank and file. I don't mind telling you that he is looked upon as a very promising disciple to the Cause. Do you follow me?'

'Perfectly. It seems an admirable idea.'

'Good! Now, before I take the plunge, tell me this: just where do I stand with that great institution, the Police Force? This man we're up against is as clever as blazes, and I shall have my work cut out to swindle him, without having to keep one eye on Scotland Yard.'

'My dear Nick, if you run up against the law I'm helpless, of course, but as a man-about-town you're as safe as be-damned. To my knowledge, only Jill and I know your real name, and I see no reason why we shouldn't remain in proud possession of that secret.'

'Splendid! To tell you the truth, I've been wanting to come to life for some time, but it seemed a dirty trick, to put you two into a position like this. But when I realised that you were going away....'

Jack Strickland sat up abruptly.

'Would you be so good as to tell me how you came by that information?' he asked.

Nick blinked, with an air of startled surprise, but Jill saw the twinkle in his eye.

'I ask,' went on Jack, 'because the matter was only arranged last night and is generally supposed to be a secret.'

'It's true, then?'

'Yes, worse luck! I sail for Russia next week, on a job which my respected Chief thinks more urgent than this one.'

'Russia?' Nick looked grave. 'How long do you expect to be away?'

'About six months.'

'H'm. I don't like it. If things come to a head sooner than I expect I shall want you badly, and if Scotland Yard takes that sort of view we shan't get much help there. I tell you, Jack, when it comes to a kill we shall have to act damned quickly. If your colleagues stop to argue, the Chief will have done his stuff, and in all probability we shall be sitting on a damp cloud and singing hymns. I'm putting it as optimistically as possible.'

'I believe you, but what can I do? The thing's fixed up now. You must let me know if you want me. Jill stays here and can tell you where I'm to be found.'

'Well, we must hope for the best,' said Nick, rising to his feet. 'And now I must go home to bed. Good-night, Jill; it's been very nice to see you again.'

Jack Strickland heaved himself out of his chair, and followed his guest into the hall.

'Pretty sickening for you, being sent to Russia just now,' said Nick.

'Damnable, but I feel better now I know you're on the job. I couldn't pick a better man for it.'

Nick nodded his thanks, a friendly smile in his eyes.

'I'll do my best,' he said, 'but if you can get back any sooner, I shall be glad.'

'I shall try. Keep your eyes skinned, old chap.'

'Trust me,' said Nick cheerfully. 'Where's my hat?'

'That's all very well, but these people have a summary method of dealing with suspects.'

'I know,' said Nick, and for a moment he, too, looked grave. 'Poor little Moseley.'

Jack Strickland leant back against the wall and stared at his guest with an expression of mingled exasperation and amazement.

'I have heard about it,' explained Nick. 'He was doped, wasn't he?'

'He was,' said Jack, with restraint.

'Any trace of the doper?'

'None. He got it in his drink at a pub. There were a great number of men there, most of them unknown to the bar-tender. Did you know that Moseley came to see me?'

'As a matter of fact, I did,' said Nick confidentially. 'I wanted to know the Chief's name, too, you see, so I thought that he might as well tell both of us at the same time. Save trouble, you know. It was rather agonising, wasn't it? The way he tried to get the word out and couldn't.'

'For the love of Mike——' began Jack.

'Do you mean to say you never guessed? Not even when I whistled? I thought you'd see the point of that. I wanted you to know that I'd given up my profession. Not even when I told you I was out of work?'

There was a silence. Jack stared at Nick, who shuffled his feet with a guilty air and tried to suppress a grin.

'Blast you, you owe me half a crown,' said Jack at last.

Nick laughed outright.

'Got it!' he said. 'Good-bye, old chap.'

The door shut behind him, and Jack heard him whistle soft and clear, as he ran down the stairs, 'When the enterprising burglar's not a-burgling....'

CHAPTER III

FOG

'"Argus"? "Evenin' Standard"? "John Bull"?' The bookstall boy proffered the papers hopefully.

Nick shook his head, and continued his absent-minded study of the gay-coloured magazines spread out before him. It was a raw, damp afternoon, and Cardiff railway station was dark with fog, the thick, acrid fog that sometimes descends on England in April. The London express was half an hour late already, and Nick was anxious to be in it and away.

On a bench, close to the bookstall, sat a tall man, clutching a leather dispatch-case; a man called Davies, who represented Western England for the Fraternity; one of the First Four, lieutenants under the Chief. Nick's discovery of this fact had brought him down to Cardiff a week ago, and there he had attended several meetings of the Fraternity, with increasing interest and a certain amount of apprehension. He had not realised till this week the perfect organisation behind this revolutionary movement, nor the danger that lay in the Chief's scheme. Personal danger there had been but little, for Nick had attended the meetings as a very humble follower, unnoticed by any of the leaders. The last meeting especially had given him to think, for Davies had announced his intention of going to London next day to meet the Chief, in conference with the county leaders; and had added that on his return he would probably be able to give his followers definite news of the Great Day. Nick was anxious. Then and there he decided that he, too, would travel to London, and by the same train. One never knew. Something might happen that would give him a chance to meet the Chief. Nick was a firm believer in his own luck.

The bookstall boy eyed him speculatively, taking in his shabby grey suit, obviously ready-made, and cheap black boots. Not the sort of man who would buy 'The Times.' Might take the 'Herald.' But perhaps he had seen it before. The boy thrust forward an opened weekly.

'"Tatler"?' he suggested.

Nick glanced at the page idly, and then grinned. It was opened at a photograph of himself. 'Society at Epsom Races.' A short paragraph gave his description: '... Keen rider to hounds ... popular figure in London....' His grin broadened. If only they could have seen him during the past week, sitting at the feet of Davies and Crawford, drinking in their revolutionary doctrines, and singing 'Then raise the Scarlet Banner' to the tune of 'Tannenbaum'; pity they couldn't find a more suitable air for their anthem, one that had less sugary German sentiment.

The London train roared in to the platform. Nick threw down a shilling, picked up the 'Bystander' and moved away, keeping a wary eye on Davies, who got into the nearest carriage. Nick entered the train a few doors higher up, walked down the corridor, found his man, and made himself comfortable in the far corner. There was no one else in the carriage. The train jerked twice and then started off. Davies opened a pamphlet on Industrial Reform, and appeared to be absorbed in it. Nick glanced covetously at the dispatch-case lying on the seat opposite. If the worst came to the worst ... but he disapproved of crude methods, and decided to give his luck a chance.

At Newport a sailorman got in, stared at Nick, and then held out a horny hand.

'Blimey, mate, fancy seein' you! This is a bit of all right.'

'Tom!' exclaimed Nick, gripping the hand, and trying to conceal his apprehension, for a witness was the last thing he wanted at that moment.

'That's me. Bin visitin' me married sister in Usk. Y'see, we rammed a barge, comin' up the river last trip. Black fog, it was, worse nor this. You know what it's like in the Pool in thick weather.'

'Much damage?'

'Stove in our bows, and had to go into dock. I took a spell ashore. Goin' back to join 'er to-morrow. You know 'er, don't you? The Pelican.'

Nick nodded.

'General Steam,' added the sailor. 'Good old line. I ain't got no fault to find with 'em. They've done well by Tom Breck, I say. Look 'ere, why don't you come for a trip with us? I'll square it with the old man. Do you good. The Mediterranean run's a bit of all right.'

'Can't, Tom; wish I could.'

'Well, any time you want to, drop me a line, or come down and see me. Butler's wharf we sail from.'

The talk ran on, of ships and the sea, and that strange, self-contained dock-world that so few Londoners know. Nick smoked and nodded, and kept a wary eye on Davies, who, after one incurious glance at the newcomer, was again absorbed in his pamphlets. The minutes dragged by. Breck, tired of talking, dozed in his corner, occasionally murmuring something about having a drink with Nick when they got to London. Nick, staring out of the window, saw Didcot Station flash by. Not much more than an hour's run from Paddington now. The train roared on through the fog, and Nick, making and rejecting wild plans, began to despair. There was no chance of shaking Breck off, and how on earth could he shadow Davies adequately with a genial, bellowing sailorman at his heels? Unless his luck changed miraculously....

There was a violent shock. It seemed to Nick that someone had struck him so fierce a blow on the back that he was pitched headlong forward. There was a shattering sound of breaking glass, a sound that stood out above the general pandemonium, and then the whole carriage rocked wildly and overturned, precipitating the occupants in a heap, where they lay for a moment, dazed, choking in the dust and fog, while pieces of glass from the broken windows pattered down on them.

'Git orf of me!' said Tom Breck in a smothered voice.

Nick struggled to his feet and tried not to laugh.

'You hurt, Tom?'

'Nao. On'y squashed. 'Ow much d'you weigh ... gross tonnage? Give us a hand up.'

They could hear the roar of escaping steam now, and above it, faintly but terribly clear, human cries.

'Let's git out o' this before we 'ave to pay salvage,' said Breck, spitting the dust out of his mouth. 'You're younger'n me. Up you go.'

He pointed to the shattered glass above them, and bent to give Nick a leg up. After a brief struggle Nick got the corridor door open and climbed out. Then, leaning in, he reached down a hand to Breck and hauled him up.

'Strewth! that was a close call!' grunted Breck, rubbing his eyes. 'Gawd! Listen to the women!'

All around them the noise seemed to increase. Below, on the line, people were rushing about, appearing through the fog for an instant, their white, terrified faces showing like men in a nightmare, only to disappear again as the fog swallowed them up. Women were screaming hysterically; men were shouting orders and crying for help. At the front of the train a tongue of flame leaped up, blood-red through the fog, and the acrid smell of burning came to their nostrils.

'The first thing we'd better do is to get that fellow out of our carriage,' said Nick. 'Be ready to catch him, Tom, when I shout.'

With that he lowered himself down into the smother below.

'You there!' he shouted. 'Are you hurt?'

A groan answered him. He peered through the steam and fog, and saw Davies lying in a huddled heap.

'Anything broken?' he asked.

'My head,' said Davies faintly. 'And ankle's ... smashed....'

'We must get you out of here before the fire spreads. I'll try not to hurt you more than I can help. Ready above? Haul!'

Nick lifted him as gently as he could, and hoisted him up until Breck could reach him from above. With the last heave a bitten-off cry of pain escaped the wounded man.

'Fainted,' said Breck, as Nick climbed out beside him. 'Copped it proper, pore devil; look at 'is forehead.'

For answer Nick dropped down to the ground and plunged into the fog, for he had just caught sight of an ambulance man, sprung into being miraculously.

'Stretcher case here,' he said. 'Broken ankle, and, I believe, concussions. How on earth did you get here so quickly?'

'Right y'are, sir. Bob, give us a hand with that stretcher. Why, you see, we rushed out in cars as soon as we heard the news. It ain't more'n a couple o' miles from here to Reading.'

They returned to the carriage, and lowered Davies on to the stretcher. He was babbling incoherently.

'Delirious,' said the ambulance man. 'We'd better get him to the dressing-station quick.'

'Where am I?' asked Davies, rousing. 'Got to get to London.'

'No chance of that for a day or two, mate,' said the man. 'Take it easy. You're lucky to be alive.'

'I must go to London!' Davies's voice rose to a scream, and he struggled to get off the stretcher. 'Where's my dispatch-case? I've got to go——'

Nick bent over him.

'Steady, Davies. We can't afford to lose you. I'll take your report to the Chief.'

The injured man stared.

'What Chief?'

Nick smiled.

'I don't know his name. Do any of us, except you four?'

'Are you really ... follower?' Davies asked weakly.

'Ask Crawford. He knows me.'

Relief came into Davies's face and he lay back.

'Thank God! Do you know ... where meeting?...'

'No.'

'Twenty, Link Street ... second floor ... nine to-night.... Say "Fraternity".... You won't fail?'

'I give you my word.'

Davies nodded. 'I'll ... tell Crawford ... useful man....' he muttered, and seemed to sink into unconsciousness.

'That's better,' said one of the stretcher-bearers as they lifted their load.

Nick watched them go, with conflicting desires tearing at him. Breck had already disappeared with a rescue party, and every fibre of Nick's being called him to join them, but he knew that his own game was more important. With a sound that was half groan, half curse, he climbed back into the carriage, found the little dispatch-case, and swarmed out again. Then he dropped to the ground and set off at the double up the line, trying desperately not to listen to the agonising cries for help behind him.

It was twenty minutes to eight when he reached Reading Station.

'When's the next train to London?' he asked a porter.

'Seven twenty-three, just coming in, sir. They're all running late to-day.'

As he spoke the train came in.

Nick walked across the platform, selected an empty carriage, and dropped into a seat thankfully.

Then, as they pulled out, he suddenly realised how miraculous his luck had been, and he sat staring out into the swirling fog, while the train gathered speed.

CHAPTER IV

THE MEETING OF THE FRATERNITY

The fog held, and Nick's train ran very late, but the time did not hang heavy on his hands; in fact he could almost have wished it longer. The first thing he did was to go through Davies's dispatch-case, in which he found the Western representative's official report to the Chief. After he had read it, Nick sat for a minute or two, lost in thought. Fate had dealt him wonderful cards, but now everything depended on his skill in playing his hand. He sat in a corner of the carriage, staring with unseeing eyes at the window, trying to memorise every gesture and mannerism of the man whose part he meant to play. The voice, which would have been the worst stumbling-block to most men, presented no difficulties to Nick. He was a born mimic, and had cultivated the art all his life. He had heard Davies speak many times, and knew that he could imitate that swift, lilting Welsh voice, with all its odd turns of speech, so that no one would suspect him. Handwriting was the greatest difficulty, so Nick, with the signed report as a copy, practised Davies's signature on the backs of old envelopes, with all the absorbed diligence of an accomplished forger.

Nick was happy—happier than he had been through all these months of hunting. At last he was coming to grips with the enemy and, into the bargain, playing a game after his own heart. It was a dangerous game and a lonely one, and on his success hung the safety of the nation. Nick lit a cigarette, and surveyed his last effort at forgery with critical approval.

'Hand rather shaky still,' he murmured. 'Must make allowances. Good enough.'

Then as the increasing clatter and brighter lights told him that the train was drawing in to Paddington, he destroyed the envelopes and began to apply his mind to the question of disguise. Luckily, Davies was a tall man, near enough to Nick's own height, but there the resemblance ceased. Davies was dark and sallow, and had a drooping black moustache. Nick was fair, clean-shaven, and tanned a healthy brown. Davies had hazel eyes and a narrow, pointed chin. Nick's eyes were grey, and his jaw was decidedly square.

The station clocks stood at 8.40 as the train pulled in to the platform. Nick realised that there was no time to be lost, and hailing a taxi, made for his flat as quickly as possible. When he emerged, twenty minutes later, his head and face were swathed in bandages, and his eyes were masked by big horn-rimmed spectacles, such as Davies usually affected.

The late editions were already announcing the Great Western disaster. Nick could hear the newsboys' shrill voices as he set off in a taxi for Link Street. He caught sight of one flaring headline: 'Cardiff Express Collision in Fog.' This would help, too. The Fraternity would be prepared for his story and his belated arrival. Fate was indeed doing him handsomely. As an after-thought, he had tied up his right arm in a sling. It might be as well to have an alibi when it came to forging Davies's name, and also it would explain his slowness in writing. Nick had had some experience of forgery, but he knew he could not do it with a flourish.

The taxi drew up. Nick got out, paid the driver, and surveyed the place with interest. Number 20 was one of a big block of offices in a long, grey street, empty, save for a few men lounging round a cab-rank a hundred yards away. There was no porter at the door, and he entered the high, stone-flagged hall. On the wall was a brass plate, giving the names of the various offices. On the second floor there was only one, and he stared at the neat black lettering with a puzzled frown.

'The Society for the Propagation of the Gospel.'

For one moment he wondered whether Davies had given him the wrong address. Then he smiled.

'The Chief must have a sense of humour,' he thought, 'which means he can't be a fanatic. S.P.G.! How perfect! And no deception, of course; but what a gospel! Well, well, let's have at it.'

At the far end of the hall was an automatic lift. Nick went up to the second floor. As he emerged he found himself facing a door with the title of the society painted on it. He rang, and the door was opened by a grave-faced, square-shouldered man who looked like a valet.

'I'm very sorry, sir,' said the man, 'but Mr. Robertson cannot see anyone to-night. He is conducting a special prayer meeting.'

'I know it,' said Nick, through the fold of bandage across his jaw. 'Hope I haven't kept the Fraternity waiting?'

'Lord, it's Mr. Davies!' said the man, staring. 'But there, it's no wonder I didn't know you till you spoke. Are you hurt bad? They've all been very anxious about you.'

'Nothing serious. Indeed, all that's wrong is a few cuts about the face and a bit of a shake-up.'

'That's a mercy,' said the doorkeeper. 'They'll be no end relieved to see you.' Then he added, in a lower tone, 'The Chief's here, you know.'

'I knew he was to be here. Will you take me to him?'

For a moment the doorkeeper stared, a faint suspicion in his face.

'You must have taken a conk on the head,' he said. 'Since when have the First Four needed announcing?'

Nick took a step forward, reeling a little, and leant against the wall as if exhausted. The doorkeeper caught him by the shoulder.

'Steady, Mr. Davies. I say, d'you feel bad? Here, sit down a minute. I'll get you some brandy.'

'No, no, it's nothing. I still have moments of faintness. Give me an arm; I mustn't keep the Chief waiting.'

'Half a minute. You sit down in that chair, and I'll bring the register. To tell the truth, I'd put it away.'

He crossed the room to a desk and unlocked a drawer. Nick watched him, unseeing. So 'Mr. Robertson' was the name. Was Mr. Robertson the Chief? The doorkeeper returned with a large, leather-bound book and a fountain pen.

'The muster roll was complete half an hour ago, all bar you,' he explained. 'I'd given up all hope of your coming. Here you are. Take your time; I'll hold the book.'

Nick tried not to stare at the page before him. Davies must have seen it many times, but to him it was a revelation. It was a register of all the county leaders, each man's signature against the name of his county, and above, the names of the district representatives, North, South, East, and West. He realised that this meeting would be over sixty strong, and breathed a sigh of relief. The bigger the crowd, the better chance he had of remaining unsuspected. Then the porter dropped a bombshell.

'Lucky you're left-handed,' he remarked, his eyes on the arm-sling.

Nick's brain raced. Was it a trap? He'd made one slip already. Did the porter suspect him? Was Davies left-handed? For one wild second he racked his brain for a memory of the man. A thousand pictures of Davies addressing a crowd ... no use at all, for Davies used both hands in those dramatic gestures of his ... and then, thank God! a sudden memory of the tall Welshman drinking a glass of water.

'I'm not,' he said.

There was a moment's silence, in which Nick felt he could almost hear his own heart beating. Then the doorkeeper nodded.

'No more you are,' he said. 'I must have been thinking of Mr. Crawford. Well, you'd better sign, sir.'

Nick complied, realising with an inward grin at his own expense that there was no need to feign a shakiness at this moment. Laboriously he wrote 'H. L. Davies' in the space left above the Western Counties names, and gave back the pen.

'Right,' said the doorkeeper, putting the volume back in the desk drawer. 'And now let me give you an arm. Sure you won't have a drink first?'

Nick shook his head impatiently, and, leaning on the man's shoulder, limped down the passage. At the end was a plain wooden door, and here the porter left him with a cheery 'See you later, Mr. Davies.'

Nick waited for a moment, making a rapid inventory, as it were, of all his Davies knowledge, and then opened the door. As he did so, a buzz of conversation reached his ears.

'What are we going to do about it?'

'He ought to be here by now, if he's coming.'

'I wish to Heaven he'd come on our train.'

'Well, unless he's killed'—this was a bluff, North Country voice—'he'll get here yet. I'll back Davies every time.'

'Thank you,' said Nick, entering and shutting the door behind him.

There was a confused cry of surprise and welcome. Men crowded round him, welcoming him, asking questions, expressing concern for his bandaged head and arm. Nick, replying in Davies's curt, crisp voice, found his eyes search vainly for any man who might be the Chief. It was a large room, and seemed filled with men; men of all classes and types; but all of them seemed to be waiting, as he was. Then one of his Welsh group spoke to him, a little man named Williams, whom Nick knew well by sight.

'I suppose the Chief is here?' he said. 'He's supposed to be in the next room with R.O., and the other three, but so far we haven't seen him.'

'He'll come when he sees fit,' said Nick, with a certainty he was far from feeling.

'That's all very well,' grumbled the other. 'I tell you, Davies, I'm getting tired of following a mythical leader. You told us he'd hold this meeting himself, but he didn't. R.O. took it, as usual.'

'Did he say anything of interest?' asked Nick.

'Just what you said he would. We were given our final instructions, and if the Chief is satisfied with the reports, R.O. says he may even fix the date to-night.'

Nick nodded carelessly, but his pulses were beginning to pound. The date meant the day of the rising itself, he felt certain. He was wondering whether he ought to go and attack the inner room where the Chief was conferring with R.O.—whoever he might be—and the other Three. This last Nick realised to be the Northern, Southern, and Eastern representatives, and his place should obviously be with them. The man beside him cut short his thoughts by whispering: 'Here's R.O. at last!' and Nick turned to see a young man approaching him with outstretched hand.

'Well done, Davies!' he was saying. 'I've only just been told of your arrival. Can't tell you how worried we've been about you. We knew you were on that train, you see. Why didn't you come right in? Hope you've got your report? Good. Come along, the Chief's very anxious to see you.'

With that he turned and led the way across the room. Nick followed, thankful that no reply was expected of him. He had just remembered where and how he had met this young man before. Barely a month ago they had been fellow-guests at a party given by Mrs. Lancaster—Adele Lancaster—that smart and lovely widow, whose literary parties were so famous among the younger intellectuals. Nick attended these parties from a purely self-educational point of view. He had a passion for acquiring dialects, and though this misty, super-artistic language was probably as old as the hills, he had not run across it till now, and had set himself to learn it with much energy and considerable success. This young man had talked it with ease, and Nick remembered watching him at that party and wondering if he were really such a fool as he looked and sounded. And so he had a dual personality, too. This might be useful. Nick grinned under his mask of bandages as he followed his guide into the inner room.

'Here is Davies, sir,' said R.O., and stood back to allow Nick to enter.

There were four men in the room, but Nick hardly realised it, for his whole mind was occupied with one: a tall, erect man with a pointed black beard, who rose slowly to his feet and held out his hand.

'Well played, Davies,' he said quietly.

As Nick returned the grip he felt a sudden glow: the quick response of a man who has done good work, and whose effort has been understood and appreciated by his superior; the realisation that makes the hardest job seem supremely worth while. It was the glow he had felt as a subaltern when he had been praised by Jack Strickland, that best of company commanders. Strickland! With a jerk that seemed almost physical he pulled himself together and realised the yawning chasm that had suddenly opened at his feet. He had been on the point of a smiling denial ... 'Oh, rot, sir. Anyone would have done as much' ... and in his own voice. Davies would never have said that ... and he was Davies. Good God! he had forgotten, under the spell of this man's charm, that he was Davies. He hunched one shoulder, in Davies's awkward manner, and spoke huskily:

'Nothing is too great for the Cause, Chief.'

There was a moment's pause—a moment that seemed an age—while the bearded man stood still, regarding him, and Nick fought desperately for his self-control. This man was his own sort; a man who could speak his own language and play the game he himself played, with the same delight. A born leader, quick to understand, radiating the strength of his personality; a man one would be proud to follow. Such a man would never let his followers down ... and then Nick remembered that this man was plotting the overthrow of England and, to Nick's mind at least, was proposing to let down every soul that enlisted under his revolutionary banner. Abruptly his vision cleared. What a man to follow, indeed; but still more, what an enemy to fight!

'True, Davies,' the Chief was saying, 'the Cause is worthy of any sacrifice. Your spirit is an example to us all. And now, your report.'

Nick, fumbling with the catch of Davies's dispatch-case, was conscious of a pang of disappointment. A man didn't speak of 'The Cause' in that tone. It was melodrama. And then he realised that Davies did, and it was to Davies the Chief was speaking. He drew a long breath, feeling like a man who has fought his way through flames, to emerge unhurt. As he had suspected, this was the secret of the Chief's power; that to every man he could seem his own sort, quick to understand, utterly sincere in sympathy. 'Genius!' he said to himself, and realised that the worst danger was over, and for him, at least, that strange power was dead. He took Davies's closely written report from the case and held it out, swaying a little on his feet as he did so. The Chief thrust forward a chair.

'Take it easy, Davies,' he advised. 'You've been through a great strain.' He took the report as Nick sat down. 'I need not go through this evening's proceedings with you,' he went on. 'You know what we planned for this meeting. All I need tell you is that matters are progressing admirably. Russia has definitely promised the money on no security other than the signatures of our county and district leaders. This is merely as proof that our plans have a solid backing. If you want any details, R.O. can give them to you while I am reading your report. I may say that if it is as good as those of the other Three'—he smiled at the men behind him—'I shall be in a position to announce the date to-night.'

Nick sat still, not daring to ask questions for fear of betraying himself. Who was this man, this Mr. Robertson? After all these months of hunting he had come face to face with him, and was no nearer the solution. He rested his head in his hands, feigning faintness, and the other men made no attempt to engage him in talk. Luck had stood by him so far, but time was growing short. He would certainly not get such a chance again, and must make the most of it.

At last the Chief rose to his feet, tapping the report with his finger.

'Davies, I congratulate you. You have done magnificently. R.O., summon the meeting. Gentlemen,' he nodded to the Four, 'if you will take your places I will join you in a moment.'

The young secretary opened the door, and Nick with his three colleagues filed out into the meeting-room. Every head turned to watch them, and the atmosphere was tense with suppressed excitement. The First Four—Nick carefully following the Northern representative—seated themselves at a table facing the room. R.O. stood between them, North and West on his right hand, South and East on his left, and rapped on the table for silence. There was a sudden hush.

'Comrades,' he said, 'take your places. In a few moments the Chief will speak to you.'

A murmur ran round the company, and the men made their way to the rows of chairs that faced the table. Nick watched them with increasing interest and surprise. These men were no fanatics, but intelligent, level-headed Englishmen. There was not a weak or a vicious face among them. They sprang from every social rank in the country, but each man was a first-class type of his kind. Again Nick marvelled at the personality of a man who could control thousands he had never seen; who could project his influence through four men in such a way as to bring this light into the eyes of these sixty-seven county leaders, and through them again to the rank and file. All the mysticism of his Irish blood rose in Nick. This was magic. The Chief had bewitched these men. They were mesmerised by the unseen power of their leader, as he himself had been so nearly mesmerised by his presence. These men, these sturdy, honest, hard-working Englishmen, were no danger in themselves. Remove the Chief, and they would revert to their normal lives. Metaphorically they would rub their eyes and wonder what this wild dream had been. The Chief was literally the heart of this great body, and directly the heart ceased to function the body would die. In a way, it was a comforting thought. Nick had maintained so stoutly that Bolshevism was an utterly alien thing to the English mind, and now—even in the face of this great expectant gathering—he felt certain of it. The Chief must be put out of the way; that was essential; but not one of these men should be incriminated if Nick could help it.

As he came to this decision the Chief entered the room. Nick did not hear the door open, but he saw the faces before him light up with the same recognition that had filled him a few moments before. Each one of those men before him was feeling that sense of kinship and understanding, and as he watched, he realised the psychological genius of the man in remaining unseen until this eleventh hour. These followers of his would leave the meeting keyed up to a pitch of enthusiasm and loyalty that would carry them through death itself.

'It is hypnotism!' thought Nick. And then as the Chief began to speak, and with every word Nick felt his power grow, he began to be afraid. This man had humour and balance, and a mind as clean and cutting sharp as a razor-blade. Such a man could never believe in his ability to change the whole temperament of the nation. For all that swift sympathy, so irresistible on first sight, there was a cold cruelty about the man; an utter indifference to human life and happiness. This man, Nick felt, with sudden insight, would give up his life with complete satisfaction for the sake of a month's gratification of his lust for supreme power. He would probably die gladly, for too long a spell would bore him. In this cause he was proposing to raise revolution in England, to risk the lives of his followers, to bring ruin and suffering to his country. Nick's jaw set grimly as he listened to the Chief's level voice.

He spoke slowly and quietly; there was nothing melodramatic or impassioned in his speech, but every word rang with an inspired sincerity and conviction, and with every word Nick knew he was binding his listeners more closely to his cause. These men had been loyal admirers; they were now worshippers. The Chief had given them that touch of fanaticism that he needed in his adherents. Little bursts of applause began to break out; stifled, half-hysterical words of admiration; and once, a burst of cheering. The Chief raised his hand, and the noise died away with uncanny abruptness.

'My friends,' he said, 'this crusade in which we are enlisting has been attempted before, and has failed most pitiably for a very obvious reason. We are English. We may see the hideous injustice of the present system, and realise the dawn of a new era, but it is a dominant characteristic of the English mind that we would rather be misruled by our own people than live in a Utopia run by aliens. That is the rock on which all previous attempts have split. This time we are safe. We are all English ... British of every county and class in the Island ... and because of this we shall succeed. To each one of you, the men you lead into action will be your own kin. We do not want bloodshed. We will face it if necessary, but our aim is England's salvation, not her downfall. She is our England. She has been great, and she will be great again, so that the world will forget these dark years when her fate hung so precariously in the balance. We shall save her. As one man we shall rise to her aid on that glorious day which stands for ever sacred to the name of Freedom ... July the Fourth!'

There was a moment's silence, and then a storm of cheering. As it broke out, the Chief turned and disappeared into the inner room. The men were on their feet, shouting wildly, some with tears in their eyes. Then the tumult subsided and R.O. stepped forward.

'Comrades,' he said, 'you know the plans, and have your instructions. Remember that secrecy is now even more important than ever. The First Four will meet the Chief on June 15th to receive the funds which Russia is sending us, and any final orders that may be necessary. I have here the statement to which I referred earlier in the proceedings, the list of names which we are sending to Moscow as a guarantee of our strength. Will you all sign it before you leave. Comrades, we have a difficult time of waiting ahead, but remember, it is not for long. On July the Fourth we shall meet again, openly and victoriously, to unite all England, Scotland and Wales, under the banner of the greatest leader God ever made.'

There was a broken mutter of agreement—a sound that seemed to Nick more moving than the wildest cheers—and then the county leaders came forward. Each man signed, bade good-night to the district representatives and R.O., and then took his departure, quietly and without haste.

Nick sat still, head in his hands, elbows propped on the table. Even when his three colleagues rose to add their names to the list he did not stir. The Eastern and Southern representatives went off quickly, but the Northerner hesitated, glancing at the silent man at the table.

'Shall I bring the list over to you, Davies?' he asked.

Nick looked up with a start.

'Who—what?' he muttered. 'Oh, the statement. Yes, I'll sign it.'

He wrote his name slowly, his head sagging over the paper, and pushed it away.

'You're the last, Abbott,' said R.O. 'Not going back to Yorkshire to-night, are you?'

'No fear, staying in London. There you are, R.O., that's finished.'

The young secretary slipped the paper into a long envelope and sealed it heavily. The Yorkshireman still hesitated, his eyes anxiously on the representative for the West.

'Can I give you a lift anywhere, Davies?' he asked.

'No, thanks,' muttered Nick, without looking up.

R.O. caught Abbott's eye, and shook his head. Together they walked to the door.

'He's damned plucky,' said the Northerner, under his breath, 'but he looks like death. He ought to be in hospital.'

R.O. smiled. 'I'd be sorry for anyone who tried to take him there,' he said. 'You don't know Davies as well as I do. He's got the courage of a lion and a brilliant brain, but he's as independent as blazes, and has the very devil of a temper if he's rubbed up the wrong way. Even the Chief admits that he has to be careful how he handles Davies. All the Welsh pride and all their touchiness. He's best left alone.'

'You may be right,' said Abbott, 'but I don't mind saying I've been expecting him to collapse at any minute. Have you got any brandy in the place?'

'No. Oh, yes, we have, though. The Chief always carries a flask.'

'Well, if you take my tip, you'll give him a good dose and get him off in a taxi. Good-night, R.O.'

The young secretary waved a friendly salute, and returned to the meeting-room. On the floor, in front of the table, lay the representative for the West, in a crumpled heap.

'Poor devil!' muttered the boy.

He stooped over the inert body and then, realising that the man was too big to lift without help, went in search of restoratives. In a moment or two he returned, and then stopped on the threshold of the room, his heart in his mouth.

The representative for the West had disappeared, and so had the sealed envelope.

CHAPTER V

'TWINKLING WILLIAM'

More than once in his varied career Nick had found himself forced to hurry, but never in his life had he moved so quickly as he did now.

As the young secretary left the room in his charitable search for restoratives, Nick leapt to his feet, thrust the precious envelope into his pocket, and fled. To his relief, the porter was not in his usual place. Nick had been prepared to use force, if he had to, to get past him, but he was thankful to find it unnecessary. He dared not use the lift, and shot down two flights of stone stairs at a break-neck pace. In the hall he checked for an instant. The fog had lifted. He could see, dim in the washy lamplight, a taxi outside the front door, and he guessed the Northern representative to be inside it. The porter was at the door of the cab, half in and half out, exchanging a cheerful word of farewell. Nick slipped past him unnoticed, and hurried down the street towards the cab-rank.

Fifty yards away he glanced back. The taxi had departed in the opposite direction, but the porter was standing on the steps, staring after him. Nick cursed his white bandages: made a man a blessed lighthouse! He reached the rank and roused a sleepy driver.

'Paddington Hotel,' he said, and as he entered the taxi, glanced back again.

Another man had joined the porter, and was talking to him excitedly. Nick guessed it to be R.O., and chuckled. Then, as his taxi moved off, he saw the porter running, and running fast, towards the cab-rank. The hunt was up. Nick settled himself comfortably and lit a cigarette. The last few hours had been rather a strain, but this was a game after his own heart, a game he loved and excelled in. He picked up the speaking-tube.

'Push her along as fast as you can, will you?'

The driver responded with a wave of his hand, and trod on the gas. They slid through the traffic in the Strand, and just managed to escape a block at Trafalgar Square. Nick, looking back, perceived that his pursuer had unfortunately missed it, too. He could see the porter hanging out of the cab window, obviously urging his driver to greater speed, and indicating with a frenzied hand the taxi ahead. Nick laughed outright and picked up the tube again.

'Go up through Piccadilly, and along to Hyde Park Corner.'

The driver nodded resignedly. It was none of his business, but some fares did seem a bit loopy. Here was a bloke who asked him to hurry one minute, and the next wanted him to crawl through all the thickest traffic. Well, it wasn't his affair. He swung up Cockspur Street, and the pursuing taxi turned after him.

Nick was thinking hard. This infernal bandage was a landmark of the most dangerous sort, but on the other hand, was it safe to remove it? He didn't want any more witnesses than he could help, and the driver would certainly think it rather odd. Nick had no intention of slipping out without paying his fare; that would have been a dirty trick, and would have spoilt the keen pleasure he was deriving from the affair. Also—and more important still—if the worst came to the worst and the porter caught him up, he didn't want to run the risk of being recognised. He was not afraid of being detained—the porter was heavy, but hardly in the best physical training—but even in the time it would take to knock him out, the man might see his face well enough to remember again. No, the bandages must remain for the moment.

As luck would have it, the road was clear from Regent Street into Piccadilly. The taxi sped down past Burlington House, only to pull up short a moment later. The pursuing taxi was close behind, only separated from them by a Ford van. Nick could see the porter peering out again. In another two seconds he would spot them and ... Nick spoke to his driver.

'Another block?' he asked.

'Yes, sir.' By now the man was quite certain that his fare was insane. 'Traffic comin' down Bond Street.'

'Damnation!' Nick stepped out of the taxi. 'I shall go on by Underground. Good-night. Keep the change.'

He shut the door behind him, and dodging through the traffic, made for the north side of Piccadilly, but out of the tail of his eye he saw that the porter had seen him, and was following, also on foot.

Nick walked steadily westward. He knew that this earnest sleuth could do nothing in such a crowded place, but, on the other hand, what was he going to do himself? He couldn't simply walk up and down till he tired the fellow out. Besides, he had had a heavy day, and wanted to go to bed. Somehow this tiresome emissary of the Chief's must be thrown off.

And then, as sometimes happens in London, he discovered that the crowd about him had dissolved. There just happened to be no one on the pavement for fifty yards. In another five minutes the place would be swarming again, but a lot can happen in five minutes.

Someone behind him broke into a run. Nick turned instinctively and saw an open door, obviously the door of some club, for a man in livery stood in the hall. Without a second thought he walked in, to find himself facing a long letter-board on which was written: 'Jameson Club.'

The club porter came up, eyeing his bandaged head curiously.

'Friend of mine ... member ... asked me to leave a message here for him,' said Nick crisply. 'Where can I write a note?'

'Very good, sir. There's a writing-table in the lounge, sir,' said the man, indicating a room opposite, through the glass walls of which Nick could see three old gentlemen, each in far corners, reading newspapers in unsociable comfort.

'Thanks,' said Nick, and made his way to the table indicated. He sat down, picked up a pen, and studied it thoughtfully. His first idea had been to post his stolen envelope to himself, but now he hesitated. Suppose ... just suppose the Chief thought of that, too. No reason why he shouldn't; it wasn't exactly a new idea. And it wasn't beyond the bounds of possibility that the Chief might try to get it. The man would be anxious, rather naturally. But what was the alternative? That infernal sleuth was sitting outside the club (Nick had no doubt about that), and he couldn't stop in the place all night.

Nick grinned. 'Cold outside. Mustn't keep the poor devil waiting too long,' he murmured. But what was he going to do?

He studied the faces of his three fellow-inmates, and discarded the thought of appealing to their help. They were all fat old fellows, rather short of breath, and would probably have apoplectic fits at his story. His eyes wandered round the room, and then he caught sight of the bridge party through the glass partition.

There were four of them, men, and they were obviously old friends. He could hear what they said when they raised their voices as one was doing now.

'Discipline? My dear boy, the younger generation have none, and you're not the man to teach it to 'em. You always did sympathise with criminals; isn't that true, Loring? Look at him! Good Lord, when he used to lecture at King's his students called him "Twinkling William." Does that sound like discipline?'

Nick's eyes were on the subject of this tirade, who laughed cheerfully and without resentment. He was a little man, of about fifty, with twinkling eyes and untidy white hair. Nick watched him steadily, a growing conviction in his heart. This was the man for him; he'd risk his life on it; he'd even—he smiled, remembering an historic police court statement—he'd even bet on it. Then he nodded as if his mind were made up, pulled a sheet of paper towards him, and began to write:

DEAR SIR,

I hope you will forgive the liberty I am taking, but I find myself in an awkward predicament, from which only you can assist me.

So far, so good. Nick frowned thoughtfully. The question was, how much was it safe to tell? He must make this man—'Twinkling William!' enchanting nickname!—he must make him realise how important the affair was, and yet he didn't want to start a panic and have Scotland Yard called in. Curse Jack Strickland and the woolly-headed idiots who sent him to Russia when he was badly needed in England!

The envelope which you will find enclosed contains a document for which a certain section of our anti-English society is searching. I am sorry that I cannot give you any more definite information, but, as you know, the essence of the Secret Service is that it should remain secret.

Nick grinned, remembering that in point of fact he was still 'wanted' on several counts.

Unfortunately, it has leaked out among my opponents that I am in possession of the document, and I have been closely followed. In fact, my sleuths are waiting outside for me at the moment.

'Sounds better in the plural: more frightfulness!'

I am not a member of this club, but being in a tight corner I entered on the pretext of writing a note for a member. The fact that I know none has made my task more difficult. However, I have seen you—you are playing bridge as I write—and I believe you to be a man who will help me, and incidentally the State, in this affair. I shall wait until you leave, and then contrive to slip this letter into your pocket.

If you will write me a line addressed to V.L.S., Poste Restante, G.P.O., letting me know your name and where I can find you, I will call as soon as possible and relieve you of this rather dangerous charge. I expect I shall be free to do this within a few days, but if the worst occurs, and at the end of ten days you have neither seen nor heard from me, may I beg you to keep the letter until June 10th, and then post it. You will see that I have addressed and stamped it. I am confident that this contingency will not arise, but my opponents are as able as they are unscrupulous, and it is as well to face all possibilities.

In the meantime, I beg you not to mention the matter to anyone, and assure you that in keeping this secret you will be doing the State an incalculable service.

Nick read his literary effort through, and folded it carefully. It was a trifle earnest, but it would do. Then he drew the sealed envelope from his pocket and opened it gingerly, taking care not to tear the flap. He extracted the list of names, and slid it into another envelope which he took from the rack in front of him. The bridge party in the next room seemed to be nearing the end of their rubber; there was no time to be lost. He sealed the envelope and addressed it to Jack Strickland.

A rapid search of the desk revealed a larger envelope, into which he thrust Jack's and the letter to his unknown assistant, 'Twinkling William.' Nick chuckled again at the aptness of the name. On the envelope he wrote: 'Please open this when you are alone,' and then, with sudden childishness, he printed in large letters across the top, 'O.H.M.S.'

This done, he leant back and lit a cigarette. It was now necessary to write his note for the member. The hall porter had looked in rather curiously once or twice; it wouldn't do to walk out and leave nothing to explain his literary efforts. The question was, who should the member be? 'Smith,' he decided. A good old English name. There must be a Smith or three in the club. He wrote 'R. Smith, Esq.,' on an envelope, and stuck it down. Then he looked at the bridge party again.

They had finished their game, but were enjoying hot toddies and talking cheerfully. It would obviously be some minutes before they departed. Nick took up his pen again. It would rouse the hall porter's curiosity if he sat there doing nothing. Then his eye fell on the envelope he had stolen, and a smile spread over his face. He examined it carefully. It could be re-sealed with perfect ease, and there was a stick of red wax on the desk. Nick's smile broadened. It seemed a waste to send an empty envelope back to the Chief. A golden opportunity.... He took another sheet of paper from the rack.

Ten minutes later he heard the bridge players push back their chairs. He finished his letter hurriedly, put it into the Chief's envelope, sealed it, and stowed it away in his breast-pocket. The quartet were in the hall, putting on their coats, and chaffing each other with the freedom of old friends. Nick joined them unostentatiously, and slipped Mr. Smith's note into the rack, thanking his stars that the porter was too busy to watch him. 'Twinkling William' was speaking as he struggled into his coat, and Nick halted for an instant, listening.

'Oh, my dear John, you talk a great deal of nonsense! Human nature doesn't alter. All this rant against these mad modern ideas has gone on since the days of the Pharaohs. The dominant characteristic of all younger generations is that they want adventure. And why shouldn't they? It's an admirable thing. I only wish there were more of it.'

The other three men laughed as they prepared to descend the steps. Nick brushed past them, murmuring an apology, and in passing found the coat pocket he wanted. Then he set off down Piccadilly towards Hyde Park, and was rewarded by the sound of a well-known footstep behind him.

'Poor old chap!' thought Nick. 'I bet he's tired. Well, so am I. Let's get this over, and then we can all go to bed happy.'

He turned into the Park, now dark and deserted, and slackened his pace. The footsteps followed, but still did not catch him up. Nick became exasperated.

'Why, damn the man, what's stopping him?' he grumbled. 'Why doesn't he do something? Good Lord, have I got to walk about all night, waiting for some rotten sleuth to slug me? Well, if he won't take the initiative, I must, I suppose. Let's faint, shall we?'

He hesitated, reeled a little, and came down on the grass with a thud. A startled oath told him that his pursuer was close at heel. Then a practised hand began to go through his pockets, and he heard a grunt of satisfaction as the sealed envelope was found. Nick lay still, hardly breathing, until the enemy's footsteps died away. Then he got up and ripped off his bandages with a sigh of relief.

The fog had completely disappeared, and the night sky was spangled with stars. Nick drew a deep breath of the frosty air, and then walked leisurely back to Piccadilly.

'And so to bed,' he murmured, 'to wake refreshed to another day of care-free crime.'

CHAPTER VI

AN ULTIMATUM

While Nick was peacefully walking home, a young man stood on the steps of the tall house in Link Street, waiting. Anxious lines furrowed his face, and there was an expression very like fear in his eyes. Then, as a taxi drew up to the door, he ran forward eagerly.

'Did you get it?'

'Yes, sir.' The porter emerged from the cab, and handed him a long envelope. With a muttered word of praise the boy turned and hurried upstairs to the offices of the S.P.G. His chief sat at a table, writing. There were no signs of alarm in his strange dark eyes.

'Got it, Chief!'

The man looked up, and held out his hand for the letter, raising his eyebrows in gentle reproof.

'Keep cool, my boy. I wish you weren't so excitable.'

The young secretary bit his lip, and was silent, staring out of the window, while his chief opened the envelope. There was a moment's silence, and then the man at the table gave a short laugh. The boy spun round.

'You're mistaken,' said the man. 'He did not get it. Call him up.'

Aghast, the boy went out, and returned with the porter.

'How did you get this envelope, Baxter?'

'Off Mr. Davies, sir; that is, the man who....'

'Yes, yes, but how?'

The porter told his story of the pursuit, the wait outside the Jameson Club, and the attack in the Park.

'Was he walking fast when you overtook him?'

'No, sir. More dawdling, I should say.'

'And he didn't attempt to defend himself?'

'Didn't 'ave no need, sir. Just as I reached him 'e fell—tripped, sort of—and lay like a log. It looked like heart failure to me, sir.'

'Did it? It wasn't. He was expecting you. Now listen to me. That letter was left in the Jameson Club—possibly posted there. Get it.'

There was a moment's silence.

'I expect the mail goes out about midnight,' said the young secretary. 'It does from most clubs.'

'Yes. Be there ten minutes early, Baxter, and get the postman. Take all the letters and bring them here. That's all.'

The porter turned to the door, and then hesitated.

'I'm very sorry, sir ...' he began.

The Chief smiled.

'I'm not blaming you, Baxter. This fellow is no fool. Anyone might be forgiven for underrating him. But go now, or you'll be late. I'm relying on you to pull this off.'

Baxter departed, his head held high. The Chief turned again to the letter in his hand.

'Is it—Scotland Yard?' asked the boy, hesitantly.

'No. Far from it. A far more interesting proposition. He signs himself "Vive le Sport."'

'Good Lord! That's the burglar.'

'Yes. Would you like to read his letter?'

The boy took it.

DEAR SIR [it ran]: I feel an explanation is due to you, for my unwarrantable intrusion this evening. In the first place, let me hasten to make Mr. Davies's position clear; I cannot allow you, even for a moment, to suspect him of treason. Mr. Davies is lying in hospital, at Reading, and suffering from severe concussion, with, possibly, a broken ankle. He and I travelled from Cardiff together, but in the train accident Davies was less lucky than I. I was fortunate enough to be able to get him out of our wrecked carriage, and succeeded in convincing him that I was fully qualified to carry his report to you.

My motive is a little difficult to explain, without appearing melodramatic. I, too, am an Englishman, but—forgive me if I sound priggish!—I have a rooted conscientious objection to revolutions. Even Dictatorship leaves me doubtful. I think there is something in the Anglo-Saxon temperament that is definitely antipathetic to tyranny, even under a benevolent tyrant.

And now to business. I have your list of names. This would be of immense interest to Scotland Yard, but I hesitate to put it into their hands, since I have seen the men who signed it. In my opinion, they are good fellows, who have, fundamentally, a sane outlook on life. The country would lose by their imprisonment. Without your influence I feel sure they would regain normality. May I suggest that you should make the beau geste, and save them from ruin? If you will call off this revolution of yours and leave the country before June 10th, I will destroy the document and keep silence. If not—but my course must be obvious to you.

Incidentally, I may say that the document is now in safe keeping, and not on my person. I realise that you are a busy man, and do not wish to waste your time unnecessarily.

VIVE LE SPORT

The boy put down the letter, and faced his Chief. Stark terror stood in his eyes. The man, watching him, smiled, and shook his head slowly. The fear died in the boy's face, and he smiled faintly.

'That's better,' said the man. 'Well, what do you make of him?'

'He's a clever devil. Does he mean it?'

'That he won't act till June the 10th? Yes, I should think he does. I wonder if we have any chance of getting him to join us.'

'I shouldn't think so.'

'I expect you're right. It's a pity. I could work with that man. He'd be useful.'

'Yes.' The boy gulped. 'He must have some courage. The way he just walked in, and ... O God, Chief, I'm a funk.'

The older man put out a hand.

'You're all right, old chap. You must learn to keep your head, that's all. I haven't complained about you, have I?'

'No. I don't know why you haven't.... It's ... it's when you're not there.'

The man nodded, watching him curiously, and then his expression changed.

'This fellow has a sense of humour,' he said. 'Strength, too.' He was silent for a moment, his eyes thoughtful. 'I was right, you know,' he went on. 'My intuition told me his type when you first brought him in to-night. I greeted him—and then I had to remind myself that he was Davies. But I was right, the first time. Very interesting.'

The boy said nothing, but watched him. Finally the man rose to his feet.

'Well, we must find him. In the meantime, your job is to go down to Reading and see Davies. Get his story of the affair. Ask if there were other people in the carriage at the time. Find out if he can remember any detail that might help us to identify Vive le Sport. And ... get me a list of the members of the Jameson Club.'

CHAPTER VII

'IF THE FEMININE ELEMENT CROPPED UP IN THIS ...'

'Evenin' Speshul!' yelled the newsboy, his eyes, bright as a London sparrow's, on the crowd emerging from Mark Lane Tube Station. ''Ere's yer "Evenin' News"! "Star"! Big West End Mail Robb'ry! Postman in 'orspital! Evenin' Speshul!'

A tall man in dungaree trousers and an old blue jacket halted and looked round.

''Ere y'are, sir. "Evenin' News"! Full account.' The boy whipped a paper from his bundle and held it out. The man took it, dropped a penny into the boy's palm, and moved away. At the corner he stopped, and leaning his shoulder against a pillar-box, read the account deliberately. There was a dancing light in his eyes and an amused turn to the corners of his mouth.

'Quick work!' he thought. 'Let's see, it was just after eleven when I left that club. That fellow stalked me for about five minutes, I suppose, before he did his stuff. Then he had to get back to the Chief, hear the glad tidings, and rush off again in time to sandbag the postman with the midnight mail. Well, well, our friend the enemy had a busy evening. Thank God, I didn't post that letter, and thank God on all fours I managed to pick the right man to help me!'

He stuffed the paper into the pocket of his ragged coat and strode on, whistling contentedly. It was a good day, in Nick's eyes. The sun was setting redly in the smoky sky behind him, and the air was crisp with frost; he had just survived a day of more than usual excitement, and he had an inward conviction that there was more excitement to come. In fact, he was himself again. Best of all, that afternoon he had collected from the G.P.O. a letter from his unknown assistant of the night before which still gave him immense pleasure in contemplation.

He walked on steadily, hands in pockets, cap down over his eyes; circled the Tower, and made his way down Royal Mint Street, now noisy with the sound of drays, as they rattled over the cobble-stones to and from the docks. At the corner of Dray and Quay Streets he halted, and then entered a small and grimy public-house, flamboyantly labelled 'The Sailmakers' Arms.'

The bar-tender looked up and nodded affably.

'Arternoon, Nick.'

'Arternoon, mate. George in?'

'In the kitching,' the bar-tender told him, indicating with a dirty thumb a door beside the bar.

Nick nodded and passed through, but as soon as the door was shut behind him, he turned to mount a narrow little stairway. It was half dark, and the steps were badly broken, but Nick went up with the certainty of long practice, and came to a halt on the little landing at the top in front of a yellow wooden door. Pulling a bunch of keys from his pocket, he unlocked it, and entered the room beyond.

This attic was a contrast to the house he had just left. It was a bare little room, but scrupulously clean. In one corner stood a pallet bed, covered with rough brown blankets, neatly folded. There was a square kitchen table in the middle of the room, and two cheap basket chairs, rather worn, stood near by. A small fire was burning brightly in the grate, and a bucket of coal had been left beside it.

Nick gave a grunt of satisfaction and, going over to the fire, picked up a pipe from the mantelpiece. Deliberately he filled and lit it, and then rang a bell that hung beside the fireplace.

This room was one of his many burrows, and a most convenient place. It was over the shop of one Isaac Jacob, a seaman's outfitter in Quay Street. To make it yet more secure, Nick had arranged a permanent right to enter through the Sailmakers' Arms in Dray Street. These two houses had originally been one, and both were owned by George Cattle, the proprietor of the pub.

Jacob, from whom Nick rented the room, was an oily little Jew, of unprepossessing appearance, and Teutonic origin. Most of the dockyard world were firmly convinced that 'Ikey' would sell his grandmother's soul for a tanner, and his own for a pint of beer, but Nick trusted him, and his faith was not misplaced. Apart from the fact that he knew enough about the little Jew to send him to Dartmoor, he felt convinced of Jacob's loyalty, and had never had any reason to doubt it. As a matter of fact, Jacob worshipped him with a dog-like devotion, for which he could have given a number of reasons, although they never occurred to Nick.

In about ten minutes there was a knock on the door, and Jacob entered, his fat, greasy face wreathed in smiles.

'You got back then all right?' he said. 'Ain't seen you in a long time. How was it?'

'All right. I bin away,' said Nick, in the rough Cockney that was his langue de guerre. 'Look 'ere, Ikey, I want yeh t' do suthink fer me.'

'Anything, my friend ... anything I can do ... in reason, that is.'

Nick grinned. 'Keep yer 'air on, old sport. I ain't arskin' fer money. Now listen ter me. Do yer know a bloke o' the name o' Breck? Ginger Breck?'

'You mean Tom Breck, the seaman? Of course I know Breck. Was he not in the shop yesterday night, buying sea-boots? He sailed this morning for the Mediterranean. Say, the story he tells me about you and him yesterday——'

''E's a liar! Do you know when 'is boat is doo back?'

'The Pelican, ain't it? Four weeks her run is; not more than twenty-four hours out, either way. I thought you was a friend to Ginger Breck, Nick?'

'So I am; but don't you go believin' all the yarns 'e tells you ... 'specially about me. Does the Pelican carry 'er own pilot?'

'No. She picks him up at Gravesend.'

'Ho! Well, look 'ere, could you find aht when she'll be doo there?'

'Easy, easy! My dear late wife's brother he lives down the river, below Gravesend. He could send me word when they sight her. What you driving at, my friend?'

'I'll tell yeh. Could you git aboard the Pelican with the pilot, an' give Breck a message fer me? It's what yeh might call urgent that 'e gits this word afore they docks. See?'

'I see, but it is not possible to get aboard that way. Pilots is funny people.'

Nick was silent, pulling at his pipe. Jacob sniffed nervously, glancing up at his tenant, and then jerked back his greasy head in abrupt decision.

'It shall be done, my friend. Somehow, I will get the word to Breck. We Jews do not forget those who have helped us, no. What is this message?'

'It's a bit 'ard to explain. Tell Breck that as soon as they dock, a bloke will come aboard askin' for 'im.'

'A friend of yours, eh?'

'Not—likely! This bloke's arter me, Ikey.'

'Gott! Then Breck must not listen to him, eh? Breck must say to him that——'

'Fer Gawd's sake put a sock in it till I've done tellin' yeh! This bloke's goin' t' arsk Breck where 'e can find me—savvy?'

'He knows Breck?'

'Nao! Oh, look 'ere, did Breck tell you about the game 'im an' me 'ad in that railway smash yesterd'y?'

'Oh, yes! My friend, how terrible that must have been! You were near death then, both of you.'

'Garn! I bin a lot nearer than that, an' so's Breck. The point is, 'im an' me fished a feller outa that train, and passed 'im on t' the Ambulance chaps. Now I reckon that this bloke 'oo wants t' find me so bad will use that yarn. 'E'll come along to old Ginger an' say: "Me brother, wot was ser nobly saved be you an' yer mate las' month, wants t' thank ye both, an' stand y' a pint o' bitter. Where does yer mate 'ang out?" D'ye git me meanin', Ikey?'

The little Jew nodded vigorously, his boot-button eyes bright with intelligence.

'Well, Ginger's got ter play up t' that, see? 'E must lead our grateful friend to 273, Leman Street. You've 'eard that address afore, 'aven't yeh?'

'Another home of yours, ain't it? But not so good as this was.'

'Not near ser good, but very 'andy. Well, Ginger tells 'im that I'm orfen there between midnight and 6 A.M. and takes 'im there, and then they'll wait fer me, see?'

'I see.' Jacob nodded slowly. 'It shall be done, my friend. Was there any more you want to say? The shop will be filling up.'

'That's all, Ikey. Yer a good little sport. So long.'

'Good-bye.' The little Jew turned to the door, and then hesitated, his eyes searchingly on Nick.

'You're up to more dangerous games, eh, Nick?'

Nick grinned, and knocked out his pipe.

'Not wot you'd call dangerous,' he said. 'But it's a busy game all right, and it ain't exactly a bed o' roses. Don't you worry. Y' oughta know by now that I always git my fist in afore the other bloke does.'

Jacob sniffed.

'Well, I hope you take care, that's all. When you are here, I know you are all right, but when you are away, doing your mad things...! We Jews, we like to keep our friends. Take much care.'

The door shut behind him, and the sound of his shuffling feet died away. For a moment Nick stood still, his eyes grave. Then he smiled and went out by the other door, locking it after him.

'Funny little beast!' he said to himself. 'I honestly believe he means it.'

And with that he returned to the pub, bade a curt farewell to the bar-tender, and emerged once more into the twilit street.

The air was crisply cold. Nick turned up his coat collar and stepped out briskly. He wanted to have a look at that room of his in Leman Street, and there was a pal he had to meet at Hermitage Wharf, a stoker on the Royal Scot, who should have news for him. It was close on eleven before his business was concluded, and he turned his steps westward. He wanted to think, and Nick always thought best in the open air. Unconsciously his feet led him towards the river, and at last he came to a halt on Tower Bridge, watching the lights of the shipping dance and bob on the tide.

Suddenly a light touch on his arm made him turn, and he saw a girl beside him. She was small and slight, and as she lifted her face he was startled into an exclamation of surprise.

'Jill! What on earth are you doing here?'

'I came to find you,' she explained. 'I wanted to see you, but you left no address, so I couldn't write.'

'But, good Lord, did you expect to find me here?'

Jill hesitated, her eyes on his. 'Y-yes,' she said, and her odd, elfin face had the anxious look of a child longing for understanding, yet despairing of it.

Nick laughed, and tucked his arm through hers.

'All right, old lady. You were justified, though God knows how it happened. Let's make a move. You've got no business to be prowling round the East End alone at this time of night, you know. Jack would have a fit if he knew.'

'Jack would understand,' said Jill. 'Of course, if he'd been home I shouldn't have come. I mean, you'd have been along to see him before this, wouldn't you?'

There was a moment's pause, and then Nick spoke slowly:

'Yes, I would,' he said. 'I'd like to see Jack.'

'I know. That's why I had to come.' Jill's soft little voice was breathless. 'I was rather afraid you'd be angry, but, you see, I'm going to Norway for a week, and I'll probably see Jack in Bergen, and I couldn't help thinking there must be something I could tell him or take him from you, so I had to find you. I'm going to-morrow, you see. You do understand, Nick? I mean, I didn't come out of curiosity, or anything like that.'

'It hadn't occurred to me to accuse you of anything in the least like that,' Nick assured her gravely. 'My alarm at the sight of you may have seemed unflattering, but it wasn't really. It was simply the outcome of my prejudice against the modern habit of considering this district a pleasant promenade at midnight—at any rate, for unattended and attractive young ladies.'

Jill's flickering smile lit her eyes.

'Nick, how silly. Do you really think anybody would hurt me? Rob me, or anything?'

Nick looked at her thoughtfully.

'No, I don't; but all the same, I'd much rather you had someone with you to make certain of it. Where shall we go?'

'Anywhere, as long as we can talk.'

'We-ell, I'd rather not go too far away——' he halted under a street lamp. 'How are you dressed, Jill?'

'Very plain and ordinary.'

'Yes, you'll do,' said Nick, surveying her critically. 'There's a bun-shop I know that's open all night, and won't have anyone much in it for another hour or two. Come along.'

It was a dingy little place in Eastcheap, badly lit and poorly furnished. Except for two sailor-men, half asleep in a corner, the room was empty. A slatternly, tired-eyed girl brought them coffee and stale doughnuts, and then disappeared into a back room, presumably to sleep until the next customer hammered on the counter.

'Would you like me to take a letter to Jack?' asked Jill.

Nick shook his head.

'Don't like giving too much information on paper,' he said. 'But there are one or two things I'd like you to tell him, if you can bear to listen.'

'Don't be stupid,' said Jill. 'What do you think I came here for? Besides, I've been longing to know what's happened. Yesterday morning I was horribly worried about you; kept feeling something awful was going to happen to you. Were you in that train?'

Nick stared at her, and then grinned.

'It's foolish to be surprised, I suppose,' he said. 'Yes, I was. I think I'd better tell you all about it.'

'Please do. I won't interrupt till you tell me I may.'

With a smile Nick began his story. He told her of his visit to Cardiff, of the train smash, and his impersonation of Davies, and finally of the adventure in the Jameson Club. Jill listened in silence, her eyes bright. Then, as he lit a cigarette....

'May I ask questions, please?'

'But of course. Jill, you're a marvel!'

'Then, Nick, please tell me what you wrote in that letter to the Chief?'

He laughed and told her.

'What did you sign yourself?'

'Vive le Sport.'

'Isn't that rather dangerous?'

'I don't think so. I mentioned in my letter that the document was in safe custody, but not on my person. He's a busy man, and I don't want to waste his time.'

'Did you tell him that, too?'

'Surely. Politeness costs little, and promotes good feeling.'

'Oh, Nick! So the Chief has until June 10th to leave the country.'

'And to notify his followers that the show is off.'

'Do you think he'll go?'

'I don't know. Probably not. The man's not a coward.'

'Well, what happens now?'

Nick grinned, a little ruefully.

'Well, now I've got to put myself into a position to carry out my threat. You see, I still don't know who the chap is, in private life. It's rather like a game of Bears, with both sides playing the same game. I want to find out who the Chief is. The Chief wants to find Vive le Sport. So far we are merely names to each other, without a local habitation, so to speak. For myself, I've got a good clue in that young secretary. I know him in mufti, and I shall stick to him like a leech, in the hope that sooner or later he will lead me to the Chief. The difficulty is that that young man appears to know everyone in London. However, we must trust to luck.'

'And what do you think the Chief has got in the way of clues?'

Nick nodded approvingly.

'Clever child! I see Jack's training in that sage question. The Chief will have gone to see Davies, and Davies will tell him about Breck. Ginger—the oaf!—gave away his name in his usual lusty bellow, and it's the Bank of England to a tanner that Davies hasn't forgotten it. No fool, Davies. He'd make a good burglar if he wasn't so earnest. The Chief will try to get hold of Breck as a clue to me. At least, that's what I think will happen, and I'm laying my plans accordingly. With a little care I think I ought to be able to work it so that I see the Chief before he sees me.'

'They're two to one,' said Jill. 'I mean, there's the secretary, isn't there? I wish Jack were home.'

'So do I, but the thought of the secretary doesn't worry me.'

'Do I know him?'

Nick faced her steadily, with a smile in his eyes, and shook his head. Jill flushed.

'Sorry, Nick, but—I wondered if I could help.'

'No, thanks, Jill. You're a darling, and I know you'd be terribly skilful, but I'd rather not have any woman mixed up in this. It's a tricky business as it is, and if the feminine element cropped up in it, I believe I should jack the whole thing up.'

'But, Nick——' She checked herself, looked at him curiously, and then went on: 'Don't run too many risks.'

'Not I. Safety first is my watchword, and now that I've got that document stowed away——Oh, but I forgot to tell you. I had an answer from my unknown assistant this afternoon.'

'What did he say?'

Nick took a letter from his breast-pocket and spread it out on the table.

'I think I must read it to you,' he said. 'It's written from the Jameson Club:

DEAR SIR,

I discovered your letter when I arrived home last night. May I be forgiven for saying that much as I regret your anxious position, you have given me more pleasure than I had ever expected to taste again. I am, I fear, a confirmed romantic, who has felt for some years that romance has left my life for good.

The letter you enclosed is now in my bank, where I left it this morning, and where it will remain until I call for it. If I have not claimed it before June 10th, my bank manager has instructions to post it to the address you gave. In the meantime it is perfectly safe, and I beg that you will honour me with its keeping until such time as you consider it expedient to withdraw it. Should you wish to, I am to be found at this club every Friday evening, and a letter addressed to me here will always reach me.

I shall greatly look forward to our meeting. I am an old man now, but to feel that I am—however passively—playing a part in this game of yours, revives my youth. I am honoured by your trust in me, and I think you may rest assured that I shall respect it.

Yours faithfully

WILLIAM G. MITCHELL

'He is a darling!' said Jill.

'Isn't he? I'm longing to meet him, too. Well, I think he's right. The letter is perfectly safe at his bank, and it leaves me free to get on with the job.'

'Tracking the secretary? You'll be busy, Nick.'

'I shall indeed. He's an energetic and a popular young man. Well, well, it may be amusing. And now, Jill, I'm going to send you home.'

As luck would have it, they picked up a taxi by the Monument. Nick put Jill into it, and gave the address to the driver.

'Good-night, Nick, and—take care, won't you?'

'Always,' Nick assured her. 'Good-night, Jill. There's an exciting time coming.'

She suddenly laughed, a soft chuckle of complete amusement.

'Yes, indeed, Nick. And lots of surprises!'

The taxi lurched off, leaving Nick staring.

'I wonder what that meant!' he said to himself, and then with a grin at his own curiosity, he turned eastward once more.

CHAPTER VIII

'MINE'S BEER, TOO'

Mrs. Hamilton-Browne, of Barton Manor, Suffolk, was worried. Anxiously she scanned her ballroom, now filled with all the youth and beauty of the county. They were dancing and appeared to be enjoying themselves. The band was excellent, the floor perfect, and even her husband, who was popularly supposed to have left his liver in Upper Burma, admitted that there was nothing wrong with her supper menu. To an unbiased eye the party seemed an unqualified success, but still a cloud shadowed her kindly, middle-aged face. Unsatisfied, her gaze wandered round the room, and at last came to rest on a sturdy, cheerful-looking young man, who was standing by the door. With the air of one who clutches at a passing straw, she made her way over to his side.

'Oh, Bobby, have you seen Mr. Doone?'

Bobby Manvers blinked, in some surprise.

'Doone? Is that the black-haired, silent chap? No, I've not seen him for some time. Why?'

'I'm so terribly afraid he isn't enjoying himself. It's all so different for him, you see, poor boy.'

'Is it?' said Bobby helplessly.

'Oh, it must be! I mean, brought up on that island somewhere near Honolulu, or wherever it was. I remember his father so well. Charming, but too erratic! Of course, he was Irish, and that accounts for it perhaps. And when he married he settled down somewhere in the Pacific, you know.'

'It d-doesn't sound a frightfully good place to settle,' said Bobby, with the slight stammer that always attacked him in moments of emotional stress.

After a second's bewilderment Mrs. Hamilton-Browne smiled indulgently.

'Silly boy, Bobby! You know perfectly well what I mean. And so, you see, poor Michael has never had any of the advantages of home, such as his father enjoyed. He ought to have been sent to Eton, but instead of that, he ran wild till he was about fourteen, and then had three years' schooling in some small Australian town. No social training at all. My dear, he never saw anyone, stuck there on that tiny island, except his parents and, I suppose, natives. Patrick Doone ought to have brought the boy home when his wife died, but no!—nothing would make him leave his dreadful little island. And now Patrick is dead, too, and of course he feels it very deeply. I do so understand, don't you?'

'Er—yes,' said Bobby. He realised that an answer was expected of him and, on the whole, 'Yes' seemed slightly more fitting than 'No.'

'I knew you would,' said Mrs. Hamilton-Browne, 'and that's why I want you to go and find him. You're so brilliant with shy people.'

'B-but I don't believe he's shy,' protested Bobby. 'H-haven't spoken to him myself, but I heard Rex tryin' t-to. He looked just ordinary fed-up to me.'

'It's all the same thing,' said Mrs. Hamilton-Browne, with a splendid disregard for such psychological distinctions. 'He needs a friend, Bobby. We must make him feel that this place is going to be a home for him. Sir Toby Ward asked me 'specially to look after him.'

'Oh, d-does he know old Toby?' asked Bobby, with a flicker of interest.

'Indeed, yes. Sir Toby was an old friend of Patrick Doone's and he's Michael's trustee. The boy has come over on legal business. Selling the Irish property, and all that sort of thing. I simply must go now, and look after those people on the terrace. I'm sure they're not enjoying themselves. Do go and find him, Bobby. I think he went into the library.'

Mrs. Hamilton-Browne hurried away and Bobby Manvers set off with a reluctant heart and lagging feet to carry out her orders.

She was right. In the library he found Michael Doone, sitting on his shoulder blades in the largest chair in the room, long legs stretched out before him, chin down on chest, and his shirt-front bulging unbecomingly. His mouth was set in a sullen line, and his black brows were drawn down over his eyes in an uncompromising scowl. He did not look up on Bobby's entry, and Mrs. Hamilton-Browne's envoy slid nervously into a chair, and racked his brains for a suitable topic of conversation.

'Bit of a b-bore, these private dances, what?' he said at last. He was acutely conscious of inadequacy, but felt one must start somewhere.

Michael Doone made no sign of having heard, but continued his sullen contemplation of the empty grate.

'I'm afraid you're f-finding this show a bit of a b-blight,' continued Bobby bravely.

Michael Doone opened his eyes and regarded his companion steadily for some seconds. Then, with a faint, sardonic smile, he returned his gaze to the fireplace.

Bobby flushed, but persevered with a gallantry worthy of a better cause.

'I suppose all this is f-frightfully different to—er—to what it's like in—er—where you come from?'

Michael Doone's mouth twitched suddenly. Then he rolled over in his chair and faced Bobby, with an expression of suppressed frenzy.

'For the love of God, what's biting you?' he asked.

The words were offensive, but the exasperated grin that lit up his lean face and queer, green-grey eyes was oddly attractive. Bobby smiled guiltily in return.

'W-well, y' see, Mrs. Hamilton-Browne's awfully worried about you,' he said, 'and she—she sent me to ... I s-say, will you have a drink?'

Michael Doone heaved a sigh of relief.

'Yes!' he said, hoisting himself up in the chair with sudden alacrity. 'That's the first intelligent remark I've heard to-night. You'll do!'

'S-say when,' said Bobby thankfully, juggling with decanters on the side-table.

'When. Thanks. Here's luck,' said Doone, raising the tall glass.

'I believe you know old Toby Ward,' said Bobby a moment later.

Michael nodded.

'Good fellow,' pursued Bobby. 'Dashed clever, too.'

'Is he?' said Michael indifferently.

'Oh, rather! He's retired now, of course, but they say he was the most brilliant K.C. of his age. Never lost a case. Pity he had to chuck it, but his health wouldn't stand it.'

'Nice old buffer,' said Michael, 'and human, as lawyers go. I'm staying the week-end at his place. By the way, how far is it from here to High Ash?'

'Twenty-eight miles,' said Bobby. 'I know that road well. W-what did you do it in?'

'Thirty-two minutes.'

'Pretty good! That's your B-bentley in the garage, isn't it?'

Michael nodded.

'You must have let her out on the straight.' Bobby grinned. 'Almost worth c-coming for, that, wasn't it?'

Michael laughed. 'Almost. I was pretty fed-up before I started. Old Toby shoved me into this show; put it so that I couldn't refuse ... he and Mrs. Browne between 'em.'

'You'd better not let her catch you calling her "Browne,"' warned Bobby. 'She's a dear old soul, but that's the one thing that makes her see red.'

'I don't see why it should,' argued Michael. 'It's sheer swank sticking on the "Hamilton" like that. This country's too full of Battenberg-Smiths for me.'

'L-let 'em have their fun,' said Bobby tolerantly. 'It m-makes for a quiet life, in the long run.'

'Quiet life? They've got too much of it. That's their trouble,' said Michael. 'I'd like to maroon 'em on one of the Solomons and see how they'd make out. Of course, it's the fault of their upbringing. They've missed all the fun in life.'

Bobby smiled at the fireplace.

'Out with it!' commanded Michael, watching him.

'W-well, y' know, that's more or less what she feels about y-you,' said Bobby. 'It's all a question of the point of view.'

Michael Doone laughed. 'It's too late to reform me,' he said. 'By the way, what's your name?'

'M-Manvers.'

Michael nodded, but any reply he might have contemplated was cut short by the sound of a hurried step in the corridor.

'Here she is!' whispered Bobby.

'Gawd!' said Michael with deep feeling and, setting down his half-empty glass, made for the French windows which opened on the terrace.

'No, d-dash it all!' protested Bobby, rising to his feet abruptly. 'I'm n-not going to be left to stand the racket.'

'Come on, then,' said Michael, and together they slipped out onto the terrace.

It was a perfect May night, clear and starry, and a half-moon showed in the east like burnished pewter. Michael halted for a second, his eyes on the rolling country beneath him, now enchanted in the soft shadows and silver moonlight. Bobby, watching, saw a sudden wistfulness in his face.

'It is rather ... er ... j-jolly, isn't it?' he said tentatively.

Michael looked at him sourly.

'I left my drink in that room,' he said. 'Only half finished.'

'L-let's go and get some supper,' said Bobby hastily.

In silence they walked down the terrace and round the corner of the house to where the doors of the ballroom gave onto the garden. Here were set little tables, lit with twinkling lights, under huge grey beeches, and people moved among them happily, supping, talking and smoking in the cool air. At the nearest table sat a woman of about thirty, tall, slim, and beautifully dressed.

'Th-that's Adele Lancaster,' whispered Bobby. 'M-must introduce you to her. G-gives jolly good parties.'

She was opening an elaborate gold cigarette-case, and signed to a hovering waiter to bring her a match. Bobby chuckled.

'She'd make eyes at the shadow of a wooden Indian outside a tobacco shop,' he whispered. 'Watch her bring down that waiter!'

Michael, however, was watching the waiter himself. A tall chap, well-made and light on his feet. Ought to put up a good fight. Queer, that a man like that should choose such a job. The lady was speaking, and her voice was soft and clear.

'I feel sure I've seen you before somewhere.' Her cigarette was lit now, and she looked at the man from under her lashes.

'It's very kind of you to remember me, madam. I have frequently seen you in London. Principally at Lady Wroxham's house, madam.'

'Really? And what were you doing there?'

'Waiting, madam. Her ladyship is good enough to employ me when she gives large receptions.'

'So you're a sort of free-lance waiter? It seems a pity. Wouldn't you prefer regular employment? I might be able to find you a good place.'

'That is very kind of you, madam.'

'But perhaps you prefer this odd-job work?' Her words were commonplace, but her tone provocative.

'It is very interesting, madam,' returned the waiter deferentially.

Bobby stifled a giggle, and the man looked up sharply. The woman, watching him, looked round too.

'Hullo, Bobby!' she said. 'Won't you come and join me? My partner has deserted me, and I hate supping alone.'

'R-rather,' said Bobby, advancing. The waiter drew back chairs for them. 'May I introduce Mr. Doone? D-Doone, Mrs. Lancaster.'

'Mrs. Hamilton-Browne has been looking for you, Mr. Doone,' said the lady, with an arch smile. 'I believe she wanted to introduce you to me. So fatal, to be introduced by Katherine. But I've been hearing so much about you. Too romantic, your living on that wild island in the South Seas. How terribly dull England must seem to you.'

At that moment Michael was absorbed in helping himself to some food offered by the waiter, and made no reply. Bobby grinned, but Adele Lancaster continued gallantly.

'Why have you never brought Mr. Doone to any of my parties, Bobby?'

'Because D-Doone and I have only just m-met,' said Bobby. 'We have a mutual friend in Toby Ward.'

'Oh, Sir Toby. Isn't he charming?' she addressed herself to Michael. 'So eighteenth century.'

'Is he?' said Michael, who hadn't the least idea what she meant, and cared, if possible, rather less.

For a moment the lady seemed disconcerted, and her eyes wandered to the tall waiter, who was now serving the next table.

'Bobby, have you noticed that man?' she said in an undertone. 'Isn't he amazing? I wonder if he's a Russian Archduke in exile?'

Bobby glanced round indifferently. 'My dear Adele, why should he be? I n-never saw anyone so completely English in my life. What makes you think him Russian?'

'I don't know.' She laughed. Thoroughly girlish, Michael decided sourly. 'Perhaps it's that little moustache. And he's too fair to be French, isn't he? I can't think why a man as good-looking as that should be a waiter.'

'I can't think why any man is,' said Michael suddenly. 'It's only one degree better than carrying sandwich boards, or selling ladies' underwear.'

'I n-never can see why it isn't as good to sell one thing as another,' said Bobby argumentatively. 'In this country, Doone, a man may sell cars, but not petrol; houses, but not bricks; and pictures, though never, never, paint or turpentine. We've got a string of the most hopelessly illogical social conventions....'

'Now, Bobby!' interrupted Adele, 'we can't have these sentiments from a respectable, if briefless, barrister. By the way, I know a perfectly fascinating man who sells petrol. He keeps a garage in Bermondsey and talks too thrillingly about revolution and all that. He's coming to my party on Thursday. Mr. Doone, won't you come? Bobby will be there and, I hope, Sir Toby Ward. Bobby, do persuade Mr. Doone to come. Oh, here's Hubert, looking for me. Heavens, I promised him this dance! Hubert, please forgive me. I'll come now, honestly I will!'

She rose and, taking the arm of a young man who had just come up, swept him away.

'Exit Hubert, looking longingly backwards at the food,' said Michael.

Bobby chuckled.

'There's no one like her,' he said. 'What's that?' to the tall waiter, who was murmuring something at his elbow. 'Oh, champagne, I suppose. Doone, what will you drink? I'm afraid there's nothing very interesting, but, you s-see, the Colonel isn't allowed it, and his wife's a tee-totaller.'

'It's all a question of taste,' said Michael in a thoughtful drawl. 'Mine's beer.'

'Lager, sir?' asked the waiter in a respectful undertone. Michael glanced up, and their eyes met. Then he nodded, and the waiter sped away.

'You'd b-better come to Adele's party,' said Bobby. 'She's a bit of a sh-shock at first, but her parties are good fun. I m-mean, everyone goes to 'em, and if a fella's got to live in London, he may as well live in London, if you s-see what I mean. By the way, you must look me up. Where do you hang out?'

'Quebec Street. Number 60,' said Michael.

'Got a flat there?'

'Rooms. Two and a bath. Not what you'd call swagger, but it suits me all right. The food's very good.'

'That's the principal thing,' agreed Bobby. 'F-feed me well, and I'll be perfectly h-happy. I've got a flat in Knightsbridge. Ought to have a card on me somewhere. Oh, yes, here we are. D-do look me up some time.'

'Right,' said Michael, pocketing the card. 'Hullo, here's the drink.'

It was not the tall waiter who brought it, but the butler of the house.

'You are wanted on the telephone, Mr. Manvers,' he said. 'A London call, I believe, sir. I have had the telephone switched through to the library.'

'O Lord!' Bobby rose regretfully. 'Forgive me, Doone. Shan't be long. At l-least I hope not, but these long-distance calls are the devil!'

He went off to the house, and Michael sat over his beer in solitude. He was wondering how soon he could leave this wilderness of apes without disgracing Sir Toby. Then he caught sight of Mrs. Hamilton-Browne advancing towards him. She had obviously not seen him yet, but she was peering round in an ominous manner. Michael groaned, and gulped down the last of his beer. Blast the woman! Why couldn't she leave a man alone? He rose to his feet and made a hasty retreat to the house, entering by a side door. Once inside, he looked at his watch. It was only half-past twelve. With savage despair in his heart he made his way to the library. Perhaps he could find a book with which to beguile the weary hours until such time as he could leave with decency. As he opened the door he heard Bobby's voice at the telephone.

'Yes, he's in London to-night. I'll pick him up and bring him along. We'll get there as soon as possible.... Right. Don't lose sight of him till we arrive.... Good.... So long.'

Michael was about to retire, but Bobby hung up the receiver and turned round.

'D-don't go,' he said; 'I've finished. Dashed annoyin'!'

'What's the trouble?' asked Michael, dropping into a chair.

'Well, I was expecting an American fellow to come and see me on Monday—on business, you know—and now I hear he's arrived in London, and wants to s-see me to-morrow morning. Only a Yank would want to do business on S-Sunday morning. I s-suppose he's going to see York Minster and Stratford-on-Avon the rest of the day, and will catch the early boat home on Monday. Well, I shall have to c-clear out right away. Dashed annoying! Can't miss him, though. My first client, an' all that.'

'How'll you go?'

'Oh, by road. I've got my car here. And now I'd better go and say good-bye to my hostess, I suppose. You're c-comin' back to town on Monday, aren't you? Let's forgather, shall we? What about dinner and a show that night?'

'Good scheme,' agreed Michael.

'Right you are, then. So long. Dashed annoying!' And, muttering wrathfully, Bobby went out.

Michael, too lazy to find a book, stretched himself sleepily in his chair, and stared out of the open French window. Beside it hung a long mirror—an ugly mirror, he thought. As he surveyed it, with disapproval, he realised that it reflected another window, behind him; a wide window, half shrouded with heavy curtains. It was open, too, and Michael wondered lazily why he hadn't noticed it before. The library was long and narrow, and must occupy the whole width of that wing. Then, as he watched, he saw the curtain move. There was no breath of wind, and Michael's interest deepened. He sat still, his eyes on the mirror. A man stole out from behind the curtain, and like a flash slipped over the window-sill and disappeared.

Michael leapt to his feet, and crossed the room in three strides. The window was some eight feet above the ground, for there was a basement floor on this side of the house.

Below him he saw the mysterious visitor, running across the lawn in the direction of the stables. The moonlight caught his face for an instant, and Michael recognized him. It was the tall waiter.

Without thinking, Michael flung a leg over the sill and dropped to the ground. It never occurred to him to yell 'Thieves!' and rouse the house. His natural instinct was to give chase, and he ran like a hare, feeling for the first time that evening a spark of interest in life.

'Came in here to pinch something,' he thought as he ran. 'Interrupted by Bobby, and then by me. Saw I was going to stop, and reckoned he'd make a move. Gone away!'

But it seemed the waiter was a fair sprinter, too, for, as Michael reached the gate of the stable-yard, a long, grey two-seater roared past him and down the drive.

For a moment Michael stood still, and then he raced into the yard where his own car stood. It was the hired waiter all right. He had seen his face again as the car shot past him. Michael flung himself into his Bentley, buzzed the obedient self-starter, and swung through the gates and into the drive.

He knew the pace of his machine, and guessed that with any ordinary luck he could overtake the two-seater. Reason for so doing he had little, nor did he bother to consider what he would do when he caught it up. For the first time since he landed in England he was perfectly happy, and he crooned a song to himself as he thrust his car along the narrow Suffolk lanes. Five hundred yards from the lodge gates he came upon a straight strip of road, running without a turn for nearly a mile, and far away ahead he saw a red pin-prick of light.

'Tail lamp!' he said contentedly. 'The bloke can drive! Get on, old lady.'

After a couple of miles he realised that this was going to be a close race. His own car was the better of the two, and on the straight he gained perceptibly, but this other fellow obviously knew the country, and his cornering was superb. Michael's approval increased.

It was a long chase, through the winding country roads. Michael had no idea where he was, and cared less. As long as he could see, every now and then, that red point of light, he was content to follow. Finally his quarry, who was about half a mile ahead, turned off the road down a rough cart-track, scarred deep with ruts, and shadowed by great trees that met overhead. Michael plunged after him, bumping wildly; emerged into broad moonlight—and crammed on his brakes.

Standing by the side of the road was a grey two-seater. Michael backed his car and drew up alongside. The two-seater was deserted. He got out and walked round it. Queer place to stop. He looked about him. Set in the hedge was a stile. Michael went up and looked over it. It led to a footpath, which crossed a meadow to a long, low farmhouse, in which one lighted window flickered like a watchful and suspicious eye.

Michael whistled softly, regarding the house speculatively as he leant over the stile. Then he went back to his car and from the tool-box selected a large and heavy spanner, which he pocketed. There was a happy glint in his eyes as he vaulted the stile and set off briskly across the field.

He had gone about halfway when he heard a sound that made him stop dead. A car was being started in the lane; his car; he could swear to the throb of that engine! Michael took to his heels and pelted back to the road, but it was too late. Only one car stood there—a grey two-seater.

For a moment Michael stood still. Then he grinned and got into the car. 'No fool, that chap,' he thought. 'Hid behind the hedge and let me make him a present of the thing. Hullo, what's this?'

'This' was a visiting-card, stuck in the wheel. He picked it up, and read the neat pencil writing on its blank side:

Forgive me, but my carburettor's possessed of the devil, and I'm in a frightful hurry. If you will take my bus to Dorset Mews any night between ten and twelve you will find yours waiting for you. Very many thanks for your assistance.

Michael's grin broadened. He turned the card over. Printed on the other side were the three words: 'Vive le Sport!' and underneath in pencil: 'Mine's beer, too!'

'Holy Wars!' said Michael thoughtfully. Then he crawled out of the car. 'Well, I reckon we'd better have a look at his carburettor.'

Twenty minutes later he drove the two-seater back to the main road and studied the signpost at the corner. There was no point in going back to Barton Manor. The signpost assured him that the road before him led to Stoneham, and eventually to Bury St. Edmunds. Between the two, he knew, lay High Ash, Sir Toby Ward's house. Contentedly Michael drove on through the summer night. The stable clock was striking three when he finally reached his destination.

'Vive le Sport!' he thought, as he tumbled into bed. 'Stout fella! Looks as if there might be some fun to be got out of this darned country, after all!'

CHAPTER IX

SIR TOBY IS AMUSED

Breakfast-time at High Ash was peculiarly elastic, and Michael took full advantage of it next morning. It was close on ten-thirty when he arrived in the morning room, and the sun was streaming in through the leaded windows. As he was exploring the hot dishes on the sideboard, his host's valet entered.

'Morning, Ruff,' said Michael. 'How's Sir Toby?'

As Bobby Manvers once said, it would be almost impossible to choose a more unsuitable name than Ruff's. His voice was soft, his manner gentle and benign, and he always looked as if he had just had a bath and brushed his hair.

'Not too well, I'm afraid, sir,' he said. 'He had one of his bad nights again.'

'Not serious, is it?' asked Michael, helping himself generously to kedgeree.

Ruff shook his head dubiously.

'He won't admit it to be serious himself, sir,' he said, 'but these heart attacks worry me. His gout's nothing much, though very painful, of course, and keeps him laid up at times, but heart trouble's another matter. I've served Sir Toby for ten years, and I know that these attacks are getting slowly worse. But he won't listen to reason, sir.'

'No, he's a sportsman,' said Michael.

The valet hesitated.

'If you could persuade him to—er—take it gently to-day, you'd be doing him a real service, sir,' he suggested.

'All right, Ruff, I'll do what I can.'

'Thank you, sir. I believe I hear Sir Toby coming now.'

Ruff adjusted the toasting-machine, and then opened the door to admit a smiling, grey-haired man of about fifty.

Everyone knew Sir Toby Ward, and everyone liked him. Even Michael Doone, who disliked the whole English nation on principle, admitted that there was a good deal to be said for him, and actually rose to his feet as his host entered the room.

'Morning, Michael. Sit down; don't let me interrupt your breakfast,' said Sir Toby. 'Coffee, please, Ruff. No, thanks, nothing else.'

He lowered himself, with some difficulty, into a chair by the window, and sat sipping his coffee, and watching his guest with amused and understanding eyes. To Michael, food was the paramount object of a meal. He had never grasped the fact that the essence of good table manners is to disregard it; to eat, as it were, half consciously. He sat now, completely absorbed in his breakfast, a shaft of sunlight across his face, lighting up his high cheekbones and compressed, sensitive mouth. Across his forehead hung a lock of black, straight hair. No matter how short he cropped it, that lock always seemed to be there, a perpetual defiance to civilisation. At last he pushed back his plate, and faced his host with a smile.

'Toast?' suggested Sir Toby, indicating the machine.

'Thanks.' Michael leant over and helped himself. 'I hear you had a bad night. Rotten luck.'

'Oh, it's nothing to worry about,' said Sir Toby, accepting the offer of conversation with an amused twinkle. 'Ruff exaggerates. Well, what sort of a show was it last night?'

'Very average, I imagine,' said Michael. 'Rather overcrowded.'

'All the élite of the county, I suppose,' said Sir Toby, 'and Katherine Hamilton-Browne rushing distractedly about, trying to force people into enjoying themselves. A dear soul. She's escaped religious mania, but has got hospitality instead, in much the same way. A sense of duty is a paralysing thing.'

'It must be,' said Michael. 'Not that I know much about it myself.'

'Nor I. In my youth I had occasional spasms of conscience, but I soon discovered that whenever I did a thing from a sense of duty, it was inevitably a failure. So I gave it up. No point in asking for trouble. Anybody interesting there?'

Michael pondered, frowning thoughtfully. Sir Toby watched him amusedly.

'Anybody you liked at all?' he substituted.

'Fellow called Manvers,' said Michael, with a reminiscent grin. 'Not at all a bad chap. Stutters.'

'Oh, yes, our Bobby. I know him well. In fact, I believe he's my godson, but I have so many that I forget. Bobby's a good soul, and has more brains than you might guess. Poor lad, he's an example of misplaced duty. His people wanted him to follow in his father's footsteps, and now he's a barrister, without much hope of a brief. A depressing life.'

'Did he want to do something else?' asked Michael.

'Yes.' Sir Toby's twinkle broadened into a mischievous grin. 'He wanted to get into the C.I.D.'

Michael gave a sudden yelp of laughter.

'Oh, it's a crime! What a detective he'd have made! W-Watson, pass me the m-morphia! But, not seriously?'

'Perfectly seriously. Criminology is now his hobby. He can tell you the life history of every English murderer, and he will, too, if you don't see it coming and head him off. He revels in clues and finger-prints and alibis. One of these days he'll go a little too far with his amateur detecting, and there'll be a newspaper scandal. I'm his trustee, too, God help me!'

'It doesn't seem to worry you much,' commented Michael.

Sir Toby chuckled comfortably. 'I don't go in for worrying, Michael. Life's too short. Ruff does all mine for me. That's why he's so thin. But you haven't told me much about the party. Were you terribly bored?'

'More or less,' admitted Michael.

'Poor lad! What time did you leave?'

'About one, I suppose.'

Sir Toby's eyebrows rose.

'Ruff told me you didn't get in till three.'

'Perfectly correct. I spent the intervening time exploring Suffolk by moonlight.'

'By yourself?' Sir Toby had a twinkle in his eye.

'By myself.'

'Oh, my dear Michael!' Sir Toby sighed. 'What a waste of moonlight!'

Michael grinned reminiscently. Sir Toby waited patiently, watching his guest.

'I was chasing a waiter,' he said at last.

Sir Toby laughed outright.

'Dear me, I'd no idea you were suffering from what poor Katherine calls "this terrible servant problem." Do tell me all about it, Michael.'

Michael complied. Sir Toby was an excellent listener, and when Michael described, vividly enough, his emotions on finding his Bentley gone and the grey two-seater left, his host laughed helplessly.

'Wait a bit,' went on Michael, now thoroughly warmed up. 'The chap had left his card, stuck in the wheel.'

'Good Lord! What was his name?'

'Vive le Sport.'

The amusement on Sir Toby's face gave place to surprise. 'Vive le Sport! But I never knew he stole cars. This is a new game.'

'Do you know him, then?'

'Not personally; I've heard a good deal about him.'

'Who is he?'

'A burglar. London's full of wild stories about him, but as far as I can gather, he's an ex-officer who came out of the war with a craving for excitement. He's reported to have said that one cannot appreciate life unless one is in danger of losing it. I disagree, but never mind. Scotland Yard knows him by his card, which he always leaves in any house he burgles. Incidentally, he's never been known to rob anyone except fat and prosperous profiteers. I tell you the insurance companies must hate him.'

'Sportsman!' said Michael, with deep approval.

'I quite agree, but consider the morals of the country! He's a very dangerous element, just because he is a sportsman! So far, his story has been kept out of the papers, but if they get hold of it, think of the effect on the public! There'd be a wave of popular sympathy towards this modern Robin Hood, who robs the rich company promoters and laughs at Scotland Yard. It won't do, you know.'

'Rot!' said Michael. 'You know you're all for him, too.'

'Of course I am,' admitted Sir Toby. 'But I also see that to make a popular public character of a successful house-breaker is unthinkable.'

'Does he specialise in burglary?'

'More or less. The experts swear that the safe isn't made that he can't open. Also, he has a positive genius for disguise, and disguise isn't merely a question of a false nose. It's acting ... living the part you're playing.'

'What's his real name?'

'Nobody knows.'

'Vive le Sport! I wish I'd known all this last night!'

'Incidentally, what was he doing at Barton? Hamilton-Browne made his money quite legitimately. Michael, do ring up and find out if they've missed any valuables.'

With a nod Michael departed, to return a few minutes later. 'Not a thing. I made Ruff do the telephoning. All's well at Barton.'

'Very odd,' said Sir Toby. 'I wonder what he was there for? By the way, what are you going to do about your car? This two-seater sounds a poor exchange.'

'Oh, she's not at all a bad little bus,' said Michael. 'I got sixty-five out of her easy, coming back here, and she wasn't running her best. As for mine, he told me on the card that I'd find her in Dorset Mews any night between ten and twelve.'

'That's good,' said Sir Toby. 'I should hate the idea of his becoming a miserable car thief.'

'Nice sentiments for a law-abiding householder!' grinned Michael.

'I know. It's impossible to be consistent where Vive le Sport is concerned. We all feel the same, and that's why we're so anxious not to let the general public get hold of the story. And now let's go out into the garden. One mustn't miss sunshine in this country. You've got to take it quickly when it comes ... like many other things.'

Michael smiled, but made no reply.

CHAPTER X

THE FEMININE ELEMENT

Jerry Mitchell sat up in bed and listened. She didn't know what had wakened her ... the big Hampstead house was as silent as the grave ... but the fact remained; she had been sleeping soundly, and of a sudden she was wide awake, listening, with every nerve taut.

For a full minute she sat rigid, and then relaxed, telling herself not to be a fool. There was no sound, and the whole thing had been a dream. But for some reason her thoughts kept returning to her father. It was absurd. He was perfectly all right. She called up a vivid picture of him as she had seen him a few hours previously. She had come in from a party, and had poked her head into the study to say good-night.

'Don't sit up too late and lose your beauty sleep, William!'

He had chuckled, thrusting his spectacles up on to his forehead.

'Impertinent hussy! Had a good time?'

'Very good. What are you up to, Daddy? Some frightfully complicated essay on economics?'

He had laughed, rather guiltily, like a small boy found out in some adventurous pretence.

'Not quite that. A particular ploy that I'll tell you about some day. Run along to bed, child, you're half asleep now.'

'More than half,' she had confessed. 'Good-night, William, darling.'

'Good-night, sweetheart, and happy dreams.'

All so everyday and serene. Why should she be haunted by the thought of him now? And yet, the thought persisted and refused to go. She glanced at her travelling clock, by her bedside. Ten to four. Well, it was no good sitting here and thinking. With a shrug of her shoulders she climbed out of bed and slipped on a dressing-gown. The only thing to do was to go downstairs and see for oneself. Of course he'd have gone to bed and the study would be deserted, and then perhaps one could go to sleep in peace. With a half smile for her own folly she thrust her feet into a pair of slippers and descended the stairs.

The hall was grey and chilly in the dawn light, and she wrapped her dressing-gown closer about her as she opened the study door. The light was still on, and the heavy curtains were drawn. For a moment she thought the room was empty, and then she caught her breath with a gasp. Her father was lying on the hearth, face downwards, in a curiously twisted position.

For one stricken moment she stood staring, and then, with an effort, fought down her fear. He had fainted, that was all. It had happened once or twice before. She knelt beside him. He lay terribly still, and as she lifted his head, she saw a wound in his temple. 'Must have fallen with his head on the fender,' she whispered. 'Dad!... Dad!...' and then her fear became a certainty.

Slowly she laid him back on the rug, and slowly rose to her feet.

He was dead. One ought to telephone to somebody and tell them. She had a curious feeling that she herself had become someone different. One must do something in moments like this, and the thing to do was to ring up on the telephone. But who was the right person to ring up? The Police? Or was it the coroner? Or perhaps the doctor. She didn't know any doctors at all well, because neither she nor William was ever ill, but there was a man who had come when Lucy sprained her ankle. Collins, his name was. Poor Lucy! This would be a shock to her when she arrived on the tick of seven, as she always did. Lucy was a paragon among charladies, and she adored 'the professor.' Yes, it would be a horrid business, breaking the news to Lucy.

Jerry pulled her mind back with a jerk to the business in hand. One rang up the doctor first. She sat down on the desk, looked up the number, and took off the receiver. 'Hullo. Hampstead 5776, please. Yes.' One asked for Dr. Collins, and when he came, one said: 'Miss Mitchell speaking. I wonder if you would mind coming round at once, Dr. Collins? I think my father is dead, and....'

Quite suddenly a queer chill descended on her, and her fingers tightened on the receiver. It was like a shadow of something worse to come ... something very like panic. What was the matter with the telephone? She rattled the receiver bracket desperately.

'Hullo, Exchange. Can't you get me Hampstead 5776?' Her voice shook a little.

'Sorry. No reply.' Terribly impersonal, the operator sounded.

'But ... but there must be!'

'Sorry. No reply.' Click! She heard him cut off.

Slowly Jerry replaced the receiver. One ought to ring up someone else ... one ought to ring up quickly, before this shuddering fear overwhelmed one. It was coming, for already she dared not look at that huddled figure on the rug. Suppose it moved. With a sudden reaction she pulled herself together, and found her last state worse than her first. She was not afraid, because that still thing was William, and he was dead. He was the only thing on God's earth that belonged to her, and she would never hear him speak again. Jerry slipped off the desk, and ran out of the room.

In the hall she paused, shutting the study door behind her. The grey light was brightening, and with a sudden longing for daylight she opened the front door. The dawn wind was cool and fresh, and she studied the houses opposite as if she had never seen them before. She still had that curious feeling that someone else was occupying her mind. After a moment she went out onto the steps and looked down the long grey street. A few yards away stood a big touring-car, much splashed with mud, and a man was changing a wheel. He worked quickly, like a man who is in a hurry, but he whistled light-heartedly enough, as he turned his spanner. Jerry observed that he had nearly finished the job, and with that came the realisation that when he went there would be nobody ... no one in the world except herself and that still body in the study. She descended the steps, silent as an owl in her soft slippers, and made her way to his side.

'Good-morning,' she said, noting with pride the steadiness and self-possession of her tone.

He jerked himself upright, and stared down at her blankly.

'Good-morning.' His voice was slow, and sounded a little surprised.

'You must have come a long way, to get your car so muddy. She's a Bentley, isn't she?' Jerry felt she was doing rather well. Why couldn't he talk, too, and help her out?

'Yes.' He hesitated, his grave eyes on her face. 'What's up?' he asked, point-blank.

'I ... what d'you mean?' She didn't quite know what to say.

'What's happened? Can I help?'

'That's awfully nice of you, but I don't think there's anything one can do. You see, the telephone number was engaged.'

She wondered if that made sense. It was becoming more and more difficult to find words, and the man wouldn't help her. He was looking at his watch now; looking as if he were trying to make up his mind.

'I believe it's going to be a very jolly day.' (She couldn't bear him to go away, and leave her absolutely alone.)

'Yes; one gets the best of a spring morning up here. Have you lived in Hampstead long?'

She sighed with relief. He really was going to talk, at last.

'For eighteen years.'

'All your life, in fact.' He smiled at her.

'No,' she corrected him. 'We came here when I was nearly two. William bought the house when my mother died. I don't remember her at all, but William—that's my father—says she would have loved it.'

'Where is he?'

'He ...' Jerry checked abruptly, and took a deep breath. One must keep one's head and behave in a rational manner.

'Well, as a matter of fact, he's dead. I went into the study just now, and found him there, lying on the rug. I know I ought to ring up someone, but the number's engaged, and ... and there isn't anyone in the house but me.'

'I wonder if you could give me a glass of water,' said the man slowly. 'I've been driving all night, and I'm frightfully thirsty.'

'Of course,' said Jerry. 'Do come in. Let me make you some tea. It's quite easy. I do it on the electric stove in my sitting-room.'

'That sounds awfully good,' said the man, and followed her into the house. Jerry felt that a weight had been lifted off her. At last there was something definite to do. She led him into a little room at the back of the house.

'You see, I've got a kettle all ready,' she said. 'I always keep one there. Very often I make tea in the evenings for William, but last night I went to bed before....'

She checked abruptly, and stared at him, her eyes wide with horrified memory. The man said nothing, but laid a hand on her shoulder, and the gentleness of his touch made her feel that something had snapped in her mind. She covered her face with her hands, and felt as if her knees were giving under her.

'I think I'd better go and see what I can do,' he said quietly. 'Tell me where the telephone is.'

'In the study.' She pulled herself together. 'Shall I come with you?'

'I'd rather you waited here, if you don't mind.'

'All right. It's the first door on the left, across the hall.'

'Right. I won't be long.' He went out, shutting the door behind him.

Jerry slid into a chair, and shut her eyes. For some minutes she didn't think at all. All she knew was that she was very tired, and someone else was in charge. Then the sputtering kettle roused her, and she got up and made some tea. There was no sound in the house. She sat down by the glowing stove. He was a long time. She wondered if he were ringing up for a doctor. She wondered what he thought of the whole affair. It suddenly occurred to her that a man might well be surprised at being addressed by a girl in pyjamas and dressing-gown in a London street at four in the morning.

Then he reëntered, and she forgot to wonder. He looked very tired and worried, she thought, but he smiled at her, and pulled up a chair for himself.

'How good that looks,' he said, his eyes on the teapot.

She gave him a cup, and asked: 'Did you get hold of anyone?'

'Yes: a doctor chap I know. He's coming along as soon as he's dressed. Don't you think it would be a good plan if you went to bed and tried to sleep?'

She shook her head violently, and he added hastily: 'All right. Shall I stay here till he comes, or would you rather be alone?'

'I'd rather you stayed, please. Who did you tell him we were?'

He hesitated.

'I didn't. I told him the address. Who are you?'

'Geraldine Mitchell.'

'It's a large name for a small person,' he smiled. 'Mine's the reverse. Nick.'

'Yes.' She smiled, too, surveying him. 'It's a ridiculously small name. Will you have some more tea?'

'May I? One doesn't realise how thirsty one is until one starts drinking.'

There was a silence. It frightened Jerry. The back of her mind seemed to be full of dark things that threatened to swoop down on her and become part of her conscious thoughts. She must talk—speech kept them at bay. It didn't matter what one talked about. She looked at the man and noticed for the first time that he was in evening dress.

'Have you been to a party?'

'Yes. Miles away in the country.'

'Was it a good show?'

'Marvellous! All the women were dreams of loveliness, and all the men Sir Galahads.' He smiled suddenly. 'Except one.'

'And what was he?'

'We-ell, I didn't see much of him, but I rather think he was a pretty stout fellow.'

Jerry nodded appreciatively. William would have liked this man. She began to talk about her father. Nick listened, and seemed to understand exactly what she meant. Once or twice she wondered if she were talking too much—she seemed to be telling him an awful lot—but the relief of speech was too great to resist. And, anyway, what did it matter? This man was all right. Then, before she had half finished, the bell rang, and she looked up in sudden alarm.

'That's my friend Thorpe, I expect,' said Nick, rising.

'Must I see him? Will he want to ask things?'

He shook his head.

'There's no earthly reason why you should. I'll go and talk to him, and he can come back and see you later on. Listen—wouldn't you be awfully wise to go to bed? I would, if I were you.'

'I'm all right....'

'I know you are, but there'll probably be a lot of fuss and bother presently, and people coming in and out, and you're much too tired to cope with it. Much better leave it to Thorpe. I know you'll like him.'

'Besides, there's Lucy.'

'Lucy?'

'Our charlady. She'll be here at seven. She's always punctual.'

'I'll either see her myself or warn Thorpe. Do be a wise little person and go to bed.'

'All right.' She turned to the door and she hesitated. 'Thank you most awfully. I—I wish you'd met William.'

He looked much older, suddenly.

'So do I. I know I should have loved him.'

'Everyone did. He hadn't an enemy in the world. I—I am saying "thank you" to you for both of us. Good-bye.'

His voice was very gentle as he answered:

'Good-bye, very brave child.'

He stood in the hall watching her climb wearily up the stairs. Ridiculously young she looked, Nick thought. At the corner, where the stairs turned, she waved to him. He lifted a hand in salute, and went to open the front door. A grey-haired, middle-aged man entered, and studied Nick with keen dark eyes as he took off his coat.

'Another emergency, Nick? This is a new district for you.'

'It's purely accidental. I was changing a wheel in the road, and a girl came out and told me she'd just found her father dead.'

'Where is she?'

'I've sent her off to bed.'

'Sensible chap! Is the man dead?'

'Yes. Come along.'

Nick led the way to the study and sat down on the edge of the desk while the doctor was making an examination. He lit a cigarette and noticed, absently, that his hand was not quite steady. Unusual, for him. His whole life had made him accustomed to the unexpected happening, but this morning's occurrences had been a trifle beyond the ordinary, and the discovery that the dead man was none other than his friend of the Jameson Club had been more of a shock to him than he had realised. He had entered that study expecting to see a stranger, and his first feeling was of desperate regret. He had so much wanted to thank the man; had wanted to meet him; had wanted—after the show was over—to tell him the story. And now he was dead—and the show was not over. Nick's thoughts had flown to his precious envelope—safe, thank Heaven, in the dead man's bank. The girl's property now. His first thought on realising this had been to ask her about it, but on returning to her little sitting-room he had dismissed the idea. The child was in no fit state to be bothered with that sort of thing. After all, the paper was perfectly safe. He would give her time to get her balance, would come back and see her one day next week. Poor, plucky child! How she had adored her father!

Nick moved restlessly as he waited for the doctor to give his verdict. So well did he remember that April night. He could almost hear that happy chuckle. 'Twinkling William.' And now he lay there inert, with that dark stain on his forehead. Suddenly a cold suspicion gripped Nick, and wiped all other thoughts from his mind. Thorpe rose to his feet.

'Fractured skull,' he said curtly. 'He obviously fell on the fender. Heavy man, and would fall hard. Who is his M.O.?'

'Hasn't got one, so his daughter told me. Apparently the man who used to attend them died about three years ago, and they haven't called anyone in since then.'

'What's their name, did you say?'

'Mitchell.'

'H'm. You don't know, I suppose, if the old man had ever had any heart trouble?'

'I don't, but the girl told me that he sometimes had sudden fainting fits.'

'Ah! That would account for it.'

'Death by misadventure?' Nick's voice was steady as he put his question.

'Oh, yes. There'll have to be an inquest, of course, but I don't think there's any doubt about the verdict. He fell—probably in a faint—and hit his head on that brass fender. That was certainly the cause of death. Look at the wound.'

'I see. Well, I ought to be going, Thorpe.'

'All right. I'll make all arrangements. Anyone else in the house besides the girl?'

'No, but there's a charwoman arriving at seven. Name of Lucy. What do you make the time?'

Thorpe consulted his watch.

'Five past six.'

'H'm!' Nick frowned thoughtfully. 'All the same, I think I'd better be going. Keep me out of this affair, Thorpe, if you can.'

'Of course I can, if the girl doesn't object.'

'I don't think she will. So long, Thorpe, and thanks awfully.'

'Not a bit. By the way, Nick, that woman Bates that you asked me to see——'

'In Dock Street? Yes, what about it?'

'What she needs is three weeks at the seaside and some decent food. Her husband's a bit of a terror.'

'I know it. Well, be a good fellow and arrange it, will you? Send the bill in to me, and keep your mouth shut as usual.'

'Right.' The doctor smiled at him affectionately. 'You're a rum animal, Nick.'

'Rot! Good-bye, Thorpe.'

'Good-bye.'

Nick went back to his car and, climbing in, sat for a moment lost in thought. Five past six. He'd missed the bus. By the time he had put the car away, changed, and got to Leman Street his visitors would have gone. Well, one might as well find out what had happened, anyway. He started up the car and drove on slowly.

At the first telephone call-box he stopped, and rang up the little shop in Quay Street. Jacob's sniffling voice answered him.

'That you, Ikey?'

'Yes, my friend. You do not come to meet your guests, then?'

'No. Are they still there?'

'Tom Breck is there. I met him, as you said.'

'Good for you. Wot 'appened?'

'I stayed around, my friend, in case you came too. I do not like you doing these things by yourself. Two men came, and they talked long to Breck, but they talk quietly, and I did not like to go too close. Then they all go to Leman Street, and I followed.'

'That's the stuff! And then?'

'They went in, and I waited outside—a long time. It was cold, I tell you.'

'Poor old Sexton Blake! Go on.'

'Soon after six they come out, the two men. One is young. The other has a black beard. The young man says, "No good waiting any longer," and black-beard nods. That man is dangerous, Nick.'

'I know it!'

'Then they go away, and I slip into your rooms to see what Breck is doing. He was asleep on your bed.'

'Blind?'

'What's that you say?'

'I says was he blind? Boozed—sozzled—tanked?'

'Drunk? Yes, very drunk.'

'Ho! Well, let him sleep it orf. So long, Ikey, and thanks for the information. We know where we are now. See yer later.'

Nick rang off and drove home. It had just occurred to him that he could do with some sleep himself.

CHAPTER XI

JERRY STRIKES OUT ON HER OWN

Jerry Mitchell sat over her fire with her head in her hands. To a casual observer she would have seemed a very young and pathetic figure, but there was no pathos in her face. Her expression, for all her youthfulness, was one of cold fury—the savage resentment that so often accompanies acute and unuttered sorrow. Jerry hated everybody at that moment, and Lucy, the charwoman, who entered the room a little cautiously, knew it only too well. She could not understand it, for to a woman of her type the pain of loss is invariably relieved by the pleasure of funeral trappings, but she had looked after Jerry for twelve years, and knew her to be 'a queer one to cross.'

'There's a gentleman at the door,' she said tentatively. ''E wondered when 'e might call.'

'What does he mean by that?' said Jerry, with some irritation. 'And who is he, anyway?'

Lucy held out a card, and Jerry read it, frowning:

'Mr. Robert Manvers. Who on earth...?'

Then her face cleared. Scotland ... last August. A very jolly house-party, and a cheerful, round-faced man who made her laugh. She'd met him in London, too, at dances. Bobby! She'd forgotten that his name was Manvers. Of course it was Bobby; that priceless boy who stammered, and made bad jokes, and was such a surprisingly good shot. Bobby had been the jest of the party, but Jerry had always had a conviction that he wasn't so much of a fool as he seemed.

'He may call now,' she said with decision. 'I'd like to see him.'

Lucy hesitated.

'Your auntie told me——' she began dubiously.

'I—would—like—to—see—him,' said Jerry slowly and clearly.

Lucy met her eye, quailed and faded away, to return a minute later with a rather embarrassed-looking young man.

'Come in, Bobby,' said Jerry, rising. 'How nice to see you. Do sit down. Have you had tea?'

'I—er—yes....'

He seemed surprised, and glanced involuntarily at the clock. Jerry's eyes followed his.

'Ten to six—yes, I suppose it is a bit late,' she said. 'Sorry. I've rather lost count of time.'

'Have you had a frightfully busy day?' asked Bobby.

'Frightfully is the word. Funeral, and all that.' Her voice had the abrupt harshness of overstrain.

Bobby looked startled.

'I s-say, Jerry, forgive me. I didn't know—I mean I thought it'd be all over—that is, I——'

'It's all right, Bobby. I'm very glad to see you. It's a relief.'

'I know what it's like,' he said slowly, his eyes on the fire. 'I remember when my mother died.... One feels like killing someone. You can b-bash me on the head with the poker if you like.'

Jerry smiled faintly.

'Thanks awfully. That's exactly it, but it's no good, you know. I've been restraining myself from murder all day, but the mere fact that you've suggested yourself as a victim makes you safe.'

'Relations, and all that?' asked Bobby sympathetically.

'By the score.' She rose to her feet, and walked restlessly across to the window. 'Horrible people!'

'Suppose you tell me what you think of 'em,' suggested Bobby. 'No good bottling it up, y' know. Were they all pretty grim?'

'Grim? They were positively ghoulish! They started by pulling down all the blinds—shutting out God's own sunshine. I pulled 'em all up again. Then they told me I must wear black for at least three months, because if I didn't people wouldn't realise, my dear. As if I wanted people to realise, which means, I suppose, sympathise. The less people will say about my troubles, the better I'll like it. But of course they couldn't understand that. Bobby, they loved it all! They revelled in all the gruesome details. They were bitterly disappointed because they weren't told in time to rush up to London and have a look at the corpse. It was incredible, honestly it was. They seemed quite average, if somewhat stupid old women, but underneath they were ghouls, dabbling their horrible soft hands in fresh-spilt blood.'

Jerry put her arm across her eyes, in a sudden childish gesture. Bobby held his peace, watching her.

'Why must everything be made harder?' she burst out. 'It's hard enough to bear as it is. One's soul is raw, and then everyone has the right to come and jab at it with their clumsy fingers. It wasn't their business, anyway. They didn't like William, and he didn't like them. They never wrote without some acid criticism of him. And then, directly he's dead, they come and slobber and weep, and say what a nice little boy he used to be, and how devoted they were to him. Damned hypocrites!' She turned away from the window, her young face dark with savage pain. 'Bobby, if they'd meant to be beastly to me, I could forgive them. But they didn't. They've been putting me through all the tortures of the Spanish Inquisition out of sheer blind stupidity. They can't begin to understand. They think I'm callous and ungrateful, and very rude. They also say that I can't have cared for William, since I pay no respect to his memory.'

'That's simply comic,' said Bobby.

'I know it's comic, but I don't want comedy just now. I want to be left alone. I could stand the inquest—that was a job of work in a way, and everyone felt that the sooner it was over the better. But the funeral—why should one be forced to provide an entertainment for these drivelling women?'

'God knows,' said Bobby. 'It's the custom of this most un-Christian country. And anyway, there's no reason why you should ever see any of 'em again, is there?'

Jerry smiled unpleasantly.

'My Aunt Cordelia has offered me a kind home.'

'But you're not going?'

'No, Bobby. I'd rather die in a ditch. It'd be an easier death.'

'Are you going to stay on here?'

'Not if I can help it. This place——' She hesitated—'I love it, but it reminds me too much. Besides, Lucy would drive me to drink. I know I'm a fool, but I just can't bear any more female sympathy. She talks about William with a sort of gloomy relish, and ... do you understand?'

'Absolutely. Look here, Jerry, why don't you get right away and start somewhere on your own?'

'That's what I want to do. I'm not broke, you see. William wasn't what you'd call well-off, but I shall have enough to live on. I'd like to get a job of some kind.'

'I wouldn't do that just at once,' advised Bobby. 'You don't realise how tired you'll feel when you let go, so to speak. Shall I poke round and see if I can find a flat for you? As a matter of fact, I believe I know a place that'd suit you down to the ground.'

'Do you, Bobby? You brick! Will you find out and let me know?'

'Rather!' He hesitated, and then said: 'Jerry, I say, couldn't you dine with me to-morrow?'

'I'd love to.' She laughed. 'What would my aunts say?'

'To blazes with them! What you want is a change of air. We'll dine at the Berkeley and go to the play.'

'Perfect. Oh, Bobby, you're the first intelligent person I've spoken to for three days—and they seem like three years. Bobby, when did you hear about ... all this?'

'Yesterday. I was away last week-end—staying down in Suffolk—and didn't get back to London till Monday evening. Then on Tuesday morning—that was yesterday, wasn't it?—someone told me. It was an awful shock, Jerry. I had no idea that he was ill.'

'He wasn't.'

'Then how...?' Bobby stared.

'It was all very queer. I just woke up in the night, and felt worried about him and came downstairs; and there he was, lying on the study floor, dead. The doctor said he must have fallen and hit his head on the fender.'

'Was there a wound in his head?'

'Yes. Quite small, but his skull was fractured.'

'It sounds to me ...' Bobby hesitated, and then substituted, 'It sounds very odd.'

Jerry looked at him, puzzled. Then her face cleared and she smiled.

'Of course! Our Tame Detective! D'you remember how Jim ragged you over that staged burglary in Scotland? No, no, Bobby, I can't believe it was murder. Nothing was touched in the room, and William hadn't an enemy in the world. Awfully sorry to disappoint you, old thing.'

Bobby grinned, rather sheepishly.

'But if you like to explore the study for finger-prints, you have my full permission,' Jerry added graciously.

His round face brightened. 'May I really, Jerry? Thanks awfully. I mean, it's all so odd, y' know, and dashed interestin', and....' He halted abruptly, and grew very red. 'I s-say, Jerry, please forgive me. I've no business to t-talk like that when——'

'Oh, Bobby, don't apologise!' Jerry was halfway between laughter and tears. 'You're saving my sanity. After the stuff I've had to listen to to-day, you can't think how refreshing it is to hear someone call it "dashed interesting"!'

'What you need,' said Bobby, 'is a jolly stiff drink and about twelve hours' sleep.'

'Do I? All right, I'll take it. What form of alcohol would you recommend?'

'Anything, so long as it's strong enough. Jerry, I must be off now. I shall blow in and collect you soon after seven to-morrow night.'

'I'll be ready, and I'll wear my cheerfulest frock. Thanks awfully, Bobby. You're a man and a brother.'

'Rot! I've been through the mill too. Don't get up; I can let myself out. Good-night, old thing.'

'Good-night.'

The door slammed behind him, and Jerry, curled up in the big chair, felt that some of the tenseness had gone from aching nerve and muscle.

CHAPTER XII

'BAKERLOO'

'Mister Doo-oone!'

It was two syllables, in Milly's piercing Cockney voice. Michael, sprawling on his iron-hard, lodging-house sofa, reading a novel, grinned, but made no reply. He could hear the sound of flying feet on the stairs, and knew that the handmaid of No. 60 Quebec Street was merely heralding her approach in her usual manner. The racing footsteps drew nearer, mingled now with heavy panting, and there was a furious tattoo on his door.

'Come in!' grunted Michael.

''Ullow, Mr. Doone! You don't 'arf look comf'table!' She leant against the lintel of the door, still panting a little. 'I b'lieve you bin asleep there all the arternoon. Wot time did you come in las' night?'

Michael surveyed her, amusedly. He liked Milly. He liked her irrepressible Cockney tongue, her everlasting good temper, and her buccaneering manner. Besides, she was distinctly pretty, with her dancing blue eyes and curly black hair that never looked tidy. Her pink silk stockings and her short skirts were a perpetual source of strife between her and her mistress, Michael's landlady; a battle in which Milly always triumphed. Michael had heard the story from both combatants several times. The girl was impertinent; she was 'familiar' with the lodgers; she was untidy; she was noisy; but, for all that, she did the work of three women in the house, and Mrs. Briggs knew it.

'Ain't yer goin' ter say nothink?' asked Milly, regarding Michael curiously, as if wondering whether he had not been stricken dumb suddenly.

'I was wondering what you wanted me for.'

'Oh! Well, o' course it's nothink ter do with me wot time you come in lars' night, but wot I was goin' ter say was, there's a gentleman downstairs wants ter see yer.'

'Who is it?'

'I dunno 'is name. 'E's bin 'ere before, though. 'Im an' you come in tergether Monday night. Young gentleman, with wot yer might call a chubby face. 'E stutters, too.'

'Oh, yes,' said Michael. 'Manvers.'

'That's right. 'E don't arf make me larf! "I s-say," 'e ses, "y-your name's M-Milly, ain't it?" 'E's a one!'

To be strictly accurate, she said: ''E's a wud!' for, like so many of her race, her adenoids formed an essential part of her speech.

'Show him up,' said Michael, rousing himself.

'Right-o. You goin' ter 'ave supper in, Mr. Doone?'

'No.'

'That's a good job, for there ain't nothink to eat. Well, I s'pose I better go an' find Mr. Manvers afore 'e loses 'isself. I tell you wot 'e reminds me of. 'E's jest like one o' them——Ow, 'ere 'e is!'

Smiling, and entirely unabashed, Milly stood back to let Bobby Manvers enter the room.

'Wh-what am I like, Milly?' asked Bobby with a grin.

''Fraid I couldn't tell yer, Mr. Manvers. Don't know yer well enough—yet. Well, I better 'op it, or she'll start 'ollerin' for me. G'night, Mr. Doone!'

She sped downstairs, singing 'All that I ask is Love' at the top of her voice. Michael grinned and offered his guest a cigarette.

'Bit early, aren't you?' he asked. 'What time does this party start?'

'Oh, not till nine, but I wanted to see you, because—w-well, as a matter of fact, I can't go. But I do hope you will.'

'You're a nice chap!' said Michael. 'Make me swear to come to this show with you, much against my better judgment, and then back out of it yourself. And a high-brow party at that. No, thanks.'

'It w-won't be exclusively high-brow,' pleaded Bobby. 'Adele Lancaster's parties are pretty mixed, y' know, and several of the people y-you met at Barton will be there. Adele specially asked me to bring you.'

'Why aren't you going?' demanded Michael. 'Changed your mind in rather a hurry, haven't you?'

'Well, as a matter of fact, I'm going to take a girl I know out to dinner. Sh-she's just lost her father, and she's pretty down on her luck. Topping child, she is, too, plucky as they make 'em, and awfully pretty. She's got no brothers or sisters, and her mother died when she was a baby. And there she is, all alone, cooped up in that great barrack of a house, where every mortal thing reminds her.... I don't wonder she wants to get out of it.' He halted suddenly. 'I s-say, Doone, are there any rooms to let here?'

'I believe there's a flat on the top floor,' said Michael, rather reluctantly.

'What's the rent of it, d'you think?'

'I don't know. Ask Milly.'

'I will. I believe this place would do Jerry a lot of good. And if y-you could keep an eye on her....' He paused doubtfully.

'Not much in my line, I'm afraid,' said Michael hastily.

'She'd simply love Milly,' said Bobby. 'I shall make her come round here to-morrow, to s-see the landlady.'

'I should,' said Michael, inwardly deciding to be out himself.

'Well, that'll be a good thing to tell her to-night,' said Bobby. 'And, l-look here, Doone, you will go to this party, won't you? I mean, Adele'll be frightfully disappointed if you don't.'

For a moment Michael considered, his green eyes narrowed to slits. Then he said slowly: 'All right, I'll go.'

'G-good man! Well, I must clear out now. Nine o'clock. You've got the address, haven't you?'

'Yes. So long. Look me up again some time.'

'Rather. So long.'

As the door shut behind his guest Michael dropped on to the sofa again, and scowled at the picture above his fireplace—one of those lurid desert scenes, straight from Woolworth's. Confound Adele Lancaster! Why had he promised to go to her rotten party? The only bright thought was that Sir Toby would be there, and Toby would probably have something amusing to say. Michael looked at his watch, and struggled to his feet. Infernal nuisance, having to change. What a cow of a country this was! He wandered away and turned on his bath; then loafed disconsolately back to his bedroom to dig out a clean shirt. As he was putting in his links, he suddenly remembered that he had been going to dine with that deserter, Bobby. He flung down the shirt, and, returning to his sitting-room, rang the bell. After a few seconds Milly entered with a crash.

'Wot is it now?' she demanded.

'I've changed my mind, and I will have supper in, after all.'

She stared at him steadily.

'Please, Milly,' added Michael, with a grin.

'Anythink to oblige,' assented Milly graciously. 'Wot'll you 'ave? Oysters? Or a tasty bit o' salmon?'

Michael leant against the wall, hands in pockets.

'Ham and eggs,' he suggested.

Milly copied his attitude ludicrously.

'Well, we might manage that, but the on'y thing is, I ain't certain as we've got any 'am, an' I'm afraid there ain't no eggs.'

Michael allowed his face to fall dismally. Milly gave him a flashing smile.

'I'll see wot I can do,' she said confidentially. 'Trouble is, y' see, the old girl ses ter me: "Find out 'ow many o' the gentlemen want supper before six, Millicent. Don't take no orders arter that."'

'I'm in your hands, Milly,' said Michael humbly.

'So's every man in the 'ouse!' said Milly. 'I 'ave me work cut out, I tell yer straight. Yer a bad lot, y' know.'

'Admitted,' said Michael.

'Not but wot yer a lot better than when you come. I will say that for yer,' conceded Milly.

'Oh, that's rot!' protested Michael, to whom any suggestion of personal improvement was anathema. 'For the first week I never had a meal in, except breakfast.'

'That ain't wot I mean. You may be more trouble than you was, but yer a lot more human, as yer might say,' explained Milly.

Michael laughed.

'You goin' ter stop 'ere long, Mr. Doone?'

'Yes. If I can get supper when I want it.'

'Can't think o' nothink but their stummicks, men can't,' sighed Milly. 'All right. I'll go an' cook it.'

'Thanks awfully. By the way, is that top flat still to let?'

'Yuss. You 'eard of anyone wantin' it?'

'Yes.'

'Oh, I am glad. I likes to 'ave all the rooms full. 'Oo is 'e, Mr. Doone?'

'It's a she, as a matter of fact,' said Michael.

Milly regarded him with a gravely reproachful face, though her eyes danced wickedly.

'Oh, Mr. Doone! I didn't think you was one o' these 'ere elastic-'earted gentlemen!'

'It's nothing to do with me,' blurted Michael, realising his rashness.

Milly shook her head sadly.

'An' you ser quiet an' everythink, an' lettin' on ter be a woman-'ater. Coo! It jest shows 'ow you can be mistaken in a man. You, as useter say——'

'That's enough, Milly,' said Michael, with an attempt at severity.

'Take my advice, Mr. Doone; don't you have nothink ter do with 'er. Well, I must say, I never thought as——'

'Clear out!' said Michael, snatching up a cushion.

Milly ducked, and fled downstairs, laughing. With a grin, Michael departed to have his bath.

He was late for his party, thanks to the fact that he had stopped to hear the local news bulletin from Milly when she cleared away his supper. She always had something to report about every tenant. Michael sometimes wondered what she said about him to other people.

'Young Mr. Blake, 'e went orf yesterday arternoon, an' 'e ain't back yet. 'Orrid little stop-out! I won't 'arf talk to 'im when 'e comes 'ome. An' Mr. Crewe, 'e wasn't 'arf in a temper this mornin'. Found a beetle in 'is bath, 'e did, an' let the 'ole 'ouse know it. Might 'a' bin a corpse, be the way 'e carried on. But 'e can't 'elp it, pore chap. 'E's got insomlia, y' know. Can't sleep proper. Went t' bed early, 'e did, lars' night, but the lady nex' door woke 'im up singin' "Abide with Me." 'E said 'e wouldn't, not if it was ever so. Proper fed-up, 'e was.'

Consequently it was close on ten when Michael arrived at Adele Lancaster's house. He was shown into a room full of people and blue with tobacco smoke. Everyone seemed to be collected in little groups, talking in staccato voices. Some were lying about on the floor, or sitting on brilliantly coloured cushions. There was no sign of Sir Toby. Michael had a good look round, decided that he loathed the whole lot of them, and was on the point of making for the door again when Adele Lancaster saw him. She was talking to a tall, fair, clean-shaven man, and she broke off to greet Michael.

'Oh, here you are at last! I'm so glad you could come. Bobby rang me up just now to tell me of his desertion. Do you know Stephen Nicholson?'

The man bowed, rather theatrically.

'Stephen, this is Mr. Doone, whose home is on a South Sea island. Isn't it too romantic? To me the very name of the Pacific Ocean spells enchantment—a magic land——'

The man interrupted her, in a weary drawl.

'My dear Adele, magic is everywhere, if only one's soul be attuned to it.'

'I believe that's true,' said Mrs. Lancaster, assuming a raptly thoughtful expression.

Michael thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and leant his shoulder against the wall. His green eyes had become as blank as stones—always a bad sign, as his friends knew well.

'Stephen, are you going to the Albert Hall ball next week?'

'Dear lady, I cannot dance.'

'How absurd you are!' She turned to Michael. 'He's the best dancer in London.'

Michael received this confidence in stony silence. The man Stephen laughed self-consciously.

'How nice of you! But the fact is, I've sprained my ankle. Hullo, surely that's Boris Kaufletz over there?'

'Yes. Didn't you know he was coming? He has promised to read us some of his poems later on.'

He raised his eyebrows.

'Is our Boris becoming famous?' he murmured. 'He'll lose his power if he does. Such a gift as his is born of starvation and a bitter memory of his wrongs.'

'Tell me, Stephen: people say he is a great poet. Is it true? His verse seems to me rather wonderful.'

'I think quite exceptional,' pronounced the man. 'It's so strangely luminous ... a queer, phosphorescent gleam of genius.' He waved his hand suddenly and intoned:

'As the empurpled blood of Phrygian slaves

Dripping ... flowing ... oozing angrily ...

So her passionate purple eyes ...'

Adele Lancaster caught her breath in a little gasp. 'But, Stephen, it's magnificent! And how characteristically Boris! What is that called?'

'"Bakerloo."' He frowned morosely at the ceiling, and then burst out again:

'Footsteps down the echoing passages.

Hurry!... Torrent in spate!

White faces of women, open-mouthed ...

Shriek after shriek, and yet no sound....

Hate!... Love!... Lust!...

And like some poisonous fog

Stifling all....

Inhibition!'

There was a moment's silence. Adele and Stephen gazed intently into each other's eyes. Michael lit a cigarette with hands that shook a little. He wanted to laugh, and weep, and kill someone. The whole thing was too much for him. Then Adele gave a little sigh and said:

'We can't be flippant after that, Stephen. I shall ask Boris to read to us now.'

She moved away, a mystic light in her eyes. The man Stephen took a cigarette from the box beside him, and, as he bent over the lighted match, said quietly:

'I hope you got your car back safely.'

For a second Michael stood as if turned to stone. Then a slow smile spread over his face.

'Yes, thanks,' he said. 'Did she run all right?'

'Perfectly,' the other assured him. 'Taking my carburettor into consideration, I more than made up the time I spent dodging you. I had to do it y' know. You'd have caught me on the main road, and I couldn't afford to stop and explain. I had an important engagement in London.'

'Did you make it?'

'As a matter of fact, I didn't, but it wasn't your Bentley's fault. Hullo, there's Kaufletz getting ready to spout.'

Michael looked round apprehensively.

'Can't we get out somewhere?' he said. 'Or do you want to listen?'

Stephen Nicholson chuckled and led the way to the door. Outside on the landing, a widely opened window looked out over the Square. Instinctively both men drifted towards it. They were silent for a moment, and then said simultaneously:

'What are you doing here?'

Nicholson laughed. 'You first,' he said.

'Well, I came because a man I know wanted to bring me, but at the last minute he backed out,' said Michael. 'And you?'

'I,' said Nicholson gravely, 'am an eccentric bachelor, with a passion for vers libre and ultra-modern art generally. I'm terribly artistic and all that, and so, of course, I attend those parties. I'm a literary authority in my own way. It was I, and I alone, who gave Boris Kaufletz, who is an unwashed, uneducated, half-witted Armenian Jew, his reputation for genius. A man must have some aim in life.'

Michael grinned appreciatively.

'Sorry to hear you've twisted your ankle,' he remarked. 'How did it happen? Tripping over a poet?'

Nicholson chuckled.

'Between ourselves, there was a bit of an argument in Nightingale Lane last night. I'd been attending a Socialist meeting on Tower Hill the day before, and we'd had rather a good time. The speaker ... chap called Flint ... was simply marvellous. In half an hour he'd got the whole crowd at fever heat. I was awfully worked up myself; never heard anything so stirring. We were all on fire to attack the West End, and burn the houses of the bloated capitalists who grind the faces of the poor. I was all for that, so I got up, too, and urged 'em on some more. Flint was awfully pleased at first. Said "There speaks a gallant comrade!" or words to that effect. Then, unfortunately, I lost my head and started telling 'em what houses we'd start on. They were all big, expensive places, but it doesn't do to come down to details in a show like that. It's so infernally hard to remember who are the capitalists and who aren't. I mentioned two houses, and then realised that they both belonged to Communist leaders. Bad break! I tried to recover myself; mentioned a third, and then remembered that it was Flint's own house. Of course I said, "As you were, comrades," but somehow it was too late. Some ass of a dockyard matey started to laugh, and—er—I left.'

'And Flint?'

'Well, he was a bit peevish, I believe, but I went off to have a drink with some sailors who were in the crowd, so we didn't meet. But last night, as I was coming up Nightingale Lane, three fellows popped out from one of the wharves and we—er—had a bit of an argument. As a matter of fact, as soon as I saw what they were driving at, I ran like a hare. A coaster that I knew was lying at Irongate Wharf, and I just managed to get aboard her. The night watchman's a pal of mine. He beat them off with a flood of the purest Glasgow invective, while I sat in the galley and listened. It was a liberal education, his speech. If it hadn't been for him I'd have been done, for I tripped over a steam-pipe—what a godless tangle a coaster's deck is!—and wrenched my ankle rather badly.'

'Pretty good!' said Michael. 'D'you often do this sort of thing?'

'Fairly often. I've got a passion for rhetoric. Whenever I hear a man making a speech, I always long to join in.'

'If you ever want company, I'm rather like that myself,' mentioned Michael.

Nicholson looked him over thoughtfully.

'Good work. I'll remember that,' he said. 'Your name's Doone, isn't it?'

'Yes. How did you——Oh, of course, that supper at Barton,' said Michael, and added: 'Can't think why I didn't recognise you just now. You don't seem disguised at all.'

'As a matter of fact, I'm not at the moment,' said Nicholson confidentially. 'This is me, as it were. Beauty unadorned, metaphorically speaking. As for the brief period of my waiterhood, it was the moustache that put you off. No one ever knows me when I'm complete with whiskers. They all feel they've seen me before, but can't remember where, you know. Then I tell 'em, and all's well.'

'It must be your voice,' said Michael. 'Just now, for instance——'

'My poetry?' asked Nicholson. 'Pretty hot, wasn't it? Extempore, too.'

'Good Lord! Wasn't it that bloke's stuff?'

Nicholson looked wounded. 'My dear chap, you don't suppose I read that sort of thing, do you?'

'But Mrs. Lancaster....'

'Adele takes a lot of things for granted. Poetry and waiters, for instance.'

Michael laughed.

'What were you after that night?' he asked. 'Every day I've been expecting to hear that Mrs. Browne's pearls had gone, but nothing's happened so far.'

'Oh, no. I wasn't after filthy lucre that time,' said Nicholson; and added, after a moment's pause: 'I gather you've heard something about me.'

'You don't realise you're famous,' said Michael.

'What is fame? A bagatelle! Give me a match.'

Michael handed over his box, watching Nicholson with amusement.

'Come and look me up sometime, will you?' he said. 'I'm in digs.—60 Quebec Street.'

'I'd like to. Thanks awfully.' He glanced at Michael with a twinkle in his eyes. 'You think I'm devilish reckless, don't you?'

'Something like it,' admitted Michael. 'After all, isn't it a bit of a risk coming here?'

Nicholson chuckled. 'Don't you worry,' he said. 'It's as safe as houses. I've been playing this game for years.'

'All right; but suppose I was a cop?'

'Setting aside my lightning intuition, which tells me that there's nothing you'd dislike more, I'm perfectly safe because you've got nothing against me except your own suspicions and second hand information. I am Stephen Nicholson; fairly well known,' said he modestly. 'Unless you caught me crawling out of a window with a gun in my teeth and the Crown Jewels in my pocket, no one would believe you. I doubt if they would then, unless you could produce a photograph. Of course, I'd love to have the reputation of being a dare-devil and all that, but as a matter of fact I belong to the school of the cunning cowards.'

'All right,' grinned Michael. 'Does that mean you will come and see me?'

'Rather. One day next week. Sit tight; someone's coming.'

'I don't hear——' began Michael, but broke off as Adele Lancaster opened the drawing-room door and advanced on them.

'So this is where you've been all this time,' she said. 'I've a good mind to scold you both, but I'll forgive you if you do your duty. The young enthusiasts have started the gramophone, and you must come and dance.'

'I'm afraid I'm hors de combat,' said Nicholson, 'but I'll come and watch, if that would give you any pleasure.'

Michael, slightly bemused, allowed himself to be led off and introduced to countless females. His partners found him distrait and, as a matter of fact, he hardly noticed them at all. He danced automatically, his mind on Stephen Nicholson, until he heard a cry of welcome from Adele, and glanced round to see Sir Toby Ward entering. As soon as the dance came to an end, he made his way over to where Adele, Nicholson, and Sir Toby were talking.

There was a distinct twinkle in Sir Toby's eye as he greeted Michael—a twinkle that said, 'What on earth are you doing in this crowd?'—but he wisely refrained from putting it into speech. Adele was lamenting the dullness of life.

'London's a desert of ennui,' she was saying. 'Except for Boris, no one is writing anything fit to read; there are no plays worthy of the name, and no subject of any interest to discuss.'

'It's terrible,' agreed Sir Toby, with a chuckle. 'All crime seems to be on the decrease. Even'—he glanced at Michael—'even Vive le Sport seems to have disappeared.'

'Who's he?' asked Stephen Nicholson in a languid drawl.

'My dear, don't you know?' Adele turned to him in surprise. 'He's the most divine person! He's a burglar who burgles with the grand manner. All women fall in love with him, and then he rides away in the approved style. I wish he'd rob this house.'

Sir Toby smiled mischievously.

'I was told the other day that he was an American,' he said. 'He was had up for rum-running, and had to get away quickly. Born and bred in the Bowery, I believe, and they called him "Shorty Bill" over there. As a matter of fact, he's a romantic legend.'

'I don't believe a word of it!' declared Adele. 'I was told that he's a 'Varsity man. Very tall, fair, and marvellously good looking.'

'Sounds like Nicholson,' observed Michael.

There was a shout of laughter from the other two.

'Stephen? Oh, what a divine idea!' said Adele. 'Our ineffable Stephen, who never dreams of getting up before eleven, and detests getting his hands dirty. But it's no good, Mr. Doone. Apart from the fact that he's got so much money that he doesn't know what to do with it, Stephen has only been in England since last December, while Vive le Sport has been flourishing for years.'

'It's a very nice idea, all the same,' laughed Sir Toby, surveying Nicholson with a smile that held a slight tinge of amused contempt.

Nicholson smiled, too, with a weary superiority that made Michael want to laugh and kick him, and then said that they misjudged him. The talk drifted to other topics, and soon afterwards Michael bade Adele good night. As he turned to go, Stephen Nicholson looked round to wave a farewell, and Michael saw a devil of laughter in his eyes.

Michael went home from that party on foot, and more than once he scandalised a solitary Robert on point duty with a sudden yelp of laughter.

CHAPTER XIII

'TO BE LET OR SOLD'

Thursday, June 4th. Exactly a week after Adele Lancaster's party. Nick, who had been dozing in a large chair, roused himself and looked at his watch. He was sleepy, because he had travelled down from Scotland the night before, and had talked Socialism all the way with a prominent agitator. It had been a tricky business, getting into his flat in Jermyn Street, without calling the porter's attention to his clothes.

On the whole, the past week had been a very satisfactory bit of work. He had spent most of the time in Glasgow, and had acquired a good deal of useful information.

Four o'clock. He pulled himself together and collected his hat. He was going to call on Jerry Mitchell. Time was getting on, and it might be as well to have that document handy. As he drove up to Hampstead he thought about her a good deal. To tell the truth, he had been thinking about her more than a little, during these ten days. An attractive child. He remembered her level, honest eyes, her quick smile. A courageous little person, with a charm all her own. It would be good to see her again.

It was a cheerful, sunshiny afternoon, and Nick whistled softly as he drove along. It would be fun to take Jerry out into the country for tea. The last week would have been pretty grim for her, with all the unnecessary horrors attached to inquests and funerals. He hoped Thorpe had looked after her. But Thorpe would certainly have stood by; sound man, Thorpe.

He remembered the road as he turned into it. The big, detached houses, relics of a more expansive age. Then, as he came to a standstill, he stared blankly. This was Mitchell's house, but the blinds were down and there was a large board up: 'To be let or sold.'

For a moment he sat still, frowning in thought. Then he drove on, and stopped his car fifty yards down the street. The precaution might be unnecessary, but Nick left nothing to chance. Having locked his gear, he went back to the house.

There might be a caretaker in charge, but somehow he didn't want to ring and find out. This was purely instinctive, but it never occurred to him to question that instinct. A high brick wall enclosed the garden. He prowled along it, and was rewarded by the sight of an iron gate, set in the end wall.

The garden was deserted and untidy. Keeping under cover of the bushes that lined the wall, he made his way towards the house. The study, he knew, looked out this way, and there were the big bay windows. Then he realised that the blinds were drawn back.

Nick moved quickly to the house, and keeping close to the wall, peered cautiously into the study. The furniture was still there—he remembered that heavy writing-desk, on which stood the telephone. Then he saw a man, stooping over a drawer in the big cupboard by the door. His back was turned, and he was busily sorting papers.

There was a laurel bush close to the house wall. It needed pruning badly, for it had grown almost across one side of the bay window. Nick wriggled himself into it, and kept very still. The man in the study thrust the papers back and shut the drawer with a gesture of annoyance. Then he turned towards the door, and Nick saw his face. It was Bobby Manvers.

He went through the desk with meticulous care, searching every drawer, examining every scrap of paper. Then he rose to his feet, smoothing back his hair and, lighting a cigarette, ran a thoughtful eye over the room. It was a glance that said as plainly as words: 'Is there anything I can have missed?'

Apparently he had not, for a moment later he went out, shutting the door behind him.

Nick slid out of his laurel bush, and made his way with swift caution to the gate. As he reached the front of the house he saw Bobby Manvers, in the distance, walking down the road.

Nick went slowly back to his car. He was wondering. He wanted to know a good many things, but the principal one was where Jerry could be found. The notice board said that the house was in the hands of Messrs. Carter and Brough, Golders Green, and accordingly he drove to their office.

The young man in charge was very polite, but uncommunicative. Yes, Miss Mitchell had put her house in their hands. Was Nick thinking of buying it? It was a most desirable residence with.... Oh. Quite. No, they could not say where Miss Mitchell was at the moment. Miss Mitchell had left some five days ago. They believed they were right in saying Miss Mitchell did not contemplate living in the house any more. They believed that Professor Mitchell had died suddenly, and so.... Yes. Quite. No, Miss Mitchell was having her correspondence sent to them, and every now and then she would come and collect it. Would he care to leave a note for Miss Mitchell?

Nick pondered. On the whole, it didn't seem a good plan. It would need too much explanation, and might be dangerous. He would have a shot at finding her first. It was not very difficult to trace people in London, if you knew the right way to go about it. Nick had his own methods of acquiring information. He came out of his muse, thanked the young man politely, and drove away.

So Bobby Manvers was interested in Jerry. Or ... what was Bobby Manvers interested in? Suddenly Nick remembered his passion for amateur detective work, and laughed aloud. No fool, Bobby, but very, very young.

CHAPTER XIV

TWINKLING WILLIAM'S DIARY

Saturday, June 6th, and eleven o'clock of a glorious sunny morning. Jerry Mitchell, being a woman of leisure, ought to have been out in the Park, but instead, she leant against the window-sill in the tiny sitting-room of her flat in 60 Quebec Street. In her hand she held a receipted bill; a bill for a week's board and lodging.

A whole week! It was seven days since she had left the Hampstead house. And yet in some ways it seemed more. They had not been uneventful, those seven days. Jerry smiled suddenly. No house that contained Milly could ever be uneventful. She herself had fallen for Milly on sight, and when she had listened to her first instalment of the Local News at breakfast, she had realised that she was going to enjoy herself in this strange place.

'Mr. Doone, 'im wot lives underneath 'ere, 'e's a one, an' no mistake! Thinks 'e's a woman-'ater, 'e does, but 'e'll learn 'is error in time. Comes from the Cannibal Islands, er some such. Ever ser nice 'e is, reely, but 'e wants tickin' orf at times. You know! It ain't that 'e's forward, as you might say, but it's jest that 'is manners are a bit orf. 'Owever, we're learnin' 'im, by degrees.'

'I'm all for good manners,' approved Jerry.

'So'm I, Miss Mitchell, an' wot I ses is, if they ain't got none, you got ter learn 'em, that's all. 'Tain't their fault, arf the time. It's the way they bin brought up. 'E useter frighten me at first, Mr. Doone did. Set there on 'is sofa, 'e did, an' scowl suthink orful. 'E does it still, sometimes, but all you got ter say is: "Now, then, no narsty temper, please!" an' 'e'll smile as sunny as anythink.'

Jerry chuckled, as she remembered how soon she had had proof of Milly's statement. That same evening her electric light had gone out. Mrs. Briggs had told her, when she first inspected the flat, that the light was run on a shilling-in-the-slot-meter. Jerry found the machine, but in the dark could not discover how it worked. After several efforts, and the useless expenditure of a shilling, she rang the bell. There was no reply. She waited a few minutes and then rang it again, with the same result. Rather nervously, feeling herself a stranger in an unknown country, she went out onto her landing and listened, hoping to hear the sound of Milly's racing feet. Below her all was dark. She waited in the gathering dusk, and at last heard hasty footsteps ascending the stairs.

'Is that you, Milly?' she called.

A second's silence, and then a man's voice, curtly 'No.' A pause, and then, 'I expect she's in the kitchen. D'you want her?'

'Well, my light's gone out, and....'

He had come up the last flight of stairs and was standing beside her, peering up at her wall. She noticed with amusement that he did not even look at her.

'Shilling-in-the-slot meter,' he said.

'I know. I put a shilling in, but nothing happened.'

He reached up and turned a handle. She heard the shilling fall with a click, and her sitting-room was lit up suddenly. Abruptly he turned away, saying gruffly, 'Perfectly simple.'

Jerry had a flashing memory of Milly's impertinent face, coupled with a vision of herself saying, 'Now, then, no narsty temper, please!' and had laughed outright. The man darted a glance at her, grinned guiltily, and growled, 'Shut up!' Exactly like a small boy, she reflected.

After that they had talked; had exchanged names; had spoken of Bobby Manvers, and then he had departed abruptly. But next day he had looked in to tell her that she was on no account to let Mrs. Briggs charge her a shilling a scuttle for coal, unless it was the big cauldron full. And since then they seemed to have developed a friendship of years; slightly domineering on Michael's part, and affectionately amused on Jerry's. She chuckled again at the thought of him. Rather a darling, Michael. And if it gave him pleasure to play the part of an irascible watch-dog—to scold her for staying indoors, or not eating enough lunch—who was she to deny him?

She pulled up a chair to her table, and picking up a big, leather-bound, loose-leaf book, began to read, but almost before she had found her place a knock on the door disturbed her.

'Come in!' she called.

Michael entered and stood, hands in pockets, regarding her with stern disapproval.

'You idiotic child, why must you fug indoors on a day like this?' he began. 'If you don't get a little fresh air and exercise you'll be ill, and serve you darned well right. It's a gorgeous day.'

'Gorgeous!' agreed Jerry placidly. 'You been out yet, Michael?'

'No; I've been waiting for you.'

'Hoo!' said Jerry, in open disbelief.

Michael grinned.

'Well, anyway, I'm going out now, so get a move on.'

'Sorry, old thing. I can't. Busy.'

'Rot! What's the book?'

She looked grave suddenly.

'William's diary. Don't wait for me if you'd rather not.'

'How long will you be?'

'Half an hour.'

'I'll wait ... if I may.'

This last was unexpected, and Jerry flashed him a surprised smile. 'Thanks awfully, Michael. That's angelic of you.'

Michael grunted, and picked up a copy of 'Punch.' For five minutes there was silence and then Jerry looked up.

'By the way, I've got a message for you.'

'Shoot!' mumbled Michael, absorbed in reading 'Punch.'

'Bobby rang up after tea yesterday, and he told me to tell you that you were a frightful success at Adele Lancaster's party.'

'The hell I was!' said Michael ungratefully. 'What's Bobby been up to, anyway? He's simply disappeared for the last week. I can't believe it's work. No one in their senses would employ Bobby as a barrister. Not sleuthing, is he?'

'As a matter of fact, he is,' said Jerry, with a slight frown. 'You see, he's convinced that William was murdered. Absolute rot, I think, but you know what a passion Bobby has for this detective stuff. I told him he could search the study for finger-prints, and he took me very seriously. In fact, I believe he has spent the last three days in going over the furniture with a magnifying-glass.'

Michael chuckled. 'I can't see our chubby Robert as a sleuth,' he said.

'Nor can I,' agreed Jerry. 'And yet—I know he's got brains, and he's certainly studied the subject. Oh, Michael, you're not to interrupt me any more.'

To this entirely unjustified attack Michael made no reply, but buried himself once more in his paper. For ten minutes there was not a sound but the rustle of turned pages, and then Jerry gave a little gasp. Michael looked up. Her eyes were on a page of the diary, and her face had lost all colour. Michael leapt to his feet.

'Jerry! What on earth...?'

She looked up at him oddly.

'There's a very queer story in here, Michael. May I read it to you? I—I don't know what to think.'

Michael sat down on a corner of the table, one long leg dangling. 'Go ahead,' he said.

'The first mention of the affair,' said Jerry, turning back several pages, 'happened on April 24th this year. Listen.

'A very curious event has occurred; an event so unusual that at moments I wonder if it can be true. I hardly know what to think of it, but I must confess it gives me great pleasure.

'I dined to-night, as I always do on Fridays, at the club, and afterwards played bridge with Loring, Collett, and John Rogers. On my way to the club I meant to post a letter, a somewhat bulky envelope, which I put in my pocket. The evening passed, as so many similar meetings have, without incident. Indeed, I remember thinking, as I put on my coat on leaving the club, that not a single detail of my life had changed for many years, and the thought gave me a feeling of regret. I have, I fear, an incurably romantic temperament, which Jerry inherits, and I comforted myself with the reflection that although nothing exciting would ever happen to me, there was every likelihood of adventure coming to her.

'As I was nearing home I happened to put my hand into my pocket and, to my surprise and annoyance, found that my envelope was still there. I thought I remembered posting it, and drew it out, looking round me to see if there were a letter-box in sight. There was not, but I was standing under a street lamp at the time and my eye fell on the envelope.

'It was not mine, nor had I ever seen it before. On it was written, in a small neat hand: "Please open this when you are alone," and across the top were inscribed the letters: "O.H.M.S."

'The night was cold, so I did not hesitate, but hurried home, much intrigued by this strange occurrence. I remember that the hall clock was striking midnight as I sat down by my desk to open the letter. It contained a note, and a second envelope addressed to "J. F. Strickland, Esq., 31, Buckingham Gate Mansions."

'The note was, apparently, addressed to me, although the writer did not know my name. He explained that he was doing Secret Service work, and that this second letter contained information for which, in his own words, "a certain section of our anti-English society is searching." His enemies were pursuing him, and he had taken refuge in the club, although he knew none of the members. Realising that something must be done, he conceived the brilliant idea of slipping the letter into my pocket. On reading his letter, I bitterly regretted that I had not been more observant. I now remember vaguely that there was a man in the lobby as I left the club, but I cannot recall a single detail of his appearance. His writing—and, in a small way, I have studied calligraphy—is that of a scholar and a gentleman, and every line of his letter carries conviction.

'He went on to say that he would call for his envelope as soon as possible, but asked me, if need arose, to keep it for him until June 10th. That is, apparently, an important date. If he has not fetched it by then, I am to send it to this Mr. Strickland. He gave me an address to which I could write, but no name, only initials, and as the address was a poste restante one, I imagine that it would not be permanent. I shall write to-morrow morning, and tell him how honoured I am to have his confidence.'

Jerry paused, and looked at Michael.

'Very odd,' said he. 'Didn't he tell you anything about it?'

'Not a word. You wait.' She continued reading:

'April 25th.—I have been considering last night's affair with much deliberation. I have read a great many books of adventure and mystery, and some of the customs common to both heroes and villains have struck me as being strangely unintelligent. In particular, the curious habit of carrying valuable documents on the person—a perpetual invitation to assault by the other party. I do not intend to run that risk, especially as I know myself to be both absent-minded and deplorably untidy. This morning, therefore, I took the envelope to the bank, and repeated my correspondent's instructions, namely—that if I have not withdrawn it before June 10th, it is to be sent to this Mr. Strickland. I must say I sincerely hope it will be fetched before then, as I am anxious to meet my correspondent. My only regret is that I am unable to tell Jerry of the affair. She would enjoy it so enormously. But my correspondent urgently begged me to mention the matter to no one, and I feel bound to respect his wishes.'

Again Jerry paused, her eyes on the familiar crabbed handwriting.

Michael nodded appreciatively.

'Sportsman!' he said.

Suddenly the girl buried her face in her hands.

'It's all so frightfully like him,' she said in a muffled voice that shook a little.

Michael's face changed swiftly, and he put out a hand and stroked her bent head awkwardly.

Jerry pulled herself together.

'He says no more about it for some time,' she went on. 'It crops up again on May 22d.'

'My strange adventure of April 24th has had a sequel. Every day I have wondered whether my unknown friend would call, and I had almost given up hope when this afternoon a Mr. Robertson called on me.

'He was a tall man with a neatly trimmed black beard; swarthy and dark-eyed. If it had not been for his name and his perfect English voice, I should have put him down as an Italian. Having never seen him before, I was at a loss to understand his visit, but he came to the point at once. Apologising for the strangeness of his question, he asked me if I had been given a letter, in the Jameson Club, on the night of April 24th.

'I am afraid I hesitated. The question was so sudden and unexpected that it took me off my guard. Seeing my obvious hesitation, his face cleared.

'"What a relief!" he said. "I see that you are the man I have been looking for. Let me explain myself. The man who gave you that letter is a friend of mine. For many reasons I would rather conceal his name; no doubt you will have gathered that his mission was a somewhat secret one. Last week I had an urgent message from the Birmingham General Hospital. My friend had been in a motor accident, and is now in hospital, suffering from severe concussion. I gathered that he had been continually asking for me, and that the doctor considered it wise to send for me. Of course I caught the next train north. Poor old chap, I found him terribly ill."

'I may say that my caller looked very distressed indeed. I offered him a cigar, and begged him to continue. He went on to tell me that his friend was only half conscious, but that it was obvious that something was preying on his mind. By dint of much careful questioning, this Mr. Robertson had gathered that his friend was very anxious to recover some papers, or a paper ... which he had given into the charge of a member of the Jameson Club. "Since I returned to London," he added, "I have called on almost every member, for my poor friend was unable to tell me the man's name. The fact that he seems to have lost his memory is distressing him terribly. He kept telling me that he must have the papers before June 10th. That date seemed to ring in his head."

'It rang in mine, too, for that was the date upon which my unknown correspondent had asked me to post his letter, should he not have claimed it. And yet I hesitated, principally, I must admit, from a feeling of disappointment. I had hoped to meet the man.

'"I may say," continued Mr. Robertson, "that I have no idea what information these papers contain; nor have I any desire to know, but I am more than a little anxious about my friend, for the doctors tell me that he is in a critical condition, and they consider this obsession is dangerous. Therefore, I beg you to let me have the papers, so that I may take them to him, and set his mind at rest."

'I felt myself to be in a difficult position. I did not doubt Mr. Robertson's story—indeed the man's distress seemed obviously genuine—but still I felt myself pledged to my unknown friend. So, believing frankness to be the better part, I laid the position before him. I told him that I had been given the letter, with a covering note asking me to keep it until a certain date, and adding that if the writer himself had not claimed it before then, I was to post it to an address he had given me.'

'"Forgive me, but do you know him?" he asked.

'I told him that I did not know the man, but that he knew me. I said that he had arranged to call in person for the letter, and that until then he had expressly asked me to keep it for him.

'"Oh, that explains it," he said. "Poor old chap, I understand now. That was why he was so distressed at having forgotten your name. It was terrible, Professor Mitchell, for one could do nothing to help him."

'His distress moved me very much, but I persisted in my explanation. I told him, with many apologies, that, though I did not doubt his story, he had given me no actual proof that he came from my correspondent, and that, until he did so, I could not feel justified in breaking faith with a man who had trusted me.

'For a minute he was silent, his eyes on the floor. Then he looked up and smiled.

'"You're perfectly right, Professor," he said. "George is a sound judge of men. May I suggest a means of proving my statement? Will you write to the Matron of the Birmingham Hospital, and ask her if she has a serious concussion case in at the moment? Mention my name. I was there exactly a week ago, and she will remember me."

'I considered, and said that it seemed a perfectly satisfactory plan. He sighed with relief.

'"In that case, I will say good-bye," he said. "Thank you a thousand times, Professor Mitchell. By the way, I should be very grateful if you would ask the Matron to wire her reply. I know that every minute is important in my friend's critical condition. If you write to-night, you will get her answer by to-morrow afternoon. If I may, I will call to-morrow night for the papers. I have no doubt that the Matron will confirm my story."

'And with that he left. As soon as he had gone I wrote to the Matron of the Birmingham Hospital, and asked her to wire her patient's authority for me to hand the papers to his friend. Then I posted the letter and, since returning to the house, have recorded the incident.

'It is all very strange. And I must say I had not imagined his name to be George.'

Jerry turned the page slowly, and hesitated.

'Carry on,' said Michael.

'This one's dated May 23d,' she said. 'That was that Saturday——'

She bit her lip, and continued reading:

'May 23d—midday.—This morning I had qualms about my letter to the Matron. Knowing the matter to be on her patient's mind, would she not run the risk and give me permission on her own authority, hoping to set him at rest? Women have little sense of proportion. And even if she assured me that she had a patient with serious concussion, and that he had a friend called Robertson, was I justified in assuming my caller to be the same man? And yet again, what proof had I that the man in hospital was my man? A hundred times I told myself that I was simply making difficulties to hide my own disappointment, but the doubt persisted, and finally, while I was out for a walk this morning, I decided to ring up the Birmingham Hospital. I think I had some wild hope that I might be allowed to speak to the man myself.

'I got through fairly quickly, and spoke to the Matron. To my astonishment she failed to identify Mr. Robertson, knew nothing of my letter, and, what is more, assured me that they had no serious concussion case in the hospital at the moment. I thanked her and returned home, my brain in a whirl. It seems incredible that Mr. Robertson should have told me such a fabrication of lies, and yet.... It is all very disturbing, but I must admit, very exciting, too. Very sad that I cannot tell Jerry the whole story. But, of course, she might urge me to inform the police. I feel certain my unknown friend did not want their assistance in this affair.

'Later.—A telegram has just arrived. It reads:

Patient confirms Robertson's story, authorises you deliver letter.—Matron.

'So my suspicion was justified. It has brought home to me the fact that this affair is really serious. To start with, my correspondence has been tampered with. Mr. Robertson is a rogue and is, no doubt, one of the "opponents" of whom my correspondent spoke. He certainly did not appear to be a violent man, but now I come to think of it, the villains of fiction are usually of a blameless appearance, so why not the villains of real life?

'When he comes to-night I shall tell him that I have changed my mind, and shall keep the letter until his friend is well enough to fetch it himself in the prearranged manner. Mr. Robertson is a scoundrel. I hope I shall not become angry with him, for in that case I may be tempted to tell him what I think of him.

'Later still.—Jerry has just looked in to say good-night, and again I longed to tell her the story. I wish that she could find out, so that we could discuss it with a clear conscience. I know she would be as loyal to this strange friend of mine as I would be myself.

'It is late. I do not think Mr. Robertson can be coming to-night. A little disappointing. It would give me pleasure to deny him the letter. However, the time will come, no doubt. And eventually I still hope to meet my friend who trusted me ... I hope, not in vain.'

Jerry put down the book and faced Michael. There was a long silence. Then she got up and walked over to the fireplace. Michael watched her, his face set grimly.

'Michael,' she said at last, quietly.

'Yes?'

'That man killed him.'

Michael nodded.

'He came that night, after I'd gone to bed. Probably William lost his temper—lying always made him see red—and Robertson killed him.'

Michael nodded again. His savage expression seemed to give Jerry self-possession. Her voice was even and steady as she went on:

'Dr. Thorpe told me he had not been dead more than half an hour when I found him. He thought probably less. The murderer may even have been in the house. Why didn't he search it, I wonder? Nothing was disturbed.'

'Probably your father told him the letter was in the bank,' said Michael gruffly.

She nodded slowly. 'Yes, I expect he did. My blessed, truculent old William. Anyway, Robertson didn't get it. I tell you, Michael, I'm going to take on this thing for William. His man shall get that letter, or no one.'

A shade of anxiety crossed Michael's face, and he moved uncomfortably. Jerry guessed his thoughts.

'Are you seeing me as the next victim?' She smiled. 'I think we'll be able to avoid that. We won't give ourselves away as William did. But of course this man Robertson must know about me. Cheer up, Michael; if he calls, I promise I'll send for you. You shall be in the scrap, old thing!'

Michael grinned at her, but his eyes held something very like admiration.

'It's rather good to have something to fight, isn't it?' said Jerry. 'No quarter! We'll smash this bloke, Michael. Of course, we may have to wait a while, but sooner or later there'll be our cue. Enter the murderer!'

As if in answer to her words, there was a heavy knock on the door.

CHAPTER XV

BOBBY'S THEORY

Michael slid off the table and took two strides in the direction of the door, but Jerry checked him with a warning hand, and said steadily: 'Come in.'

Slowly the door opened and Bobby Manvers's chubby, smiling face appeared. With a shout of laughter, Michael dropped into a chair.

'What's the joke?' asked Bobby, in some surprise.

'Nothing, Bobby,' Jerry assured him. 'We weren't expecting to see you, that's all.'

'By the look on Michael's face you were expecting a s-summons at least,' said Bobby. 'Anyway, how are you, Jerry? Feel as if I hadn't seen you for years.'

'It seems ages,' agreed Jerry. 'That's because so much happens these days. What have you been up to, Bobby? Found any clues?'

'N-not many,' admitted Bobby, 'but I still——Well, I know you won't believe me, Jerry, but I still think it was murder.'

'As a matter of fact,' said Jerry, mechanically twisting a candlestick on her mantelpiece, 'I'm not sure I don't agree with you.'

'Good Lord! Why, what's happened?'

For answer she took from the loose-leaf book the pages she had just read to Michael, and handed them to Bobby, who sat down on the table to read them, his round young face very grave. Jerry offered Michael a cigarette, and lit one herself. There was silence in the little room, until at last Bobby laid the papers down on the table.

'That proves it,' he said slowly. 'Jerry, what do you feel about this business?'

'I feel that it is our duty to see that this enterprising unknown gets his envelope back, and that the man Robertson be apprehended, tried, sentenced, and well and truly hanged,' said Jerry, with a flippancy that did not hide the stark purpose underlying her tone.

Bobby nodded. 'We've still got some time in hand, as far as the envelope is concerned,' he said. 'Let's see, to-day's the sixth, isn't it? But we've got to set about getting this chap Robertson. Look here, Jerry, will you tell me exactly what happened that Sunday morning, when you found your father?'

Jerry told him, with no more words than were necessary. She told him how she had waked suddenly; had gone down and found her father dead; had rung up the doctor, and failed to get through.

'And then what did you do?' asked Bobby.

'Went out to the front door. I wanted some fresh air.'

'Was anyone in sight?'

'Yes. A motorist, changing a tyre.'

'Did he see you?'

'Yes.' Jerry hesitated, and then continued coolly: 'I spoke to him, and told him what had happened. He was very helpful. I didn't know what to do, so he came in, and got hold of a doctor for me, and saw to everything. Then I went back to bed, and left him and the doctor in charge.'

Bobby was silent for a moment.

'What was his name?' he asked suddenly.

'I don't know,' said Jerry. 'He didn't tell me his surname; just said he was called "Nick."'

'Didn't that strike you as being rather odd?'

'Oh, my dear Bobby!' Jerry's tone was impatient. 'So many impossible things had already happened that morning that nothing seemed odd any longer. What are you driving at?'

'Well, has it never occurred to you that he might have been the murderer?'

Jerry stared, and then smiled.

'No, Bobby, it hasn't. And it doesn't strike me as probable, even now.'

'Well, you must admit that it's all rather strange. To start with, according to medical authority, the professor had been dead less than half an hour when you found him. I wouldn't mind betting that it was the sound of his fall that woke you. Now, the murderer came for that letter and he didn't search for it. One of two reasons prevented him. Either your father told him that it was in the bank, or else he heard you coming downstairs. Imagine that he heard you, and cleared out. Which would have been his easiest exit? He didn't go by the window, we know. It was still bolted when Lucy went in there. She told me so.'

'The front door,' said Jerry. 'He'd have had to pass the foot of the stairs to go out by the back.'

'Well, suppose he went out by the front door. Wouldn't this motorist chap have seen him? You can't change a wheel in less than five minutes, you know.'

'Yes, I suppose so,' said Jerry slowly.

'And if he did see him, as it seems he must, isn't it a little odd that he didn't say so?'

'But look here, Bobby, this man was about thirty, fair and clean-shaven. William's description of Mr. Robertson doesn't fit.'

'That might easily be a disguise, which he removed before you came out. And then, if he was innocent, why didn't he turn up to give evidence at the inquest? He was the first person, bar you, in the house. Why didn't the doctor fellow call him as a witness?'

'There might be half a hundred reasons for that,' said Jerry. 'He might have been out of England. For the rest of your theory, the murderer may have never left the house till afterwards; or he may equally well have gone before the motorist arrived; I don't know how long I was in the study. I hate to crab your theory, but it doesn't sound frightfully conclusive to me. I admit that it might have been the motorist, but it might just as easily not have been. None of his actions were suspicious, unless you count the fact that he didn't tell me his surname, and a good many men have concealed that in their time, I expect.'

Bobby shook his head, unconvinced, and even Michael looked grave. Jerry laughed, conscious of rising irritation.

'The thing to decide, at the moment, is whether or not we are to hand these papers of William's to Scotland Yard. I'm against it, myself. If William's pal had wanted his story to go to the police, he'd have said so. The envelope isn't addressed to the Yard, remember. If we give them William's papers, they'll want the envelope, too. Suppose we advertise for the man? We might try a notice in "The Times," headed "The Jameson," and see what happens.'

'Far too dangerous,' said Bobby decidedly. 'This man Robertson is no fool. You bet he'll be on the lookout. And he knows you're alone, now.'

'Still clinging to the idea of the murderous motorist?' said Jerry. 'You're barking up the wrong tree, Bobby.'

'My dear child, I'm sure the fellow was frightfully sympathetic and all that, but you mustn't let it upset your judgment. You can't take people by their face values in a show like this. After all, that's what your father did with Robertson. And to put an advertisement in the paper at this stage would be insanity. I won't have you running into danger like that.'

Jerry raised her eyebrows, and her voice was dangerously silky as she answered.

'I haven't yet decided what I'll do, Bobby, darling, but when I do, I'll let you know. In the mean time, I would rather you refrained from taking any steps without referring to me.'

There was a second's silence.

'I know it's n-none of my business,' said Bobby, 'but for God's sake, don't get yourself into a hole, Jerry. We're all reasonably fond of you, and I've got a horrid feeling that you don't realise how dangerous this affair may be.'

'I do, and I only wish I had someone to advise me,' said Jerry, with deliberate intent to wound. 'Some man with a certain amount of experience, who knew what he was talking about. I'm tired of jumping to conclusions.'

Bobby bit his lip and looked unhappily at the floor.

'Why not ask old Toby Ward what he thinks about it?' suggested Michael. 'He's a lawyer, and at the same time he manages to be human.'

'I don't think I know him,' said Jerry frostily.

Michael restrained a smile, and his eyes narrowed.

'I should very much like you to meet him,' he said.

Their eyes met and clashed. Then Jerry bubbled with laughter.

'All right, Michael,' she said. 'Will you drive me down there to-morrow?'

'I will.'

Jerry glanced at Bobby, and relented.

'Can we take Bobby, too?' she asked. 'Will you come, Robert? Do!'

Bobby's face cleared, and he rose to his feet.

'Thanks awfully, I'd love to,' he said. 'I s-say, it's past two, and I'm starving. Can't you both come and have lunch with me?'

'I think I should like to very much,' said Jerry. 'I must be back by half-past three, though, because I'm going out to tea.' She caught Michael's eye and smiled. 'If you will wait two minutes while I get my hat on——' The sentence unfinished, she ran off.

Michael offered Bobby a cigarette in silent sympathy.

'One has got to be damned careful with that child,' said Bobby. 'I was a fool.'

Michael nodded.

'All the same, Mike, it d-does look a bit suspicious. That motorist bloke, and all.'

'I know,' said Michael. 'Not sure I don't agree with you. But there's no point in my saying so too. She's having tea with me this afternoon. Here she comes.'

'I'm ready,' announced Jerry blithely. 'Lead me to lunch, Bobby. Exit three care-free people, screaming for food.'

Michael and Bobby exchanged a swift glance, in which amusement, despair, and resignation were evenly blended.

CHAPTER XVI

NICK REFUSES TO EXPLAIN

'I'm sorry I snubbed poor Bobby so hard,' said Jerry, curling herself comfortably in Michael's largest chair, 'but if you give him his head with this detective stuff he becomes intolerable. I'm fond of Bobby, but I will not be dictated to by any man on earth.'

'Have some more tea?' suggested Michael, steering clear of danger.

'No, thanks. Very good meal, Michael.'

'Yes, Milly's done us proud to-day.' He rose and hunted in the litter on his sideboard for cigarettes.

'"Ever ser dice, Mister Dood is,"' quoted Jerry.

Michael laughed, and as if in echo, they heard Milly's voice on the stairs.

'Yuss, I know 'e's in, sir. Mind that loose carpet. If yer fall down I'll come an' pick yer up.'

'Who the blazes——' began Michael, but a crash on the door interrupted him.

'Gennleman ter see yer,' announced Milly, turning to make devastating eyes at someone outside.

Michael took a step towards the door.

'Hullo, Nicholson!' he said. 'Good business! Come in.'

'I told yer 'e was in,' said Milly, lingering. 'D'yer want any more sangwidges, Mr. Doone?'

'No, thanks, Milly. We've got plenty.'

'Right-o. Good-bye!' This directly to the guest.

'Good-bye, and thanks very much,' said Stephen Nicholson, with an amused twinkle. 'How are you, Doone?'

'Flourishing, thanks. May I introduce——'

Michael checked, in surprise. Jerry was standing on the hearth, staring at his guest, and there was a smile in her eyes.

'Hullo, Nick!' she said quietly.

Nicholson crossed the room in two strides and held out his hand.

'You!' he said. 'How surprising, and how perfectly splendid!'

They shook hands enthusiastically, and then, with a sudden self-consciousness, Jerry turned to Michael.

'My friend the motorist,' she explained; then to Nicholson, 'I've often wanted to tell you what a perfect brick that man Thorpe was. No one could have been nicer or more comforting. I fell in love with him.'

'I was afraid you would,' smiled Nicholson. 'In fact, I was pretty self-sacrificing about it. But he's a good chap, Thorpe. I've known him for years.'

'So I gathered.' Jerry laughed.

'Did you? Has Thorpe been giving me away? Let's hear the worst.'

'I can tell you exactly what he said about you,' said Jerry. 'I told him how kind you'd been, and all that'—Nicholson made a grimace—and he rubbed his chin and said, "Adequate fella, Nick. Always was."'

They laughed together. Michael watched them, filling his pipe with exaggerated care. He had not missed the change in Jerry, nor the fact that Nicholson never took his eyes off her. And so Vive le Sport was her unknown motorist. Michael suddenly began to wonder. After all, he knew nothing about the man, except from hearsay. He was a good fellow, all right, and for his own part he liked him, but Jerry was another proposition. A host of queries and doubts began to grow in his mind and, added to them, came a vivid memory of Adele Lancaster's affected voice: 'All women fall in love with him, and then he rides away in the approved style.' Michael looked at Jerry and scowled.

'Have you had tea?' she was saying. 'I'm afraid we've finished, but there's some left, isn't there, Michael?'

'I expect it's cold,' said Michael.

Nicholson gave him a swift glance, and something like a smile glinted in his eyes.

'I never drink tea,' he said, 'not even under pressure. Tell me, when did you leave Hampstead? I had a horrible shock the other day. I called on you, and found a "Let or Sold" board up.'

'I'm so sorry, but I couldn't write and let you know, could I? I left last Saturday. It was a bit grim, you know, that house.'

Nicholson nodded with quick sympathy.

'Then Bobby had the great idea of finding me rooms. Bobby Manvers. D'you know him?'

There was a second's silence before Nicholson answered. So slight a pause as to be almost imperceptible, but Michael noticed it. 'Yes, I've met him. Is he a friend of yours?'

'Rather! I've known him for ages. Well, you see, Bobby and Michael discovered that the top flat in this house was to let, so I took it, and I've been here a week now. It's a good spot, my flat. You must come and see it some time.'

'I'd love to. This seems to be an exciting house, altogether.'

'You mean Milly?' She chuckled. 'Milly's the mainspring of the house, and the sunshine of our lives, isn't she, Michael?'

Michael at that moment was relighting his pipe, and did not answer. Nicholson glanced at him again, and this time his smile was unconcealed. A church clock tolled solemnly, and Jerry looked at her watch.

'Heavens! it's half-past six, and I've got to get changed and go out to dinner by seven! Good-bye, Nick. Come and see me some time. So long, Michael, old thing. Thank you for my nice tea.'

She ran off, and they heard her quick footsteps on the stairs. As the sound died away Nicholson pulled out his case and lit a cigarette. He took some time about it, but as he threw the match into the grate, he turned and faced Michael squarely.

'Well, what is it?' he asked.

Michael hesitated. This was a direct appeal, and Nicholson meant it. His eyes were steady and very friendly. He was puzzled, Michael knew, and anxious to hear what was wrong, and yet.... The moment went by, and Michael bent forward to knock the ashes out of his pipe.

'Amazing coincidence, that you should turn out to be Jerry's motorist pal,' he said.

Nicholson's eyes lost all expression suddenly, and his smile had a twist of contempt.

'Amazing,' he agreed. 'Beastly business, that. Frightful shock for the child.'

'Why didn't you turn up at the inquest?' asked Michael.

'Wasn't in England. Why? Would it have made any difference to her if I had?'

'I don't know,' said Michael. 'By the way, did you see anyone come out of that house when you were changing your wheel?'

'Your wheel, to be exact. No. Why?'

'Because old Mitchell hadn't been dead for more than half an hour when Jerry found him, and it's beginning to look as if that fall of his wasn't an accident.'

For a moment Nicholson was silent, staring at his cigarette. Then he said slowly: 'Murder, was it? H'm!'

Michael said nothing.

'Who's in charge of the case?' asked Nicholson suddenly.

'In charge? What d'you mean?'

'Well, damn it, someone must be. Who's investigating it? Hasn't anyone from the Yard been here?' His tone was impatient.

'Not as far as I know.'

'Has no one asked Jerry anything about it? They must have.'

For some reason Michael resented his casual use of the Christian name.

'The information that suggests that it was murder has only just cropped up,' he said. 'We don't want Jerry to be worried by any infernal policemen, asking fatuous questions. Manvers knows her end of the story, of course, and he can tell Scotland Yard all they want to know.'

'So Manvers is in charge, is he?' said Nicholson. 'Good Lord!'

'He seems to have as much right to interfere as anyone else,' said Michael.

Nicholson cocked one eyebrow and smiled.

'Perhaps you're right,' he said. 'Well, well, this is an astonishing world. I think I'd better be going.'

Michael did not attempt to detain him. Nicholson collected his hat and gloves, and tucked his stick under his arm, frowning abstractedly.

As he turned to the door Michael spoke:

'When I lost you that night, you were on the Colchester Road, heading southwest for London, and in a devil of a hurry to keep an appointment. I wonder why you went the longest way round, and came in by Hampstead?'

Nicholson laughed outright.

'My dear chap, Hampstead affects me like that,' he said confidentially. 'It has a curious magnetic influence over me, 'specially when I'm tired. If I don't concentrate like blazes, I simply drive straight to Hampstead. All most peculiar, but, anyway, there it is. So long.'

The door shut behind him. In spite of himself, Michael grinned. And then he remembered Jerry, and the smile vanished.

CHAPTER XVII

NICK MAKES AN ALLY

Stephen Nicholson went down the steps of No. 60 Quebec Street slowly and thoughtfully. He was worried. In the hall he met Milly, who gave him a friendly, impertinent smile and nod.

'Do you know if Miss Mitchell has gone out, Milly?'

'Just two minutes ago, sir. Saw 'er into the taxi meself.'

'Oh. Know where she was going?'

'No idea. Out ter dinner, she told me, an' dancin' afterwards. Said she wouldn't be in till late. She did a quick change all right. I 'elped 'er. Ever ser nice she looked.'

'I'm sure she did. Good-night, Milly.'

'G'night, sir.'

Nick crossed the road and entered the Park. He wanted to think and, as usual, he made for open country. In his ears rang Michael's curt voice: 'It wasn't an accident.'

So the Chief had found out. The Chief had traced that infernal document, and the result had been the death of 'Twinkling William.' Then Nick thought of Jerry, and cold terror gripped him. For the first time in his life he realised what it meant to be afraid for someone else, and he set his teeth. He checked his stride, with a sudden desire to go back to Quebec Street, but realised that it was useless. He couldn't sit outside the house until the small hours of the morning and then spring this wild story on her.

Nick dropped onto a bench and lit a cigarette. There wasn't anything he could do, at the moment. It was hopeless to try to find out where she was. The only person who would be likely to know was Michael Doone, and it was highly improbable that he would tell. With a flicker of exasperated amusement, Nick wondered what had been the matter with Michael. Did he really think that he—Stephen Nicholson—had been Mitchell's murderer? Or was he merely jealous of his acquaintance with Jerry? Perhaps Michael was in love with her. Only too probable, in fact. It was bad luck on Michael, but couldn't be helped. Nick was conscious of a sudden certainty. Jerry was his, and he hadn't known how much she meant to him until he had realised her danger. Then another stab of thought drove him to his feet again. It was all damned fine to know that he loved her and that she was in danger, but what was he going to do about it? He'd got to make certain of her safety, and he had no shadow of right to interfere. Good God! she might be walking straight into a trap at this very moment.

He threw away his cigarette and tried to consider the position sanely. The whole affair turned on the problem he had set himself to unravel long before he knew of Jerry's existence. He had got to discover the Chief, before either he or Jerry could consider themselves safe. To-morrow he would go and see Jerry and tell her the whole story. That at least would put her on her guard. It wouldn't be a very pleasant job telling her. Jerry would take it bravely, that was one comfort. A plucky child; he'd had ample proof of that.

In the meantime, what could he do? It was no good sitting still and contemplating the fact that if it had not been for him, Jerry and her father would still have been living happily together. That way lay madness. All things considered, the best thing would be to go down to the docks and see if any of his old friends, the enemy, were still looking for him. At best, he might get some information. At worst, there might be a scrap, and that would comfort him a good deal. He turned on his heel and tramped off to his rooms to change.

At ten o'clock next morning he stood outside No. 60 Quebec Street, waiting impatiently for an answer to his ring. It was an early hour to pay a call, but he dared not risk missing Jerry. For an hour he had tramped up and down the Park, keeping one eye on his watch, and wondering how soon he could see her, and what he was going to say when he did. And now—was the household dead? He rang again.

There was a sound of shuffling footsteps, and the door was opened by a thin, wispy-looking woman with a sackcloth apron, who stared at him blankly.

'Is Miss Mitchell in?' he asked.

'Miss Mitchell?' she echoed dully.

'Yes.'

'Is that the top flat?'

'Er ... yes.'

'I ain't seen 'er go out,' she admitted cautiously, and stood back, holding the door open.

Nicholson entered, rather doubtfully. 'I suppose she's ... er ... had her breakfast?' he asked.

'I couldn't say, sir,' said the woman, 'I'm the char.'

'All right. I'll go up and see,' said Nicholson.

'That'd be best, I expec',' said the woman, with obvious relief.

Nicholson made his way up the narrow, badly lit staircase. No one was about. Below, in the basement, he could hear a shrill voice raised in song; some popular sentimental ballad of unrequited love, of the type that every Londoner must always associate with a Cockney twang. But abovestairs everything was as quiet as the grave. At the door of Jerry's sitting-room he knocked. There was no answer. He hesitated a moment and then opened the door and looked in. The room was empty. The open windows let in a flood of sunshine, and a bowl of roses on the table glowed in the golden light. The whole room cried aloud of Jerry, so that he could almost see her before him, slim and erect, dancing eyes and friendly smile.

From the street below a voice cried: 'Cu' fla!' in a musical jodel. He walked to the window and looked down, to see a hawker with a barrow full of bunches of cut flowers, bright splashes of colour in the grey street. Slowly Nicholson turned back to the room. Where was Jerry? Still in bed, perhaps. Lazy little brute!

On the desk by the window stood a photograph, a snapshot of a man and a girl. Jerry herself. He picked it up. A good snap: very like her. Just the impertinent cock of the head, and those level, laughing eyes. And the man? Nicholson bit his lip. His friend in need, to whom he had brought this ghastly finish. Such a decent fellow, too. And ... Jerry's father. He dropped into a chair, and rubbed his forehead wearily.

Suddenly a voice behind him spoke:

''Ullo. Wot's yore trouble?'

Nick started and looked round. In the doorway stood Milly, leaning negligently against the jamb, and surveying him with serenely impertinent blue eyes.

'I—er—called to see Miss Mitchell,' said Nick, feeling slightly disconcerted.

'Yer luck's out. She's gone,' said Milly.

'What?' He started to his feet.

Milly waved a restraining hand.

'Keep yer seat, sir. Don't let's 'ave no panic. She's comin' back.'

'Where's she gone, and how?'

'She's gone for a motor drive with Mr. Doone.'

'Where?'

Milly raised her eyebrows, and flicked at the sideboard with her duster. 'Can't say as I arst 'er,' she said distantly.

Nick bit his lip, and tried to check the flood of imaginary horrors that swept through his brain.

'Excuse me, sir,' Milly's tone was extravagantly polite, 'but are you wot y' might call engaged to Miss Mitchell?'

'Not yet,' said Nick.

Milly smiled, disarmed.

'She's ever ser nice,' she said.

'She is.'

'You don't need ter worry about 'er an' Mr. Doone,' volunteered Milly encouragingly. 'She ain't keen on 'im, not wot you'd call keen, y' know. Likes 'im like a brother, she does. I c'n tell be the way she talks to 'im.'

'I'm not worried about that,' said Nick, 'but I want to see her, badly. Where have they gone?'

'You ain't goin' after 'em, are yer? I wouldn't, if I was you,' advised Milly. 'I tell yer straight, Miss Mitchell ain't the one ter be got by that there cave-man stuff. She ain't that sort. If she likes yer, she does, but she won't stand fer no interference. Take it from me.'

'Look here, Milly,' said Nick desperately, 'this is serious. I've got to know where she is.'

Milly laughed indulgently.

'You ain't arf got it bad,' she commented. 'Won't it keep till this evenin'? She'll be back ter dinner, I expect.'

'No, it won't,' said Nick. 'Milly, can you hold your tongue?'

'Yuss. No one believes it, but it's true.'

'Then listen to me, and keep this to yourself. Miss Mitchell's in very considerable danger. I can't tell you the whole story, but she's got something which one or two people want very badly, and they mean to get it. They tried to get it from her father, but they didn't succeed. She doesn't know anything about it, and neither does Mr. Doone. I only found out myself last night.'

He paused. Milly's cheerful face had become oddly grave, and her eyes never left Nick's.

'Didn't you ought ter put 'er wise?'

'That's what I came here for, this morning.'

'I 'eard someone say as 'er father 'ad been murdered. Is that true?'

'It is. Now will you tell me where she's gone?'

'Down t' the country, Ipswich way, she told me at breakfast. Mr. Doone's drivin' 'er down to 'ave lunch with a Sir Somebody Suthink.'

'O Lord! Can't you remember any more than that?'

'Lemme think. She did say the name of the 'ouse. She said it ter Mr. Doone when they was gettin' inter the car. I saw 'em orf. She ses: "'Ow long will it take ter git ter ..." now, wot was it? Funny name. Put me in mind o' food, some'ow.'

Milly stirred up her hair reflectively. Nick waited, with as much patience as he could muster. Suddenly her face cleared.

''Igh Ash! That was it!' she announced triumphantly.

''Igh...? Oh, yes, High Ash. Sir Toby Ward's house.'

'That's 'im! That's where they've gone. Mr. Doone's takin' 'er there t' lunch, an' they're pickin' up Mr. Manvers an' takin' 'im too, so you 'aven't got no call to worry.' She chuckled.

Nick whistled. 'Are they, begad! Well, it's a strange world. What time did they start, Milly?'

'About nine.'

'That was early.'

'That's wot I said, but Mr. Doone said suthink about startin' early so's they could get the pow-wow over before lunch.'

Nick looked up sharply. 'What did Miss Mitchell say?'

'Oh, she says: "All right, but if I don't like 'im I ain't goin' ter tell 'im anythink, an' you an' Bobby can go t' blazes." She knows 'er own mind, Miss Mitchell does.'

In spite of his worry, Nick grinned.

'Well, thanks most awfully, Milly. You've been a great help. Now listen. Don't say anything about Miss Mitchell to anyone. It's more than likely that people will come here and ask you questions about her. Put them off. Make them think that you don't know anything about her. Don't tell them anything, even if they say they're friends of hers.'

'Not even if they say they're sweet on 'er?'

''Specially not then.'

'Well, it's a good job fer you that no one's bin round ter tell me that afore you come, ain't it?' said Milly.

Nick looked at her. 'This is serious, you know, Milly.'

'I know, Mr. Nicholson. I believe yer ... Lord knows why.' She thought for a moment, frowning, and then added: 'I reckon it's because I seen yer lookin' at that there photygraft.'

Nick said nothing.

'I likes Miss Mitchell,' said Milly, raising her eyes to his.

'So do I,' said Nick.

Milly smiled suddenly.

'Well, she might do worse than 'ave you,' she conceded.

Nick laughed. 'Thank you, Milly. Now I must go. Good-bye.'

'Good-bye, Mr. Nicholson. Can y' find yer own way out? I gotta sweep this room.'

'Rather.' Nick picked up his hat and stick and departed.

As he reached the turn of the stairs, Milly hailed him, and he looked up to see her hanging over the banisters, the old impertinent twinkle in her eyes.

'Arsk us t' the weddin', won't yer?'

'Bet your life!' laughed Nick, and ran downstairs.

It seemed an age before he got back to his garage, and another before his car was ready to start, but at last he got under way, and struggled through the traffic to the Great North Road. Long experience had taught him that the shortest route from London to the eastern counties took longest, and he made for the north and the clear roads. A clock stood at eleven-thirty as he drove through Golders Green. Over a hundred and twenty miles to go. He could do it in three hours, with luck and a certain amount of law-breaking. Nick settled down to drive.

After Hatfield the road was clear of traffic, and he let his car out. She was running well, and the drone of the engine made a level background for his thoughts. Jerry, principally. Half a hundred pictures of her. Jerry as he had seen her on that opal-coloured morning, standing beside him in the grey Hampstead street. Her pluck, her childlike trustfulness, her everlasting honesty. He felt as if he knew her better than he had ever known anyone. Life with Jerry wouldn't be all smooth sailing. Hers was a temper that would flare quickly, and if he made blunders where she was concerned she would let him know it. Independent, self-willed, even truculent at times. He smiled at the memory of her. A self-sufficient little person. Nothing clinging about Jerry. If she married him, he would know it was because she really cared for him, not because she couldn't get along without someone to hold her hand.

Through Stevenage, and on to Baldock, the car running at a steady sixty. Then he slowed, to pass a company of infantry on the march. Territorials, he supposed. How young they looked! Boys, all of them, slim, pink-cheeked, round-eyed. Very different from his tanned, hard-bitten Tynesiders of the War. It seemed a long time ago.

He thought of his brother officers. Good fellows, all of them. Those few that had come back had drifted away from his ken. Married, most of them, and now torn between their wives and their regiments. Most women seemed to get in the way of a man's work. Not Jerry, though. She would always understand that a man's job was the biggest thing about him. Take away that, and he didn't amount to much. With a jolt Nick came back to his own future. What was he going to do about it? Not that Jerry would interfere, even there. He chuckled at the thought. If she decided to marry a burglar, she would aid and abet his schemes whole-heartedly. But that, of course, was out of the question. Not that he regretted his career of crime. He had been an eminently successful burglar, and he considered that every robbery he had committed had been justified. Not a man had he robbed but was a thief himself, albeit he had remained within the law. These years had been satisfactory and, on the whole, very amusing, but now his criminal career was over. What was he going to do now? It was queer, this worry about the future. It was a new state of mind, for him. He had never looked farther ahead than his next leave, or his next robbery, before. Jerry was responsible for this, because his future would be hers, too. At least, it wouldn't be his fault if it wasn't.

The tall clock in Newmarket told him the time as he crawled through the town, under the basilisk eye of the policeman by the crossroads. Ten past one. They would be lunching now, Jerry and Michael and Sir Toby. And Bobby Manvers. Unconsciously Nick pushed the car on faster. He had got to get hold of Jerry somehow; to get her away before it was too late. Once he had got her, he could put her in safe hands. The Stricklands would help him there. The difficulty was going to be at the outset. It was only too likely that Jerry would laugh at any attempted interference with her plans. Nick let the car out on the rolling Bury Road, and there was a dancing light of battle in his eyes.

Soon after Bury he took to the country lanes. The going was necessarily slower now, for Suffolk by-roads remain much as they were in the Middle Ages. It was close on half-past two when he arrived at the village of St. Anthony's Ash, and knew that his objective was all but reached. Just outside the village he stopped and practically emptied his petrol tank, and then drove on to High Ash and, leaving the car at the gate, walked up to the house, with a pleasant feeling of impending strife in his heart.

The old Tudor manor house, with its great oak beams and coppery tiled roof, seemed to greet him with the smiling serenity of its five hundred years. On his inquiry for Sir Toby, a manservant led him into the garden, where he saw the four of them sitting under a copper beech. Sir Toby had his foot tied up with bandages and propped on a stool. The dappled sunlight fell cross his sparse silvery hair as he listened, smiling, to the younger generation. Michael was lying on the grass, arms and legs flung out carelessly, like a puppy, the sun full on his face, and one lank, black lock of hair falling across his eyes. Bobby's chubby face was pink and worried, and Jerry was looking wickedly amused.

Nick bit back a smile. Bless her! Loving Jerry would probably be a duel to the death. Well, it was a bond between them. She could no more endure a human doormat than he could. Then the servant, moving soft-footed over the grass, coughed gently, and Sir Toby looked up.

'Stephen Nicholson, as I live! My dear boy, what a pleasant surprise! I'm delighted to see you. What fortunate wind blows you this way?'

'To be honest, sir, I've run out of petrol. I'm on my way to London, and I felt rather hopeless till I remembered you, and then I decided to cast myself on your mercy.'

'But of course! I've plenty of petrol you can have. Where is your car? Did you have to leave her?'

'Luckily, no. She ran out just at your gate. Then I discovered that I was carrying an empty tin.'

'I'm more than glad that you remembered me. This is an excellent moment to arrive. Miss Mitchell, may I introduce Stephen Nicholson?'

'We've met before,' said Jerry, with a smile.

'I should have guessed it. Nicholson knows everyone worth knowing. By the way, have you had lunch?'

'I have, thanks very much,' said Nick, unblushing.

'Then may I suggest a drink? What will you have—whiskey? Beer?... Beer; good. Ruff, bring some beer.'

Michael, lying on the grass, crooked his forearm over his eyes. He remembered that night at Barton, and that scribbled note stuck in the wheel of a two-seater—'Mine's beer, too'—and he felt vaguely uncomfortable. Luckily, no one expected him to talk. Bobby was doing most of it, with Sir Toby putting in a word now and then. Bobby was telling how he had broken down in Suffolk once and had to walk ten miles before he found help.

'It was freezing like the devil that day,' he was saying, 'and not a soul could tell me the way to anywhere I wanted. I struggled with the car till my fingers were frost-bitten, and one small boy stood and watched me. Whenever I spoke to him he stared blankly and said: "Fares rough, that do. Wholly cold that be. Reckon our mutt's frorne." It sounded like a foreign language, and I never construed the last sentence at all.'

'Don't betray your ignorance,' chuckled Sir Toby. 'It's simply mediæval English. Read the Paston Letters.'

'I suppose by "mutt" he meant me,' grinned Bobby.

'The term would have been justified, but, as a matter of fact, he meant "moat." Half these farmhouses have moats round them. And "frorne" is old English for "frozen." You'll find it in the "Canterbury Tales." Chaucer was an East Anglian.'

'I dare say, sir. East Anglia was a go-ahead place in Chaucer's time, but I maintain that it hasn't moved since then, and one notices a few deficiencies nowadays. You must admit that Suffolk's the back of beyond. Look at your village. No water supply; only a communal pump, round which the young men and maidens gather and giggle in the twilight. No gas or electric light. And as for drainage...!' Bobby shuddered, and Sir Toby laughed.

'They survive, though, these villagers. In fact, I think they're the healthiest lot I know.'

'I like them,' struck in Jerry. 'I liked the look of the people in the villages as we came down. They're so broad and fair, and look at you so straightly.'

'They're Saxon and Danish, and have all the traits of their race: silent, and stubborn, and land-loving. Loyal to the death, if they like you; blank as a clod of Suffolk clay if they don't. And they really love England. They're the true patriot. They love the soil itself, and it's they and their like that make it a country worth having.'

Jerry's eyes lit with sympathy. Bobby scoffed. But Nick watched Sir Toby with a growing respect. The man knew what he was talking about. Nick had spent a good deal of time in learning to understand people. His life had depended on it, both in the war and since. He had known his company, every man of them, and in later years had come to know the dockyard population of his Quay Street lodgings, as he had known the criminals of his own calling. But this old man with the game foot knew the English countryman, a far harder proposition. Nick admired him, and liked him for his interest in them. Then he glanced at Jerry. His absorbed interest in Sir Toby had removed her from his mind for the moment, but as he looked at her, he realised that she had been absorbed too, he guessed, in much the same way.

The talk wandered on pleasantly. The garden was sunny and serene. Tea was brought out to them, and Jerry dealt with it, quietly competent, not interrupting the conversation. She didn't say much, but seemed content to listen, interested in the talk more than the speakers. Sir Toby even roused Michael to the point of joining in. He seemed to have the gift for making men interesting and interested. Nick enjoyed himself, and it was with a sigh that he looked at his watch.

'What is the time?' asked Jerry.

'Five o'clock.'

'We must be going, Michael,' said Jerry. 'I've got to get up early to-morrow.'

'Lots of time,' mumbled Michael, half asleep in the sunshine.

'It seems a shame to rouse him,' laughed Bobby.

'It does,' said Nick. 'Look here, do let me drive you up to London? I simply hate motoring by myself, and you're three in your car. Please.'

Michael sat up and, behind Nick's back, frowned at Jerry, shaking his head. Jerry gave him a wide-eyed stare, and then smiled graciously at Nick.

'Will you really take me? I'd love to,' she said.

'Splendid!' said Nick. 'That's most awfully nice of you. Good-bye, Sir Toby. Many thanks for rescuing me. This has been the best break-down in my experience.'

Sir Toby had a twinkle in his eye as he shook hands.

'Good-bye, Nicholson. Look me up again some time. I shall always be charmed to see you, though I can't guarantee such good company as we've had to-day.'

Smiling and unruffled, Jerry made her farewells. Michael's face had become completely expressionless, and Nick thought with amusement that Bobby Manvers would have a depressing drive home.

They made their way to the gate, where they found Sir Toby's chauffeur filling the petrol tank of Nick's two-seater. Nick thanked him adequately, started the car up, and climbed in. Then, as they slipped out onto the road, he heaved a sigh of relief. The first fence was taken.

CHAPTER XVIII

NICK EXPLAINS HIMSELF

For a while they drove in silence. Jerry seemed supremely content, dreamily watching the green fields slide by. Nick was far from happy. This thing he had got to say was becoming more terrifying every minute. He'd chased her halfway across England to tell her the truth, and now he'd got her he didn't know how to begin. Surreptitiously he glanced at her. She looked so young, so unused to fear and tragedy.

Then suddenly Jerry spoke, and he was conscious of a guilty sense of relief at this temporary reprieve.

'Very nice bus, Nick.'

'Not too bad, is she?'

'By the way,' she looked at him inquiringly, 'how many cars have you got?'

'Only one. What d'you take me for—Rockefeller?'

'No; but last time I saw you in a car, it was a Bentley.'

'She wasn't mine. I'd borrowed her.'

'Oh!' There was a pause. 'From Michael?'

'Got it in one.'

A worried little frown wrinkled her brow, and she looked straight ahead. Nick smiled at her.

'What is it?' he asked.

'I was only wondering ...' the sentence trailed off.

'About Michael?'

'Yes.'

'He doesn't love me awfully,' said Nick, at a venture.

She glanced at him swiftly, and looked away, as if he had guessed her thoughts too closely.

'It's because I've butted in and kidnapped you, and left him to drive home with Manvers. Who shall blame him?'

'Nonsense!' said Jerry. 'It's something much deeper than that, but I don't know what it is. I wish I did. Do you?'

'I can guess.'

'Then tell me. It's all very odd. I should have said you were just the sort of man he would like.'

Nick laughed aloud at her serious face.

'Oh, he doesn't disapprove of me from his own point of view, but I shrewdly suspect him of thinking I'm not the sort of man for you to like.'

'Why not?'

'Largely because of my profession.'

'What is your profession?'

Nick glanced round with exaggerated caution, and then said in an impressive undertone: 'I'm a burglar!'

Jerry bubbled with laughter.

'Nick, you idiot! Do be serious.'

'My dear, I was never more serious in my life. One of the penalties I have to pay for being a successful liar is that when I tell the cold truth no one believes me. Of course I'm a burglar, but don't tell Sir Toby. He might have me up.'

'Not he! He'd love it. Isn't he a dear?'

'He's a great soul. Have you known him long?'

'Met him for the first time to-day.'

'Heavens! What was Bobby about not to have introduced you years ago?'

'I can't imagine. And, incidentally, it wasn't Bobby that brought me here to-day. It was Michael's brain-wave.'

'Good for Michael! How did he meet ... oh, but Sir Toby's his family lawyer, isn't he? He's known Michael since he was in crawlers and all that.'

'Metaphorically, if not actually. Michael was never in England until a month or two ago.'

'Wasn't he? I didn't know that. I like Michael. Tell me about him.'

Nick had his own reasons for wanting to know about Michael, and he watched the girl's face keenly, but Jerry, serenely unconscious, talked on.

'I don't know much about him myself. Michael isn't given to confidences. Beyond the fact that he's spent his life between Australia and one of the Western Pacific islands, I know nothing of his personal history.'

'But I want to know a lot more,' said Nick. 'Why did he inhabit a Pacific island? I can't see him with flowers in his hair, dancing hula-hulas on the beach.'

'Neither can I,' agreed Jerry, with a chuckle. 'Must he necessarily have done that, if he lived there?'

'The best people do, I believe, but I admit I don't know very much about it. Why did he live there? Do go on, Jerry. Don't interrupt the story with these irrelevancies.'

'Grr! You...!'

'Our friendship progresses,' said Nick. 'Very soon you'll attack me with a spanner.'

'Not while you're driving at sixty. Self-preservation is my long suit. To continue, in spite of your quite fatuous interruptions, Michael's father practically owned this island. He was an Irishman, and a poet, and was frightfully keen on sailing. He married an Australian girl, and they had some marvellous voyages. They both hated civilization, and never bothered about the rest of the world. It accounts for lots of Michael's peculiarities, I think. He's rather a darling, though, and a born brother. When and where did you first meet him, Nick?'

'Three weeks ago, and about thirty miles from here, at a very society-society dance, given by a dear good lady called Hamilton-Browne.'

'Heavens! It doesn't sound in Michael's line.'

'I don't think it was, but I didn't get much chance to talk to him, because he was a guest, whereas I was a waiter.'

Jerry clapped her hands to her ears in despair.

'Nick, this is exactly like a conversation out of "Alice in Wonderland." I'm sorry, but you must explain. I can't bear it any longer.'

Nick bit his lip, and prepared to take the plunge, but once more Jerry forestalled him.

'First of all, suppose you explain this burglary business,' she suggested.

'All right, I'll try. That takes us a long way back. Back to the year of Grace 1920, when I first took to crime.'

'Why did you?'

Nick considered.

'It's rather hard to explain truthfully, because there were so many reasons all working together. In the first place, I had come out of the army with no people, no settled career, and no money beyond my war bonus. I was rather better off than most fellows, because I didn't spend very much leave at home. I used to wander round, you know, poking my nose into other people's business. Spent five days in Brussels once. That was rather exciting.'

'Secret Service, Nick?'

'Sort of. Unofficially. Of course, I was only a "pore blooming infantryman" really, but I knew some fellows in the intelligence, and they were kind to me.' He laughed. 'I've never grown out of pretending, you know. I love dressing-up and being someone else just as much now as I did when I was six.'

Jerry chuckled. 'Go on, Nick.'

'Well, as I was saying, I had more money than most of 'em when I was demobbed, and I meant to have a holiday, and I jolly well had it. Then the others—fellows like me, who'd gone straight from school into the war—began to look for jobs. They didn't find 'em, of course. They were untrained; they'd had four years or so in a position of some responsibility, and employers didn't feel like puttin' 'em to lick stamps. It was far better to get eighteen-year-old boys just starting, with a proper appreciation of the importance of office life. So my pals found themselves in the soup, most of 'em. Some were lucky and got jobs, and tried to like it. Some drifted from doss-house to doss-house, slipping farther down the hill with every move. Some saw that coming, and turned the gas on in the oven—with their heads inside.

'Then I began to get angry. Not for myself exactly—I always had a curious conceit about my ability to survive—but because of all the rot that had been talked in those four years. Here they were, our heroes, our saviours of the world, our gallant defenders, and nobody gave a hoot what happened to them. I was very young then; I couldn't see any explanation in it. Worst of all—and this still makes me unreasonably angry—the men themselves were in an awful way. My batman had been a dockyard matey, and I met him, by accident, one day. He was dying, of sheer starvation. He wasn't the only one, either. They were the salt of the earth, those fellows, and they were starving, while the fat profiteers bought more Rolls-Royces. As I say, I was young and foolish, and it made me angry. I swore I wasn't going to be driven out of England, and at the same time I wasn't going to work like a galley-slave in an office to add to the blighters' peace-time profits. I'd done my whack of slaving, I thought. Still less did I mean to starve. I'd kept their dinners safe for them for four years, and now they could provide me with mine. And they've done it, royally, ever since. The work entailed in collecting the cash was pure fun, and added just that spice of excitement that makes bread-winning worth while. I made quite a lot of money, enough to live on for the rest of my life, if I wanted to stop work, but I don't think I should have given it up if I hadn't found an even more amusing game. I may say that I haven't burgled for over two years now.'

'But weren't you burgling that night at Barton, when you were pretending to be a waiter?'

'Not that time, though Michael thought I was. I went down there to try and get some information.'

'Did you get what you wanted?'

'No; but I overheard a telephone conversation that concerned me rather closely. Then I realised that if I was going to make use of the information my eavesdropping had given me, I would have to be in London before 5 A.M., and as it was past midnight by then, I thought I'd better be going. Unfortunately, the sudden departure of a hired waiter in a fast car looks a bit suspicious. Michael saw me go, and followed in his Bentley. I think he was bored and wanted a bit of sport. Anyway, he jolly nearly caught me—damned good driver, Michael!—but luckily I managed to swop cars with him.'

'How on earth ...' began Jerry, and then another thought struck her, wiping the first question out of her mind.

'Nick! That's why you had been driving all night!'

'Yes.'

'And because of me you had all that for nothing. Oh, Nick, I'm so sorry. I remember you looked at your watch, and seemed in a hurry. And then quite suddenly you weren't in a hurry any longer. Nick, was it frightfully important? I couldn't know, could I?'

'Sweet child, of course you couldn't. And you don't think I regret it, do you?'

'Nick, you—you saved my sanity that morning. I simply don't know what I should have done without you. And they tried to make me think you were the murderer!' Her eyes flashed. 'I never believed it. If they only knew....'

'O God!' Nick's voice was sharp with pain. 'Jerry, darling, for Heaven's sake hear me out. In a way, I am. I've been chasing all over England to find you to-day, to tell you about it, but I don't know how I'm going to do it, now I've got you.'

'I don't understand,' said Jerry, bewildered.

'Tell me this. Do you know why your father was murdered?'

Jerry hesitated for a moment.

'Yes,' she said at last.

'That makes it easier to explain. I am the man who gave him that letter at the club. Will you believe me when I say that I never dreamt I'd be putting him in danger?'

'But....' Jerry stared blankly.

'I told you just now that I gave up burglary for a better game,' said Nick.

'Yes. But what has that to do with it?'

He told her, quietly and without much detail. He told her of the railway smash and the impersonation of Davies. A sparkle of excitement lit her eyes when he described his escape from the meeting of the Fraternity; but when he told of how he had seen her father, and decided to trust him, Nick kept his gaze on the road ahead. It didn't seem quite fair to watch her face just then.

'It was my fault,' he concluded, 'and I shall never forgive myself. I underrated the Chief. But I never dreamt that he would be able to trace your father, and ... Jerry, for God's sake, say you believe me!'

She spoke quietly, but with a curious certainty:

'Of course I do.'

Nick was silent. He could not trust himself to speak. Jerry glanced at him, puzzled by his expression. He realised her perplexity, and made a colossal effort.

'The bus is running well this evening.'

'Pretty poor,' he reflected, with a sardonic smile at his own expense. But Jerry jumped at it.

'She's a lamb, Nick. Will you teach me how to drive, some day?'

'Rather! Would you like to steer? Here's a good straight bit of road.'

'Oh, may I?'

Nick relinquished the wheel, and flung his left arm along the back of the seat, watching her glowing, childlike face. It was dangerous, but he could not resist it. She was so near now, leaning against his shoulder. So near and so lovable, and so utterly unconscious. She did not speak, being entirely absorbed in steering. Nick was silent too, but for other reasons.

At last....

'Nick, here's a car coming. You'd better take her.'

He dropped one hand onto the wheel, and Jerry let it go.

'Oh, Nick, it's heavenly! Do teach me to drive, and then I'll come and fetch you next time you burgle a house, and help you get away quickly. I'd love to be a burglar too. Can't you teach me the trade, and take me into partnership?'

Nick bit his lip.

'The idea doesn't appeal to him,' said Jerry to the speedometer.

'Doesn't.... Good Lord! Jerry, will you marry me?'

She slid away from him, staring wide-eyed.

'My dear Nick!'

Her startled face made him take refuge for them both in nonsense.

'Why not? I'd be an exemplary husband. I'd give up burglary and only rob on the Stock Exchange. I'd catch the nine-fifteen every morning, and be home punctually at half-past six. I'd never swear, and——Gosh! we nearly hit that hen!'

'You ought to have seen it coming. The first thing to cultivate when driving a car is psychic insight into the ways of hens and push-bikes.'

'Very true. As a general rule I have it to a marked degree, but to-day I'm not in the best of form. I'm thinking of something else.'

Jerry looked straight ahead. Nick had a twinkle in his eye as he watched her. He had recovered his balance. As for Jerry, she'd got to get used to the idea, so one had better chaff about it.

'It's extraordinary how falling in love puts one's eye out.'

'It must be a distressing state. I hope I shall remain immune.'

'Oh, but that's worse. It's like not seeing a play that everyone else has seen. They're all discussing it, and you can't.'

He could see her trying not to smile.

'You're talking nonsense, Nick. There's no need for the subject to arise at all.'

'Isn't there? Do you think I'm the sort of chap who suffers in silence?'

The smile broke into a chuckle.

'Nick, you're unique. Let's talk about your crimes. Whom do you burgle?'

'Profiteers, mostly.'

'Robin Hood up to date.'

'Exactly, except that Robin Hood was a bit luckier. Maid Marian——'

'Tell me, are you wanted—is that the word?—by Scotland Yard?'

'Oh, rather! Terribly badly. But, as a matter of fact, I've given up burglary. My career of crime is a thing of the past from now on.'

'Won't life seem awfully tame without it?'

'I don't think so. You see, I took to burglary because I wanted variety and excitement. When I marry you I shall have all I can deal with, without going out to look for it.'

Jerry blinked.

'Did you say "When"?' she asked.

Nick grinned.

'That's one to you,' he admitted.

Jerry gave him a smile.

'Thank you,' she said. 'And now, do you mind awfully if we change the subject?'

'Must we?'

'Please. Think of something else.'

'No—hang it, that's more than you can expect of me.'

'It was said deliberately,' explained Jerry. 'If I think of a topic, you will consider that you have every right to side-track me. If you do, you can't!'

Nick laughed outright.

'Can't I?'

'Please, Nick!'

A Ford van close ahead of them suddenly swung to the right, without warning, and made for a side road. Nick jammed on his brakes to avoid a crash. There was a violent doubleway skid, the two-seater rocked for one agonising moment on two wheels, and then righted herself and sped on.

'Near thing, that,' said Jerry calmly.

Nick looked at her appreciatively.

'There's no doubt about it, you're a courageous child,' he said.

'William used to tell me it wasn't courage, but pure love of danger,' said Jerry. 'As a matter of fact, he was just as bad himself. He adored thrills.'

Nick hesitated.

'Did he ... did he tell you about me?'

'No. You asked him not to, didn't you?'

'Yes. I didn't know you existed; otherwise I shouldn't have put it like that. But how do you know?'

'Because I found his diary. Nick, would you mind stopping for a minute?'

Obediently he pulled in to the side of the road.

'I want you to read this,' said Jerry, pulling some papers out of her pocket. 'I found it yesterday.'

Nick took the crumpled pages in silence. Jerry watched his grave face as he read. Finally he gave them back to her, and their eyes met.

'I wish to God I'd known him,' he said.

'So do I! You would have liked each other. Now, listen to me, Nick. I am William's understudy. What are we going to do about it? By the way, do you know Mr. Robertson?'

'Not personally. He is the Chief.'

'Do you know anything about him besides that?'

'No. That's what I've been trying to find out for the last six months. Are you going to help me, Jerry?'

'Of course I am.'

'I warn you it may mean doing things you don't see a reason for at the moment.'

'I'll obey orders. You're in charge of this show.'

Nick turned to her impulsively, and then pulled himself together and started the car.

'It's safer driving,' he said grimly.

'I expect it is,' agreed Jerry. 'Michael and Bobby might catch us up if we stopped much longer.'

Nick grinned rather wildly, and stood on the gas.

'In the first place,' he went on, 'how many people have you shown that diary to?'

'Michael, Bobby, and Sir Toby.'

'Sir Toby? What made you tell him?'

'Well, Michael was with me when I found it, and later, when Bobby came in, I showed it to him. He's been trying to find out clues and all that sort of thing, you know.' Nick nodded. 'Bobby was frightfully interested, of course, but he got a bit too domineering, and wanted to take the whole thing out of my hands. That made me furious. I know Bobby was only trying to help, but he irritated me. I ticked him off pretty thoroughly, and then said rather pointedly that I wished I had someone of some experience to advise me. Michael suggested Sir Toby; I said I'd let him introduce me, and that if I liked him I'd ask for his advice.'

'Poor Bobby! How did he take that suggestion?'

'Oh, he was all for it. Thought it an admirable plan. He's as fond of Sir Toby as Michael is.'

'I see. Well, what advice did Sir Toby give you?'

'To my immense relief he didn't urge me to hand the matter over to the police. In fact, he seemed to understand absolutely. He pointed out that the bank will probably be watched—I'm certain William would have told the man that the document was there—and asked if I would like him to fetch the paper and keep it safe for me, and if the right man didn't turn up for it before June 10th, he would post it himself.'

Jerry paused, a puzzled frown on her face.

'It seems rather pointless now,' she said, 'but somehow when Sir Toby was talking about it, it seemed to solve all the problems. I wonder if there was something else, some other reason I've forgotten?'

'Never mind,' said Nick reassuringly. 'What did you say?'

'I accepted gratefully. I had no idea I was going to meet the right man so soon. But it doesn't matter. We can easily let him know, and tell him not to fetch the paper, or let him get it for you, whichever you prefer.'

'How was he going to get it?'

'I gave him a note for the bank manager.'

For a few minutes Nick drove in silence. Jerry waited for his decision. Finally he spoke.

'Well, my child, I think somehow we won't let him know just yet, but all the same, we'll fetch the paper first.'

'But he's bound to know as soon as he goes to the bank.'

'Not necessarily. Don't let's hurt old Toby's feelings. Let's get the paper to-night, but leave the envelope, stuck down again. Then he'll be none the wiser, if we tell the bank manager to keep his mouth shut. I'd hate Sir Toby to feel he wasn't trusted.'

'As I said before, this is your show,' said Jerry, 'but there's one flaw in the scheme. We can't get it to-night. The bank will have shut ages ago.'

'Is it the Hampstead branch bank?'

'Yes.'

'Then it's a hundred to one the manager lives on the premises. I think we'll wangle it somehow. Now listen, Jerry; I've got a plan, but you'll have to forgive me if I can't explain much at this stage.'

'Go ahead, Nick. I'll agree to anything you like, on one condition.'

'And that is——?'

'That you'll let me be in at the death.'

Nick looked at her with some surprise. She faced him steadily, and he saw the grim determination in her eyes.

'Right. If it's humanly possible, you shall be,' he said quietly. 'Now look here; after we've got this paper I want to take you to the Stricklands' flat. They're friends of mine, and they're the only other people in the world who know as much about me as you do. Jack Strickland's a C.I.D. man, and the best friend I have. His twin sister Jill is a darling, and I know they'll both understand. Will you come?'

'Rather; but can't I get some clothes from Quebec Street first?'

'Daren't risk it. The house may be watched. Jill will lend you all you need for a day or two.'

'All right.'

'In the second place, I don't want you to communicate with anyone until you see me again and I can tell you what's happening.'

'I don't like that, Nick. Michael and Bobby have been awfully good to me, and they'll be worried.'

'I'll let Michael know. Will that do?'

'Of course.'

'Bless you, Jerry, you're a partner in a thousand! I wish I'd known you eight years ago.'

Jerry laughed.

'You were in your cradle, of course,' went on Nick, 'but you must have been a nice child.'

'William had a hard life with me,' she told him; and then, suddenly, the smile faded out of her eyes and her mouth set hard.

'Well?' said Nick.

She looked up, her small face white through the dusk.

'Nick, are we going to get this man Robertson?'

'I think so,' said Nick quietly, and put out a large hand.

Jerry gripped it tightly.

'I'm glad it was you,' she said.

Nick drove on in silence. For the second time that evening he felt that he could not trust himself to answer.

CHAPTER XIX

SIR TOBY IS SURPRISED

As Nick had guessed, Bobby Manvers found that drive to London a depressing one. Michael was silent, sliding lower and lower in the driving seat, staring sullenly at the road ahead. Bobby's few attempts at conversation met at the best with monosyllabic replies, and finally he abandoned the struggle. His only comfort lay in the fact that Michael was driving at a high rate of speed and that, in consequence, the journey would be over in the shortest possible time. The last half-hour through London, however, was a considerable strain to his nerves, and when Michael dropped him at his flat he got out thankfully, with a sigh of relief and a hypocritical 'Thanks awfully, old man. Topping run!'

Michael drove on, unnoticing, left his car at the garage he patronised, and went back to Quebec Street on foot. It was a close, stuffy evening, with a feeling of thunder about. Michael looked up at the tall houses that hemmed him in, and was conscious for the thousandth time of a desperate desire to get away from it all. There was no air, no sunshine, no freedom of mind or body in this swarming antheap of a city. Well, his legal affairs were finished, thank Heaven. He'd had a word with Sir Toby just before lunch, and had been assured that all was over bar the shouting, and that in another week's time he would be free to shake the dust of England from his feet. Free to go back to his own place, where the sun really shone, and a man could do as he chose. It would be good to be home again; to see the long, low coast-line, fringed to the shore with the dark, unchanging bush, and above, silhouetted against the sky, a bunch of lanky coconuts: then, as his cutter drew near to the shore, the surf breaking in a gleaming line, apparently endless but for the narrow break in the reef where the fresh water pierces the coral and opens the way into the clear, sunlit lagoon. The scrunch of the keel on the beach, the laughing natives, the low, white house with its broad veranda.

Michael drew a deep breath of satisfaction. He could almost hear the thunder of the breakers, smell the coconut oil and aromatic herbs. Lost in his thoughts, he let himself into the tall grey house in Quebec Street, and went to bed, to dream of blue seas and white surf.

The sun was streaming into his room when he woke next morning. 'Going home in a week's time,' he told himself, and whistled cheerfully as he ran his bath water. Even London seemed a comparatively good place on such a morning, and he felt disappointed when Milly, entering with his breakfast, failed to greet him with her usual beaming smile.

'It's a decent morning, Milly,' he observed reproachfully, as he hungrily attacked his eggs and bacon.

'I dessay.' She stood, arms akimbo, eyeing him disapprovingly. 'Where's Miss Mitchell?'

Michael stopped eating, and stared at her.

'She ain't bin 'ome, an' 'er bed ain't bin slep' in.'

'Good Lord! Where's she gone?'

'That's wot I'm arskin' you. You took 'er out yesterday. I'm anxious about 'er, I tell yer straight. It ain't like 'er to go orf without s'much as a word.'

Michael was silent, his thoughts racing.

'Fer Gawd's sake, speak up!' burst out Milly furiously. 'You was with 'er, wasn't you?'

'Yes, but I didn't bring her home.'

'Oo did?'

'Man called Nicholson.'

Milly's face cleared suddenly, and she heaved a sigh of relief.

'Mr. Nicholson? Oh, that's all right then. She won't come to no 'arm along with 'im.'

'You know him well, of course,' said Michael, with the irritation of a badly worried man.

Milly regarded him pityingly.

'I ain't known 'im long, but you c'n take it from me, I knows a decent fella when I meets one. Don't you fret about Mr. Nicholson. 'E's all right.'

'Feminine intuition, I suppose,' said Michael, continuing his breakfast.

Milly's eyes danced naughtily.

'You ain't arf fetchin' when you smiles sarcastic that way,' she told him. 'Puts me in mind of a movie I seen last week. The 'ero, 'e ses: "Hah, wimmin!" he ses, an' smiles lopsided, same as you. Lovely 'e was.'

'Shut up!' said Michael, trying not to grin. 'And go away, Milly; that's enough.'

'Right y' are, sir,' assented Milly cheerfully. At the door she hesitated, her face grave.

'Mr. Doone....'

'Hullo?'

She flung out her hands with the abrupt, passionate, almost Latin gesture of the Cockney.

'Honest, Mr. Doone, 'e's all right, that bloke.'

Michael looked at her curiously.

'Nicholson?'

'Yuss. If you was to tell me 'e'd bin jugged fer murder, I'd tell you 'e never; or, if 'e did, there was a damn good reason for it. 'E's all right, straight 'e is. I know it!'

She swung round and disappeared, leaving Michael staring. How much did she know, he wondered. It might be far more than he knew himself; it might be nothing at all. He went on with his breakfast, wondering where Jerry was, and what he ought to do about it. Then he pulled the telephone towards him, and rang up Nick's flat in Jermyn Street. The porter answered him. Mr. Nicholson was not in. Mr. Nicholson had left the previous morning and had not been home since. Michael rang off, frowning thoughtfully. They might have had an accident, but Michael had a deep respect for Nick's driving, and thought it unlikely. And even if they were both in hospital, there would be some news of them. Secondly, they might have eloped, but somehow that didn't seem very like Jerry. Michael had heard her express her views on the subject of love affairs and marriage. Thirdly—and a disquieting thought—suppose Bobby's theory were right, and Nick had been concerned in the murder, he would have a definite reason for wanting to get Jerry out of the way.

Michael looked at his watch. Ten-thirty. Sir Toby was coming up to London this morning early. It might be worth while asking his advice.

Michael reached for the telephone, rang up Sir Toby's flat, and in due time was answered by Ruff. Yes, Sir Toby had arrived, but was lying down. He was not very well, had had a return of his heart trouble. Could he see Mr. Doone some time to-day? Ruff would inquire. Michael waited impatiently, till he heard Ruff's soft, respectful voice again. Sir Toby had a luncheon engagement, but would be delighted to see Mr. Doone at three. Sir Toby had said that Mr. Manvers might be looking in about that time, but that if Mr. Doone's business was private, he would put Mr. Manvers off. Michael had no objection to Bobby's presence, and said so. Ruff murmured, 'Very good, sir,' and faded away.

Michael rose to his feet and tramped restlessly across his room. What the blazes was Nicholson up to? Bobby's theory seemed infernally plausible, but somehow he hated the idea. Then again, had he any right to withhold the secret of Vive le Sport's identity? If anything happened to Jerry, both Sir Toby and Bobby would blame him for concealing the information. Quite rightly, too. After all, if Bobby were wrong, he could trust both him and Sir Toby to keep their mouths shut. Michael went out into the Park. He needed fresh air and exercise.

For once in his life he was punctual that afternoon, and arrived at the door of Sir Toby's block of flats on the stroke of three. He was just speaking to the hall porter when a cheerful voice hailed him.

'Hullo, Michael! You c-come to see Toby, too?'

'Yes.'

'Good work!' said Bobby heartily. 'Ruff tells me the old chap's had another heart attack. It's rotten for him, isn't it? Let's take the lift, shall we?'

They found Sir Toby in an armchair, propped up with pillows. His face was white and drawn, and he looked desperately tired, but he greeted them with a smile.

'Very nice to see you both. Well, Michael, has anything happened? You look very serious. Pull up that chair, Bobby. You'll find cigarettes in the box by your elbow.'

'You're not looking too fit, sir,' said Bobby, obeying. 'I say, would you rather I cleared out? I mean, won't one of us be enough for you just now, so to speak?'

'No, no, I like company. It's nothing to worry about. These absurd attacks come and go. I shall be all right to-morrow. Now, Michael, let's hear about it. I feel convinced you have something on your mind.'

'Very true,' said Michael. 'It's Jerry. She's disappeared.'

'Really?' Sir Toby looked interested. 'When was she—er—last seen?'

'When she left High Ash yesterday.'

'In Nicholson's car. Do you think they've made a runaway match?'

'I don't. To start with, she'd got no kit with her. And then, why should she? Even if she suddenly decided to marry Nicholson, there was no reason for secrecy. Besides, Jerry isn't that sort.'

Sir Toby smiled.

'When you're my age, Michael, you'll hesitate before you say, "She's not that sort," of any woman. They're unaccountable creatures. But I admit it sounds unlikely. She didn't seem terribly attracted by Nicholson when I saw them together.'

'Of course, Stephen's a jolly dark horse,' put in Bobby. 'He's a bit of a devil with the ladies, you know, and Jerry's very young. She might have been swept off her feet and all that. And then he may have made her swear not to tell you. I've been told that Nicholson has a queer sort of power, if you know what I mean.'

'Bunk!' said Michael offensively.

Sir Toby took no notice of Bobby's theory.

'Go on, Michael,' he said quietly. 'Tell me what exactly is worrying you.'

'Well, I can't help wondering.... Did you get that letter from Jerry's bank?'

'Yes. I collected it on the way up. Here it is.' He tapped his pocket.

'Carrying it on the person, sir?' asked Bobby. 'Isn't that a bit dangerous?'

'Not more so than putting it into my safe. With the present crime wave, burglary's an everyday occurrence.'

'Talking about burglars,' said Michael. 'Do you think Vive le Sport could have had anything to do with the Mitchell affair?'

'In what way?'

'Oh, in Robertson's pay, for instance?'

'It doesn't sound likely,' said Sir Toby. 'After all, his line is burglary, and nothing was stolen. Besides, I shouldn't like to think of him as a murderer.'

Michael rose to his feet and walked over to the window, where he stood, hands in pockets, staring down into the street below.

'You know, I don't like this about Jerry,' said Bobby. 'I mean, it's all so dashed queer, isn't it? Suppose we try to trace Nicholson's car?'

'From what I've seen of Miss Mitchell I should imagine that she would not be likely to welcome any interference with her affairs,' said Sir Toby.

Bobby grew rather red.

'That's perfectly true,' he said, 'but all the same, she's only a child, and Stephen Nicholson ... well, I don't trust him. He's got a frightfully taking manner and all that, but there's something queer about him. I think he's dangerous.'

'Oh, my dear Bobby!' laughed Sir Toby, 'this is obviously the result of an overdose of detective fiction. Stephen Nicholson is an idle young plutocrat, with a curious passion for vers libre and all the extravagant ugliness of modern art. I don't believe one-third of the rumours about him, and suspect them of being the invention of one or two silly women. I like Nicholson, and I think he's a shining example of how a good man can waste his life. What he needs is a little honest work. What do you say, Michael?'

'I—don't—know,' said Michael slowly. Then he turned and faced them. 'You see, Nicholson is Vive le Sport.'

There was a dead silence. Bobby's jaw dropped and he stared blankly. Then Sir Toby sat up, put his gouty foot to the ground, swore and fell back on his pillows, stretching out one hand weakly towards a glass of water which stood on the table. Michael handed it to him, startled by the old man's ghastly pallor, and Sir Toby sipped the water gratefully.

'Forgive me,' he said. 'Your announcement was so unexpected that I put too much weight on my bad foot, and the pain made me feel rather faint. It's all right now. Michael, this is the most amazing information. I find it almost incredible. How do you know?'

'Nicholson told me so himself.'

'Nicholson told you?' echoed Bobby. 'Good Lord! Well, I always said there was something queer about that man.'

Michael ignored him, and addressed himself to Sir Toby. 'That's why I'm worried,' he said. 'You see, Nicholson isn't only what he seems, and if he can play one part so perfectly, God knows how many more he may not be playing.'

'I entirely understand your anxiety,' said Sir Toby, 'and the evidence seems to be piling up against him. To start with, he was outside Mitchell's door immediately after the murder. Then he disappeared, didn't attend the inquest, made no reference to the affair. He didn't even make himself known to Miss Mitchell. In fact, he appeared to have lost all interest. It's very odd, that. Then, again, one can only assume that the first thing this fellow Robertson will try to do is to get hold of Miss Mitchell. He's got to get that paper before some date in June, hasn't he? I've forgotten the exact day.'

'The tenth,' said Michael.

'And to-day's the eighth. He hasn't got much time, you see. And he can't get the paper without Miss Mitchell's assistance. Yes, it seems to fit in only too well. Michael, I think we ought to open this letter. It may give us a clue to Mr. Robertson, and should at least tell us the identity of the man who gave it to Professor Mitchell.'

Michael considered.

'I think you're right,' he said.

Bobby held his peace, but he looked worried. Sir Toby took the long envelope from his pocket and tore it open.

'It's empty!' he said. 'No, it isn't, begad!' He shook the envelope, and out fell a small visiting-card, which he read and then held up to the others, smiling a little.

'"Vive le Sport!"' read Bobby, in an awestruck tone. 'But, d-dash it all, how on earth——'

'Oh, that's dead easy,' broke in Michael impatiently. 'He got Jerry to get it for him last night, took the letter, and left his card instead. That proves he had got something to do with the murder, anyway. The question is, what?'

Sir Toby nodded slowly, his face very grave.

'As far as I can see, there are just three possible theories,' he said. 'Firstly, he may be the man who gave Mitchell the envelope.'

'Then why the secrecy?' asked Michael. 'Why hasn't he said so ages ago? He knew who Mitchell was, and he knew Jerry.'

'He must have convinced her that he was the man, or he wouldn't have got the envelope,' remarked Sir Toby.

'He might have got it by force,' put in Bobby darkly.

Michael laughed, and Sir Toby smothered a smile.

'I don't think that's very likely,' he said, 'but, of course, anything's possible in this romantic age. The question that is occupying me is why he bothered to insert his card and seal the envelope up again. I can't believe he suspected me of being Mr. Robertson.'

'Hardly!' said Michael, with a grin. 'He may have put it there for the benefit of Mr. Robertson, though, feeling that he would certainly try to get it from you.'

'That's possible. The second theory is that Nicholson really did take a definite part in the murder. I still find it hard to believe that he actually committed the crime, but, as you said just now, he may be in Robertson's pay. In that case, I assume he left the card for the benefit of the real owner—the fellow who wrote the letter.'

'Yes, I see that,' said Bobby, nodding sagely.

'Robert sees it,' said Michael. 'Loud applause, instantly suppressed. What's your third theory?'

'That Nicholson has nothing whatever to do with the affair, but on hearing the story decided to take a hand in it for the fun of the thing. It would be quite in keeping with his character. He adores mystery, he adores adventure, and, if I'm not much mistaken, he adores Miss Mitchell.'

There was a moment's silence. Bobby moved restlessly, and stared unhappily at the floor. Michael lit a cigarette, his green eyes as blank as stones. Sir Toby studied the little card in his hand.

'It seems to me,' said Michael at last, 'that it all hangs on whether this'—he picked it up—'is the original envelope or not.'

Bobby gaped, and even Sir Toby looked a little surprised.

'I should think that probably it is,' he said.

'But what would it prove if it wasn't?' asked Bobby.

'Nothing,' said Michael. 'Look here, Bobby, suppose you have a look for Nicholson's car? It's about time you did a spot of useful work, and showed us what you can do in the sleuth line. Go and ask the police.'

'I don't think that's a good plan,' said Bobby. 'The police, I mean. They'd want to know why, and we can't tell 'em.'

'Why not?'

'Bobby's right,' interposed Sir Toby. 'We don't want a newspaper scandal if we can avoid it. After all, there may be a perfectly natural explanation.'

'And one can find out about the car without the help of the police,' added Bobby, his face brightening.

'How?' asked Michael sceptically.

'Oh'—Bobby shrugged his shoulders, and rose to go—'one has one's methods.'

Sir Toby laughed.

'That makes you quits, I think,' he said. 'Let's have a truce now.'

Michael grinned, and a smile spread over Bobby's chubby face.

'Right you are,' he said. 'Well, I must be off. Good-bye, sir. I hope you'll be all right soon.'

'I know I shall. These attacks never last long, thank Heaven. Good-bye, Bobby.'

'I'd better be moving too,' said Michael. 'Come and have dinner at my place to-night, Robert, and tell us your news, if any.'

'Love to. Thanks awfully. Good Lord, it's past four! I shall have to sprint.'

Michael collected his hat, said good-bye to Sir Toby, and took his leave. As he was closing the door behind him he heard Sir Toby's voice.

'Did you call me?' he asked, poking his head round the door.

'Yes; tell me, Michael'—Sir Toby had a smile in his eyes—'what would it prove if this were the original envelope?'

'A good deal,' said Michael. 'It's addressed in Nicholson's handwriting. So long.'

He went out, shutting the door behind him.

CHAPTER XX

MICHAEL IS CONVINCED

'Taxi, sir?' inquired the hall porter as Michael came down the steps.

Michael shook his head. He wanted to think, and he thought best on the move. He was puzzled. To begin with, he was certain now that Nick was Professor Mitchell's unknown correspondent. That envelope had the name of the Jameson Club stamped on the flap. It was almost obliterated by the seal, but Michael had seen it. He pulled out his pocketbook and searched through the muddle of papers it contained. Surely he had put Nick's card away in it that night they swopped cars in a Suffolk lane? Yes, here it was. 'Mine's beer, too.' Unmistakably the same handwriting. Michael was conscious of a curious feeling of relief. He hadn't realised before just how much he had minded thinking Nick a blackguard.

But—and here lay the puzzle—why had Nick been so silent? It was inconceivable that he should distrust Sir Toby, and if he were suspicious of Michael, why had he given away his identity at that party of Mrs. Lancaster's? Or was the suspect Bobby? Michael chuckled, remembering how offensive he himself had been to the unfortunate amateur detective that afternoon. Well, the first thing to do was to find Nick. Not too easy a proposition. Michael had no hope of finding him in his Jermyn Street flat. He remembered the address on that fateful envelope: 'J. F. Strickland, Esq., 31, Buckingham Gate Mansions'; but, after consideration, he abandoned the idea. This man Strickland would certainly be in the game, and the odds were a hundred to one that he would deny all knowledge of Nick.

Then suddenly a bright idea struck him. Nick's doctor friend—the man he had sent for on the night of the murder. Jerry had liked the man, and had talked about him a good deal. Thorpe. That was the name. Question, how to get hold of him.

Michael stopped and looked round. Just over the way, a few yards down the street, was an Underground station. He crossed the road and, going to the ticket office, changed half a crown into coppers. Thorpe was a common name, he reflected. Then he entered a call-box, taking the telephone directory with him. As he expected, there were dozens of Thorpes, and nine of them were doctors. Michael settled down to ring them all up.

The first two were out, which depressed him, but he continued doggedly. Numbers three, four, and five had not been called in to attend a Professor Mitchell on the morning of May 24th, but the sixth admitted it quite calmly, and added that he remembered the case well. Could Michael call and see him? Certainly; he would be free till six. The address—Michael wrote it down—was somewhere in the wilds of Stepney.

Michael was just about to leave the box when he remembered his invitation to Bobby. He rang up Quebec Street and warned his landlady that he would need supper for two that night. Then with a sigh of relief he emerged into the fresh air and hailed a taxi....

Dr. Thorpe impressed him favourably. He liked the man's shrewd, steady eyes and clear-cut, crisp voice.

'Well, Mr. Doone, what can I do for you?'

'I want you to tell me where I can find Stephen Nicholson.'

Thorpe looked surprised. 'Stephen Nicholson? Who is he?'

'It's all right,' said Michael; 'I'm a friend of his.'

A flicker of amusement lit the doctor's eyes.

'My dear sir, I don't doubt it, but the trouble is, I'm not. I've never even heard of the gentleman.'

There was a moment's silence, and then Michael turned to go.

'Right you are,' he said quietly. 'Sorry to have wasted your time.'

As he reached the door the doctor spoke:

'I don't know what you're driving at, Mr. Doone,' he said, 'but I should like you to believe that I really do not know the man you speak of. I have never heard the name before, to my knowledge. There must be a misunderstanding somewhere.'

Michael halted and surveyed the doctor with his slow, unwinking stare. Then suddenly he grinned.

'Perhaps you know him as "Nick"?' he suggested.

Thorpe's face cleared.

'Good Heavens!' he said, 'is that the man you want? I know him by a good many names, but I never heard him called Stephen Nicholson.'

'Do you know where he is?'

'No, I haven't the least idea, but I expect I shall see him sooner or later. He drifts in here pretty frequently with cases for me.'

'Cases?'

'Yes. Patients. Protégés of his own, mostly from the docks. Sometimes he sends 'em with a note; sometimes he brings 'em himself.' The doctor chuckled. 'Last time he came he was playing the part of a navvy. Talked the purest quayside Cockney, chewed tobacco, and spat into my fire, confound him!'

'What was he up to?' Michael was interested.

'Oh, he'd brought along a woman and a small boy. The woman was underfed, and the child had rickets. Poor little devil, he was half starved, too! He's down at the sea now, in a home, and doing very well, they tell me. Nick's footing the bill, of course.'

'Does he often do that sort of thing?'

'Frequently. He's one of the very few people I've met who can combine philanthropy and intelligence.'

'What else does he do?'

Thorpe looked at him sharply.

'I'm afraid I don't know any more about him,' he said. 'I am a busy man, and singularly uninterested in other people's affairs, except when they concern my work. As I said, I know him by a variety of names, but I've no idea which of them, if any, is his real one. Nor do I care. I consider him a thundering good fellow, and I have no desire to interfere with his private affairs.'

'You're about right,' said Michael slowly, 'but I want to find him. Truth is, he—well, he's in rather a dangerous position, and I want to put him wise.'

'I wish I could help you,' said Thorpe, 'but I honestly have no idea where he is. Look here, if he comes in to see me, I'll tell him what you say. He knows your name, I suppose?'

'Yes, he knows my name,' said Michael. 'Thanks. I'd like you to let him know, if I don't find him myself first. Good-bye.'

'Good-bye, Mr. Doone. If I see Nick I'll tell him'.

Michael returned to Quebec Street. It was getting late, and Bobby would certainly arrive early. He always did. As Michael reached his rooms he caught sight of Milly coming down the stairs from Jerry's flat.

'Hullo, Milly! Has Miss Mitchell come back?'

'No such luck! You 'eard anythink of 'er?'

'Not a word. When I saw you coming out of her room I thought she must be back.' His eyes, growing accustomed to the dim light, caught sight of a large brown paper parcel which she was carrying.

'Me? Oh, I bin up ter git 'er washing. Got ter send it to the laundry whether she's 'ome or not, 'aven't I?'

'I suppose so. By the way, did Mrs. Briggs tell you that I'm expecting Mr. Manvers to supper?'

'Yuss. Cold beef an' salid, or 'am an' eggs?'

'Cold beef, I think. It's so hot and stuffy to-night.'

'There'll be a thunderstorm soon, you mark my words,' said Milly. 'Well, I can't stop 'ere chattin', or She'll be after me: "Millicent, I will not 'ave you makin' free with the gentlemen lodgers. You remember your place, an' they'll remember theirs." Wot a 'ope! S'long, Mr. Doone.'

She ran downstairs, whistling, and Michael retired to spread himself out on his sofa with a novel.

As usual, Bobby turned up about seven. He was very pleased with himself, having discovered that an all-night garage in Golders Green had supplied Nick with petrol at one o'clock that morning.

'It was Nicholson's car all right,' he announced. 'The man described it and remembered the number, but the extraordinary thing is that he was alone, and travelling north.'

'Very odd,' said Michael, but was saved from further comment by the entrance of Milly with the supper. Having slapped it down on the table in her usual swashbuckling manner, she fished a note out of her pocket, and handed it to Michael.

'Boy's jus' brought it,' she explained. 'No answer, 'e said.'

Michael opened it. Milly lingered by the door.

'It's from Jerry,' he said.

'Oh, Mr. Doone! Is she all right?'

'What does she say?' demanded Bobby.

'It's short and to the point: "I hope you haven't been too worried about me. All's well, but don't try to find me just yet. I'll write to-night and tell you all about it, and arrange where we can meet. No time for more now."'

'Thank God!' said Bobby.

'If you ask me, I don't believe she meant ter come back yesterday,' said Milly suddenly.

'What on earth makes you think that?' asked Bobby.

'Well, fer one thing, she didn't take 'er latchkey. Miss Mitchell's never forgotten it before.'

'That doesn't prove anything,' said Michael. 'She went out with me, and she knew I had a key.'

'Yuss! Not arf you 'aven't! 'Ow many times 'ave you lorst it since you come 'ere?' demanded Milly swiftly.

'How d'you know she didn't take it?' asked Bobby.

Milly stared at him wide-eyed, and then dropped her voice to a confidential whisper.

'Well, y' see, I 'ad a clue, so ter speak. I seen the key on 'er mantelpiece this mornin', and that sort o' gave me the idea, if yer foller me so far.'

'Go away, Milly!' said Michael.

Milly shrugged her shoulders resignedly.

''E likes the last word, Mr. Doone does. An' the last word's always "Go away!" It ain't wot you'd call a snappy bit o' repartee, but it soots 'im, some'ow. Goo'-bye! Be good.'

The door slammed behind her. Michael and Bobby looked at each other, laughed, and sat down to their supper.

Bobby was full of theories, which he poured out in an endless stream. He had worked out several brilliant ideas to explain Nick's appearance in Golders Green. Michael was frankly bored. He didn't care a hang what Nick had been doing that morning. What he wanted to know was what Nick intended to do next, and above all, where he was to be found.

'I tell you, that's a dangerous man,' said Bobby. 'Sir Toby's a romantic old chap, and he's got sort of attached to his own picture of Vive le Sport, but what I say is, the man's a criminal, and we can't encourage crime, can we?'

Michael yawned. He considered throwing Bobby out, came to the reluctant conclusion that it might be thought a little discourteous, and relapsed into profound meditation, hardly aware of the flow of conversation from his guest. When Bobby finally said that he ought to be going, Michael bade him a polite good-night, but made no attempt to detain him.

'Can you find your own way down?' he asked.

'Oh, rather. Good-night, Michael. May I look in to-morrow to hear what Jerry's got to say?'

'Of course. So long.'

The door shut behind him. Michael returned to his sofa and picked up his book.

As a matter of fact, it was a pity that his natural bad manners had prevented him from going to the door, for Bobby's subsequent movements might have interested him. Young Mr. Manvers walked noisily down six steps, and then very quietly mounted them again. For a moment he stood listening on Michael's landing. There was no one about. Then, very softly, he went up the stairs to the top-floor flat, and entered Jerry's sitting-room. He moved across the room gingerly, and struck a match, shielding it in his hands. On the mantelpiece lay Jerry's latchkey, as Milly had said. Bobby slipped it into his pocket and retraced his steps very cautiously. He moved remarkably quietly for so sturdy a young man, all the way downstairs to the first landing. Then he continued with his usual heavy tread.

Milly was in the hall, studying a trades directory, and she looked up as he arrived.

'Hullo, Milly, what are you d-doing?'

'Lookin' for a plumber,' said Milly shortly. 'Goo'-night, Mr. Manvers.'

'I should have thought you'd have had a tame plumber up your sleeve,' said Bobby. 'Whenever I come here, there always seems to be something wrong with a tap somewhere.'

'Our usual one's out o' sorts,' said Milly. 'We got ter git another. Can y' let yerself out, Mr. Manvers?'

'Oh, rather! What's wrong with your plumber, Milly? A broken heart? I suppose you've been flirting with him.'

Milly lifted her eyes from the directory and regarded Bobby with a cool, disconcerting stare.

'You ain't guessin' well this evenin',' she said.

'Terribly crushing you are! Do tell me about your plumber friend.'

Milly shut the directory with a snap.

''Is wife's 'ad triplets, and 'e's congratulated 'isself into D.T.'s,' she said. 'It all comes o' not knowin' when ter stop. There's the door, Mr. Manvers. Don't slam it after you.'

Bobby let himself out. Milly watched the door shut behind him, and then raced up the stairs to Michael's room.

'Mr. Doone!'

Michael looked up from his book.

'I got a message for yer.'

'Who sent it?'

'There wasn't no name. I was told ter give it yer when you was alone.'

'Well, go ahead.'

'It was askin' yer to call at 31 Buckingham Gate Mansions this evenin'. But I was ter be sure and tell yer to come alone.'

Michael leapt to his feet and looked at his watch.

'It's half-past ten. Blast the man!' he said. 'Where's my hat?'

Milly handed it to him.

'You blastin' the bloke wot sent that message?' she asked.

'No!' Michael grinned. 'I'm blasting the mutt who's been wasting my time this evening.'

'Oh, 'im!' Milly beamed on him. 'Mr. Bloomin' Manvers. 'E's got a sauce, 'e 'as! I don't think much of 'im, Mr. Doone.'

'Oh, you don't, don't you?' said Michael, fumbling in his pocket to see if he'd got his latchkey.

'No. 'E ain't no good. But you don't believe me when I tells yer wot a bloke's like.'

Michael, halfway through the door, checked for a second and looked at her.

'I'm beginning to think you're not such a bad judge, after all,' he said.

'That's right, Mr. Doone! Now you c'n 'op orf an' tell 'im, so, too. Give 'im my love!'

'Right!' said Michael, and descended the stairs three steps at a time.

CHAPTER XXI

JERRY EXPLAINS HERSELF

That same Monday evening Jerry Mitchell was curled up in a big chair in the Stricklands' sitting-room, half listening, half absorbed in her own thoughts.

She was only half listening, because Nick was giving Jack Strickland an account of his adventures of the past four months, and she had heard the story before. She watched them thoughtfully; Jack's keen, dark face, alight with understanding and appreciation, and Nick, laughter in his eyes, telling of his successes and failures with equal zest. Just now, she thought, he seemed so young; an everlasting boy. And yet she knew, if the occasion arose, his face could change suddenly.... 'Adequate fella, Nick. Always was.' She could hear Thorpe's crisp voice, and smiled at the memory. It seemed an age ago. She had lost all count of time lately. For instance, she could hardly believe that it had been only last night that Nick had brought her here. Her face softened, remembering Jill's serene, friendly, unquestioning welcome. Then, early next morning, Jack Strickland had arrived from Russia, and Jerry had fallen for him as quickly as she had for his sister. They were a heavenly couple, and how they both loved Nick! Jill had spoken to her of Nick; had told her how he had saved Jack's life in France, and a few other facts of that far-away war-time, that had made Jerry curiously dumb. She didn't want to talk about Nick. She wasn't even sure if it were quite safe to think about him, though it was hard not to. To tell the honest truth—and Jerry was usually honest with herself—she was afraid. Not of Nick, but of herself. It was a queer, overwhelming feeling that took her suddenly, and made her scramble desperately back to safety. Difficult, sometimes, especially when his voice grew gentle. Nick was so certain of himself, and how could she be certain? And yet, if Nick went away.... She jerked herself back to the talk.

'So now you understand what your job is,' Nick was saying.

'Perfectly.' Jack laughed. 'But look here, Nick, that's not all. I want to know a little more. To start with, who is the Chief? If I've got to arrest him, I feel I ought to know.'

Nick shook his head.

'I'd rather not tell you, Jack, if you can bear it. You might meet him to-morrow, and ... I won't take any chances. But I swear I'll let you know before you do your stuff. Will that do?'

Jack surveyed him amusedly.

'It'll have to, I suppose. The Playboy must have his mystery. Well, is that all my orders?'

'That's all, thanks.'

Jack rose to his feet.

'Then, if you'll forgive me, I'm going to bed. I've had precious little sleep for the last three nights, and I've got to look intelligent for the benefit of my superiors to-morrow morning. Good-night, Jerry. By the way, where's Jill?'

'In the kitchen, turning out a cupboard,' said Jerry.

'It's a curious vice, that,' said Jack. 'Jill's always succumbing to it. Her idea of heaven is a place full of endless cupboards, which she will turn out all day long. Good-night, Nick.'

'Good-night, old man. It's good to have you back.'

For answer, Jack dropped a hand on Nick's shoulder for an instant and then went out.

There was silence in the little room. Nick sat on the padded leather fender, staring at the glowing end of the cigarette in his hand. Jerry watched his grave face. The boy had turned into a man—a very adequate man. For one second she contemplated retreat, and then dismissed the idea. One must keep one's head, and not be a fool.

Then Nick looked up and spoke, gravely:

'The end's in sight, old lady.'

Jerry nodded, with a feeling of relief. She knew that tone. They were partners when he spoke like that; he was thinking of the job.

'Are things panning out as well as you expected?'

'Better.' He spoke deliberately. 'Now Jack's home we're set safely. I've got the information I want, and I wouldn't mind betting that, with Michael's help, we shall pull off this show without the slightest hitch. By the way, you didn't forget to post that letter, did you?'

'No. Put it in the letter-box myself.' Jerry jumped to her feet impulsively. 'Nick, it's marvellous of you to let me be in this. I don't believe anyone else would understand just why and how much I want to be there. I want to stop hating him, you see, and ... oh, well, I can't explain.'

'I should feel just the same,' said Nick. 'But there's no question of "letting" you be in it. I want your help. You're an essential part of the scheme. I couldn't pull it off without you.'

'Honestly, Nick?'

'Absolutely honestly. You ask Jack.'

Jerry walked over to the window, and stood staring out at the smoky-blue summer night sky. 'It's awfully good,' she murmured.

'What is?'

'To feel that I'm really playing an essential part in the game—that it hasn't been taken clean out of my hands.'

Nick crossed the room with a slow stride, and came over to the window.

'I wish you knew what an infernally essential part you're beginning to play in all my games,' he said.

Jerry was silent, staring at the sky. Nick watched her stern young face, white against the dark panelling.

'No chance for me at all?' he asked at last, and Jerry knew there was laughter as well as gravity in his eyes. She steeled herself to answer lightly.

'Nick, for goodness' sake talk about something else.'

'I can't. I can't think of anything else. I love you.'

Jerry caught her breath. It wasn't fair. Then Nick put a hand on her shoulder, and the gentleness of his touch was more than she could bear.

'Don't!' she said, in sudden anger that was half pain.

Nick released her instantly, and she saw his face whiten.

'I'm sorry,' he said quietly, and turned away.

With a little gasp, Jerry ran to him.

'Nick! Nick, please forgive me. I didn't mean to hurt you. But oh! how can I explain?'

She took hold of his coat with both hands and, looking up, laughed a little uncertainly at the sight of his perplexed face. Very cautiously, Nick put his arms round her, and she leant her head against him, with a sudden feeling of comfort and safety.

'I wish I knew just exactly what's worrying you, small person,' he said to her hair.

Jerry sighed, and disengaged herself.

'I don't know if I can explain, but I'll try. Sit down there.'

Obediently, Nick sat down on the back of the sofa, but still kept an arm round her. Jerry looked at the wavering lines in the Persian rug at her feet. Nick looked at Jerry. There was a long silence.

'Well, one of us must start soon,' said Nick plaintively, 'or we shall never get to the bottom of this business. Shall I have a shot?'

Jerry nodded.

'You said just now that it was good to feel you were playing an essential part in this game of ours.'

'Yes.' In a very small voice. 'And to feel that it hadn't been taken right out of my hands.'

Nick was silent. He was just beginning to see the fences ahead.

'It's too big for me!' Jerry burst out suddenly. 'I don't know what I'm doing. I never felt like this before. It doesn't seem me at all.'

'I never felt like this before, either,' said Nick quietly.

'But it's different for you. You're certain of yourself. You know what you're doing. At least, you seem to.'

'Of course I do,' said Nick. 'A lot of chance I should have if I didn't, shouldn't I? Why, you'd laugh me to scorn, stamp on me, and then hang me out to dry. I know you!'

A smile flickered in Jerry's eyes, and faded again.

'Nick, please try to understand. Can't you?'

'I am trying, but you must make allowances for a man's stupidity. I love you, you see, and I'm oddly anxious to know if you care for me, at all. By the way, you believe that I love you, I suppose?'

'Yes.' Jerry nodded gravely. 'You say you do, and I think you know your own mind, and mean what you say.'

'Thank you.'

'But, Nick'—she twisted round and faced him—'am I in love with you? That's what I want to know.'

'So do I. Badly.'

'You see, one ought to be able to make up one's mind reasonably, but I can't because you keep upsetting things so.'

'I'm sorry,' said Nick humbly. 'Am I upsetting things now?'

'No. But I always feel you may, any minute.'

'It happens sometimes,' said Nick, 'when you beat round the bush. I hate having the subject changed for me, and I have to fight down a temptation to pick you up and spank you.'

'Please, Nick!' said Jerry hastily.

He laughed. 'All right. Now listen to me. Do you like me?'

'Yes.'

'Much?'

'Better than anyone I've met so far.'

'Well, then——'

'Is that enough?' asked Jerry swiftly.

There was a pause, and then Nick said, 'No.'

'You see, Nick'—the words came tumbling out of her—'I feel that if I fall in love with you, I shall never be the same again.'

'Neither shall I!'

'Yes, you will!'

'Superficially I may seem the same, but fundamentally I shall change a lot.'

'Now you're going to be funny, I suppose. I'm serious, Nick.'

'So am I. Deadly. Fundamentally I shall be a better and nobler man.'

Jerry regarded him thoughtfully.

'Yes, I don't suppose it will show much on the surface,' she said dispassionately.

'Now you're lowering the tone of the conversation. Jerry, darling, why not try falling in love with me and see how it works? I'm perfectly willing to take the risk.'

'Nick, don't be so incredibly stupid! Can't you understand that I could probably bear it if you found out after a while that you didn't care for me, but I should simply die if I stopped caring for you.'

There was another silence. Nick pulled Jerry down beside him. She leant her head back against his shoulder, contentedly.

'Jerry,' said Nick at last.

'Yes?'

'Suppose—just suppose you knew that we were both going to be drowned in six months' time. Would you admit that you love me?'

'Yes.'

'And marry me?'

'I expect so.'

Another silence.

'It's no good,' said Nick. 'I'm sorry, but I can't consent to our deaths. Couldn't you manage an extension of the time? Say, to forty years? They'd go awfully quickly.'

Jerry began to laugh.

'Oh, Nick, there's no one like you! I expect I'm a fool, but I've got to think it out for myself.'

'All right,' said Nick. 'You'll let me know as soon as you have decided, won't you?'

'I promise. I'll either say: "Never, no chance," or else I'll say: "Whenever you like, Nick."'

Nick's arm round her tightened.

'And while you're deciding, golden days are going to waste. Oh, Jerry, darling, give it up. You're making mountains out of molehills.'

'I can't help it.'

'It doesn't fit you at all. You ought to be a dashed good gambler.'

Jerry disengaged herself, and walked over to the window.

'It isn't a thing I care to gamble on,' she said coldly. 'I suppose men are made differently.'

'Possibly,' said Nick, with dangerous calm.

'Well, this argument has proved that you can't see what I'm driving at, anyway. I suppose you feel that I can't understand you either.'

'As a matter of fact, I haven't been trying to explain myself, much. We've been more or less concentrating on your side of the affair, haven't we?'

'We have. Without much success. However, if you leave me alone, I've no doubt I shall be able to make up my mind in time.'

A flame of laughter lit in Nick's eyes.

'One word more in that tone, young woman,' he said deliberately, 'and I shall make up your mind for you.'

'Do you really flatter yourself you could?'

'I know I can.'

Jerry smiled, defiantly. Nick rose to his feet and advanced on her swiftly. There was a prolonged peal from the front doorbell, and Jerry held up a protesting hand.

'There's someone at the door!'

'I guessed it,' said Nick. 'It won't hurt them to wait a minute.'

'You can't let people hang about on the landing.'

'Can't I?' said Nick grimly.

The bell rang again, furiously. Sudden alarm filled Jerry's face, and she caught Nick by the sleeve.

'Nick! I suppose—it isn't Mr. Robertson?'

He slipped an arm round her protectively, and felt her shivering.

'No such luck, old lady. It's probably Michael. If it were Robertson, I'd kill him twice over—the second time for interrupting me just as I was about to give you a well-deserved lesson.'

'All right, Nick, go ahead. There's Jack's riding-crop.'

'I can't now,' said Nick. 'But next time you talk to me like that, by Jove, you'll catch it! I suppose I must let this untimely blighter in.'

'I think you'd better,' said Jerry serenely. 'Whatever our manners may be to each other, let's try to be decently polite to outsiders.'

Nick grinned rather wildly.

'You know, you're enough to drive any man completely crazy,' he said.

'Yes, Nick, I know. But do answer the door.'

Nick took her face in his hands, hesitated, and then kissed the top of her head. As he turned to go, he said, over his shoulder: 'That was amazing moderation on my part!'

Jerry chuckled, and watched him cross the hall and open the door. On the mat stood Michael.

CHAPTER XXII

JILL HAS THE LAST WORD

'Hullo, Doone,' said Nick. 'Come in.'

Michael entered, and flung down his hat.

'Look here, Nick, I've sold you to Manvers and Sir Toby,' he said abruptly.

Jerry saw Nick's quick smile.

'I told 'em you were Vive le Sport,' went on Michael doggedly. 'In fact, I've made a damned fool of myself.'

Nick held out his hand, and they shook in silence.

'Come in and have a drink,' suggested Nick. 'There's a lot I want to tell you. Jerry's here, by the way.'

'How goes it, old thing?' said Jerry, coming across the hall.

'Not so badly.' Michael smiled at her. 'What's the big idea, Jerry?'

'Nick will tell you. It's a long story, but very, very beautiful.'

'Yes. There's a sort of wistful charm about it,' said Nick, leading Michael into the sitting-room. 'Come along in. Jerry, do you know where Jill keeps the glasses?'

'In the kitchen, I expect. What are you going to drink?'

Nick looked at Michael inquiringly.

'Mine's beer,' said Michael, meeting his eyes, and Jerry was aware, uncomprehending, of complete understanding between the two men.

'Well, I don't like beer,' she said, 'so I think I'll go to bed and leave you to discuss the plan of campaign. Good-night.'

'Good-night, old thing,' said Michael.

Nick, behind his back, blew a kiss to her, and then turned to his guest.

'Make yourself comfortable,' he said. 'Tobacco in that box. Help yourself. I'll go and hunt up some glasses.'

A light was burning in the kitchen, but the room appeared to be empty. Nick opened a door in the wall, with great caution, only to discover that it led to the larder. Then he heard a faint noise behind him, and swung round to see Jill emerging from a large cupboard.

'Hullo, Nick,' she said calmly. 'Are you hungry?'

'No. Thirsty. I was looking for some glasses.' He surveyed her with amusement. 'Jill, I've never seen you look untidy before.'

'Haven't you? I've been turning out that cupboard, you see.'

'I do see. The result is most disturbing. Your hair's standing on end, your face is flushed with exertion, and you've got a large black smudge on your nose. This is terribly unusual, Jill. I don't feel I recognise you.'

'If it comes to that, you're hardly yourself, either,' said Jill thoughtfully. 'There's a light in your eyes, Nick, that is new to me. Is it a good world?'

'Divil a doubt of it! Where are those glasses, Jill?'

She laughed. 'You coward! On the top shelf of the dresser.'

'What d'you mean—"coward"?' demanded Nick, turning to the shelf indicated. 'Have you forgotten that I got an O.B.E. in the Great War? "Their memories are short, said he bitterly. They do not remember the men who bled for them. Pints of blood I shed, too."'

'Their memories aren't so bad, really,' said Jill. 'They remember the men who said: "If a woman cropped up in this game I should jack the whole thing up."'

Nick dropped a glass with a crash.

'Jill, you—little—devil!' he said.

Jill looked interested.

'Nick, do you know, I've never been called that before. Dear old chap, don't grind that glass into the linoleum if you can help it.'

'I'm awfully sorry,' said Nick, collecting the fragments. 'For breaking the glass I mean, not for the well-deserved epithet. Jill, I'd clean forgotten that I said that.'

'Their memories are short', said she with satisfaction. 'They forget the harsh things they said about the weaker sex.'

'Weaker! Heaven help us! Jill, I'll buy you another glass. What shall I do with the pieces?'

'Throw them into that bucket. Yes, do. Woolworth's. Sixpence. I'll come with you. I love watching people in Woolworth's. They go in so scornfully—and they come out thrilled.'

'I never go anywhere scornfully—and I'm always thrilled. Jill, tell me, did you know, that night?'

'I didn't exactly know—I just thought—I don't know, Nick. I can't explain.'

'The world's full of people who can't explain. Jill, am I unusually stupid, do you think?'

'Not for a man. Give her time, Nick.'

'I'd like to give her socks! There isn't any time!'

Jill laughed.

'You'd better be careful,' she warned. 'She isn't the sort of child who'll stand....'

'I know it! Only too well do I know it! Jill, tell me ... no, I'd rather you didn't.'

'Very wise man! Hadn't you better take those glasses along and give your accomplice a drink? You'll find the beer in the dining-room.'

'Right. Thanks, awfully.' He collected two tumblers from the dresser, and moved towards the door. 'Are you going to disappear into that cupboard again?'

'No.' Jill sighed regretfully. 'It's finished.'

'That crowded hour of glorious life is over. Poor little Jill!'

'I like doing it,' said Jill. 'You know where you are with a cupboard.'

'Jill!' Nick brandished a glass above her head menacingly. 'If you say one more thing like that—I shan't merely call you names.'

'Well, if you will come and trail the tail of your coat all round my peaceful kitchen, what can you expect?'

'I certainly didn't expect this, and it's a great shock to me. I had no idea you were capable of such provocation.'

'But, Nick, my dear, never before has there been such a perfect opportunity to pull your leg, because ... but I think you'd better go and look after Michael Doone.'

'Confound Michael Doone! "Because" why?'

'You won't like it if I tell you.'

'Never mind. Finish the sentence.'

'Because usually you are so certain. That's why you always get away with everything. Up to now, you've always known; just like that. And now you don't know—and everyone else does!'

'I don't like it,' said Nick. 'And I'm going. Good-bye. I mean, good-night!'

Jill watched his dignified exit, her eyes alight with laughter.

'Vive le Sport!' she said softly.

CHAPTER XXIII

'MR. ROBERTSON'

Bobby Manvers rose unusually early next morning, and before seven he was in Quebec Street, walking casually past No. 60. Seven A.M. is a trying hour for a fashionable young man, and, to make matters worse, Bobby was very anxious. The date was worrying him. Tuesday, June the 9th. It rang in his head like the ominous tolling of a bell. June the 9th! And on June the 10th....

Then he saw the postman come round the corner, stepping along with the busy air that postmen invariably wear. Bobby waited till he heard the rat-tat at the door of No. 58, and then, producing Jerry's latchkey, let himself into No. 60. As he guessed, the house was as silent as the grave. Bobby left the door open, and waited. The postman came and, seeing the open door, hesitated. Bobby bade him a cheerful good morning, and added: 'Shall I take the letters?'

'Thank you, sir. Quite a number this morning.'

The postman handed them over, and went off. Bobby ran through the letters quickly. There was one addressed to Michael in Jerry's handwriting. Bobby slipped it into his pocket, dropped the others on the mat, and went out, shutting the door softly behind him. He walked briskly to the nearest Tube station, and entering a call-box, opened Jerry's letter. It was dated June 8th.

DEAR MICHAEL,

I want you to come to-morrow night to Isaac Jacob's shop in Quay Street. It's a sort of clothier's, next door to a pub called The Sailmaker's Arms. You can't miss it. Go in and speak to old Jacob. The password is 'V.L.S.' When you say that, he will bring you upstairs to us. Nick has a room above the shop.

I can't tell you much now, but Nick is William's friend—the man who gave him the envelope. Nick has found out who Mr. Robertson is, and he's worked out all his plans to catch him. You remember the 10th of June? Well, that's the day when Nick will take action, but he wants to see you first, so will you come down to-morrow—the 9th—between 10 and 11 P.M. I shall be there, too, and will tell you all about our adventures since I last saw you.

Nick says be sure not to tell anyone about this, not even Bobby, until the show's over. We don't want the news to leak out.

Yours ever

JERRY

Bobby stuffed the letter into his pocket, and wiped his forehead. He was conscious of a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. It had been a close shave. If he had not managed to get this letter, things might have been alarming. As it was, he must let the Chief know immediately. Plans would have to be altered a good deal. Jacob's shop in Quay Street! And all this time he had had a man watching an innocent house in Leman Street, while Vive le Sport had come and gone freely elsewhere. Bobby took off the telephone receiver and rang up the Chief.

Three minutes later he emerged from the call-box, and took a bus to Commercial Road. Turning down Leman Street he found his assistant, propping up the walls of a public-house. In a few guarded sentences Bobby explained himself.

'Right y' are,' said the watcher, nodding. 'Ikey Jacob's. I know 'im. No point in worryin' abaht it till s'arternoon, is there?'

'I want you to be there by three, at the latest,' said Bobby. 'Watch who goes in and comes out, and let me know. I shall be back about half-past ten to-night.'

'Right-o, guv'nor.' The watcher nodded again, and Bobby made his way back to the West End.

As a matter of fact, it was barely ten past ten when he arrived in Quay Street, this time accompanied by a tall man with a black beard. The watcher arose from the darkness to greet them.

'Lots o' blokes 'ave bin in and out,' he whispered. 'But there's one went in two hour ago, and ain't shown up since. Tall bloke, clean-shaven, an' 'ad a gal with 'im.'

Bobby glanced at his companion with an expression of triumph, not unmixed with apprehension. Mr. Robertson smiled faintly, but made no comment.

'Good' said Bobby to the watcher. 'Keep on at your post till we come out. We may need you, but you know what to expect.'

'Yessir. Right y' are.' He lifted up his voice in the true beggar's whine: 'Spare us a tanner, gentlemen. Ain't 'ad a bite since day 'fore yesterday, swelp me, Bob! Thank ye, sir. Gawd bless yer!'

Bobby and his companion entered the shop.

It was a dingy little place, lit by a flaring gas jet. Jacob himself, with his bright boot-button eyes, sat behind the counter, and sniffed into his straggling grey beard. The room smelt of cheese and oilskins and escaping gas. A long, lanky fellow in blue trousers and sweater leant up against the far end of the counter. He was talking in an undertone to Jacob, and did not look up as the newcomers entered.

Bobby nodded curtly.

'V.L.S.,' he said, without preface.

'That's right,' said Jacob, waving his hand towards a door at the back of the shop. 'Upstairs and the first on your right. But you know the way, maybe?'

Bobby nodded, and crossed the little room. His companion followed him, with a curious glance over his shoulder at the lanky sailor, who was struggling to pull on a pair of sea-boots, and cursing under his breath in vivid Cockney. They passed out into a narrow passage, shutting the shop door behind them, and began to mount the stairs. At the top Bobby hesitated. His companion glanced at him and smiled.

'I suppose ... er ... I suppose this is the right way?' said Bobby in an undertone.

There was a shadow of doubt in his voice, and his companion heard it. Without a word he stepped in front of him, and knocked sharply on the door. Nick's voice answered. 'Come in, Michael!' they heard him say.

The man with the beard entered the room, revolver in hand. Bobby followed close. Jerry and Nick were sitting over the fire talking gravely, and as they turned Nick leapt to his feet, with a startled exclamation.

'Don't move, please,' said the man with the beard. 'Let me explain at once that this little weapon of mine has a silencer. I find it very handy. My secretary here, whom I believe you have met, always uses the same type.'

Nick bowed.

'May I introduce Miss Mitchell?' he said. 'Jerry, this is Mr. Robertson, whom you have been so anxious to meet. Also his second-in-command, Mr. Manvers. You remember him?'

'I do indeed,' said Jerry. She surveyed Bobby coolly, and gave a contemptuous little laugh. 'How absurd!' she said.

Bobby flushed, and scowled. The man with the beard smiled appreciatively.

'I'm delighted to meet you both,' he said, 'but forgive me if I talk business. Time's getting short. May I have that list of names, Nicholson?'

'I'm afraid not,' said Nick. 'It's not in my possession.'

Robertson turned to Jerry.

'Perhaps you can help me. I want the letter given to your father in the Jameson Club on the night of April 24th. It was stolen from me that evening by this most efficient burglar, Mr. Nicholson.'

Jerry smiled.

'I'm afraid it's no good, Mr. Robertson. Surely you must see that, as my father's executor, my hands are tied. I have his instructions, and must carry them out.'

'I see that you are indeed your father's daughter,' said the bearded man, 'but, believe me, you're being rather foolish. I must have that paper. I would rather not resort to force if I can make you see reason without it. In fact, I shrink from the idea of hurting either you or your secretive friend. By the way, he ought to have confided in you a little more fully. If he had, you would not be in this awkward position. But, as I was saying, I beg you to be reasonable, and not force me to use drastic measures. I have felt the keenest affection for Vive le Sport ever since he began his romantic career, and I cannot but admire a young lady of your courage.'

'Thank you,' said Jerry, and her voice had an edge to it. 'I wonder if you admired my father?'

'Immensely. I regretted having to use force there more than I can say, but he gave me no alternative. That is why I implore you to be more sensible.'

'It's a form of insanity that runs in our family, this keeping of promises,' said Jerry. 'We call it common decency, when we have to refer to it, but generally one takes it for granted. I don't suppose you understand that, though.'

The appreciation in the man's eyes deepened as he watched her. Then, suddenly, he turned to Nick.

'For Heaven's sake, be reasonable, Nicholson,' he said. 'I know only too well that you enjoy risking your own life, but you have no right to risk Miss Mitchell's. Hand me over that list and let's have done.'

'I'm afraid you can't have heard me,' said Nick. 'The list is not in my possession.'

'Have you sent it to Scotland Yard?'

Nick raised his eyebrows.

'Mr. Robertson,' he said gently, 'your memory is failing you. If you remember, I told you that if you were not out of the country by June the 10th I should be obliged to take steps against you. I also said that I should make every effort to save the rank and file of your maniac army, although I intended to expose you. I always endeavour to keep my word. The police have not got that list ... yet.'

Mr. Robertson smiled.

'You know,' he said, 'you're a man after my own heart. I wish you weren't. It would save me considerable regret. I suppose you wouldn't consider—no, of course you wouldn't. Well, it's a great pity. I could have worked with you.'

'We should have clashed on every question of ethics,' said Nick. 'But, apart from that, I believe you're right. By the way, I've always wanted to know—and I may never get another chance to ask you—why did you choose Manvers as your second-in-command? It makes me think of the numbers of brilliant men and women who deliberately marry congenital idiots. A common occurrence, but it never ceases to amaze me.'

'Oh, our Bobby has his uses,' said Mr. Robertson tolerantly. 'He hasn't really made a mess of any job before. It was when you crossed his path that Bobby lost his head, and that was partly luck. You must admit you've been lucky, you know. That railway smash, for instance. I'm not decrying your skill, but people like Vive le Sport don't grow on every blackberry bush. It wasn't all Bobby's stupidity, though I must confess he's lamentably weak on psychology.'

'Oh, good God!' broke in Bobby, with an irritation that betrayed nervousness. 'Do get on with the job. It's getting late!'

'But I'm enjoying myself,' protested Mr. Robertson. 'As a student of human nature, Nicholson interests me enormously. But I dare say you're right. I take it'—he turned to Nick—'that in spite of all my advice you refuse to return my property?'

'You take it correctly.'

'You do realise that you're in my power, don't you?'

'I admit it looks like it.'

'Looks?' Mr. Robertson raised his eyebrows. 'You're not expecting a dramatic rescue by Michael Doone, are you? I'm afraid there's no hope of that. To tell you the truth, he never got your letter asking him to come.'

There was no answer, but Mr. Robertson, watching closely, saw Nick bite his lip. Jerry's face was averted.

'Think it over, Nicholson,' he advised. 'For a quixotic idea you're proposing to sacrifice not only yourself but this charming young lady. You're not very chivalrous, are you? And martyrdom is out of date.'

'Don't worry about me, Nick,' said Jerry clearly. 'I'm with you ... whenever you like!'

Their eyes met. Nick took an impulsive step towards her, and then checked himself, throwing up his hands with a despairing, half-comic gesture of helplessness. They both smiled; a smile of complete understanding.

'You have at least one loyal supporter,' said Mr. Robertson.

Nick's eyes narrowed.

'You're wasting time, Mr. Robertson,' he said coldly. 'I tried to make the position clear to you last April. Either you leave the country and call off your crusade by to-morrow, or else Scotland Yard will receive the list of your supporters. That stands. Nothing you may do to me will alter it. If I had guessed that you would deliberately murder an innocent man, I should have made my terms rather different.'

Mr. Robertson sighed, weighing his revolver thoughtfully in his hand.

'It was a pity about Mitchell,' he said; 'but he was so hasty. I assure you, Nicholson, I regretted the necessity. You see, he refused to tell me where the list was, and attempted to telephone for the police. It was essential that I should search his room, and so I had no alternative. Then, as it happened, I was not able to look for the list, for I heard someone moving in the room above me. However, we had a look later.'

'Yes,' said Nick. 'I shall never forget Bobby's disappointed face when he realised it wasn't there.'

'You saw him? Upon my word, my admiration for you increases every minute. Yes, it was a pity. If only he had told me that the envelope was in his bank we should have all been saved this regrettable affair.'

'I think your own psychology was not too good there.'

Mr. Robertson shrugged his shoulders.

'Well, there's no more to be said, I suppose. Will you be so good as to sit down in that chair, Nicholson? Though I may not look like a desperate man, I admit frankly that the time has come when I can take no chances, and I respect your physical attributes as much as I do your mentality. I have a vivid memory of seeing you engaged in a little—er—argument in Nightingale Lane one evening. While Bobby is tying you to the chair, I shall keep Miss Mitchell covered, and if you resist I shall shoot. You do believe me, don't you?'

'Surely,' said Nick, sitting down obediently. 'Come along, Bobby. Do your stuff.'

Bobby Manvers advanced with some hesitation. Nick watched him with unconcealed amusement.

'Isn't his caution flattering?' he said to Jerry. 'It's all right, Bobby. Do your duty and fear not. I'm helpless.'

'Shut your mouth, damn you!' snarled Bobby, jerking viciously at the rope.

Mr. Robertson glanced at him reprovingly.

'Bobby, Bobby, remember your manners,' he said. 'I must apologise for him, Nicholson. His temperament is just a little too excitable. You understand?'

'Perfectly,' said Nick, submitting to be tied to the chair.

Mr. Robertson crossed the room and tried the door on the far side. It was locked and there was no key.

'Where does this lead to?' he asked.

'The Sailmaker's Arms, next door.'

'Have you the key?'

'No.'

'Then who has? The proprietor—or Jacob?'

'Neither. The landlord has it. These two houses were originally one.'

'I see. Well, Bobby, stand by Nicholson, and gag him if he attempts to speak. I don't think he will, but one never knows. Miss Mitchell, I want to speak to you. Won't you sit down?'

Jerry leaning against the table, shook her head. Mr. Robertson slipped his revolver into his pocket, and studied her face thoughtfully.

'In the first place,' he began, 'please don't think I am actuated by any malice against Nicholson. When I said just now that he was a man after my own heart, I meant it, every word. I like him better than any man I have ever met. I like his courage, his audacity, and, above all, his sense of humour, which is only another way of saying balance. In fact'—he smiled—'may I congratulate you? He's one in a thousand.'

Jerry bowed.

'But—I hate to say it—but he has his failings. He has all the Irish pride. He expects to be believed, whether he explains himself or not. If you don't trust him implicitly, you can go to the devil. He'll not bother to state his case. And no man on earth is always right, Miss Mitchell. Vive le Sport! He takes up the cudgels and wades into the fray without stopping to think. Just now he's fighting most gallantly—on behalf of a man who doesn't desire or need defence. It's enough to make one weep, although his utter sincerity compels one's affection and respect.'

He paused. Jerry gripped the edge of the table, and tried to shut her ears to the charm of his voice.

'I wonder if you really understand what I am driving at,' he went on. 'This Fraternity of mine—you don't look upon it as a mob of revolutionaries, do you? That's the difficulty, so often. Whenever a man wants to start a reform of any kind, three-quarters of the population immediately conjure up a horrid vision of a vast crowd of frenzied insurgents, armed with knives and pitchforks, sweeping through the streets of London, by the light of flaming torches, and leaving havoc and slaughter in their wake. It's curious, for the English as a race are deeply attached to the English of all classes. If you could only meet some of my crowd you'd believe me when I say that riot is the last thing they would contemplate or allow. They really care about England, and they care enough to want to do something about it. No one in his senses can fail to see that all is not well with the country under the present system. Four years of the most ghastly war in history have almost wrecked England. You have only to use your own eyes. Aliens, and, worse still, English profiteers who care nothing for England, are in power. Our best men are left in the mud. Take Nicholson's own case. Whatever he may or may not have told you, I am certain he has concealed nothing of his previous career from you. Why did he take to burglary? Simply because he was bitterly angry—and quite rightly bitter—at the sight of the injustice around him. Because of the rottenness of the system that let such men as he die like dogs of starvation, after they had risked life and health and sanity to save their country. I want to alter that; and who shall say I am not right?'

'It's a great ideal, Mr. Robertson,' said Jerry steadily. 'But your methods don't appeal to me. I find it hard to believe that you will save England by murder.'

There was another pause, and the silence was electric.

'You're in love, of course,' said Mr. Robertson slowly, almost as if he were explaining something to himself. 'Also, you're a woman. "Launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same." I've never met it before. It's curious.'

He regarded her musingly for a while, and then straightened his shoulders.

'Well, you force my hand,' he said abruptly. 'I'll give you three minutes in which to tell me where and how I can get that list.'

'And if I don't, you'll murder me as you did my father,' said Jerry.

'No, not quite like that. I killed him in self-defence, but I am becoming rather annoyed with you. I hit him over the head with a loaded cane I often carry; a handy little weapon in an emergency. I think that your death will not be so pleasant, nor so swift. Shall I tell you how I propose to deal with you?'

'No, thanks,' said a voice behind him. 'Put your hands up.'

Bobby Manvers, standing by Nicholson, gave a strangled gasp, and Jerry, turning, saw Jack Strickland with two other men.

'The landlord, I presume,' said Mr. Robertson. 'At any rate, he appears to have the key of that door.'

'As a matter of fact, his is the spare key,' said Nick. 'I'm afraid I forgot to mention it. This is Inspector Strickland of Scotland Yard. Jack, Sir Toby Ward. Hullo, gone away!'

Bobby Manvers had bolted. He tore open the door behind him, and collided violently with a man who had been waiting patiently outside; the long, lanky seaman who had been buying boots when they entered.

'Don't!' he said, pushing Bobby back into the room. 'I hate having my arm jerked when I've got a gun in my hand. It might go off.'

'Come in, Michael, and shut the door,' said Nick.

'By God, it's a trap!' Bobby's voice rose to a scream.

'Quite,' said Michael pleasantly. 'What intuition!'

White and shaking, Bobby turned back to the room. One of the men who had entered with Jack was untying Nicholson. The other stood by the far door, while Michael effectively blocked the one behind him. Jack, hands in pockets, was watching Sir Toby, who stood regarding the proceedings with a faint, detached smile.

'Sir Toby Ward,' said Jack quietly, 'I arrest you for the wilful murder of William Mitchell on the morning of May 24th. I may say that the statements you have made during the last half-hour have been taken down in full. Would you care to sign the document?'

'In my capacity of lawyer I am aware that it will make very little difference whether I do or not,' said Sir Toby; 'so if it would give you any pleasure I will certainly sign it. May I sit down? To tell the truth, I feel a little shaky. It's my infernal heart again. Thanks, very much. By the way, here is my revolver. I presume you require it.'

Jack took the gun in silence, and Nick, watching him, knew that he, too, was conscious of the man's queer charm. Sir Toby smiled suddenly.

'You won't be able to add "in unlawful possession of firearms" to my list of charges,' he told Jack. 'I've got the necessary licence.'

Jack found himself responding to the smile. It was impossible not to admire a man who took a beating so gamely. Then he turned to Bobby.

'Robert Oliver Manvers——' he began, but Bobby interrupted him.

'I wasn't in that murder!' he burst out. 'I can prove it. He did it! And as for the Fraternity, I acted only under compulsion. I didn't want a revolution—I did only what he told me. And, anyway, there are hundreds of others in it. Nicholson's got a list of their signatures. You aren't going to arrest me and let them off scot-free?'

Jack turned sharply to Nick.

'If this is true I must ask you for that list.'

'No good, I'm afraid. I've destroyed it.'

'Destroyed it?' Bobby stared blankly. 'When?'

Nick's smile held more than a trace of contempt.

'Miss Mitchell and I burnt it, with appropriate ceremony, just before you and Sir Toby came in.'

Sir Toby nodded with deep satisfaction.

'I always knew I should like to work with you,' he said.

'It's easy enough for you to take it calmly,' Bobby screamed. 'You won't live long, anyway. Look here, Strickland, I know all the leaders of this show. There are sixty-seven of them. I can tell you their names. If you'll let me off I'll turn King's evidence and——'

A revolver cracked suddenly. Bobby crumpled up curiously, sank to the floor, twitched convulsively, and lay still. Jerry gave a little gasp. Nick put out a hand to her, but his eyes were on Sir Toby, who was handing a small automatic to Jack.

'Forgive me for startling you,' he said gently, 'but, really, I could not allow him to continue that sentence. I usually keep a spare for emergencies, but in this case I felt his need was greater than mine.'

'I retract,' said Nick. 'On some ethical points we obviously see eye to eye.'

Sir Toby smiled.

'Vive le Sport!' he said. 'We should have made a good team. I might even have felt it worth while to adapt myself to your conscience. Nicholson, I would have killed you this evening, if necessary, but I should have hated doing it as I've never hated anything in my life.'

'You'd kill anybody,' said Jerry suddenly, in a curiously colourless voice. 'Human life means nothing to you.'

Sir Toby looked at her with mild surprise.

'My dear young lady, if you had seen as much of human life as I have—and Heaven send you never may—you would attach as little importance to it as I do. Human beings, generally speaking, are a poor lot, and such specimens as that'—he nodded to the still body by the door—'are worth less than a rat, fighting for existence in a sewer.'

Jerry walked over to the window, and stood looking out. Sir Toby glanced at Nick, but his eyes were on the girl. Thoughtfully the man regarded him. Nick could not, and never would, understand. He loved life and people, and had nothing but pity for those who did not share his views. Sir Toby shrugged his shoulders philosophically, and his eyes travelled slowly round the company. Jack was looking annoyed. Sir Toby had made a messy job of a clean arrest, and he would get the blame. He was speaking to one of his plain-clothes men. The other still stood by the door, his face an impassive mask.

Then Sir Toby's eyes fell on Michael Doone, and he smiled. Michael was staring reflectively at the body at his feet, and he looked up and caught Sir Toby's eye. He understood that smile, and answered it. Michael alone, by virtue of his Australian blood, was capable of understanding and to some extent sympathising with that supreme indifference.

'I'd ha' done it if you hadn't,' he drawled.

'It's time we were moving,' said Jack curtly. 'Sir Toby, would you prefer to keep your disguise until we reach the station?'

'My beard? Yes, I think I'll go to jail as Mr. Robertson. I doubt very much if you will ever get me to the dock as Toby Ward. I know the law, and the slowness of its processes. Would you mind giving me an arm? Thanks, very much.'

As the door shut behind them, Nick went over to Jerry.

'I take off my hat to you,' he said quietly. 'You're the finest partner in the world.'

Jerry bit her lip, and then, as Nick's arms came round her, buried her face in his coat.

Michael turned to go. This seemed to him an anticlimax. 'See you at breakfast,' he said casually.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE TENTH OF JUNE

It was a perfect June morning, and sunshine was streaming in the wide-opened windows of the top-floor flat in 60 Quebec Street. Jerry, Nick, and Michael, having just finished a large and very late breakfast, tilted back their chairs and smiled at each other.

'Amazingly quiet it is here,' commented Nick.

'It always is, in the mornings,' Jerry told him. 'As Milly says, "Thank Gawd, they're all chloroformed till lunch-time."'

Michael chuckled.

'What did Milly say to you this morning?' he asked.

'Say? She talked for half an hour without stopping. Mostly about Nick. "Ever ser nice, Mr. Nicholson is. Such a takin' way 'e's got!" I didn't tell her that his "taking way" had been giving Scotland Yard a headache for the last six years. What did she say to you?'

'Don't ask me! I fled to the bath. Milly asks too many questions. And by the same token'—he turned to Nick—'there are one or two I want to ask myself.'

'Shoot!' said Nick lazily.

'In the first place, how did you find out?'

'Yes. I want to know that, too,' put in Jerry. 'How did you guess that Sir Toby was the Chief?'

Nick grinned.

'You told me so,' he said.

Jerry surveyed him, exasperation in her eye.

'Don't be comic at breakfast,' she said severely. 'It's indecent. Tell the story your own way, if you like.'

Nick groaned.

'Seconded,' said Michael. 'Get a move on.'

With a sigh Nick heaved himself up in his chair, and lit another cigarette.

'Well, you see, I knew Manvers. I recognised him at the fateful Fraternity meeting in April. After that, I simply trailed the lad, hoping he would lead me to the Chief, but he didn't. Sickening, it was. One time I thought I'd got 'em both on toast, but it didn't come off.'

'When was that?' demanded Michael.

'The morning after that dance at Barton. Manvers was rung up from London, and I took care to overhear his conversation. You came in for the tail-end of it, if you remember. Manvers was obviously told that Breck's boat was due in at five the next morning, and I gathered that he and the Chief intended to meet it, so I made a desperate effort to get there first. I hoped to be able to trail Mr. Robertson to a permanent address, as it were. How Manvers got hold of him that night I don't know. They were pretty quick. I think he must have picked him up at the Hampstead house. If I hadn't wasted time playing touchlast with you, Michael, I might have run into them. They can't have been gone more than a few minutes when I picked up that puncture. Incidentally, Toby might have cited that as one of my bits of luck.'

'Look here, Nick,' Michael grinned, 'why did you go in by Hampstead?'

Nick laughed.

'Yes, you asked me that before, didn't you? It's quite simple. I had to go to Jermyn Street and change, and for anywhere in the West End the North Road is far the best entrance to London. It's more mileage, but much quicker.'

'I wish you'd explain how, when, and where I told you about Sir Toby,' said Jerry. 'I didn't know. I nearly had a fit when you told me, while we were burning that list of names.'

'Oh, you were warned, were you?' said Michael.

'Yes. Weren't you?'

'No,' said Nick, 'but his reception of the news led me to believe that he had guessed.'

'No, I hadn't,' said Michael, with a yawn. 'But I didn't worry. He'd finished my job, thank Heaven.'

'I thought you liked him,' said Jerry.

Michael looked surprised.

'So I did. So I do. Cheery old soul, and took his licking like a sportsman. Get on with the yarn, Nick. When did Jerry tell you?'

'Last Sunday, when we were driving back from High Ash. She said that Bobby was all in favour of her showing the diary to Sir Toby. I'd wondered before, but it seemed too fantastic, and even then I wanted more proof; so after I'd left Jerry at Strickland's I drove back to Suffolk.'

'That accounts for it,' said Michael with satisfaction. 'Bobby found a garage at Golders Green that said they sold you petrol at 1 A.M.'

'Did he?' said Nick. 'That was unusually bright of Bobby. Well, I hung about in that little village—what's its name? St. Anthony's Ash—until midday Monday. It was a complicated job, but after a good deal of careful search and more than careful questioning, I discovered that Sir Toby had been in London on the night of the murder, and, in fact, didn't get back till nearly nine next morning. Toby, by the way, keeps two cars. One of 'em lives in an old barn, in that wood behind the house. None of his servants, except the chauffeur and possibly Ruff, know anything about his strange adventures, but you know what village gossip is. It never goes farther than the village, but it circulates there pretty thoroughly.

'Well, that was enough proof for me, but, of course, not nearly enough for Scotland Yard. After all, why shouldn't a respectable lawyer keep a Daimler in a barn if he wants to? And also, why shouldn't he go to London and come home at 9 A.M.? He's a bachelor, and his private affairs are his own. I didn't want the police to have a hearty laugh at my expense, but all the same I had a curious longing to get him jugged. There's no prig like the reformed criminal, you know! Altogether it seemed to me that the only thing to do was to make him give himself away. Then, when I got back to London, and found Jack had arrived, I began to see daylight. Jack and I had a devil of a pow-wow that Monday afternoon.'

'That was when I was busy giving you away to the enemy,' said Michael. 'You blighter! You might have saved me that!'

'Dear old chap, I'm afraid that was deliberate. You see, I knew that if you heard nothing from me you'd have to tell Sir Toby what you knew about Vive le Sport. And the moment had come when I wanted him to know it. He'd had one nasty jolt already that day, when he got the envelope and found my card inside. By the way, it's a very fine tribute to the Jameson Club's stationery, isn't it? When you think of the number of times that blessed envelope's been opened and sealed up again....'

'Never mind that,' said Jerry sternly. 'Get on with the yarn.'

'Well, that told Sir Toby I was on the spot, so to speak, and he'd got to get a move on. After I'd had the palaver with Jack, I rang up this place. It was about six then. Milly told me Michael was out, and that he and Bobby were expected in to supper.'

'Milly?' Michael stared. 'Has she been in this show too?'

'Very much so. Milly's a most admirable accomplice.'

'Deceitful little brute!' said Michael. 'I must talk to her about this.'

'Do,' said Nick. 'By the way, I haven't seen Milly this morning. That strange charlady let me in.'

'You'll see her before you go,' prophesied Jerry.

'Will he?' Michael cocked an eyebrow. 'The char always clears my table. Milly brings my breakfast up, and after that I never see her again till tea-time.'

'Neither do I,' said Jerry serenely, 'but we shall this morning. Go on with your epic, Nick.'

'Having conferred with Milly, I borrowed Jerry's key, came round here, climbed to the top of the house, and rang the bell. Milly entered, wearing such a perfect "Hist-we-must-not-be-discovered" expression that I nearly laughed. I told her as much as I thought safe of the campaign, and arranged with her to deliver Jerry's note and the message. Also, Jerry wanted some clothes. Milly was rather impossible about that. She seemed uproariously amused at the thought of my taking 'em, and drew a lurid picture of the parcel coming undone en route. It took me some time to check her.'

'I bet it did!' said Michael with sympathy. 'But, gosh! she is a little liar! I saw her with the parcel, coming downstairs, and she said it was washing.'

'I heard her,' said Nick with a grin.

'You?'

'Me! I was skulking upstairs, and my heart was going pit-a-pat. However, you didn't come up, so all was well. I waited till I heard your door slam, and then I went downstairs with catlike tread. Oh, yes, I left Jerry's latchkey on her mantelpiece, and told Milly to see that Bobby knew it was there. That really was rather clever of me.'

'Stop chucking bouquets at yourself,' said Michael. 'What then?'

'That was all, really. I went back to Strickland's, and had a bath. I knew you'd tell Bobby about that note from Jerry. I was prepared to bet that he would use the latchkey and pinch the letter that arrived next morning. I was absolutely certain that if he and the Chief read that letter, they'd act on it, so I staged Jack and the witnesses, and Sir Toby did the rest. All quite simple, really.'

Michael grinned. 'Too easy,' he agreed. 'It was a shame to take the money. Nick, you got away with it very nicely. And talking about getting away, I'm sailing next week.'

'No, hang it,' expostulated Nick, 'you can't!'

'Passage booked. I'm going home. This country's too exciting for me. I'm off to the islands where there's no such word as crime.'

'It's so common, I suppose,' said Nick. 'English is rich in words that other nations don't need. "Sober," for instance. There's no French equivalent, I believe. Over there it's merely normal.'

Michael surveyed him thoughtfully.

'Talkin' about sobriety,' he said, in his slowest drawl, 'I should like to get you really and thoroughly tight before I leave.'

'What a scandalous ambition!' said Jerry. 'Why?'

'I'd like to hear what he talks about,' explained Michael.

'Religion as a rule,' Nick told him. 'Deeply philosophical, I am. But lit up with humour at moments.'

'Speshul!' The shrill cry of a newsboy floated up the street. 'Evenin' spesh-ul! Death of well-known K.C.! Speshul!'

The three looked at each other, the same thought obvious in all their minds.

'Rot!' said Michael, answering the unspoken question. 'There's more than one well-known K.C. in the country.'

'Quite,' said Nick, making for the door, 'but all the same....' He ran down the stairs.

In a few minutes he returned, paper in hand. There was an odd smile on his face.

'It's true,' he said, handing the paper to Jerry.

'What's it say?' demanded Michael.

'"Sudden Death of Well-known K.C.,"' read Jerry. '"Sir Toby Ward found dead in his flat. Heart failure." But, Nick, how on earth....'

Nick waved a hand, imploring silence. He was at the telephone. 'Western 1743 ... please.' He turned to the other two. 'Jack will know, anyway. Hullo!... That you, Strickland?... Nick. I've just seen the news. Is it true?... Then how did it happen?'

There was a pause. Jerry and Michael waited impatiently.

'I see,' said Nick at last. 'You must have had a hectic time.... What?... Oh, much the best thing that could have happened.... Jack, you're a marvel!... Yes, I suppose they were a bit anxious.... What?... All right.... So long.'

He replaced the receiver slowly.

'Nick, tell us everything immediately,' commanded Jerry.

'It's quite true—as far as it goes. He was found dead in his flat this morning. But he died of heart failure in the car, before he got to the police station.'

'I thought that heart stuff was a fake,' said Michael.

'Oh, Lord, no! His gout was camouflage, but the heart attacks were perfectly genuine. Any sort of shock upset him, and the last few days must have been pretty trying.'

'And so he died in the cab, and then Jack....'

Nick nodded. 'He was rather a well-known man, you know—public character and all that—and the Powers that Be were a trifle apprehensive. So Jack arranged it. Much the best thing to do. No point in making a racket and getting the general public excited about a danger that's over.'

'No point at all,' agreed Jerry.

Michael stared for a moment, and then buried himself in the paper, with the air of a man who abandons a hopeless puzzle.

'In his way, he was rather a great man,' said Nick slowly. 'He jolly nearly convinced me once or twice. Trouble was, one couldn't quite trust him. He wasn't human enough.'

'He certainly wasn't!' said Jerry. 'It's queer, though. You'd think that he had a pretty full and satisfactory life as he was, without playing a double part.'

Nick shook his head.

'Not full enough,' he said. 'There were three big reasons for it. First, that power of leadership. A man can't have a gift like that and not use it. Secondly and thirdly, he was almost an invalid and entirely a cynic. A man who isn't very strong physically must always long for action, and if he can't achieve it himself he must inspire it in others. And a man who doesn't really care a damn for any individual person must attach his affection to a cause—a crowd of people. Toby really cared about his Fraternity, though he'd have knifed any individual one of 'em if he'd thought it advisable.'

'It's a wonderful country, this,' said Michael, looking up from the paper. 'There's a tribute here to the late lamented. You might almost have written it yourself.'

'What does it say?'

'It's a dream. Listen. "The sudden death of Sir Toby Ward will mean a great loss to the country. He, as much as any man in England, has been responsible for the safeguarding of the nation in these troublous post-war times. His just and kindly arbitration between employers and labour has on many occasions saved us from bitter disputes, and even, some say, from open revolution." Can you beat it?'

Nick nodded. 'That's the stuff,' he said. 'Is there more of it?'

'Yards! "Genial ... tolerant ... the best type of English gentleman.... Holy Wars!'

Nick laughed outright.

'You see, Michael, in this country——' he began, but he was interrupted by a furious tattoo on the door, and the entrance of Milly, flushed and panting.

'Joo ring, Miss Mitchell?' she asked, turning to Jerry with a smile of childlike innocence.

Jerry shook her head, biting back a chuckle.

'Oh, didn't yer? I could 'a' sworn I 'eard your bell. 'Ullo, Mr. Nicholson, fancy seein' you!'

'How are you, Milly?' asked Nick, holding out his hand.

Milly shook it enthusiastically.

'Ever ser well, thank yer. It is nice to see you again. Y' see, we've——' She hesitated, assuming an obviously artificial air of carelessness—'We've got Miss Mitchell back again.'

She glanced at Michael out of the corner of her eye, and then looked interrogatively at Nick.

'It's all right, he knows,' said Nick.

'Yes, I do,' said Michael. 'Milly, I had no idea you were capable of such deceit.'

She laughed delightedly.

'I wasn't 'arf frightened of you,' she said confidentially. 'Ain't it awful, though, 'avin' ter keep a secret? I seen you lookin' at me ser piercin', an' I come over all of a tremble. Milly, GO AWAY!'

The last three words were said in exactly Michael's tone. Jerry and Nick laughed outright.

'Well, I'm orf,' said Milly. 'Goo'-bye, Miss Mitchell. Goo'-bye, Mr. Nicholson.'

'Good-bye, Milly,' said Nick.

She went out, hesitated, and poked her head in again, her eyes sternly on Michael.

''Ere! Sst!' She snapped her fingers at him.

Michael looked round with an expression halfway between amusement and exasperation. Milly jerked her head back, and indicated the stairs with her thumb. Michael stared blankly.

'Come on, can't yer!' she whispered hoarsely. 'Don't yer see you ain't wanted, you long, lazy chump!'

Michael leapt to his feet. Milly retreated a pace or two, her eyes dancing wickedly.

'My word, Milly,' he said between his teeth, 'I've had just about as much from you as——'

He shot out of the room, as Milly fled, shrieking, downstairs.

'She's a Napoleon!' said Nick with deep satisfaction.

THE END

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Table of Contents

THE ENTERPRISING BURGLAR

CONTENTS

THE ENTERPRISING BURGLAR

CHAPTER I

'A POLICEMAN'S LOT ...'

CHAPTER II

'VIVE LE SPORT'

CHAPTER III

FOG

CHAPTER IV

THE MEETING OF THE FRATERNITY

CHAPTER V

'TWINKLING WILLIAM'

CHAPTER VI

AN ULTIMATUM

CHAPTER VII

'IF THE FEMININE ELEMENT CROPPED UP IN THIS ...'

CHAPTER VIII

'MINE'S BEER, TOO'

CHAPTER IX

SIR TOBY IS AMUSED

CHAPTER X

THE FEMININE ELEMENT

CHAPTER XI

JERRY STRIKES OUT ON HER OWN

CHAPTER XII

'BAKERLOO'

CHAPTER XIII

'TO BE LET OR SOLD'

CHAPTER XIV

TWINKLING WILLIAM'S DIARY

CHAPTER XV

BOBBY'S THEORY

CHAPTER XVI

NICK REFUSES TO EXPLAIN

CHAPTER XVII

NICK MAKES AN ALLY

CHAPTER XVIII

NICK EXPLAINS HIMSELF

CHAPTER XIX

SIR TOBY IS SURPRISED

CHAPTER XX

MICHAEL IS CONVINCED

CHAPTER XXI

JERRY EXPLAINS HERSELF

CHAPTER XXII

JILL HAS THE LAST WORD

CHAPTER XXIII

'MR. ROBERTSON'

CHAPTER XXIV

THE TENTH OF JUNE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE