larose was very troubled, as, late that afternoon, he sat alone in his room and gave himself up to his thoughts.

he was intending to make his way to the house upon the marsh as soon as darkness fell, and determine once and for all if the man who had been crouching under the hedge that morning were indeed the same one who had come up behind him that night when he had fired upon the pursuing car.

and now in the interval of waiting, he was trying to sum up exactly what his position was, and if he had really made any progress at all, and discovered anything since he had arrived at the abbey three days ago.

his eyebrows puckered in perplexity. he had so many tangled skeins to unravel, and in whichsoever direction his thoughts travelled, they were soon, so very soon, brought up against a dead wall.

he had been all along so sure, as he had put it almost brutally to lady ardane, that her arch enemy must be among those five people who had been her close intimates at the time of the attempt to kidnap her little boy.

yes, he had been so sure of that, even before he had come to the abbey, and nothing he had found out since had shaken him in that idea.

one by one, he now went over the possible five men again, and he frowned and shook his head many times.

he had nothing really definite against any of them.

there were certainly some things that he did not like about sir parry bardell, but it was inconceivable that a man who was as devoted to lady ardane, as undoubtedly the knight was, whatever might be his motive, would hire desperadoes to go shooting at her car and expose her to all the risks of a terrible accident.

still, he was suspicious about sir parry, for, in the light of what the woman dilling had told him, he could not help thinking that there was some motive behind the invitation to partake of the royal shandy that morning. of course, sir parry had seen him through the telescope as he, larose, was coming over the marshes, and he had gone purposely to intercept him at that stile.

then he had brought him up to his house in a very secretive sort of way and had kept on looking back as if he were desirous of ascertaining if anyone were seeing them together. they had come in by the back door, too, because the path by the front door was muddy. and yet the mud by the back door was as bad as any he had been in that morning, with all his long walk. yes, sir parry’s conduct had been very peculiar.

then the matter of the ‘stone-deaf’ housekeeper came in, and there was undoubtedly something very funny there. she did not seem a bad lot, and he rather thought she was of the kind to be trusted. she was certainly friendly disposed towards him, and had been giving him a warning right enough. then when he had pressed her for an explanation, she had become frightened, and made up that clever lie about the asylum to save herself. well, he would go and see her again tomorrow. she had asked him to come and see her again, and that looked as if she were wavering and half-inclined to unburden herself of some secret that she held.

then next there was senator harvey — and somehow he did not like the man. but it was inconceivable again there, that the senator would conspire against lady ardane. still, some mania might have seized him and he could not be overlooked, for there was the matter of his having been out in the wood at night to be explained, and his meeting with the other man. there was no doubt the housekeeper had been speaking the truth there.

then what about admiral charters? certainly he was not of the type of man to be a conspirator, and yet — under that hearty and buff exterior might lurk a man of very evil mind. in the annals of dark crime there were records beyond number of deceiving appearances such as that.

it was all very puzzling.

ah! but he was forgetting sir arnold medway and lord wonnock, and leaving them out of his calculations altogether! now, could he be making a mistake about them? was it conceivable that sir arnold could be associated with a gang of desperadoes? he, a man of seemingly unimpeachable character, and a most distinguished member of a great profession.

impossible! impossible! — but yet, again, history had recorded many such instances.

then there was lord wonnock! lord wonnock, stodgy, unimaginative, a worshipper of tradition, and whose whole obsession, it seemed, was to so live his life so that it would add dignity and prestige to the ruling classes!

no, lord wonnock was certainly impossible.

but dusk had passed and the darkness of the night was falling upon the countryside.

the detective let himself out of the cloister door, pausing, however, as he always did, to take a frowning glance at those well-oiled hinges.

it was a dark night, fine and clear, and the moon had not yet risen.

larose had made some little alteration in his appearance, and, an adept in disguise, he flattered himself it would take more than a cursory look from any of those he had been brought in contact with since his arrival at the abbey, for them to determine who he was, from a chance encounter under artificial light.

but if he could help it, he did not intend to be seen by anybody, although he was not coming back, he told himself, without having passed the ‘once over’ upon the inmates of the stone house. if he could not get sight of them through any of the windows, then he was going to knock boldly at the door and make out that he had lost his way.

he was sure it would be quite safe, for if they were indeed members of the gang, and being warned about him, had been given a description of his appearance, they would never recognise in the moustached and heavily-eyebrowed visitor, the clean-shaven and well-trimmed detective of scotland yard.

he crossed diagonally to the low fence and climbed over it, then making sure he was not being followed, he took the bitumen for about a mile until he was well beyond the marsh road. then he turned off across the meadows, and keeping all the time close to the hedge side, after a rather muddy walk saw the outlines of the stone house close at hand, silhouetted against the sky.

making a detour, the back of the house came into view, and he saw lights shining out of both the windows, and, rather to his astonishment, a large beam of light also from the door, which was half-open.

he crept up to within twenty yards, with only a tall hedge now separating him from the little garden, and then, the door opening wider, he saw two men standing just within the threshold. they were talking earnestly together.

then one of them came out, and the light falling upon his face, the detective gave a gasp of amazement as he saw the man was sir arnold medway.

there was not the slightest doubt about it. sir arnold had got his overcoat well buttoned up and his cap was pulled down well upon his eyes, but there was no mistaking that fine profile, the grecian nose and the good, firm chin.

but if he had had any doubts they would have at once been dispelled, for, in the act of his turning away, the cultured voice of the great surgeon came up clearly and distinctly.

“well, don’t you forget. i tell you he wants looking after.”

the man in the doorway called back. “all right. we’ll keep on the lookout,” and then, continuing to hold the door wide open until sir arnold had passed through the little gate and gained the marsh road, he closed it and the garden was in darkness again.

it was difficult for larose to determine what were his exact feelings at the moment.

amazement, disappointment, doubt and fierce rage surged in quick succession through him.

“if they are only honest men here,” he panted, “then the explanation of his visit will no doubt turn out to be a very simple one, but if i find out they belong to the gang, then, good god!”— he almost choked in his rage —“i have allowed myself to be hoodwinked like the silliest little servant girl.” his face puckered up in his distress. “but fancy! sir arnold, about the last man in the world one would have suspected to be associated with criminals! fancy! such a gentleman and ——” but he pulled himself up sharply. “gilbert, gilbert, you’re a fool. get to business and find out the facts and then abuse anybody you like afterwards.”

for a moment he was inclined to follow after sir arnold and demand an explanation straightaway, but he speedily thought better of it.

“no,” he told himself, “i’ve got to learn about these men, and now’s the chance, when it’s any odds they’ll be discussing what sir arnold has just been telling them, and won’t be on the lookout for another visitor so soon.”

he bent down to push through where the hedge was very thin, and then, without the slightest warning, received a stunning blow upon the head from someone who had been in waiting upon the other side.

with a deep groan he crashed to the ground, and then, before he lost consciousness altogether, was dimly aware that he received a second blow, also upon his head.

he remembered nothing more for a long time, and it might have been hours and hours before his senses began finally to come back. then his return to sight and hearing was hastened by the pain of someone plucking roughly at his eyebrows.

“and his moustache, too,” he heard a voice say, “and then we’ll wash his face.”

more pain followed, and then he felt water being splashed over him and, finally, he was rubbed hard with a cloth.

“exactly!” he heard someone say, “and he’s not only that darned larose, but he’s the farm laborer as well who came up to us on the road the other night. the devil!” and he felt his face stung with a contemptuous flick of the wet cloth.

he opened his eyes dully, and far quicker than the two men who were watching him imagined, acquired a grasp of the situation.

he was in a low room, lighted by a single paraffin lamp upon a table, and lying upon a sofa on the other side of the room, opposite to a small window. there was no blind to the window, but a newspaper was pinned across it. his ankles were tied tightly and his arms were pinioned to his sides by a rope that cut cruelly into his wrists. he felt very sick, and, moistening his dry lips, he tasted the salt of his own blood. he had a terrible pain in his head and felt very thirsty. he saw two faces bending over him.

he shut his eyes and groaned.

“wake up, wake up,” came a soft and bantering, but not unkind, voice. “don’t you want to talk to us, mr. gilbert larose, farm-laborer employed by mr. andrews at willow bend?”

he opened his eyes again with an effort, and they fell at once upon the square-jawed man of his dreams, but he sensed instinctively that it was not he who had just been speaking.

“come, come, you’re not dead — yet,” came from the soft voice again, and the detective was in such pain and distress that a marked interval between the uttering of the last two words occasioned him no apprehension at all.

“something to drink, please,” he said weakly, looking up at the man who had spoken, “i’m very thirsty.”

“give him a tot of brandy, luke,” said the man with the soft voice, turning at once to his companion.

“waste of spirit!” was the surly comment of the latter, who made no move to comply with the request.

“never mind that,” said the first speaker peremptorily. “it’ll be his last drink, poor devil, and you hit him darned hard. here, pass over the bottle and i’ll give it him myself,” and in a few moments the detective was receiving a generous draught of the fiery spirit.

“feel better, eh?” asked the donor. “well now, you can talk or not, just as you want to. we’re not anxious. we know all about you and there’s nothing more we want to find out.”

and then, seeing that either he could not, or would not, enter into any conversation, they moved away and left him alone. seating themselves at the table, they then proceed to talk earnestly in low voices, every word, however, of what they said, being perfectly audible to the detective.

he learnt very soon, as he had fully expected, that he was going to be put to death. his captors made no secret of it, discussing in a most business like way their arrangements for accomplishing it.

henrik was out in his boat, laying his nets about a mile off-shore, but the tide was such that he would be back very soon, for to escape the labor of much hauling, they knew he always returned upon a flowing tide. then directly his keel had touched the sand, according to his invariable custom, he would proceed with all haste to his hut to get very drunk, and they would then, unknown to him, borrow his boat.

they would then attach part of a derelict plough, that was close handy, to their prisoner, and pushing out to sea, drop him overboard, about a quarter of a mile away.

it was all going to be very simple.

“and you are lucky, mr. larose,” smiled the soft-voiced young man, noting that the detective was taking in what they were discussing, “that our friend roy isn’t here. he would have cut your throat as a preliminary, but we are more tender-hearted and are just going to let you drown.” he laughed as if it were a good joke. “besides, we want no messes here.”

he was quite a pleasant-looking man, this young fellow with the soft voice, for he had curly hair, a good profile and a humorous mouth. indeed, it was only his eyes that were not nice, and they were hard and steely.

the detective uttered another groan, but this time it was mental as well as physical, for he had now recognised in this soft-voiced man, his whispering cross-examiner upon the night when he had driven from norwich with lady ardane.

their arrangements completed, the conversation of the two men died down. the square-jawed man smoked stolidly, but his companion, evidently of a more restless nature, kept on going outside every other minute or so, to ascertain if there were any sign yet of the fisherman.

“put out the lamp,” he said sharply after one of these excursions. “there’s light enough from the fire, and then i can pull off that paper,” and the lamp being extinguished, he stripped the window bare.

“not a glimpse of his lantern yet,” he said looking through, “and it may be half an hour before he comes.” he cast his eyes back upon the recumbent form on the sofa. “but we’re quite safe however long he is, for it’s notorious that this chap always works alone.”

he walked over and looked down upon the detective. “vanity, my friend,” he said with his pleasant smile, “has always been your besetting sin, and now you’re paying for it. in all your work you’ve always wanted all the credit, and you never would take in a pal.” he shrugged his shoulders. “so now, to-night, the wages of your sin — is death.”

he was silent for a few moments, with his eyes still fixed intently upon larose. “not going to speak, eh?” he went on. “still stubborn!” he nodded. “but you’re a brave man, and know it’s no good crying out.” he sighed and turned away. “i’m sorry for you.”

and surely the hardest heart would have experienced some feeling of compassion for the detective then.

he was not a pleasant sight. muddied and bloodied, glistening with sweat, and limp as if every bone in his body were broken, he looked in the very last stages of exhaustion. his face, ghastly white except where the blood was clotted on his brow, had already assumed the leaden hues of death, and his breathing was faint and very shallow.

but his physical distress, so apparent to the eye, was as nothing to the mental distress that his captors could not see, indeed, so overwhelming was the depression of his thoughts that he was almost unmindful of his exhaustion and his pain.

he was in the lowest depths of humiliation, and no remorse could have been more deep than was his.

he had failed, and failed just as he had been upon the very point of success, and it was his pride that had been his undoing. he had known that he was in the midst of enemies, yet he had taken no precautions, and just allowed himself to be trapped, like the veriest booby, without striking a blow.

and others would suffer by his folly. that was the bitter thought.

but it was all over now and in a few short minutes he would be dead. never again would he thrill to the trail of the man-hunt, no more would he triumph over his enemies. never again would he see helen ardane, never —

his eyes, wandering to the table, fell upon his little automatic pistol, which, among other things, had been taken from his pockets.

ah! if only a miracle would happen and for five seconds he could hold that in his hand! for only five seconds and then —

but his train of thought was interrupted by a sharp exclamation from the man who had given him the brandy.

“hell!” cried the latter, looking out through the window. “what’s that? someone’s lit a fire close near.”

the square-jawed man jumped to his feet as quickly as if a wasp had stung him, and, ranging himself beside his companion, stared out into the night.

there was no doubt about it. the reflection of a fire was coming up from behind a sandhill about three hundred yards away.

“what the devil is it?” came from the younger man. “it’s not a camp fire. it’s much too big for that. damnation! whatever it is, it will bring everyone down here if it goes on for long!”

“we must go and see,” snapped the man the other had called luke. “one of us’ll have to.” he jerked his head in the direction of the sofa. “we don’t want unexpected visitors with that here. you go. i’ll stop.”

“no, we’ll both go,” insisted the younger man. “that drunken fool may have landed by the breakwater and set fire to those baskets and rubbish underneath, and it’ll take two of us to put it out quickly. come on. it’ll be quite safe. i’ll throw this rug over him and no one will see what’s on the sofa, even if they look in. he won’t move. i believe he’s gone off again, now.”

a rug was snatched up hastily and thrown over the detective and then the door was opened and they ran out.

but the detective was not unconscious, indeed he was very wide awake, and galvanised into action by the thought that he was unguarded, with no clear intention, however, of what he could by any possibility do to effect his escape, he started to try and wriggle on to the floor.

but the first movement of his head gave him such exquisite pain that he did almost sink into unconsciousness again. however, he pulled himself together with a great effort, and was upon the point of making another attempt, when he heard the sound as of the door being opened very quietly and — his heart stood still.

perhaps ten seconds of agonising silence followed and then things began to happen very quickly.

through the fibres of the thick rug that was lying over him, he saw a point of light spring up from somewhere and flit like a firefly round the room. then it came waveringly to rest in his direction, and he heard the pad of footfalls coming close. then he felt the rug being lifted, almost reverently, as if the one who lifted it were afraid of what he might see underneath. then he felt the wind of the rug being flung quickly away, and his eyes were blinded by a fierce light not three inches from them.

he blinked painfully and a hoarse, rum-laden whisper came from behind the light.

“goot! goot!” said the voice, and the detective knew in a flash that it was henrik! then such a thrill of thanksgiving, beyond all expression in words or prayers surged through him, for the fisherman in quick deft strokes was striking at his bonds.

he was lifted to his feet, he tried to stand and then he was caught, just in the nick of time, as he was falling.

“broken, broken?” asked the fisherman in a most anxious tone, and he ran his hands quickly down the detective’s legs.

“no,” groaned the detective, “i was only hit on the head. i’ll be all right soon.” a terrible thought assailed him and his voice gathered strength. “but help me away quick. they’ll be coming back.”

“right, right,” said henrik, and with a heave of his gaunt body, he swung the detective onto his shoulder and started to run from the room.

“stop! stop!” cried the detective as they were passing the table, “get my pistol there.”

the fisherman steadied himself under the burden, and then disengaging one arm, grabbed at the pistol and a small heap of other things from the table and thrust them into the detective’s pocket. a moment later and they had passed into the night.

the moon had just risen, but it was obscured by misty clouds.

for a hundred yards and more the fisherman ran quickly, but then, his breath coming in big gasps, he slowed down to a walk. for another hundred yards he went on, proceeding all the time in a direction parallel to the sea. then he stopped, and, depositing larose underneath a high bank of drifted sand, bent down and peered closely into his face.

“‘orl right?” he said after a very brief inspection, and pointing to an opening between two sandhills added, “path.”

for a moment, then, he stood listening with his face turned in the direction of the stone house, but, apparently finding nothing to occasion any disquietude, without another word, or even a glance at the detective faded away into the shadows.

larose lay back and drew in deep breaths of the cold night air. his head was hurting terribly, and he was distressed beyond measure that the slightest movement made him giddy, for, now that he had got back his pistol, the strong urge was possessing him that he should return instantly and tackle the two men before they could get away.

that they would bolt now there was no doubt. they knew who he was and they would be thinking that he would be returning with help.

but he soon realised that not only was he physically incapable of any further effort, but mentally, also, at any rate for the moment, he was not in a condition to pit his wits against anyone. he could not concentrate or think coherently.

and then in a confused and dull sort of way the dreadful thought came to him that when his late assailants did make their flight, then the marsh road would be the very last way to escape they would take, and in that case it was quite possible they might chance upon the very path he was now on.

in a perfect fever of apprehension then, he fumbled for his pistol and tried to slip the safety catch. but his fingers were quite nerveless and he could not find it, let alone slip it back.

he pushed the pistol back into his pocket and half walking and half crawling, proceeded along the path the fisherman had indicated.

the first few yards were agony, and he thought with every step that he was going to drop, but in a few minutes he found a position in which he could hold his head with the minimum amount of pain, and his progress at once became more speedy, and at length developed into a slow and dragging walk.

gradually then his confidence began to come back, and notwithstanding that his head was throbbing like a piston, he was soon half-minded to retrace his steps and mete out punishment, for the injury that had been inflicted upon him.

but he at once discarded the idea when, upon bringing himself to a halt to consider it, he found that his legs were so wobbly that he would not be able to use his pistol arm unless he were lying prone, and so he resumed his journey.

three-quarters of an hour passed, and having emerged from the sandhills and now crossing over a meadow, he was just reckoning that he could not be very far off the bitumen road, when, upon one of his frequent turnings round to make sure no one was coming up behind him, he suddenly caught sight of two moving objects less than a hundred and fifty yards away.

a gasp of incredulity, a mighty leaping of his heart, and he dropped like a plummet into the long grass at the side of the path! the moving objects were men upon bicycles!

they were coming from the direction of the sandhills and crossing along that side of the meadow where there was no path. as if anxious to escape observation, too, they were keeping as close to the hedge as a wide ditch would allow them, and from the course they were taking, the detective saw they would pass within thirty feet of where he lay.

he felt for his pistol, and this time, although his hands were shaking, found the safety catch and slipped it back, but a sudden feeling of faintness reminded him that he must take no liberties, and he steadied his pistol hand in the crook of his left arm.

then he strained and strained with his eyes to make out who the riders were, for if they proved to be the men from the stone house, he was intending to shoot without warning and, at least, disable them so that they should not get away. he would aim at their legs.

they were riding quickly, and it was only a few seconds after he had thrown himself upon the ground, before they arrived opposite to him, and he recognised them instantly.

“the devils!” he hissed, and with the first word his automatic cracked.

the square-jawed man who was the nearer to him, and riding just in advance of his companion, made a sudden swerve with his front wheel and then crashed on to the ground, bringing down the machine and the rider behind him.

there was a loud curse from one of them and then the man who had only fallen, and was not hurt, sprang up to disengage his bicycle from the other over which it had toppled.

for the moment the detective waited and did not press again upon the trigger of his pistol.

he had got them in the open, he told himself, and they could not get away. he held all the cards.

“hands up!” he shouted, “or i fire again.”

but three seconds later he realised the tragic mistake of withholding his fire. he had not taken into account the ditch along which they had been riding, and now the unwounded man, after making a pretence of throwing up his hands, slipped down into it, as if he had melted into the ground, and not only that, but before the half-dazed detective could take in what was happening, he reached up and dragged his wounded companion and the two bicycles after him.

for the second time that night, larose had no word of condemnation deep enough for himself. he had failed again, and this time, with all the cards in his hand, had let the game slip from him.

and now he was alive once more to the dreadful throbbing in his head, and physical distress was super-imposed upon mental. he felt sick and wanted to close his eyes and forget everything.

but with a mighty effort of will he pulled himself together and forced his numbed brain to think.

no, things were not so hopeless after all, for he had brought down one man, and he certainly would not be able to get away. then, even if the other man escaped, they would be able to learn something from this prisoner as to whom were the other members of the gang. a sick man was much easier to deal with than one who was strong and well, and this man would not be injured enough to prevent his speaking. he was sure he had not inflicted any vital injury or hit the man in the body, for he had aimed very low, and the man had not crumpled up as he fell, but had tried to save himself by thrusting out his arm.

he thought hard.

but, surely, the other man could not escape either, for the thick hedge stretched behind him, and emerging from the ditch at either end, he would be at once exposing himself to his, larose’s, fire.

a wan smile crept into the pale and bloodied face of the detective as he considered what the thoughts of the two men must now be.

they would be in a terrible state of perplexity, and quite unable to weigh up the situation and determine what forces were against them. they would be sure they had fallen into an ambush, and yet they would be wondering by what possibility anyone could have known they would be coming by this particular way. there were a score and more of paths that would have led them from the sandhills, and yet their flight by this particular one had seemingly been expected and prepared for.

he looked round to make sure of his own position. he was upon slightly rising ground and hidden among the long grass; there was no danger of his being out-flanked. it was bright moonlight now and every foot of the meadow was visible to him from where he lay.

two or three minutes passed and then it came to him unpleasantly that although he was in no condition for any physical exertion, he must yet do something. he could not just lie there and wait, as if he were expecting them to pop up over the ditch like rabbits and give him another shot.

but suddenly he heard the sharp crack of a pistol, coming from the direction of where the two men had disappeared into the ditch, and although no bullet had whined over him, he flattened himself instantly, thinking they must have caught sight of him somehow.

nothing, however, followed. he heard no pistol crack again and all was still and silent as the grave.

then it flashed into his mind that the firing was a ruse upon their part, for, becoming impatient, they had done it to see if anything would happen.

he waited, perhaps, another two minutes, and then, realising that his must be the next move, drew in a deep breath and prepared for action.

following the lay of the land with his eye, he saw that he could cross the meadow under cover of the tall grass the whole way, and strike the ditch about fifty yards beyond where the men were lying. he would then be able to look over it and see along its entire length. he must chance it that the unwounded man would not double back at the exact moment when he was at the other end.

he would be quite safe, he thought, for whatever happened, his enemies could make no move to get behind him without his seeing them, and even if the unwounded man had anticipated his action and were coming to meet him, then at all events he would have him in front.

resolutely endeavoring to forget his pains and giddiness, he started to crawl through the grass, never for one moment, however, taking his eyes off the ditch. it was a painful journey, and many times he had to stop and rest, lest he should collapse altogether.

then the very thing that he had been fearing happened, for suddenly he saw a man rise up out of the other side of the ditch about a hundred and fifty yards away, and using his bicycle as a battering ram, begin thrusting it backwards and forwards into the hedge, with the evident intention of forcing a way through.

the detective ground his teeth in rage, for he realised that he could not prevent it. where he lay, it was much too far away to shoot, and to approach close enough to make any effective use of his pistol, he would have to run the whole way in the open and be exposing himself a good part of the time to the possible fire of the second man, who, although wounded, might yet be not incapacitated enough to be of no danger.

so he just lay where he was and watched the man thrusting his machine into the hedge. it was all over in two minutes and then man and bicycle disappeared.

the detective wondered what was going to happen next, and then, determining that the second man should not escape too, began crawling again through the grass, but this time proceeding in a direction parallel to the ditch.

arriving at a spot not very far from where the two men had been travelling when he had shot the first one down, and chafing under the thought that everything seemed to be slipping away from him, he took a risk, and crawling to the ditch-side, leant boldly over.

a wave of thankfulness surged through him. the second man and his bicycle were still there, at the bottom of the ditch.

they were not twenty yards away and the man was lying upon his side among the dead leaves, with his head upon his right arm, which was outstretched. his pose was as if he were unconscious, or asleep.

the detective, however, was taking no risks, and covered him with his pistol, “if you move,” he called out, “i’ll put another bullet into you.”

but the man did not move and he did not speak. the detective frowned. the man’s pistol hand was covered over lightly with the leaves, and while he might be unconscious, yet still — he might be only just waiting his chance.

about a minute passed, and then the detective taking aim, put three bullets in quick succession all round the recumbent figure, scattering the leaves in all directions.

but nothing happened, and then with a sharp ejaculation, he slipped down into the ditch, and springing to the side of the man, bent over him.

the man was quite dead. there was a bullet wound at the back of his head, and he had been shot at such close range that the hair was all singed round where the bullet had gone in.