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Drawing back the heavy bolts, he went out into the narrow lane and looked up and down. Presently he saw the cab, and, sitting on the running board, smoking philosophically, the driver.

The man turned quickly and half rose at the sound of footsteps, then sank down again.

"Thought you were my fare," he said. "I hope he won't be long. I've got to turn this cab over to my day man at eight o'clock."

He explained that the cab was his own property and that he employed another man to drive it by day.

"I am afraid your fare will be a long time," said Cravel. "Won't you bring your cab into the hotel grounds?"

But here the man was immovable.

"He told me to wait here, and here I'm waiting," he said. "If I miss him, I miss a teener."

He looked curiously at the other, and Cravel frankly introduced himself.

"I can't quite understand who is your fare," he said, and strove to secure a little more information. But here he was unsuccessful. The description given by the taxi-man was unfamiliar to the manager. Then the garrulous driver said something which made Cravel jump.

"I hope he's not going to bilk me," he said. "I don't like these jobs of following cars, though I kept up with the Fiat all the way down, and it was a 'six,' too!"

Fiat!

That was the car which had brought the Professor and his companion.

"What time did you pick him up?"

The cabman told him. He knew, also, the minute he and the car he chased had arrived at Heartsease. Cravel drew a deep breath. They had been shadowed! This possibility had not occurred to him.

The danger was now apparent, and his sister's warning rang in his ears as he retraced his steps to the grounds.

He was nearing the place where the hole had been dug in the lawn when he saw something shining on the grass and, stooping, picked it up. It was a pair of pince-nez horn-rimmed reading glasses. Though they were drenched with rain, he guessed that they had not been there for very long.

He examined the glasses carefully— somehow, they fitted the picture which the cab-driver had drawn of his fare. He went straight into his little office and, shutting the door, descended to the cellar. Supposing the unknown had rescued the detective, there would be muddy marks on the floor, but for these he looked in vain. Baffled, he came out and went upstairs to his room. He was walking along the short landing that divided the two stairs when he stopped dead. On the red carpet, plain to see, was a muddy footprint that had not been there when he went out!

Chapter 39

HIS head bent forward, his heavy jaw outthrust, he turned slowly. There was no sound, no evidence of the intruder. Bending down, he felt the print. The mud was still wet. In a panic, he flew up the stairs and did not stop until he had reached his apartment, outside of which a tray rested on the floor— his breakfast brought here in his absence.

His first thought was of the girl. She was lying just as he had left her; her eyes were closed, she was very still, but the colour was beginning to flow back to her face.

"Phew!"

He mopped his streaming forehead, thrust his handkerchief down between his collar and throat. Going out, he brought the tray to the sitting room and drank a hot cup of tea with relish.

It was the old cook's footprint he had seen, of course. Who else? He wished now that Alice had not told him of the cab— almost wished that he had refrained from questioning the driver. In his present state of mind, he would almost have welcomed the ability to deceive himself.

He scoffed at his own weakness. He, the most terrible of the Terrible People, was afraid! Walking to the window, he threw it wide open. The chill of the rain-washed air was a diversion. He had reached the point where he could be glad of physical discomfort, so long as it carried his mind away from the crouching fear that seemed ready to spring upon reason and overwhelm it.

Slipping off his raincoat, he put the pistol ready to hand on the table and gave himself up to thought, and unpleasant thought it was.

Suppose Betcher Long were alive? Suppose the trailing shadow that had followed the Professor were at this moment in the hotel? Suppose—

Then he heard a sound which made him leap from the table— the sound of a key turning in the door. Quick as lightning, he faced about.

"Don't move, or I will kill you!"

He could only glare at the amazing apparition that met his eyes; for a second, he was incapable of speech or movement.

Here was a danger and a menace that in his wildest speculations had never occurred to him.

It was Nora Sanders.

Behind her he saw the length of the corridor, for the communicating door was wide open— it was the sound of the turning key that had aroused him.

"Don't move!"

He was looking into the muzzle of a Browning pistol held in a hand that did not tremble.

Chapter 40

CRAVEL could only gape at the unexpected vision. Nora's face was white; she was clad only in her nightgown, but the hand that held the pistol was marvellously steady. It was Betcher Long's pistol— she must have taken it from the table behind him.

"Don't move, please!"

She opened the door wider. Beyond was the corridor, and at the end the stairs, and safety. He heard the voice of his own waiter in the vestibule below. She had but to reach the foot of the stairs... He must temporize now for his very life's sake.

"Miss Sanders," be stammered, "you— you don't know what you're doing. You've been very ill."

"I know well what I'm doing," she said steadily, and yet her voice was curiously weak.

Perhaps she was more conscious of this than he. It seemed as though some other person were talking— she was listening to that sound of a strange voice.

"You'll catch your death of cold if you're not careful. Let me get you a coat."

He lifted one from the hook in the tiny hall and held it toward her, but she retreated into the passage as he advanced, her gun levelled.

"Go upstairs," he whispered urgently. "There is a fire in No. 6. Here is the key."

He threw it down at her feet.

"I won't touch you— I swear I won't touch you!"

He picked up the coat, and then, as she hesitated, he flung it over her pistol arm. In another second, he had strangled the scream in her throat. She struggled feebly, for she was still under the effect of the drug, but he dragged her back, closing the door with his foot, and flung her on the bed.

"If you keep quiet I'll not hurt you. If you scream, by God! I'll kill you!" he whispered fiercely.

She stared up over the big hand that covered her mouth. She was helpless now, and her eyes spoke her despair.

With one hand he picked up the hypodermic; it was still half filled with its pale green fluid. Keeping the other hand over her mouth, he jabbed the needle into the white arm and pressed home the plunger. She tried to struggle from his grasp, but she was powerless, and presently she lay still, and when he closed her eyes they did not open.

Cravel was ashen with fear. The girl must be moved at once. He looked at his watch; it was too early to get the people he wanted, but as soon as it was possible, she must be moved from Heartsease. He tidied himself to remove the evidence of the struggle, changed his collar, which she had wrenched from his throat, and went out, locking the door behind him.

The drug would keep her under for an hour, and in the meantime, he must get rid of the few servants who were in the hotel. As to the strange man whose footprint he had seen, he must dismiss him as a factor, otherwise the fear of him would lead to madness.

The cook did not matter; she was deaf, and, moreover, would keep to her kitchen now that his breakfast had been served. The one waiter he disposed of readily, sending him to London on a fictitious errand. In the off-season the garage man acted as "boots" and assisted generally in keeping the hotel clean, and he, with the restaurant waiter and the cook's assistant, comprised the staff. He must take the risk of acting suspiciously. He sent the garage man to the main gate to intercept the waiters when they arrived and tell them their services would not be required that day.

All this took time. He concluded his arrangements and went into his office and called a number. To his relief, a familiar voice answered him, and for five minutes he spoke in Danish.

"You'll have to get her away, that's all," he said in conclusion. "I don't care how— no, no, I don't know what has happened to him. I searched the cellar but there was nobody there. Send Billy down as soon as you possibly can. If we can get through to-day we are safe."

He hung up the receiver and went back to his suite; he had told nothing of the square-toed shadow. That would take too long in the telling.

The girl's door was closed, as he had left it, and he sat down to find yet another explanation for the disappearance of Betcher Long.

It was impossible that he could have escaped. He had fallen three floors, and if that had not killed, it would certainly have crippled him. How slowly the time passed! It seemed that when he took out his watch it had stopped.

He recalled his talk with Betcher, striving to remember every second. Sir Godley had disappeared, he recollected, but of Sir Godley he knew nothing, except that he was Betcher Long's father, and that a scheme had been discussed by the Professor for bleeding the banker. It was not strange that he did not associate Sir Godley with the footprints.

He could not afford to stay here, he realized. Somebody must be downstairs to meet the postman when he came. At all costs, he must behave normally.

He looked in at the girl; she was lying still. But she had been lying still before and had deceived him. To make absolutely certain, he used the needle again, and, satisfied, went downstairs to await developments. And they came swiftly.

As he strolled out to the open he saw a big car sweeping up the drive. It came to a halt before the portico and three men got out.

"I am Inspector Claves of the Berkshire Constabulary," said the oldest of the three. "On a complaint laid this morning, and at the request of Scotland Yard, a warrant has been issued to search the hotel."

He produced the document; it was signed by a local justice of the peace, but Cravel stood petrified, uncomprehending.

"To search the hotel?" he croaked. "What— what is the meaning—"

"I don't know what it is all about, Mr. Cravel," said the inspector, "but I have my duty to perform, and I hope you are not going to obstruct me in its execution."

Cravel could only shake his head dumbly, conscious that the other two men had ranged themselves on either side of him.

"You have no guests in the hotel?"

"None." Cravel's voice was cracked; he could scarcely recognize it himself. They were going to search the hotel, and upstairs was the girl...

They passed from room to room and presently ascended to the first floor. The suite which Miss Revelstoke had occupied yielded nothing. The next room in the corridor was locked.

"Have you the key of this?"

"I have a pass-key in my office."

"Go and fetch it," said the officer briefly, and Cravel went down, accompanied by one of the men, and searched his desk. But the pass-key, which was kept in one of the smaller drawers of the desk, was not to be found. He found, however, in the reception office, the actual key of No. 3, and this he took back.

His mind was in a whirl; it was impossible for him to think consecutively or logically. All that he knew was that, by some horrible mischance, the clever plans of the Terrible People had been brought to failure; that disaster slowly and surely was overtaking them.

Why were the police searching the hotel? On whose information, he wondered dully, as the inspector opened the door of No. 3? Here was a chaos of scaffolding and builders' material; a great square hole had been cut in the floor. Cravel caught only a glimpse of this, for the inspector slipped into the room and, after a while, came out and closed the door.

"What is this?"

"It— it is the new elevator that I am putting in," stammered the man. "That is why I kept the door locked, in case some of the servants fell through. There is a hole in the floor—"

He made some incoherent statement about the alterations and their cost, and the party moved on to the next room and finally mounted the stairs to the second floor. Cravel followed numbly. Perhaps they would not notice the door in the wall? It was a dull morning, and the wall had a solid look.

His heart sank as the inspector went straight to the hidden door of the suite. He found his voice now:

"You can't go in there," he said.

He found a difficulty in speaking; was conscious that his agitation was patent to all beholders.

"I've— I've got a friend— he is sick."

"Give me the key."

"I tell you I have a friend who is—"

The grip tightened on his arm.

"Come, come, Mr. Cravel, don't let us have any trouble. You have nothing to hide?"

He could only shake his head, and, like a man in a dream, he passed the key to the big officer, who opened the door and walked into the dining room, which faced them.

"There is another room here, isn't there?"

Cravel did not answer, and the inspector tried the door of the bedroom, opened it slowly, and walked in. Cravel set his teeth and waited, and presently the police officer came out.

"Nobody here," he said.

He had not closed the door, and, peering past him, Cravel saw that the bed where he had left Nora Sanders was empty!

Chapter 41

THE remainder of the search seemed to occupy an eternity. The manager followed the men from room to room, hypnotized by this new shock. At long last they came to the lounge, and the police inspector handed him his keys.

"This sort of search is very unpleasant for all concerned," he said, and he was almost respectful. "But you realize that I had no choice in the matter."

Cravel said nothing. He saw only the empty bed; could think of no other matter.

The officers who had accompanied the inspector had gone out to their car— only the chief remained.

"That is all, I think, Mr. Cravel," he said politely. "I am sorry to have given you so much trouble. And now I'm going to bother you a little further. May I ask you to come with me to your suite?— I want to ask you a few questions."