t he insisted that it might result in
the man's carrying out his threat of refusing to aid them if Tarzan did
not come alone, and so they parted, he to hasten to Dover, and she,
ostensibly to wait at home until he should notify her of the outcome of
his mission.

Little did either dream of what both were destined to pass through
before they should meet again, or the far-distant--but why anticipate?

For ten minutes after the ape-man had left her Jane Clayton walked
restlessly back and forth across the silken rugs of the library. Her
mother heart ached, bereft of its first-born. Her mind was in an
anguish of hopes and fears.

Though her judgment told her that all would be well were her Tarzan to
go alone in accordance with the mysterious stranger's summons, her
intuition would not permit her to lay aside suspicion of the gravest
dangers to both her husband and her son.

The more she thought of the matter, the more convinced she became that
the recent telephone message might be but a ruse to keep them inactive
until the boy was safely hidden away or spirited out of England. Or it
might be that it had been simply a bait to lure Tarzan into the hands
of the implacable Rokoff.

With the lodgment of this thought she stopped in wide-eyed terror.
Instantly it became a conviction. She glanced at the great clock
ticking the minutes in the corner of the library.

It was too late to catch the Dover train that Tarzan was to take.
There was another, later, however, that would bring her to the Channel
port in time to reach the address the stranger had given her husband
before the appointed hour.

Summoning her maid and chauffeur, she issued instructions rapidly. Ten
minutes later she was being whisked through the crowded streets toward
the railway station.

It was nine-forty-five that night that Tarzan entered the squalid "pub"
on the water-front in Dover. As he passed into the evil-smelling room
a muffled figure brushed past him toward the street.

"Come, my lord!" whispered the stranger.

The ape-man wheeled about and followed the other into the ill-lit
alley, which custom had dignified with the title of thoroughfare. Once
outside, the fellow led the way into the darkness, nearer a wharf,
where high-piled bales, boxes, and casks cast dense shadows. Here he
halted.

"Where is the boy?" asked Greystoke.

"On that small steamer whose lights you can just see yonder," replied
the other.

In the gloom Tarzan was