he house. Only at one point did the shrubbery
approach the wall, but for that point he set out hot foot, passing from
bush to bush with Indian cleverness, tense, alert, and cool in despite
of his long vigil.

At last he came to the shallow veranda with its four sightless windows
backed by fancifully carven screens. He stepped up to the first of these
and pressed his ear against the glass.

Fate was with him, for almost immediately he detected a smooth, musical
voice speaking in the room beyond. A woman's voice answered and,
listening intently, he detected the sound of a closing door.

Thereupon he acted: with the result, as has appeared, that Phil
Abingdon, hatless, without her furs, breathless and more frightened
than she had ever been in her life, presently found herself driving a
luxurious Rolls Royce out of a roofless barn on to the highroad, and
down the slope to Claybury station.

It was at about this time, or a little later, that Paul Harley put into
execution a project which he had formed. The ventilator above the divan,
which he had determined to be the spy-hole through which his every
movement was watched, had an ornamental framework studded with metal
knobs. He had recently discovered an electric bell-push in the centre
panel of the massive door of his prison.

Inwardly on fire, imagining a thousand and one horrors centring about
the figure of Phil Abingdon, but retaining his outward calm by dint of a
giant effort, he pressed this bell and waited.

Perhaps two minutes elapsed. Then the glass doors beyond the gilded
screen were drawn open, and the now-familiar voice spoke:

"Mr. Paul Harley?"

"Yes," he replied, "I have made my final decision."

"And that is?"

"I agree."

"You are wise," the voice replied. "A statement will be placed before
you for signature. When you have signed it, ring the bell again, and in
a few minutes you will be free."

Vaguely he detected the speaker withdrawing. Thereupon, heaving a loud
sigh, he removed his coat, looked about him as if in quest of some place
to hang it, and finally, fixing his gaze upon the studded grating, stood
upon the divan and hung his coat over the spy-hole! This accomplished,
he turned.

The table was slowly sinking through the gap in the floor beneath.

Treading softly, he moved forward and seated himself cross-legged upon
it! It continued to descend, and he found himself in absolute darkness.

Nicol Brinn ran on to the veranda and paus