upon the floor of the
pantry lay Rama Dass, still clutching one end of the silken rope in his
hand!

"Mr. Harley!" gasped Brinn. "My God, sir!" He clutched at his bruised
throat. "I have to thank you for my life."

He paused, looking down at the prone figure as Harley, dropping upon his
knees, turned the man over.

"I struck him behind the ear," he muttered, "and gave him every ounce.
Good heavens!"

He had slipped his hand inside Rama Dass's vest, and now he looked up,
his face very grim.

"Good enough!" said Brinn, coolly. "He asked for it; he's got it. Take
this." He thrust the Colt automatic into Harley's hand as the latter
stood up again.

"What do we do now?" asked Harley.

"Search the house," was the reply. "Everything coloured you see, shoot,
unless I say no."

"Miss Abingdon?"

"She's safe. Follow me."

Straight up two flights of stairs led Nicol Brinn, taking three steps at
a stride. Palpably enough the place was deserted. Ormuz Khan's plans for
departure were complete.

Into two rooms on the first floor they burst, to find them stripped and
bare. On the threshold of the third Brinn stopped dead, and his gaunt
face grew ashen. Then he tottered across the room, arms outstretched.

"Naida," he whispered. "My love, my love!"

Paul Harley withdrew quietly. He had begun to walk along the corridor
when the sound of a motor brought him up sharply. A limousine was being
driven away from the side entrance! Not alone had he heard that sound.
His face deathly, and the lack-lustre eyes dully on fire, Nicol Brinn
burst out of the room and, not heeding the presence of Harley, hurled
himself down the stairs. He was as a man demented, an avenging angel.

"There he is!" cried Harley--"heading for the Dover Road!"

Nicol Brinn, at the wheel of the racer--the same in which Harley had
made his fateful journey and which had afterward been concealed in the
garage at Hillside--scarcely nodded.

Nearer they drew to the quarry, and nearer. Once--twice--and again,
the face of Ormuz Khan peered out of the window at the rear of the
limousine.

They drew abreast; the road was deserted. And they passed slightly
ahead.

Paul Harley glanced at the granite face of his companion with an
apprehension he was unable to conceal. This was a cool madman who drove.
What did he intend to do?

Inch by inch, Nicol Brinn edged the torpedo body nearer to the wheels of
the racing limousine. The Oriental chauffeur drew in ever cl