es off to Paris, and
vanishes from the face of the earth after a series of extraordinary
proceedings. One supposes naturally that if they have come to harm
anywhere--if there has been a crime--there must have been a motive. What
is it? You say that their banking account has been undisturbed?"

"It was last week. I should hear if any cheques were presented."

"And the boy's letter of credit even has never been drawn upon!"

"No! Not since he left Vienna."

"Then the motive cannot be robbery. Thank Heaven," Duncombe added, with
a little shudder, "that it was the boy who went first."

"Don't!"

A great winged insect came buzzing into the room. Duncombe struck
viciously at it with the palm of his hand.

"Lord!" he muttered, "what a fool I am! I've never been away from home
before, Andrew, without longing to get back, and here I am, just back
from Paris in August, from turning night into day, from living just the
sort of life I hate, and I'd give anything to be going back there
to-morrow. I'm a haunted man, Andrew. I got up last night simply because
I couldn't sleep, and walked down as far as the paddock. I seemed to see
her face in all the shadowy corners, to see her moving towards me from
amongst the trees. And I'm not an imaginative person, Andrew, and I've
got no nerves. Look!"

He held out his hand, strong and firm and brown. It was as steady as a
rock.

"I can't sleep," he continued, "I can't rest. Is there witchcraft in
this thing, Andrew?"

Andrew Pelham laughed shortly. It was a laugh which had no kinship to
mirth.

"And I," he said, "have seen her grow up. We were boy and girl together.
I stole apples for her. I have watched her grow from girlhood into
womanhood. I have known flesh and blood, and you a cardboard image. I
too am a strong man, and I am helpless. I lie awake at night and I
think. It is as though the red flames of hell were curling up around me.
George, if she has come to any evil, whether I am blind or whether I can
see, I'll grope my way from country to country till my hand is upon the
throat of the beast who has harmed her."

The man's voice shook with passion. Duncombe was awed into silence. He
had known Andrew Pelham always as a good-natured, good-hearted giant,
beloved of children and animals, deeply religious, a man whose temper,
if he possessed such a thing, was always strictly under control. Such an
outburst as this was a revelation. Duncombe understood then how slight a
thing