daughter have bolted. Fielding seems to have half killed a messenger
who came down from London to see Von Rothe, and stolen some papers. Fact
of the matter is he's not Fielding at all--and as for the girl! Lord
knows who she is. Sorry for you, Duncombe. Hope you weren't very hard
hit!"

He gathered up his reins.

"We've sent telegrams everywhere," he said, "but the beast has cut the
telephone, and Von Rothe blasphemes if we talk about the police. It's a
queer business."

He rode off. Duncombe returned where the girl was standing. She was
clutching at the branches of the shrub as though prostrate with fear,
but at his return she straightened herself. How much had she heard he
wondered.

"Don't move!" he said.

She nodded.

"Can any one see me?" she asked.

"Not from the road."

"From the house?"

"They could," he admitted, "but it is the servants' dinner hour. Don't
you notice how quiet the house is?"

"Yes."

She was very white. She seemed to find some difficulty in speaking.
There was fear in her eyes.

"It would not be safe for you to leave here at present," he said. "I am
going to take you into a little room leading out of my study. No one
ever goes in it. You will be safe there for a time."

"If I could sit down--for a little while."

He took her arm, and led her unresistingly towards the house. The
library window was closed, but he opened it easily, and helped her
through. At the further end of the room was an inner door, which he
threw open.

"This is a room which no one except myself ever enters," he said. "I
used to do a little painting here sometimes. Sit down, please, in that
easy-chair. I am going to get you a glass of wine."

They heard the library door suddenly opened. A voice, shaking with
passion, called out his name.

"Duncombe, are you here? Duncombe!"

There was a dead silence. They could hear him moving about the room.

"Hiding, are you? Brute! Come out, or I'll--by heavens, I'll shoot you
if you don't tell me the truth. I heard her voice in the lane. I'll
swear to it."

Duncombe glanced quickly towards his companion. She lay back in the
chair in a dead faint.

CHAPTER XXI

A WOMAN'S CRY

The three men were sitting at a small round dining-table, from which
everything except the dessert had been removed. Duncombe filled his own
glass and passed around a decanter of port. Pelham and Spencer both
helped themselves almost mechanically. A cloud of restraint had hu