Rudolph sent you
down from London."

I was awaiting the prearranged word that would show the hunchback's
_bona fides_.

I gave him another opportunity of giving the password, but he seemed
ignorant of it.

Next second, my suspicions being aroused, I sprang down, and crying:

"Look here, old fellow! I fancy you've made a mistake!" I struck him
familiarly upon the back.

His hump was _soft_! In that instant I detected him as an impostor--a
Scotland Yard detective--without a doubt!

Fortunately for me my brain acts quickly. But it was not so quick as
his. He gave a shrill whistle, and in a flash from nowhere three of
his colleagues appeared. They ran around the car to hold it up.

For a few seconds I found myself in serious jeopardy.

I sprang into the driver's seat, switched on the self-starter, and
just as one of the detectives tried to mount beside me, I threw down
among my assailants a little dark brown bomb the shape of an egg, with
which Rayne had provided me in case of emergency.

It exploded with a low fizz and its fumes took them aback, allowing me
to shoot away over the bridge and down into Bristol, much wiser than
when I had arrived.

The arrangement of that password in itself showed how cleverly Rudolph
Rayne was foresighted in all his plans. He always left a loophole for
escape. Surely he was a past-master in the art of criminality, for his
fertile brain evolved schemes and exit channels which nobody ever
dreamed of.

The squire of Overstow, who was regarded by the wealthy county people
of Yorkshire as perfectly honest in all his dealings, and unduly rich
withal, attracted to his table some of the most exclusive hunting set,
people with titles, as well as the _parvenus_ "impossibles" who had
bought huge places with the money made out of the war. The "County"
never dreamed of the mysterious source of Rudolph Rayne's unlimited
income.

After traveling through a number of deserted streets in Bristol, I at
last found myself upon a high road with a signpost which told me that
I was on my way to Wells, that picturesque little city at the foot of
the Mendip Hills. So, fearing lest I might be followed, I went "all
out" through Axbridge and Cheddar, until at last I came to the fine
old cathedral at Wells, which I knew quite familiarly. Near it was the
Swan Hotel, at which, after some difficulty, I aroused the "boots,"
secured a room, and placed the car in the garage.

It was then nearly half-past thr