way and Desmond suspected that he was even
stronger than he looked. Desmond wondered whether he should try
and overpower him then and there. The other was almost certain to
carry a revolver, he thought, while he was unarmed. Failure, he
knew, would ruin everything. The gang would disperse to the four
winds of heaven while as for Mr. Bellward--well, he would
certainly be "for it," as the soldiers say.

No, he must hold his hand until the meeting had taken place. This
was the first conference that Mortimer had summoned, and Desmond
intended to see that it should be the last. But first he meant to
find out all there was to know about the working of the gang.

He resolved to wait and see what the evening would bring forth.
The telephone was "a washout": the motor-cycle was now his only
chance to summon aid for he knew it was hopeless to think of
tackling single-handed odds of four to one (to say nothing of the
lady in the case). It must be his business to make an opportunity
to slip away on the motor-bike to Stanning. Ten minutes to get
there, five minutes to deliver his message at the police station
(if the Chief's people made their headquarters there), and ten
minutes to get back if they had a car. Could he leave the meeting
for 25 minutes without arousing suspicions? He doubted it; but it
must be. There was no other way. And then with a shock that made
him cold with fear he remembered Mortimer's motor-car.

If, during his absence, anything occurred to arouse their
suspicions, the whole crowd could pile into the car and be away
long before Desmond could be back with help. The fog had lifted
and it was a clear night outside. The car would have to be got
rid of before he left the house, that was all about it. But how?
A means to that end must also be discovered as the evening
progressed. By the way, what had Mortimer done with his car?

A very faint throbbing somewhere outside answered Desmond's
unspoken question.

Mortimer flung aside his paper.

"Isn't that a car?" he asked, "that'll be they. I sent Max to
Wentfield station to meet our friends!"

There was the sound of voices, of bustle in the hall. Then the
door opened and a man came in. Desmond had a brief moment of
acute suspense. Was he supposed to know him?

He was a short, ugly fellow with immensely broad shoulders, a
heavy puffy face, a gross, broad nose, and a tooth-brush
moustache. He might have been a butcher to look at. In the top
edge of his coat l