r story on wallpaper," remarked Peter Brown.
"It's worse than marking handkerchiefs. But we could make no one hear,
and thought, if we hurled out of the window a bundle of paper with a
message hidden somewhere in the middle of apparently harmless text,
there was just a chance of its being picked up. The lane runs fairly
near to yonder corner of the house. You can imagine how thrilled we were
when the old envelope--weighted with Father Anthony's pocket knife and
my pipe stop--fell plump into a passing cart."

"The chance was indeed providential," commented the Priest gravely,
"but let us not forget that we owe to our zealous and sharp-eyed friends
among the police the actual discovery of our queer message hidden in the
grass of the crossroads."

"Where are the others of the party?" broke in the Bureaucrat. "We know
that Turpin and Mrs. Dane and that minx Amelie are in jail. But where
are Miss Pogson and Doctor Pennock and Mr. Scott, and where's old
what's-his-name, the Master Printer?..."

* * * * *

The reply was unexpected. Somewhere at the back of the chateau a clock
struck noisily. In their basket chairs on the terrace of the Chateau
de la Hourmerie the members of Mr. Hector Turpin's first Continental
touring party sat spellbound at the force of a chime hitherto
unnoticed. They had counted twelve strokes. To their horrified
amazement, the chime rang out once more--and they realised that the
tall windows of the house no longer threw comforting light upon the
flagstones, that behind them, as before, lay utter darkness.

Seven voices spoke as one:

"Did you hear it? The clock struck thirteen!"

And again:

"Did you see, the way the lights went out?"

For a moment there was profound silence. Then from the last chair of the
line came a long-drawn, chuckling laugh, a laugh of pride, of amusement,
of relief,

"Well, upon my word!" said in quiet, incisive tones the voice of Henry
Scott (of the Psychical Research Society). "I hardly dared to hope for
so complete a triumph! My good friends, it is one a.m. As the clock
struck twelve you sank into hypnotic trance; on the point of its
striking one, you emerged. The hour of interval was telescoped in your
waking consciousness to a few seconds. As for the lights--at half-past
twelve Doctor Pennock went to bed. She turned them out as she passed
through the house. I asked her to. I will relight them now."

And he walked to the nearest window, crossed the room within