l Society of Sleuths.
He witnessed the quick, businesslike methods of two of the craftiest men
in the craftiest organization in the world--the United States Secret
Service.

Two words were spoken. They came, loud and imperative, from a point near
the house.

"Hands up!"

The skulking figure in the yard stopped short, but only for a fraction
of a second. Then he made a wild spring toward the front gate.

A shot rang out.

The man at Anderson's side leaped forward through the hedge. Mr. Crow
was dimly conscious of a mishap to his erstwhile captor. He heard him
curse as he went sprawling over a treacherous vine.

Mr. Crow did not waste a second's time. He leaped to his feet and
started pellmell for home. With rare sagacity he avoided the highway and
laid his course well inside the hedgerow. He knew where he could strike
an open stretch of meadowland, and he headed for it through the
brambles.

He heard shouts behind him, and the rush of feet. If he could only get
clear of the cussed bushes! That was his thought as he plunged along.

Down he went with a crash!

* * * * *

As the marshal tried to rise, a huge object ploughed through the hedge
beside him, and the next instant he was knocked flat and breathless by
the impact of this hurtling body.

The next instant two swift, ruthless figures came plunging through the
hedge, and he found himself embroiled in a seething mix-up of panting,
struggling men.

Presently Crow sat up. The steady glare of a "dark-lantern" revealed a
picture he was never to forget.

A single figure in a kneeling position, hands on high, was crying:

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!"

Over him stood two men with pistols levelled at the white, terrified
face.

[Illustration: _Over him stood two men with pistols levelled at the
white, terrified face_]

Anderson, to his dying day, was to remember those bulging eyes, the
flabby and unshaven face, the mouth that appeared to be grinning--but
never had he seen such an unnatural grin!

"Stand up!" commanded one of the men, and the victim struggled to his
feet. In less time than it takes to tell it, the fellow was searched and
hand-cuffed. "Run back there, Pyke, and see that the woman don't take a
crack at us with a shotgun. She'd do it in a minute." As his companion
darted back into the roadway, the speaker turned to his captive.
"Where's your gun?"

By this time Anderson Crow was on his feet. He was clutching