s Beale.

"It's no use your shouting for Bridgers because Bridgers is on the way
to the jug," said McNorton. "I have a warrant for you, van Heerden."

The doctor turned with a howl of rage, snatched up the pistol which lay
on the table, and thumbed down the safety-catch.

Beale and McNorton fired together, so that it seemed like a single shot
that thundered through the room. Van Heerden slid forward, and fell
sprawling across the table.

* * * * *

It was the Friday morning, and Beale stepped briskly through the
vestibule of the Ritz-Carlton, and declining the elevator went up the
stairs two at a time. He burst into the room where Kitson and the girl
were standing by the window.

"Wheat prices are tumbling down," he said, "the message worked."

"Thank Heaven for that!" said Kitson. "Then van Heerden's code message
telling his gang to stop operations reached its destination!"

"Its destinations," corrected Beale cheerfully. "I released thirty
pigeons with the magic word. The agents have been arrested," he said;
"we notified the Government authorities, and there was a sheriff or a
policeman in every post office when the code word came through--van
Heerden's agents saw some curious telegraph messengers yesterday."

Kitson nodded and turned away.

"What are you going to do now?" asked the girl, with a light in her
eyes. "You must feel quite lost without this great quest of yours."

"There are others," said Stanford Beale.

"When do you return to America?" she asked.

He fenced the question, but she brought him back to it.

"I have a great deal of business to do in London before I go," he said.

"Like what?" she asked.

"Well," he hesitated, "I have some legal business."

"Are you suing somebody?" she asked, wilfully dense.

He rubbed his head in perplexity.

"To tell you the truth," he said, "I don't exactly know what I've got to
do or what sort of figure I shall cut. I have never been in the Divorce
Court before."

"Divorce Court?" she said, puzzled, "are you giving evidence? Of course
I know detectives do that sort of thing. I have read about it in the
newspapers. It must be rather horrid, but you are such a clever
detective--oh, by the way you never told me how you found me."

"It was a very simple matter," he said, relieved to change the subject,
"van Heerden, by one of those curious lapses which the best of criminals
make, left a message at the pawnbroker's which