you've gone in." For Dollops, who was of an inventive turn of mind, had
an especial "man-trap" of his own, which consisted of heavy brown paper,
cut into squares, and thickly smeared over with a viscid, varnish-like
substance that adhered to the feet of anybody incautiously stepping upon
it, and so interfered with flight that it was an absolute necessity to
stop and tear the papers away before running with any sort of ease and
swiftness was possible. More than once this novel method of hampering
for a brief period the movement of a fugitive had stood him and his
master in good stead, and Dollops, who was rather proud of his
achievement, never travelled without a full supply of ready-cut papers
and a big collapsible tube of the viscid, ropy, varnish-like glue.

Meantime Cleek, having left the boy sitting on the hat-box in the
darkness, crossed the narrow street to the open doorway of No. 7, and,
without hesitation, stepped in. The place was as black as a pocket, and
had that peculiar smell which belongs to houses that have long stood
vacant. The house, nevertheless, was a respectable one, and, like all
the others, fronted on another street. The dark Toison d'Or was merely a
back passage used principally by the tradespeople for the delivery of
supplies. Feeling his way to the first of the three flights of stairs
which led upward into the stillness and gloom above, Cleek mounted
steadily until he found himself at length in a sort of attic--quite
windowless, and lit only by a skylight through which shone the
ineffectual light of the stars. It was the top at last. Bracing his back
against the wall, so that nobody could get behind him, and holding
himself ready for any emergency, he called out in a clear, calm voice:
"Cleek!"

Almost simultaneously there was a sharp metallic "snick," an electric
bulb hanging from the ceiling flamed out luminously, a cupboard door
flashed open, a voice cried out in joyous, perfect English: "Thank God
for a man!" And, switching round with a cry of amazement, he found
himself looking into the face and eyes of a woman.

And of all women in the world--Ailsa Lorne!

He sucked in his breath and his heart began to hammer.

"Miss Lorne!" he exclaimed, so carried out of himself that he scarcely
knew what he did. "Good heavens above!--Miss Lorne!"

"Oh!" she ejaculated, with a little startled cry, looking up, but
finding no trace of features that she knew in the round, red face of the
fat gray man