again;
that's a positive certainty."

"I should have thought that a really clever fellow like you would
guess that I wanted to raise a row," said Furneaux. "Have you breath
enough left to blow your whistles?"

"But, sir, your orders were----"

"Blow, and be damned to you. Don't I know the fault is mine! Blow, and
crack your cheeks! Blow wild peals, my Roberts, else we are copped
coppers!"

The mild radiance of the torch showed that the detective's face was
white with fury and his eyes gleaming red. To think that a dangling
rope's end should have spoiled his finest capture, undone a flawless
piece of imaginative reasoning which his own full record had never
before equaled! It was humiliating, maddening. No wonder the policemen
thought him crazy!

But they whistled with a will. Winter heard them, and was stirred to
strange activities. Robert Fenley, recovering from an ague and
sickness, heard and marveled at the pandemonium which had broken loose
in the park. The household at The Towers was aroused, heads were
craned out of windows, women screamed, and men dressed hastily.
Keepers, estate hands, and stablemen tumbled into their garments and
hurried out, armed with guns and cudgels. An unhappy woman, tossing in
the fitful dreams of drug-induced sleep, was awakened by the pistol
shots and terrified by the noise of slamming doors and hurrying feet.

She struggled out of bed and screamed for an attendant, but none came.
She pressed an electric bell, which rang continuously in the night
watchman's room; but he had run to the front of the house and was
unlocking the front door, where a squad of willing men soon awaited
Winter's instructions. For the Superintendent, after rushing to the
telephone, had shouted an order to MacBain before he made off in the
direction of the Quarry Wood.

The one tocsin which exercises a dread significance in a peaceful and
law-abiding English community at the present day struck a new and
awful note in Hilton Fenley's brain. Fool that he was, why had he
fought? Why was he flying? Had he brazened it out, the police would
not have dared arrest him. His brain was as acute as the best of
theirs. He could have evolved a theory of the crime as subtle as any
detective's, and who so keen-witted as a son eager to avenge a
father's murder? But he had thrown away a gambler's chance by a moment
of frenzied struggle. He was doomed now. No plausible explanation
would serve his need. He was hunted. The