t
it, come into the hands of the inner ring before we have our grip on it.
Needles, before now, have been successfully hunted in haystacks, and
perhaps even you, Professor Caldegard, have no adequate conception of
how close the meshes are in the net Superintendent Finucane is
spreading. And I should like you to understand, sir," he said, drawing
nearer to the old man who sat staring with fixed eyes out of a ghastly
face, "that, though our duty makes us think of millions where you can
think only of one, every effort which the Criminal Investigation
Department makes, every trap it lays, every device it contrives to
recover your property is equally adapted to finding your daughter. In
your fear for her safety you have forgotten your drug; in our fear for
the drug we cannot let your daughter out of our minds."

"She may be--dead," said Caldegard.

The Superintendent answered him.

"I don't believe it," he declared. "You see, sir, the thief's plan
worked smoothly, bar the one unexpected factor--the young lady in the
room. If he didn't kill her then, he don't mean to kill her."

"That's my brother's argument," said Randal, adding his word of comfort.

There was a tap at the door, and a constable entered.

"Sir Randal Bellamy's chauffeur, sir," he said to Finucane. "He has
brought this letter. Says it's from Mr. Richard Bellamy."

Randal glanced at the note and then read aloud:

"Melchard's the man we want. Get his address. 'Phone cut outside.
Wire me address P.D.Q."

"From my brother Richard," he said. "Dr. Caldegard knows this Melchard,
I believe."

When Caldegard had told them all he knew of the man, the Superintendent
looked at the Commissioner,

"I think, sir," he said, "we'd better inquire about Mr. Alban Melchard."

"Rather a wildgoose chase," grumbled the Home Secretary.

"I shouldn't wonder, sir," replied Finucane, "if Mr. Richard Bellamy
isn't a very wideawake young gentleman."

CHAPTER X.

THE GREEN FROCK.

Seven miles south of Millsborough, just before you come to the
cross-roads, whose eastern branch runs to the coast some thirty miles
away, there stands, the only house in sight, a little roadside inn
called "The Coach and Horses."

At half-past seven on the morning of Saturday, June the twenty-first,
there drew up before it a long, low two-seater car.

The landlord, a sharp-faced little man with kindly eyes and a shrewd
mouth, came to the door.

"Looks like you've been t