ton. "I've just
returned from town, sir, so if there's anything Hamer has neglected to
do in my absence----"

"No, thanks, don't want anything!" flung back Cleek, not waiting for him
to finish; and then cut downstairs again in such hot haste that his feet
beat an audible tattoo upon the padded steps and gave such evidence of
excitement that he was not at all surprised when the key of the library
click-clacked sharply, the door opened, and General Raynor appeared.

"What's this? What's the meaning of all this confounded hubbub when I
expressly said"--he began--and then, looking up and seeing Cleek,
stopped short and changed his tone. "Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Barch; I
didn't know it was you! Is there anything wrong?"

"No, General," replied Cleek. "Sorry if I disturbed you. Just looking
for----" Then he, too, stopped short and changed his tone. For of a
sudden his ear had caught the shrilling note of a distant police
whistle, and excitement swayed him.

"Dollops, by Jupiter!" he cried unthinkingly. "Got him! Got him, the
little brick!" and without another word he faced about, ran down the
hall, and pelted off through the grounds in the direction of the ruin.

And all the time the police whistle was shrilling, and Dollops's voice
was sounding, and the darkness was full of scuffling sounds. For the
noise of the whistle had disturbed the servants, and Cleek was hard put
to it to get to the scene of the uproar before them. He did, however;
but they were close upon his heels and as excited as he when, upon
nearing the ruin, they came upon two struggling figures linked together
and careering about like a couple of fighting tomcats.

"Here yer are, gov'ner; ketched him foul, the rotter," sang out Dollops
as his master came scudding up with all that troop of servants pounding
along in his wake. "Look! See!"

Then an electric torch clicked, and lo, there he was, with one end of a
pair of handcuffs snapped on his own wrist and the other locked fast
upon that of a distinguished-looking man in a spring overcoat and
evening clothes.

A stranger to Cleek this man, but not to the servants of Wuthering
Grange; and it came as a shock when he heard them speak his name.

It was Sir Philip Clavering.

The man's identity had no sooner been made known than he broke forth
with a storm of indignant protest.

"What is the meaning of this outrage, and who is this young person?" he
demanded with heat. "As some of you have good enoug