imbing up on to "Bimbi's" knee and snuggling
close to him.

"I say, you know, you mustn't tell secrets, old chap!" was the laughing
response. "Miss Lorne will hand you over to Nursie with orders to put
you to bed if you do, _I_ know--won't you, Miss Lorne?"

"He ought to be in bed, anyhow," responded Ailsa gaily; and then, this
giving the conversation a merry turn, they talked and laughed and kept
up such a chatter that three-quarters of an hour went like magic and
nobody seemed aware of it. But suddenly Ailsa thought, and then put her
thoughts into words.

"What a long time we are in getting home," she said, and bent forward so
that the light from the window might fall upon the dial of her wrist
watch, then gave a little startled cry and half rose from her seat. For
the darkness was now tempered by moonlight, and she could see that they
were no longer in the populous districts of the town, but were speeding
along past woodlands and open fields in the very depths of the country.
"Good gracious! Johnston must have lost his senses!" she exclaimed
agitatedly. "Look where we are, Captain Hawksley!--out in the country
with only a farmhouse or two in sight. Johnston! Johnston!" She bent
forward and rapped wildly on the glass panel. "Johnston, stop!--turn
round!--are you out of your head? Captain Hawksley, stop him--stop him
for pity's sake!"

"Sit down, Miss Lorne." He made reply in a low, level voice, a voice in
which there was something that made her pluck the child to her and hold
him right to her breast. "You are not going home to-night. You are going
for a ride with me; and if--Oh, that's your little game, is it?" lurching
forward as she made a frantic clutch at the handle of the door. "Sit
down, do you hear me?--or it will be worse for you! There!"--the cold
bore of a revolver barrel touched her temple and wrung a quaking gasp of
terror from her--"Do you feel that? Now you sit down and be quiet! If
you make a single move, utter a single cry, I'll blow your brains out
before you've half finished it. Look here, do you know who you're
dealing with now? See!"

His hand reached up and twitched away the fair beard and moustache; he
bent forward so that the moonlight through the glass could fall on his
face. It had changed as his voice had now changed, and she saw that she
was looking at the man who in those other days of stress and trial had
posed as "Gaston Merode," brother to the fictitious "Countess de la
Tour."

"