he hall
was filled with a writhing, scuffling, swearing mass of glue-covered men
struggling in a whirling waste of loose brown paper.

"This way! come quickly, for your life!" he shouted to Dollops, as he
came plunging out into the street. "They've got them--got his little
lordship! Got Miss Lorne--in spite of me. Come on! come on! come
on!"--and flew like an arrow from crossing to crossing and street to
street with Dollops, like a shadow, at his heels.

A sudden swerve to the right brought them into a lighted and populous
thoroughfare. Italian restaurants, German delicatessen shops, eating
places of a dozen other nationalities lined the pavements on both sides
of the street, and, in front of these a high-power motor stood,
protected by the watchful eye of an accommodating policeman while the
chauffeur sampled Chianti in a wine-shop close by. With a rush and a
leap Cleek was upon it, and with another rush and a leap the constable
was upon him, only to be greeted with the swift flicking open of a coat
and the gleam of a badge that every man in the force knew.

"Cleek?"

"Yes! In the name of The Yard; in the name of the king! get out of the
way! In with you, Dollops! We'll get the brutes yet!"

Then he bent over, threw in the clutch, and discarding all speed laws,
sent the car humming and tearing away.

"Hold tight!" he said, through his teeth. "Whatever comes, we've got to
get to Burnt Acre Mill inside of an hour. If you know any prayers,
Dollops, say them."

"The Lord fetch us home in time for supper!" gulped the boy obediently.
"S'help me, Gov'nor, the wind's goin' through my teeth like I was a
mouth organ--and I'm hollow enough for a flute!"

CHAPTER XXII

It is strange how, in moments of stress and trial, even in times of
tragedy, the most commonplace thoughts will intrude themselves and the
mind separate itself from the immediate events. As Merode put the cold
muzzle of the revolver to Ailsa's temple and she ought, one would have
supposed, to have been deaf and blind to all things but the horror of
her position, one of these strange mental lapses occurred, and her mind,
travelling back over the years of her early schooldays, dwelt on a
punishment task set her by her preceptress--the task of copying three
hundred times the phrase "Discretion is the better part of valour."

As the recollection of that time rose before her mental vision, the
value of the phrase itself forced its worth upon her and,