r. Belford.
"If for Newhaven or Lewes we may not be too late. But there is a
possibility----ah! Yes; it is! They are making for Tunbridge
Wells--perhaps for London! Quick, inspector! Don't move the telescope.
On the straight road leading to the Norman church tower! Is that the
car?"

Sheffield lowered his eye to the glass, and after some little delay got
a sight of a long-bodied, waspish, shape, creeping, insect-wise, along a
white chalk mark. His eye growing more accustomed to the glass, he made
it out for a grey car.

"There's a chance, sir. It looks about the right cut."

"This way, inspector! We will take the risk."

Down the tower stairs they sped, Sheffield stumbling and delaying in the
dark and making better going where the light from a window showed the
stairs clearly.

"If that is he," panted the Home Secretary, "the motor is not a powerful
one. It is probably one hired for the occasion."

They came out from the tower into the hall and passed Lady Mary--who
glanced away with an odd expression--and Zoe Oppner. Zoe's pretty face
was flushed, and her breast rose and fell quickly. Her eyes were
sparkling, but she lowered them as the excited pair ran by.

The chauffeur was ready to start, when Mr. Belford, hatless, leapt on to
a footboard of the throbbing car with the agility of a sailor, Sheffield
more slowly following suit, for he would have preferred an inside berth.

A man in a blue serge suit touched the inspector's arm.

"What shall we do, sir?"

"Wait here."

The limousine was off.

"Left! left!" directed Mr. Belford, and the man swung sharply round the
curve and into the lane bordering the gardens of Womsley Old Place.

"Right!"

They leapt about again, and were humming along a chalky white road.

"Left! Straight ahead! Make for the church! Open her out!"

The pursuit had commenced!

Some dormant trait in the blood of His Majesty's Principal Secretary of
State for the Home Department had risen above the surface of suave,
polished courtesy which ordinarily passed for the character of the Right
Hon. Walter Belford. The veneer was off, and this was a primitive
Belford, kin of the Roger de Belfourd who had established the fortunes
of the house. The eyes behind the pince-nez were hard and bright; the
fine nostrils quivered with the joy of the chase; and the long, lean
neck, protruding from the characteristically low collar, was strung up
to whipcord tension.

"Let her go!" he shouted, his