Westerham turned the note about and about in his fingers in the futile attempt to extract some further information from it.

He realised, of course, that the note boded a new move.

Had the crisis really crept so close? Or was the danger in which Lady Kathleen stood merely fictitious?

Possibly it was a trap; but that he had to risk. One thing was certain—he could not ignore the message.

On second thoughts, indeed, he was inclined to regard the summons as a real and urgent one. The murder at the hotel had shown him that Melun was not the man to stick at trifles.

Moreover, he recollected that Madame's concern at his becoming entangled in Melun's toils had without question been genuine. Madame, he almost persuaded himself, had been his friend from the beginning. He trusted that she might be now.

Without any further delay, therefore, he walked out into the quiet little street and turned in the direction of Berkeley Square, where he knew he would be sure to find a cab.

But as he emerged from the door a hansom passed him, and without thinking, he accepted the invitation of the driver to enter it.

Through the trap-door he told the man to drive to the Laburnum Road; and then as the vehicle moved along at a smart pace he gave himself up again to speculating in what way Kathleen might be in peril and from what motive Mme. Estelle had warned him.

He had come to no conclusion on this point when the hansom swung sharply round from the Finchley Road into Laburnum Road, which at that hour of the day was more quiet and deserted than ever.

Then a strange thing happened so suddenly that he had no time to ward off the danger in which he found himself.

Two steel arms, which had been so secreted in the upholstery of the cab as to be invisible, suddenly closed round his arms and body with a snap, and as the hansom was pulled up with a jerk he found himself a prisoner, so tightly squeezed by the encircling steel arms that he was unable to do more than wriggle in his seat.

In a moment the driver was off the dicky and had come round to the front of the cab. With a fascinated gaze Westerham watched him take a little phial from his pocket and saturate a handkerchief.

He divined the man's intention in a moment, and cried out an inquiry as to what he was about to do.

But the man made no answer, except to grin and climb on to the step of the cab.

A moment later he had clapped the handkerchief over Westerham's mouth and nose and held it there tightly for a few seconds.

Westerham was alike unable to struggle or cry out. For a few moments he fought against the overpowering odour of chloroform; then his vision grew dim, his ears began to sing, and he lapsed into complete unconsciousness.

When he awoke it was to find himself fully dressed and stretched upon a sofa. It was apparently morning-time, for the table close beside him was laid out as though for breakfast, and a flood of early sunshine was pouring in through the open French windows.

He was so astonished at his whereabouts that he closed his eyes again and endeavoured with a still half-numbed brain to call to mind the events which had brought him into such strange surroundings.

Slowly, stupidly, he began to remember Mme. Estelle's letter and his disastrous drive in the cab. But so dazed was he that he had for the purpose of fully arousing his faculties actually to repeat his name and address several times before his senses began to assume their normal condition of alertness.

When his brain was clearer he endeavoured to rise, but he immediately became dizzy again and sank back on the couch as though exhausted by a long illness.

So complete was the blank between the time he had been chloroformed and his awaking that he had not the faintest idea whether he had lain on the couch on which he found himself for hours or days, or even weeks.

Yesterday seemed to be a long time behind him.

So, finding exertion out of the question, he leant back with almost contentment among the pillows, and fell to wondering in whose house he might be. From the shape of the room and the aspect of the garden more than anything he came to the conclusion that the roof which sheltered him was that of Mme. Estelle. On this point, however, he could not quite make up his mind until the door opened softly and Mme. Estelle herself came into the room.

She walked over to the couch and stood looking down at him pleasantly and kindly.

Westerham was so astonished at her appearance that he could say nothing at all.

It was Madame who spoke first, but before doing so she drew a chair to his side and sat down. Then she said:

“Sir Paul, I owe you a deep apology.”

Westerham contented himself with a slight inclination of his weary head, and waited for Madame to explain.

“I can speak quite frankly now,” she said, “knowing that there is no one about to overhear, and I must begin by asking you to forgive me.”

Westerham nodded, but still said nothing, though now he saw plainly enough that the letter had merely been a blind.

“Yet,” Madame continued, turning her face away from him, “it was not so great a lie. Lady Kathleen was in peril, and is still in peril, but not in the peril which I really imagined at the time.”

“What do you mean?” asked Westerham.

Madame glanced uneasily about her, and then shrugged her shoulders.

“I cannot tell you, my friend. I wish I could.”

“She was in peril, is still in peril, but not in the peril in which she was,” Westerham repeated to himself. He removed his puzzled gaze from the woman's face and glanced at his feet.

Then he started violently, for the boots which he wore, comfortable though they were, were not his boots.

Struggling into a half-sitting posture, he looked hastily over his clothes. They were not his clothes.

He endeavoured to rise and Madame helped him to his feet. On one side he supported himself by the table, and on the other by Madame's arm.

Then he took a step forward and deliberately surveyed himself in the glass. And his look of inspection filled him with intense surprise, though he did not allow himself to so much as utter an exclamation.

Mechanically he began to employ those little tricks of gesture which a man indulges in when he is anxious to ascertain if his clothes sit well on him.

To his amazement not one article of attire was his own; yet the blue serge suit in which he was clad was of such a perfect fit that he might have been moulded into it. He moved his toes inside his boot and found that of all the boots he had ever worn these were the most comfortable.

He put his hand to his tie and found that his collar was the exact size. Quickly and methodically he searched through his pockets; his handkerchief was where he always carried it; his keys were in his left trouser pocket; his money and knife in his right. Each in its own correct waistcoat pocket he found his nail clippers, his sovereign purse and tiny card-case. His cards were intact.

Plunging his hand into the inner pocket of his coat he discovered that his notebook was in its place. Almost instinctively he opened it and turned over the contents; nothing whatsoever had been disturbed.

So utterly dumfounded was he that he sat down heavily again upon the couch and stared at Mme. Estelle.

Madame laughed, showing her fine teeth.

“You are a little puzzled,” she suggested.

“Truly,” said Westerham, “I was never so puzzled in my life. Can you tell me what it all means?”

“I would that I were able,” said Madame, earnestly, “but it is quite impossible.”

“These things,” urged Westerham, stretching out his limbs, “what is the meaning of it? I can quite understand,” he added bitterly, “that it might be necessary for Melun to chloroform me for various reasons, but one of those reasons was apparently not theft.

“Indeed,” he added, with a wry smile, “the captain seems to have been spending money on me.

“Tell me,” he cried, starting up and then falling back weakly, “tell me what all this means. I have had my fill of mystery during the last week.”

“Don't you think,” suggested Madame, quietly, “that it would be best to begin at the beginning? Surely it would be more reasonable for you to ask why you were chloroformed and brought here.”

“Well,” said Westerham, “why was it?”

“It was done,” said Mme. Estelle, “because it was necessary to make you a prisoner for nearly thirty hours—and it was the only way to do it. You see,” she added lightly, “you are a strong man, and I don't blame Melun for declining to risk a struggle with you.”

“But I don't understand any better now,” Westerham complained, passing his hand across his forehead. “Why should I be made a prisoner?”

Mme. Estelle touched his arm and looked earnestly into his face.

“Because,” she said slowly, “it was necessary to ensure that you should see Lady Kathleen to-night.”

“To see Lady Kathleen to-night,” cried Westerham. “When and where? Not here, surely?”

“No,” answered Madame, with a little smile, “not here, indeed.

“Events,” she went on, “have taken a very sudden and curious turn. Yesterday, I tell you frankly, your own life was in considerable danger. You may think it very cold-blooded and horrible of me to say such a thing, but I know that Melun had practically come to the conclusion that you must be put out of the way in order to save trouble.

“But I was averse to that, and, thanks to the plan I suggested, it was found unnecessary to do you any harm.”

“But why,” urged Westerham, “was it found necessary to play all these tricks with my clothes? Why, they must have been made from extremely careful measurements. I should say they had been modelled on one of my own suits. And the boots are the strangest part of all—they fit me like gloves.”

“It was intended they should,” said Mme. Estelle. “And be thankful that they do, for though it is impossible for me to explain, they have actually saved you from death. I assure you that there is no man this afternoon more jealous of your safety than Melun.”

“And Lady Kathleen?”

“Lady Kathleen,” said Mme. Estelle, gravely, “is still in great danger—but it is a danger of a different kind.”

“You don't mean to tell me,” cried Westerham, “that whereas my life has been spared hers is not safe.”

Mme. Estelle nodded.

“Good Heavens!” cried Westerham. “But this is monstrous—perfectly monstrous! What does all this juggling mean?”

“Please don't excite yourself, Sir Paul!” said Mme. Estelle. “It can do no good. Believe me that I bear Lady Kathleen no ill-will, and that if I can save her I will do so, even at the cost of being a little disloyal to Melun.”

“But why all this trickery and mystery?” demanded Westerham again. “It almost amounts to tomfoolery. One would think that Melun had gone crazy and was indulging in some mad whim.”

“Perhaps it is a whim, but it is a whim with a very serious motive.”

“Come,” she added, “let's try to get some breakfast. I promise you that if you will only endeavour to get strong during the day you shall certainly see Lady Kathleen to-night.”

“Where?”

“Where,” said Mme. Estelle, “I don't know. I can only guess. It was not my business to ask questions on that point. The cab will call for you to-night at nine.”

“The cab!” exclaimed Westerham. “Do you mean the same vehicle which brought me here? For if you mean that then I decline to travel in it.”

“Then I fear,” said Mme. Estelle, sharply, “you will have to forego the satisfaction of seeing Lady Kathleen. The cab will be your only means of reaching her.”

“Do you mean to tell me,” demanded Westerham, who had been so unnerved by the chloroform as to become a little excited, “do you mean that I am a prisoner in this house?”

“Only so far as your feelings keep you captive,” was the answer.

“And I know what your feelings will say. They will decide that you must wait here in patience until the hour comes for you to go to Lady Kathleen.”

Westerham said no more; it was idle to argue with this woman. Circumstances were too strong and strange for him.

After breakfast he revived considerably, and Madame left him on the couch with a pile of magazines to amuse him.

Lunch was served at one, and the afternoon dragged slowly and painfully away. It was with great impatience that Westerham watched the table being leisurely and neatly laid for dinner. His irritation grew with every passing minute.

At dinner he ate but little and drank less, though Madame pleaded that a second glass of champagne would go far to steady his considerably shaken nerves.

Westerham, however, declined. He had become so suspicious of everybody and everything he half imagined that, not content with chloroforming him, his captors might attempt to drug him also.

At the stroke of nine Westerham heard the rumble of wheels in the street, and, rising from the table, Mme. Estelle informed him that the cab had arrived.

As they stood in the hall the woman held out her hand and Westerham put out his half-way to meet it.

“Some day,” he said, “I shall certainly require an explanation of all these strange doings. In the meantime, I don't think you should take my hand unless you are sincere in your determination to reduce Lady Kathleen's danger in every way you can.”

“Believe me,” declared Madame, most earnestly, “that I am quite sincere.”

Westerham shook her by the hand.

It was not until the cab was bowling along Oxford Street that Westerham began to look about him. He had no idea of his destination, and he considered that it would be just as well to take careful note of the journey.

Half-way between Oxford Circus and the Tottenham Court Road the cab turned up to the left. Peering through the glass, Westerham could just make out Newman Street. At the bottom of the street the cab turned to the left, then to the right again, then to the left, and once more to the right. So far as he could tell, Westerham gathered that he must now be parallel to the top of Tottenham Court Road, and be a good deal nearer to Portman Street than Oxford Street.

Suddenly the cab drew up with a jingle and a clatter, and the driver, lifting the trap-door, informed Westerham that he had reached his destination.

Upon this Westerham stepped out to find himself in a narrow, shabby, and almost deserted thoroughfare of mean and hang-dog appearance.

In spite of this he recognised that the houses must once have been the dwellings of well-to-do people, for the railings about the areas were of finely-wrought iron and the doors were high and massive.

“Knock three single knocks,” said the cab-driver into his ear, and then jumping on to the dicky the man drove away.

Suddenly Westerham remembered that there was one pocket of his new clothes which he had not searched. His hand went towards his hip, and he was surprised to find that his revolver was without question there.

Glancing about to make sure that he was not observed, Westerham drew it out and felt with his thumb along the back barrels. It was still loaded. For a second Westerham wondered whether the bullets had been drawn, but, opening the six-shooter, he satisfied himself that the cartridges had not been tampered with.

This amazed him not a little, although the discovery considerably restored his confidence. At least he had to anticipate no further attack on that night.

And then he remembered the mysterious words of Mme. Estelle: “No man now is more jealous of your safety than Captain Melun.”

He could not help pondering on this point as he gave three taps with the heavy old-fashioned knocker.

The door was opened by a man, apparently a German, dressed in the black coat and white shirt of the traditional English butler.

He said something to him in a foreign tongue which Westerham could not understand. His gesture, however, was clear enough, and he walked straight ahead down a dimly-lighted passage till he came to a baize door. This the man pushed open for him, and he passed on alone, and heard a bolt drawn behind him.

There was not the slightest doubt as to the way he had to go. There was no other exit from the place except a flight of stone steps, which led downwards. At the bottom of the flight of steps there was a second baize door, and through this Westerham passed along a well-carpeted corridor faintly lit by electric light. The passage had no windows, and it suddenly struck Westerham that he was underground.

At the end of the corridor Westerham encountered another baize door, but as he stepped on the mat which was laid before it he heard an electric bell ring sharply, and the door opened itself.

As it did so Westerham was almost blinded by a flood of white light.

For a moment he stood quite still, blinking and endeavouring to take in the scene. But it was the sound of it rather than the sight of it which instantly told him of the manner of the place in which he stood. He heard the monotonous cry of croupiers and the sharp click of a ricochetting roulette ball.

He was most unquestionably in a gambling-hell.

That in itself did not disturb him in the least, and as his eyes grew accustomed to the light he stepped forward into the room, only to stand still again and remain motionless, as though turned to stone.

For there, at a long table in the centre of the room, with piles of gold and notes before her, sat Lady Kathleen.

A little cry which Westerham could not prevent breaking from his lips drew the eyes of all upon him. Lady Kathleen glanced up, and catching his gaze upon her turned as pale as death.