“By order of the Czar!”

Westerham repeated the words, and his face was blank in its amazement. Lady Kathleen caught his expression and her own face changed. She saw that Westerham's surprise was entirely genuine. She saw that he did not know!

“By order of the Czar!”

Westerham repeated the words again, groping for some explanation of this extraordinary statement. He could find none. This, indeed, was the greatest mystery of all.

When he had slightly collected himself he drew a chair to the table and sat down heavily, facing Lady Kathleen.

“Don't you think,” he asked, “that we had better be plain with each other?”

Lady Kathleen's face was now a blank, as his own had been two minutes ago.

Almost roughly she brushed away the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand, and set her mouth and squared her shoulders as though about to do battle.

“I cannot understand it,” she said. “I cannot understand it at all. I had to distrust you, and so, though you declared you knew nothing, I did not believe you. But even if you know nothing it does not help us in the least. I am not able to disclose anything at all. It's my father's secret—not mine.”

Gently and persuasively Westerham urged her to tell him how the matter affected herself. But she declined, and remained obdurate to the close of the interview.

Before he ceased his pleading, however, Westerham counselled her to tell her father all that had passed, and begged her to urge Lord Penshurst to send for him the moment she arrived back in London.

This Kathleen consented to do, although she pointed out that her father would in all probability decline to believe in Westerham's bona fides.

He countered that argument by asserting that Lord Dunton would of a certainty establish his identity beyond all doubt. But still Lady Kathleen demurred.

“In any case,” she said, “it would be exceedingly difficult to arrange a meeting. Frankly, I don't see how you can help us, and there is only a week left.”

As she said this her eyes again filled with tears, and she clasped her hands with a despairing gesture.

“That there is only a week left,” persisted Westerham, “is all the more reason why I should be made acquainted with the facts at once.”

Kathleen, however, only shook her head and moaned a little to herself.

Westerham did his best to console her, and she then told him that she proposed to return to London by the afternoon's mail. Immediately on arriving in town, however, she would have to set out for Trant Hall, as the Premier was giving a dance there on the following night.

“I trust,” said Westerham, “that you will at least permit me to see you safely home. It is not at all advisable that you should travel without an escort. I have every reason to be fearful on your account.”

Kathleen thanked him, but declined his offer of help.

“There is nothing,” she said, “to prevent your travelling in the same train or the same boat; and if you think it advisable, I shall be grateful to you for doing so. But I must implore you not to speak to me or to make any sign that you know me between here and London.

“Matters have grown doubly bad since this morning. I have not only to fear the spies of Melun, but the agents of the Russian Government. Between the two I am afraid I shall have but little peace.”

Having said this, she rose and held out her hand to bid Westerham good-bye.

“I can no longer refuse to believe in you,” she said, “though I fear I shall have a harder task to convince my father than you had to convince me. Good-bye, and thank you. I really feel that you would be a powerful ally, and if I can possibly persuade him to take you into his confidence I will.”

“That, of course, would be the better way,” said Westerham. “I assure you that I must have a great deal of knowledge of Melun which would be invaluable to your father. Still, if he declines to tell me anything, remember that I am quite prepared to serve him blindly and in all good faith. I shall be quite content to wait for an explanation.”

On this he took his departure, and presently made his way to the station, where he waited for the afternoon mail. Long before the train was due he saw Kathleen enter the railway station carrying a black bag. He gave no sign, and she, for her part, steadily ignored his presence.

At Dieppe he watched her go on board the mail-boat, and then followed her to the saloon deck. There he kept her under surveillance, but made no attempt to communicate with her in any way.

Thus quietly watchful, he guarded her progress to London, where, at Victoria, he saw her enter a hansom and drive rapidly away. His thoughts had been so busy with the things of the immediate present that until he found himself alone at the London terminus he took no thought of what he should next do.

He then decided that he would go to his greatly-neglected rooms in Bruton Street in order to obtain some additions to his all-too-scanty wardrobe, for, with the exception of a few things he had purchased when he left Walter's Hotel, he practically had nothing but the clothes he stood up in; and these were the clothes with which he had been so mysteriously furnished while he lay chloroformed at Mme. Estelle's.

On arriving at Bruton Street the doorkeeper surveyed him with astonishment.

“Why, sir! I was told that you had gone abroad.”

“Gone abroad!” exclaimed Westerham. “Gone abroad! Nothing of the kind.”

He denied the suggestion flatly, and, indeed, was so taken aback by the man's manner that for the moment he quite forgot he had in reality not only been abroad but had returned again from abroad in the space of twenty-four hours.

The man stared at him steadily, and for all his self-possession, Westerham felt himself colour a little. But he reflected that it was no business of the man's whether he went abroad or not. He requested him to take him up to his rooms in the lift.

The man stared at him in greater astonishment than ever.

“But they are empty, sir,” he said.

“Empty!” cried Westerham. “What on earth do you mean?”

“I mean, sir,” said the man, in an excited voice, “that your furniture has been taken away. I understood that it was warehoused. A gentleman called here this afternoon, paid your valet and dismissed him, and this afternoon a pantechnicon came and took away your things. The gentleman gave his card to the manager of the flat and told him that he was a solicitor. It all seemed fair and square, and as we knew—begging your pardon, sir—that you were an eccentric gentleman, we were not surprised to hear that you were not coming back. As a matter of fact, sir,” the man concluded lamely, “we thought that you had been a little put out by the affair here a few days ago.”

“Do you really mean to tell me,” said Westerham, slowly, as though he could not believe his ears, “that everything has been taken away, even my clothes?”

“Even your clothes, sir. Your valet packed them himself.”

“Good gracious!” said Westerham, more to himself than to the man, “and I have nothing but what I stand up in?”

Then it struck him that he must take immediate action in the matter. He suspected Melun was at the bottom of this too, but could not conceive what motive the captain could possibly have for this last extraordinary move.

“Have you any idea,” he asked, “where my valet went?”

The man shook his head.

“Nor where my things have been stored?”

Again the man shook his head.

“It was a big pantechnicon, sir,” he said, “but to the best of my knowledge there was no name on it. I believe it did strike me as being rather funny at the time, but I was busy and didn't take much account of it. It is a most unaccountable thing, sir—most unaccountable. I cannot understand it at all. Have you any idea, sir, who your friend might be?”

Westerham shook his head, though in his own mind he had little doubt.

“Well,” he said briskly, “I must inform the police at once. This is a very serious matter. It is not so much the loss of the things that annoys me, but the inconvenience to which I am put.”

He looked at the man sharply, and endeavoured to ascertain whether he could trust him. He decided that the man looked honest, and slipped a half-sovereign into his hand.

“In the meantime,” he said to him, “say nothing to anyone. I will deal with this matter in my own way.”

Deciding to take the bull by the horns at once, Westerham hailed a passing hansom and drove to Melun's rooms, only, however, to be informed that the captain was out of town. He tried threats, cajolery and even bribery to extort information as to the captain's whereabouts; but the housekeeper was proof against all his efforts.

It seemed as if she really did not know where the captain was.

As he turned away, wondering in which direction he could next inquire, it suddenly occurred to him that he should ascertain if anything had happened to his motor car. He therefore took a second cab and drove to Rupert Street, in which the garage was situated.

As he entered the yard the manager stepped forward; and the astonishment on his face was even greater than that exhibited by the doorkeeper at Westerham's flat.

“I am afraid, sir,” he said before Westerham had time to speak, “that we have made some terrible blunder. A gentleman called here this afternoon and said that he had been asked to see me on your behalf. He said that he had received a telegram from Holyhead asking him to see that your car was sent up to Chester, as you would be staying there for some days. Your man was to wait for you at the Blossoms Hotel.”

Westerham could scarcely disguise his anger.

“What was this—gentleman like?” he demanded.

“Well, sir,” said the manager of the garage, eyeing him anxiously, “I didn't take much account of him, though he appeared a very pleasant gentleman indeed. He was, I should say, tall and dark.”

“Hook nose and black eyes?” suggested Westerham, helpfully.

“Just so, sir, just so.”

Westerham ground his teeth with rage. “Of course,” he said to the man, “I do not blame you—I cannot—but you've been hoaxed. I sent no orders about my car. I intended it to remain here until I sent for it. I may want it at any moment now, and the inconvenience and the loss of it may be great. You'd better wire to Chester for the man to return at once.”

The manager of the garage was by this time greatly alarmed. His own suspicions led in the direction of theft, and the prospect of a considerable loss in reputation, if not a considerable loss in pocket, scared him very much.

“Certainly, sir, certainly. And if in the meantime I can place any other car at your service I shall be pleased to do so.”

“I'll let you know,” said Westerham, and he walked abruptly away.

He went rapidly westward and reached the park. There he sat down in the darkness and made a further effort to understand the drastic and impudent measures which Melun was taking.

If he could have come across that person at that particular moment there is little doubt but that he would have shaken the life out of him. Westerham's anger was seldom roused, but when it mastered him it was terrible, and the effects were apt to be disastrous to the object of his wrath.

Now, turn things over in his mind as he might he could see little chance of coming to any conclusion until he could obtain the truth from Melun himself. But where was Melun? It would be ridiculous to make any further inquiries at his house. Crow, too, would certainly know little, and Bagley less.

True, there was Mme. Estelle. He would see her.

Leaping to his feet, he almost ran to the cab-rank at Hyde Park corner, and, hiring a taxicab, ordered the man to make the best speed possible to Laburnum Road.

The man did his best, and in some twenty minutes' time the taxicab entered the little cul-de-sac, the features of which Westerham was now beginning to know too well.

He rang the bell impatiently, but the door in the wall failed to open. He rang again and again, but there was no response.

The driver of the taxicab surveyed his fare with some distrust.

“It seems to me, sir,” he said, “that your friends are not at home.”

Westerham's answer sounded very much like an oath.

He gave one final pull to the bell, and finding even that last rough summons ineffectual, turned to the man.

“Look here,” he said, “this may seem a rather curious business to you, but if you will help me I will pay you well. I am not at all sure that this house is as empty as it seems. Put your cab alongside the wall so that I can climb over the top. I want to go investigating.”

The man grumbled something to the effect that it was not his business, but the sight of the magnificent inducement which Westerham immediately offered him silenced his objections.

Westerham climbed to the top of the cab and dropped over the wall into the garden. He walked round the house and found it shuttered, dark and silent.

He whistled a long whistle to himself. “I wonder,” he thought, “if the birds have flown. I wonder if they have chucked up the sponge. I wonder——”

A second thought, however, which occurred to him, as he proceeded to climb over the garden wall again, was that it was much more likely that the house had been closed that evening in order that he might be cut off from all sources of information.

On further reflection, indeed, he came to the conclusion that this was certainly the case. “But perhaps you imagine,” he thought, mentally addressing Melun, “perhaps you imagine that I shall not come back. We will see.”

It was then nearly eleven o'clock, and Westerham had no course but to return to the Buckingham Palace Hotel, out of which he had rushed without bag or baggage on the night before.

There he was greeted civilly, but by no means with effusion. Lord Dunton's visit on the previous afternoon had set a certain cachet on his respectability, but at the same time his erratic movements did not meet with the managerial approval.

On the following morning he sought out Dunton, who told him that for the moment Lord Cuckfield and Mendip would be silent.

Unfortunately, Westerham's promise to Lady Kathleen prevented his telling Dunton over much. But fortunately Dunton, in spite of his apparent vacuity, had both the good sense and the good manners never to be over curious.

Twice during the afternoon Westerham took a cab to Laburnum Road, and on the second occasion his peal at the bell was answered by the maid he had seen on his previous visit.

In reply to his queries the girl stated that Mme. Estelle, having occasion to go out of town the day before, had closed up the house because she did not like to leave the maids by themselves. Madame however, she told him, was expected back in the course of the evening; she thought about nine o'clock.

The sense of coming action prompted Westerham to dine well. Unlike other men, his senses and capacities were always at their best after dinner.

At nine o'clock he went back to Laburnum Road and was told that Madame was at home. As he entered the pretty drawing-room Mme. Estelle came forward to greet him with outstretched hand. But he kept his own behind him.

“Pardon me,” he said coldly, “but before I meet you on terms of friendship there are certain things which I want to know.”

Madame raised her eyebrows at him and smiled.

“Indeed,” she said, “what are they?”

“In the first place, who stole my furniture and my belongings from my flat?” demanded Westerham.

“Why should you ask me?” answered Madame, evasively.

“Because,” said Westerham, “I have not the slightest doubt in the world that Melun was the man who ordered their removal, and if Melun is responsible then you are probably acquainted with the fact.”

“Very well,” said Madame, quietly, “and I expect that it will do no harm for me to confirm your suspicions. Melun did order your things to be removed.”

“But why?”

Madame smiled again. “It was at my suggestion. It is impossible for me to give the reason; but I must ask you to believe that such a step was necessary for the greater security of your life.”

Westerham stared at her; the matter was entirely beyond his comprehension.

“And the car,” he demanded, “what of that? Was it you also who suggested it should be sent on a bogus mission to Holyhead?”

“It was. That step was also necessary in the interests of your safety.”

Utterly regardless of Madame's presence, Westerham paced angrily up and down the room for some minutes before he spoke again. Finally he turned upon the woman and asked almost roughly where Melun was to be found.

Madame shrugged her shoulders.

“Do you decline to tell me?” asked Westerham.

Madame shrugged her shoulders again.

By this time Westerham had made up his mind as to how he should deal with this woman. There had been ample time since he had left Lady Kathleen to reason out what she meant by the words that, as she preferred death to dishonour, her death-warrant had been sealed. For some strange reason, still to be unearthed, the Czar's emissary had ordered that Kathleen must marry Melun and thereby ensure silence.

How did Mme. Estelle stand in this matter? Westerham determined to ascertain for himself at once.

“Listen,” he said almost gently. “Let us for a few moments try to talk as friends. It is imperative that I should see Melun at once. You are the only person who can tell me where I can find him. And if you will come to a bargain with me it may be to our mutual advantage.

“If I tell you something which I think it is to your interest to know, and if you think the knowledge, when I have given it you, is worth it, will you in return tell me where Melun is?”

“I will see,” answered Mme. Estelle.

“Are you acquainted with the fact,” he asked suddenly, “that in a week's time Melun will have arranged to marry the Lady Kathleen?”

Madame went pale to the lips.

“It's a lie!” she almost screamed. “It's a lie! It's impossible! He has promised himself to me!”

Westerham nodded thoughtfully. It was precisely as he had thought.

“What I tell you,” he said, “I believe to be absolutely true.”

Watching her closely, Westerham saw that Mme. Estelle was greatly agitated.

“To-night,” she murmured, more to herself than to him, “to-night it could be proved, if only I had a witness here whom I could trust.”

“Surely,” suggested Westerham, “though we are on opposite sides in this struggle, you can take my word on a matter of this sort.”

“Yes, yes!” cried Mme. Estelle, eagerly, “you are a gentleman. I can trust you. Oh, how I wish I could trust Melun!”

Her voice trailed away and she lapsed into thought.

Presently she roused herself as though with an effort and looked Westerham in the face.

“I will tell you how you can meet Melun if you will give me your word of honour on two points. First, that you will return and tell me all that passes, and, secondly, that you will not, whatever happens, do any harm to Melun.”

“You have my word,” said Westerham.

Mme. Estelle sighed as though with relief, and after a few seconds spoke again.

“What I am going to tell you now,” she said, “will sound so incredible that you may possibly not believe me. I can scarcely believe it myself, except that there is practically no piece of folly which Melun will not commit when he has one of his mad fits upon him. I sometimes think he is half-crazy.

“To-night Lord Penshurst gives a ball at Trant Hall. The place will be crowded, and the women will be wearing jewels worth a king's ransom.

“More, I think, out of bravado, and with a foolish notion of bringing matters to a head, Melun is taking down half a score of masked men. It will be what I think you call in America ‘a hold-up.’

“Melun says that there is no risk in the business, that he and the others are bound to get away, and even if he is caught he knows the Prime Minister will have to contrive his release. The hour planned for this business is midnight.”

Without a second's hesitation Westerham leapt up from his chair and took out his watch.

“I have just an hour and a half to get there,” he said.