The better to show his contempt for the people whom he was robbing, Melun had put away his revolver. This little piece of play-acting cost him dear.

As he saw Westerham coming down the stairs his hand went to his hip-pocket. But Westerham was first, and covered him in an instant.

“Put up your hands!” he ordered.

Melun obediently threw up his hands.

The other masked men now covered Westerham, but Melun cried out sharply: “Stop that! No firing!”

For he knew who was the best shot, and who was likely to be quickest; and he had no desire to risk his own skin.

“Tell the men to lower their hands,” said Westerham, “and you can put your own hands down.”

Melun gave the order in a surly voice.

“Thank you!” said Westerham.

All this had passed in complete silence on the part of Lord Penshurst's guests. Lord Penshurst also was far too astonished to speak.

“You must forgive my intrusion,” Westerham said, now addressing the Prime Minister, “but I must ask you to allow me to have a word with this man.” He pointed to Melun.

Without more ado he came down the staircase from the musicians' gallery and walked over to Melun's side.

“You are an impudent scoundrel, Captain Melun,” he whispered in the captain's ear, “but I will put a stop to this. You will have to call your men off and restore all that property.”

“I shall do nothing of the kind!” snarled Melun.

“You won't, eh?” said Westerham. “Well, we will see.

“You know,” he added, still whispering, “that Lord Penshurst is perfectly acquainted with your identity. The guests are in ignorance, and therein lies your safety. But how many would recognise you if they could see your face?”

Melun shot a vindictive look through his mask at Westerham.

“And so,” continued Westerham, quietly, “I will give you five seconds to make up your mind. You either order all these jewels to be restored to their proper owners or I will tear the mask from your face.”

“For Heaven's sake don't do that,” cried Melun in a low voice. “But it will cost you your life, for I shall not be able to hold the men.”

“I shall not bother you to do so,” said Westerham; “I can manage them quite well myself.”

Still keeping Captain Melun under observation, he turned about, while his revolver covered the man who had collected the jewels. “Come here!” he ordered.

The man came forward.

“Give me your gun!”

The man handed over his six-shooter without a word, and Westerham placed it carefully on the floor.

“Now right-about!” he ordered, “and get the other men's weapons.”

The ruffian in the mask hesitated. “They will shoot me and you, governor,” he said thickly.

“You had better be shot at by them than by me,” said Westerham. “My aim rarely fails. Do as you're told.”

Westerham then turned to the other men. “All of you,” he said, “will have to give up your guns. If necessary, Captain Melun and I will see that you do it. However, I should recommend you to be quick. I warned Scotland Yard before I left London of what was about to happen here, and within a few minutes this place will be swarming with police.”

The men fidgeted uneasily and looked helplessly at Melun.

Melun wisely decided to assist Westerham.

“It's true,” he said, “and you'd better be quick.”

At this there was a good deal of grumbling, and one of the men cried out that they had been betrayed.

Westerham turned on him sharply. “I am compounding a felony,” he cried; “but still, if you are quick, you will get away. I won't detain you.”

By this time two or three men had come in from the hall to inquire the meaning of the delay. They surveyed the scene uneasily.

“How many of you are there?” demanded Westerham, glancing towards the door. “I suppose it is a case of twenty to one; but never mind. On this occasion it is my move. Bring your guns over here one by one. You on the left there start first.”

Lord Penshurst and Kathleen were staring in amazement at Westerham, as indeed were all the guests. It was a simple exhibition of the domination of one will over many. One by one the men came forward and deposited their weapons at Westerham's feet.

When they had all laid down their arms he turned again to Melun. “You can call your men off now,” he said.

Melun was in no mind to remain. Without a word he walked out of the ball-room, calling on the men to accompany him; they followed him like sheep.

“Just a minute, Lord Penshurst,” said Westerham, easily, “while I see these visitors off the premises.”

He went out into the hall and watched the departure of the three cars.

Melun was shaking with rage. So angry was he, indeed, that his passion overcame his fear, and as he was about to enter his car he stepped back into the hall again and addressed Westerham.

“You shall pay for this, my gentleman,” he said in a shaking voice.

Westerham made no answer except to say, “You're wasting time, and if you take my advice you will not return to town along the same route by which you came.”

Then he turned on his heel and went back into the ball-room. There the men were busy sorting out the jewels on the floor and restoring them to their proper owners.

As Westerham came in there was a simultaneous movement towards him. A half-score of hands were outstretched and a hundred voices clamoured admiration and congratulation.

But Westerham held up his hand for silence.

“Be kind enough not to approach any nearer,” he said; “my business is with Lord Penshurst. If I have been of any service to you I am glad; but please let the matter rest at that.”

Westerham walked over to Lord Penshurst and looked reassuringly into his face.

“Lord Penshurst,” he said, “I shall be grateful if you can spare me a few minutes.”

“Certainly,” said the Prime Minister; “let us go to my own room.”

The Premier led the way across the hall and down a long corridor until he came to the library. He bowed Westerham in before him and afterwards closed the door.

There was open admiration in the Premier's eyes, but at the same time he was distressed and ill at ease. Like the diplomat he was, he waited for Westerham to speak the first word. Westerham spoke it.

“I think,” he said, “that the time has come for mutual explanations.”

“I have to thank you,” answered Lord Penshurst, “for having rid me of these ruffians to-night, but as I imagine that you have only done so to suit your own private ends,” he added coldly, “I think that it is you, rather than myself, who should make the explanations.”

“Practically all the explanations that I can make,” said Westerham, “I have already given to Lady Kathleen.”

“And a very pretty tale, too,” remarked the Premier, drily.

“None the less a true tale. I can furnish ample proof that I am the Sir Paul Westerham who disappeared at Liverpool. I knew Lord Dunton before I left England ten years ago, and he has twice visited me in the States. I should hardly imagine you would doubt his word, and he can certainly establish my identity. If that does not satisfy you, you can apply to my solicitor, Mr. Hantell.”

Still the Premier looked thoroughly unconvinced, but in spite of this Westerham plunged once more into the details of his meeting with Melun and the bargain he had made with him.

“You will see from all that I have told you,” he concluded, “how good a grip I have on that scoundrel. But for the influence that I can bring to bear on him he would never have surrendered so quietly to-night.

“Of course this escapade of his, mad though it seems, was not without a motive, and I judge that motive to be the further terrorising of Lady Kathleen and yourself. Once more let me appeal to you to tell me frankly and fully what it is that so distresses you.”

The Premier almost laughed. “You must think me a very credulous person indeed,” he said, “if you expect me to believe such a tale as yours. I have several reasons for thinking that you are no better than Melun, I am not sure that you are not worse. If, for some reason, you have served Lady Kathleen and myself, I presume it is merely a question of thieves quarrelling among themselves.”

Westerham flushed hotly. But the Prime Minister, though he noticed Westerham's annoyance, continued to speak quietly and coldly.

“Why should I go in search of Lord Dunton? If you are not a liar, send Lord Dunton to me. Not that it would help matters, for if you were fifty times Sir Paul Westerham you could not assist me, nor, indeed, would I ask your assistance. But as I fully expect that you know as much about my troubles as I do myself, it would in any case be waste of breath to mention them; and certainly I am not going to mention anything that will give you and Melun a stronger hold of me than you have already.”

“But I tell you,” cried Westerham, “that I have nothing to do with Melun's schemes. Nothing at all!”

“That, of course,” said Lord Penshurst, drily, “will presently be proved by your friend Lord Dunton. In the meantime I warn you and your accomplice Melun that you are rapidly driving me to desperation. I admit that. I tell it to you to impress on you the necessity of not going too far. It is rather unfortunate that the Prime Minister of England should have to liken himself to a worm, but nevertheless I may mention that even a worm will turn.”

This was exasperating, and Westerham found it hard to keep cool.

“Very well,” he said with a sigh, “I am sorry you think so badly of me, and I will do my best to open your eyes as to the real truth of matters. As, however, I cannot do that to-night, I will ask you to allow me to withdraw.”

“I have no objection,” said the Premier, “but before you go perhaps I may offer you some hospitality. I do not wish to be so ungrateful and ungracious as to deny that I owe you some thanks for to-night's work.”

“I am much obliged,” answered Westerham, “but I would rather be excused the humiliation of having to accept hospitality from the hands of a man who does me so much injustice. Good-night.”

He passed out of the room, and the Premier let him go without a word.

In the hall the hosts of departing guests eyed him with curiosity and some anxiety.

Lady Kathleen was standing at the foot of the staircase, and, to their surprise, she stepped forward and held out her hand.

Westerham bowed over it but said nothing. He would indeed have choked over any words which he might have sought to utter. He was, perhaps, in as trying a position as he could well be in.

It might have been that Lady Kathleen expected him to say something, for she gazed after his retreating figure a little sadly and wistfully. The guests in their evening wraps drew aside to let this tall man in a blue serge suit pass them.

A few of them held out their hands, and some of them called “Good-night”; but Westerham passed on unheeding.

The taxicab in which he had come down from town was waiting at the door, and stepping into it he ordered the man to return to London. It was nearly three o'clock when he reached his hotel.

There, to his extreme annoyance, he was informed by the porter, who now regarded him with open suspicion, that a gentleman was waiting to see him.

“What is his name?” demanded Westerham, sharply.

“He didn't give any, sir,” said the man, “but he is in the smoking-room.”

Westerham entered that vast and dimly-lighted apartment, to be greeted on the threshold by Inspector Rookley.

“Good heavens! sir,” cried Westerham; “am I never to be rid of this constant persecution?

“Surely,” he continued, “you received fairly explicit instructions through the Commissioner from Lord Penshurst to let me alone?”

“I know, sir,” said the detective, soothingly, “but you have an unfortunate habit of stirring us up afresh. I have called now about this business at Trant Hall.”

“Oh!” said Westerham, starting, “what about it?”

“I understand,” said Rookley, “that you were there?”

“If it's any satisfaction for you to know it,” said Westerham, “I was. But I don't quite remember seeing any members of the police force there, and I should be glad to ascertain how it is that my presence at the Hall was notified to you.”

“It came first of all by telephone from the local police,” said Rookley, “and I then had a message 'phoned through from Lord Penshurst. It seems that he sent word on your behalf, and he was at great pains to tell us of the service you had rendered him. He said he was telephoning because we might imagine that you were in mischief, whereas you happened to be the man who had saved them all from theft and possibly from violence.

“Of course, sir,” the detective continued, “that clears you more or less. I cannot argue with the Prime Minister, or I would have pointed out to him that you must have been in the business yourself or you could never have got wind of the affair and turned up at all. So, as this is a very serious matter indeed, I waited here to ask you what you know about it.”

“Look here,” cried Westerham, annoyed past all endurance, “I don't know half as much about this matter as Lord Penshurst does himself. If you want to know what I had to do with it, go and ask the Prime Minister. Personally, I decline to say anything at all.”

“You do?” Rookley was staring at him uneasily while he scratched his head. He was as certain as he could be in his official mind that he was constantly running up against the most astute of master criminals that he had ever met. It perplexed him, too, beyond measure that, whenever he felt his grip fastening on the man, the Prime Minister should step in to save him.

He would truly have loved to arrest Westerham there and then upon suspicion; but the telephonic message from Trant Hall made that desirable object impossible.

“Well?” he began again.

“Good-night,” said Westerham; and turning on his heel he walked contemptuously away, leaving the baffled detective to make what excuses he could to the night porter, who, ignorant of the detective's identity, was beginning to suspect him of being no more honest than he should be.

Westerham slept badly, and awoke, after a succession of uneasy dreams, at about nine o'clock in response to a knock at his door.

To his surprise it was neither the boots nor the chambermaid who entered at his bidding; instead there stood before him a tall, cadaverous man, wearing a long black frock-coat, whom he instantly recognised as the manager.

The manager closed the door and walked over to Westerham's bedside. His manner was at once offensive and deferential.

“You will have to excuse me, sir,” he said, “but I thought it better to speak to you in your own room than to rouse any remark by sending a message requesting you to speak to me in mine.

“I am aware that Lord Dunton called to visit you here, and I know sufficient about his lordship to feel no uneasiness about his friends as a rule. But really—you must pardon my saying so—you make things a little awkward in this hotel.”

Westerham sat up in bed and looked at the man quizzically.

“Your appearances and disappearances,” continued the manager, avoiding Westerham's eyes, “have already led to considerable comment. Besides, after inquiry this morning, I discovered that Mr. Rookley from Scotland Yard was here waiting for you till the small hours. Fortunately the night porter did not know who he was, or things would have been still more awkward.”

“On the other hand,” suggested Westerham, “it might have been that Rookley called on me for the purpose of consulting me rather than of holding an investigation as to my movements.”

The manager eyed him coldly.

“That's hardly what I have been given to understand,” he said.

Westerham reddened with anger. It seemed to him that Rookley, being baffled, was seeking to make himself disagreeable. Westerham was beginning to feel indeed something like an outcast, moved on from place to place without time for rest.

“You want me to leave?” he asked shortly.

The manager made a queer sort of bow.

“Very well,” Westerham returned; “for my part I have no objection.”

To himself he reflected that within a few days the man would bitterly regret his mistake.

So Westerham packed his little bag and went out. First he went on foot to Victoria, where he left his bag in charge of the cloak-room.

Then he breakfasted at a restaurant, and after he had consumed a moderate quantity of doubtful ham and still more doubtful eggs he smoked cigarette after cigarette while he thought over the situation.

At last he hit upon a solution—as he thought—to the whole difficulty; a solution which was so extraordinarily daring that he laughed to himself as he conceived it.

The idea tickled his fancy immensely, but he did not embrace it without all his customary caution.

Carefully and methodically he weighed the pros and cons of success, only to be ultimately convinced that the arguments against the scheme were of practically no account.

To secure the success of his enterprise, however, he needed at least one assistant, and his mind turned without hesitation in the direction of Dunton.

But before he saw Dunton it was expedient to ascertain the whereabouts of Melun. Then it occurred to him that he had been more than foolish to allow Melun to escape from Trant without having secured any information as to where he now lay in hiding.

Had he returned to his rooms? That was doubtful; and the doubt was confirmed when Westerham called at Rider Street to ascertain. Captain Melun had not returned to town.

Grateful to Mme. Estelle for the timely news she had given him of Melun's journey to Trant Hall, Westerham was by no means unmindful of his promise to tell her of all that had happened.

He had simply delayed his visit because he had been in hopes that if he could only find Melun he would be able to go to her with some definite proposition.

For it was now entirely obvious that Melun, unable to be true to any man or any woman, had merely been using Mme. Estelle as an agent, and had not the faintest notion of fulfilling his promise to her.

It was inconceivable that unless Melun wished to push his advantage to the utmost—that is to say, to the extreme limit of forcing Lord Penshurst to agree to his marriage with Lady Kathleen—that he could possibly have had the hardihood, not to say the foolhardiness, of conducting the raid of the night before.

Two days previously Lady Kathleen had declared to Westerham that only a week remained. Two days of that week had already slipped away, so that now only five days were left in which to find Melun and bring his works to naught.

Westerham wondered whether he would find Mme. Estelle tractable. That also was open to doubt. And while he thought on the matter he was tempted to go just a little back on his word and refuse her the information she had asked for until she told him in what way he could lay his hands on the truant captain.

But this, he reflected, in spite of all that was at stake, would be, to say the least of it, dishonourable; and it was with every intention of proving to Madame that the captain was playing her false that Westerham took a cab and drove to St. John's Wood. He found Mme. Estelle alone and anxious.

She gave him no greeting, though she almost ran towards him as he entered the little drawing-room.

“What have you to tell me?” she cried.

“Nothing,” answered Westerham, “that is absolutely definite; but at the same time I am convinced that Melun is not treating you justly and honourably. After last night's affair was over—you may not have heard that I defeated Melun's raid—I spoke for some time with Lord Penshurst. He would tell me nothing; but, none the less, I am convinced that Melun is insisting that his marriage with Lady Kathleen shall take place at once.”

For some minutes Madame sat in complete silence, with her hands tightly clasped together. Then she looked up and said, “Can you prevent that without completely ruining Melun?”

“Yes,” said Westerham, thoughtfully. “I think I can contrive it; but I must first know where I can see the captain.”

Madame rose and looked at him long and earnestly.

“Though I trust your word,” she said, “I can see that it would be very difficult for you to meet him without some dreadful trouble arising. If you can only see him in public it would not matter so much. You are a gentleman and would not create a scene.

“Yes,” she went on, more to herself than to Westerham, “I think that is the better way. To-night—just, I think, to prove that he cares for nobody—Melun has taken a box at the Empire. I am going there with him. It is possible that you could join us.”

Westerham laughed with some bitterness.

“I am obliged to you for your suggestion,” he said, “but you do not seem to appreciate that I have been robbed by Melun of all the appurtenances of a decent existence. It is to his efforts—and to some extent yours—that I am at the present moment, in spite of all my millions, homeless. I have not even a dress-suit to my name. If, therefore, my appearance in your box this evening is a little incongruous, you will have to excuse me.”

“Quite so; quite so,” said Mme. Estelle with a queer smile, the meaning of which was not at the moment obvious to Westerham.

After this he took his departure; nor did he for the moment fulfill his intention of visiting Dunton. It was useless to go to that young man until after he had met Melun. After that meeting his plans might have to be remodelled.

To distract his thoughts he went to a matinee, and afterwards dined alone, lingering over his cigarette till the restaurant clock showed him it was half-past nine.

He then made his way to the Empire and entered the lounge. From there he was able to discern quite easily the box in which Melun was seated. He made his way to it, and without even the formality of knocking turned the handle of the door and went in.

As he did so Melun rose angrily to his feet, and, as though he had never known Westerham in his life before, demanded what he meant by the intrusion.

Westerham bowed to Mme. Estelle, and then turned his attention to the captain.

“Don't be a fool,” he said shortly; “I have not the slightest intention of being treated in this way. I think you had better sit down.”

For his own part, Westerham drew up a chair and seated himself in front of the box so that his face and figure could be seen by all observers. It was indeed the prospect of this which had so alarmed Melun and had resulted in his taking up so tactless an attitude towards Westerham. Melun was fearful lest some of those present in the theatre should have been numbered among Lord Penshurst's guests of the night before, in which case the freedom which Westerham made of his box might lead to a suspicion that the captain himself was implicated in the raid.

Westerham smiled at the discomfited Melun as though he hugely enjoyed the joke.

“You may well be alarmed,” he said, “and you had better be civil, or I certainly shall not relieve you of my presence, which is apparently obnoxious, and which I fancy you imagine to be a source of danger to you.”

“Mark you, Melun,” he went on, turning his head away from Mme. Estelle so that the woman could not catch his words. “Mark you, there are a great many things about which I want an explanation. When I made my bargain with you I had no idea that I should come to be regarded as a partner in crime with a murderer. Things have gone too far.

“However, for Mme. Estelle's sake, I will not cross-examine you here. I insist, however, that you shall tell me where and when I can find you.”

“And if I decline to say?”

Westerham had foreseen the possibility of this answer, and had made up his mind as to how he should meet it if it came. He saw that he could not extort a statement from Melun there, and was resolved on a different method.

Without a word—and he knew that his silence would cause Melun the deepest anxiety—he rose and left the box.

He waited patiently till the end of the performance and then succeeded in following Melun into the street.

As he had counted on his doing, Melun took a hansom and drove away with Mme. Estelle. Westerham followed.

The hansom in front of him bowled quickly along Piccadilly, turned up Berkeley Street, and then made at a good pace for Davies Street. Here Melun alighted, and having said “Good-night!” to Mme. Estelle, let himself into a small private hotel with a latch-key.

Westerham, who had passed Melun's cab, stopped his own further up the street and marked the house from the little window at the back of the hansom. He was satisfied.

He immediately ordered the man to turn about and drive to Dunton's room. Dunton was sitting before a fire, enjoying a pipe before he turned in.

Westerham immediately plunged into every detail of his story which he dared disclose and still keep faith with Lady Kathleen. Dunton heard him out with open-mouthed wonder.

Next Westerham proceeded to explain to Dunton the counter-move against Melun which he intended to put into execution on the morrow.

When he had finished speaking, Dunton rocked on his chair with laughter, as though delighted beyond measure with the proposal.

And certainly Dunton had some justification for his merriment, for what Westerham proposed, gravely and of fixed purpose, was the kidnapping of the Prime Minister.