Lord Penshurst was beside himself with grief, and clung to Westerham as a child might, weeping passionately in his arms. Rookley, with a miserable face, had slipped out of the room.

It was a quarter of an hour before Westerham succeeded in bringing Lord Penshurst back to a coherent frame of mind. Then he helped him to his room, and left him dazed and piteous on his bed.

Of the three men who had made the dread discovery Westerham was perhaps the hardest hit, but he walked back to the little box and its horrible contents with set lips and grim face.

It was not, however, without a little shudder that he lifted the lid and looked inside again. He had anticipated that such an awful token would not be sent unaccompanied by a message, and an examination of the box proved his conjecture right.

Tucked into the lid was a crumpled piece of paper. He smoothed it out carefully, and was then able to read the following message:—

“This should be a sign that we are in earnest. You will be given one more chance. Send to the steps of St. Paul's Cathedral at nine o'clock to-night. Man will meet you there, and things can be discussed. Understand clearly that this man must not be tampered with. His arrest will lead not only to worse befalling Lady Kathleen, but to your secret passing immediately to Germany. The same results will follow if any attempt is made to buy the man's assistance.”

Westerham read this message through three times, until at last he could repeat every word of it by heart. He folded it up, and placing it in his waistcoat-pocket, shut the lid of the box and placed it in a drawer of the Premier's writing-table.

Next he went back to Lord Penshurst's room, which he entered without knocking. The broken old man lay on the bed, his face buried in the pillows, so entirely wrapped up in his grief that he scarcely heeded the hand which Westerham placed on his shoulder.

But presently Westerham persuaded him to look up, and then drawing a chair to the bedside, he sat down.

“I want you to forget, Lord Penshurst,” he said, “what you saw just now. It is unnecessary to remember it. It is a horrible thing, but the man who did such an awful deed shall suffer for it.”

He looked away with a set face, which boded no good for Melun when he found him.

“There is, however, one comfort to be extracted from our distress,” he continued. “At last we have a clue. The opportunity which I was certain must come is in our hands now.

“Before nine o'clock, however, there is much to be done. You are scarcely able to take charge of matters yourself, and you had better leave them to me. I have already taken measures which ought to prove effective, though we shall have to act very carefully and cautiously.”

Lord Penshurst dragged himself up into a sitting posture and turned his blurred and scared old eyes to Westerham's resolute face.

He clenched his fists and beat excitedly on the coverlet.

“Don't let that fiend escape! Oh! if I had the strength I could kill him! I could kill him myself!”

Westerham did his best to soothe him.

“Have no fear,” he said, “that I shall let him slip through my fingers this time. And Heaven judge between us when I do meet him!”

The Premier clutched at his hands in an appealing and childish way.

“Don't spare him! Don't spare him!” he cried.

“There's no fear of that,” said Westerham, and he rose up to go.

When he regained the Prime Minister's study he sent for a map of London, and for some minutes studied it with close attention.

He guessed that a man who was risking so much as the emissary appointed by Melun would take good care to provide himself with sure and certain means of escape. It was doubtful if he would trust to the swiftness of his feet, to the chance of catching a passing omnibus, or to losing himself in the underground. In all likelihood, though he might walk to the actual place of appointment, he would probably drive to some neighbouring spot in a motor-car.

It was upon this very reasonable assumption that Westerham based his plans. The difficulty was, as he knew full well, that a score of little streets and alleys led into St. Paul's churchyard, and any and all of these would be open to Melun's ambassador.

Westerham did his best to place himself in the position of the man whom Melun was sending to the cathedral steps. And arguing the matter out from this point of view, he came to the conclusion that he would drive to Queen Victoria Street or Newgate Street by car, and then proceed to the meeting-place on foot.

He ruled the junction of Newgate Street and Cheapside out of court, as not offering sufficient opportunities of shelter. That the man would choose the point at which Queen Victoria Street ran into Cannon Street was equally unlikely.

That left only one other route of escape—namely, the open thoroughfare of Ludgate Hill.

This also Westerham set aside as being unnecessary to consider. That any man should attempt to escape down that broad street at a time of night when it would be almost empty was too ridiculous to contemplate.

He decided, therefore, that two motor-cars would be sufficient for his purpose, and having ordered them, he sent for Lowther and Mendip, to whom he explained his plans.

He himself, he said, intended to go to St. Paul's by omnibus, so as to reach the cathedral as nearly as possible on the stroke of nine.

By that time Mendip was to be in waiting in Queen Victoria Street, almost opposite the headquarters of the Salvation Army.

Lowther he instructed to wait at the corner of Angel Lane. For though the man might choose one of the four alleys leading from the churchyard up to Newgate Street, he must reach the main thoroughfare either just to the east, or just to the west, of Angel Lane.

Whether the man would be so bold as to adopt either of the courses which Westerham decided that he himself would choose was an open question. It was a risk, however, which had to be taken, be the consequences what they might.

Westerham saw that whatever line of country the man might take at the close of the interview, the task of following his steps would devolve upon himself. He could trust no man on that mission, though he saw that he would at the best make but a poor shadower. His bulk was much against him.

Sir Paul, however, had an alternative scheme in mind should it fall out that the man discovered he was followed. But of this he said nothing to the others.

At a quarter past eight he set out eastwards, travelling slowly by horse omnibus along the Strand, down Fleet Street, and up Ludgate Hill.

He arrived at the appointed place a few minutes before time, and, entering the tobacconist's shop at the south-west corner of St. Paul's churchyard, he purchased a cigar. This he lit slowly and carefully, and afterwards made a pretence of choosing a pipe. In this way he spent five minutes.

After five minutes he made his way out of the shop, and, keeping well in the lee of the houses, he edged his way to the corner of Dean's Yard. There he drew back into the shadows, and while the clock struck nine he watched the cathedral steps closely.

Three or four minutes passed before he observed a man cross the road from the direction of Amen Court, and, passing the statue of Queen Anne, slowly mount the steps of St Paul's.

As he stood upon the steps, the man looked first to the south and then to the westward down Ludgate Hill. Finally he turned and closely examined the shadows about the doorways of the drapers' stores to the north.

No sooner was the man's back turned towards him than Westerham shot out from the opening of Dean's Yard, made a slight detour, and walked boldly up towards the steps as if he had just hurried up from Ludgate Hill.

Though he was certain in his own mind that the man waiting on the steps was the messenger whom he was eager to meet, he took the precaution of showing not the slightest sign of curiosity as he strolled towards him.

But as he came abreast of the man he saw that this precaution was wholly unnecessary—for the man who waited was Patmore!

Not by any means the Patmore whom he had seen at the club in Limehouse and had good reason to guess was one of Melun's close confederates. But a different Patmore altogether!

His clothes were no longer rough and his hair no longer tumbled. He was dressed in a frock-coat and top-hat, and his whole appearance was sleek and rather suggested the prosperous commercial traveller.

“Well, Patmore?” said Westerham, quietly.

Patmore started. “You've keen eyes, Sir Paul,” he said.

Westerham nodded. “I find it very necessary,” he returned.

Without another word, Patmore took him by the arm and led him higher up the steps. At the top of them he turned and walked into the shadows thrown by the columns which support the north end of the faÇade.

Then he took one quick look about him, and having satisfied himself that no one was within earshot, came direct to the point.

“Do you agree?” he asked.

For answer Westerham took out his pocket-book and counted out a pile of notes which Dunton had secured for him.

“Here,” he said in a conversational voice, “are twenty thousand pounds. They are yours if you can tell me where to find Lady Kathleen.”

Patmore laughed scornfully. “I am afraid, Sir Paul,” he said, “that on this occasion you have made a mistake. Fifty times that sum would be a little nearer my figure.”

Westerham stroked his chin thoughtfully and fixed Patmore with his keen eyes.

“Well,” he said slowly, “even that might not be too much.”

The man shot a quick, keen glance at him, and gave another little laugh.

“I daresay,” he said, “but still I don't believe you.”

“That is rather foolish of you,” said Westerham, “considering how little I ask. I don't want to embroil you; I ask for nothing better than to be told where I can find Lady Kathleen.”

For a few moments the man seemed to be considering the proposal. But finally he pushed the notes with an impatient gesture of his hand towards Westerham.

“No,” he said, “it's not worth the risk. The other way the money's certain. You may be a mug, but not such a mug as to pay over a cool million for information of that sort. Besides, it can't be done. The sum is too big, and what is more, as I said just now, I don't trust you.”

Westerham gathered the notes up and replaced them in his pocket. “Very well,” he said, “what do you suggest?”

“If you ask me,” replied Patmore, “Melun's making a fool of himself. He is crazy after the girl, and he is crazy after cutting a fine figure in society. He still insists upon having a quarter of a million and a marriage with Lady Kathleen. What's more, it's got to be settled to-night. You hand over the dibs in the morning, and we will tell you where the girl is in the afternoon. But no hank! I tell you frankly again that I consider Melun is a fool. He is prepared to take your word for it that no questions shall be asked and that the business goes no further. The question is whether I am going to get your word?”

Westerham knew well enough what his answer must be, but he stood for some moments with his eyes cast on the ground, as though he were weighing the matter carefully.

At last he said: “It is impossible for me to agree unless I can settle things personally with Melun. You see, as the thing stands, I have no guarantee at all that you have come from him.”

Patmore swore angrily. “You ought not to have much doubt after this afternoon,” he said coarsely.

With the memory of Lady Kathleen's severed ear fresh upon him, a sudden and passionate desire to kill the man there and then, as he stood lowering at him, arose in Westerham's heart. But he forced his anger down, though his voice trembled with rage as he said: “I think you had better be careful.”

Patmore drew back a step; he saw he had gone too far.

There was a pause, and then Westerham said: “Very well. I suppose I have no option but to agree. Where shall I meet you to-morrow?”

“You are hardly likely to kick up a fuss,” Patmore answered, eyeing him shrewdly, “so let's say the same place at noon. Mind you, you had better understand clearly that if you try to play me false it will be all the worse for you and Lord Penshurst and Lady Kathleen. We have made up our minds.

“If you give me in charge, you cannot make me open my mouth, and what is more you will finish the whole business. If you play me false you will never see Lady Kathleen again, and your secret goes to Germany.”

Westerham made a sudden movement forward and looked into Patmore's face. “What is the secret?” he cried eagerly.

For a moment Patmore looked scared, and then he wagged his head wisely, and Westerham's heart gave a great throb of relief, for he felt certain that the man did not know. Melun had kept the secret to himself.

Westerham drew away again and made to pass down the steps. “Very well,” he said, “I will be here at noon.”

“With the money?”

“With the money.”

But Patmore was not satisfied, and hurrying after him, plucked at his sleeve. “I have your word?” he asked.

Westerham turned on him fiercely. “No,” he said through his teeth, “certainly not; I would not take the word of a dog like you, and there is no reason why I should give mine. You can take what I say or leave it.”

For a few moments Patmore seemed doubtful. Then he nodded his head.

“All right,” he said sulkily.

Westerham walked briskly away, and made across the street without turning his head. But as he walked he drew from his pocket a little mirror, which he had hidden in his handkerchief, and by straining his eyes considerably he was able to see that Patmore still stood in a hesitating way beneath the monument of Queen Anne.

But as Westerham reached the pavement Patmore moved away, and Westerham ran round the heads of the horses of a waiting omnibus and there stood still, sheltered behind a lamp-post in the centre of the road.

Patmore had reached the pavement opposite the Church House, and had turned up a little court between the two drapers' shops.

He disappeared from view, and Westerham, crossing the street, hid in the doorway of the jeweller's at the corner. Craning his neck, he could see Patmore hurrying towards Amen Court.

Then Westerham took a big risk. He dashed up Paternoster Row and turned up to the left. He ran straight ahead until he reached Cheapside and saw that Lowther's car was in waiting. It was a big car with a limousine body, and Westerham, plunging in, pulled down the window at Lowther's back and spoke rapidly to him. “Go on for twenty yards,” he said, “then turn, and just crawl down the street.”

Westerham had run as he had never run before, and was slightly out of breath; he knew he must have beaten Patmore by a good many yards, and as there was no car in sight he thought he might have to follow him when he marched into Newgate Street.

But just as he had calculated he would, Patmore came hastily into the main thoroughfare and glanced up and down. He gave one quick look at the motor as it moved slowly westward. Lowther, to excuse the slowness of his pace, was seemingly having great trouble with a clutch.

A motor-omnibus rattled past them, and on this Patmore climbed.

This complicated matters considerably. It would have been comparatively a simple matter to follow a motor-car, but to hang behind a motor-omnibus in such a way that they could, without being noticed themselves, see if Patmore left it, was a more difficult piece of work altogether.

Their anxiety was considerably lessened when the motor-car drew up at the further end of Holborn viaduct. They saw Patmore leave it and jump into a waiting taxicab.

The taxicab shot straight ahead up Holborn, and from the fact that Patmore had not troubled to look about him Westerham judged that he was not anticipating pursuit.

The taxicab, which they kept well in view, ran quickly through Oxford Circus and on to Orchard Street; there it turned north, and they followed it as closely as they dared past Baker Street to St. John's Wood Chapel.

As it shot ahead up the Finchley Road, Westerham wondered whether Patmore was making for Mme. Estelle's. He decided, however, that this could scarcely be, as he had taken the precaution of having the house closely watched throughout the day, and up to the time he left Downing Street there had been no report as to the return of any of its wonted inmates.

Soon, too, it became apparent that Laburnum Road was not the goal. The taxicab rushed past Swiss Cottage and on to Finchley. Here it branched off to the north, and finally turned up a newly laid-out road.

Westerham called to Lowther to pull up at the corner, as he knew their destination must now be in sight.

So certain was Westerham that they were now nearing the goal that he left the car and walked on foot to the corner of the road. Just as he imagined would be the case, the taxicab had drawn up outside a neat, brand-new, red-bricked villa.

He dodged round the corner again, and hastily, lifted the car's bonnet. He called on Lowther to get down, and together the two men began to examine a sparking plug with wholly fictitious energy. The returning taxicab passed them at a good pace, the driver paying no heed either to them or to the car.

Westerham took a deep breath and withdrew his head from the covering bonnet.

“Come along, Lowther,” he said, “I fancy that the last act is about to begin.

“I wonder,” he added more to himself than to his companion, “whether Lady Kathleen is here?”

As he paused at the gate he clapped his hand to Lowther's hip-pocket and nodded with approval.

“Loaded?” he asked.

Lowther nodded.

“All right,” he said; “you may need it, but we will go quietly to start with. I am going in first. If I don't appear in five minutes come in after me, and don't stick at trifles. I may want you before then, and if I do I will give a sharp whistle, so——”

He rehearsed the whistle under his breath.

Lowther signified his understanding, and stepped back into the shade of one of the brick pillars of the gate as Westerham swung into the garden and ran quickly on silent feet up the steps.

He fumbled for a few moments in the darkness till he found the electric bell. This he pushed, purposely giving the same number of rings which he had heard Melun give knocks on the door at Limehouse.

There was a light in the dining-room window, and a few minutes later the door was quietly opened. Westerham put his foot against it and squeezed inside. The hall was dimly lit, but there was sufficient light to see Patmore's face go white as he realised that he had been fooled.

In a moment Westerham had him pinned against the wall.

“Don't cry out,” he whispered, “or it will be the worse for you.”

With his great strength he pinned Patmore's flabby arms to his side and ran him through the door on the right, which stood open.

Still holding Patmore in his grip, he kicked the door to and thrust him down into a chair.

“Tell me where Lady Kathleen is?” he said in a low, fierce whisper.

Patmore remained silent.

“Tell me,” said Westerham again, “and tell me quickly. Tell me at once or you will regret it.”

Patmore gave a sudden wrench and twisted one of his arms free. He reached out and grasped a heavy silver candlestick.

But again Westerham was too quick for him. He dealt him a blow on the muscles of his shoulder which half-paralysed Patmore's arm. The candlestick dropped with a clatter from his hand.

Westerham gave his pent-up passion full play, and it was a miracle that he did not kill his man. He dragged an antimacassar from a chair and used it as a gag. With one powerful hand he dragged Patmore by the neck to the window; with the other he threw up the casement and whistled sharply for Lowther.

Lowther came running up the steps and through the open door.

“We'll bind this cur,” said Westerham through his teeth. And they fastened his hands and his feet together.

“Now then,” said Westerham to Lowther, “heat that poker in the fire.”

For a second Lowther hesitated to obey.

“Do as I tell you,” whispered Westerham, and his face was the face of a madman.

Lowther thrust the poker between the bars.

Lowther found a syphon of soda-water and brought Patmore to by squirting his face; then Westerham lifted the man up as though he were a child and threw him into the car. Lowther climbed to the steering wheel and headed south for Kent.

Westerham knew where Lady Kathleen was held prisoner.