"You must be mad, Cyril! No sane man could have got into such a mess!" cried Guy Campbell, excitedly pounding his fat knee with his podgy hand.

Cyril had been so disturbed by the finding of the Wilmersley jewels that he had at last decided that he must confide his troubles to some one. He realised that the time had come when he needed not only advice but assistance. He was now so convinced that he was being watched that he had fled to his club for safety. There, at all events, he felt comparatively safe from prying eyes, and it was there in a secluded corner that he poured his tale of woe into his friend's astonished ears.

"You must be mad," the latter repeated.

"If that is all you can find to say, I am sorry I told you," exclaimed Cyril irritably.

"It's a jolly good thing you did! Why, you are no more fit to take care of yourself than a new-born baby." Guy's chubby face expressed such genuine concern that Cyril relaxed a little.

"Perhaps I've been a bit of an ass, but really I don't see what else I could have done."

"No, don't suppose you do," said Guy, regarding Cyril with pitying admiration.

"Oh, don't rub it in! The question now is not what I ought to have done, but what am I to do now?"

"What do you intend to do?"

"I haven't the slightest idea. I want your advice."

"Oh, no, you don't! Why, you wouldn't even listen to a sensible suggestion."

"What do you call a sensible suggestion?" Cyril cautiously inquired.

"To get the girl out of the nursing home and lose her. And it ought to be done P. D. Q., as the Americans say."

"I shall certainly do nothing of the sort."

"Exactly," cried Campbell triumphantly. "I know you, Lord Quixote; you have some crazy plan in your head. Out with it."

"I haven't a plan, I tell you. Now as I am being followed——"

"I can't believe you are," interrupted Guy.

"I feel sure that that beggar I told you about was a detective."

"Why?"

"He was evidently waiting for me and I couldn't shake him off till he had had a good look at the jewels."

"It is much more likely that he was waiting for a penny than for you, and beggars are usually persistent. I see no possible reason why the police should be shadowing you. It is your guilty conscience that makes you so suspicious."

"You may be right; I certainly hope you are, but till I am sure of it, I don't dare to run the risk of being seen with Miss Prentice. As she is in no condition to go about alone, I have been worrying a good deal as to how to get her out of the Home; so I thought—it occurred to me—that—you are the person to do it."

"Thanks, awfully! So you leave me the pleasant task of running off with a servant-girl who is 'wanted' by the police! You are really too unselfish!"

"Miss Prentice is a lady," Cyril angrily asserted.

"H'm," Campbell ejaculated skeptically. "That she is a beauty I do not doubt, and she has certainly played her cards very skilfully."

"Don't you dare to speak of her like that," cried Cyril, clenching his fists and half starting to his feet.

"By Jove, old man! You're smitten with her," exclaimed Campbell, staring aghast at his friend.

Cyril flushed darkly under his tan.

"Certainly not, but I have the greatest respect for this unfortunate young woman, and don't you forget it again."

Campbell smiled incredulously.

"Oh, very well! Believe what you like, but I didn't think you were the sort of man who never credits a fellow with disinterested motives, if he behaves half-way decently to a woman."

"Steady now, Cyril. Don't let's quarrel. You mustn't take offence so easily. I have never seen the young lady, remember. And you know I will help you even against my better judgment."

"You're a good chap, Guy."

"Thanks! Now let us first of all consider Miss Prentice's case dispassionately. I want to be sure of my facts; then I may be able to form some conjecture as to why Wilmersley was murdered and how the jewels came into Miss Prentice's possession. You tell me that it has been proved that she really left Geralton on the afternoon before the murder?"

"Yes; the carrier swears he drove her into Newhaven and put her down near the station. Further than that they have luckily not been able to trace her."

"Now your idea is that Miss Prentice, having in some way managed to secure a car, returned to Geralton that evening and got into the castle through the library window?"

"No, I doubt if she entered the castle. I can think of no reason why she should have done so," said Cyril.

"In that case, how do you account for her injuries? Who could have flogged her except your charming cousin?"

"I hadn't thought of that!" exclaimed Cyril.

"Granting that she is Priscilla Prentice, the only hypothesis I can think of which explains her predicament is this: Having planned to rescue her mistress, she was only waiting for a favourable opportunity to present itself. The doctor's visit determined her to act at once. I agree with you that to re-enter Geralton was not her original intention, but while waiting under the library window for Lady Wilmersley to join her, she hears Wilmersley ill-treating his wife, so she climbs in and rushes to the latter's assistance."

"Yes, yes," assented Cyril with shining eyes.

"But she is overpowered by Wilmersley," continued Campbell, warming to his theme, "who, insane with rage, flogs her unmercifully. Then Lady Wilmersley, fearing the girl will be killed, seizes the pistol, which is lying on the desk, and fires at her husband——"

"I am convinced that that is just what happened," cried Cyril.

"Don't be too sure of it; still, it seems to me that that theory hangs together pretty well," Campbell complacently agreed. "Of course, neither woman contemplated murder. Wilmersley's death completely unnerved them. If the gardener's wife heard a cry coming from the car, it is possible that one or the other had an attack of hysterics. Now about the jewels—I believe Miss Prentice took charge of them, either because Lady Wilmersley was unfit to assume such a responsibility or because they agreed that she could the more easily dispose of them. I think that Miss Prentice's hurried trip to town was undertaken not in order to avoid arrest, but primarily to raise money, of which they must have had great need, and possibly also to rejoin her mistress, who, now that we know that she made her escape in a car, is probably hiding somewhere either in London itself or in its vicinity."

"Guy, you are a wonder. You have thought of everything," cried Cyril admiringly.

"Of course, I may be quite wrong. These are only suppositions, remember," Campbell modestly reminded him. "By the way, what have you done with the jewels? I can't believe that you are in any danger of arrest, but if there is the remotest chance of such a thing, it wouldn't look very well if they were found in your possession."

"I had thought of that. I was even afraid that my rooms might be searched in my absence, so I took them with me."

"They are here?"

"Yes, in my pocket. I have hidden the bag and to-night I mean to burn it."

"Your pocket is not a very safe repository."

"Exactly. That is why I want you to take charge of them," said Cyril.

"Oh, very well," sighed Campbell, with mock resignation. "In for a penny, in for a pound. I shall probably end by being arrested as a receiver of stolen property! But now we must consider what we had better do with Miss Prentice."

"I think I shall hire a cottage in the country for her."

"If you did that, the police would find her immediately. The only safe hiding-place is a crowd."

"You think so?" Cyril looked doubtful.

"I am sure of it. Now let me see: Where is she least likely to attract attention? It must be a place where you could manage to see her without being compromised, and, if possible, without being observed. I have it! A hotel. The Hotel George is the very place. In a huge caravansary like that all sorts and conditions of people jostle each other without exciting comment. Besides, the police are less likely to look among the guests of such an expensive hotel for a poor maid servant or in such a public resort for a fugitive from justice."

"You are right!" cried Cyril enthusiastically.

"But in her present condition," continued Campbell, "I don't see how she could remain there alone."

"Certainly not. She must have some woman with her."

"Exactly. But what trustworthy woman could you get to undertake such a task? Perhaps one of the nurses——"

"No," Cyril hastily interrupted him. "When she leaves the nursing home, all trace of her must be lost. At any moment the police may discover that a woman whom I have represented to be my wife has been a patient there. That will naturally arouse their suspicions and they will do their utmost to discover who it is that I am protecting with my name. No, a nurse would never do. For one thing, she would feel called upon to report to the doctor."

"You might bribe her not to do so," suggested Guy.

"I shouldn't dare to trust to an absolutely unknown quantity. Oh, if I only knew a respectable woman on whom I could rely! I would pay her a small fortune for her services."

"I know somebody who might do," said Campbell. "Her name is Miss Trevor and she used to be my sister's governess. She is too old to teach now and I fancy has a hard time to make both ends meet. The only trouble is that she is so conscientious that she would rather starve than be mixed up in anything she did not consider perfectly honourable and above board. If I told her that she was to chaperon a young lady whom the police were looking for, she would be so indignant that I doubt if she would ever speak to me again."

"Why tell her?" insinuated Cyril.

"It doesn't seem decent to inveigle her by false representations into taking a position which she would never dream of accepting if she knew the truth."

"I will pay her £200 a year as long as she lives, if she will look after Miss Prentice till this trouble is over. Even if the worst happens and the girl is discovered, she can truthfully plead ignorance of the latter's identity," urged Cyril.

"True, and two hundred a year is good pay even for unpleasant notoriety. Yes, on the whole I think I am justified in accepting the offer for her. But now we must consider what fairy tale we are going to concoct for her benefit."

"Oh, I don't know," sighed Cyril wearily.

"Imagination giving out, or conscience awakening—which is it?" asked Guy.

"Don't chaff!"

"Sorry, old man; but joking aside, we must really decide what we are to tell Miss Trevor. You can no longer pose as Miss Prentice's husband——"

"Why not?" interrupted Cyril sharply.

"What possible excuse have you for doing so, now that she is to leave the doctor's care?"

"I am sure it would have a very bad effect on Miss Prentice's health, if I were to tell her that she is not my wife."

"H'm, h'm!" Campbell regarded his friend quizzically.

"Remember, she is completely cut off from the past," urged Cyril; "she has neither friend nor relation to cling to. I am the one person in the world she believes she has a claim on. I can't undeceive her. Besides, the doctor's orders are that she shall not be in any way agitated."

"Well, that settles that question. Now what explanation will you give Miss Trevor for not living with your wife?"

"I shall say that her state of health renders it inadvisable for the present."

"What shall she be called?" asked Campbell.

"I think we had better stick to Thompkins. She is accustomed to that. Only we will spell it Tomkyns and change the Christian name to John."

"But won't she confide what she believes to be her real name to Miss Trevor?" asked Guy anxiously.

"I think not—not if I tell her I don't wish her to do so. She has a great idea of wifely obedience, I assure you."

"Well," laughed Guy, "that is a virtue which so few real wives possess that it seems a pity it should be wasted on a temporary one. And now, Cyril, we must decide on the best way and the best time for transferring Miss Prentice to the hotel."

"Unless something unexpected occurs to change our plans, I think she had better be moved the day after to-morrow. I advise your starting as early as possible before the world is well awake. But I leave all details to you. You are quite capable of managing the situation. Only be sure you are not followed, that is all I ask."

"I don't expect we shall be, but if we are, I think I can promise to outwit them," Campbell assured him.

"I shall never forget what you are doing for me, Guy."

"You had better not. I expect you to erect a monument commemorating my virtues and my folly. Now I must be off. Where are those stolen goods of which I am to become the custodian?"

"Here they are. I have done them up in several parcels, so that they are not too bulky to carry. As I don't want the police to know how intimate we are, it is better that we should not be seen together in public for the present."

"I think you are over-cautious. But perhaps," agreed Campbell, "we might as well meet here till all danger is over."

A few minutes later Cyril also left the club. His talk with Campbell had been a great relief to him. As he walked briskly along, he felt calm—almost cheerful.

"Isn't this Lord Wilmersley?" inquired a deep voice at his elbow.

Turning quickly Cyril recognised Inspector Griggs.

For a moment Cyril was too startled to speak. Then, pulling himself together, he exclaimed with an attempt at heartiness:

"Why, Inspector! I thought you were in Newhaven. What has brought you to town?"

"I only left Newhaven this afternoon, but I think my work there is finished—for the present at least."

"Really? Have you already solved the mystery?"

"No indeed, but the clue now leads away from Geralton."

"Clue? What clue?" Cyril found it difficult to control the tremor in his voice.

"If you'll excuse me, my lord, I had better keep my suppositions to myself till I am able to verify them."

The man suspected him! But why? What had he discovered? Cyril felt he could not let him go before he had ascertained exactly what he had to fear. It was so awful, this fighting in the dark.

"If you have half an hour to spare, come to my rooms. They are only a few doors away." Cyril was convinced that the Inspector knew where he was staying and had been lying in wait for him. He thought it best to pretend that he felt above suspicion.

"Thank you, my lord."

A few minutes later they were sitting before a blazing fire, the Inspector puffing luxuriously at a cigar and sipping from time to time a glass of whiskey and soda which Peter had reluctantly placed at his elbow. Peter, as he himself would have put it, "did not hold with the police," and thought his master was sadly demeaning himself by fraternising with a member of that calling.

"I quite understand your reluctance to talk about a case," said Cyril, reverting at once to the subject he had in mind; "but as this one so nearly concerns my family and consequently myself, I think I have a right to your confidence. I am most anxious to know what you have discovered. This mystery is weighing on me. I assure you, you can rely on my discretion."

"Well, my lord, it's a bit unprofessional, but seeing it's you, I don't mind if I do. It's the newspaper men, I am afraid of."

"I shall not mention what you tell me to any one except possibly to one friend," Cyril hastily assured him.

"Thank you, my lord. You see I may be all wrong, so I don't want to say too much till I can prove my case."

"I understand that," said Cyril; "and this clue that you are following—what is it?" he inquired with breathless impatience.

"The car, my lord," answered the Inspector, settling himself deeper in his chair, while his eyes began to gleam with suppressed excitement.

"You have found the car in which her ladyship made her escape?"

"I don't know about that yet, but I have found the car that stood at the foot of the long lane on the night of the murder."

"Remarkable!"

"Oh, that's not so very wonderful," protested the Inspector with an attempt at modesty, but he was evidently bursting with pride in his achievement.

"How did you do it? What had you to go on?" asked Cyril with genuine amazement.

"I began my search by trying to find out what cars had been seen in the neighbourhood of Geralton on the night of the murder—by neighbourhood I mean a radius of twenty-five miles. I found, as I expected, that half-past eleven not being a favourite hour for motoring, comparatively few had been seen or heard. Most of these turned out to be the property of gentlemen who had no difficulty in proving that they had been used only for perfectly legitimate purposes. There remained, however, two cars of which I failed to get a satisfactory account. One belongs to a Mr. Benedict, a young man who owns a place about ten miles from Geralton, and who seems to have spent the evening motoring wildly over the country. He pretends he had no particular object, and as he is a bit queer, it may be true. The other car is the property of the landlord of the Red Lion Inn, a very respectable hotel in Newhaven. I then sent two of my men to examine these cars and report if either of them has a new tire, for the gardener's wife swore that the car she heard had burst one. Mr. Benedict's tires all showed signs of wear, but the Red Lion car has a brand new one!"

"Bravo! That is a fine piece of work."

"Oh, that is nothing," replied the Inspector, vainly trying to suppress a self-satisfied smile.

"Did you find any further evidence against this hotel-keeper? What connection had he with the castle?" inquired Cyril.

"He knew Lord Wilmersley slightly, but says he has never even seen her Ladyship. And I am inclined to believe him."

"In that case what part does he play in the affair?"

"None, I fancy. You see he keeps the car for the convenience of his guests and on the day in question it had been hired by two young Frenchmen, who were out in it from two o'clock till midnight."

"Frenchmen! But how could they have had anything to do with the tragedy?"

"That remains to be seen. So far all I have been able to find out about these two men is that they landed in Newhaven ten days before the murder. They professed to be brothers and called themselves Joseph and Paul Durand. They seemed to be amply provided with money and wanted the best the hotel had to offer. Joseph Durand appeared a decent sort of fellow, but the younger one drank. The waiters fancy that the elder man used to remonstrate with him occasionally, but the youngster paid very little attention to him."

"You say they professed to be brothers. Why do you doubt their relationship?"

"For one reason, the elder one did not understand a word of English, while the young one spoke it quite easily, although with a strong accent. That is, he spoke it with a strong accent when he was sober, but when under the influence of liquor this accent disappeared."

"And what has become of the pair?"

"They left Newhaven the morning after the murder. Their departure was very hurried, and the landlord is sure that the day before they had no intention of leaving."

"Where did they go to?"

"They took the boat to Dieppe. The porter saw them off."

"Have you been able to trace them farther?"

"Not yet, my lord, but I have sent one of my men to try and follow them up, and I have notified the continental police to be on the look-out for them. It's a pity that they have three days' start of us."

"But as you have an accurate description of both, I should imagine that they will soon be found."

"It's through the young 'un they'll be caught, if they are caught."

"Why, is he deformed in any way?"

"No, my lord, but they tell me he is abnormally small for a man of his age, for he must be twenty-two or three at the very least. The landlord believes that he is a jockey who had got into bad habits, and that the elder man is his trainer or backer. Of course, he may be right, but the waiters pooh-pooh the idea. They insist that the boy is a gentleman-born and servants are pretty good judges of such things, though you mightn't think it, my lord."

"I can quite believe it," assented Cyril. "But then there are many gentlemen jockeys."

"So there are. I only wish I had seen the little fellow, for they all agree that there was something about him which would make it impossible for any one who had once met him ever to forget him again."

"That certainly is a most unusual quality."

"So it is, my lord. They also tell me that if his eyes had not been so bloodshot, and if he had not looked so drawn and haggard, he'd have been an extraordinarily good-looking chap."

"Really?"

"Yes. It seems that he has large blue eyes, a fine little nose, not a bit red as you would expect, and as pretty a mouth as ever you'd see. His hair is auburn and he wears it rather long, which I don't think he'd do if he were a jockey. Besides, his skin is as fine as a baby's, though its colour is a grey-white with only a spot of red in the middle of each cheek."

"He must be a queer-looking beggar!"

"That's just it. That's why I think we shall soon spot him."

"What did the elder Durand look like?"

"The ordinary type of Frenchman. He is about twenty-eight years old, medium height, and inclined to be stout. He has dark hair, a little thin at the temples, dark moustache, and dark eyes. His features are nondescript."

"On the night of the murder you say they returned to the hotel at about midnight?"

"Somewhere around then."

"Was their behaviour in any way noticeable?"

"The porter was so sleepy that he can't remember much about it. He had an impression that they came in arm in arm and went quietly upstairs."

"They were alone?"

"Certainly."

"But what do you think they had done with Lady Wilmersley?"

"But, my lord, you didn't expect that they would bring her to the hotel, did you? If they were her friends, their first care would be for her safety. If they were not—well, we will have to look for another victim, that is all."

"You think that there is that possibility?" inquired Cyril eagerly.

"I do, my lord." The Inspector rose ponderously to his feet. "I mustn't keep you any longer." He hesitated a moment, eyeing Cyril doubtfully. There was evidently still something he wished to say.

Cyril had also risen to his feet and stood leaning against the mantelpiece, idly wondering at the man's embarrassment.

"I trust her Ladyship has quite recovered?" the Inspector finally blurted out.