Geoffrey Falconer, Mrs. Beverley, and Sylvia were spending a week-end at Tansor, in Northamptonshire, with George Barclay, a friend of the South American widow, who rented a hunting-box and rode regularly with the Fitzwilliam Hounds.

On the night of their arrival when they sat down to dinner with Barclay and his go-ahead wife and the latter’s cousin, a pretty girl named May Farncombe, all were full of expectation of some good runs. To Geoffrey, who had recently returned from a mission abroad, the fine English country house, with its old-world atmosphere, its old oak, old silver, and air of solidity, was delightful after the flimsy gimcracks of foreign life. The young radio-engineer had earned praise from Marconi House for the manner in which certain missions abroad had been carried out, and he was rapidly advancing in the world of wireless.

That evening proved an extremely pleasant one, and both Geoffrey and Sylvia were attracted by the chic of May Farncombe, who was tall and dark, about twenty-two or so, with a remarkable figure shown to advantage by a smart dinner-frock. She talked well, sang well, and was most enthusiastic over hunting.

The meet next morning was at Wansford, that one-time hunting centre beside the River Nene, and as Geoffrey rode with Sylvia and May, he noticed what a splendid horsewoman was the latter. She rode astride, her dark hair coiled tightly, her bowler hat with its broad brim suited her face admirably, while her habit fitted as though it had been moulded to her figure. Tied in her mare’s tail was a tiny piece of red silk, a warning that she was a kicker.

Hounds met opposite the Haycock, once a coaching-inn, but now a private house, and the gathering became a large one. From the great rambling old house servants carried glasses of sloe gin for all and sundry who cared to partake of the old English hunting hospitality. Geoffrey’s host introduced him to the Master, while the crowd of horses and cars became more congested every minute, and everywhere greetings were being exchanged.

Presently Barnard, the huntsman, drew his hounds together, the word was given, and all went leisurely up to draw first cover.

The morning was a damp cold one in mid-February; the frost had given, and every one expected a good run for the scent would be excellent.

The first cover was, however, drawn blank, but from the second a fox went away straight for Elton, and soon the pace became fast and furious. After a couple of miles more than half the field were left behind; still Geoffrey kept on, and while Sylvia remained far behind, yet May Farncombe was considerably in front of him. Suddenly, without any effort, the girl took a high hedge, and was cutting across the pastures ere he was aware that she had left the road. That she was a straight rider was quickly apparent, but Geoffrey preferred the gate to the hedge and ditch which she had taken so clearly.

Half an hour later the kill took place near Haddon, and of the half-dozen in at the death May Farncombe was one.

When Geoffrey came up five minutes later, she rode forward, crying:

“What a topping run, Mr. Falconer! I have enjoyed it thoroughly!” Her face was flushed with hard riding, yet her hair was in no way awry, and she presented a really fine figure of the up-to-date athletic girl.

Just, however, as Geoffrey and his companion sat watching Barnard cut off the brush, a tall, rather good-looking, fair-haired man rode up, having apparently been left behind, as he had. As he approached, Geoffrey noticed that he gave his handsome companion a strange look almost of warning, while she, on her part, turned away her head. It was as though he had made her some secret sign which she had understood.

That May Farncombe knew him was apparent. The slight quiver in the man’s eyelids, and the almost imperceptible curl of the lips had not passed him unnoticed. There was some secret between them, of what nature he, of course, knew not.

“I wonder who that man is?” Geoffrey remarked quite casually, as soon as he was out of hearing.

“I don’t know,” was her prompt reply. “He’s often out with the hounds.”

Falconer smiled within himself. He saw that she did not intend to admit that she had any knowledge of him. Like all women, she was a clever diplomat. But the man had made a sign to her—a sign of secrecy.

And at that moment Sylvia rode up with their host, George Barclay, and joined them, crying:

“Oh! what a run! I was left quite out of it. You were both at the kill, I suppose?”

That night Geoffrey sat alone with his host after the others had retired, and from him learnt that Mr. Farncombe, his wife’s uncle, had lived a long time in Marseilles as agent of a great English shipping company, and that May had been born in France. Falconer then mentioned the stranger who had exchanged those meaning glances with the girl, to which Barclay replied:

“I often see the fellow hunting. He comes from London, and stays at the George, at Stamford, I have heard.”

The days passed. Geoffrey managed to obtain an extension of his leave, and with Sylvia and May went to several meets—at King’s Cliffe, at Laxton Park, and also at Castor Hanglands. On each occasion the stranger from London was there. His name, Geoffrey found out from the George, at Stamford, was Ralph Phillips, but who or what he was nobody knew. So long as he paid a generous subscription to the Fitzwilliam pack, nobody cared.That May Farncombe in denying all knowledge of the man had deliberately told an untruth, was quite plain. Geoffrey, however, kept his own counsel, and while spending many happy hours with Sylvia—Lord Hendlewycke being away at Cannes staying with an aunt—he nevertheless made no mention of his discovery.

How far Geoffrey was justified in watching the girl’s movements is no concern of the writer. But he did so, for he had unexpectedly alighted upon certain suspicions, and was determined to elucidate them.

Late one afternoon, Mrs. Beverley and her daughter having gone with Mrs. Barclay to make a call at Burghley, Geoffrey went for a stroll alone. While passing along the footpath from Tansor to Fotheringhay, he was skirting the edge of a big wood, when he caught sight of a flash of red among the bare black trees. It was May Farncombe.

He drew back instantly and watched. She was standing with the mysterious Mr. Phillips, who was speaking in a low, earnest tone. He seemed to be giving her directions, while she appeared to be remonstrating with him in an appealing attitude.

Fearing discovery, the young radio-engineer turned, and treading softly over the dead leaves—which were fortunately wet—crept away.

He met her next at the dinner-table, when he noticed how pale and anxious she was, apparently entirely changed from her usual light-hearted self. She, of course, said nothing of the clandestine meeting, but made pretence of being interested in wireless, asking him many questions concerning its present development and its possibilities.

“Are many fresh discoveries being made?” she presently inquired.

“Discoveries!” echoed Sylvia. “Why, Geoffrey and his friends are making marvellous discoveries and improvements every day. But he won’t tell you anything, my dear,” she added; “so it’s no use asking.”

“I could tell you a good deal,” Falconer said laughing “only I’m not allowed. The patents of many of our fresh discoveries are not yet quite safe.”

“Ah! then I understand,” said the dark-haired girl at his side. “But wireless is such a bewildering puzzle,” she went on. “Somebody was telling me the other day some most extraordinary things—that a ship, for instance, could be guided through a tortuous channel by means of a cable laid in the channel, and that on the way they could actually signal through the water to the end of the cable.”

Geoffrey smiled, and asked who had told her.

She tried to recollect. It was at a dance in London—a man she met who was connected with some wireless firm. She had forgotten his name. She had danced with him twice, and had then seen no more of him.

“Well, Miss Farncombe, you will be a little surprised to hear that system you speak of was invented no less than twenty years ago! It depends on a simple principle well known to scientists, but has been of no practical use until comparatively recently, when the wonderful Thermionic Valve enabled us to enormously increase the sensitiveness of the apparatus. The Americans got some kudos in connection with the laying of a ‘leader’ cable, as it is called, at the entrance to New York Harbour recently, but it is not generally known that we had the system working over here during the war.”

“Ah! Geoffrey,” laughed Sylvia, “it all seems so simple to you, no doubt, but to me it is wonderful. I am glad to hear the British were not so behind as so many would have us believe. You are such a modest old thing—I feel sure you had something to do with the development of this invention. Come, tell me now.”

“Oh! really nothing at all, Sylvia,” he replied, “except perhaps to design an amplifier which was used with the first leader cable at—well, one of our naval bases.”

“I thought so,” said the girl whom he loved so dearly.

“But how about the long-distance telephone?” asked May Farncombe.“What do you know about such a telephone?” Geoffrey asked in surprise, as the girl had referred to a technical point which only a man versed in wireless could understand.

For a few seconds the girl seemed rather confused. Then she said in a rather faltering voice, as she took up her wine-glass: “Oh! I don’t know anything about wireless, you know. Somebody told me of some wonderful results in telephoning over long distances.”

Those words caused Geoffrey Falconer to ponder.

He dropped the subject. Loyal as he was to the great Marconi Company, he refused to discuss any of its confidences over a dinner-table. And he was relieved when the general chatter became concerned with a dance which was to be given at Peterborough on the following evening.

Next morning, about eleven o’clock, Sylvia and Geoffrey went out for a walk together on the high road which leads into the quiet little town of Oundle. Sylvia in a thick grey coat and a canary-coloured scarf, and carrying a stiff ash stick, went along with true golfing stride.

Strangely enough, she was the first to mention the girl Farncombe.

“I can’t fathom May at all,” she said. “To me she’s a mystery.”

“Why?” asked her lover, pretending ignorance.

“I don’t know, but she knows so little of you—and yet she knows so much!”

“How?”

“Well—her knowledge of wireless last night was extraordinary. She seems to know things that are entirely confidential. How? I don’t like such people, Geoff. They’re a bit uncanny!”

“Yes,” he laughed. “She’s somewhat of a mystery. But when one goes to a house-party one is sure to meet people who are mysterious. Yet they may be, after all, the most ordinary persons. It is one’s own point of view that often creates mystery. That’s my opinion.”With that Sylvia agreed. Yet, of course, her lover had become more than ever puzzled over their fellow-guest, and was glad when Sylvia let the subject drop.

Sylvia and he were lovers, it was true, but he was so plain, straightforward, and honest, that he could not bring himself to reveal to the girl he loved the facts which had come within his knowledge.

If May Farncombe had a secret lover, what business was it of his? True, her undue knowledge of wireless inventions was somewhat strange, but what was most probable was that some friend of hers, perhaps the fair-haired man who had met her clandestinely, had given her just a little superficial knowledge—just as so many people possess.

Geoffrey bade farewell to his host and hostess three days later, and left for Warley, Mrs. Beverley and her daughter remaining for a few days longer. Sylvia had become very friendly with May, and Mrs. Beverley had asked her to stay with them for a fortnight or so in Upper Brook Street in about a month’s time.

Back at the Works at Chelmsford, Geoffrey continued his research work, assisting two well-known engineers in some highly interesting experiments. Privately he was experimenting with the amplification and magnification of wireless signals as applied to a new automatic call-device for use at sea. One had recently been perfected by young Falconer privately, but at present it was a secret, and not yet patented, for a slight point about it was not to his satisfaction.

Each night at his own private experimental laboratory at Warley he spent hours upon hours in trying to devise some means of removing the one slight defect of his new apparatus. Several automatic call-devices had been invented, and the Marconi one for use on ships had proved extremely satisfactory. Yet Falconer, true experimenter that he was, was never satisfied with results. He always endeavoured to make further improvements.

The calling-device, it may here be explained, is a piece of apparatus which will only ring an alarm bell when the call-signal of a ship—three or four letters of the alphabet—or the distress signal, “S.O.S.” is sent, and even then it is so arranged that the letters to which it is set to respond must be repeated before the alarm rings. The object of such a device is to enable small ships to work with one operator, who need not keep constant watch. As a rule passenger boats of any size carry three operators, who keep constant watch for calls day and night. But Geoffrey hoped that, by an improvement of the new device, a greater perfection still could be arrived at.

His hope, indeed, was to so devise a scheme that any message sent out to the call-signal to which it was set, would be printed in Morse automatically upon a tape instrument, so that even if the operator were not within call, the message would be recorded. Such achievement, however, was fraught with many technical difficulties of wave-length and other things, as all wireless men will quickly foresee. Still he worked hard and patiently each evening after his return from the Works.

Now and then he went to London and spent the evening in Upper Brook Street. Once or twice he dined out with Sylvia and her mother, and went to one or two dances in Mayfair, but the greater part of his spare time was occupied with his wireless calling-device. His superiors at Marconi House knew the trend of his experiments, and encouraged him, for Marconi apparatus is always being developed, improved, and again improved, until absolute perfection is at last arrived at. The calling-device in use was perfect, but if the incoming message could be recorded, then the improvement would be of immense benefit to both shipowners and shipmasters.

One day when he called at Mrs. Beverley’s, he found that May Farncombe had arrived upon her promised visit, and he sat in the drawing-room chatting for a long time with Sylvia and her friend.

“Geoffrey has actually torn himself away from his horrible old wireless,” Sylvia remarked. “For nearly a fortnight we’ve hardly seen him.”

“I’ve been awfully busy on a new gadget,” the young man replied with a laugh. Then, turning to May, he added: “Sylvia is always poking fun at me because I happen to be enthusiastic over my work.”

“Well, I don’t mean anything, my dear old boy,” laughed the girl. “You know that. What I think is that you apply yourself far too closely to it—at the Works all day and then continuing your work at home, sometimes into the early hours. You’ll injure your health if you don’t take care.”

“What are you particularly interested in discovering just now?” asked May.

In reply he explained, and found that she listened quite intelligently.

After an early dinner he took them both out to a theatre, but was unable to see them home, having to leave before the performance was over in order to catch the last train.

As he came out of the theatre a man in evening dress was standing upon the step, leisurely smoking a cigarette as though waiting for some one. As Geoffrey brushed past him, he glanced round, and was surprised to recognise in him the mysterious stranger of the hunting-field—the man known at the George, at Stamford, as Mr. Ralph Phillips. An omnibus going direct to Liverpool Street was passing at the moment, and Geoffrey jumped upon it.

The encounter was a strange one. Was it by mere accident that they had met? Or was the man Phillips awaiting May Farncombe? The incident sorely puzzled him. The pair might be lovers in secret, but their attitude when he had found them together certainly negatived such a supposition.

Back at Warley that night Geoffrey found that his father had gone to bed, so he sat in his wireless room for a long time trying some new adjustments upon the piece of apparatus he was bent upon improving. But recollections of the man Phillips kept running through his brain, so that at last he went to a drawer, and taking out some small snapshot photographs, selected one which he carried to the light and carefully examined. It was a photograph of Phillips which he had taken surreptitiously in the hunting-field. The man in hunting pink had dismounted and was leading his horse, while close beside him May Farncombe could be seen mounted, chatting with Sylvia, who was riding at her side.

“I wonder?” he muttered to himself. “I wonder what it all means? Why does he haunt the girl so? Why do they in public appear as strangers? I wonder?”

And he placed the photograph in his wallet, and turning out the lights, ascended to his room.

About ten days went by, when one evening, being in London with Maurice Peterson, one of the engineers from the Works, they looked in at the Palace Theatre after dinner. The performance was excellent, as usual, and later when they strolled into the bar the first person they encountered was the mysterious Phillips, well-dressed, and wearing a smartly-cut grey overcoat.

In a moment Peterson greeted him warmly, and said:

“Falconer, let me introduce you to my friend, Mr. Paget.”

The two men shook hands. Paget! Then Phillips was not the man’s real name, Geoffrey thought.

“I think we met in Northamptonshire—didn’t we?” asked the man who called himself Paget.

“Oh, you’ve met before—eh?” asked Peterson.

“Yes; in the hunting-field,” Falconer said vaguely, and then all three had drinks together, and Falconer and his friend were afterwards compelled to leave.

“Who is that man Paget?” Geoffrey asked as soon as they were in the taxi.

“Oh, quite a nice fellow. I met him one day in the train as I was coming back from Carnarvon. He seemed to know something about wireless, and he gave me his card. So we met once or twice afterwards. He has rooms in Half Moon Street.”

“And he’s fond of hunting,” Falconer said. “Have you ever seen him with a tall, dark, very good-looking girl?”

“A girl with a mole on her left cheek? Oh, yes. One afternoon about a week ago I called on him and found her having tea at his rooms. I didn’t catch her name. She was dressed in brown, and had a beautiful set of furs.”

It was May Farncombe!

“I know the young lady. She’s a friend of mine,” Falconer said briefly, more puzzled than ever. “But do you really know anything about Paget?”

“Only that he seems to be a man of considerable means, very generous, and quite a good sort.”

Geoffrey remained silent. He was thinking deeply. It seemed that May Farncombe’s knowledge of wireless—and she quite unconsciously had betrayed a fairly wide grasp of the science and its latest developments—had been derived from the man whom she had pretended was a stranger to her.

Paget’s attitude towards Geoffrey’s friend had been most affable. He had even called him by his Christian name, and had reminded him of an appointment for dinner two days later.

Before they left the stranger added: “I hope, Mr. Falconer, that we shall meet again very soon.”

They did meet, and once under rather curious circumstances.

Geoffrey each night worked hard at his new design for the calling-device, to which he was attaching apparatus to record upon the tape the signals received. He met with failure after failure until at last, one night, he set his calling-device to receive signals from the efficient station of a Dutch amateur at Amsterdam—known in the world of wireless as “P.Y.N.” In wireless both in America and England, people and places are known by their call-signal, rather than by their names. He knew that on that particular evening “P.Y.N.” would call by Morse before sending telephony and music to English amateurs.

So having set his instrument attached to the “inker,” he waited. Suddenly at nine o’clock the Morse sounder gave two or three sharp clicks. He switched on the tape, and out upon it came a printed message from Amsterdam to certain stations in England.

His invention was complete!

With natural pride and excitement he called the Professor, and the pair stood watching the narrow green tape roll forth from the square brass “recorder” mounted upon its mahogany base—the strip bearing the message clearly printed. The calling-device had only responded to the one signal, “P.Y.N.”

“Congratulations, my boy,” said the old man, well pleased. “You deserve success after all that experimenting and the many hours you have given to it. I only hope it will bring you advancement and money,” he added. “It certainly should.”

“I hope so,” laughed the young man. “I was told at Marconi House only the other day that if I were successful the invention would be of inestimable value. And now it really works!”

Next day when he arrived at Chelmsford he told Peterson of his success, and that morning in the large, well-appointed luncheon-room at the Works—that bright apartment wherein the heads of the departments take their midday meal, and gossip—young Falconer was the recipient of many congratulations.

“Of course you’ll patent it at once,” said one engineer seated next to him—a man whose name is a household word in wireless.

“Yes,” laughed Geoffrey. “I suppose I ought to do so.”

“Ought to? Why, of course. It is a wonderful advance in wireless,” said another man a little further down the table.

That night he was again at Upper Brook Street, and naturally told Sylvia and her friend of his great achievement.May Farncombe instantly grew interested, and put to him a number of questions. More than ever the clever girl showed a remarkable intelligence concerning wireless.

Mrs. Beverley had a small party that night; therefore, there was dancing, and the evening was most enjoyable. “The Wild Widow” had been a great social success in London, and to her parties flocked the people of the very best set. The penurious Lord Hendlewycke had fallen beneath a cloud, much to Sylvia’s delight, and now her mother seemed keenly on the alert for some rather better match for her daughter—with a man of title, of course. She desired at all hazards to return to Buenos Ayres as the mother-in-law of an English peer.

Geoffrey looked on amusedly at it all. With Sylvia he had a perfect understanding. She had promised him, time after time, that if she ever married he was to be her husband. The rest did not matter. Hence he remained perfectly content, devoting his days—and his nights—to scientific research.

One day Peterson told him that he was dining with Paget that night at the Bath Club, and that his host had telephoned asking him to bring him along. At first Geoffrey hesitated. Next moment he saw that if he became friendly with the mysterious fox-hunter he might learn the truth concerning certain facts which had so sorely puzzled him.

Therefore he accepted.

He found Paget a most genial host. While at table they spoke of wireless, and Peterson made mention of his fellow-guest’s important invention. At once Paget became interested, but Geoffrey merely laughed, and with his usual modesty, turned the conversation into another channel. Afterwards they went to a theatre and concluded a merry evening.

May Farncombe’s stay with Mrs. Beverley was almost at an end. She was joining her aunt in Paris, and then going with her down to Cap Martin. Somehow Geoffrey could not put it out of his mind that something was wrong. There was a secret between the girl and the affable man known at Stamford as Phillips, and in Half Moon Street as Paget. As the looker-on sees most of the game, he resolved to watch at Half Moon Street. This he did on several afternoons, wondering whether the girl, escaping from Upper Brook Street on pretence of shopping, would call there.

On the third afternoon, as he lingered in the vicinity, very careful to remain out of observation from the man’s windows, she came, neatly and quietly dressed, and, unseen, Geoffrey watched her enter the house where Paget lived.

She remained nearly an hour and a half, while he still waited against the Park railings on the other side of Piccadilly from where he had a clear view of Half Moon Street. At last she emerged, and gaining Piccadilly, turned in the direction of Hyde Park Corner. Noting this, Geoffrey slipped into a passing taxi and followed, thus getting in front of her unnoticed in the traffic. At Apsley House he got out, paid the man, and mingling with the hurrying crowd, walked in the direction she was coming.

At last, as though quite unexpectedly, they met. She started as though he were some apparition. For a moment she seemed too upset to be able to speak. Indeed, Geoffrey detected that she had been crying, for her eyes were swollen, and her cheeks showed traces of tears.

He was about to remark upon it, but refrained. Evidently her interview with the fellow Paget had been the reverse of pleasant, and her attitude set him further wondering. She, of course, had no idea that he had watched her go to Paget’s rooms.

He turned and walked with her up Park Lane, amazed to notice how nervous and unstrung she seemed.

“I’ve been out to a scent shop in Regent Street,” she explained. “Sylvia and her mother have gone to tea at Lady Burford’s, and I’m busy preparing to go over to Paris.”

“When do you leave?”“About next Wednesday, I think. My aunt is coming from Bordeaux, and I meet her at the HÔtel Bristol.”

The mystery of her interview with Paget, and its effect upon her, caused him to ponder as he walked to Upper Brook Street, where he left her at Mrs. Beverley’s door, asking her to give a message to Sylvia that he had been compelled to get back to Warley.

In order to further endeavour to probe the mystery surrounding the man Paget, Geoffrey next afternoon, after leaving Marconi House at a quarter past five, called unexpectedly upon him at his chambers.

Paget, who was seated before the fire in the ease of a black velvet lounge coat, jumped up, greeted him warmly, and bade him be seated in the deep cosy arm-chair opposite, expressing delight that he had called.

“We’ll dine together,” he said, as he passed him the cigarette-box. “Seen Peterson to-day?”

“No. I haven’t been at Chelmsford to-day,” Falconer replied.

“I met another of your fellows from the Works the day before yesterday—a friend of Peterson. He tells me that your printing device is most wonderful—and there’s a lot of money in it. I hope you’ve patented it.”

“Not yet,” replied the young fellow frankly, “but I mean to do so in a day or so—when I get the circuits drawn out.”

“It’s your own invention, I take it? Nothing to do with the Company—eh?”

“At present—no. But the Company controls all wireless patents that are worth anything at all. They will control mine,” was Geoffrey’s reply.

“Well, I hope yours will bring you in a lot of money. It certainly must be of the greatest use in the merchant service, and you are to be heartily congratulated.”

Geoffrey turned the conversation to the Fitzwilliam Hunt, and the several runs in which both had taken part, hoping that he might mention May Farncombe. But he refrained. Indeed, he seemed to have no wish to recall his stay at Stamford. Perhaps it was because he had suspicion that Geoffrey knew that the name he had gone under at the George Hotel was not the one he was now using.

That night they had a pleasant dinner at Jules’, but more than ever it became impressed upon Geoffrey’s mind that the man had some sinister influence over the girl, hence her tears on the previous afternoon. There was a mystery somewhere, but what it was he was utterly unable to solve. Still, no man could have been more genial and light-hearted than that man who, leading a life of luxury, seemed to be surrounded by many friends.

On the following Tuesday night Falconer was again at Mrs. Beverley’s to bid May Farncombe good-bye, as she was leaving for Paris on the following morning. At dinner she seemed anxious to get away from London, and Geoffrey guessed the reason. She longed to extricate herself from some invisible net which the man Paget had cast about her. Apparently, for some secret reason, she was entirely in his power.

“Well, Miss Farncombe,” he said, as they stood together in the hall just before he departed, “I wish you bon voyage, and I hope we shall see you back in London again very soon.”

At that moment they were alone in the big wide hall.

“Hush!” she whispered. “I shall pretend to go to Paris—but I shall only go as far as Dover. Where can you see me alone—in secret—to-morrow night?”

“Anywhere you like,” he replied, much surprised.

“Then let us say in the lounge of the HÔtel Russell at eight o’clock. But not a soul must know!” she whispered.

Then aloud she said cheerily, just as Sylvia came out of the morning-room:

“Well, good-bye, Mr. Falconer, good-bye!”

And they shook hands, and a few moments later he was walking towards Grosvenor Square more than ever perplexed.Next evening he was again in London, and in great anxiety arrived at the hotel in Russell Square where, passing through the hall, he saw May Farncombe awaiting him in the lounge. She had on her hat and coat, and rose to meet him, pale-faced and anxious.

“You see I’m back!” she said with a faint smile. “We can’t talk here. Somebody may overhear us! Let us walk around the Square—eh?”

This they did. They walked together slowly four times round the Square, though the night was very cold and windy. Neither thought of the weather, for the girl was too perturbed and excited, and the man too annoyed and astounded at what she revealed to him.

The facts which, in desperation she disclosed, staggered him. He promised to assist her, while she, on her part, thanked him profusely and revealed certain extraordinary circumstances which held him dumbfounded and fiercely angry.

At last they turned back into the hotel, and after sitting with her in the lounge for some time, he rose, and gripping her gloved hand, thanked her for her confidence.

“I shall really go to Paris to-morrow morning,” she said. “But remember all that I have said, and respect my confidence—won’t you, Mr. Falconer?”

“I certainly will, Miss Farncombe. Good-bye. You have all my sympathy, I assure you. But keep a stout heart, for I hope in the end all will be well,” he said reassuringly.

“But my secret!” she exclaimed.

“Leave that to me. Good-bye,” he repeated, and turning he left her.

A week later Geoffrey received a note from Paget asking him to dine with him at the Bath Club, an invitation which he accepted. Another and rather older man named Owen, to whom he had been introduced about a fortnight before, dined with them. Afterwards they went round to Paget’s rooms for an hour, and later Geoffrey left by ’bus to catch his train from Liverpool Street.

He was walking along the platform and about to enter the train when Owen, accompanied by a tall, clean-shaven man, came up breathlessly.

“This is the man!” Owen cried, pointing to Falconer. “I give him into custody for stealing my pocket-book! He must have stolen it while we were at the club!”

“What!—what do you mean?” gasped the young radio-engineer, turning upon him aghast.

“I mean that you have my pocket-book upon you—a brown suÈde one, with sixty pounds in Treasury notes.”

“It’s untrue!” declared Geoffrey. “I know nothing of your pocket-book. But look!” he exclaimed, utterly confounded. “A crowd is collecting. Let’s go somewhere and argue it out.”

“Yes,” Owen agreed, turning to the detective. “Let’s go back to Mr. Paget’s rooms, and then you can take him to the police-station afterwards.”

Geoffrey naturally became indignant, but in the taxi the detective put his hand into the inner pocket of the young fellow’s dinner-jacket and drew forth the missing wallet!

“See!” exclaimed the man; “here is the missing property—found upon you! You can’t make any excuse, can you?” Then turning to Owen he said: “It’s very fortunate, sir, that you came to Vine Street at once—or he would have thrown the case away.”

Geoffrey could not utter a word. He knew that he was the victim of some foul plot, from which it seemed impossible to extricate himself.

Back at Half Moon Street, a prisoner in the hands of the police, he stood with the three men, utterly dumbfounded. He protested that the wallet must have been purposely placed in his pocket when he had taken off his jacket in order to wash his hands. But all three laughed at this lame explanation.

“And what do you intend to do?” asked Falconer.“To prosecute you for theft,” answered Owen. “And it will be a nice end to your very promising career as a wireless engineer!”

Geoffrey bit his lip in dismay.

“Is there no other way out of it?” he asked in a low, hard voice.

“Yes,” answered Paget, “there is.” And he asked the detective to retire into the next room. Then when the door was closed, the man Paget exclaimed:

“I propose, Owen, that if this young fellow gives us the diagrams of his new device for printing automatic wireless signals from the call-device, that we say nothing about it. It would only be a quid pro quo—eh?”

“Yes. But he might give us false diagrams,” Owen remarked, shaking his head dubiously.

“Make him write a statement that the money has been found upon him, and in order to avoid arrest and scandal he undertakes to hand over to us to-night his diagrams, and also his working apparatus. We will motor down with him to Warley for that purpose.”

To this course the two men agreed. Therefore Paget drew up a confession and undertaking which, under compulsion, Geoffrey signed, rather than be brought before the magistrates next day.

Afterwards all four descended together and went out into the street, where the taxi was still awaiting them.

Just as they were about to enter it Geoffrey slipped a police whistle from his vest pocket and blew it, when instantly four constables and a man in plain clothes closed upon them, and Geoffrey gave all three in charge! The man who had posed as a detective was one of the blackmailing gang!

The faces of the trio were a study. Their plot had been a clever one, but the counterplot which Geoffrey had laid for them had been complete.

The man Paget and his two friends appeared in due course at the Old Bailey, and all three returned to penal servitude, thus freeing poor May Farncombe—whom they had compelled to be their accomplice. They had held her in their power by first compelling her to sign a confession of theft in a similar manner, and then holding over her threats of exposure to her family and her friends.

The plot which the girl revealed to Falconer was a deeply-laid and cleverly-conceived one in order to obtain the secret of his invention, which they had planned to sell to some German firm in New York for a very considerable sum.

Indeed, Paget had already booked his passage across the Atlantic, and would have sailed from Liverpool on the following day had not Geoffrey laid his plans to entrap the unscrupulous trio.

Needless to say that on the day following their arrest steps were taken to patent the new device—which is now safe from infringement.