DENBY stood looking after her. “Bully, bully girl,” he muttered.

“Anything wrong, Steve?” Monty inquired, not catching what he said.

Denby turned to the speaker slowly; his thoughts had been more pleasantly engaged.

“I don’t understand why they haven’t done anything,” he answered. “I’m certain we were followed at the dock. When I went to send those telegrams I saw a man who seemed very much disinterested, but kept near me. I saw him again when we had our second blow-out near Jamaica. It might have been a coincidence, but I’m inclined to think they’ve marked us down.”

“I don’t believe it,” Monty cried. “If they had the least idea about the necklace, they’d have pinched you at the pier, or got you on the road when it was only you and the chauffeur against their men.”

Still Denby seemed dubious. “They let me in too dashed easily,” he complained, “and I can’t help being suspicious.”

“They seemed to suspect me,” Monty reminded him.

“The fellow thought you were laughing at him, that’s all. They’ve no sense of humor,” Denby returned. “What I said to-night was no fiction, Monty. Cartier’s may have tipped the Customs after all.”

“But you paid Harlow a thousand dollars,” Monty declared.

“He wasn’t the only one to know I had bought the pearls, though,” Denby observed thoughtfully. “It looks fishy to me. They may have some new wrinkles in the Customs.”

“That damned R. J.,” Monty said viciously, “I’d like to strangle him.”

“It would make things easier,” Denby allowed.

“All the same,” Monty remarked, “I think we’ve both been too fidgety.”

“Dear old Monty,” his friend said, smiling, “if you knew the game as I do, and had hunted men and been hunted by them as I have, you’d not blame me for being a little uneasy now.”

With apprehension Monty watched him advance swiftly toward the switch on the centre wall by the window. “Get over by that window,” he commanded, and Monty hurriedly obeyed him. Then he turned off the lights, leaving the room only faintly illuminated by the moonlight coming through the French windows.

“What the devil’s up?” Monty asked excitedly.

“Is there anyone there on the lawn?”

Monty peered anxiously through the glass. “No,” he whispered, and then added: “Yes, there’s a man over there by the big oak. By Jove, there is!”

“What’s he doing?” the other demanded.

“Just standing and looking over this way.”

“He’s detailed to watch the house. Anybody else with him?”

“Not that I can see.”

“Come away, Monty,” Denby called softly, and when his friend was away from observation, he switched on the light again. “Now,” he asked, “do you believe that we were followed?”

“The chills are running down my spine,” Monty confessed. “Gee, Steve, I hope it won’t come to a gun fight.”

“They won’t touch you,” Denby said comfortingly; “they want me.”

“I don’t know,” Monty said doubtfully. “They’ll shoot first, and then ask which is you.”

Denby was unperturbed. “I think we’ve both been too fidgety,” he quoted.

“But why don’t they come in?” Monty asked apprehensively.

“They’re staying out there to keep us prisoners,” he was told.

“Then I hope they’ll stop there,” Monty exclaimed fervently.

“I can’t help thinking,” Denby said, knitting his brows, “that they’ve got someone in here on the inside, working under cover to try to get the necklace. What do you know about the butler, Lambart? Is he a new man?”

“Lord, no,” Monty assured him. “He has been with Michael five years, and worships him. You’d distress Lambart immeasurably if you even hinted he’d ever handed a plate to a smuggler.”

“We’ve got to find out who it is,” Denby said decidedly, “and then, Monty, we’ll have some sport.”

“Then we’ll have some shooting,” Monty returned in disgust. “Where is that confounded necklace anyway? Is Michael carrying it around without knowing it?”

“Still in my pouch,” Denby returned.

As he said this, Miss Cartwright very gently opened a door toward which his back was turned. Terrified at the thought of Taylor’s possible intrusion, she had been spurred to some sort of action, and had sauntered back to the big hall with the hope of overhearing something that would aid her.

“I know they mean business,” she heard Denby say, “and this is going to be a fight, Monty, and a fight to a finish.”

The thought that there might presently be scenes of violence enacted in the hospitable Harrington home, scenes in which she had a definite rÔle to play, which might lead even to the death of Denby as it certainly must lead to his disgrace, drove her nearly to hysteria. Taylor had inspired her with a great horror, and at the same time a great respect for his power and courage. She did not see how a man like Steven Denby could win in a contest between himself and the brutal deputy-surveyor. “Oh,” she sighed, “if they were differently placed! If Steven stood for the law and Taylor for crime!”

Everything favored Taylor, it seemed to her. Denby was alone except for Monty’s faltering aid, while the other had his men at hand and, above all, the protection of the law. It was impossible to regard Taylor as anything other than a victor making war on men or women and moved by nothing to pity. What other man than he would have tortured her poor little sister, she wondered.

To a woman used through the exigencies of circumstances to making her living in a business world where competition brought with it rivalries, trickeries and jealousies, the ordeal to be faced would have been almost overwhelming.

But the Cartwrights had lived a sheltered life, the typical happy family life where there is wealth, and none until to-day had ever dared to speak to Ethel as Taylor had done. She was almost frantic with the knowledge that she must play the spy, the eavesdropper, perhaps the Delilah among people who trusted her.

As she was debating what next to do, she heard Monty’s voice as it seemed to her fraught with excitement and eager and quick.

“Will you have a cigarette, Dick?” she heard him call. Instantly Steven Denby wheeled about and faced the door through which she appeared to saunter languidly. Something told her that Monty had discovered her.

“Still talking business?” she said, attempting to appear wholly at ease. “I’ve left my fan somewhere.”

“Girls are always doing that, aren’t they?” Denby said pleasantly. There was no indication from his tone that he suspected she had been listening. “We’ll have to find it, Monty.”

“Sure, Steve, sure,” Monty returned. He was not able to cloak his uneasiness.

“Steve?” the girl queried brightly. “As I came in, I thought I heard you call him ‘Dick.’”

“That was our private signal,” Denby returned promptly, relieving poor Monty of an answer.

“That sounds rather mysterious,” she commented.

“But it’s only commonplace,” Denby assured her. “My favorite parlor trick is making breaks—it always has been since Monty first knew me—and invented a signal to warn me when I’m on thin ice or dangerous ground. ‘Will you have a cigarette, Dick’ is the one he most often uses.”

“But why ‘Dick?’” she asked.

“That’s the signal,” Denby explained. “If he said ‘Steve,’ I shouldn’t notice it, so he always says ‘Dick,’ don’t you, Monty?”

“Always, Steve,” Monty answered quickly.

“Then you were about to make a break when I came in?” she hinted.

“I’m afraid I was,” Denby admitted.

“What was it? Won’t you tell me?”

“If I did,” he said, “it would indeed be a break.”

“Discreet man,” she laughed; “I believe you were talking about me.”

He did not answer for a moment but looked at her keenly. It hurt him to think that this girl, of all others, might be fencing with him to gain some knowledge of his secret. But he had lived a life in which danger was a constant element, and women ere this had sought to baffle him and betray.

He was cautious in his answer.

“You are imaginative,” he said, “even about your fan. There doesn’t seem to be a trace of it, and I don’t think I remember your having one.”

“Perhaps I didn’t bring it down,” she admitted, “and it may be in my room after all. May I have that promised cigarette to cheer me on my way?”

“Surely,” he replied. Very eagerly she watched him take the pouch from his pocket and roll a cigarette.

Her action seemed to set Monty on edge. Suppose Denby by any chance dropped the pouch and the jewels fell out. It seemed to him that she was drawing nearer. Suppose she was the one who had been chosen to “work inside” and snatched it from him?

“Miss Cartwright,” he said, and noted that she seemed startled at his voice, “can’t I get your fan for you?”

“No, thanks,” she returned, “you’d have to rummage, and that’s a privilege I reserve only for myself.”

“Here you are,” Denby broke in, handing her the slim white cigarette.

She took it from him with a smile and moistened the edge of the paper as she had seen men do often enough. “You are an expert,” she said admiringly.

He said no word but lighted a match and held it for her. She drew a breath of tobacco and half concealed a cough. It was plain to see that she was making a struggle to enjoy it, and plainer for the men to note that she failed.

“What deliciously mild tobacco you smoke,” she cried. Suddenly she stretched out her hand for the pouch. “Do let me see.”

But Denby did not pass it to her. He looked her straight in the eyes.

“I don’t think a look at it would help you much,” he said slowly. “The name is, in case you ever want to get any, ‘without fire.’”

“What an odd name,” she cried. “Without fire?”

“Yes,” he answered. “You see, no smoke without fire.” Without any appearance of haste he put the pouch back in his pocket.

“You don’t believe in that old phrase?”

“Not a bit,” he told her. “Do you?”

She turned to ascend the stairs to her room.

“No. Do make another break sometime, won’t you—Dick?”

“DO MAKE ANOTHER BREAK SOMETIME, WON’T YOU—DICK?” Page 186.
“DO MAKE ANOTHER BREAK SOMETIME, WON’T YOU—DICK?” Page 186.

“I most probably shall,” he retorted, “unless Monty warns me—or you.”

She turned back—she was now on the first turn of the staircase. “I’ll never do that. I’d rather like to see you put your foot in it—you seem so very sure of yourself—Steve.” She laughed lightly as she disappeared.

Monty gripped his friend’s arm tightly. “Who is that girl?”

“Why, Ethel Cartwright,” he rejoined, “a close friend of our hostess. Why ask me?”

“Yes, yes,” Monty said impatiently, “but what do you know about her?”

“Nothing except that she’s a corker.”

“You met her in Paris, didn’t you?” Monty was persistent.

“Yes,” his friend admitted.

“What was she doing there?”

Denby frowned. “What on earth are you driving at?”

“She was behind that door listening to us or trying to.”

“So you thought that, too?” Denby cried quickly.

“Then you do suspect her of being the one they’ve got to work on the inside?” Monty retorted triumphantly.

“It can’t be possible,” Denby exclaimed, fighting to retain his faith in her. “You’re dead wrong, old man. I won’t believe it for a moment.”

“Say, Steve,” Monty cried, a light breaking in on him, “you’re sweet on her.”

“It isn’t possible, it isn’t even probable,” said Denby, taking no notice of his suggestion.

“But the same idea occurred to you as did to me,” Monty persisted.

“I know,” Denby admitted reluctantly. “I began to be suspicious when she wanted to get hold of the pouch. You saw how mighty interested she was in it?”

“That’s what startled me so,” Monty told him. “But how could she know?”

“They’ve had a tip,” Denby said, with an air of certainty, “and if she’s one of ’em, she knows where the necklace was. Wouldn’t it be just my rotten luck to have that girl, of all girls I’ve ever known, mixed up in this?”

“Old man,” Monty said solemnly, “you are in love with her.”

Denby looked toward the stairway by which he had seen her go.

“I know I am,” he groaned.

“Oughtn’t we to find out whether she’s the one who’s after you or not?” Monty suggested with sound good sense.

“No, we oughtn’t,” Denby returned. “I won’t insult her by trying to trap her.”

“Flub-dub,” Monty scoffed. “I suspect her, and it’s only fair to her to clear her of that suspicion. If she’s all right, I shall be darn glad of it. If she isn’t, wouldn’t you rather know?”

For the first time since he had met his old school friend in Paris, Monty saw him depressed and anxious. “I don’t want to have to fight her,” he explained.

“I understand that,” Monty went on relentlessly, “but you can’t quit now—you’ve got to go through with it, not only for your own sake, but in fairness to the Harringtons. It would be a pretty raw deal to give them to have an exposÉ like that here just because of your refusal to have her tested.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Denby sighed.

“Of course I am,” Monty exclaimed.

“Very well,” his friend said, “understand I’m only doing this to prove how absolutely wrong you are.”

He would not admit even yet that she was plotting to betray him. Those memories of Paris were dearer to him than he had allowed himself to believe. Monty looked at him commiseratingly. He had never before seen Steven in trouble, and he judged his wound to be deeper than it seemed.

“Sure,” he said. “Sure, I know, and I’ll be as glad as you to find after all it’s Lambart or one of the other servants. What shall we do?”

Denby pointed to the door from which Miss Cartwright had come. “Go in there,” he commanded, “and keep the rest of the people from coming back here.”

Monty’s face fell. “How can I do that?” he asked anxiously.

“Oh, recite, make faces, imitate Irving in ‘The Bells,’ do anything but threaten to sing, but keep ’em there as you love me.”

Obediently Monty made for the door but stopped for a moment before passing through it.

“And say, old man,” he said a little hurriedly, nervous as most men are when they deal with sentiment, “don’t take it too hard. Just remember what happened to Samson and Antony and Adam.”