The clocks were striking seven when Anthony Barraclough descended the stairs of the flats and hailed a taxi. The street was deserted save for a policeman and an old hag who was sorting over the contents of a dustbin outside the adjoining house. She shot a quick glance at Barraclough and broke into a cackle of thin laughter.

"Didn't take you long to come up in the world," she piped. "Always thought you were a bit of a fraud."

Barraclough gasped. The disappointment was so cruel.

"You are making a mistake," he said and opened the taxi door.

"You've had a shave, that's all, but, bless you, that don't deceive me."

"Look here——" he began.

"You don't want to be recognised, my dear. I can easily forget, you know, if I'm encouraged." She stretched out a filthy clawlike hand.

There was something queer in her manner—a difference from the rank and file of Van Diest's regiment.

Clearly, too, her poverty was genuine. With a little tact her allegiance might be diverted. He pulled a note case from his pocket and detached a fiver.

"Take that," he said, "and if you want more——"

He rattled off Lord Almont's address in Park Lane.

"Save my soul!" gasped the old woman. "Are you crazy? Didn't expect more'n a florin. Bless your pretty heart. You must be badly frightened of something."

But Barraclough waited for no more. He jumped into the taxi with the words 'Westminster Bridge' and drove away, swearing to himself.

"Of all rotten luck. Yet I can't help feeling she didn't belong to that gang after all. Wonder if I've made an almighty fool of myself."

For the first time in his life his nerves were beginning to fray. His fingers drummed a tattoo on the leather seat of the cab and, despite the chill of early morning, his brow was hot and clammy.

"Likely enough it was just a begging stunt."

He put his head out of the window and said 'Waterloo Station.' A sudden memory persuaded him to glance above his head and reassure himself no other passenger was concealed upon the roof. The action in itself was fresh evidence of nerves.

"Must pull myself together," he said. "Those infernal hours in the wine cupboard have shaken me up."

To a man of action nothing is so wearing as inactivity. It had been intolerable sitting in the darkness while the new proxy had borne the enemy's assault unaided. He had heard the rumble of talk which had followed the first stifled cry from Doran when the sponge of chloroform was thrust into his face, and every now and again he had heard Frencham Altar's voice ring out high and mocking and exasperatingly like his own. Finally the front door had slammed but he remained concealed for over an hour in case of misadventure. Doran was lying in the hall when he stepped from his hiding place. Barraclough knew a little of the rough science of medicine and very heartily cursed the man who had doped his servant. A little more of the anaesthetic would have put a period to Doran's career. There was an hour's hard work with ammonia and respiratory exercises before the good fellow blinked an eyelid and made the wry faces of recovery. After that Barraclough stewed himself a cup of coffee, broke a couple of eggs into it and made ready for departure. Altogether it had been a trying night as his nerves were beginning to testify.

It was encouraging to find no suspicious watcher at booking office or barrier. He passed through unobserved and entered an empty first-class compartment in the 7.30 to Southampton. There were ten minutes to wait before they were due to start—minutes which dragged interminably. But at last the green flag dropped, the couplings tightened and the train began to move.

"Thank God for that," he exclaimed and relaxed against the cushions of the seat.

But his relief was short lived. A large man, running at full speed, came abreast the carriage window which was lowered, a suitcase came flying through and landed on the opposite seat, while the man himself leapt to the running board, threw open the door and sprang into the carriage.

"Jing! but that was a near squeak," he exclaimed. "Another half minute and you'd have beaten me."

Barraclough's muscles tightened and his mouth went hard and straight. So the bluff had failed after all. He was spotted. That idiot from the benches had given them away.

The man opposite did not appear to have lost his breath through the race and was looking at Barraclough with an expression of good-natured humour in a pair of twinkly blue eyes. He was of very powerful physique, broad-shouldered and bull necked. Also he had the appearance of being uncommonly fit. In any other circumstance Barraclough would have taken him for a pleasant, likeable fellow, who might have helped to pass the tedium of a long journey. But his actual feelings were far removed from any such consideration. The smug affability of the man coupled with his obvious strength aroused such indignation in Barraclough that he was scarcely able to remain seated. The difference in their weight and stature precluded all chances of a successful frontal attack. It would be sheer waste of energy to seize this intruder and try to chuck him on the line. But, on the other hand, something drastic would have to be done. At such a stage of the game it was intolerable to contemplate defeat. He thought of his words to Mr. Torrington the evening before and of the assurance he had given to Isabel. Then there was the immense prize that success would award him. Was everything to be lost because of one piece of infernal bad luck. If he could reach Southampton unobserved he was confident that the arrangements he had prepared would baffle observation. Besides the presumption was that the watchers had been called off and this infernal smiling idiot on the seat opposite had failed to receive new instructions and was acting upon the old.

In Barraclough's right hip pocket was an automatic pistol but between its butt and his hand was a thick buttoned upholster. Any attempt to reach the weapon would surely result in an immediate counter offensive, with himself at a disadvantage. No, he must think of something subtler than that.

On the seat beside him lay a packet of Gold Flake cigarettes, bought from a trolley on the platform. It gave him an idea. He put one in his mouth and began to slap his pockets as though searching for matches. He might have saved himself the pains for the man opposite produced a lighter and offered it with a friendly word.

"Always keep one handy."

Barraclough, silently swearing, thanked him and lit up.

Clearly his companion was a person of some geniality. He spread out his legs, cleared his throat, and observed:

"All's well as ends well. Still, I didn't expect to catch you."

Barraclough assumed an air of indifference.

"Did you not?" he said.

"It's a fact, I didn't. Lying in bed I was twelve minutes ago. Used some words, too, when they called me up on the 'phone. But, all said, it was worth the rush. Means a good deal of money to me."

This final remark did little to improve Barraclough's temper. However, he preserved an outward calm and said he supposed so.

"I'm tenacious," said the man. "That's what I am—tenacious."

"A fine quality."

"And pretty useful in my trade."

"Must be."

Barraclough's mind was concentrated on finding a weak spot at which to attack and already a delicate idea was maturing. In the rack above his companion's head was his suitcase, the handle projecting outward. Apparently it was unusually heavy for Barraclough had noticed with what a resonant whack it hit the carriage cushions when thrown in through the window and also that it was only lifted to its present position with an effort. If that suitcase could be persuaded to fall on its owner's head it was reasonable to suppose the result would be anesthetic. And in Barraclough's hand was a crooked stick. The association of idea is obvious.

"Going far?" came the pleasant enquiry.

In common with all South Western Railway carriages, the wooden partitioning above the upholstery was decorated with choicely coloured views of cities and country-side.

"Since there would appear to be no point in hiding anything from you," Barraclough replied, "there is a picture of my destination behind your head."

"That's funny," said the man and, responding to natural curiosity, turned to examine the picture, while Barraclough embraced the opportunity to slip the crook of his stick through the handle of the bag and tug hard. But the bag was heavier than he had imagined. It scarcely moved and only by bracing his foot on the seat opposite was he able to upset its balance. Just a fraction of a second too soon the man turned. Conceivably he saw murder in Barraclough's eyes or else he was unusually quick at grasping a situation. He flashed his eyes upward at the moment the bag was toppling, realised it was too late to save himself, and dropped his head forward. He caught the weight of the bag on his massive shoulders and, as though it were a pillow, slewed sideways and heaved it straight on to Barraclough's chest.

And Barraclough's lungs emptied like a burst balloon. Next instant he felt himself lifted into mid air as though he were a child.

"I've a damn good mind to pitch you through the window," said the man. "I would, too, if I didn't reckon you were mad. As it is, I guess I'll stick you up in the luggage rack out of harm's way."

And this he did without apparent effort.

"Damn me!" he went on. "What's the game?"

"The game," replied Barraclough, "isn't played out yet."

Which was true, for in the tussle his overcoat had rolled up under his arms, the pistol pocket was clear, and a blue black automatic flashed dully in the man's face.

"If either of us leaves this carriage I fancy it's going to be you."

To do the man justice he betrayed more amazement than alarm. He backed away a pace and his hand travelled upward to the communicator.

"If you touch that cable I'll put a bullet through your wrist," said
Barraclough. "Sit down and attend to me."

He obeyed, shaking his head perplexedly.

"Damn me, if I can get the strength of it."

"Then listen," said Barraclough, steadying his aim along the ash rail of the luggage rack, "and keep your hands in your lap. I'm going to carry my scheme through even if I have to shoot you and lots like you. My patience has run out—understand? I've been fooled and badgered and headed off and shot at for as long as I can stand. The boot's on the other leg now and whoever tries to stop me or follow me or get in my way will find all the trouble he's looking for."

"Yes, but it seems to me," said the big man plaintively, "that it's you who's looking for trouble. Been a nice thing if that bag had caught me on the lid. There were two fifty pound bells inside and a coil of wire for my trapeze act."

"Your what?" said Barraclough.

"Trapeze act. Done in my tour nicely, that would."

Barraclough's eyes narrowed and he looked at the man closely.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "What's your name?"

"My real name's John Lever," he replied, "but I'm better known to the music hall public as Madrooba, the Muscular Muscovite."

"Madrooba—the chap who lets eight men stand on his chest?"

"That's me."

"Then what in blazes were you following me for?"

"Following you?" repeated Mr. Madrooba. "Never set eyes on you before.
Run after the train 'cause I got a contract to appear in Paris tonight."

Barraclough lowered the point of his pistol slowly.

"And you've never heard of Van Diest?"

"Never! Van Biene I know and Van Hoven, but——"

"Then it looks to me," said Barraclough regretfully. "It looks to me as if I've made a pretty substantial fool of myself. If you're big enough to accept an apology, Mr. Madrooba, I'd be glad to come off this perch and offer it."

"I reckon if I can stand eight men on my chest," came the reply, "I don't need to take a lot of notice of this little misunderstanding. Let yourself drop and I'll catch you."

And from sheer relief Barraclough began to laugh—and laughed solidly for ten miles of the journey.