The door had scarcely closed upon the retreating masquerader when once again Barraclough slipped into the room. His clothes were white with dust, his eyes hollow and deep set, but around the corners of his mouth was just such a smile as any mother might hope to see.

"Bless your sweet bobbed head," he whispered, throwing an arm affectionately about her shoulders. "Though why in blazes you entertain well known crooks to tea gets me wondering."

"Oh, my dear, dear boy, wherever did you come from?" she cried, patting him all over to convince herself of his reality.

"Down the chimney, mother, like Santa Claus."

"But why and without a word?"

"Hadn't a notion I was coming," he replied dropping on to the sofa and spreading out his legs. "I was whacked to the wide and had to stop somewhere and get me breath."

The door was flung open and Flora and Jane burst in.

"I say, that was a near shave," gasped the latter. "Where did you spring from?"

"Somewhere t'other side of Plymouth. Keep your eye on the window,
Flora. Don't want that old blackbird to get a view of me. Thanks!
Fine. See him down the road, Jane?"

"You bet."

"It's damn bad luck him being here at all. When did he first show up?"

"Last night."

"There's been a mess-up somewhere and I was looking for a clean run home."

"Home, dear?"

"Um! Back to London. How's mother's old car going, Flora?"

"Tiptop."

"Good, I shall need it. I say, I apologise for not saying how-de-do but things have been moving today. Everyone feeling good? Fine. Lord, I'm tired." And he passed a hand tied with a bloodstained handkerchief across his brow.

Mrs. Barraclough was first to notice it and called for an explanation.

"Oh, that's all right—a scratch—bled a bit. Nothing to bother about. Flora, if you leave that window unguarded you're sacked. Jane, if you love me, a large and a small."

"But what is it all about?" Mrs. Barraclough implored after shaking her head at the thought of whiskey.

"Money, dear—money and a bit of paper I carry in this note case that is earnestly coveted by quite a number of people it doesn't belong to. When I asked for a large and a small, Jane, I was endeavouring to convey the idea that I was thirsty."

But Jane was reluctant to go and only consented to do so on a promise that no secrets should be revealed in her absence.

"Be a darling, mother dear, and fill me a pipe."

It was characteristic of Anthony Barraclough that the entire household revolved round him from the instant of appearance.

"Then there is something wrong with your hand," said the old lady filling the pipe and putting it in the corner of his mouth, while Flora risked a month's notice by rushing forward with a lighted match. "I shall tie it up while you have your smoke."

Anthony's protests were unavailing when the ministering angel mood descended upon his mother. At such a time she was inexorable. She called upon Flora to fill the slop basin with warm water and provide scissors (always so elusive when needed) and naturally Flora, who was entirely absorbed in the adventurous side of the proceedings, could only find the rose cutters which were entirely useless.

"It's a bullet wound," Mrs. Barraclough declared. "You can't deceive me—it's a bullet wound."

"Well, p'raps it is, mother, but since it was never intended for my hand we needn't bother about it."

"You must have it bandaged and go to bed straight away."

"Bed!" He threw back his head and laughed. "It's likely."

"And you'll want a sling."

"Not for this David, mother. A sling would be a fat lot of use against the Goliaths I'm dealing with. Mother, I'm within a hundred and fifty miles of being one of the richest men in the world and, as far as I can see, they'll be the toughest miles I've ever covered in my life."

And suddenly from the window came Flora's cry of "Look out!"

Anthony did not waste time looking out but instead flung himself behind the upright piano which stood out from the wall. Nor was he a moment too soon for the massive form of Mr. Bolt was framed in the French windows. Mrs. Barraclough took three steps toward him as also did Flora, thus preventing a definite intrusion into the room.

"I beg your pardon—I do indeed beg your pardon," said Bolt in tones as rich as the fat of pork, "but I fancy—I rather imagine—I—yes, to be sure, left a pair of gloves on your sofa."

"If you had rung the bell, sir, your property would have been restored to you in the usual manner. I cannot——"

She stopped as her uninvited guest was sniffing the air suspiciously.

"Mrs. Barraclough," he observed, shaking his head sadly, "I fear I have caught you smoking."

Behind the piano Anthony was feverishly extinguishing his pipe with the ball of his thumb.

"I smoke all day," replied Mrs. Barraclough.

The door opened and Jane came in with an abnormally large whiskey and soda which she nearly dropped at the sight of the visitor.

"Oh! Mrs. Barraclough!" said Bolt, pointing an accusing finger.

But the old lady was equal to the moment.

"And drink," she said, seizing the glass and swallowing an immense gulp that almost paralysed the muscles of her throat.

Mr. Bolt smiled cynically and took his gloves from Flora's outstretched hand.

"Gloves are so expensive nowadays, are they not?" he asked.

"To be frank, Mr. Bolt, I do not wish to discuss with you either gloves or Christianity," said Mrs. Barraclough. "I would be glad if you would kindly leave by the way you came."

"I was about to do so, madam, after first thanking you for your hospitality."

Maybe it was appreciation of his mother's inflexible bearing that caused Anthony to relax, but whatever the reason the result was disastrous. There was a small table alongside of where he stood hidden upon which was a vase of sweet peas. Anthony's elbow struck and overset it. There was a splash of water and a tinkle of glass.

The three women held their breath and Mr. Bolt's eyebrows went up and down twice very quickly. Then he smiled.

"Once again allow me to thank you for your hospitality," he said.

"Show this person out," said Mrs. Barraclough.

And under the escort of Jane and Flora he was peremptorily bustled off the premises.

"H'm," said Anthony, coming out from behind the piano. "That was a pity."

Mrs. Barraclough was almost in tears.

"Do you think he realised you were hidden there?"

"Vases don't tumble over by themselves, mother dear, and our friend is not a fool." He tapped his teeth with a thumb nail reflectively. "Yes—yes—yes. We must curtail his activities. Can't have the old viper sending messages. Settle down at the telephone, best of mothers."

"I do wish you would not address me as though I were a sitting hen," said Mrs. Barraclough, drawing up a chair to the writing table.

"The telephone, mother, and ask for the police station."

"But the policeman is sure to be out."

"Then talk to his missus."

"That would be impossible, dear, Mrs. Brassbound——"

But Anthony did not listen to the objection.

"Tell old Brassbound," said he, "to run in friend Skypilot if he gravitates near the post office."

Mrs. Barraclough picked up the receiver and asked for the police station and while waiting to be connected remarked weakly:

"There is no law to prevent people sending telegrams, dear."

"Then we must make a few to fit the occasion."

"Is that you, Mr. Brassbound?" said the old lady in answer to a voice on the wire. "It's Mrs. Barraclough speaking. I wonder if you would very kindly arrest a clergyman for me."

"Put a bit more sting in it, mother—ginger."

"Ginger," repeated Mrs. Barraclough into the mouthpiece. "No, no, I didn't mean that. He's grey and elderly."

"Say he pinched something," Anthony prompted.

Mrs. Barraclough nodded.

"I rather fear he has appropriated a cream jug. Yes. I thought perhaps he might send it off from the post office. Thank you. And how is your wife progressing? Yes, of course she is. Yes, I am coming down to see her this evening if I can get away. Goodbye."

"What's wrong with the policeman's missus?" demanded Anthony.

"As you're not a married man, Tony, I shall refuse to tell you," said
Mrs. Barraclough in the manner of Queen Victoria.

"Going to see her?"

"I was going to take her this basket of roses and some vegetables, but as——"

"No, no, you take 'em and I'll go down to the village with you in the car and take it on. You won't mind walking home across the fields."

"Anthony," said Mrs. Barraclough seriously. "Is it very real danger you're in?"

"Pretty solid but don't you fret, I'm equal to it."

Flora and Jane came in from the garden.

"We've seen him down the road," they announced.

"Good. Now, look here, everyone, I've wasted a deuce of a lot of time when I ought to have been on the way. Here's the position of affairs. Flora, you're going to drive me to London."

"Right," said Flora with sparkling eyes.

"Jane! Still got that old service revolver I gave you?"

"Um."

"Keep it handy. Likely enough there'll be a couple of visitors here before long and you've got to detain 'em somehow."

"I'll keep 'em till they grow roots," said Jane stoutly.

"It's a damn shame, dragging you into all this, but that bullet did me in as a driver. It's no joke shoving a motor bike along with a bullet through your hand."

"But how did you get the wound, dear?"

As hurriedly as possible he outlined the day's happenings from the moment of landing at Polperro.

"Who are these men?" Flora demanded.

"Couple of spies belonging to a crowd that tried to prevent me leaving
London three weeks ago."

"But what do they want?"

Anthony held up the morocco letter case and restored it to his pocket.

"Just this. I've given 'em a pretty good lead all day—played hare and hounds all over Dartmoor best part of the morning but somehow I don't believe I've shaken 'em off."

"Where did you leave the bike?"

"Couple of miles back on the main road. Shoved her in a thicket. Front tyre burst and that settled it. There's a bare hope they may have been kidded into believing I'd gone straight on but it's slender enough. Comberstone knows I have a home hereabouts and they're pretty certain to have watched my tracks on the road. Mother's old bus is going well you say?"

"I can whack her up to about a thirty average," said Flora.

"Thirty, and we've a hundred and fifty to go. Yes, yes—ought to be in
Town by eleven."

"Easy."

"Then I'll just swallow a snack of grub and push off straight away.
Get your engine started."

"There's a lovely pie in the larder, dear," said Mrs. Barraclough.
"Just the sort you like best. Jane! My motor cloak and bonnet."

She took Anthony's hand and they hurried kitchenward together.

Flora and Jane looked at one another, their eyes adance with excitement.

"Oh, isn't this gorgeous," said Jane.

"Simply topping," echoed Flora.

"You lucky beast to be going up with him."

"I like that, when you've got a shooting programme."

"Oh, well, I suppose the honours are divided. Good luck."

"Same to you."

They parted with a wave of the hand, Jane following her mistress and Flora into the garden at a run. But she had scarcely reached the path when two men came round the corner of the house and bore down upon her.

Harrison Smith was too good a strategist to announce his arrival by driving up to the front door. He had left the Ford at the end of the lane and entered the grounds by way of the kitchen garden. At the sight of Flora he bowed very politely, greeting her with a charming smile and an allusion to the clemency of the evening. It is possible these social amenities might have carried some weight but for the appearance of Freddie Dirk, whose heavy jowl, grimed with dust and perspiration, was not consistent with the idea of an afternoon caller. Flora fell back a pace into the room, wondering fearfully what course she should pursue.

"Don't be frightened, my girl, don't be frightened," Harrison Smith agreeably beseeched.

"Who are you? I don't know you," said Flora.

"We're friends of your master's, of course."

"That's it," said Dirk, huskily. "Pals of 'is, see!"

The tone was hardly convincing.

"My master is away, and has been away for some weeks."

"Yes, yes, yes, to be sure. But he's come back."

"No," said Flora.

"Look 'ere, girl,"—Dirk's fat, short-fingered paw fell on her shoulders—"we ain't soft—do you get me? We knows what we're torkin' abaht. Mister Barraclough is 'ere and the sooner——"

"Tut, tut, tut," Harrison Smith interrupted. "Don't talk like that, Dirk—you're scaring the girl. Now listen to me. Your Master has enemies, we're his friends. It is of the utmost importance we should see him at once." He moved away and opened the door of Mrs. Barraclough's bedroom. "As a matter of fact his life depends upon it."

"Yus—'is life," Dirk echoed.

"I tell you my master is not here."

"Isn't 'e—isn't 'e." Dirk's two hands fastened on Flora's wrist and twisted the flesh in contrary directions, a domestic form of torture known to the initiated as the Burning Bracelet.

"Let go, you brute—let go," she cried, and with her free hand caught him a full swinging slap across the face.

What particular line Dirk's resentment would have taken is unknown, for Harrison Smith came quickly between them with a muttered order and at the same time the door opened and Jane ran in. It speaks well for her courage that she did not cry out or betray alarm.

"Jane," gasped Flora very quickly, "these men want to see master—I've told them he isn't here——"

"Quiet you," said Dirk threateningly, while Harrison Smith descended on the new arrival under a coverlet of smiles.

"Come along, my dear," he said, "you're a sensible looking girl. Now where's Mister Barraclough, eh?"

For a second Jane seemed lost in consideration, then shook her head stupidly and replied in a rich brogue:

"Maister Bar'clough—doan't know 'un—never clapt eyes on 'un. 'Tis on'y larst week I took sarvice 'ere t'oblige."

"Have you seen anyone strange about the premises today?"

"Noa."

"A man—tall—broad shouldered—wearing a blue suit and cap."

"Oh 'im," said Jane, her face lighting up with a semblance of intelligence. "I did see some un 'bout 'arf an hour ago, 'twas."

"Yes, yes. Go on."

"Come out of tool shed at garden end and kept low by the 'edge."

"Did he enter the house?"

"Noa. 'E lit off down the road as fast as 'e cud make."

"Damn! We've missed 'im," roared Dirk.

"Which direction?"

"Away from village 'twas."

Dirk was tugging at Harrison Smith's sleeve and dragging him toward the
French windows.

"No, no," cried Smith, "the front way—it's quicker."

The two turned at the exact second Barraclough, entirely oblivious of their presence, walked into the room. The light flashed dully on the barrel of Harrison Smith's automatic.

"Put 'em up," he said, "put 'em up"—and as the order was obeyed—"Well met indeed, Barraclough, well met indeed."