The timing and arrangement of the situation was flawless. Barraclough with his hands upheld, Harrison Smith masking the persuasive automatic from the view of the two girls and Dirk's fingers travelling caressingly toward the pocket in which his mascot reposed. It was hugely dramatic. Flora and Jane, robbed for the moment of the power of speech and action, clung to one another on the far side of the room, their gaze riveted on their hero, who, in this moment of crisis, was whistling a bar of ragtime and accepting defeat with smiling eyes.

Harrison Smith's left hand ran professionally over the contours of
Barraclough's coat to satisfy himself that there was no concealed weapon.

"Most opportune," he remarked, "and we had almost despaired of seeing you." Then in a lower voice—"All right, but no games."

"Thank you," said Barraclough, and lowering his arms he walked slowly to the writing table.

"And now you two nice little girls," said Harrison Smith, rubbing his hands together, "cut along and pick flowers. Much too nice an evening to be spending your time indoors. Off you go."

There was certainly a better chance of getting help if they could escape.
Nothing was to be gained by staying. As they passed the table by which
Barraclough was standing he whipped an envelope from his pocket and
thrust it in Flora's hand with the words:

"Post that for me—quick."

Flora seized the envelope and made a dash for the window but hardly covered half the distance before Dirk and Smith closed in upon her, fighting for possession of the paper. It was given to Jane to translate the actual meaning of this extraordinary performance and she alone saw Barraclough take the note case swiftly from his pocket and bury it under the foliage in the basket of roses. The others were too busily engaged to attend to such a trifle.

"Let them have it, Flora," said Barraclough, sweetly. "They are friends of mine. Do as I tell you."

"You girls get out," gasped Harrison Smith, coming down breathlessly with the envelope, and after Flora and Jane had escaped into the garden, "Cornered, Mr. Barraclough, and we've got the goods."

Anthony was smiling.

"Hadn't you better make sure?" said he.

The envelope was ripped open and a letter withdrawn.

"What's this?"

"I don't know—something my mother wrote. Oh, I wasn't born yesterday and if you think I carry the concession—search me." And to emphasise the uselessness of such a course he pulled out the lining of his inner pocket.

Dirk and Smith closed in threateningly.

"We mean to have that paper," they said in a single voice.

"Haven't you chosen rather a public place to get it?" he answered steadily. "Oh, I realise I'm cornered, but is this the place for the kill? After all, I'm not much good to you without that paper."

"Where 'ave you put it?" hissed Dirk, edging closer. "Where 'ave you put it, eh?"

"Aha, my friend, that's the point. But it won't be cleared up by breathing hops in my face."

The barrel of Harrison Smith's pistol pressed unpleasantly into his short ribs and Dirk's mascot "whump-whumphed" in the air above his head.

"A little persuasion."

"No, not even with a little persuasion." His voice rang high on a note of challenge. "If you want that paper, you'll have to accept my terms and my terms are stiff."

"I can tell you 'oo'll be stiff ternight if he don't——"

The sentence was never finished, for from the hall outside came the sound of Mrs. Barraclough's voice:

"I may be a little late for dinner, Cook, so don't put on the potatoes till the half hour."

"My mother," said Anthony, warningly.

With a curse and a growl Smith and Dirk backed away, pocketing their weapons, as Mrs. Barraclough in a long motor cloak and veil came into the room.

For a second she stood in the doorway, her eyes travelling from her son to the two men and back again. From the astonishment on her features Anthony read plainly enough that Flora and Jane had failed to find and advise her of the danger.

At this perilous stage a false move might mean the loss of everything. The one hope was to preserve a seeming of normality and at the same time convey a message as to the real significance of the situation. And like a flash came into his head a memory of boyhood scrapes and a mother who had never failed him in the hour of need. He whipped out his white handkerchief and with a single hand, an old conjuring trick, threw a knot in the centre and dangled it before Mrs. Barraclough's eyes. No message by wire or wireless ever reached its destination in quicker time than that old S. O. S. of school boy fame. He saw her tap out the "received" signal with a forefinger on the front of her cloak, then turned with a wave of the handkerchief to introduce the visitors.

"Mother dear, these are two friends of mine, Sergeant Hammersmith and Mr. Cappell." They were the first names to come into his head. He added—"This is my mother, gentlemen, and I am sure you will be grieved to hear she has lately suffered from very indifferent health."

To give herself a moment for reflection, Mrs. Barraclough removed her veiled motor bonnet and put it on the couch. Then she turned and descended upon Dirk with outstretched hands and a high pitched falsetto that fairly rang with welcome.

"Oh, my dear Sergeant Hammer, this is indeed a pleasure. How very kind of you to drop in. So few people drop in now-a-days; dropping in seems to have quite dropped out and I do so dearly love seeing anyone from Town. Of course we are so old world and out of the way down here that we never see anyone—no one at all—nobody and to hear news direct from——" She broke off abruptly, fixed her glasses and fell back in an attitude of amazed rapture—"Anthony, dear, do look. Isn't Sergeant Picklesnip exactly like the vicar—the old one, not the present incumbent, he's too high for me. I do hope——" She descended upon Harrison Smith and wrung him warmly by both hands—"I do hope you agree with me that the Roman influence is most dangerous." And before he had time to reply—"Ah, but I wish you had known Anthony when he was a little boy and wore sailor suits—white on Sundays with a cord and a whistle round his neck. My poor husband could not endure the whistle, so he took the pea out of it and then it only made an airy noise instead of a blast."

"Mother dear," Anthony interposed, "aren't you going down to the village?"

A suggestion to which Harrison Smith proved a ready seconder.

"Don't let us detain you, Madam," he beseeched.

"No, I won't, I won't. Besides, I mustn't be late. As Mr. Gladstone said in '84—and oh, what a hot summer that was—he said—'Detention is the mother of time.'"

At which Freddie Dirk, who knew something of both detention and time, shivered uncomfortably and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Never be late," continued Mrs. Barraclough, rallying her resources for a new oration, "although I was late once for a flower show at Weston-super-Mare—or was it a funeral, Anthony? At any rate, there were a lot of flowers there, so it may have been a wedding or a garden party. But really, I mustn't stay a moment longer. I've got to see a Mrs. Brassbound—poor dear, she's—Anthony, go away, you mustn't listen—I'm going to treat you as friends—there's going to be a baby—she's the wife of our village constable, you know—such a nice man—but as I've always said, Policemen will be Policemen."

"Yes, yes, yes," said Harrison Smith, whose patience was running out, "very interesting. I have a friend staying at the hotel. I wonder if I might use your telephone."

Mrs. Barraclough caught the warning in Anthony's eyes as she gave her consent. Also she caught a glint of light from the rose cutters that lay on the sofa.

What more natural than for a hostess to be seated while her guest made his call and what more fortunate than the fact that the telephone wire passed over the arm of the sofa on its way to the insulator in the floor. The snip of the scissors as she cut the wire was quite inaudible because of the good lady's flow of remarks on the subject of telephony.

"They may keep you waiting," she said and kept on chattering until Harrison Smith hung up the receiver in despair of being connected with his ally Bolt.

"And now, Madam, I feel sure we have kept you much too long," he said.

"You'd better be off, Mother," said Anthony, who although vaguely aware that she was endeavouring to create an atmosphere of vacuity, could not fathom the advantage to be gained.

"I'm going, dear, I'm going. I was thinking, that's all."

"Thinking," came from Dirk.

"Wondering if you two gentlemen could eat mutton. My dear brother who died in '93 had very strong views about mutton, especially when it was cold. He said——"

But the prospect of hearing what he said so shook the good manners of her visitors that they almost breasted her toward the bedroom door. They would probably have succeeded in their object had not Flora hurried in from the garden.

"The doctor is with her now," said Flora. "I've got the car ready."

Mrs. Barraclough became almost hysterical. There was no limit to the instructions she showered upon the hapless Flora. Were the vegetables in the car? Had she been sent for? Was Mr. Brassbound there, and finally, had Flora put the "you know" into the basket?

"The 'you know,'" said Flora, hazily.

"Silly, silly girl," wailed Mrs. Barraclough. "Sergeant Ealing, do excuse me whispering to my maid, but it is so difficult to speak out in public."

She dropped her voice to a confidential whisper only for the briefest space and Flora nodded gravely and said:

"Yes, Madam, I quite understand," and went out.

"And now I really must be going," said Mrs. Barraclough at her bedroom door. But she descended again upon her visitors, now purple with exasperation, and possessed herself of their hands.

"I have enjoyed your conversation so much, Mr. Ravenscourt, and yours, too, Sergeant Chiswick, but even the best of friends must part; as Anthony used to say when I bought him his first comb. Goodbye—goodbye." She paused dramatically. "Oh, I nearly forgot my salts—my salts. It's most important. The doctor said that I should never go anywhere without my salts."

It was only by exercise of something approaching violence that the garrulous old lady was finally induced to enter her bedroom and the door closed upon her.

"If ever anyone ought to be certified," declared Harrison Smith blindly.

"I am very much obliged to you, gentlemen," said Anthony. "I don't imagine she will be long now."

"For everyone's sake I 'ope she ain't," Dirk contributed.

But as though to discount this pious ambition came a call from behind the closed door.

"Anthony, dear, Anthony! Will you ring the bell for Jane, please?"

"The bell is at your elbow," said Anthony. "It is for you to decide, sir, whether it should be rung."

Harrison Smith tugged at the bell pull viciously.

"And, Anthony, dear, will you bring me my motoring bonnet?"

Anthony pointed at the motoring bonnet lying on the table next to the rose basket, wherein, hidden by the stalks and leaves, was the morocco letter case.

"Take the damn thing in yourself," said Harrison Smith.

It was Dirk who moved forward suspiciously as Barraclough picked up the bonnet and moved toward the bedroom. Harrison Smith waved him back.

"There's no other door. Keep a watch on the window," he ordered.

Anthony entered unmolested and at precisely that moment Bolt came in from the garden.

The united forces did not waste time in greetings.

"We've got him," said Harrison Smith. "He's in there with his mother."

This was evident enough, for the sound of their voices was audible, Mrs.
Barraclough's high pitched tones crying out:

"Don't sit on the bed, dear, it creases the quilt."

"Better look out," Bolt warned. "He's as slippery as an eel."

"Trust me, we're just waiting to get rid of the old woman, and then——"

The other door opened and Jane scampered in, crying:

"Did 'ee ring, marm, did 'ee ring?"

"Put that basket of roses in the car, Jane," Mrs. Barraclough replied, and as Jane turned to obey, from the garden in rushed Flora and Conybeare, calling on their mistress to hasten.

"Mrs. Brassbound, Mrs. Brassbound," cried Flora. "There's not a moment to lose."

"Terrible bad she is, and cryin' out for 'ee, m'am."

In the midst of this confusion appeared a veiled and cloaked figure, apparently belonging to Mrs. Barraclough, who nervously flapped hands and hastened, surrounded by a babbling mob of servitors, toward the nearest window.

It did not occur to Barraclough's enemies to offer any resistance to this general exodus, their attention was absorbed by the bedroom door, which had shut with a snap and the click of a key. They waited just long enough for the party of cackling females to get out of the room and down the path, then rushed at the door with foot and shoulder. It stood up longer than might have been expected, but Bolt's weight was more than ordinary woodwork could withstand. The lock burst—the headings split and it fell inward with a crash.

Standing by the window, waving a knotted handkerchief to a disappearing car was Mrs. Barraclough. She scarcely wasted a glance upon the intruders.

"Damnation—done!" roared Harrison Smith, as the truth dawned upon him.

In a solid block they swung round to find themselves staring down the black barrel of a service revolver held dead rigid in the hands of Jane.

"Hands above your heads, please," she insisted.

"And if you'll first wait till dear Anthony turns the bend of the lane," cooed Mrs. Barraclough, "I'll go through their pockets and take away any nasty things I may find there. You put the roses in the car, Jane?"

"He's got it all right," came the answer.

"Dear roses," said Mrs. Barraclough, sentimentally.