Hugo Van Diest struggled to his feet gasping for breath and stroking his chin with sympathetic fingers. Comparatively speaking, Richard's blow had been a light one, but the Dutchman's training had not fitted him for taking punishment. He was hurt, outraged and resentful.

"This young man wass very violent, Hipps," he muttered jerkily. "I donno—s'no use—seems."

"Are we beat, Chief?"

"I don't like this word 'beat.' Mus' be a way." He paused for a moment to recover his breath then turned to Laurence. "This Miss Craven, she hass not arrifed yet?"

"She's here. Came five minutes ago."

"She know how we stand, yes?"

Hipps nodded.

"She don't quite register on the line we've adopted to make him talk.
Kind o' kept that in the background. Women are soft."

"Ask she come up," said Van Diest.

And Laurence went out passing Blayney who was on duty outside the door.

"What's the bend, Chief?" demanded Hipps.

Van Diest shook his head thoughtfully. "Donno, donno. Wass awful if we mus' do someting. Eh? Hipps, eh?"

And he tilted his head suggestively toward Richard's bedroom.

"His own damn fault," came the answer.

"But it wass a man's life, Hipps."

"I've no choice that way myself."

Van Diest began to pace the floor, his fingers tattooing on his chest and his head going from side to side.

"We ought to haf read better the character of this man. S'no good to know about the monies and not about the mens. We find ourselves in a terrible position. Ss! Terrible—terrible."

There was a clatter of footsteps on the stairs and Laurence, a telegraph form in his hand, burst into the room.

"What you haf there?"

"Can't make head nor tail of the damn thing. Read it aloud," cried
Laurence excitedly.

Ezra Hipps moved over to his Chief's side as the old man picked out the code words and translated them aloud.

The message was simple enough.

"'Saw Barraclough Polperro this morning. Been following all day.
Escaped in Panhard, probably will enter London by Portsmouth or Great
Western Road. Am pursuing in Ford car. Obstruct. Harrison Smith.'"

It was handed in at eight o'clock and postmarked Wimborne.

"Saw Barraclough!" repeated Hipps. "Harrison Smith's gone crazy."

For a moment Van Diest said nothing, then remarked:

"Smart man, you know. Smart man."

"He's made a mistake," said Laurence. "How in hell could he see
Barraclough when——" There was no point in finishing the sentence.

"S'not often he make a mistake. Our opponents haf been ver' quiet, you know, ver' quiet. Perhaps now they draw the kipper across the path."

"He's got bats," said Hipps. "Been standing in the sun."

"I'd ignore the whole thing," said Laurence. "Ten to one it's a trick.
A stunt put up by our adversaries."

"In our private code, Laurence? No, no, no. I tink it wass well we take some precautions with this gentlemen who wass so like our guest. You will telephone to Mr. Phillips please that I would like some of those roads that lead into London made—difficult." Then as Laurence seemed disposed to argue: "You haf your orders," he thundered.

As Laurence was leaving the room, Auriole came in and stood hesitating on the threshold.

"Ah! Miss Craven," said Van Diest stooping to kiss her fingers. "For you a little work. You will talk to our guest, yes? So stubborn he wass. You ver' clever woman, ver' gentle. You put your arms around him—so! You whisper, you beseech, you ver' sympathetic. P'r'aps you make 'im cry. Then he tell you what he refuse to tell us. S'understood?"

"Yes, I understand," said Auriole in a small voice.

"Goot! Then we go downstairs now. Come, Hipps." At the door he paused. "S'ver' important you succeed because we haf tried all the rest." He spoke the final words slowly and with great meaning, then turned and went out.

Auriole caught Ezra Hipps by the sleeve as he passed her.

"What does he means—'all the rest?'" she questioned.

The American scarcely paused in his stride. "Think it over," he said, and closed the door behind him.

With a heart that thumped hammer blows against her side, Auriole turned toward Richard's bedroom and paused with her hand on the latch. She felt as a traitor might feel who was seeking audience of his sovereign. For a traitor she was. False to her original employers, to her ideals and to a man who, even though he might have stirred in her the hope of a wedding had never willingly wrought her a single wrong. A dozen times in the last three days her hand had gone out to the telephone and the will had been there to confess to Cranbourne that her allegiance to his side existed no longer, but even in this her honesty had broken down. She saw herself, as she hesitated on the threshold, a wretched mercenary creature—the sport of greed and jealousy—self-centred and governed by thought of gain. It was not a pleasant reflection. For the doubtful blessing of being wife to an unscrupulous millionaire she had deafened her ears to the call of every decent instinct.

And now the Fates had so contrived that it rested with her to make the supreme final appeal and on her success or failure depended the safety and future of the man within. A horrible conviction came over her that these men who held Barraclough captive would indeed stop at nothing to gain their ends and that the innuendoes they had uttered were terribly in earnest. Unless he were persuaded to speak his very life would be forfeit, and it was this consideration that fortified her to make the effort.

Richard was sprawling on the wire mattress when she threw open the door. He raised a pair of hollow eyes that looked at her without recognition. Instinctively she shrunk away from him appalled at the changes in his face and bearing.

"What have they been doing to you?" was startled from her.

Richard hitched himself into a sitting posture and coughed.

"Who are you?" he said.

"Don't you even know me?"

He thought before replying.

"Yes, I know you. You're the woman who was jealous of someone."

"Someone! Is that how you speak of your sweetheart!"

"Wait a bit. It's coming back. Isabel, wasn't it? Isabel Irish.
Well, what do you want?"

She came a little nearer.

"To be with you. I haven't seen you for a long time, now."

"You deserted me, didn't you? I m-missed you at first. Th' one bright spot your coming."

"Was it?" she whispered.

He staggered to his feet and walked rockily into the inner room.

"No! What'm I saying. Man with a sweetheart doesn't want you."

"Tony!"

"No, no. 'Cos you're the worst devil of the lot. Decoyed me to this damn place."

"Tony, I'm so sorry," her hand fell on his sleeve, but he drew away.

"Don't come near me. Don't touch me. I mustn't be touched."

"Then I'll sit over here," said she.

"Yes, there. No, get out. Leave me alone, d'y' hear?" His voice pitched up high and imperative, but as suddenly dropped again. "I beg your pardon. I'm not much of a man to talk to a woman jus' now."

"I think you're a very fine man, Tony."

"Ha! Yes. A devil of a fellow!"

"But so stubborn," she whispered.

"There you go," he cried. "I knew it. I knew you came here for that."

"Tony! Tony!" she implored. "This has gone too far. You've been splendid, but what's the use. Just think, my dear, how rich you'd be."

"I don't want to be rich. Rich men torture each other," he cried, steadying himself against the back of a chair.

"You've only to say one word and you can walk out of here without a care in the world."

The sound of violins was in her voice. The promise of life care-free and full of sunshine was in her eyes and the curve of her smile.

He tried to look away, but the appeal was too strong.

"I can walk out of here," he repeated. "Out of here!"

"Such a lovely world, too."

The touch of her breath on his cheek was like a breeze and the smell of her hair like violets.

"Yes, yes."

"A great big garden of a world," he crooned, and no song ever sounded sweeter.

He felt his power to resist was ebbing away—falling from him like a cloak. With a mighty effort, he replied:

"A garden full of Eves."

And he sat humped up upon the camp bed. Auriole glided toward him and slipped her arms round his neck. He made no effort to escape.

"Eves are rather nice," she whispered.

His head tilted back against her.

"Rather nice," he echoed. "Rather nice. Soft shoulders where a man can rest his head." A glorious drowsiness was stealing over his limbs, a blessed sense of drifting into unknown contentment. She drew up her knees and they sat huddled together on the narrow canvas bed like babes in a wood. He was barely conscious of her voice. It came to his ears as gently as the sound of waves running over sand.

"—all the wonderful things we could do, Tony. The plans we could make come true. We could go out to a fairy-like dinner together—in one of your wonderful cars you could fetch me—and the streets would be twinkling with lights like jewels in Aladdin's cave."

Then he found he was talking too.

"A farm in New Zealand," he said. "Great flocks of sheep and herds of cattle. I know the place. There are mountains with snow caps, green grass plains, black firs and running water. I could have all that—if only—But no."

"Nothing is out of reach, Tony. Everything can be yours at the price of a little sentence—just a little sentence."

"No, no."

"Yon need never see those others again, but just tell me. Men tell everything to women, they can't keep a secret from a woman. Nature never intended they should. That's why Nature made women the mothers because the first secret of life is theirs, and all the rest follow after."

"You're bad, bad," he moaned. "A cheat trying to get at me by kindness."

"And isn't kindness worth a little? Come, kneel down and whisper. It will be easy with your head in my lap and my arms around you. Kneel down and whisper."

Heaven perhaps could tell where Richard found that last speck of sand which gave him the power to spring to his feet, to shake off the subtle influence of touch and voice, and to answer in a voice that fairly rang with resolve:

"No, nothing—nothing."

To Auriole he looked almost godlike as he stood with clenched fists and every fibre quivering. It was in that instant of admiration and amazement she recognised him as another man and the cry burst from her lips:

"You're not Anthony Barraclough!"

Richard wavered visibly and for the first time she saw real fear in his eye.

"What are you saying? You're mad," he answered.

"You're not Anthony Barraclough!"

"I am. I am."

"No!" She seized him by the shoulders and stared into his face.
"You're different, your eyes, your mouth. Who are you?"

"Anthony Barraclough!" he cried.

"It's not true. Anthony would never have stood this. The men, yes.
The torture, yes, but he always gives way to a woman. Who are you?"

"I've said," he answered brokenly. "I've said."

A turmoil of thoughts raced through her mind and she spoke them aloud.

"Anthony away getting the concession. You here taking his place. It was clever—clever. Damn them for letting you do it. And you've done it so wonderfully—borne all this when at a word you might——"

"Talking nonsense," he moaned desperately.

"And you don't know what the secret is. No one but Anthony does.
That's true, isn't it?"

"I do know. I do know—won't say."

"You can't know. That's true, isn't it? Answer me—answer!"

And quite suddenly Richard Frencham Altar's world went all black and his knees gave way beneath him. He fell with his head in his hands crying and gasping like a broken hearted child. And Auriole came to him and put her arms round him and kissed his neck, his hair, and his poor thin hands.

"And I've helped in the torture," she sobbed. "Broken you down. Oh! what a beast. What a beast I am."

"Very tired," said Richard. "Want to go to sleep."

"There's no sleep for you in this house except——"

The door opened and Ezra Hipps walked in.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, "but how's things?"

"I was just coming," said Auriole with a quick pretence at light heartedness. "I have something important to say."

Hipps shook Richard by the shoulder.

"How's that memory?" he enquired.

Once again the last reserves were pushed into the line.

"Bad," said Richard. "Damn bad."

"Then I guess that ends the play," said the American.

"I want you," said Auriole. "Please."

They went out of the room together.