It was a long time before Ralph Ravenspur spoke again. He remained so quiet that Geoffrey began to imagine that his existence had been forgotten. He ventured to lay a hand on his uncle's knee.

The latter started like one who sleeps uneasily under the weight of a haunting fear.

"Oh, of course," he said. "I had forgotten you; I had forgotten everything. And yet you brought me news of the greatest importance."

"Indeed, uncle. What was it?"

"That you shall know speedily. The danger had not occurred to me for the moment. And yet all the time it has been under my nose."

"Still, you might easily be forgiven for not seeing——"

"Seeing has nothing to do with it. And there is nothing the matter with my hearing. The danger has been humming in my ears for days and I never heard it. Now it is roaring like Niagara. But, please God, we shall avert the danger."

"You might take me into your confidence, in this matter, uncle."

"That I shall before a day has passed, but not for the moment. We are face to face now with the most dangerous crisis that has yet occurred. The enemy can strike us down one by one, and nobody shall dream that there is anything beyond a series of painfully sudden deaths. Failure of the heart's action the doctors would call it. That is all."

At that moment Tchigorsky returned to the room. No longer was he in the disguise of an Indian. Perhaps he had donned it to surprise Geoffrey; perhaps he was just discarding the disguise after putting it to some practical use. To him Ralph repeated all that Geoffrey had said.

He followed with the most rapt and most careful attention.

"Danger, indeed," he said gravely, "the danger that moves unseen on the air, and strikes from out of nothingness. I prophesied something like this, Ralph."

"Ay, my friend," Ralph replied, "you did. But not quite the same way."

"Because I did not know that fortune had placed the medium so close at hand. Where are the bees?"

Geoffrey was listening intently. Up to now he had failed to understand why his story had moved Ralph so profoundly. And what could the bees have to do with it? Yet Mrs. May had mentioned bees.

"They are in two hives outside the morning-room window," said Ralph. "The bees are Vera's pets, and they thrive for the most part along the flower borders of the terrace. They are ordinary bees."

"In the ordinary bar-frame hives of course?"

"Oh, yes, they are quite up to date. You can see the insects working and all that kind of thing. The hives can be moved."

"I suppose they are a nuisance occasionally?" Tchigorsky asked.

"Yes," Geoffrey smiled. "We have all been stung now and again."

Tchigorsky appeared to be satisfied on that head. He smoked a whole cigarette while he revolved a plan in his mind.

"It is necessary to get the whole family out of the way for a time," he said slowly. "It will be necessary to do so without delay. Unless I am greatly mistaken, the mischief has already been done. Ralph, can you induce your father and the whole family to go away for a time—say till after dark?"

"Perhaps," Ralph replied. "But not without explaining, and it is impossible to do that. But Geoffrey might manage it. Unless he does manage it one or more of us will pay the penalty before daybreak."

"I will do anything you desire," Geoffrey cried eagerly.

"Then go to your grandfather and get him to arrange a picnic over to Alton Keep. It is a perfect day, and it will be possible to remain out till dark, returning to a late supper. I know the suggestion sounds absurd—childish in the circumstances—but it will have to be done. Say that there is a great danger in the castle which has to be removed. Say that nobody is to know anything about it. Go."

Geoffrey went at once. He found the head of the family in the library trying to interest himself in a book. He looked up as Geoffrey entered, and a slight smile came over his worn face. There were two people in the house who could do anything with him—Geoffrey and Vera.

"You look as if you wanted something," he said.

"I do," Geoffrey replied. "I want you to do me a great favor."

"It is granted—granted on the principle that we make the last hours of the condemned criminal as comfortable as possible."

"Then I want you to get up a picnic to-day."

Rupert Ravenspur dropped his glasses on the table. He wondered if this was some new kind of danger, a mysterious form of insanity, brought about by the common enemy.

"I am perfectly serious," Geoffrey said, with a smile. "Not that it is any laughing matter. Dear grandfather, there is a great danger in the house. I don't know what it is, but Uncle Ralph knows, and he has never been wrong yet. It was he who found out all about those dreadful flowers. And he wants the house cleared till dark. Unless we do so, the morning will assuredly see the end of one or more of us."

"Is it a painless death?" the old man asked grimly. "If it is, I prefer to remain here."

"But there is always hope," Geoffrey pleaded. "And you always thinks of us. Won't you do this thing? Won't you say that it is a sudden whim of yours? Mind, everybody is to go, everybody but Uncle Ralph. I shall ride and when I have ridden some distance I shall pretend to have forgotten something. Perhaps you deem me unduly foolish. But I implore you to do this thing."

Rupert Ravenspur hesitated no longer. He always found it hard to resist that young smiling handsome face. Not that he was blind to the folly of the proceedings. On his own initiative he would as soon have danced a hornpipe in the hall.

"I will go and see about it at once," he said.

He had put off his somber air, and assumed a kind of ill-fitting gayety. Gordon Ravenspur and his wife received the suggestion with becoming resignation. To them it was the first signs of a mind breaking down under an intolerable strain. Vera and Marion professed themselves to be delighted.

"It sounds odd," said the latter. "Fancy the doomed and fated Ravenspurs going on a picnic! And fancy the suggestion, too, coming from grandfather!"

Vera looked anxious.

"You don't imagine," she said, "that his mind——"

"Oh, his mind is all right. You can see that from his face. But I expect that the strain is telling on him, and that he wants to get out of himself for a time. Personally, I regard the idea as charming."

The preparations were made, no great matter in so large and well-regulated an establishment as Ravenspur Castle. If the servants were astonished, they said nothing. The stolid coachman sat solemnly on the box of the wagonette; the demure footman touched his hat as he put up the step with the air of a man who is accustomed to do this sort of thing every day.

Geoffrey stood under the big portico and waved his hand.

"You should drive with us," Marion cried.

"And you won't be long?" Vera asked.

"Oh, I am duly impressed with the importance of the occasion," Geoffrey laughed. "My horse will get there almost as soon as you arrive. Call the spaniel."

Tut, the pet spaniel, was called, but no response was made, and finally the party drove off without him. Geoffrey watched the wagonette with a strange sense of unreality upon him. He felt that he could have scoffed at a situation like this in the pages of a novel. And yet it is the truth that is always so improbable.

Our most solemn and most trivial thoughts always run along the grooves of the mind together, and as Geoffrey passed round the house he caught himself wondering where the dog was. He whistled again and again. It was a most unusual thing for Tut to be far from the family. Outside the morning room window the dog lay as if fast asleep.

"Get up, your lazy beast," Geoffrey cried; "after them, sir."

But the dog did not move; he made no sign as Geoffrey cuffed him with the side of his foot. The dog was dead.

He lay still and placid; there was no sign of pain. There was nothing about the carcass to suggest poison. Close by the bees were busy among the flowers. In the hives there seemed to be more noise than usual. Geoffrey opened the windows of the morning-room, leaving the casement flung back behind him. A long claw was put forth to shut it.

"The window must be kept closed," Ralph Ravenspur said quietly. "In fact, I have given orders that every window in the house is to be closed. Why, you will see presently. Did you notice anything as you came along?"

"I was too excited," Geoffrey replied. "I have just found poor Tut outside. The dog has died suddenly. Half an hour ago he was perfectly well, young, full of life and vigor. And now he is dead."

"Lies just outside the window, doesn't he?" Ralph asked.

He seemed to speak callously. A man who had passed through his experiences and emotions was not likely to feel for the loss of a dog. And yet there was intense curiosity in his tone.

"Just outside; close to the hives."

"Ah, yes. He was poisoned, you think?"

"I expect so. And yet where could he get the poison? Nobody comes here. Perhaps it was not poison after all."

A thin smile flickered on Ralph's face.

"Yes, it was," he said; "the dog was poisoned by a bee sting."