It was an hour or more after Larose had bent down over the dead man in the ditch before he was again in the full possession of his senses. The injuries he had received and the varying emotions of the night had been too much for him, and he had just collapsed and fallen where he was.

He had lain in a sort of stupor among the dead leaves, close beside the body, and when at length he opened his eyes, it was to find them within a few inches of a tired, white face, fouled over in blood and mud. He had flung one of his arms, too, as if protectingly, over the head of the dead man and his fingers were sticky, in an unpleasant way.

For a few seconds he stared incredulously at his companion among the leaves, and then with a choke of horror, he snatched his arm away and recoiled in disgust.

Then in a flash everything came back to him. The stone house upon the marsh — the room where he had lain, awaiting death — the coming of Henrik — his path of agony among the sandhills — his firing upon his enemies — and finally his discovery of the bullet hole in the head of the man who was now lying so near to him.

He sat up and began chafing his legs for they were stiff and cold. His head was still hurting, but the pain there was now bearable, and he thought that with an effort he would be able to make his way home to the Abbey. Then he would decide what must he his next move, for there were so many things to consider, and he could not determine anything, off-hand.

He looked mechanically at his wrist to ascertain the time, but instantly remembered that his watch had not been upon him when Henrik was carrying him away. Then, turning again to regard the dead man, he perceived that the latter was now wearing it.

He smiled a grim smile, as he unstrapped it. The way of the world every time. How quickly the wheel of fortune swung over. So soon was the despoiler — despoiled!

But if he did find the watch upon the body — that was the only thing he found, for all the man’s pockets had been emptied and turned inside out.

“And to think what a nerve his murderer had!” he thought wearily. “To stay here and empty his pockets, when at any moment, for all he knew, a dozen enemies might be leaping down upon him over the ditch side!”

He saw where his own bullet had struck the man, through the bone just below the knee.

“Well, I am in no condition now to go over him more thoroughly,” he sighed, “but tomorrow we’ll come and see what we can learn!”

Then an idea struck him, and with the intention of riding away, at the price of much renewed throbbing of his head, he hauled the bicycle up on to the meadow.

But he realised instantly that he would never be able to mount it, for he was too shaky in all his limbs and indeed twice, fell over it in his attempts to raise it up. So he left it where it was and started away on foot.

And he soon found that there was a dreadful pilgrimage before him. His giddiness came back at once, his head throbbed like an engine, and it was agonising even to proceed very slowly, taking only a few stops at a time.

But he plodded on and on, with each hundred yards becoming an eternity of time.

At last it dawned upon him that he would never succeed in reaching the Abbey, and he was half-minded to give up all further struggling, and pass the rest of the night under a hedge. But the air was so cold and chilling that he was afraid with any lying down he might pass into a stupor. He looked at his watch and saw that it was getting on for half-past one.

Then he remembered that it would be much nearer to go to the bungalow where Sir Parry’s housekeeper lived, and he smiled in comical relief at the thought that there, as well as shelter, he would be able to receive treatment for his hurts.

A nurse attendant at a lunatic asylum would certainly know something about blows and bruises, and be able to relieve his pains!

So he turned his steps in the direction of the wood behind Sir Parry’s house and at length was standing before the bungalow where the housekeeper lived.

The place was all in darkness, but one of the windows was open and he called out over the garden fence.

“Mrs. Dilling, Mrs. Dilling, I’m Mr. Larose and I want you.” He could not have shouted loudly if he had wanted to, and his voice was very faint, but the woman heard him, and almost as soon as he had finished speaking had put her head out of the window.

“What is it?” she asked quickly. “What do you want?”

“I’ve been hurt,” replied Larose, “and I feel as if I were almost going to faint,” and he started to totter up the garden path.

A sharp exclamation came from her, and before he had had time to reach the door, it opened and she stood before him, in a dressing-gown.

“I’m sorry ——” he began, and then she caught him in her arms.

Then with all the competence of one who had been trained in a good school, she took everything in hand.

She lifted him up bodily and carried him on to her bed. She lit the lamp with fingers that were perfectly steady. She felt his pulse and gave him two tablespoonfuls of brandy. She partially undressed him and covered him over with blankets. She lit the oil heater and gave him two hot-water bags, one at his feet and one over his heart. She bathed and bandaged his head, and finally brought in a basin of soup and fed him with it herself.

And it was all done without any fuss or bother, and with the thoroughness of one who was delighting in her work. And not only did she do it with thoroughness, but with sympathy as well, for Larose saw her eyes fill with tears as she was bending over his wound.

“Now, you’re not hurt much,” she said cheerfully, “and there’s no bone broken. A good long sleep and you’ll almost be your own self again.”

The detective felt his heart too full for words. Hopeless and in the last stages of exhaustion but a little while ago, he had passed suddenly into peace, comfort and tender care. This gaunt-faced woman was as a mother in her loving-kindness and the gentleness of sweet heart was in the touch of her hands.

A feeling of delicious drowsiness began to creep over him and he seemed to be sinking deeper and deeper into a delightful feather bed. Then all his pains and troubles passed from him and he was unconscious to all the world.

“He’ll do,” nodded the woman as she bent over him. “He’ll sleep now for twelve hours.”

But several times during the night and long after dawn had broken, she crept in to listen to his breathing and feel his pulse. He was, however, quite oblivious to her presence.

Just before half-past seven she locked the doors of the bungalow, and, accompanied by the deaf and dumb girl who lived with her, proceeded to Sir Parry’s house.

But the detective slept on and on and on.

Sir Parry was in a bad humor that morning and directly he set eyes upon his housekeeper he handed her a piece of paper on which was written in precise and neat handwriting, “I shall not be in to dinner to-night, and don’t you forget you are never to come here except during your prescribed hours. I am annoyed with you.”

The woman nodded, pointing with an apologetic gesture, however, to the curtains, but her master only frowned.

“She has no intelligence,” he said out loud, “just the duster and the kettle mind.”

Larose awoke at last and felt very sorry for himself straightaway. His head ached and was very sore. His body ached, too, and he was not certain he had not got a chill. He was very thirsty.

He looked at his watch, but it had stopped, and he could form no idea of the time from the light outside, because the blinds were drawn.

There were a water-bottle and a tumbler upon the table near his bedside, and he reached out and gave himself a long drink.

The housekeeper must have been listening for any movement, for before even he had put the tumbler down, the door opened and she came into the room.

“You are feeling better?” she asked, and then seeing the hesitating look upon the detective’s face, she added quickly, “But, of course, you won’t be feeling too good yet, for the wound will be stiff and sore and your head may ache for days.”

“Never mind my poor head,” said the detective ruefully, as she was proceeding to raise the blinds a little, “tell me, what is the time?”

“Just half-past four,” was the reply, “and you’ve had a nice long sleep. You needed ——”

But Larose had started up in the bed, and was now regarding her with angry eyes. “Half-past four!” he ejaculated. His voice was very stern. “Then you drugged me, Mrs. Dilling.”

“Yes,” she nodded calmly. “I put some luminal in your soup.”

He dropped back weakly upon the pillows. “Good God!” he exclaimed, “but you don’t know what you have done.”

“Oh! yes I do,” she replied, “and I’ve saved you from an absolute breakdown. You were sick unto death when you came here last night.”

She moved over to the bedside and sat down. “I’ve a lot to tell you, Mr. Larose,” she went on, “and I’m going to keep nothing back.” She hardly breathed the next words. “My master intended to poison you yesterday, but I changed the poison for bicarbonate of soda, and that is why you are alive now. Listen to me.”

Two hours later, and when it was quite dark, a very pale-faced and rather tottery Larose was making his way through the little door in the fence that separated Sir Parry’s property from the Abbey grounds.

He was feeling weak and ill, but the expression upon his face was a bright one, and, indeed, he seemed in quite a cheerful frame of mind.

But the moment he had closed the door behind him the cheerfulness all passed and his face puckered into a frown as he looked round.

“What the devil is happening?” he asked himself breathlessly. “Has everyone gone mad?”

And he might well ask, for not only was the Abbey itself a blaze of light, with every window lit up, but in all directions in the grounds, he could see lanterns and torches flashing among the trees.

In dreadful foreboding he raced over to the light that was nearest to him. “What’s happening?” he asked of a man who was beating through some bushes, and he saw he was addressing one of the under-footmen. “I’m the detective from Scotland Yard.”

The man appeared to be in a state of great excitement, and he jerked out, “The little master’s missing, sir. He can’t be found anywhere and we are beating all round the park.”

The heart of the detective almost stopped still. “When did it happen? Tell me quick,” he commanded.

“About twenty minutes ago, sir,” replied the footman. “Not more than that.”

“But tell me all about it,” snapped Larose, “and don’t waste a second. Where was he last seen?”

“He was with Sir Arnold Medway, sir. He had cut his finger and wouldn’t let anyone attend to it. Then Sir Arnold coaxed him into the library and was going to put some plaster upon it, when he found he’d left his glasses in the lounge and went to fetch them. Then when he came back the little boy had disappeared!” The man spoke very quickly. “And we are being sent to search the grounds now, but I don’t see how he could have got out of the Abbey, for the only door that was open at the time was the front door, and one of the gardeners was in the drive just at that time, looking for a trowel that he had dropped, and he is sure no one passed him.”

Larose thought like lightning. The last place where the child was seen was the library! The library was close to the lumber-room! The enemy in the Abbey knew of the existence of the lumber-room and the boarded-up well-chamber behind it! Then if the child had been taken, what was more probable than that he was hidden there! He might have been gagged or silenced somehow, with his kidnapper just waiting until the hue and cry had gone down outside, to return and get him away. Ah! but had the butler finished with the lumber-room and left the door unlocked?

With a nod of thanks to the footman, Larose ran to the cloister door, rejoicing that its key had been among the things that Henrik had returned to his pocket along with the little automatic.

He passed into the Abbey and ran up the long passage to the lumber-room door. It was shut but not locked, and he was inside in two seconds.

He had no torch with him, but quickly striking a match, saw at once that the child was not there. Then, starting to thread his way among the tins and rubbish towards the boarded-up end of the room, as the match flickered and died in his fingers, he suddenly became aware of a smell, other than paint or varnish. It was faint, but distinctly ether-like in its character; it reminded him of a hospital.

“It’s not chloroform or ether,” he panted. “It’s more like ethyl chloride,” and knowing the explosive nature of all ether-like vapors, he refrained from striking another match.

He groped his way warily across the room, with the strange smell certainly becoming no weaker, and then, reaching the boards shutting off the well-chamber, he pushed them quickly apart and dropped on to his hands and knees to pass through. The smell had now become quite strong.

Holding his breath in his excitement, he started to crawl round the sides of the little chamber, and almost immediately was electrified by one of his hands coming in contact with a warm face.

He passed his hands down to the body and with no surprise found that it was a little child. He bent his head down and heard slow and regular breathing. Then in one lightning flash of thought he made up his mind what he would do.

For the moment no one should be told that the child had been found, and he would himself hide him away again. Then, a watch being set upon the well chamber, they would catch at least one of the kidnappers red-handed, as, all unknowing that his secret had been discovered, he would be coming later to take the child.

Yes, that was the right thing to do, for it was imperative, above all things, that everyone involved in the kidnapping should be unmasked. If the child were now at once restored to his mother, then the position would be exactly as it had been before, with the unknown enemy lurking close at hand, and waiting for the opportunity to strike.

He lifted the child tenderly into his arms and groped his way back into the lumber-room. Then, replacing the boards carefully, in a few seconds he was outside and running swiftly down the long passage to the little cloister door.

He let himself out and pushed to the door, without, however, closing it. Then, proceeding for about twenty yards and keeping all the time close to the walls of the Abbey, he laid the little boy down in the middle of a bed of chrysanthemums. Then be raced over to where he saw the searchers were still busy with their lanterns and addressed the first one he came to. He recognised him as one of the gardeners.

“Quick!” he said. “I want you. Put out your lantern and come with me,” and the man, recognising the detective, obeyed at once.

He led him with all speed through the cloister door, and then, at the beginning of the long passage, stopped abruptly and spoke very sternly.

“Now you know I’m a detective from Scotland Yard,” he said. “Well, I’m going to give you a special job to do and you’ll have to keep all your wits about you to do it properly.”

“All right, sir,” said the man, “I’ll do my best.”

The detective went on. “You know the lumber-room up on the left there?”

“Yes, sir, where they keep the paint?”

“Good! then I’m going to leave you to watch that door, for I expect someone may be coming to it any minute, and I want to know who he will be.”

The man spoke in a hoarse whisper. “But I mayn’t be able to see him come, sir, in the dark like this.”

“Oh! you’ll have light enough,” snapped the detective. “There’s the reflection from that light round the corner, over the library door.” An idea came to him suddenly and he added quickly, “and if that light goes out, tip-toe instantly up to the lumber-room and grapple with anyone who comes near. It’ll be the man I want, and you’re to shout and shout until help comes, and you learn then whom you have been holding. You understand? You are not to let him go until there are witnesses present. Myself, I shan’t be gone long, perhaps only a quarter of an hour, but on no account are you to go away until I return.”

The detective left the man on guard, and a few minutes later, along with Sir Parry’s housekeeper, was bending over the little baronet, who was lying upon her bed.

“They’ve given him morphia,” she said in an awe-struck tone, as she lifted up one of his eyelids, “and, look, there is where they put the needle into his arm.” Her face lost a little of its anxiety. “But the pulse and breathing are good and he’s not injured in any way.”

Larose looked her straight in the eyes. “And I can trust you?” he asked sternly. “There’ll be no going back now?”

“You can trust me,” she replied firmly, “and no one shall see him if he’s here a week, for, as I’ve told you, no one ever comes here.” She laid her hand upon the detective’s arm and her anxiety seemed to come back. “But you be careful, Mr. Larose,” she warned. “You ought to be in bed yourself and not rushing about like this.”

“All in the day’s work,” smiled the detective wanly, “and I’m really much stronger than you think. I shall be quite all right, so don’t worry.”

But he was not feeling quite so sure about himself as he hurried back to the Abbey, for the dreadful giddiness was returning, and, altogether, he felt very weak and ill.

He gained the cloister door without meeting anyone, and then, to his consternation, found that he had lost the key. It must have dropped out of his pocket, he thought, as he had been running with the little boy. Anyhow, it was a most unfortunate happening, for now he would have to go right round to the other side of the building to enter by the back door, and the possibility was that he might not now get in unseen by those he was particularly wishing to avoid. He was, however, relieved to find that the big front door was now closed, for no broad beam of light was streaming from it on to the gravelled drive.

But his good fortune was dead out, for just as he was passing the door, it swung open, and Sir Arnold Medway, standing just inside the hall, called out loudly, “Oh! here is Mr. Larose. He’s here. Lady Ardane.”

The detective would have muttered many bad words if he had not been feeling altogether too exhausted to expend any unnecessary breath.

There was now no help for it, and he had to cross into the lounge and become at once the centre of all interest and the cynosure of all eyes.

Everyone in the Abbey seemed to be there, but among the little sea of faces that confronted him, that of Lady Ardane stood out most clearly.

She was standing by her step-father, and deadly pale. It was evident that it was only by a tremendous effort she was restraining herself from tears. The expression upon her face was one of absolute terror, and her eyes were drawn and strained, as if she were already seeing the dead body of her child before her.

But the detective was given no time to indulge in any feelings of pity, for the moment Senator Harvey caught sight of him, he shouted angrily.

“Where have you been, sir? Do you know my grandson cannot be found?”

The detective nodded. “Yes, one of the men has just told me,” he replied very quietly.

“And what were you brought down here for,” went on the Senator furiously, “except to see that they didn’t get him?”

“I can’t be everywhere, Senator Harvey,” said Larose in the same level tones, “and I had to go away upon some inquiries.”

“Inquiries, you dud policeman!” thundered the Senator, “and when you were making them the child was taken. You told my daughter he would be quite safe as long as you were here, and she believed you, but I never did think much of you from the first moment you arrived”— he sneered scoffingly —“with your gold cigarette case and your wonderful ties!” He snapped his fingers together. “Anyhow, we’ve rung up Norwich and told them you’re no good. They’ve got the matter in hand now.”

“We rang up Norwich, Mr. Larose,” explained Lady Ardane with studied calmness, “because we didn’t know where you were and”— she bit upon her lip to express her emotion —“we had no one here to give us any advice.”

“But you ought not to have left the Abbey for so long, Mr. Larose,” broke in Sir Parry sharply. “It was very ill advised and quite inexcusable, and you haven’t told the Senator yet where you’ve been.”

The detective’s great anxiety was to get away as speedily as possible, and he ignored Sir Parry altogether. Instead, he turned to Lady Ardane.

“It’s not hopeless yet,” he said quickly, “and we mustn’t lose heart. The Superintendent at Norwich is a most capable man, and he’ll have had every road blocked within ten minutes of your call. The wretches can’t get very far away.” He put his hand up to his head with a grimace of pain. “I’ve met with a little injury here, but directly I’ve changed my clothes I’ll want to speak to you again.”

He left the lounge in a direction as if he were going up to his room, but, perceiving that no one was following him, turned off in the corridor and made his way as quickly as he could to the passage where he left the gardener on watch. The man was still there and the detective asked breathlessly, “Anyone been?”

“Yes, sir, quite a lot of people,” replied the man. “They came just after you had gone.”

“Then who were they? Tell me, quick,” went on Larose with a dreadful sinking at his heart, for the man had spoken so cheerfully.

“Mr. Polkinghorne, Sir Parry, Senator Harvey, Sir Arnold, one of the new gentlemen whose name I don’t know, and Mr. Lestrange,” rattled off the man as if very pleased with himself for remembering everyone so pat.

“Who came first,” snapped Larose, “and what did he do?”

“They all came together,” was the reply, “with a lantern and torches, and they went inside and I heard them moving the tins about.” He seemed half afraid that he had done something wrong and added hesitatingly, “I didn’t interfere.”

“Of course you ............