At about nine o’clock upon the night of the evening when Larose had burst so unceremoniously into the chamber of Lady Ardane above the racing stables upon Black Gallows, Naughton Jones, accompanied by his two very criminal-looking associates, stalked into the coffee-room of the King’s Arms, in Downham Market as if he were the now proprietor taking over, and demanded a hot supper for three, at once.

There were two men already in the coffee-room, partaking of a cold supper of bread and cheese and onions, when he entered, and they regarded the little party curiously, but Mr. Jones’ friends, notwithstanding the intent scrutiny to which they were subjected, and which made them kick each other slily under the table many times, partook of a highly satisfactory meal of ham and eggs, washed down with copious draughts of good, strong beer.

Proceeding into the yard early the next morning, Jones observed the same two men again, now attending to a motor bicycle outfit in one of the stable stalls, and after hesitating a moment, he turned back into the hotel and made a few enquiries about them from the landlord, the young person behind the bar, the waiter, and the boots.

Then returning into the yard, he found that they had gone away, but that the motor bicycle was still there. However, a few minutes later he overtook them as they were walking along very slowly, just before they arrived at where was situated the police station of the town, and he stopped to address them.

“I beg your pardons,” he said sharply, and as if he were speaking to inferiors, “but are you by any chance waiting for a Mr. Gilbert Larose?”

The men seemed as surprised as if they had received a very sudden and unexpected slap in the face, and then the older of the two asked gruffly, “What the devil do you mean?”

Jones made a careless motion with his hand. “You have a motor bicycle outfit of the make used generally by the authorities, you walk like policemen upon a beat, and it is is my opinion that you are plain-clothes men from the Yard. Also, I have learnt that the morning before last you were closeted for more than an hour with a gentleman whose description exactly tallies to that of my friend, Mr. Larose.” He spoke as if the matter were quite settled. “Therefore, I take it for granted that you are now waiting for him.”

The men appeared staggered. “Who are you,” asked the one who had spoken before, “and what business is it of yours?”

“My name is Naughton Jones,” was the haughty reply, “and if my surmises are correct, kindly follow me into the station here. I may be able to be of service to you, and you may not be without service to me.”

Without a word then, they followed him into the police station, and soon all three were in the presence of the inspector there.

“I am Naughton Jones,” announced Jones grandly, “and I am close upon the heels of the gang who recently abducted Lady Helen Ardane, of Carmel Abbey, also, if I am not mistaken, upon the heels of the Antwerp–Rotterdam coterie of illicit drug traffickers, too.” He bowed gravely. “I require your assistance in effecting the arrests.”

The inspector thrilled at his words. Downham Market was a well-behaved little town, the chief offenders against the law there being, in the main, drunks, and small boys who were caught riding bicycles at night without lights. So prospects of distinction and promotion for him were, in consequence, never at any time bright, but the world famous case of the abduction of the beautiful Lady Ardane and the rounding-up of a dope-traffic gang — ah! those were very different offences altogether, and might alter the whole course of his life.

He knew Naughton Jones, well by reputation, and association with that great investigator would be another feather in his cap. So, he listened with profound attention.

“The matter is quite straightforward,” went on Jones. “I——” He hesitated. “Mr. Larose and I were going through a house upon the sands of Holkham Bay, where certain members of the gang who were concerned in the abduction had been hiding, and I came upon two recently-purchased books of an unusual and abstruse character. Then from certain facts that I deduced, I traced the purchase of these books to a shop in Cambridge, and learnt that they had been despatched to a Mr. C. Lamb, at the Southery Post Office, seven miles from here. Yesterday, however, upon making enquiries, I was informed by the young woman in charge there that she had no knowledge at all of this Mr. Lamb. As far as she knew, she had never seen him, and certainly did not know where he resided, but she remembered the coming of the books most distinctly and that they had been called for by a Thomas Jowles, whom she knows quite well, and who keeps the inn at the little village of Methwold.”

“I know him, too,” broke in the Inspector grimly. “He’s a fellow of not too good a character and we’ve had trouble with him several times. Trading after hours, etc., and suspected of being a poacher.”

“Well, the matter is very simple,” said Jones. “We have only to learn from him where this C. Lamb is living and raid the premises, and without doubt we shall find both Lady Ardane and Sir Parry Bardell there.” He looked sharply at the inspector. “You are the Clerk of Petty Sessions here and can issue a search warrant.”

‘The inspector nodded. “Yes, I can issue a warrant all right”— he hesitated —“but how, Mr. Jones, do you connect this Mr. Lamb so positively with the abductors of Lady Ardane?”

Naughton Jones spoke very sharply. “I have seen him, sir,” he replied, “in company with certain members of the gang, before, however, we were aware that they were the gang. He is a tall, spare man, with a long face and big nose, and ——”

“Ah!” broke in Hale, the elder of the two men who had been accompanying Larose, “that’s the man we’re after, tall, long face, and big nose.” He turned excitedly to the inspector. “It’s quite all right. We can go straight ahead.”

“Of course it’s all right,” snapped Jones, “or I shouldn’t be here.” He looked impressively at the inspector. “I know this Lamb personally, sir, and when disguised, have actually spoken to him. One of the men who was with them is called Prince, and he is wanted for the murder of that unknown man who was found shot upon that ditchside on the Fakenham road last week.” He turned round to Hale. “And where is Mr. Larose?”

“We don’t know, sir,” replied Hale, looking very troubled, “and are getting quite anxious about him. We last saw him the day before yesterday and were to have met him the same evening at six o’clock, but he didn’t turn up. We know, however, in which direction he was going and have traced him up to within two miles of Swaffham. He was enquiring at all the garages for a party who had recently purchased two valve-caps for a grey Jehu car, but he doesn’t appear to have reached Swaffham, for none of the garages report any enquiries having been made there. Our only hope is that he went to one particular garage, the proprietor of which is at present away, and learnt what he wanted to know there, but we shan’t be able to get in touch with this man until tomorrow.” He took out his handkerchief and wiped over his forehead. “It looks an ugly business to me.”

The inspector was a man of action, and rose at once to his feet. “How many men do you think we shall want, Mr. Jones!”

“I have two,” replied Jones. “There are these gentlemen here,” he nodded. “Come yourself, and bring three others. Can you raise them, or should we ring up King’s Lynn!”

“No, no, I’ve got them,” exclaimed the inspector, quickly, and anxious that at all costs the matter should not pass out of his hands. “That will make nine of us altogether. Meet me in ten minutes at the west end of the town.”

“And come armed,” said Jones significantly, as he prepared to leave the room. “Truncheons will not be sufficient here.”

Less than three-quarters of an hour later then, two cars and the motor bicycle outfit pulled up, by prearrangement, about a hundred yards short of the Methwold Inn, kept by one Thomas Jowles, licensed to sell beer, wines, spirits and tobacco.

“I’ll go in with one of my assistants,” said Jones, “and then if the fellow has anything to hide, he won’t, perhaps, be quite so much upon his guard as if we all appear together,” and so, accompanied by Bloggs, the one time Limehouse Bruiser, he made at once for the inn.

The tap-room was unoccupied except for a big, heavy-looking man who was reading a newspaper behind the bar. He was unshaven and rather dirty-looking. His face was large and full, and he had small eyes, set very close together. He rose leisurely to his feet when the two appeared.

“Mr. Jowles, I presume,” said Jones very politely.

“Yes,” nodded the man, “I’m Thomas Jowles,” and he gave a hard intent stare at his visitors.

“Well, we’re not exactly customers,” explained Jones, “but we may be after you have answered a question or two.” He spoke very casually. “You know Mr. Lamb, I believe?”

The man’s face puckered instantly into a frown and he looked quickly from Jones to his companion, who, according to instructions, was standing in the background.

“Lamb!” he exclaimed slowly, and as if he were putting a great tax upon his memory. He shook his head. “No, I don’t know any gent of that name.”

“He’s tall and slight, with a long face and rather big nose,” went on Jones, still speaking quite casually.

“No, I’ve never heard of him,” said the innkeeper convincingly. “Of course, I may have seen him, but I’m a bad one at all times for faces and I get a lot of strangers in here.”

“Think again, Mr. Jowles,” said Jones sternly, and with all the pleasantry now gone out of his tones. “You remember him all right.”

“No, I don’t,” said the man doggedly. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“Then why,” asked Jones very slowly, and raising a warning finger to emphasise his words, “did you, three weeks ago, last Tuesday, pick up a parcel of books from the Southery Post Office, addressed to a Mr. C. Lamb?”

The man’s face became as black as thunder. “I never picked up any parcel for anyone,” he blustered, “and he’s a ruddy liar who says I did.”

“But the young woman in the Post Office remembers the incident most clearly,” snapped Jones, “and it’s no good your attempting to deny it.”

A crafty look came into the man’s face. “Then does this Mr. Lamb accuse me of stealing it?” he asked. “If so, bring him here and I’ll deal with him myself.” He sneered. “You’re not this Mr. Lamb, apparently.” and ducking under the counter of the bar, he advanced threateningly towards Naughton Jones, remarking coarsely at the same time, “Get out.”

Whereupon the exbruiser thought it time to take part in the conversation, and in a round of extreme brevity stretched the innkeeper upon the floor. Then when the great investigator was examining the extent of the man’s injuries, Bloggs ducked under the counter in his turn, and with a skill and dexterity born of long practice, absorbed ‘two pints’ in the twinkling of an eye. He was back again behind his master before the latter had pronounced that the landlord was all right, and safe, now, to be allowed to recuperate by himself.

Leaving the inn, Jones crossed over to a little general shop upon the other side of the road and made some enquiries that heartened him considerably, and in no small measure compensated for the disappointing interview at the inn. The woman there knew nothing of the names of any cars, but she had many times seen a tall man, with a long face, drive up to the inn in a grey-colored one and stop there for quite a long time. She had no idea who he was, but pointed out the direction from which he always came.

Returning to the waiting cars, Jones reported all that had happened. “But we are hot upon the trail,” he added confidently, “and the gang are close here. Now follow me, for I have another good card to play.”

At the first turning, then, off the tarred road, he stopped his car and the others followed suit. “Where does this road lead to?” he asked the inspector. “It looks pretty muddy and as if it isn’t often used.”

“It’s a by-road to Feltwell village,” replied the inspector, “but very few people take it, because the surface is always bad. There’s only one place you pass on the way and that’s a farm called Black Gallows, belonging to a man named Fensum.”

“Who is he,” asked Jones, “do you know anything about him!”

“Not much,” was the reply, “but I’ve been there once about two Alsatian dogs he’s got. There were complaints that they had been straying and killing sheep, but I couldn’t bring it home to them.”

“Well, you all get out,” ordered Jones quickly, “and we’ll go down this road and look for the imprint of a nearly new tyre that has got one square in the middle of its tread almost cut away. I shaved it down low myself, and it ought to show up clearly in this mud. It’s a Nathan cover with the lines of boldly cushioned squares. It’s the offside wheel and upon the car of the man we want.”

They all jumped out on to the road and walking in line, with their eyes glued upon the surface, proceeded slowly along.

“A car’s been here quite recently,” said Jones, after a moment, “but it isn’t the one we want. Its tyres are much too small.”

Nothing happened for about a hundred yards, and then one of the plainclothes men called out gleefully, “Hullo! here’s something that looks like it. There’s a square missing here.”

They all bent over the imprint he indicated and then the face of Jones flushed deeply, but he remarked quite calmly, “Yes, that’s it, and there’s another and another, still.” He looked round with an exultant smile. “I have my methods and they seldom fail. On to this Black Gallows, my friends.”

They jumped back in great excitement into their cars and proceeded quickly along the road, but they had not gone very far before they came upon a man standing by a car that was stationary close near a plantation of small trees. They all slowed down as they approached and then the man by the car called out, “Hullo! Inspector Bain. Stop, please. I want you.” His face was very anxious. “Are you by any chance looking for the detective, Gilbert Larose?”

Explanations quickly followed, and then the man jumped back into his own car, with the inspector now taking a seat beside him.

“But it’s lucky we met you, Hart,” said the latter, as the car drove swiftly on. “This business looks very bad to me, with Mr. Larose now missing for nearly forty-eight hours.”

They reached the gate leading on to Black Gallows and the expoliceman of Hoxton gave his orders quickly as if he were now leader of the party.

“We must rush them,” he said, “and go straight round to the far side of the farmhouse. That’s the only direction in which they can break away, for it’s quite possible they may have boards ready to throw across the narrow dykes. So all of us in the cars will go round to the front, but you”— he pointed to the plain-clothes men in the sidecar outfit —“stop directly you get near the outbuildings and cut off an escape from that way. I think there’ll be six or seven to account for.”

The cars went like the wind, and Naughton Jones’ dilapidated-looking Goat, goaded on to fury by the pressure upon its accelerator, avalanched over the ground for all the world as if it were upon exhibition before an intending purchaser.

Fortune favored the raiders, for it so happened that Lamb and the man with the big scar across his forehead were at that very moment adjusting the carburetter of the Jehu, and with their heads close together under the bonnet, were roaring up the engine to get the adjustment correct. So they heard nothing of the rush of the oncoming cars until they were just upon them, and then, too astonished to make any attempt at escape, they were pounced upon by the Downham Market men.

“Handcuff them,” roared Jones in a voice of thunder, “that’s Lamb and the other one is at all events consorting with criminals.”

Then with the two manacled at once and with no parley, Jones, the Inspector and Hart rushed round to the front door. They met Roy Fensum, coming out with another man close behind him. The two had evidently been partaking of morning lunch, for the latter was holding a slice of bread and butter in his hand.

Jones flourished a big revolver. “Hands up!” he shouted, “and no tricks,” and then pointing to Fensum whose face had turned a ghastly yellow under its tan, he gasped excitedly, “But, who’s that?”

“He’s the owner of the farm,” replied the Inspector, “Roy Fensum.”

“No, no, he’s not,” shouted Jones exultingly, “and clap the darbies on him at once, for he’s wanted, at all events, for breaking his ticket-of-leave.” He laughed scornfully. “It’s no good your trying to screw up your face, Joe, for it won’t deceive me.” He turned to the Inspector. “He’s an old lag, sir, Joseph Minting Shaver, and in 1919 got fifteen years for burglary when carrying a revolver, but he was released some six years ago and has never reported since.” He rubbed his hands together delightedly. “Yes, it was I who traced him to a house in Shoreditch and put the police on him. Didn’t I, Joe?”

The man’s face was in a muck sweat, and neither he nor his companion made any resistance.

“Now where have all you beauties got Lady Ardane and Sir Parry Bardell tucked away?” asked Jones sternly. He shook his fist in Fensum’s face. “By heaven, if any harm’s come to them you’ll ——”

But suddenly there came the sound of a swiftly approaching car, and looking round, they saw one drive up, almost stop, and then after a very white face had peered out through the window, turn almost in its own length and start to race off at a great pace back along the way it had just come.

“After him!” shrieked Naughton Jones. “He’s Clive Huntington and one of the worst of the gang. He’s wanted for the murder of Bernard Daller, the airman.”

The plain-clothes men from the Yard jumped into their outfit and started off in pursuit.

“No chance!” wailed Jones despairingly. “It’s going eighty, and they’ll never catch it,” and then his eye fell upon a rifle standing in the porch. He made a snatch for it, and his face became transfigured. “It’s loaded,” he gasped. He dropped upon one knee and his breath came in quick jerks. “I was a crack shot once.”

Then with a supreme effort he calmed himself down. His muscles became taut, and then unstrained and under perfect control. In five seconds he was as steady as a rock. He looked down the sights and smiled a cold grim smile.

An intense moment followed. Then — bang went the rifle, bang and bang again. “Got him,” he said calmly, “in one of the back tyres!”

Then a report almost as loud as the rifle reached them, and the swiftly racing car was seen to describe a dreadful curve. The wheels of one side rose up and for a few seconds hovered in the air. Then the car turned completely over and slid its own length along the ground in a dense cloud of smoke.

The side-car men raced up and were just in time to grab hold of Clive Huntington, who was climbing, badly shaken but unhurt, through one of the windows.

Naughton Jones wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “But I was runner-up for the King’s Prize at Bisley once,” he remarked carelessly to the astounded spectators, “and after this, if I could spare the time, I almost think I would be inclined to compete again.” He nodded. “Yes, when Daller was murdered four days ago, his murderer was careless and left plenty of fingerprints behind him, but the authorities did not know whose they were, until I sent up a print of Huntington’s, and then a warrant was issued for this gentleman at once.”

In the meantime Larose and Lady Ardane, with quickly-beating hearts, had been aware that something very unusual was happening, but the detective, suspecting a ruse, had not ventured to look out of the window. Earlier in the morning he had cautiously lifted the little mirror off the dressing table and had held it just above the window sill in order to see if anyone were still on guard outside, and within ten seconds it had been smashed to atoms and the glass all scattered over the room. That experience had made him chary of taking further risks, and so they had just sat waiting patiently through all the roar of the cars that they had heard.

But when they heard the rifle shots at some distance from where they were, and the resounding bang of the bursting tyre, Larose became convinced that they must do something.

“I’ve got an idea,” he said, with the cheerfulness that he had kept up all along. “We’ll hang one of the sheets off your bed out of the window and they can bang away at that as much as they want to,” and so in a few seconds the sheet had been swung over the window sill and was flapping as a signal of distress in the wind.

So almost immediately it came about that Hale, returning with Clive Huntington handcuffed in the side-car, caught sight of the sheet and, depositing his prisoner with the Downham Market officers, instantly rode over to see what it meant.

To his amazement, then, the machine almost ran over a man who was lying prone in the long grass before the stables. The man had got a rifle by his side, but he was so cowed by all that he had seen happening around him, that, although he refused to give any reason for his being there, he allowed himself to be marched off a prisoner to the farmhouse. Then Hale returned at once to where the sheet was hanging out.

“Hullo! hullo!” he shouted, “who’s up there? Is that you, Mr. Larose?” and to his unbounded delight Larose put his head out of the window, and, too overcome to speak, waved his hand. Then the end of everything came very quickly, and in a few minutes Lady Ardane and Larose were seated at the table in the farmhouse, and surrounded by friendly and sympathetic faces, partaking of hot coffee and bread and butter.

But the food almost choked Lady Ardane. She wanted to be away by herself and weep oceans and oceans of tears, but she saw that Larose was suffering, too, and for his sake kept herself under control. Her mind was bruised and lacerated, and she thought that surely it would never be at peace again, but her heart was whispering a great secret to her, and if she wept, she knew it would not all be for grief.

Naughton Jones was in great form, and time after time congratulated the Downham Market inspector upon the captures that had been made. “A small thing, my services,” he observed magnificently, “and all the credit may be yours. My reputation is well-known and I would wish that no undue stress be laid upon the information that I was able to give you.” He raised his hand warningly. “But search every nook and cranny of this place and I shall be very much surprised if you do not obtain most clear and certain evidence of the illicit-drug traffic that I am positive has been carried on from here.” A thought seemed suddenly to strike him. “But there is yet one man unaccounted for, and I would have dearly liked you to have got him.” He turned sharply to Larose. “By-the-bye, have you seen anything of that fellow Prince? Prince is, of course, only his nickname. They call him that because of his dandified appearance.” He spoke carelessly. “He is Clive Huntington’s brother, Rupert.”

Larose looked very astonished.

“Yes,” he replied, lowering his voice and hoping that Lady Ardane should not hear, “I had a little argument with him yesterday in one of the sheds of the stable, where the hay loft is.”

Naughton Jones glanced round at the company generally and smiled a slow, grim smile. “And if I know anything of Mr. Larose’s little talks,” he remarked loudly, ............