WHEN Larose, as had been arranged, rang up the Embassy that night, he was told to come round as soon as he could, and he arrived half an hour later. Then, being admitted as before by the servants’ entrance in the basement, he was passed on to another attendant who, without a word, led him along a long passage and down a flight of stairs into a dimly-lighted passage at the bottom.

Then, so suddenly that he had not the slightest warning, someone sprang upon him out of the darkness; he felt gripping hands all over him and he was thrown violently down and pressed tightly to the ground.

A light was switched on and he found himself in the grip of three burly men. A fourth produced a rope and he was quickly tied hand and foot.

Then he was lifted up and carried a short distance into a small room and deposited upon a bed there.

And all the time not a cry had been uttered and not a word spoken. It was like some dreadful dream. Then, after they all inspected the knots, one of his captors said something in a language he did not understand and the other two at once left the room, closing the door behind them. The one who had spoken seated himself down in a chair and lighting a cigarette, proceeded to regard him thoughtfully.

Larose was covered in a chilling perspiration and a feeling of horrid sickness was stealing over him. It was not only that he realised he was in dreadful danger, but his mortification at being found out was an absolute physical torture to him.

He saw the man was staring hard at him, but he would not give him the satisfaction of refusing to answer any questions and so he did not speak himself.

A long silence ensued, a deep heavy silence with not a sound penetrating in from the outside world. A chamber of death, thought Larose, and with an icy shiver his thoughts ran on to visualise possibilities even worse than death.

He was in the hands of men whose actions, the world over, had proved them to be of an inhuman cruelty, times without number. In the furthering of debased ideals there was no form of suffering they were not prepared to inflict upon those who stood in their way.

So what now might be going to happen to him? Either as punishment for the way he had deceived them, or if they thought he had secrets which it was desirable they should learn, then he might as soon expect mercy from a beast of the jungle as from them.

The door opened without a sound and von Ravenheim, followed by a man carrying a small box, stepped into the room. The ambassador came over to the bed and stood looking down upon Larose.

His face was calm and expressionless, but his eyes were hard as steel. “You are Gilbert Larose,” he said quietly, “and you have told me untruths.” He paused a moment. “I intend to find out why.”

Larose did not speak. It would be no good, he told himself! He would not be able to bluff the man any more!

Von Ravenheim went on: “I do not suppose you will speak unless I compel you!” He paused again. “Then I shall have to make you.”

He made a sign to the man behind him and the latter, placing the box upon the table, occupied himself with some preparations, the nature of which Larose could not see. Von Ravenheim moved over to the table and stood watching what was going on.

Now, in after years, Larose could never recollect anything of what his thoughts were in the long minute which followed. Indeed, he did not think he could have had any thoughts at all. The horror of everything was too great and his brain must have been numbed.

But he always remembered that he awoke to concrete thought the instant he saw the man approaching him with a hypodermic syringe in his hand. “What are you going to do to me?” he cried. “What are you going to do?”

No one gave him any answer, but he saw that von Ravenheim’s face was no longer expressionless, and that he was now smiling a cruel and evil smile.

Larose started to struggle violently in an endeavor to throw himself off the bed, but the third man instantly darted forward and held him down. Von Ravenheim gave no assistance to the men, keeping his distance as if Larose were too loathsome a thing to touch.

“Slap his face hard if he doesn’t keep still,” said the ambassador, and a stinging blow from a heavy hand made Larose realise how useless it was to keep up the struggle. He relaxed and lay still.

Then the sleeve of his coat was pulled up and he felt a prick just above his wrist, and a few moments later the two men withdrew from the bed.

“It will take a little while to act,” said von Ravenheim, speaking in Baltic to the two men, “but when you see he’s unconscious you can take off the ropes. Then exactly twelve hours from now he’s to be given another dose, but of only half the strength. You understand?”

At first Larose thought nothing was going to happen to him, but very soon a dreadful, heavy feeling began to creep over him. The room began to grow dark, gradually the darkness deepened and finally his last thoughts of his wife and little son were blotted out. He lay as one who was dead.

London was breakfasting the next morning when he had awakened, and was fully conscious again. Both physically and mentally he was in the lowest depth of misery. His head was aching terribly and he felt horribly giddy. His limbs were heavy as lead.

His prospects could not be darker. There was not a ray of hope anywhere. He had taken no one into his confidence and no one had known where he was going. So when he was dead — a shudder convulsed him as he thought of this — what had happened to him would never be known to anyone. He would have just been blotted out.

In a numb, half-registering way he took in the appointments of the room, dimly lighted by one small globe at the far end. It had no windows and was ventilated by a shaft. It contained very little furniture. At the far end there was an alcove enclosing a bath.

Too sick at heart to have any desire to think of anything, he was just about to close his eyes again when he heard the opening of the door and saw three men come into the room. Two of them were his captors of the previous night and the third was the man who had given him the hypodermic injection. The latter had his box with him again.

“God!” exclaimed Larose, so weak and miserable that he could easily have burst into tears. “Are you going to give me that awful stuff again?”

But no reply was made, and, as before, the man with the box made his preparations upon the table. Then the three men came over to the bed, and two of them held him roughly down. He made no resistance, however, and the injection was made quickly in perfect silence. Immediately after, they all left the room.

A quarter of an hour later he had lapsed into semi-unconsciousness again.

The Baltic ambassador was a bachelor; and it was an unmarried sister who acted as hostess at the Embassy. She was an aristocratic-looking woman in the middle forties and of a very reserved and cold disposition. It was rumored she had been the victim of an unhappy love affair in her youth and for a time had lost her reason. She hated all social functions, but endured them.

There was not much affection between brother and sister, and she took very little interest in his work. She never questioned him nor appeared curious about anything. She showed no enthusiasm even for her own country and read the newspapers as little as possible. Her one interest in life was painting; and, with no real gift that way, she yet devoted all her leisure to her art.

To her brother she was just the automatically competent housekeeper of the Embassy and that was all.

So it was she who received Cecily and Hilda Castle when they arrived that afternoon. Her brother had told her they were daughters of an influential friend of his and were to be her guests until the following day. She had made no comment, but had seen to it that everything was ready for them.

The Embassy was a large building of early Victorian days, but all the upper part of it had been modernised and the two girls were given a small, compact suite of four rooms upon the second floor consisting of a sitting-room, and two bedrooms, with a bathroom in between.

Fraulein von Ravenheim presided over tea and for a few minutes they were alone with her, with conversation flagging and difficult. But soon the ambassador, accompanied by Herr Blitzen came into the room and the former being introduced, the atmosphere became much less strained.

Certainly, Herr Blitzen appeared to be very thoughtful and spoke very little; but von Ravenheim was most animated and both the girls were at once charmed with him. He was so good-looking, his manners were so courtly and it was evident he was so desirous of being friendly to them.

He took them both in with appreciating eyes, and especially Cecily. He soon formed the opinion that if it were little short of a calamity that his superior should have become so infatuated with her, he could nevertheless quite understand. The girl was not only very pretty and most fascinating to look upon, but her intelligence was also of a high order.

So quite aware that Blitzen was watching him intently, he let him see plainly that as far as the girl herself was concerned, he was regarding her with feelings of admiration.

Presently he said smilingly, “Now, I understand that neither of you speaks our language. Well”— he bowed —“forgive me if I make a private remark to Herr Blitzen,” and, taking their consent for granted, he turned to Herr Blitzen.

“She is a very beautiful young woman, your Excellency,” he said impressively in Baltic, “and any man would fall in love with her. She is not only beautiful, but most intelligent as well.” There was a note of warning in his tones. “So you be very cautious, sir, or she may find out far more than you want her to know.”

Cecily had crimsoned, “But that wasn’t polite, Herr von Ravenheim,” she said reprovingly. “You may have been saying something very disparaging about us.”

“Not at all,” laughed the ambassador. “I’m sure I couldn’t think of anything disparaging, however long I thought.” He rose to his feet. “But come on now. I’ll take you to see our paintings. They were all gifts to us and we are very proud of them.”

He led them into a large and lofty room. “This is our banqueting-hall,” he explained, “and many great men have had their knees under its table, emperors, kings, soldiers, statesmen, artists and people renowned in all walks of life,” he waved his arm round the walls and added reverently, “and the men and women in those immortal paintings have looked down upon them.”

“Immortal!” laughed Cecily. “But they can’t last for ever!”

“But the stories of them will,” smiled von Ravenheim, “and for all time the world will remember their creators.” He pointed to a large painting. “Look, that was painted by Holbein in 1530. It is the portrait of a soldier,” he laughed. “I am sorry to say that of an English soldier; but then Holbein was living here at the time. See how he has caught the man’s expression, the confidence of the true fighting man, the courage and the contempt of danger and the determination to kill his enemy.”

“But it’s a rather cruel face!” said Cecily. “He doesn’t look as if he’d ever have any pity!”

“And he shouldn’t!” exclaimed von Ravenheim emphatically. “It is his mission to destroy.” He spoke reverently. “He is a fighter for his country.”

“Well, the painting is wonderful, of course,” admitted Cecily, “but I should prefer a nicer looking subject.”

The ambassador shook his head. “All of us, according to how we are made,” he smiled. “Myself, I confess that soldier’s face is often an inspiration to me.” He pointed to another painting. “See, Holbein again, a young girl this time. Very beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yes, she’s lovely!” exclaimed Cecily. “What a wonderful painter Holbein was!”

“Marvellous!” breathed von Ravenheim. He sighed, “And he lies buried in St. Paul’s, you know, far from his home.” He spoke banteringly. “One day, when we conquer this country of yours, we shall take back his dust to the land where he was born.”

They looked at the other paintings, and then von Ravenheim took them into his study. They inspected some engravings there, all of war-like subjects, and then he said —“Now I’m going to give you another treat. I’ll show you our silver plate and, like our paintings, much of it is very old.” He took a bunch of keys out of a pigeon-hole in his desk and led them to a large cupboard let into the wall. “We have to take great care of this plate because it is all so portable, if burglars ever broke in.”

The silver was certainly very beautiful, and the girls were unstinting in their admiration. “But really,” said Cecily, “the treasures you have in this Embassy must be rather an anxiety to you. Aren’t you afraid any of them may get stolen? Don’t you ever worry about burglars?”

Von Ravenheim shook his head. “Not much; we have a watchman on the ground floor at night, and he is armed.” He nodded. “All our men servants here can use a pistol, and they get practice at a little shooting range we have.”

“A shooting range!” exclaimed Cecily. “Is there one in the Embassy?”

“Certainly!” smiled the ambassador. “It’s below the basement. I’ll take you there if you like and you shall fire a pistol.”

“How thrilling,” exclaimed Cecily. “Yes, I’d like to see it very much.”

So down in the lift the four of them went. Herr Blitzen grateful for the intimacy which the cramped quarters of the lift conferred upon them.

The girls appeared most interested in the shooting gallery, and each of them fired a few shots. They applauded, too, when both of the men scored a bulls-eye.

Returning along the passage, they walked in front. Then, passing a closed door upon their way, they heard von Ravenheim say something in Baltic to Blitzen, and the latter made a short comment.

Going up in the lift again, Cecily said the fumes from the cartridges in the shooting-gallery had made her feel a little faint. She certainly did look a little pale, and so they went straight up to their room to rest until dinner.

Then the moment they were alone and the door closed behind them, Cecily said breathlessly to her sister. “Did you hear what they said as they passed that door, that someone called Larose was in the room there?”

Her sister nodded. Her face had paled too, as she added, “And that he was going to be questioned tonight. There would be some doctor present.”

A long silence followed, with the girls staring at each other. Then Cecily said quietly, “We’ve not had all our wits about us, Hilda. I told you at Wickham Towers that I was suspicious about that Mr. Wheatley there, and thought I knew his face, and now I’m certain about it. He was that Gilbert Larose, who married Lady Ardane, and we had met him at Brighton, two Christmases ago!” Her eyes opened very wide and she made a startled “O— oh!” She could hardly speak in her excitement. “And he was at the Arragon Hotel, too, soon after we came there.”

Another silence followed and then her sister said slowly, “Yes, he was, but he hadn’t got a moustache then! He was that man who was always sitting in the lounge.”

“Oh, Hilda,” asked Cecily, “what does it mean?”

Hilda spoke very solemnly. “It means, dear, that he’s been caught. We know he sometimes does work for the Secret Service and so, probably, he’s been working for them now, and been found out.”

“But could he possibly have discovered anything about us?” suggested Cecily. She went on quietly. “But we mustn’t stop to think about that now. He’s here, a prisoner in the Embassy.”

“Of course, he’s a prisoner,” said Hilda sharply. “Only a prisoner would be shut up in those cellars! Yes, he’s been decoyed here. That’s what it is.” She nodded meaningly. “And tonight he’s going to be”— she stressed the last word —“questioned!”

The two girls looked hard at each other again, as if not liking to put their thoughts into words. Then Hilda went on. “Well, we must tell them outside. We must let somebody know.”

Cecily heaved a big sigh and then shook her head. “Not if we can help it, and only as a last resource!” she said. “Let’s think if we can’t do something ourselves!”

It was a bright and lively dinner that night; and both the girls had several glasses of champagne. Fraulein von Ravenheim hardly spoke a word, but the conversation between the other four was most animated. They discussed art, literature and music, but politics were not mentioned.

Towards the end of the meal Cecily suddenly discovered she was without a handkerchief, and with a smiling little apology, rose up and left the room.

But the smile faded instantly from her face when she was in the corridor. She drew in one deep breath and then started to run swiftly towards the ambassador’s study. The whole floor seemed to be deserted and she gained the room without encountering anyone.

She found his bunch of keys at once and hurried to the lift as quick as lightning. It was standing against that floor and, opening and closing the gate with only the very faintest of clicks, she pressed the button and was carried down as far as the lift would go. She stepped into the dimly-lighted passage and raced towards the shooting gallery. Then, to her horror, she was not certain which door von Ravenheim had indicated when they had overheard what he had said. All the doors were exactly alike.

But it was all or nothing now, and she started to rap sharply at them one by one.

“Anyone there?” she called out breathlessly. “Are you there, Mr. Larose?”

At the first two doors she heard nothing, but from behind the third came the sound of a weak voice. She could not catch what the speaker said, but, chancing it, she began feverishly trying the keys upon the bunch. There were not many of them, and the third one turned inside the lock and she pushed the door open.

She stepped into the room and saw a man sitting up on a narrow bed. His hair was dishevelled, his face was white and haggard, and he stared at her with frightened eyes.

For a moment she thought it was not the man she wanted. He looked so different from the trim and spruce figure she remembered at Wickham Towers, but he smiled weakly and then she recognised him at once.

“Good God!” he exclaimed incredulously. “It’s you.”

“Quick!” she exclaimed. “There’s not a moment to lose. Come along.”

Larose started to rise to his feet, but instantly he swayed and would have fallen if she had not darted forward and caught him.

“Can’t you walk?” she asked despairingly.

The man clasped his arms over his chest. “Wait a moment,” he replied breathing heavily. “I’m half drugged, but I’ll manage it!” His eyes fell upon the bunch of keys in her hand. “Here,” he exclaimed, his voice gathering force, “you open the door two doors further from this. It’s a shooting gallery. The switch is on the left! You’ll see some drawers right in front of you and there are pistols inside. Bring me one and some cartridges.”

“But I daren’t wait a second!” she cried. “They may miss me and come to look for me.”

“Oh, do risk it!” he pleaded. “They’re going to torture me. I’ll be pulling myself together while you’re away. Try one of the keys. I saw it was a big one.”

She gave a flashing glance to the bunch of keys and saw that one was certainly bigger than the others. So she ran out of the room and Larose began drawing in deep breaths and stretching his arms, feeling new life course through him with every breath he drew.

He had risen to his feet and had managed to totter to the door in the short time she was away.

“Here you are!” she said breathlessly. “I could only find three loose cartridges.”

“You’re an angel of light!” breathed Larose fervently. “Oh, glorious, it’s got a silencer on and it’s already loaded. You shut the door after you, didn’t you?”

“Yes, and switched off the light. Come along.”

She had to support all his weight up the passage, but in less than a minute they had reached the lift.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked.

“Up to our rooms upon the third floor. We are staying the night here.”

“No, no, stop on the ground floor,” protested Larose. “I can fight my way out through the hall.”

“Nonsense, you can’t even stand!” she said sharply. “And, besides, there are always several people about there by the switchboard.”

She arrived at the third floor, and then, her nervousness more apparent than at any time, she literally dragged him along the corridor to their rooms.

“Hide yourself where you can,” she panted. “I can’t do anything more for you now. We’ll come up to bed as soon as we can and see what can be done then,” and closing the door upon him, she darted back to the lift.

For a long while Larose remained prone upon the floor, exactly where she had left him, with his heart beating violently and feeling so giddy that he had to keep his eyes closed.

Then the palpitation beginning to calm down, he forced himself to open his eyes and take in his surroundings. The moonlight was coming in round the drawn blinds and everything was plainly discernible. He was in a bedroom and a communicating door led into a bathroom.

He forced himself into a sitting position, and a minute or so later crawled to the window, which was open at the bottom. The fresh air seemed to clear his head, and he rose to his knees, and pulling aside the blind, looked out very cautiously.

Some forty feet below lay the big courtyard of the Embassy. It was ............