After the truly staggering disclosures made to him by Larose, von Ravenheim put down the receiver very slowly and with a white face leant back into his chair and gave himself up to a deep reverie.

That the three men had been caught and were now being detained by the police was disconcerting to a degree, and he breathed heavily at the thought at all which might follow. But it was not that he was fearing any of the men would give him away, and that his name would be dragged in. He was thinking of what would be the effect upon the supposed Herr Blitzen when he learnt what had happened.

If it were broadcast in the newspapers that an attempt had been made to abduct Cecily Castle and that the would-be abductors were of Baltic nationality, then his superior would guess at once that he, von Ravenheim, was the instigator of the whole business and a very little thought would make him realise it had been done with the deliberate intention of putting the girl out of his reach. Then he, von Ravenheim again, would be faced — not only with the cold and merciless wrath of a dictator towards one who had been found out endeavoring to cross his autocratic will, but with the far worse, flaming fury of a lover who had learnt of intended violence and suffering for the woman he loved.

But might there not yet be a way of avoiding the undoubted impending catastrophe? Although he himself lacked the divine fire and inspiration of the born leader of men, he was yet many times deeper and more subtle than his master. Yes, there was just a chance that he might manage to throw dust in the eyes of the Herr, or, at any rate, that he could so prepare the ground that when the news became known he could deny everything with the reasonable hope that he would be believed.

He went at once into Herr Blitzen, who was reading in one of the rooms which had been allotted to him for his private use, and, after a few casual words about nothing in particular, brought round the conversation to the two girls.

“It must be very lonely for Your Excellency,” he smiled, “to be now so much by yourself, when for so many days you have enjoyed the society of those young ladies.”

“Yes, it is lonely,” sighed the dictator. “Their companionship was a great break in my life.” He sighed again. “It was a revelation to me.” He laughed reminiscently. “How that little witch first came to make herself known to me in the lounge of our hotel was very clever. She was alone and sitting not far from me. Her wrist-watch fell off, and she pretended she couldn’t see where it had fallen. She almost put her foot on it, and I rescued it just in time. She thanked me so prettily, and then started chatting to me as she tried to fasten the watch on her wrist again. She seemed clumsy about it, and out of devilry and quite certain she would refuse, I asked if I could do it for her. Ha! Ha!”

“And she let you?” asked the ambassador, hiding his scorn with a question.

“Of course she did,” replied Blitzen. He nodded, with a far-away look in his eyes. “She held out her wrist to me, and it was blue veined and soft as a little child.” He sighed for the third time. “I think my affection began for her at that very moment.”

Von Ravenheim wondered unpleasantly what he would say when he learnt it had been contemplated to roughly seize that white and blueveined wrist and tie it with a cord. He shook his head, “But I don’t altogether like the idea of dainty girls like her getting mixed up in our intrigues. It is dangerous and lays them open to the spite of those whose secrets they have found out.”

“I bear no spite,” said Blitzen sadly.

“No, but others may, and, looking back, I think it must be that girl who uncovered Muller’s brother. The description sounds like her, and Muller has sworn to get revenge.”

The Herr showed his teeth. “If Muller or anybody else laid a finger on that girl, I’d”— his eyes glared —“I’d see how long he could bear pain before he died.”

Von Ravenheim nodded. “And so would I. A beautiful girl like Miss Cecily should turn the vengeance of the hardest-hearted man.” He spoke warmly. “Certainly she is beautiful, and if you take her back with you”— he smiled —“our countrymen will forgive everything when they see her,” and he congratulated himself upon his diplomacy when he noticed the approving look the Herr was now giving him.

They talked quite a lot about Cecily, and Herr Blitzen seemed almost boyishly happy in discussing her. He even shook the Ambassador’s hand warmly when they parted for the night, a kind of handshake he had never given the latter before.

And it was well von Ravenheim was in his good books when the Herr saw the newspaper the next morning, for he came into him white to the very lips with fury.

“Have you seen the papers yet?” he asked shakily.

“Yes, I’ve just been reading them,” replied von Ravenheim very gravely, “and was upon the point of coming in to speak to you.” He nodded. “It is as I thought. Someone wanted to get revenge and set those men on to kidnap her. They’ve probably been ambushed for many days by the house, waiting for her to return home.” He stretched out his hand. “Let me see your paper. I’ve only read ‘The Times.’”

He took the newspaper Blitzen gave him and, with a frown, read out the head lines and some of the leading paragraphs in the article below them. ‘Mysterious affair at Haslemere. Peaceful Hampshire town invaded by armed bandits.’ Then it went on to tell of the intended kidnapping of ‘two young ladies who work in a certain Government office.’ It said that all the would-be kidnappers had been arrested and were said to be foreigners. The police were very reticent, and the Misses Castle refused to be interviewed by the paper’s representative.

He looked up significantly. “So you see, the girls work for the Government. We were quite right there.” He drew in a deep breath, as if one of relief. “Well, those men didn’t get them, and we can be quite certain they’ll be safe now. No one will try a second time.”

“I wonder who the men were,” scowled Blitzen.

“I’ll find that out,” nodded the Ambassador. His face was very stern. “Then, if that Muller had anything to do with it, we’ll punish him severely. If we can’t get hold of him, we’ll make things hard for his family. I know he has an old mother in Dresden.”

“I’d like to go to Haslemere,” muttered the Herr, “and make sure they haven’t been upset by the shock.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t go there yet,” said von Ravenheim, quickly. “Wait until after the week-end, when we’ve finished with Lord Michael and the Foreign Secretary. Besides, if you are going to ask Miss Cecily to be your wife, it will be better to make her realise that you have not come to that decision in a hurry, but have thought it well over.” Then, as Herr Blitzen made no comment, he went on —“That reminds me, I am going down to look round about the grounds of Lord Michael’s place today. I have been there once as a guest, but I want to refresh my memory. I shall drive myself. You had better not come with me.”

“Because I look what I am,” grunted the Herr, “a true son of my country.” He shook his head. “No, I don’t want to come. When it is all over, it will be best that there is no chance of anyone remembering a foreigner was seen lately in the neighborhood. I’ll stop in here today.”

It was a good thing that Herr Blitzen was not aware of what exactly were the ambassador’s thoughts as the latter drove away from the Embassy that bright summer morning.

Von Ravenheim was now resolutely steeling himself into the determination that, in the interests of his great fatherland, the man passing as Herr Blitzen must disappear. It was a calamity, but less dire than that the great dictator, whose strength and resolution were an inspiration to his countrymen, should return to them as a weakling.

Married to a woman of a hated race, or indeed married at all, he would be in danger of becoming a broken idol. It was his asceticism, his austere mode of living, and his freedom from the weaknesses of the ordinary man that had contributed so much to his power and infallibility in the eyes of his countrymen, lifting him almost to the heights of a demi-god.

Another thing, too. With the Dictator no longer imposing his imperious will, contrary to all persuasion, the projected assassination of Lord Michael and Sir Howard Wake would not take place. He, von Ravenheim, had never approved of them, realising far better than his master did the horror that would surge through the whole civilised world.

Certainly, it might be that the murderers would never be brought definitely home to anyone of Baltic nationality, but still every one knew the Baltic people were regarding the two statesmen as their deadliest enemies and would guess who had assassinated them.

So with these thoughts running in the ambassador’s mind, it was with no intention of spying upon Lord Michael’s residence that he was driving now towards the muddied flats bordering upon the estuary of the sullen river Blackwater.

He was intending to find some lonely, unfrequented place where he could safely pistol the dictator and bury him where he fell; no suspicion, because of the loneliness of the spot to which he was being brought, need be aroused in the latter’s mind if he thought that it was there he was going to act the part of an executioner himself.

But for a very good reason the place would have to be somewhere in the vicinity of Lord Michael’s residence in Essex, because Herr Blitzen had already been there upon one of his motor drives with the girls, and so knew where it was. Following upon his meeting with Lord Michael at Wickham Towers, he had been curious as to where the Secretary for War lived and, accordingly, they had made an excursion to the estuary of the river Blackwater.

Proceeding down the Mile End road, the ambassador stopped to buy a pickaxe and a spade.

He journeyed by way of Maldon and then, passing through the little hamlet of Goldhanger, about a quarter of a mile farther on, turned off the main road into a narrow bye-lane, leading to the wide stretches of grasslands abutting on the river. It was a dry summer and, with the ground firm and hard, he congratulated himself his car would leave no tracks for curious-minded people to speculate as to who had passed by.

Soon the lane ended and he came to a stretch of country as lonely as anyone could wish. There was no habitation anywhere in sight, except that he could see, about a quarter of a mile away, Tollesbury Hall, the grounds of which were surrounded by a low wall. The track he was now following had every appearance of being very seldom used, and, certainly, it could be used only in fine weather. He left the car where the track dipped down a little and walked at right angles in the direction of the riverside.

Then, very quickly, he came upon the place he was looking for.

It was close to one side of the river bank, a little hollow which he guessed must be partly under water when any heavy rains fell. It was carpeted with big tussocks of rank, coarse grass.

He fetched the pick and the spade from the car and after some hard work had dug a shallow hole about two feet in depth. He made it of an irregular shape, to look as unlike a grave as possible. Then he filled it in again, knowing that ten minutes’ work would empty it when it was required. He hid the spade among the grass, close by.

Starting back for town at all speed, when he gained the main road he was greatly annoyed to find that one of his front tyres was becoming alarmingly deflated, making the steering hard and difficult. He hated the messy work of putting on the spare; and so, remembering that on his way out he had passed a small petrol station now only a little way ahead of him, he drove on to it, and had the tyre changed and the puncture attended to.

Then the garage man pointed out that the oil was leaking badly from the sump. That was also made right, and more oil was put into the engine. He was vexed at the additional delay because he had a lot to do when he got back to town.

Arriving at the Embassy much later than he had intended, he learnt that Herr Blitzen had gone out almost immediately after he had left, and had not as yet returned. This news made him feel very uneasy, as Herr Blitzen had stated so definitely he was not intending to go out at all.

“Damnation,” swore von Ravenheim softly. “I do believe he’s gone down to Haslemere. He looked very secretive when he said he should be remaining indoors all day.”

He thought for a moment and then, summoning one of his very trusted attendants, gave him some whispered instructions. Then he turned his attention to another matter.

A man whom he had been expecting was waiting to see him. Before he had left for Essex that morning, he had rung up a journalist who often made enquiries for him when there was something he wanted to know and did not consider it wise he should move in the matter himself.

The journalist was smart but unscrupulous and, if well paid, always willing to act the part of private detective. So now he had come well-informed about the so-called kidnapping affair.

The three men, he said, had been promptly taken before a hastily summoned bench of local magistrates and remanded, but within an hour orders had been received for them to be brought to London immediately. Nothing was known definitely as to the identity of two of them, as they refused to give any names or addresses, but the third was a Herr Sharpel, of Mornington Avenue, Hampstead, a hardware merchant, in Aldersgate Street, City. Both his premises had been raided, but what, if anything, had been found out the journalist did not know.

A man who had once been a detective at Scotland Yard was very much mixed up in everything. His name was Gilbert Larose. He had plenty of money now, having married a very wealthy woman.

But for him the three men would never have been arrested. He first saw them near the girls’ house; he telephoned the local policeman, he organised a party with double-barrelled sporting guns to cut them off; and it was he who provided the police with an excuse summarily to arrest them. He had made out one of the men was drawing a pistol, when he had not been attempting anything of the kind, and had sprung upon him. Then the police had found loaded automatics upon all three.

But the police were said to be now in a bit of a quandary, as they could not prove definitely that the men had been intending to kidnap the girls. It was thought that after this Herr Sharpel had been heavily fined for having false number plates upon his car — this Larose had been the one to first discover that, too — and the others fined for carrying pistols without a licence; they would all be deported, as they were undoubtedly all of Baltic nationality.

Larose had told the police that one of them was a servant at the Baltic Embassy. He had seen him there when he, Larose, had been visiting the Embassy only a few days ago.

Then the police had rung up the Embassy three times that morning; but all information had been refused and they had been told the ambassador would not be home until the afternoon, when no doubt any questions would be answered.

Oh yes, he knew all about this Larose. He had a swell place in Norfolk, Carmel Abbey, which, however, really belonged to his wife. He had a little flat, too, in London where he often stayed when he came up to town. It was upon the third floor in Carlyle Mansions, Sloane Square. He, the journalist, happened to know that, because he had been sent once to interview a well-known violinist who had a flat in the same building and he had then seen the exdetective letting himself into another suite of rooms. Later, he had been told it was Larose’s own flat.

No, he did not think many of the tenants of the building kept servants. The flats were expensive and well appointed, but they were all on the small side, and, as far as he could gather, looked after by the building attendants, male and female.

The journalist’s information was exhaustive, and von Ravenheim thanked him for his services and paid him ￡10. Then, when he had gone, he gnashed his teeth in his rage.

This Larose crossing his path again! This expoliceman fellow, who had bluffed him twice, was now ruining all his plans and placing him in a most difficult and even dangerous position! Ah, the man was most dangerous himself, too, and his mouth must be shut! He must be dealt with at once!

The ambassador was just preparing to go out again when he was informed that an inspector from Scotland Yard was waiting to see him. He showed no signs of the annoyance he felt, and ordered the inspector to be brought in.

The grim-looking inspector at once asked very curtly if any of the employees of the Embassy were then absent. Von Ravenheim seemed very puzzled at the question, but replied at once in the negative.

“Not a man about thirty-five,” asked the inspector very sternly, “five feet two, of heavy build, with a big square face and closely cropped reddish hair?”

“No-o,” said von Ravenheim hesitatingly, “but that description applies exactly to an attendant by name of Carl Bollin, whom I had to dismiss for drunkenness three days ago.”

“Then where does he live now?”

“I haven’t the remotest idea.”

“How long had he been with you?”

Von Ravenheim hesitated again. “I should say about three months, certainly not longer. He was really only a temporary employee, taken on when our carpenter fell ill, but he was very handy and we have retained him ever since!”

“Did you have any references with him?”

The ambassador smiled. “Of course.” He shook his head. “But I don’t remember now who gave them.”

“Still, you can find out,” grunted the inspector.

Von Ravenheim nodded. “I may be able to, but I can’t attend to it just now. I am very very busy. I’ll give you a ring later.” He frowned. “But why do you want to know about him? What’s he done?”

It was now the inspector’s turn to hesitate. Then he said slowly. “He’s been caught in very suspicious circumstances, carrying a loaded automatic.”

The ambassador raised his eyebrows. “I don’t expect he has a licence.”

The inspector looked scornful. “No, no one supposed he had when we found it on him.” He looked intently at von Ravenheim. “Now do you know a party called Sharpel, who lives in Mornington Avenue, Hampstead, and has a hardware shop in the City? He comes from your country.”

The ambassador laughed. “A great many people come from my country, Mr. Inspector, of whom I know nothing about. No, I don’t know this gentleman Sharpel who keeps a hardware shop. What’s he done?”

“Oh nothing,” said the inspector. “Good morning,” and he took his leave, feeling sure he had been lied to by this polite, good-looking man who represented the great Baltic nation at the court of St. James.

Von Ravenheim smiled to himself. “What a foolish, easy-going Scotland Yard! In our country, in such a matter our police would have wanted to cross-examine every employee here about their fellow servant.” He nodded. “But no, this inspector takes my word as a Baltic gentleman.” He shook his head. “A great mistake, for there is nothing gentlemanly about war or preparation for war.”

He took a taxi and was driven down to Clerkenwell. Then, dismissing his conveyance, he walked a couple of hundred yards to a small shop in a mean street. Over the lintel of the door was painted “F. O. Shane, Electroplater.” and in the shop window were displayed samples of the work which was done inside.

Fergus Shane was an Irishman and a fervent Red Patriot. He was a secret member of the Irish Republican Army, and had been responsible for not a few explosions in London, with attendant damage and loss of life. The authorities would have dearly loved to have hold of him, but all their efforts so far had failed to uncover him.

Von Ravenheim entered the shop and Shane came forward from a workroom at the back and greeted him with a smile. The ambassador was known to Shane as a generous contributor to the I.R.A. funds, and now in response to his request, he led him into the workroom.

“I’ve got a commission for you,” said von Ravenheim with no preamble and in most business-like tones, “and if you carry it out successfully for me I’ll give ￡500 to the cause.”

“Good,” exclaimed Shane. “We’re short of money and ￡500 is a nice sum. What do you want me to do?”

“Explode a bomb in a flat in Sloane Square,” replied the ambassador. “It shouldn’t be difficult, as there’ll be only one person there.”

“And you want that person upon the premises at the time, I suppose?” asked Shane. “Oh, well who is he?”

“He used to be a policeman, but he isn’t that now. His name is Gilbert Larose.”

Shane nodded. “I’ve heard of him. He’s pretty smart.” He considered. “But why do you want it done? Is it a personal matter?”

“Certainly not. He’s working for the British Secret Service, and he’s dangerous to all enemies of England.”

“That’s enough,” said Shane. “But when’s it got to be done?”

“Today, tomorrow, as soon as you possibly can. He’s staying at his flat now, but he’s not always there. So the quicker you set about it, the better.”

“All right,” said Shane. “Now give me all particulars of the place.”

In the meantime, Herr Blitzen had been doing exactly what von Ravenheim had both guessed and feared. He had hired a private car from a garage and been driven down to Haslemere, intending to tell Cecily Castle quite frankly who he was and ask her to become his wife. Really, however, it was not in his mind that he would actually ask her; he would just say he was resolved to take her and, accustomed as he was to being obeyed in everything, he was not entertaining the idea that she would refuse.

Arriving in the little town and, impatient at every moment’s delay in meeting her, he sent the chauffeur into a shop to find out where she lived. The direction was simple and, arriving at the entrance to the drive, he stopped the car and gave peremptory orders to the man that he was to wait there for him, no matter how long he might be gone.

Proceeding into the drive, he came upon a boy about fourteen weeding the gravel and, to make sure that he had come to the right house, asked him if the Misses Castle lived there.

“Yes, this is their house all right,” replied the boy, most interested in the foreign appearance of the questioner, “but you won’t find them at home. They’ve gone away and the house is shut up.”

“Gone away!” exclaimed Herr Blitzen with a dreadful pang of disappointment. “When did they go?”

“Late yesterday afternoon,” said the boy. He was pleased at the interest he had excited and added. “They couldn’t stick all the men from the newspapers who were coming down. There were car-loads of them here by five o’clock.”

“But where have they gone?” asked the Herr, still aghast.

“Don’t know. They didn’t tell anyone. They sent the servants away and then went off themselves.”

Herr Blitzen stood staring blankly at the boy, and the latter, with the idea of a good tip in his mind, thought it might pay to be communicative. So he went on. “You see, that rumpus frightened them a bit, and they didn’t know what might happen to them if they stopped.”

“Rumpus?” queried the Herr, whose study of the English language had not included that word. “What do you mean?”

The boy was delighted to meet someone who did not, apparently, know of the happenings of the day before, and spread himself out. “Why, haven’t you heard?” he asked. “There were three foreigners up that lane, waiting with pistols to carry them off. The pistols were all loaded and had got seven cartridges in them.” He shook his head ominously. “Oh, they meant business, those men, and someone must have paid them well for the job! They had got false number plates on their car!”

“Who were they?” asked Herr Blitzen sharply. “Was it found out?”

“They got the name of one,” said the boy. “It was Sharpel, and it was traced through the real number plates of his car which he’d hidden under one of the seats. They haven’t got the names of the two others yet, but they know one of them lives in some ambassador’s house in London, in Portland Place.”

Herr Blitzen drew in a sharp breath and for a few seconds his lips remained parted. Then he snapped his jaws together and ground his teeth so savagely that they gave him positive pain. The boy moved back a pace of two, feeling a little frightened.

“How do you know that one of them came from the ambassador’s house in Portland Place?” asked Herr Blitzen hoarsely. “You’re making it up.”

“I’m not,” said the boy indignantly. “My dad told us about it at tea.” He spoke proudly. “He’s the police constable here. He said a gentleman who’d been in the ambassador’s house had seen the man there. This gentleman had been a detective once, and it was him rang dad up and said the men were hiding in the lane. He’s called Gilbert Larose.”

The boy got no tip and, indeed, was lucky not to receive a savage kick from Blitzen in parting, the latter being so furious that he would have been only too glad to vent his rage upon anyone.

The journey back to town occupied fully two hours; and by that time the dictator had mastered his first fury. It was not lessened in any way, but he had got it well in hand and it had now taken shape in a cold and deadly determination to inflict upon the ambassador the utmost punishment.

He had not the slightest doubt that it was von Ravenheim himself who was responsible for the attempt to kidnap Cecily Castle. The fact that one of the embassy attendants had been there to help proved it. So, while outwardly he had been all sympathy and understanding with his superior’s love affair, von Ravenheim had really been guilty of the basest treachery, undoubtedly intending to carry the girl off to some hiding place and put her beyond all reach.

Then the ambassador was no longer to be trusted! He had become a secret enemy of the chosen ruler of his countrymen and, therefore, he was now an enemy of his country, also!

So he must be dismissed from his high post immediately, he must be sent back home and imprisoned, he must be —&mdash............