Darkness had just fallen over the wide stretch of the lonely grassland bordering upon the river Blackwater when Larose came wheeling a bicycle in and out among the tall tussocks. He was showing no light and he walked very quietly, peering round on every side with every step he took.

He had left his car in Chelmsford, twelve miles and more away, and had retrieved a bicycle, from where he had previously hidden it, behind a hedge in a lane leading off the Colchester road, and pedalled the rest of the way.

It was now nearly high tide and the mists were rising from the sullen river, and the little creeks which gurgled softly as the oily water flowed to its full between their muddy banks.

There was a fitful moon showing from a threatening sky, and it looked as if a big storm was coming. There was not a breath of air anywhere and the night was oppressive. It seemed as if there was thunder in the air.

“Whew,” whispered Larose, “what a place to be caught in a storm! If any would-be murderers are coming tonight I hope to goodness that they come soon!”

He was not feeling any anxiety now as to the safety of Lord Michael, for, with the warning he had given him and the presence of the Alsatian dogs in the grounds of Tollesbury Hall, he was quite confident no one with evil intentions would be able to approach too near.

But he was continuing to wonder what von Ravenheim’s journey, the previous day, to that lonely spot could mean and why that hole had been dug in the ground. Indeed, if it were not for that discovery, he thought he would not have come to keep any vigil at all that night.

Arriving to within a few yards of where he knew the hole was, he hid the bicycle in the long grass and lay down to keep watch.

But he had been there only a very few minutes when he heard the faint but unmistakeable purr of a car approaching very quietly. He strained his eyes in the direction of the sound but it was too misty for him to see anything.

A couple of minutes or so passed and then the sound stopped altogether. But it had stopped abruptly, and not died away, so he knew that the car had been pulled up somewhere.

A long time now went by, quite ten minutes, and he became uneasy that he had missed whoever had come in the car. He was just rising to his feet when, to his horror, he heard voices close behind him, and he flattened himself to the ground again.

Then came the voice he had come to know so well, that of the Baltic ambassador.

“Curse this mist!” he heard von Ravenheim exclaim. “We’ve come a long way round, Your Excellency, but I’ve got my bearings all right now. We are close to the path leading to the Hall and we shall soon see the lights there.”

“Your Excellency!” gasped Larose. “Then who the deuce has he brought with him?” and, on the instant, he caught his breath again in amazement again, as he heard another voice — that of Herr Blitzen this time.

“And I hope we shall,” growled the Herr. “It’s much farther than you made out; and when we’ve shot them, if you’re so uncertain about the way, we mayn’t be able to get back to the car.”

“But that’ll be quite easy,” said von Ravenheim. “I shan’t make another mistake. Now, there’s a little depression in the ground just here and it leads straight up to the Hall. This way, your Excellency!”

Larose’s heart beat like a sledgehammer as he saw the two men appear out of the mist. They passed within half a dozen paces of him, with von Ravenheim leading the way.

But they had gone a very few yards before Herr Blitzen pulled himself up sharply. “Stop!” he called out peremptorily. “Listen, I hear the baying of a hound!”

A deep silence followed, with the two men standing perfectly still. The moon was showing now and they were so close to Larose that he could see the expressions on their faces. The Herr’s, as usual, was a frowning one, but that of von Ravenheim seemed both nervous and very anxious. The ambassador was opening and shutting his mouth and swallowing hard. He was keeping one hand in his jacket pocket.

“I can hear nothing,” whispered von Ravenheim hoarsely, when a full minute must have passed, “and I assure your Excellency there are no dogs at the Hall. I made particular enquiries.”

“Then lead on,” ordered the Herr, “and we’ll ——”

But the words died upon his lips, for von Ravenheim, whipping round like lightning, had fired twice and planted two bullets in his chest. The Herr made one fierce convulsive effort to remain erect, but it was to no purpose, and he crashed down heavily. He rolled over onto his back and coughed horribly.

All the sounds the pistol had made were like the muffled crackings of a whip. It had a silencer on.

Von Ravenheim sprang forward and stood over the fallen man. “Not dead yet,” he snarled. “Then I must give you another one.” He spoke in cold ferocity. “But I tell you first, you die because you were selling your country for a woman. You were betraying ——”

But some movement rather than a sound a few feet away made him look up, and he saw the white and menacing face of Larose close to him.

Perhaps for ten seconds the two looked at each other, motionless as graven images, von Ravenheim with the hand holding his pistol dropped to his side, while Larose had got his right hand raised.

Then the wrist of Larose flicked and von Ravenheim passed into eternity with two bullets in the very centre of his forehead.

He fell lifeless, without a groan, a brave man and one loyal and steadfast to that dreaded country which had borne him. A worthy son of an unworthy mother, whose teachings to her children were those which the jungle tigress gives to her young!

Larose sprang forward and knelt by the wounded man. He saw instantly that his wounds were mortal. He wiped the bloody froth from his lips. The Dictator stared up at him.

“I’ve killed him,” said Larose softly, and then, seeing the faint gleam of satisfaction in the fast-glazing eyes, he asked, “You are Herr Bauer, the Dictator of your country?”

The dying man tried to nod, but blood and froth were welling from his lips with each labored breath he drew, and he breathed with dreadful sounds.

“A— letter,” he whispered weakly, “in-my — pocket. Give — it — to — her,” and, even as Larose very gently drew a sealed envelope from his breast-pocket, his eyes closed. He tried to cough, he sighed one long deep sigh, and — he was dead!

And so died another man, great and conquering in his way, but great and conquering as the bacillus of some spreading pestilence or the virus of some cancer eating deep into the vitals of mankind!

Larose looked at the envelope he was holding in his hand. Upon it was written in bold characters, ‘Miss Cecily Castle.’

“And so that is the woman you have died for!” he murmured. “Von Ravenheim was against your having her and he murdered you for your country’s good!” He glanced round at von Ravenheim’s body. “He judged you and now”— he nodded —“he is judged himself!” His eyes gleamed. “I judged him and his punishment was quick!”

Then for a long time Larose considered what he must do.

The terrible consequences which might now ensue appalled him.

The mighty Baltic Dictator was dead, murdered upon a foreign soil and, when the manner of his death became known, it would never be believed by his countrymen that he had not been assassinated by his country’s enemies. The Baltic Ambassador was dead, too, dead by his master’s side; and that made things even worse.

The fury of the Baltic people would be ungovernable and in their blind and insensate rage, all in a few short hours, a mighty conflagration might be started which would scorch through half the civilised world.

Millions of people would be killed, cities would be pulverised into dust and the whole fabric of civilisation would be in danger!

Who would believe his, Larose’s, version of how these two men had died? Who, for one moment, would believe that von Ravenheim had killed his master?

Would even Larose’s own people credit his story? Was it not common gossip that when attached to Scotland Yard he had been always too ready to take the law into his own hands and act as judge, jury and hangman himself? So what probability was there of people, generally, being upon his side now?

Even with his bare and unvarnished tale told, he would have to answer for von Ravenheim’s death and justify that he had shot him only in self-defence!

But had he only done it in self-defence? Certainly not! Undoubtedly, in another few moments, von Ravenheim would have shot him down like a dog, but he, Larose, had had ample time to break his pistol arm and render him quite harmless. Instead, he had aimed straight at his forehead and killed him purposely and deliberately.

Larose moistened his dry lips with his tongue. Then he suddenly smiled whimsically. “In trouble again, Gilbert,” he sighed, “and you’ll have to use all your wits now to get you out of it.” He nodded. “Yes, if only for your own sake, you’ll have to bury these men here and say nothing about it.” His face hardened. “But it’ll be best for everyone in the end.”

He looked up at the quickly darkening sky and realised that whatever he did it would have to be done quickly, otherwise, with any suspicions aroused he would leave tracks behind him which could be followed easily.

Searching round for the spade, and finding it at once, he proceeded to reopen the grave von Ravenheim had dug the previous day, realising now for whom it had been intended.

He dragged the body of the ambassador to the side and toppled it over, then much more gently laid the body of the Dictator beside him.

Ten minutes later, carrying the spade and pick-axe with him, he was wheeling his bicycle with all haste to where he was hoping von Ravenheim would have left the car. He found it where he had expected and, bundling the bicycle into the back, at once started the engine and drove off as quietly as he could. He had to go very slowly, for it was now almost pitch dark, but he reached the main road without mishap and set off towards Colchester, in the direction opposite to that of London.

He was only just in time, for he had barely travelled a couple of hundred yards or so upon the bitumen when the rain began to descend in torrents. But it could not be better, he told himself, for with the rain coming down so heavily the hollow where the bodies lay would soon be feet under water.

At first he had no clear idea as to where he would take the car. All he was thinking of was to get it as far away as possible from those grasslands by the Blackwater.

But gradually a plan began forming in his mind. He would abandon it not far from Harwich, from where the passenger steamers sailed daily for the Baltic ports. Then, when it was ultimately found and von Ravenheim himself was known to be missing, he hoped it might be supposed that, for private reasons of his own, the Baltic ambassador had left secretly for home.

He passed through Colchester on the Harwich road and, the torrential downpour still continuing, met very little traffic. Then, when well on his way to the seaport, a much bolder idea took possession of him. He would dump the car over the Parkeston quay into the deep water of the river Stour.

The quay was nearly two miles distant from the town of Harwich, and it was there the passengers alighted from the London trains to join the steamers proceeding overseas. Parkeston itself was not a residential area; and, with but a few scattered houses, the railway station was the only important building there. Except when boats were arriving or leaving, the quay was nearly always deserted, save for a few amateur fishermen who dangled their lines over the side.

Larose knew the locality well, having many times passed there when sailing up the river.

Leaving his bicycle hidden in a field about half a mile away, he drove boldly into the big and dimly-lighted yard of the railway station, trusting that in the darkness and with the hour so late and in the pouring rain to meet no one.

As he had expected, there was not anyone about, although he could hear trucks being shunted not very far away.

He made very slowly for the far end of the quay, thankful that the beautiful engine of his car was so silent. Then, when only a few yards from the quay-side, he jumped quickly out and left the car to proceed upon its own. It swerved a little but reached the side without stalling and toppled over into the water.

It fell with a mighty splash, but the noise was drowned by the violence of the rain and the sounds of the shunting trucks. In an instant it was lost to sight.

Apparently, no one had heard or seen anything.

Making away with all haste, he retrieved his bicycle and rode on until well past Manningtree. But the rain still continuing to fall as heavily as ever, he pulled up at a little village inn and stayed the night there.

The next morning it was still raining, but he set off very early and was soon not far from where he had left his car in Chelmsford. He discarded his bicycle for good in a dense wood and, calling for his car, arrived home at Carmel Abbey, in Norfolk, soon after noon, being of opinion that, after all his adventures of the past three weeks, he deserved a good rest.

Then for a week he never went beyond the grounds of Carmel Abbey. Indeed, he seldom even left the house, as the rain continued day after day. There were floods all over the country and he read that the Blackwater had overflowed its banks, inundating the low-lying lands on either side to the depths of many feet. So he knew it might be several months before the site of the grave would be uncovered again, even if the depression where it lay were not wholly filled in by the silting of the river mud.

Each morning when he opened the newspaper he half expected to read of the Baltic ambassador being missing, but there was never any mention of him.

The papers were in the main full of the arrests of so many of the Irish Republican Army and great praise was accorded to Scotland Yard. Inspector Drew being referred to as a very smart officer, and the work of his particular department extolled to the skies.

In accordance with his expressed wish, Larose’s part in all which had taken place was not specifically mentioned. One newspaper, however, remarked enigmatically that had all the facts leading up to the arrests been known to the public they would realise how much they were beholden to an anonymous worker on their behalf.

A week of inaction having passed, Larose began to become restless again. He was intensely curious, too, as to what the Secret Service people must be thinking as to the sudden disappearance of the Baltic ambassador and the supposed Herr Blitzen, the news of which would certainly have filtered through to them by underground channels. He felt now pretty sure, too, that the Herr’s real identity had been known to them all along.

So, upon the eighth day he went up to town to have a chat with the Head of the Counter Espionage Department. He chose Mr. Grant, of all others, because he had aways got on so well with him. Mr. Grant was not so bound down by red tape, and was a man of broad and sympathetic understanding. Apart from that, he knew quite well Mr. Grant would believe anything he, Larose, might tell him.

Mr. Grant received him warmly. “In the limelight again, Mr. Larose,” he smiled. “Really, whenever you come out of your shell you have a perfect genius for attracting to you members of the criminal classes. They are like moths around the candle and they generally burn their wings”— he nodded significantly —“much to the satisfaction of the community.” He looked up at the clock and made a gesture of annoyance. “I am always delighted to see you, as you must know, but it happens you have arrived now at a very awkward time. I am expecting the Prime Minister any moment, in fact, he may be even now be upon his way here.”

“Well, I can wait if he comes,” said Larose. “I am in no particular hurry.” Then he rapped out, “It is about that Herr Blitzen I have come to speak to you.”

“Herr Blitzen!” exclaimed Mr. Grant, looking very puzzled. “What do you know about Herr Blitzen?”

Larose drew in a deep breath. “That he is dead,” he said solemnly. “The Baltic ambassador murdered him!”

But Mr. Grant did not appear to have taken in what he had heard. He just stared and stared, very hard.

“Yes, he is dead,” went on Larose, with a sigh. “Von Ravenheim murdered him and I shot von Ravenheim. I buried them both in............