A motor ran swiftly along a country road.  
Two men sat in the front seat.
 
"My friend, Runnells," said one of the two quizzically, after a silence that had endured for miles, "what in hell is the matter with you to-night?"
 
"I don't know," said Runnells, who drove the car. "What the captain was talking about last night, maybe—the things you feel in the air."
 
"Bah!" said Paul Cremarre composedly. "If it is only the air! For three years we have found nothing in the air but good fortune."
 
"That's all right," Runnells returned sullenly. "But just the same that's the way I feel, and I can't help it. We're going to lay low for a spell after to-night, and maybe that's what's wrong too—kind of as though we were pushing our luck over the edge by sticking it just one night too many."
 
The Frenchman whistled a bar lightly under his breath.
 
"I should be delighted—delighted," he said, "to leave to-night alone—but not the Earl of Cloverley's gold plate! Have you forgotten that I told you I had made a promise to our little Père Mouche—to eat rago?t from a gold plate? I have never eaten from a gold plate. It is a dream!"
 
"You're bloody well right, it is!" said Runnells gruffly. "And I only hope it ain't going to be anything worse'n a dream to-night."
 
"It is evident," said Paul Cremarre, with a low laugh, "that, whatever you have eaten from, and whatever you have eaten of, to-night, my Runnells, it has not agreed with you! Is it not so?"
 
"Look here!" said Runnells suddenly. "If you want to know, I'll tell you. I know everything's fixed for to-night, maybe better than it's ever been fixed before—it ain't that. It's last night. It's damned queer, that bloke from Scotland Yard showing up in our rooms!"
 
"Ah!" murmured Paul Cremarre. "Yes, my Runnells, I too have thought of that. But you were at home the night before, when Sir Harris Greaves was murdered, you and the captain, were you not? It is nothing, is it? A mere little coincidence—yes? You should know better than I do."
 
"There's nothing to know," said Runnells shortly. "It's just the idea of a Scotland Yard man coming to our diggings. Like a warning, somehow, it looks."
 
"Yes," said Paul Cremarre. "Quite so! And the headlights now—hadn't you better switch them off? And run a little slower, Runnells. It is not far now, if I have made no mistake in my bearings."
 
Darkness fell upon the road; the motor slackened its speed.
 
"You were speaking of the visit from Scotland Yard," resumed the Frenchman calmly. "You were at home, of course, when Captain Newcombe returned from the club the night before last at—what time was it, he said?"
 
"Oh, that's straight enough!" grunted Runnells. "He came in about half past eleven, and we were both in bed by twelve. I've told you it ain't that. What would he have to do with sticking an old toff like Sir Harris that never done him any harm?"
 
"Nothing," said Paul Cremarre. "I was simply thinking that Sergeant Mullins' theory reminded me of something that you, too, may perhaps remember."
 
"What's that?" inquired Runnells.
 
"A rifle shot that was fired one night in a thicket when the Boche had us on the run," said Paul Cremarre.
 
Runnells swung sharply in his seat.
 
"Gawd!" he said hoarsely. "What d'you want to bring that up for to-night? I—damn it—I can see it out there in the black of the road now!"
 
The Frenchman remained silent.
 
Runnells spoke again after a moment.
 
"He's a rare 'un, all right, he is, is the captain," he said slowly; "but it wasn't him that did in Sir Harris Greaves. I'd take my oath on that. We was both in bed by twelve, as I told you, and he was still sleeping like a babe when I got up in the morning."
 
"And you, Runnells," inquired the Frenchman softly, "you too slept well?"
 
"You mean," said Runnells quickly, "that he slipped out again during the night?"
 
"Not at all!" said Paul Cremarre quietly. "How should I know? I mean nothing, except that Captain Francis Newcombe is a man like no other man in the world; that he is, as I once had the honour to remark—incomparable."
 
Runnells grunted over the wheel.
 
"I shan't ask him," he said tersely.
 
"Nor I," said Paul Cremarre.
 
Again there was silence; then the Frenchman spoke abruptly:
 
"Slower, Runnells. If I am not mistaken, we are arrived. The lodge gates can't be more than a quarter of a mile on, and the bit of lane that borders the park ought to be just about here—yes, there it is!"
 
Runnells stopped the motor; and then, with the engine running softly, backed it for a short distance from the main road down an intensely black, tree-lined lane.
 
"That's far enough," said Paul Cremarre. "We can't take any risk of being heard from the Hall. Now edge her in under the trees."
 
"What for?" grumbled Runnells. "It's so bloody dark, I'd probably smash her. She's right enough as she is. There's a fat chance of any one coming along this here lane at two o'clock in the morning, ain't there?"
 
"Runnells," said the Frenchman smoothly, "I quote from the book of Captain Francis Newcombe: 'Chance is the playground of fools.' Edge her in, my Runnells."
 
"Oh, all right!" said Runnells—and a moment later the lane was empty.
 
Still another moment, and the two men, each carrying two rather large-sized, empty travelling bags, began to make their way silently and cautiously through the thickly wooded park of the estate. It was not easy going in the darkness. Now and then they stumbled. Once or twice Runnells cursed fiercely under his breath; once or twice the Frenchman lost his urbanity and swore softly in his native tongue.
 
Five, ten minutes passed. And now the two reached the farther edge of the wooded park, and halted here, drawn back a little in the shadow of the trees. Before them was a narrow breadth of lawn; and, beyond, a great, rambling, turreted pile lay black even against the darkness, its castellated roof and points making a jagged fringe against the sky line.
 
Runnells appeared suddenly to find vent for his ill humour in a savage chuckle.
 
"What is it, Runnells?" demanded the Frenchman.
 
"I was just thinking that in the five or six years since I was here with Lord Seeton, you know, I ain't forgotten his nibs the Earl of Cloverley. I'd like to see his face in the morning! He's a crabbed old bird. My word! He'll die of apoplexy, he will! And if he don't, he won't be so keen on his 'ouse parties to visiting nabobs and cabinet ministers. He didn't send into London and get his gold service out of the bank for us when we were here."
 
"Perhaps," said the Frenchman gently, "he did not know that you were valeting Lord Seeton at the time—or perhaps it was because he did!"
 
"Aw, chuck it!" said Runnells gruffly. He stared at the black, shadowy building for a minute. Then abruptly: "It's two o'clock, ain't it? You looked, didn't you?"
 
"Yes," said Paul Cremarre. "I looked when we left the motor. The time's right. It was just ten minutes of two."
 
"Well, what the blinking 'ell's the matter now, then?" complained Runnells. "The place is as black as a cat. They're all in bed, aren't they?"
 
"That is not for me to say," replied the Frenchman calmly. "We will wait, Runnells."
 
Runnells, with another grunt, sat down on one of the bags, his back against a tree. The Frenchman remained standing, his eyes glued on the great house across the lawn.
 
"Aye," said Runnells after a moment, and chuckled savagely to himself again, "I'd give a bob or two, I would, to see the old boy in the morning! A fussy, nosey, old fidge-budget, that's what he is! A-poking of his sharp little nose into everything, and always afraid some 'un won't earn the measly screw he's paying for work he'd ought to pay twice as much for! It's no wonder he's rich!"
 
"You seem to have very pleasant recollections of your visit, Runnells," said the Frenchman slyly. "I wonder what he caught you at?"
 
"He didn't catch me!" said Runnells defiantly. "Though I'll say this, that if I'd known then that I was ever coming back now, I'd have kept my eyes peeled, and he'd be going into mourning for more'n his blessed gold plate to-night! He didn't bother me none, me being Lord Seeton's man, but at that I saw enough of him so that the talk that went on in the servants' hall wasn't in any foreign language that I couldn't tumble to. My eye!" said Runnells. "A rare state he'll be in!"
 
The Frenchman said nothing.
 
The minutes dragged along. Runnells too had relapsed into silence. A quarter of an hour passed. Then Runnells commenced to mutter under his breath and move restlessly on his improvised seat; and then, getting up suddenly, he moved close over beside the Frenchman.
 
"I say!" whispered Runnells uneasily. "I don't like this, I don't! What d'you suppose is up?"
 
"A great deal, I have no doubt, my Runnells," said the Frenchman imperturbably. "More perhaps than you and I could overcome in the same time—if at all."
 
"That's all right!" returned Runnells. "I'm not saying it ain't, but it's getting creepy standing here and staring your eyes out. I'm beginning to see the trees moving around and coming at you, and in every bit of breeze the leaves are like a lot of bloody voices whispering in your ears. I wish to Gawd you hadn't said anything about that night! It gives me the—"
 
"Look!" said the Frenchman suddenly.
 
From an upper window, out of the blackness of the building across the lawn, there showed a faint spot of light that held for a few seconds—and then, in quick succession, a series of little flashes came from the room within.
 
The two men stood motionless, intent, staring at the window.
 
The flashes ceased.
 
The Frenchman reached out and laid his hand on Runnells' arm.
 
"No need for a repeat," he said quickly. "You got it, didn't you?"
 
"My word!" exclaimed Runnells. "Two guards—butler's pantry—all clear! Strike me pink!"
 
The Frenchman laughed purringly under his breath.
 
"Did I not say he was incomparable? Come on, then, Runnells—quickly now!"
 
And now it was as though two shadows moved, flitting swiftly across the lawn, and along the edge of the building and around to the rear. And here they crouched before a doorway, and the Frenchman whispered:
 
"Don't be delicate about it, Runnells. This isn't any inside job! Nick it up badly enough so's a blind man could see where we got in."
 
"That's what I'm doing," said Runnells mechanically. His mind seemed obsessed with other things. "Two guards!" he muttered. And again: "Strike me pink!"
 
And after a moment, with both door and frame eloquent of the rough surgery that had been practised upon them, the door opened.
 
The two men entered, and closed the door silently behind them. An electric torch stabbed suddenly through the blackness and played for a moment inquisitively over its surroundings.
 
"'Tain't changed a bit, as I said when I saw the plan," commented Runnells.
 
They went on quickly. But where before there had been a steady play of the electric torch it winked now through the darkness only at intervals. A door opened here and there noiselessly; the footsteps of the men were cautious, wary, almost without sound. And then, as they halted finally, and the torch shot out its ray again, Runnells drew in his breath with a low, catchy, whistling sound.
 
The torch disclosed a narrow serving pantry, and, on the floor at one side, a great metal box or chest—obviously the object of their visit. But Runnells for the moment was apparently not interested in the chest.
 
"Look at that!" he breathed hoarsely—and pointed to the farther end of the pantry where a swinging door was ajar, and through which an upturned foot protruded.
 
The Frenchman set his bags down beside the metal chest, moved swiftly forward, pushed the swinging door open, and stepped silently through into what was obviously the dining room. And Runnells, beside him, whispered hoarsely again, but this time with a sort of amazed admiration in his voice.
 
"Gawd!" said Runnells. "Neat, I calls that! Neat! What?"
 
Two men lay upon the floor, gagged, bound and apparently unconscious. One, from his livery, was a servant in the house; the other was in civilian clothes.
 
Paul Cremarre pointed to the latter.
 
"The man that came out from London with the box from the bank," he observed complacently. He pushed Runnells back through the swinging door into the pantry. "Well, my Runnells, you were grumbling over a few minutes' delay, let us see if we can be equally as expeditious and efficient with infinitely less to do." He reached the chest and examined it. "Padlocks, eh? Let me see if I can persuade them!" He bent over the chest, and from his pocket came a little kit of tools.
 
Runnells stood silently by. There was no sound now save the breathing of the two men, and, as the minutes passed, an occasional faint, metallic rasp and click from Paul Cremarre at work.
 
And then the Frenchman flung back the lid, and straightened up.
 
"Quick now, Runnells—to work!" he said briskly. "Père Mouche is waiting for his rago?t!"
 
"My eye!" said Runnells with enthusiasm, as the electric torch bored into the interior of the box. "Pipe it! I've served with the swells, I have, and Lord Seeton was one of the biggest of 'em, but I never saw the likes of this before. Gold plate to eat off of! My eye!"
 
"They are very beautiful," said the Frenchman judicially; "but it would be a sacrilege against art to appraise them in haste and in a poor light. Work quickly, Runnells! And do not fill any one of the bags too full. You will find it heavy. The four will hold it all comfortably."
 
"Gawd!" said Runnells eagerly, as he bent to his task.
 
The men worked swiftly now, without words, transferring the Earl of Cloverley's priceless service of gold plate to the four travelling bags. The Frenchman, the quicker of the two, completed his task first, and locked his two bags. And then suddenly he touched Runnells on the shoulder.
 
"Listen!" he whispered. "What's that?"
 
Faintly, scarcely audible, there came a curiously padded, swishing sound—like slippered feet. It came from the direction, not of the swing door where the two guards lay, but from beyond the door through which Runnells and the Frenchman had entered the pantry.
 
"It's some one coming, all right," Runnells whispered back.
 
"But only one," said the Frenchman instantly. "Quick! Finish your job—but don't make a sound." There was a sudden, vicious snarl in his whisper. "Pull that hat of yours down over your eyes. I'll answer the door, as you English say!"
 
He moved back along the pantry with the noiseless tread of a cat, and took up his position against the wall at the edge of the closed door. From his pocket he drew a revolver. It was quite black, quite silent now—save for the approaching footsteps.
 
Perhaps a minute passed.
 
And then the door opened, and a light went on. A grey-whiskered little man in a dressing gown, with bare feet thrust into slippers, stood on the threshold. He cast startled eyes on a crouching figure in the centre of the pantry, the tell-tale travelling bags, the gaping treasure chest, and wrenched a revolver from the pocket of his dressing gown. But the Frenchman, reaching out, struck from the edge of the doorway. The revolver sailed ceilingwards from the other's hand, and exploded in mid-air. And coincidently the Frenchman struck again—with the butt of his own weapon—and the man went limply to the floor.
 
Runnells came staggering forward under the load of the bags.
 
"Strike me dead!" he gasped, "if it ain't the nosey old bird himself! Serves him proper—sneaking around to make sure he ain't paying money for nothing, and hoping he'll catch 'em asleep on sentry-go!"
 
The Frenchman snatched up two of the bags.
 
"Quick!" he said tersely.
 
 
Captain Francis Newcombe raised his head from his pillow, and propped himself up on his elbow. A door nearby suddenly opened. Other doors were being rapped upon. Voices came.
 
The ex-captain of territorials sprang from his bed, thrust his feet into slippers, threw a bathrobe over his pajamas, opened his door and stepped out into the hall. Some one had already turned on a light. He found himself amongst a group of fellow guests, whose number was being constantly augmented. From other doorways, wary of their extreme dishabille, women's faces peered out timidly—their voices, less restrained, demanding to know what was the matter, added an hysterical note to the scene.
 
"A shot was certainly fired somewhere in the house, though I couldn't place where it came from," declared some one. "I am quite sure of it."
 
"There is no question about it," corroborated another. "It woke me up, and I ran out here into the hall."
 
"The Earl is not in his room!" announced a third excitedly. "I've just been there."
 
"Ring for the servants!" screeched an elderly female voice. "Some one may be killed!"
 
"For God's sake!" snapped a man gruffly. "I didn't hear it myself, but if a shot was fired it's fairly obvious by now that it wasn't fired up here! What are you standing around like a pack of sheep for?"
 
"That's what I was wondering," said Captain Francis Newcombe softly to himself—and joined the now concerted rush down the stairway.
 
Lights were going on all over the house now, and the men servants began to appear. The rush scurried from one room to another. A cry went up from some one ahead. It turned the rush into the dining room, and there, in their motley garbs, chorusing excited exclamations, the crowd surrounded the two gagged and bound guards.
 
Then some one else shouted from the pantry that the metal chest had been broken open, and that the gold service was gone. There was another rush in that direction. Captain Francis Newcombe accompanied this rush. On the floor lay a revolver. The ex-captain of territorials picked it up.
 
"Hello!" he ejaculated. "It's rather queer this has been left behind—or perhaps it belongs to one of the two out there in the dining room."
 
"No, sir," said one of the servants at his elbow. "It's the Earl's, sir. I'd know it anywhere. And, begging your pardon, sir, it's a bit strange that he hasn't been seen since—"
 
"Here he is!" cried a voice from beyond the farther pantry door. "Here, lend a hand! The Earl's been hurt."
 
Captain Francis Newcombe aiding, the Earl was carried back to the dining room, and restoratives hastily applied. Here, the man in livery, released now, his voice weak and unsteady, was telling his story; his companion was still unconscious.
 
"... Gawd knows," the man was saying. "We was in the pantry, and Brown there 'e thought 'e 'eard a sound out 'ere in the dining room. And 'e gets up and pushes the swinging door open and goes through, and a minute later I 'ears what I thinks is 'im calling me. ''Ere, quick, Johnston!' 'e says. And I goes through the door, and something bashes me over the 'ead, and I goes out. What 'appened though is as clear as daylight now. Brown goes through the door and gets hit on the 'ead, and I goes through the door and gets hit on the 'ead. And it wasn't Brown as called to me, it was the blighter that did us in, and—"
 
The Earl's voice broke in suddenly.
 
"I'm all right, I tell you!" he insisted weakly. "There were two of them ... one behind the door knocked the revolver out of my hand as I fired, and smashed me over the head with something ... bags, travelling bags for the plate ... that's the way they're carrying it ... I—"
 
The Earl's voice trailed off.
 
"It can't have been more than five minutes ago then," said the man with the gruff voice, "for they were therefore in the house when the shot was fired. They can't have got very far carrying that load. Quick now! We'll search the park."
 
"But they wouldn't attempt to carry it very far anyway," objected some one. "They'd have a motor, of course."
 
"Exactly!" retorted the other. "But not near enough to the house to be heard. Did any one hear a motor after that shot was fired? Of course, not! We may get them before they get their motor. Also, we'll use a motor too! Any one of the chauffeurs here?"
 
"Yes, sir," answered a man.
 
"Good! Any one armed?"
 
"I've got the Earl's revolver," said Captain Francis Newcombe.
 
"Well, there's the gun room," said the man who had assumed command. "And you servants get lanterns and things. Look lively, now! Sharp's the word!"
 
And for some reason Captain Francis Newcombe smiled grimly to himself, as he attached his person to the chauffeur, and, accompanied by three other pajama-clad guests, raced from the house.
 
At the garage Captain Francis Newcombe appropriated the front seat beside the chauffeur, his fellow guests scrambled into the tonneau, and a moment later the big car shot around the end of the house and began to sweep down the driveway. The ex-captain of territorials screwed around in his seat for a backward glance as they tore along. Every window in the great, rambling, castle-like edifice appeared to be alight; this caused a filmy, lighted zone without, and through this raced ghostly figures in bathrobes and dressing gowns that were almost instantly swallowed up in the shadows of the trees; and from amongst the trees, dancing in and out, like huge fireflies in their effect, there showed in constantly increasing numbers the glint of lanterns.
 
But now the motor was at the lodge gates, nosing the main road, and the chauffeur pulled up.
 
"Which way would you say, sir?" he asked anxiously.
 
"I'd vote for whichever is the shortest way to London—that's to the left, isn't it?" Captain Francis Newcombe responded promptly. He turned to his fellow guests. "I don't know what you think about it?"
 
"Yes," one of the others answered, "I'd say that's the way they'd most likely take."
 
"Very good, sir!" said the chauffeur. "Left, it is, and—" He broke short off. "There they are!" he cried excitedly. "Listen! They're coming out of that lane there, over to the right!" He swung the motor sharply into the straight of the main road. "There they are! See 'em!" he cried again, as the headlights brought the rear of a speeding motor into view. "The old general back there in the house was right. They didn't bring their motor any nearer for fear it would be heard. That's where it has been—up the lane there. But we've got 'em now! This old girl'll touch seventy and never turn a hair."
 
"Corking!" contributed Captain Francis Newcombe enthusiastically. "You're sure of the seventy, are you?"
 
"Rather!" exclaimed the chauffeur. "Look for yourself, sir. We're overhauling them now like one o'clock."
 
The ex-captain of territorials for a moment stared intently along the headlights' rays to where, gradually, the other motor was coming more and more into focus.
 
"By Jove, I believe you're right!" he agreed heartily—and from the pocket of his dressing gown produced the Earl's revolver.
 
The motor was lurching now with the speed. A hundred yards intervening between the flying cars diminished to seventy-five—to fifty. Still closer! The men in the tonneau clung to their seats. Twenty-five yards!
 
Captain Francis Newcombe shouted to his companions over the roar and sweep of the wind.
 
"I'll take a pot at the beggars, and see if that'll stop 'em!" he yelled. "Better chance over the top of the windshield, what?"
 
Captain Francis Newcombe stood up, swayed with the car, fired twice in quick succession and once after a short pause over the top of the windshield—but the ex-captain of territorials' mark seemed curiously comprehensive in expanse, for his eyes were at the same time searching the side of the road ahead. And now there showed at the end of the headlight's path a hedgerow bordering close against the side of the road. Captain Francis Newcombe fired again, but as the car lurched now the ex-captain of territorials seemed momentarily to lose his balance, and with the lurch swayed heavily against the chauffeur's arm.
 
There was a startled yell from the chauffeur; a vicious swerve—and the big motor leaped at the hedge. Came a crash of splintering glass as Captain Francis Newcombe was pitched head first against the windshield; a rip and rend and tear as the motor bucked and plunged and twisted in its conflict with the thick, heavy hedge; and then a terrific jolt that in its train brought a full stop.
 
And Captain Francis Newcombe, flung back and half out of the car, put his hands to his eyes and brought them away wet from a great gush of blood.
 
"Carry on! Carry on!" he cried weakly. "You'll never have a better chance to get them."
 
"My God!" screamed the chauffeur. "Carry on? We're a bally wreck!"
 
"What beastly luck!" murmured Captain Francis Newcombe—and lost consciousness.