Anthony Luttrell’s distaste for his errand had certainly not during the long drive from town. He stood now on his own doorstep facing a strange butler, and heard a formal “Not at home,” in response to his for Lady Heritage.  
“And Miss Molloy?” he asked.
 
“Not at home,” repeated Blotson.
 
If this was a it was an unwelcome one. Anthony would very much have preferred to get the thing over.
 
“I will wait,” he said , and walked past Blotson into the hall. “I am Mr. Luttrell,” he explained, and Blotson’s diminished very slightly. After a moment’s he threw open the study door and Anthony into the room.
 
“If Lady Heritage is in the house she will see me,” said Anthony. “If she is out I should like to see Miss Molloy or, failing her, Mr. Ember.” He walked to the window and stood there looking out until Blotson returned.
 
“Lady Heritage is out, sir, and Miss Molloy is out. Mr. Ember was in just now, but he must have stepped out again.”
 
“I will wait,” said Anthony for the second time.
 
When Blotson had gone, he stood quite still, following out a somewhat uneasy train of thought. As the minutes passed, uneasiness into anxiety.
 
 
Jane ran the whole way to the walled garden. Once inside its door she made herself walk in order to get her breath. When she came into the potting-shed she knew just what she was going to do, and set about doing it in a quiet, businesslike way. From a stack of pots she took about half a dozen, broke all but two of them, and gathered the sherds into the lap of her dress. She put the two unbroken pots on the top of the sherds. Then she took a sharp pruning-knife from the shelf, opened the trap-door, and went down the steps.
 
As soon as she came into the main corridor she began to put down the broken sherds, taking care to make no noise. She laid a trail of them up to the laboratory turning, and then all along the turning itself, disposing them in the middle of the fairway in such a manner as to ensure that they should not fail to be seen by any one flashing a light along the passage. She put the last two or three sherds in a little pile about a yard short of the arch leading to the passage with the well in it. As she down there she heard Belcovitch maintaining an impassioned Slavonic within the laboratory.
 
She stood in the archway, threw her two unbroken pots against the opposite wall with all her might, and then ran back down the well passage until it turned.
 
Everything happened just as she knew that it would happen.
 
Belcovitch stopped talking and swore. It was a polysyllabic curse, very effective. Then the steel gate was flung open, and in three languages Mr. Belcovitch demanded of the silence an account of what was happening. His voice ran away into a hollow echo, and died .
 
 
Jane heard him stamp back into the , cursing, and return. This time he flashed a light before him. against the wall, Jane saw its glow reflected from the side of the passage in which she was. Belcovitch had seen the sherds and was exclaiming and muttering. She heard him pass the arch.
 
Jane stole to the mouth of the slanting passage. Belcovitch was two yards away on her left, flashing his light down the tunnel, seeing more broken pots, and more and more, and swearing all the time, not loudly but with considerable earnestness. Jane slipped like a shadow across behind him and round the corner. The steel gate was wide open. She ran through it and into the lighted laboratory.
 
Henry lay on the stone floor in front of her, bound hand and foot. He had rolled over on to his side and was staring at the gate. Raymond had risen to her feet, and was taking a half-step towards Henry as Jane came running in.
 
“Shut the gate,” said Henry in a sharp whisper.
 
“There’s another way out, and I don’t think they know it. Quick, Jane, quick!”
 
Jane slammed the gate. She had the pruning-knife in her hand, and she was down on her knees and at work on the black silk muffler before the sound of the slam reached Mr. Belcovitch. When it did reach him he round and came back at a run with a revolver in his hand and murderous fury in his heart.
 
Jane cut through the last of silk, and because Belcovitch’s hand was shaking with rage his first bullet missed her and Henry handsomely.
 
“Get up against the wall, quick!” Henry commanded.
 
As he he was himself half rolling, half towards the wall. His ankles were still tied, but his arms were free. The second bullet just missed his head. Jane cried out, and then they were both out of the line of fire. Henry was breathing hard.
 
“Give me the knife,” he panted, and began to saw at some of the toughest rope he had ever come across.
 
Raymond had remained . She had retreated almost to the end of the room and wore a look of extreme surprise.
 
“Why do you call her Jane?” she asked. Her deep voice came through the racket with strange .
 
Belcovitch continued to make the maximum amount of noise in which it is possible for a man and a revolver to . He banged the steel gate in the of firing, and he cursed voluminously.
 
The rope gave, and Henry was half-way on to his feet when there was a sudden cessation of all the sounds. Raymond gave a warning cry, and Henry caught at Jane’s shoulder and straightened himself. The steel gate was opening.
 
Jane said, “Henry—oh, Henry darling!” and there came in Mr. Jeffrey Ember, very cool and deadly, with his little automatic pistol levelled. Just behind him came Belcovitch, a silent Belcovitch, at his master’s heel.
 
 
“Touching scene,” said Ember. “Captain March, if you don’t put your hands up at once I shall shoot Miss Molloy. From her last , I should imagine that you’d rather I didn’t. Miss Molloy, go across to the opposite wall and stand there. Belcovitch, keep your revolver against that young lady’s temple, but don’t let it off till I give you leave. Raymond, I should be glad if you would resume your chair. A brief conversation is, I think, necessary, and I should prefer you to be seated.”
 
He stood not far from the entrance, dominating the room. The gate had been closed by Belcovitch. Ember waited till his instructions had been carried out; then he came a little nearer to Lady Heritage and said:
 
“Time presses, Raymond. I must go. I wish that there were more time, for indeed I would rather not have hurried you.”
 
Jane, with the of Belcovitch’s revolver cold against her temple, found her attention caught by Ember’s words. Time ... yes, that’s what they wanted—time. Piggy had said that Anthony might arrive at any moment. When he did arrive and found that they were all mysteriously absent, surely his first thought would be to search the passages. She raised her voice and said :
 
“Mr. Ember.”
 
Ember threw her a dangerous look.
 
“Be quiet,” he said shortly.
 
“There was something I wanted to tell you,” said Jane.
 
“Out with it then, and be quick.”
 
“You called me Miss Molloy just now....”
 
“No, Jane, no!” said Henry violently.
 
Mr. Ember echoed the remark made by Lady Heritage.
 
“Why do you call her Jane?” he inquired.
 
“That is what I was going to tell you,” said Jane.
 
 
“You called me Miss Molloy, and I just thought I would like you to know that I’m not Renata Molloy. It would make an untidy sort of finish if you went away thinking that I was, and I hate things untidy.”
 
“You’re a little devil,” said Ember ... “a little devil.”
 
Jane stuck her chin in the air.
 
“Well, I’m not Renata Molloy anyhow,” she said. “No one would ever have called her a devil. She was a white rabbit—a nice, quiet, tame white rabbit.”
 
Jane’s voice failed suddenly on the last word. Yet Mr. ............