d, was gloomily gazing at the turrets of
the gray house. "He may escape us," fiercely said the man who had
traveled from New York, eager to clasp the cold steel on "Mr. August
Meyer's" blood-stained hands.

"Not so," calmly answered the disguised Breslau police sergeant, a
sturdy war veteran. "I have hunted here all over the Adler's Horst.
I know every crag and open spot. My soldiers are now hidden in a
circle all around the old house. The moment that our carriage drives
out into the open, they will close in and arrest every living soul.
Do you see that little white flag flying on a pole on that pile of
rocks? That is my signal that all is ready. Come on, now. We may
not be in at the death."

Atwater had marvelled at the rapid work of the officials in their
three-hours' stay at Breslau, and now he admired the skirmishing
tactics of the veteran as the three men dodged from side to side
while the empty carriage slowly drove down into the open.

The German sergeant threw up his hand and darted forward on the
run as lithe forms in rifle green were seen quickly swarming out
of the woods encircling the old mansion. There was no sign of life
in the low, irregular hunting-lodge, save a pillar of smoke lazily
ascending from the offices in rear.

McNerney was racing along at the German officer's side, his pistol
drawn, and Atwater hardly turned his head as a squad of soldiers
darted out of the encircling thickets.

"He is in there!" shouted a corporal to the Breslau policeman, now
eager to make the capture and share McNerney's promised reward.

The screams of the frightened servants could be heard as the
assailants neared the house. Was it fancy, or did McNerney see a
grim, human face glaring out of the window of a round tower at the
angle of the facade?

"Here; this way!" cried McNerney, as he stumbled into a little
garden where trellised grapevines in olden days made a shaded walk
for the Lady of Adler's Horst.

The group of men stopped aghast as a woman dashed wildly out of
a door opening into a long conservatory. Her voice rang out in a
last, appealing cry for help. She was sorely pressed!

Not three paces behind her trailing white robes, his face convulsed
with passion, Fritz Braun leaped along, in a murderous rage, like
a tiger in pursuit. In his right hand gleamed a flashing knife, and
as the frantic woman tripped and fell, the brute's arm was raised.

But, throwing himself back into the "gallery positio