rtment, his favourite little travelling
chessboard stood on the table with pieces in position on it.

There was a letter, too, he had begun but not finished, to the editor
of a chess-column in some paper, apparently to the effect that a certain
problem "cooked," and that by such and such a move "the mate for the
first player that appeared certain was unexpectedly and instantly
transferred in this dramatic manner into a mate for his opponent."

The words seemed somehow oddly appropriate to Rupert, and he smiled
grimly as he read them and then all at once his expression changed and
his whole attitude became one of intense watchfulness and readiness.

For his quick eye had noted that the ink on the nib of the pen that this
letter had been written with, was not yet dry.

Then Deede Dawson must have been here a moment or two ago and must have
gone in a hurry. That could only mean he was aware of Rupert's return
and was warned and suspicious. It is perhaps characteristic of Rupert's
passionate and eager temperament that only now did it occur to him
that he was quite unarmed and that without a weapon of any kind he was
matching himself against as reckless and as formidable a criminal as had
ever lived.

For want of anything better he picked up the heavy glass inkpot standing
on the table, emptied the contents in a puddle on the floor, and held
the inkpot itself ready in his hand.

He listened intently, but heard no sound--no sound at all in the whole
house, and this increased his apprehensions, for he knew well that Deede
Dawson was a man always the most dangerous when most silent.

It was possible of course that he had fled, but not likely. He would not
go, Rupert thought, till he had made his preparations and not without
a last effort to take revenge on those who had defeated him and in this
dramatic way turned the mate he had expected to secure into a win for
his opponent.

Still Rupert listened intently, straining his ears to catch the least
sound to hint to him where his enemy was, for he knew that if he failed
to discover him his first intimation of his proximity might well come in
the shape of the white-hot sting of a bullet, rending flesh and bone.

Then, too, where was Ella, and where was her mother?

There was something inexpressibly sinister in the utter quietness of the
house, a quietness not at all of peace and rest but of a brooding, angry
threat.

Still he could hear nothing, and he left the room, ve