ined
him, you and Hartnett. And for half an hour I've had the unlimited
freedom of his inner rooms, with the aid of an unlocked window on the
lower floor. Those inner rooms, gentlemen, are significant--very!"

As we walked the length of Mate Lane, the gaunt, sinister home of
Michael Strange became an indistinct outline in the pitch behind us.
Drake said nothing more on the return trip, until we had nearly reached
my rooms. Then he turned to me with a smile.

"We are one up on our friend, Dale," he said. "He does not know, just
now, which is the bigger fool--you or Hartnett here. However, I imagine
Hartnett will be the victim of some very unusual events before many
hours have passed!"

That was all. At least, all of significance. I left the two Scotland
Yard men at the opening of Cheney Lane, and continued alone to my rooms.
I opened the door and let myself in quietly. And there some few hours
later, began the last and most horrible phase of the case of the murder
machine.

* * * * *

It begin--or to be more accurate, I began to react to it--at three
o'clock in the morning. I was alone, and the rooms were dark. For hours
I had sat quietly by the table, considering the significant events of
the past few days. Sleep was impossible with so many unanswered
questions staring into me, and so I sat there wondering.

Did Drake actually believe that Margot Vernee's simple story had been a
ruse--that she had in truth killed her lover on that midnight intrusion
of his home? Did he believe that Michael Strange knew of that
intrusion--that he had possibly planned it himself, and aided her, in
order that Margot might be free to return to him? Did Strange know of
that other intrusion, and of the uncanny power which had driven Sir John
Harmon, and supposedly driven Margot to that house on After Street?

Those were the questions that still remained without answers: and it was
over those questions that I pondered, while my surroundings became
darker and more silent as the hour became more advanced. I heard the
clock strike three, and heard the answering drone of Big Ben from the
square.

* * * * *

And then it began. At first it was little more than a sense of
nervousness. Before I had been content to sit in my chair and doze. Now,
in spite of myself, I found myself pacing the floor, back and forth like
a caged animal. I could have sworn, at the time, that some sinis