the bell. Monsieur
Louis looked at him inquiringly, but before he could frame a question
the butler was in the room.

"Pack my things for a week, Groves," Duncombe ordered. "I am going away
to-night."

The man bowed and withdrew. Monsieur Louis merely shrugged his
shoulders.

"A week!" he remarked. "You will be fortunate if you ever see your home
again. Come, Sir George, be reasonable! I give you my word of honor that
it is altogether to the interest of Miss Poynton that those papers be
immediately produced. If she were here herself she would place them in
my hands without a moment's hesitation."

"Possibly!" Duncombe answered. "Suppositions, however, do not interest
me. I undertook the charge of what she gave me, and I shall fulfil my
trust."

Monsieur Louis turned to the policeman.

"Officer," he said, "this is Sir George Duncombe. Do your duty."

The man stepped forward and laid his hand upon Sir George's shoulder.

"Very sorry, sir," he said. "I am forced to arrest you on this warrant
for the murder of Florence Mermillon on the night of the seventh of
June. You will be brought before the magistrates at Norwich to-morrow."

Duncombe waved his hand towards the sideboard.

"If you gentlemen," he remarked, "would care for a little refreshment
before you start?"

"It is against the rules, sir, thank you," the man answered. "I should
be glad to get away as soon as possible."

Duncombe filled both his pockets with cigars and cigarettes. Then he
turned towards the door.

"I am quite ready," he said.

They followed him out. There was a few minutes' delay waiting for
Duncombe's bag.

"Your address, Sir George?" Groves inquired, as he brought it down.

"A little doubtful," Duncombe answered. "I will wire."

"In front, please, Sir George," Monsieur Louis insisted.

So they drove off, Duncombe in the front seat, the other three behind.
The car gathered speed rapidly. In less than an hour they were half-way
to Norwich. Then suddenly the driver took a sharp corner and turned down
a long desolate lane.

"You're off the main road," Duncombe explained. "You should have kept
straight on for Norwich."

The man took no notice. He even increased his speed. Duncombe was in the
act of turning round when he felt the sudden swish of a wet cloth upon
his face. He tried to break away, but he was held from behind as in a
vise. Then his head fell back, and he remembered no more.

CHAPTER X

THE CHECKMATING OF