ght.

"Two of Skeel's gang are already aboard--a man named Con McDermott
and another, Kelly Walsh. Skeel joins the others at a hamlet near
the Lake shore, known as Three Ponds. The tavern is a notorious
and disreputable old brick hotel--what you call a speak-easy. That
is their rendezvous.

"Well, then, I have wired to your people, to Canada, to
Washington. But Three Ponds is not a very long drive from here, if
one ignores speed limits. Yes? Could you help us maintain a close
surveillance over that damned tavern to-night? Is it too much to
ask?

"And if you and Mr. Westmore are graciously inclined to aid us,
would you be so kind as to come armed? Because, mon ami, unless
your Government people arrive in time, I shall certainly try to
keep Skeel and his gang from boarding that boat.

"Au revoir, donc! I am off with Jacques Alost and Emile Souchez
for that charming summer resort, the Three Ponds Tavern, where,
from the neighbouring roadside woods, I shall hope to flag your
automobile by sunrise and welcome you and your amiable friend, Mr.
Westmore, as our brothers in arms.

"RENOUX, your comrade and, friend."

There was a silence. Then Westmore looked at his watch.

"We ought to hustle," he remarked. "I'll get on some knickers and
stick a couple of guns in my pocket. You'd better telephone to the
garage."

As they hastened up the stairs together, Barres said: "Have I time for
a word with Dulcie?"

"That's up to you. I'm not going to say anything to Thessa. I wouldn't
care to miss this affair. If we arrived too late and they had already
dynamited the Welland Canal, we'd never forgive ourselves."

Barres ran for his room.

* * * * *

They were dressed, armed and driving out of the Foreland Farms gates
inside of ten minutes. Barres had the wheel; Westmore sat beside him
shoving new clips into two automatics and dividing the remaining boxes
of ammunition.

"The crazy devils," he said to Barres, raising his voice to make
himself heard. "Blow up the Canal, will they! What's the matter with
these Irishmen! The rest are not like 'em. Look at the Flanders
fighting, Garry! Look at the magnificent record of the Irish
regiments! Why don't our Irish play the game?"

"It's their blind hatred of England," shouted Barres, in his ear.
"They're monomaniacs. They can't see anything else--can't see what
they're doing to civilisation--cutting the very t