re satisfied that the
missing woman was less than two miles away from the scene of her
disappearance.

Count Poltavo had armed himself with a pair of field-glasses, and now he
carefully scrutinized all the roads which led to the downs. A motor-car,
absurdly diminutive from the distance, came spinning along the winding
white road two miles away. He watched it as it mounted the one hill and
descended the other, and kept his glasses on it until it vanished in a
cloud of dust on the London road. Then he saw what he sought. Coming
across the downs a mile away was the bent figure of a man who stopped
now and again to look about, as though uncertain as to the direction he
should take. Poltavo, lying flat upon the ground, his glasses fixed upon
the man, waited, watching the slow progress with lazy interest.

He saw an old man, white-bearded and grey-haired, carrying his hat in
his hand as he walked. His rough homespun clothing, his collarless shirt
open at the throat, the plaid scarf around his neck, all these Poltavo
saw through his powerful glasses and was satisfied.

This was not the kind of man to play tricks, he smiled to himself.
Poltavo's precautions had been of an elaborate nature. Three roads led
to the downs, and in positions at equal distances from where he stood he
had placed three cars. He was ready for all emergencies. If he had to
fly, then whichever way of escape was necessary would bring him to a
means of placing a distance between himself and any possible pursuer.

The old man came nearer. Poltavo made a hasty but narrow survey of the
messenger.

"Good," he said.

He walked to meet the old man.

"You have a letter for me?" he inquired.

The other glanced at him suspiciously.

"Name?" he asked gruffly.

"My name," said the smiling Pole, "is Poltavo."

Slowly the messenger groped in his pockets and produced a heavy package.
"You've got to give me something," he said.

Poltavo handed over a sealed packet, receiving in exchange the
messenger's.

Again Poltavo shot a smiling glance at this sturdy old man. Save for the
beard and the grey hair which showed beneath the broad-brimmed,
wide-awake hat, this might have been a young man.

"This is an historic meeting," Poltavo went on gaily. His heart was
light and his spirits as buoyant as ever they had been in his life. All
the prospects which this envelope, now bulging in his pocket, promised,
rose vividly before his eyes.

"Tell me your name, my old