they
obtain any satisfaction for your past misdeeds."

The direction they took led them to Moor Cottage. In a quarter of an
hour a force of police would be on the spot, for T. B. had timed his
arrangements almost to the minute. He opened the door of the cottage and
pushed his prisoner inside.

"We will avoid the study," he smiled; "you probably know our mutual
friend Lady Constance Dex disappeared under somewhat extraordinary
circumstances from that room, and since I have every wish to keep you,
we will take the drawing-room as a temporary prison."

He opened the door of the little room in which the piano was, and
indicated to his captive to sit in one of the deep-seated chairs.

"Now, my friend," said T. B., "we have a chance of mutual
understanding. I do not wish to disguise from you the fact that you are
liable to a very heavy sentence. That you are only an agent I am aware,
but in this particular case you were acting entirely on your own
account. You have made elaborate and thorough preparations for leaving
England."

Poltavo smiled.

"That is true," he said, frankly.

T. B. nodded.

"I have seen your trunks all beautifully new, and imposingly labelled,"
he smiled, "and I have searched them."

Poltavo sat, his elbows on his knees, reflectively smoothing his
moustache with his manacled hands.

"Is there any way I can get out of this?" he asked, after a while.

"You can make things much easier for yourself," replied T. B. quietly.

"In what way?"

"By telling me all you know about Farrington and giving me any
information you can about the Secret House. Where, for instance, is Lady
Constance Dex?"

The other shrugged his shoulders.

"She is alive, I can tell you that. I had a letter from Fall in which he
hinted as much. I do not know how they captured her, or the
circumstances of the case. All I can tell you is that she is perfectly
well and being looked after. You see Farrington had to take her--she
shot at him once--hastened his disappearance in fact, and there was
evidence that she was planning further reprisals. As to the mysteries of
the Secret House," he said, frankly, "I know little or nothing.
Farrington, of course, is----"

"Montague Fallock," said T. B. quietly. "I know that also."

"Then what else do you want to know?" asked the other, in surprise. "I
am perfectly willing, if you can make it easy for me, to tell you
everything. The man who is known as Moole is a half-witted old farm
l