o. "At midnight I have an appointment at
the cross-roads, half-a-mile away, with Inspector Watts of Scotland
Yard, who holds a warrant for your arrest and extradition to France.
If you are still alive when we call, then you must stand your
trial--that is all. Trial will mean exposure, and----"

"And my exposure will mean the downfall and ruin of those political
thieves now in power--eh?" cried Poland. "They are not at all anxious
that I should fall into the hands of the police."

"And you are equally anxious that the world--and more especially your
daughter--shall not know the truth," remarked the detective, speaking
in a meaning tone. "I have given you the alternative, and I shall now
leave. At midnight I shall return--officially--when I hope you will
have escaped by the loophole so generously allowed you by the
authorities."

"If I fled, would you follow?"

"Most certainly. It would be my duty. You cannot escape--only by
death. I regret, m'sieur, that I have been compelled to put the
alternative so bluntly, but you know full well the great issues at
stake in this affair. Therefore I need say nothing further, except to
bid you _au revoir_--till midnight."

Then the portly man bowed--bowed as politely as though he were in the
presence of a crowned head--and, turning upon his heel, left the room,
followed by his host, who personally opened the door for him as he
bade him good-night.

One hour's grace had been given Philip Poland. After that, the
blackness of death.

His blanched features were rigid as he stood staring straight before
him. His enemy had betrayed him. His defiance had, alas! cost him his
life.

He recollected Shuttleworth's slowly uttered words on the night
before, and his finger-nails clenched themselves into his palms. Then
he passed across the square, old-fashioned hall to the study, dim-lit,
save for the zone of light around the green-shaded reading-lamp; the
sombre room where the old grandfather clock ticked so solemnly in the
corner.

Sonia had returned to the drawing-room as he let his visitor out. He
could hear her playing, and singing in her sweet contralto a tuneful
French love-song, ignorant of the hideous crisis that had fallen,
ignorant of the awful disaster which had overwhelmed him.

Three-quarters of an hour had passed when, stealthily on tiptoe, the
girl crept into the room, and there found her father seated by the
fireplace, staring in blank silence.

The long old brass-fa