with the chauffeur at
the wheel, the motor humming softly.

"Timkins," said Bentley, addressing the private secretary who stood in
the most distant corner of the room, his eyes fearfully fixed on the
street door, "how was Mr. Hervey captured?"

"I was accompanying him to his car, sir," replied the young man, "when
a dapper fellow in a chauffeur's uniform confronted us on the
sidewalk. He stood as stiff and straight as a soldier. He didn't say a
word. He just looked at Mr. Hervey. Mr. Hervey stopped because the man
was blocking the sidewalk. I looked into the chauffeur's eyes. They
seemed utterly dead. I shivered. I'd have sworn the man had no soul,
now that I look back at it. Suddenly he lashed out with his fist,
striking Mr. Hervey on the jaw. Mr. Hervey started to fall. The man
caught him under the arms and tossed him into the tonneau of a
limousine at the curb. The car was away before I could summon the
police."

Bentley nodded.

"Which way did the car go?" he demanded.

"Downtown, at top speed," replied Timkins.

Bentley turned to Tyler.

"The Stuyvesant exchange is downtown," he said. "Now Timkins says that
the kidnaper's car went downtown. And the naked man was killed in the
Flatiron Building, which is well downtown in its turn. Tyler, fill all
the area covered by the Stuyvesant exchange with plain-clothes men.
Telephone Headquarters to see whether a stolen limousine has been
reported from somewhere in the area. Barter wouldn't have cars of his
own for fear they could be traced. He'll use stolen cars when he uses
cars at all. And he had his puppet pick up the limousine close to his
hideout."

- - -

Tyler nodded and quickly spoke into the telephone on the table at his
elbow.

The telephone reminded Bentley of Ellen Estabrook.

When Tyler had finished issuing pointed instructions Bentley called
the residence of the Estabrooks in Astoria, Long Island.

Carl Estabrook answered the telephone.

"Is Ellen all right?" asked Bentley. "May I speak to her?"

Carl Estabrook's answering gasp came plainly over the wire.

"Are you crazy, Lee?" he asked. "Not ten minutes ago you telephoned
Ellen and told her to meet you near the arch in Washington Square. I
asked her if she was sure the voice was yours, and she was...."

But Bentley, white-faced, had already clicked up the receiver.

"Tyler," he said, "Ellen Estabrook, my fiancee, is walking into a
trap. It's Barter again. He'd know how to im