r he knew
would be there, and secured it. The sitting figure made puffing, feeble
attempts to prevent him, but there was no real struggle.

Mr. Cameron himself was feeling extremely triumphant and as strong as a
lion. He was rather sorry no one had seen the affair, but that of course
was sub-conscious. And he was more cheerful than he had been for some
days. He had been up against so many purely intangible obstacles lately
that it was a relief to find one he could use his fists on.

"Now I'll have a few words with you, my desperate friend," he said.
"I've got your gun, and I am hell with a revolver, because I've never
fired one, and there's a sort of homicidal beginner's luck about the
thing. If you move or speak, I'll shoot it into you first and when it's
empty I'll choke it down your throat and strangle you to death."

After which ferocious speech he strolled up the path, revolver in hand,
and rang the doorbell. He put the weapon in his pocket then, but he
kept his hand upon it. He had read somewhere that a revolver was quite
useable from a pocket. There was no immediate answer to the bell, and he
turned and surveyed the man under the tree, faintly distinguishable in
the blackness. It had occurred to him that the number of guns a man may
carry is only limited to his pockets, which are about fifteen.

There were heavy, deliberate footsteps inside, and the door was flung
open. No glare of light followed it, however. There was a man there,
alarmingly tall, who seemed to stare at him, and then beyond him into
the yard.

"Well?"

"Are you Mr. Doyle?"

"I am."

"My name is Cameron, Mr. Doyle. I have had a small difference with your
watch-dog, but he finally let me by."

"I'm afraid I don't understand. I have no dog."

"The sentry you keep posted, then." Mr. Cameron disliked fencing.

"Ah!" said Mr. Doyle, urbanely. "You have happened on one of my good
friends, I see. I have many enemies, Mr. Cameron--was that the name? And
my friends sometimes like to keep an eye on me. It is rather touching."

He was smiling, Mr. Cameron knew, and his anger rose afresh.

"Very touching," said Mr. Cameron, "but if he bothers me going out
you may be short one friend. Mr. Doyle, Miss Lily Cardew left her home
to-night. I want to know if she is here."

"Are you sent by her family?"

"I have asked you if she is here."

Jim Doyle apparently deliberated.

"My niece is here, although just why you should interest yourself--"