ly a second before he crumbled and fell, and
he was dead before he reached the ground.

Still there was no sign or sound of life. A church clock boomed out the
quarter to ten. A motor-car went past, and then the laurel bushes by the
side of the steps moved, and a man in a black mackintosh stepped out. He
bent over the dead man, picked up the fallen torch and flashed the light
on the dead man's face, then, with a grunt of satisfaction, Raoul
Pontarlier unscrewed his Soubet silencer and slipped his automatic into
the wet pocket of his mackintosh.

Feeling in an inside pocket for a cigarette, he found one and lit it
from the smouldering end of a tinder-lighter. Then, carefully concealing
the lighted cigarette in the palm of his hand, he walked softly and
noiselessly down the drive, keeping to the shadow of the bushes and
watching to left and right for signs of approaching pedestrians. At two
points he could see the heath road, and nobody was in sight. There was
plenty of time, and men had been ruined by haste. He reached the gate
and carefully looked over. The road was deserted. His hand was on the
gate, when something cold and hard was pushed against his ear and he
turned round.

"Put up your hands!" said a mocking voice. "Put them up!"

The Frenchman's hands rose slowly.

"Now turn round and face the house. Quick!" said the voice. "_Marchez!_
Halt!"

Raoul stopped. If he could only get his hands down and duck, one
lightning dive....

His captor evidently read his thoughts, for he felt a hand slip into his
mackintosh pocket, and he was relieved of the weight of his automatic.

"Go forward, up the steps. Stop!"

The stranger had seen the huddled figure of White, and stooped over him.
He made no comment. He knew the man was dead before his hands had
touched him.

"Mount the steps, _canaille!_" said the voice, and Raoul walked slowly
up the steps of the house and halted with his face against the door.

A hand came up under his uplifted arm and sought the keyhole. A few
minutes' fumbling until the prongs of the skeleton key had found its
corresponding wards, and then the door swung open, emitting a scent of
mustiness and decay.

"_Marchez!_" said the stranger, and Raoul walked forward and heard the
door slam behind him.

The house was not empty, in the sense that it was unfurnished. The
unknown was using an electric torch of extraordinary brilliancy, and
revealed a dilapidated hall-stand and a musty chair. He