badly frightened, you are badly frightened, you are badly
frightened." "Yes," said Lionel, after three seconds' pardonable
collapse, "I _am_; but I'll try to frighten the other chap!" And with
laudable swiftness he ran to the window, threw it open and called,
"Who's there?"

Of course there was no answer. With a thawing of the faculties he ran
back, seized the poker and turned off the light. Then he stepped outside
to look for the night-prowler, longing for some tangible flesh to beat
into a pulp.

The night was starless. Not a breath of wind stirred the leaves. Not a
bird twittered a hint of ambush. Not a sound on gravel or swish of
dew-laden grass brushed by a spy's foot promised vengeance. Aglow with
eagerness now that action was possible and a clew at hand, he walked
round the house, eyes and ears alert for the marauder. There was nothing
to be seen. It was only too clear that the watcher by night had escaped
the moment he was seen, and no good purpose could be served by a random
pursuit in the dark. Lionel went back to the library, secured the
windows and lighted a fresh pipe.

Of course he could not arouse the house. If, as seemed certain, this
watcher were a Turkish spy, it would be absurd to enlist Miss
Arkwright's aid. Better to say nothing, still watch--but even more
narrowly--and ... go to bed.

It was a quarter to twelve when he went up-stairs, still smoking. His
bedroom lay at the end of a short passage. Anxious not to disturb any
one at that unseasonable hour, he took off his slippers at the foot of
the stairs and advanced in his "stocking-feet." Without the slightest
noise he tiptoed along the corridor. Just before he reached his room
another door was opened, very quietly indeed, upon his right. A line of
light cut the blackness, and Lionel stood still involuntarily, without
purpose, waiting, expectant of something, he knew not what. The door
opened wide, and a girl in a pretty pink dressing-gown came out. It was
not Winifred who threw up her hands at the sight of the waiting Lionel.
It was Mizzi.

CHAPTER XX

THRILL UPON THRILL

This time Lionel had himself well in hand: he was ready for anything. It
was no occasion for tenderness or chivalry: brusk silent action was the
cue. Seizing the stricken Mizzi by the arm with one hand, he clapped the
other over her mouth to prevent a scream. Then half-pushing,
half-dragging, he forced her along the few remaining yards that
separated them from