the stupor of cold
passed almost simultaneously with the stupor of anesthesia.

But Voles had his larger plan now. With coolness and daring he might
achieve it. All depended on the discretion of those left behind in
Gateway House. It was impossible to keep Winifred always in durance, or
to prevent her everlastingly from obtaining help. That fool of a
cyclist, for instance, had he contented himself with riding quietly
behind until he reached the ferry, would have wrecked the exploit beyond
repair.

There remained one last move, but it was a perfect one in most ways.
Would Fowle keep his mouth shut? Voles cursed Fowle in his thought. Were
it not for Fowle there would have been no difficulty. Carshaw would
never have met Winifred, and the girl would have been as wax in the
hands of Rachel Craik. He caught hold of Winifred's arm.

"If you scream I'll choke you!" he said fiercely.

Shaken by the chloroform mixture, benumbed as the outcome of an
unprotected drive, the girl was physically as well as mentally unable to
resist. He coiled her hair into a knot, gagged her dexterously with a
silk handkerchief--Voles knew all about gags--and tied her hands behind
her back with a shoe-lace. Then he adjusted the hood and side-screens.

He did these things hurriedly, but without fumbling. He was losing
precious minutes, for the telephone-wire might yet throttle him; but the
periods of waiting at the ferry and while crossing the Hudson must be
circumvented in some way or other. His last act before starting the car
was to show Winifred the revolver he never lacked.

"See this!" he growled into her ear. "I'm not going to be held by any
cop. At the least sign of a move by you to attract attention I'll put
the first bullet through the cop, the second through you, and the third
through myself, if I can't make my get-away. Better believe that. I mean
it."

He asked for no token of understanding on her part. He was stating only
the plain facts. In a word, Voles was born to be a great man, and an
unhappy fate had made him a scoundrel. But fortune still befriended him.
Rain fell as he drove through Hoboken. The ferry was almost deserted,
and the car was wedged in between two huge mail-vans on board the boat.

Hardened rascal though he was, Voles breathed a sigh of relief as he
drove unchallenged past a uniformed policeman on arriving at Christopher
Street. He guessed his escape was only a matter of minutes. In reality,
he was gone some