as Jill done to earn this? Oh,
I know it's no good questioning Fate, but it's--it's rather hard."

I stepped to her side and took her hand in mine.

"My darling," I said, "don't let's make the worst of a bad business.
The going's heavy, I know, but it's idle to curse the jumps before
we've seen them. Piers didn't send that wire himself. That goes
without saying. He probably never worded it. I know that's as broad
as it's long, but, when you come to think, there's really no reason on
earth why it should be anything more than a broken leg."

There was a dubious silence.

At length--

"Boy's perfectly right," said Berry. "Jill's scared stiff--naturally.
As for us, we're rattled--without good reason at all. For all we
know...."

He broke off to listen.... The front door closed with a crash.

"Jonah," said I. "He's had my note, and----"

It was not Jonah.

It was Piers, Duke of Padua, who burst into the room, looking
extraordinarily healthy and very much out of breath.

We stared at him, speechless.

For a moment he stood smiling. Then he swept Daphne a bow.

"Paris to Pau by air," he said, "in four and a quarter hours. Think of
it. Clean across France in a bit of an afternoon. You'll all _have_
to do it: it's simply glorious." He crossed to my sister's side and
kissed her hand. "Don't look so surprised," he said, laughing. "It
really is me. I didn't dare to wire, in case we broke down on the way.
And now where's Jill?"

We continued to stare at him in silence.

* * * * *

It was Berry--some ten minutes later--who hit the right nail on the
head.

"By George!" he shouted. "By George! I've got it in one. _The fellow
who sent that wire was Leslie Trunk_."

"_Leslie?_" cried Piers. "But why----"

"Who knows? But your cousin's a desperate man, and Jill's in his way.
So are you--more still, but, short of murder itself, to touch you won't
help his case. With Jill in his hands.... Well, for one thing only, I
take it you'd pay pretty high for her--her health."

Piers went very white.

For myself, I strove to keep my brain steady, but the thought of
Adele--my wife, in the power of the dog, would thrust itself, grinning
horribly, into the foreground of my imagination.

I heard somebody say that the hour was a quarter past seven. I had my
watch in my hand, so I knew they were right. Vainly they repeated
their statement, unconsciously voicing my thoughts....