the victim of an abominable outrage,
and will spare no effort, no means, no money to recover his own."

"Lord Blackadder is a cad--a cruel, cowardly ruffian. I know all about
him and what has happened. It would give me the greatest pleasure to
kick him down the street. Failing that, I shall do my best to upset
and spoil his schemes, and so you know."

I smiled contemptuously. "A mere Colonel against an Earl! What sort of
a chance have you? It's too absurd."

"We shall see. Those laugh longest who laugh last."

By this time our talk was done, for we were approaching Lucerne, and
I began to think over my next plans. All must depend on what I heard
there--upon what news, if any, came from Ludovic Tiler.

So on my arrival I made my way straight to the telegraph-office in the
corner of the great station, and on showing my card an envelope was
handed to me. It was from Tiler at Basle, and ran as follows:

"They have booked through by 7.30 A.M., via Brienne, Lausanne
to Brieg, and I suppose the Simplon. I shall accompany. Can you join
me at either end--Brieg or Domo Dossola? The sooner the better. Wire
me from all places along the route, giving your movements. Address me
in my train No. 70."

The news pointed pretty clearly to the passage of the Alps and descent
into Italy by another route than the St. Gothard. I had my Bradshaw in
my bag, and proceeded at once to verify the itinerary by the
time-table, while I drank my early coffee in the restaurant upon the
station platform. I was most anxious to join hands with Tiler, and
quickly turned over the leaves of my railway guide to see if it was
possible, and how it might best be managed.

My first idea was to retrace my steps to Basle and follow him by the
same road. But I soon found that the trains would not fit in the very
least. He would be travelling by the one fast train in the day, which
was due at Brieg at four o'clock in the afternoon. My first chance, if
I caught the very next train back from Lucerne, would only get me to
Brieg by the eleven o'clock the following morning.

It was not good enough, and I dismissed the idea forthwith. Then I
remembered that by getting off the St. Gothard railway at Goeschenen I
should strike the old Furka diligence route by the Devil's Bridge,
Hospenthal, and the Rhone Glacier, a drive of fifty miles, more or
less, but at least it would get me to Brieg that same night by 10 or
11 o'clock.

Before adopting this line I had to con