o him and the mental torments of his
captivity still an awful recollection, he did not hesitate. He saw
before him the villain of the drama, the one man that stood between the
Princess and peace of mind. He regarded no consequences, gave no heed
to his own fate, and thought only how to put his enemy out of action.
There was a by spanner lying on the ground. He seized it and with all
his strength smote at the man's face.

The motor-cyclist, kneeling and working hard at his machine, had raised
his head at Dickson's approach and beheld a wild apparition--a short
man in ragged tweeds, with a bloody brow and long smears of blood on
his cheeks. The next second he observed the threat of attack, and
ducked his head so that the spanner only grazed his scalp. The
motor-bicycle toppled over, its owner sprang to his feet, and found the
short man, very pale and gasping, about to renew the assault. In such a
crisis there was no time for inquiry, and the cyclist was well trained
in self-defence. He leaped the prostrate bicycle, and before his
assailant could get in a blow brought his left fist into violent
contact with his chin. Dickson tottered a step or two and then
subsided among the bracken.

He did not lose his senses, but he had no more strength in him. He felt
horribly ill, and struggled in vain to get up. The cyclist, a gigantic
figure, towered above him. "Who the devil are you?" he was asking.
"What do you mean by it?"

Dickson had no breath for words, and knew that if he tried to speak he
would be very sick. He could only stare up like a dog at the angry
eyes. Angry beyond question they were, but surely not malevolent.
Indeed, as they looked at the shameful figure on the ground, amusement
filled them. The face relaxed into a smile.

"Who on earth are you?" the voice repeated. And then into it came
recognition. "I've seen you before. I believe you're the little man I
saw last week at the Black Bull. Be so good as to explain why you want
to murder me."

Explanation was beyond Dickson, but his conviction was being woefully
shaken. Saskia had said her enemy was a beautiful as a devil--he
remembered the phrase, for he had thought it ridiculous. This man was
magnificent, but there was nothing devilish in his lean grave face.

"What's your name?" the voice was asking.

"Tell me yours first," Dickson essayed to stutter between spasms of
nausea.

"My name is Alexander Nicholson," was the answer.

"Then you'