ion down at Whitehall, and made
inquiry of the inspector on duty in the big bare office with its flaring
gas-jets in wire globes. He heard me to the end, then turning back the
book of "occurrences" before him, glanced through the ruled entries.

"I should think this is the gentleman, sir," he said. And he read to me
the entry as follows:

"P.C. 462A reports that at 2.07 a.m., while on duty outside the National
Gallery, he heard a revolver shot, followed by a man's cry. He ran to
the corner of Suffolk Street, where he found a gentleman lying upon the
pavement suffering from a serious shot-wound in the chest and quite
unconscious. He obtained the assistance of P.C.'s 218A and 343A, and the
gentleman, who was not identified, was taken to the Charing Cross
Hospital, where the house-surgeon expressed a doubt whether he could
live. Neither P.C.'s recollect having noticed any suspicious-looking
person in the vicinity.
"JOHN PERCIVAL, _Inspector_."

I waited for no more, but rushed round to the hospital in the cab, and
was, five minutes later, taken along the ward, where I identified poor
Jack lying in bed, white-faced and unconscious.

"The doctor was here a quarter of an hour ago," whispered the sister.
"And he fears he is sinking."

"He has uttered no words?" I asked anxiously. "Made no statement?"

"None. He has never regained consciousness, and I fear, sir, he never
will. It is a case of deliberate murder, the police told me early this
morning."

I clenched my fists and swore a fierce revenge for that dastardly act.
And as I stood beside the narrow bed, I realized that what Olinto had
said regarding my own peril was the actual truth. I was a marked man.
Was I never to penetrate that inscrutable and ever-increasing mystery?

CHAPTER XVII

THE TRUTH ABOUT THE "LOLA"

Throughout the long night I called many times at the hospital, but the
reply was always the same. Jack had not regained consciousness, and the
doctor regarded his case as hopeless.

In the morning I drove in hot haste to Bassett Road, Notting Hill, and
at the address Olinto had given me found Muriel. When she entered the
room with folding doors into which I had been shown, I saw that she was
pale and apprehensive, for we had not met since her flight, and she was,
no doubt, at a loss for an explanation. But I did not press her for one.
I merely told her that the Italian Santini had given me her address and
that I cam