the United States will publish pictures of it?
By the way, I've sent some photographs of you and your sister, that I
found in the library, to the MATIN and DIE WOCHE; I hope you don't
mind. Also a sketch of the staircase; most of the killing will
probably be done on the staircase."

The emotions that were surging in J. P. Huddle's brain were almost too
intense to be disclosed in speech, but he managed to gasp out: "There
aren't any Jews in this house."

"Not at present," said Clovis.

"I shall go to the police," shouted Huddle with sudden energy.

"In the shrubbery," said Clovis, "are posted ten men who have orders to
fire on anyone who leaves the house without my signal of permission.
Another armed picquet is in ambush near the front gate. The Boy-scouts
watch the back premises."

At this moment the cheerful hoot of a motor-horn was heard from the
drive. Huddle rushed to the hall door with the feeling of a man half
awakened from a nightmare, and beheld Sir Leon Birberry, who had driven
himself over in his car. "I got your telegram," he said, "what's up?"

Telegram? It seemed to be a day of telegrams.

"Come here at once. Urgent. James Huddle," was the purport of the
message displayed before Huddle's bewildered eyes.

"I see it all!" he exclaimed suddenly in a voice shaken with agitation,
and with a look of agony in the direction of the shrubbery he hauled
the astonished Birberry into the house. Tea had just been laid in the
hall, but the now thoroughly panic-stricken Huddle dragged his
protesting guest upstairs, and in a few minutes' time the entire
household had been summoned to that region of momentary safety. Clovis
alone graced the tea-table with his presence; the fanatics in the
library were evidently too immersed in their monstrous machinations to
dally with the solace of teacup and hot toast. Once the youth rose, in
answer to the summons of the front-door bell, and admitted Mr. Paul
Isaacs, shoemaker and parish councillor, who had also received a
pressing invitation to The Warren. With an atrocious assumption of
courtesy, which a Borgia could hardly have outdone, the secretary
escorted this new captive of his net to the head of the stairway, where
his involuntary host awaited him.

And then ensued a long ghastly vigil of watching and waiting. Once or
twice Clovis left the house to stroll across to the shrubbery,
returning always to the library, for the purpose evidently of making a
brief