sently it came; the sound of men's footsteps
dashing up the stairs. The door burst open and a number of dark shapes
poured into the room. Framed in the open doorway, a black silhouette
against the light from the well of the staircase, stood Blayney, a
pistol in his hand.

There was a veritable hubbub of voices. "What's the matter with the
lights?" "Where are the switches?" "Hell! that sucker is trying to
put it over on us!" "The bedroom shutters--He's trying to escape."
"For Lord's sake where's the door?"

Someone found the knob in the darkness and the bedroom door was flung
open. There was a scream from Laurence. Then Hipps' voice bellowing:

"Great God! he's hanged himself."

Swinging from the lintel, shadowy against the grey light beyond was,
apparently, the figure of Richard Frencham Altar dangling on a rope.

Even the perfectly trained Blayney deserted his post to leap forward
and see, and in that instant of neglect, Richard and Auriole darted
from the room and slammed and bolted the door.

Nor could Richard resist the temptation of lifting an exultant cry of,
"Good-night, gentlemen," ere he was seized by Auriole and hurried down
the stairs.

As they passed through the front garden and ran stumbling toward the
waiting car they could hear above them the sound of curses and hammer
blows echoing through the house.

CHAPTER 32.

THE APPOINTED HOUR.

Hilbert Torrington was first to arrive. His big car deposited him at
Crest Chambers at ten forty-five, a quarter of an hour before the time
promised for Barraclough's arrival. The ever attentive Doran took his
hat and coat, turned on the table lamp and provided him with a pack of
Patience cards.

"You look hopeful, sir," he remarked.

"I always expect the best till I have knowledge of the worst," came the
smiling rejoinder. "I trust you have quite recovered from the effects
of the anaesthetic."

"Thank you, sir. But my recovery'll date from the hour the Captain
gets back."

Doran liked to refer to his master by the military rank he had borne
during the war.

"To be sure," said Mr. Torrington. "That will be a welcome event to
all of us."

Next came Cranbourne, very anxious and ever pulling out his watch,
tugging at his lower lip or pacing up and down.

"Why not take a chair?" suggested Mr. Torrington.

"Can't! I feel things y'know."

"All my life I've been feeling things without showing it," came the
reflective observation. "If