alment. He pressed the key of his electric lamp, but for some reason
it did not act. He felt rather than heard a shiver of surprise from the
person on the machine.

"I want you," said Tarling, and put out his hands.

He missed the rider by the fraction of an inch, but saw the machine
swerve and heard the soft thud of something falling. A second later the
machine and rider had disappeared in the pitch darkness.

He re-fixed his lamp. Pursuit, he knew, was useless without his lantern,
and, cursing the maker thereof, he adjusted another battery, and put the
light on the ground to see what it was that the fugitive had dropped. He
thought he heard a smothered exclamation behind him and turned swiftly.
But nobody came within the radius of his lamp. He must be getting nervy,
he thought, and continued his inspection of the wallet.

It was a long, leather portfolio, about ten inches in length and five
inches in depth, and it was strangely heavy. He picked it up, felt for
the clasp, and found instead two tiny locks. He made another examination
by the light of his lantern, an examination which was interrupted by a
challenge from above.

"Who are you?"

It was Mrs. Rider's voice, and just then it was inconvenient for him to
reveal himself. Without a word in answer, he switched off his light and
slipped into the bushes, and, more as the result of instinct than
judgment, regained the wall, at almost the exact spot he had crossed it.

The road was empty, and there was no sign of the cyclist. There was only
one thing to do and that was to get back to town as quickly as possible
and examine the contents of the wallet at his leisure. It was
extraordinary heavy for its size, he was reminded of that fact by his
sagging pocket.

The road back to Hertford seemed interminable and the clocks were chiming
a quarter of eleven when he entered the station yard.

"Train to London, sir?" said the porter. "You've missed the last train to
London by five minutes!"

CHAPTER XXIII

THE NIGHT VISITOR

Tarling was less in a dilemma than in that condition of uncertainty which
is produced by having no definite plans one way or the other. There was
no immediate necessity for his return to town and his annoyance at
finding the last train gone was due rather to a natural desire to sleep
in his own bed, than to any other cause. He might have got a car from a
local garage, and motored to London, if there had been any particular
urgency, but