over the grey car;
but no sign of him remained, nor evidence of a struggle. The hum of the
retreating motor grew faint in the distance.

"Ah!" cried Sheffield, and started running towards Mr. Belford's
limousine on the edge of the coppice. "Quick! don't you see? _He's
kidnapped!_ In you go! This just about sees me out at Scotland Yard if
we don't overtake them!"

"They've gone back the way we've just come!" said the chauffeur, hurling
himself on board. "I can't make out where they're going--and I can't
make out why they took the worst car! It's an old crock, hired from
Lewes. We can run it down inside five minutes!"

"Thank God for that!" said Sheffield, as, for the second time that
night, he set out across moonlit Sussex on the front of the big car, in
pursuit of the most elusive man who ever had baffled the Criminal
Investigation Department.

Visions of degradation to the ranks from which he so laboriously had
risen occupied his mind to the exclusion of all else; for to have
allowed the notorious Severac Bablon to kidnap the Home Secretary under
his very eyes was a blunder which he knew full well could not be
condoned.

Even the breathless drop into the great bowl on the Downs did not serve
to dispel his gloomy dreams. Then:

"There they are! And, as I live, making straight for Womsley!" cried the
chauffeur.

Sheffield stood up unsteadily on his insecure perch, and there was the
mysterious grey car, which now was become a veritable nightmare,
mounting the hill in front.

One minute passed, and Sheffield was straining his eyes to catch a
glimpse of the occupants. But no one was visible. Two minutes passed,
and the inspector began to think that his eyesight was failing, or that
a worse thing portended. For, as far as he could make out, only one man
occupied the car--the man who drove her!

"What does it mean?" muttered the detective, clutching at the shoulder
of the chauffeur to support himself. "It must be Severac Bablon!
But--where's Mr. Belford?"

Three minutes passed, and the brilliant moonlight set at rest all doubts
respecting the identity of the man who drove the car.

His silvern hair flowed out, gleaming on his shoulders, as he bent
forward over the driving-wheel.

It was the Right Hon. Walter Belford!

"What in the name of murder does it mean?" cried Sheffield. "Has he gone
mad? Mr. Belford! Mr. Belford! Hoy! ... _Hoy! ... hoy! Mr. Belford!_"

But although he must have heard the cry, Mr. Be