The bronzed, healthy-looking driver of the Bentley car put his foot harder on the accelerator pedal, and averted his head to hear the crackle of the exhaust as the sleek automobile sped along the undulating tree-lined Route Nationale. For the past three hours that white, arrow-like road had held his eyes, and he was “killing” it as fast as safety would permit, for main routes at the best were inclined to be monotonous.

While the speedometer needle wavered between the sixties and seventies his travelling companion was endeavouring to find their exact position on a large-scale French road map, a feat of considerable difficulty for which the execrable road surface was largely responsible.

“Steady, old man!” he said, as the wheels struck a deep cassis, causing a jarring of springs and a slight dither in the steering. “This isn’t Brooklands.”

“It’s about as unlovely. We’ll cut off at the next turning.”

Speed was reduced as bad pavé was encountered on the outskirts of a straggling village. It was exactly like a dozen others passed through that morning—two rows of tall, bare houses, with lime-washed walls and green shutters, a café, a comestible, and a pump surrounded by ample troughs, at which a few women were engaged in washing clothes. At the far end were two garages, each provided with a red petrol-pump bearing the familiar word “Essence,” the price in the one case being ten francs, and in the other ten francs fifty centimes, for what was precisely the same brand of fuel.

“Wonderful folk!” said the driver.

The car almost leaped the last ten yards of appalling pavé, and seemed to purr with satisfaction as the tyres found a better surface. On either hand sunlit fields stretched away to a hazy horizon, and here and there blue-bloused peasants were making the first hay. But periodically war-scars came to view, for it was the summer of 1920, and but a bare two years since the Germans made their last retreat that was to end five years of unmitigated horror.

The elder man folded up his map and placed it beside him. He was of smaller build than his young companion, and, judging from his face, of a more complaisant temperament. But, like the driver, he bore all the signs of abundant health and vitality. The pair had brought the car across the Channel a few days before, with the object of making a month’s tour of north and mid-France. No route had been laid down, and more often than not they slept in towns they had had no intention of visiting.

“Ralph!”

The driver averted his head.

“Turn left beyond the bridge. There’s a road that appears to go right through the forest.”

The car slowed down, and the acute bend was taken. Soon it was evident that the change of direction was justified. The first blush of summer lay over everything, and the dust-laden trees of the Route Nationale gave place to the rich, rain-washed hues of early June. The serpentine road became a joy, for it held surprises at every bend and pleaded for less speed and more appreciation.

Ralph Wallace banished his tense expression, and displayed his strong, white teeth in a smile. Speed-hog as he was, he was not so abandoned as not to be able to appreciate the natural joys of the quiet and refulgent by-ways. Lately he had had a surfeit of speed—a luxury that the straight roads of France offer to young “bloods” who own a ninety-miles-an-hour car.

“Give me a cigarette, Connie,” he begged.

Julian Conrad, the passenger, handed over the required article and lighted it in Wallace’s mouth, for the Bentley was now ambling along at a cycle pace. As Conrad turned his head one might have noticed a thin, straight scar extending from the corner of the left eye to the edge of the firm mouth. But the surgeon had made a neat job of it, and the sun had browned his skin to such an extent that this memento of the war could only be seen at close range.

The delightful road began to ascend, and on the right of it the land slipped away gradually, forming a verdant valley in which were scattered a few farms. Here and there were cattle, but in small numbers. It was chickens that predominated. Every farm seemed to thrive on poultry, and what cattle there were appeared to be thin and out of condition. After half an hour’s pleasant amble the road reached the summit of the long incline. A gap in the immediate timber brought to view one of the pleasantest vistas yet encountered. A mile or so in the distance was a beautiful château—a dream of architectural beauty, gleaming white amid the many shades of green, built on the edge of a great chasm.

“Stop a moment,” said Conrad, laying his hand on that of his companion’s. “By Jove, I had no idea we were in this district.”

“What district?”

“The Marne. I know that place quite well—I ought to.”

“You mean the château?”

“Yes—the Château Grammont. I must have mentioned it to you at some time or other.”

“You may have, but I have the rottenest memory for names.”

The eyes of Conrad were filled with a new light. A short time ago he had been dreaming lazily—drinking in the natural beauties of the country in subconscious fashion. Now into his mind had come something stirring—vital. The lips became compressed for a few seconds. Then they opened again, and a little sigh escaped him, for the memories that were revived by the fair sight before him were very mixed. Wallace looked at him interrogatively.

“It’s just the same as it was when I saw it—four years ago. Dropping on it like this, in June sunlight, with the birds singing, stirs one a bit.”

“You know it?”

“Yes. I spent what I think was the happiest month of my life there.”

“Ah, the war?”

“Yes—the war. We had been knocked to pieces twenty miles farther north. Jove, that was a ruddy business. I was laid out at the end of it. No wound of any sort—just sheer fatigue. I was on the way to an absolute breakdown when they sent me down for a rest. I had no idea I was going to a place like that. There was a score or so of us in all—slight wounds and knock-outs. We each had a month in which to recuperate—and we did. It was quite a voluntary business. The owner of the château was a Monsieur Fallières. I think he had a title, but at any rate he never used it. He had been rendered unfit for further service in the earlier campaign, and gave up half his wonderful home to the cause. Everything was gratis and ad lib. We played tennis, bowls, badminton, rode fine horses in the Forêt de Grammont— It was all done with such grace, too. We were just members of a house-party, and madame and her daughters were as charming as if we had known them for half a century.”

“They still lived there?”

“Yes. There were two little girls of seven and eight, and another, named Yolande, who I think was sixteen. She was at school somewhere on the coast, but was home on holiday at that period. We used to pet her a lot. I hope we didn’t spoil her.”

“I expect you did—if she was pretty.”

“She was pretty enough—not the conventional prettiness, either. I often thought I would like to paint her. Well, thank God their fine old home was saved to them.”

“Did the line never reach as far as that?”

“Later, I believe; but all the pressure was taken off this sector. I think I read that the Germans held the château for some months, and then the line was pushed back. You were lucky to have missed that bloody business, Ralph.”

“You are making me wonder whether I was lucky,” said Wallace, with a laugh. “Another six months and I should have had a taste of it. I remember I nearly wept with regret when the Armistice found me doing foot-drill and ‘physical jerks’ on Salisbury Plain.”

“No book that will ever be written can convey to you half the misery, horror, and suffering. These little diversions gain all their beauty by comparison with the background against which they stand. Well, here we are again in God’s peace and sunshine. Men must be mad ever to give them up.”

“I’ve often told you you have missed your vocation in life, Conrad,” said Wallace. “You ought to have entered the Church. Of course, I quite agree with you, but the fact is that most young men feel they ought to be allowed to act like savages before they adopt the only possible point of view towards legalised murder. I’m getting a bit hungry, aren’t you?”

“I’m past that stage. I remember there is a fair-sized town about twenty kilometres farther on. I’ll consult the map. This road ought to lead somewhere.”

Wallace got the car moving again. They were presumably still in the Forêt de Grammont, and the road narrowed until there was not room for another vehicle to pass; but, since they had met nothing for the past hour, Wallace did not worry greatly about this. His mind was divided equally between the beautiful woodland scenery and the behaviour of the car. It was a recent acquisition, and pleased him immensely, for he had an engineering mind. He loved to feel the smooth output of power, the easy and complete control. A squeak or the slightest foreign mechanical noise would have brought him flat on his back, or executing a half somersault to solve the mystery.

“Can’t find the road at all,” muttered Conrad. “That’s the worst of French maps—always unreliable.”

At that moment two riders came to view. One was a man of about fifty and the other a pretty woman who bore so striking a resemblance to the man that Wallace concluded immediately she was his daughter. They were coming in the direction of the car, and it was obvious that there was not sufficient room for them to pass with safety. Wallace promptly put his near-side wheels into the ditch and waited, which act of roadside courtesy was acknowledged when the riders got level with the car. Wallace was admiring the well-groomed mounts, and the poise of the riders, when he realised that the man had stopped and was gazing intently at Conrad.

“And how does Major Conrad find France after this long absence?” he asked with a smile.

Conrad dropped the map in his surprise, and then slowly his eyes brightened with recognition.

“Monsieur Fallières!” he exclaimed. “I should not have recognised you had you not spoken. This is a most pleasant surprise. Until a few minutes ago I had no idea we were within twenty miles of the Château Grammont. How do you do, sir?”

He stood up and grasped the extended hand with obvious pleasure.

“You remember Yolande?” asked Fallières.

“Yolande!” Conrad blushed a little as he removed his hat and bowed towards the beautiful girl. “Surely this cannot be the young lady who used to——”

“—who used to tease you so much,” she added with a smile. “Yes, I remember you now quite well, but all the credit is due to my father, who never forgets a face.”

“Well, well, it is a very happy meeting. I have so often recalled the enjoyable time I spent at the château when things were so different. But allow me to introduce my friend—Mr. Ralph Wallace. A few minutes ago I was speaking of you.”

Wallace shook hands from the driver’s seat. He could now understand what Conrad had meant about Yolande’s beauty not being conventional. She was dark, like her father, and a trifle pallid, but her features were perfectly moulded and well balanced. She sat her horse as a woman does who spends most of her days in the saddle, and smiled at him with her eyes rather than with her mouth.

“Are you aware that your car is headed for an almost impassable marsh?” she asked.

“I wasn’t. As a matter of fact, we are exploring. Mr. Conrad is supposed to be the pilot, but I am afraid he is not thoroughly qualified. I shouldn’t be surprised to hear that we are trespassing.”

“You are on private property. The public road through the Forêt is three miles back. But, if you like to risk the marsh, you can join the other road farther on.”

“Don’t let my daughter tempt you to such a disastrous act, monsieur,” put in Fallières. “No car can cross the marsh. Besides, I am going to insist that you and my old friend join us at déjeuner.”

“Really!”

“Yes, yes,” put in Yolande. “We are only ten minutes from the château, and you must lunch somewhere, mustn’t you?”

“I think we may consider the matter settled,” said Fallières. “If you will drive the car another hundred yards you will find a place where you can turn it. We will lead the way.”

The horses were walked past, and a few minutes later the car was following them through the leafy glade. Conrad was still chuckling at the coincidence.

“He has changed a lot,” he said. “Looks more than ten years older. He did not mention madame. I wonder——”

“So that is Yolande!” mused Wallace.

“Yes. I shouldn’t have known her. By Jove, her beauty hasn’t deserted her; but she looks rather pensive. In the old days she was like quicksilver—so animated. I flatter myself I taught her how to pronounce an English ‘r.’ ”

The château came to view through a long avenue. It was of Norman architecture, and situated on the crest of a sharp rise, from where it commanded a fine view of the country round about. Its four white turrets gleamed in the sunlight, and as they approached it the massive surrounding walls commanded their attention. Its size was deceptive seen from a distance, for there was plenty of space about it, which had the effect of dwarfing its enormous dimensions.

“Quite a feudal affair,” said Wallace.

“Yes, one of the finest in France. Fallières is enormously rich.”

“What is the quaint building at the end?”

“The chapel. Jove, how familiar it all seems! Yes, the old place has suffered a bit. I can see signs of renovation. The chapel appears to have had a new roof.”

Arrived outside the main entrance, the horses were taken by a groom.

“Welcome to the Château Grammont,” said Fallières to Wallace. “There is a garage near the stables, but perhaps you would like to leave the car here. It is quite shady.”

Wallace agreed, and he and Conrad went to remove some of the dust they had gathered. The place had been brought up to date in every respect. A power plant supplied electricity, and there were modern fittings everywhere, and a plentiful supply of hot water. Notwithstanding, there was nothing incongruous. All that was necessarily modern was well concealed. It was evident that Fallières took a pride in this magnificent place—a veritable storehouse for the antiquarian, and a realm sacred to the soul of an architect. Young Wallace, brought up in an atmosphere far different, felt just a trifle overawed.

“The place must have a hundred rooms,” he ejaculated. “Hold me, Conrad, or I’ll lose myself.”

“It is enormous, but Fallières is doing good work in using his wealth to preserve this for the nation. Look, we used to play tennis out there. That’s a fine court—the fastest I’ve ever played on.”

Wallace moistened his lips. At sports he excelled, having got his blue at Oxford some years before. He was reckoned to be one of the best middle-weight amateur boxers in the kingdom, and had to his credit the hundred yards and the high-jump records of his college.

Lunch proved to be a most pleasant affair. It was inevitable that Fallières should revive the past, and, although Wallace had thought he had heard quite enough about the war, he found himself listening to the conversation with considerable interest, for, in this very room where they now sat, German officers had eaten their fill, and there was little doubt that many a dreadful deed had been perpetrated within those surrounding walls.

“Well, it is all past, father,” said Yolande. “And we have suffered less than some.”

“Yes—less than some. One life in a family of five,” he said sadly. “We did not expect it, for we had so long been immune. There were rumours, but I disregarded them. Then, in the middle of the night, there was terrible gunfire, and shells fell quite near. Retreating troops passed, and we were told to flee at once. The line was broken and the Germans were sweeping forward.… Yolande was away at school, but I and my other two children and their dear mother left by car; the servants as best they could. The roads were under fire and the car broke down. In that terrible ordeal we lost the dearest woman in the world——”

“Madame!” murmured Conrad.

He nodded and bent his head, but in an instant he raised it again, with the light of pride in his fine eyes.

“There are things we must accept, messieurs. Shall we take coffee on the terrace? It affords a splendid view of the valley.”

They adjourned to the wide terrace at the back of the château. From there the land fell away abruptly, and the château was heavily buttressed against a possible landslide. Across the verdant valley wound a small river, entering the dark forest half a mile farther on. It was a sight most pleasing to the eye, and it was almost impossible to imagine that the ghastly game of war had ever been played there.

“May I see your car?” enquired Yolande of Wallace. “I am very interested in cars, and we see few English ones here.”

Wallace was on his feet in an instant. Though modest of his own achievements, he was enormously proud of the car. They left Conrad and Fallières taking a second liqueur.

CHAPTER II.
A DELAY

Wallace had invariably found that the task of explaining any sort of mechanism to a woman was a most thankless one. He would not have been at all surprised if the beautiful Yolande had asked him what all the dials on the dash were for, and he did not for a moment expect her to evince any interest in what lay under the bonnet of the car. Pleased as he was to show her his toy, it was not his sole reason for leaving Conrad and Fallières talking about the past.

Yolande herself was the other reason. All through the excellent luncheon he had found his gaze drawn to the oval, dark face of the girl, and it had set him wondering what was the cause of her obvious discomposure. The long eyelashes had a habit of coming down and almost obscuring the soft, romantic eyes, and she would sit motionless for quite a few seconds, until some remark of her father’s awakened her to consciousness of her immediate surroundings. Notwithstanding, he felt that she was not naturally pensive and pallid. There had been moments when the eyes moved quickly, flashing like rare jewels in the sunlight that streamed through the casement windows. Certainly this girl was arrestive and fascinating in many respects.

She now stood a few yards from the car, admiring its rakish lines. Then, to his positive amazement, she put quite a technical question about the engine, and begged him to lift the bonnet. Her interest and enthusiasm were called forth immediately, and she fired off questions, as rapidly as a machine-gun, about torque, engine-balance, compression, and what not. Wallace, who already knew his “baby,” from back axle to radiator, found the keenest enjoyment in explaining every detail.

“Beautiful!” she said. “I think I should like to have one like it. Our present car is quite a good one, but too big for me. The chauffeur is away with it now, taking my two sisters to school. There was an epidemic, and they were sent home.”

“What make is it?”

“A Hispano-Suiza.”

“You won’t find anything much better than that.”

“But I want something of my own; something to get chummy—that’s the word—something to get chummy with.”

“Your command of English is wonderful.”

“We have had so many chances of practising it. During the war we had hundreds of English officers here. One could not help learning English.”

“I suppose not. But, tell me, aren’t you a little lonely here—so far from any big city?”

For a moment she did not answer, but turned her eyes upwards to where the time-worn château walls towered in the blue. Then she smiled as a young bird fluttered from the ivy that climbed over the western turret.

“At times—perhaps,” she murmured. “My father has not yet quite recovered from the loss of my—my mother, and I do not go about so much as I might. I think I remind him of my mother, and it helps in a way. Of course, we have house-parties at times. At least, we did have until— Tell me, is Mr. Conrad just a friend or a relative?”

“A friend—a kind of guardian, though there isn’t a great difference in our ages—now. It was curious how we came together. My father was a colonel in the artillery, and Conrad got a commission in the same corps. For two years they were always together, and got to be very real friends. I was at school in England at the time. Then a chance shell killed my father. Connie—I always call him that—Connie was with him when he died. Of course, he knew all about me, and he told my father not to worry on my account, and promised to be a sort of guardian to me. Well, he has been all that and more. Fortunately my father was a man of means, so there was never any economic problem, but Connie was always on hand to get me out of any scrape, and I’ve been in a few. He’s just the best kind of fellow that ever was—a man’s man, if you understand. Connie never preached. When at times I used to play the fool, Connie used to make me feel pretty small, and all in about six words. I remember once I acted like a goat. I knew it all the time, and yet I refused to admit it and pretty nearly alienated myself completely. Lord, Connie came up to the scratch at the last moment. He got my thoughts absolutely. ‘You’re fuming, my lad, because you know I know what an ass you are,’ he said. ‘You’re aching to take it out of me. Well, come on!’ Before I knew what had happened he had hit me in the face and was framing up in pugilistic fashion. I fancied myself at that game, and his blow hurt. I went for him good and well. For half an hour we knocked each other about, but I couldn’t get anything over him, and all the while I was having it knocked into me what an ungrateful little pup I was. We’ve never quarrelled since. I say, forgive me telling you all this. It must be awfully boring.”

“It is very interesting,” she said. “I think I like him more than ever now.”

“No one could help it,” he replied simply. “He’s an engineer by profession—turbines—and I’m part of the concern. I really yearned to be a professional racing motorist, but Connie wouldn’t hear of it. No doubt he was wise.”

“I am sure he was.”

“Anyway, we get on awfully well, and have many a ding-dong battle at tennis or golf. He’s pretty good at all games.”

She measured him up with her eyes as if to intimate that he, too, ought to shine in that respect, in which she was not wrong. Then they wandered into the flower-garden, where they met Fallières and Conrad. Time passed all too quickly, and they were surprised to find it was four o’clock.

“We shall certainly have to leave if we are to make Rheims this evening,” said Conrad.

“It is not a good road,” put in Yolande. “For fifty miles it is full of pot-holes.”

They ultimately entered the car, and then a peculiar thing happened. The engine refused to start. Wallace stroked his chin and looked at the various controls.

“Plenty of petrol?” asked Conrad.

“Half a tank. That’s curious. I’ve never known her jib before.”

He jumped out and lifted the bonnet. So far as he could see there was nothing wrong, but when he tested the plugs he discovered that no current was passing. For half an hour he tinkered about with leads and plugs—all in vain.

“Well, I’m beaten!” he ejaculated. “She has run faultlessly for five thousand miles, and then suddenly goes on strike. I suppose there is no garage within reasonable distance?”

“None,” replied Fallières. “I doubt if it is possible to get anything done to-night. There is really no reliable garage between here and Rheims. I could telephone there, but I doubt if a man would come before the morning.”

“I’ll fix it somehow,” said Wallace desperately. “Take a walk, Connie, and leave it to me.”

“I think a cup of tea might be more acceptable,” suggested Yolande. “I will get some prepared. When you have solved your problem, Mr. Wallace, you will find us on the terrace.”

Half an hour later Wallace joined the tea-party, looking very disgusted. The car had beaten him. Nothing would induce it to start, and he felt his ignominy greatly.

“You are all hot and bothered,” said Yolande. “Drink this tea and accept the inevitable. What does it matter? You may as well stay the night here as in Rheims.”

“Certainly,” agreed her father. “I will telephone to Rheims and get a good electrician here early to-morrow morning. May we call that settled?”

“It is extremely kind of you,” replied Conrad. “I do hope it will not inconvenience you.”

“It will afford us considerable pleasure.”

Wallace echoed his friend’s thanks, and later went to help some of the servants push the car into the garage. He was not greatly disappointed in the change of plan, but the mysterious trouble with the car got on his nerves. It was his baby. Coming downstairs before dinner, he strolled into the garden trying to think of a possible solution. His meandering brought him within sight of the garage. The door was slid back, and he caught a glimpse of a light skirt near the car.

Considerably puzzled, he walked closer, his footsteps being muffled by the velvety lawn. Now the owner of the skirt came clearly to view. It was Yolande, and she was engaged in tinkering with the switchbox. Before his eyes she changed two wires on their terminals and put the cover back. The next moment she turned and saw him.

“Putting the car right?” he asked with a smile.

“Yes. I—” Her face went crimson with embarrassment, as she realised from his expression that he correctly divined what she had been up to. “There—is nothing wrong,” she stammered.

“Nothing wrong!”

“I mean—” She faced him boldly. “I mean that I put it wrong in order to prevent your going.”

“I don’t understand why. It is extremely pleasant here, but, all the same——”

“I will explain. Come yonder.”

She led him to a seat in a sheltered nook on the northern side of the château, and for some moments gazed pensively at the falling shadows. It was clear to him that, despite her outward control, she was agitated, but about what he could not imagine.

“It looks calm here, does it not?” she asked.

“Delightful.”

“It is all a delusion. I am terribly afraid—and so is my father. Yet we are not frank with each other. He believes that I am ignorant of—of certain occurrences, and, out of love for me, he wants to keep me ignorant. But I know. I discovered years ago. The servants talk among themselves, too. No one could live here and remain ignorant.”

“What is it that frightens you?”

“A form—a horrid, gaunt form that periodically seems to get active. It makes strange noises—noises not human.”

Wallace felt like smiling, for he had not an ounce of superstition in his make-up. It was the sort of story one might expect to hear of an ancient château enclosed in a dense forest, and yet Yolande was not the type of woman one would imagine to be hysterical.

“Has anyone ever seen this—apparition?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Severin the butler—and I.”

“You! When?”

“When I first left school—nearly two years ago. I never locked the door of my room, because I was always afraid of fire. One night I was awakened from sleep by a sound. The moonlight was streaming through the window, and illumined by it was a horrid shape. It was standing erect, not two yards from my bed, and nearly reached the ceiling. It was like a monk, with a kind of cowl over the head. All I saw except the cowl and gown were two awful eyes, and hands like talons. Ugh!”

She shuddered at the memory of this incident, and seemed to get a little closer to him, for darkness was coming down.

“What happened then?” he asked.

“I tried to scream, but could not utter a sound. Paralysed with fright, I watched the thing turn and disappear through the door.”

“It wasn’t imagination?”

“No—no!”

“And you did not tell your father?”

“No. I thought he would laugh at me. But on another occasion I heard queer noises in the corridor. I slipped out of bed and unlocked my door. I saw my father, looking pale, creeping along the corridor with a pistol in his hand. As soon as he saw me he hid the pistol and tried to behave as if nothing was amiss. Many servants leave us. Severin does not say why, but he is staunch and does not want this evil thing made public gossip.”

“Has the château a reputation for being haunted? I mean, is it a tradition?”

“Oh, yes. The first Marquis of Grammont was murdered in his bed centuries ago. There was a volume of records in the library, and some old manuscripts concerning the history of the château, but the Germans stole them before they left, as they did many other things.”

“When did you come here?”

“Shortly before the war. The old Grammont family became defunct, and the estate came into the market. My father inherited great wealth from my grandfather, who had a big ironworks in Lorraine. He wanted to preserve this lovely old place. We heard about its being haunted, but paid no attention to it. Often we heard strange noises, but it is only of recent date that our lives have been made unbearable. My poor father is ageing under the strain, but he is courageous and will not give up his stewardship.”

“It all sounds so fantastic that one scarcely knows what to say,” he mused. “I have never come into contact with such a thing before, and you must pardon my scepticism.”

“It is natural that you should think me imaginative, but what I am telling you is true. Have you noticed anything strange about the appointments of the château?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

“Well, there are no mirrors in any of the reception-rooms. As fast as we put them in they are smashed.”

“Smashed!”

“Yes. We noticed it first after the Germans had been here. Every mirror was smashed and the pieces taken away. We thought the enemy troops had done it to provide themselves with shaving mirrors, but, when they were replaced, one by one they were smashed again.”

“How strange!”

“Then there is something worse. Things are befouled with muck and mud, as if some monster hated bright and beautiful things. Severin usually manages to remove these signs early in the morning, but I discovered it. We had a big house-party last autumn. It ended abruptly. I—I can’t go into details. It is too disgusting.”

“This is the strangest story I have ever heard. You do not think there is any danger to—to life or limb?”

“I don’t know. If this monster is of the supernatural, it might not have the power to harm us, but——”

“You have doubts.”

“Well, less than a year ago a servant on the estate was found dead in the forest. There was no mark of violence on his body, and it was concluded that he died from heart failure, but close to where the body was found there was a huge footprint—a monstrous thing nearly fourteen inches long. The police were puzzled, but they could find no other. The verdict was inevitable, but I am sure that poor man saw the Monster face to face and died from shock.”

She narrated this in a voice that was quite calm, and it would have given the biggest sceptic pause. But the healthy-minded Wallace still found it difficult to accept these alleged facts.

“You have never seen this form—this monster—since that night years ago?” he asked.

“Not until to-day.”

“To-day!”

“I caught a glimpse of it this morning in the northern gallery just before we went riding—the gowned and hooded figure, and the two baleful eyes. I seemed to read in them a warning. It’s no use, I can’t explain, but I feel—I know—that some tragedy is pending. When we met you so unexpectedly and you came here, I could not resist the temptation to do—what I did. You are two strong men—and I wanted help. There are other men in the servants’ hall, but they are far away, and they are faint-hearted, except Severin. And he is growing old now.”

“I see. I wish we were in a position to aid you. It would give me the greatest joy in the world to fall up against this queer person. But that sort of thing never happens when you want it. Don’t you think it would be wise to confide in your father, and urge him to notify the police?”

“Yes. I fear it must come to that. But there was no time to-day. I will speak to him to-night.”

“In the meantime, am I to regard this as confidential? There is my friend Conrad. He has not the slightest idea of these strange happenings.”

“Please do not tell him,” she begged. “I would not have told you but for the fact that you discovered me tampering with your car. Can you forgive me?”

“Don’t worry about that. If our presence here gives you the slightest sense of security, we are more than happy to be here.”

“Thank you.”

A few minutes later the gong sounded, and Wallace led Yolande in to dinner.

CHAPTER III.
THE MONSTER

The party was waited on by two pretty French maids, while Monsieur Severin served the wine. The latter interested Wallace. He was somewhere between fifty and sixty years of age, with a cadaverous face and small, bird-like eyes. Although he fulfilled his functions perfectly, he had a habit of constantly looking over his shoulder, which detracted from his deportment considerably. Having heard what he had heard, Wallace could not do other than ascribe these frequent nervous acts to the Monster. Severin evidently expected him everywhere. He was like a man at his last gasp, hiding his terror by a commendable effort of will.

“We must give Severin a rest,” said Fallières. “I am afraid he is approaching a nervous breakdown.”

“Has he been with you long?” asked Wallace.

“Oh, yes. Nearly twenty-five years now. An excellent fellow, and a connoisseur in wines.”

“I can quite believe that,” said Conrad, as he lifted his glass.

“There! I quite forgot to telephone to Rheims about the car,” said Fallières. “I will do so immediately after dinner.”

“You need not bother,” put in Wallace. “The car is in going order.”

“You have discovered the trouble?”

“Mademoiselle and I—between us. It was nothing much.”

“Splendid! These trivial accidents are very annoying.”

“Talking about accidents,” said Conrad, “I regret that I have had one in my room. Rather an inexplicable one, too.”

“Nothing serious, I hope?”

“No damage to myself—but to your property, monsieur. I can’t imagine how it happened. I went to the bathroom, and on returning found the dressing-table mirror shattered to atoms. It was lying on the floor, and seemed to have suffered a severe blow. The window was open, but there was no wind that could have blown so heavy an article to the floor.”

The face of Fallières went pallid, and Yolande started noticeably. Conrad was evidently at a loss to understand this rather strange reception.

“It—it is of no consequence whatever,” stammered Fallières, after a brief pause. Then, recovering his equanimity, “This is an unfortunate place for mirrors, Mr. Conrad. We do not seem to be able to keep a mirror intact for more than a few weeks. There seems to be an evil spirit here who hates them.”

“Well, it means seven years’ bad luck for me, anyhow,” replied Conrad with a laugh. “I suppose you find your family quite small now that your two younger children are away?”

“Too small. I like to have young people about me. I like their laughter—their high spirits. I am a little concerned about Yolande, too. I fear it is not much of a life for a young woman, imprisoned in a kind of hermitage.”

“Father!” remonstrated Yolande. “You know I love the château, and the beautiful country.”

“Because it is home to you. I wish you would go away for a period. A change is good for everyone. There is Uncle Bernard at Nice and your cousins——”

“You know we never get on together. Are you anxious to be rid of me, father?”

He smiled and touched her arm affectionately, then he decided to confide a little in his guests.

“To be quite frank, there is something a little strange about the château. If I were a superstitious man I should put the estate into the market and seek for a place that was less charged with the spirits of the past, but I am rational enough to set at defiance strange signs and warnings——”

“Warnings!” said Conrad.

“One might interpret them as such. Now, Yolande, I am making your flesh creep.”

“It has crept before now,” she said, with a wan smile. “I know what you mean, father. It is everybody’s secret, and we all try to keep it from each other for fear of ridicule.”

Fallières stroked his chin reflectively. This assertion evidently did not surprise him greatly, but he was obviously a little distressed.

“This is very interesting,” said Conrad. “But of course every château has its family ghost. Usually they are accounted for by rats in the walls, or wind in the chimneys.”

Yolande shot him a swift glance, but held her peace. At that moment Severin came in to inform her that she was wanted on the telephone, and, as the call was a long-distance one, she left at once.

“This is no rat in the walls, monsieur,” said Fallières, “nor wind in the chimneys. It is a perplexing, worrying mystery. Something that can be seen and touched walks this old place intermittently. For periods it seems to sleep, and peace reigns, but suddenly it becomes active—and its activity is daily increasing. But you are right to be sceptical. I was sceptical until I was compelled to accept the truth.”

“But if it is human, surely the remedy is simple.”

“What is the remedy?”

“To lay hands on it and deal with it.”

“I have tried to for years. See, I do not go about unprepared.”

He produced an automatic pistol from his hip pocket and smiled as he gazed on it.

“Not a very nice thing for a gentleman to carry about in his own home in the twentieth century,” he said. “I think it is better to lock your door to-night. I am sorry to have to advise that.”

Conrad began to take him seriously for the first time. He looked at Wallace, whose face was like the Sphinx.

“What do you make of this, Ralph?” he asked.

“Frankly, I don’t know.”

“Neither do I. But, by Jove, I’d like to meet this thing. Has anyone ever really seen it face to face?”

“Yes—Severin.”

“Someone else has,” blurted Wallace.

Fallières stared at him in surprise.

“I—I am afraid I have betrayed my trust,” murmured Wallace. “Well, perhaps it doesn’t matter so much now. Your daughter saw it years ago—in her room.”

“Great God!”

“Did she tell you that?” asked Conrad.

Wallace nodded, and hoped Fallières would not question him further, for he was not anxious to relate the incident of the car to the stern old man. But the horror of this discovery was sufficient temporarily to stun Fallières.

“She must leave,” he said. “I will send her down to Nice. I fear that these happenings are working up to a crisis. For myself, I mean to stay. Nothing shall drive me from this place.”

“Well spoken,” said Conrad. “There must be an explanation—a very simple one. We live in the twentieth century, and ought not to tolerate superstition.”

“Is it superstition? Who breaks the mirrors and befouls the furnishings? What is it that utters horrible noises in rooms and galleries? What was it my daughter saw? I admit it may have been a hallucination, brought about by a dream and by the gossip in the servants’ hall; but, on the other hand, I should have to be insane to believe that all I have heard was due to my own imagination.”

When Yolande reappeared, they changed the conversation quickly. At her father’s request she agreed to play for them, and for two hours the sweet strains of music filled the place. It changed the brooding atmosphere at once.

“Do you sing?” asked Yolande of Wallace. “I have lots of English songs.”

He was not unwilling, for he possessed a very fair baritone voice and knew a whole host of songs. She proved to be an excellent accompanist, and in one or two duets their voices blended well.

“Bravo!” said Fallières. “That was charming. Yolande seldom has an opportunity of singing duets. Find another, please.”

Thus the evening passed, and at midnight the party retired. Before going to his room, Wallace stepped on to the terrace with Yolande to get a last breath of fresh air. A brilliant moon illumined the valley and the dark forest.

“Thank you for changing my wires over,” he said. “This has been a most enjoyable evening. I should not brood too much on that other business. I feel sure there must be a very simple solution that you will discover before long.”

“I wish there were,” she replied.

“What a queer yarn that was,” mused Conrad, as he sat and smoked a cigarette in Wallace’s room. “Of course there is nothing in it. They have let themselves get into that state.”

“I wonder.”

“Then I am surprised at you. A young hefty lump of bone and muscle prepared to accept fairy-tales! Shame on you!”

“Fallières doesn’t strike me as being hysterical, nor does Yolande.”

“Well, what will you do if you meet IT?” jested Conrad.

“Hit it as hard as I know how.”

“If it is not human, I don’t think that will disconcert it much.”

“It will disconcert me if I don’t find something to stop my fist. What a curious day it has turned out! I quite imagined we should be sleeping in Rheims to-night.”

“What does the poet say? ‘The best-laid schemes of mice and men——’ Jove, what a night! A full moon and not a breath of wind. These are sensible windows.”

He pushed the casement open wider and leaned out. They were on the side of the château facing the valley, and the drop from the window to earth proper was tremendous, for below the level of the ground floor there was nearly a hundred feet of buttress.

“Fine place to commit suicide,” he said, flinging the end of his cigarette into the abyss. “There it goes, down—down— What was that?”

“I heard nothing.”

“I thought I heard a cry—kind of snarl. Must have been fancy.”

“Imbibing the atmosphere,” said Wallace. “Now turn out. I’m going to bed.”

But Conrad still stood by the window with his head inclined to one side.

“I could have sworn——”

The next moment a reverberating report came from within the building, followed by a loud yelling.

“Good God!” ejaculated Conrad. “That is Fallières’s voice. He is only three rooms away. There is something wrong.”

“Come on,” said Wallace, and made for the door.

In the corridor they saw Yolande running towards them, clad in a kimono, and some distance behind her old Severin, with an antiquated firearm in his hand.

“I heard a shot,” she gasped, “and a voice that sounded like my father’s.”

“Which is his room?”

“There.”

Wallace rapped on the door, and, receiving no reply, opened it immediately. The room was empty, but the bed had been occupied, and across the pillow was a long streak of blood. On the floor was an automatic pistol, still warm.

“Queer!” muttered Conrad. “How could he have left the room?”

Wallace flung open the wardrobe cupboard and looked under the bed. He turned round on Severin.

“You heard the shot?”

“Yes, m’sieu. I ran up the stairs and along the passage immediately. The master never came that way or I should have seen him.”

Wallace went to the window, which was partly open, but below was the same abyss that fronted his own room.

“He shot at something,” said Conrad. “Look, the bullet is embedded in the wall here. He must have missed.”

“It was the Monster,” croaked Severin, crossing himself. “Always he comes at the full moon.”

“Full moon—fiddlesticks!” retorted Conrad. “How could anyone get into this room? The question is, where is Monsieur Fallières?”

Wallace heard a low sob, and turned to see Yolande totter. He caught her in his arms, and under Severin’s guidance carried her to her room. Having sent for a maid, he went back to Conrad. The latter was sitting on the bed, stroking his chin reflectively.

“I don’t like the look of this,” he said.

“Nor do I. Gad, it’s a bit uncanny. It seems impossible that anyone could have left the room by the door without being observed in the passage. But we mustn’t draw premature conclusions. I am going to gather together a search-party.”

“That seems to be the obvious thing to do. Let us make a start at once.”

The nerve-shattered Severin was found and some half-dozen male servants were mustered. The main apartments of the château were quickly ransacked, but there remained a very large number of unoccupied rooms and annexes, and these took time. Ultimately the possibility of finding Fallières inside the château was abandoned. The extensive vaults were explored, but these provided no clue of any kind towards the solution of the mystery.

“The next thing is to make a search under the window of Fallières’s room,” said Wallace. “We shall need lanterns or torches.”

To reach this spot necessitated the descent of many flights of steps leading from the terrace. That part of the cultivated grounds of the château was given up to rock-gardens, interspersed with winding gravel paths, by means of which, after a considerable detour, the more exotic flower-gardens could be reached. Severin pointed out Fallières’s still-lighted window, and the party walked to a spot immediately beneath it. Thick ivy scrambled up the wall, but there was no sign of any disturbance, and the freshly-raked gravel path showed no footprints but their own.

A search was made among the neighbouring bushes, but all in vain. They returned by the long path, and ultimately reached the château, tired out and baffled. Conrad dismissed the servants, and he and Wallace went and sat in the drawing-room.

“In the circumstances there is only one thing left to be done,” said Conrad.

“Notify the police?”

“Yes. What the etiquette is in such matters I don’t know, but I should imagine Paris will act immediately when it concerns a man so widely known as Fallières. I will telephone the Préfecture now. I daresay there will be considerable delay.”

He put the call through, and returned to yarn with Wallace until he was rung. Neither of them was a nervous man, but both looked very grim and thoughtful.

“We haven’t seen half the château,” said Wallace. “There were lots of passages that Severin passed by.”

“I noticed that—but the place is such a maze. Of course Severin was scared stiff.”

An hour passed before the telephone bell rang. Conrad went to the instrument, and was engaged in conversation for some minutes. At length he came back.

“It appears I ought to have informed the local police,” he said. “But, anyway, they are going to act at once. A good man is leaving Paris by the next train. I’m afraid we shall not be able to leave in the morning.”

“Rather not. I’m keen on seeing this thing through. It looks remarkably like murder to me.”

The first glad light of the dawn appeared in the eastern sky before they rose and went to their rooms. Even then Wallace did not undress, but reclined on his bed, with ears alert. Sometimes in the dead silence he thought he heard a woman sobbing.

CHAPTER IV.
FOUCHARD

Both Wallace and Conrad rang for their petit déjeuner at a very early hour, for their minds were too full of the hideous tragedy of the preceding night to permit of comfortable repose. Severin, who looked as if he had not been to bed, informed them that his young mistress had passed a bad night, but refused to rest in her room. She was now dressing.

“What are we going to do now?” asked Conrad.

“That depends upon Yolande.”

“You think she will be glad of our company for a bit?”

“Don’t you think that is probable? This man from Paris will turn the place upside down, and ask a lot of painful questions. One thing is certain—Fallières is either seriously wounded or dead.”

“But where is he?”

“That is the crux of the whole mystery. Connie, do you think the old boy is to be trusted?”

“You mean Severin?”

“Yes. He acts very strangely at times. I had a feeling last night that he was deliberately avoiding certain parts of the château; and he was seen in the corridor immediately after we heard the shot fired.”

“You are not suggesting that Severin shot his master and then hid him somewhere?”

“It’s as good a solution as any we have struck.”

“Incredible. Fallières spoke most highly of Severin. No, Severin is only suffering from fright. You forget that Severin has seen this alleged monster, and we have not.”

“It is hard to believe in monsters in the full light of day. I wonder if we are all going mad.”

“Mad or not, Fallières is missing. We should have to be mad indeed to believe that he is perpetrating some practical joke. No, I fear we are up against grim fact.”

He turned as he heard a footstep behind him, and Yolande entered the room. Her face was deathly pale, and it was evident that she had not slept.

“Bon jour!” she said. “I suppose there is no news?”

“None. I ’phoned to the Préfecture of Police last night, and a good man was despatched immediately. He should be here at any moment.”

“Thank you.”

She sat down limply, and Conrad took her hand in fatherly fashion.

“You must not worry too much,” he murmured. “I admit the situation is baffling, but hope must not be abandoned.”

“I feel so powerless,” she replied. “Where is one to look—what is one to do?”

“Keep a stiff lip.”

“I am not going to break down,” she said. “Nor will I leave a stone unturned to solve this terrible mystery. For too long we have tolerated it. You have breakfasted?”

“Yes.”

“And you will soon be leaving?”

“That rests with you, mademoiselle. I am indebted to your father in many ways, and if I could be of the least assistance, you have only to command me. I know I can speak for my young friend here.”

“Rather!” put in Wallace.

“Then stay,” she pleaded. “If this strange thing is to be brought to bay, it will need the strength and wits of men. I need your help, God knows.”

Wallace breathed a sigh of relief. He had the adventurous spirit, and his blood was boiling at the atrocity that had been committed. Man-hunt or ghost-hunt, it was all the same to him. He was brimming over with vitality, and wanted nothing more than to get to grips with this alleged monster.

“We will consider that settled,” said Conrad calmly.

A few minutes later a servant entered with a card. It bore the name of Arnaud Fouchard, no more.

“Fouchard,” mused Conrad. “I have heard that name.”

“He is from the Préfecture of Police,” whispered Yolande. “It is the dreaded Fouchard. All France knows of him.”

“Good! He has certainly lost no time.”

The great Fouchard was shown in. He was in plain clothes and of most unprepossessing appearance. His face was like that of a Mongolian, and he wore a scrubby little beard and moustache. In size he was diminutive, but there was an alertness about him that reminded one of a galvanised wire. He bowed low to Yolande.

“You are Monsieur Fouchard?” she said.

“At your service. Of course you are Mademoiselle Fallières?”

She nodded, and introduced Wallace and Conrad as two friends of the family—and guests.

“Now we can go ahead,” he said. “I gathered that Monsieur Fallières is missing and that you suspect foul play.”

“That is so,” replied Conrad. “He disappeared from his room at about twelve-thirty last night.”

“Hm! Why do you suspect foul play?”

“His bed had been occupied, and there is blood on the pillow.”

“I will look at the room.”

Yolande stayed below while Wallace and Conrad went to the room with the officer. Nothing had been touched since the night before, except that Conrad had possessed himself of the pistol. Fouchard examined the pillow and the floor, and then walked to the window.

“Nasty drop!” he muttered. “Tell me exactly what occurred, so far as you are able.”

Conrad narrated the incident, while Fouchard made minute shorthand notes in a huge pocket-book. All the while he made queer facial contortions.

“Where is the pistol?” he snapped.

Conrad produced it from his pocket.

“Hm! One shot fired. I wish you had left it where you found it, monsieur,” he said irritably. “How can you expect me to sort things out if you play about with the evidence? Where did you find this?”

Conrad pointed out the spot a trifle huffily, for he objected to the tone of Fouchard.

“When did you arrive here?” asked Fouchard.

“Yesterday.”

“Hm! You know Monsieur Fallières intimately?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with the case. But if you insist, I do not know him intimately. It was an old friendship unexpectedly revived.”

“You were in your room when the shot was fired?”

“Yes—I have already said so.”

“Was Monsieur Fallières at all apprehensive last night—before he retired?”

“Well—yes, he was. You may as well know the truth about this place, monsieur. It is common gossip that it is haunted——”

“Haunted! Pah!”

“Yes, I guessed you would say that. I am only giving you the facts as we have heard them. Mademoiselle Fallières will corroborate. The story goes that a huge creature runs amok here, making horrid noises at nights, and breaking mirrors. This kind of thing has been going on for two years. Because of this, Monsieur Fallières was always armed. The theory is that this monster came through the window and attacked Monsieur Fallières——”

“And carried him away? I ask you, monsieur, could any living creature carry a burden down that wall?”

Wallace, who was looking out of the window, suddenly made an ejaculation. Fouchard swung round on him.

“Here is something I didn’t notice before,” he said. “Look, there is an iron spike driven between two blocks. If one could reach that, it would be easy to step on to the ivy and mount to the north tower. The roots are astonishingly thick.”

Fouchard gazed at the projecting iron and the ivy and shook his head.

“Quite impossible!”

“I don’t agree,” retorted Wallace. “Why, I could do it myself.”

“We are merely wasting time,” snapped Fouchard.

“You are,” replied Wallace. “I’ll show you whether it is impossible.”

Before Conrad could stop him, he stepped through the window, and, clinging to the projecting iron, found a secure footing on the thick ivy that went trailing towards the tower.

“Take care!” warned Conrad.

“It’s as tough as old Harry,” he called back, and went on with the agility of an acrobat.

In ten minutes he was seated astride the wall some thirty feet above them, close to where the northern turret soared upwards. The acute angle formed by the roof of the château prevented him from using his feet, so he moved along the parapet leap-frog fashion until the round wall of the tower brought him to a halt.

“Come back!” yelled Conrad.

He laughed and waved his hand, then made his way back again, entering the window without much difficulty.

“I could have climbed the tower,” he said. “The ivy goes right up to the window. All the way along the ivy was worn, as if someone else had used it. In two places it was broken.”

“A splendid feat,” said Fouchard. “But it gets us no further. You forget that you had no burden to carry, and you appear to be exceptionally agile.”

“There are other people in the world equally agile.”

“Is there a man who could do that with another man on his back? No, it is impossible.”

“It’s the only solution that fits, anyway.”

“It doesn’t fit. Personally, I am convinced that Monsieur Fallières never made his exit through that window. Had he done so, we should expect to find his mangled body down below.”

Wallace shrugged his shoulders, and Fouchard intimated that he wished to interrogate some of the servants. They let him go his way.

“Is he an idiot, or is it only bluff?” asked Wallace.

“I’m not sure. He looks a capable kind of person, but it is possible that he has formed some other theory that he is not willing to divulge.”

“Well, if he had treated me with any kind of respect at all I would have told him something else. Conrad, I saw blood marks on that ivy in three different places. Incredible as it may sound, the person or thing that entered Fallières’s room climbed the ivy as I did, with Fallières on his back. By Jove, I can appreciate a feat of that size!”

“That is astounding.”

“I know.” His face grew serious. “Conrad, I’m wondering whether it is anything human we are up against.”

“But why should he—or it—want to do such a thing?”

“If he had killed Fallières he might want to dispose of the body. After all, you cannot bring a conviction without identifying the corpse.”

Conrad winced. The whole affair was so fantastic it was difficult to think logically. He thought he ought to have laughed at the theory of a monster, but what was it that had entered Fallières’s room and performed that astounding feat of acrobatics along the face of the château?

“A bit uncanny, this,” he confessed.

“Interesting if it wasn’t for the fact of Fallières’s disappearance. We’ve got to explore that tower—and without delay. Come, while friend Fouchard is interviewing the servants.”

They found the place with some difficulty. It was approached through a gallery on the second floor of the big building. That end of the château had not been occupied for a long period, and there was little in the way of furniture. The turret itself was reached by a spiral staircase, the space being so confined that one’s shoulders touched the walls on either side. The chamber at the top was circular, and a veritable masterpiece in architecture. The slabs of stone that comprised it were beautifully dressed, and there was no sign of decay. The chamber was bare save for a single oak seat near the leaded window.

“What a view!” exclaimed Conrad. Then, excitedly, “There is blood here too. Look!”

Wallace nodded as he gazed at the unmistakable stains on the window-sill. He slipped the bolt of the window and poked his head outside. A narrow gallery surrounded the turret, and over the low wall scrambled the invincible ivy.

“There used to be a door leading to the gallery,” said Conrad. “It was here. You can see where it has been filled in. Probably some member of the Grammont family committed suicide a century or two ago. But I can scarcely yet swallow the fact that our mysterious friend carried a man’s body up the tower and through this window.”

“I wouldn’t care to try it myself,” agreed Wallace.

“But isn’t the evidence conclusive?”

“Fairly. But where is Fallières?”

“The whole thing is sunk in mystery. It looks as if the corridor through which we came connects up with the four turrets. One thing is certain, the whole château will have to be searched if we are to hope for any success. There are vaults and heaven knows what underneath.”

“We must get Severin to pilot us round again. I can’t understand why Fouchard should waste time interrogating the servants while there is yet a chance of finding Fallières alive.”

“You think so?”

“Don’t you?”

“No. Fallières’s mysterious assailant would not have run off with the body except with the object of hiding it away. He would take good care life was extinct.”

“The whole business is most gruesome. Let us find Monsieur Fouchard and see what conclusion he has arrived at.”

“If any,” added Wallace.

CHAPTER V.
BAFFLED

When they reached the ground floor Monsieur Fouchard was discovered fully occupied. He was sitting at a table with his note-book before him rapping out questions to Severin, whose nervousness was clearly manifested.

“You endorse this ridiculous story of a strange being who haunts the château, Monsieur Severin?”

“How can one help it?” stammered the old man. “If monsieur were in my place he would know it is true.”

“You have heard noises?”

“Awful noises.”

“Frequently?”

“Yes.”

“You have discovered things missing?”

“Many things.”

“What?”

“Food, wine and——”

“Food and wine are always missing in big establishments. But I will get to the point. Have you ever seen a strange person anywhere in the château?”

Severin trembled visibly and then nodded his head.

“Ah, we are getting warmer! Where did you see this person, and in what circumstances?”

“It was in the long west gallery—a year ago. He—it came towards me and stopped within a few yards of me. Monsieur, I was terrified. I tried to turn and run but could not. For a full minute he stood there laughing at me and then—then I think I lost my senses. When I came to there was nothing to be seen.”

“You saw it plainly—as you see me now. It was no shadow—no trick of the lighting?”

“Mon Dieu, it was in broad daylight. He was immense and covered by a robe—like a monk. A cowl was over his head and only his eyes and nose were visible. Cruel eyes and a hooked nose. When he laughed at me it was like no sound I had ever heard before.” Then in a burst of hysteria, “It was he who killed the master—I know it.”

“That will do, Monsieur Severin,” said Fouchard. “There is no other servant who has seen this creature?”

“No one, but all have heard him. No one in the village will come to the château. They all know.”

“Hm! That will do for the present.”

Severin shuffled out and Fouchard put his book into his pocket. He turned and glared at Wallace and Conrad.

“The hallucination of an old man,” he grumbled.

“It was no hallucination,” said Yolande quietly. “Severin is getting old, but he has all his senses. I know it was no hallucination because I too have seen this—this thing, and the description agrees perfectly.”

Fouchard raised his bushy eyebrows at this.

“I had no idea.”

“It was nearly two years ago. I am afraid you will have to accept facts. There is something in this château—man, beast, or spirit—that comes and goes and hides itself away successfully. I fear it has murdered my poor father.”

“Mademoiselle, I beg you not to draw premature conclusions,” urged Fouchard. “I mean to have every inch of the château and the precincts searched to-day. I trust you will permit me to use the servants as I think fit?”

“Do anything you wish. My one desire is to know the truth about my father.”

“Then we will get to work.”

He bowed and left the room. Yolande came across to Wallace and Conrad.

“What do you think of him?” she asked.

“I am not sure whether he is not bluffing us,” said Conrad. “I think he objects to our presence here, and Wallace has already stroked him the wrong way.”

“I don’t see why we should not all work together amicably,” said Wallace. “After all, we have a common object in view. I happened to discover something and immediately he pooh-poohed it; out of professional jealousy, I suppose. He has made up his mind not to accept Severin’s story.”

“What have you discovered?” asked Yolande.

Wallace hesitated, but she divined immediately that he had something unpleasant to narrate and encouraged him.

“Please don’t keep anything from me. I have suffered a terrible blow, but I am trying to fight this thing. I have made up my mind to stay here whatever happens. If this creature is human he must be brought to justice. I want to know everything.”

“Well, I discovered that your father’s room was apparently entered by the window. Certainly his body was taken out that way. The north tower could be reached by climbing the ivy—I have done it myself.”

“But with a big burden as my father would have been?”

“I think that even that is not impossible. At any rate, I found traces of—of blood in several places, also on the window-sill in the tower.”

“It—it is incredible!”

“I know. But you must remember that, immediately after the shot was fired, there were several persons in the corridor. Neither your father nor his assassin could have left the room on that side without being seen.”

“That is true, but to take a human body up— You have been to the tower?”

“Yes. The trail ends there. I have an idea that your father is somewhere in this house.”

“Fouchard is now organising a search. Oh, if one could only entertain the faintest hope!”

They said nothing, for there was nothing of comfort to be said. It seemed so certain that Fallières had breathed his last in this world.

At the suggestion of Wallace they took the Bentley and made a tour of the district, leaving the search for the missing man in the hands of Fouchard. The trip was beneficial to Yolande. She fell in love with the car and for a time at least pushed the spectre into the background. The forest embraced many thousand acres and was dotted with woodmen’s huts, for it supplied fuel for the whole district. Here and there were war-time scars, but it had not suffered greatly, and the income from timber rights was considerable.

“The Germans made good use of it,” said Yolande. “After the occupation of the château they were able to withdraw with very few casualties.”

“Are the woodmen in your employ?” asked Wallace.

“Oh, no. They hold their cottages on small rentals, and have certain timber rights. My father employs a ranger who sees that the younger trees are preserved. He lives in the forest.”

In order to keep her from thoughts of her father, Wallace suggested she should drive the car. She accepted with obvious joy and quickly made herself acquainted with the controls. He watched her eyes brighten as she made a burst of speed along the straight road.

“I am in love with it,” she said. “I feel I would like to head for some distant place—Nice or Biarritz. It is a more lovable—more intimate machine than the Hispano. That reminds me that Watkins is due back this evening.”

“Who is Watkins?”

“The chauffeur. Yes, he is English, and most capable. We engaged him because he understands electrical matters, and is able to look after the power plant for the house. He speaks French—terrible French.”

On the homeward journey the old spectre began to rear its ugly head again. An atmosphere of gloom was entered immediately the towers of the château came to view. Wallace gazed at Conrad and saw that his friend’s mouth was firmly set. Yolande looked pale, and her small hands were clenched in her lap.

For the rest of the day the two guests prowled around the château, exploring outbuildings. When evening came, they had discovered nothing. Of Fouchard there had been no sign since the morning. Severin informed them that he had seen the detective going towards the forest.

“Has he sent the servants to make a search?” asked Wallace.

“Not to my knowledge, monsieur. The gardeners have been working in the greenhouse, and the indoor staff is in the servants’ hall.”

“Looks as if his search party comprises himself,” growled Conrad. “Mysterious devil!”

Shortly before dinner the two men were sitting in front of the château enjoying the wonderful sunset. But with the declining sun came an eerie sensation. Wallace laughed suddenly.

“What’s the matter?” ejaculated Conrad.

“We’re getting nervy, old man. It’s this sense of impotence. If only we were at grips with the problem it would be better. Where the devil is one to start?”

“We ought to have carried out a more thorough search on our own,” said Conrad. “I thought Fouchard was going to do it on a grand scale. Whatever may be his attitude, I am going to waste no more time. Let us collar Severin in the morning and ransack the place. If only we find Fallières’s body, that will be something achieved. The tension must be terrible for Yolande. She is magnificently courageous, but I am sure it would be better for her to know the worst than to be kept in this awful suspense.”

“I’m with you. But what on earth is Fouchard doing?”

“Here comes Yolande. Perhaps she has news.”

Yolande was half way across the courtyard, and the two men were making towards her when she suddenly stopped and uttered a cry. Her eyes were turned towards the north tower which was silhouetted against the crimsoning sky. Wallace looked up and gasped at what he saw. Standing in the narrow gallery that surrounded the tower was an immense figure, clad like a Capuchin monk. The arms were folded and it stood perfectly still—looking down into the wide courtyard.

“Look!”

“My God!” ejaculated Conrad.

“That is—he,” said Yolande in a weak voice.

Wallace caught her by the arm and pointed to the garage.

“The chauffeur has just returned. Please go and talk to him—it is safer. There is just a chance we may collar that thing.”

“Yes—yes. But take care. Oh, take care!”

“Have no doubt on that score,” he replied grimly.

She turned away and he swung round on Conrad, who was watching the still figure on the tower.

“Now’s the time, Connie. Have you got that pistol?”

“No, worse luck. Fouchard took it.”

“Never mind. We can pick up something on our way. There’s no time to waste. I reckon I can get into the top gallery before he can leave it. Follow me!”

With this he bolted for the main entrance. Conrad lost no time in following. Older man as he was, he was fit in wind and limb, and was good in an emergency. By the time he reached the hall, Wallace was out of sight. His eye caught a gleam of shining steel and he wrested a short sword from its hangings. With a low growl of excitement he followed hot on the heels of his young friend.

Panting, he reached the first landing, but Wallace had outstripped him easily. He made up the next flight of stairs at breakneck pace and eventually emerged into the top gallery. Dark as it was, he could see Wallace ahead of him with an awful-looking bludgeon in his hand. Wallace turned and beckoned him. He joined him in a few seconds.

“Any sign?” he whispered.

“No. But I don’t think he could have got away in the few seconds it has taken me to get here. I believe we have him cornered.”

“I’d like to think so.”

“The trouble lies in the tower itself. It is so infernally dark. I wish we had brought an electric torch. There is no lighting up there. Anyway, you hang on to me. He ought not to floor the pair of us.”

“No, but we ought to have taken the precaution of laying in firearms. If he happens to have an automatic——”

“Better not think about it. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

They crept along the remainder of the gallery and came to the entrance to the tower. Wallace pushed open the door slowly and then crept through. Before them was the dark, forbidding stone spiral staircase. Wallace slipped off his shoes and when Conrad had done likewise the ascent began.

CHAPTER VI.
THE UNEXPECTED

In the pitch darkness the two men mounted the stone steps, fully expecting a savage assault at any moment. So quiet was everything that the sound of their breathing seemed tremendous. Wallace took comfort from the fact that a revolver bullet would have to be fired within a yard or two to inflict any injury—close enough for him to use the cudgel to effect.

Round and round they went, each counting the steps mentally. There were sixty-three of them all told. Outside the door, Conrad was enabled to come to the side of his companion. He gripped the dangerous-looking sword tighter as Wallace opened the door.

“Empty!”

The ejaculation leaped from Wallace’s lips. The interior was well lighted by the sunset, and the window was bolted on the inside. Conrad passed his hand across his brow, which was clammy with perspiration.

“Gone!” he said. “How the devil——”

“He may be outside.”

“How could he fasten the window behind him?”

“How does he manage to perform all these astonishing tricks?”

He was not satisfied until he had opened the window and climbed through it in order to see if the mysterious figure was making a retreat along the ivy. But there was no sign of him. He rejoined his companion.

“He must have slid along the corridor like lightning,” he said. “He had to climb through the window, descend sixty-three stairs, and run the whole length of the corridor while I was getting up stairs. I could have sworn it was impossible.”

“We are evidently dealing with a creature of amazing agility. By Jove, what a size it was—at least seven feet.”

“Big men as a rule are not very agile. But, assuming he beat us in the race, where did he vanish to?”

“There are the other towers and probably many outlets—old staircases and so forth.”

“It is very disappointing.”

“It is—in a way. Yet I think we were mad to attempt to nab him with nothing but a club and an old sword. This man is a killer—have no doubt about that. In future I am going to carry something more deadly than an antique sword.”

“What are we to do now?”

“Nothing until the morning. We’ll take the car and run into the nearest place that has firearms for sale. This game has long passed the pastime stage. I think I can hear the dinner-gong. Lord, I can do with a bottle of wine.”

On reaching the lower regions, they were surprised to find Yolande in conversation with a stranger. He was a portly individual, and had a rough bandage round his head.

“Well?” asked Yolande excitedly.

“We were too late. He had vanished.”

“I feared he would.”

“His good luck won’t hold for ever,” said Wallace. “If I could have knocked two seconds off my time I believe we should have got him.”

Yolande shook her head, and then suddenly burst a surprise upon them.

“This gentleman is Arnaud Fouchard,” she said.

“Fouchard—Arnaud Fouchard!” gasped Conrad, staring at the new arrival.

“Yes, monsieur—the Arnaud Fouchard.”

“But we— I don’t understand this.”

“I should have arrived early this morning, but there seems to have been a little conspiracy afoot. There was but one conveyance at the station and I engaged it. I admit I was badly tricked. The driver stopped the car some four miles from the château and swore he had a puncture. He was clever enough to hit me here with the handle of the jack and to deposit my body in a foul pit. That is a little incident I shall not forget in a hurry.”

“Great Scott! But who was the man who came— I get you now. That little wretch with the scrubby beard was the man who drove you?”

“Precisely. He removed my card-case and my money. I was hoping I should find him here.”

“He has not returned since this morning.”

“Nor will he return.”

“I am not quite clear on this,” said Wallace. “Why should that man want to masquerade as you?”

“Merely to get inside the house and to keep me off the trail for a bit. He certainly succeeded in knocking me out for ten hours, but here I am.”

“This gets more and more involved,” said Conrad. “He must have had an important object.”

“Yes, a keen desire to know how much you knew about this—this mysterious disappearance. He had an opportunity of questioning everybody, and, having learned all he wanted to know, he vanished.”

“But how could he have known you were on your way to the château?” asked Yolande.

“There we approach the edge of the conspiracy—whatever it may be. Someone in this house knew that a message had gone to Paris over the telephone—someone in touch with our masquerading friend. There is but one train from Paris to Arveyes after midnight. There were few passengers, and I think I am fairly well known to most people with criminal tendencies. That brings three persons into the case—the phantom whom I believe you have just seen, the man with the scrubby beard who knocked me out, and the person in the château who communicated with the latter.”

“It may have been the Monster who overheard,” suggested Yolande.

“Possibly—but I doubt it.”

“You had better join us at dinner,” said Yolande. “You are looking fatigued, and some refreshment will revive you.”

“Thank you,” he replied with a smile. “Fortunately ‘Bluebeard’ left my suit-case with my injured person. I will join you very soon.”

Severin was called and, taking the suit-case, showed Fouchard to his room. Yolande sighed as she turned to the other two.

“What will happen next?” she asked pensively.

“At any rate, a little progress has been made,” said Wallace. “We now know that there is more than one person in this business. And I certainly like the real Fouchard better than the false.”

“Are there any servants in the house whom you have cause to mistrust?” enquired Conrad.

“I know of none. But we are changing them so often that it is difficult to say. Severin of course knows more about them than I. We engaged three new ones a month ago.”

Fouchard was not long in changing his clothes and removing most of the signs of his adventure. He seemed a jovial kind of personage and not at all secretive. His appetite was enormous and he made the most of the excellent meal. Yolande, however, ate very little. It was obvious that, despite her patience and fortitude, she was suffering from terrible anxiety.

“You have heard all about this affair?” asked Wallace of Fouchard, when the last course was served.

“Mademoiselle has put me in possession of most of the facts. It would be vain to pretend that I have any theory to propound so far. The only thing that is evident is that certain persons are in league to achieve some object as yet unknown.”

“Yet this has been going on for two years.”

“Big schemes require time. The fact that this has been going on for so long leads one to the conclusion that great things are at stake. If I can only lay hands on that little ruffian who molested me, I warrant I will make him talk up.”

“Is that as important as laying hands on the Monster?”

Fouchard stroked his chin. It was clear that the phantom puzzled him deeply. He could see no logical connection between the breaking of mirrors and the befouling of furniture, and the perpetration of any ordinary crime.

“This flinging of muck savours of Sadism,” he mused.

“What is Sadism?” asked Wallace.

“A kind of moral perversion. There was a Marquis de Sade who delighted in propagating a new cult. It is not a pleasant subject and is better left alone. But I should like to provide a test. Has mademoiselle any objection to having a big mirror installed in one of the reception-rooms?”

“I’ll do anything that will help,” replied Yolande.

“Very good. But there are more pressing duties. I want to get the lay-out of the château. At the same time we can institute a search for Monsieur Fallières. I propose to make a start in half an hour.”

This was more like business, and Wallace became enthusiastic immediately. There were no firearms in the château, but Fouchard was well prepared. He possessed a small armoury and offered to lend the other two men automatics, which offer they accepted.

“I want to be frank about this,” he said. “The circumstances attending the disappearance of Monsieur Fallières point to the existence of considerable danger. I suggest that it might be advisable if mademoiselle were to pay a visit to some friends.”

Yolande shook her head determinedly.

“I know there is danger,” she added. “I feel that my poor father has been savagely murdered, but I refuse to leave this place. For years he faced the danger, and I will face it too. Please act as if I were not here.”

“Very well. One thing, however, I would advise. Severin informed me that your room was some distance from the other occupied rooms. I would counsel you changed it for one nearer mine, or of these two gentlemen.”

She agreed to have this change made immediately, and chose the room next to that occupied by Wallace, access to which there was positively none except by the door.

“Now we will call Monsieur Severin,” said Fouchard.

When the butler heard what was required of him he displayed distinct signs of nervousness. Apparently there were parts of the château which he preferred to let alone after darkness had fallen.

“We want to go all over the place, monsieur,” said Fouchard. “In every room, cupboard, and corner.”

“But there are parts of the château unlighted,” stammered Severin.

“Watkins will provide you with electric torches,” said Yolande and overcame that obstacle.

“Very good, mademoiselle,” mumbled Severin. “I will get them at once.”

“I suppose he is to be trusted,” said Conrad.

“You need have no doubt about that. He is merely nerve-shattered. Poor Severin—I shall have to give him a holiday.”

A few minutes later Severin presented himself again. He carried two large hand-lamps, and asked if the gentlemen were ready.

“Quite ready,” said Fouchard. “You would prefer to stay here, mademoiselle?”

“Yes. I am a little fatigued.”

“I’ll take one of those lamps,” said Fouchard. “I think we will make a start at the top and work our way down. Lead on!”

Then began an excursion which was somewhat eerie. The top gallery of the château had no illumination of any kind, and the electric lamps had to be brought into use. As Wallace had surmised, the four towers were identical, and were connected by the gallery which entirely circumscribed the big building. Their boots echoed on the flagstones, and the lamps threw strange shadows. Severin advanced slowly, talking a lot, probably to bolster up his nerves. From the western gallery there was an old staircase leading to the lower floor.

“We will go down there on our return,” said Fouchard. “Now I shall be glad if you will show me where you found the bloodstains, Monsieur Wallace.”

Severin nearly dropped the lamp at this remark. In the north tower Wallace pointed out the stains, and explained how it was possible to reach it from several rooms on the first floor by climbing the ivy. He expected that Fouchard would ridicule his theory about the carrying of Fallières’s body, but he merely inclined his head.

“This part seems to be plain sailing,” he said. “There seem to be but two ways down—the main staircase, and the passage we passed just now. We will descend.”

The alternative staircase was a curious affair. It wound between the walls and took an enormous distance to connect with the lower floor. Here the business was much more complicated, for the building had evidently been altered at several periods and there were all kinds of connecting passages and dead ends.

“Quite a maze!” said Fouchard. “One needs a plan to get the hang of it.”

Suddenly there was a curious squeak, and something dark hit him in the face.

“Only a bat,” he muttered. “Ah, that is better. We can now see what we are doing.”

This as Severin found an electric light switch and illuminated the surroundings. There were a dozen or so rooms, mostly unfurnished, and in all of them the patient Fouchard went. Severin with his huge bunch of keys opened all sorts of queer chambers, and in every case things were in order. The ground floor was equally well searched, and Severin led the way to the cellars.

These vaults extended the full length of the château in a series of arches. A portion of the space was given up to wine-bins, which were plentifully stocked. Here and there was an electric light, but on the whole the place was gloomy, and very damp. In one spot the water had percolated through the walls, leaving a thin layer of mud on the ground. Fouchard was stepping gingerly over this when he noticed something and stooped down. Bringing the light of the electric lamp to his aid, he observed two enormous footprints.

“Interesting!” he said. “Our monster walks here, and his last visit was within twenty-four hours.”

“What a foot!” gasped Conrad. “Why, it is four inches longer than mine.”

“The foot of a seven-foot man, unless he is abnormal in that respect. They point this way. Lead on, Severin!”

But Monsieur Severin collapsed on an old keg. His lips moved nervelessly and he shook his head.

“I have never been farther than this, monsieur. I—I am afraid I feel unwell.”

“Sorry to hear that,” said Fouchard in a sympathetic voice. “Stay here and rest while we investigate.”

To stay there alone was not at all to Severin’s taste. He pulled himself together, and averred that the faintness had passed.

“I’ll go first,” said Fouchard. “I want to see if there are any more footprints.”

So Monsieur Severin insinuated his person between Fouchard and Wallace, and seemed to be much more at ease. Fouchard kept the beam of the electric lamp fixed on the ground, but no more footprints came to view. They came up against a blank wall covered with cobwebs and snail trails, and the passage took a sharp bend to the left.

“Catacombs!” said Fouchard. “Hello, what is that?”

Stooping down, he picked up a small shining object. It proved to be a hairpin.

“The third side of the triangle,” he said. “The woman in the case. A blonde, I fancy.”

“How do you arrive at that conclusion?” asked Conrad.

“It is hypothetical, but I doubt if any woman other than a blonde would use tortoiseshell hairpins. They do not go well with dark hair. How many blonde women are there in the establishment, Monsieur Severin?”

“I can remember only two.”

“Hm! We will see them later. I presume that in the ordinary way none of the female staff would come down here?”

“No, monsieur.”

Fouchard seemed quite delighted with his discovery, and moved forward at a quicker pace. A series of recesses came to view. Some of them contained old gardening tools and empty kegs. In one of them Fouchard noticed a very large wine-barrel standing on its end.

“A fine fellow that,” he said.

“It was used as a rain-water tub,” explained Severin. “But it began to leak and was brought down here six months ago. It is now a receptacle for empty bottles.”

“My God—look at that!”

The cry came from Conrad, and his finger was pointing to a dark patch at the base of the huge vessel. A low cry came from Fouchard. In a moment he pulled aside the covering and flashed the torch inside the barrel.

“At last,” he said.

“You mean——”

“We have found Monsieur Fallières.”

With tense expressions all gazed inside. The late owner of the château lay on a pile of bottles, face upturned, and his throat cut from ear to ear.

CHAPTER VII.
BERTHA

Conrad shuddered as he gazed at the limp corpse. Here was all that remained of their charming host. The man who had done so much for the Château Grammont now lay in a wine-barrel, drenched in his own blood.

“This is monstrous!” he said. “He was one of the finest gentlemen in France.”

“My poor master!” almost sobbed Severin.

“Poor Yolande!” said Wallace, whose thoughts naturally turned to the bereaved daughter.

“A savage affair,” mused Fouchard. “The work of a razor if I am not mistaken. There are some curious anomalies here. The murderer goes to all the trouble to remove the corpse from the bedroom, performing an acrobatic feat along the ivy. At tremendous risk he somehow transports the body through the house, and then he has no more sense than to hide it here. There were fifty better places. Yes, it is somewhat strange.”

“Where does this woman come in?” asked Conrad.

“I don’t know. I don’t know where our scrubby-bearded masquerader comes in either. What is most puzzling of all is the motive.”

“What is to be done now?”

“I must get into touch with the local police. So long as it was a mere disappearance I could act alone, but now murder is obvious I am bound to notify the local authorities. I am afraid the château will be bombarded with a lot of dunderheads and journalists.”

“We have to break the news to Yolande. Poor—poor girl,” said Conrad.

“I think she has accepted the fact already,” said Fouchard. “It must have been obvious.”

He replaced the top of the barrel, and resumed his investigations. Nothing new came to light, and ultimately the quartet stood in the hall of the château.

“Who—who will tell her?” whispered Conrad.

“It would come best from you, I think,” replied Fouchard.

“Very well.”

The exceedingly painful task was carried out. Yolande’s face went as pale as death, and for a moment she looked as if she would collapse, but she recovered herself.

“I—I knew it,” she said in a strangled voice. “Thank you—thank you for all you have done. I—I think I will go to my room now.”

She left them—a pathetic little figure with a vast load of sorrow on her young head. Wallace bit his lip as she vanished, and felt a queer lump rise in his throat. Fouchard swung round on Severin whose eyes were full of tears.

“What of these two blonde women—who are they?”

“One is Thérèse—a chambermaid. She comes from Provence and is young—not yet eighteen. She has been with us for six months.”

“Fair hair?”

“Yes.”

“Long?”

“No—very short. She looks almost like a boy. I can vouch for her respectability, monsieur, for she is the daughter of an old friend of mine.”

“And the other?”

“An older woman. She is called Bertha, and is Swiss, I believe.”

“Long hair?”

“Yes, monsieur. A large head of hair, coiled up in plaits. One might call it red.”

“Ah! How long has she been here?”

“A month. She was engaged as a parlourmaid.”

“I would like to see this Bertha. Find some excuse to send her in here. A little cognac might be a good thing after our investigations.”

Severin bowed and went out. Fouchard flung himself into a chair and bit his finger nails.

“I shall not ring up the police now,” he said. “Perhaps you would be good enough to drive me into Arveyes early in the morning. We can bring the doctor and the local officer back with us.”

“Certainly,” said Wallace.

A few minutes later there was a knock on the door and a woman entered with cognac and glasses. She was extremely well built and good-looking. Her age might have been anything between twenty-eight and thirty-five. Fouchard pretended not to see her, but it was fairly evident that he had her under observation the whole time. She put the tray on the table. Fouchard suddenly stared straight at her.

“I seem to remember you, mademoiselle,” he said pleasantly in French. “Yes, I am sure of it.”

“I do not remember monsieur,” she replied.

“Then I have a better memory than you. It was at Lyons, I believe. In a hotel called——”

“You are mistaken. I have never been in Lyons.”

“That is strange. Was it Switzerland?”

“It is true I come from Switzerland, but all the same I think monsieur is mistaken.”

“Was it Geneva?”

“I come from Berne,” she said. “I am Bernois.”

Fouchard suddenly changed from French into a peculiarly guttural language. Bertha laughed and made some reply.

“Well, one can always be mistaken,” said Fouchard. “Pour out the cognac please.”

While she filled the three glasses Wallace noticed a dexterous movement of Fouchard’s hand. It was done so swiftly that he did not realise at the moment what it signified.

“Thank you,” said Fouchard. “Please leave the decanter.”

She walked majestically from the room, and Fouchard sighed as she closed the door.

“I am fortunate in being able to speak Swiss-German,” he said. “In fact, I speak it better than she does. Our charming Bertha was never born anywhere outside Germany.”

“So she lied?”

“Oh, yes—she was compelled to. I like her hairpins too.”

He opened his hand and displayed a hairpin, which with that dexterous movement which Wallace had observed, he had contrived to extract from her abundant hair.

“Now we have a beautifully matched pair, I think.”

From his waistcoat pocket he produced the one he had picked up in the cellar. They were exactly alike.

“That means she——”

“It means we have really made a start. It is a curious thing that there is nearly always a woman mixed up in any crime or mystery. Some of them are hard nuts to crack, and Bertha, I imagine, comes into that category. It was Bertha who heard Monsieur Conrad talking to Paris on the telephone, and it was Bertha who at once communicated with our whiskered friend in order that he should delay my arrival. Yet you probably noticed she was perfectly composed while she was here. A brazen-faced woman that.”

“Pretty, too,” said Conrad.

“The pretty ones are the worst. Excellent cognac this.”

He was now in the best of humours, quite unlike his two companions, who were not used to such grim situations, and whose minds were occupied with the awful tragedy that had been enacted so recently.

“It grows late,” said Conrad. “I think I will retire.”

“I too,” said Wallace.

“I think it would be wise to keep your doors locked,” said Fouchard. “People who run amok with razors are awkward visitors.”

“A thick-skinned devil,” said Conrad as they walked up the stairs. “He is just beginning to enjoy himself.”

Wallace read for an hour or so in bed, for his brain was far too active to permit of sleep. His life so far had been singularly free of unpleasant incidents—apart from the loss of his parents. With ample means at his disposal, he had enjoyed himself in a healthy, moderate fashion, and had never troubled to delve into the gloomy side of life. A murder read about in the papers was not a very exciting business. One felt too far away from it, the assassin and victim assuming the rôle of more or less lifeless puppets. They were scarcely more real to him than Othello or any other character of drama.

The affair at the château aroused very different feelings. Excitement, sympathy, and repugnance were strangely mixed. Here he was in the very arena—no longer a spectator, but a participant. There was danger too, without doubt, or the case-hardened Fouchard would not have given warning. Despite his lack of “nerves” he could not help experiencing a certain apprehension. The fear of injury or even violent death had never crossed his mind. What he loathed was the idea of being taken unawares, as Fallières had been. If only this phantom form would come into the open and wage battle!

His eyes wandered from the printed page every few minutes, and his ears were alert for any strange sound. Then he laughed as he reflected that with all his youth and strength he was not proof against spectres born of the nocturnal stillness, and of the tragic and inexplicable happenings of the past two days.

He slept at last and did not open his eyes until the morning sun flooded the room. He went to the garage quite early and found Watkins washing the Hispano car. The chauffeur had already heard of the discovery of the night before and could talk of nothing else.

“I nearly ran over a black cat on my way back,” he whispered confidentially. “Is there any clue, sir?”

“Not yet,” replied Wallace guardedly. “It is a very sad business.”

He got his own car out and drove it to the main entrance in order to save time. Conrad came down and intimated that he would stay at the château while Wallace drove Fouchard into Arveyes.

“Sleep well?” enquired Wallace.

“Devil a bit. I had awful dreams. Shall you be back to lunch?”

“I suppose so. It depends how long Fouchard takes to do his business. Ah, here he comes.”

“All ready?” said Fouchard cheerily. “That’s a very neat little car. Looks like a thoroughbred.”

“I flatter myself it is.”

“Well, let us make a start. I want to get back as soon as possible.”

He seated himself beside Wallace, and the car moved down the drive. It was a dead straight road to Arveyes, and they entered the dirty little town in half an hour. The police station was a single room in a five-story building, and the “gendarmerie” consisted of two men. They received the famous Fouchard as they might a foreign potentate. Wallace saw it all through the window, and smiled at the stagelike gesticulations and the look of blank amazement that followed the reception of the news.

After some delay, Fouchard appeared with one of the officers. A doctor was picked up at the end of the narrow street, and Fouchard announced that he was ready to return. In the back seat the doctor and the gendarme were in agitated conversation. Wallace overheard snatches from time to time, though their voluble French was not easy to follow.

“Murdered! Mon Dieu! It will be the talk of the countryside.”

“Ah, monsieur le docteur, the château has a bad reputation. One hears strange stories. No woman from the village will work there. They say——”

“Nothing like a murder to appeal to the common mind,” whispered Fouchard. “I warrant that within half an hour every living soul in Arveyes knows what has happened, and every one of them will have a theory.”

They were speeding along the straight road at a fine rate when Wallace noticed a car approaching. As the road was narrow he slowed down in order to pass without undue risk. It was when the other car was within fifty yards that Fouchard uttered a loud ejaculation. His eyes were riveted on the driver of it, and Wallace suddenly realised why. It was the little man who had masqueraded as Fouchard on the day before.

“Stop!” said Fouchard.

But Wallace had already jammed on the brakes. He looked for some place to turn the car, but there was none.

“I’ll lose him if I go on. I am going to risk turning here,” he said. “Lean over to the right.”

He put the car on full lock and took the sloping bank. The wheels mounted until the car was at a fearful angle, and the passengers went pallid, but he knew the lock to an inch and the wheels came down to the horizontal plane, with the bonnet of the car facing the disappearing vehicle. Two quick gear changes and he was in “top” and treading on the accelerator.

“We’ve got him now, I guess,” he said. “Hold tight!”

The note of the exhaust rose higher and higher, and Fouchard saw the speedometer needle register fifty—fifty-five—sixty, sixty-five, seventy.

“Mon Dieu!” he gasped.

Still the hand moved round, but slower than before.

“What are we doing?” asked Wallace whose eyes were on the road.

“Seventy-four—seventy-six.”

“I thought it was child’s play,” he growled. “Gosh, I don’t know what he has got there, but I can’t gain an inch.”

“Seventy-eight,” said Fouchard. “He has taken the road for Lefroy. Take care—it is a bad turning.”

The speedometer needle made a rapid movement backwards, and Wallace took the bend at fifty. Far ahead of him was the fugitive car. He fumbled with the controls, determined not to be beaten. A little less air and a touch on the ignition control brought the best from the willing engine. Eighty miles an hour was reached, and then eighty-two.

“I’ve got her all out,” he shouted. “I can’t get another mile from her. And I’m damned if we are gaining.”

“If only I had got his number,” moaned Fouchard.

“There are some binoculars in the pocket—your side. They are good ones. I’ll hang on while you get the number.”

Fouchard dived for the pocket. In a few seconds the glasses were at his eyes.

“Got it!” he cried triumphantly. “You can let him go now.”

“He’s going,” replied Wallace dismally. “He is five miles an hour better at least. Why, the thing looked like a transmogrified Ford. This is the saddest day of my life.”

At the next turning he put the car round and ambled to the château at a respectable “forty.”

CHAPTER VIII.
SUSPENSE

A few days later Monsieur Fallières’s body was laid to rest in the little cemetery behind the chapel. A verdict of murder by person or persons unknown was brought in, and the whole French Press was full of the strange story. As Fouchard had prognosticated, the château was bombarded with reporters eagerly seeking for more details.

“Have nothing to do with those fellows,” said Fouchard. “They’ll twist anything you say to make a new story. It is a pity the thing has become public property.”

“What are the local police doing?”

“They have left the case to Paris. It is more or less in my hands.”

“What about the car we chased?” asked Wallace. “Have you made any enquiries?”

“Yes. But the number was a false one. It happened to be the number of a big Renault owned by a respectable lawyer in Paris. These people are leaving nothing to chance.”

“And Bertha?”

“I have not done with Bertha yet. She needs careful watching. If I arrested her we should defeat our own ends. I rely upon Bertha to lead us to the solution. Mademoiselle is sending her on an errand this afternoon—during which time I shall break into her room and interest myself in her belongings.”

In the meantime Yolande was making a brave attempt to rise above her bereavement. Strangely enough, she did not go into full mourning, but merely changed from her light summer attire into a darker dress.

“It was always my father’s wish,” she explained. “He held strong opinions on the subject. Death he regarded as a mere change—a stepping-stone into a freer existence. He would not have wished me to wear mourning.”

“You are wonderful,” said Wallace admiringly. “I know how deep was your affection. I shall never be happy until I know that your father is avenged.”

“I only want justice, not vengeance,” she said.

“Won’t you come for a walk? It is a beautiful morning and the woods afford some shelter from this sweltering sun.”

“I think I should like to.”

He found a walking stick and they left the château, taking the footpath that led to the higher land. On the previous day all the woodmen had joined the police in beating the whole district, but all to no purpose.

“It was good of you to stay,” she said. “It has been a great comfort having friends at hand.”

“It was generous of you to accommodate us. We had no fixed programme and had made arrangements to be away a month. Only a week has yet passed, although it seems thrice as long.”

“I fear you must have seen quite enough of the château by this time.”

“Not a bit. It is quite a novelty staying here, and—and I want to help—if I can.”

“You have helped already by your companionship. Look, there is Jacques Renan’s little girl picking flowers. She is a sweet child.”

The little mite in the print dress turned her head and saw the approaching pair. She ran forward with her hands full of fragrant flowers and offered them to Yolande.

“Merci, ma petite,” she said, and lifted the child in her arms to kiss the dimpled cheeks.

“How pretty she is,” said Wallace.

“S-sh! You must not make her vain.”

“But she does not understand English?”

“I think any woman understands a compliment, no matter in what tongue it is spoken. How I envy these peasants! They have no great château to trouble about—no conspiracies against their existence.”

“And how they envy you,” he replied.

“Only because they do not know that wealth is nothing in itself. Jacques chops and sells his logs. He has a comfortable home and a good wife. They have health and strength—and love.”

“Love is denied no one.”

“Is it not? You forget that I have lost the one I loved most in the world.”

“I had not forgotten. How could I?”

“Forgive me,” she said. “That was an undeserved rebuke.”

“How well you speak English,” he said. “I wish I could hope to speak French half as well.”

“Then you must marry a French woman,” she said. “It is the only way the English ever get to speak French. Shall I introduce you to a nice girl I know?”

He laughed, for he was pleased that she could indulge in banter at such a moment.

“I am not a marrying man,” he said. “I fear I have caught the complaint from Conrad.”

She kissed the child again and put her on her feet.

“Can you lend me a franc?” she asked.

He produced the coin, and she slipped it into the child’s hand and told her to buy bonbons.

“Would that we could purchase happiness so easily,” she sighed.

They walked on through the leafy vista, with birds carolling on all sides. In an open space they saw Jacques cutting logs with his queer little hand-saw—a narrow strip of metal fixed in a frame that was like an elongated fret-saw. He raised his hat as he saw Yolande, and begged to offer her his condolences.

“Thank you, Jacques!” she said. “I hope your wife is well.”

“Elle va bien,” he replied.

“A splendid man,” she said to Wallace. “He rose to the rank of captain in the war. But he is very modest of his achievements, and never mentions them.”

For two hours they roamed through the woody glades, and Wallace got a new insight into the character of Yolande. Mistress of the château and the vast forest lands, she was at heart the simplest woman on earth. He told himself that many a girl of her years would have suffered from a sense of her own importance, for there was no doubt that she was fabulously rich. But all her interest was in the simpler things of life—the birds and flowers with which the forest abounded, in cities and towns that she had visited, and people she had met, at school and elsewhere.

“So you are an engineer?” she said.

“I hope to be. As yet I fear I am an encumbrance.”

“I do not believe it. But it must be splendid to make things that work. If I were a boy I should beg you to take me as an apprentice. I suppose if every woman had the choice of sex almost all would choose to be men.”

“It is very fortunate they have no such option.”

“You like women?”

“I don’t get on with them, anyway.”

“I will never believe that.”

“It is true. The only girl I ever got to know intimately told me I was an insufferable prig. Probably there was a great amount of truth in it. Connie was present at the time, and thought it was the greatest joke on earth. She had asked me how I liked her dress and I said it was awful.”

Her laughter rang through the woods, but she stopped it quickly, as if she were ashamed to give vent to amusement at such a time.

“It’s good to hear you laugh,” he said softly. “Connie said he remembered you as one who was always laughing—always merry. You are going to be merry again.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “How frank you are, and how good to want to cheer me up when I need it so much.”

Her eyes were turned on him and he felt their full power. Since he was a stripling he had persuaded himself that women were creatures of another world so far as he was concerned—that he had small interest in them. Now this dark-eyed Yolande was undermining that conclusion.

“You shall be decorated for your bravery in telling a woman that her dress was awful,” she said, and, detaching a flower from the bunch which the child had given her, she slipped it into his buttonhole. There came a mad desire to kiss the white hand that lay so near his cheek, but he had not the courage to do so.

Then the white turrets of the château came to view, and banter and pleasant repartee were at an end. They seemed to spell tragedy as they reared themselves above the stately pile, and the ivy-clad one on the northern corner was more than ever brooding. Fair as this picture was, to Wallace it seemed like a blot on the landscape, for it was sapping the happiness of the girl beside him. Somewhere within those walls that had withstood many a siege, and seen many a strange sight, was an evil thing. It had to be expelled by some means or other, but as yet success seemed far away.

That afternoon Fouchard carried out his project of examining Bertha’s room. He spent about half an hour there, and when he came down his face revealed the fact that the search had not been entirely vain.

“I found a letter,” he confessed. “It does not throw a great deal of light on the subject, but it is interesting and I made a copy of it. The original was in German, but I knew enough of the language to translate it. Here it is.”

Wallace and Conrad bent over the sheet of paper. It was dated a fortnight previous and written from a place called Steyn, near Nuremberg. Fouchard’s writing was abominable, but between them they managed to get the sense of it.

“Dear Bertha—So there are foundations for your suspicions. It seems incredible to me. I am applying for a passport, and should be with you in a few days. It looks as if we may require Heinrich’s help, but he is in Berlin at the moment. I am writing him telling him the whole story, and asking him to follow as soon as possible.

“Niels.”

“This settles the question of Bertha’s nationality,” said Conrad.

“There was never any doubt about that. The point is—who is Niels? Presumably, he is the little man with the whiskers. Heinrich has apparently not arrived yet. I wonder what their game is? What were Bertha’s suspicions, and why is Niels incredulous?”

“The circle grows,” said Wallace. “First it was merely the Monster. Then came Niels, then Bertha, now Heinrich. We have Bertha under observation, but the others are yet free agents.”

“Unfortunately, Bertha is fully aware of the danger—of the fact that she is being watched. She will never reveal her hand in these circumstances. I think it will be necessary for you two gentlemen to bid adieu to the château and for me to return to Paris.”

“What?” ejaculated Wallace.

“A sham departure. Once these conspirators believe the coast is clear they will get to work again. An immediate departure would be too obvious. I shall receive a telegram from Paris in a day or two purporting to call me back. You two might notify your intention of taking the road again. Domestic servants are notorious publicity agents, and everyone in the house will get to know our intentions immediately.”

“But what then?” asked Conrad. “Personally, I hate the idea of leaving mademoiselle just now.”

“I don’t think she is in any great danger.”

“But Fallières was murdered.”

“Well, we will confide in mademoiselle and ask her to join us in flight. It would be quite natural for her to want a change of scenery after that sanguinary affair.”

“But what do you propose to do exactly?” asked Wallace.

“I shall take the train from Arveyes and get out at the next station. I suggest that you should pick me up there in your car. We can then motor back to the forest. I have discovered an excellent vantage point at the top of Mont des Pins. Severin must aid us in this. If there are any strange movements in the house, he will switch on a red light which I shall fix in one of the windows. The road runs immediately below the Mont des Pins. You can motor us to the château in two minutes. If Niels is in the house we ought to be able to prevent his escape.”

“That sounds hopeful,” said Wallace. “You think Niels will come immediately he gets to know of our departure?”

“I do. Otherwise what is he doing in the neighbourhood?”

Yolande was apprised of the scheme, and fell in with it at once. But while this was being put into operation Fouchard carried out a project which he had had in mind for some days. A new sideboard with a large mirror above it was brought into the château and placed in the dining-hall. Severin gaped when he saw it.

“Monsieur, it is madness,” he said.

Fouchard laughed and walked out with Wallace.

“It is mere curiosity,” he said. “Because I can’t fit in that part of the business with any theory. What does the breaking of mirrors signify?”

“What does it all signify?”

Fouchard had not long to wait for a response to his test. They had not gone to bed for more than an hour when there was a tremendous crash from downstairs. It brought Fouchard and Wallace into the corridor at once.

“The mirror,” said Fouchard grimly. “This is the very devil.”

He leapt down the stairs three at a time, with Wallace close behind. The latter had forgotten his pistol, but Fouchard was prepared. He held the black Browning in his hand, and made for the door of the dining-hall. As he opened it something tremendously big and awful broke through it. Fouchard was flung off his feet and hit his head violently against the skirting. Wallace, all unprepared for this astonishing attack, was hit a sickening blow in the jaw. He fell on his knees over Fouchard’s sprawling body and groaned with pain. When he regained his full senses the big form had disappeared.

“Sacré!” ejaculated Fouchard.

Wallace scrambled to his feet and dashed madly along the passage. But at the end he halted, for dead silence reigned. He came back to Fouchard feeling savage and humiliated.

“I wasn’t expecting it,” he said.

Fouchard pulled his coat tighter and rubbed his damaged head. His habitual calm was gone, and he looked as savage as a tiger.

“Like a damned cyclone,” he muttered. “How does he get here? Where does he live?”

He pushed open the door of the dining-hall, which had swung to in the scuffle. The new mirror was smashed to fragments, and on the floor was a beautiful chair with a leg torn from it. The severed leg lay on the top of the sideboard.

“This is no ordinary creature,” said Fouchard in an awed voice. “There are not six men alive who could have done that. Broken off as if it were a matchstick!”

CHAPTER IX.
COUNTERPLOT

Despite the unexpected incident of the mirror Fouchard was still keen on carrying out his project, for a further search of the château failed to locate the hiding-place of the strange being in the monkish robe.

“If Bertha and her friends are working in concert with that creature, there is every hope we may find them together,” he said. “Failing this, I may be successful in bagging Niels.”

“But if you consider it advisable to give Bertha a length of rope, why not Niels?” asked Conrad. “I fear you are rather inconsistent, Fouchard.”

Fouchard laughed harshly. There was logic in Conrad’s remark, and the detective was obviously a trifle nettled. He did not like to admit that his personal vanity was the dominating counsellor. Bertha might have a little run, but not the man who had worsted him and carried out the successful masquerade. After all, he was very human.

“Suppose nothing happens, and Severin sends no signal,” suggested Wallace. “Are you proposing that we should camp on the Mont des Pins indefinitely?”

“Something will happen,” he snapped impatiently. “Those people will waste no time. I have taken Severin into my confidence. There was no alternative, and I believe he is absolutely trustworthy. He is going to watch Bertha’s movements from the time we leave the château. It is understood you leave to-morrow. I shall be called away the same evening, and mademoiselle will decide to accompany me as far as Paris. The train leaves Arveyes at 6.25 and should arrive at Moselle round about seven o’clock. Mademoiselle and I will alight there, and shall expect to see you.”

“We’ll be there,” promised Wallace. “I suppose it is necessary to go as far as Moselle?”

“Absolutely. The train will be watched at Arveyes if I am any judge of Bertha’s mentality.”

The plan was carried out to the letter. There were quite pathetic farewells on the following morning, just before the Bentley moved out of the drive. Old Severin was given some money and told to distribute it among the staff, not forgetting Bertha. Stowed away in the car were blankets and provisions, in case no sign came from Severin on the first night.

“I wonder if anything will come of it?” mused Wallace.

“Fouchard seems to think so. Let us pray that it will not rain to-night. It would not be very pleasant camping out in a deluge. I shall suggest dropping Yolande at a hotel.”

“She wouldn’t hear of it. She is just as keen as we are to get to the bottom of the mystery, and wants to be in at the kill, so to speak.”

“How far is this place—Moselle?”

“I make it, thirty-odd miles.”

“We’ve got the whole day to waste.”

“I propose we run into Rheims. I have need of some decent tobacco—tabac de luxe, as they call it here.”

“We must not miss that train whatever happens.”

“We won’t miss it.”

They thereupon made a speed burst for Rheims and arrived there in good time for an early lunch. It was Conrad’s first sight of the city since the days of the war, when it had been a pitiful wreck. He was astonished to discover a new city. There were streets and streets of fine stone buildings, and scarcely any sign of the ravages of war. The scarred cathedral was in process of renovation, and the whole place was completely changed.

“No wonder the French want indemnities,” he said. “This must have cost a nice pile of money.”

“Probably explains why there is no unemployment in France.”

“Yes, reconstruction—and the big army. It’s difficult here to realise what we have experienced this last week. I am beginning to think it was all a dream.”

“I wish it were,” said Wallace. “But that big shape that nearly gave me the count was not part of any dream. Fouchard is dying to meet Niels face to face, but I would willingly kiss Niels if I could only meet the phantom.”

“I hope you won’t.”

“Why?”

“He has too great a love for naked razors. No, this is no time for heroics. We are up against big things, and I don’t like the look of it at all. Of course, you are young and aching for any kind of excitement, but I’ve had my full share and more. I want to take you back to England intact.”

Wallace laughed as he finished his coffee. He felt that so far he had had no run for his money. The other side had scored all the points.

“Curious thing how Fate works,” he mused. “A fortnight ago I had no idea there was such a place as the Château Grammont, nor such a person as Yolande Fallières. I thought we were going drifting across France in haphazard fashion until we got sick of it and returned to the roast beef of old England. Now here we are as deeply embroiled in this perplexing mystery as if we were first cousins of Fallières. What impresses me most is the courage of Yolande.”

Conrad shot him a swift glance, for there was a curious softness in his voice as he mentioned Yolande. He was now staring through the window with eyes that were apparently focused on nothing in particular. Conrad thought he understood, but like a wise man he said nothing.

They left the city an hour later, and drove easily in the direction of Arveyes and Moselle. They were obliged to pass through the forest again, but were enabled to give the château a fairly wide berth. Wallace discovered that his fan-belt wanted tightening, and Conrad got out of the car while the adjustment was being made. Lying just off the road was a kind of disused mine with a man cracking rock close by. He tried his French on the workman, and was told that twenty years ago tin was discovered there. A certain quantity was mined, but in less than two years the valuable metal petered out and the business was abandoned. They chatted for a few minutes and then Wallace sounded his horn.

“All serene!” he cried. “We’d better take the turning to the left, for we are not far from the château.”

Conrad agreed, and the journey was continued. They reached Moselle far too early, and spent an hour in walking round the old town, which had some wonderful architecture to display. The train, to their astonishment, arrived punctually, and Fouchard and Yolande alighted from it.

“Here we are!” said Fouchard. “Bertha wasn’t risking anything. At the booking-office there was rather a queer fellow behind me. I had the sense to take tickets to Paris. A wicked waste of money, but it had to be done.”

“I almost wished I were going to Paris,” said Yolande. “But Paris will keep. Are we going straight back now?”

“Yes,” replied Fouchard. “I suggest taking the other route in order to miss Arveyes.”

“You direct me,” said Wallace.

In an hour they were on the road close to the Mont des Pins. Wallace drove the car as far into the shelter of the trees as was possible, and looked to Fouchard for instructions.

“We must watch in turn,” said the detective. “From the top of the hill the château is clearly visible. Severin has placed a red-shaded electric lamp on a table by the third window on the first floor. If that lights up it means we are wanted at the château. It is now eight o’clock. I propose to take first spell. If one of you would relieve me at about one o’clock it would leave but three hours before daylight.”

“No. Let us share up the time fairly,” said Wallace.

But Fouchard was obdurate. He was not in the least tired, he averred, and if necessary he was quite prepared to watch the whole night.

“I’ll take a few sandwiches and a bottle of wine,” he added. “This path leads direct to the summit.”

He thereupon left them, and Wallace commenced to prepare a meal. Fortunately the night was warm and there was no sign of wind. Under the light of an inspection lamp they made quite a good meal. Later, Yolande was tucked in the back seat with some rugs round her and urged to sleep.

“I could not sleep for anything in the world,” she said. “It is good to be in the fresh air. The odour of the pines is wonderful.”

For some time they talked about anything but the business at hand. Despite Yolande’s assertion she fell into a doze, while the two men smoked immoderately. It was nearly midnight when Fouchard came running down the path.

“The signal has come,” he said. “There is not a minute to spare.”

Wallace uttered a low hiss of excitement and entered the car immediately. Fouchard and Conrad followed, and Yolande was awakened from her slumbers by the starting of the engine.

“Are we— Severin has signalled?” she asked.

“Yes.”

The car moved over the uneven ground on to the road. A moment later it was speeding towards the château. The downhill stretch of road was covered at a tremendous speed, and in a few minutes the car pulled up outside the lodge.

“Stop the engine,” said Fouchard. “It may be heard.”

The gate was closed, but a pull on the bell brought the lodge-keeper from his bed. He blinked to behold the party.

“Open the gate, Pierre,” said Yolande. “Quick, and make no noise.”

“Oui, mademoiselle.”

“You had better stay with Pierre,” said Fouchard. “This time I insist.”

“Very well.”

“Take care,” whispered Yolande, as they left her in Pierre’s keeping. “There is danger, I fear.”

“Danger for Niels and company,” growled Fouchard, as he moved forward in the darkness.

Wallace and Conrad followed, and the trio soon arrived outside the château. A vague form came running towards them. It turned out to be Severin.

“What has happened?” asked Fouchard. “Speak quickly, and softly.”

“I watched the woman carefully, monsieur. I think she signalled from her bedroom soon after you had left. She came down later and stayed in the servants’ hall. At ten she went to bed. I hid myself in a linen cupboard close to her room, and at twelve o’clock she opened her door and went down the stairs. I followed and saw her open the door and let in two men.”

“Two!”

“Yes, monsieur. It was too dark to see who they were, but I heard one say, ‘Heinrich has just arrived—most fortunate.’ ”

“Go on.”

“They all went along the passage, and a little later I heard the door of the cellar squeak. It is the only door that does that. I crept along, but did not see them.”

“You mean they are in the cellar now?”

“Yes.”

“How long have they been there?”

“Not two minutes. I ran straight back here, because I saw the lights of the car.”

“Good! There is no other way out of the vaults?”

“None.”

“Then I fancy we have them. Come!”

They hurried along the passage and soon reached the entrance to the cellar. Severin pushed open the door carefully to prevent its habitual squeak.

“Are we to come?” asked Conrad.

“Just as you wish—but tread lightly.”

They followed him down the stairs, Severin bringing up the rear.

“Lock that door,” whispered Fouchard.

“I have done so,” replied Severin.

The place was in pitch darkness, but a whispered message to Severin brought a flood of light. Simultaneously a voice yelled “Achtung,” and a burly figure was seen blocking their path. Fouchard whipped out his pistol.

“Move an inch and I fire!” he cried.

Then out went all the lights and there was a scampering of feet. Wallace produced the pocket-torch which he had brought with him, and flashed it. He saw the form of their late obstructor vanishing around a corner and Fouchard a few yards behind him. Then there was a flash and a loud report mingled with a groan of pain. The torch revealed the fugitive on the ground with Fouchard leaning over him.

“Watch that door!” yelled Fouchard.

Wallace ran back, but on rounding the end arch and flashing his light, perceived that the door was open. He ran up the stairs and stood listening. For a few seconds there was no sound, and then he heard an engine start up, and cursed under his breath. It was evident that Niels had flown and that Bertha had got safely to her room. Severin was not the only man who had a key to the cellar!

He repaired to the cellar again and found Fouchard with his victim.

“They got away,” he said.

“Damn! One of them had a duplicate key. We’ve muddled this badly. One of us ought to have stayed upstairs. The wire has been cut somewhere. Take your torch and see if you can— No, it would take too long. Help me with this fellow.”

They got the wounded man on to his feet and piloted him upstairs. Fouchard led the way into the library and the prisoner was put into a chair. He proved to be a comparatively young man of powerful build, and he was in considerable pain, for Fouchard’s bullet had lodged in his leg. The detective fastened two handkerchiefs together and made a temporary bandage.

“Now, friend Heinrich, you won’t hurt for a bit,” he said grimly. “I think I will have a look in your pockets.”

The result of his search was a wallet containing money and some visiting cards, some business letters, and a pipe. He hunted for a weapon, but found none.

“Lucky for you, my friend,” he said. “A revolver would have got you five years.”

Severin came forward with a small slip of paper in his hand. He had found it in the cellar, he said. Fouchard pursed his lips as he perused it. It contained some figures and a name:

27
31
36
Steinbech

“A key to something,” he mused. Then turning to Heinrich. “Now, my friend, perhaps you would like to explain what you are doing in this place?”

“What do you think?” asked Heinrich coolly.

“What I think may have a considerable effect upon the sentence you will get,” snapped Fouchard. “It is not nice for a young fellow like you to be implicated in a savage murder.”

“You go too fast. It may interest you to know that a few hours ago I was across the frontier. I can produce a passport to prove that.”

“Your passport won’t help you much. You are in a pretty tight fix, and I advise you to tell the truth.”

Heinrich smiled and shook his head.

“You have caught me—like a thief. What explanation do you expect me to make?”

“What did you come to steal?”

“What is there to steal in a wine-cellar?”

“Don’t answer me back like that,” Fouchard thundered. “You are in league with certain other people. You will find that a French prison is not a very comfortable abode. Tell me what I want to know and I may make things easier for you. What do these figures mean?”

“That is simple,” replied Heinrich. “I dropped that slip of paper. It is a system for winning money at roulette. I proposed to visit Monte Carlo during my stay in France. A friend was good enough to furnish me with this admirable system.”

“You amazing liar!” roared Fouchard. “Do you think I am so ignorant of roulette that I could swallow such a story? There is no system there. What does ‘Steinbech’ mean?”

“That is a code word for my bank to wire me money if I should need more than my present small capital. Of course the system fails at times—at least it calls for more——”

“Silence! Enough of this fooling. I am not in the mood for it. You are resolved to keep your mouth closed?”

Heinrich’s expression changed to one of great seriousness. He winced as he moved his injured leg.

“I have nothing to say,” he added.

“Very well. I will ring for the police to come and take charge of you.”

He left the room to go to the telephone. Wallace could not but admire the fortitude of the man, faced as he was with his loss of liberty for a considerable period.

“Why don’t you give us a hint,” he said. “You don’t look like a criminal, and there has been murder committed here.”

“If I could help you I would, but I am pledged to secrecy. All I say is ‘take care.’ There is greater danger here than you imagine.”

Nothing would wring another word from him, and half an hour later the local police called and took him away.

“So much for my ruse,” sighed Fouchard. “There is a lot hidden in this piece of paper if one only had the wit to understand it.”

“The figures are undoubtedly a key to something,” said Conrad. “Something they are dead keen on finding. How to apply them is the problem. Then the name ‘Steinbech.’ What can that possibly imply?”

Fouchard shrugged his shoulders. He had the sense to see that nothing in this world would make Heinrich divulge what he knew. The figures were puzzling because they might refer to a thousand different things. Their very simplicity magnified the difficulties.

“It is like shoving at nothing,” he averred. “Would you kindly go and escort mademoiselle back, monsieur. There is nothing more to be done to-night.”

Wallace was delighted to carry out this task. He told Yolande exactly what had happened, and she shook her head in bewildered fashion. The picture of Heinrich and that of the Monster with his murderous razor did not harmonize at all.

CHAPTER X.
THEORIES

Fouchard was busy early the next morning pacing out the cellar, and counting flagstones in every direction. He eventually came up looking nettled and out of temper.

“Any luck?” asked Wallace.

“None. I’ve juggled with those figures until I am tired. I’ve applied them in half a hundred ways, and they lead me to a dead end every time.”

“Perhaps they have nothing to do with this case.”

“I’ll stake my life they have. Those people went to the cellar last night with a definite object in view. These figures form the key to what they wanted.”

“It must be of considerable value to cause them to take so much trouble. Anyway, how do you link this up with the murder of Fallières?”

“There is no link—yet. I don’t know what part the phantom plays. It is possible that he, too, is after the same thing as the other party.”

“But there is evidence that he has been active for years.”

“Why not? If this unknown thing is of great value, a desperate criminal would spend half his life trying to locate it. He apparently has a way of getting into this house that is unknown to the other gang—even to us. This man is a killer, while the others are merely crooks. But Bertha and her friends know of this man.”

“You think so?”

“I am positive. Now it looks as if Niels and Bertha have scored over the assassin and discovered a clue.”

“You refer to the figures?”

“Yes. If we could apply them correctly we should at least get down to motives.”

“I don’t agree,” said Conrad. “What conceivable motive could there be in the murder of Fallières in his own room?”

“Suppose the Monster was there all the time. Suppose he had climbed in and hidden himself. When he believed Fallières was asleep he tries to escape. Fallières wakes up and takes the pistol from under his pillow. He shoots, and the intruder silences him with the razor.”

“A good story, but it doesn’t satisfy me. There is the breaking of mirrors to be accounted for, the befouling of the place, the cries that are heard——”

“A plan to scare the occupants in order that this strange man may have greater freedom to search for what he is after.”

But Conrad shook his head. It was all too far-fetched to his way of thinking.

“My dear sir,” said Fouchard, “you are welcome to the alternative theory—that of a ghost, a discarnate soul engaged in haunting the scenes of his earthly existence. The servants believe that.”

“I am content to keep an open mind,” retorted Conrad. “I think if we were honest we should admit that we have no clues of any real value. I mean so far as they concern motives.”

“I agree,” said Wallace.

Fouchard walked out in a huff, but a few minutes later he was called to the telephone, where he received news that caused him to be even more annoyed. They overheard him carrying on in extremely rapid French, telling the man at the other end that he was nothing but an idiot, who deserved to be discharged immediately. He strode into the room and glared at Wallace.

“What is the matter?”

“For a pack of unadulterated idiots I commend you to the provincial police,” he said. “They have let that fellow escape.”

“Not really!”

“They put him into the lock-up all right, but apparently there has been no prisoner there for about five years. The window was barred, but the bricks and mortar were rotten. Well, he managed to get out despite his game leg. Now they are going to start rushing all over the country, as if their feeble intellects could be matched against those crooks. Well, we shall see him again.”

“You are optimistic.”

“I know these birds. Nothing will put them off the scent. They will bide their time and come creeping here again. I’d give five years of my life to know what it is they are after.”

He wandered off to make a new tour of discovery, and the worthy Watkins came in to report that he had found the trouble with the lights in the cellar. The wire had been cut clean through.

“Don’t like that place,” he confided. “I always feel cold down the spine when I go down there. This is a terrible place for lighting troubles. Fuses go by the dozen, and blessed if I know why. It’s the worst system I’ve ever struck.”

Wallace had promised to accompany Yolande to Rheims in her car, and looked forward to driving the enormous Hispano, which she had agreed he should do.

“Careful with the throttle,” said Conrad.

“I’m always careful.”

Conrad had also been invited, but somehow he felt that these two would have a better time without him. After their departure he went to the library to find a book to read. While he was there Bertha came in to dust the place. She apologised, and made to leave, but he told her there was no need, as he would be gone in a few minutes. She thereupon commenced her duties.

“Monsieur Fallières must have been a great reader,” he remarked.

“He was,” she replied.

“It is a terrible loss to mademoiselle.”

He was curious to see how she would take this. Her equanimity was wonderful. She shook her head sadly, and was not afraid to meet his eyes.

“I am more than sorry for her,” she said. “She is a most considerate mistress, and loved monsieur deeply.”

“The affair is most mysterious. It invests the place with a bad atmosphere.”

“It does indeed. I fear that two of the maids will be leaving this week. Most of the servants are badly frightened.”

“Are you not frightened?”

“I am a little nervous—at nights,” she said. “Some of the maids make it worse by talking about it too much. I heard that you and Monsieur Wallace had also gone, but I am glad it was not true.”

“Why are you glad?” he asked with a smile.

“On mademoiselle’s account. She needs company just now. She is brave to stay here at all after—after such a terrible affair.”

“You are right,” he said. “She is courageous.”

There was a long pause, during which he selected a book from the case.

“Do you think Monsieur Fouchard has any hopes of discovering the murderer?” she asked.

“Fouchard is never without hope.”

“Ah! He looks clever.”

“He is much cleverer than he looks. I fancy that very soon we shall hear satisfactory news—something that will explain everything.”

“I hope so,” she said. “This would be a beautiful place if only all the strange happenings would cease. I pray that the day will soon come.”

He left the library feeling that she was the most consummate natural actress he had ever met, and the biggest hypocrite. Her soft tongue literally rang with sincerity, and yet it was but a few hours since she had escaped from the cellar. She prayed for the day when the trouble would pass from the Château Grammont! Of all the impudence——

Taking a seat on the terrace, he started to read the book. It was in French, and a personal narrative of the war in Champagne. Its chief interest lay in the fact that it covered the battle-front in the neighbourhood of the château, some of which he was acquainted with. For two hours he beguiled the time pleasantly enough. Then Fouchard returned, looking hot and tired.

“I’ve had a long walk,” he said. “Nothing like a walk to blow the cobwebs from one’s brain. I wonder if one could get an apéritif? We will try.”

He rang the bell, and Severin appeared. Conrad seldom took any refreshment before lunch, but Fouchard asked for a mixed vermouth with a piece of citron and Severin grinned pleasantly and said he would bring it tout suite.

“Severin looks quite merry this morning,” mused Fouchard. “I thought he was going to crack up.”

“He is pretty tough.”

“He needs to be. You know, I have a good mind to arrest Bertha and charge her with the murder of Fallières.”

Conrad closed his book and stared at Fouchard incredulously.

“Arrest Bertha!”

“A mere ruse. I could put her in a very awkward position. In France the criminal code is very different from that of England. Bertha would be judged guilty until she was able to prove her innocence. What would she and her friends do when they realised that the gallows were in the background? Why, reveal their hand.”

“But you know they are innocent.”

“I suspect they are. But if such an act provided a short cut, it would be justified.”

Severin entered with two bottles and a glass. Fouchard watched him as he poured out the drink.

“You are looking sprightly this morning, Monsieur Severin,” he said. “Is it perchance your birthday?”

“No, monsieur, but one must not always be gloomy. I am glad because I think we are nearing a period of peace and quiet.”

“What do you mean?”

“The moon has passed the full, monsieur.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“All the disturbances that have happened here have taken place round about the full moon. I have remarked upon it so many times.”

“Well I’m blessed! There is no limit to superstition. Can you beat that, Mr. Conrad?”

“It certainly is an extraordinary assertion,” returned Conrad. “Akin to the belief that ghosts cease to walk when the cock crows. But do you seriously believe that, Severin?”

“I cannot help it, monsieur. I have observed the fact so many times. Was not Monsieur Fallières murdered on the very night of the full moon?”

“That is true, but it might have happened any night.”

“I think not,” he replied stubbornly. “We shall hear little more from the phantom for three weeks or so. You are sure you will not join Monsieur Fouchard?”

“Quite sure.”

Severin departed, and Fouchard laughed as he raised his glass.

“A quaint old man,” he said.

“I suppose there is nothing in it?”

“Old women’s talk. What on earth has the full moon to do with these remarkable happenings?”

“I have certainly heard similar opinions expressed. In fact, we had a curious fellow in my own regiment who swore that the moon had a strange effect upon him. Certainly he behaved in an extraordinary fashion at those periods. His bewitching took the form of insobriety. At all other times he was a most moderate drinker.”

“Astrological nonsense! Science would not countenance such a possibility.”

“Science isn’t infallible.”

“Nothing is. Wonderful stuff this! Fallières knew where to procure the finest wines and spirits. No, monsieur, with all due respect to your story about your military friend, I cannot swallow such a hypothesis. Severin would have us believe that the Monster sleeps for three solid weeks, and wakes up when the moon is approaching the full. Then he roams at large with a razor in his pocket, cutting throats and breaking mirrors. Moonshine, my dear sir!”

“Perhaps. But in this world it is never wise to be too dogmatic. I hope you won’t carry out that ruse you mentioned.”

“Oh, Bertha? I am sorely tempted.”

“It wouldn’t work.”

“Why not?”

“She would guess your object immediately, and you would kill the goose that lays the golden egg. Your first scheme was the correct one. Give her plenty of rope, and watch her.”

“I know, but my trouble is that I am an exceedingly busy man. At any moment I may be recalled to Paris. What have I to report? I have found a paper that I cannot decipher. I have arrested a man and lost him again. I have actually seen the queer creature who I am convinced murdered Fallières. But everything is in pieces. I cannot coordinate things at all. I have attained a certain amount of fame, deservedly or undeservedly, and I will confess that my successes have all been due to finding the motive first. Where is the motive here?”

“It certainly is vague.”

“Vague! It is absent. Now, according to Severin, I must wait until the next full moon before the dominating character in this conspiracy reveals himself.”

“Isn’t patience one of the attributes of the master sleuth-hound?”

“One requires the patience of Job for this affair. I’ve been over the château again and again, and how this assassin gets into it is beyond me.”

“You are sure it is flesh and blood?”

“I shall be more sure when I have lodged half a dozen bullets in his giant carcass, as I shall do at the first opportunity,” he growled.

CHAPTER XI.
THE CRIMSON TRAIL

During the next few days it became evident that Fouchard had quite abandoned the idea of arresting Bertha. A lot of his time was occupied with the column of figures, from which he ultimately confessed he could discover nothing.

“A red herring,” he grunted. “Flung across the trail in order to waste our time. We have a whole mountain of brains arrayed against us. Niels, Heinrich, and Bertha—a redoubtable trio. I’m sick at losing Heinrich.”

“It’s strange that Bertha should stay on here, when she undoubtedly knows we suspect her,” said Wallace.

“A remarkable woman—not the criminal type by any means. I found her reading a volume of Plotinus in the garden yesterday, in the original Greek.”

“Humbug, perhaps.”

“That’s what I thought. I even tried to catch her, for I had read Plotinus in a translated version. I failed, though. She knew the stuff from alpha to omega.”

“And you aren’t going to arrest her?”

“No. It wouldn’t work. I will admit that at the moment I am somewhat hopelessly bogged.”

He left them a little later, and they saw him walking round and round a radiant flower-bed, with his hands behind his back, evidently inventing new theories to fit this remarkable case.

“I’ve got an idea that when we leave the château we shall be as far from any solution as we are now,” mused Conrad.

“I’d hate to leave it under those circumstances,” replied Wallace. “Think of Yolande in this grim place, with scarcely any neighbours——”

“You’re thinking rather a lot about her, aren’t you?”

“How can one help doing so? You told me yourself that you remembered her best as a gay, bird-like spirit, full of fun and laughter. Well, that has gone. She still has the courage to smile, but the burden she is carrying is obvious enough. I wish we could induce her to leave—sell up this place and seek peace elsewhere.”

“It would be waste of breath to try. There is a lot to be said for aristocracy, despite your Socialistic tendencies. Yolande’s ancestors went to the guillotine with a smile on their faces. Do you expect their descendant to flee from danger?”

“But this is different. There is little to be gained by staying on. No doubt the French Government would take over the château as a historic antique. No Government could ever let a place like this fall into decay.”

“Perhaps not, but there are other considerations. There are the tenants. Would they fare as well under such a change of ownership? Half of them never pay any rent. In addition, there is pride. That, I think, is the deciding factor.”

“I suppose you are right.”

“Of course I am. You wouldn’t think so well of Yolande if she did what you try to persuade yourself is the sensible thing. It is because she faces this danger with a stout heart that you, my dear Ralph, are falling hopelessly in love with her.”

“Eh?”

“Deny that if you can.”

Wallace shrugged his shoulders and stared out at the bright blossoms.

“You’re right, Connie,” he said in a low voice. “I’d hate to be thought a sloppy sentimentalist, but the château, the air we breathe, the brooding mystery that lurks here, all spell ‘Yolande’ to me. She doesn’t know—yet. I wouldn’t have her know while this horrible shadow hangs over her. But when I think of what happened to poor Fallières, within a few yards of us, and reflect how easy it might be——”

“Steady!”

“Well, it has to be taken into consideration. Look, there goes Bertha—to cut flowers for the house, apparently.”

Conrad raised his eyes and saw the fine figure of the parlourmaid enter the garden. She was garbed in the becoming dress of the domestic staff of the household, and it suited her colouring perfectly. They watched her moving among the flowers, cutting suitable blossoms, for Yolande loved to have flowers in her bedroom and also in the dining-hall. Bertha entered the house again by way of the terrace, with her arms full of roses, delphiniums, and asters. She displayed her gleaming, perfect teeth as Conrad gazed admiringly at the floral treasures.

“Monsieur is fond of flowers?” she asked in slightly broken English.

“All but the blind must be,” replied Conrad.

“Even the blind may smell.”

“Is mademoiselle down yet?”

“She will not be long. Since her maid left I have had the honour of waiting upon her. It is sad that one so gracious and beautiful should be made to suffer so deeply. It would be better if she left the château.”

“You think so?”

“Zut! It is not obvious? Monsieur has seen and heard enough to understand that there is great danger here. The servants whisper among themselves, and more will be leaving soon.”

“And you—are you not afraid?”

Conrad gazed at her intently. But Bertha never turned a hair. She shrugged her perfect shoulders and raised the blossoms to her straight, firm nose.

“Sometimes,” she said. “But life is full of threats. One extra should not matter much. All who live must die.”

“So Shakespeare said,” put in Wallace. “But there are pleasanter ways of dying than having one’s throat cut from ear to ear.”

“Then monsieur should take the wiser course,” she retorted.

“And run away? You are a trifle inconsistent, Bertha. Just now you were advising mademoiselle to vacate the place, and immediately on top of that you quote Shakespeare.”

“Women are always inconsistent from the moment they are born. If they were not so, men, with all their mighty logic, would fail to be interested in them.”

“That’s one for you, Ralph,” said Conrad, with a laugh.

Bertha laughed too—a rich, ringing peal that echoed along the terrace. Then she gave a half curtsey and went about her business. Conrad’s eyes followed her until her red heels disappeared through the door.

“By Jove, she’s wonderful!” he said.

“You mean her self-possession?”

“Well—yes.”

“Connie!”

“What now?”

“You’re interested in her.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“Don’t hedge. I noticed you when—when she looked at you with her siren-eyes. She would have offered you a rose if I hadn’t been present.”

“Don’t talk such rubbish!” snapped Conrad.

“I wish it was rubbish.” Wallace became serious. “That damned woman has more brains than all of us put together. She’s angling for you, Connie; one antagonist the less when she hooks you. Whenever she passes you she turns her head ever so slightly—just enough for you to see the corner of her eye. Great Scott! Julian Conrad, late Major of the R.G.A., and a parlourmaid who mixes in very strange company——”

Conrad stood up, and for the first time in his life Wallace saw real anger in his eyes.

“You’re an idiot, Ralph,” he snapped. “Not only an idiot, but an insufferable snob. So much for your Socialism!”

“Connie!”

“You annoy me.”

“I meant to,” said Wallace, with a grin. “The fact is, old man, that crowd is going to beat us unless we stir ourselves. The woman in the case is always the danger—especially when she is as attractive as Bertha is. Perhaps I went too far. I’m sorry. Come—shake!”

Conrad gripped the proffered hand a trifle shamefacedly, for he was painfully aware that his display of anger only went to prove that Wallace’s accusation was not entirely unfounded. It was a fact that Bertha impressed him tremendously. Through thirty-five years of life he had managed to steer a celibate course, only to hit up against this remarkable woman when he had come to believe that the passions of youth were dead for ever. There was something in her voice, in her carriage, that affected him strangely. That she was playing a clever game he felt convinced, but, all the same, his nerves never failed to tingle whenever Bertha loomed in sight.

“A dangerous place for all of us,” he said. “Was it a holiday trip we planned, Ralph?”

“No, an adventure—and we’re getting it. Ah, here comes Yolande.”

She approached them with a smile on her face, and bade them remain seated, whilst she took a chair next to Wallace. Attached to her dress was one of the roses that Bertha had recently gathered. It had a gleaming dew-drop upon it. Wallace thought it looked like a fallen tear from the beautiful eyes.

“Where is the great Fouchard?” she asked.

Wallace inclined his head towards the garden, and Fouchard came to view at that moment, still walking round and round the great bed of delphiniums.

“Seems completely baffled,” said Conrad. “I can sympathise with him, for we are confronted with a most perplexing enigma.”

“Bertha could solve it if she would,” said Yolande.

“So could Heinrich or Niels, but there is no hope of getting any clue from them. It is evident that they are operating against us,” said Wallace.

“Bertha’s conduct is the strangest. I purposely got her to act as a temporary lady’s-maid to me. Her conduct is all that could be desired. Sometimes I see her watching me—in the mirror. Her face is sympathetic—almost sad. This morning she begged me to go away from here. Either she is the most wonderful actress in the world, or she is sincerely sympathetic. What—what is one to believe?”

“The former,” said Wallace emphatically. “We know she let those two men into the house. She is no more faithful to you than—than the Monster is. How is it possible to believe she is anything other than a conspirator in this mysterious plot?”

“Might not there be some element that we have overlooked?” pleaded Conrad. “Neither she nor her companions may be implicated in the actual crime.”

“Then why are they behaving so mysteriously? At any rate they are house-breakers—robbers.”

“My head aches with it all,” said Yolande. “Shall we go and look at the orchids?”

Conrad declined politely, but Wallace was quite willing. They left the terrace and walked through the most exotic part of the wonderful garden. With the gaunt château obscured from view, they were immediately transplanted into a veritable Garden of Eden. Yolande seemed to breathe more freely as they got farther from the scene of terror.

“How fortunate it was that I met you and Mr. Conrad that morning,” she said. “You have helped me—so much.”

“I wish I could feel that. Both Conrad and I feel that we are pretty useless specimens. But Fouchard is beat also, so we must not take our failure too deeply to heart. You are still determined to stay here?”

“Yes. Whatever may happen.”

“I admire you immensely,” he blurted out.

“Because I do not run away—as I sometimes am tempted to do?”

“Not only for that. You have borne so much sorrow with so brave a heart. Of course I know nothing about women, but I never imagined that any woman would—would act as you have,” he said lamely.

“You—you mustn’t pay me undeserved compliments. At heart I am very much afraid. It is the unknown that is so awful. I have the feeling that these terrible events are not yet over. Last night—last night I dreamed it—it was you.”

She shuddered and, unconsciously perhaps, her hand went out and gripped his. Wallace felt his blood scampering through his veins. There came the desire to take her in his arms and tell her that, no matter what happened, he would never forsake her—that in less than two weeks she had captivated his heart and soul. It was on the tip of his tongue when he heard running feet on the gravel path behind, and turned to see the chauffeur, very out of breath and red in the face.

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” he gasped. “Monsieur Fouchard asked me to find you. He would like to speak to you immediately.”

CHAPTER XII.
THE SECOND VICTIM

The urgent summons from Fouchard left no doubt in Wallace’s mind that the mystery had yielded a new feature. He and Yolande hurried back to the house and found Fouchard in earnest conversation with some of the servants. Yolande’s face fell when she saw this, for the news looked anything but good.

“What is it, Fouchard?” she asked.

“Severin is missing.”

“Missing?”

“It was brought to my notice that Severin’s room had not been slept in last night, nor is he to be found about the château.”

“But we saw him at ten o’clock last night,” said Wallace.

“Some of the servants saw him at eleven, just before he locked up. When he did not put in an appearance this morning they presumed he was unwell. The chambermaid ultimately made the discovery.”

The servants whom Fouchard had been questioning were dismissed, and the quartette looked at each other—Yolande with fear and apprehension, Wallace and Conrad in speechless surprise, and Fouchard with ill-concealed rage.

“You don’t think Severin is in this conspiracy?” asked Conrad.

“No—no,” said Yolande. “I fear—I fear——”

It was obvious what she feared, and Fouchard inclined his head grimly.

“But this is appalling!” said Conrad. “It was Severin who was so sure that nothing would happen until the moon——”

“Superstitious rot!” snapped Fouchard. “I never paid the slightest heed to it. There is only one thing to be done, and that is to search the whole place. I am deeply sorry, mademoiselle—I scarcely expected this.”

“There is no sign of any struggle in Severin’s bedroom?”

“None—nor in any other room. I have already been through most of the occupied rooms.”

“Let us make a start,” pleaded Wallace, whose impatience was manifest in his twitching limbs.

Fouchard nodded, and soon the three men were probing in every dark corner. Wallace had persuaded Yolande to await them on the terrace, for he anticipated another ghastly discovery. The vaults were tackled last of all, and there their worst expectations were realised. The body of Severin was found lying flat on the floor at the far end of the vault, with his throat cut. He was quite dead, and his limbs were stone cold.

“Ghastly!” exclaimed Conrad.

“No attempt to hide the corpse this time,” mused Fouchard. “It must have happened last night.”

“But what was Severin doing down here? He dreaded the place, and certainly would not have come down here close to midnight.”

“Don’t ask me any questions,” snapped Fouchard. “I have already asked myself every conceivable question that has any bearing on these horrible crimes. Now I’ll have the idiots from Arveyes down here—wasting time.”

Yolande was apprised of the discovery. She made a brave attempt to control her emotions, but Severin had been a beloved and faithful servant and the blow was heavy. Wallace’s heart ached as he gazed upon that beautiful, troubled face.

“This is hell, Connie,” he said. “Where is it going to end? If Fallières and Severin, why not you and me—or Yolande? God, it is maddening to feel so helpless.”

Fouchard got into touch with Arveyes, and again the local police and the doctor arrived. The servants now were completely terrified. Three maids packed their bags as soon as the police had done with them, and others talked of going. But Bertha, though pale of face, displayed no desire to go.

“What do you know of this?” snapped Fouchard, banishing discretion in his ignominy.

“I?”

“Yes—you. You were not on the best of terms with Severin—I happen to know that.”

Bertha started, but her eyes did not waver. She glared back at Fouchard until that worthy winced.

“Do you dare accuse me?” she asked hoarsely.

“I’ve the best of reasons for making that remark.”

Here the magistrate from Arveyes interrupted. He was a pompous little man, and objected to Fouchard stealing his thunder.

“I am examining the witnesses, Monsieur Fouchard,” he said haughtily. “I should like to know what these two gentlemen know of this affair. I understand they have been staying in the château for a considerable period—in fact, the exact period covering the two crimes.”

“Monsieur, they are my guests and friends,” objected Yolande.

Notwithstanding, Wallace and Conrad were compelled to answer a multitude of questions, mostly to satisfy the vanity of the little magistrate. Fouchard was so disgusted he strode out of the room.

“This is the limit!” said Wallace later. “We seem to be getting dragged into it. The idiot!”

“I am so—so sorry,” said Yolande. “I fear I have been the means of submitting you to great indignity.”

“It isn’t your fault, Yolande,” replied Wallace with a smile. “I suppose he only did what he thought was his duty. After all, we are strangers to him. Poor old Severin!”

The remains of Severin were removed later, and Fouchard put in an appearance at dinner, for he missed as few meals as possible at the château.

“Baffled!” he said. “Who is going to be the next, I wonder?”

“S-sh!” ejaculated Wallace angrily.

“I am sorry. But these are grim facts, monsieur. I can find no motive for either crime, and one is led to the conclusion that no one in this place is immune. Mademoiselle, you must leave at once. I insist!”

But Yolande shook her head. The second tragedy, following so close upon the first, only served to harden her resolution. Wallace flinched, but flashed a look of admiration across the table.

“But it is madness—” said Fouchard.

“I stay, monsieur. Let us not waste words.”

“Zut!” he grunted. “It is not for me to give orders.”

He got on with the meal, and for some time no conversation passed. Fouchard’s disgruntlement vanished at about the same rate as the courses, so that when coffee was served he was almost normal again.

“Of course Bertha had no hand in Severin’s death,” he said suddenly.

“But you practically accused her!”

“Only to see how she would take it. She is in league with the Monster in some way, but cold-blooded murder is not in her line. I am not so certain about Niels. I don’t think he would fight shy of anything that would gain him his ends.”

“And what are his ends?”

“Ah! There you have me.”

“Something in this château?”

“It would appear so.”

“You think that the objects of Niels’s party and of the Monster are identical?”

“They must be. If we only knew what that object was half our work would be done. I am wondering whether it would be of any use to endeavour to come to terms with Bertha.”

“Come to terms!”

“Why not? I presume that all of us want justice done for these two cold-blooded murders. If Bertha can help us to get our man she deserves what wealth or treasure lies hidden here.”

“If any,” put in Conrad.

“We could at least promise her a free hand.”

“Yolande would never consent to any parley with that party,” said Wallace. “It would be like hoisting the white flag. Besides, it is absolutely certain that Bertha will not give anything away. Whatever the secret is, they would die rather than reveal it.”

“Yes,” mused Fouchard. “But the woman might speak if I could put her two confederates in jail with long sentences to serve. While she hopes to achieve her end she is fearless. I’d have no difficulty in convicting Heinrich and Niels if only I could land them, but they are elusive fish.”

“Yet they must be living somewhere in the neighbourhood.”

“I have tried everything, and the people at Arveyes have been busy in that direction. They seem to have dug themselves in very securely.”

On the following day Fouchard made another small discovery. He was engaged in perambulating his favourite corner of the garden when he noticed a man loitering outside. He promptly secreted himself behind a bush, and ultimately saw the loiterer climb over the low wall and slip a letter between two loose bricks in one of the supporting columns of the terrace.

Two minutes later the letter was in his possession. He came into the house looking more perplexed than ever, and helped himself to a drink before he divulged what it was that was troubling him.

“Another!” he said.

“Another what?” enquired Conrad.

“Can you read German?”

“Fairly well.”

“Then have a look at that.”

Conrad took the roughly-opened envelope and extracted a single sheet of paper. He translated the contents for Wallace’s edification:

“Dear Bertha—Am joining Niels to-night. Come if you can to the usual place—to-morrow at seven o’clock.

“Walther.”

“Who the devil—” gasped Conrad. “Has Bertha seen this message?”

“No. But she is going to. I shall put it back where I found it, and trust to our little Bertha to lead us to the lair.”

“Whew!” said Wallace, mopping his brow. “This is an invasion. Did you see the man who brought the note?”

“Yes. He couldn’t have helped us. He was a peasant, and there is no doubt the note was given him with instructions what to do, and a reward. Had I apprehended him it would have placed our cunning friends on the qui vive. I must get a fresh envelope and replace this message without delay.”

He went off, and Conrad sat shaking his head, while Wallace chewed the end of a cigarette. The gathering forces of the other side made it abundantly clear that they had not the slightest intention of abandoning their quest.

“Niels, Heinrich, Bertha, now Walther,” chanted Wallace. “What a collection!”

“And the Monster.”

“Five sets of clever brains—against three. I wonder what Fouchard will do if he successfully runs them to earth? Personally I don’t believe it will help at all. They will all keep their mouths shut, and we shall be exactly where we are, without even the chance of getting wise to their motives.”

“You heard what he said. He will jail the men and try to coerce Bertha.”

“What a hope! If Bertha could have spoken she would have done so before. I am afraid Fouchard is at his wits’ end, and is likely to bungle things.”

Fouchard made all his plans that evening. Hopeful of a round-up, he had brought the local police into his scheme. Bertha was to be trailed from the moment she left the house, and the whole party arrested en bloc.

“For the time being you and I are to have a holiday,” said Conrad.

He did not seem very disappointed, and Wallace could not help feeling that he was relieved not to have to assist in arresting the woman in the case. Yolande was duly informed of what was pending.

“Do you think it will lead to any good?” she asked Wallace.

“I have doubts about it. It is obvious that Fouchard is still smarting from injured pride. He is dying to lay hands on Niels, who collared him so cleverly.”

“Bertha is the greatest mystery,” she replied reflectively. “I do not know what to think about her. While I have every reason to believe that she is conspiring to rob me—of something, I have got to like her. She is gentle, sympathetic, and altogether the most efficient of maids. I wonder what her relations are with those men?”

“She may be in their power—compelled to do their bidding. We must wait and see what to-morrow will bring.”

A bitter disappointment was in store for Fouchard, for on the following evening Bertha did not leave the château at all. Fouchard crept back after hours of impatient waiting, having missed his dinner in the bargain.

“Baulked again,” he said savagely.

“She hasn’t been there?”

“No—the minx! That letter was genuine enough, but she must have seen me take it. Confound the woman!”

“And what now?” asked Conrad sweetly.

“I don’t know—I wish I did. These are hard nuts to crack. They are all eyes, and ears, and brains.”

“They are indeed,” sighed Yolande. “One feels all the time that one is being watched. I would give almost everything I possess to have justice done, and to live in peace again.”

CHAPTER XIII.
THE CONSPIRATORS

In a small farmhouse, situated some twenty-five miles from the château and lying well off the main road, two men sat and smoked in the dusk of evening. One of them was Heinrich, and the other man called Walther. Heinrich still wore a bandage round his leg where Fouchard’s bullet had punctured it, and when he got up to light the hanging lamp he limped slightly. Walther was a striking personality. He was over six feet in height and extremely well proportioned. His hair was as fair as a Swede’s, and was set off by wide-set, vivid blue eyes.

“It is a strange business,” he mused. “At first I was incredulous, but of course I was compelled to change my mind. How did you manage to get into this place?”

“Datel passes as an Alsatian, but he is an old friend of Niels. He is away at the moment. It’s time Niels was back.”

“What time did Bertha say?”

“Eight o’clock. It is now half-past eight, and Niels ought to do the journey in less than half an hour.”

“Thirty miles!”

“The car is wonderful, and Niels drives it like mad. That young Englishman will give Niels a certificate to that effect. He once tried to catch him.”

“What have these two Englishmen to do with the business?”

“Nothing. They happened to be staying with Fallières when—when it happened.”

“Horrible!”

“Yes. It ruined things, for it brought Fouchard down. But the Englishmen are a danger all the same. The young one is keen on mademoiselle, and is an awkward customer to deal with. His friend is also to be reckoned with. But for them mademoiselle would have fled and we should have had the place to ourselves.”

“It is a dangerous game.”

“Yes, and the sooner we gain our ends the better.” He glanced at the clock again. “I hope there has been no mishap with Niels. Fouchard has every place watched.”

“It was a narrow escape last time. If Bertha had not seen Fouchard taking the letter— Good idea of Niels to leave her that pigeon.”

Heinrich nodded, and then started as he heard the rising drone of an engine.

“Niels!”

“Good!”

A minute later Niels entered with Bertha. The latter nodded at Heinrich and shook Walther’s hand warmly.

“So you got here safely?” she asked.

“Not without some trouble at the frontier. Why am I wanted at all?”

“Niels thought it best.”

The diminutive Niels, obviously the eldest of the party, pursed his thin lips, and, after offering Bertha a chair, sat down himself. His small, wiry body seemed bursting with vitality, and his beady eyes flashed as if illumined by an inner light.

“Things are in a mess,” he said. “We didn’t bargain on the forces that oppose us. The death of Severin has made things more dangerous still.”

“We—we ought to have prevented that,” said Bertha. “It is horrible.”

“How could we prevent it?” he snapped. “On the one occasion when we were so near success we were frustrated. But there must be no more failures. We have to prepare the ground in advance.”

“Yes,” agreed Heinrich. “I suppose there is no shadow of doubt about this? You must remember that up to now none of us has seen anything.”

“We shall,” retorted Niels. “Have no doubt about that. Steinbech’s information leaves no room for doubt. And the messages—who could have sent those but— Did you hear a sound?”

“A rat in the rafters,” said Heinrich. “The place is infested with them. What is the next step, Niels?”

“We have to get rid of the two Englishmen.”

Bertha started at this. She looked keenly at Niels, and then shook her head.

“I will not be a party to bloodshed, Niels,” she said firmly. “If it cannot be achieved without that, I am done with it.”

“It never entered my mind,” growled Niels. “But I want them out of the way. We can deal with Fouchard afterwards.”

“But Mademoiselle Fallières!” ejaculated Bertha. “Without her guests she——”

“Precisely. Mademoiselle will quickly pack her bag and vacate the château. That is what I am aiming at.”

“You make a mistake, Niels,” said Bertha. “You do not know her so well as I. She has the courage of a lion. Though she is full of terror, she will not run away. For her sake I would rather those men stayed.”

“It is impossible. I mean to have my way, Bertha, for I have thought over every alternative, and none promises the slightest measure of success. And we must all act in harmony. What do you say, Heinrich?”

“I agree. I think Niels is right, Bertha. The two Englishmen are obstacles to success. We cannot hope to deal with three determined men at one time. What is your plan, Niels?”

“It involves some risk—to myself. I shall endeavour to lure the younger one after me by exposing myself—in the car. He has a fast car, and will give chase. His friend may accompany him, in which case we shall bag the two together.”

“Presuming we accomplish that much—what then?”

“I shall make it impossible for them to interfere for a few days at least.”

“You intend to keep them prisoners here?” asked Bertha.

“No. That would be too risky. It would mean that one of us would be out of action—looking after them. We cannot afford that. I had in mind Rupert.”

“Rupert!”

“He is lying off Gervaise at this moment, and will stay there until he hears from me.”

“But they may get back,” said Walther.

“Only after considerable delay. As an alternative there is Frankenstein’s clinic. They would be as safe there as anywhere in the world. You, Walther, could certify their insanity.”

“No,” gasped Bertha. “That would be horrible. We have nothing against those men—except that they are in the way. Frankenstein’s hospital would drive them crazy. Besides, it is over the frontier, and not so simple a matter to arrange as the Rupert idea.”

“You seem to have a rather keen regard for those men, Bertha,” said Niels, half closing one eye. “Since the younger one is half in love with Mademoiselle Fallières, I presume it is the elder one that has made an appeal to your impressionable heart.”

“Niels!”

“I warn you that love plays second fiddle in this business. Don’t let your heart run away with your head.”

Bertha’s face went scarlet, and she glared at the speaker in a way that would have frozen him had he been the type of man to be susceptible to such facial expressions of contempt.

“You are a devil, Niels,” she said. “What I fear is that you overreach yourself, and do something in a moment of passion that we shall live to regret. I will have nothing to do with the Frankenstein idea. Rupert can accomplish all that is necessary.”

“I agree,” said Walther.

“Very well. That will suit me. I will take the car to-morrow in the direction of the château. The valley road can be seen from the terrace. If that young speed-fiend sees me—as I hope he will—I shall head for Morgins. You remember the ruins on the corner of the Rheims road, Heinrich?”

“Yes.”

“I shall allow him to overtake me there—close to the big oak. You and Walther will wait there. If the two come, the matter will be more difficult, but we shall be three to two—and prepared.”

His auditors nodded, and Niels went into a few more details. Bertha was clearly the most agitated of the four, for she saw the breaking up of a small romance. Yet the thing at stake was big and important enough to warrant this sacrifice. She inclined her fine, intelligent head in agreement.

“There is nothing for me to do?” she asked.

“Not yet. But watch Fouchard and advise me if anything untoward happens. I will put the pigeon back in the cage in the forest to-morrow. Send a message if necessary.”

“And if you want to communicate with me? The old hiding-place is useless now.”

“I will leave a note in the pigeon-cage. Perhaps a code would be safest.” He thought for a moment. “We will use the alphabet backwards; you understand. It is crude, but good enough in the circumstances.”

“And you will use no more force than is necessary, Niels?”

“Why should I?” he replied impatiently. “Are there any further suggestions?”

“Everything seems clear and simple enough. I suppose those two men will be armed?” said Walther.

“It is possible.”

“Hm!”

“I warn you to take care,” said Bertha, waving her finger. “They are both athletic, and the younger one in particular is a born fighter. If he thinks he is fighting for the happiness of Mademoiselle Fallières he may shoot to kill.”

“Yet you insist that we should treat him with the gentlest care?” retorted Niels. “He is to shoot to kill, while we must handle him as if he were a sucking dove.” His brow came down. “Are not we fighting for something, too—something as dear to us as anything——”

“Let us not quarrel,” begged Heinrich. “Walther here is equal to two men, if it comes to a scuffle. I was thinking, Niels; suppose that young man should overtake you before you reach the ambush—what then?”

“Then I should deserve all I got. Trust me. I know his car, and I know mine. I am ten miles an hour faster, and the road I shall take is fairly straight. A puncture might complicate matters, but I shall put on brand-new tyres. Bertha having an objection to spanners as agents of unconsciousness, we must get Walther to use one of his violent anæsthetics.”

“I seem to be needed here,” sighed Walther.

“You will be needed later,” said Niels, with a grim look on his curious face.

“So I imagine. Well, Bertha, cheer up. We are not going to fail this time. In a fortnight at most we ought to be back in Germany.”

“Yes, but even then——”

“Don’t dwell on that,” said Niels, in a quieter voice. “Let us meet our troubles as they come. Whatever happens, keep silent. A single word—the smallest hint of what we want—would ruin everything. Once the truth were known the end is inevitable. You must realise that.”

“Yes—I do. But I am sorry for that poor girl, who has lost so much. She suspects me, but at times she acts as if she trusted me. If I could only tell her——”

“Madness!” hissed Niels. “Banish that idea from your mind for ever.”

“I have. Don’t catechise me. You seem to forget it was I who first put you on the track, Niels.”

“So it was. But what I daily fear is that everything may be ruined by a display of sentiment. We cannot afford to be sentimental. It is a grim fight, and we have to go through with it. Well, I fancy we have discussed everything. You must get back to the château.”

Bertha nodded, but seemed to tremble. The good-looking Heinrich stood up and limped towards her. He grasped her hands and looked at her affectionately.

“Be of brave heart, baroness,” he said. “You are playing a difficult part, and we shall never forget it.”

CHAPTER XIV.
A NIGHT OF TERROR

Wallace, fresh from his morning tub, and brimming over with health, found Yolande sitting on the terrace, turning over a pile of newspapers which had just arrived. On the front page of the uppermost one he saw a huge headline: “Incredible Happenings at the Château Grammont.”

“You are down early,” he said to Yolande.

“Yes. I could not sleep. Look at all these! The château has at last become famous.”

“Don’t read them,” he begged.

“I have no intention of doing so. Theories—theories—and all based upon hearsay, for I have not given an interview to a single reporter.”

“I think you are wise. Have you seen Conrad this morning?”

“I think he finds a certain attraction in the garden. Bertha is cutting some flowers.”

“So you have noticed that?”

“How can one help noticing—when a man is in love?”

“I thought he was absolutely immune. Of course, he won’t admit it—psychological interest he calls it. But it’s all wrong—all wrong.”

“A kind of treachery, you think?”

“Well—it isn’t nice.”

“I don’t blame him. Bertha is a living contradiction, and Conrad is only human. There is so much that is grim and ghastly about this château that we ought to welcome the invasion of Cupid, in whatever guise he cares to come. I have never known Bertha do a single unkind thing, and that leads me to think that she is a tool who cannot help herself. She is not the ordinary type of maid. It is easy to see that.”

“She is extraordinary enough, I’ll admit.”

“And beautiful.”

“Well—yes.”

“Why hesitate? Perhaps you are not interested in blondes. They say that a fair man never sees much in a blonde.”

“There’s a lot in that,” he said, gazing into her dark eyes. “But that’s not the reason. I can’t forget that Bertha is mixed up in this mystery. How can we possibly exonerate her without knowing what part she is really playing. Innocently or not, she is responsible for some of the suffering you have endured. You can’t expect me to love her, in the circumstances.”

“I don’t want you to love her,” she retorted with a smile. “But in this baffling enigma we must not draw premature conclusions. Since Bertha has acted as my maid I have had time to appreciate her sympathy and goodness of heart. Again, last night, she begged me to leave the château.”

“And you refused?”

“Of course.”

“Yet there is real danger, Yolande; you know that?”

“Who should know it better than I?”

“Then—is it wise?”

“Now you are going to tempt me! I can bear anything but that. It isn’t mere foolish bravado that keeps me here. It is the thought of my father, who endured so much—and yet stayed. I have taken over that custodianship, for good or ill. You would think less of me if I fled before the threatening shadows that lurk in these walls, and I should despise myself to my last day.”

She raised her head proudly, but Wallace saw the brooding spirit of fear in her eyes, and he realised how much courage it needed to withstand what must be a constant temptation. What he was dreading was the rapidly approaching day when his holiday would be ended, and Yolande must be left alone to fight the unseen danger.

“Why not invite some friends down for the summer?” he suggested. “Fill the château with them and——”

“They would not come—again.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Last year we had a big house-party. There was a terrible scene one night—I shall never forget it. Our guests left their rooms and crowded into the reception rooms. Most of them had heard awful noises—running of feet, growling. Two of them swore they had seen a gigantic form on the landing.”

“The Monster!”

“It must have been. On the next day most of them went—raising all kinds of excuses. Very soon not one was left. It was humiliating.”

Conrad sauntered back, striving to look perfectly innocent. He gave them “good-morning” and then turned over the pile of newspapers—“Monster Haunts Famous Château”; “Baffling Mystery of the Château Grammont”; “The Phantom Murders.”

“Don’t wallow in them,” pleaded Wallace.

“I’ve been thinking,” mused Conrad. “I suppose there is a Monster here? It is possible we have been tricked.”

“Tricked?”

“Certain persons want possession of the château for some purpose unknown. It would not be difficult for one of them to play the part of a huge demented creature, with the object of causing the place to become abandoned.”

“You mean Niels or Heinrich?”

“Why not? A lot can be done with packed heels, a voluminous cloak, and extras.”

“But we have seen the thing!”

“In a half-light. An artist in make-up can do extraordinary things.”

“But the murders——”

“That is just the point. It gives a motive for them which on any other theory is missing. The murders might have been committed to prevent identification. You will recall that on every occasion the face has been concealed by the hood.”

“No,” said Wallace. “It sounds too improbable. But, if it were true, it would not alter facts very much.”

“It cuts out the Monster as an entity, and leaves us with Niels and company only.”

“And Bertha,” rapped Wallace.

“Yes—and Bertha,” agreed Conrad slowly. “But I’ll never believe she countenanced murder. Does she look that sort of woman?”

“Looks count for nothing. Are you forgetting that it was Bertha who let Niels and Heinrich into the château when she thought the coast was clear? Was that the act of an innocent person?”

“It might be the act of one who is compelled to serve other persons. I don’t know, but the more I see of Bertha the more convinced I am that she had nothing whatever to do with those grim and ghastly tragedies.”

At dinner that evening Conrad mentioned his theory to Fouchard, who had been absent most of the day. Fouchard pressed his lips together and seemed reluctant to express an opinion. The celebrated sleuth-hound was fast approaching a state bordering on desperation, for he had spent several hours in the vaults with the list of cryptic figures without discovering anything worth mentioning. He ate savagely—almost indecently.

“It is a joke in Paris,” he admitted at last.

“A joke!”

“At headquarters, I mean. Those infernal journalists have concentrated on the Monster and skipped all the rest. They know what makes a good story—with the vulgar public. Have you read those accounts?”

“No.”

“Zut! They have gone farther than a Monster. They have made him the devil incarnate—something with horns and cleft feet, and breathing brimstone. Tiens! I must make an arrest.”

“Eh?”

“I have nothing to show for my work here—nothing. I have enough evidence to convict the woman of aiding and abetting, and, by heaven, I will!”

“You won’t,” said Yolande quietly.

“And why not?”

“Because, monsieur, you have brains, and you know that the Monster is no figure of the imagination, no masquerade of any of those others. He is as real as you or I, and is the pivot on which all these strange and awful happenings revolve.”

“So he is,” he growled. “But they won’t leave me alone. I have a rival—Cochet, who loves to express opinions in matters which do not concern him. He has come to the same conclusion as Monsieur Conrad here, with the result that I am looked upon as an idiot who is hoodwinked by a masquerading servant.”

Fouchard’s personal vanity was his weak point, and evidently his professional rival was playing against it. It took two liqueurs to reduce him to a state of equanimity, after which he was quite charming again.

“I think mademoiselle ought to take a little holiday,” he said. “Not a prolonged one. Say a week at Aix or Paris.”

“Sound idea,” said Wallace immediately.

“You see——”

Suddenly the lights went out, and the place was plunged into darkness. Yolande uttered a little cry, and Wallace, who was close to her, gave her his hand, which she took willingly.

“The power seems to have gone off,” said Conrad. “The light outside has failed, too.”

“I will send for Watkins,” said Yolande. “Mr. Wallace, the bell is by the fireplace. Will you ring it, please?”

Wallace moved to where he thought the fireplace lay. Feeling his way forward, he ultimately found the wall, and then the bell-push. In response to his ring a maid appeared with a candle in her hand.

“Marie, the light has failed. Go over to the garage and ask Watkins to come here. In the meantime, send in some candles.”

While they were waiting for the illumination a strange thing happened. There was a noise from the direction of the casement window, and a blast of cool air entered the room. Yolande’s hand closed on Wallace’s—tightly. Then someone coughed—a deep, rasping cough like that of a sheep. It was quite close to Wallace, and he concluded that Conrad or Fouchard was moving about.

“Have you been sleeping in a field, Connie?” he asked banteringly.

“That was Fouchard,” said Conrad’s voice from the rear.

“Tiens! I never coughed. Why——”

“Ralph!”

The cry came from Yolande’s lips—an ejaculation of awful terror that caused Wallace to jump in his chair. He put his arms round Yolande and drew her closer to him. Her mouth came close to his ear.

“Something here,” she whispered. “It—it touched me.”

Wallace had no matches, but he possessed a very reliable petrol pipe-lighter. Slipping his hand into his pocket, he found this and gave the small wheel a twist. The spark ignited the wick, and simultaneously cries came from Fouchard and Yolande, for standing close to the fireplace was the hooded form of the Monster. An involuntary movement of Yolande’s hand caused the miniature torch to fall to the floor, and it went out.

“The window!” cried Fouchard. “Watch that door, Wallace!”

But Wallace with Yolande in his arms was slow to act. He heard a scuffling of feet, and the noise caused by a falling chair. Then Fouchard’s voice called for help.

“Where are you?”

“Here. I’ve got him. Lend a hand, quick!”

“Coming.”

He blundered in the direction of the cry. But at that moment the door opened and a maid appeared carrying two candlesticks. She suddenly uttered a piercing cry, and something big and vague struck the candlesticks from her hand and sent her sprawling. Wallace helped her to her feet and retrieved one of the candlesticks—with the candle still burning. He held it above his head, and saw Fouchard on the floor clinging desperately to a struggling form.

“Conrad!” he gasped. “Fouchard, what are you doing?”

Fouchard had seen the familiar face, and he went crimson with humiliation.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was you, monsieur?” he asked.

“Tell you—with your fingers round my throat! Did you see him, Ralph?”

“Yes, but he went through the door while you were strangling each other. Hullo—that’s better!”

The light had come on again, and four pairs of eyes gazed at each other in temporary bewilderment. Fouchard recovered his wits first. He produced a pistol from his hip pocket and moved towards the door.

“He’s not far away,” he growled. “Must have come in through the window—but why?”

Yolande winced as a demoniacal laugh came from the direction of the servants’ hall. Off went Fouchard at a run.

“Take care,” warned Conrad.

“I’m taking a hand in this,” said Wallace.

“Connie, will you stay with mademoiselle?”

But Wallace had gone flying along the corridor after Fouchard. At the end he found two startled servants, clinging to each other. Then he swore loudly as the lights went out again. Unfamiliar with that part of the building, he scarcely knew where to turn.

“Fouchard!” he yelled.

No reply came, and he felt his way along the passage until he reached a closed door. He turned the handle, but it was bolted from inside. A low whispering was heard from the other side of the door.

“Open!” he said.

“Qui va la?”

“Monsieur Wallace.”

The door was opened, and he found himself standing on the threshold of the enormous kitchen, which was illuminated by several candles. The cook was grasping a stout rolling-pin, and his assistant was armed with a flat-iron.

“Hélas, monsieur! we have seen the devil.”

“Where?”

“Here. O mon Dieu—he was terrible!”

Taking one of the candles, he went back along the passage. Again he called Fouchard’s name, but that worthy seemed to have disappeared completely. After more wandering about, he returned to the room where he had left Yolande and Conrad.

“I can’t find Fouchard,” he said. “Has he been back?”

“No.”

“Uncanny! The servants are all scared to death. Here is the light again!”

Two minutes later Watkins came in, looking dirty and very disturbed in his mind.

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” he said. “I was coming across when the fuse went again. Can’t understand it at all. Whoever wired this château must have had some strange ideas. I’ll have to go all over the wiring to-morrow.”

“I think you had better bring some electric torches into the house, Watkins, in case this should happen again. Buy a new supply to-morrow.”

Watkins went away shaking his head. He was not so much scared as worried, for he took a great pride in his work.

“I must go and find Fouchard,” said Wallace. “He must have gone into the cellar.”

He was leaving the room when Fouchard came back. There was limewash on his coat and dirt on his face, but what took their gaze was a big, rusty razor which he carried in his left hand.

“You—you saw him?” asked Yolande.

“No—but I felt him. He slashed at me with this, but missed. I could have got him if by the rottenest piece of luck my pistol had not jammed. Well, I have achieved something.”

“The razor?”

“Not only that. I have marked the murderer for life. When we find him he will have from eight to twelve teeth-marks on one of his wrists—I don’t know which. That caused him to drop his lethal instrument.”

“Didn’t you see where he went?”

“No. He hit me with the force of a battering-ram and laid me out for half a minute. I shouldn’t be surprised if one of my ribs has gone. But I think that settles any doubt as to whether there is a Monster or not, and whether he is human. He tasted human enough to me.”

Fouchard opened the razor and displayed a jagged blade. Yolande shuddered, and Wallace bade him put the horrible weapon away, for it was reminiscent of things best forgotten. To Fouchard, however, it was a priceless trophy. At last he had something to report to headquarters.

CHAPTER XV.
THE COUP

The wonderful spell of fine weather showed signs of breaking up. Seen from the terrace of the château, the landscape presented a gloomy aspect, sunk in the shadow of an overcast sky. It seemed like the natural aftermath to the night of terror that had passed.

“Storm brewing,” said Conrad.

“Looks like it. There is scarcely a breath of wind.”

“Do you realise that our holiday is nearly at an end?”

“Yes—worse luck.”

“You don’t want to go back?”

“I am thinking of Yolande—of what happened last night. To leave her here in the circumstances would be—appalling.”

“Fouchard will remain.”

“Suppose he goes? He has hinted at the possibility of his being called back to Paris. In any case he won’t stay here indefinitely—and the Monster may.”

“Fouchard may clear up the business before he leaves.”

“I wish I could think he would.”

When Yolande joined them she showed signs of the ordeal through which she had passed, and she informed them that more servants were leaving, while she had not yet been successful in engaging any others to take the places of the last batch that had absconded.

“The agents write to say that no servants will consent to come here. The newspapers are too full of the tragedies that have taken place. I am left with a cook, two maids, and Bertha, excluding Watkins and a gardener who lives out. Soon I shall have to cook my own food,” she added, with a wan smile.

Wallace was staring down at the road which wound through the valley. A car was coming down it, and he recalled the fact that it was the first car he had ever seen on that road.

“Where does it lead?” he asked Yolande.

“It joins the main road beyond the château. It is seldom used by anything other than the carts of the peasants and woodmen.”

“That thing is moving,” said Conrad, as the car approached them.

Wallace made no reply, but his eyes were fixed intently on the car. It seemed familiar—strangely familiar. When it was almost directly beneath the château he uttered a cry of astonishment.

“What——?”

“That’s Niels!” he gasped. “I’ll swear to it. It’s the car I followed that evening— Here’s a chance. I’ll get him this time. Where is Fouchard?”

“Gone for a walk. Wait—I’ll come!”

He apologised to Yolande and, grabbing his hat, ran after Wallace. Before he reached the garage Wallace had the car out. Conrad dived through the open door and sat down.

“Hold on!”

Two quick gear-changes and the Bentley was tearing down the drive with Watkins staring after it, and scratching his head. Once through the gate, Wallace changed to “top.” The responsive car sailed round the bend and emerged in the main road.

“There he goes!” cried Conrad, pointing to a cloud of dust ahead of them.

“Sit tight and hold your breath. I did a bit of tuning-up yesterday.”

The accelerator pedal went lower and lower, and the crackle from the exhaust rose higher. Hedges and fields streamed by—faster and faster. To Conrad everything seemed blurred, and the white ribbon of road seemed to be rushing at them, while the car appeared to remain stationary except for a slight side movement. The cloud of dust in front became more distinct. Soon the rear part of the other car could be seen.

“We’re gaining,” said Wallace, “and I’m not warmed up yet. I fancy this will be an unlucky day for Niels. Look at the little blighter—grinning at us!”

“So long as he limits it to grinning I don’t mind.”

“He won’t be able to do that if he makes the pace much hotter. Roads bad here. Farther on it’s dead straight for about ten miles. We are barely doing seventy.”

“Is that all? Steady! By Jove, that was a near thing.”

This as Wallace took the sharp bend at speed. It resulted in a nerve-wracking skid which, but for the most skilful handling of the car, would have ended disastrously.

“We gained two hundred yards by that.”

“Don’t make it a habit.”

The straight portion of the road was now entered. Wallace sighed as he saw the tall poplars vanish in the distance, and let the car have her head. The needle moved around the dial swiftly under the wonderful acceleration, and the crackle of the exhaust became a continuous roar. To Wallace it was sheer joy, but Conrad regarded it differently. He was not used to having himself flattened out against the cushion, nor to having his lungs supercharged with oxygen. He found it difficult to breathe, and all he could see was the tail of the fugitive car getting nearer and nearer.

“What are you going to do—pass him?” asked Conrad.

“Ditch him if he won’t slow up.”

But when both cars were within a hundred yards of each other Wallace found the intervening space increasing. It was incredible, for the speedometer was close upon the “ninety” mark.

“Well I’m—” he gasped.

“There’s a level crossing ahead!” cried Conrad suddenly. “And a man is waving. The bar is coming down.”

Niels did not hesitate for a second. Wallace saw the leading car rush beneath the falling bar. It bounced alarmingly on the uneven ground, but got its equilibrium again and went streaming down the open road.

“Damn!” grunted Wallace, and slammed on all his brakes. Conrad was nearly flung over the low windscreen as the Bentley decelerated with frightful abruptness and came to a dead stop with its bonnet within two yards of the stout bar.

“Sacré!” yelled the man in charge. “Pourquoi——”

Wallace did the most sensible thing. He apologised in his best French and, seeing that no train was yet in sight, waved a hundred-franc note under the nose of the irate man. It was the magic Sesame, and half a minute later the Bentley was across the lines, and hurtling after the almost invisible car.

“It’s all or nothing now,” said Wallace. “Damn it, the Bentley ought to beat that thing, whatever it is.”

“I’m not so sure. But for heaven’s sake don’t brake like that again, without giving warning. You nearly lost me.”

“Sorry. She’s getting warmed up beautifully. We’re gaining again.”

“Very little.”

Away went the straight road like a knife-edge, over hill and dale into the hazy distance. The air was charged with a sickening odour.

“Castor oil,” said Wallace.

A blinding flash of lightning struck down, and instantly the thunder crashed. The threatened storm had broken. The last reverberations had scarcely died away when dense rain lashed down. Conrad tried to put up the hood, but their great speed prevented it.

“Can’t stop,” shouted Wallace. “Keep your head down or you’ll be flayed.”

This was no exaggeration, and Conrad crouched low, while Wallace pushed his face closer to the screen for protection. The other car was lost for a minute or two in the deluge, but it loomed in sight again—much nearer.

“He’s beaten. I’m going to push him into the ditch. Look out for yourself!”

The ensuing tactics were nerve-wracking. The Bentley slowly overtook the mystery car. Soon a few lengths separated them. Through the lashing rain and pools of water the churning wheels buzzed. Wallace was drawing out with the object of getting alongside when Conrad uttered a wild yell, for the right-hand steering gave the passenger a better view of the road. Wallace swerved in, and a big closed car, coming in the opposite direction, missed his rear wheel by inches. It permitted the fugitive car to draw away again.

“Rotten luck! Keep your eyes skinned, Connie!”

“This is hell!” protested Conrad, outraged.

“It’s the chance of a lifetime, and we can’t afford to miss it. I’ll get him again. He’s not so good on mud.”

Up crept the Bentley, foot by foot. Wallace caught a glimpse of Niels’s face. It was set and grim, and, like them, he was drenched to the skin. He was about to overtake again when another car came towards them. The driver glared at the apparent madman of the road.

“The devil is with him,” groaned Wallace. “I’m dreading that my petrol will give out. I know I hadn’t much when I started. Confound this rain!”

Grim-faced and shivering with cold, Conrad peered through the bottom of the windscreen. He was just beginning to realise that the fires of youth were burning out. It was Wallace who got all the thrills. Conrad would have preferred a hand-to-hand combat. There were different grades of courage.

“Now,” said Wallace. “We ought to get him here.”

Again he steered towards the centre of the road. The bonnet of the Bentley passed the rear wheels of the other car. They were actually side by side on a road that allowed scarcely any margin. Niels’ head moved slightly towards Wallace.

“Stop—or I’ll ditch you!”

Niels seemed to slow down a little, but did not stop at once. Owing to the opposite positions of the steering-wheels on the two cars, Wallace’s head came within three feet of Niels. He yelled at him with all his might:

“If you don’t stop I’ll smash you to blazes!”

Niels gave a quick glance at the three-foot ditch on his right and began to slow down. At the corner, close to a tumbledown farm, Wallace put the Bentley across the bows of the other car, and caused Niels to complete his braking abruptly.

“Quick, Connie!”

Both of them leapt from the car and made for Niels. Wallace was quite prepared for a fierce resistance, perhaps with a firearm thrown in, but Niels merely thrust his unkempt little head forward and glared at them.

“Are you mad?” he snapped.

“Not quite. You’re coming with us, and the less you have to say about it the better.”

“What do you want with me?”

“You’ll find out later. Come out of that car!”

“You are playing a dangerous game, monsieur.”

“Come out!”

Niels shook the water from his cap and stepped into the road. At that moment two figures emerged from the shelter of a big tree on the opposite side. One was Walther and the other Heinrich, and both of them carried pistols.

“Hands up!”

Wallace swung round, and saw Walther pointing his pistol at his head, whilst Heinrich covered Conrad.

“Tricked!” said Wallace bitterly.

Events moved swiftly after that. Niels produced a pistol and pushed the barrel into Wallace’s back, whilst Walther produced a pad from his pocket. In a twinkling he clapped this over Wallace’s nose. It did its work with remarkable speed, and a few seconds later Conrad was similarly treated.

“Get them into the car—quick!” said Niels.

This was done and the hood erected over the unconscious victims, after which they were searched and disarmed.

“What about that other car?” asked Heinrich.

“You had better take it to Roche’s garage. Ask them to store it for the time being.”

“I can’t drive it.”

“Then Walther can. Yes, that is better, for Walther is a complete stranger. We will wait here for you, Walther. How soon will the effects of that stuff work off?”

“Half an hour. It will give us time to bind them.”

“Good.”

Walther stepped into the Bentley, examined the controls, and then started off down the filthy road.

“Everything according to plan,” said Niels, rubbing his hands. “We will have them in Rupert’s hands before long.”

CHAPTER XVI.
BONDAGE

Wallace opened his eyes to stare in wonderment at two pairs of bound legs in his proximity. It took him a full minute to realise that the nearer pair was his own, and that his hands were similarly bound behind his back. Those facing him belonged to Conrad, whose face he could see as a whitish splodge in the gloom. There was another pair of legs mixed up with the mass of human extremities, and, tracing these upwards with his eyes, he saw they supported a big, muscular body, above which was a face which he had seen before.

His head throbbed so painfully that it was difficult to sort out the incidents of the immediate past. Conrad recovered consciousness while he was engaged in this attempt, and sat blinking at him like a bewildered owl.… Things became clearer after a while. He recognised the other occupant of the car as the man who had doped him—Walther unquestionably.

From the front of the vehicle came low voices. Niels’s was immediately recognised, and the other, he guessed, belonged to Heinrich. Yes, it was clear enough now. He had run his neck right into the noose that the wily Niels had dangled before him. And here they were speeding along a road in the drenching rain—bound whither?

“Connie!”

“Hullo! Where the devil are we?”

“God knows.”

Walther grinned down at them, and moved his enormous legs to give them a little more room, which was sorely needed, for the back part of the car was not constructed to carry three persons.

“Where are you taking us?” demanded Wallace.

“For an excursion. The air of the Château Grammont is apt to become enervating.”

Wallace bit his lip in his ignominy. He put the blame entirely upon himself, and felt keenly sorry for Conrad, whom he had got into this plight. The bonds which held his legs had been tightly fixed, and were cramping him painfully.

“Is there any necessity to keep us trussed up like chickens?” he asked.

“It depends upon yourselves.”

“What do you mean?”

“I will free your legs if you will give me your word of honour not to start any trouble.”

“How could we—with our hands bound behind our backs?”

“Well, I will risk it, but if you try any tricks I shall be compelled to send you to sleep for another spell.”

He produced a knife and freed their legs, after making sure that the other fastenings were tight. The two prisoners stretched their aching limbs so far as it was possible. All the while the powerful engine was propelling the vehicle at a great speed. Wallace, with his mechanical interest aroused, inclined his head a little to one side, listening to a high whirring sound.

“Supercharger,” he said. “I’ll bet it’s doing thirty thousand revs.”

“I don’t care if it’s doing a million,” growled Conrad. “This is a nice ending.”

Niels, hearing the conversation, looked over the partition and scowled.

“Are you mad, Walther?” he asked.

“They won’t hurt,” replied Walther. “I’ll be responsible for them.”

“Look here,” said Wallace. “What’s the game? This is a pretty risky proceeding.”

“Not half so risky as sojourning in the Château Grammont. You ought to be grateful to us.”

“You want to get us out of the way, eh?”

“Wonderful powers of deduction!” said Walther. “Well, I fancy we are well on the way to success in that respect.”

It seemed true enough, for the car was now putting up a terrific pace, and Wallace tried to take a bearing from the sun; but that orb was totally obscured by rain-clouds.

“You might as well tell us our destination,” he said. “It can make no difference to you. I’ll admit that you have scored a point or two.”

“We are on our way to—the sea,” said Walther.

“The coast!”

“Repeating your recent deductive reasoning, you will conclude that a short sea trip is in store for you. You are correct, sir.”

“Very funny!” said Wallace. “Ve-ry funny!”

Conrad gave a wan smile.

“I suppose you are Walther?” he asked.

“You are well informed.”

“Glad to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine. What do you think of this car?”

“Not bad, but a bit noisy on gears,” said Wallace.

“We will have that seen to,” replied Walther calmly. “You will admit it wanted catching, eh?”

“It’s a fake job.”

“So it is—just a little hotted up for emergency. My cousin made it himself—with a little outside help.”

“Your cousin! So ‘monkey-face’ is your cousin?”

Niels heard this. He poked his head over the partition and looked like murder.

“All right, Niels,” said Walther cheerily. “It’s astonishing what truths come from the mouths of children. Look ahead or you’ll pile us up in the ditch.”

“Watch those two,” growled Niels. “They are not to be trusted.”

“You see,” said Walther, “my more experienced relative has doubts about your integrity.”

The two chaffing prisoners relapsed into silence, and for a long time nothing was heard but the peculiar noise of the supercharger and the whirring of the tyres on the wet road. Hour after hour the pace was maintained, Niels avoiding all big towns. Once Wallace caught a glimpse of a distant structure—a towering mass of iron that he could not help but recognise.

“The Eiffel Tower!” he exclaimed.

“We are skirting Paris,” informed Walther. “Think of the cafés, the boulevards, the Folies-Bergère. How much wiser it would have been for you to have spent your holiday there instead of at the Château Grammont.”

“We haven’t done with the Château Grammont yet,” said Wallace. “The tables may be turned, my friend.”

“Possibly. I always believed in the law of equilibrium. But time is the chief factor. I’m afraid you will miss your tea. Niels does not stop for anything when he is on the road.”

The big tower faded away into the distance, and a little later the rain ceased. But the roads were waterlogged, and the rushing car sent up fountains of mud as it careered on its way to the coast. Wallace became sunk in reflection. He thought of Yolande at the château. She would be wondering what had become of them, and wonder would merge into fear when the night came down. He thought of the creature who ran amok between those ancient walls—the razor——

“What about my car?” he asked suddenly. “Do you intend to steal it?”

“I think not. I am sure Niels much prefers his own.”

“What have you done with it?”

“You will know later. Why don’t you go to sleep?”

“Sleep!”

A little later Wallace overheard the German word for petrol. A hope was born. If Niels had to stop to fill his tank there might be a chance to enlist the help of the people at the garage. Their bonds would be evidence of abduction, and the French had little love for their late foes. But in this he was doomed to disappointment, for the car pulled up on a deserted road and Heinrich filled the tank from a big reservoir which was bolted to the running-board.

On went the car again, in the gathering gloom. Darkness made little difference to the speed, for brilliant headlights illuminated the road for half a mile ahead. At last the brine-laden air gave warning that the sea was not far away. They ran for some miles through flat country, with dunes on either side, and ultimately came to a halt with the sea breaking on the sand close by.

“Here we are!” said Walther. “An hour before our time.”

Niels and Heinrich got out of the car and flashed a torch towards the sea. Immediately an answer came back, and the men waited in silence. Soon Wallace heard the creaking of oars, and then the beaching of a boat.

“Bring them out, Walther!”

The two prisoners breathed a sigh of relief to be able to stretch their muscles. It was a wonderful night, with a sky rain-washed and free of cloud. The stars shone like fairy lamps, and in the west a crescent moon hung low. Looking across the bay, Wallace could see a fine, white yacht, with steam up. And coming towards them was a man in nautical garb—an officer, apparently. The boat which had brought him was on the marge of the softly breaking sea.

A conversation ensued, but it was in rapid German—too fast for either Wallace or Conrad to translate. The upshot was they were escorted to the waiting boat and driven aboard. A few minutes later they were moving across the moonlit sea towards the yacht, with the officer between them.

“You are my guests,” he said, in good English. “I trust you will like the yacht.”

“I doubt it,” grunted Wallace. “I suppose you realise that this is a kidnapping business?”

“An unpleasant word. Here we are!”

He cut their bonds in order to permit them to climb the ladder. But this act was off-set by the display of a revolver. They reached the deck and were driven into the saloon, which proved to be a most comfortable affair—and roomy.

“I will come again later,” said the officer, and went out, locking the door after him.

“Phew!” said Wallace. “And that’s that!”

“The car is moving.”

“Going back to the château. What a devil of a plight we are in! It’s my fault, Connie. I was too impetuous. I ought to have suspected a plot.”

“By Jove, we’re moving! Quick work that!”

“Where the devil are we bound for?”

“I wish I knew. The skipper—I suppose he is the skipper—treated Niels as if he were in his employ. Why, this boat is the plaything of a millionaire. What does it all mean?”

“It beats me.”

“It can only mean that what is hidden at the château is of the greatest value to certain persons.”

“Yes—yes. But I’m starving.”

“So am I. Have a cigarette.”

They sat and smoked for some time, and then the officer appeared again.

“That’s right. Make yourselves at home. Dinner will be served in a few minutes. Through the door yonder you will find a lavatory, and all you need. The dining saloon is downstairs—under this.”

“Thanks! Are you the captain?”

“Yes.”

“And may we know where you intend taking us?”

“I will tell you later. Dinner is waiting, and we observe punctuality here.”

They were glad to take advantage of the well-fitted lavatory. But their clothes were sodden and creased, and rendered them sorry objects. They were remarking on this when a seaman knocked and entered. He could speak no word of English, but he brought with him two suits of duck and a bundle of collars.

“Well, I’m damned!” ejaculated Wallace.

CHAPTER XVII.
WALLACE ESCAPES

Dinner with the skipper—who formally introduced himself as Captain Michels—was a welcome affair, for both Wallace and Conrad were famished. There was a varied assortment of dishes, and wine in plenty. The whole thing was so unexpected and so illogical in the circumstances that Wallace still wondered whether he was dreaming.

“Sorry your cabins weren’t ready,” said the captain. “We have been giving the yacht a clean-up. But everything will be in order by the time you turn in.”

“Thanks!” said Wallace. “This is a queer sort of business, isn’t it?”

“I know nothing. I have instructions to make you comfortable and to land you at a certain place.”

“Whose instructions?”

“The owner’s.”

“Who is the owner—Niels?”

“That, sir, is quite a private matter.”

“Then you don’t know why we are here—why we have been kidnapped?”

“Not kidnapped?”

“Be frank,” said Wallace. “You are holding us by force.”

“I haven’t exercised any—so far.”

“It is force all the same. We were dragged here by the scruffs of our necks—so to speak, and there is little difference in our position to being in jail with chains round our ankles.”

“Except the dinner,” said Michels, with a smile. “I am sure they do not serve such meals in jail.”

“You mean to carry out your instructions?” asked Conrad.

“To the letter. I am employed for that.”

“Despite the illegality?”

“It is not for me to question orders. Have a cigar?”

Conrad frowned, but took one. Wallace shook his head and preferred a cigarette.

“Of course, I understand that you two gentlemen have been interesting yourselves in certain matters. I know no details, but I am assured that the atmosphere of the yacht is a healthier one than that of the place whence you came.”

“That is a matter of opinion,” said Wallace. “Well, to get to the point, what do you intend to do with us?”

“Land you safely in your native country. There is no hurry; we shall round the coast at half speed. But on Sunday I think you will be able to return to your homes.”

“Sunday!” gasped Wallace. “Why, it is only Wednesday!”

“That is so.”

“But I’ve left a car there—by the side of the road—and it contains our passports, triptiques——”

“I was told to inform you that it can be shipped across the Channel if you apply to Monsieur Roche, of the garage near Moulins. Your excellent organisation—the A.A.—would doubtless manage the whole thing for you.”

Wallace sat and fumed. It looked as if Niels had made all the running. If Michels intended landing them somewhere on the coast on Sunday night, it would be Monday before they could get to London, and valuable time would be lost whilst the business of fresh passports was settled. A full week must elapse before he could return to the château. During that period anything might happen. Moreover, his holiday would be up.

“These employers of yours are strange people, captain,” he said boldly.

“Determined people, Mr. Wallace.”

“Don’t argue, Ralph,” pleaded Conrad. “We must make the best of it. Things might be much worse.”

“How could they be?”

Later Wallace went below to look at the engines, and for half an hour his professional interest was held. Their cabins were side by side and splendidly appointed, and nothing was left undone that would add to their comfort. A seaman brought in their clothes, dried and pressed.

“Alice in Wonderland,” said Wallace. “Here are a gang of housebreakers owning a yacht that must have cost a fortune. What do you make of it?”

“I can’t make head or tail of it. I wonder if Bertha is a paid employee, or really in the swindle?”

“Hang Bertha! I wonder what it is they are after.”

“Sunday!” mused Conrad. “That Engineering Congress takes place on Wednesday. I shall just be able to get there, thank heavens! I must—I’m chairman.”

“You mean you—you will stay in England?”

“Well—naturally. The Congress will cover four days, and business calls. Had you forgotten we have a factory?”

“Almost. I’m sorry, Connie. But, you see, I can’t help thinking of—of——”

“Yolande.”

“Yes. What is the use of pretending? I love that girl; but, even if I didn’t, I should feel I ought not to leave her—in that ghastly château. I tell you, it’s a nightmare to me to think of what might happen there at any moment—to-night even.”

“There is Fouchard.”

“Isn’t it obvious that if they have gone to all this trouble to get you and me out of the way they will do the same for Fouchard? They want to empty the château.”

“Yes, I think that is true.”

“It’s damnable—horrible.”

“You are thinking of the—Monster?”

“Of course. The killing is his work. He is different from the others. I don’t believe there is any connection between the Monster and Niels’s party. But they seem to have one thing in common—the knowledge of something of tremendous value hidden in the château.”

“But if Fouchard is missing Yolande will go.”

“She might—ultimately. But suppose—suppose she left it too late? That Thing, Man, Monster—whatever it is—murdered poor Fallières savagely, and even Severin, who was an old man and offered no kind of an obstacle. Do you think he will stop at that?”

Conrad was silent, for, like Wallace, he realised the deadly danger for a woman placed as Yolande was placed. But business was business, and it was of the utmost importance that he should be back in London within a week.

“We seem to have shot our bolt,” he said.

“Shot! Well, I’ve done nothing, except to get bowled over by that seven-foot devil, and suffocated by Walther. I’ve never had a chance to do anything to help. That’s what irritates—I’ve no battle-wounds to show.”

“Better sleep on it to-night. At least, nothing can be done now. We are as harmless as caged canaries.”

But Wallace did not feel like turning in. His brain was uncommonly active, and his nerves at concert pitch. Leaving Conrad, he went on deck and walked up and down under the stars. The moon was still hanging in the western sky, and he could see the French coastline clearly, with scattered lights on the downs. The yacht was making up the Channel at leisurely speed.

Three hundred miles beyond that strip of sea and those wind-swept downs was the Château Grammont—and the girl who had made so deep an impression upon him. He could feel the spell of her even now—something dragging at his heart, whispering apprehensively. A seaman was singing a shanty softly, but it was in German, and he did not understand the words. Yet, like all such songs, he guessed there was a woman in it—a woman left in the last port, just as he had left one at the château.

A mad idea came to him. It was driven home by the twinkling lights and that haunting song. He looked down at the sea; it was placid as a millpond. Pensively he walked back to Conrad’s cabin, and found that worthy partly undressed.

“Hullo! Not going to bed?”

“Not yet. Connie, I want you to come outside. Slip on your coat.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I want to show you something.”

Conrad put on his coat and followed Wallace on deck. They went to the port side of the ship, and Wallace pointed to the lights on shore.

“How far would you say those were?” he asked.

“Difficult to say; two miles at least.”

“Not more?”

“Might be three. It’s a wonderfully clear night.”

“And do you remember that when we joined the yacht the tide was just on the flow? I recall the waves creeping——”

Conrad suddenly realised the significance of this. He grasped Wallace by the arm firmly.

“Don’t be insane!”

“I should be insane if I let a chance slip. To-morrow we may be in mid-channel. It’s a risk, but I’m going to take it.”

“What! Three miles?”

“I’ve done as much before, in a less calm sea. Look, there’s a big town farther along—probably Dieppe. With any luck I could reach the château by to-morrow morning.”

“I won’t permit it.”

“Sorry, Connie, but I shall have to go without permission. Will you lend me all the money you have left? I may want to hire, or even buy, a car on the moment.”

“No!” replied Conrad firmly. “Rather than see you fling your life away I will warn the skipper.”

“Oh, no, you won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you would do the same thing yourself if you were in my boots. Seriously, old man, I can get across that bit of sea if I’m right about the tide.”

“And if you aren’t?”

“We won’t discuss that. Come on, I’ve got to get into my own clothes. Hunt up that money.”

He bundled Conrad into his cabin, and went through the connecting door to his own, in order to change his attire. Conrad fought with his conscience, but gave way at the end, for he had a fine appreciation of Wallace’s physical abilities.

“Why not take a life-belt?” he whispered.

“Couldn’t swim in the thing. I’ll put the notes in this old tobacco-tin. And I’ll drop you a wire as soon as I can. Let’s stroll along the deck—innocently.”

Conrad was breathing hard, for he was not in love with the project, but Wallace, standing on the threshold of freedom, was as keen as a hound in the chase. They turned by the wheel, and then got amidships, where it was absolutely deserted.

“Now’s my chance,” whispered Wallace. “Good-bye, old man!”

“Good luck!”

He ran lightly to the side, and, mounting the rail, dived cleanly, striking the ocean without a splash. Conrad, with his heart beating furiously, watched his head reappear, and saw the powerful arms strike out towards the French shore.

CHAPTER XVIII.
WALLACE HAS A LITTLE LUCK

Wallace turned his head as he swam, and saw the yacht slipping away. He had no doubt that his escape was completely unobserved by any of the crew, and now success rested upon his swimming powers. He soon realised that he had been correct about the tide, but there was a strong easterly set in the current, which threatened to hold him up. He was a powerful swimmer, and he put every ounce of energy into his strokes, for he calculated that, once free of the easterly flow, progress would be easy.

For half an hour he battled with it, and then was greatly relieved to find himself drifting in on a good tide. The blaze of lights grew appreciably nearer every few minutes, and his heart began to beat a new note.… In less than an hour his feet touched bottom and he waded through the surf on to the beach.

It was Dieppe—he knew it quite well; and the town was yet noisy with traffic, for the season had commenced, and Dieppe kept late hours. His first thought was for dry clothing, but how to procure such at that late hour was a problem. His last resource was a gendarme who was stationed outside the Casino.

“Pardon, m’sieur,” he said. “I have had an accident—in a boat. Can you help me obtain some clothes?”

He had to repeat this twice before the gendarme understood. Then the latter stroked his enormous moustache, and debated the matter mentally. The subtle display of a hundred-franc note was instrumental in assisting him towards a quick decision.

“If m’sieur will come with me, perhaps the matter may be arranged,” he said.

Wallace went with him up several side-streets, and ultimately stood outside a small shop, over which the owners lived. The gendarme knocked, and after a few minutes’ wait the door was opened by “Madame.” A little rapid conversation mingled with much handwork did the trick, and the gendarme pocketed the note and went back to his post. Madame let him in, and switched on the light in the shop. It was packed with clothing of every conceivable kind, from women’s “undies” to men’s blue jumpers. He selected the best outfit he could find, and changed into it behind a screen, while madame yawned and made mental calculations as to how much the job was worth. He was appallingly overcharged, but it was a relief to discard his late saturated apparel. Wrapping the drenched garments in a sheet of brown paper, he bade her “Bon-soir” and departed.

A clock in the main street informed him that the hour was one A.M., and he took it for granted there would be no train to either Arveyes or Rheims that night. The only alternative was a car. He started on the garages, but not one of them had a driver who could undertake a long night journey at a moment’s notice, and none of them would consider lending him a car.

Bitterly disappointed, he wandered in the direction of the Casino. The urge was strong upon him. To sleep while Yolande was in danger was impossible. It occurred to him that he might telephone to her, but on making enquiries he was told there would be a delay of three hours—perhaps more. Cursing all the French systems of communication, he stared through the portico at the queue of cars waiting for the baccarat fiends. There were Hispanos, Rolls-Royces, long, gleaming Renaults with their typically Continental bodies, a hotted-up Bugatti, Fiats, Lancias, and a magnificent American Packard.

Some had chauffeurs waiting, with sphinx-like patience, for their lords and masters, others were in charge of no one. The Packard attracted him, but he was afraid it would have some kind of thief-proof gadget. The French were more careless. He decided upon the biggest Renault—for several reasons. It lay away from the bright lights, and was at the end of the queue, with its bonnet turned the other way. Moreover, it possessed a fine spot-light which would aid him in finding his way.

Contemplated larceny was a new sensation, and he didn’t like it much. But there was Yolande to consider! … He walked down the steps and went straight to the car. The door was unlocked and the gear-lever free. Gulping, he switched on the ignition and put his hand on the self-starter button. Immediately the engine started, and he moved forward. Then he gasped as a hand was held up and his late friend—the gendarme—stopped him. But it was only a traffic signal, to permit an approaching car to turn the corner. Fortunately the gendarme did not recognise the tense face behind the windscreen.

On the outskirts of the town he found a signpost marked “Rheims,” and he recalled it was the Rheims road which Niels had joined coming from the château. He depressed the pedal, and away slid the great car. It was a “bus” compared with, the lively Bentley, but it had unlimited power and was the acme of comfort. The great blazing lights rendered driving remarkably easy, and soon he was out in the country. The straight road lured him to speed—Yolande seemed to be at the other end of it, calling for him.

He bumped over the interminable cassis and level crossings, took bends so fast that the long chassis objected and slewed her tail round alarmingly at times. But the miles were flying! Once or twice he slowed down to concentrate the spot-light on a signpost.… For two hours he maintained an exceedingly high speed—too high for the type of car—and then he became aware that things were not going well with the engine. He heard a knock which slowly developed into a bad noise.

“Big end!” he muttered.

His diagnosis was soon beyond doubting. A horrid thud-thud offended his ears. He tried giving it more oil, but to little effect. Soon it became apparent that to drive the car much farther would end in smashing up the whole engine. At fifteen miles an hour he ambled noisily towards the next village. But on the outskirts he stopped, for he had no doubt the village boasted a gendarmerie. To sleep in the car did not appeal to him in the least, for he had little doubt that telephone bells would soon be ringing all over the country anent a stolen Renault.

The long main street was illuminated with light from a big building on the left, and to his surprise and joy he discovered a remarkably inviting hotel, called the Hôtel de la Poste. He entered the place and rang the bell. An exhausted waiter appeared.

“Have you got a room? My car has broken down along the road.”

The waiter mumbled something and went away. A few seconds later the landlord turned up.

“Sorry to be so late,” said Wallace, “but I have had a breakdown. Have you a room for the night?”

“Yes, m’sieur. You are fortunate in finding us open. But we had another party of late arrivals. Would m’sieur care for anything to eat?”

“I won’t bother you——”

“But it is no trouble. Some soup, a little fish, an omelette, or——”

“I’ll have an omelette and half a bottle of vin ordinaire.”

“Certainly, m’sieur. Tout de suite! The dining-room is to the right.”

Wallace nodded and hung up his hat on the hall-stand. Then he became alert, for the garment next his hat was a brown overcoat that seemed strangely familiar, and another hat that he could have sworn— He recalled what the landlord had said about “another party.” Diving his hand into the pocket of the brown coat, he found an automatic pistol. He was about to replace it when he changed his mind and retained it.

His meal was brought in quick time, and he ate it very reflectively. If Niels and his friends had taken that road, it was not at all unlikely that they would rest for the night after the exertion of driving which they had already undergone. The waiter brought cheese and biscuits.

“Have you got a garage here?” asked Wallace.

“Oui, m’sieur.”

“My car is stranded along the road—quite near. If I could get a little petrol I think I could drive it into the garage. Is it too much trouble?”

The plea, accompanied by a twenty-franc note, lifted the tired waiter from depression to elation.

“It is no trouble. I will get the key.”

Wallace saw him take the key from a hook inside the office. He followed him to the garage. On the door being opened, the first thing Wallace saw was Niels’s mud-bespattered speedster! He received a bidon of petrol from the waiter, and pretended to go to his car. After loitering for ten minutes, he came back and reported dismally that the car would not start.

“Shall I help m’sieur push it in?”

“It is too big. Never mind; it will not hurt until the morning. Sorry to trouble you.”

The door was locked again and the key hung upon its nail. A few minutes later Wallace went to his room. The next move was obvious, and it removed from him the fear of being hauled up for car-theft. That, he thought, would not apply to Niels’s case, for Niels would not dare to approach the police.

For an hour he waited, killing some of the time by looking up the route to the château from a book of maps which he had picked up in the hall. Then he decided to make the attempt. Creeping downstairs, he found the office and removed the key. The front door of the hotel had double bolts, and a lock of the Yale type which could be opened from within without a key.

In a few minutes he was in the garage. He examined the car by means of the “dash” light, and got the hang of the controls. The tank was nearly empty, but there were scores of bidons of spirit to hand. He took a dozen of these and dumped them inside the car. Reckoning his bill roughly, he left enough money to pay it under a spanner on a bench. There was a slope to the main road, and it enabled him to run down without using the engine. Once there, he started up, and, switching on his headlights, went streaking up the road.

Here was something live—something to please the heart of an engineer. The supercharger was operated from the accelerator pedal, and came into action at about half-throttle. Its whirring—almost shrieking—note heralded astounding acceleration. He realised now why he had never succeeded in overhauling it. It was a track-car, and one capable of over a hundred miles an hour.

Through the soft night he sped, alternately worrying about Yolande and grinning to think how circumstances had conspired to turn the tables on Niels. A hundred miles was knocked off before he stopped dead, and realised that he had come to the end of his petrol. He got out, and refilled the tank from the bidons. Incidentally he made another small discovery. In the pockets of the car were two more pistols, and a batch of papers which proved to be his passport and triptiques, also Conrad’s.

A beautiful dawn broke across the fields, and some of the mental shadows fled. It surprised him to find himself feeling fresh and unfatigued, but he ascribed it to the joy of the road in the early morn, and the feel of a willing car beneath him. On the straightest stretch of road he could not let the thing out, and hills did not seem to exist.

Half an hour later he got a shock. Early as it was, he saw a gendarme on the fringe of the village, with his hand up. His heart quaked, and he pulled up the car. The gendarme looked at a piece of paper which he held in his hand, and scrutinised the number-plates and other points.

“What’s wrong?” asked Wallace innocently.

“Ca va! I am looking for a Renault, m’sieur, that was stolen in Dieppe last night.”

“A Renault? That is curious. I saw a Renault—blue—parked on the side of the road just outside Vesaires.”

“A closed car?”

“Yes.”

“Voilà! I will telephone Vesaires. Merci, m’sieur!”

“Don’t mention it! Cheerio!”

He was now but some fifty miles from Grammont, and the thought was pleasing. Possibly all was well there, for at least Niels and his friends were counted out for the time being. He wished there were some means of getting into touch with Conrad, but it looked as if no news could possibly reach him for days yet.

Already the sun was drying up the mud, and the rain-washed fields and trees were gay with colour. He played with the car like a child with a new and wondrous toy, and before he had exhausted its tricks he saw in the distance the white turrets of the Château Grammont, towering above the trees in the forest that surrounded it.

A run of twenty minutes through a leafy vista brought him to the main gate. It was locked, but old Pierre came out and opened it. On second thoughts Wallace left the car outside and walked up the drive. The first person he saw was Fouchard, pacing to and fro among the roses, hands behind his back and head forward.

“Hullo, Fouchard!”

Fouchard swung round and gazed at him in amazement.

CHAPTER XIX.
BLIND ALLEYS

“Tiens!” exclaimed Fouchard. “This is a surprise! What has happened—and where is Monsieur Conrad?”

“That’s rather a long story,” said Wallace. “But Yolande—is she all right? Have things been quiet here?”

“Mademoiselle is far from all right, but the sight of you ought to revive her. When you failed to return we took it for granted that you had run your necks into the noose.”

“So we did—like a couple of idiots.”

Fouchard suddenly pulled him aside, so that they were both covered by a big flowering shrub.

“Bertha,” he whispered. “I don’t want her to see you yet. We may be able to make capital out of your return. There’s a shady nook yonder, and a seat. Come and tell me exactly what transpired.”

Wallace accompanied him to the spot in question, and there told him what had taken place since the preceding morning. Fouchard listened intently, and revealed surprise when the yacht was mentioned.

“We are dealing with a curious crowd,” he mused. “It was a good stroke on your part to get Niels’s car. What have you done with it?”

“I left it outside the drive.”

“We must hide it.”

“Why should I? The blighters collared mine——”

“I don’t want Bertha to see it.”

“Why not?”

“Because Bertha knows Niels’s programme. At this moment she believes that you and Conrad are safely aboard the yacht, bound for the English coast.”

“You don’t want her to see me?”

“Yes—later, but not that car. If she sees that she will conclude that Niels is not back, and then I shall lose an excellent chance of finding out where that crowd is hiding.”

“You think she will go there?”

“No. But your presence here will come as a tremendous surprise, and she will at once communicate with Niels to warn him that something has gone wrong.”

“By what means?”

“That I hope to discover.”

Wallace nodded, but he thought that Fouchard was concentrating too much upon Niels and his confederates, when the real trouble was centred in the Monster. Personally, he could not see that the possible arrest of Niels would help matters much, for, whatever the secret was, Niels was not the type of man to be coerced into revealing it.

“I’ll take the car farther into the wood,” he said. “There are many splendid hiding-places. While I am gone, will you break the news to Yolande?”

Fouchard nodded, and Wallace left the château and carried out his project. When he returned, Yolande was downstairs, waiting for him on the terrace. She gripped his hand somewhat emotionally, and held it, her own trembling like a leaf.

“It is a wonderful relief,” she murmured. “All night I have been thinking—thinking horrible things. But why—why did you take all that risk?”

“I wanted my car.”

“I see.”

“But that wasn’t the chief reason, Yolande.”

“What—what then?”

“I wanted to be near you. It was only when I was far away that I properly realised the hideous danger that threatens you. I don’t mean from Niels’s party. They are desperate enough, but are not murderers. In any case, Conrad had to get back to England, but I am not so important a personage. If you will let me, I want to try and help solve this perplexing mystery.”

“There is no one more welcome here.”

“That reminds me. Do you think Watkins could put me up over the garage? Of course, Conrad’s departure alters things— I mean, it scarcely seems the thing to—to——”

A little look of disappointment passed over her face. Then she laughed amusedly.

“Oh, you English, you are so prudish! I may have Fouchard in the house, but not you.”

“Of course, it’s all rot, and Grundyish——”

“That’s a new word—I must remember it,” she said. Then, shaking her beautiful head, “I am afraid there is no room over the garage. It looks as if I must get a housekeeper at once to chaperone me.”

“That’s enough,” he said. “I’ll defy convention. Where is the charming Bertha?”

“In the garden.”

“Does she know—about me?”

“Not yet. Fouchard told me not to say anything. Poor Bertha! The more I see of her the more I am convinced that she is a paid tool of those men. But I have tried to buy her over and have failed. Of course, she knows that we suspect her of being an accomplice.”

“Yet she stays.”

“They compel her to. If Bertha would only speak I feel sure we should learn much.”

“Here she is.”

Bertha approached the terrace by the garden steps. As usual, her arms were full of freshly picked flowers, and her attention was so much centred on their beauty that for a few seconds she did not see the two figures before her. When at last she raised her eyes and saw Wallace, there was a fleeting look of astonishment, but she quickly covered it by a wonderful display of innocence.

“They are a little damaged,” she said. “There was much wind yesterday.”

“Put them in the hall, Bertha.”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“That’s got her guessing,” mused Wallace. “I’ll bet she is wondering what on earth has happened.”

Fouchard crept in like a spectre, and looked after the vanishing Bertha.

“I want her watched—every moment from now,” he said. “Will you come, Mr. Wallace?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Go into the garden while I stay here. She is going to signal—or send some kind of warning. If she passes you, follow her. I’m going to guard the telephone.”

He disappeared into the house.

“Not a pleasant job,” said Wallace. “If it were Niels——”

“I’ll come with you,” said Yolande.

“Do.”

He thought she seemed brighter this morning than she had been for many days. Despite the sinister atmosphere of the château, he was glad to be back again with the woman who caused him more mental anxiety and heart palpitation than anything he had yet experienced. She stopped by a bed of bright flowers and picked a sprig, fixing it in his buttonhole with her white, shapely fingers.

“Rosemary—for remembrance,” she said.

“Is it necessary?”

“Necessary?”

“To wear a reminder.”

“Is your memory so good?” she said teasingly.

“If I live to be a hundred, I shall never forget this château, these flowers, and—and you.”

“Is that a vow?”

“More than that—a sacred oath. Yolande, up to now I have been pretty helpless. Everything is so jumbled up. If it would only come to a straight fight—in the open——”

“You have been more helpful than you can possibly imagine,” she murmured. “Women are by nature timid, though they may succeed in keeping a tight lip. At times I’m terribly afraid, not of what might happen—to me, but of the Unknown. I’m superstitious; all women are, however much they pretend not to be. I find myself wondering whether there is such a thing as the supernatural——”

“Rot!”

“But isn’t it strange that, despite our precautions, that—that assassin gets into the château? Niels and the others experience difficulties, but not the Monster. He seems to come and go as if he were not human.”

“We shall discover his secret—in time.”

“I am beginning to doubt it. Fouchard, with all his experience, seems to make little headway.”

“Fouchard is crazy about Niels. He cannot forget that Niels once made him look foolish.”

“It isn’t only that,” she replied, in defence of her countryman. “Fouchard believes that Niels is the key to the whole thing. Whatever Niels wants is also the Monster’s object. He thinks he can bring enough pressure upon Niels to compel him to make a full confession.”

“He will never succeed.”

Yolande’s quick eyes saw Bertha leave the terrace. She whispered this fact to Wallace, and they drew into the shelter of a magnificent yew. Bertha came down the path, and, with a quick look round, cut across the garden and climbed over the wall with the agility of a youth.

“Gone towards the forest,” said Wallace. “Hullo—here is Fouchard!”

“Did you see her?” asked Fouchard.

“Yes. She scaled the wall—yonder.”

“I thought as much. Come along!”

Wallace murmured his excuses to Yolande and went off with the detective. They quickly got on to Bertha’s trail, for they could see her white cap and apron moving among the pines.

“Hefty woman that!” said Wallace.

“Cunning as they make ’em—in Germany.”

“She has cut off to the left.”

“We mustn’t lose her. What the devil is she up to?”

Again they saw Bertha. She was bending over something that was hidden in the bracken. The next moment there was a flutter of wings, and a blue bird rose above the pines, hesitated, and then flew towards the south.

“A pigeon!” said Wallace.

“Yes—the messenger.”

“Cute dodge!”

“Not cute enough. Quick! Don’t let her see us!”

Bertha passed by them and headed for the château. When she had disappeared, Fouchard beckoned Wallace forward. The found the pigeon-cage in the bracken—but nothing else. Fouchard did not seem to be half so disappointed as Wallace had expected.

“It’s as good as the other way,” he mused.

“What is?”

“The pigeon is gone, but another one will take its place, in order that Bertha may always have a messenger at hand. When the next bird is put in the cage we may find a means to bring Niels to us in quick time.”

“I see. And then?”

“Then I shall arrest him, and charge him with the murders of Monsieur Fallières and Severin.”

“What good will that do?”

“I can get him convicted.”

“Though innocent?”

“Zut! I will force the truth from Bertha’s lips. I have no more time to waste. Niels is the key, and I will use him.”

They spent that afternoon in going to the garage of Monsieur Roche, where the Bentley was found. The enterprising garage-owner had taken it upon himself to clean and polish the car, for which service Wallace was pleased to reward him handsomely.

“Do you know the man who brought the car in?” asked Fouchard.

“No, m’sieur. He was a complete stranger to me. I understood that the owner had met with a slight accident, and that he would give instructions about collecting the car.”

There seemed to be no reason for doubting his statement, and Wallace drove the Bentley back to the château.

CHAPTER XX.
BERTHA IS SCARED

Though Fouchard kept the empty pigeon-cage under close observation, it remained empty for several days. He would sit among the trees for hours on end waiting for the arrival of the pigeon which was going to convey his faked message to Niels. But every evening he came to the château with disappointment writ large on his countenance.

“Seem to have deserted us,” he mused. “What have you done with their car?”

“It is still in the garage,” said Wallace. “Perhaps you were wrong in thinking they would replace the pigeon.”

“It is the obvious conclusion. They must keep in touch with Bertha, and the telephone is too dangerous.”

“Mightn’t we be able to save time by having another shot at the cryptogram?” asked Wallace.

“Waste of mental energy,” grunted Fouchard. “I have been over every inch of the cellar, and can see nothing to which the figures might apply. Only the man who wrote them knows what they mean.”

“Yet they must have reference to the cellar,” said Yolande, “for Niels and Bertha were there when you disturbed them.”

“True. But I’ve done all that mortal man can do. What is anyone to gather from that?”

He produced the slip of paper and laid it on the table. Wallace picked up and ran his eye over the inscription:

27
31
36
Steinbech.

“If the figures refer to measurements, where on earth does Steinbech come in?” he mused.

“But are we justified in assuming that it has any connection whatsoever with the mystery?” asked Yolande. “Heinrich said it was a system for playing roulette. There are thirty-six numbers in roulette, and it might be that.”

“Bunkum!” snorted Fouchard. “They were going straight to the place to which these figures have reference—the place where we shall eventually find the solution to this mystery. I made a blunder there—I should have held my hand for a bit, and we should have seen exactly what this priceless hidden thing is that has caused a party of sophisticated people to turn house-breakers. But it is no use crying over spilt milk. I yet have hopes of making Niels or Bertha talk up.”

He put the slip of paper away, for Wallace had no suggestions to put forward. For the past few days there had been no disturbance of any kind at the château, and Wallace and Yolande had spent some delightful hours in the garden, and in the beautiful Forêt de Grammont.

“Have you written to Mr. Conrad?” she asked.

“Yes. But he cannot possibly get my letter until to-morrow at the earliest. He will be relieved to know I am in the land of the living.”

“He did not raise any objections to your—coming back here?”

“Not many. Connie understands.”

“Understands your interest in this mystery?”

He nodded, though he felt like telling her that his interest was divided between it and her.

“He was always good-natured, generous,” she said. “I remember when he first came here, looking pallid and thin from the dreadful ordeal of war. I got to like him so much, and he used to romp with me and laugh at my quaint English. But he never mentioned you.”

“How could he? He didn’t even know I existed. It was after that that he met my father.”

“I had forgotten. How different life was then. There were my mother and father and——”

She gulped and turned her head away, but her spirit was too fine to be crushed by painful memories, and soon she was smiling again.

“At least life is always offering something new, and I am fortunate in having a garden of my own. Do you believe that flowers have sensibility? Sometimes I think they have. When I am sad they seem just a little sad too, but when I am gay every bloom seems to nod on its stalk and turn its head around. When I laugh I imagine the petals shake in the sunshine. Childish, isn’t it?”

“Yes—adorably childish.”

That was the side of her nature which he loved most—even more than the stubborn pride which enabled her to face the danger that existed. She had managed to retain that most lovable thing in life—childhood’s simplicity.

When next they saw Fouchard his impatience was getting beyond control. Despite his vigil in the forest, nothing had happened to further his object. His faked message, couched in his best German, still remained in his pocket-book, for there was no feathered messenger to carry it to its destination.

“By some means or other they must have anticipated my game,” he grumbled. “They have as many eyes as a fly.”

“You think they are back?” asked Yolande.

“Yes. The lure is here. But there must be a change of plan. Of course, the people at Arveyes are keeping their eyes skinned, but if they discover anything at all I shall be surprised.”

“Things are very quiet here,” said Wallace.

Fouchard pointed to the moon, which had just risen. It was nearly at the full.

“According to poor old Severin, we may expect matters to liven up shortly,” he said. “He was so certain that the moon had something to do with it.”

“I am almost ready to believe anything,” said Yolande. “But, of course, there is nothing in that idea.”

“Nothing. Old women’s superstition.”

“And how are things in Paris?” asked Wallace.

“Not too good for me. They are inclined to take the view that these tragedies are of the common type, with robbery as motive. The Monster they write down as a thing of the imagination. That reminds me that I must return to Paris next week. I have to appear at an important trial.”

“Next week! But you will come back here?”

“I hope so. I don’t know how long this trial will take, but I shall have no peace of mind until I get at the bottom of this business. I’ve got three or four days in which to land Niels, and I’m going to do it. Nothing would please me more than to have him as a travelling companion.”

Wallace begged Yolande to play the piano, which she had not done for some time. Soon the romantic strains of a Chopin Nocturne were being borne on the warm night air, while Fouchard, left alone with the Benedictine bottle, enjoyed himself a lot. Wallace was coaxed to sing, and gave an extremely good rendering of Schubert’s “Who is Sylvia?”

“Splendid,” said Yolande, looking up at him with her face aflame with appreciation. “Try another one.”

“Do you know ‘The Erl King’?” asked Fouchard.

“Why not the ‘Dead March’?” retorted Wallace.

Yolande chose the encore piece for him. It was Schubert’s masterpiece, “Impatience,” which called for more passion than Wallace imagined he possessed. But to-night, with Yolande’s hair almost brushing his hand, and the magnetism of her presence strong upon him, he felt in the mood for some outlet to his pent-up emotions. But she was lost in the music, and did not appear to realise that he was singing this to her.

Ere the last note died away there was a rude interruption. A ringing, demoniacal laugh came from without, and a great clod of turf was flung through the half-open window. It fell on the top of the grand piano and slithered across it, shedding brown earth over Yolande’s dress.

“The devil!” ejaculated Fouchard, springing to his feet.

“Don’t go!” called Yolande.

But Fouchard had already passed through the window, with a pistol gripped in his hand. Wallace ached to follow him, but he feared to leave Yolande alone.

“That has happened before,” she said, trembling.

“It’s uncanny—that laugh!”

“The same awful voice. It spoiled that wonderful song—and I was beginning to believe that things were getting better. Did you see anything?”

“No.”

She sat nestling close to him on the settee, and he could feel her heart beating rapidly. It was clear that her nerves were getting unstrung, and that there was a limit to her endurance. When Fouchard returned he shook his head despondently.

“Not a sign of anyone,” he said. “I found a bare place on the lawn outside where the turf had been torn up.”

“Ring the bell, m’sieur,” begged Yolande. “The room is in a terrible mess.”

A maid came in response to Fouchard’s ring. Yolande pointed to the dirt and grass, but the girl did not seem to understand. She appeared to be extremely agitated, and stood nodding her head like a mandarin doll.

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” she stammered at last. “There is a strange noise from Bertha’s room. We have all heard it, but are afraid to go in.”

“What kind of a noise?” asked Fouchard.

“Mon Dieu—terrible! moaning and sobbing.”

Wallace looked at Fouchard, and Fouchard pressed his thin lips together. Yolande gripped the end of the settee.

“I’ll go up,” said Fouchard. “You had better stay with your mistress.”

“I’ll stay too,” said Wallace.

“No—you go with Fouchard,” insisted Yolande. “You—you may be needed.”

The two men hurried into the servants’ quarters, and a scared maid led them to Bertha’s room. As soon as they approached it the noise was audible. It was as if someone were trying to call for help, but was prevented from saying anything articulate. Fouchard pushed open the door.

The room was lighted, and Bertha was sitting in a chair by the dressing-table, her two arms bound to the back of it by a sheet which had been taken from the bed. In her mouth was a sponge—brutally inserted, it appeared, for her lips were bleeding. It was not the normal Bertha, but a terrified woman, with staring eyes and blanched cheeks. Fouchard removed the sponge, while Wallace undid the tightly knotted sheet.

“Water!” gasped Bertha.

Wallace filled a glass from the carafe and held it to her lips. She drank deeply, and took the handkerchief which he offered to remove the blood from her lacerated mouth.

“Now tell us what happened,” asked Fouchard.

“My—my head is swimming.”

“Give her time,” pleaded Wallace. “I suggest we go downstairs. Mademoiselle will be anxious to hear what has transpired here.”

Fouchard was agreeable, and the badly shaken Bertha accompanied them to the drawing-room. The maid, having cleared up the mess, was dismissed.

“Now,” said Fouchard, “we would like to hear exactly what happened in your room.”

Bertha had now recovered some of her habitual composure. She fidgeted a little, and was obviously disinclined to go into details. Fouchard had expected this.

“It is better to tell the truth,” he said bitingly. “We want no imaginary version.”

CHAPTER XXI.
A PROPOSAL

Bertha bridled at Fouchard’s remark, and, to the detective’s chagrin, she shrugged her shoulders and was silent.

“Hm!” he grunted. “As I thought. You——”

“Wait!” cried Yolande. “I would like to speak to Bertha myself.”

“As you wish—as you wish.”

“Bertha,” said Yolande, in a well-controlled voice. “It is useless beating about the bush. I know you are not the ordinary type of maid. You came into my service with an ulterior motive—isn’t that so?”

Bertha hesitated, and then inclined her head.

“Good! Monsieur Fouchard—all of us, in fact—know that you are in league with certain other persons, and that these persons and yourself have a very definite object in view. Do you admit that?”

“Yes. Mademoiselle Fallières, I want you to know that I have done my utmost to be loyal to you——”

“Loyal!” laughed Fouchard scoffingly.

“Be silent, please!” said Yolande.

“Monsieur Fouchard may laugh, but it is true,” resumed Bertha. “You have treated me with kindness, even though you have known for some time that I have been masquerading. It is because of that that I have begged you so often to leave this château——”

“That is out of the question—but continue.”

“It is true we have a definite object in view. I cannot tell you more, for I am pledged to silence. But connected with the achieving of that object there is considerable danger.” Her voice grew tenser. “Why do you not take warning from what has already happened. The danger is not from us, but from another.”

“The creature who came into your room this evening?” put in Fouchard.

“Yes.”

“Is he also after the same thing as you?” queried Wallace.

“I can tell you no more. If it were not that I have a great regard for Mademoiselle Fallières I would not have said so much. Before I leave the château I want to warn you again to take great care.”

“So you are leaving me?” said Yolande.

“It is impossible to stay longer, now that you know I am a masquerader.”

“But I have known it for some time. Bertha, are you being threatened in any way—by those men? Are you a free agent?”

“Yes. Quite—quite free.”

“And do you imagine that I am going to let you slip away so easily?” asked Fouchard bluntly. “I have kept my hands off you because it happened to suit me, but——”

“You are thinking of arresting me?”

“I am—and I can make things very uncomfortable for you. By your silence you are attempting to defeat the ends of justice.”

“I am in your hands,” said Bertha calmly. “But you make a mistake if you think you can convict me of anything. I know the law fairly well, m’sieur. I can prove a complete alibi in respect of the two murders.”

“But you know who did them,” snapped Fouchard.

“So do you, m’sieur.”

Fouchard ground his teeth at this. It was then that Yolande formulated an idea that had taken root during the last two minutes.

“I propose an armistice,” she said.

“What?”

“Wait, m’sieur! Bertha here is but one of a party of four. Suppose we meet the other three at a round-table conference, and talk things over?”

Fouchard was aghast at the bare suggestion, and Wallace was a little taken aback.

“As soon as I lay hands on Niels I shall arrest him,” threatened Fouchard.

“No, you will not,” said Yolande.

“And why not?”

“Because I am making a special request of you. I want to be able to assure Bertha on our words of honour that we will cease to wage war against each other for twelve hours commencing to-morrow at noon. And I want to beg Bertha to bring her friends here in order that I may put before them an important proposal.”

“What?” asked Fouchard.

“That can be discussed later.”

“But it is preposterous! Here are a gang of house-breakers, kidnappers, and——”

“The idea is good,” interrupted Wallace. “What has either side to lose by adopting it? What do you say, Bertha?”

“Is mademoiselle serious?”

“Perfectly serious. I would give much for peace. Fouchard—you will consent?”

“For twelve hours?”

“No longer. If we fail to come to an agreement, we continue where we left off. Isn’t it reasonable enough?”

“I think it is insane,” grumbled Fouchard. “But if it is mademoiselle’s sincere request, I can only answer, noblesse oblige.”

“Good man!” said Wallace. “What do you think about it, Bertha? Will your friends accept?”

“I cannot say. But if M’sieur Fouchard will permit me to leave the château without making any attempt to follow me, I will do my best to bring about a meeting here to-morrow evening at eight o’clock.”

“I promise.”

“Thank you, Fouchard,” said Yolande. “And thank you, Bertha. I think we should be friends and not foes.”

“Would to God it were possible!”

* * * * * * *

On the following afternoon Niels and his two accomplices were talking together in their retreat over a cup of tea. Walther and Heinrich were their usual placid selves, but Niels wore an expression of impatience.

“Rupert’s carelessness has ruined everything,” he said. “To let that young devil escape——”

“You can’t blame Rupert altogether,” said Heinrich. “Not one man in a thousand would have risked a three-mile swim in the Channel at nighttime. That young man has my admiration.”

“He has my car,” snarled Niels. “We have to start all over again.”

“Time is with us,” said Walther. “We know that Fouchard must go to Paris in a few days. It will leave us to deal with the man Wallace.”

“The other man may be back by then. The whole scheme has been ruined by those two infernal Englishmen.”

“But——”

They all started as the door latch moved, and then uttered ejaculations of surprise and welcome as Bertha entered the room. Niels gazed at her a trifle suspiciously, for Niels had cause to believe that Bertha was becoming too attached to Yolande.

“What now?” he asked.

“I saw him last night.”

“What!”

“He entered my room. Oh, horrible—horrible. I was frightened, and tried to run, but he lashed me to a chair and gagged me. Then he produced a razor. I thought my last moment had come, but he laughed madly and went out.”

“Do you think he recognised you?”

“I don’t know. I felt I was choking, and tried to cry out. Some of the servants must have heard me, but they were too scared to come it. They brought Fouchard.”

“Well?”

“Fouchard questioned me. Ultimately we went down to mademoiselle. Of course, I could not say much.”

“What do you call much?” asked Niels.

“Nothing at all about—what we want. They—they know all about me—about my connections with you men.”

“That was obvious.”

“I told mademoiselle I would leave at once.”

“Why?”

“Because the situation is impossible. Her interest and ours conflict so much that I refuse to masquerade any longer.”

“You can’t,” said Walther, “since she already knows.”

“What I mean is that I prefer to be an open foe—if that is the right word. But wait! At the end she made a strange suggestion. She wants me to bring you three to a kind of armistice conference. She says she has an important proposal to put forward that may be acceptable to——”

“Splendid!” scoffed Niels. “And we are to walk up there and hold out our hands for M’sieur Fouchard to slip his pretty bracelets over. Really!”

“Let me finish!” said Bertha. “There is more sense in this than you imagine. Fouchard has given his word of honour that he will keep this armistice to the letter—twelve hours from noon to-day. You can trust him, Niels. This is no trick. He would not consent at first, but mademoiselle won him over—with Wallace’s help.”

“Queer situation!” mused Heinrich. “You have no idea what this proposal embodies?”

“None. She would not even tell Fouchard.”

“It would be madness to go there,” said Niels. “What is there for us to discuss with them?”

“But if we can trust their words of honour no harm could come of such a meeting. We have nothing against that party—except that they obstruct us,” said Heinrich.

“I agree,” put in Walther. “Armistices have a strange way of putting an end to wars. Bertha is a splendid judge of character. She ought to be in a position to assure us that there is no trickery behind this invitation.”

“I will absolutely vouch for them,” said Bertha. “Come, Niels, be reasonable.”

“So much is at stake,” said Niels grimly. “A false step and all will be lost. I cannot see that any good can come of this, but I am willing to fall in with you others. It will be a fine joke to chat with Fouchard.”

“Eight o’clock to-night, then—at the château.”

“We shall be there. How did you get here?”

“I hired a car at Arveyes, but left it a good distance away. Have no fear—the driver is an idiot.”

“I’ll drive you back,” said Niels. “We’ve got a wonderful piece of mechanism that drops spare parts all over the road. We drive it ‘all out’ at twenty-five miles an hour. Perhaps I may induce mademoiselle to sell me my own car?”

So Bertha was dropped by Niels in the forest outside the château, for he was not the type of man to take any unnecessary risk. Bertha at once conveyed the news of her success to Yolande, who passed it on to Wallace and Fouchard.

“Most irregular!” grumbled Fouchard. “What has she got up her sleeve?”

“We shall soon know,” replied Wallace.

CHAPTER XXII.
THE MEETING

Niels and his confederates arrived punctually on the stroke of eight, and were shown into the drawing-room. Yolande and Bertha were not yet present, but Fouchard and Wallace were. The former’s eyes gleamed when they beheld the shaggy-headed Niels, and Niels returned the look with interest. But Walther and Heinrich were bland as usual—even smiling.

“Please sit down,” said Wallace. “Mademoiselle will be here in a few minutes.”

“So we meet again, Mr. Wallace,” said Niels, as he occupied the big armchair which was better suited to Walther’s frame.

“Of course! Did you imagine we should not?” replied Wallace.

“I had certain doubts.”

“You probably overlooked the fact that Englishmen are a bit amphibious.”

“A novel idea—an armistice,” said Walther. “Did it originate with Monsieur Fouchard?”

“You know it didn’t,” said Fouchard. “But women usually get their way with men. Make no mistake, my friends—my heart is not in this table-talk.”

“Nor mine,” said Niels.

Walther waved his big white hand, like the born peacemaker.

“If we start like this, there isn’t much hope of success,” he said. “At least let us keep the spirit of the thing.”

“Hear, hear!” agreed Heinrich. “If m’sieur wants our heads he may have them to-morrow or the next day. I’m sorry your sea voyage was curtailed, Mr. Wallace. I quite envied you.”

“Ah—here is mademoiselle!” said Fouchard.

Yolande entered the room with Bertha. She was attired in a black velvet evening dress which suited her to perfection, and she smiled and nodded at the men.

“Please be seated,” she said. “I am sorry to be late. Bertha, will you sit next your—friends?”

Niels was twisting his thumbs impatiently, and Fouchard looked as if he wanted to get the farce over. But Walther and Heinrich were more resigned. There was something deeply arrestive in the pale majestic figure of Yolande, and their eyes were focused on her all the time.

“There is no need for preliminaries,” she said. “Bertha has told you exactly what has taken place recently. I have not much to say, but I beg you to consider it carefully. In the first place, may I presume that none of you have any animus against me or against my friends?”

“Not in the least,” said Walther. “We were compelled to take—certain steps.”

“Such as kidnapping?” put in Wallace.

“Well—yes.”

“And I am right in assuming that there is something in or about this château which it is your intention to remove?”

“That is so,” replied Niels.

“It is of value to you?”

“Yes.”

“And to me?”

“No,” said Walther.

“Yes,” added Niels firmly.

“Which of you am I to believe?”

There was no reply to this question, but Bertha looked hard at Niels, and Walther moved uneasily.

“Once you have what you require you will trouble me no more—is that so?”

“Absolutely.”

Her eyes grew a little hard, and the white hands on the polished walnut table became clenched.

“And the other party in this mystery—the elusive assassin who murdered my father and Severin—will the removal of what you want cause him to cease troubling us?”

Niels murmured “Yes,” and the others nodded their heads.

“Then he too wants the same thing?”

“Yes,” said Niels.

“Why hasn’t he located it? He has been haunting this place for two years—behaving like a demented creature. Does it mean you have a clue that he does not possess?”

“Yes,” said Walther. “But——”

Niels stopped him with a look. Yolande waited for him to resume, but was met with a stony silence.

“Well,” she said slowly. “Here is my proposal—my offer. I give you whatever lies buried here. You are here—on the spot. Take what you want and leave me in peace.”

“What!” gasped Fouchard.

“I mean it. Remember your promise, Fouchard. They cannot take the château or the land. I have no use for buried treasure, and if it rids this place of that other murderous searcher then I shall be well repaid.”

The visitors were staring at each other curiously. Wallace imagined there would be an immediate acceptance, but he was wrong. Niels’s face was like a mask, and Heinrich looked doubtful. It was Bertha who strove to work for peace.

“Why not, Niels?” she begged. “Mademoiselle is generous. Don’t you think——”

“Wait!” said Niels. “Mademoiselle Fallières, would you permit us to be alone for five minutes—no more?”

“Certainly! Let us go to the terrace, Fouchard. Mr. Wallace, will you get me a wrap from the hall?”

When they had gone, Niels closed the door firmly behind them and came back to the table.

“They know nothing,” he said. “Nothing!”

“But she has given her word, Niels.”

“Would she keep it—in the circumstances?”

“Yes.”

“But would Fouchard? I tell you it is impossible. Walther—Heinrich, are you mad, to think of such a thing? You know Fouchard by now. He is out of sympathy with the whole thing. He might hold his hand to-night, but not to-morrow. There would be no time. No—I will not have it.”

“I think Niels is right,” said Heinrich. “It requires more time. They must be got out of the way. Fouchard is the greatest danger—he hates us, and will never relent.”

“Do you think that, Walther?” asked Bertha.

“I don’t know. I feel almost inclined to take the risk.”

“Risk! There is no question of risk,” rasped Niels. “The outcome would be inevitable. We must work alone I tell you. Besides, our chances are better than ever before. Fouchard will go soon, and we have discovered the other place. It means work—hard work—but there are four of us. In four days we could achieve it, without coming here at all.”

“That is true.”

“Then have done with this parleying. Our interests are so opposed they cannot be harmonised by any display of sentiment. I am finished.”

“Yes. There is no more to be said. Shall I ask them to come inside?”

“Wait!” cried Bertha. “I believe you are all wrong. Delay might be fatal——”

“Call them in,” interrupted Niels. “Bertha, you must leave this in my hands. I am grateful for all you have done, but the risks are greater than you believe.”

Bertha said no more, and Walther opened the door and brought Yolande and the others from the terrace.

“Well?” asked Yolande. “Have you decided?”

“We have,” said Niels. “We appreciate your desire to bring about a peaceful solution, but it cannot be done. We regret we must decline your offer.”

“Good!” said Fouchard, with his eyes sparkling.

“I’m sorry,” said Yolande heavily.

“So much for talk,” scoffed Fouchard. “Now, my friends, we know where we stand. I’ve wasted valuable time, but I’m going to get you before long.”

“Steady, Fouchard!” pleaded Wallace.

“I fear I must bid you good-bye, mademoiselle,” said Bertha. “I can stay no longer.”

“I understand.”

“I will get my belongings.”

As she left the room the telephone bell rang. Fouchard went to the instrument and picked up the receiver.

“Call from London,” he said.

“I expect that is Conrad,” said Wallace. “I had forgotten he could get through here.”

“Hello—hello! Yes, Mr. Wallace is here. This is Fouchard speaking. How are you, Mr. Conrad?”

“Does he want me?” asked Wallace.

“Yes.”

Wallace went to the telephone. Conrad’s voice came through quite clearly. There was about a minute’s conversation and then they were rung off suddenly. Wallace came to Fouchard.

“He had discovered something,” he said. “He is coming over at once. Jove, it must be important, for he has appointed a deputy at the Congress. It has something to do with Steinbech.”

“Steinbech! The name on the paper?”

“So it is. I had forgotten.”

Fouchard swung round to see Niels’s face curiously agitated, and Walther seemed equally disturbed.

“We seemed to have got on the trail by an accident,” mused Fouchard. “Does Steinbech convey anything to you, my friend?”

“Nothing!” snarled Niels.

“Well, it does to me, and it does to Mr. Conrad, or he would not be coming over here. Your decision just now was a trifle premature, it seems. But it is too late to recant. At last we have the key to the mystery.”

Niels laughed scornfully, but it was obvious that the whole trio was startled by this piece of news. When Bertha returned with her bag they drove off, and Fouchard rubbed his hands.

“We’re on the trail. I knew the key lay in that piece of paper. Did you see their expressions?”

“It’s a pity we gave them warning,” said Wallace. “But for the moment I forgot I had heard the name before.”

“But why did they not accept my offer?” asked Yolande.

“They don’t trust us. Obviously the thing they want is of such value they suspect we may change our minds later. Pity Conrad was cut off like that. I want more information. Can I telephone him?”

“He is in the provinces. I doubt if you could get on to him. Besides, he said he was coming at once. If he leaves London to-morrow he may be here by the evening.”

“Well, we must wait for him. Steinbech—Steinbech, and the figures! What the devil do they mean?”

“Conrad evidently knows. It looks as if he has stolen all our thunder. We haven’t been able to see the wood for trees.”

“I wonder if your optimism is justified,” said Yolande. “What did Mr. Conrad say exactly?”

“He said that by a stroke of wonderful luck he had stumbled across what might prove to be the key to the solution of this mystery. He said it all rested with a man named Steinbech, but instead of getting down to brass tacks he started to tell me how he was walking up a street in Manchester when he suddenly saw— The wretched operator cut me off then.”

“I wonder if he means that he saw this man Steinbech. But he wouldn’t know him if he did,” mused Fouchard. “It’s a pity he didn’t start his story two minutes earlier.”

“I suppose he reckoned there was plenty of time. He is always keen to make a yarn of anything. Anyway we shall be seeing him within forty-eight hours. What will be Niels’s next move, I wonder?”

CHAPTER XXIII.
A CALL FOR HELP

A telegram from Conrad arrived the next morning. It informed Wallace that he would arrive at Arveyes on the ten o’clock train the following morning.

“Good!” said Fouchard. “That will still give me two days. I was never more keen to unravel a mystery in my life. I’ll come along with you and meet him if I may.”

Wallace was quite agreeable, and he went into the garage to tinker about with the Bentley. The first thing he saw was Watkins lying in a corner with his hands bound and a gag in his mouth. Then he noticed that the captured car was gone.

“Damn!” he muttered, and set the chauffeur free.

“What has happened, Watkins?” he asked.

The chauffeur gasped for breath and rubbed his cramped limbs, muttering something about “them blasted Huns” under his breath.

“Last night,” he eventually said aloud, “I was just about to turn in when someone knocked. I thought it was you or M’sieur Fouchard. Lumme! I had scarcely poked my head outside the door when something was clapped over my nose. It put me off in a jiff. That’s all I know about it.”

“They’ve taken their car.”

“So that’s what they were after?”

“Yes. We ought to have put it out of action.”

Fouchard received the news with a scowl.

“So much for their word of honour,” he said. “They used the first opportunity to bring off a coup.”

“I’m not so sure—this may have happened after midnight. I’m grateful that they didn’t mess up the Bentley.”

On the following morning the two men set out for Arveyes, arriving there a trifle early. They discovered that the train was already forty minutes late, so Fouchard killed time by visiting the local police, whilst Wallace sat and smoked at the small café next the station.

“Brilliant lot!” grumbled Fouchard on his return. “They haven’t a notion where Niels and his friends are hiding. Here comes the train.”

When the few passengers had alighted, it became apparent that Conrad was not amongst them. There was no other long-distance train until the evening, so they went back to Grammont in the hope of finding a telegram. But nothing had arrived.

“There would scarcely be time,” said Yolande. “It takes hours and hours for a telegram to reach us. No doubt he realises that, and will arrive by the next train.”

“I wonder?” said Fouchard mysteriously.

“You don’t think that Niels——”

“Why not? That man would move heaven and hell to prevent our discovering his secret. Last night he came and stole his car. They must have pushed it a good way, for I sleep lightly and heard no noise. Why did they need the car so urgently?”

“By Jove—yes,” said Wallace. “They had time to get to Calais and waylay Conrad. I believe you have hit upon the truth, Fouchard.”

“I’m sure of it. We were fools to give them the cue. Without Conrad’s help we are as we were.”

“Let us wait and see what the next train brings,” pleaded Yolande. “To kidnap anyone at Calais is not an easy matter.”

So the two men went to the station in the evening, and saw the train in. There were but a dozen passengers for Arveyes, and no Conrad.

“The devil!” said Fouchard viciously.

Wallace came home alone, for Fouchard had business to attend to in Arveyes, and said he would walk back later. He had scarcely got the car into the garage when a small boy was seen nosing round the château.

“What do you want?” asked Wallace in French.

“Je cherche M’sieur Wallace.”

“I am he.”

The boy produced a piece of paper from his blouse. Some words were scrawled on it in French—so badly that he could scarcely decipher them. But at last he succeeded. The message ran:

“Am a prisoner at a farm three kilos from Basset. It is called Mont Rouge. Messenger writing at my dictation as I cannot use hands.—

“Conrad.”

He bade the boy wait and went inside the château to find Yolande. She saw at once that he had news of some importance.

“A message?”

“Yes—from Conrad. That gang have got him. Do you know a village called Basset?”

“Yes—it is twenty-five kilometres from here.”

“Read that.”

She did so and pursed her lips reflectively.

“Is it a ruse?”

“I don’t think so. But I’ll get the boy in and see what we can wring from him.”

The wondering boy was duly cross-questioned. His story had every sign of truth. He lived near Mont Rouge and had lost a kitten. On going near the farm he heard strange noises. They came from a cellar—through a grating. At first he ran away, but he crept back again and saw a face. Gaining courage, he got closer. A man behind the bars told him to write what he had written, and to bring it along to a M’sieur Wallace, who would reward him. He did not see anyone else on the farm. He thought the man who owned the place was away on holiday.

“Sounds genuine enough,” said Wallace. “Let me look up the map.”

He found Basset easily, and its position gave him reason to believe that at last they had located the hiding-place of Niels.

“I’m going there at once,” he said.

“Better take Fouchard.”

“I left him in Arveyes.”

“You can ring him up at the police station.”

“I’ll try.”

He got on to the gendarmerie, but was informed that Fouchard had just left, and was on his way back to Grammont.

“I can’t wait, Yolande. When Fouchard comes back tell him where I have gone. He can come after me. I hate to leave you alone, but I can’t miss this opportunity.”

“No, you must go, of course. But I wish you were not alone. Why not take Watkins?”

“I think he is better here,” he said significantly.

Then he remembered an important fact, and asked the boy how he managed to get to Grammont from so remote a place as Basset. The boy replied instantly. He had climbed on to the tank of a motorcar after it had stopped for petrol, and had had a free ride to within a mile of the château.

“He’s genuine,” said Wallace. “I’ll take him back with me.”

“You—you will take care?” she begged. “I fear they are capable of violence in an emergency.”

“I know it. But Fouchard will know where I am He ought to arrive an hour or so after me.”

She went outside the château to see him off, and ere he departed she gripped his hand warmly.

“Come back soon,” she murmured. “You—you seem part of my very existence.”

It was so unexpected he let his foot slip on the clutch and the Bentley almost jumped towards the gate. His heart was thrilled, for it was the first definite sign of anything more than friendship on her part. The boy had evidently never been a passenger in a fast car before, and he sat huddled in the corner of his seat like a frightened mouse, whilst the Bentley roared down the road.

“Which way?”

“Tout droit!”

Ten miles farther on the boy pointed to the left, but he left it rather late and the car performed a nerve-racking skid.

“Mon Dieu!”

“All right, sonny! There are some lights in the distance. Is that Basset?”

The boy gulped and nodded, and a few minutes later the straggling village was entered. It was a poverty-stricken district, for the war had desolated the place, and all kinds of weird and wonderful dwellings had been built upon the old ruins, out of corrugated iron, old army huts and so forth. Beyond these there was a network of narrow roads, and the boy’s local knowledge had to be resorted to at every few minutes.

At last Mont Rouge came to view. It was a squat farmhouse lying some distance off the road, and the only vehicular approach was so deep in mud that Wallace decided to leave the car under some trees, on a kind of “island” near the junction of the farm-track with the main road.

The boy showed no great desire to approach the dark farm, so Wallace got a few more details from him, and paid him off. He then climbed over the fence and made his way across the meadows to where Mont Rouge could be seen silhouetted against the moonlit sky. So far as he could see, there was not a gleam of light about the place, and he began to fear that Conrad must have been taken away since he had sent the message.

He remembered to bring a small electric torch with him, and with the aid of this he explored the back of the building, for the boy had informed him that the grating through which he had seen the face of Conrad was situated opposite an outhouse. He reached a door and gently tried the handle. It was locked. The light from the torch revealed tyre marks not far from him, and he saw that these led into a shed. But the shed was empty, though there was evidence that a car had been parked there recently.

At last he found the grating. It was a small affair—less than a foot in diameter and about the same depth. He knelt down and flashed the torch through it. Immediately the ray fell on a familiar face, and he uttered a low cry of joy.

“Connie!”

“Good lad! I wondered if you were coming.”

“Is any of the gang here?”

“I’m not sure. I heard the car leave about three hours ago, but could not see who was in it.”

“How can I get in?”

“Have you tried the doors?”

“I’ve tried the one close by. Is there another at the front?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll go there. Keep quiet—I’ll be with you before very long.”

He went round the house and found the front entrance, but this, like the back, was in darkness and the door was locked. There was a kind of portico above it, supported by small pillars over which grew wistaria. The gnarled trunk gave him footing, and he swarmed on to the top and tried the bedroom window. It was latched, but there was room between the sashes through which to insert the blade of his knife. In two minutes he was inside. It was poorly furnished, contained an old four-post bed and a few awful prints. The door led him into the corridor from which a staircase descended. He went down this cautiously, for the stairs were old and creaked badly.

On reaching the hall he was in a quandary, for there were three doors leading off, but after a moment’s reflection he chose the farthermost one, believing that it would lead him to the kitchen and thence to the cellar. He was turning the handle when he heard a noise from behind, and swung round to see Walther facing him.

Wallace’s hand dived for his pistol, but Walther divined his intention and sprang at him like a panther. Despite his big size he was wonderfully agile, and his hands reached Wallace before the pistol could be got into action. The torch fell to the floor, but the hall was well illuminated by a light from the room from which Walther had emerged.

“Got you!” grunted Walther.

But he sadly underestimated the strength of his opponent. Wallace, though two stone lighter, was built like a gun, and was literally spoiling for a fight. He tripped Walther neatly, and the pair fell with a resounding bump, clutched in each other’s arms. Wallace had the good fortune to be on top, but his advantage did not last long. With a Herculean effort Walther flung him backward, and in a second was on his feet again.

It was now plain pugilism, in which all the odds were on the younger man. He forgot all about the pistol, and framed up to his stalwart adversary. Walther had some knowledge of the game, but not enough to compete with the trained boxer. In the confined space the fight went on for five minutes—a savage affair in which hard blows were struck. Then Walther began to show signs of distress. Reduced to the defensive, he strove to cover his jaw from the lightning drives. But Wallace was old at the game. He planted his right into the big ribs and as Walther’s hands came down he drove his left to the jaw.

There came a sound like a horse falling, and Walther’s fifteen stone lay huddled up on the dirty linoleum. Wallace immediately dragged the heavy body through the end door. It led to a stone-flagged kitchen and on one side of it was a capacious larder, with two stout bolts on the door. He shoved Walther inside and rammed home the bolts.

Retrieving his torch he discovered the door which led to the cellar. Twelve stone steps led down into the darkness, and there was another bolted door at the bottom. Inside this, lying on a pile of wood and coke, was Conrad, trussed like a fowl ready for roasting.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Walther. I had to deal with him. By Jove, they didn’t mean you to escape!”

“They pushed a filthy rag into my mouth, but I managed to get rid of it.… Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“The car. They’re back!”

Wallace heard it now—and voices. He slashed at the rope with his knife, and the bonds fell away.

“Quick!” he said. “We haven’t a moment to spare.”

But Conrad was slow, for one of his legs refused to function properly. Wallace rubbed it for him with all the vigour he possessed.

“Better?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll get out the way I came in—upstairs and through the bedroom window. Hurry!”

They reached the kitchen and heard Walther dealing smashing blows at the larder door. As Wallace reached the bedroom landing the front door opened. He looked back and saw Bertha about to enter. She saw him and also Conrad at the same moment.

“Niels!”

“Neck or nothing, Connie—come on!”

Both of them jumped clean from the portico on to a soft patch of pampas grass, and immediately made out of the garden and across the fields. When they were close upon the road Conrad looked back and saw two blazing car lights moving slowly—but towards them.

“They’re giving chase,” he said.

CHAPTER XXIV.
CHECK!

Wallace found his car and was moving in a few seconds. More by luck than judgment he found his way through the network of roads into Basset. From there it was straight going except for two turnings.

“What was it you discovered, Connie?”

“I discovered who Steinbech is, and I think I know what those figures signify— By Jove, they’re following—and gaining!”

Wallace could see the reflection of the other car’s lights in his driving mirror. There were three persons aboard, so it was obvious that Walther had been set free.

“They are desperate this time,” he said. “They know that you have hit upon the secret and mean to stop us from using that knowledge.”

Zip! A bullet hit the road alongside the car, and the report followed later. Wallace set his mouth firmly and “opened out.” At terrific pace the Bentley roared up the road, but the lights in the driving mirror seemed no farther away.

Zip! Zip! Two more bullets hit the road and went whining into the air.

“This is the devil!” said Conrad.

“It isn’t us they are aiming at.”

“The tank?”

“No. That wouldn’t pull us up quick enough. The target is a back tyre. God knows what will happen if they succeed, for the road is as greasy as pork.”

“Have you got your pistol?”

“In my pocket.”

“I’m going to have a pot at them,” said Conrad. “Hanged if I can sit here and calmly serve as a target.”

He extracted the pistol and let off two rounds. But it seemed to have no effect upon the speed of the overtaking car.

“Let ’em come,” muttered Conrad. “I’ll plant a bullet or two in their front tyres. That ought to cause them some excitement.”

Wallace eased off a trifle, but still maintained a prodigious speed. The other car came nearer and nearer, and Conrad rested the barrel of the pistol on the back of the seat. He was about to let loose when a regular volley came from behind, and simultaneously a different kind of report was heard closer at hand. Unfortunately the Bentley was just taking the corner, when the near-side tyre became deflated from a bullet puncture. The car bumped alarmingly, and got into a frightful skid. Conrad had a kind of futuristic vision of hedges, signposts, and telegraph post all jumbled up, and a second later he was flung clean out of his seat and over the hedge.

Wallace, more prepared for the inevitable, suffered less. He made a great effort to prevent the car from overturning, and succeeded by ramming her nose into a heap of sand on the roadside. But the violent stoppage took the skin off his knees and elbows, and almost stunned him.

He saw the other car pass the turning and pull up dead. Three figures leapt from it and made towards him. Vainly he searched for the pistol—and was dumbfounded to discover suddenly that Conrad was no longer with him. Niels came running forward with a pistol in his hand.

“Put up your hands!” he snapped.

In reply, Wallace picked up the jack-handle—a fairly heavy bar of iron—and crouched behind the car.

“Come and get me,” he said.

“Better come quietly.”

“Careful, Niels! Look!”

Walther pointed up the road, and Niels cursed to see car lights approaching at a great speed. Wallace turned his head sharply and recognised the oncoming car. It was Yolande’s Hispano, and he had no doubt that Fouchard was aboard. He waved his hands.

“The police!” exclaimed Heinrich. “Quick!”

The trio beat an instant retreat. Fouchard jumped from the Hispano before it stopped and ran forward. He was followed by two gendarmes.

“What has happened? Was that Niels?”

“Yes—the whole gang.”

“Mon Dieu—after them, Laroche!”

“It’s no use—you haven’t a chance,” said Wallace. “Conrad is lying somewhere about—injured, I fear.”

“I can’t miss this opportunity.”

“It’s no opportunity. The Hispano can’t look at that car. They are off already—see! I know where they hang out, and will direct you in a few minutes. Help me find Conrad.”

Fouchard fumed as the other car went speeding away. In any case, the Bentley was too much across the road to permit the Hispano to pass.… They found Conrad over the hedge. He had hit his head against something and was quite unconscious. Wallace found a nasty wound just over the right temple.

“Better get him to the château, and call a doctor,” he said, after they had carried Conrad into the Hispano. “The Bentley seems to be all right except for a burst tyre, but her beauty is ruined.”

After making sure that nothing else was wrong, Wallace sped them away and then changed his back wheel. He overtook them before they reached the château, and was able to help Fouchard carry Conrad to a bedroom. Yolande came in with agitated face.

“I have rung for a doctor,” she said. “Do you think he is seriously injured?”

“Impossible to tell. What a rotten time he has had! Did you tell the doctor it was urgent?”

“Yes. He should be here in a quarter of an hour.”

“There is nothing I can do here,” said Fouchard. “Where exactly is Niels’s rendezvous?”

Wallace told him how to reach the place, and Fouchard started off immediately with the excited gendarmes. The doctor lost no time in coming to the château, and Wallace and Yolande awaited his verdict anxiously.

“Concussion,” he said. “He has sustained a bad blow, but I think there is no danger. In all probability he will regain consciousness by to-morrow morning.”

He did all he possibly could for the unconscious man, and then left, after promising to call on the morrow.

“He ought to have a nurse,” said Yolande. “But it is impossible to get one to-night.”

“I’ll shift my bed into his room,” said Wallace. “Poor old Connie! He seems to receive all the bad knocks.”

“Did he tell you how they managed to capture him?”

“No. There wasn’t time. I had scarcely set him free when Niels returned. They followed us by car and burst my back tyre with a pistol shot. But for Fouchard’s timely arrival, the pair of us would have been taken back to the cellar.”

“And you don’t even know what it is that he has to tell us?”

“That’s the worst of it. He was about to tell me when the gang started shooting. Here we are right on the verge of the solution, but helpless until Conrad is able to speak.”

Two hours passed before Fouchard returned with the Hispano. He was covered with mud and would not say a word until he had had a clean up. From this fact Wallace deduced that once again the gang had been too smart for him.

“Well,” said Wallace at last. “Did you find the place?”

“Yes, but the birds had flown. We ransacked it, but found nothing. They had taken their bags and belongings, so it will be useless looking there again.”

“They haven’t gone far.”

“I’m not so sure. Now that we have Conrad we can get to the bottom of this thing. I think they have shot their last bolt.”

“There is another hitch, Fouchard.”

“Eh?”

“Conrad has concussion. We shall learn nothing from him to-night.”

“That is bad luck. I am due in Paris to-morrow night. But I shall not go.”

“But you said——”

“They will have to do without my evidence for a day or two. I am not going to Paris before this affair is cleared up. I shall wire them to-morrow. If it had been me that was thrown out of the car instead of your friend I could not go to Paris. Very well, I will have concussion or yellow fever.”

“Splendid!” said Yolande. “If it were not for poor Mr. Conrad I should feel more hopeful to-night than I have felt for many days. I have an intuition that we are coming out into the light.”

Fouchard had a big pile of official documents to wade through, so he offered to do the work in Conrad’s room. Wallace was grateful, but he suspected that, although Fouchard’s offer was more or less disinterested, he yet had hopes that Conrad might recover sufficiently to be able to solve the enigma of the slip of paper.

“I’m glad Fouchard is staying,” said Yolande. “For, despite his belief, I feel sure that Niels has not yet thrown up the sponge. He knows that Conrad has made an important discovery, but that may drive him into making a last furious attempt to outwit us.”

“Perhaps. But we should be able to deal with them.”

They were walking up and down the terrace, with the light of the full moon full upon them. From a tree in the abyss beneath them an owl set up an eerie hoot, and Wallace felt Yolande’s hand close upon his arm.

“Only an owl.”

“I dislike them intensely. I heard one on that dreadful night when my father——”

“Don’t think of that.”

“Most of the horror has gone now. It was the first blow that was almost unbearable. Do you believe in an after-life?” she added suddenly.

“I don’t know. I can’t see why there should be. If the soul is immortal, why cannot it remember what it was before it entered our bodies on this earth?”

“It may all be there—in our subconscious mind. It seems to me that all this love which we cherish—the vast pyramid of affection and devotion that we build up from the day we are born—cannot be shattered in a moment, as if it never existed. You know, sometimes I feel that my father is with me—telling me to hold on, to have courage and all will come right. It has helped to dispel depression, and sometimes, when I have wakened in the middle of the night in one of those appalling terrors that are born in dreams, I have imagined I have seen him smiling at me. Do you think that is rubbish?”

“Why should it be? I’ll admit it has never happened to me. But that is no argument.”

“Are you never afraid?”

“What is being afraid? I don’t quite know. I certainly get a cold sensation down my spine when queer things happen that I can’t account for. I suppose all fear is a kind of ignorance. Even this—this strange demented being who so consistently eludes us—would not be in the least fearful if we knew exactly who he was, and all about his intentions.”

“Aren’t they the same as Niels’s?”

“That is the logical conclusion. Now you’re trembling.”

“I can’t help it,” she said. “I’m not afraid—not now, but I dread to think of the day when you will go—for good.”

“Suppose I don’t go for good?”

“But you must. Your work lies in England, and—well, of course, our companionship must end. I shall never be able to express my gratitude to you and Mr. Conrad for your help, and your company when I needed it so badly.”

“Yolande!”

There was a curious tremor in his voice, and it caused her to draw her breath quickly.

“When I went away earlier in the evening you said that I—I had become almost a part of your existence. Is that—quite true?”

“I—I——”

“You meant that?”

“Yes.”

“Then let me know the worst or the best now. I love you, Yolande. It seems an impertinence to tell you after having known you for only a month. But I can’t help myself—I love you to distraction. It isn’t friendship—or sympathy for a woman who has suffered much. Those count too—but love dominates them. Tell me I’m not asking—too much?”

She hung her head for a moment, and then raised it and looked straight into his eyes, with orbs that seemed to contain a sacred fire.

“I love you too, Ralph,” she replied softly.

There in the moonlight, on the haunted terrace of the Château Grammont, he kissed her on the lips, and thought he heard in place of the hooting owl the carolling of celestial voices.

CHAPTER XXV.
THE FINAL BLOW

By the morning Conrad’s condition was little changed, though Wallace thought that the pulse was a trifle stronger. His own rest had been very broken, for the doctor had left instructions for hot-water bottles to be applied to the sides and feet of the unconscious man, and these had had to be refilled at intervals. The sight of his best friend lying there so pallid and still affected him deeply, and robbed him of some of the joy that Yolande’s confession had given birth to.

Fouchard came in at an early hour to see how things were progressing, but shook his head sadly when he saw the still form. He stayed while Wallace took his bath, but nothing that he could do would bring a sound from the closed lips.

“I’m worried about him,” said Wallace. “If anything were to happen——”

“I don’t think there is any danger. I’ve seen cases of concussion before. Once they come round they pick up very quickly. It’s such a pity when he is in possession of valuable information. That paper——”

“Damn the paper! I’m more concerned about Conrad.”

“That’s natural, of course.”

“Have you seen Yolande this morning?”

“Not yet. She said she would send for a nurse.”

“I doubt if she will get one to stay. The château has such an evil reputation. I wish the doctor would come. He said he would pay an early visit.”

“Did you see that?” asked Fouchard suddenly. “He moved his lips, I’ll swear! Look—there it is again!”

There was no doubting it this time. Wallace’s heart beat a new note, for it was the first movement of any kind that he had observed since the night before.

“Conrad!” cried Fouchard loudly.

“S-sh! What the devil are you doing?”

“It’s all right—the usual thing. Sometimes a shout will arouse them to full consciousness. Conrad!”

“I don’t trust your medical knowledge,” grumbled Wallace.

“Zut! I’ve seen men with half their heads blown off brought round this way. You feel his pulse—it is going well.”

This was true, and there were more slight facial movements. Fortunately the doctor turned up a few minutes later. He examined the patient thoroughly and nodded his head.

“Well?”

“I think he is coming round. In any case there is no need for apprehension. I will leave some calomel pills which must be given to him as soon as he becomes conscious. Did mademoiselle get a nurse?”

“Not yet.”

“I don’t think she will be required. As a matter of fact, one hears strange stories about the château. You might get a nurse from Paris, but in the country where superstition is rife I fear that the grim happenings here have an effect upon the natives. Well, the pulse is much better. He is out of danger.”

It was an hour later when Conrad opened his eyes, and tried to focus them on objects about the room. At last they rested on Wallace’s face.

“Connie!”

The pale face became querulous. Conrad was trying to recall the past, without much success. It came as a shock to Wallace to realise that he was not recognised.

“Don’t you know me, Connie?”

“Ralph!”

“Splendid! That’s good enough for the time being. Don’t worry, old man. It will all come to you in time.”

Fouchard slipped through the door, and smiled joyfully to see the patient’s eyes open.

“So he’s come round?”

“Yes. But you aren’t going to start bombarding him with questions yet.”

“It wouldn’t take a minute.”

“He wouldn’t understand. What difference does an hour or two make?”

“Perhaps not. What’s that?”

Wallace called “Entrez!” in response to the soft knock on the door, and a maid entered. He thought she had come to tidy up the room, but instead she broke into voluble French, with much hand movement. Her brogue was so strong he did not get the gist of it for a moment, but Fouchard’s expression, coupled with the mention of “mademoiselle,” was enough to set his heart bounding.

“What’s that?” he queried.

“Mademoiselle—has vanished.”

“Great heavens!”

Fouchard turned to the trembling girl, wagging his finger at her as if she were a child.

“You are sure mademoiselle did not sleep in her room last night?”

“Mais non, m’sieur. Come and look.”

“Great God!” cried Wallace. “This is terrible!”

They followed the maid into Yolande’s room. There was no sign of any disturbance, and the bedclothes were turned back neatly. On the pillow was Yolande’s white nightdress folded up.

“Who saw her last?” asked Fouchard.

“I did,” replied Wallace. “I said good night to her outside her door at about ten-thirty.”

“This looks bad.”

“Bad!” Wallace became inarticulate with apprehension. His brain seemed to snap as he thought of the creature who had presumably committed two foul crimes already. The awful elusive form, with a naked razor— “What is to be done, Fouchard? What can one do?”

But Fouchard looked stumped. He stood biting his finger-nails viciously, staring from window to bed and back again. Yesterday he had been boasting about nearing the solution, and now had happened what looked like being the most ghastly business of all.

“We—we’ve got to look,” he said in a low voice. “There’s a chance—a bare chance.”

“Let’s start then—for the love of God!”

“The cellar—where we found the others. And if by a stroke of luck you see that fiend, shoot—and shoot to kill. But I’m afraid—terribly afraid——”

Wallace pulled himself together. He dreaded the cellar as he would hell itself, but there was no time for cowardice of that nature. With Yolande had gone the very light of his existence. He found himself filled with insensate rage and hate, and Fouchard’s advice was totally unnecessary.

They trod the various passages that led to the vaults, looking for anything that might serve as a clue—but in vain. Fouchard switched on the light and they descended the steps. So still was everything that their breathing sounded amazingly loud, and Wallace imagined he could actually hear the thumping of his heart.

“We’ll start here and examine every yard of the place,” said Fouchard in a sepulchral voice. “Look out for footprints!”

Under the arches they went, eyes keen and ears alert. There was a damp patch at the end of the first arcade, but it was unmarked by any footprint. Wallace winced when he suddenly saw the big barrel in which Fallières’s body had been discovered. He went to it but it was empty.

“There’s something white!” said Fouchard.

“I can’t——”

“There—ahead!”

Wallace ran to it, and picked it up. It was a cream-coloured handkerchief—a small embroidered thing with the initials “Y.F.” in the corner. It exuded the scent of roses.

“Yolande’s!”

“That proves it.”

“He carried her here. She must be here—somewhere.”

“But where?”

Every article that could hide a human form was moved, but the small handkerchief remained the sole clue. Yolande had disappeared as completely as if the earth had engulfed her. After an hour of it Fouchard gave it up, but Wallace went over the place yet again—hoping against hope.

“It’s no use,” said Fouchard. “We’re beaten.”

“Beaten! She must be somewhere. If he had— Ugh! It’s too terrible to think about.”

“We shall make no progress down here.”

“Then what does this handkerchief signify? Why was Fallières’s body found here—and Severin’s?”

“Yes, I know it is very mysterious but what more can we do? This is a different case. I believe that Yolande is still alive.”

“You have no grounds——”

“I know. It’s just a feeling. Wherever the Monster is hiding, there we may hope to find mademoiselle. I am going to try the chapel again.”

“But you told me there was no possibility of anyone hiding there. It is little more than four bare walls.”

“Still, I will look.”

“Then I shall go up to the gallery. To think of her—with that Thing——”

He left Fouchard, and for two hours roamed all over the château. At last he was compelled to accept defeat, and went back to Conrad feeling that he was going mad. The incapacitated man was making progress, for he recognised Wallace immediately.

“How are you feeling, old man?” asked Wallace brokenly.

“I—my head. I can’t think what happened to me. Why am I here?”

“Don’t you remember the car—and the accident?”

“Car! Yes, there was a car. You were driving madly and someone was shooting——”

“Yes—yes. Go on!”

“There was a cellar and a grating—and you were looking through at me.”

“That was before the accident. Conrad, try to understand me. Yolande has gone—that devil has got her. We have a slip of paper with figures on it and a name. You came from England because you had discovered something. Can’t you remember what it was? It may lead me to Yolande.”

“Yolande! Gone!”

“Yes. God help her! Try to concentrate.”

While Conrad wrestled with the disintegrated segments of his mind, Fouchard knocked and entered.

“No luck!” he said bitterly. “Why, he is conscious!”

“S-sh! He’s getting a grip on things.” Then he questioned Conrad: “Do you remember the name Steinbech?”

“Steinbech! Why, that was it—Steinbech. It was a book—I brought it with me.”

“A book!” gasped Fouchard. “Where is it? What did it contain about this place?”

“In my luggage—only a small book.” Then, with a great effort: “Why can’t I think?”

“The devil!” exclaimed Fouchard. “His luggage is missing. Whatever that book contained we shall not know. That was Niels’s object—to prevent the book from reaching us.”

“But Conrad will know its contents. Connie, can’t you—can’t you remember?”

Again came a fearful mental struggle on the part of the sick man. Beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead, and his breathing became laboured. Wallace winced to see him so distressed.

“Rest, old man,” he said. “It will all come in time. Don’t force it now.”

“I’m going over to Mont Rouge again,” said Fouchard.

“What for?”

“This book he mentions. If I can find his bag, there may be just a chance that the volume is still inside it. It may be hours yet before he is in a fit state to enlighten us, and time is precious.”

“Take the Bentley then—it is faster. Watkins will drive it for you. But it is a hundred to one that they have destroyed the book.”

“I can’t afford to miss a chance.”

Fouchard went off in a hurry.

CHAPTER XXVI.
YOLANDE’S ORDEAL

When Yolande left Wallace at the door of her room, her heart had been full to overflowing. Out of all the stark horror and pain that had filled her life for the past month, this great joy had emerged like a beautiful butterfly from a dead chrysalis. A long time ago she had persuaded herself that love of that sort was not for her. Her father’s great bereavement had caused her to take stock of her life. She knew that in her Fallières saw the image of his dead wife, and, although he would have been the last man in the world to have demanded sacrifices, she had arrived at a decision which she thought would help to compensate him for his loss.

Now Fate had taken affairs into her own hands. The man of destiny had magically appeared in the almost monasterial precincts of the Château Grammont. She had started by admiring him, and had ended by realising that he had started a train of emotions that could never be stilled.

She did not go to bed at once, for this pleasant revelation was such as to render sleep impossible at the moment. Her lips still tingled from Wallace’s last kiss, and she wanted that delicious sensation to remain. In her was a lot of the child—the wondering child that stared in awe at birds, flowers, and sunshine. She now stared at her own reflection in the mirror, and wondered what it was exactly that had caused Wallace to love her. Then she grew a little ashamed to realise that she could be happy when her father’s murdered body had lain in the grave for less than a month.

“Still, I love him,” she thought. “I can’t help myself. Daddy dear—you will understand.”

She extracted a dozen hairpins, and let her abundant tresses fall in rippling waves over her shoulders. As she brushed them she paused and smiled, and then laughed softly. Life was all so wonderful, despite black clouds and pangs of pain. Her eyes wandered to the vase of roses which had dropped blood-red petals on the dressing-table.

“Poor flowers,” she murmured, “to fade so soon!”

As she lifted her eyes to the mirror, the brush dropped from her fingers. There in the polished glass, grim and horrible against the soft decorations of the room, loomed a shape that seemed to freeze the very blood in her veins. It was the Thing she had seen as a child—the hooded Monster of the château. Turning, she saw it face to face—within two yards of her paralysed form. Her mouth opened to give vent to a scream of terror, but her tongue seemed cloven to the roof of her mouth, and no sound came.

A long arm came from out of the dirty brown gown. She saw the fingers and nails—horrid! Within the hood were two bloodshot eyes and a hooked nose. A moment of unspeakable terror, and then she was caught up as if she were a child. All power of resistance had gone, and that pleasant rose-strewn world which she had enjoyed for so brief a spell vanished like an evening afterglow.

She was being borne swiftly along corridors—she knew not whither, for her mind had become almost a complete blank. Then something closed with a hollow thud and acted as a spur to her volition. She tried to free her arms, but they were held as if by bonds of steel. For the first time her voice functioned, and gave utterance to a wild shriek.

“Don’t cry—I shall not harm you!”

It was German and she had difficulty in understanding it, for the voice which spoke the words was like no other voice she had ever heard. If an ape could talk she thought it would be like this.

“Let me go!” she gasped.

To her surprise she was put down, but a hideous paw still retained her left arm. She was in a long passage, cemented all over and illuminated by electric light. It ran straight as an arrow to a door at the end. Half-dragged, half-led, she reached this door. Her captor kicked it open with his enormous boot, and she saw steps leading down into a less well-lighted place. Lying about were all kinds of unusual things—rusted canteens, helmets, some wooden cases, several strange instruments. Yet another door confronted them. This bore a big padlock, with the key in it. The hooded giant turned it, and they entered a large chamber containing furniture of sorts.

“There!” he grunted, and let her go.

He gathered the folds of the cloak closely around him and stood looking down at her, holding his queer garment close under his hooked nose.

“Why—why have you done this?” she pleaded. “Who are you?”

“S-sh! I was just in time. It is safe here. They are a cunning lot up there. But we shall beat them yet. Did you hear the firing just now?”

The eyes were ablaze. She saw him slip his hand under the robe, and uttered a low cry as he pulled out an old razor and slowly opened it.

“Better than a gun,” he mumbled. “They do not fear guns. This makes no noise. Quietly, quietly I move—in the dark, and they do not see.”

He was stropping the blade of the razor over the palm of his hand with rhythmic, rapid movements. She closed her eyes, expecting death, but when she opened them again he had put the weapon away, and was hunting for something in the corner.

Piled there were dozens of wooden boxes, the majority of which were open. She saw to her astonishment that these were filled with square, empty tins which exuded a foul smell, and some of the boxes were stencilled with the War Department mark of the German Government. It was immediately clear that here was the chief means by which the Monster had managed to live—field rations abandoned by the Germans in their hasty retreat from the château. But now the store seemed practically exhausted, for it was some minutes before her captor found an unopened tin, and ripped the top off by pulling at the patent contrivance with which it was provided.

To her surprise the contents appeared to be quite fresh, but the pervading odour of the piles of old tins was sufficient to sicken her. He turned out the slab of meat on to a time-worn enamel plate, and then went searching for a second plate, which he ultimately found. Dividing the meat into equal portions he set one before her. When she did not eat at once, he appeared to ascribe it to the fact that she possessed no knife nor fork, and went searching among the pile of oddments again, until he found what he wanted. With them he brought a bottle of wine, already opened, and a large mug.

“We eat now,” he mumbled. “It is safer down here. The wine is good. You must drink the wine, Minna.”

“I’m not Minna. You’re making a mistake. For pity’s sake let me go—let me go!”

The hysterical cry had a different effect upon him to anything she imagined. He made a hideous noise with his mouth, and, dropping the plate, brandished the knife before her.

“No squealing! I won’t have it. Dying’s nothing. I’ve seen ’em die by hundreds. We’ve got to hold on here—orders are to hold on.” Then, in a lower voice: “There are those people prowling about—searching, searching. But they’re not clever enough by a lot. I’ll get another of ’em to-night—maybe the young one with the blue eyes that drives so fast, or that other swine with the hair. They’re working back there in the mine—three of ’em and a woman. I’ve seen ’em— Drink, Minna,” he added piteously. “You’re trembling. Of course it’s hard for a woman, and you should have stayed away.”

She was trying to understand his rambling talk. It was now evident that he was demented, and that in his present mood he meant her no harm. On the contrary, he made affectionate gestures, which if possible terrified her more than his threats. To pacify him and in order to give her mind a chance to think clearly she made a pretence to eat.

While she did this he slunk away into the corner with a plate of food and the remainder of the wine, eating with his back towards her. Some of her courage was coming back after the initial shock. She realised that only cool thinking and subtle acting could save her. She had had no notion of the existence of this vault in which she sat, and concluded that it must have been tunnelled out during the months when the château was occupied by the Germans. The scattered array of army accoutrement was sufficient to endorse this, but where it started and where it ended were mysteries.

But the biggest mystery was this enormous demented creature, who apparently lived here. Where did he come from? Then she recalled his remark about the “three men and a woman” working back in the “mine.” That he was referring to Niels and his party was certain, and the news was interesting, for it led her to the conclusion that the underground passage must lead to the abandoned tin-mine in the forest.

Soon he slouched back to her, carrying a pile of blankets. He spread these out on the floor, and muttered to himself as he groped about again. The object of his search proved to be a dirty pillow. This he patted as if it were something alive, and laid it at the top of the blankets.

“Sleep time,” he said.

“I’m not tired.”

“Must sleep. I go up above.”

It was what she wished him to do, for the clammy atmosphere of the place seemed to choke her. With his departure the way might be open for escape. She thought of Wallace and Fouchard within a few hundred yards of her—anxiously searching——

“The young one to-night,” he said. “It makes one less—always one less of the cursed brood.”

He produced his awful razor and began to strop it again. A cold shudder went down her spine, as she realised the menace to the man she loved.

“No!” she cried.

He looked at her sternly.

“I do it for you,” he said. “Pah! it is no time for sentiment. We must fight.”

“Why?”

“That is a foolish question. Minna, you are tired. You do not know what you are saying. Look at that! A new one I found.” He held up the naked razor. “There’s the man Fouchard. He’s a smart one—but I’ll get him too—perhaps at the same time. Sleep well, Minna—sleep well.”

He pulled the obscuring hood even tighter, and walked with remarkable agility towards the door through which they had entered the place. It closed after him with a dull thud—like the fall of earth upon a coffin.

Immediately she rose to her feet, and gave her mind entirely up to the question of escape. But on reaching the door she found it was bolted from outside. It was so stoutly built that she had no hope of battering it down. The only alternative was to try the other door, which her captor had hinted led to the mine.

Here she was more successful, for the only fastening was on the inside. It was a heavy iron bolt, which called for all her strength to withdraw it. When she swung the door open she found herself looking into a dark opening tunnelled through the earth, and prevented from collapse by a series of props. It was damp and chilly, and for a moment she hesitated. But it was only necessary to think of that terrifying creature who had just left on his murderous quest, to find the courage to go on.

She moved slowly down the narrow passage, and for a hundred yards it ran dead straight. Looking behind her she could see the small oblong of light made by the open door. But now the tunnel took a sharp turn—beyond which was pitch blackness. With quaking heart she moved forward, her feet sinking into mud at times. Moreover there were rats. She could hear them scampering and squealing about her.

The horror seemed less by contrast with the immediate past. Half suffocated from lack of oxygen, she went on, feeling her way with her hands. Now there were boards under her feet, and the sound of her footsteps echoed weirdly. Then water was encountered. It increased in depth until it was over her ankles. Still she waded on, with her mind fixed inflexibly on her object.

The passage seemed to widen, for no longer could she feel both walls by stretching out her arms, and the air seemed less vitiated. How far she had come she had no idea, but she recalled that the mine was over a mile from the château—a mile of this!

A little later a terrible doubt entered her mind. She had the feeling that she was moving round in a circle. So strong was this impression that she moved away from the crumbling wall, with the idea of finding the opposite one. She took a dozen steps, but found nothing. Stumbling over stones and sinking into mud, she moved quicker, but her groping hands found no obstruction of any kind. She seemed to be lost—entombed in the bowels of the earth.

CHAPTER XXVII.
THE BOOK

Suspense and anxiety were wearing away Wallace’s nerves. Despite Fouchard’s belief that Yolande was still alive, he found himself taking a pessimistic view. Fallières had been murdered, then Severin. A similar attempt had been made upon Fouchard. Why should Yolande be any more immune than these?

In any case the alternative was equally appalling. He imagined her in all the sweetness and charm of her youth—in the clutches of that abysmal Monster. And here he was as helpless as a kitten to intervene. He paced up and down the sick-room, utterly unable to concentrate his mind on anything. Niels and the others now were reduced to negligible proportions. They at least were human in their actions.

He wondered where they were, what they were doing? Whether the knowledge of Conrad’s yet unrevealed discovery had caused them to abandon their quest? But again and again his mind reverted to the dominating factor—the Monster. Seeing Conrad lying quiet with his eyes closed, he decided to start investigations anew. Beyond the château proper there were outbuildings—potting-sheds, hot-houses, and so forth. No place was too trivial to be left unexplored. He found the gardener, who had heard the news, and went with him to various sheds and corners. But these places yielded no more information than the others.

“It is terrible, m’sieur,” said the man. “None of us is safe here. That is no human shape that walks and slays. I remembered poor M’sieur Severin saying the same thing a month ago, when the master was murdered. And always the worst happens when the moon is at the full.”

“There is nothing in that, André.”

“There is much, m’sieur. I would not leave my wife alone at nights when the moon is full—here.”

Wallace did not feel in the mood to rebuke him for his superstition, for at least he was basing his remark upon apparent facts.

“She was so sweet,” mused the old gardener, his eyes filling with tears. “Always a kind word for us poor folk, and a gift of clothing when the winter came in. What shall we do now?”

“You must not rush to conclusions, André. Your mistress may yet come back.”

But André had no such hope. To him the thing was sun-clear. The Monster had made another sacrifice to the devil at the full moon. Even if Wallace had been in the mood for argument it would have made no difference. André was only saying what all the peasants were whispering.

“And I had gathered these figs for her,” he said, holding up a basket full of purple fruit. “The first this season, m’sieur, and a splendid lot. She loved figs.”

“You have never seen this creature, André?”

“God be praised—no! But if I should, m’sieur—if I should—then—” He picked up a mattock and balanced it in his hand, while his kindly eyes blazed with hate. “I am getting old, but my arms are yet strong.”

“I believe you.”

“And the m’sieur who had the accident—is he recovering?”

“Yes.”

“I am glad. M’sieur, I should tell you that I saw that woman Bertha this morning.”

“Bertha!”

“She was in the forest alone, as I came towards the château. I always liked her because she took such an interest in the garden. But somehow I have felt that she was not what she pretended to be.”

“You are right.”

“She tried to hide when she saw me, but I let her see that it was too late. Then she came to me, with a face that was very, very pale, and begged me to say nothing about having seen her. I did not promise that, for if the mistress had asked me about her I should have to tell her. Mon Dieu! I did not know then that she—she too had gone.”

“Where did you see Bertha?”

“It was between my cottage and the château. She was not doing anything—just sitting on a fallen tree deep in thought.”

“You did not see any men—strangers?”

“No.”

Wallace reflected on this as he walked into the château. It certainly looked as if the gang had not yet given up all hope. They might have heard what had happened to Conrad, and still believed it was possible to make a coup before Conrad was able to reveal what he had discovered. But Wallace’s interest in that direction had waned a little. What matter hidden treasure when Yolande’s life was in jeopardy—or worse?

He found Conrad looking considerably better, and he greeted Wallace in almost his normal style. The latter adjusted the bandage about his head, for it had slipped and become a trifle loose.

“Thanks, old man! I’m feeling heaps better. Any news?”

“None.”

“You’re worrying a lot, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Connie, there’s something I want to tell you. It was only last night that I told her—Yolande—what I had been aching to tell her almost since I first met her.”

“You—you mean you——”

“I love her. That’s the plain truth.” He clenched his fists. “That makes it all the more terrible. She was happy—I swear she was happier than she has been for as long as I’ve known her. On top of that comes this awful bolt. I’ve hunted everywhere—everywhere.”

“I—I understand. Where is Fouchard?”

“Gone to that place where I found you—Mont Rouge. He hopes to find the book you mentioned. Your bag may be there—somewhere.”

“The book! My mind is still all sixes and sevens. This concussion business plays the weirdest tricks. It was a book written by a man—what was his name?”

“Steinbech.”

“That’s it. I saw it somewhere—in a foreign bookseller’s shop in Manchester.”

“Good! You’re getting it now.”

Conrad passed his hand across his brow several times. Then suddenly his eyes lighted up, and he dragged himself into a sitting position.

“I was reading it in the train—on my way to Arveyes. Those cunning devils boarded the train at a wayside station. They doped me, and must have got me out at the next station—pretended I was taken ill. But the book! I was reading it when— Great Scott! I remember. I slipped it into my pocket!”

“Eh?”

“That’s it—I’m positive. I saw Niels’s ugly face in the corridor—and Walther. I was expecting trouble, for the train was nearly empty. I slipped— Is that my coat over there?”

But Wallace was already making for the garment. He felt in all the pockets and produced a pipe, tobacco-pouch, and various oddments, but there was no book.

“Of course they have taken it,” he said gloomily. “No doubt they have destroyed it by now. But I might get a copy in Paris and——”

Conrad suddenly laughed and beckoned Wallace to him. From the things which the latter held in his hands Conrad selected a travel-ticket case bearing Cook’s name.

“I’ll bet they overlooked this,” he said. “Before I was doped I amused myself in the train by making a rough translation of several passages from the book in question—passages to which I believe those figures refer. Here we are—intact.”

From the case he extracted three sheets of paper, covered with somewhat shaky writing.

“Do you remember the first reference number?” he asked.

“Yes. Twenty-seven.”

“This is it. I made a note of the page on the corner; because it seemed obvious that the figures were page references. The volume was entitled The Grammont Salient, and it was the title which arrested my attention. Hear what our friend Steinbech has to say.”

Wallace sat down very close to the bed, and Conrad read what was written on the first sheet:

“The pressure to the north and south of the château continued to increase daily, and it soon became evident to General von Urel that the château was in grave danger of being recaptured by the enemy, and our line forced to retreat beyond the Forêt de Grammont. The château was the key to the whole position, and it came to our knowledge that the attacking forces had instructions to spare it as much as was commensurate with safety. Foreseeing the danger that would follow a sudden strong encircling movement, our commanding officer made plans to fashion a line of retreat which could be resorted to in the event of the château falling into the hands of the enemy. It was to take the form of a tunnel leading from the vaults of the château to some point farther back in the forest which would give access to our second lines…”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Wallace. “I am beginning to see light. But carry on.”

“There is no more here. The author goes off at a tangent. Unless I am very much mistaken, the second figure was thirty-one. Is that so?”

“Yes.”

Conrad commenced to read the second excerpt:

“It was necessary that the tunnel should run back for at least a mile, and considerable difficulty was experienced in finding terrain suitable for the work. The problem was solved by the discovery of an old mine whose extensive workings ran in an easterly direction. These would save the sappers at least a quarter of a mile of tunnelling. This site was chosen as the best possible outlet, and our second line was advanced a little in order to connect up with it. A company of sappers was detailed for the work, and, while the enemy penetrated deeper and deeper on our flanks, the work went on.… In spells of four hours’ duration the sweating, mud-begrimed crews worked, and our hearts beat easier as each day saw another long stretch added to the last. All the time the guns were…”

“Nothing more that is informative,” said Conrad, breaking off. “We saw that old mine. Do you remember?”

“Yes. But he doesn’t say how this tunnel is approached from the château.”

“We are coming to that. Our author is inclined to ramble a lot. My next and last extract is from page thirty-six. That I know agrees with the figure.”

Wallace’s face became even more eager, for it was apparent that the last extract was the most important of the three. Conrad cleared his throat:

“Pending the arrival of reinforcements, it was obvious that the château must fall, and it was the General’s chief concern to keep the existence of the tunnel secret, in order that it might be used again in a similar emergency, for we had every reason to believe that the withdrawal would be temporary. Means had to be devised to fashion an entrance which would render discovery unlikely. The vault was roughly comprised of five series of arches running east to west. The third series was furnished with wine-bins for almost its entire length, and the wall at the western extremity was similarly furnished. It was here that the entrance was made. The last section of bins was temporarily removed, and an opening excavated through the massive wall. By replacing the bins and hingeing them vertically, it was a simple matter to use them as a doorway. By skilful carpentry this door closed of its own accord, and the wood lining at the back of the bins made discovery extremely improbable. The metal hinges were on the inside and invisible.… It was a comfort to feel that we had this safe line of retreat, for every day…”

“The rest is of no value to us. As you know, the château was recaptured and held ever after. It has always been a mystery how the garrison got safely away, but it is clear enough now.”

“By Jove, and all this time—” Wallace’s hands opened and closed spasmodically. “She’s there, Connie. I’ll stake my life on it. That’s where the Monster hides himself away. It accounts for many things that hitherto were difficult to explain. By some means he got to know of that secret passage. The Book—he must have seen——”

“No, that was not possible. The book has not been published more than six months, while the Monster has been here for nearly two years—according to Yolande. What is his game? What is he after?”

“Niels, too. I’ll bet he is after the same thing.”

“Everything points to that. It may be something left behind by the Germans in their hurried retreat.”

“They are welcome to it. It is Yolande that matters to me.” He rose, and his face looked very grim. “I’m going there now, Connie.”

“Wait until Fouchard——”

“I couldn’t wait if my life depended on it. If Yolande is down there she will be crazy with terror by now. But I fear——”

Conrad knew what he feared, and from his own grim expression it was evident that he too believed the worst.

“He’s big and murderous, Ralph.”

“All the more reason why I should not waste a moment. When Fouchard comes, tell——”

“If you go, I go,” said Conrad calmly. “Throw me over my pants and boots!”

“No. It is impossible!”

“Get out! You’re a first-class fighter, laddie, but you are up against something supernormal. I’m all right—for pistol-practice, anyway.”

He was already sitting on the bed, and Wallace realised that argument was useless, for Conrad could be as cantankerous as a mule when he felt disposed, and he was in that state now.

“You’ve got a second pistol in the car?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Good!”

“Oh, hang! I clean forgot—Fouchard has the car. You had better take this one, and I’ll rely on a bludgeon. Fortunately I have an electric torch in my pocket. Are you sure you are fit enough to engage in this?”

“It only required this bit of excitement to complete my cure. Hadn’t we better leave a note for Fouchard?”

“Good idea! Make it short!”

A short message was left under the medicine bottle, telling Fouchard where the entrance to the tunnel lay, and then the pair sallied forth on their quest, Wallace arming himself with a hatchet en route.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
PRISONERS

In the meantime, Yolande had suffered every terror that the human mind could conceive. She had wandered round and round in the blackness, stumbling against débris, falling into stagnant pools of water, until exhaustion overcame her, and for a period she lost her senses completely.

She was awakened by a strange noise—a curious bellowing voice that reverberated through the cavern. It was calling something—“Minna,” she thought, and, as her brain became clearer, she realised with a start of horror that her late captor had returned from his murderous quest and was searching for her. The voice came nearer and nearer, and then a soft glow split the darkness. She blinked at the relative brilliance, and saw that she was near the side of a big excavation, from which passages branched off in several directions. The light was shining from an opening immediately opposite her.

With a murmur of horror she slipped behind a mass of rock, and in fear and trembling waited for the emergence of the seeker. Through a cleft in the rock she saw him at last. He was holding up a lighted match, the flickering flame of which threw a great awful shadow across the propped wall behind him.

“Minna! Minna!”

It was a pitiful cry of despair, but it produced no sympathetic feeling in her breast. Terrible as that place was, it was preferable to the company of the insane demon who was now seeking her. She held her breath in dreadful suspense as he came towards her. But ere he reached the rock the match burnt down to his fingers and darkness intervened. She heard the scratch of another match, and moved softly round one side of the rock as he approached the other. His breath made a rattling noise in his throat, and at one moment he was within three yards of her. Then to her great relief he went off at a tangent, still calling the name.

Fainter and fainter grew the calls, until at last only a murmur was borne back to her. Believing that he would return by the same passage, she crept farther round the shielding rock, not daring to move away lest she should be caught in some less favourable place.

“Minna! Where are you, Minna?”

She shuddered, and waited for a long time before the approaching light began to throw vague shadows on the walls. Again she saw him—holding his robe close against his face, as he always did. He did no more than give a glance about him, before entering another gallery.

Oh, night of horrors! How long it lasted she could not guess. As time passed, his awful cries grew more and more despairing—like the wails of a lost soul in Hades. Then, when she felt that her last ounce of strength was being used up, she saw him make his way back through the tunnel by which he had come, and the intense darkness reigned again.

Followed another period of oblivion, in which Nature did something towards balancing the tottering mind. But the old terrors were reborn upon opening her eyes—to see absolutely nothing. There were two alternatives for her. One was to go on in the hope of finding an outlet, and the other was to risk going back to the vault, trusting that he might not be there. She chose the former.

Hungry and faint, she stumbled along a gallery, but it rapidly descended, and soon she found deep water that she dared not enter. Back again to the big chamber, with a hopeless feeling at her heart. The next attempt was even more alarming, for there was a fall of earth behind her, due to rotting beams and props. She found herself against a blank wall, and had to burrow back through loose earth to escape being buried alive.

Reaching the big chamber, she sat down to recover her breath, and to consider the next step. Her mind revolted at the idea of returning, even if she could find the correct gallery; but now the second alternative was death—madness and death in the inky blackness. And but last night—was it last night?—she had been in Wallace’s arms, believing in the goodness of God!

* * * * * * *

At that moment Wallace and Conrad were making through the vault towards the secret door. They reached the end wall at the termination of the third arcade, and Wallace gave a quick glance at the bins referred to by the chronicler, and his eyes glinted as the neat hinges came to view.

“By Jove—he was right, Connie!”

But Conrad had collapsed on a box, and was holding his head between his hands.

“I feel a bit—cheap,” he said. “It will pass off.”

“You oughtn’t to have come. Jove, you’re as pale as death! It’s no use, Connie—you have overdone it. You’ve got to come back with me.”

“No. I’ll stick it.”

It was evident that he was in no state to continue, and Wallace gripped him firmly by the arm.

“Come on. The atmosphere is deadly down here. I’ll see you to your room, and run down again.”

Conrad had little resistance left, and permitted himself to be led back to the château. He felt better as soon as they emerged into daylight.

“I don’t like your going, Ralph,” he said. “It’s not a one-man job. Take Watkins.”

“He has gone with Fouchard.”

“Then the gardener or Pierre.”

“I should have to wet-nurse them. Don’t worry, old man, I shall win through this all right. Give me that pistol.”

He was off again in a couple of minutes, running at breakneck speed down the steps and through the vault. He soon reached the end wall, and hesitated for a second or two before putting his weight on the wooden structure. It opened immediately—and without a sound. Before him stretched a long straight passage approached by a dozen steep steps. The electric illumination surprised him, until he recalled that Watkins was always complaining about “leakage.” Here was the cause!

He crept along the passage warily, expecting that a creature used to inhabiting such a place would possess the keenest hearing. Reaching the door, he examined the pistol to make sure it was loaded and in working order. Then, seizing the handle of the door, he turned it slowly and suddenly pushed.

The inner room was empty save for the enormous collection of old army gear. There were boxes piled in the corner with the German Government mark stencilled on them, ancient tins of meat, rope, bayonets, and a box of razors! But what took his attention were two enamel plates with fragments of food upon them, lying close to the spread-out blankets. His glance went to the door at the end of the chamber, and, gripping the pistol tightly, he stole towards it.

All his nerves became braced as he suddenly heard the sound of approaching footsteps—a kind of shuffle. He moved away to the wall—in the direction in which the door would swing. A blast of damp air entered the room as the door swung open, and through it stepped the strange creature he had prayed to meet face to face for so long. The shoulders were enormous and hunched, and the tattered, frowsy, brown robe was gripped round about the chin by a huge talon-like hand.

“Halt!”

The big form stood perfectly still, and from the orifice formed by the cowl two ferocious eyes glared out.

“Put up your hands! Put them up or I shall shoot!”

Slowly the enormous arms went up, but Wallace was not at all prepared for what followed. In a flash a powerful hand had snatched the exposed electric light cable, and the light immediately failed.

“Ha ha! Ha ha ha!”

The demoniacal laughter filled the place. Wallace’s hair seemed to rise perpendicularly. He fired, once, hoping that the flash would reveal the exact position of the lunatic, but the brown robe was much the same colour as the walls, and his shot went wide.

“The little lamb comes to the slaughter! We shall still hold the château, m’sieur. We shall still hold it! Ha ha ha!”

Wallace could not follow a word of the guttural German, but he was fully cognisant of what was intended. Again he fired, and the small flash revealed—something. It was the proximity of the huge form, and the flash of steel. Out went his left arm to save his throat, and by wonderful luck his fingers fell upon a thick hairy wrist. Simultaneously the pistol was knocked from his hand by a smashing blow from his powerful opponent. It was a life and death struggle now. He brought his right arm to bear upon the hand that held the razor, and with a great effort managed to bend the hairy wrist until he heard the razor clatter to the ground. The next instant his throat was gripped tightly.

This was more easily remedied. He swung his left arm, and drove it straight into the creature’s stomach. There came a howl of pain, and immediately the hands left his windpipe. Delay was fatal now, for he did not possess the cat-like eyes of this maniac. He followed up with smashing blows—most of which took effect. Then he tripped and fell, but managed to bring his adversary down with him.

Young and strong and in perfect condition as he was, he became doubtful of the outcome of this appalling conflict. His blows became feebler, and seemed to have little or no effect upon the growling maniac. He hit out again where he thought the head should be, and the blow fell upon a shoulder. But it served its purpose, for the big head jerked back and came into violent contact with the sharp corner of a metal box. There was a sound like a sigh—and no further resistance.

Gasping, he rose to his feet, and flashed the torch upon the prone form. What he saw horrified him. The cowl was back and the robe open. The whole face came to view. But only above the mouth was it a face. The lower part was so shattered it had ceased to be human.

“Poor devil!” he muttered involuntarily.

He put the cowl over the head, and closed the robe, shuddering as he did so. With a coil of stout rope he bound the arms and legs firmly, and then waited for the creature to recover consciousness, with the object of compelling him to give him some information about Yolande.

But, although he waited for a quarter of an hour, the eyes remained closed and there was no movement of any kind. He decided to leave him where he was and pursue his quest. He was soon in the narrow earth gallery, with the torch dimly lighting the way, and it was not long before he saw something that caused his heart to beat a higher note. They were footprints—small footprints mingled with enormous ones. He ran now—splashing mud all over his clothing.

“Yolande!”

He thought he heard a faint response, but realised it might well be the echo of his own voice.

“Yolande!”

This time there was no doubt about it. The response was faint and in a high-pitched voice, and it came from immediately ahead. The torch was burning dimly, and he feared it might burn out ere he reached her.

“Yolande! Yolande!”

Then he saw a sight that was like heaven opening from the depths of hell. A figure came to view at the end of the passage. It was muddy and tattered, and the hair was down and wet. But it was Yolande notwithstanding—and her arms went out as she saw him.

“Ralph!” she said brokenly.

He seized her in his arms and kissed the pallid lips—the eyes and wet hair of her.

“Thank God! Oh, thank God!”

“I knew you would come. I knew it!”

“You are all right?”

“Yes—yes. But I’m hungry—so hungry. Where is he? You—you haven’t killed him?”

“No. He nearly killed me. I’ve got him safely tied up back there.”

“And you came—alone?”

“I had to. Fouchard was away when we discovered the secret passage. I’ve lived in hell for nearly twelve hours. But it’s going to be all right now. My dear, you don’t know——”

She smiled wanly at his inarticulateness. Weak and exhausted as she was, she did know, and she clung to him as if she feared that at any moment he might vanish into thin air and leave her again to the hideous nightmares.

“You—you overpowered him?” she asked incredulously.

“By luck. Of course he is a lunatic.”

“Yes, mad—quite mad. He calls me Minna—mistaking me for someone else. I owe my life to that—and to you.”

“Let us get back.”

“I hate to see him again. I can’t help remembering that he murdered my dear father. What—what are you going to do with him?”

“Hand him over to Fouchard. It is Conrad who deserves all the praise. But for him——”

She pressed his hand, and they went slowly forward towards the lair of the Monster.

CHAPTER XXIX.
THE FUSE

Wallace was totally unprepared for the reception that awaited him. He had left the Monster unconscious, and bound as securely as it was possible to bind anything. The door had been left half open, and it remained so now. The torch was at its last gasp, and he had to shake it to produce about as much illumination as a glow-worm would give. On the threshold of the door it gave out completely.

“I’ve got some matches,” he whispered. “Possibly I can join up the broken electric cable.”

He produced a box and struck a match on it. Immediately the flame appeared there was a slight sound, followed by a dull thud, a groan and hideous laughter.

“Ralph!” cried Yolande. “What——”

The place became brilliantly illuminated, and her startled eyes saw Wallace lying on the floor, and the huge, monkish form standing over him with a slab of wood in his hand. The look of triumph changed to one of pleased surprise when he saw Yolande.

“Minna!” he rasped. “You’ve come back!”

“Don’t touch me—you brute!” she screamed.

His puzzled eyes blazed again as they fell upon the inert form of Wallace. His feeling in that direction was fairly obvious. With an inarticulate cry he produced his razor. She flew at him and seized his arm.

“No—no!”

“You are foolish, Minna. We take no prisoners. We have no room for them—and orders are orders.”

She realised that the only possible way to prevent another appalling murder was to humour him. Love gave the fillip to her imagination, and transformed her from a terror-stricken woman to a capable actress.

“Not yet,” she said. “He is a leader; we must keep him for a while. Later, perhaps—but not now—not now.”

“The swine is dangerous.”

“Oh, no—he is unconscious.”

“Then I will bind him—as he did me. He thinks himself clever, but I am cleverer. Thought I was stunned. Ha! Ha!”

He handled the rope like an expert, and very soon Wallace was sitting in the corner, helpless. Recovering from the blow on the head, he opened his eyes and bit his lip to realise the state of affairs. He was about to talk to Yolande, but she put her finger to her lips.

“Minna, you must be hungry. It was foolish to wander in the galleries. We will eat,” said the maniac.

He slouched across the chamber, glaring horribly at Wallace as he passed him. The removal of a cloth exposed a cold fowl, taken undoubtedly from the pantry during the night. He was about to carve it when there was a low booming sound from a distance, and the earth shook. The awful eyes opened wide, and the chicken was pushed away.

“Guns! At last they come—at last!”

He became as active as a cat, running from door to door and bolting them with a wild laugh. Then he carried case after case across the room and built two barricades. From a corner he took a Mauser rifle and commenced to clean it.

“To the last man,” he said. “Orders are orders.”

Yolande watched him insert a clip of cartridges into the rifle, with his face twisted in unearthly excitement. That done, he laid the rifle down, and dug out some more gear from under a tarpaulin. She turned her face to Wallace and saw his lips frame the word “Unload.” Waiting until the lunatic was carrying a curious keg with his back towards her, she quickly opened the breach of the rifle and extracted the cartridges. Her next intention was to free Wallace, but the crazy creature gave her no opportunity.

“Be brave, Minna,” he said. “All is prepared. They shall never have the château.” He patted the rifle. “Eight lives there, but I have a little surprise—after that. Hee! Hee! It will make them jump. Look!”

He suddenly produced a six-feet length of tubular stuff that looked like thick string. Yolande had no idea what it was, but Wallace knew, and his eyes bulged from his head.

“A fuse!”

“Silence—you!” snarled the lunatic. “I should have cut your throat but for Minna. She hates bloodshed.”

“What is that?” queried Yolande.

“The little ally that will beat the enemy. But you need not worry, Minna. There will be no pain. Poof!—and then nothing—just nothing!”

He laughed devilishly, and, running across to the big keg, fitted the end of the fuse into it.

“Melinite!” he said. “I saved it for them. Ha! Ha!”

Her face blanched as she realised his intention. But she thought there was no immediate danger. By some means or other she had to outwit him—to set Wallace free and get out of this evil den.

“I’m thirsty,” she complained. “Get me some water, please.”

“Yes—yes. We have wine.”

He managed to find a bottle, but it was empty.

“I’ll get another. Minna must not go thirsty.”

She thought he was going, but he changed his mind at the last moment and shook his head.

“They are outside. It would not do.”

“No one is there.”

“I know better. My ears are keen. But you can trust me, Minna. They shall never take us alive.”

He snatched up the rifle, and looked, not towards the door that led through the vaults, but at the other exit. Yolande started, for she suddenly heard noises in that direction. The lunatic grinned, and put his finger to his lips.

“I told you so,” he whispered hoarsely. “But they do not know—the poor fools!”

There came a banging on the door, followed by heavier noises, as if a battering-ram was being used. But the stout bolt still held, although the timbers creaked. A brief silence, and then a tremendous thud. The bolt snapped and the door bulged inward, bringing down several boxes from the barricade. Another violent blow forced a passage, and into the light stepped Niels, followed by Walther and Heinrich, with Bertha bringing up the rear. The lunatic crouched low and brought the barrel of the rifle to bear upon Niels.

“Come!” he said. “Come to death—swine!”

“Look out, Niels!”

The warning cry came from Heinrich, and Niels, who was temporarily surprised by the presence of Wallace and Yolande, skipped aside. A click came from the rifle.

“It’s not loaded,” cried Yolande. “But take care.”

The crazy man had opened the breach, and realised in a second that something was wrong, though he did not appear to suspect Yolande. Quickly he struck a match and lighted the end of the fuse. Then he stood up and swung the rifle by the barrel. Yolande ran to put her foot on the travelling light, but he pushed her backwards.

“We are doomed,” she cried. “If——”

It was then that Niels showed his mettle. He made a lightning leap at the big, obstructing form, and missed the murderous swing of the rifle.

“Come, Heinrich!” he called.

Before Heinrich and Walther could get across, the fuse had burnt close to the big canister of explosive. Yolande was awakened from her mental paralysis. She leapt by the struggling forms and pulled the fuse away from the deadly explosive. When she turned round the three male intruders were engaged in a fearful struggle with the madman. Twice Walther had the rope round the enormous arms, and twice the fiend broke loose again, dealing frightful blows with hands and feet. In the background was Bertha, as pallid as death.

“Got him!” cried Heinrich. “Hold on!”

The rope was twisted round the arms and body of the conquered creature, and Walther held it from behind, whilst the other two men held an arm each above the binding.

“March!” said Niels.

“It’s—terrible!” almost sobbed Bertha.

“Quick—through the passage!”

They made their exit with their captive uttering awful cries and struggling fruitlessly. The door slammed, and Yolande sat down and held her head.

“Yolande!”

She suddenly remembered Wallace, and with a gasp cut his bonds with a knife.

“Queer!” he muttered.

“I don’t understand. What was that?”

Now the opposite door was being attacked noisily, and in a few seconds the keen blade of an axe smote through the panel.

“Fouchard!” said Wallace. “It must be.”

He ran to the pile of boxes, and dragged them away after unbolting the door. Fouchard entered with Conrad.

“I had to come,” said Conrad. “What——”

His eyes fell on Yolande, and he gripped her hand warmly.

“What has happened here?” grunted Fouchard.

“They’ve got him—just now.”

“Who?”

“Niels and the others. They came in in the nick of time. But now——”

Fouchard ran to the other door and shone a torch down the passage.

“Does that lead to the mine?” he snapped.

“It must.”

“Then we can get them by going the other way. By Jove, the whole lot in one swoop! Come on!”

The whole party then moved up the passage and on through the vault. Fouchard bolted and barred the door at that end, and set a gendarme to guard it.

“I must go with Fouchard,” whispered Wallace to Yolande. “You must rest and refresh yourself. I will be back soon.”

“I’m coming too,” said Conrad. “I’m not going to miss this—if it kills me.”

The Bentley was just outside the main entrance, and the three men entered it, Wallace taking the wheel. In less than two minutes they halted close to the old mine. Like hounds they went through the trees until they stood on the site of the excavation.

“It is impossible for them to have arrived,” said Fouchard. “I may be glad of your help, gentlemen.”

“Suppose they fight?” asked Conrad.

“God help them if they do,” grunted Fouchard. “I shall shoot the first man who shows a gun.”

“There’s a lot about this affair that puzzles me,” said Wallace. “That madman with the razor would insist upon calling Yolande Minna. It was only that delusion on his part which saved her from her father’s fate.”

“Was it he who tied you up?”

“Yes. He was going to slit my throat when Yolande brought her queer influence to bear on him. We had a narrow shave. He had a big canister of high explosive, and meant to blow the château sky-high. The unexpected intervention of Niels prevented that.”

“S-sh!” warned Fouchard. “I don’t want them to hear you.”

“But they must know we are here,” argued Conrad. “It is obvious we should attempt to hold them up. I’ll warrant——”

“You forget that they left Wallace tied up, and they probably knew I was away, and that you were laid up in bed—where you ought to be at this moment. It was their last chance, and they took it. They may expect opposition from Wallace—but there are three of them, not to mention Bertha.”

“And the Monster—is he a confederate?”

“You wouldn’t have said so if you saw the way they handled him,” put in Wallace. “And he did his best to brain Niels with the butt end of a rifle. Whatever it is they all want, they are at loggerheads. That poor devil is hopelessly mad. I don’t believe he wants anything—except Minna. He talked rubbish all the time I was there, and acted as if——”

“S-sh!” hissed Fouchard. “I heard a noise.”

They crouched behind a heap of debris close to the exit, and very soon a figure emerged. It was Niels, and he looked around cautiously. Fouchard, who was nearest, stepped forward and levelled his pistol.

“One word and I shoot,” he said.

Niels’s reply was to kick the pistol from Fouchard’s hand and perform a disappearing trick that was worthy of Devant.

“Sacré!”

“He has gone to warn the others,” said Wallace. “What do we do next?”

Fouchard picked up his pistol ignominously.

“The little rat!” he grunted. “Unless we ferret them out they will stay there until dark, and make my task more difficult. I’m not going to wait. I can’t afford to.”

“You’re going down?”

“Yes.”

“I’m with you,” said Wallace. “Connie, hadn’t you better wait for us at——”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” retorted Conrad. “I’m going to be in at the finish. We shall need a light down there.”

“My pocket-torch has burnt out, but I have a good Helleson lamp in the car. I’ll get it.”

He was back in a few minutes, with the lamp in his hand. Warily they entered the mine.

CHAPTER XXX.
THE COUNT

The powerful lamp gave splendid illumination, and revealed to the trio a veritable network of galleries, many of which were now impassable. Fortunately the ground was damp, and innumerable footprints marked the trail of Niels’s gang. The marks led to an old working that apparently had been recently cleared.

“They have been working here for days,” whispered Fouchard. “Look—here are marks of blasting. Presumably they gave up all hope of reaching the tunnel by the château entrance, and devoted all their energies to forcing a passage this way.”

“Suppose they break for the vault?” asked Conrad.

“They may, but I doubt it. Naturally they will conclude I have a guard there. The gendarme could hold that door against a hundred attackers.”

“Anyway, they seem to have retreated.”

“Looking for a hiding-place.”

“The passage divides here.”

“There must be footprints.”

“It is hard rock underneath.”

“Then wait—while I try the right passage. Keep the lamp; I’ll use matches.”

Fouchard went off, and was gone about two minutes. When he returned he nodded, and pointed along the passage which he had just explored.

“This way!”

“Good!”

The passage was narrow, and they moved along it in single file. Fifty yards farther on the rock floor gave way to soft earth, and there were the impressions of boots everywhere. Wallace shone the lamp ahead.

“Looks like a big cavern.”

“Probably.”

“Zut!” said Fouchard suddenly. “I swear I saw a form ahead. Take care!”

Flattened against the damp wall, they moved forward with extreme caution, and in a few minutes emerged into a wide excavation—the place where Yolande had spent her dreadful night. Wallace used the lamplight as a searchlight, and at last its bright beam fell on the people they sought. They were immediately opposite, close to the passage which led back to the château.

“Niels!” snapped Fouchard. “The game is up. I warn you to come quietly.”

Niels turned his grim countenance towards his companions. Bertha seemed to nod her head, but Walther and Heinrich looked very undecided. Between them was the madman, glaring into the light like some sub-human creature of the underworld.

“You hear!” said Fouchard. “The passage is strongly guarded at both ends. It will avail you nothing to offer resistance. Throw your firearms over here.”

All the while he was approaching closer. Wallace passed the lamp to Conrad and produced his pistol for moral effect. Niels squirmed visibly.

“He’s right,” said Walther. “It’s no use; we’ve failed.”

Niels nodded dejectedly and pitched a pistol across to Fouchard. Walther and Heinrich followed suit a moment later. Fouchard sighed as he picked them up.

“Now,” he said, “we will investi——”

It was then the unexpected happened. The huge robed form shook itself free of the two men. Wallace stared in amazement to see the bonds that held him snap as if they were string. A startled cry came from Bertha as the madman leaped at the group.

“Look out!” yelled Walther. “He is insane.”

There was scarcely need to apprise them of this. A great hand went under the robe, and a razor flashed in the light. Heinrich was the nearest victim, and at him flew the awful form.

“Walther!”

Walther cleared a rock, but he was two yards away when the razor hovered over Heinrich’s throat, and a horrible noise came from the intending assassin. It was then that Fouchard proved his skill. With Walther almost covering the madman he fired twice. There came a gurgle that echoed weirdly. The razor missed its mark by a few inches, and the big brown form crumpled up like a concertina.

“Got him!”

“My God!” cried Niels brokenly, and ran to the still form.

“He’s dead—dead!” said Bertha.

“Stand away!” roared Fouchard.

But they did not heed him in the least. Conrad, focusing the light on the scene, was amazed to see the savage Niels fondling the huge, dirty hand of the dead man.

“Max!” he muttered. “Max!”

Fouchard had not yet got it clear. He took control and forced them to stand away. On going to remove the robe he was stopped by Niels.

“Don’t interfere!” he snapped.

“But——”

Fouchard pulled back the hood and then opened the gown at the front. A faded uniform came to view—the uniform of a major of the Bavarian Regiment. But it was not that which caused him to utter a cry of horror. He had seen what Wallace had already seen. He pulled down the hood immediately.

“Poor devil!”

“Yes—a tragedy, m’sieur,” said Bertha.

“Now for the rest,” said Fouchard. “What is your little game down here?”

“Isn’t it obvious, Fouchard?” asked Conrad quietly.

“Nothing is obvious.” He glared at Niels. “What is there here that you want?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Don’t try to——”

“It’s true,” said Bertha. “Don’t you realise yet that the thing we came to get—no longer exists?”

“You mean—that?”

Fouchard pointed to the poor, dead figure, and Bertha inclined her head.

“Then who is he? What is he to you?”

“He was my brother,” said Niels.

“So! And what is your relationship to this woman?”

“I am his sister-in-law,” said Bertha. “I am the Baroness von Kauffman. His brother Max married my sister.”

“Was her name Minna?” asked Wallace.

“Yes. How did you guess?”

“He mistook Mademoiselle Fallières for her. It was that delusion which saved her life.”

“We will get the details later,” said Fouchard. “In the meantime you are all under arrest for aiding and abetting. March on. We will remove the corpse later.”

Yolande heard the news with mingled amazement and relief. She was yet tired from her adventure, but anxious to hear all the details. Fouchard, now exceedingly pleased with himself, paraded his prisoners in the biggest reception-room. They were all looking dejected and indifferent to whatever Fouchard might do. Bertha smiled wanly at Yolande as soon as she saw her.

“We have fought and lost,” she said. “I am sorry, mademoiselle. There was no other course.”

“I am yet in the dark about many points,” said Yolande. “Fouchard has told me that your one object in coming here was to get this man Max away.”

“Yes, that is so. We had no other object in mind.”

“But how did he get here? Why did he come here?”

“He has been here ever since this château was occupied by German troops. He was terribly wounded by a shell, and must have crept back into the tunnel. He recovered, but only to be a lunatic. My poor sister heard that he was killed—blown to pieces. She went to America, and died there soon after.”

“But how did you come to know that he was not dead, but actually living in this place?”

“It is the strangest story. Six months ago I was visited by an ex-officer of my brother-in-law’s regiment. He was a very clever electrician, and among his hobbies was wireless telegraphy. He had installed a small experimental transmitting set, and was carrying out experiments on low wavelengths.”

“My father also had a set,” said Yolande.

“That is part of the story. This officer came to me in a perturbed and puzzled state of mind. He asked me if I believed in spirit communications. I told him I had never seriously considered the matter. He then showed me his log-book, and among his notes were some strange, broken messages purporting to come from Max, and addressed to Minna—his dead wife. Some of them were quite unintelligible, but others referred to small incidents in the past which made it appear as if it were really Max who was communicating.”

“But how did these messages come?” asked Fouchard.

“In the Morse code—and in German. I found myself utterly unable to accept his theory that a spirit was manifesting in that way. But, on the other hand, I believed Max to be dead, and it was difficult to explain the phenomena. I told Niels, but he too was sceptical. Time passed, and then something happened which caused us considerable excitement. A message came to the experimenter. It said, ‘Am holding the devils, Minna. They shall never win the Château Grammont.’ That was remarkable, because I knew that Max had been in the château when the French made their successful attack. I conferred with Niels, and ultimately decided to come to Grammont to see if there was anything in the fantastic story. I stayed in Arveyes, and there I heard that the château was haunted—that a big form had been seen by several persons. About the same time mademoiselle advertised for a parlourmaid. I got the situation by giving false references.”

“What was your object then?” asked Fouchard.

“I was puzzled. I wanted to see and hear more. One night I got definite proof that my brother-in-law was alive. I caught a glimpse of him in this place, and I knew at once that he was insane. I wrote to Niels begging him to come to me, and he came almost by return. We talked the matter over, and came to the conclusion that we would tell the story to Monsieur Fallières, and so clear up the mystery. But before this could happen murder took place. That altered everything.”

“How?” snapped Fouchard.

“It put my poor brother in a perilous position,” answered Niels. “What sort of justice would he have got in a French civil court?”

“The same as anyone else,” retorted Fouchard. “Are you suggesting that we hang lunatics?”

“No. But what would have been the procedure in Max’s case? He would be certified as insane, and on that account would not be permitted to plead. He would have been sent to a criminal lunatic asylum for the rest of his days.”

“Well?”

“It was that thought which settled a momentary indecision. We wanted to get him home—to his own country. In Germany he might have had every comfort, every attention. Surely these should not be denied a man because a grave injury has caused him to commit deeds which in his normal mind he would have shuddered at?”

“And that is what caused you to refuse my offer?” asked Yolande.

“Yes. It was tempting, but I realised that you were speaking in ignorance. Even had you been disposed to act so generously when you had learned the truth, there was M’sieur Fouchard to be considered. Fouchard had his duty to do. He was bound to act on it and to make an arrest.”

Fouchard inclined his head at this.

“But under medical treatment—an operation perhaps—your brother might have recovered his reason.”

“Walther agrees that that was possible. But what then?”

“He would have a fair trial, and in the circumstances I cannot imagine anything other than a favourable verdict.”

“And repatriation?”

Fouchard compressed his lips, and Niels shook his head.

“It is inconceivable,” he added. “My brother was doomed from the moment when his crazy brain led him to commit that terrible deed. They would never repatriate him, and you know it, sir. The alternative was a life-long incarceration. We had weighed all that, and, reluctant as we were, we had to go on. Realising the big obstacles which we were up against, I wrote to my cousin Walther and his brother Heinrich. Heinrich arrived first, and brought with him some valuable information. It was contained in a volume written by a man named Steinbech——”

“We know all about that,” said Wallace.

“With those clues in our hands we decided to make an attempt at once—on that night when you discovered us in the vaults.”

“I remember,” growled Fouchard.

“Well, we failed, as you know, and after that we never got another chance, until in desperation we decided to tackle the tunnel from the other end—the mine. We had abandoned that before because there had been a big fall of rock since the tunnel was made, and the work of getting through it was considerable. Again we were too late, and here is the result.”

“Hm! A queer story,” mused Fouchard. “And when you eventually got him he did not recognise you?”

“No. He seemed to be obsessed with the idea that the war was still on, and that he had been delegated to hold the château against the enemy. He knew none of us. We were all enemies to him. He scarcely recalled his own name. The one name he remembered well was Minna. He loved his poor wife dearly.”

“I know that,” said Yolande softly. “It is obvious that he must have used my father’s wireless set to send those confused messages. It was dismantled only a few months ago.”

“But how did he get access to the house?” asked Wallace. “So far as I can see there is no outlet from the vaults except by the main door, which was always locked.”

“That’s still a mystery,” said Fouchard, stroking his chin.

“No longer a mystery,” put in Yolande. “I discovered the means only a short time ago.”

Fouchard stared at her, as did the rest.

“When I came back to that awful chamber with—Mr. Wallace, the Monster had somehow obtained a fowl. I knew at once that he had stolen it from the pantry, for since Severin’s death I have been compelled to look after some of the domestic affairs of the house. Before I went to bed last night I had occasion to go into the pantry, and the fowl was there. I closed the door behind me. It locks of its own accord.”

“But how——”

“It is so simple, and yet we all overlooked it. The pantry has a wine-lift, which goes down into the cellar. It is large enough for a big man to enter, and can be worked from inside by simply pulling a rope.”

Fouchard bit his lip at this.

“Severin ought to have told me,” he said.

“Poor Severin had no imagination.”

“But we ought to have noticed it in the cellar,” said Wallace.

“It is not easily seen, and I was scarcely aware of its existence,” replied Yolande. “One might go into the pantry a dozen times without seeing it.”

But Fouchard was not easily consoled, for he prided himself upon his powers of observation.

“The lift sheds a great deal of new light,” said Wallace. “It must have been the means by which he got away on that evening when we saw him in the turret. Obviously he escaped through that old disused staircase which leads to the servants’ quarters.”

“Also the body of—” commenced Conrad, and stopped as he saw Yolande wince.

“But the pantry door would be locked,” objected Fouchard.

“It has a Yale lock and can be opened from the inside,” informed Yolande. “By slipping the catch he could wander at large and always have a means of escape. That old staircase comes out immediately opposite the pantry door.”

“Yes, you have forged the last link,” agreed Fouchard.

“And it accounts for his being able to exist,” said Conrad. “No doubt he took food from the pantry. Severin admitted that provisions were missing from time to time.”

“But he did not depend upon the pantry for food,” said Yolande. “The chamber where he lived was littered with boxes of field-rations which must have been left by the Germans in their hurried retreat. It is significant that his visits to the upper part of the house grew more frequent as his main supply of food gave out. But why—why did he hide my poor father’s body, and yet leave Severin where we found him?”

“In the worst cases of lunacy one finds recurrent phases of lucidity,” said Walther. “I imagine that something like that happened immediately the first crime was committed. Realising what he had done, he performed that astounding feat along the ivy with his victim. It was not so with Severin.” He looked at Fouchard. “The next move is yours, m’sieur.”

“It is for mademoiselle to decide. You have all attempted to defeat the ends of justice, and, in addition, certain personal injuries have been inflicted.”

Yolande gazed at Conrad, but Conrad was rapidly recovering and was singularly free from spite.

“Leave me out of it, please,” he begged. “I have to return to England in a day or two. I am quite willing to regard my little injury as the result of a complete accident.”

“And you—Ralph?”

Conrad stared at this form of address, and Wallace blushed a trifle.

“I have nothing to say,” he said, “except that in similar circumstances I think I should have acted just as the Baroness and her friends have.”

“Hm!” said Fouchard.

“In that case I do not feel disposed to go any further in the matter,” said Yolande. “All that remains for us all is to try to forget it.”

“Perhaps you are right,” agreed Fouchard. “Still, I shall experience some little difficulty in forgetting a certain bump on my head.”

Niels stepped forward with a smile on his face—the first smile that any of them had seen for a long time.

“I tender you my sincere apologies, m’sieur,” he said. “It was a brutal and sudden attack that no man could possibly have foreseen. I had you at a mean disadvantage. I should regard it as an honour to shake hands with the famous Fouchard.”

That settled Fouchard, who never could resist flattery.

CHAPTER XXXI.
CONCLUSION

It was summer again in the beautiful Forêt de Grammont when a gleaming, re-painted Bentley car drew up at the lodge of the château, and drew old Pierre from his after-déjeuner siesta. He rubbed his eyes as he beheld the ringer of the bell.

“Hullo, Pierre. Il fait beau temps!”

“Monsieur Wallace! And mademoiselle!”

Yolande came from behind, and shook Pierre’s large, flabby hand with a smile on her beautiful face.

“Not mademoiselle any longer—Madame Wallace!”

“Hélas! And you have come to see the old home?”

“Of course we have. I hope the Government is treating you well, Pierre, since they took the château off my hands.”

“Excellently. I am to have a pension in ten years. We have lots of visitors—English, Americans, all sorts. I show them the rooms where the Monster walked, and some are generous—some are not. But the tunnel has been bricked up.”

“Perhaps that is as well.”

“Mademoiselle—pardon—madame would like the key?”

“Yes.”

“And shall I——”

“No. Finish your sleep, Pierre. We should be able to find our way about.”

She and her husband of three months’ standing walked arm in arm towards the well-remembered entrance. Nothing was changed, and Wallace found himself reviving every little incident that had taken place there a year before.

“Look, that is where I first saw the Monster, Yolande,” he said, pointing to the ivy-clad tower.

“What wonderful things have happened since then!”

“Yes. Do you regret them?”

“No. It was a wrench giving up the château to a Government department, but, after all, it is a thing that should be enjoyed by the many and not reserved to the few.”

They entered the château and wandered through the rooms, which were excellently kept. There was a visitors’ book in the hall, containing many names, from all parts of the world.

“Why, look at that!” exclaimed Wallace suddenly.

It was the signature of Baroness von Kauffman, in the firm handwriting of Bertha, and dated but a few days before.

“So she has been lured back—like us.”

“A fine woman.”

“Yes. I always liked her. I often wonder whether she was not just a little bit in love with Conrad.”

Wallace laughed mysteriously.

“What is the matter?”

“Shall I tell you a secret?”

“If you can trust me.”

“Well, Connie is spending his holiday at Baden-Baden next month.”

“I don’t see——”

“The Baroness lives there.”

“Ralph—you don’t mean——”

“I know nothing much. But I happen to have seen various envelopes bearing the Baden-Baden postmark, and Connie seems to treat the rest of the correspondence as negligible when those letters arrive.”

“Oh, I hope something——”

“Yolande! You wish to see the confirmed bachelor beaten and done for?”

“Why not? He needs someone to look after him. Someone with a will, like Bertha has, to compel him to buy warmer vests when the winter comes.”

He laughed in his complete happiness, and they ultimately left the château and entered the garden. It was here that Yolande found her childhood again. All the bright, sweet friends of her youth were still there, even to the pair of robins, now growing old.

“If you hadn’t already given me a beautiful garden, Ralph, I should sit down and cry,” she said. “Many times I have sat here as a girl and wondered whether there was anyone who would come out of the big, busy world and—and take me— Then came terror and heartache, and, when everything seemed smashed in ruin, the miracle happened. But I’ve had enough happiness in six months to make up for all the horror of the past.”

He caught her hand and kissed her, while she pinned a fresh young rose to his coat.

“And there is another thing you have to remember,” she said. “When you retire from business—which is, of course, only another name for playing about with turbines—we are coming to France to enjoy our second childhood.”

“That is a promise.”

“La belle France!”

“You are incurably French. I’ve given you an English name, an English house, English everything, and you still remain as completely French as if you had never left Grammont.”

“La, la! And I have given you French coffee, French vermouth, French caresses, and you are just as English as when I met you in the Forêt de Grammont. But I shall convert you yet.”

“No, you won’t. And I shan’t convert you. Besides, I don’t want to. I’m satisfied.”

“So am I.”

“Then what are we quarrelling about?”

“Just nothing.”

They laughed together—ringing laughter that went echoing all over the garden. It was in strange contrast to the gloom that had once pervaded that place, and it was proof enough that Yolande had climbed out of the pit of horror where he had first found her. But when she visited her father’s grave the vivacious eyes became wet with tears.

“I can’t help it,” she said. “It was a terrible end.”

“It makes no difference to death. It is rest and peace.”

“And the château is preserved for ever. He would be glad to know that. Look, the roses that I planted are blooming—the sort he loved most.”

They went back via the terrace, and lingered there for a few moments to enjoy the scene which it commanded. The furniture had been removed, but on one of the stone slabs there was something scratched. Wallace went to look at it, but she held him back.

“Don’t. I’m ashamed.”

“What do you mean?”

He craned his neck forward, and saw his name in small letters, faintly engraved.

“So that’s the secret!”

“I did it a week after you came here. Isn’t it shameful?”

“That’s nothing,” he replied. “I carved yours on an old tree in the garden on the second day. Can you beat that?”

“Yes,” she retorted. “I can. I knew all about it on the following night, for you had the next room to mine, and you talk in your sleep—not only talk, but shout.”

“Yolande! Well!”

“Now come,” she begged. “I want to be moving—south. I want to smell the sea—the real blue, sunlit southern sea. Get me there as quickly as you can.”

They bade farewell to old Pierre, and left him blinking his eyes at a thousand-franc note—the first he had ever seen. Through the tree-lined roads of France the Bentley slipped, bringing nearer the magic Côte d’Azur, with all its beauty. The road was good, the sun was high, and the driver crazy with happiness. Yolande suddenly had an inspiration, and put her head close to him.

“Ralph!”

“Eh?”

“If there’s anything in pre-natal influence, I should say that Clementina Esmeralda Ralph Augustus Wallace will most certainly be a racing motorist. Can you beat that?”

He gasped for a moment, and then nodded.

“I can.”

“Ralph!”

“I knew it.”

“But I haven’t said a word——”

“No, but you talk in your sleep.”

She sat pretending to be peeved, but his left hand moved across and gripped hers firmly. With a sigh of inexpressible happiness she raised it to her lips.

THE END

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. debris/débris, finger nails/finger-nails, etc.) have been preserved.

Alterations to the text:

Add chapter numbering.

Punctuation: fix a few quotation mark pairings.

[Chapter IV]

Change (“If this strang thing is to be brought to bay) to strange.

[Chapter VIII]

(letter signature) change Neils to Niels.

[Chapter IX]

“If I could help you I would, but I am pledegd to secrecy” to pledged.

[Chapter XI]

“She would have offered you a rose if I hadn’t been persent” to present.

“never failed to tingle whenever Bertha loomd in sight” to loomed.

[Chapter XII]

“I’d have no difficulty in convicting Hienrich and Niels” to Heinrich.

“the people at Arveys have been busy in that direction” to Arveyes.

[Chapter XIII]

(“But Mademoisele Fallières!” ejaculated Bertha) to Mademoiselle.

[Chapter XXI]

“was not the type of man to take any unnecassary risk” to unnecessary.

[Chapter XXIII]

(“Do you know a village callet Basset?”) to called.

“The reached the kitchen and heard Walther dealing” to They.

[Chapter XXV]

(“Why was Fallière’s body found here—and Severin’s?” to Fallières’s.

[Chapter XXIX]

“The warning cry came from Hienrich, and Niels” to Heinrich.

[Chapter XXX]

“All the while he was appoaching closer” to approaching.

[End of text]

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78776 ***

THE MONSTER OF GRAMMONT

[COPYRIGHT]

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. GHOSTS

CHAPTER II. A DELAY

CHAPTER III. THE MONSTER

CHAPTER IV. FOUCHARD

CHAPTER V. BAFFLED

CHAPTER VI. THE UNEXPECTED

CHAPTER VII. BERTHA

CHAPTER VIII. SUSPENSE

CHAPTER IX. COUNTERPLOT

CHAPTER X. THEORIES

CHAPTER XI. THE CRIMSON TRAIL

CHAPTER XII. THE SECOND VICTIM

CHAPTER XIII. THE CONSPIRATORS

CHAPTER XIV. A NIGHT OF TERROR

CHAPTER XV. THE COUP

CHAPTER XVI. BONDAGE

CHAPTER XVII. WALLACE ESCAPES

CHAPTER XVIII. WALLACE HAS A LITTLE LUCK

CHAPTER XIX. BLIND ALLEYS

CHAPTER XX. BERTHA IS SCARED

CHAPTER XXI. A PROPOSAL

CHAPTER XXII. THE MEETING

CHAPTER XXIII. A CALL FOR HELP

CHAPTER XXIV. CHECK!

CHAPTER XXV. THE FINAL BLOW

CHAPTER XXVI. YOLANDE’S ORDEAL

CHAPTER XXVII. THE BOOK

CHAPTER XXVIII. PRISONERS

CHAPTER XXIX. THE FUSE

CHAPTER XXX. THE COUNT

CHAPTER XXXI. CONCLUSION

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

THE MONSTER
OF GRAMMONT

CHAPTER I.
GHOSTS

CHAPTER II.
A DELAY

CHAPTER III.
THE MONSTER

CHAPTER IV.
FOUCHARD

CHAPTER V.
BAFFLED

CHAPTER VI.
THE UNEXPECTED

CHAPTER VII.
BERTHA

CHAPTER VIII.
SUSPENSE

CHAPTER IX.
COUNTERPLOT

CHAPTER X.
THEORIES

CHAPTER XI.
THE CRIMSON TRAIL

CHAPTER XII.
THE SECOND VICTIM

CHAPTER XIII.
THE CONSPIRATORS

CHAPTER XIV.
A NIGHT OF TERROR

CHAPTER XV.
THE COUP

CHAPTER XVI.
BONDAGE

CHAPTER XVII.
WALLACE ESCAPES

CHAPTER XVIII.
WALLACE HAS A LITTLE LUCK

CHAPTER XIX.
BLIND ALLEYS

CHAPTER XX.
BERTHA IS SCARED

CHAPTER XXI.
A PROPOSAL

CHAPTER XXII.
THE MEETING

CHAPTER XXIII.
A CALL FOR HELP

CHAPTER XXIV.
CHECK!

CHAPTER XXV.
THE FINAL BLOW

CHAPTER XXVI.
YOLANDE’S ORDEAL

CHAPTER XXVII.
THE BOOK

CHAPTER XXVIII.
PRISONERS

CHAPTER XXIX.
THE FUSE

CHAPTER XXX.
THE COUNT

CHAPTER XXXI.
CONCLUSION