“Herr, Herr,” stammered Heinrich, “the cruet is outside. A little minute and I bring it!” Desmond grunted and turned away. But not so that he could not keep the door under observation. In a moment Heinrich was back with the cruet. “So, Herr!” he remarked and dumped it down on the table. But the Herr was still not satisfied. “You’ve brought me tea to drink!” he protested. “Do you take me for a teetotaller or what? Where’s Grundt? Send for Grundt . . .” “Herr, Herr,” wailed Heinrich in an agony of apprehension, “anything he wished for, the Herr was to have, said the Herr Doktor! What can I get you, Herr?” “That’s better!” said Desmond. “You can get me a large whiskey-and-soda. And not too much soda, d’you hear? . . .” Obediently Heinrich galloped from the room. The moment his back was turned Desmond was at the cruet. He whipped out the pepper castor, rapidly screwed the top off, and tiptoed swiftly to the door. “A dirty trick!” he murmured to himself. “A dirty Apache trick! Okewood, I’m ashamed of you!” Then the door swung back. On the threshold stood Heinrich beaming, a brimming club tumbler in his hand. Suddenly, with a shrill gasp of agony, the youth snatched at his eyes and the glass shattered on the floor. Desmond flung the empty pepper-pot away and dashed through the door. Running on the points of his toes he bolted along the corridor making in the direction of the staircase. Just as he reached it, he heard a heavy step mounting the stairs and the shining bald pate of Mr. Blund, the Englishman, appeared on a level with the landing. The collision was as violent as it was inevitable. By the force of the impact Mr. Blund was flung back against the stair-rail. But he had thrown his arms about Desmond and now clung to him like grim death, screeching in a voice wheezy with fear and excitement: “’Elp! ’Elp! ’E’s escaping!” With a savage twist Desmond wrenched himself loose. But there is a dogged strain in even the worst Englishman, and Mr. Blund came at him again. With open hand Desmond struck upwards at the other’s double chin that sagged in heavy folds to the thick neck. The violence of the blow, half slap, half push, threw the fat man off his balance. He reeled away, slipped on the polished boards, and, with a hoarse cry, toppled backwards over the banisters into the well of the staircase, and, with a horrid, soft thud, landed on the tiles of the hall. But the other gave him not a thought. From the corridor behind him resounded the angry bellowing of Heinrich. Without considering where he was going, Desmond plunged down the staircase and came to the hall where, loose, like a sack of bottles, the sprawling hulk of what had once been Mr. Blund was lying. Somewhere in the distance a door banged. A curtain hung across one side of the hall. In a flash Desmond parted it. Facing him he found the front door with an immense lock and no vestige of a key. He tried the door. It was locked!