Desmond pressed the girl to her knees. “Keep your head down!” he whispered, and fired again. The yellow flame from his pistol lit up the darkened room. The odour of burnt powder hung on the stale air. A volley of shots from without answered him. But now loud knocking resounded from the outer hall. Instantly the light beyond the door went out. There was the scuffle of feet and Clubfoot’s voice crying aloud: “Turn on the light again. The front door is solid. If we go, we’ll take the Englishman with us. Ah, you miserable hounds! you . . .!” For one brief, terrible instant a brilliant orange glare lighted the dark gap between the barricade and the door. Then there came the deafening roar of an explosion immediately followed by the sound of splintering wood and the tinkle of broken glass. The whole house seemed to shudder and settle down again. Then came a moment of absolute silence, and in the stillness the girl heard a stealthy clip-clop, clip-clop across the tiles of the hall. And then came shouts and the sound of the crunching and smashing of wood under heavy blows. A voice without cried twice: “Desmond! Desmond!” In the darkness the girl sought the companion at her side. “Hark!” she whispered. “We are saved!” There was no reply. She stretched out her hand, groping in the place where Desmond Okewood had stood. But he was no longer there. Outside resounded the trampling of heavy feet, and with a sudden crash the barricade before the door was flung down. A beam of white light from an electric torch clove the darkness. In its ray Xenia saw Desmond Okewood lying motionless at her feet. CHAPTER XIII IN WHICH CHECK PROVES TO BE CHECKMATE When Desmond came to his senses he was propped up in a limousine that was slowly threading a broad street crowded with trams and other traffic. The Chief was at his side and, on the opposite seat, Francis with the girl whose pale face, dark eyes, and glossy black hair were vaguely familiar. With a bewildered expression the young man looked from one face to the other. “Where am I?” “You’re in the Mile End Road, old man, going home,” said his brother, patting him on the knee. “And Clubfoot?” “Escaped down the river by launch!” Desmond took the girl’s hand. “I remember it all now,” he said. “It was this brave girl that saved us. She gave me the automatic with which I was able to keep them off until you came. Without that gun . . .” “I shouldn’t talk any more now if I were you,” the Chief counselled. “I’m all right,” said Desmond, “except that my head is buzzing like a beehive. What happened to me exactly?” “You were hit by a ricochet off your precious barricade,” his brother replied. “Actually it only grazed your temple, but it put you down for the count . . .” Desmond was silent for a moment. “Escaped by launch, did he?” he remarked presently. “Francis, where _was_ this house to which they took me?”