“Desmond Okewood, bei Gott!” roared Grundt. “You poor fool, did you think you could hoodwink me? Don’t you know that a man can never disguise his ears? Himmelkreuzsakrament, you and I have a long account to settle, and this time”—his voice shook with concentrated fury—“I’m going to see that it’s paid!” Then came a hoarse shout from without: “The police!” and the sounds of a violent scuffle. Immediately the room was a mass of scrambling, jostling figures. The light went out almost simultaneously . . . at the very moment that Clubfoot clawed a great automatic from his pocket. In the clammy, noisy darkness Desmond flung himself across the table straight at the throat of that sinister gigantic figure facing him. His opponent struggled fiercely, but the chair impeded him. Desmond hung on grimly, determined that, this time, his old enemy should not escape him. Then the light went up and Desmond found himself looking into the mocking face of Paul Geyer. Two uniformed constables pounced upon him, and Desmond relaxed his grip. “I’ll have the law on you,” gasped Geyer, tugging at his torn collar. “Though I do keep a table, that’s no justification for half murdering me! Take his name and address, Inspector!” Touching his cap, the Inspector drew Desmond Okewood aside. “You’ll be Major Okewood, I’m thinking,” he said. “Your brother has been like a wild man about you!” “Where is he?” asked Desmond. “There’s a passage under the road to a wharf beside the river,” the Inspector answered. “It connects with the house here by a trap in the back hall. There’s a lame man escaped that way . . .” “A lame man?” queried Desmond in dismay. “Aye! Mr. Okewood went after him with a couple of my chaps!” He was interrupted by the appearance of Francis himself, breathless and dishevelled. Only his taximan’s uniform remained to recall his disguise of the night. “He’s away!” he gasped, answering his brother’s unspoken question. “Vanished into the night! The men are beating the place for him, but those blasted wharves are a regular rabbit warren, and it’s as dark as be-damned outside. Who’s your fat friend?” He indicated Geyer, who, violently protesting, was being led away by his captors. “When the light went out,” said Desmond, “Clubfoot changed places with him. He knew this fellow only risked a fine for keeping a gambling-den. It was my own fault. I over-acted and put the old man on his guard. Where’s the girl?” “Disappeared. We’ll get her at Duchess Street, I shouldn’t wonder!” “What’s the bag here? Do you know?” Francis made a grimace. “Nothing very great, I’m afraid. Some vague foreigners and a brace of bruisers. None of Clubfoot’s gang, at any rate. They must have smelt a rat, for as we were picking the lock a fellow unexpectedly opened the front door and gave the alarm!”