"What!" Alan starts, and turns a sharp glance upon the organ-grinder. Then he seems to recover all his calmness and says quietly, "nonsense; look at that stolid countenance." "Umph!" mutters Grip; "too much hair and dirt." Then turning toward the side window: "I intend to satisfy myself about this fellow later. Get in a policeman somehow; try the window." As Alan goes toward the window, the organ-grinder seeming in a state of utter collapse, and making no effort to free himself from the grasp of Mr. Grip, still crouches beside his organ, and begins anew his pleading, terrified pantomine. "Ah," says Alan, as the window yields to his touch, "this window must have been the place where he entered." Then, after a prolonged look up and down the street: "I don't see an officer anywhere." "No; I presume not. Try the other windows." "The other windows, Mr. Grip, look out upon the grounds." "Perdition! Keep quiet, you fellow. Then shut that window, sir, and come and guard this door; the lady may present herself at any moment." Alan turns again, and looks down into the street. "I think," he says, quietly, "that we will just drop him back into the street whence he came." "You seem to want this fellow to escape," snarls the detective, casting upon Alan a glance of suspicion. "He shall not escape; I'll take care of him!" At this moment the door of the study flies suddenly open, and Millie, breathless and with eyes distended, precipitates herself into the room. "Mr. Alan," she pants, without pausing to note the other occupants of the room; "we can't find Mrs. Warburton; she is not in the house!" "What!" Alan strides toward her in unfeigned astonishment. "Ah-h-h!" Mr. Grip turns swiftly, and his single syllable is as full of meaning as is his face of derision, and suspicion confirmed. "Impossible, Millie," says Alan sharply; "go to Miss French--" "I did, sir, and she is--" She pauses abruptly, for there in the doorway is Winnie French, pale and tearful, an open letter in her hand. "Read that, sir," she says, going straight up to Alan and extending to him the letter. "See what your cruelty has done. Leslie Warburton is gone!" "Gone!" This time Grip and Alan both utter the word, both start forward. For just one moment the hand that clutches the collar of the organ-grinder relaxes its hold, but that moment is enough. With amazing agility, and seemingly by one movement, the prisoner has freed himself and is on his feet. In another second, by a clever wrestler's man[oe]uvre, he has thrown Mr. Grip headlong upon the floor. And then, before the others can realize his intentions, he has bounded to the open window, and flung himself out, as easily and as carelessly as would a cat. But Mr. Grip, discomfited for the moment, is not wanting in alertness. He is on his feet before the man has cleared the window. He bounds toward it, and drawing a small revolver, fires after the fugitive--once--twice.