"Stop!" It is Alan Warburton's voice, stern and ringing. He has seized the pistol arm, and holds it in a grasp that Mr. Grip finds difficult to release. "Hands off!" cries Grip, now hoarse with rage. "That man's a _spy_!" "No matter; we will have no more shooting." "_We_!" struggling to release his arm from Alan's firm grasp; "who are you that--" "I am master here, sir." With an angry hiss, the detective from Scotland Yards throws himself upon Alan, and they engage in a fierce struggle. But Alan Warburton is something more than a ball-room hero; he is an adept in the manly sports, and fully a match for Mr. Grip. Panting and terrified, Winnie and Millie stand together near the door; and the eyes of the latter damsel wander from the combatants near the window, to something that has fallen close at her feet, and that lies half hidden by the folds of her dress. But disaster has befallen Mr. Grip. While they wrestle, Alan's quick eye has detected something that looks like a displacement of Mr. Grip's cranium, and with a sudden, dexterous, upward movement, he solves the mystery. There is an exclamation of surprise, another of anger, and the two combatants stand apart, both gazing down at the thing lying on the floor between them. It is a wig of curling auburn hair, and it leaves the head of Mr. Grip quite a different head in shape, in size, in height of forehead, and in general expression! "So," sneers Alan, "Mr. Grip, of Scotland Yards, saw fit to visit me in disguise. Is your name as easily altered as your face, sir?" The discomfited wrestler stoops down, and picking up his wig adjusts it carefully on his head once more; bends again to take up his fallen pistol; lifts his hat from a chair, and returns to the window. "My name is not Augustus Grip," he says coolly. "Neither will you find me by inquiring at police headquarters. But you and I will meet again, Mr. Warburton." [Illustration: "Drawing a small revolver, he fires after the fugitive--once--twice!" page 283.] And without unseemly haste, he places his hand upon the window-sill, swings himself over the ledge, resting his feet upon the iron railings, and drops down upon the pavement. By this time some people have collected outside, attracted by the pistol-shots. Two laggard policemen are hastening down the street. A group of servants are whispering and consulting anxiously in the hall, and cautiously peeping in at the study door. The coolness of the false Mr. Grip takes him safely past the group of inquiring ones. "It was a sneak thief," he explains, as he leaps down among them. "Don't detain me, friends; I must report this affair at police headquarters." A few quick strides take him across the street to where a carriage stands in waiting. He enters it, and in a moment more, Mr. Grip and carriage have whirled out of sight.