Now came the hardest blow of all. The station was closed for the night. Nor was there any light in the signal box. Evidently no other train was due upon that branch line until some time in the early morning. The level crossing gate was open, but before breaking cover he paused a while to consider what he should do. Lower Claybury was one of those stations which have no intimate connection with any township. The nearest house, so far as Harley could recall, was fully twenty yards from the spot at which he stood. Furthermore, the urgency of the case had fired the soul of the professional investigator. He made up his mind, and, darting out into the road, he ran across the line, turned sharply, and did not pause until he stood before the station master’s window. Then his quick wits were put to their ultimate test. Right, left, it seemed from all about him, came swiftly pattering footsteps! Instantly he divined the truth. Losing his tracks upon the highroad above, a section of his pursuers had surrounded the station, believing that he would head for it in retreat. Paul Harley whipped off his coat in a flash, and using it as a ram, smashed the window. He reached up, found the catch, and opened the sash. In ten seconds he was in the room, and a great clatter told him that he had overturned some piece of furniture. Disentangling his coat, he sought and found the electric torch. He pressed the button. No light came. It was broken! He drew a hissing breath, and began to grope about the little room. At last his hand touched the telephone, and, taking it up: “Hello!” he said. “Hello!” “Yes,” came the voice of the operator--“what number?” “City 8951. Police business! Urgent!” One, two, three seconds elapsed, four, five, six. “Hello!” came the voice of Innes. “That you, Innes?” said Harley. And, interrupting the other’s reply: “I am by no means safe, Innes! I am in one of the tightest corners of my life. Listen: Get Wessex! If he’s off duty, get Burton. Tell him to bring--” Someone leaped in at the broken window behind the speaker. Resting the telephone upon the table, where he had found it, Harley reached into his hip pocket and snapped out his automatic. Dimly he could hear Innes speaking. He half-turned, raised the pistol, and knew a sudden intense pain at the back of his skull. A thousand lights seemed suddenly to split the darkness. He felt himself sinking into an apparently bottomless pit. CHAPTER XX. CONFLICTING CLUBS “Any news, Wessex?” asked Innes, eagerly, starting up from his chair as the inspector entered the office. Wessex shook his head, and sitting down took out and lighted a cigarette. “News of a sort,” he replied, slowly, “but nothing of any value, I am afraid. My assistant, Stokes, has distinguished himself.” “In what way?” asked Innes, dully, dropping back into his chair.