Gilead, the skin of his scalp prickling, heard the two move slowly along the hall and enter the room beyond. His face was white and stern. The Providence which had brought him acquainted with the details of this infernal plot to ruin an innocent man would surely not stultify its own design at the last. The girl was still sobbing. Bracing every nerve to his task, he lost not an instant, but, treading like a cat, stole out into the hall, and reaching the picture, felt behind it unavailingly. The sobs ceased suddenly. Desperate, he switched on his torch, saw a little white packet stuck between frame and canvas, seized his prize and made for the door. Even as he lifted the latch, there came a rush from the room behind him, a mad oath, a flash and slam, and a bullet splintered the panel close by his head. In another moment he was out and plunging for the steps. Something took his hat with a plop, and then the merciful fog received him, and he was running--running bareheaded for his life. A sense of uproar, of crackling fires seemed to goad him on and wing his steps; instinctively he had turned the corner out of the main road and was flying along Dorset Street; and then, all in a moment, he became conscious that his own racing heart was his sole company, and, recovering his reason, he slowed down and began to consider his bearings. * * * * * * * Mr Abel Hamlin ran straight into the arms of a contiguous police officer, who had been attracted by the sound of the shots. The revolver still being clutched in his hand, and his explanation failing to give satisfaction, he was incarcerated pending enquiries. These resulted--Gilead in the meantime having found his way by desperate courses to Scotland Yard--in his indefinite detention on the twin charges of conspiracy to defraud and attempted murder.