“Doctor,” he said, “how soon will he recover?” The Portuguese physician shook his head. “Do not count upon him,” he answered gravely. “A tremendous blow on the back of his skull. I cannot examine him properly here. He must be taken at once to the hospital.” “An accident?” “But certainly, no! Foul play. Some blunt weapon. I suspect a sandbag.” “Shall I telephone the police?” the manager asked. “No,” said O’Shea. “Get young Clayton away as quickly as possible. Gentlemen”--he included us all in a comprehensive glance--“let us keep this affair to ourselves.” “What!” I cried. But indeed, beyond that one word I could not go. Inertia at such a time astounded me. “There is a well-known policy of war,” O’Shea went on: “Masterly inactivity. We have no Service de Sûreté and no Scotland Yard in Madeira. A clumsy hue and cry could serve no better purpose than to drive the enemy into some more remote hiding place.” “But, Nanette!” I burst out. Then I met O’Shea’s glance. I noted the grim set of his jaw. I saw how pale he was. “Your remark was rather unnecessary, Decies,” he said. “I recently pointed out to you that Madeira is a very lonely island. If you can suggest any plan for locating the whereabouts of Nanette, do so.” Then I understood. And I think I groaned. “There are so many roads they might have taken,” the manager explained. “And what means have we of tracing the car? There are no traffic police in Madeira. Such a thing has never happened here before. Certainly not in my time.” “What villain has done it?” came in agonized North Country dialect. “Oh, the poor little lass!” “Madeiran blood runs very hot,” said the physician. “No doubt,” O’Shea agreed. “And Nanette is a lovely child. But do you believe there is any one amongst her acquaintances mad enough to commit such an outrage?” “Why do you say ‘amongst her acquaintances’?” I asked stupidly. “Because _your_ name was used to induce her to go,” O’Shea answered. “Ultimately, she must be found. Her abductor knows this. Therefore he is prepared to make terms.” Came a rap on the door. “Yes?” said the manager. A hall porter appeared. Major O’Shea was wanted on the telephone. As he went out: “Come to my room in five minutes, Decies,” he directed. The five minutes that followed form a blur in my memory. There were hushed voices. There was movement; a still figure being carried through the hall to where a car waited out in the scented darkness. Someone kept saying, “We must _do_ something. We must _do_ something,” over and over again. There was a woman who sobbed with a Lancashire accent. Then I stood in O’Shea’s room. He was seated on the side of the bed. “I was right,” he said. “It’s a move in the Red game!” “What!” My wild, distorted ideas were tumbled over one another by that statement. They fought in my brain, seeking fresh formation.