By means of zigzag manœuvring, the Farman was brought to within fifty yards or so of the place. My chauffeur gingerly imitated the design. Then came the prearranged signal. Macalister’s arm was protruded. He waved his cigar like a field marshal’s baton. “Stop!” I said--and the word sounded like a gasp of relief. I got out, turned, and looked back. O’Shea’s car had been pulled up on the crest. I could see him standing beside it, a distant silhouette against the sky. I walked down to where Macalister waited by the house. There was a low stone wall round the seaward end of the property, enclosing a tiny garden in which bricks were apparently cultivated. And now I could see over the edge. I gasped. A wooden ladder, connecting with a platform that jutted out just below the house, described a jazz pattern down the cliff-side. In a miniature cove, below, a smart motor cruiser lay, her lighted ports like watching eyes. “Send your car up to the top,” Macalister directed. I shouted to the man. And, as I watched him painfully tacking back against the gradient, I reflected that if O’Shea’s psychology should prove to be at fault, mine was a sorry case. I fingered a revolver that nestled in my pocket. The climb accomplished: “Now,” said Macalister, “you remember the conditions?” “Perfectly.” “Halfway between the house and my car.” I turned and mounted the slope. Macalister whistled shrilly. Spinning about, I watched. I saw two things happen. Macalister’s simian chauffeur leapt from his seat, stripping off his jacket and discarding his cap. From somewhere on the hither side of the building, which appeared to possess no door, three figures came into view. Two were men, thick-set nondescripts; the third was a girl. And the girl was Nanette! They held her wrists, but the moment she caught sight of me standing there in the moonlight: “Mr. Decies!” she cried. “Don’t do it! don’t do it! I’ll never forgive you! They _dare_ not harm me, and you are not to do it!” I made no answer. I had none to make. And so the men led her on until she stood before me. She was pale, and so slender, between her burly captors, as to look ethereal. Her widely open eyes were fixed in a stare of reproach. My heart thumped. “You don’t understand, Nanette,” I said. “There is Major O’Shea--and he wishes it.” One long, lingering glance she cast up to where O’Shea stood watching. I saw a flood of colour sweep over her face. Then her obstinate little mouth quivered. She lowered her head, and: “I hate myself,” she whispered. “Now,” said Macalister, coming forward, “give me the key.” I did so. He placed it carefully in his waistcoat pocket. Nanette never looked up. “Hand the portfolio to Miguel.” The chauffeur was indicated. I obeyed, and the man handed the portfolio on to Macalister, who narrowly examined the seals. “Senhor da Cunha,” he said sharply.