Sir Clinton said no more, but busied himself with giving orders to his subordinates. Wendover had grasped the meaning of the interchange between Ardsley and the Chief Constable. Sir Clinton meant to use the simplest poison gas of all—the fumes of burning sulphur. The light air-currents would drift them over the Maze; and Ernest Shandon would soon find his fastness converted into a death-trap. He would have to come out into the open; and by that time he would be in such a state that he could be easily captured. Sir Clinton had issued his directions, posting his constables at points from which they could converge on the various entrances to the Maze if necessary. “Take no risks,” he added, finally. “I don’t want any fancy exploits to-day. The man who gets Shandon and suffers no damage in getting him, will be the man who gets a good mark from me. I’ll not have anyone hurt, understand!” He dismissed the constables to carry his orders to their comrades, and then swung round to the rest of the group. “You can get over yonder, to that clump of rhododendrons, Hawkhurst. If he shows up anywhere within your zone of fire, you’re to wing him. You’re not to kill him. I’m trusting you to play the game, remember.” Arthur nodded, and betook himself to his post. “Two more guns will cover all but this side of the Maze,” Sir Clinton went on. “You go over to the road, Wendover. From there,” he pointed, “you can cover young Hawkhurst’s dead ground. I’ll do the same on the other side. But first of all, we’ve got to get this stuff spread around a bit.” He cut the twine at the mouth of the sacks, tilted out the sulphur, and began to distribute it with a spade. The others hurried to assist him, and spread the yellow lumps under his directions. “Now we can light up,” Sir Clinton said, at last, when things had been completed to his satisfaction. “These fireworks will give the thing a good start if you spray the sparks to and fro over the surface of the stuff.” He produced some fireworks from a paper parcel as he spoke and set an example to his companions. Soon the sulphur caught fire; and Wendover, incautiously working on the leeward side, began to cough violently. “Keep to the windward side of the stuff,” Sir Clinton advised. “Get it alight here and there. The flame will soon spread over the whole surface. Now, I’m off.” He picked up his shot-gun and skirted the Maze at a respectful distance as he made his way to his post. For a minute or two Wendover stolidly continued to tend the “ferret”; but he could not help wondering whether this method of criminal-hunting really came within permitted bounds. His mind inclined more readily to active measures; and the devil’s cookery was, as he phrased it to Ardsley, “hardly the game.” The toxicologist showed no sympathy with his point of view.