Nick counted the slow strokes of the bell, falling with sonorous reverberations on the night air. They brought to his mind the church and rectory visited the previous morning. Nick thought of the white, upturned face of the murdered priest, found dead on his library floor. He thought of the missing girl and wondered what her fate had been. His features hardened under these contemplations. His eyes took on a more threatening gleam and glitter. He was in a fit mood to face danger in behalf of justice, and bring to righteous punishment the miscreants guilty of these crimes. A sudden glare of light shot across the avenue a block away. A limousine came quickly around the corner and approached the Grayling, but it did not stop. Its lamps, seen through the gray mist, were like the glowing eyes of an uncouth monster. “By Jove, there comes my man,” flashed through Nick’s mind. “He came by the Grayling in order to see whether Garland’s rooms are lighted. I’ll turn up my collar to offset the bright light from that electric.” Nick did so, and then began to think he was mistaken. The rapidly moving limousine was swerving toward the opposite side of the avenue. Suddenly it made a quick turn, however, and sped directly toward the curbing on which the detective was standing. The door flew open and a man thrust out his head. “Get in!” he cried sharply. “Be quick!” Nick sprang into the car and sank upon the seat. The door banged behind him. “Let her go, Jimmy!” shouted his companion. The car had not stopped, in fact, and it now sped on rapidly through the side street. Nick’s companion sprang up and gazed intently from the back window until more than a hundred yards had been covered. Any pursuing car or motor cycle would have been plainly visible to him. There was none, however, and the limousine turned again and sped toward Florida Avenue. The man sat down and leaned from the open window on his side of the car, that on which Nick sat being closed. “You’re well away, Jimmy,” he called to the driver. “There’s nothing doing. Let her go lively.” Nick had been quick to see that this man was not masked, as when Garland had accompanied him. No sooner had he a good look at his dark, thin-featured face, moreover, than Nick instantly recognized him. He had arrested him in New York more than a year before. “Bartholomew Lombard, better known as Batty Lombard,” he said to himself. “The rat I took in for lifting a diamond in Tiffany’s. I’m certainly in right for the present, at least. I wonder what other jailbird is driving the machine” Nick could see only the back of his head and broad shoulders, his woolen cap and thick overcoat, with the collar turned up to his ears. “What are you afraid of?” Nick asked, when the man turned and settled down beside him. Lombard glanced sharply at him. “Can’t you guess?” he questioned, with a growl. “I suppose you think I’ve put the police wise and that you may be followed,” said Nick.