THE COUNT IS WELCOMED ROYALLY. Atherton dismissed the servants with a peremptory wave of his hand. “I shan’t need you now,” he said. Then he turned to his visitor. “Why on earth didn’t you tell me this at first?” he demanded. “There was no need for you to try to gain admission to our society by threats. Surely, you might have known that you had only to mention your name to be welcomed with open arms. “And your wife, too,” he added. “In fact, if you won’t be offended at my saying so, your wife will be almost more welcome than yourself. Only last week I was saying to Frost that I’d give five thousand dollars if I could lay my hands on Elaine Wilhelm. We know what you’ve both done and can do, how you defied the police again and again in a dozen cities, over here, and most of the capitals of Europe. We’ll give you a royal welcome, both of you, but it just happens that your wife will come in particularly handy at the present time.” “She’s a handy person at any time,” remarked the Count, with a laugh, “and the police would give more than five thousand to get their hands on her. I don’t suppose that you want her in the same sense that the police do.” “Hardly,” returned Atherton. “We want the Countess because we have a scheme in view which can only be carried out by a woman of exceptional ability and courage. Unfortunately, we have no such woman in our society, and that’s why I’ve been longing to get in touch with your remarkable side partner. She’s the very one I want.” “May I ask what the scheme is?” “Of course. Briefly, it’s a plan for kidnaping old Enoch Pyle’s grandson, and holding him for ransom.” “Who is Enoch Pyle?” “You have heard of ‘Pyle’s Pink Pellets’?” “Who hasn’t?” “Well, Enoch Pyle is the originator and proprietor. He’s a millionaire two or three times over, but he’s uncouth and uneducated. He and his wife, who is as impossible as himself, live at a place called Pyle’s Park, which is a few miles on this side of Freehold. You passed the place on your motor cycle this morning.” “And who is his grandson?” “The boy’s name is Tommy Pyle. He’s the son of Enoch’s only boy, who died years ago. His mother is gone, too, and Mr. and Mrs. Pyle have taken him in, of course. Some day he’ll inherit Pyle’s pile, so to speak.” “How old is he?” “About five. He’s the apple of the old man’s eye, and if we could kidnap him, I haven’t a doubt that old Enoch would not hesitate to give a quarter of a million--or even a half--to get him back.” The Count nodded. “It oughtn’t to be a difficult matter to kidnap a child of five,” he said.