Now it is possible that at this precise moment Marnstam would have made his spring for the window and Rounceby his running fight for liberty. The hands of both men were upon their revolvers, and John Dory’s life was a thing of no account. But at this juncture a thing happened. There were in the room the two policemen guarding the swing doors, and behind them the pale faces of a couple of night porters looking anxiously in. Vincent Cawdor and Miss Brown were standing side by side, a little in the background, and the young man who had been their companion had risen also to his feet. As though with some intention of intervening, he moved a step forward, almost in line with Dory. Rounceby saw him, and a new fear gripped him by the heart. He shrank back, his fingers relaxed their hold of his weapon, the sweat was hot upon his forehead. Marnstam, though he seemed for a moment stupefied, realised the miracle which had happened and struck boldly for his own. “If this is a joke,” he said, “it strikes me as being a particularly bad one. I should like to know, sir, how you dare to come into this room and charge me and my friend--Mr. Rounceby--with being concerned in the murder of a young man who is even now actually standing by your side.” John Dory started back. He looked with something like apprehension at the youth to whom Marnstam pointed. “My name is Victor Franklin,” that young man declared. “What’s all this about?” Dory felt the ground give beneath his feet. Nevertheless, he set his teeth and fought for his hand. “You say that your name is Victor Franklin?” he asked. “Certainly!” “You are the inventor of a flying machine?” “I am.” “You were in Westmoreland with these two men a few days go?” “I was,” the young man admitted. “You left the village of Scawton in a motor car with them?” “Yes! We quarrelled on the way, and parted.” “You were robbed of nothing?” Victor Franklin smiled. “Certainly not,” he answered. “I had nothing worth stealing except my plans, and they are in my pocket now.” There was a few moments’ intense silence. Dory wheeled suddenly round, and looked to where Mr. Vincent Cawdor had been standing. “Where is Mr. Cawdor?” he asked, sharply. “The gentleman with the grey moustache left a few seconds ago,” one of the men at the door said. Dory was very pale. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I have to offer you my apologies. I have apparently been deceived by some false information. The charge is withdrawn.” He turned on his heel and left the room. The two policemen followed him. “Keep them under observation,” Dory ordered shortly, “but I am afraid this fellow Cawdor has sold me.” He found a hansom outside, and sprang into it. “Number 27, Southampton Row,” he ordered. Rounceby and his partner were alone in the little smoking room. The former was almost inarticulate. The night porter brought them brandy, and both men drank. “We’ve got to get to the bottom of this, Marnstam,” Mr. Rounceby muttered.