It was then at last that Mr. Priestley, to whose dazed mind this scene had fortunately conveyed little or no meaning, came to his senses. At the same moment he found his voice. His brain had turned in an instant from boiling hot into icy cold. Perfect indignation casteth out fear, and Mr. Priestley suddenly discovered that he was very indignant indeed. “Yes, send for the police, you—you scoundrel,” he squeaked fiercely. “Send for the police, and I’ll give you in charge myself. You villain!” He turned round to the girl. “This is the man you were telling me about, I suppose?” The girl jumped up from her knees. “Yes, it is!” she wailed, continuing to wring her hands. “Oh, what shall I do—what shall I do?” Her anguish added fuel to the flames of Mr. Priestley’s wrath. He sprang forward and flourished an inexperienced fist a couple of inches below the black beard. “Blackmail!” he spluttered. “Open that drawer and hand over those letters at once, or it will be the worse for you, my friend. You—you hound!” There was no mistaking the large man’s bewilderment. “Letters,” he repeated doubtfully. “There are—er—um—it’s my miniatures in that drawer, you know. Besides,” he added with an appearance of acute discomfort, “I’ve got to ring up the police. Must. Er—duty, you know, and all that.” The thought appeared to strike him that he was perhaps not being quite effective enough. He assumed a terrific scowl, brandished the poker and laid his hand on the telephone. Mr. Priestley sprang forward as if to forestall him, but his companion in crime was quicker. With a piercing shriek she flung her arms about Mr. Priestley’s neck and clung to him desperately. “Save me, Mr. Mullins! Save me!” she cried hysterically. “My husband would never forgive me if I got three years—never! He’s so dreadfully conventional. Oh, save me—save me!” His fair burden embarrassed Mr. Priestley not a little in his efforts to reach the telephone. For a moment he struggled frantically. Then he became aware that she was trying to whisper something into his ear. He ceased his efforts and listened. “Draw your revolver!” she was whispering frantically. “We must get away! That story about the letters was all nonsense, because you’d reformed. It was the miniatures I was after. If he sends for the police we’ll get five years’ imprisonment! For Heaven’s sake draw the revolver and fire it at him! It’s only blank, but he’ll be frightened and we can get away before he realises.” For an instant Mr. Priestley’s long-suffering brain seemed to go suddenly numb. He had been taken in—tricked—bamboozled. . . . There were no letters—it was a criminal enterprise he was engaged on! Five years in prison! Then his mind ceased to think and became one single emotion—the overpowering desire to get _away_. He whipped the revolver out of his pocket, fired it blindly in the direction of the big man and dragged the girl with him towards the open French window, all in one movement.