Dora laughed bitterly. “You can call them that, of course. They call themselves executioners. It’s a matter of opinion, I suppose. But I mustn’t stay a moment longer. If _he_ caught us we shouldn’t be alive another second!” “Who is _he_?” gasped the form. “The Man with the Broken Nose,” Dora replied in sardonic tones. “You’ve never heard of him, I suppose? Oh, God, would that I hadn’t either!” Her voice broke with considerable artistry. Dora was certainly wasted in revue. “But look here!” squeaked the form. “Who is—the Crown _Prince_? Good gracious, but——” Dora shook his arm with awful agitation. “Hush!” she whispered tensely. “He’s coming. Run, man—run for your life! And for the police, of course. Run!” With a final shake she broke away from him and darted in the direction of the river. The form stood for a hectic moment gazing after her. Then it too lumbered away at a brisk jog-trot. It did not lumber in the direction of the library. Considerably pleased with herself, Dora returned to the house. Only Cynthia and George (now beardless) were available, sitting, a little uneasily, on the couch in the now darkened drawing-room. Guy and Mr. Doyle were still about their bloody business. “George, I’m surprised at you,” remarked Miss Howard facetiously, when this state of affairs had been made known to her. “Sitting there and holding hands with Cynthia in the dark. Why haven’t you been up and busy, like me? Listen to what sister’s been doing for the cause.” With no little zest Dora embarked upon an account of her encounter with the form. She was just finishing it when the other two conspirators returned, Mr. Doyle complaining bitterly of weakness and requiring his fiancée to support him on his feet. Shaking him off, that unfeeling young woman promptly began to recite her adventure over again. “But who on earth was it?” Cynthia wondered. “Search me!” responded Miss Howard tersely. “I didn’t stop to ask him his name and address. Anyhow, you see what I’ve done. Provided a new and independent witness, and filled him up with just the sort of tale we wanted—Crown Prince and executioners and gangs and distressed damsel and all the rest of it. The Man with the Broken Nose! Do you know, I’m rather proud of that title; I feel there’s a good thriller behind that title, simply waiting to be written. Oh, by the way, here’s a souvenir,” She tossed a handkerchief into Cynthia’s lap. “I extracted it from his coat-sleeve in the intervals of shaking same. I could have relieved him of his watch and chain if I’d wanted too, and probably his collar and tie as well; he was far too dithery to notice little details like that. Most useful knowledge I’ve gained, if I ever take to crime in real earnest.” Cynthia was examining the handkerchief by the light of a candle which Guy had lit. “R.F. in one corner,” she announced. “Who on earth is R. F., Guy?”