“Just after half-past ten. I remember, because I heard the church clock strike just before the car drove up.” Michael was cool now. His voice scarcely rose above a whisper. “Twenty-five past eleven,” he said, looking at his watch. “You’ve been a long time coming.” “I couldn’t find the paper, sir. It was under Miss Leamington’s pillow. Isn’t she here?” “No, she’s not here,” said Michael quietly. “Thank you very much; I won’t keep you. Will you wait for me at the police station?” He went upstairs and put on his coat. “Where do you think she is?” asked Jack. “She is at Griff Towers,” replied the other, “and whether Gregory Penne lives or dies this night depends entirely upon the treatment that Adele has received at his hands.” At the police station he found the landlady, a little frightened, more than a little tearful. “What was Miss Leamington wearing when she went out?” “Her blue cloak, sir,” whimpered the woman, “that pretty blue cloak she always wore.” Scotland Yard men were at the station, and it was a heavily loaded car that ran out to Chichester—too heavy for Michael, in a fever of impatience, for the weight of its human cargo checked its speed, and every second was precious. At last, after an eternity of time, the big car swung into the drive. Michael did not stop to waken the lodge-keeper, but smashed the frail gates open with the buffers of his machine, mounted the slope, crossing the gravel parade, and halted. There was no need to ring the bell: the door was wide open, and, at the head of his party, Mike Brixan dashed through the deserted hall, along the corridor into Gregory’s library. One light burnt, offering a feeble illumination, but the room was empty. With rapid strides he crossed to the desk and turned the switch. Bhag’s den opened, but Bhag too was an absentee. He pressed the bell by the side of the fireplace, and almost immediately the brown-faced servitor whom he had seen before came trembling into the room. “Where is your master?” asked Michael in Dutch. The man shook his head. “I don’t know,” he replied, but instinctively he looked up to the ceiling. “Show me the way.” They went back to the hall, up the broad stairway on to the first floor. Along a corridor, hung with swords, as was its fellow below, he reached another open door—the great dance hall where Gregory Penne had held revel that evening. There was nobody in sight, and Michael came out into the hall. As he did so, he was aware of a frantic tapping at one of the doors in the corridor. The key was in the lock: he turned it and flung the door wide open, and Stella Mendoza, white as death, staggered out. “Where is Adele?” she gasped. “I want to ask you that,” said Michael sternly. “Where is she?” The girl shook her head helplessly, strove to speak, and then collapsed in a swoon.