He must know that the girl was safe before he left the place. He had seen her car waiting on the road outside. His hand was raised to the bell when he heard footsteps in the hall, and listened intently: there was no doubt that one of the voices was Stella Mendoza’s, and he drew back again to cover. The girl came out, followed by Sir Gregory, and from their tone, a stranger unacquainted with the circumstances of their meeting might have imagined that the visit had been a very ordinary one, in spite of the lateness of the hour. “Good night, Sir Gregory,” said the girl, almost sweetly. “I will see you to-morrow.” “Come to lunch,” said Gregory’s voice, “and bring your friend. Shall I walk with you to the car?” “No, thank you,” she said hastily. Michael watched her till she was out of sight, but long before then the big door of Griff Towers had closed, and the familiar rattle of chains told him that it was closed finally. Where was Foss? He must have gone earlier, if Foss it was. Michael waited till all was quiet, and then, tip-toeing across the gravel, followed the girl. He looked about for the little brown man, but he was not in sight. And then he remembered that he had left the hook ladder hanging to the window on the stairs, and went back to retrieve it. He found the ladder as it had been left, unscrewed and packed it in the canvas bag, and five minutes later he was taking his motor-cycle from its place of concealment. A yellow light showed in the window of Mr. Longvale’s dining-room, and Michael had half a mind to call upon him. He could tell him, at any rate, something of that oval-faced girl in the upper room of the tower. Instead, he decided to go home. He was tired with the night’s work, a little disappointed. The tower had not revealed as tremendous a secret as he had hoped. The girl was a prisoner, obviously; had been kidnapped for Sir Gregory’s pleasure, and brought to England on his yacht. Such things had happened; there had been a case in the courts on curiously parallel lines only a few months before. At any rate, it did not seem worth while to put off his bedtime. He had a hot bath, made himself some chocolate and, before retiring, sat down to sum up his day’s experience. And in the light of recent happenings he was less confident that his first solution of the Head-Hunter mystery was the correct one. And the more he thought, the less satisfied he was, till at last, in sheer disgust at his own vacillation of mind, he turned out the light and went to bed. He was sleeping peacefully and late the next morning when an unexpected visitor arrived, and Michael sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. “I’ve either got nightmare or it’s Staines,” he said. Major Staines smiled cheerfully. “You’re awake and normal,” he said. “Has anything happened?” asked Michael, springing out of bed.