Just as Ella was running towards them a pistol-shot rang out. The fellow had drawn a revolver and in desperation had tried to shoot his captor, but instead, in Kennedy's strong grip, his hand was turned towards himself, and the bullet had struck his own face, entering his brain. In a few seconds the man Cole lay there dead. Was it any wonder that the Press made no mention of the affair? CHAPTER SIX. THE SILENT DEATH. In the yellow sunshine of a bright and cloudless autumn afternoon, Ella Drost descended from her motor-cycle at a remote spot where four roads crossed at a place called Pittsgate, about a mile and a half out from Goudhurst, in Kent, having travelled from London by way of Tunbridge Wells. In leather cap, leggings, mackintosh, and leather belt she presented a charming type of the healthy English sports-girl. Indeed, in that very garb one could buy picture postcards of her all over the kingdom, those who purchased them little dreaming that Stella Steele, who had for so many nights been applauded by the khaki crowds in the theatre, where she merrily danced in the revue "Half a Moment!" was the daughter of old Theodore Drost, the sworn enemy of Great Britain, the man who had for so long succeeded in misleading the alien authorities into the belief that he was a pious pastor of the Dutch Church. Certainly the man who posed as an ex-missionary from Sumatra, and who wore the shabby, broad-brimmed clerical hat and horn-rimmed glasses, had never once been suspected of treasonable acts, save by his daughter Ella and Seymour Kennedy. It was to meet Kennedy that Ella had motored down from London that day. The roads were rather bad, and both machine and rider were splashed with mud. Yet for that she cared nothing. Her mind was too full of the investigations upon which they were engaged. She took out a large scale map, unfolded it, and studied it carefully, apparently tracing a route with her finger. Then glancing at her wristlet-watch, she looked eagerly down the long, straight road upon her left--the road which led up from Eastbourne, through Mayfield and Wadhurst. Nobody was in sight, therefore she consoled herself with a cigarette which she took from her case, and again studied her map until, at last, she suddenly heard the pop-pop-pop of a motor-cycle approaching and saw Seymour, his body bent over the handles, coming up the hill at a rattling pace. In a few minutes he had pulled up, and, taking her in his arms, kissed her fondly, expressing regret if he were late. "Eastbourne is further off than I expected, darling," he added. "Well?" he asked eagerly. "Nothing particular has happened since we parted on Thursday," replied the girl. "Father has been several times to see Mr Horton in Wandsworth, and last night dined with Mr Harberton in Park Lane."