“All right, O’Connor,” he whispered, “be careful not to make the slightest sound—_they’re somewhere in the house_.” The giant flashed back a smile, white teeth gleaming in the darkness. Simultaneously the library flooded into light! Anthony in the stress of his excitement dug his fingers into the foundryman’s shoulder. “I’m going right up to the French doors,” he whispered again, “in a very few minutes from now—get well back for a moment or two in case they open them and come out.” They crouched together in the darkest patch they could find. The few minutes seemed an eternity. O’Connor’s breath came in short sharp gasps—inactivity fretted him and he found this period of waiting and suspense well-nigh intolerable. Then his heart went to his mouth as he saw Anthony go forward, very slowly and silently—on the grass as much as possible—step by step—and reach the doors of the lighted library. He saw Bathurst’s body worm to one side, seeking a favorable chink of vantage—he saw it stiffen to rigid attention as this chink was apparently gained . . . the rest he had to leave to the flights of his imagination. Then as he looked he saw Bathurst drop down from his full height and begin to tiptoe again on his return journey. Anthony answered his companion’s unspoken question. “Couldn’t be better—stay here while I go back to get Goodall and the others.” O’Connor could just see that the speaker’s face was shining with a mixture of excitement and elation. Goodall heard Anthony’s news with quiet satisfaction. “Good,” was all he permitted himself. He collected Peter and Charles Stewart, sent young O’Connor down to Sergeant Clegg and issued his final instructions. “Your revolver, Mr. Daventry? Right! You’re perfectly certain about the doors, Mr. Bathurst, aren’t you?” “They’ve been attended to, Inspector—be easy on that point.” The four men crept forward and joined the elder O’Connor. And at last they reached the point they wanted. Anthony listened for a single tense moment—then beckoned to Goodall, who stole silently to his side. “Look through there,” he whispered. Goodall peered into the room. Two men were standing with their backs to the French doors, but the form of one of them was vaguely familiar to him. A woman was kneeling on the floor in front of two objects the exact shape of which her body hid from the watchers’ sight. Anthony caught at Goodall’s arm and pulled him away—then he whispered a few words into the Inspector’s ear. “Good God!” muttered Goodall. Then he made a sign to Peter and the others, and with a sudden sharp movement of his hands pulled open the doors. The woman sprang to her feet with a scream that rang in Peter’s ears as he leveled his revolver. Goodall was at his side, and Peter could see a second automatic gleaming in the Inspector’s hand. The two men in the library pivoted round in amazement, and the smaller man’s hand dropped like lightning to his hip pocket.