Mr. Stott nearly fainted. Wellington Brown! The man whose portrait had been in the newspapers; the man for whom the police were searching. The other said something in a voice which did not reach the balcony. “I am not threatening,” said the strident voice of Wellington Brown. They walked up the steps to the door of Mayfield and disappeared from view. Mr. Stott rose with knees that trembled. In the shortest space of time he was at the telephone. Carver’s number he knew, he had been on to him several times in connection with the unfortunate little disagreement he had had with the police. But Carver’s number was out of order. The operator could not get any reply she said. Strong as was Mr. Stott’s repugnance to assist the police in the lawful execution of their duty, he dashed back to his bedroom, pulled on his trousers over his pyjama-legs and with trembling fingers buttoned himself up. There was no time to get into boots and it was in his bedroom slippers that he shuffled down the street in search of a cab, looking back fearfully from time to time lest the mysterious men who had entered Mayfield should be upon his track with murder in their hearts. After an unconscionable time a taxi-cab came past and Mr. Stott flung himself into the interior. “Central police station,” he gasped, “quick! Double fare if you get me there in ten minutes.” He knew that was the usual thing to say in such circumstances. As even a slow taxi could have covered the distance in five, Mr. Stott’s instructions were misplaced. “They’re at it again,” he quavered as he fell into Carver’s arms. XXII “At what again?” asked Carver quickly. “Mayfield,” gurgled Mr. Stott, “two men!” “Two men have gone into Mayfield? When?” “I don’t know how long ago I saw them. One was Brown.” “Wellington Brown? Are you sure?” “I heard him speak,” said the agitated Mr. Stott, “I’ll swear to it in a court of law. I was sitting on the balcony smoking a cigar, a box which a friend of mine has given to me--perhaps you know Morrison of the Morrison Gold Corporation--” But Carver had gone back into the station with a rush, to reappear almost immediately. He bundled Tab into a taxi and shot a direction at the driver. “I had to go back to get our own key,” he said, “and--” he took something from his coat pocket and Tab heard the snick of an automatic jacket being pulled back. “Unless this man is suffering from delusions, we are going to see developments tonight, Tab.” He looked back through the peep-hole at the back of the cab. The other taxi was following at a distance. “I brought out every available man,” he said. “I wonder if they found room for Stott? Anyway he can walk,” he added cruelly.