“Do you realise,” he said, “that we have practically only twenty-four hours left in which to find Lady Kathleen and to recover the papers?” Westerham straightened himself up and looked squarely at the Premier. “The time is short,” he said quietly, “but I have no fear that we shall not succeed. “You must remember,” he went on, “that up to the present it is we who have made all the efforts. What is Melun doing? It is very strange that he should have remained quiet so long. It is my opinion that he has put off communication until the last possible moment in order to make his claims all the more effective.” “Do you really think that is so?” cried Lord Penshurst eagerly. “For my part, I was beginning to fear that, despairing of being able to move us, he had crossed to Germany in hopes of making terms there.” Westerham shook his head in dissent at this view of the question, though, as a matter of fact, he was growing terribly anxious himself lest Melun should after all have transferred his efforts to Prussia. “No, no!” he said to the Premier, “I am perfectly certain that he will turn up just in the nick of time. Otherwise, why should he hold Lady Kathleen as hostage for so long? You may, I think, rest assured that he would not still be detaining her if he had abandoned all hope of being able to reduce us to surrender.” The afternoon wore painfully away, and for the first time Westerham learned how time can drag. Up to the point at which he found himself completely foiled in his search for Lady Kathleen he had scarcely counted the hours or even the days. Incident had been crowded on incident, and action upon action. But now that he found himself faced with the necessity of waiting for the slightest sign that could send him on the trail again, he had to meet and endure the greatest trial that he had ever known. It was such a helpless and almost hopeless position. Still it was not without some hope, and hope helped considerably to mitigate his sufferings between the hours of noon and three o'clock. And then, just as he had predicted—just as he had calculated it must come to pass—the expected message came. It came in the shape of a telegram addressed to the Premier, which read as follows: “If you accept my terms, wire, not later than four o'clock, to Smith-Brown-Smith, care of Poste Restante, St Martin's-le-Grand. This is final.—M.” The receipt of this wire threw the Premier into a state of great agitation, and he was for answering it at once. “The offer must be refused finally,” he cried. “Don't you see, Sir Paul, that, after all that's been said and done, I cannot possibly accept it? It is not in my power to do so, and there appears to be no way out of the difficulty. “Surely,” he went on in a wailing voice, “no man was ever in worse straits. It is a question of my daughter or Armageddon!”