On the other hand, should he send for Melun, Melun was shrewd enough to warn the police at once of Westerham's whereabouts. And this, as his complete freedom of movement might become absolutely necessary, Westerham could not afford to risk. Twenty-four hours, then, he remained in the hotel, chafing against the delay, and pacing the floor of his room hour by hour in a vain endeavour to unravel the tangled skein of mystery in which he was enmeshed. On the following day, as Dunton had not arrived by four o'clock, Westerham sent round to his rooms again, only to receive the heart-breaking news that Dunton was still absent. He despatched a further and yet more urgent message to Dunton's rooms, and sat down to wait again. It was half-past seven when Dunton leisurely descended from a hansom and strolled up the steps of the hotel. Westerham almost rushed forward to meet him, and grasping him by the arm dragged him into the smoking-room. There he made as complete a statement as he dared of all that had happened in the past two days; and Lord Dunton opened his innocent-looking blue eyes very wide indeed. “By Jove,” he said from time to time. “I should not tell you all this,” Westerham concluded, “unless I were absolutely certain that I could trust you. “I have no idea who the men were that I saw at the Faro Club, but I don't suppose that it will be long before they call.” “I fancy that they have called already,” said Dunton. “When I got back this afternoon I found that cards had been left by Lord Cuckfield and a chap by the name of Mendip. My man said that they came together, so I presume they are the Johnnies you mean. And I won't let the grass grow under my feet. I'll look them up to-night and tell them that they have got to keep their mouths shut and to take you on trust. “By the way,” added Dunton, “this business seems to grow ‘curiouser and curiouser’ as Alice would say. I should have been back before but some unaccountable inclination made me break my journey at Rouen. I was there this afternoon, and who should I see but the heroine of all this mystery.” “What!” shouted Westerham, utterly shaken out of himself, “not Lady Kathleen?” “Lady Kathleen herself,” answered Dunton. “Good God!” cried Westerham. “The crisis must be at hand indeed. She has been lured over there to her death.” Dunton dropped his eyeglass and stared at his friend in amazement. Westerham was almost beside himself with anxiety and rage. “Don't sit staring there like a gibbering idiot,” he almost yelled, “but give me some money. Quick! They have taken my notes, and I have practically spent all my loose cash on the things I need here.” Dunton began to fumble in his pockets. “You cannot expect a fellow to have much about him when he has just come back from Paris,” he grumbled. “Still, I think I can dig up twenty pounds or so.” Westerham stood over him. “Come along! Come along!” he urged. “Every penny you have got.”