“Let me introduce Mr. Buckland, Colonel,” said Cecil Jones, as he came up to the side of the car and leaned upon the door. But at the name Miss Davison sat up, and leaning towards the man by her side, whispered loud enough for Gerard to hear-- “Oh, uncle, I may tell him now, may I not?” Some inkling of the truth, the whole truth, was already beginning to glimmer in Gerard’s brain, but he was not to know all just yet. The man with the white mustache shook his head, whispered something back, and then said aloud, holding out his hand to Gerard-- “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Buckland. I’ve heard a great deal about you from my niece. But I ought to introduce myself. My name is Ormsby, Colonel Ormsby.” Gerard could scarcely refrain from uttering a cry. For he had suddenly remembered that the face of the man with the white mustache, which had roused faint recollections which he could not fix in his mind, was that of a certain gallant officer who had been made chief constable of one of the large provincial towns, and who had distinguished himself not many years before in an important criminal case which was still in the public mind. Further glimmerings as to Miss Davison’s position began to appear in Gerard’s mind. Meanwhile Cecil Jones had said a few words in a low voice to the colonel, and raising his hat to the lady, had walked back towards the Priory at a brisk pace, accompanied by another man who had remained quietly in the background during the few minutes that this introduction lasted. The colonel asked the two young men whether they would go back to town, and on receiving their thanks, he made way for them to enter the car, which immediately started on its journey. Very little was said by anybody until town was reached. Miss Davison, who seemed thoroughly exhausted, scarcely opened her eyes, but sat back in her corner, from time to time inhaling the contents of a bottle of lavender salts which she held in her hand. The colonel sat next to her, and Gerard on the outer side, while Arthur Aldington occupied the seat beside the driver. It was a very long time before Colonel Ormsby said anything about the affair at the Priory. But just as they were driving through the outskirts of London, and Miss Davison was rousing herself and putting up her hands to rearrange her hat, he whispered in the young man’s ear-- “You’ve been present to-day at the capture of one of the most dangerous card-sharping and blackmailing gangs in Europe. They’ll each get seven years.” “Blackmailing?” echoed Gerard, horrorstruck. The colonel nodded. “They hadn’t begun that game over here yet, but they wouldn’t have been long in starting, if they hadn’t been laid by the heels. That old woman is the author of more mischief than would suffice to keep half a dozen criminal courts busy.” Gerard uttered an exclamation of surprise. “But the name--isn’t she Mrs. Van Santen?” he asked appalled.