Wraile stopped abruptly, his head cocked on one side as he looked at the window nearest to him. The blind was down and nothing was to be seen—nor, as the pause lengthened, could anything be heard save the steady tick of the clock on the mantelpiece. After their first glance of surprise, following his to the window, Wraile’s two companions turned their eyes back to his face; evidently they had seen and heard nothing and were looking to him for an explanation. Wraile rose quietly to his feet. “Someone on the fire-escape,” he whispered, and began tiptoeing towards the window, signing to his wife to do the same. Slowly he drew an automatic pistol from his hip-pocket and waited, his ears straining for a sound. His wife, on the other side of the window, quietly watched him, knowing that her instructions would come; Lessingham remained seated, a look of strained expectancy on his face. Suddenly, at a touch from Mrs. Wraile, the blind flew up; almost simultaneously Wraile flung up the window and, thrusting the pistol in front of him, called out: “Put up your hands, you!” Lessingham shrank back in his chair, his hands clutching at the arms. He could see nothing beyond the figures of Wraile and his wife; unknown danger lurked beyond. Again the sharp command of the ex-soldier broke the short silence. “Now come in—don’t drop your hands for a second.” He drew back slightly and Lessingham could see a man’s leg flung over the window-sill, followed presently by a crouching body and two outstretched arms. As the man straightened himself up and, his hands still above his head, turned to face his captors, Lessingham gave a gasp of surprise and, half-rising from his chair, stared blankly at the intruder. It was Ryland Fratten. “Search him, Miriam,” said Wraile curtly. The girl passed her hands lightly over Ryland’s pockets. “Nothing,” she said. “Bit rash aren’t you, young fellow, to come burgling without a gun?” asked Wraile lightly. “What’s your game, anyway? There’s no till in a Finance Company’s office.” Ryland paid no attention to him. He was staring in amazement at the girl beside him. “Good God; are you Daphne?” he said at last in a strangled voice. Wraile searched his face closely and evidently gathered that surprise or misunderstanding would be waste of time. “From which I take it,” he said, “that you’re Master Fratten, the Banker’s son—or bastard, or whatever you are. I had a shrewd suspicion of it before you spoke, though I hadn’t had the good fortune to see you before. Yes, that’s Daphne—and that makes your position a bit awkward—you know rather more than is convenient.” Ryland stared at him, but soon turned his eyes back to “Daphne.” “What have you done to yourself?” he asked. “I hardly recognize you.” “Wonderful what a difference a black wig makes,” replied Mrs. Wraile lightly. “Our acquaintance was so short that I’m quite surprised at your recognizing me at all.”