“Yes, I think it is, Mr. Maitland,” and at her words he pulled his hand from hers with a jerk and went shuffling down the pathway into the road and out of sight. “What did he want?” “I really don’t know, father,” she said. “I don’t think he can be very well.” “Do you mean mad?” “Yes, and yet he was quite sensible for a little time. He said they’ve got Balder.” He did not reply to her, and she thought he had not heard her. “They’ve taken Balder, Mr. Elk’s assistant. I suppose that means he has been arrested?” “I suppose so,” said John Bennett, and then: “My dear, you ought to be in bed. Which way did he go?” “He went toward Shoreham,” said the girl. “Are you going after him, father?” she asked in surprise. “I’ll walk up the road. I’d like to see him,” said John Bennett. “You go to bed, my dear.” But she stood waiting by the door, long after his footsteps had ceased to sound on the road. Five minutes, ten minutes passed, a quarter of an hour, and then she heard the whine of a car and the big limousine flew past the gate, spattering mud, and then came John Bennett. “Aren’t you in bed?” he asked almost roughly. “No, father, I don’t feel sleepy. It is late now, so I think I’ll do some work. Did you see him?” “Who, the old man? Yes, I saw him for a minute or two.” “Did you speak to him?” “Yes, I spoke to him.” The man did not seem inclined to pursue the subject, but this time Ella persisted. “Father, why is he frightened of you?” “Will you make me some coffee?” said Bennett. “Why is he frightened of you?” “How do I know? My dear, don’t ask so many questions. You worry me. He knows me, he’s seen me—that is all. Balder is held for murder. I think he is a very bad man.” Later in the day she revived the subject of Maitland’s visit. “I wish he would not come,” she said. “He frightens me.” “He will not come again,” said John Bennett prophetically. * * * * * * The house in Berkeley Square which had passed into the possession of Ezra Maitland had been built by a nobleman to whom money had no significance. Loosely described as one of the show places of the Metropolis, very few outsiders had ever marvelled at the beauty of its interior. It was a palace, though none could guess as much from viewing its conventional exterior. In the gorgeous saloon, with its lapis-lazuli columns, its fireplaces of onyx and silver, its delicately panelled walls and silken hangings, Mr. Ezra Maitland sat huddled in a large Louis Quinze chair, a glass of beer before him, a blackened clay pipe between his gums. The muddy marks of his feet showed on the priceless Persian carpet; his hat half eclipsed a golden Venus of Marrionnet, which stood on a pedestal by his side. His hands clasped across his stomach, he glared from under his white eyebrows at the floor. One shaded lamp relieved the gloom, for the silken curtains were drawn and the light of day did not enter.