“Frog says he’s got to die,” he said in a low voice. * * * * * * Two people sat in Dick Gordon’s study. The hour was four o’clock in the morning. Elk had gone, for the twentieth time, to Headquarters, and for the twentieth time was on his way back. Ella Bennett had tried desperately hard to carry out Dick’s instructions, and turned page after page determinedly, but had read and yet had seen nothing. With a deep sigh she put down the book and clasped her hands, her eyes fixed upon the clock. “Do you think he will get to Gloucester?” she asked. “I certainly do,” said Broad confidently. “That young man will get anywhere. He is the right kind and the right type, and nothing is going to hold him.” She picked up the book but did not look at its printed page. “What happened to the police cars? Mr. Elk was telling me a lot about them last night,” she said. “I haven’t heard since.” Joshua Broad licked his dry lips. “Oh, they got through all right,” he said vaguely. He did not tell her that two police cars had been ditched between Newbury and Reading, the cars smashed and three men injured by a mine which had been sprung under them. Nor did he give her the news, that had arrived by motor-cyclist from Swindon, that Dick’s car had not been seen. “They are dreadful people, dreadful!” She shivered. “How did they come into existence, Mr. Broad?” Broad was smoking (at her request) a long, thin cigar, and he puffed for a long time before he spoke. “I guess I’m the father of the Frogs,” he said to her amazement. “You!” He nodded. “I didn’t know I was producing this outfit, but there it is.” How, he did not seem disposed to explain at that moment. Soon he heard the whirr of the bell, and thinking that Elk had perhaps forgotten the key, he rose, and, going along the passage, opened the door. It was not Elk. “Forgive me for calling. Is that Mr. Broad?” The visitor peered forward in the darkness. “I’m Broad all right. You’re Mr. Johnson, aren’t you? Come right in, Mr. Johnson.” He closed the door behind him and turned on the light. The stout man was in a state of pitiable agitation. “I was up late last night,” he said, “and my servant brought me an early copy of the _Post Herald_. “So you know, eh?” “It’s terrible, terrible! I can’t believe it!” He took a crumpled paper from his pocket and looked at the stop-press space as though to reassure himself. “I didn’t know it was in the paper.” Johnson handed the newspaper to the American. “Yes, they’ve got it. I suppose old man Whitby must have given away the story.” “I think it came from the picture man, Silenski. Is it true that Ray is under sentence of death?” Broad nodded.