“Zere is no one like ‘Ze Wonderful Whalley,’” declared that artist coolly, as he gathered his knives, all except the one that held the ace of hearts. He stepped back. “You look at ze spot,” he added, addressing Haynes. Haynes moved forward to draw out the blade. There was a cry from Helga and Colton. Something struck the wood so close to his ear that he felt the wind of it, and the handle of one of the big blades quivered against his cheek. “Eet is for warning,” said “The Wonderful Whalley” urbanely. “Ze heart, eet could——” He choked as the powerful grasp of Johnston closed on his throat. Haynes and Colton ran forward; but there was no need. The man was passive. “Eeet was onlee a trick,” he said. “I am insult. I go home.” “Shall we let him go?” said Haynes undecidedly. The question was settled for them. With a sudden blow, the juggler knocked down Johnston, dodged between Haynes and Colton, caught his knife from the door as he ran with great swiftness, and threatening back pursuit at the ready point, disappeared not toward the Sand Spit station, but straight over the hills. The baffled captors looked at each other in dismay. “We’ve got a loose wild animal to deal with now,” said Colton. CHAPTER EIGHT THE UNHORSED NIGHTFARER ROUND the big fireplace with its decorations of blue-and-white Colonial china, which many a guest by vast but vain inducements had tried to buy from the little hostelry, sat Dick Colton, Haynes and old Johnston. The clock had struck nine some minutes earlier. “Your brother couldn’t have caught the afternoon train,” remarked Haynes. “Was he to ride over?” “Yes, I arranged for a saddle-horse to meet him at Amagansett,” answered Colton. “Reckon the Professor and Miss Dolly stopped at the fishermen’s for dinner,” opined the old man, as a soft and sudden breeze stirred the curtains. “If they ain’t in pretty quick they’ll get wet. There’s somebody now!” A tramp of feet clumped on the porch, the door was thrown open and a young man limped in. He was tall, almost as tall as Dick Colton, but much slenderer, and extremely dark. Despite his unsteady gait, he bore himself with an inimitably buoyant and jocund carriage. His well-made riding-suit was muddied and torn, his head was bare, and from a long but shallow cut on his forehead blood had trickled down one side of his handsome face, giving him an appearance of almost theatrical rakishness. “Hello, Dick, old man!” he cried. “How goes the quest for slumber?” “Good Lord, Ev!” responded Dick Colton, hurrying to meet him. “What’s the matter with you? Are you hurt?” Keenly watching the greeting, Haynes noted the evident and open affection between the two brothers. “Just a twisted knee,” said the younger. “Thrown, Dick—thrown like a riding-school novice. I’d hate to have it get back to the troop.” “It must have been something extraordinary to get you out of the saddle,” said Dick, for Everard Colton was one of the best of the younger polo men.