As the car moved off a man came running across the road, stepped lightly on to the foot-board and wriggled his way to a place beside the driver. The car was held up outside the Hippodrome but only for a few seconds, and then, turning, it sped wheezily along Coventry Street. They had a good crossing of Piccadilly Circus, and a few seconds later they had struck the gloom of lower Piccadilly and had turned into Hyde Park. Leslie had a glimpse now of the faces of her captors: yellow, with that Oriental slant of the eye which is common to the Chinese and Japanese. Here the likeness ended; their faces lacked the intelligence of the people of the island kingdoms. Javanese, of course! How stupid she had been not to have realized that from the first! Anita Bellini had lived in Java for many years. And then she remembered Peter’s words. She understood the chained door because of the attack that had been made on her flat. Anita’s bodyguard had been engaged elsewhere; she had need of chains to protect her house in their absence. The car slipped across Hammersmith Bridge, and after a few minutes she could identify the spot where the body of Druze had been found. They were going to Wimbledon, then--to Anita’s grisly house. The machine came to a stop before the door of May Towers and she hurried up the steps. She had not reached the top before the door was opened. No light showed in the hall, and she heard the door clang behind her and a chain rattle as it was fastened, and her courage almost deserted her. Somebody flashed the light of a hand lamp; she saw the wide, heavily carpeted stairs. “Go up,” said her conductor, his hand still on her arm, and she obeyed. The stairs turned and they reached a wide landing. Somebody knocked at a door, and a voice which she recognized as Anita’s said: “Come in.” The man who had knocked pushed the door open wide. She had a glimpse of a lofty wall, hidden by a black curtain which was covered with curious designs in gold threadwork. The room was filled with an unearthly greenish light; the hand of the jailer fell from her arm; she walked into the room alone, and the door closed behind her. It was a long and ill-proportioned salon. With the exception of a divan at the far end and a low table near by, it was bare of furniture. The carpet underfoot was either purple or black; in the queer light of two green lamps that burned on either side of the settee it was impossible to distinguish its colour. Anita Bellini sat cross-legged on the divan, horribly suggestive of some repellent and grotesque idol in her golden frock. Her massive arms were smothered from wrist to elbow with glittering bracelets. Three ropes of pearls hung about her strong neck, and every time her hands moved they sparkled and scintillated brilliantly. A long ebony cigarette holder was between her lips; that immovable monocle of hers gleamed greenly.