They terminated in a small passage, paved with tiles. As she reached the foot of the stairs she heard the sound of voices, and, looking round cautiously, she saw that under the stairs was a door, and it was open. At the far end of the passage was another, and this obviously led to the outside of the house, for it was chained and bolted. As she stood, debating what she should do, the voices grew fainter, and the patch of light on the wall which marked the open door disappeared. It was her chance. Grasping the child by the arm, she slipped off her shoes and hurried noiselessly along the passage in her stockinged feet. She had reached the door, and with fingers which, in spite of her will, trembled, moved first one chain and then another. The top and bottom bolts were drawn; her hand was on the key, when from somewhere above came an outcry. A bell rang, a door under the stairs was flung open and three men ran out. The first two did not see her, but made for the stairs. The third caught sight of her over his shoulder and yelled a warning. In an instant the three men were flying toward her. Twice the little pistol banged, and one man slid to the ground with a yell, grasping his knee. And then they were on her and she was fighting desperately for life. She heard the scream of the child and called out to her to open the door and escape. But Elizabeth was too petrified with terror to make any movement. They carried Leslie Maughan, trussed and bound, into the purple salon and laid her at Anita’s feet. And then the man who spoke English lifted his hand. “Lady,” he said, “here is the woman. What shall be done?” Anita pointed to him with her thick jewelled finger. “This night you shall have the privilege of torturing her,” she said, in her grating voice. CHAPTER XXII. A REAL FATHER It seemed to Peter Dawlish that he had been unconscious for an eternity when he turned over on his back with a groan and carefully felt his damaged head. His face was wet and sticky, and when he essayed to rise to his feet, it seemed that the whole of the building was oscillating violently. Presently, however, he was up, keeping to the wall for support, and, grasping the handle of the door, he jerked it open and was instantly gripped with hands of steel. “Hullo, who are you?” asked a stern voice. “I don’t know--Dawlish--something happened. I saw a light and came over--and then the door opened and I don’t remember much more.” The detective recognized him. “The door opened?” he said anxiously. “Was somebody in the flat?” Peter nodded and winced. “Give me a drink,” he said, and the detective guided him by the arm and led him upstairs to Leslie’s room. A glass of ice-cold water revived him and he was able to tell a coherent story of his experience. “It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes ago,” said the detective. “I went round to see my opposite number and I’ll swear I wasn’t gone for more than that time.”