When Tracy introduced her to Rayne she was apparently much impressed, replying in very fair English. Her name, I learnt, was Signorina Lacava, and she was Italian. We all lunched together but no business was discussed. Rayne expressed a hope that the signorina's journey from Milan had been a pleasant one. "Quite," the handsome black-eyed girl replied. "I stayed one day in Paris." "The signorina has made a conquest in Milan," laughed Tracy. "Farini, the commissario of police, has fallen in love with her!" Rayne smiled, and turning to her, said: "I congratulate you, signorina. Your friendship may one day stand you in very good stead." That the young woman was someone of great importance in the criminal combine was apparent from the fact that she had been actually introduced to its secret head. It struck me as curious when, after leaving Tracy and Rayne together, I was driving the signorina across the moors to Overstow, that while he hesitated to allow Tracy to go there, yet it was safe for the young Italian woman. I knew that Benton was still making eager inquiries, and I also knew that Rayne was full of gravest apprehensions. Rudolph Rayne was playing a double game! On arrival back home, Duperre's wife received our visitor. Lola had gone to Newcastle to visit an old schoolfellow, and Duperre was away in York so his wife informed me. Three uneventful days passed, but neither Rayne nor Lola returned. On the third evening I was called to the telephone, and Rayne spoke to me from his rooms in London. "I can't get back just yet, George," he said. "You'll receive a registered letter from me to-morrow. Act upon it and use your own discretion." I promised him I would and then he rang off. CHAPTER VI AT THREE-EIGHTEEN A.M. The letter brought to my bedside next morning contained some curious instructions, namely, to take the car on the following Saturday to Flamborough Head, arriving at a spot he named about a quarter of a mile from the lighthouse, where I would be accosted by a Dutch sailor, who would ask me if I were Mr. Skelton. I was not to fear treachery, but to reply in the affirmative and drive him through the night to an address he gave me in Providence Court, a turning off Dean Street, Soho. That address was sufficient for me! I had once before, at Rayne's orders, driven a stranger to Dean Street and conducted him to that house. It was no doubt a harbor of refuge for foreign criminals in London, but was kept by an apparently respectable Italian who carried on a small grocery shop in Old Compton Street. As I was ordered, I duly arrived on that wild spot on the Yorkshire coast. It blew half a gale, the wind howling about the car as I sat with only the red rearlight on, waiting in patience.