"To the end of this lane," he said, in his soft queerly modulated voice, "and along the turning to the left to the river bank. Follow the bank towards the palace and you will meet them." "I owe you my life," said Stuart. "Go! you owe me nothing," returned the Hindu fiercely. Stuart turned and walked rapidly along the lane. Once he glanced back. Chunda Lal was looking after him ... and he detected something that gleamed in his hand, gleamed not like gold but like the blade of a knife! Turning the corner, Stuart began to run. For he was unarmed and still weak, and there had been that in the fierce black eyes of the Hindu when he had scorned Stuart's thanks which had bred suspicion and distrust. From the position of the moon, Stuart judged the hour to be something after midnight. No living thing stirred about him. The lane in which now he found himself was skirted on one side by a hedge beyond which was open country and on the other by a continuation of the high wall which evidently enclosed the grounds of the house that he had just quitted. A cool breeze fanned his face, and he knew that he was approaching the Thames. Ten more paces and he came to the bank. In his weak condition the short run had exhausted him. His bruised throat was throbbing painfully, and he experienced some difficulty in breathing. He leaned up against the moss-grown wall, looking back into the darkness of the lane. No one was in sight. There was no sound save the gently lapping of the water upon the bank. He would have liked to bathe his throat and to quench his feverish thirst, but a mingled hope and despair spurred him and he set off along the narrow path towards where dimly above some trees he could discern in the distance a group of red-roofed buildings. Having proceeded for a considerable distance, he stood still, listening for any sound that might guide him to the search-party--or warn him that he was followed. But he could hear nothing. Onward he pressed, not daring to think of what the future held for him, not daring to dwell upon the memory, the maddening sweetness, of that parting kiss. His eyes grew misty, he stumbled as he walked, and became oblivious of his surrounding. His awakening was a rude one. Suddenly a man, concealed behind a bush, sprang out upon him and bore him irresistibly to the ground! "Not a word!" rapped his assailant, "or I'll knock you out!" Stuart glared into the red face lowered so threateningly over his own, and: "Sergeant Sowerby!" he gasped. The grip upon his shoulders relaxed. "Damn!" cried Sowerby--"if it isn't Dr. Stuart?" "What is that!" cried another voice from the shelter of the bush. _"Pardieu!_ say it again! ... Dr. Stuart!" And Gaston Max sprang out! "Max!" murmured Stuart, staggering to his feet--"Max!" _"Nom d'un nom!_ Two dead men meet!" exclaimed Gaston Max. "But indeed"--he grasped Stuart by both hands and his voice shook with emotion--"I thank God that I see you!"