"Certainly not!" the lady answered, a little sharply. "Open the door, Hilda. We have nothing else to say to you, sir." The maid obeyed, and Deane reluctantly took up his hat. He was already upon the threshold when he suddenly stopped. A remarkable change came over him. He stepped quickly back. The woman had gone as pale as death. From one of the rooms upstairs came the shrill, unmistakable summons of a telephone bell, and mingling with it the chiming of a cuckoo clock. "Shut the door," Deane ordered sternly. "Madam," he said, turning towards the lady of the house, "it is still within your power to earn that two hundred pounds!" The woman looked at him curiously. "Two hundred pounds," she said, "is a great deal of money. One does not carry about sums like that." Deane thrust his hand into his pocket, and drew out a little roll of notes. "I have twelve ten-pound notes here," he said, "and I can write a cheque for the balance. You know what I want. If you turn me away, I shall be back with a search warrant in less than half-an-hour." She held out her hand for the notes. "Follow me," she said. "You understand that I am simply a lodging-house keeper. I cannot be responsible for my tenants or their actions." "I understand that," Deane answered eagerly. "Quick! Lead the way upstairs." CHAPTER XVIII WINIFRED IS TRAPPED Deane followed his guide up two flights of stairs,--on the landing of the third she paused. "I do not usually interfere with the comings and goings of my lodgers," she said. "They pay for their rooms. That is all I ask. You see the door opposite you?" "Yes!" Deane answered quickly. "That room is tenanted by a young woman who called herself Montague, but received letters under the name of Sinclair. She had a visitor this afternoon who might be the young person of whom you are in search. You had better go in and see." Deane was across the landing in a moment. He tapped sharply upon the door. There was no answer. He tried the handle. The door was locked! "Open the door," he cried out, shaking it vigorously. There was no answer. To Deane the silence was ominous. He turned to the woman who stood silently by his side, with a fierce little exclamation. "Where is the telephone?" he demanded. "Inside there," she answered. "It used to be my sitting-room." "The door is locked!" he exclaimed. "I do not understand it," she admitted. "Have you another key?" "No!" He flung himself at the door, tearing it half from its hinges. Another assault, and with a tearing of splinters it fell inside. Deane stepped over it into the room, and a low cry of anger broke from his lips. The woman at his side fled shrieking downstairs. On the floor lay Winifred Rowan, her limbs bound with cords, a gag in her mouth, her clothing all dishevelled, her eyes shining with an almost painful intensity from her ashen gray face. Deane fell on his knees by her side. "Winifred!" he exclaimed. "My God!"