"Whose machine is it?" answered Flomerfelt, who had not yet recognised it. But a moment more he emitted a whistle and whispered softly under his breath: "By George, it's hers!" Wilkinson's eyes bulged with anger. "What does she mean by coming here?" He clutched Flomerfelt's shoulder as in a vise. "You don't suppose she's come to see my wife, do you? What's she up to? Why, I wouldn't have even little Pallister see her for the world! And as for Leslie! Thunder and lightning, if Leslie finds this out--anything but that!" Wilkinson started toward the blue machine, bent on interviewing the chauffeur. "Look here, my man----" he began; but whatever imprecations he intended to hurl at the chauffeur's head never passed his lips, for then it was that something happened: a strange, dishevelled figure dashed suddenly into the group, threw itself upon Wilkinson and seized him by the throat. With almost maniacal energy the assailant forced Wilkinson up against the blue machine, and digging his fingers into that gentleman's wind-pipe, he cried: "Now, Wilkinson, I'm going to even up matters with you!" Wilkinson's face turned blue--almost as blue as the machine--and his eyes bulged out almost like the headlights in front of it. "Help! Help!" implored Wilkinson, tugging at the wrists of iron that held him. His call was quickly answered. And in an incredibly short space of time, the Pinkerton men had broken the madman's grip and held him fast. Wilkinson quickly regained his composure. Then half-wondering, half-fearful, he riveted his eyes upon this enemy who seemed to have dropped from the skies, while Flomerfelt came out from behind the touring car where he had warily awaited the outcome of the sudden onslaught. "So it has come to this! Why, Ilingsworth, what's the matter with you?" ejaculated Wilkinson. "What have I done to you?" But before Ilingsworth could answer, the Pinkerton men had hustled him into the Mastodon, and were holding him there. "Shall we surrender him, Mr. Wilkinson?" they asked. Wilkinson glanced at Flomerfelt, presumably, for advice. But when the other was about to speak, Wilkinson evidently changed his mind, for waving him aside with his hand, he strode to the side of the Mastodon and looking Ilingsworth full in the face, after a moment's hesitation, said: "Not yet; I don't want the authorities to have him yet. I may want to talk to him first. Suppose you bring him into the house." And with that, he turned on his heel, and, striding through the entrance to his home, past his two footmen who were quaking in their boots, walked into the arms of his daughter. "What's the matter, father?" she cried. Wilkinson brushed her aside, for the business of the moment was too weighty. "Flomerfelt," he directed, in a low voice, "tell them to take Ilingsworth into a reception-room--that one there, and hold him until I send for him."