Some four or five hundred yards from the entrance, down in the hollow, there are a number of thick clumps of bushes. Round one of these Pyke passed and instantly became invisible. French stopped in his turn and, tiptoeing to the nearer side of the clump, began stealthily to creep nearer. Though a certain amount of starlight showed in the open, among the bushes it was pitchy black. There was no wind, and in spite of the vast city surrounding the place, scarcely a sound broke the stillness. French crept on, stopping every few seconds to listen intently. Presently he heard movements close by. There were faint footsteps as if of a man pacing up and down, and occasional soft scraping of leaves and snapping of small twigs. Crawling under a bush, French crouched down and waited. For close on fifteen minutes the man paced backwards and forwards, while French grew stiff in his cramped position. Then light footsteps were heard on the path alongside the clump and a woman cleared her throat. The man moved out and said something in a low voice, to which the other replied. Then French heard Pyke say: “Come behind the shrubs. There is no one about and we shan’t be heard.” They moved close to French, though not so near as he would have liked. Listening intently, he could hear a good deal, though not all, of their conversation. The woman was Mrs. Berlyn and she was saying: “He suspects something; I’m sure of it. I’ve been just sick with terror all day. I thought I must see you, and this seemed the only way. I was afraid he might follow me if I met you publicly.” There was a murmur of Pyke’s voice, but French could not distinguish the words nor could he hear Mrs. Berlyn’s reply. Then he heard Pyke say: “I don’t think so. The note was there on the chimneypiece, but I’m quite certain it hadn’t been opened. I examined it carefully.” Mrs. Berlyn’s intonation sounded like a question. “Yes, I rang up Ganope and he said that no enquiries had been made,” Pyke rejoined. “It’s all right, Phyllis, I’m sure. Why, French explained that he had frightened you deliberately in order to find out your real opinion of Domlio.” They seemed to turn away, for during some moments French could only hear the murmur of their voices. Then apparently they approached again. “. . . I thought it was Charles he suspected,” Mrs. Berlyn was saying; “then to-day I thought it was myself. He knows a lot, Jeff. He knows about Colonel Domlio’s letter and the photograph.” “Yes, but that’s all immaterial. He doesn’t know what really happened that night and he won’t know.” “But if he arrests us?”