Mr. Belford raced up the many stairs at a speed which belied the story of his silver-grey hair, and which left Inspector Sheffield hopelessly in the rear. When at last the Scotland Yard man dragged weary feet into the little square chamber at the summit, he saw the Home Secretary with his eyes to the lens of a huge telescope, sweeping the country-side for signs of the daring fugitive. An unclouded moon bathed the landscape in solemn light. To north, east, and west rolled the billows of the Downs, a verdant ocean. On the south the country was wooded, whilst in the south-east might be seen the gleaming expanse of the English Channel, a molten silver floor, its distant edge seemingly upholding the pure blue sky dome. Roads inland showed as white chalk lines, meadows as squares on a chess-board, houses and farmsteads as chess-men. "If he has made for Eastbourne we have lost him!" muttered Mr. Belford. "If for Newhaven or Lewes we may not be too late. But there is a possibility----ah! Yes; it is! They are making for Tunbridge Wells--perhaps for London! Quick, inspector! Don't move the telescope. On the straight road leading to the Norman church tower! Is that the car?" Sheffield lowered his eye to the glass, and after some little delay got a sight of a long-bodied, waspish, shape, creeping, insect-wise, along a white chalk mark. His eye growing more accustomed to the glass, he made it out for a grey car. "There's a chance, sir. It looks about the right cut." "This way, inspector! We will take the risk." Down the tower stairs they sped, Sheffield stumbling and delaying in the dark and making better going where the light from a window showed the stairs clearly. "If that is he," panted the Home Secretary, "the motor is not a powerful one. It is probably one hired for the occasion." They came out from the tower into the hall and passed Lady Mary--who glanced away with an odd expression--and Zoe Oppner. Zoe's pretty face was flushed, and her breast rose and fell quickly. Her eyes were sparkling, but she lowered them as the excited pair ran by. The chauffeur was ready to start, when Mr. Belford, hatless, leapt on to a footboard of the throbbing car with the agility of a sailor, Sheffield more slowly following suit, for he would have preferred an inside berth. A man in a blue serge suit touched the inspector's arm. "What shall we do, sir?" "Wait here." The limousine was off. "Left! left!" directed Mr. Belford, and the man swung sharply round the curve and into the lane bordering the gardens of Womsley Old Place. "Right!" They leapt about again, and were humming along a chalky white road. "Left! Straight ahead! Make for the church! Open her out!" The pursuit had commenced!