When Sheard had gone away again, Inspector Sheffield had found himself, temporarily, in a dilemma. It was something he had not foreseen. But, weighing the chances, he had come to the conclusion to give the others no signal, but to wait. At seven minutes past eight, by Mr. Alden's electrically lighted timepiece, a car or a cab--it was impossible, at that distance, to determine which--dropped a passenger at the Village end of the road. A tall figure, completely enveloped in a huge, caped coat, and wearing a dripping silk hat, walked with a swinging stride towards the ambush--and entered the gate of the cottage. M. Duquesne, who, from his damp post in a clump of rhododendrons on the left of the door had watched him approach, rubbed his wet hands delightedly. Without the peculiar coat that majestic walk was sufficient. "It is he!" he muttered. "The Severac!" With a key which he must have held ready in his hand, the new-comer opened the door and entered the cottage. Acting upon a pre-arranged plan, the watchers closed in upon the four sides of the building, and Sheffield told himself triumphantly that he had shown sound generalship. With a grim nod of recognition to Alden, who appeared from the laurel thicket, he walked up to the door and rang smartly. This had one notable result. A door banged inside. Again he rang--and again. Nothing stirred within. Only the steady drone of the falling rain broke the chilling silence. Sheffield whistled shrilly. At that signal M. Duquesne immediately broke the window which he was guarding, and stripping off his coat, he laid it over the jagged points of glass along the sashes and through the thickness of the cloth forced back the catch. Throwing up the glassless frame, he stepped into the dark room beyond. To the crash which he had made, an answering crash had told him that Detective-sergeant Harborne had effected an entrance by the east window. Cautiously he stepped forward in the darkness, a revolver in one hand; with the other he fumbled for the electric lamp in his breast pocket. As his fingers closed upon it a slight noise behind him brought him right-about in a flash. The figure of a man who was climbing in over the low ledge was silhouetted vaguely in the frame of the broken window. "_Ah!_" hissed Duquesne. "Quick! speak! Who is that?" "Ssh! my Duquesne!" came a thick voice. "Do you think, then, I can leave so beautiful a case to anyone?" Duquesne turned the beam of the lantern on the speaker. It was Victor Lemage. Duquesne bowed, lantern in hand. "Waste no moment," snapped Lemage. "Try that door!" pointing to the only one in the room. As the other stepped forward to obey, the famous investigator made a comprehensive survey of the little kitchen, for such it was. Save for its few and simple appointments, it was quite empty. "The door is locked." "Ah, yes. I thought so." "Hullo!" came Sheffield's voice through the window, "who's there, Duquesne?"