He who rode on Sidney's left hand was a tall, grizzled man, with the bearing of a soldier, while his second companion was fair and gentle in manner. The soldier was Captain Pharland, District Inspector of Police; the civilian was the keenest detective in London. “Of course,” said this man, who sat his hired horse with perfect confidence. “Of course we are too late, I know that.” He spoke softly and somewhat slowly; his manner was essentially that of a man accustomed to the entire attention of his hearers. “The old Italian,” he continued, “who went under the name of Signor Bruno, disappeared this morning. It is just possible that he will succeed in getting out of the country. It all depends upon who he is.” “Who do you suppose he is?” asked Captain Pharland. He was an upright old British soldier, and felt ill at ease in the society of his celebrated _confrère_. “I don't know,” was the frank reply; “you see this is not a criminal affair, it is entirely political; it is hardly in my line of country.” They rode on in silence for a space of time, during which Captain Pharland lighted a cigar and offered one to his companions. Sidney accepted, but the gentleman from London refused quietly, and without explanation. It was he who spoke first. “Mr. Carew,” he said, “can you tell me when this monastery was first instituted at Porton Abbey?” “Last autumn.” The thin flaxen eyebrows went up very high, until they were lost to sight beneath the hat brim. “Did they--ah--deal with the local tradesmen?” “No,” replied Sidney, “I think not. They received all their stores by train from London.” “And you have never seen any of the monks?” “No, never.” The fair-haired gentleman gave a little upward jerk of the head and smiled quietly for his own satisfaction. He did not speak again until the cavalcade reached Porton Abbey. The old place looked very peaceful in the morning light, standing grimly in the midst of that soft lush grass which only grows over old habitations. One side of the long, low building was in good repair, while the other half had been allowed to crumble away. The narrow Norman windows had been framed with unpainted wood and cheap glass. The broad doorway had been partly filled in with unseasoned deal, and an inexpensive door had been fitted up. The bell-knob was of brass, new and glaring in the morning sun. The gentleman from London, having alighted, took gently hold of this and rang. A faint tinkle rewarded him. It was the peculiar sound of a bell ringing in an empty house. After a moment's pause he wrenched the bell nearly out of its socket, and a long peal was the result. At last this ceased, and there was no sound in the house. The fair man looked back over his shoulder at Captain Pharland. “Gone!” he said tersely.