Furneaux had estimated Hilton Fenley correctly in ascribing to him the quality of cold-bloodedness. Ninety-nine men among a hundred would have appropriated the motor car then and there, but Fenley saw by waiting a minute and displaying the requisite coolness he might succeed in throwing his pursuers off the trail for some hours. Stern came. It chanced that he was watching a good patient through a crisis, and would be detained until daybreak. "Hello, Hilton," he cried. "What's up now, and what's the racket in the park?" Fenley explained, but hurried to the vital matter. "My car is out of action," he said. "I was going to the Easton garage to hire one when I saw yours standing here. Lend it to me for a couple of hours; there's a good fellow. I'll pay well for the use of it." "Pay? Nonsense! Jump in! Take Mr. Fenley where he wants to go, Tom. Where to first, Hilton?" "St. Albans. I'm exceedingly obliged. And look here, Stern, I insist on paying." "We can settle that afterwards. Off with you. I'll walk home, Tom." Away sped the car. Running through Easton, Fenley saw two policemen stationed at a cross-road. They signaled the car to stop, and his blood curdled, but, in the same instant, they saw the chauffeur's face; the other occupant was cowering as far back in the shadow as possible. "Oh, it's Dr. Stern," said one. "Right, Tom. By the way, have you seen anything of----" "Go on, do!" growled Fenley, drowning the man's voice. "I'm in a vile hurry." That was his last real hairbreadth escape--for that night, at any rate, though other thrills were in store. The chauffeur was greatly surprised when bidden to go on from St. Albans to London, and take the High Barnet road to the City; but Fenley produced a five-pound note at the right moment, and the man reflected that his master would not hesitate to oblige a wealthy client, who evidently meant to make good the wear and tear on the car. In about an hour Fenley alighted on the pavement opposite the firm's premises in Bishopsgate Street. If a policeman had chanced to be standing there the fugitive would have known that the game was up, but the only wayfarers in that part of the thoroughfare were some street cleaners. Now that he saw a glimmer of light where hitherto all was darkness, he was absolutely clear-brained and cool in manner. "Wait five minutes," he said. "I sha'n't detain you longer." He let himself in with a master key, taken from his dead father's pockets earlier by Tomlinson. Going to the banker's private office, he ransacked a safe and a cabinet with hasty method. He secured a hat, an overcoat, an umbrella and a packed suitcase, left there for emergency journeys in connection with the business, and was back in the street again within less than the specified time. His tongue clave to the roof of his mouth when he found a policeman chatting with the chauffeur, but the man saluted him with a civil "Good morning!"