Michael got back into his car, and, opening out, flew over the hill and covered the fifteen miles that separated Telsbury from Letchford in exactly fifteen minutes. Here again he was in luck. One of the town police had seen the machine; it had taken the westerly road. But thereafter his fortune failed him, for he came to a place where four roads met, and there was no trail that could help him determine which route the unknown driver had chosen. They were not bound for London at any rate. He tried one road without success; worked across country to intercept the second, but could meet nobody who had the slightest information to offer. At four o’clock in the morning a weary man brought his machine to a standstill before the Chelsea police station and went slowly up the steps into the charge-room. “Hullo, Mr. Dorn!” said the sergeant. “The superintendent’s been looking for you all night about that charge.” “Well, what about it?” asked Michael drearily. “There’s going to be the devil to pay. It appears that the countess says the girl wasn’t in the room when Braime was hurt. We’ve had a full statement from her in writing, and the superintendent says he’s got something to say to you that you won’t forget in a hurry!” Dorn’s lip went back in an angry snarl. “If he should say anything that’s worth remembering I’ll go out of business,” he said. “Anyway, you can release her. I’d like to offer my apologies.” “Let her out!” laughed the sergeant. “You’re a bit late. She was released at one o’clock this morning.” Dorn’s eyes narrowed. “Released at one o’clock this morning?” he said softly. “Did she go away by herself?” “No, sir, she did not. A gentleman called for her in a blue Buick.” Michael Dorn staggered back; his face was drawn and haggard. Of a sudden he seemed to have grown old. “The man who released that girl may be an accessory to murder!” he said. “Tell your superintendent that when you see him!” And, turning on his heel, he left the charge-room. The Public Prosecutor’s office opened at ten o’clock, and Michael Dorn was waiting for him, a dusty, unshaven, grimy figure, when that official arrived. “Hullo, Dorn! What is wrong?” he asked, and, in as few words as possible, the detective explained the position. The Prosecutor shook his head. “We can do nothing. You haven’t the evidence we want, and no charge would lie. We’ve given you the freest hand, in view of all the remarkable circumstances of the case, but I cannot consent to a warrant for arrest until you bring me proof positive and undeniable.” Michael Dorn bit his lip thoughtfully. “In the old days, when they couldn’t get a man to tell the truth, what did they do with him, Sir Charles?” “Well,” said the other drily, “they tried something with boiling oil in it! Those were the days when criminal investigation was a little easier than it is now.”