“That is bluff,” he said. “I didn’t leave this house last night. What happened at Heavytree Farm?” “Miss Leicester was abducted. You are surprised, almost agitated, I notice.” “Do you think I had anything to do with it?” asked Monty steadily. “Yes, and the police share my view. A provisional warrant was issued for your arrest this morning. I thought you ought to know.” Now the man drew back, his face went from red to white, and then to a deeper red again. Manfred laughed softly. “You’ve got a guilty conscience, Newton,” he said, “and that’s half-way to being arrested. Where is Jane?” “Gone abroad, I tell you.” He was thrown off his balance by this all too successful bluff and had lost some of his self-possession. “She is with Mirabelle Leicester: of that I’m sure,” said Manfred. “I’ve warned you twice, and it is not necessary to warn you a third time. I don’t know how far deep you’re in these snake murders: a jury will decide that sooner or later. But you’re dead within six hours of my learning that Miss Leicester has been badly treated. You know that is true, don’t you?” Manfred was speaking very earnestly. “You’re more scared of us than you are of the law, and you’re right, because we do not put our men to the hazard of a jury’s intelligence. You get the same trial from us as you get from a judge who knows all the facts. You can’t beat an English judge, Newton.” The smile returned and he left the room. Fred, near at hand, waiting in the passage but at a respectful distance from the door, let him out with some alacrity. Monty Newton turned his head sideways, caught a fleeting glimpse of the man he hated—hated worse than he hated Leon Gonsalez—and then called harshly for his servant. “Come here,” he said, and Fred obeyed. “They’ll be sending round to make inquiries, and I want you to know what to tell them,” he said. “Miss Joan went away this morning to the Continent by the eight-fifteen. She’s either in Brussels or Aix-la-Chapelle. You’re not sure of the hotel, but you’ll find out. Is that clear to you?” “Yes, sir.” Fred was looking aimlessly about the room. “What’s the matter with you?” “I was wondering where the clock is.” “Clock?” Now Monty Newton heard it himself. The tick-tick-tick of a cheap clock, and he went livid. “Find it,” he said hoarsely, and even as he spoke his eyes fell upon the little black box that had been pushed beneath the desk, and he groped for the door with a scream of terror. Passers-by in Chester Square saw the door flung open and two men rush headlong into the street. And the little American clock, which Manfred had purchased a few days before, went on ticking out the time, and was still ticking merrily when the police experts went in and opened the box. It was Manfred’s oldest jest, and never failed. _Chapter XXII_ _In the Store Cellar_