London had scarcely recovered from this shocking surprise when the snake struck again. This time in the crowded street, and choosing a humble victim, though by no means a blameless one. An ex-convict named Sirk, a homeless down-and-out, was seen to fall by a park-keeper near the Achilles statue in Hyde Park. By the time the keeper reached him he was dead. There was no sign of a snake—nobody was near him. This time the snake had made his mark on the wrist—two little punctured wounds near together. A month later the third man fell a victim. He was a clerk of the Bank of England, a reputable man who was seen to fall forward in a subway train, and, on being removed to hospital, was discovered to have died—again from snake-bite. So that the snake became a daily figure of fear, and its sinister fame spread even so far afield as Heavytree Farm. “Stuff!” said Mirabelle, yet with a shiver. “Alma, I wish you wouldn’t keep these horrors in your scrap-book.” “They are Life,” said Alma soberly, and then: “When will you take up your appointment?” she asked, and the girl laughed. “We will make a beginning right away—by applying for the job,” she said practically. “And you needn’t start packing your boxes for a very long time!” An hour later she intercepted the village postman and handed him a letter. And that was the beginning of the adventure which involved so many lives and fortunes, which brought the Three Just Men to the verge of dissolution, and one day was to turn the heart of London into a battle-field. Two days after the letter was dispatched came the answer, typewritten, surprisingly personal, and in places curiously worded. There was an excuse for that, for the heading on the note-paper was On the third day Mirabelle Leicester stepped down from a ’bus in the City Road and entered the unimposing door of Romance, and an inquisitive chauffeur who saw her enter followed and overtook her in the lobby. “Excuse me, madame—are you Mrs. Carter?” Mirabelle did not look like Mrs. Anybody. “No,” she said, and gave her name. “But you’re the lady from Hereford . . . you live with your mother at Telford Park . . . ?” The man was so agitated that she was not annoyed by his insistence. Evidently he had instructions to meet a stranger and was fearful of missing her. “You have made a mistake—I live at Heavytree Farm, Daynham—with my aunt.” “Is she called Carter?” She laughed. “Miss Alma Goddard—now are you satisfied?” “Then you’re not the lady, miss; I’m waiting to pick her up.” The chauffeur withdrew apologetically.