“Pfeiffer, it has come to me that you are in some danger. The police wish to take you back to Warsaw, where certain unpleasant things happened, as you well know. And I am told”—he lowered his voice—“that a friend of ours would be glad to see you go, hein?” The man did not raise his sulky eyes from the floor, did not answer, or by any gesture or movement of body suggest that he had heard what the older man had said. “Gurther goes to-morrow, perhaps on our good work, perhaps to speak secretly to his friends in the police—who knows? He has work to do: let him do it, Pfeiffer. All my men will be there—at a place called Brightlingsea. You also shall go. Gurther would rob a blind man? Good! You shall rob one also. As for Gurther, I do not wish him back. I am tired of him: he is a madman. All men are mad who sniff that white snuff up their foolish noses—eh, Pfeiffer?” Still the awkward-looking man made no reply. “Let him do his work: you shall not interfere, until—it is done.” Pfeiffer was looking at him now, a cold sneer on his face. “If he comes back, I do not,” he said. “This man is frightening me. Twice the police have been here—three times . . . you remember the woman. The man is a danger, Herr Doktor. I told you he was the day you brought him here.” “He can dress in the gentleman-club manner,” said the doctor gently. “Pshaw!” said the other scornfully. “Is he not an actor who has postured and painted his face and thrown about his legs for so many marks a week?” “If he does not come back I shall be relieved,” murmured the doctor. “Though it would be a mistake to leave him so that these cunning men could pry into our affairs.” Pfeiffer said nothing: he understood his instructions; there was nothing to be said. “When does he go?” “Early to-morrow, before daylight. You will see him, of course.” He said something in a low tone, that only Pfeiffer heard. The shadow who stood in stockinged feet listening at the door only heard two words. Gurther grinned in the darkness; his bright eyes grew luminous. He heard his companion move towards the door and sped up the stairs without a sound. * * * * * Rath Hall was a rambling white building of two stories, set in the midst of a little park, so thickly wooded that the house was invisible from the road; and since the main entrance to the estate was a very commonplace gate, without lodge or visible drive beyond, Gonsalez would have missed the place had he not recognized the man who was sitting on the moss-grown and broken wall who jumped down as Leon stopped his car. “Mr. Meadows is at the house, sir. He said he expected you.” “And where on earth is the house?” asked Leon Gonsalez, as he went into reverse.