“George, do you look forward with any pleasure to a two hundred and fifty miles’ drive?” “Are you the chauffeur?” asked George. “I am the chauffeur,” said Leon cheerfully. “I have driven a car for many years and I have not been killed yet. It is unlikely that I shall risk my precious life and yours to-night. Come with me and I promise never to hit her up above sixty except on the real speedways.” Manfred nodded. “We will stop at Oxley and try to get a ’phone call through to Gloucester,” said Leon. “This line is, of course, out of order. They would do nothing so stupid as to neglect the elementary precaution of disconnecting Rath Hall.” At Oxley the big Spanz pulled up before the dark and silent exterior of an inn, and Leon, getting down, brought the half-clad landlord to the door and explained his mission, and also learned that two big cars had passed through half an hour before, going in the direction of London. “That was the gang. I wonder how they’ll explain to their paymaster their second failure?” His first call was to the house in Curzon Street, but there was no reply. “Ring them again,” said Leon. “You left Poiccart there?” Manfred nodded. They waited for five minutes; still there was no reply. “How queer!” said Manfred. “It isn’t like Poiccart to leave the house. Get Gloucester.” At this hour of the night the lines are comparatively clear, and in a very short time he heard the Gloucester operator’s voice, and in a few seconds later the click that told them they were connected with Heavytree Farm. Here there was some delay before the call was answered. It was not Mirabelle Leicester nor her aunt who spoke. Nor did he recognize the voice of Digby, who had recovered sufficiently to return to duty. “Who is that?” asked the voice sharply. “Is that you, sergeant?” “No, it is Mr. Meadows,” said Leon mendaciously. “The Scotland Yard gentleman?” It was an eager inquiry. “I’m Constable Kirk, of the Gloucester Police. My sergeant’s been trying to get in touch with you, sir.” “What is the matter?” asked Leon, a cold feeling at his heart. “I don’t know, sir. About half an hour ago, I was riding past here—I’m one of the mounted men—and I saw the door wide open and all the lights on, and when I came in there was nobody up. I woke Miss Goddard and Mr. Digby, but the young lady was not in the house.” “Lights everywhere?” asked Leon quickly. “Yes, sir—in the parlour at any rate.” “No sign of a struggle?” “No, sir, but a car passed me three miles from the house and it was going at a tremendous rate. I think she may have been in that. Mr. Digby and Miss Goddard have just gone into Gloucester.” “All right, officer. I am sending Mr. Gonsalez down to see you,” said Leon, and hung up the receiver. “What is it?” asked George Manfred, who knew that something was wrong by his friend’s face.