"The bloke!" cried Jim. "The one what looked after the horses. . . . I found him among the rocks . . . d'you see? Over there? They'd tied him up and the horses were tied up in a sort of cave like. . . ." Simon lost no time: "Miss Bakefield?" "Carried off," replied the man. "Carried off . . . and his lordship as well." "Ah!" cried Simon, overwhelmed. The man continued: "Rolleston is their leader, Wilfred Rolleston. He came up to me this morning at sunrise, as I was seeing to the horses, and asked me if Lord Bakefield was still there. Then, without waiting for an answer, he knocked me flat, with the help of his men, and had me carried here, where they laid an ambush for his lordship. They didn't mind what they said before me; and I learnt that Mr. Williams, the secretary, and Charles, my fellow-servant, who were to have joined us and increased the escort, had been attacked by them and, most likely, killed. I learnt too that Rolleston's idea was to keep Miss Bakefield as a hostage and to send his lordship to his Paris banker's to get the ransom. Later on, they left me alone. Then I heard two shots and, a little after, they returned with his lordship and Miss Bakefield. Both of them had their hands and feet tied." "At what time did all this happen?" asked Simon, quivering with impatience. "Nine o'clock, sir, or thereabouts." "Then they have a day's start of us?" "Oh, no! There were provisions in the saddle-bags. They sat eating and drinking and then went to sleep. It was at least two o'clock in the afternoon when they strapped his lordship and Miss Bakefield to a couple of horses and started." "In what direction?" "That way," said the man-servant, pointing. "Antonio," cried Simon, "we must catch them before night! The ruffian's escort is on foot. Three hours' gallop will be enough. . . ." "Our horses are badly done up," objected the Indian. "They've got to get there, if it kills them." Simon Dubosc gave the servant his instructions: "Get Mr. Rolleston under shelter in the wreck, look after him and don't leave him for a second. Jim, can I count on you?" "Yes." "And on your father?" "All depends." "Fifty pounds for him if the wounded man is in Brighton, safe and sound, in two days' time." "Make it a hundred," said Jim. "Not a penny less." "Very well, a hundred." At six o'clock in the evening, Simon and Antonio returned to the Indians' camp. They quickly bridled and saddled their horses, while Old Sandstone, who was strolling around, ran up to them shouting: "My fault, Simon! I swear we are over my fault, the fault in the Paris basin, which I traced to Maromme and near the Ridin de Dieppe . . . the one whose fracture caused the whole upheaval. Get on your horse, so that I may give you my proofs. There's a regular Eocene and Pliocene mixture over there which is really typical. . . . Heavens, man, listen to me, can't you?" Simon stepped up to him and, with drawn features, shouted: