Feeling that he was losing both time and temper, Vernon groped his way in the thick darkness towards the door. Gripping the handle he gave it an angry, despairing twist. To his surprise the door proved to be open. Apparently the footsteps he had thought dream-sounds were real, and his prison door had been quietly unlocked at the moment of his awakening. Picking up his overcoat, he felt his way along the passage and up the stairs and into the front hall--slow work in the gloom of an unknown locality. There was no noise to be heard, although he held his breath to listen. So far as he could judge, the house was empty. Finally, intent upon getting assistance, he tried the handle of the front door, and found that there was no difficulty in getting clear. In two minutes he was in the quiet street, looking up and down for a policeman. The road being isolated and the hour late, there was neither vehicle nor pedestrian to be seen, nor did any light gleam from the windows of the silent houses. Vernon shivered in the cold breath of the night, then walked swiftly up the street to seek assistance. Shortly he found a burly constable at the corner, and breathlessly detailed all that had happened to that somewhat sceptical officer. A shrill whistle brought another policeman to the spot, and with the two Vernon returned to No. 34, the door of which he had left ajar. This somewhat convinced the officers, and they took his name and address, promising to search the house, and also to watch it. Vernon himself, on fire to reach Hampstead and to learn what had occurred, could not wait to see what discoveries might be made. The policemen wished to detain him, but finally he got away, and raced towards the more public part of West Kensington to find a cab. As luck would have it, he picked up a belated taxi that had just taken home a fare. The chauffeur demurred about driving out so far as Hampstead, but a treble price promptly offered overcame his scruples, and in a short time Vernon was spinning towards his much-wished-for destination. All the way he was trying to conjecture how The Spider had contrived to overhear the arranging of the trap, for he must have done so, else there would have been no reason for the imprisonment. But by this time Vernon's brain was weary, and he fell into a dose. When he woke the taxi had pulled up with a jerk, and he found himself on the Heath before the gate of "Rangoon." With a sudden spasm of fear he noted that a policeman was standing at the entrance, apparently on guard. Stumbling out of the cab, Vernon staggered towards the man. "I have come to Mr. Dimsdale's ball," he said hurriedly. "It's over, sir," said the policeman, touching his helmet. "Over--so early!" "Early in the morning, sir, you mean. But the fact is, there's trouble." "Trouble!" Again a cold chill struck Vernon. "Yes, sir, and the ball came to an end." "Mr. Dimsdale?" "Dead, sir. Murdered, as you might say." "Dead!" echoed Vernon, quite dazed.