They stood close together in the darkness, conversing in low tones, as though in earnest consultation, while I, holding my breath, strove in vain to catch their words. The only other sound was the mournful hooting of an owl in the trees above; for the dead stillness of the night was now upon everything. "Exactly," I heard the woman say. "My own opinion is that he suspects. Therefore you must act quickly--as before." "I--I am hesitating," the man's voice replied. "I can't bring myself to do it. I really can't!" "Bosh! Then leave it to me," she urged, in a hard, rasping voice. "You're becoming timid--chicken-hearted. It isn't like you, surely." "I'm not timid," he protested. "Only I foresee danger--great danger." "So do I--if you don't act promptly. Get her away from Bournemouth. Go anywhere else you like." They were speaking of Asta! I strained my ears, but her further words were inaudible. In a moment, however, I became conscious of a slight stealthy movement in the bushes near where I was standing, and turned my head quickly. The next second I realised that only a few yards distant from me the dark figure of a man had come up through the undergrowth, but so carefully that he had made no noise. He stood ten yards away, peering out at the pair, but all unconscious of my presence there. He was watching intently, and by his silhouette in the darkness I recognised the bearded face of none other than the great agent of the Paris Surete, Victor Tramu! CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. IN THE NIGHT. Fearing lest his quick eye should detect my presence, I stood there motionless as a statue. The pair, in earnest conversation, suddenly strolled away over the fallen leaves at the edge of the wood, whereupon Tramu emerged silently from his hiding-place and crept after them, I being compelled to remain where I was. So the French police had traced Shaw to his place of concealment! I longed to give him warning, but was unable. What should I do? How should I act? Asta was at the Bath Hotel at Bournemouth. At least I could ring her up on the telephone, and tell her what I had seen! So the watcher and the watched having disappeared, I hurried across the park until at length I gained the main road, and went on at a brisk pace till I was back again at my hotel. It took me a full hour to get on to Bournemouth, and after long delay I at last heard her sweet, well-remembered voice at the instrument. I expressed regret at awakening her, but told her that I was leaving by motor in half an hour to meet her. "Where is your father?" I inquired. "I don't exactly know. He left me at Burford Bridge Hotel, at Box Hill, last Monday, and I came here to await him. Five days have gone, and I've had no letter." "Then he hasn't been to Bournemouth?" "No." "Well," I said, "do not go out of the hotel until I arrive, will you?"