Vroon faced Hargreave's butler somberly. The one reason why Braine made this man his lieutenant was because Vroon always followed the letter of his instructions to the final period; he never sidestepped or added any frills or innovations of his own, and because of this very automatism he rarely blundered into a trap. If he failed it was for the simple fact that the master mind had overlooked some essential detail. The organization of the Black Hundred was almost totally unknown to either the public or the police. It is only when you fail that you are found out. "The patrolman has been trussed up like you," began Vroon. "If they find him they will probably find you. But before that you will grow thirsty and hungry. Where did your master put that money?" "He carried it with him." "Why didn't you call for help?" "The houses on either side are too far away. I might yell till doomsday without being heard. They will have heard the pistol shots; but Mr. Hargreave was always practising in the back yard." "The people in those two houses have been called out of town. The servants are off for the night." "Very interesting," replied Jones, staring at the rug. "Your master is dead." Jones' chin sank upon his breast. His heart was heavy, heavier than it had ever been before. "Your master left a will?" "Indeed, I could not say." "We can say. He has still three or four millions in stocks and bonds. What he took to the bottom of the sea with him was his available cash." "I know nothing about his finances. I was his butler and valet." Vroon nodded. "Come, men; it is time we took ourselves off. Put things in order; close the safe. You poor jackals, I always have to watch you for outbreaks of vandalism. Off with you!" He was the last to leave. He stared long and searchingly at Jones, who felt the burning gaze but refused to meet it lest the plotter see the fire in his. The door closed. For fully an hour Jones listened but did not stir. They were really gone. He pressed his feet to the floor and began to hitch the chair toward the table. Half-way across the intervening space he crumpled in the chair, almost completely exhausted. He let a quarter of an hour pass, then made the final attack upon the remaining distance. He succeeded in reaching the desk, but he could not have stirred an inch farther. The hair on his head was damp with sweat and his hands were clammy. When he felt strength returning he lifted the telephone off the hook with his teeth. "Central, central! Call the police to come to this number at once; Hargreave's house, Riverdale. Tell them to break in." After what seemed an age of waiting to the exhausted prisoner, with crashing and smashing of doors, the police appeared in the room. "Where's your gag?" demanded the first officer to reach Jones' side. "There wasn't any." "Then why didn't you yell for help?"