The car sped swiftly through the night with its great white lights gleaming on road and tree and ditch and cottage wall. The man at the wheel bent forward, straining his eyes till all was blurred in front of him, and his heart would thump in terror. That grey patch shivering ahead was perhaps a wall and not the level highway, and next moment the car would crash into it.

"What are you slowing for?" cried Bannister at his elbow, as he scanned the grey gap in the darkness and saw the hedge rows at even distances to right and left, and a clear path.

"The pace is too hot. A yard too much to the left, and we shall go up the bank and into Kingdom Come. Is that water?"

"No, no, only a damp patch beneath the trees. Get on, man. Faster!"

Bannister bent down to scan the speedometer, and grumbled that the last twenty miles had consumed nearly half an hour of time.

"Very well, I'll let her go if you like. But don't blame me if----"

The car swerved so badly that Bannister was nearly thrown into the road. A triangular patch of green and a signpost whizzed by them, and he understood that the chauffeur had just avoided going straight to destruction by sharply swerving at the bend.

"Never mind, Foster, I'll make it worth your while. Smash the rotten old car when it's over, but you must get there by the time I said."

The heavy trees were left behind. The hedge rows stood out clearly again, and the highway presented no difficulties. The chauffeur sighed with relief, and leaned back. His passenger, unable to keep still, urged him to fresh effort.

"No, no, the water is steaming," protested the driver. "We're doing pretty well now. We're going at forty miles an hour. Can't you feel her leap?--There! that bump was when we left the ground for a yard."

In another second there was an awful crunching--but the car continued its advance. The road was laid with loose granite, and they rocked and rolled over it, Bannister clinging to the back of his seat and the chauffeur to the wheel.

On again. They saw a constable leap out of the road for safety into the footway, and stare at them in amazement. Houses whizzed by, all blurred and dancing, and the car leaped over the hollows in the macadam worn by the market carts. Bannister leaned forward and peered ahead--always ahead. He forced himself to think of the journey and his errand, not to look back and remember the lighted room at the Palace, the gaping safe door, and the pale, still woman stretched out upon the shining parquet. He remembered the color of her gown and the curve of every gleaming tress, the bare feet, and the limp hands lying palm upward. Little more than an hour before he had held her in his arms, sobbing, appealing, warm and pulsating, with her fine eyes flashing anger, and her lips yielding protestingly.

And Voss had perhaps killed her. Voss, the servile, docile scoundrel, who for years had been his slave and never disobeyed an order. The fellow had often protested, and even advised, but never rebelled before. He certainly had never snatched a prize intended for his master's hand. The emeralds seemed to have turned his brain. The quarrel, the foolish outbreak of temper and the contemptuous kick had undone the work of years. The spell broken, the harness removed, the natural ruffian emerged from behind the mask of imperturbable serenity which he usually presented to the world as Mr. Bannister's servant. With all the recklessness of a greedy criminal he had grabbed at a fortune, and was trusting to luck for a successful issue to his venture. But Dame Fortune is a smug goddess, and looks askance at criminals. She is niggardly in dealing out her prizes--and always gives the honest man ten chances to the villain's one.

The fugitive's path was beset with a hundred difficulties. He had chosen to shut his eyes to half of them, and was satisfied to get his hands upon the jewels. The rest was in the lap of the future, and depended upon that same fickle Luck by which all gamblers, prodigals and thieves exist.

Voss had mapped out his line of escape as far as the flat at Stratton Street, where his money was. Bannister knew that he would not leave that; and the servant flattered himself that Bannister dared not communicate with the police and set them on his track. Further, his master could not arrive at Stratton Street first. Therefore, it was an easy race, with a long start for himself.

But Voss had reckoned without Jack's hired motor in the stable yard--an unforeseen element in the game. If he thought about a motor at all, he probably congratulated himself that Bannister's vehicle was not at the Palace, and it would be a long time before the police could be set in motion.

"We can't go through the town at this pace," said the chauffeur, as the London street lamps appeared ahead blinking in the summer dawn.

They stood on the wood pavement now, and though the pace was as fast as ever, it seemed to be slower because it was so smooth.

"Now is your opportunity," urged Bannister. "There are only a few market carts, with a level road all the way. You must risk it. Let her go full tear."

"The first policeman'll stop me."

"Let him try. Ride him down."

"Yes, and get six months, or seven years."

"If you don't, I'll take the wheel myself. There's an open stretch now. Let her go again--hurry, man--hurry! We've been an age coming those last few miles."

The chauffeur tried to please by indulging in terrific spurts, then slowing whenever pedestrians or traffic appeared. To his companion the car seemed to be creeping horribly. The radiator was steaming, and something was leaking. But they trusted to Providence, and hoped that the petrol would hold out as far as Bond Street.

What interminable rows of houses! What miles on miles of streets! London never seemed so huge before. The dawn had broken, and Bannister was able to see the time by his watch, although it was still black overhead. A faint purple tinged the sky line above the houses, and the number of market carts and early workmen and electric trams increased. A dozen times they were shouted at by startled wayfarers, who leaped aside for their lives.

At last the trees of Kensington Gardens and the open expanse of park loomed in the purple haze. The street lamps were less bright and the roads were more thronged than ever.

"I can't go any faster here."

"You must--you must risk it. Blow your horn. Shout to that crawling cab to get out of the way, or smash it up."

As the first motor omnibuses were overtaken, Bannister was consumed with a new anxiety. He realized the number of ways of getting into London that were open to Voss besides the railway; but at last Piccadilly was reached, and the car swung round into Stratton Street. He seized the chauffeur's arm.

"Stop here--no further--don't go up to the house. Back a little."

His latchkey was in his hand, and he entered the flat noiselessly. All was dark and still. He stood inside the door and closed it, shooting the bolts, and turning the key twice in the lock. If Voss was there he could not get out now except by the window.

He made a rapid survey of the rooms. They were exactly as when left for the visit to the Palace.

He had arrived first.

The car was still throbbing in the street below. If Voss came, it might scare him off. He hurried down stairs and went out hatless to the driver.

"Wait for me, out of sight, round the corner. Here's part of the money I promised you," and he thrust a bank note into the fellow's hand.

The car went creeping and groaning into Piccadilly, and Bannister returned to the flat to wait.

He was only just in time; but he had a few moments in which to think out his plan.

It would never do to leave lights burning. Voss must come into the trap unsuspectingly. The latch was set to give admittance in the ordinary way; the bolts were withdrawn, and the lights switched out. He took up a position in the sitting room behind the door, and prepared to wait. He had no idea what form his vengeance would take. At present he only longed to get his fingers upon Voss's throat, to batter his head, to hear him shriek for mercy and forgiveness. The emeralds did not matter. They were in the reckoning, of course, for he must have them now at all costs; his hold over the Bishop of Ripley was gone if Hester were dead. Miss Cardew with her thousands was a thing of the past.

These things did not shape themselves coherently in his mind at present. Waiting there in the darkness he saw weird shadows move and change their shape as the grey light of dawn crept in through the drawn blinds. He had time to calm down and to remember, and to recall that white face. He gave rein to a choking emotion which threatened to flood his eyes with tears for the first time for many, many years.

If Hester were dead, Mabel was also lost utterly. Jack Cardew would claim her, and he, her father, would be denied the right to touch the hem of her garment. There would be nothing left. Dingle Hall and proud respectability seemed ludicrous. A country mansion would only be a lonely, gaunt prison which he had purchased for himself to live and die in, neglected and scorned by his own flesh and blood. What a bungle he had made of it all! If only he had throttled Voss at the first sign of insubordination he would not have been here, waiting in the darkness. Even Voss had thrown him over. But if the rascal had killed Hester--killed the only thing he loved, no punishment was too horrible.

The old notion of Voss as docile and subservient lingered still, in spite of this outbreak. It was so strong that the idea of arming himself against the fellow never occurred to him. His itching fingers were empty, and he fully believed that when he came face to face with the traitor Voss would crumple up, and cringe, and whine for mercy.

A step on the stone stair--a heavy breathing--and a scratching of a key in the lock. Bannister shook with eager rage, and choked for breath. His hands clenched and unclenched, his teeth ground one upon the other, his jaw locked ready for action, and he could scarcely wait for the door to close behind the traitor.

Voss stopped and listened intently before switching on the light. It all appeared to him as it did to Bannister when he arrived, grim, dark, deserted, and with that queer musty odor which greets the nostrils on entering a place that has been shut up for some time.

As a precaution against sudden surprise from pursuit he shot the bolts of the front door. Then he flung down his cap and loosened his coat, and hurried to the little room at the back, where his hoard was hidden. Bannister remained in the dark sitting room, ready to pounce; but his victim went by too quickly. He heard cupboard doors being unlocked and furniture moved, and a little cry of triumph as jingling coins were shovelled into a capacious pocket.

Voss was not going to be satisfied easily. The whole place was at his mercy. He made more noise now, and banged into Bannister's bedroom, and began flinging about jewel cases and breaking open drawers. Bannister allowed him full rein, but there was not much to take. Every time his hand closed upon a valuable article it was too bulky or too heavy to carry away. He picked things up and dropped them, and picked them up again, then thought of a bag. He seized the first to hand, and flung it on the floor.

He fancied he heard a sound, and the bag was kicked aside. It was madness to stay to carry off things worth a few ten pound notes when a fortune in jeopardy was in his pockets. Perhaps there was something in the other room which he could carry more easily. There was one picture which he had heard his master say would fetch seven thousand pounds in Munich, a little thing that would go in a small bag and be no impediment to his flight.

He blundered into the dark sitting room, and forgot the switch which was at the door; but on turning back with outstretched arm to touch the familiar knob, he felt a gust of wind. The door was closed by some unseen agency; there was a step and a click, and he jumped back with a hoarse cry. Bannister had flooded the room with light, and stood with his back to the door. They were face to face.

Voss backed away, and almost fell down in his astonishment.

"I'm here first, you see," hissed Bannister, breathing heavily.

"You'd better not get in my way," cried Voss, clenching his fist and looking dangerous. "I've finished here. I've done enough of your dirty work, and what did I ever get for it? Yes, I'm on my own now. So stand aside, or you'll be sorry for it."

"You're a murderer!"

"Rats! You can't kid me."

"I tell you you have killed Lady Hester Cardew----"

"Well, what if I have? She shouldn't have got in my way."

"She was my wife."

"Eh?"

"My wife, I say. You have killed her, and I'm going to kill you. Empty your pockets, you dirty traitor."

"Empty my pockets, eh, and fill yours? Not if I know it."

Bannister's eyes flashed lightning. His rage was terrible. He leaped at the fellow, and his hand was on the other's throat before Voss knew what was happening.

"Yes--kill you!"

Voss went down to the floor on his back. Bannister's slim white hand closed tighter and tighter. "So you'd rob me, would you--you miserable, crawling worm! You dirty cunning dog!"

Bannister raised one hand to strike his prostrate victim in the face, and gave Voss his opportunity. He wriggled, turned half over, and dragged his assailant down. They came to grips lying side by side on the floor in a fearful struggle. Voss's right hand was free, and he thrust it into his pocket. Bannister clutched him again, and embedded his thin fingers in his throat with unerring precision, Voss struck out and swung round his free arm, and--fired.

The shot seemed to have no effect. The flaming eyes came closer to his; two hands closed upon his throat tighter and tighter, and the room began to swim round.

The revolver dropped; he began to choke, and clawed at the wrists of his infuriated master; but gradually the clutch of the long fingers relaxed; a heavy weight bore down upon him, and Bannister rolled over--quite still and dead.

Voss was terrified. He scrambled to his feet, and looked down in fear. He had some spark of affection for his master, germinated during long years of intimate association, and it was horrible to see him lying there. He attempted to lift the limp, lifeless body--then he gave a great sob, which was half fright, and realized the overpowering necessity for flight.

He seized a cap which was lying on the floor, and rushed out of the flat. He turned up his coat collar about his neck and glided away, chased by a hundred phantoms. He had not gone far before he became aware that the cap on his head was his master's. He drew it down over his eyes, but it would not come low enough; and every man he passed seemed to be staring into his guilty face.

He had left his own cap behind in the flat. The thought added fresh terror. It was a clue, simple and direct. A hue and cry for the murderer would be raised, and all England would be searching for him.

He paused on his way to Victoria Station, and staggered at the thought. He swayed like a drunken man, and his brain reeled. He wanted to go back, but dared not. Yet if he did not return, the damning evidence of the cap would hang him. He believed now what Bannister had said about Lady Hester. He had leaped at a bound from a greedy thief to a violent criminal--a murderer--perhaps a double murderer.

It was dangerous to go back. He hurried blindly on, actuated by one crude, reckless idea of getting to the coast and out of the country before the wires were at work, and the slow moving police were fully aroused.

It was rather staggering to find that Bannister had arrived before him; and there was no knowing how many more were behind close upon his heels. The flat would be the first place they would go to.

He had an idea that the chase for a murderer never really got well under way until two or three days had elapsed--after the inquest at any rate. The notion was stupid; but his brain was refusing to act, and throbbed and danced as in midnight dreams. He stood still in the street, and clasped his brow with his hot hand, and almost swooned with the stress of conflicting emotions. He was not accustomed to independent action of any kind. Even in traveling from place to place Bannister's directions had dominated every step. No murderer, ever felt less of a ruffian than this poor, miserable, distracted wretch. He had run amuck; he had committed the foulest of crimes, and it did not seem to matter which way he went so long as he hastened.

At Victoria Station he remembered that the ports were the first place to be watched for escaping criminals. Astute criminals always took a ticket to Dover, and got out at some intermediate station. He followed this plan, and started off by train unmolested. The rest gave him time to recover from his first fright, and think things out more carefully.

At the first junction he got out, and escaped from the station without giving up his ticket by climbing over a palisade and striking blindly across country. He travelled all that day until it was necessary to find food and drink, and resolved to sell his life dearly if he were seized. He felt in all his pockets for his revolver. He had left that behind, too.

What folly! What blind madness! And he dared not purchase another.

* * * * * * *

The excitement at Ripley when it became known that a robbery had taken place at the Palace was acute. The wildest rumors were afloat. First it was the Bishop himself who had been killed, then the Bishop's wife. Both these stories were pronounced to be incorrect. It was Lady Hester who had been attacked, and, thanks to the perseverance of the doctor, she had recovered sufficiently to describe the villain and set the police on his track.

The Bishop's emeralds were gone, but it was confidently hoped that the thief would not long be at large. Later, an ugly rumor gained ground that the Bishop, whose condition was critical before the burglary, had been much distressed by the attack upon his wife, which occurred within his hearing while he lay helpless listening to her screams, and showed signs of collapse.

The doctor was besieged by reporters, but he refused to say anything--in itself a sign that what there was to say had better be left unsaid. From these indications the people of Ripley drew their own conclusions, and prepared for the worst. Things reached a climax when, at afternoon service in the cathedral, prayers were offered up for the Bishop's life. He was _in extremis_.

At the Palace a deathly calm prevailed. After Bannister's departure for London, Jack felt that there was nothing further to be done. He took the reins of management, and his first difficulty was with Aunt Caroline, who amazed him by a strange outburst of abuse and accusation against Bannister himself, whom she declared to be a villain and a swindler; it was he who had stolen the gems; the man Voss was only his tool.

Jack was furiously indignant; but her concern for the emeralds soon gave place to the deepest anxiety for her brother. The Bishop, in a brief spell of consciousness, had signified that he wished to see his sister. He desired to make his peace. Some inkling of the real truth about Bannister and the justice of his sister's opposition must have come to him in those last fleeting moments. He knew that Voss was the culprit, and they had told him that Bannister was in pursuit of the villain; but that did not satisfy him.

Caroline was summoned to the sufferer's bedside by the doctor, who stood aside during the interview, watch in hand. He gave her five minutes.

She fell upon her knees by her brother's side, weeping bitterly, and he signed to her to come closer.

"Take care of--Hester--and Jack. If you were right----" There was a long pause, and she waited with beating heart until his speech came again. "Be kind to the child--Jack knows best."

The strong old man died hard. He wrestled with the pain in his breast, which had been so frequent of late and which was now closing about his heart, and the doctor signed to her to come away. He drew her almost forcibly into the next room. In the open door of Lady Hester's bedroom he was astonished to see the pale, tottering figure of the Bishop's wife.

"I am better," she murmured, as she leaned upon the lintel for support.

She waved the doctor on one side and walked unsteadily into the Bishop's room. The doctor closed the door behind her and left them alone.

He dispatched the nurse to fetch Jack, who was busy downstairs with the detectives, unaware of the extreme seriousness of his father's position; but when he came up he understood that the worst was to be feared. His aunt, who had dropped into a chair near the safe in the dressing room, sat rigid, as if turned to stone, and read his thoughts. He gave her an appealing glance.

"Ought I to tell him? Is it too late?"

"It is too late," she murmured.

A shrill scream from the inner room startled them all. The doctor burst in with Jack. The end had come. The last spasm was past, and Bishop Cardew was gone to his eternal rest. After the last agony, when his life was ebbing, he gently clasped his wife's hand between his two palms, and gazed up into the face he loved so well with a beatific smile.

His features were composed and placid when they all looked upon him for the last time.

Lady Hester's grief was as poignant as Aunt Caroline's, but the elder woman seemed less able to bear the shock. Her wonted sternness and self-control deserted her; and she raved wildly against Bannister, as though he were the direct cause of her brother's death. The doctor explained that the Bishop had long suffered from heart trouble, which, intensified by the stress of onerous public duties, and complicated by the stroke, had carried him off, irrespective of anything that had happened in the last few days. Jack, however, listened patiently to his aunt, and drew her aside into the privacy of another room, where she continued her tirade against Bannister with facts and details that were quite amazing. She spared him nothing of the story of Mabel's birth--as she knew it--down to the last financial bargaining with Bannister.

Jack understood now the reason for Mabel's strange behavior and threats of flight. He trembled to think how nearly he had lost her. Whatever Bannister might have been in the past, he was sure that the man was in deadly earnest when he went out in pursuit of Voss, and was not going to join the thief for the purpose of sharing the booty as the old lady suggested. But he was resolved to set things straight at once, and know the worst; and the best way was to follow Bannister, and go to the flat with the police officers.

Burning with shame, and racked by doubt and grief, he set out at once. On the top of the stairs Beatrice Carew stopped him with a restraining gesture.

"Jack--I've heard--I'm sorry."

She put out a hand, and he replied with a silent handshake.

"Mabel is much better, and wants to see you. She knows all now."

He was astonished to find his wife sitting up in a chair. She was pale and wan, but her eyes lighted up at the sight of him, and she opened her arms.

"My poor Mabel," he cried, dropping down on one knee beside her and taking her in his arms, while the tears flowed for the first time. "I understand how you have been suffering."

She found her voice with an effort. "Your aunt told you everything?"

"She has told me a good deal which I find it hard to believe."

"You must believe her, Jack; but she doesn't know all. I can tell her everything now."

"I am going to London to find your father--to find out the truth."

"Yes, go--go, Jack. Go up to the flat. Save him if you can--from himself--When he knows what has happened here he surely----"

Words failed her. Emotion and shame choked her utterance, and she sobbed in her husband's arms.

"Is she--Lady Hester--my mother--better?" she asked at last.

"Hush! Don't breathe it even in a whisper. It is not true."

"It is true. My father was her husband, but she thought he was dead. She was never your father's wife at all."

"Thank God he never knew."

Mabel recovered, and pointed to her purse upon the table. "I have a key of the flat there. It will admit you. If you see father, tell him I sent you, and that I implore him by all that's holy to--to give them up."

"What do the emeralds matter now?" groaned Jack, who was utterly unstrung by the death of his father, and heartsick at the revelations.

"Go, Jack, go. Don't think of me. I'm all right. I'm much better. I feel that there is something for me to do now. I shall be up and dressed when you come back. I shall be waiting for you. And I will look after my mother."

The detectives below added their entreaties, and sent up word that they must depart for London, and make that the base of operations. If Jack would accompany them to the flat where Voss had resided, it would assist them. It would also put them in touch with Mr. Bannister, and hasten matters all round.

He left the Palace with a heavy heart, and forced his brain to think of the business in hand. He told himself that he owed it to his father's memory to rescue the heirlooms upon which the Bishop set such store; and he listened intently to the detective's description of the steps that would be taken to intercept Voss at all the ports.

They arrived in Stratton Street some hours after the news of the robbery at the Palace had reached London. The police were already on the move, and a visit to Bannister's chambers was the first step. The place was locked, and they could obtain no admittance. No one had seen the occupants for days. But as it was imperative that Voss's personal belongings at the flat should be rifled and examined, the breaking down of the door was resolved upon as a matter of course. Jack and the detectives arrived on the steps just as the operations were about to commence. Jack remembered the key given him by Mabel, and, after demanding entrance in formal fashion by ringing the bell, admitted them into the flat.

An officer entered the first room, and after a glance round pulled up a blind. The others at the door beheld a dark figure lying on the ground with clothes all torn, hair dishevelled, and eyes fixed in death, and they cried out excitedly.

"It is Mr. Bannister," exclaimed Jack.

"The thief has been here," cried the detective, dropping down on one knee beside the dead man. "He must have surprised him, and a fearful struggle ensued. Poor chap! He went for him, I suppose, and got a bullet for his pains. There are the marks."

"Is he dead?" asked Jack, faint with horror.

"Yes. He must have been a good plucked 'un too, sir, to have tackled the rascal without a weapon. He might have known the chap would be armed. I wish he had consulted me first. I'd have warned him and prevented this."

News of the robbery spread through London like wildfire. The first story was garbled and subsequently corrected by the Press. A version was issued which had a great semblance of truth. There had been a burglary at the Palace, said the papers, and Bishop Cardew's wife had surprised the burglar and been savagely attacked. The shock had killed the Bishop, who was ill at the time in the next room, sinking from a mortal malady. An investigation proved that the thief was the confidential servant of a gentleman staying in the house, who immediately chased the absconding rascal in his motor car, and surprised him at his flat in Stratton Street. A desperate struggle ensued, in which the courageous pursuer was worsted and shot. So murder was added to the lesser crime of theft, and the police were displaying greater activity in their pursuit of the criminal. Additional zest was added by the fact that the emeralds, which the thief had carried off, were of a kind not easily convertible into money, although worth some thousands of pounds. And Mr. Jack Cardew, the Bishop's son, had offered a very large reward for their recovery.

Later accounts were fuller and more glowing. They described in sensational terms the imaginary scene that had taken place at the flat between the rascally thief and his noble and courageous master, who lost his life in the attempt to recover the jewels of his host the Bishop. An imaginary biographical obituary of Bannister was also supplied to the inquisitive public, who were told that he was a very wealthy widower, moving in the best circles, and highly esteemed in the West End clubs. It was surprising how many people were interviewed and came forward and claimed an acquaintance with the dead man. They all had something good to say. He was a sportsman, a linguist, a great traveler, and heaven knows what besides.

The deepest sympathy was expressed for the sorrowing daughter, who was described as very beautiful, and a friend of Royalty.

Voss was everything that was bad, with a miserable record; and poor Mr. Bannister must have been duped by the villain, who probably used his position as valet to a gentleman moving in the best circles to pilfer in country houses. Former hosts of Mr. Bannister began to remember strange things that had happened at their houses at times when Voss was unobtrusively sheltered beneath their roofs. Oh, yes, there was no doubt that the murderer was a dangerous ruffian of more than ordinary ability, and, of course, the public hoped that he would never be captured.

Jack drew his own conclusions, and gave no more information than he could help. He returned to the Palace with a heavy heart, dreading the ordeal of breaking the news of Bannister's death to Mabel and his step-mother.

On his arrival home he found that the news had preceded him--Mabel already knew. The story of the tragedy in the flat had been told to Lady Hester by Aunt Caroline herself; but she appeared to be dead to all feeling, and numbed by the shock of the Bishop's death. Nothing seemed to matter, and she was shut up in her own room with the nurse in attendance, sleeping and weeping by turns, and occasionally lapsing into long periods of quiet, when she was like one stunned.

The pursuit of Voss by the police was keen and swift. A close scrutiny of his belongings at the flat proved him to be an accomplished criminal of long standing, whom Mr. Bannister had unconsciously harbored under his roof for years. The lesser rascal had not been so cautious as his master.

A search of the flat revealed nothing that would obviously incriminate Mr. Bannister, except a drawer full of cards, which very much puzzled the detective inspector. They were in the sitting room, and at first glance only suggested that Mr. Bannister might have had a weakness for bridge; but a closer examination suggested a weakness for cheating, which was surely unworthy of a man in Mr. Bannister's position. They also found a number of unmounted gems neatly arranged in leather cases. These provoked some speculation, and it required all Jack's persuasive powers to convince the inspector that Mr. Bannister was a well known collector of gems. The young husband was naturally eager to shield his wife's father and stifle scandal wherever possible. He showed remarkable resource in this, and, guided by Mabel, who told him all that she knew, he introduced the inspector to Mr. Bowman, the Bond Street jeweler, who gladly testified that Mr. Bannister was a collector of precious stones.

The inspector was convinced--or at least he pretended to be--and as Mr. Cardew's handsome reward for the recovery of the emeralds seemed likely to come his way he was willing to suspect nothing. He understood that Miss Bannister was really Mrs. Cardew, and gallantly worked on the lady's behalf. He was also sharp enough to realize that the interest of the public would soon subside if it became known that the murder was only a case of one rascal killing another. The public at large have a sneaking regard for a villain who kills a villain; but a servant who murders his master is a marked man, and everybody's hand is against him. If they guessed the truth behind Mr. Bannister's death their sporting instinct would be aroused, and Voss was more likely to escape than be handed over to justice.

The police made one error in their calculations. They reckoned upon Voss being without means, and circulated elaborate descriptions of the emeralds, fully believing that he would try to sell them sooner or later. But Voss was not without money. Indeed, he carried such a large sum upon his person that it was difficult to conceal. The fugitive found that it was impossible to get out of the country, so he gravitated by instinct to the nearest congregation of rascals in the neighborhood, to wit, a race course. Here he mingled with the throng until nightfall, and drank a good deal of spirits. He managed to get rid of his master's cap in a ditch, and under plea of having lost it in a scrimmage, bought another of a stable boy for a substantial sum. He gave five shillings for the new cap, explaining that he was in luck that day and could afford to be generous.

He took no pains to alter his appearance. It was obvious that the police would not look for a man exactly coinciding with the description given of Bannister's servant: a hunted man generally makes himself as unlike the police description as possible: but Voss made no change. His clothes were of a nondescript order, with an inclination towards the horsey, which the new cap intensified.

He was fast recovering his mental balance, and the tragedy of the early morning seemed a long way off by nightfall. He was calm enough to remember many conversations held with Bannister on the subject of evading the police. Bannister used to follow all criminal cases with the keenest interest, and he had frequently regaled Voss with his views thereon. He had a contempt for the absurd methods of the ordinary criminal, who follows a stereotyped course and does the very thing the police expect him to do.

"If you are ever compelled to hide in lodgings," Bannister had often said, "choose them as near Scotland Yard as possible. Don't rush up to Aberdeen or try to get to Dover. If you want a really comfortable refuge take one in the house of a night policeman and make a friend of him. Tell him your family history from birth, and be very interested in the pursuit of yourself by his comrades."

It was easy to talk upon these matters, but hard to follow the counsel. Bannister himself might have done it, but Voss was not equal to the strain. He was inclined to fall back upon an old and tried imposture--the distinguished foreigner traveling in England and imposing upon hotel keepers--but that was not possible until he could effect a change of costume without exciting suspicion. It would be easier to follow the racing crowd from one race course to another! That would give him an apparent object in life, and explain his erratic movements without exciting suspicion.

The police and public were looking for a man who was slinking about the country with only one object in view, to escape observation. The open method was best; and nobody would expect a thief loaded with jewels to the value of thousands of pounds to spend his days on racecourses.

The popular notion of a murderer is a man weighed down by conscience and terrified by the recollection of his crime and its consequences. This description fitted Voss well enough in the beginning; but he had so little conscience that he would have been quite easy in mind if those wretched newspapers would only leave him alone. He bought an evening paper on the course, and returned to London with the racing crowd, making friends with some sharpers in the railway carriage. He got one of them to put him up for the night on the plea that he was dodging the police, who were after him for having worked the three card trick at Hurst Park. He pleaded poverty and bad luck at betting as well, but counted up the money in his pocket and declared himself able to pay for his lodgings for a few days until his luck changed.

For a week he pursued the vocation of a common sharper, living apparently from hand to mouth upon his earnings, and dodging the police by the aid of kind friends of the same kidney. Business was slack and the profits small, and he informed his friends that he intended finding another "lay." They were astonished at his audacity, but applauded his scheme, which was to pose as a foreign count visiting racing towns and swindling hotel keepers. They assisted him to make the necessary alterations in his appearance, and one wealthy ruffian actually offered to provide a portion of the capital to start with. Voss accepted the gift without turning a hair, and promised the donor a share in the profits.

He duly appeared in a northern town with a foreign accent, a loud, showy costume, and a good deal of battered luggage. He could only speak a few words of English, but could understand anything said to him in French. He made his wants known without much difficulty, and was boarded and lodged at the very best establishments. The friends of the racing days, who had helped him in adversity, were recompensed handsomely for their trouble; but they could not quite understand how the enterprising swindler made his money. They acknowledged him as a master, and respectfully and sadly left him soaring in higher realms. They supposed the French count to be cashing spurious cheques and flitting; but as a matter of fact Voss was paying all his bills like an honest man, and making a little money by betting. He won enough to pay a portion of his expenses, and did not grudge the balance taken from his hoard of gold.

He was able now to read the daily papers with amusement, and laughed at the absurd clues that were discovered every few days. Now he was seen at Plymouth, now at Portsmouth, now at Dover, and at last he was supposed to have reached Paris. The space given to the Bannister murder in the papers grew less and less. At last only an occasional paragraph appeared to keep the ugly business green in the public mind.

But one morning, as the French count was lolling at his ease in a dressing gown and smoking half crown cigars after the fashion of his late master, he was startled to see a short paragraph announcing the fact that Voss's antecedents had been traced back by means of a photograph, and he was strongly suspected of being the same person as a criminal who once hoodwinked hotel keepers as a French count and never paid his bills. Hotel keepers were warned to look out for a person of this description.

Voss went cold all over, and when the door opened he expected the police to rush in. He bitterly regretted now that he had not used his disguise to reach Dover, where he might have sailed by any boat as a French subject.

He received another horrid shock an hour later when the hotel keeper appeared, and, with many apologies and sidelong glances, presented his bill, explaining that he always adopted this policy with foreigners, because they were apt to get wrong ideas into their heads and make a fuss when leaving. Obviously the hotel keeper had seen the newspaper paragraph. Voss thanked his lucky stars that he was not "on the crook" at the present time. He paid the bill without a murmur and flourished handfuls of gold before the reassured hotel keeper.

The danger was averted for the present. He had established confidence here, but was afraid to stay. He swaggered down into the public room to revive his courage, but he was shaking terribly. The barmaids watched him and whispered to the German waiters, one of whom addressed him in French without getting any reply.

Another notice about the French count appeared in the papers next day. It was stated that such a person had been seen at Chester. Then followed a description which fitted Voss at Chester, but did not quite apply just now, for he had made many changes of costume. Instead of his side whiskers being shaved off, as the police suggested, he had allowed them to join up with a scrubby young beard.

Special emphasis was laid upon the fact that the reward for the recovery of the emeralds had been doubled. Voss bitterly regretted ever touching them. They had dazzled him, and he had given little thought to the question of turning them into cash. Bannister always found that sort of thing easy, but with Voss it was different. He had never tackled the gem business before, and did not know how to begin. The emeralds were concealed upon his person close to his skin, and he grew to hate them. He longed to pluck them out and throw them away. In his panic he regarded them as the source of all his trouble and his sole danger. The police would leave him alone fast enough if there were no jewels to be recovered. His neck was in danger, and he valued his life more than the emeralds. He could live without them. His recent association with sharpers and swindlers had shown him that he could earn a very fair living "on the crook." Freed from the hypnotic influence of Bannister he might do very well "on his own" by imitating his master's methods and taking all the profits; but the emeralds were worth a fortune, and the very immensity of the fortune they represented made them an added danger.

The interest of the hotel servants in the French count grew and grew; but nobody sent for the police, because the landlord was quite convinced that the gentleman upstairs was the genuine thing. He threatened to sack anybody who dared to drive him away; for he had grossly overcharged the count, and hoped to continue to do so for some time to come.

A night of racking terror reduced Voss to a rag. The emeralds burned like hot coals at his breast. He meditated hiding them in the chimney, but that would not stop the hue and cry after them, which was the stumbling block at present. He began to weigh in the balance the definite value of his neck and the possible value of the gems, and came to the conclusion that it would be better to send them back to the Palace by post, and lift a great load from his heart, than be chased all over Europe and be hanged at last. It was a wrench, but it had to be done.

The French count presently sallied forth to the post office with a small parcel addressed to Mr. Jack Cardew. The girl who received the parcel read the address, and looked hard at the sender. He fled; but he did not return to the hotel. He bought fresh clothes in the town, and took train to Liverpool.

He was only just in time, for the German waiter at the hotel, unable to withstand the temptation of a great reward, and convinced that the count was not a foreigner at all, had taken French leave and gone to the police station. An inspector of police returned with him, and hid himself behind the bar to wait for the French count's return. The landlord protested that the waiter had made a shocking blunder; but the inspector explained that an arrest would not hurt a foreigner, and would at least show that the police were arresting somebody.

It was a long wait, and the inspector grew weary. His quarry was on the way to Liverpool before it occurred to him that a search of the count's rooms was advisable. When the search was over, and the count had disappeared, he cursed his ill luck, and the German waiter wept. The notorious Voss had slipped through their fingers, and to-morrow the world would be laughing at them.

A recrudescence of interest in the Bannister murder now occurred throughout the country. The thief in panic had returned the gems, and the clues provided by the parcel and the hotel servants gave the detectives a new starting point from which to begin the hunt. They tracked the murderer to Liverpool, but there all traces ended.

Nor did they ever catch him.

It is weary work playing a losing game, and the inducement of the reward being no longer a factor in the situation, the hue and cry subsided in a very short time. Voss had calculated wisely and acted discreetly in returning the emeralds. After all, their recovery was more important than vengeance on the murderer of a person of doubtful character.