The sky was overcast and a chill wind blew; it was such a day upon which he might be certain no pleasure-seekers would be abroad. To his left, half hidden in the furthermost shelter of the downs, veiled as it was forever under a haze of blue grey smoke, lay Great Bradley, with its chimneys and its busy industrial life. To his right he caught a glimpse of the square ugly façade of the Secret House, half hidden by the encircling trees. To its right was a chimney stack from which a lazy feather of smoke was drifting. Behind him the old engine house of the deserted mines, and to the right of that the pretty little cottage from which a week before Lady Constance Dex had so mysteriously disappeared, and which in consequence had been an object of pilgrimage for the whole countryside.
But Lady Constance Dex’s disappearance had become a nine days’ wonder. There were many explanations offered for her unexpected absence. The police of the country were hunting systematically and leisurely, and only T. B. and those in his immediate confidence were satisfied that the missing woman was less than two miles away from the scene of her disappearance.
Count Poltavo had armed himself with a pair of field-glasses, and now he carefully scrutinized all the roads which led to the downs. A motorcar, absurdly diminutive from the distance, came spinning along the winding white road two miles away. He watched it as it mounted the one hill and descended the other, and kept his glasses on it until it vanished in a cloud of dust on the London road. Then he saw what he sought. Coming across the downs a mile away was the bent figure of a man who stopped now and again to look about, as though uncertain as to the direction he should take. Poltavo, lying flat upon the ground, his glasses fixed upon the man, waited, watching the slow progress with lazy interest.
He saw an old man, white-bearded and grey-haired, carrying his hat in his hand as he walked. His rough homespun clothing, his collarless shirt open at the throat, the plaid scarf around his neck, all these Poltavo saw through his powerful glasses and was satisfied.
This was not the kind of man to play tricks, he smiled to himself. Poltavo’s precautions had been of an elaborate nature. Three roads led to the downs, and in positions at equal distances from where he stood he had placed three cars. He was ready for all emergencies. If he had to fly, then whichever way of escape was necessary would bring him to a means of placing a distance between himself and any possible pursuer.
The old man came nearer. Poltavo made a hasty but narrow survey of the messenger.
“Good,” he said.
He walked to meet the old man.
“You have a letter for me?” he inquired.
The other glanced at him suspiciously.
“Name?” he asked gruffly.
“My name,” said the smiling Pole, “is Poltavo.”
Slowly the messenger groped in his pockets and produced a heavy package. “You’ve got to give me something,” he said.
Poltavo handed over a sealed packet, receiving in exchange the messenger’s.
Again Poltavo shot a smiling glance at this sturdy old man. Save for the beard and the grey hair which showed beneath the broad-brimmed, wide-awake hat, this might have been a young man.
“This is an historic meeting,” Poltavo went on gaily. His heart was light and his spirits as buoyant as ever they had been in his life. All the prospects which this envelope, now bulging in his pocket, promised, rose vividly before his eyes.
“Tell me your name, my old friend, that I may carry it with me, and on some occasion which is not yet, that I may toast your health.”
“My name,” said the old man, “is T. B. Smith, and I shall take you into custody on a charge of attempting to extort money by blackmail.”
Poltavo sprang back, his face ashen. One hand dived for his pistol-pocket, but before he could reach it T. B. was at his throat. That moment the Pole felt two arms gripping him, two steel bands they seemed, and likely to crush his arms into his very body. Then he went over with the full weight of the detective upon him, and was momentarily stunned by the shock. He came to himself rapidly, but not quickly enough. He was conscious of something cold about his wrists, and a none too kindly hand dragged him to his feet. T. B. with his white beard all awry was a comical figure, but Poltavo had no sense of humour at that moment.
“I think I have you at last, my friend,” said T. B. pleasantly. He was busy removing his disguise and wiping his face clean of the grease paint, which had been necessary, with a handkerchief which was already grimy with his exertions.
“You will have some difficulty in proving anything against me,” said the other defiantly; “there is only you and I, and my word is as good as yours. As to the Duke of Ambury—”
T. B. laughed, a long chuckling laugh of delight.
“My poor man,” he said pityingly, “there is no Duke of Ambury. I depended somewhat upon your ignorance of English nobility, but I confess that I did not think you would fall so quickly to the bait. The Dukedom of Ambury ceased to exist two hundred years ago. It is one of those titles which have fallen into disuse. Ambury Castle, from which the letters were addressed to you, is a small suburban villa on the outskirts of Bolton, the rent of which,” he said carefully, “is, I believe, some forty pounds a year. We English have a greater imagination than you credit us with, Count,” he went on, “and imagination takes no more common flight than the namings of the small dwellings of our humble
