Cleek’s knuckles had no more than touched the panel before he became aware of a singular and most significant circumstance. A faint “snick” sounded upon the other side of the door, a quick, metallic “snick,” which his trained ears identified at once as the switching off of an electric light; and quick as he was in opening the door, it was an utterly black room he looked into. Still, that did not dismay him. He knew full well that the button controlling the switch must be near the bed for it to be so quickly reached; and Lord St. Ulmer was most certainly in bed, as the creaking springs told him, and it was always within his power to make an awkward slip and, with every appearance of an accident, to switch the light on again.

But for the present as he had thoughtfully stepped in and closed the door behind him that he might not stand there in the full glow of the lights in the outer passage, seen, but himself unseeing for the present he was in blackness as dark as ink and as thick as tar, as far as the eye was concerned; and through that blackness the sharp staccato of an excited man’s voice was flinging a challenge at him.

“Who are you? What do you want? What the devil do you mean by coming in here, unasked?” that voice rapped out with an unmistakable note of alarm in it.

“Master sent me up, your lordship,” replied Cleek in the bland, deeply deferential tones of the well-trained manservant. “He is anxious to know if your lordship would prefer some especial dish prepared for your lordship’s dinner, or if ”

He got no further than that, for the rasping, excited voice broke sharply in, and the violent jangling of the bed springs told that the speaker had as sharply turned over in bed.

“Your master sent you up about my dinner?” the voice trumpeted out in a sort of panic. “Sent you about my dinner and by that door?”

Then came yet another sound the jingle of a spoon or a fork against a plate or a cup and hard after it a noise of rustling paper, and Cleek had just time to realize that he had blundered, that there must be another staircase and another door by which the servants came and went, and that, in all probability, judging from that telltale clink of metal and china, his lordship’s dinner had already been served, when he made another and a yet more embarrassing discovery: his lordship was not alone in the room. Some one was there with him, some one who simply gave an amazed exclamation without putting it into words, then moved swiftly, snicked on the light, and scattered all the darkness with one dazzling electric glare.

In that sudden outburst of light Cleek saw a bed and a man on it, a man who had turned over, so that his face was to the opposite wall, while an open newspaper one of many almost covered his head. Beside that bed there was a table and a salver loaded with many dishes, and beyond that an open door, and beyond that again a gaping passage and the head of a staircase that led up from below.

And between the table and the door he saw something more startling and dismaying than all the rest.

With his hand on the switch that controlled the electric light, his head bent forward, and his small, ferret eyes brightly gleaming, Mr. Harry Raynor stood looking him in the face.

“Hullo! I say, who the devil are you?” snarled that startled and amazed young man. “What’s your game? What are you up to? You’re no servant in this house, dash you! You can’t fool me on that point, b’gad! What are you doing here? What are you up to? What’s your little dodge, eh?”

For the present Cleek’s “little dodge” was to get out of that room as expeditiously as possible. For here was an emergency which could not be adequately met by mental finesse; a situation which could result only in exposure and the complete undoing of all his plans if he made any attempt to bolster up his claim to being one of the servants in this house, or stopped to be “interviewed” by young Raynor; and being never slow to make up his mind or to act, he did both now with amazing celerity.

Without one word of reply to young Raynor’s challenge, indeed without one second’s hesitation, he backed out of the door by which he had just entered, shut it sharply after him, snicked out the electric light in the passage, and dodged back into his own room with the fleet soundlessness of a hunted hare, shutting and bolting himself in with no more noise than a cat would have made in getting over a garden wall.

In a twinkling, young Raynor, although taken somewhat aback by this unexpected action, was out after him, being obliged, of course, to stop for a second and turn on the extinguished light before he could see in which direction this pseudoservant had gone, much less follow him; but by the time he had done this Cleek was safely out of sight, and was engaged in tearing off his evening clothes and bundling them back into the kit bag as fast as his hands could fly.

The turning on of the light had resulted in the discovery that the passage was empty, and in a moment there was an uproar. For no sooner had Raynor voiced one astonished “Good Lord! why, the fellow’s gone gone as clean as a whistle, blow him!” than Lord St. Ulmer began to rattle out an absolute fusillade of excited cries and frightened queries and suggestions, all snarled up in one hopeless tangle of jumbled words, and to tug with all his force at the bell rope hanging beside his bed.

“Head him off! Have him stopped! Find out who he is and what he’s up to!” he shrilled out in an excited treble, which was audible to Cleek, even through the thickness of the dividing wall. “Send for your father. Call up the servants. I want to know who that man is and what he was doing here.”

If that were possible, he had certainly gone the surest and the shortest way about accomplishing what he desired, for the wild pulling of the bell rope had brought the servants flocking up by one staircase and the General and a couple of footmen dashing up by another; and for the next twenty seconds, what with young Raynor trying to give his version of the affair and his lordship excitedly flinging out his, there was confusion and hubbub enough in all conscience. Nobody had any light to shed on the mysterious occurrence, however; nobody had seen any man coming down any staircase, and nobody had the very slightest idea who that particular one could be, whence or why he had come, nor whither and how he could have gone.

It was in the midst of this confusion that suddenly the door of the room immediately adjoining his lordship’s bedchamber was drawn sharply inward, and then as sharply reclosed until it left but a half foot or so between itself and the casing, and through that half foot of space the head of Mr. Philip Barch was thrust; not, however, before the General and his son and the two footmen had had a chance to see that the owner of that head was arrayed simply in his underclothing, and to understand why he had partly reclosed the door when he found people in the immediate neighbourhood of it.

Apparently Mr. Barch was in a state of violent excitement and did not at once notice the presence of the General or his son.

“I say, dash it all! what’s up? What are you bounders kicking up all this noise about? And why on earth hasn’t one of you answered my ring?” he blurted out, addressing the nearer of the two footmen. “I’ve pulled that dashed bell rope until I’m tired. I say, nip downstairs, one of you, and tell that valet chap to bring back my clothes, and not to bother about brushing them until after I go to bed. Mr. Harry promised to lend me a suit of evenin’ togs, but went off without doing so, blow him! And I haven’t a blessed livin’ stitch to put on!”

“Good Lud, Barch! I do beg a thousand pardons, old chap!” exclaimed the General’s hopeful. “Sorry I forgot about the evenin’ togs, dear boy. What a beast of a hole you’d have been in if I hadn’t come back. Eh, what?”

“Well, if it could be any worse than the one I’ve been in for the past five minutes it would be a marvel, dear boy,” responded Cleek, with lamblike innocence. “Always was a thoughtless beggar, don’t you know. Took off my blessed clothes, and let your valet toddle off with ’em to brush ’em, as he suggested, before I once thought about the evenin’ ones you’d promised to lend me.”

“Harry’s valet?” It was the General who spoke. “Do I understand you to say, Mr. Barch, that you gave your clothes to somebody whom you took for my son’s valet? In the name of reason, where did you get that impression of the man? I ask, because Harry has no special valet. Hawkins, here” indicating the second footman “valets both my son and myself; but having only me to look after this evening, as we did not expect Harry to return in time for dinner, he has been in attendance upon me up to the present moment, so it most certainly could not have been he.”

“Oh, no; chap wasn’t a bit like him, General. Wasn’t like the other footman, either. Tallish chap, fair-haired, little turned-up ‘ginger’ moustache. Was dressed in evening clothes and wore a black-and-yellow striped waistcoat.”

“That’s the man! That’s the man!” trumpeted forth Harry Raynor and Lord St. Ulmer in concert, the latter’s excited voice ringing out from the room into which, unfortunately, Cleek could not, of course, see. “That’s the identical fellow, pater; Barch has described him to a hair,” went on young Raynor, addressing his father. “Sneak thief that was his little game, St. Ulmer. Nicked my friend Barch’s clothes and would have nicked yours, too, if he hadn’t come a cropper. Got down the staircase there, and dodged into one of the empty rooms, I’ll lay my life, pater, and as soon as you came up and left the coast clear, slipped out of the house and got away.”

In the game of life chance is an important factor; and chance, as much as anything else, favoured Cleek in this particular instance, for it was his especial aim to lull Lord St. Ulmer’s suspicions of the mysterious “man” and to quiet any fear he might possess of that man’s possible connection with the police. It need scarcely be recorded, therefore, that he hastened to second Harry Raynor’s suggestion relative to the intruder being nothing more nor less than a sneak thief, who had taken precisely the mode mentioned of making his escape, and backed it up with a panicky sort of appeal to the General to “have the house searched and all the empty rooms below stairs looked into on the off-chance that the fellow hadn’t really got away as yet.”

The suggestion was acted upon forthwith. Every vacant room was searched, and it was in this matter that chance favoured Cleek so signally, for it was found that a window in one of the lower rooms had been left wide open, and as that window communicated with a veranda, from which a short flight of steps led down to the garden at a point where the walk was asphalted and could not be expected to retain a footprint, there would seem to be no question of where and how the man had made his escape.

Dinner, owing to this interruption, together with the unexpected return of Mr. Harry and the awkward position in which Philip Barch had been placed, was put back for half an hour; and Cleek, left to himself, proceeded to dress himself in the clothes with which young Raynor had supplied him. But for all his cleverness in turning suspicion into another channel, he was not best pleased with the result of the adventure, for he was faced with the fact that he had failed to accomplish what he had set out to do, and that his efforts concerning Lord St. Ulmer had been absolutely barren of results. He had not succeeded in seeing his lordship’s face, he had not succeeded in discovering how this man, of all men, should have come into possession of the Jetanola labels, or, indeed, anything that had belonged to Ferdinand Lovetski. Ferdinand Lovetski had been done to death in Paris only seven years ago, and his lordship had been or was said to have been more than twice that number of years in Argentina.

Then there was another point: What had called Harry Raynor away so unexpectedly, and what had so unexpectedly called him back? What was he doing in Lord St. Ulmer’s room this evening? Was his being there merely a commonplace thing, or was there something between them? More than that, what was the connection between young Raynor and Margot? How came she to be writing letters to him, sending her photograph to him? And what was the explanation of the scrap of pink gauze that was hidden with the other things in the filled tobacco jar? The scrap of gauze which had been caught by the nail head in the passage at Gleer Cottage was pink, the same shade of pink he believed as Raynor’s fragment, and neither was anything like Ailsa Lorne’s frock. True, there was no stitchery of rose-coloured silk upon that fragment Raynor had kept hidden in the tobacco jar, but that didn’t prove that there was none upon the frock from which it came. It might have been torn from a part that was devoid of stitchery; and, again, it might not be part of the frock at all. It might be part of a gauze scarf that was worn with the dress. Women do wear things like that with evening gowns.

Hum-m-m! Now if the dress which Margot wore was found in time to have rose-coloured stitchery, and the pattern of that stitchery matched the pattern on the piece found in Gleer Cottage Yes, but what would take Margot to Gleer Cottage? Certainly it would be to meet a man; but what man? De Louvisan? But if he had been an Apache and a traitor, he would have been on his guard, and would make no appointment with her or with any of her followers.

Then what other man? Lord St. Ulmer, who, on the evidence of his muddy boots, had been out somewhere last night, or the fellow whoever he might prove to be who had killed the Common keeper and had hidden the clothing in the General’s famous ruin? For, according to that unfortunate Common keeper, there had been two persons implicated in the attack upon him. What two? Margot would not fit in with any theory that implicated Sir Philip Clavering it would be preposterous to suggest such a thing nor did it really seem feasible to connect her with St. Ulmer either but for the fact of those labels and his own knowledge that Lovetski had once been a member of the Apaches.

Perplexed with these thoughts, Cleek was almost startled at the sound of the second dinner gong, and he walked swiftly to the glass to note the effect of his borrowed plumes. They were certainly not a good fit, and he passed his hand over the wrinkled breast; then his fingers stopped suddenly at the touch of something hard in the pocket. Slowly, his lips drawn to a soundless whistle, he pulled out a round metal object and looked at it with startled eyes, his thoughts in a sudden conflicting whirl.

Last night, when he had found the golden capsule with the name of Katharine upon it, and had given Mr. Narkom a brief history of the famous Huile Violette and the methods of the grande dames of old, he had declared that he knew of but one woman who ever had worn one of those antique scent bracelets, and knew of her wearing it simply because he himself had stolen it from a famous collection and given it to her. To-night that identical bracelet, with the scent globe and the stopper cut from an emerald, was in his hand again! Margot’s bracelet in the pocket of Harry Raynor’s coat! And only a moment or two ago he had asked himself, “Which man?”