GREAT was the consternation caused in the neighbourhood of the sleepy old-world village of Asheldham when it became known that the quiet, mild-mannered tenant of The Yews had been arrested by the Maldon police.

Of what transpired within those grim walls only the two men called to his assistance by Sergeant Deacon knew, and to them both the inspector from Maldon, as well as Trendall, expressed a fervent hope that they would regard the matter as strictly confidential.

“You see, gentlemen,” added Trendall, “we are not desirous that the public should know of our discovery.  We wish to avoid creating undue alarm, and at the same time to conceal the very existence of our system of surveillance upon those suspected.  Therefore, I trust that all of you present will assist my department by preserving silence as to what has occurred here this evening.”

His hearers agreed willingly, and through the next hour the place was thoroughly searched, the bundles of spurious notes ­the finished ones representing nearly one hundred thousand pounds ready to put into circulation ­being seized.

One of the machines they found was for printing in the serial numbers in black, a process which, with genuine notes, is done by hand.  Truly, the gang had brought the art of forgery to perfection.

“Well,” said Trendall when they had finished, “this work of yours, Sir Hugh, certainly deserves the highest commendation.  You have accomplished what we, with all our great organisation, utterly failed to do.”

“I have to-day tried to atone for my past offences,” was the stern old man’s hoarse reply.

“And you have succeeded, Sir Hugh,” declared Trendall.  “Indeed you have!”

Shortly afterwards the excitement among the crowd waiting outside in the light of the head-lamps of the motor-cars was increased by the appearance of the doctor, escorted by two Maldon police officers in plain clothes.  They mounted a police car, and were driven away down the road, while into a second car the tenant of The Yews and his Italian manservant were placed under escort, and also driven away.

The station-fly, in which Bailey had driven from Southminster, conveyed away Fetherston, Trendall, Sir Hugh, and Enid, while Deacon, with two men, was left in charge of the house of secrets.

It was past one o’clock in the morning when Walter Fetherston stood alone with Enid in the pretty drawing-room in Hill Street.

They stood together upon the vieux rose hearthrug, his hand was upon her shoulder, his deep, earnest gaze fixed upon hers.  In her splendid eyes the love light showed.  They had both admired each other intensely from their first meeting, and had become very good and staunch friends.  Walter Fetherston had only once spoken of the passion that had constantly consumed his heart ­when they were by the blue sea at Biarritz.  He loved her ­loved her with the whole strength of his being ­and yet, ah! try how he would, he could never put aside the dark cloud of suspicion which, as the days went by, became more and more impenetrable.

Sweet-faced, frank, and open, she stood, the ideal of the English outdoor girl, merry, quick-witted, and athletic.  And yet, after the stress of war, she had sacrificed all that she held most dear in order to become the friend of Weirmarsh.  Why?

“Enid,” he said at last, his tender hand still upon her shoulder, “why did you not tell me your true position?  You were working in the same direction, with the same strong motive of patriotism, as myself!”

She was silent, very pale, and very serious.

“I feared to tell you, Walter,” she faltered.  “How could I possibly reveal to you the truth when I knew you were aware how my stepfather had unconsciously betrayed his friends?  You judged us both as undesirables, therefore any attempt at explanation would, I know, only aggravate our offence in your eyes.  Ah! you do not know how intensely I have suffered!  How bitter it all was!  I knew the reason you followed us to France ­to watch and confirm your suspicions.”

“I admit, Enid, that I suspected you of being in the hands of a set of scoundrels,” her lover said in a low, hoarse voice.  “At first I hesitated whether to warn you of your peril after Weirmarsh had, with such dastardly cunning, betrayed you to the French police, but ­well,” he added as he looked again into her dear eyes long and earnestly, “I loved you, Enid,” he blurted forth.  “I told you so!  Remember, dear, what you said at Biarritz?  And I love you ­and because of that I resolved to save you!”

“Which you did,” she said in a strained, mechanical tone.  “We both have you to thank for our escape.  Weirmarsh, having first implicated Paul, then made allegations against us, in order to send us to prison, because he feared lest my stepfather might, in a fit of remorse, act indiscreetly and make a confession.”

“The past will all be forgiven now that Sir Hugh has been able to expose and unmask Weirmarsh and his band,” Walter assured her.  “A great sensation may possibly result, but it will, in any case, show that even though an Englishman may be bought, he can still remain honest.  And,” he added, “it will also show them that there is at least one brave woman in England who sacrificed her love ­for I know well, Enid, that you fully reciprocate the great affection I feel towards you ­in order to bear her noble part in combating a wily and unscrupulous gang.”

“It was surely my duty,” replied the girl simply, her eyes downcast in modesty.  “Yet association with that dastardly blackguard, Dr. Weirmarsh, was horrible!  How I refrained from turning upon him through all those months I cannot really tell.  I detested him from the first moment Sir Hugh invited him to our table; and though I went to assist him under guise of consultations, I acted with one object all along,” she declared, her eyes raised to his and flashing, “to expose him in his true guise ­that of Josef Blot, the head of the most dangerous association of forgers, of international thieves and blackmailers known to the police for the past half a century.”

“Which you have surely done!  You have revealed the whole plot, and confounded those who were so cleverly conspiring to effect a sudden and most gigantic coup.  But ­” and he paused, still looking into her eyes through his pince-nez, and sighed.

“But what?” she asked, in some surprise at his sudden change of manner.

“There is one matter, Enid, which” ­and he paused ­“well, which is still a mystery to me, and I ­I want you to explain it,” he said in slow deliberation.

“What is that?” she asked, looking at him quickly.

“The mystery which you have always refused to assist me in unravelling ­the mystery of the death of Harry Bellairs,” was his quiet reply.  “You held him in high esteem; you loved him,” he added in a voice scarce above a whisper.

She drew back, her countenance suddenly blanched as she put her hand quickly to her brow and reeled slightly as though she had been dealt a blow.

Walter watched her in blank wonderment.