CHAPTER

NORA DRING MOVED SWIFTLY to where Hilary was lying and lifted her head. "What have you been saying to her?" she demanded angrily.

      Before Silverdale could reply, Hilary opened her eyes. "Silly of me to do that," she said. "I'm all right. Don't begin to fuss me."

      As a proof she sat upright, tailor fashion and her hands flew to her hair which she began to pat and rearrange. Then she accepted Silverdale's aid to rise and clung to him a little unsteadily. Nora Dring was regarding her earnestly. "What happened?" she asked.

      "I don't know," said Hilary. "I was talking to Mr. Silverdale and—and—I just dropped. I'm perfectly fit now."

      "H'm!" Nora's gaze shifted to the journalist. He met it with bland unconcern.

      "A car has been waiting outside Sloane Street Station for some little time," he said. "I thought it wiser that I should drive it here and pick you up. Now if you ladies are ready—?"

      "Will you arrange about getting the luggage down, dear?" said Hilary to Nora. "I've just got to put my hat on. "

      The yellow-haired girl lifted her shoulders as though disclaiming all responsibility for some situation that she only guessed at. Another question trembled on her lips, but was never spoken. With another shrug she left the room.

      Hilary supported herself with her hand on a chair.

      "Jimmie," she said, with a quiver in her voice. "You don't think—that?"

      "I think nothing, Hilary. I am just telling you the facts."

      "But you-oh, my God!" She buried her face in her hands and seemed to be fighting for her self-control. "I tell you I know nothing—nothing! I have never seen Saxon in my life. It is preposterous. Oh, Jimmie, I shall go mad! You believe me, don't you? Nora will be back in a moment." She sprang forward and caught his hands passionately in hers. "Say you believe me!"

      A thousand questions thronged to his lips, but he resolutely repressed them. There would be time and opportunity later. Reason fought with intuition. The facts were against her, but his instinct told him that she was playing no part. Suddenly he caught her roughly to his breast and kissed her.

      "I believe you, Hilary," he said hoarsely. "I'll do what I can. Whatever it costs, you can count on me."

      It has been said before in this narrative that Silverdale was not given to demonstrative emotion. Yet for once he had permitted himself to be carried away. His brain was coldly clear and he realized whither he might be led. He had few illusions as to the ultimate certainty of Scotland Yard finding out his association with Hilary Sloane. Then—well that contingency could be faced when it arose.

      As Nora Dring returned she found two very casual people in the dining-room. "Not ready yet, Hilary?"

      "I'll be with you in a minute," said Hilary, and literally true to her word it was less than a minute before she was back. "Where are we going?" she asked.

      "First of all to Paddington. Then you will go to a village in Berkshire where an aunt of mine lives. She will be only too willing for you to stay there, till I can fix up some more definite plan."

      As Silverdale walked round to fetch the car, he had an uneasy sense of being watched which he could not shake off. He tried all the tricks which he knew to find out whether this was actually so. He loitered before shop windows, he turned suddenly on his heel and walked in a reverse direction, he turned corners and came to a quick halt, but no pursuer fell into these traps. He decided that he was suffering from nerves.

      A green car was waiting outside Sloane Square. "I'm Mr. Silverdale," explained Jimmie to the driver. "I'll handle this car myself. You might meet me in Piccadilly Circus in an hour's time in case I want you."

      Jimmie took his seat at the steering-wheel. Then an idea occurred to him and he artistically dropped a rug so that it obscured the rear number of the car. One never lost anything through precaution.

      He found the girls waiting for him at the flat and to his regret Miss Dring took the vacant seat by his side and Hilary had the body of the car to herself.

      "You must think all this very mysterious, Mr. Silverdale," she commented as he started. "Hilary is a queer girl. It is awfully good of you to humor her."

      "I am only too glad to be of service," said Jimmie formally. "Hell! what was that?" There was a shout behind them and, with a hasty glimpse over his shoulder, the reporter caught sight of men running.

      Nora Dring gave a quick moan. "Who are they? They will get us."

      Jimmie did not know who the men might be, but he had a good suspicion and was taking no chances. The car leapt forward and took a corner, as it! seemed, on two wheels. In defiance of all speed limits he let her have full power. Luckily there was little traffic in the streets. For half a mile he held on recklessly and then slowed to a more reasonable pace.

      "We've shaken them off. There's no sense in calling attention to ourselves," he said.

      It was close on five-and-twenty past eight when they reached Paddington. Jimmie summoned a porter and shook hands with the two girls.

      "I'll not come to the platform," he said. "Good-by and good-luck. If you have any letters to write, send them to me. I'll post them off. Understand? "

      "Good-by and thank you," said Hilary-in a low voice.

      As he waved them off, be was alert to anything that might happen about him. That alarm as they had started from Chelsea showed that the flight had been undertaken only just in time -if in time. It was as well that he had taken precautions. The car could not be identified by its number anyway, and the fact that he had driven himself closed an avenue of inquiry that would certainly be taken up. His wandering eye rested for a second on the backs of the two girls, now half a dozen paces away. He froze into immobility and his stare became fixed until they passed beyond sight. A smothered exclamation came from his lips.

      "Good God! What a blundering blind ass I am. I wonder if— "

      Slowly and thoughtfully he wheeled the car round and glided out. As he took the corner outside the station a slim young man of perhaps between thirty and thirty-five slipped hurriedly into the roadway and held up his hand.

      "Just got 'em off in time," muttered Silverdale beneath his breath. "I don't know this chap, but, he's on the job all right." He pulled up.

      "Mr. Silverdale?" questioned his interrupter smoothly.

      "Further deception is useless," agreed Jimmie with a wide-mouthed grin. He studied his interlocutor closely. Now, on nearer approach, he was not so certain of the man's age. The face that looked into his with smiling good humor was a strong one. Pale blue eyes, high cheek bones, and a mouth like a. rat-trap, were surmounted by a head of corn-colored hair. He was dressed in a dark brown suit that bore the stamp of a West-End tailor. He had removed his hat with a somewhat foreign gesture as he spoke.

      "You will pardon my apparent impertinence," he said, speaking in a quiet, self-possessed voice. "I believe you have just left two ladies at the station. I am interested in them."

      Jimmie relinquished the wheel and began to roll a cigarette. He was apparently very engrossed in the process for he did not answer for some little while. He glanced at the stranger from under lowered lids.

      "I'd hate to deceive you," he said gently. "I have been on a joy-ride and I have had no ladies in this car. You are under a misapprehension, sir. "

      A hint of amusement crept into the cold eyes.

      "If it entertains you to tell a fatuous lie, Mr. Silverdale, don't mind me. I have been at considerable trouble to come here to meet you and I know a very great deal. " He placed one highly polished boot on the running-board and gesticulated gently with a gloved forefinger. " That will be obvious to you from the fact that I am here."

      Silverdale refused to be impressed. "Continue. You interest me strangely," he laughed.

      The stranger bit his lip a trifle irritably. The mockery was not lost on him. Then he laughed. "I understand. You are trying to make me lose my temper. It is always good to make the other man angry. But be careful, Mr. Silverdale. I know you have just smuggled Miss Sloane and Miss Dring out of town. What's more—I know why."

      Silverdale was conscious of a keen scrutiny as the last words were flung at him. He held an httitude of indolent detached amusement. "My dear Sherlock—" he protested.

      "Suppose you drop that pose, " suggested the. other. "Let's get down to business. Tell me—" he pulled himself fully on to the running-board closer to the journalist and dropped his voice—-"on which side of the fence are you?"

      "Let's see," said Jimmie casually. "Is there a fence?"

      "You're playing a dangerous game, young man. You can't fool with me. I want to know where you stand. You can be useful to me. You are in the confidence of the police. If you want to make a fortune—if you want to marry Hilary Sloane—you will come in on my side."

      Silverdale's fists were clenching and unclenching nervously. There was none of that ironical banter in his voice when he next spoke.

      "You—Eston. I'd see you burn first."

      "You know me?"

      "I've known you for the last five minutes. If you're not out of my sight in a matter of seconds—do you see that policeman over there?" He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

      "Oh, no," Eston shook his head. "You wouldn't do that, Mr. Silverdale. As you so charmingly put it a moment ago, you'd be willing enough to see me burn, but I very much doubt if you'd be so willing to see Hilary Sloane—ha! "

      He reeled back as Silverdale's fist caught him full in the face and staggered his full length on the pavement. He recovered himself like a wildcat and came back. A sheen of blue revealed itself in his right hand and Silverdale faced the business end of an automatic pistol.

      He leaned back carelessly. "That's the stuff, Mr. Eston. Shoot away!"

      Eston grunted. Then as though recalled to a realization of his position, be pocketed the weapon. "We'll see about this," he snarled. "I've not finished with you yet, Mr. Silverdale."

      And turning on his heel, he walked swiftly away.