CHAPTER

TO HILARY SLOANE AND JIMMIE SILVERDALE there came the sound of voices magnified and distorted by the echo of the tunnel. Silverdale had his arm round the girl's waist and his clasp tightened warningly. Some inkling of what had happened flashed across his mind and he whirled her about.

      "I miss my guess if Garfield hasn't pulled off a trick this time," he whispered. "It looks to me as if Eston had left things a little too late."

      She pressed closer to him and they stole backwards for half a dozen yards. Then they halted and, pressed close against the brick wall, listened tensely. Time moved on leaden wings but nothing happened, though now and again some slight shuffling of feet warned them there was someone in front of them. Then suddenly lights showed at the end of the tunnel and the sound of pistol shots magnified till they seemed like the reverberation of heavy artillery close at hand come down to them.

      "That will be Eston—or some of his pals," muttered Jimmie. "The police wouldn't fire at all, except as a last resort."

      There was a flash of feet and Silverdale pushed the girl behind him. Again revolver shots broke out and he crouched forward, somewhat in the attitude of a runner prepared for a start. Eston, backing slowly, was close at hand, and the journalist heard Garfield's voice as Nora Dring was hit. The detective's torch gave him a glimpse of figures farther up the tunnel. Then the torch went out and he jumped.

      Any warning to the detectives must have also warned Eston. Silverdale knew and accepted the risk. As he leapt he heard a bullet shatter on the wall behind.

      "Don't shoot—it's I—Silverdale!" he yelled.

      His hands encountered something yielding and a numbing blow took him in the shoulder. The journalist's full strength had not yet come back to him and he reeled. It was Eston's opportunity but he never repeated the blow. All the demoniac fury of the past few minutes had left him and he cowered away with an inarticulate guttural sound.

      Garfield, who had reached a conclusion with the first sound of Silverdale's voice, was on his feet in an instant. One of his assistants was behind him and switched on his torch. By its light they saw Silverdale and Eston swaying to and fro, the journalist shaking the other as a terrier shakes a rat. Eston had dropped his pistol and was offering no resistance. The chief inspector's hand descended on the crook's shoulder and he pushed Silverdale away with the other.

      "That will do, Jimmie," he said quietly. "He Is had enough."

      Two or three torches were illumining. the tunnel by this time. Garfield slipped a hand to Eston's wrist. Another big detective had him by the other arm. The crook shrugged his shoulders.

      "I seem to have lost," he said, "but if I had known—"

      Garfield cut him short. "You are under detention on suspicion of being concerned in the murder of Harold Saxon," he said hastily. "It is my duty to warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence. You've given us a hot run, Eston, but we've got you now."

      A wry spasm of laughter shook the crook "Good old square boots," he retorted. "You're barking up the wrong tree still. If I'd known what I know now, I'd have cut a loss and walked into your arms at the top of that trapdoor. You'll never be able to prove me guilty of that if you try for a million years."

      Garfield nodded his head. "That's interesting. And yet you did your best to lay some of us out, rather than take the chance of being charged. Queer thing for an innocent man to do, wasn't it?"

      Silverdale, who stood quietly by, regaining his breath, interposed. "I think I can explain that. Eston was afraid that he would be taken for murder and for that reason he put up a fight rather than take what was coming to him—but it was not the murder of Harold Saxon that he had in mind."

      "Meaning?" interjected Garfield.

      "Meaning that he thought I was burnt to a cinder by now. He hadn't reckoned on finding you at the other end of his emergency exit and it threw him out of his stride. If it hadn't been for Miss Sloane here, I shouldn't be giving you this exposition now."

      "You're a clever lot of ginks, aren't you?" sneered Eston. "You know the dickens of a lot and all! Listen! I'll tell you something, I played the big game and I lost so it doesn't very much matter now. Silverdale is right in this, that I never was afraid of being arrested for the murder of Sir Harold Saxon, because I didn't do it. On that I am perfectly innocent. Until an hour ago, there was always a chance that I could handle the Saxon fortune while I had my hands on Saxon's widow. For some reason—" he glanced sideways at Hilary standing with her arm through Jimmie's in the semi-darkness behind the glow of the torches— "she would not fall in with my views. I gathered that Silverdale might succeed where I had failed and I put the proposition to him. In doing so, I had to reveal certain parts of my plan that it was advisable no man should know unless he was working with me. Silverdale refused and I had to make sure that he would tell no tales. I counted on getting clean away—" he shrugged his shoulders—"but I was mistaken. So with the knowledge there would be awkward inquiries after Silverdale, I put up a fight. There was all to be gained by fighting and nothing to be lost. When I heard Silverdale's voice out of the darkness, just now, I began to see it was hopeless. He knew the story."

      "We'll move off now, if you don't mind," said Garfield without comment on the prisoner's statement.

      Not until they were in the comparatively free air of the kitchen where Eston had laid his unsuccessful ambush did Garfield again address the prisoner who now stood in the custody of other detectives.

      "I'm not entitled to say this to you, Eston, but I'm going to take a chance and relieve my mind. Whether you were the actual person who murdered Saxon or not, you organized that crime. For you to carry out your schemes, it was necessary that he should die. Don't ask us to believe that it was mere coincidence. It suited your convenience, too well."

      Eston's eyes glowed. "I dare say you've got a whole heap of evidence against me," he said sarcastically. "But you'll never hang me for murder."

      Garfield stooped to pick up his pipe which lay where he had left it when he had leapt through the trapdoor.

      "The pity of it all from your point of view, Eston"' he observed, "is that you never realized you were off the rails. You laid your plans on a wrong foundation."

      The crook eyed the inspector up and down suspiciously. "What are you trying to draw out of me now, I wonder," said he.

      Garfield shook his head guilelessly. "Nothing," he replied. "I've got all I want against you. I shall be able to prove enough when you go up for trial. I shall prove that you had Miss Dring under your influence and that it was through her that you came into association with Miss Hilary Sloane, whom you believed to be the wife of the man now dead. I can prove the movements of Knuckleduster Jim, Miss Dring, and yourself up to within an hour of the time the murder was committed. I can prove that the person who killed Sir Harold Saxon left you with that deliberate purpose."

      Eston knew that lie was being keenly watched. He realized that Garfield would not be wasting time in discussing the affair unless he had some purpose. The crook had been trained in a cautious school and was well on his guard. His face was impassive while Garfield made his indictment.

      "Bluff!" be commented scornfully. "Sheer bluff."

      Garfield ignored the interruption. "I shall prove all this, he resumed, "but as I remarked just now, you went to a deal of trouble on a mistaken conception. You imagined you had identified Lady Saxon."

      One of the detectives pulled forward a hard wooden chair and passed it to Eston. He sat down nonchalantly and crossed his legs. Two deep thoughtful lines appeared on his forehead and he watched Garfield intently.

      "Why waste time?" be asked coldly. "This is a beautiful fairy—tale, isn't it?"

      "Harold Saxon married a woman who called herself Hilary Sloane in America," went on the inspector." The knowledge was a useful asset to a man in your profession, of course—particularly as Saxon was not living with his wife here. That was the assumption you acted on and it was a false one. Did it never occur to you, Eston, that the lady who married Saxon might not have used her own name for the ceremony—that in fact it was not Miss Sloane who was the bride?"

      The point to which he had been leading up went home. There was no doubt about that. Eston leaned forward eagerly, forgetful that he was being watched, and his lean face was set in a scowl.

      "What's that you say?" he demanded. "She is not Lady Saxon?" He pointed a slim finger at Hilary.

      "That's what I said, " agreed Garfield. "You've made a blunder, Eston."

      Eston's lips moved but for a little there issued no sound from them. He saw no reason for doubting Garfield's word, although it was only a bare assertion. He was a man of imagination and it bit like acid into his mind that he had been tilting at windmills. He had erected his supreme edifice on foundations of sand, for if Hilary Sloane was not Lady Saxon, none of the risks he had taken were justified. He cursed his folly silently. A suspicion, hazy at first, but growing more definite as his brain turned over the import of Garfield's words, grew in his mind.

      "If you are right," he said, "Lady Saxon is—"

      "Miss Nora Dring," said Garfield.

      A venomous curse came from Eston. "That red-haired devil. She never said a word. If I had known-if I had known—"

      In a tumult of passion, he had forgotten where he was. As he recalled the episodes of the past few days, much that had been obscure or unnoticed, became plain to him. It was bitter to reflect that the girl had flung herself at his head and that he had repulsed her—she the heiress to millions. And now—now it was too late. Whatever else the police held against him, for one thing alone he was certain of a long term of penal servitude—the attempted murder of Jimmie Silverdale. He squared his shoulders."Garfield," he said "I'm in for it. That girl has let me in whether she meant to or not. I'm going to talk."

      "You can make a voluntary statement if you wish," said Garfield, coldly indifferent but with a glow of triumph inside.

      "I'll do that," said Eston resolutely.