CLOWNS AND CRIMINALS - Complete Series (Thriller Classics). E. Phillips Oppenheim

however, the chase was not a long one. The car which Peter Ruff had been following was drawn up before a plain, solid-looking house, unlit and of gloomy appearance. The little lady with the wonderful eyes was already halfway up the flagged steps. Hastily lifting the flap and looking behind as they passed, her pursuer saw her open the door with a latchkey, and disappear. Peter Ruff pulled the check-string and descended. For several moments he stood and observed the house into which the lady whom he had been following had disappeared. Then he turned to the driver.

      “I want you to watch that house,” he said, “never to take your eyes off it. When I reappear from it, if I do at all, I shall probably be in a hurry. Directly you see me be on your box ready to start. A good deal may depend upon our getting away quickly.”

      “Very good, sir,” the man answered. “How long am I to wait here for you?”

      Peter Ruff’s lips twisted into a curious little smile.

      “Until two o’clock,” he answered. “If I am not out by then, you needn’t bother any more about me. You can return and tell your mistress exactly what has happened.”

      “Hadn’t I better come and try and get you out, sir?” the man asked. “Begging your pardon, but her Ladyship told me that there might be queer doings. I’m a bit useful in a scrap, sir,” he added. “I do a bit of sparring regularly.”

      Peter Ruff shook his head.

      “If there’s any scrap at all,” he said, “you had better be out of it. Do as I have said.”

      The motor car had turned round and disappeared now, and in a few moments Peter Ruff stood before the door of the house into which the little lady had disappeared. The problem of entrance was already solved for him. The door had been left unlatched; only a footstool had been placed against it inside. Peter Ruff, without hesitation, pushed the door softly open and entered, replaced the footstool in its former position, and stood with his back to the wall, in the darkest corner of the hall, looking around him—listening intently. Nearly opposite the door of a room stood ajar. It was apparently lit up, but there was no sound of any one moving inside. Upstairs, in one of the rooms on the first floor, he could hear light footsteps—a woman’s voice humming a song. He listened to the first few bars, and understanding became easier. Those first few bars were the opening ones of the Servian national anthem!

      With an effort, Peter Ruff concentrated his thoughts upon the immediate present. The little lady was upstairs. The servants had apparently retired for the night. He crept up to the half-open door and peered in. The room, as he had hoped to find it, was empty, but Madame’s easy-chair was drawn up to the fire, and some coffee stood upon the hob. Stealthily Peter Ruff crept in and glanced around, seeking for a hiding place. A movement upstairs hastened his decision. He pushed aside the massive curtains which separated this from a connecting room. He had scarcely done so when light footsteps were heard descending the stairs.

      Peter Ruff found his hiding place all that could have been desired. This secondary room itself was almost in darkness, but he was just able to appreciate the comforting fact that it possessed a separate exit into the hall. Through the folds of the curtain he had a complete view of the further apartment. The little lady had changed her gown of stiff white satin for one of flimsier material, and, seated in the easy-chair, she was busy pouring herself out some coffee. She took a cigarette from a silver box, and lighting it, curled herself up in the chair and composed herself as though to listen. To her as well as to Peter Ruff, as he crouched in his hiding place, the moments seemed to pass slowly enough. Yet, as he realised afterward, it could not have been ten minutes before she sat upright in a listening attitude. There was some one coming! Peter Ruff, too, heard a man’s firm footsteps come up the flagged stones.

      The little lady sprang to her feet.

      “Paul!” she exclaimed.

      Paul Jermyn came slowly to meet her. He seemed a little out of breath. His tie was all disarranged and his collar unfastened.

      The little lady, however, noticed none of these things. She looked only into his face.

      “Have you got it?” she asked, eagerly.

      He thrust his hand into his breast-coat pocket, and held an envelope out toward her.

      “Sure!” he answered. “I promised!”

      She gave a little sob, and with the packet in her hand came running straight toward the spot where Peter Ruff was hiding.

      He shrank back as far as possible. She stopped just short of the curtain, opened the drawer of a table which stood there, and slipped the packet in. Then she came back once more to where Paul Jermyn was standing.

      “My friend!” she cried, holding out her hands—“my dear, dear friend! Shall I ever be able to thank you enough?”

      “Why, if you try,” he answered, smiling, “I think that you could!”

      She laid her hand upon his arm—a little caressing, foreign gesture.

      “Tell me,” she said, “how did you manage it?”

      “We left the dance together,” Jermyn said. “I could see that he wanted to get rid of me, but I offered to take him in my motor car. I told the man to choose some back streets, and while we were passing through one of them, I took Von Hern by the throat. We had a struggle, of course, but I got the paper.”

      “What did you do with Von Hern?” she asked.

      “I left him on his doorstep,” the young American answered. “He wasn’t really hurt, but he was only half conscious. I don’t think he’ll bother any one to-night.”

      “You dear, brave man!” she murmured. “Paul, what am I to say to you?”

      He laughed.

      “That’s what I’m here to ask,” he declared. “You wouldn’t give me my answer at the ball. Perhaps you’ll give it me now?”

      They sprang apart. Ruff felt his nerves stiffen—felt himself constrained to hold even his breath as he widened a little the crack in the curtains. This was no stealthy entrance. The door had been flung open. Von Hern, his dress in wild disorder, pale as a ghost, and with a great bloodstain upon his cheek, stood confronting them.

      “When you have done with your love-making,” he called out, “I’ll trouble you to restore my property!”

      The electric light gleamed upon a small revolver which flashed out toward the young American. Paul Jermyn never hesitated for a moment. He seized the chair by his side and flung it at Von Hern. There was a shot, the crash of the falling chair, a cry from Jermyn, who never hesitated, however, in his rush. The two men closed. A second shot went harmlessly to the ceiling. The little lady stole away—stole softly across the room toward the table. She opened the drawer. Suddenly the blood in her veins was frozen into fear. From nowhere, it seemed to her, came a hand which held her wrists like iron!

      “Madam,” Peter Ruff whispered from behind the curtain, “I am sorry to deprive you of it, but this is stolen property.”

      Her screams rang through the room. Even the two men released one another.

      “It is gone! It is gone!” she cried. “Some one was hiding in the room! Quick!”

      She sprang into the hall. The two men followed her. The front door was slammed. They heard flying footsteps outside. Von Hern was out first, clearing the little flight of steps in one bound. Across the road he saw a flying figure. A level stream of fire poured from his hand—twice, three times. But Peter Ruff never faltered. Round the corner he tore. The man had kept his word—the brougham was already moving slowly.

      “Jump in, sir,” the man cried. “Throw yourself in. Never mind about the door.”

      They heard the shouts behind. Peter Ruff did as he was bid, and sat upon the floor, raising himself gradually to the seat when they had turned another corner. Then he put his head out of the window.

      “Back to the Duchess of Montford’s!”