laughed, "if burglars really do pay us a visit, Prince will see to them. I'd be sorry to face the dog if I were a thief." "So would I, sir. Only there's such a thing as a dose o' strychnine on a bit o' meat, you know." "Abroad, yes. In Italy it is the favorite ruse of burglars, Tucker. But here in England we are much more secure." And then, watering-can in hand, the faithful old fellow passed out, while I sat down to my lonely breakfast. A week after I had written to the Charing Cross Post Office I received a note, dated from the Hotel de la Boule d'Or at Provins, a small town some sixty miles east of Paris. "I am delighted to have your address," it read. "At the present moment my movements are very uncertain, but as soon as I can see you again I will write to Upton End. Be careful, however, that when you meet me you are not watched. I fear you may be troubled by unwelcome watchers. If you are, pray forgive me, and recollect how grateful I am to you for the service which you have rendered me, and which one day I hope to repay." That was all. There was no signature. And so I was compelled to wait for a further communication from the man who was undoubtedly in hiding in that obscure old town in the valley of the Voulzie. Time after time I took out that corroded cylinder--wherein was something which the dead man had declared would cause the whole world to stand aghast--and held it in my hand full of wonder. Upon the table, in the big old-fashioned library, stood the weird little figure of the ancient god of the Egyptians--the great Osiris. Sight of it, each time that I entered there, recalled to me that sunset hour in the little hotel off the Strand, the hour when Melvill Arnold had passed silently to the Beyond. Three weeks went by in eager expectancy. By careful inquiry and judicious watchfulness, I came to the conclusion that the surveillance set upon me by Scotland Yard had been withdrawn. Hence it seemed to me that they had found traces of the fugitive they sought. Probably, if he were a known criminal, his presence in France had been reported through the Prefecture of Police in Paris. It was part of the international police system to do so. Was Alfred Dawnay again in peril of arrest, I wondered? One morning, however, I received the long-expected message, for among my letters I found a note asking me to be alone outside Lathbury--a small hamlet a little way out of Newport Pagnell, on the Northampton Road--at three o'clock that afternoon. The heavy handwriting was the same as the letter from Provins, and I knew it to be from Dawnay. Therefore, with considerable eagerness, I set out about two o'clock to walk to the place appointed for meeting. I passed up the long street of Newport Pagnell, but nobody followed me. It was early-closing day, and
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