"Be wise," she said, "and let me go. I do not need your protection or—"

She broke off suddenly. The interruption was certainly startling enough. From a table only a few feet off came the shrill tinkle of a telephone bell. Wrayson mechanically stepped backwards and took the receiver into his hand.

"Who is it?" he asked.

The voice which answered him was faint but clear. It seemed to Wrayson to come from a long way off.

"Is that Mr. Wrayson's flat in Cavendish Mansions?" it asked.

"Yes!" Wrayson answered. "Who are you?"

"I am a friend of Mr. Morris Barnes," the voice answered. "May I apologize for calling you up, but the matter is urgent. Can you tell me if Mr. Barnes is in?"

"I am not sure, but I believe he is never in before one or two o'clock," Wrayson answered.

"Will you write down a message and leave it in his letter-box?" the voice asked anxiously. "It is very important or I would not trouble you."

"Very well," Wrayson answered. "What is it?"

"Tell him instantly he returns to leave his flat and go to the Hotel Francis. A friend is waiting there for him, the friend whom he has been expecting!"

"A lady?" Wrayson remarked a little sarcastically.

"No!" the voice answered. "A friend. Will you do this? Will you promise to do it?"

"Very well," Wrayson said. "Who are you, and where are you ringing up from?"

"Remember you have promised!" was the only reply.

"All right! Tell me your name," Wrayson demanded.

No answer. Wrayson turned the handle of the instrument viciously.

"Exchange," he asked, "who was that talking to me just now?"

"Don't know," was the prompt answer. "We can't remember all the calls we get. Ring off, please!"

Wrayson laid down the receiver and turned round with a sudden sense of apprehension. There was a feeling of emptiness in the room. He had not heard a sound, but he knew very well what had happened. The door was slightly open and the 

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