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That there was something more than mere roguery afoot he had ample proof. He felt himself groping along the edge of something vague and black and sinister. But what it was, what were the issues, or who were the people involved, he had not the slightest conception. Of one thing only was he sure, Madelon had no place in this elaborate web and woof of crime. She had impressed him more deeply even than he had realized, and his main anxiety now, outside of a desire to protect her from the venom of this poisonous old man, was to see her face, to lift with his own fingers the mask that had so tantalized him.

The owner of the house was busily arranging the plans for Emile’s destruction when the doorbell rang. He clutched his guest nervously by the arm and thrust the revolver into his hand, whispering:

“It is he! The scoundrel has arrived! Quickly now–behind the door!”

But Roly stepped to a front window and, cautiously drawing the curtain aside, peered out. He saw what he had feared–the figure of a petite Norman maid, and beside it that of a masked woman in a long, dark robe.

“Well, now! Who can it be?” he heard Alfred whisper, and discovered the senile villain peering past his shoulder.

“It is Madelon and Felice,” Roly explained.

” They! Here? Wait! I will give them a cursing to remember.” But before the speaker could move he found his arms pinioned behind him and his own weapon pointed at his head. He uttered a squeak of amazement and terror. ” Mon Dieu! What is this?”

“Shut up!” Roly dragged the old man from the window, stripped a thick curtain cord from its hook, and knotted his wrists together.

Alfred offered no resistance; a horrible fear had him by the throat; he hung like a sack in the younger man’s grasp. His eyes alone retained their activity. These followed Van Dam in a horrified stare; they seemed about to emerge from their sockets.

Roly deposited his limp captive in a chair and, stepping to the window, tapped sharply. When Madelon looked up he signaled her to wait. The hall portieres furnished another cord for Cousin Alfred’s ankles, and a handkerchief served as a gag. As this was being adjusted, however, the captive quavered, hoarsely:

“Who–are you?”

“I?” Roly laughed. “Why, I am your cousin Emile!”

The householder voiced a thin shriek and began to plead for his life. Then the remnants of his strength escaped, leaving him a spineless heap in the great leather chair.

Van Dam bore him in his arms down the hall, searching for a place of concealment. This he found in a closet, the door of which he closed. Then he hastened back to the front entrance.

“You kept us waiting sufficiently,” Madelon said, as he stepped aside for the two women to enter.

Roly’s eyes were glued upon the taller of the two figures, but Felice seemed to take no heed of him. He heard her murmuring in a sick, eager voice:

“Emile! My own beloved! Emile!”

Madelon raised her hand in a warning gesture and the young man shrank closer into the shadows.

“Courage, dear!” she said to her companion. “We have arrived at last. A moment now and he will come.” She half led, half supported the taller woman into the library. The next instant she was back at Van Dam’s side. Drawing him into the parlor, across the hall, she exclaimed in a voice which showed that tears were in her eyes: “Thank Heaven, no one recognized us! But I was weak with fright. Oh! It was pitiful! I have wept at every step. She has been calling you like that, night and day. Go–quickly!” She removed his mask and thrust him into the hall.

This was the most embarrassing moment Van Dam had experienced thus far. He had been prepared to face eventual discovery, and had decided to make a clean breast of his part in this comedy when the necessary moment arrived, but–this was altogether different. Felice was ill, half-demented. What might be the effect upon her of this disclosure? There was nothing to do, however, but to face it out and to make the truth known as quickly and as gently as possible.