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“At any other time I should be more than interested,” remarked Brixton grimly, curbing his impatience to be doing something.

“I appreciate that, sir,” rejoined Kennedy. “Ah, here it is. I have the central down in the village. Yes? They will hold the boat for us? Good. Thank you. The nine-o’clock train is five minutes late? Yes–what? Count Wachtmann’s car is there? Oh, yes, the train is just pulling in. I see. Miss Brixton has entered his car alone. What’s that? His chauffeur has started the car without waiting for the Count, who is coming down the platform?”

Instantly Kennedy was on his feet. He was dashing up the corridor and the stairs from the den and down into the basement to the little storeroom.

We burst into the place. It was empty. Janeff had cut the wires and fled. There was not a moment to lose. Craig hastily made sure that he had not discovered or injured the phantom circuit.

“Call the fastest car you have in your garage, Mr. Brixton,” ordered Kennedy. “Hello, hello, central! Get the lodge at the Brixton estate. Tell them if they see the engineer Janeff going out to stop him. Alarm the watchman and have the dogs ready. Catch him at any cost, dead, or alive.”

A moment later Brixton’s car raced around, and we piled in and were off like a whirlwind. Already we could see lights moving about and hear the baying of dogs. Personally, I wouldn’t have given much for Janeff’s chances of escape.

As we turned the bend in the road just before we reached the ferry, we almost ran into two cars standing before the ferry house. It looked as though one had run squarely in front of the other and blocked it off. In the slip the ferry boat was still steaming and waiting.

Beside the wrecked car a man was lying on the ground groaning, while another man was quieting a girl whom he was leading to the waiting-room of the ferry.

Brixton, weak though he was from his illness, leaped out of our car almost before we stopped and caught the girl in his arms.

“Father!” she exclaimed, clinging to him.

“What’s this?” he demanded sternly, eying the man. It was Wachtmann himself.

“Conrad saved me from that chauffeur of his,” explained Miss Brixton. “I met him on the train, and we were going to ride up to the house together. But before Conrad could get into the car this fellow, who had the engine running, started it. Conrad jumped into another car that was waiting at the station. He overlook us and dodged in front so as to cut the chauffeur off from the ferry.”

“Curse that villain of a chauffeur,” muttered Wachtmann, looking down at the wounded man.

“Do you know who he is?” asked Craig with a searching glance at Wachtmann’s face.

“I ought to. His name is Kronski, and a blacker devil an employment bureau never furnished.”

“Kronski? No,” corrected Kennedy. “It is Professor Kumanova, whom you perhaps have heard of as a leader of the Red Brotherhood, one of the cleverest scientific criminals who ever lived. I think you’ll have no more trouble negotiating your loan or your love affair, Count,” added Craig, turning on his heel.

He was in no mood to receive the congratulations of the supercilious Wachtmann. As far as Craig was concerned, the case was finished, although I fancied from a flicker of his eye as he made some passing reference to the outcome that when he came to send in a bill to Brixton for his services he would not forget the high eyebrowed Count.

I followed in silence as Craig climbed into the Brixton car and explained to the banker that it was imperative that he should get back to the city immediately. Nothing would do but that the car must take us all the way back, while Brixton summoned another from the house for himself.

The ride was accomplished swiftly in record time. Kennedy said little. Apparently the exhilaration of the on-rush of cool air was quite in keeping with his mood, though for my part, I should have preferred something a little more relaxing of the nervous tension.