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“I know,” said Carroll, roughly. “She taught my sister. She teaches everybody’s sister. She’s the sweetest, simplest old soul that ever lived. Holcombe’s dead right to be angry. She almost lived at their house when his sister was ill.”

“Tut! you don’t say?” commented Meakim, gravely. “Well, his sister’s pretty near crazy about it. He give me the letter to read. It got me all stirred up. It was just writ in blood. She must be a fine girl, his sister. She says this Miss Martha’s money was the last thing Allen took. He didn’t use her stuff, to speculate with, but cashed it in just before he sailed and took it with him for spending-money. His sister says she’s too proud to take help, and she’s too old to work.”

“How much did he take?”

“Sixty thousand. She’s been saving for over forty years.”

Carroll’s mind took a sudden turn. “And Holcombe?” he demanded, eagerly. “What is he going to do? Nothing silly, I hope.”

“Well, that’s just it. That’s why I come to find you,” Meakim answered, uneasily. “I don’t want him to qualify for no Criminal Stakes. I got no reason to love him either–But you know–” he ended, impotently.

“Yes, I understand,” said Carroll. “That’s what I meant. Confound the boy, why didn’t he stay in his law courts! What did he say?”

“Oh, he just raged around. He said he’d tell Allen there was an extradition treaty that Allen didn’t know about, and that if Allen didn’t give him the sixty thousand he’d put it in force and make him go back and stand trial.”

“Compounding a felony, is he?”

“No, nothing of the sort,” said Meakim, indignantly. “There isn’t any extradition treaty, so he wouldn’t be doing anything wrong except lying a bit.”

“Well, it’s blackmail, anyway.”

“What, blackmail a man like Allen? Huh! He’s fair game, if there ever was any. But it won’t work with him, that’s what I’m afraid of. He’s too cunning to be taken in by it, he is. He had good legal advice before he came here, or he wouldn’t have come.”

Carroll was pacing up and down the terrace. He stopped and spoke over his shoulder. “Does Holcombe think Allen has the money with him?” he asked.

“Yes, he’s sure of it. That’s what makes him so keen. He says Allen wouldn’t dare bank it at Gibraltar, because if he ever went over there to draw on it he would get caught, so he must have brought it with him here. And he got here so late that Holcombe believes it’s in Allen’s rooms now, and he’s like a dog that smells a rat, after it. Allen wasn’t in when he went up to his room, and he’s started out hunting for him, and if he don’t find him I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if he broke into the room and just took it.”

“For God’s sake!” cried Carroll. “He wouldn’t do that?”

Meakim pulled and fingered at his heavy watch-chain and laughed doubtfully. “I don’t know,” he said. “He wouldn’t have done it three months ago, but he’s picked up a great deal since then–since he has been with us. He’s asking for Captain Reese, too.”

“What’s he want with that blackguard?”

“I don’t know; he didn’t tell me.”

“Come,” said Carroll, quickly. “We must stop him.” He ran lightly down the steps of the terrace to the beach, with Meakim waddling heavily after him. “He’s got too much at stake, Meakim,” he said, in half-apology, as they tramped through the sand. “He mustn’t spoil it. We won’t let him.”

Holcombe had searched the circuit of Tangier’s small extent with fruitless effort, his anger increasing momentarily and feeding on each fresh disappointment. When he had failed to find the man he sought in any place, he returned to the hotel and pushed open the door of the smoking-room as fiercely as though he meant to take those within by surprise.

“Has Mr. Allen returned?” he demanded. “Or Captain Reese?” The attendant thought not, but he would go and see. “No,” Holcombe said, “I will look for myself.” He sprang up the stairs to the third floor, and turned down a passage to a door at its farthest end. Here he stopped and knocked gently. “Reese,” he called; “Reese!” There was no response to his summons, and he knocked again, with more impatience, and then cautiously turned the handle of the door, and, pushing it forward, stepped into the room. “Reese,” he said, softly, “its Holcombe. Are you here?” The room was dark except for the light from the hall, which shone dimly past him and fell upon a gun-rack hanging on the wall opposite. Holcombe hurried toward this and ran his hands over it, and passed on quickly from that to the mantel and the tables, stumbling over chairs and riding-boots as he groped about, and tripping on the skin of some animal that lay stretched upon the floor. He felt his way, around the entire circuit of the room, and halted near the door with an exclamation of disappointment. By this time his eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, and he noted the white surface of the bed in a far corner and ran quickly toward it, groping with his hands about the posts at its head. He closed his fingers with a quick gasp of satisfaction on a leather belt that hung from it, heavy with cartridges and a revolver that swung from its holder. Holcombe pulled this out and jerked back the lever, spinning the cylinder around under the edge of his thumb. He felt the grease of each cartridge as it passed under his nail. The revolver was loaded in each chamber, and Holcombe slipped it into the pocket of his coat and crept out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. He met no one in the hall or on the stairs, and passed on quickly to a room on the second floor. There was a light in this room which showed through the transom and under the crack at the floor, and there was a sound of some one moving about within. Holcombe knocked gently and waited.