“You’ll see plenty of life before the game’s over, I warrant you, Dollops.  Now then, my lad, here’s a safe spot.  Sit down on the hat-box and wait.  That’s No. 7, that empty house with the open door, just across the way.  Keep your eye on it.  I don’t know how long I’ll be, but if anybody comes out before I do, mind you don’t let him get away.”

“No fear!” said Dollops sententiously.  “I’ll be after him as if he was a ham sandwich, sir.  Look out for my patent ‘Tickle Tootsies’ when you come out, Gov’nor.  I’ll sneak over and put ’em round the door as soon as you’ve gone in.”  For Dollops, who was of an inventive turn of mind, had an especial “man-trap” of his own, which consisted of heavy brown paper, cut into squares, and thickly smeared over with a viscid varnish-like substance that would adhere to the feet of anybody incautiously stepping upon it, and so interfere with flight that it was an absolute necessity to stop and tear the papers away before running with any sort of ease and swiftness was possible.  This was the “invention” to which Cleek had alluded.  Dollops, who was rather proud of the achievement, carried with him a full supply of ready-cut papers and a big collapsible tube of the viscid, ropy, varnish-like glue.

Meantime, Cleek, having left the boy sitting on the hat-box in the darkness, crossed the narrow street to the open doorway of No. 7, and, without hesitation, stepped in.  The place was as black as a pocket, and had that peculiar smell which belongs to houses that have long stood vacant.  The house, nevertheless, was a respectable one, and, like all the others, fronted on another street—­this dark Toison d’Or being merely a back passage used principally by the tradespeople for the delivery of supplies.  Feeling his way to the first of the three flights of stairs which led upward into the stillness and gloom above, Cleek mounted steadily until he found himself at length in a sort of attic—­quite windowless, and lit only by a skylight through which shone the ineffectual light of the stars.  It was the top at last.  Bracing his back against the wall, so that nobody could get behind him, and holding himself ready for any emergency, he called out in a clear, calm voice:  “Cleek!”

Almost simultaneously there was a sharp metallic “snick,” an electric bulb hanging from the ceiling flamed out luminously, a cupboard door flashed open, a voice cried out in joyous, perfect English:  “Thank God for a man!” And, switching round with a cry of amazement, he found himself looking into the face and eyes of a woman.

And of all women in the world—­Ailsa Lorne!

He sucked in his breath and his heart began to hammer.

“Miss Lorne!” he exclaimed, so carried out of himself that he scarcely knew what he did.  “It was the French position that you chose, then?  It is you—­you—­that calls upon me?”

“No, it is not,” she made reply, a rush of colour reddening her cheeks, a feeling of embarrassment and of a natural restraint making her shake visibly.  “I am merely the envoy of another.  I should not know you, disguised as you are, but for that.  Yes, I chose the French position, as you see, Mr. Cleek.  I am now the companion to Mademoiselle Athalie, daughter of the Baron de Carjorac.”