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IT was on a morning in late September that, happening to drop into Ronald Standish's rooms, I found a man with him whose face seemed familiar to me. He was sprawling in one of the easy chairs, smoking a cigarette, and he glanced up as I apologised for interrupting.

"You're doing nothing of the sort, old boy," said Ronald. "In fact, you've arrived at a very propitious moment. Do you know the Duke of Dorset, known to most of the dear old schoolfellows as Catface? This"—he waved a hand at me—"is Bob Miller."

The Duke grinned cheerfully.

"I was up in Town on business," he said, "and I suddenly remembered that Ronald sometimes did the sleuth act. So I called round to see him."

"Not much sleuthing about this," laughed Ronald. "Bob—we are rising in business. We've now become a registry office for servants."

"If somebody would explain," I murmured mildly, "it might be a little easier."

"Catface has lost his chauffeur," Ronald remarked. "Hence his visit. But tell Bob the story. I'd like to hear it again."

"It sounds a bit absurd, I must admit," said the Duke, "and there is probably some quite ordinary explanation. At the same time it's no use pretending that I'm not worried. My chauffeur has suddenly and mysteriously disappeared. He's been in our service for years; he was with my father. And he's vanished into thin air."

"It's this way, Bob," said Ronald. "The man's name is Williams, and he lives with his wife in a cottage on the estate. By the way, are there any children?"

"Two," said the Duke. "A boy and a girl—about ten and eight years old."

"Well, it appears that the night before last Williams left his cottage just after seven o'clock, telling his wife that he was going down to the 'Bat and Ball' to have a pint—the 'Bat and Ball' being the chief pub in Medchester, which, as you know, is the village close to Catface's hovel. Apparently it was not an unusual thing for him to do, and Mrs. Williams thought nothing about it. But, as time went on and nine o'clock came with no sign of him, she began to get uneasy. So finally she rang up the 'Bat and Ball,' to find to her amazement that he had never been there. She still wasn't really alarmed. There was another pub to which he some times went. But that wasn't on the telephone, so all she could do was to wait. And wait she did until eleven o'clock, when she became genuinely frightened. So she put on a hat and went down into the village, a matter of ten minutes' walk. At that hour both the pubs were shut, but she beat up the two owners, only to find that her husband had not been to either of them that night.

"By this time, of course, she was in a thorough panic. She could only assume that her husband had been taken ill or had had a fit on the way. So she got the local constable out of bed, and armed with a lantern the two of them searched the road the whole way back to her cottage, without, however, finding any trace of him. And that is as far as we go at the moment. Her husband did not return during the night. He had not returned when Catface left for London yesterday after lunch. And such is the story of the missing chauffeur."

"Possibly he's back by now," I said.

"I told his wife to wire me at the club if he returned," said the Duke. "You see, the extraordinary thing to my mind is that Williams, of all men, should act in such a way. It's as if one's butler suddenly stood on his head in the dining-room."

"Probably suffering from loss of memory," I remarked.

"But in that case surely he'd have been found yesterday!" he cried.

"Not of necessity, by any means," said Ronald. "It doesn't follow that he's remained in the neighbourhood. He had money. What was there to stop him wandering about all night, and then taking a train for somewhere?"

"The only station within miles is Croyde Junction," said the Duke. "And he's as well known there as I am. Naturally I rang them up to ask, and no sign of him had been seen. I'm worried, old boy, not only because I'm genuinely attached to the fellow, but also because it's an infernal nuisance having to get a temporary chauffeur for the Grand Duke's visit."

He saw my look of bewilderment and explained.

"The Grand Duke Sergius is coming to stay with me next week. In the old pre-Bolshevik days he was one of the loud noises in Russia, and he was a great personal friend of my father's. And he has announced his intention of putting in two or three days with inc during his stay in England."

"But do you think there is any connection between your chauffeur's disappearance and the Grand Duke's visit?" I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Probably I've got the wind up needlessly," he said, "but the possibility has occurred to me. He is a leader and mainspring of the Whites, and I know that his life has been threatened on several occasions."

"Still, it is difficult to see how abducting your chauffeur is going to help them to carry out their threat. They can't possibly know whom you are going to engage in his place. They can't, so to speak, force a man on you."

"I know all that," he agreed. "I've said it to myself over and over again. And still I can't get rid of the thought that there may be some connection."

"Have you taken any steps to get another man?" asked Ronald.

"I told my agent to write about it," he said. "Honestly, old boy, I wish you'd come down for a few days." He leaned forward in his chair. "It's possible—perhaps probable—that I'm talking through the back of my neck. But I am uneasy. If it wasn't for the Grand Duke the thing would be quite different; I shouldn't have worried you. But I'd never forgive myself if anything happened while he was staying with me. Why doesn't Miller come, too? I can give you both some shooting. And I'd feel easier if you'd cast your eye over things."

Ronald smiled. "I've got no objection to trying to hit a few in the beak, old boy," he said. "And I don't suppose Bob has either. But I frankly think you are worrying yourself most unnecessarily about this man's disappearance. I'm convinced myself you'll find that there is some quite simple explanation."

And at that we left it, after agreeing to motor down that afternoon.

The Duke had arrived before us, and a glance at his face showed that further developments had taken place.

"I've got Mrs. Williams here, Ronald," he said. "I want you to hear what she has to say. I'm terribly afraid there has been foul play."

We followed him into a small writing-room, where a middle-aged woman, her eyes red with weeping, was waiting.

"Now, Mrs. Williams," he went on, "I want you to tell these gentlemen exactly what you've told me. They've come down from London especially to see if they can do anything to help you."

"I will, your Grace," she answered; "though I fear my poor Henry is beyond human aid. He'd never have gone away like that, without so much as a word to me, of his own free will."

"Supposing you just tell us everything, Mrs. Williams," said Ronald gently. "I have already heard from his Grace the bare facts of your husband's disappearance. Now I want to hear further details."

"Show Mr. Standish what you found today," said the Duke. She fumbled in her bag, and finally produced a sheet of paper, which she handed to Ronald. On it was written the following sentence in block capitals:

MEET ME CROSS ROADS 7.30

"And where did you find this?" asked Ronald, holding it up to the light.

"In my husband's livery, sir," she answered. "There was a hole in the top pocket, and as I was folding it up and putting it away this morning I felt this rustle in the lining."

"Which cross-roads does it refer to?"

"There are cross-roads half-way between the cottage and Medchester," said the Duke.

"I see," said Ronald. "So for the moment, at any rate, we'll assume that that is the spot alluded to. Now, Mrs. Williams, you say you found this in your husband's livery. Did he wear it on the day he disappeared?"

"Yes, sir. He came in about six o'clock and changed."

"Was he in his usual spirits, or did he seem at all worried?"

"Not exactly worried, sir, but rather quiet like."

"In other words, different from what he generally was?"

"Well, yes, sir—he was a little. And yet not enough to make me remark on it at the time. Though what with one thing and another and getting the children to bed, I didn't have much chance of speaking."

"And he's said nothing to you in the last few days which could throw any light on this note?"

"Nothing, sir." And then she hesitated. "Well, there was one little thing, sir."

"Out with it," said Ronald. "It's the little things we want."

"Well, sir, about four days ago, or perhaps five, he did say to me that there was a lot of wicked scoundrels in the world. And he said it as if there was something at the back of his mind."

"Did you ask him what he meant?" cried the Duke.

"I didn't, your Grace," she said. "He was just going out, and after that it slipped my memory."

"So there's really nothing more you can tell us, Mrs. Williams?" said Ronald.

"No, sir. I can't think of anything."

"And your children noticed nothing?"

"No, sir. I haven't told them yet. I've just let them think their daddy has gone away for two or three days." She clasped her hands together. "Oh, sir—do you think there's any hope?"

"Good Heavens! yes, Mrs. Williams," cried Ronald cheerfully. "You go back to your cottage and keep your spirits up. I shall probably be along that way shortly myself. By the way, there is one more question I want to ask you. Has your husband got any friends or acquaintances who are not English?"

"Not that I know of, sir," she answered. "If he has, he's never mentioned it to me."

"Thank you, Mrs. Williams. Now, don't forget what I said: keep cheerful."

"What do you make of it, Ronald?" said the Duke, as the door closed behind her.

"Nothing at all at the moment," Ronald answered, "except the one significant fact in that note."

He put it on the table.

"Look at that seven. Have you ever seen an Englishman make a seven with a horizontal line across it? Whereas a lot of Europeans do. I don't say it's conclusive, but it's more than likely that the writer has lived a lot abroad. Question number two. Is it a man or a woman? No answer possible from what we've got at present. From what you tell me, Williams is not the sort of man who would play the fool with a girl."

"Most emphatically not," said the Duke.

"But, on the other hand, he might be taken in by a sob-stuff story and think he could help, someone. So, as I said, we do not know if it's a man or a woman. All we can say is that the loss of memory theory is out of court, and that he left the house to keep a definite assignation."

"Which looks bad to me," said the Duke. "For nothing will make me believe that he would not have communicated with me if he'd been able to."

"It has that appearance, Catface," agreed Ronald. "However, we may as well go and have a look at the place, though I don't suppose we'll find anything after such a lapse of time."

"I'll come with you," said the Duke. "There is ample time before dinner."

We strolled across the park, and after we had gone about half a mile he pointed to two cottages ahead of us.

"One of those is Williams's," he remarked; "the other belongs to the head keeper."

"I think we'll start at the cross-roads first," said Ronald. "Has anybody except the local constable been over the ground?"

"I couldn't tell you," answered the Duke. "I told my agent to do all he could, and to get in touch with the police at Dorchester. Incidentally—talk of the devil—Well, Johnson, any fresh developments?"

A middle-aged man in riding breeches was coming towards us, and his expression was grave.

"I'm sorry to say there are, your Grace," he said. "About thirty yards up the road leading to Cantrell's farm the undergrowth at one side is all beaten down. There is blood on the grass, and every appearance of a desperate struggle having taken place."

The Duke turned to Ronald.

"That settles it," he remarked. "That's the spot we're making for."

He introduced us to the agent, and we all four walked on together.

"I was just coming to report to you," continued Johnson. "He must have been set on by someone in the darkness, and in the struggle gone swaying up that side road. That's Inspector Morrison from Dorchester in front of us now. It was he who discovered it."

The Inspector saluted as we came up and led us to the spot. "Pretty clear what happened, your Grace," he said. "Though why anyone should want to assault Mr. Williams is beyond me. Case of mistaken identity, I suppose."

"Not that, Inspector," remarked Ronald, handing him the note. "This has just been found in his coat. He was deliberately decoyed here."

As he spoke he was peering at the ground carefully.

"Is this track much used?" he asked.

"Very little," answered Johnson, "and mainly by Cantrell."

"Has Cantrell got a car?"

"Yes—but it's been out of action for the last week. A big end went."

"Well, a car has been standing here comparatively recently. You can see the impression on the grass if you look closely."

He straightened up and his face was grave.

"Things look much worse than I thought, Catface," he said in a low voice. "It's hardly conceivable that the mark of that car at this particular spot should have no connection with the struggle. So it boils down to the fact that the whole affair was definitely planned. But why the deuce anybody should want to kidnap your chauffeur is a bit of a poser."

He turned to the Inspector.

"You haven't by any chance heard of any foreigners being in the neighbourhood?" he asked.

The Inspector shook his head, but Johnson swung round at once.

"Funny you should ask that, Mr. Standish. There's been a woman— quite young—staying at the 'Bat and Ball' recently. And two or three days ago she was joined by two men who arrived by car. They all left that night. By Jove! it was the very day of this affair, now that I come to think of it."

"But why do you imagine that they were foreigners?" asked Ronald.

"Cheadle—the landlord—told me they were," said Johnson. "Apparently they all spoke English perfectly, but amongst themselves they used some other language."

"Well, Inspector," said Ronald, "there's something for you to go on. That note was almost certainly written by a foreigner, and now we hear that three foreigners were staying at the 'Bat and Ball' on the day of Williams's disappearance and left in a car that night. Moreover, a car stood here recently."

"Not much proof anywhere, sir," said the Inspector doubtfully.

"None at all," agreed Ronald. "But if there is no connection, it is an extraordinary chain of coincidence. If I were you, I'd try to get a description of those people from Cheadle, and put some quiet inquiries on foot. It's just within the bounds of possibility that someone might have noticed the number of their car."

He turned to the Duke.

"And that, it seems to me, is all that we can do. Sorry not to be more helpful, old boy, but the business of tracking car and people is beyond me. It's a police job pure and simple."

"Supposing you're right, Ronald, do you think they've killed him?"

"I can't tell you. I don't know, There's a lot of blood about. The struggle was pretty desperate. All that one can do is to hope that he's only been laid out."

"Lord! but I wish I could get to the bottom of this," cried the Duke in a worried voice. We were walking back over the park towards the house. "I'm infernally sorry for Williams—poor devil!" he went on—"but what's the object of the thing?"

"Well," said Ronald slowly, "it seems to me that there are two possible alternatives which suggest themselves at once. The first one is that they made some suggestion to him which he resented so much that they had this fight. The second one is rather more sinister. They decoyed him there in order to abduct him, so that someone else might be substituted in his place— someone who might prove more amenable to this suggestion."

The Duke stopped and stared at him.

"What sort of suggestion?" he demanded.

"I did not think so at first," said Ronald, "but with these fresh developments, old boy, I am bound to admit that I'm beginning to agree with your original suspicion that it's got something to do with your visitor of next week. Otherwise the whole thing is absolutely incomprehensible."

"What the devil am I to do?" cried the other. "Shall I make some excuse and put him off?"

"You can hardly do that on what we've got up to date. We may be entirely wrong. All you can do is to vet the new man when he comes very thoroughly, and—"

He broke off suddenly.

"Hallo! a new development. What does Mrs. Williams want?" She was running across the grass towards us, waving her arms, and evidently in a state of considerable excitement.

"Your Grace," she gasped as she came up, "this has just come." In her hand she held a letter which she brandished in the air. "Steady, Mrs. Williams," he said soothingly. "Let's have a look at it."

"It's from Henry, sir." She turned to Ronald. "But look at the writing."

And Ronald was looking at the writing with a face grown suddenly grave. For its colour was reddish brown, and it looked as if the wrong end of a penholder had been used, so thick were the letters. The envelope was addressed to "Mrs. Williams, Lilac Cottage, Medchester," and was stained with mud and dirt.

"Read what's inside, sir," she cried.

The contents consisted of a double sheet of paper on which two words were written, also in reddish brown:—

Harvey petrol.

"Harvey!" cried the Duke, who was looking over Ronald shoulder. "Why, that's the local garage."

"Is that so?" said Ronald thoughtfully. "You are sure this is your husband's writing, Mrs. Williams?"

"Positive, sir. Besides, I know the paper. You see that little W in the corner, and Henry always carried some in his pocket-book. And envelopes. What does it mean, sir?"

"Postmark—Belton. Where's Belton?"

"Next village to Medchester on the London road," said the Duke

"Then, your Grace, he must be there," she cried. "But why has he used that funny-coloured ink? And why is the envelope so dirty?"

"I'm afraid you mustn't build on the hope that your husband is at Belton, Mrs. Williams," said Ronald gravely. "In fact, I'm sorry to have to tell, you some bad news."

"He's not dead, sir?" she said piteously.

"No, no. I don't think for a moment he's dead. But I'm afraid he's been badly hurt."

"Can I go to him, sir?" she cried.

"We don't know where he is, Mrs. Williams."

"But, look here, Ronald," said the Duke, who had been studying the envelope, "the date of the postmark is today."

"Which shows that it was posted today, but not that it was written today. This letter was thrown out of the car in which he was travelling, and fell in the mud. Evidently today somebody found it and put it in the post."

"How on earth can you tell that?" demanded the Duke incredulously.

But Ronald did not answer. Instead, he turned to the woman. "Will you leave this with me, Mrs. Williams? I'll take great care of it. And the instant we know anything about your husband we'll let you know."

"Very good, sir. I'm sure, sir, you will."

She curtsied, and went stumbling back to her cottage.

"Now, Ronald," cried the Duke, when she was out of hearing, "how do you know this letter wasn't written today?"

"Because I recognised at once the ink that had been used. It's blood, Catface. And from the colour it's considerably more than one day old."

"Good God!" gasped the Duke. "Are you sure?"

"Quite sure. Somehow or other Williams managed to write this, using his own blood as an ink. He knew that if his wife got it she would bring it to you. It must be a warning of sorts, but what it means is somewhat obscure."

"We always do get our petrol from Harvey." said the Duke. "His is the only garage within miles."

Ronald put the letter carefully in his pocket.

"It's one of the most extraordinary cases I've ever struck," he said. "And at the moment I don't see one ray of light."

That state of affairs continued for the next week. The new chauffeur, a man by the name of Groves, arrived with the most impeccable references, two of them from people known personally to all of us. Harvey, whose garage we visited casually, proved to be a typical West Countryman with a jovial face and a cheery manner: a man who, if appearances ever count for anything, was as honest and straight as could be found in Dorsetshire. Cheadle, with whom we had a pint or two, gave us as closely as he could a description of the three foreigners, but, as Ronald had anticipated, it proved quite useless. It would have fitted a hundred people equally well. And the mystery of Williams's whereabouts remained as profound as ever.

It was not until two days before the Grand Duke's arrival that any further development took place. Ronald and I were strolling through the village on our way back to lunch, when Johnson, the Duke's agent, came out of the "Bat and Ball" and hurried towards us.

"That woman is back," he said. "Returned this morning."

"Is she, by Jove?" cried Ronald. "We'll come in and have a drink. I'd like to have a look at her without her knowing it."

"Good morning, gentlemen," cried Cheadle, as we entered the bar. "That lady—"

"Three pints, Mr. Cheadle, please," interrupted Ronald quickly, at the same time giving him a warning frown. "And have something yourself."

The room was full of the usual crowd that gathers in a village inn at midday, and after a cursory glance round Ronald dismissed them. At the same time, he did not relax his caution.

"Not a word, please, Mr. Cheadle," he said, in a low voice. "I want to see that lady without raising her suspicions. Is she having lunch here?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then my friends and I will lunch here, too. Give me a table where I can get a good look at her."

And for half an hour, in the intervals of trying to masticate the so- called cold beef, we were able to study the woman at our leisure. And it must be admitted that the insult to our digestion was not worth it. Just a distinctly pretty young foreigner having lunch by herself in an English inn—that and nothing more. And yet the clue to so much lay under that tight-fitting little hat.

"Bob, I'm flummoxed," said Ronald, as we left the inn. "Absolutely flummoxed. Why has she come back? What is the connecting link? There must be one. No woman like that is going to stay at the 'Bat and Ball' for fun. But we've got no proof: nothing but two or there apparently unconnected facts. What is the link? Are we being damned stupid, or is it really something that we couldn't know yet?"

And that night I heard him pacing up and down, his room for hours, until at length I fell asleep.