were even keener than the men."

"This thing will be a blot on the Twentieth Century!"

"And your house will be the blotting-pad. Have you realized that
half the papers of Europe and the United States will publish
pictures of it? By the way, I've sent some photographs of you and
your sister, that I found in the library, to the MATIN and DIE
WOCHE; I hope you don't mind. Also a sketch of the staircase;
most of the killing will probably be done on the staircase."

The emotions that were surging in J. P. Huddle's brain were almost
too intense to be disclosed in speech, but he managed to gasp out:
"There aren't any Jews in this house."

"Not at present," said Clovis.

"I shall go to the police," shouted Huddle with sudden energy.

"In the shrubbery," said Clovis, "are posted ten men who have
orders to fire on anyone who leaves the house without my signal of
permission. Another armed picquet is in ambush near the front
gate. The Boy-scouts watch the back premises."

At this moment the cheerful hoot of a motor-horn was heard from
the drive. Huddle rushed to the hall door with the feeling of a
man half awakened from a nightmare, and beheld Sir Leon Birberry,
who had driven himself over in his car. "I got your telegram," he
said what's up?"