The Pit Prop Syndicate. Freeman Wills Crofts

worth listening to. He and Hilliard talked, while Merriman, who was something of a musician, tried over songs with Miss Coburn. Had it not been for an uneasy feeling that they were to some extent playing the part of spies, the evening would have been a delight to the visitors.

      Before they left for the launch it was arranged that they should stay over the following day, lunch with the Coburns, and go for a tramp through the forest in the afternoon. They took their leave with cordial expressions of good will.

      “I say, Merriman,” Hilliard said eagerly as they strolled back through the wood, “did you notice how your sudden appearance upset them both? There can be no further doubt about it, there's something. What it may be I don't know, but there is something.”

      “There's nothing wrong at all events,” Merriman asserted doggedly.

      “Not wrong in the sense you mean, no,” Hilliard agreed quickly, “but wrong for all that. Now that I have met Miss Coburn I can see that your estimate of her was correct. But anyone with half an eye could see also that she is frightened and upset about something. There's something wrong, and she wants a helping hand.”

      “Damn you, Hilliard, how you talk,” Merriman growled with a sudden wave of unreasoning rage. “There's nothing wrong and no need for our meddling. Let us clear out and go on with our trip.”

      Hilliard smiled under cover of darkness.

      “And miss our lunch and excursion with the Coburns to-morrow?” he asked maliciously.

      “You know well enough what I mean,” Merriman answered irritably. “Let's drop this childish tomfoolery about plots and mysteries and try to get reasonably sane again. Here,” he went on fiercely as the other demurred, “I'll tell you what I'll do if you like. I'll have no more suspicions or spying, but I'll ask her if there is anything wrong: say I thought there was from her manner and ask her the direct question. Will that please you?”

      “And get well snubbed for your pains?” Hilliard returned. “You've tried that once already. Why did you not persist in your inquiries about the number plate when she told you about the driver's shell-shock?”

      Merriman was silent for a few moments, then burst out:

      “Well, hang it all, man, what do you suggest?”

      During the evening an idea had occurred to Hilliard and he returned to it now.

      “I'll tell you,” he answered slowly, and instinctively he lowered his voice. “I'll tell you what we must do. We must see their steamer loaded. I've been thinking it over. We must see what, if anything, goes on board that boat beside pit-props.”

      Merriman only grunted in reply, but Hilliard, realizing his condition, was satisfied.

      And Merriman, lying awake that night on the port locker of the Swallow, began himself to realize his condition, and to understand that his whole future life and happiness lay between the dainty hands of Madeleine Coburn.