IT was a week after the burglary at Highlawns that a perfectly happy man went whistling to his work. He walked with a brisk step, carrying his lunch in a gaily-coloured handkerchief, with a tin can full of tea for his breakfast. George Mansingham raised his eyes to the sky, which was just turning grey, in thankfulness at his freedom.

Work had been found for him through the medium of Hilary George, at a little farm outside the town. He and his wife had been installed in a tiny cottage on Sir Ralph's estate. To give Sir Ralph his due, he had freely admitted the injustice of the sentence he had passed; if not to the man, at least to himself, which was something; and it needed little pleading on the part of Hilary George, who had taken an interest in the case, to induce him to let his untenanted cottage to the man he had wronged.

Early as the hour was, he found his employer and his son up and about. There is much work to be done before the sun comes up over the edge of the world. There are horses to be fed and groomed, sheep and cattle that require attention, cows to be milked, and milk to be carried.

The sky grew lighter, the sun came up, it seemed to him with a rush, but he was too busy to notice the progress of the time. At half-past eight nature called him to breakfast. He sat down to his frugal meal, first placing two nosebags on the heads of the horses, for he was now engaged in ploughing the ten-acre lot Farmer Wensell farmed. His meal quickly disposed of, he pulled a bulky book from the inside of his jacket pocket and began to read. He had a passion for self-education, and at the moment Merejowski's Forerunner, which Marjorie had lent him, had a special significance, not only for him, but for the whole of England. He was so intent upon the pages of this wonderful romance that he did not notice the girl who was crossing the field with such free strides.

He heard his name called and looked up; then he sprang to his feet, hat in hand.

"You're very absorbed, Mansingham," smiled Marjorie.

"Yes, miss," said the other, "it's a wonderful book, and he's a wonderful man. I'm not surprised all the world's talking about him just now."

"It's not because of his genius that they are speaking of him," said the girl, gravely.

She carried a paper under her arm; in fact she had been down to Burboro' Station to get the journal.

"It's a terrible business, miss," said the man. He put the book down. "It doesn't seem possible, in a civilized age, and in a country like England. Is there any fresh news this morning, miss?"

She nodded gravely.

"The 'Red Hand' have addressed the Premier," she said, "and they have demanded ten million pounds, an act of indemnity passed by the House of Commons, and freedom to leave the country."

The man looked incredulous.

"Why, they'll never get that, will they, miss?" he asked. "It's against all reason, a demand like that! Suppose it's not true, suppose they haven't discovered this plague — "

She shook her head.

"There's no doubt about it, Mansingham," she said. "Mr. Gallinford knows it to be true. He has been investigating, looking up old documents relating to the plague of 1500. These men have it in their power to decimate the whole of England."

The subject they were discussing filled the minds of men throughout Great Britain that day; nay, throughout Europe. Wherever civilized people foregathered, the cable and the telegraph had carried the news of the threat which overhung the country. It was the final demand of the "Red Hand," a demand which at first had been pooh-poohed, and had been discussed by Government officials as a problem which called for immediate solution.

The "Red Hand" had acted swiftly. Three days after the locket had disappeared from Burboro' a startling proclamation of the "Red Hand," printed in blood-red characters, had covered the hoardings and the walls of London. Then it was for the first time that England woke to a realization of the terrible danger which threatened her. It was incomprehensible, unbelievable. It was almost fantastic. Men who read it smiled helplessly as though they were reading something which was beyond their understanding. And yet the proclamation was clear enough. It ran: —

To the People of London.

We, the Directors of the "Red Hand," demand of the English Government —

(a) The sum of Ten Million Pounds.

( b) An act of indemnity releasing every member of the Fraternity from all and every penalty to which he may be liable as a result of his past actions.

(c) A safe conduct to each and every Member of the "Red Hand," and facilities, if so required, for leaving the country.

In the event of the Government's refusing, after ten days' grace, we, the Directors of the "Red Hand," will spread in London the Plague which was known as the Fourth Plague, and which destroyed six hundred thousand people in the year 1500. The bacillus of that plague is in our possession and has been synthetically prepared and tested.

Citizens! Bring pressure on your Government to accede to our demands, and save us the necessity for inflicting this terrible disease upon you!

It bore no signature or seal. It was absurd, of course. Evening papers, necessarily hurried and having little time to analyse its true meaning, made fun of it. But a different note appeared in the comments of the morning papers. Every known scientist and doctor of note who was reachable had been interviewed, and they one and all agreed that there was more than an idle threat in the pronouncement.

The papers called it variously, "The Terror," "The Threat of the 'Red Hand,'" "Blackmailing London," and their columns were filled with every available piece of data concerning the terrible scourge which had swept through Italy and Ireland in the year of desolation.

"It's a terrible business," said Mansingham again. "I am afraid there is something in it."

The girl nodded.

With a courtesy which is not usually found in men of his class, he accompanied her to the end of the field, and assisted her across the rough stile leading on to the road. She had made a detour from the little station to speak to Mansingham. She was interested in him, and it was a pact between the barrister and herself that she should keep, as he put it, a friendly eye upon his protégé.

It was a glorious morning; the world was flooded with the lemon sunlight of early spring. The trees were bright with vivid green, and primroses and wild violets flowered profusely by the hedgerows. She shook away the gloom and depression to which the thought of this terrible menace had subjected her, and stepped out briskly, humming a little tune.

Half-way across the field, Mansingham, retracing his steps, picked up one of the papers she had been carrying, and hurried after her.

She had a twenty minutes' walk before she reached Highlawns, which stood some quarter of a mile from the town's limits, but she was of an age, and it was such a morning, when one's feet seem to move without effort, and song comes unbidden to the lips.

She heard the whirl of a motor-car behind her, and moved closer to the hedge to allow it to pass. Unconsciously she turned to see who was the occupant. At that moment the car jarred itself to a standstill at her side. A young man, dressed from head to foot in a white linen dust-coat, sprang out.

"Count Festini!" she cried in amazement.

"Count Festini," he repeated, with his most charming smile. "I wanted to see you, won't you get in? I am going up to the house?" he said.

She hesitated. She would much rather have walked that morning. But it would have been an act of rudeness to have refused his offer of a lift, and besides, it occurred to her that she was already overdue for breakfast, and Sir Ralph's temper of late had not been of the best.

She stepped into the car, and at that moment Mansingham, a little out of breath, broke through the hedge behind it.

"What a curious idea," Marjorie said, as Festini took his place beside her.

"What is a curious idea?" he asked.

"A closed car on a day like this," she said. "Why, I thought you Italians loved the sun."

"We love the sun," he said, "untempered by such winds as you seem to produce exclusively in England."

He stepped forward and pulled down a red blind which hid the chauffeur and the road ahead from view. She watched him without understanding the necessity for his act. Then with a quick move he pulled the blinds down on each side of the car. It was now moving forward at a great pace. At this rate, she felt, they must be very near indeed to Highlawns. They had, in fact, passed the house, as the embarrassed Mansingham, clinging to the back of the car and waiting for it to slow up so that he could restore the girl's paper, saw to his bewilderment.

"Why do you do that?" the girl asked coldly. "If you please, Count Festini, let those blinds up."

"In a little while," he said.

"I insist," she stamped her foot. "You have no right to do such a thing."

She was hot and angry in a moment as the full realization of his offence came to her.

"In a moment," he repeated; "for the present we will have the blinds down, if you don't mind."

She stared at him in amazement.

"Are you mad?" she asked, angrily.

"You look very pretty when you're angry," he smiled.

The insolent assurance in his tone made her feel a sudden giddiness. They must have passed Highlawns by now.

"Stop the car," she demanded.

"The car will stop later," he said; "in the meantime," he caught her hand as she attempted to release the blind, "in the meantime," he repeated, holding her wrist tightly, "you will be pleased to consider yourself my prisoner."

"Your prisoner!" exclaimed the affrighted girl. Her face had gone very white.

"My prisoner," said Festini, pleasantly. "I am particularly desirous of holding you to ransom. Don't you realize," his eyes were blazing with excitement, "don't you realize," he cried, "what you are to me? I do. In these last few days," he went on, speaking rapidly, "I have seen all the wealth that any man could desire. And it is nothing to me. Do you know why? Because there is one thing in the world that I want more than anything, and you are that thing."

Both his hands were holding her now. She could not move.. She was as much fascinated by his deadly earnestness as paralysed by the grip on her arms.

"I desire you," he said. His voice dropped until it thrilled. "You, more than anything in the world — Marjorie. You are unattainable one way; I must secure you in another."

The girl shrank back into a corner of the car, watching the man, fascinated. She tried to scream, but no sound came. Festini watched her, his eyes glowing with the fire of his passion. His hot hand was closed over hers almost convulsively.

"Do you know what I'm doing!" he said, speaking rapidly, "do you know what I'm risking for you? Can't you realize that I am imparting a new danger to myself and to my organization by this act? But I want you; I want you more than anything in the world," he said passionately.

She found her voice.

"You are mad," she said, "you are wickedly mad."

He nodded.

"What you say is true," he answered moodily, "yet in my madness I am obeying the same laws which govern humanity. Something here," he struck his breast, "tells me that you are the one woman for me. That is an instinct which I obey. Is it mad? Then we are all mad; all animated creation is mad."

The fierce joy of possession overcame him; she struggled and screamed, but the whir of the engine drowned her voice. In a moment she was in his arms, held tightly to him, his hot lips against her cheeks. He must have caught a glimpse of the loathing and horror in her face, for of a sudden he released her, and she shrank back, pale and shaking.

"I'm sorry," he said, huskily, "you — you say I am mad — you make me mad."

His moods changed as swiftly as the April sky. Now he was pleading; all the arguments he could muster he advanced. He was almost cheerful, he swore he would release her, reached out his hand to signal the driver, and repented his generosity.

Then he spoke quickly and savagely of the fate which would be hers if she resisted him. It was the memory of that tall, handsome lover of hers that roused him to this fury. He was as exhausted as she when the car turned from the main road, as she judged by the jolting of the wheels. After ten minutes' run, it slowed down and finally stopped.

He jumped up, opened the carriage door and sprang out, then turned to assist her. A cold, sweet wind greeted her, a wind charged with the scent of brine. She stood upon a rolling down, within a hundred yards the sea stretched greyly to the horizon. There was no house in sight save one small cottage. About the cottage stood two or three men. She uttered a cry of thankfulness and started off towards them, when a laugh from Festini stopped her.

"I'll introduce you myself," he said sarcastically.

She turned to run towards the sea, but in two strides he was up to her and had caught her by the arm. Then a huge hand gripped his neck, with a quick jerk he was spun round. His eyes blazing with anger, he turned upon his assailant. George Mansingham, tall and broad, grimed with the dust of the road, for he had maintained an uncomfortable position hanging on to the back of the car for two hours, met the vicious charge of Festini with one long, swinging blow, and the Italian went down to the ground stunned.

The girl was dazed by the suddenness of the rescue, until Mansingham aroused her to action.

"This way, miss!" he said.

He caught her unceremoniously round the waist, swung her up as if she were a child, and leapt across a ditch which drained this section of the downs.

"Run!" he whispered. He too had seen the men and guessed they were in the confederacy. The girl gathered up all her reserve of strength and ran like the wind, Mansingham loping easily at her side.

The wind carried the voices of their pursuers. One staccato shot rang out, a bullet whistled past them, then some one in authority must have given the order to stop firing. And indeed it was more dangerous for the men than for the fugitives.

There was a coastguard station half a mile along the cliff road, and, although neither the girl nor Mansingham realized the fact, they instinctively felt that the coastline offered the best means of escape. Then suddenly Marjorie tripped and fell. Mansingham stopped in his stride and turned to lift her. As he raised her to her feet he uttered an exclamation of despair.

Facing him were two men, indubitably Italians, and their revolvers covered him. He had come against the "Red Hand" outpost.

It was all over in ten minutes. The pursuers came up, the girl was snatched from his protecting arms. He fought well; man after man fell before his huge fists. Then a knife, deftly thrown, struck him by the haft full between the eyes and he went down like a log.

Festini, breathless, his face marred by an ugly redness which was fast developing into a bruise, directed operations.

"If you make a sound," he said, "or attempt to attract the attention of any person you see, you will have that person's death on your hands, and probably your own."

He spoke curtly, impersonally, as though she herself were Mansingham.

"Do not hurt him," she gasped. She referred to the prostrate form of the farm-labourer, now stirring to life. Festini made no answer. He was of a race which did not readily forgive a blow.

"Take her away," he said.

He remained behind with his two familiars. "I think we will cut his throat, Signor," said Il Bue, "and that will be an end to him."

"And an end to us," said Festini; "this coast is patrolled, the man will be found, and the whole coastline searched."

He walked a dozen paces to the edge of the cliff and looked down. There was a sheer fall here of two hundred feet, and the tide was in.

"There is twenty feet of water here," he said, significantly.

They carried the reviving man by the head and feet to the edge of the cliff. They swung him twice and then released their hold, his arms and legs outstretched like a starfish. Round and round he twirled in that brief space of time, Festini and the other watching. Then the water splashed whitely and the dark figure disappeared.

They waited a little while, there was no reappearance, and Festini and his lieutenant retraced their footsteps to the cottage, the third man following.