"It's yourself should have been there," he panted, momentarily releasing my arm in order to mop a red, dripping forehead. His broken collar and caved-in hat suggested a fight: his brogue reminded me that the offer of a golden throne in heaven will not avail to keep an Irishman out of a brawl. "Down Clerkenwell way ut was, the War of the Woild Women. The polis...."

He was settling down to a narrative of epic proportions. The Irish are this world's finest raconteurs as they are its finest fighters, riders and gentlemen. It was an insult, but I could not wait.

"Have they raided the place, Paddy?" I asked.

"They have." His eyes reproached me for my interruption. "The polis...."

"Did they get any one?"

"Am I telling ye or am I not? Answer me that."

"I know, Paddy," I said with all the contrition at my command. "But I've got to go, and I just wanted the main outline...."

"They got Mrs. Millington," he began again, "and she fighting the way ye'd say she'd passed her born days being evicted. There was one had the finger bitten off him and another scratched in the face till the gutters ran blood. Five strong men held her down and stamped out the life of her, and five more dragged her down the road by the hair of her head and droppit her like a swung cat over the railings of the common mortuary. The vultures...."

"Did they get any one else?" I interrupted.

"It's the fine tale ye're spoiling," he complained.

"But just tell me that," I pleaded.

"They did not," he answered with ill-concealed disgust. "Unless ye'd be calling a printer's devil one of God's fine men and women. But the polis...."

I hurried down the steps and jumped into a taxi. I thought first of calling to warn them at Chester Square. Then I decided to communicate by telephone. If Joyce had not already been arrested, and if I was to be of any assistance later on, I could not afford to be discovered in the incriminating neighbourhood of her house.

I gave the Seraph the heads of my story as I looked up the number and waited for my call.

"You're through," the Exchange told me after an interminable delay.

"Hallo, hallo!" I kept calling, for what seemed like half an hour.

"Will you give another ring, please, Exchange?"

A further age dragged its course, and I was told that there did not seem to be any one at the other end.

"Now will you tell me what we're to do, Seraph?" I exclaimed.

We sat and stared at each other for the best part of five minutes.

Then the decision was taken out of our hands. I saw him prick up his ears to catch a sound too faint for my grosser senses.

"Some one coming upstairs," he whispered. "It's a woman, and she's coming slowly. Now she's stopped. Now she's coming on again."

I rose from my chair and tiptoed across the room.

"Can it be Joyce?" I asked, sinking my own voice to a whisper.

"She's going on to the next floor," he answered with a shake of the head; and then with sudden excitement, "Now she's coming back."

"She mustn't ring the bell," I cried, running out into the hall.

"It's all right, there's nobody here but ourselves," he called out as I opened the door and ran out onto the landing.

Ten feet in front of me, leaning back against the banisters, stood Joyce Davenant. One hand covered her eyes and the other was pressed to her heart. She was trembling with fever and panting with the exertion of climbing four flights of stairs. A long fur coat stretched down to bare feet thrust into slippers, her head was covered by a shawl, though the hair fell loosely inside her coat. At the neck I could see the frilled collar of a nightdress.

"Joyce!" I exclaimed.

She uncovered her face and showed eyes preternaturally bright, and white cheeks lit by a single spot of brilliant colour.

"I said I'd come when there was a warrant out," she panted with game, gallant attempt at a smile. Then I caught her in my arms as she fell forward, and carried her as gently as I could inside the flat.

I left it to the Seraph to take off her coat and lay her in his own bed. He did it as tenderly as any woman. Then we went to the far side of the room and held a whispered consultation. I am afraid I could suggest nothing of value, and the credit of our arrangement lies wholly at his door.

"We must get a nurse," he began. "Elsie mustn't be seen coming near the place or the game's up. What about that woman who helped you bring Connie Matheson home from Malta this spring? Can you trust her? Have you got her address? Well, you must see if you can get her to-night.

No, not yet. We want a doctor. Her own man? No! It would give us away at once. Look out Maybury-Reynardson's address in the telephone book, somewhere in Cavendish Square. He's a sportsman; he'll do it if you say it's for me. You must go and see him in person; we don't want the Exchange-girls listening. Anything more? I'll square my man and his wife when they come in. Oh, tell your nurse the condition this poor child's come in; say it's a bachelor establishment and we haven't got a stitch of anything, and can't send to Chester Square for it. Tell her to bring...."

He paused to listen as heavy feet ascended the stairs. The noise was loud enough even for me this time. There was a ring at the door.

"Wine cellar. Locked. Haven't got key," he whispered turning out the light and locking himself inside the room with Joyce.

I opened the front door and found myself faced with the two Roden detectives I had corrupted with bottled beer at Henley.

"Why, this is like old times!" I said. "Have you been able to find any trace of Miss Roden?"

They had not, and I see now that my question was singularly tactless.

They bore no resentment, however, and told me they had called on other business. There was a warrant out against Miss Davenant. She was not to be found at the Clerkenwell printing office, and while Chester Square was being searched, a woman had slipped out of the house by a side door, entered a car and driven away.

"Could you follow her?" I asked, with all the Englishman's love of the chase.

That, it appeared, had been difficult, as the number of the car seemed to have been wilfully obscured.

"That's an offence, isn't it?" I asked.

It was, and the driver--if traced--would find himself in trouble. They had followed a likely-looking car and seen it turn southward out of the Strand. When they reached Adelphi Terrace, however, there was only one car in sight, drawn up outside our door and presenting a creditably clear number-plate. Its driver had vaguely seen another car, but had not particularly noticed it. They called on chance, as this was the only suite with lights in it. Had I seen or heard anything of the car or a woman getting out of it?

"I've only just come in myself," I told them. "Half an hour, to be exact. That was possibly my taxi you saw outside. I didn't notice the number. How long ago did you see your suspected car turn into Adelphi Terrace? Ten minutes? Oh, then I should have seen any one who came up here, shouldn't I? Would you like to look round to make sure?"

The senior man stepped back and glanced up at the name painted over the door.

"It's Mr. Aintree's flat," I explained. "I'm staying with him."

The man hesitated uncertainly.

"I haven't any authority," he began.

"Oh, hang the authority!" I said. "Mr. Aintree wouldn't mind.

Dining-room, wine-cellar, library.... Won't you come in? Not even for a drink? Sure? Well, good-night. Oh, it's no trouble."

Detectives--or such few of them as I have met--remind me of Customs-house officials: if you offer your keys and go out of your way to lay bare your secrets before their eyes, they will in all probability let you through without opening a single trunk. They are perverse as women--and simple as children.