Orace had halted just before he came to the open door.

"We better lookaht 'ere," he said.

She was looking round his shoulder as he turned the ray of the torch into the room, and they both saw the emptiness of it and the yawning square hole in the floor just inside the threshold.

Orace heard the girl give a strangled cry that choked in her throat. She would have rushed past him, but he caught and held her, though she fought him like a fury.

"Wyte — in a minnit!" he urged hoarsely.

He kept her back and edged toward the trapdoor, testing the soundness of the floor inch by inch as he advanced. It was not until he had thus satisfied himself about the safety of the footing right up to the edge of the opening that he would allow her to approach it.

They knelt down and turned the light of the torch into the gap. It shot down far into the blackness till it lost itself in space. Higher up they could see that the shaft was circular and lined with green, slimy brick. Evidently they were looking down the remains of a well over which the Old House had been built: Patricia thought she could detect a faint glimmer of reflection of the torch's light from the surface of the water. Orace fetched one of the empty beer bottles from across the room, and they dropped it down the pit. It seemed an eternity before the hollow sound of the splash returned to their ears.

"Bouter nundred feet," Orace guessed, and in this he was approximately right, being no more than sixty feet out.

The girl leaned over and cupped her hands.

"Simon!" she called. "Simon!"

Only the echo answered her.

"Mr. Templar, sir — Orace speakin'," bellowed the man, but it was only his own voice that boomed back out of the darkness in reply,

Patricia's face was bowed in her hands.

"Saint, Saint. . . . Oh, God. ... My darling. ..." The words came brokenly, dazedly. "Dear God, if you can save him now, give me his life!"

Presently she looked at Orace.

"Are you sure he went that way? The other trap didn't catch him.

Orace had been examining the pitfall, and now, by the light of the torch, he pointed to the evidence. A square of the flooring had been cut out with a keyhole saw, leaving only the flimsiest connections at the corners which the weight of a man would destroy at once. The jagged ends of broken wood could be seen at once, and from one of these Orace plucked a shred of tweed and brought it close to the light.

"That there's 'is," he said huskily. "Looks like 'e weren't expectin' if. ..."But don' chew lose 'art, miss — 'e always wuz the luckiest man wot ever stepped. P'raps 'e's as right as ryne, lyin' aht cumfittible somewhere jus' lettin' the Tiger think 'e's a goner an' get keerless, an' orl set ready ter pop up an''ave the larf on'im lyter."

It was not Orace's fault if he did not sound very convincing. His arm went clumsily about her, and drew her gently away and outside the room.

"One thing," he observed in an exaggeratedly commonplace tone, "ther carn't be no Tiger Cubs 'angin' arahnd 'ere naow — the noise we've myde, they'd uv bin buzzin' in like 'ornets be this time, if ther 'ad bin."

"Could we get a rope and go down?" she asked, striving to master her voice.

"I'll git sum men from the village to "avea look," he promised. "Ain't nothink we can do fer 'im fee isdahn there — 'e'd uv gorn howers ago...."

She leaned weakly against the wall, eyes closed and the tears starring on her cheeks, while Orace tried in his rough but kindly manner to console her. She hardly heard a word he said.

The Saint gone? A terrifying emptiness ached her heart. It was horrible to think of. Could a man like him be meant for such an end — to die alone in the unanswering darkness, drowned like a rat? He would have kept afloat for a long time, but if he had been alive and down there then he would have shouted back to them. Perhaps he had struck his head in the fall....

And then, slowly, a change came over her.

There was still that hurtful lump in her throat, and the dead numbness of her heart, but she was no longer trembling. Instead, she found herself cold and quiet. The darkness was speckled with dancing, dizzy splashes of red,...

This was the Tiger's doing — he was the man who had sent Simon Templar to his death. And, with a bitter, dead, icy certainty, Patricia Holm knew that she would never-rest until she had found the Tiger....

"Come along. Miss Patricia," pleaded Orace. "It ain't so bad — we don't know 'e ever went dahn. Lemme tyke yer back, anjer can lie on the bed while I go explorin'; an' as soon's ever I 'ears any-think I'll come an' tell ya."

."No.":

She snapped out the word in a voice that was as clear and strong as a tocsin.

"There ain't nothink — "

"There is," said Patricia. Her hands closed fiercely on Grace's shoulders. "There is. We've got to go on with the job. It's up to us. It's what he'd have wished — he wouldn't have had any patience with our going to weep in our corner and chuck in the towel and let the Tiger get away. If the Saint gave his life to get the Tiger, we can't waste the sacrifice. Orace," she said, "will you carry on with me?”

He only hesitated a moment; then she heard him suck in his breath.

"Yes, Miss Patricia," said Orace. "I guess yer right — we carn't let the Tiger get aw'y wiv it, an' we carn't let Mr. Templar 'ave gorn under fer nuffin. An' fee's gorn, I guess yer must in'erit Orace, miss. I'm on." He paused. "But 'adn't we better get 'old uv Dr. Carn, miss? 'E's a detective, really, Mr. Templar tole me, and 'e's after the Tiger,"

"I suppose so. ... We must hurry!"

They passed through the village, and Patricia set off up the hill at a raking pace, with Orace toiling gamely along just behind.

Carn's cottage was in darkness, and the girl fairly flew to the front door and tugged at the bell furiously. She kept it up for a full minute, but no one answered, though they could hear the metallic clamour reverberating through the house.

"He's away," she said flatly.

The man could see her white face and compressed lips. .

"I remember," he said. " 'E kyme up this afternoon ter warn me an' Mr. Templar that the Tiger was meanin' ter do us in to-night. An' I sore 'im drivin' orf along the Ilfracombe road in the farmer's trap, me eyes bein' rather good.... Carn's fahndart somefing. Wod did 'e wanter go ter Ilfracombe for?"

"If he has found out anything," said the girl swiftly, "he probably went off to call in some reenforcements. Perhaps he found out about the ship coming in tonight. And in that case he'll be back soon."

"Mos' likely," agreed Orace cautiously. "But yer carn't bet on it, yer know."

She bit her lip.

"That's true. We've got to make our arrangements and leave him out. If he arrives, so much the better, I don't know," said Patricia slowly, "that I wouldn't rather find the Tiger before Carn does."

Orace, that simple soul, was amazed at the concentrated savageness of her low, even voice. Women, in his philosophy, did not behave like this. But Patricia had the gift of leadership, and he had ceased to question her authority. He made no comment.

"We must watt till they come in for the gold," she said. "We might as well go back to the Pill Box and have dinner. We shall want all our strength."

Of a sudden the girl had become a remorseless fighting machine. She had fallen into her part as if she had been born and trained for no other purpose. It was not so much that the role fitted her as that she was able to adapt herself to the role. She ruthlessly suppressed her grief, finding that the rush of action took her mind off the awful thought of Simon's fate. She allowed place in her brain for no other thought than that of trapping the Tiger and squaring up the account, and she concentrated on the task with every atom of force she could muster.