“Lucy Price,” he repeated.  “The secretary?”

“Yes!  She told me that she had meant to come to you herself.  She sent me instead.  She thought it best.  This man Dunster is being kept alive because there is something Miles wants him to tell him, and he won’t.  But to-night, if he is still alive, if he won’t tell, they mean to make away with him.  They are afraid.”

“Miss Price told you this?” Hamel asked gravely.

Mrs. Fentolin nodded.

“Yes!  She said so.  She knows—­she knows everything.  She has been like the rest of us.  She, too, has suffered.  She, too, has reached the breaking point.  She loved him before the accident.  She has been his slave ever since.  Listen!”

She suddenly clutched his arm.  They were both silent.  There was nothing to be heard but the wind.  She leaned a little closer to him.

“Lucy Price sent me here to-night because she was afraid that it was to-night they meant to take him from his hiding-place and kill him.  The police have left off searching for Mr. Dunster in Yarmouth and at The Hague.  There is a detective in the neighbourhood and another one on his way here.  They are afraid to keep him alive any longer.”

“Where was Mr. Fentolin when you left?” Hamel asked.

“I asked Lucy Price that,” she replied.  “When she came to my room, there were no signs of his leaving.  She told me to come and tell you everything.  Do you know where Mr. Dunster is?”

Hamel shook his head.

“Within a few yards of here,” she went on.  “He is in the boat-house, the place where Miles told you he kept a model of his invention.  They brought him here the night before they put his clothes on Ryan and sent him off disguised as Mr. Dunster, in the car to Yarmouth.”

Hamel started up, but she clutched at his arm and pulled him back.  “No,” she cried, “you can’t break in!  There are double doors and a wonderful lock.  The boat-house is yours; the building is yours.  In the morning you must demand the keys—­if he does not come to-night!”

“And how are we to know,” Hamel asked, “if he comes to-night?”

“Go outside,” she whispered.  “Look towards St. David’s Hall and tell me how many lights you can see.”

He drew back the bolt, unlatched the door, and stepped out into the darkness.  The wind and the driving rain beat against his face.  A cloud of spray enveloped and soaked him.  Like lamps hung in the sky, the lights of St. David’s Hall shone out through the black gulf.  He counted them carefully; then he stepped back.

“There are seven,” he told her, closing the door with an effort.

She counted upon her fingers.

“I must come and see,” she muttered.  “I must be sure.  Help me.”

He lifted her to her feet, and they staggered out together.

“Look!” she went on, gripping his arm.  “You see that row of lights?  If anything happens, if Mr. Fentolin leaves the Hall to-night to come down here, a light will appear on the left in the far corner.  We must watch for that light.  We must watch—­”