“Back to the Bellevue,” said the fare airily, as he climbed into the vehicle.  The cab had started off into a cross-street, when Phil imagined he heard a shout in the distance.  He looked forth but could see no one in the rushing darkness, The rattle of the cab, the growing roar of the night and toe swish of the rain, which was now falling quite heavily, drowned all other sounds and he leaned back contentedly.

Suddenly the cab came to a stop, loud voices were heard outside and he was about to throw open the door when a heavy body was flung against the side of the vehicle.  The next instant the half-lowered glass in the door was shattered and a voice from the rainy night cried: 

“Don’t resist or you will be shot to pieces.”

“What the dev—­” gasped Quentin, barely able to distinguish the form of a man at the door.  Some strange influence told him that the point of a revolver was almost touching his breast and the word died in his mouth.

“No outcry, Monsieur.  Your valuables without a struggle.  Be quick!  There are many of us.  You have no chance,” came the hard voice, in good English.

“But I have no valuables—­”

“Your diamond ring and your watch, at least, monsieur.  The ring is in your vest pocket.”

“Search me, you scoundrel!  I have no ring, and my watch is in my room.  I’m mighty slim picking for such noted gentlemen as you.  I presume I have the honor of meeting the diamond collectors the town is talking so much about.”  He was now aware of the presence of another man in the opposite window, and there was the same uncanny feeling that a second revolver was levelled at his person.

“Step outside, Monsieur.  It is cruel to force you into the rain, but we assure you it is very refreshing.  It will make you grow.  Whatever you choose to call us we are wet to the skin.  This must not, therefore, be a fruitless job.  Step forth, quickly, and do not resist.”

Quentin hesitated for an instant, and then seeing resistance was useless, boldly set foot upon the curbing.  A flash of lightning revealed four or five men in the group.  One of them had the driver covered with a pistol, and two of them were ready to seize the passenger.  He observed, with amazement, that one of the men was a policeman in full uniform.

“Officer!” he exclaimed.  “Don’t you see what they are doing?”

“O, Monsieur,” said the spokesman, pleasantly, “you may tell the police of Brussels that they cannot hunt us down until they hunt themselves down.  What’s that?  A carriage?  Quick!  Your watch, your ring!”

Far down the street could be seen the lamps of an approaching cab, and Quentin’s heart took a bound.  He had not feared injury, for he was willing to submit to the searching without resistance, but now he thrilled with the excitement of possible conflict.  A second flash in the sky revealed altered conditions in the setting of the tragic scene.  The driver was on his box and the policeman was climbing up beside him.  A short man, masked to the chin, had pushed aside the man with the revolver and a harsh voice cried as the darkness shut out the vivid picture: