Geoffrey was lying perdu among the gorse on the cliff uplands. He had a field glass and a rook rifle by his side, for he was waiting for a rabbit. Also he had stolen out here to think over the many matters that puzzled him.

He was slightly disturbed and, on the whole, not altogether well pleased. Why had his uncle and the mysterious Tchigorsky taken him so far into their confidence and then failed him at the critical moment? He was prepared to take his share of the danger; indeed he had already done so and had proved his steel.

And was not Marion equally mysterious? True, he might have got more out of her, but had refrained from motives of delicacy. Perhaps, after all, his elders knew best. A word slipped, a suspicious glance, might spoil everything.

Then Geoffrey looked up suddenly. Some two hundred yards away he saw a rabbit lopping along in his direction. At the same instant two figures came along the cliff. They were ladies and the sight of them astonished Geoffrey, for it was not usual to see anything more modern than a shepherd or a dog at this wild spot.

The figures paused. They were picked out clear against the sky line as Geoffrey lay there. He recognized one of them. Surely the tall lady, with the easy, swinging carriage and supple grace, could be none other than Mrs. May.

Geoffrey arranged his glasses. They were powerful binoculars, and through them he could see Mrs. May's features quite plainly. He looked through them again long and earnestly. And her companion was Marion!

Just for an instant Geoffrey doubted the evidence of his senses. He wiped the glasses with his handkerchief and looked through them long and earnestly. No doubt could any longer be entertained.

It was Marion – Marion who had declared that she had never spoken to the woman – Marion, who hated the sight of her. And here she was, walking along with Mrs. May as if they were something more than friends.

Yes, it was Marion beyond a doubt. She had discarded her white dress for one of blue; her sailor hat was replaced by a red tam-o'-shanter. All the same, it was not possible to mistake the graceful figure. Even without the glasses Geoffrey would have been prepared to swear to her.

He lay low under the bushes. The two were coming in his direction. Geoffrey did not want to listen, but something forced him there, some power he could not resist. Nearer and nearer they came, until Geoffrey could hear Mrs. May's voice.

"That is impossible, my dear Zazel," she said. "But you are safe."

"I am not so sure of that," was the reply. "And I'm only a pawn in the game."

It was Marion's voice; the same, yet not the same. It was a hoarse, strained voice, like the voice of a man who smokes to excess. Certainly Geoffrey was not prepared to swear to those as the tones of Marion.

"Absurd, Zazel. Of course you know that we are all in it together. And look at the glorious reward when our task is over. We must succeed ultimately, there is no doubt about that in spite of Tchigorsky. It is only a question of time. Am I to believe that you are not going to be true to your oath?"

"I shall not forget my oath. Can the leopard change his spots? But I am getting so tired of it all. I should like to end it at one swoop. If you can do that – "

"I have just shown you how it is possible."

"There is sense in that suggestion. And it is so artistic. It would be quoted in the scientific papers and various ingenious theories would be put forth. But some might escape."

"One, or two perhaps at the outside. Let them. Nobody could suspect us over that. And I have the bees safely in my possession."

Geoffrey heard no more. The figures passed by him and then repassed in the direction whence they came.

No sooner were they out of sight than Geoffrey rose to his feet. He felt that he must ascertain at once whether that girl was Marion or not. The face was hers, the figure hers, but that voice – never!

He would find out, he would know, he would —

Then he paused. He came over the knoll of the irregular cliff and there strolling towards him in her white dress and straw hat was Marion. She was gathering gorse and did not see him until he was close upon her. The pause gave Geoffrey time to recover from his absolute amazement.

So that creature had not been Marion after all. A deep sigh of thankfulness rose to his lips. The sense of relief was almost painful.

By the time that Marion became conscious of his presence he had recovered his presence of mind. Marion plainly could know nothing about her double and he was not going to tell her.

"I heard you were here, Geoff," she said. "Jessop told me so just now. Are you going home?" Geoffrey nodded; he had no words for the present. "It is so lovely," Marion went on. "I am quite proud of my courage in coming alone. Do you see anything else here?"

"Nothing but rabbits," Geoffrey replied, "and few of them to-day. You are the only human being I have seen since I started."

Then they walked home chattering gayly together. Geoffrey felt his suspicions falling away from him one by one; indeed he was feeling somewhat ashamed of himself. To doubt Marion on any ground was ridiculous; to doubt the evidence of his own senses was more absurd still. Thank God he had met Marion.

All the same there were things to tell Ralph Ravenspur. He, at any rate, must know all that had been heard that morning. Ralph was seated in his room with his everlasting pipe in his mouth, much as if he had not moved since breakfast.

"I have news for you, uncle," Geoffrey said as he entered the room.

"Of course you have, my boy. I knew that directly I heard your step on the stair. I hope you have stumbled on something of importance."

"Well, that is for you to say. I saw Mrs. May. She came quite close to me on the cliffs. She had a companion. When I looked through my glasses I saw it was Marion."

Ralph did not start. He merely smiled.

"Not our Marion," he said. "Not our dear little girl."

"Of course not. Singular that you should have our love of and faith in Marion when you have never seen her. I had my glasses and I could have sworn it was Marion. Then they came close enough for me to hear them speak, and I knew that I was mistaken. It was not Marion's voice. Besides, I met the real Marion a few minutes later dressed in her white dress and hat."

"So that is settled. What did the other girl wear?"

"A loose blue dress. A serge, I should say."

"And her hat?"

"A Scottish thing – what they call a tam-o'-shanter."

"So that acquits our Marion. She couldn't be in two places at once; she couldn't even wear two dresses at the same time. And our Marion's voice is the music of the sphere – the sweetest in the whole world. But the face was the same."

"The likeness was paralyzing. What do you make of it, uncle?"

Ralph smiled dryly.

"I make a good deal of it," he replied. "Let us not jump to conclusions, however. Did you hear anything they were saying?"

"Of course I did. Mrs. May was urging her companion to do something. She was pointing out how rich the reward would be. It was something, I fancy, that had a deal to do with us."

"I shouldn't be surprised," Ralph said grimly. "Go on."

"Something artistic that would be commented on in the scientific papers, a thing that would not lead to suspicion."

"Yes, yes. Did you manage to get a clue to what it was?"

"I'm afraid not. Mrs. May made one remark that was an enigma to me. She said that she had the bees safely in her possession."

A queer sound came from Ralph's lips; his face glared with a strange light.

"You have done well," he said. "Oh, you have done well indeed."

And for the time not another word would he utter.

CHAPTER XXV
GEOFFREY IS PUZZLED

It was a long time before Ralph Ravenspur spoke again. He remained so quiet that Geoffrey began to imagine that his existence had been forgotten. He ventured to lay a hand on his uncle's knee.

The latter started like one who sleeps uneasily under the weight of a haunting fear.

"Oh, of course," he said. "I had forgotten you; I had forgotten everything. And yet you brought me news of the greatest importance."

"Indeed, uncle. What was it?"

"That you shall know speedily. The danger had not occurred to me for the moment. And yet all the time it has been under my nose."

"Still, you might easily be forgiven for not seeing – "

"Seeing has nothing to do with it. And there is nothing the matter with my hearing. The danger has been humming in my ears for days and I never heard it. Now it is roaring like Niagara. But, please God, we shall avert the danger."

"You might take me into your confidence, in this matter, uncle."

"That I shall before a day has passed, but not for the moment. We are face to face now with the most dangerous crisis that has yet occurred. The enemy can strike us down one by one, and nobody shall dream that there is anything beyond a series of painfully sudden deaths. Failure of the heart's action the doctors would call it. That is all."

At that moment Tchigorsky returned to the room. No longer was he in the disguise of an Indian. Perhaps he had donned it to surprise Geoffrey; perhaps he was just discarding the disguise after putting it to some practical use. To him Ralph repeated all that Geoffrey had said.

He followed with the most rapt and most careful attention.

"Danger, indeed," he said gravely, "the danger that moves unseen on the air, and strikes from out of nothingness. I prophesied something like this, Ralph."

"Ay, my friend," Ralph replied, "you did. But not quite the same way."

"Because I did not know that fortune had placed the medium so close at hand. Where are the bees?"

Geoffrey was listening intently. Up to now he had failed to understand why his story had moved Ralph so profoundly. And what could the bees have to do with it? Yet Mrs. May had mentioned bees.

"They are in two hives outside the morning-room window," said Ralph. "The bees are Vera's pets, and they thrive for the most part along the flower borders of the terrace. They are ordinary bees."

"In the ordinary bar-frame hives of course?"

"Oh, yes, they are quite up to date. You can see the insects working and all that kind of thing. The hives can be moved."

"I suppose they are a nuisance occasionally?" Tchigorsky asked.

"Yes," Geoffrey smiled. "We have all been stung now and again."

Tchigorsky appeared to be satisfied on that head. He smoked a whole cigarette while he revolved a plan in his mind.

"It is necessary to get the whole family out of the way for a time," he said slowly. "It will be necessary to do so without delay. Unless I am greatly mistaken, the mischief has already been done. Ralph, can you induce your father and the whole family to go away for a time – say till after dark?"

"Perhaps," Ralph replied. "But not without explaining, and it is impossible to do that. But Geoffrey might manage it. Unless he does manage it one or more of us will pay the penalty before daybreak."

"I will do anything you desire," Geoffrey cried eagerly.

"Then go to your grandfather and get him to arrange a picnic over to Alton Keep. It is a perfect day, and it will be possible to remain out till dark, returning to a late supper. I know the suggestion sounds absurd – childish in the circumstances – but it will have to be done. Say that there is a great danger in the castle which has to be removed. Say that nobody is to know anything about it. Go."

Geoffrey went at once. He found the head of the family in the library trying to interest himself in a book. He looked up as Geoffrey entered, and a slight smile came over his worn face. There were two people in the house who could do anything with him – Geoffrey and Vera.

"You look as if you wanted something," he said.

"I do," Geoffrey replied. "I want you to do me a great favor."

"It is granted – granted on the principle that we make the last hours of the condemned criminal as comfortable as possible."

"Then I want you to get up a picnic to-day."

Rupert Ravenspur dropped his glasses on the table. He wondered if this was some new kind of danger, a mysterious form of insanity, brought about by the common enemy.

"I am perfectly serious," Geoffrey said, with a smile. "Not that it is any laughing matter. Dear grandfather, there is a great danger in the house. I don't know what it is, but Uncle Ralph knows, and he has never been wrong yet. It was he who found out all about those dreadful flowers. And he wants the house cleared till dark. Unless we do so, the morning will assuredly see the end of one or more of us."

"Is it a painless death?" the old man asked grimly. "If it is, I prefer to remain here."

"But there is always hope," Geoffrey pleaded. "And you always thinks of us. Won't you do this thing? Won't you say that it is a sudden whim of yours? Mind, everybody is to go, everybody but Uncle Ralph. I shall ride and when I have ridden some distance I shall pretend to have forgotten something. Perhaps you deem me unduly foolish. But I implore you to do this thing."

Rupert Ravenspur hesitated no longer. He always found it hard to resist that young smiling handsome face. Not that he was blind to the folly of the proceedings. On his own initiative he would as soon have danced a hornpipe in the hall.

"I will go and see about it at once," he said.

He had put off his somber air, and assumed a kind of ill-fitting gayety. Gordon Ravenspur and his wife received the suggestion with becoming resignation. To them it was the first signs of a mind breaking down under an intolerable strain. Vera and Marion professed themselves to be delighted.

"It sounds odd," said the latter. "Fancy the doomed and fated Ravenspurs going on a picnic! And fancy the suggestion, too, coming from grandfather!"

Vera looked anxious.

"You don't imagine," she said, "that his mind – "

"Oh, his mind is all right. You can see that from his face. But I expect that the strain is telling on him, and that he wants to get out of himself for a time. Personally, I regard the idea as charming."

The preparations were made, no great matter in so large and well-regulated an establishment as Ravenspur Castle. If the servants were astonished, they said nothing. The stolid coachman sat solemnly on the box of the wagonette; the demure footman touched his hat as he put up the step with the air of a man who is accustomed to do this sort of thing every day.

Geoffrey stood under the big portico and waved his hand.

"You should drive with us," Marion cried.

"And you won't be long?" Vera asked.

"Oh, I am duly impressed with the importance of the occasion," Geoffrey laughed. "My horse will get there almost as soon as you arrive. Call the spaniel."

Tut, the pet spaniel, was called, but no response was made, and finally the party drove off without him. Geoffrey watched the wagonette with a strange sense of unreality upon him. He felt that he could have scoffed at a situation like this in the pages of a novel. And yet it is the truth that is always so improbable.

Our most solemn and most trivial thoughts always run along the grooves of the mind together, and as Geoffrey passed round the house he caught himself wondering where the dog was. He whistled again and again. It was a most unusual thing for Tut to be far from the family. Outside the morning room window the dog lay as if fast asleep.

"Get up, your lazy beast," Geoffrey cried; "after them, sir."

But the dog did not move; he made no sign as Geoffrey cuffed him with the side of his foot. The dog was dead.

He lay still and placid; there was no sign of pain. There was nothing about the carcass to suggest poison. Close by the bees were busy among the flowers. In the hives there seemed to be more noise than usual. Geoffrey opened the windows of the morning-room, leaving the casement flung back behind him. A long claw was put forth to shut it.

"The window must be kept closed," Ralph Ravenspur said quietly. "In fact, I have given orders that every window in the house is to be closed. Why, you will see presently. Did you notice anything as you came along?"

"I was too excited," Geoffrey replied. "I have just found poor Tut outside. The dog has died suddenly. Half an hour ago he was perfectly well, young, full of life and vigor. And now he is dead."

"Lies just outside the window, doesn't he?" Ralph asked.

He seemed to speak callously. A man who had passed through his experiences and emotions was not likely to feel for the loss of a dog. And yet there was intense curiosity in his tone.

"Just outside; close to the hives."

"Ah, yes. He was poisoned, you think?"

"I expect so. And yet where could he get the poison? Nobody comes here. Perhaps it was not poison after all."

A thin smile flickered on Ralph's face.

"Yes, it was," he said; "the dog was poisoned by a bee sting."

CHAPTER XXVI
GEOFFREY BEGINS TO UNDERSTAND

Geoffrey had no words for a time. Slowly the hideousness of the plot was beginning to beat in upon him. Mrs. May had mentioned bees to her mysterious companion, who had so remarkable a likeness to Marion, and by a strange chance Ralph Ravenspur had the same morning, at breakfast, mentioned a certain Asiatic bee, whose poison and whose honey were fatal to human life.

"Ah," said Geoffrey slowly, "the bees Mrs. May mentioned."

"Precisely, my boy. And the bees that I mentioned also. Tchigorsky found the dog but a minute or two ago. He slipped downstairs with me the minute we heard the wagonette drive away. He was very anxious to see the hives. Directly he caught sight of Tut lying there he knew what had happened. He has gone to my room for something. When he comes back he will have something to show you."

Tchigorsky entered the room a moment later. He had in his hand a small cardboard box with a glass lid. Inside something was buzzing angrily. It was an insect, the wings of which moved so rapidly that they seemed to scream, as a house fly does when the falces of a spider close upon him.

"Have a good look at it," Tchigorsky said curtly.

"Is it dangerous?" Geoffrey asked.

"One of the most deadly of winged insects," the Russian said. "It is a black bee from the forests near Lassa. There is a larger variety, whose sting produces the most horrible sufferings and death. This sort injects a poison which stops the action of the heart like prussic acid, but without the rigidity caused by that poison. The Lassa black bee invades other bees' nests and preys on their honey. They frighten the other bees, which make no attempt to drive them out, but go on working as usual. Then gradually the whole hive gets impregnated with that poison, and an ordinary brown bee becomes as dangerous as a black one. This is the bee that killed your dog."

"Then the hives are already impregnated," Geoffrey cried.

"Precisely. Half a dozen of these black bees have been introduced into the hives. Now, do you begin to understand the malignity of the plot? Your dog was not dead when, with my net, I caught this fellow – I expected to catch him."

"And ran great risk in doing so."

"Of course. It was a recreation compared with some of the risks I have run."

"You are right there," Ralph said in his deep, croaking tones. "Look at the thing, Geoffrey."

With a shudder Geoffrey took the box in his hand. There was nothing formidable about the insect under the glass lid. It had more anger and fury, more "devil" than the ordinary bee, but it was very little larger, of a deep, lustrous black, with orange eyes and purple gauzy wings. There was nothing weird about it.

"Was it imported for the purpose?" Geoffrey asked.

"Undoubtedly," Ralph replied. "Imported by the woman who calls herself Mrs. May. Before she came over to England she must have had this house described to her with the greatest minuteness. Otherwise she could not have so many instruments ready to her hand; she would never have thought of these bees, for instance.

"If this scheme had not been discovered everybody in the house would have been stung before long, and every one assuredly would have died. Those black bees are exceedingly fierce, and do not hesitate to attack everybody and everything. Their sting is so sharp and so minute that it leaves no mark and no pain. Half an hour passes, and then the victim falls down and dies."

Geoffrey regarded the specimen with new interest. He eyed it up and down as if examining a cobra through the glass sides of its prison house. Tchigorsky took the box and flattened the lid down until the insect within was no more than a red smash on the glass. A little later and the thing was pitched over the cliffs into the sea.

"It is a dreadful business," Geoffrey said. "And, indeed, it seems almost hopeless to try to combat foes so ruthless, so resourceful, and so daring as ours. No sooner are we out of one horror than we are into another."

"While life lasts there is always hope," said Tchigorsky.

"That's true," said Geoffrey, more cheerfully. "At any rate we can avert the danger now. But how are we going to get rid of those things?"

"We are going to catch them," said Tchigorsky grimly. "We shall have to destroy all the other bees, I am afraid, and we shall be compelled to let Miss Vera draw her own conclusions as to the cause of the mischief."

"And the honey, Mr. Tchigorsky?"

"Oh, the honey will be all right. That hasn't been stung, you know. I have tasted honey from a nest which the black bees have invaded, and have been none the worse for it. We had better surmise that for some inscrutable reason the bees have deserted their quarters. And we shall propose to know nothing at all about the matter. I flatter myself we shall puzzle the enemy as completely as our friends."

The matter was discussed in all its bearings until the light began to fail and the glow faded gradually from out of the sky.

Then, after locking the inner door of the morning room, Ralph produced two large gauze frames, some matches, and powdered sulphur. This, with a small bellows, completed the stock in trade.

Tchigorsky immediately set about his task in a workmanlike manner. The bees were all in the two hives by this time. Over the hole in front of each a square of muslin was fastened, a pile of sulphur in front was lighted, and the fumes were gently wafted into the hole with the aid of the pair of miniature bellows.

There was an angry murmur from within, the murmur of droning insects, then the quick scream of churning wings. The little strip of muslin was strained by alarmed and infuriated bees striving to escape. But not for long. Gradually the noise died down, and Tchigorsky signed to Geoffrey to help him carry the hive into the house.

There it was deposited on a table and the top lifted off. Instantly the gauze frame was placed over it, and with a brush Tchigorsky swept out the stagnant insects into a glass-topped box provided for the purpose. On the whole, there was not much danger, but it was just as well to be on the safe side.

"Not one left," said Tchigorsky, after he had made a careful investigation. "But it's quite as well to be certain. I've put those insects into the box, but I don't fancy that any of them will revive. Now for the other one."

The other hive was treated in similar fashion. There was no hitch and finally the frame was replaced as if nothing had happened, with the exception that the tiny occupants were no more. In the glass boxes, among the piles of dead bees, Geoffrey could see here and there the form of a black insect. From his coat pocket Tchigorsky produced some long, thin strips of lead, which he proceeded to wind round the boxes containing the bees.

"There," he exclaimed, "that job is done at last, and a nasty one it has been. To prevent any further mischief I'll just step across the terrace and throw these over into the sea. He moved off into the darkness, and as he did so there came the sound of a fresh young voice that startled Geoffrey and Ralph as if they had been criminals caught red-handed in some crime.

"Geoffrey, Geoffrey, where are you?" the voice cried.

Ralph stepped across and closed the window as Vera entered. It was quite dark outside, and Ralph hoped that Tchigorsky would see without being seen. Vera flashed a look of gentle reproach at her lover.

"How can you look me in the face after the way in which you have treated me?" she asked. "This is the first day's pleasure we have had for years, and you – "

"Did not care to leave Uncle Ralph," Geoffrey said. "He seemed so lonely that I felt I could not let him remain like this."

"Geoffrey is a good fellow," Ralph muttered.

Vera bent and kissed Geoffrey fondly. She smiled without any show of anger.

"I forgive him," she said. "Still, I did miss him. Where are you going, dear?"

"Across the terrace," Geoffrey replied. "I'll be in to supper directly. It's all ready, and there is Marion calling you. I'm coming."

Tchigorsky had crept to the window. He caught Geoffrey's eye and waved to him vigorously. It was a sign that he wanted assistance at once.