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I was as quick as I could be in writing out the wire to be sent to Wiggins' office, alerting the young detective to the changed circumstances. I was sure that some of his watchers must have seen me board the train, and even if I wasn't known to any of them personally my description must have alerted their employer as to the identity of the civilian seen stepping onto the Guard's van. Thereafter Wiggins would certainly have remustered his forces at his offices, ready to respond as soon as possible to any message from me.

That was on the positive side of things. On the negative side, no help could possibly arrive for at least two hours, and, even worse, I had seen no reason to bring my old service revolver with me on a mere sight seeing trip. Oh well, in life as in medicine, one problem at a time. The problem at that moment was to form my letters legibly as I stood at the van's writing stand bracing myself against the swaying floor of the vehicle. It was difficult to judge its speed with only four small windows to look out of but I was sure we must have been travelling at quite fifty miles an hour.

I blotted the telegram, put in the Guard's pen back in the inkwell and gave him the paper and a sovereign for transmission costs: "As quickly as possible with this to the cable office please, Mr Protheroe, on your return to Euston."

"Of course, Doctor Watson." His eyes were more careful than ever. "But look here, Doctor, if you're really convinced there's some wrong doing going on, perhaps you should tell me about it. After all, a man of your reputation and contacts isn't just an ordinary member of the public. I could order the driver to stop at Hathaway and then summon a member of the railway constabularly. If you feel that such action is necessary."

I reflected on his suggestion and then again. For two pins I would have done as Protheroe suggested. The only reasons I didn't was because I knew how much Maude wanted a chance to recover her racket and, far more importantly to my mind, the scandal which would surely sully her reputation if this matter were ever became public knowledge.

"No, thankee, Mr Protheroe. I need to follow this scent but it's not yet time to shout tallyho. What happens when we get to Halton Manor?"

"The siding is on a slight downgrade there, so we'll fly shunt. Half a mile away I'll put a touch of brakes on the van, the fireman will climb down and uncouple the coach from the engine, the engine will pull ahead and set the fireman down to throw over the points into Halton Manor and remove the derailer. He'll give me the all clear hand signal and coach and van will roll into the siding with my hands on the brake handle to control the speed. I'll bring us to a stand beside the old factory loading platform, apply the brakes on the coach and scotch the wheels, uncouple the van and then the engine will come in behind us, pick up the van and take it back to Euston after I've reset and padlocked the main line points for the straight again."

"I see..."

Well, to be truthful, I thought I had a general idea of what the Guard was talking about.

"So if I wanted to get off without anybody in the coach seeing me, what would you suggest?"

Mr Protheroe tugged at his mutton chop whiskers as he considered. "Well, Doctor, as I remember that siding, the platform comes to a dead stop at the mainline end. Were you to step over it you'd fall straight down for about five feet, like stepping off the top of a wall. When I stop the coach in the middle of the platform the further end of my van will just about be in line with that end of the platform. All you need do is to step down from the van and crouch yourself down to be out of sight from the coach and anybody crossing the platform."

"That sounds well enough."

"To start with, Doctor, to start with," the Guard continued, doubt in his voice. "But I don't know what may happen after that, not knowing what the parties in the coach intend to do, nor which direction they may move off in."

"Never mind about me, Mr Protheroe. I've had a fair amount of experience in such matters. No one will see me until I choose to display my presence."

"Very well, Doctor, if you say so. In any case we must be getting close to Halton Manor now. Better perhaps that you wait in here until I call you."

He went out onto the back platform of the van and left me to squint through one of the windows at a passing parade of back gardens in one of the respectable suburbs of north London. Twice we rattled over a bridge and the road underneath each of them, then through a station, groups of waiting people on the platform lifting their heads up from their opened newspapers to glance at this unscheduled bird of passage with its single coach and privileged passengers. Where they were standing in the open, the still high and bright sun cast their own foreshortened shadows at the watchers' feet. It also lit up the station sign -"HATHAWAY (TWICKENHAM)". So not far to the siding now.

I suddenly felt extremely thirsty and noticed a small stove at one corner of the van with a kettle standing on it. The stove was unlit, but there was water in the kettle, and a tin mug hanging off a hook. I was sure that Mr Protheroe would have no objections to sparing me a mug of water, and so I helped myself. As I began drinking I felt a shuddering underfoot and heard some unearthly squealing noises as the guard began to tighten the van's brakes.

At first their application seemed to have little effect in reducing our velocity, and then the short train gave a kind of twitch and began to slow much more rapidly. I squinted through one of the windows but could see nothing of the locomotive from it because it was on the right of the van and the track was curving to the left.

A hasty movement across the van to the opposite window afforded me a clearer view and I was able to see that the small locomotive had already uncoupled from the passenger car and was now drawing ahead with the fireman clearly visible as he stood on the side steps of the coal tender. Then the track straightened out and I lost sight of the locomotive. The van brakes were still creaking away like an overloaded haywain's axles and we were now moving at no more than a fast horse trot. I suddenly recalled Mr Protheroe's remarks about the possibility of the points no longer being workable because of their infrequent use: would we, in that event, find ourselves running into the stopped locomotive?

Still, no doubt the railwaymen were used to dealing with such situations and were prepared for any eventuality. So I reassured myself until we rolled through another curve in the line and I saw the locomotive halted in an halo of smoke about two hundred yards ahead, with the fireman twenty yards or so closer to the approaching passenger car. One of his arms was held out straight from his shoulder and I hoped that this was an indication that everything was as it should be.

And so indeed it proved to be as the passenger car and guard's van changed direction on the points and rolled away from the main line at what was now a brisk walking pace. The whole manoeuvre seemed to me to be admirably timed and executed. I glanced out of the rear door of the van and saw Mr Protheroe leaning to his right as he looked down the line to the approaching platform. Standing before him was the round horizontal wheel which controlled the brake shoes. Evidently choosing his moment, he gave the wheel another quarter turn, the brakes began to squeal again and I smelt the aroma of scorching wood in the air. His head turned inwards and he observed my presence at the door.

"Only a hundred yards to go, Doctor, then you may descend," he said. "Nice and carefully, please, for these ballast stones are treacherous stuff to walk on if you're not used to them."

I nodded and gripped my walking stick as if I already had need of it. Protheroe seemed intent on judging the distance ahead. He slackened off the brake wheel a little to let van and car drift a few yards further on, then reapplied the wheel quickly, as hard on as he could turn it in a sudden burst of energy. The two coupled vehicles came to a complete halt as the last of their momentum was absorbed into the brakes, and the end of a railway platform was directly abutting the rear platform of the guards van when it finally came to a stand.

"Neat work, Mr Protheroe."

"Thankee, Doctor. Now I'll walk forward to secure the car. In the meantime you can get off whenever you're ready."

"Excellent, excellent. And you'll be as prompt as possible with that wire. Mr Protheroe?"

"No need to worry about that, Doctor," he reassured me. "It'll get sent as soon as it can be."

Which I was sure was so. Mr Protheroe was aresponsible man with a responsible job and could be trusted, of that I was certain. Now for my own task. As the guard set off down the train I descended on the other side, crouching as low as I could as I stepped off the van and into the shelter of the platform. Then I risked a quick look over the top of the platform at the passenger car. There was no sign of the people within it, no opened door nor window. It seemed likely that those inside preferred to remain discretely out of sight until the railway employees had left. So what was I to do? I examined the area that I now found myself in with a further series of cautious glances.

There was no building on the platform itself. In fact it was only a few steps wide, with the rusting remains of two cranes somewhat in the center and an access ramp in the very middle. Clearly, the procedure had been to bring two horses onto the platform to walk up and down it, thus drawing on the crane pulleys so they could lift barrels of gunpowder out of carts drawn up alongside the platform. The loaders would then rotate the cranes over the waiting railway cars, guide the horses backwards to sway the barrels down, and then repeat the process ad infinitum. There was a small bluestone building close to the unloading area, obviously once a clerk's office, though now long abandoned, with water stains in the rotting window frames. It seemed to be of no interest to me, or to anybody else.

This was a complete mystery to me. I had expected that the girls would have been picked up by a cab or a carriage to be conveyed to some private house, but there was no sign of such a thing. Perhaps it would appear as soon as the locomotive had departed. But where would it be hidden in the meantime? On the far side of the track was only an expanse of clinkers and rough ground between the rusting steel lines and the high wall which marked the limits of the old mill's grounds. Behind the weighman's office was a different story altogether though. There was a place which could have held a dozen carriages whilst keeping them completely out of sight.

The outer perimeter of this feature was marked by an inclined grassy slope about ten feet high which formed part of a circle of some hundred feet in radius, with one visible opening opposite the loading platform. Seen on the Sussex Downs a casual observer might well have taken it for one of the ancient barrows left by our Anglo-Saxon forefathers. But in this setting, and in this place, it told a different story to an ex-army doctor. Those raised earthworks marked a temporary storage magazine for the barrels of gunpowder waiting shipment, designed to protect the area around it from any accidental explosion, with the top deliberately left unroofed so that no tiles or beams could be blown aloft to fall into the suburban streets in the event of a detonation. Yes, that was certainly what it was and if there was a conveyance hidden hereabouts, that was were it would likely be hidden.

I felt the blood quicken in my veins at the thought. Could a coach really be waiting within the old magazine? A glance at the entrance was enough to show that it was ungated and of sufficient width -as it had had to be, of course, to afford access to the mill wagons. So, yes, the transport the gang in the carriage were waiting for must indeed be hidden inside the magazine. I remembered Wiggins' words about how his girls had sometimes been able to leave clues as to where a hansom was bound for. Such an achievement was beyond me but if only I could get close enough to the vehicle I might be able to furnish an accurate enough description of it for Wiggins to locate it. After all, it was unlikely to be going far, and with a dozen hard pedalling cyclists available, once Wiggins and his party arrived, there must be a good chance of finding it again...

Well, a desperate chance perhaps, but this was a desperate affair. And if I could once get around the back of the magazine it should be easy enough to scramble up the sloping ramparts and peer over the edge of them, whilst secure in the knowledge that no one in the passenger car could see me. Which was all very well, but there was at least fifty yards of open space between the platform and the nearest part of the magazine wall where I would be hidden from sight of the carriage. How was I to cross that open space without being seen from the carriage windows?

A screech from behind almost caused me to jump up in surprise. For a second I thought I was back in Cawnpore with a male elephant in musk trampling down the regimental tents, broken tethering chains dragging in the dust behind it. In this case though it was another beast of burden making the noise, one made of iron and well under control. The locomotive had entered the siding behind us, giving a warning whistle blast as it approached the van.

The fireman was riding at the very front, on the opposite side of the engine to me, his eyes fixed on the rear of the van and concentrating on judging the distance still to go as he gave hand signals to the driver. What immediately caught my attention was the reason that the fireman was on the opposite side -it was because the wind was blowing from that side and the smoke from the locomotive's chimney was rolling along in reasonably thick clouds in more or less the direction I wished to go.

Here was a stroke of luck meant to be taken advantage of. As I braced my age stiffened knees for their best efforts the locomotive slowed down until the wheels were barely turning and then the fireman jumped nimbly to the ground, reaching in with a jemmy bar to position the coupling ring. As steel clanked upon steel his eyes lifted up a fraction to see my respectably dressed figure crouching down behind the platform. The whites of the eyes in the man's coal dust grimed face expanded with surprise in a way which might have been comical under other circumstances.

Alas though, if I am to remain completely truthful in this account, I must admit that I presented an equally bizarre spectacle for I could think of nothing better to do that to raise my fingers to my lips, as if adjuring the man to silence in some childish game of hide and seek. With the smoke now serving admirably to cover my movements I left the scene and trotted as quickly as possible past the clerk's office and on to the magazine. No doubt I left an animated conversation going on behind me between driver and fireman, and the prospect of an even more animated one when they began to speak to Mr Protheroe.

Certainly, though, had I had the time and opportunity, I would have been glad to provide generous gratuities to all the crew members for their efforts because the amount of smoke from such a small engine was quite impressive. A gently rolling cloud thick enough to make it unlikely that anybody in the passenger car could see me within it. Unfortunately, it was too thick for a few seconds too long, but not long enough.

The sequence of events seemed to conspire against me on all counts. In the first instance I clung too closely to the smoke to realise I was heading almost directly for the magazine entrance. Next, the smoke from the locomotive suddenly dwindled to almost nothing for some reason. Thirdly, and much worst, I saw that the doors on the passenger car had now opened and an en-masse disembarkation appeared to be occurring.

In my suddenly exposed situation I realised that I must be spotted from the platform with seconds unless I could take cover, and the only place of concealment available was to scuttle through the magazine entrance into the sheltering walls. A matter of Scylla and Charybdis, for if Ardent Admirer and his coachman were indeed waiting inside the magazine, I would be rushing straight into their arms. But to stay out in the open would be equally disastrous.

So, I hobbled between the open gates at my best speed, struggling at the same moment to draw my pocket knife from my coat and open it. It was my intention, if I did find a waiting vehicle inside, to attempt to slash through the traces and to startle the horses into bolting. By such means I might hold up the attempted abduction of the girls until Wiggins and the rest of the rescue party hove into sight.

Imagine then, my astonishment at entering the confines of the walls and finding myself standing at one end of a tennis court laid out with neat white lines on the freshly mowed grass, a net stretched across the middle, and an umpire's high chair standing at one side. My utter astonishment indeed, for there was something else about the scene in front of me which made it as strange a sight as I have ever witnessed. Which is not a statement to be taken lightly from someone who has seen a street beggar turned into a respectable businessman with a wipe of a sponge, the living and the dead sharing the same coffin and a university professor swarming up the ivory covered walls of his own house with the facility of an ape.

Yet it is true. For there were some twenty people standing and sitting in groups along the left hand side of the court, and none of them moved a muscle as I appeared. Not one head turned in my direction, not a figure stirred, not one man or woman. Each of the well dressed figures seemed to be in the grip of some drug which had frozen them as effectively as the wax models in Madame Toussad's.

A spasmodic clutch at my empty inner jacket pocket only reminded me once more of my stupidity in not bringing along the trusty Webley & Scott. All I had was my pocket knife and as fine a collection of shivers as had danced up and down my spine since I'd heard the howl of the Hound on the moors. However there was nothing for it but to step boldly forward and investigate, just as Holmes would have done had he been there.

Although, I suppose, with his sharper insight, he would have instantly deduced what only became obvious to me when I was almost within arm's length of the nearest spectator: the reason they were all standing as still as dummies was because they were dummies. Exactly the kind of life-sized mannequins you can see in the windows of dressmakers and tailors, now removed from their usual display settings. So they could attend a tennis match?

I was at a complete loss to explain the situation. Then I noticed that behind the figures a canvas screen had been erected to a height of about eight feet along the entire length of the court. On the canvas was painted a view of yew trees and rolling parkland, and in the middle distance, a fine Georgian mansion with a round dome set atop the roof of one wing.

It was exactly like the kind of backdrop painted on curtains at theatres to set a scene, which it did very well. An observer could stand on the other side of the court, on uncut rank grass and flowering weeds, with his back to the brick wall of the magazine, yet look across and easily imagine that he was by the side of a private tennis court set on some great country estate, watching a party of weekend guests waiting for a game which about to commence.

"My God!" I said aloud. "Maude!"

In an instant I realised what was intended by the evil mind which had lured the fairest maid of English tennis to this hidden place. Not only would she have to pose before his lecherous eyes, but in a way which would suggest that she had done so willingly before an audience at some weekend retreat of the social elite. Thus the blackmail effect of any photographs would be even more effective, and not only on Maude herself. What if that mansion and the scenery in the background had been drawn from real life?

What damaging upheavals might not flow from the passing around of such photographs? God in heaven, could this be plot by a bunch of evil foreigners to unsettle the British nation by dragging the name of some noble and well connected family through the mire? If so, Maude and Wiggins and myself had completely failed to comprehend the magnitude of this case. No mere bagatelle of lustful villainy here, but a deep and dangerous plot drawn up by unscrupulous minds with great resources of money and base cunning. Even Moriaty, that Napoleon of crime, would never have stooped so low, nor conceived a plan of such unmitigated filthiness.

Before I could consider the situation any further I heard the sound of voices at the entrance to the magazine and I realised that I was within seconds of being discovered. There was nowhere I could run to, even if I'd been capable of running. Nowhere to hide either -unless...

I stumbled towards the nearest tableau of motionless figures and joined it, in the middle, standing slightly back and between a lady wearing a feather trimmed hat and a gentleman attired in a sporting blazer of vivid stripes. I mean, of course, that I was standing beside two display figures who where wearing such clothing. Standing and trembling and yet trying to appear as motionless as the wax figurines ranged on either side of me. It was a desperate subterfuge, probably as equally hopeless as it was likely to be embarrassing when I was discovered. Yet what else could I do but try to remain undiscovered as part of that lifeless crowd until I found some way of rescuing Maude?

Imagine then my feelings at being in this position and hearing footsteps passing behind me. Several sets of feet and Maude's voice: "What are these people doing here? What's happening?

Another female voice answered, clear and yet defaced by a gutter Cockney accent: "They're only shop dummies, Miss Maude. There's some trickery going on here."

That must be either Angel or Chrissie, I realised. And then I remembered what Wiggins had said about how they were carrying concealed pistols on their persons. Surely one of them would soon get a chance to draw her firearm and put a swift stop to this vile business?

Somebody walked past me, almost brushing my clothing as he walked out onto the court. A man, a young man, wearing tennis clothes, a white shirt and flannels, and, incredibly, a papier mache party mask, moulded and painted to resemble the brutal features of a Japanese samurai warrior. Presumably the only possible reason for donning such a mask was to conceal the wearer's identity. This supposition was confirmed by another man who followed the first, also dressed in tennis whites and masked, this one crafted to resemble an African tribal chief.

The man in the Samurai mask was carrying a tripod, the African a large wooden box which he set down, opened and took out from within a modern and expensive camera. As the photographic apparatus was lifted out of its carrying box I clearly heard a feminine cry of alarm from nearby.

Hearing this, I gritted my teeth and waited for one of the girls to get the drop on the men, as I once heard a gentleman from Texas describe it. Yet instead of stillness caused by a threatening gun muzzle there was more bustle and action to my left.

Three more of the masked abductors appeared, carrying between them the umpire's chair, which they set down on the court near to the net. Again, each of the masks was a caricature, and each different. A Prussian officer, a pirate with an eye patch, a white faced clown. With the Samurai and the African erecting the camera, that made five of the young curs that I could see. How many more were there? And why were Wiggins' much vaunted female agents not drawing their weapons?

That was a question which was answered almost as soon as I saw the three girls walking out together onto the court. For following them were two more masked men. At the angle I first saw them it was impossible to make out the features painted on their masks. What I could see were the unsheathed swords each man had in his hand. Long thin blades, rapier blades, scarcely visible save for the sunlight glittering along their lengths, with the tips darting around behind the girls, sometimes jabbing into their linen dresses to elicit a cry of pain from the victim and a bound in the air like a startled deer. Clustered together, the captive females were driven forward by their tormentors as if they were nothing but cattle being herded into a market pen. Little wonder that neither Angel or Chrissie had attempted to draw their firearms under such circumstances, when the response would certainly be immediate and serious injury, if not worse.