world from suffering, are asking for nothing less than the abolition of law in the universe; and it is only in law that freedom can be found. The rising of the sun cannot be timed to suit each individual; but this is what modern thinkers demand. They say that an all-powerful God could do even this. When they have settled between themselves exactly what they wish, doubtless the Almighty could answer their prayer. Till then, it is better to say 'Thy law is a lantern unto my feet.'"

At this moment a stone came through the little window behind Peter. The glass scattered itself in splinters all over his red tablecloth. He leapt to his feet, blew the lamp out, and went to the window. He could see nothing in the darkness at first; but as he stood and listened, he thought he heard a voice in the pauses of the wind, crying for help.

Instantly, he hurried out and down the winding stair to the narrow door. He shot back the great bolts, and opened it. He stood there fifteen feet above the rocks, framed in the opening, his white hair and beard blowing about him, as he peered to right and left.

"Come down and help us, for God's sake!" the voice cried again.

And as Peter's eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he saw a dark figure crawling laboriously over the reef to the foot of the tower, where it fell as if in a faint. Peter's only thought was that a fishing boat had foundered. He dropped the rope ladder at once and descended. He stooped over the fallen man. In the same flash of time, he recognized that this was an enemy seaman, and three more shadowy figures leapt from their hiding-place behind a boulder of rock and gripped him.

"There is no cause for fear," said their leader, rising to his feet. "Our boat has foundered; but we shall die of cold if we stay out here. You must take us into the light-house."

Peter regarded them curiously, saying nothing. The leader went up the ladder, and beckoned to the others, who ordered Peter to go next, and then followed him.

"I regret that it was necessary to smash your window," said Captain Bernstein, as the queer group gathered round the lamp in Peter's living room. "But we might have died out there on a night like this, before you could have heard us shouting. We shall not harm you, although there are four of us. We are in danger ourselves. My friends and I are sick of this work; and, if we are sure of good treatment, we are prepared to help the British with all the information in our possession."

"How did you escape from the submarine?" said Peter.

"We were alone on deck," replied Bernstein, "and we took our chance of swimming for the Hatchets'."

Peter surveyed the four drenched figures thoughtfully. One of them was not realistic enough to satisfy him. There were several obviously dry patches about the shoulders.

"There's a pool on the reef," said Peter at last to this man. "Did you find it too cold?"

A change came over Bernstein's face at once.

"There's no time to be wasted," he said. "If you want to help your country, go to your telephone and give this message to the naval base, exactly as I tell it to you. You must say you have just sighted three submarines, two hundred yards due north of the Hatchets' light. You must say that you have sighted them yourself, because they would not take our word for it; and you must not say anything about our being here at present. If you depart from these instructions, you will be shot instantly. Now, then, go to your telephone and speak."

Peter gathered up his beloved leather-bound book from the table, and held it under his arm. It was his most precious possession, and the protective act was quite unconscious. Then, for the second time that night, he went into his bedroom, followed by the four Germans. He was white and shaking. He could not understand what these men were after, and the message they proposed seemed to be useful to his own side. After all, the only kind of message that he could send would be something very like it. He might as well deliver it, since these crazy autocrats had decided that it must be given thus, and not otherwise.

He laid the precious book down on the bed, turned to the telephone, and lifted the receiver to his ear. As he did so, the cold muzzle of a revolver pressed against his right temple. The first buzzings of the telephone resolved themselves into a voice from the coast of England, asking what he wanted. Then, it seemed as if a new light were thrown upon the character of the words he was about to speak. He knew instinctively that, if he spoke them, he would be working for the enemy.

In the same instant, he saw exactly what he must do.

"This is Peter Ramsay speaking," he said, "from the Hatchets' Light. I have just sighted three submarines due north of the Hatchets'."

He paused. Then, with a rush, he said:

"Trap! Germans in light-house, forcing me to say this!"

The hand of one of his captors struck down the hook of the receiver. In the same instant, the shot rang out, and Peter Ramsay dropped sidelong, a mere bundle of old clothes and white hair, dabbled with blood.

The German at the telephone replaced the receiver on the hook which he was still holding down.

"Crazy old fool," muttered Bernstein. He was staring at the red-lined scrap-book on the bed. It lay open at a page describing in Peter's big sprawling hand, an open-air service among some Welsh miners which he had once witnessed, a memorial service on the day of Gladstone's funeral. He had been greatly impressed by their choral singing of what was supposed to be Gladstone's favorite hymn, and it ended with a quotation:

The murderer stooped and laid the revolver near the right hand of the dead man. One of his men touched him on the elbow as he did it, and pointed to Peter's own old-fashioned revolver on the little shelf beside the bed. Captain Bernstein nodded and smiled. The idea was a good one, and he put Peter's own revolver in his stiffening fingers. He had just succeeded in making it look quite a realistic suicide, when the telephone bell rang sharply, making him start upright, as if a hand were laid upon his shoulder. He took the receiver again and listened.

"Can't hear," he said, trying to imitate Peter's gruff voice. "No—I dropped the telephone on the floor—no—it was a mistake—no—I said three submarines—two hundred yards due north of the Hatchets' Light—all right, sir."

He hung the receiver up again, and looked at the others.

"We may succeed yet," he said. "Come quickly."

A minute later they were standing on the lee of the reef. Bernstein blew a whistle thrice. It was answered from the darkness by another, shrill as the cry of a sea-gull; and in five minutes more, the four men and the collapsible boat were aboard their submarine. It submerged at once, and went due south at twelve knots an hour below the unrevealing seas.

Commander Pickering, the officer on duty at the naval base, was not sure whether it was worth while paying any attention to the message from the old man at the Hatchets'. He went to the window and looked at the starry flash of the light-house in the distance.

"Old Peter probably sighted a school of porpoises. They frightened him into a fit," he said.

The two men of the naval reserve who were waiting for orders, watched him like schoolboys expecting a holiday; but he could not make up his mind. He left the window and studied the big chart on the wall, where the movements of a dozen submarines were marked in red ink from point to