about me until your Cornish friends told you?” he asked.
“Not that you were related to him,” she rejoined quickly, “but he spoke of the great house of Bronte—”
(“Neat,” approved the hidden T.B.)
“So Thursday will be the day,”“ she mused.
“What day?” The banker’s voice was sharp.
“The day you will see Carleby,” she said, with a look of surprise.
“I said not Thursday on any account, but possibly the next day,” said Sir George stiffly.
“She has the information she wants,” said T.B. to himself, “and so have I,” he reflected; “I will now retire.”
He stepped carefully down, reached the floor, and was feeling his way to the door when a strange noise attracted his attention. It came, not from the next room, but from that in which he stood. He stood stockstill, holding his breath, and the noise he heard was repeated.
Somebody was in the room with him. Somebody was moving stealthily along the wall at the opposite side of the apartment. T.B. waited for a moment to locate his man, then leapt noiselessly in the direction of the sound. His strong hands grasped a man’s shoulder; another instant and his fingers were at the spy’s throat. “Utter a word and I’ll knock your head off!” he hissed. No terrible threat when uttered facetiously, but T.B.’s words were the reverse of humorous. Retaining a hold of his prisoner, he waited until the noise of a door closing told him that the diners in the next room had departed, then he dragged his man to where he judged the electric-light switch would be. His fingers found the button, turned it, and the room was instantly flooded with light. He released the man with a little push, and stood with his back to the door.
“Now, sir,” said T.B. virtuously; “will you kindly explain what you mean by spying on me?”
The man was tall and thin. He was under thirty and decently dressed; but it was his face that held the detective’s attention. It was the face of a man in mortal terror — the eyes staring, the lips tremulous, the cheeks lined and seamed like an old man’s. He stood blinking in the light for a moment, and when he spoke he was incoherent and hoarse.
“You’re T.B. Smith,” he croaked. “I know you; I’ve been wanting to find you.”
“Well, you’ve found me,” said the detective grimly.
“I wasn’t looking for you — now. I’m Hyatt.”
He said this simply enough. It was the detective’s turn to stare.
“I’m Hyatt,” the man went on; “and I’ve a communication to make; King’s evidence; but you’ve got to hide me!” He came forward and laid his hand on the other’s arm. “I’m not going to be done in like Moss; it’s your responsibility, and you’ll be blamed if anything happens to me,” he almost whispered in his fear. “They’ve had Moss, and they’ll try to have me. They’ve played me false because they thought I’d get to know the day the barrage was to be handed over, and spoil their market. They brought me up to London, because I’d have found out if I’d been in Cornwall—”
“Steady, steady!” T.B. checked the man. He was talking at express rate, and between terror and wrath was wellnigh incomprehensible.
“Now, begin at the beginning. Who are ‘they’?”
“N. H. C, I told you,” snarled the other impatiently. “I knew they were going to get the date from the banker. That was the scheme of Catherine Dominguez. She is one of the agents — they’ve got ’em everywhere. She was introduced to his nephew so that she might get at the uncle. But I’m giving King’s evidence. I shall get off; shan’t I?”
His anxiety was pitiable.
T.B. thought quickly. Here were two ends to the mystery; which was the more important? He decided. This man would keep; the urgent business was to prevent Catherine from communicating her news to her friends.
“Take this card,” he said, and scribbled a few words hastily upon a visiting-card; “ — that will admit you to my rooms at the Savoy. Make yourself comfortable until I return.” He gave the man a few directions, piloted him from the restaurant, saw him enter a cab, then turned his steps toward Baker Street.
16. Mary Brown
Pentonby Mansions are within a stone’s throw of Baker Street Station. T.B. jumped out of his cab some distance from the great entrance hall, and paid the driver. Just before he turned into the vestibule a man, strolling towards him, asked him for a match.
“Well?”
“She came straight from the restaurant and has been inside ten minutes,” reported the man, ostentatiously lighting his pipe.
“She hasn’t sent a telegram?”
“So far as I know, no, sir.” In the vestibule a hall porter sat reading the evening paper.
“Can I telephone from here?” asked T.B.
“Yes, sir,” said the man, and T.B.’s heart sank, for he had overlooked this possibility.
“I suppose you have ‘phones in every room?” he asked carelessly.
But the man shook his head.
“No, sir,” he said; “there is some talk of putting ’em in, but so far this ‘phone in my office is the only one in the building.”
T.B. smiled genially.
“And I suppose,” he said, “that you’re bothered day and night with calls from tenants?” He waited anxiously for the answer.
“Sometimes I am, and sometimes I go a whole day without calls. No; to-day, for instance, I haven’t had a message since five o’clock.”
T.B. murmured polite surprise and began his ascent of the stairs. So far, so good. His business was to prevent the girl communicating with Poltavo.
He had already formed a plan in his mind.
Turning at the first landing, he walked briskly along the corridor to the left.
“29. 31. 33,” he counted, “35, 37. Here we are.” The corridor was empty; he slipped his skeleton-key from his pocket and deftly manipulated it.
The door opened noiselessly. He was in a dark little hallway. At the end was a door, and a gleam of light shone under it. He closed the door behind him, stepped softly along the carpeted floor, and his hand was on the handle of the further door, when a sweet voice called him by name from the room.
“Adelante! Senor Smit’,” it said; and, obeying the summons, T.B. entered.
The room was well, if floridly, furnished; but T.B. had no eyes save for the graceful figure lounging in a big wicker-chair, a thin cigarette between
