"You shall have it. Now listen to my instructions. You will go home and watch these men. During the afternoon they will probably go out, and the instant they do so, you must admit three of my servants and place them in some room where their presence will not be suspected by our enemies. A friend, who will hand you my card, will call later on, and as he will take command, you must do your best to help him in every possible way." "You need have no fear of my not doing that," she said. "And I will be grateful to you till my dying day." "Well, we’ll see. Now, good-bye." After she had left him, Klimo returned to Porchester House and sent for Belton. He was out, it appeared, but within half-an-hour he returned and entered his master’s presence. "Have you discovered the bank?" asked Carne. "Yes, sir, I have," said Belton. "But not till I was walked off my legs. The men are as suspicious as wild rabbits, and they dodged and played about so, that I began to think they’d get away from me altogether. The bank is the ’United Kingdom,’ Oxford Street branch." "That’s right. Now what about the uniforms?" "They’re quite ready, sir, helmets, tunics, belts and trousers complete." "Well then, have them packed as I told you yesterday, and ready to proceed to Bellamer Street with the men, the instant we get the information that the folk we are after have stepped outside the house door." "Very good, sir. And as to yourself?" "I shall join you at the house at ten o’clock, or thereabouts. We must, if possible, catch them at their supper." London was half through its pleasures that night, when a tall, military-looking man, muffled in a large cloak, stepped into a hansom outside Porchester House, Park Lane, and drove off in the direction of Oxford Street. Though the business which was taking him out would have presented sufficient dangers to have deterred many men who consider themselves not wanting in pluck, it did not in the least oppress Simon Carne; on the contrary, it seemed to afford him no small amount of satisfaction. He whistled a tune to himself as he drove along the lamplit thoroughfares, and smiled as sweetly as a lover thinking of his mistress when he reviewed the plot he had so cunningly contrived. He felt a glow of virtue as he remembered that he was undertaking the business in order to promote another’s happiness, but at the same time reflected that, if fate were willing to pay him fifty thousand pounds for his generosity, well, it was so much the better for him. Reaching Mudie’s Library, his coachman drove by the way of Hart Street into Bloomsbury Square, and later on turned into Bellamer Street.