The Executive held a hurried meeting to consider the best means of averting their espionage. I was still living expensively as a young man about town, and as I rarely visited the house in Oakleigh Gardens, my connection with the revolutionists was unknown to the police. For this reason I was chosen, together with Grinevitch, to assist in the work of “shadowing” the spies in order that Pétroff and the committee might complete their plans and get the machine safely to Petersburg. The work was exciting and somewhat risky; but it suited my adventurous spirit. The daring with which our Organisation acted inspired me with confidence, and I went fearlessly about attired in various garbs, tracking the minions of the Tzar into all sorts of queer corners of London. They were indefatigable; but, owing to our headquarters being temporarily abandoned, they were entirely off the scent. It was my object to further puzzle them, and, assisted by half a dozen other members of the Party, I think I succeeded. Meanwhile the clock was being completed and the plans for the _coup_ elaborated. While sitting one evening at a small table in the Café Royal in Regent Street, smoking, sipping kummel, and lazily scanning the _Petit Journal_, a word in guttural Russian addressed to the waiter caused me to glance across to a tall dark man in evening dress, who had seated himself alone and unnoticed at the other side of the table opposite me. A momentary glance was sufficient for me to recognise in him the original of a photograph that had been given me and pointed out as Guibaud, the renowned French detective, who had recently been placed at the head of the “Security Section” in London. He was lighting his cigar and flashing a fine diamond upon his finger, when I suddenly asked him for the lighted match for my cigarette. By that means I opened a commonplace conversation, and I quickly felt confident that he had no suspicion that I was a Terrorist. After spending nearly an hour together, and drinking at each other’s expense, we strolled to Oxford Circus, where we parted, not, however, before we had exchanged cards, he giving me one with the name “Jules Guibaud,” while upon mine was inscribed the words “Pierre Noirel—National Liberal Club.” He told me that he was a glove merchant in the Rue de la Paix, while I made him believe that I was a young Belgian of independent means living in England for the purpose of acquiring the language.