A week later Guibaud had recovered from the blow I had dealt him, and I was again “shadowing” him. He was walking along the Strand, in the direction of Trafalgar Square, when I passed him and appeared to suddenly recognise him. After a few minutes’ conversation I found he was going into Oxford Street, therefore I proposed that he should accompany me along Shaftesbury Avenue, and call at my chambers for a whisky and soda, an arrangement to which he made no objection. Soon afterwards he sat before my sitting-room fire admiring the artistic decorations of my little flat, while I stood upon the hearthrug smoking a cigarette, watching him with anxious expectation. He was foolishly unsuspicious, or he would not have drunk the liquor I offered him. Almost immediately after emptying his glass he became dazed. “I—I don’t know how it is—but—I feel strangely unwell,” he exclaimed, with an attempt to laugh, at the same time drawing his hand across his brow. “_Dieu!_—my head is swimming—I—I——” And after struggling to rise, he fell back in the armchair unconscious. Unbuttoning his coat, I quickly abstracted the contents of his pockets. There were only several letters and a well-worn pocket-book. Carefully examining the entries in the latter, I found they consisted of the names, addresses, and descriptions of various Russian refugees. Some of the names had a cross against them, evidently denoting that they were revolutionists. In the cover of the book was a letter on thin foreign paper, which had been carefully preserved. Eagerly reading through the communication, I discovered that the writer had betrayed our secret, and gave a detailed outline of the conspiracy. It was written in Russian by a person who gave his address at 88, Rue Royale, Dieppe, and signed with the initials “P. P.” But the caligraphy was unmistakable, for I had had a number of communications in that handwriting, which I recognised as that of Antìp Patrovski, a prominent member of the Paris Circle. A number of members of that branch of the Organisation had recently been arrested and sentenced to imprisonment, and now, from the letter I had discovered, it was clear that this traitor to our Cause was in the pay of the Secret Police. Taking a pencil and paper, I scribbled out a copy of the evidence of Patrovski’s treachery. It was his death-warrant! After I had made myself acquainted with the contents of the other letters, I replaced them all in the pockets of the insensible man, and then endeavoured to restore him to consciousness. When at last he opened his eyes and roused himself, I treated the matter jocularly, attributing the result to the strength of the whisky combined with the heat of the room. Almost the first thing he did was to feel in his breast pocket. Finding both pocket-book and letters safe, his suspicions were apparently allayed, and after drinking a little brandy he pulled himself together and took a cab home.