Little did he dream that within half a dozen yards of where he had been seated was the dynamite clock which I had taken from under his very nose, and for which the police of London, Paris, and Berlin were busily searching. Next day I reported Patrovski’s treachery to the Executive, and sentence was passed. A week later news was received from Petersburg that all arrangements there had been perfected. An emissary from the Russian capital was to travel to Brussels and there receive the clock from the Executive. Every port of departure for the Continent was, however, being carefully watched by the police, and passengers by the various mail trains were closely scrutinised at the London termini. Even had they not been watched, the ordinary routes would have been useless, for the Customs examination at any foreign port would have been fatal to our project. The exact size of the box had been sent to Petersburg, and arrangements had been made for smuggling it across the German and Russian frontiers. At length, after much discussion, the Executive resolved that as the box was in my possession, I should undertake the handing of it over to the representative from Russia. Owing to the spies at London stations, I was compelled to leave the beaten track. On the day following the final decision, I placed the box in a small portmanteau, together with some wearing apparel, and, calling a cab, drove to Croydon, thence taking train to the quaint old town of Deal. As there is no service of boats to the Continent from the sleepy little place, I felt secure, and took up my quarters at the “Ship,” an old-fashioned inn opposite the beach, frequented mainly by fishermen. On the afternoon following my arrival, I was seated in the dingy little bar-parlour scanning a limp, beer-stained newspaper three days old, when an elderly toiler of the sea entered. “Arf’noon, sir. Fresh breeze outside,” was his greeting in a deep, hoarse voice. I acquiesced, and as he seated himself in the window-bench and ordered his rum of the ruddy-faced waiting-maid, I commenced to chat. From his conversation I learnt that he was the owner of a small smack, and that he and his three companions were going to “have a turn around the Goodwins at midnight.” When, with a landsman’s ignorance, I asked whether the fishermen of those parts were on good terms with the coastguard, he winked knowingly and remarked— “There’s a good deal wot comes ashore here as don’t pay duty, you bet.” This remark gave me confidence in my man. “Look here,” I said in a low tone, after we had been discussing the various modes of evading the Customs dues. “The fact is, I’ve got something that I don’t want to pay duty upon. How much do you want to run me over to Belgium to-night—eh?” The man looked keenly at me, and his features relaxed into a curious smile. Removing the long clay pipe from his lips, he gazed thoughtfully into his glass. “Where do you want to land?” he asked.