A moment later the men were seen walking side by side on the Thames Embankment. The morning was a fine one, and a fresh breeze from the river blew on their faces. A man with a smooth face and a perfectly innocent expression passed them slowly. He looked full at Rowton, who nodded to him. “That is my servant, Jacob,” he said, turning to Scrivener. “What is he doing here?” “Mischief,” muttered Scrivener. “We had best not be seen in such an open place as this. Let us turn up this by-street into the Strand.” The men did so. From the Strand they passed into a narrow court. In the court was a public-house. They entered it, asked for a private room, and sat down by the fire. Scrivener took out his pipe and lighted it, but Rowton did not smoke. “Now,” said Rowton, “your business, and quickly.” “The boss is sorry you parted from him in anger,” said Scrivener. “There’s a wine party at our club to-night, and I was to bring you a special invitation. Long John has sent it to you himself. Matters may be smoothed over. Long John naturally does not want to get into your black books. Will you come, or will you not? That is the question.” “When I left the club yesterday evening,” said Rowton, “I said I would never darken its doors again.” “That is likely enough. I don’t wonder you took some of the words the chief said rather hard; but if matters are spliced up between us, you won’t forsake your own School, will you, mate?” “If the boy is given back to me I’ll not forsake the School,” said Rowton after a pause. “I believe that will be done,” said Scrivener. “Anyhow you are bidden to come to-night to talk over the matter.” “Are you square with me?” asked Rowton, looking full into Scrivener’s face. “As square as daylight,” replied the man. Rowton turned away with a suppressed sigh. “I’ll be there,” he said; “not that I believe matters will be smoothed over. This will doubtless be my last visit.” “No, mate,” answered Scrivener, “we cannot do without a jolly dog like you.” “I’ll be there; that is enough,” answered Rowton. “One last word before I go, mate,” said Scrivener. “You had best keep dark to-day. The police have got wind of your identity and are after you.” “How do you know?” asked Rowton. “Long John had a warning last night. Spider is in town, and is prying round as usual. It is true, I tell you. You may thank your stars that you have not been arrested before this. It is all the doings of that footman of yours.” “My footman! Do you mean Jacob Short?” “I mean Jacob Short. He is a spy from Scotland Yard. Now you know enough, and I dare not breathe another word.” Scrivener went away, but Rowton sat on by the fire in the back room of the public-house. His thoughts and sensations were known to himself alone. After a time he got up, paid for the use of the room, and by a circuitous route got back again to the hotel in the Strand. As he was going in he came face to face with Jacob standing near the door of the hotel.