Suddenly I saw the man, for whose reappearance I was so earnestly waiting, step casually out on to the pavement. He attempted to cross the street and was quickly lost to sight in a tangle of vehicles. A second later I could have sworn that I saw him back again at the entrance to the passage below. Then I heard a shout from the pavement and I distinctly saw him clamber into the motor car, which shot off as though it had started in fourth speed. An elderly gentleman, who had rushed from the shop, was halfway across the street already. There was a chorus of shouts; traffic was momentarily suspended; a policeman started running down the side street. Then I turned away from the window. There were sounds closer at hand--a footstep on the stairs, swift and gentle. In a moment the door of the little manicure room was opened and closed. Dagger Rodwell stood there, pale and breathless. Not a word passed between him and the girl. He dashed into the third of the little cubicles, and it seemed to me that in less than thirty seconds he reappeared. The change was marvelous. He was wearing a tweed suit and a gray Homburg hat. His eyeglass had gone. Even his collar and tie seemed different. He sat down before the girl and held out his hand. They listened. There was plenty of commotion in the street--no sound at all on the stairs. "We've done it!" he muttered. "They're after the car! They'll catch Dolly!" "He'll bluff it out!" she whispered. "Sure! Don't let your hands tremble like that, you little fool! We're safe, I tell you! Get on with your work." Now the two were three or four yards away from the cubicle in which I was, but almost within a couple of feet of Mr. Bundercombe's. From where I was sitting I saw suddenly a strange thing. I saw Mr. Bundercombe's left arm shoot out from behind the curtain. In a moment he had the man by the throat. His other hand traveled over his clothes like lightning. It was all over almost before I could think. Rodwell was on his feet with a livid mark on his throat, and Mr. Bundercombe had stepped back with a little shining revolver in his hand which he was carefully stowing away in his pocket. "Sorry to be a trifle hasty, Mr. Rodwell," he said. "I saw the shape of this little weapon in your pocket and it didn't seem altogether agreeable to me. We are not great at firearms over this side, you know." Blanche and Rodwell stared at him. To complete their stupefaction I stepped out of my cubicle. "What sort of a game is this?" Rodwell muttered, though he was pale to the lips. "Blanche----" He turned toward her with sudden fierceness. She sat there, wringing her hands. "Mr. Bundercombe!" she exclaimed feebly. "Mr. Bundercombe!"