But old George’s loquacity stopped short at the all-important point of instructing the lawyer on the question of the cryptogram. He had brought him along in the hope that at the eleventh hour the old man would reveal his identity. Unconscious of the responsibility that lay upon his foolish head, the old man sat in the upstairs room communing with himself. “We will leave him here,” said the lawyer, “he will be safe.” “Safe enough. I know him of old. He’ll sit here for hours amusing himself.” “And now, what about the men?” asked the lawyer. “Where do we meet them?” “We shall pick them up at the corner of Lombard Street, and they’ll follow me to the Safe Deposit.” “Ah!” They turned swiftly on old George, who with his chin raised and with face alert was staring at them. “Safe Deposit, Lombard Street,” he mumbled. “And a most excellent plan too--a most excellent plan.” The two men held their breath. “And quite an ingenious idea, sir. Did you say Lombard Street--a safe?” he muttered. “A safe with a word? And how to conceal the word, that’s the question. I am a man of honor, you may trust me.” He made a sweeping bow to some invisible presence. “Why not conceal your word thus?” Old George stabbed the palm of his hand with a grimy forefinger. “Why not? Have you read my book? It is only a little book, but useful, sir, remarkably useful. The drawings and the signs are most accurate. An eminent gentleman at the British Museum assisted me in its preparation. It is called--it is called----” He passed his hand wearily over his head, and slid down into his chair again, a miserable old man muttering foolishly. Spedding wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “Nearly, nearly!” he said huskily. “By Heavens! he nearly told us.” Connor looked at him with suspicion. “What’s all this about the book?” he demanded. “This is the second time old George has spoken like this. It’s to do with old Reale, isn’t it?” Spedding nodded. “Come,” said Connor, looking at his watch, “it’s time we were moving. We’ll leave the old man to look after the house. Here, George.” Old George looked up. “You’ll stay here, and not leave till we return. D’ye hear?” “I hear, Mr. Connor, sir,” said old George, with his curious assumption of dignity, “and hearing, obey.” As the two men turned into the night the rain pelted down and a gusty northwesterly wind blew into their faces. “George,” said Connor, answering a question, “oh, we’ve had him for years. One of the boys found him wandering about Limehouse with hardly any clothes to his back, and brought him to us. That was before I knew the ‘Borough Lot,’ but they used him as a blind. He was worth the money it cost to keep him in food.” Spedding kept the other waiting whilst he dispatched a long telegram from the Westbourne Grove Post Office. It was addressed to the master of the _Polecat_ lying at Cardiff, and was reasonably unintelligible to the clerk.