“I know,” said Desmond. “Clubfoot got suspicious when I asked him to give me time, and sent this chap out to see if there were any police around. By the way, what happened to the Chief’s crowd?” Francis raised his eyes to heaven. “Somebody will be sacrificed for this night’s work. Their car burst a tyre in Victoria Street and they lost sight of my taxi. The arrangement was, you see, that they were to follow the girl and not you. Instead of ringing up headquarters to report, they went careering all over Belgravia, and when I rang up the Chief on leaving you they hadn’t turned up. So we simply asked the nearest police divisional headquarters to raid this place as a gambling-hell. It seemed the quickest way of getting assistance!” They were silent for a moment. Then Desmond said: “I must say I should like to have known how those flower signals were worked.” “We pinched old Bessie to-night,” his brother replied, “and she spilled the beans. A confederate, instructed by Grundt, tipped her off the colour by means of a handkerchief as he stood at the bar—red, blue and white, or white. As to the meaning of the various colours, I think the Chief’s diagnosis was correct. Clubfoot apparently had found out that Finucane was an habitué of the ‘Hex.’ in the old days and laid this plot to trap him. Poor Finucane! The girl got the signal of red carnations for him, too!” A week later a tug off Charing Cross Pier fished up in its screw the dead body of Finucane, bound hand and foot, with a bullet through the head. The Hexagon Buffet knew the McKenzie girl no more. Nor did she ever return to Duchess Street. As an old offender, Paul Geyer was given a month’s imprisonment for keeping a gaming-house, and, as an alien—he was Russian-born—recommended for deportation. In respect of the death of Finucane no charge was brought against him, for want of evidence. Meanwhile The Man with the Clubfoot remained at large. CHAPTER XVII THE MEETING If, as the textbooks tell us, a successful retirement be the greatest test of strategy, then, indeed, Clubfoot can lay claim to be one of the most skilful of generals in the never-ending guerilla warfare that is the daily life of the Secret Service. No man can ensure himself against the surprises of fate; but in one respect Dr. Grundt’s foresight was never found wanting, and that was in the provision of a safe and inconspicuous line of retreat. Nothing is more devastating to the _moral_ of troops of pursuit than the knowledge that their enemy, after each successful raid, is able to retire in safety into ambush to select his own time for the next sortie.