"This happened, when?" he asked. "Yesterday." "And Beale; what did he do?" "Set three men to watch three men. One at Follingsbee's, one at Warburton Place, and one at the foot of K. street." "Good; and these shadowers of Vernet's--could Beale identify either of them?" "No; he is sure they do not belong to us, and were never among our men." "Very well. Beale has done famously. Let him keep a strict watch until further orders." Once more the Chief knits his brow and ponders. The mystery grows deeper, and he finds in it ample food for meditation. But he is doomed to interruption. This time it is Vernet's report. He eyes it askance, and lays it upon the desk beside him. Just now it is less interesting, less important, than his own thoughts. But again his door opens. He lifts his head with a trace of annoyance. It is George, the office boy. He comes forward and proffers a note to his Chief. The latter takes it slowly, looks languidly at the superscription, then breaks the seal. One glance, and the expression of annoyance and languor is gone; the eyes brighten, and the whole man is alive with interest. And yet the note contains only these two lines: Send three good men, in plain clothes, to the last saloon at the foot of K. street, 2 P. M. sharp. DICK S. "Oh!" ejaculates the Chief, "Dick at last! Something is going to happen." And then he calls the office boy back. "Go to this address," he says, hastily writing upon a card; "ask for Mr. Parks, and say to him that I am obliged to beg himself and friend to put off their interview with me until this afternoon, say three o'clock." When the boy had departed, he turned to the desk and took up Vernet's report. As he opened it, he frowned and muttered: "Vernet's doing some queer work. If it were any one else, I should say he was in a muddle. As it is, I shall not feel sure that all is right until I know what his man[oe]uvres mean. I'll have no more interviews until I have seen Follingsbee, and studied this matter out." CHAPTER LV. THE LAST MOMENT. At two P. M. of the same day, the day that witnessed Alan Warburton's return to his own, and the Chief's perplexity, there is an ominous stillness brooding about the Francoise dwelling. In the outer room, Papa Francoise is alone, and, if one may judge from his restlessness, not much relishing his solitude. The room is cleaner than usual. All about it an awkward attempt at tidiness is visible. Papa, too, is less unkempt than common, seeming to have made a stout effort at old-time respectability. But he cannot assume a virtuous and respectable calm, a comfortable repose.