"I hope they won't start any of that O.B.E. business," said Sage at length. "Sure to. It will be a triumph for the Skipper," continued Colonel Walton. "He deserves it," said Sage ungrudgingly. "He's always believed in us. By the way, I told Hoyle to bring Finlay here after they had got Naylor." Colonel Walton continued to puff contentedly at his cigar. Early that morning Malcolm Sage had given final instructions to the various members of his staff. He and Colonel Walton had been working all through the night in perfecting their plans. The demands made upon Scotland Yard for men had at first evoked surprise, which later developed into _sotto voce_ ridicule. "What the devil's up with old Sage and Onions?" Inspector Crabbett had muttered, as he cast his eyes down the list of plain-clothes and uniformed officers required. "Who the devil's going to issue all these warrants?" Department Z., however, had its own means of obtaining such warrants as were required without questions being asked. Early that morning Malcolm Sage had got through to Inspector Crabbett. "That you, Inspector?" he enquired. "What's left of me," was the surly retort. "Got that little list of mine?" enquired Sage. "We're engaging new men as fast as we can so as to have enough," was the grumbling reply. "I've asked the W.O. to demobilise a few divisions to help us," he added with ponderous sarcasm. "Thank you," said Sage imperturbably, as he replaced the receiver. Mr. Montagu Naylor had been reserved for Department Z. Sage was determined to get him alive; but his knowledge of the man was sufficient to tell him that Mr. Naylor was equally determined never to be taken alive. He had seen that little corrugated-iron covered building at the Tower that had once been a miniature rifle-range and, involuntarily, he had shuddered. II "Was that the telephone?" Mr. Naylor barked the question down from the first-floor. There was a pad-pad of feet, and Mrs. Naylor appeared from the basement. "Yes," she replied timidly. "Shall I go?" "No, I'll go myself;" and Mr. Naylor descended the stairs heavily. Passing into his study, he closed the door behind him and seated himself at the table. "Hullo!" he called into the mouthpiece, lifting off the receiver. "Is that twelve Haymarket?" came the reply. "No," was the suave response. "This is Mr. Montagu Naylor of Apthorpe Road, Streatham. You're on to the wrong number;" and with that he replaced his receiver, pulled out his watch and scowled at the dial. The hands pointed to half-past eleven. With a muttered exclamation and a murmur about a taxi, Mr. Naylor stamped out of the room, just as Mrs. Naylor was leaving the dining-room. She shrank back as if expecting to be struck. "Back about two," he grunted. "Keep that damned dog tied up." "I'll see to it," said Mrs. Naylor in a voice that seemed to come through cotton-wool.