"What do you mean by trying to force your way into a private club, like this? I'll telephone the Inspector. Get out of here, now! Get away from that door!" "Inspector nothin'! Let me in!" "Have you got a warrant?" The question seemed to stagger the detective for a moment, and his adversary seized the opportunity to close the door. Then Peter knocked politely upon the other side of the curtains. "I'm afraid, Mr. McAllister, I can't keep the officer out much longer. It's only a question of time. You'll pardon me, sir?" "Of course, Peter," answered McAllister. He stepped to the window. Outside he could see Conville stationing two plain-clothes men so as to guard both exits from the club. McAllister's breath came fast. Wilkins crouched in terror by the centre-table. Then a momentary inspiration came to the clubman. "Er--Peter, this is my friend, Mr. Lloyd-Jones. Take his coat and hat, give me a check for them, and then show him upstairs to a room. He'll be here for an hour or so." "Very good, sir," replied Peter without emotion, as he removed Wilkins's dripping coat and hat. "This way, sir." Casting a look of dazed gratitude at his former master, the valet followed Peter toward the elevator. "Here's a nice mess!" thought McAllister, as he returned to the big room. "How am I ever going to get rid of him? And ain't I liable somehow as an accomplice?" He wrinkled his brows, lit a Perfecto, and sank again into his accustomed place by the window. "That policeman wants to see you, sir," said the doorman, suddenly appearing at his elbow. "Says he knows you, and it's somethin' very important." The clubman smothered a curse. His first impulse was to tell the impudent fellow to go to the devil, but then he thought better of it. He had beaten Conville once, and he would do so again. When it came to a show-down, he reckoned his brains were about as good as a policeman's. "All right," he replied. "Tell him to sit down--that I've just come in, and will be with him in a few moments." "Very good, sir," answered the servant. McAllister perceived that he must think rapidly. There was no escape from the conclusion that he was certainly assisting in the escape of a felon; that he was an accessory after the fact, as it were. The idea did not increase his happiness at all. His one experience in the Tombs, however adventitious, had been quite sufficient. Nevertheless, he could not go back on Wilkins, particularly now that he had promised to assist him. McAllister rubbed his broad forehead in perplexity. "The officer says he's in a great hurry, sir, and wants to know can you see him at once, sir," said the doorman, coming back. "Hang it!" exclaimed our hero. "Yes, I'll _see_ him."