In the days that had lapsed since the disappearance of the notorious Adolf Zara, alias Captain Slattery, I had begun to share O’Shea’s view that this greatly daring man had perished at sea. “I received this note from him last night,” Nanette went on. “And I don’t know what to do.” Opening the envelope which she handed to me, I drew out a single sheet of unheaded, undated paper having a cutting pinned to it. The note read as follows: I learn from the appended picture that you are in London. If you can forgive me for my behaviour and will consent to see me for a moment before I leave England, put a message in the Personal Column of the _Daily Planet_ and I will arrange the rest. I can never forget you--so try to be kind. J. Slattery. The picture referred to was cut from the _Daily Planet_, and showed Nanette as one of a group at a dance party--I forget where. “How did he learn your address?” I asked. “He didn’t,” said Nanette. “Look at the envelope. It was forwarded from the office of the _Planet_.” She watched me almost pathetically, and I divined the nature of the problem that was disturbing Nanette’s mind. “I simply couldn’t do it!” she burst out. “It isn’t as though he were really a criminal. He _is_ a criminal, I suppose, in a way. But political crimes leave me rather cold. And, you see--he trusts me.” “Do you mean, Nanette,” I asked, “that you don’t want me to tell Major O’Shea?” Nanette shook her head. “Of course I don’t,” she replied. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it if I had meant that. What I mean is--that I am not going to do what he asks.” “Yet he begs you to be kind,” said I, feasting my eyes on Nanette’s charming face which, now, wore an adorably wistful expression. “I _am_ being kind,” she retorted; then: “Oh!” she exclaimed, and, suddenly silent, watched the open door. Jack’s voice might be heard. He was returning from the telephone downstairs and had evidently admitted visitors. A moment later they came in--O’Shea and an inspector of the Special Branch whom I had met before. He was a burly man with a rat-trap jaw, and I thought it probable that he could trace an unbroken descent from the first Bow Street runner in criminal history. Nanette greeted O’Shea with disarming nonchalance. But the only person in the room who believed that she had not expected to meet him there was Jack. The detective, a peculiarly efficient man-hunter, as events were to show, smiled grimly and stared out of the window. O’Shea held Nanette’s hand for a moment, and then turned aside, twirling his monocle string around an extended forefinger. “Come along, Jack!” cried Nanette gaily. “Mumsy will be tearing the Berkeley down!”