“I want to tell you,” I went on, “that the man you call Captain Slattery, but whose real name is Adolf Zara, is not as civilized as he appears to be. He is a member of a very dangerous organization. I hope you will make a point of avoiding him.” “I am never going to see him again,” Nanette declared. She spoke abstractedly, and it dawned upon me that her interest was centred less upon this matter of her perilous acquaintance with a member of the S Group than upon the passers-by. I attached little significance to the fact at the time, and: “I am only anxious about your personal safety,” I said. “Anything you care to tell me, I shall keep to myself. Are you sure that Captain Slattery does not mean to see _you_ again?” Nanette looked aside at me. I thought that, since Adolf Zara was human, my question had been rather superfluous. O’Shea, who was no alarmist, had admitted that the secret organization of these people was extensive and efficient. Wild ideas assailed my mind, but: “Of course, we are no longer in the lonely island of Madeira,” I went on, “but in the capital of a civilized country. All the same, Nanette, I should be glad to know that Zara was no longer in England.” “So should I,” she admitted, and looked away again. The words were simple enough, but, from what I knew of Nanette, I detected an unfamiliar note in her voice. I was not sorry to hear it, although it was a note of fear. It told me that my warning had been unnecessary. Nanette knew that Zara was a dangerous man. “I have been wondering what I should do,” she began suddenly. “But now I have made up my mind.” She opened her handbag and took out a twisted scrap of paper. Smoothing it carefully, she passed it to me, and: “Captain Slattery dropped this yesterday,” she said, “while he was with me in a taxi. I think, perhaps----” She hesitated. “Yes?” said I, glancing at what was written on the paper. “It’s so odd that I think, perhaps, you should show it to--your friend.” Watching her as she spoke, I wondered at the scheme of things; wondered whether she would outlive a romance born in a jewelled island, or whether, despite her youth, it was real, for good or ill, this love of hers for O’Shea. I suppressed a sigh, and bent over the writing. This was what I read: Book from Charing Cross to the British Museum. From the Mansion House also it is no distance to the British Museum. Hyde Park there is a station. Change at Charing Cross for Piccadilly. Bond Street is merely Bond Street, and two London Bridges are better than one Bond Street. But the Mansion House and the British Museum are national institutions, and Berkeley Square pulled down or Berkeley Square blown up would only lead to the Old Bailey. Residents at the Crystal Palace rarely moved to Berkeley Square, and the Tower Bridge is new whilst London Bridge is old. Meet you in Bond Street.