"Murray?" echoed Jack. "I don't recollect the name. Who is he?" "He's a gentleman, sir. He's down in the hall. He won't detain you a minute, he says," was the man's reply. "Then excuse me a moment," he said in apology to Elise, and left the room, descending to the hall with Littlewood. Below stood a clean-shaven man in a black overcoat who, advancing to meet him, said--"Are you Mr Sainsbury, sir?" "Yes. That's my name," replied the young man. "I want to speak to you privately, just for a few moments," the stranger said. "I want to tell you something in confidence," he added, lowering his voice. "Shall we go outside the door?" and he glanced meaningly at Littlewood. At first Jack was much puzzled, but, next moment, he said-- "Certainly--if you wish." Then both men went forth, descending the steps to the pavement, whereupon a second man, who sprang from nowhere, joined them instantly, while "Mr Murray" said, in a calm and quite determined voice-- "Mr Sainsbury, we are officers of the Criminal Investigation Department, and we arrest you upon a warrant charging you with certain offences under the Defence of the Realm Act." "What!" gasped Jack, staring at them absolutely dumbfounded. "Are you mad? What tomfoolery is this?" "I will read the warrant over to you at Bow Street," answered the man who had called himself Murray. And, as he uttered the words, a taxi that had been waiting a few doors away drew up, and almost before Sainsbury could protest, or seek permission to return to his fiancee and explain the farce in progress, he was, in full view of Littlewood, bundled unceremoniously into the conveyance, which, next instant, moved swiftly down the hill in the direction of Swiss Cottage station, on its way to Bow Street Police Station. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. HELD BY THE ENEMY. "That can hardly be correct--because there are proofs," remarked the tall, fair, quick-eyed man, who sat in the cold, official-looking room at Bow Street Police Station at half-past three o'clock that same morning. Jack Sainsbury was standing in defiance before the table, while, in the room, stood the two plain-clothes men who had effected his arrest. The fair-haired man at the table was Inspector Tennant, of the Special Department at New Scotland Yard, an official whose duty since the outbreak of war was to make inquiry into the thousand-and-one cases of espionage which the public reported weekly to that much-harassed department. Tennant, who had graduated, as all others had graduated, from the rank of police-constable on the streets of London, was a reliable officer as far as patriotism and a sense of duty went. But it was impossible for a man born in a labourer's cottage on the south side of Dartmoor, and educated at the village school, to possess such a highly trained brain as that possessed by say certain commissaires of the Paris Surete.