Billy had hardly realized the desertion of his chum when he saw that Roque had changed his position, and was standing nearest the door leading to the street. The secret agent shifted something from his hip to the sidepocket of his coat, and Billy caught the glitter of that something in the swift movement. The boy guessed then that there was trouble brewing. In the meantime, Henri, in an innocent sort of way, pushed still closer to the pianist, who was hitting the high notes in fine style. As he passed within a foot of the singer, now idly posing, with an elbow on the piano top, he, without turning his head, joined in the triumphant chorus, but changed two words at the climax, and "beat it" reached Anglin's ear. The French sleuth never moved a muscle, and it was as if the warning had been passed to a man stone deaf. Anyone posted, however, would have known that within an arm's length of Anglin was a wall switch which controlled the electric lights by which the room was so brilliantly illuminated. Billy had just had the experience of being rather rudely thrust aside by a couple of burly troopers, who seemed inspired to get as quickly as possible into the very center of the select circle. "Get him!" As this command rang out the astonished pleasure seekers started a panic, as if an alarm of fire had sounded. There was a rush for every doorway, but every way of departure was blocked by stalwart guardsmen. Billy was not among those who tried to break through the doors--he was dodging among the charging force sent in by the loud orders to "get him." Click! The room was suddenly shrouded in darkness, penetrated a little distance only by the lights beyond the entrance of the lounging room section. The pursuing force, working from several directions, ran into one another's arms. The pianist, familiar with the place, leaped for the electric switch, and turned on the flood of light. Everybody was present but the singer! Henri had a perch on the keyboard of the piano, which he had sought to save a mad tramping on his feet. "Set you to catch a weasel," sneered Roque, as the sandy-haired man stood staring at the shattered casement of the tall window overlooking an inner court of the hotel. "He can't get clear away," retorted the sandy one. "Stop him then," challenged Roque. "Don't stand there like a stoughton bottle." The pursuers scoured the building from bottom to top, and every street and alley roundabout, but it was a case of looking for a needle in a haystack. Roque was in a black mood. Once more baffled by his cunning chief adversary, the only one he acknowledged in his own class, and on his own stamping ground--it was a bitter dose for the master craftsman. Did he remember how he himself had spread a web over Britain, woven so finely that even Scotland Yard could not see it? Yet he rebelled at the like cut of a diamond.