But Clement had not waited to hear the last words. He was half-way down the stairs with his hand on the boy’s collar. They plunged into Cornhill, but the lad, a London-bred urchin, did not condescend to the street for more than twenty yards or so. Then he dived into a court on the same side of the way, crossed it, threaded a private passage through some offices, and came out in Bishopsgate Street. Stemming the crowd as best they could they crossed this, and by another alley and more offices the lad convoyed his charge into Leadenhall Street. A last rush saw them landed, panting and with their coats wellnigh torn from their backs, on the pavement on the south side of the street, in front of the pillared entrance, and beneath the colossal Britannia that, far above their heads and flanked by figures of Europe and Asia, presided over the fortunes of the greatest trading company that the world has ever seen. Through the doors of that building—now, alas, no more—had passed all the creators of an oriental empire, statesmen, soldiers, merchant princes, Clive, Lawrence, Warren Hastings, Cornwallis. Yet to-day, the mention of it calls up as often the humble figure of a black-coated white-cravated clerk with spindle legs and a big head, who worked within its walls and whom Clement, had he called a few months earlier, might have met coming from his desk. Here Clement, had he been without a guide, would have wasted precious minutes. But the place had no mysteries for the boy, even on this day of confusion and alarm. Skilled in every twist and turning, he knew no doubt. “This way,” he snapped, hurrying down a long passage which faced the entrance, and appeared to penetrate into the bowels of the building. Then, “No! Not that way, stupid! What are you doing?” But Clement’s eyes, as he followed, had caught sight of a party of three, who, issuing from a corridor on the right at a considerable distance before them, had as quickly disappeared down another corridor on the left. The light was not good, but Clement had recognized one of them, and “There he is!” he cried. “He has gone down there! Where does that lead to?” “Lime Street entrance!” the lad replied curtly, and galloped after the party, Clement at his heels. “Hurry!” he threw over his shoulder, “or they’ll be out, and, by gum, you’ll lose him! Once out and we’re done, sir!” They reached the turning the others had taken and ran down it. The distance was but short, but it was long enough to enable Clement to collect his wits, and to wonder, while he prepared himself for the encounter that impended, how Arthur would bear himself at the moment of discovery. Fortunately, the party pursued had paused for an instant in the east vestibule before committing themselves to the street, and that instant was fatal to them. “Bourdillon!” Clement cried, raising his voice. “Hi! Bourdillon!” Arthur turned as if he had been struck, saw him and stared, his mouth agape. “The devil!” he ejaculated.