"Simplest way in the world to obey instructions. The easiest way to burn money is to convert it into tobacco. Slip down to Wall Street tomorrow and invest every cent of this money in American Tobacco, register the stock in the name of Henry Loveless and put it away for him. Save out enough for a round-trip ticket to Sing Sing, and run up there some day and tell him what you've done." "By Jove!" exclaimed de Bosky, his eyes dancing. "But," he added, doubtfully, "what am I to do if he doesn't approve?" "Tell him put it in his pipe and smoke it," said the resourceful Mr. Trotter. "You know," said the other admiringly, "I have never been one of those misguided persons who claim that the English have no sense of humour. I--" "Sh!" warned M. Mirabeau from the top of the steps. And then, like a true Frenchman, he bustled de Bosky out of the shop ahead of him and closed the door, leaving Trotter alone among the ticking clocks. Jane came swiftly up the steps, hurrying as if pursued. Mr. Bramble was pledging something, in a squeaky undertone, from the store below. "He may not have followed me," Jane called back in guarded tones, "but if he has, Mr. Bramble, you must be sure to throw him off the trail." "Trust me,--trust me implicitly," came in a strangled sort of voice from the faithful ex-tutor. "Oh,--Eric, dearest! How you startled me!" cried Lady Jane a moment later. She gasped the words, for she was almost smothered in the arms of her lover. "Forgive me," he murmured, without releasing her,--an oversight which she apparently had no immediate intention of resenting. A little later on, she suddenly drew away from him, with a quick, embarrassed glance around the noisy little shop. He laughed. "We are quite alone, Jane dear,--unless you count the clocks. They're all looking at us, but they never tell anything more than the time of day. And now, dear, what is this beastly business?" She closed the door to the stairway, very cautiously, and then came back to him. The frown deepened in his eyes as he listened to the story she told. "But why should I go into hiding?" he exclaimed, as she stopped to get her breath. "I haven't done anything wrong. What if they have trumped up some rotten charge against me? All the more reason why I should stand out and defend--" "But, dear, Scotland Yard is such a dreadful place," she cried, blanching. "They--" "Rubbish! I'm not afraid of Scotland Yard." "You--you're not?" she gasped, blankly. "But, Eric dear, you _must_ be afraid of Scotland Yard. You don't know what you are saying." "Oh, yes, I do. And as for this chap they've sent after me,--where is he? In two seconds I can tell him what's what. He'll go humping back to London--" "I knew you would say something like that," she declared, greatly perturbed. "But I sha'n't let you. Do you hear, Eric? I sha'n't let you. You _must_ hide. You must go away from New York,--tonight."