“Because I have something to do which I have set my mind to,” she said, with determination in her tones. “Surely you can trust me with your address,” he urged her, “after all that has passed between us, Belinda Mary--after all the years we have known one another.” “I shall get out and leave you,” she said steadily. “But how the dickens am I going to help you?” he protested. “Don't swear,” she could be very severe indeed; “the only way you can help me is by being kind and sympathetic.” “Would you like me to burst into tears?” he asked sarcastically. “I ask you to do nothing more painful or repugnant to your natural feelings than to be a gentleman,” she said. “Thank you very kindly,” said T. X., and leant back in the cab with an air of supreme resignation. “I believe you're making faces in the dark,” she accused him. “God forbid that I should do anything so low,” said he hastily; “what made you think that?” “Because I was putting my tongue out at you,” she admitted, and the taxi driver heard the shrieks of laughter in the cab behind him above the wheezing of his asthmatic engine. At twelve that night in a certain suburb of London an overcoated man moved stealthily through a garden. He felt his way carefully along the wall of the house and groped with hope, but with no great certainty, along the window sill. He found an envelope which his fingers, somewhat sensitive from long employment in nefarious uses, told him contained nothing more substantial than a letter. He went back through the garden and rejoined his companion, who was waiting under an adjacent lamp-post. “Did she drop?” asked the other eagerly. “I don't know yet,” growled the man from the garden. He opened the envelope and read the few lines. “She hasn't got the money,” he said, “but she's going to get it. I must meet her to-morrow afternoon at the corner of Oxford Street and Regent Street.” “What time!” asked the other. “Six o'clock,” said the first man. “The chap who takes the money must carry a copy of the Westminster Gazette in his hand.” “Oh, then it's a plant,” said the other with conviction. The other laughed. “She won't work any plants. I bet she's scared out of her life.” The second man bit his nails and looked up and down the road, apprehensively. “It's come to something,” he said bitterly; “we went out to make our thousands and we've come down to 'chanting' for 20 pounds.” “It's the luck,” said the other philosophically, “and I haven't done with her by any means. Besides we've still got a chance of pulling of the big thing, Harry. I reckon she's good for a hundred or two, anyway.” At six o'clock on the following afternoon, a man dressed in a dark overcoat, with a soft felt hat pulled down over his eyes stood nonchalantly by the curb near where the buses stop at Regent Street slapping his hand gently with a folded copy of the Westminster Gazette.