There was very little time to be lost, and to his joy Westerham remembered that the day was Thursday, the day on the evening of which Melun's various friends met at the pseudo working-man's club at Limehouse. Immediately he resolved that he would go there that very night. Rough men had no terrors for him; during his life in the West he had dealt with rougher men than Melun had ever been called on to handle. He laughed as he thought of the possibilities of dominating such a collection of scoundrels as he had seen on his first visit to “The Club.” Then he bethought him of Mr. Rookley, and he reflected that if the mills of Scotland Yard, like the mills of God, ground exceedingly slowly, they ground uncommonly fine. It may be an easy thing to detect that one is shadowed by a large man with large boots. But, none the less, it is sufficiently disconcerting to find that the large boots follow one's footsteps persistently and doggedly. Scotland Yard wears down a man by sheer weight. Westerham knew, too, that he had so aroused the interest of the authorities that they would do their best to watch his every movement. Nor was he wrong. He realised, therefore, that it would be folly for him to proceed straight from Bruton Street to the East End. Never in his life had he feared any man, nor had he ever before been compelled to face the contingency of throwing off pursuers—and those pursuers the representatives of law and order. However, the prospect of for once being the pursued rather than the pursuer to some extent tickled his fancy; he resolved to try his 'prentice hand at evasion by secretly making his way from Bruton Street to Walter's Hotel. Walter's, he imagined, would be probably safe from observation for that night at least. Rookley had practically told Sir Paul that he did not know where he went when he was not in Bruton Street. First Westerham called in Blyth and questioned him pretty closely; he satisfied himself, however, that whatever the man might think of his master's methods of life he was at least faithful. Westerham, indeed, resolved to trust him a great deal more than he had done up to then, and told him, without any disguise, that he strongly suspected that Bruton Street was at that moment being watched. Casually, and without the slightest demonstration of surprise, the valet thereupon suggested that it would be just as well for Westerham to change his dress before he left the flat. This he did, and afterwards sent the porter for a taxicab. Into this he jumped as soon as it arrived, telling the man to drive to Turnham Green. And long before they reached that distant part of London, Westerham convinced himself that even had he been pursued at all he had certainly outdistanced the pursuers. From Turnham Green he took the District Railway to Earl's Court. Alighting there, he walked to South Kensington, where he again took the train, on this occasion booking straight through to Whitechapel.