In the main road they took a tram and travelled westward. At Aldgate Westerham hailed a cab, and the three men drove through the half-empty city streets, past St. Paul's, and up Fleet Street, into the Strand. As they drew near to Walter's, Westerham's quick eye detected a crowd round the hotel. He thrust his hand through the trap-door in the roof and brought the cab to a standstill. “Look here,” he said quickly to the other men, “that crowd is outside Walter's—and that is where I live. “You can accompany me to the door if you like and see me go in; but I should not drive up if I were you, as you will only arouse interest, and possibly someone may see and recognise you. That would be awkward both for you and for me.” Mackintosh gave a grin of agreement, and alighting, the three men walked towards the hotel. As they approached the crowd, Mackintosh and his companion drew away from Westerham. “It will do if we see you go in,” said the bullet-headed man, “we will wait here.” And he moved into a little opening on the side of the street opposite the hotel. Westerham struck across the Strand and pushed his way through the press. The hotel door was closed and guarded on either side by a constable. Through the glass doorway Westerham could see the face of the hall porter peering out, pale and anxious and questioning. He rapped on the door, and the porter opened it, the policemen making no demur, seeing that the porter obviously recognised the new arrival. At the further end of the hall were gathered a number of the visitors, talking excitedly, but in low voices. Two immensely large and solid men were seated on a bench. They rose up as Westerham entered, and he immediately recognised one of them as the inquisitive Mr. Rookley from Scotland Yard. Rookley, with a stern, set face, walked forward to meet Westerham, and touched him with a forefinger on his chest. “I have been waiting for you,” he said. The sense of coming evil against which Westerham had struggled earlier in the evening swept over him again with redoubled force. He made an effort to shake it off, but again failed to do so. “What is it?” he asked, and his voice sounded strange and harsh even to himself. Without a word, Rookley grasped his arm and led him up the stairs, nor did he stop till he reached the second floor, on which were situated Westerham's sitting-room and modest bedroom. Opening the door of the sitting-room, Rookley drew Westerham in and closed the door again. “Look here, Mr. Robinson,” he said, “you gave us the slip last time, I admit; and I admit also that it was only by a very dreadful miracle that I discovered your whereabouts to-night. For I was summoned here on an awful piece of business. But we've got you now, and I want an explanation.” Westerham stared at him with a set face.