At dinner he ate but little and drank less, though Madame pleaded that a second glass of champagne would go far to steady his considerably shaken nerves. Westerham, however, declined. He had become so suspicious of everybody and everything he half imagined that, not content with chloroforming him, his captors might attempt to drug him also. At the stroke of nine Westerham heard the rumble of wheels in the street, and, rising from the table, Mme. Estelle informed him that the cab had arrived. As they stood in the hall the woman held out her hand and Westerham put out his half-way to meet it. “Some day,” he said, “I shall certainly require an explanation of all these strange doings. In the meantime, I don't think you should take my hand unless you are sincere in your determination to reduce Lady Kathleen's danger in every way you can.” “Believe me,” declared Madame, most earnestly, “that I am quite sincere.” Westerham shook her by the hand. It was not until the cab was bowling along Oxford Street that Westerham began to look about him. He had no idea of his destination, and he considered that it would be just as well to take careful note of the journey. Half-way between Oxford Circus and the Tottenham Court Road the cab turned up to the left. Peering through the glass, Westerham could just make out Newman Street. At the bottom of the street the cab turned to the left, then to the right again, then to the left, and once more to the right. So far as he could tell, Westerham gathered that he must now be parallel to the top of Tottenham Court Road, and be a good deal nearer to Portman Street than Oxford Street. Suddenly the cab drew up with a jingle and a clatter, and the driver, lifting the trap-door, informed Westerham that he had reached his destination. Upon this Westerham stepped out to find himself in a narrow, shabby, and almost deserted thoroughfare of mean and hang-dog appearance. In spite of this he recognised that the houses must once have been the dwellings of well-to-do people, for the railings about the areas were of finely-wrought iron and the doors were high and massive. “Knock three single knocks,” said the cab-driver into his ear, and then jumping on to the dicky the man drove away. Suddenly Westerham remembered that there was one pocket of his new clothes which he had not searched. His hand went towards his hip, and he was surprised to find that his revolver was without question there. Glancing about to make sure that he was not observed, Westerham drew it out and felt with his thumb along the back barrels. It was still loaded. For a second Westerham wondered whether the bullets had been drawn, but, opening the six-shooter, he satisfied himself that the cartridges had not been tampered with. This amazed him not a little, although the discovery considerably restored his confidence. At least he had to anticipate no further attack on that night.