"Well, sir, they didn't get anything in return, though they expect something in return—that's only natural. They said they'd come back to see me." "Did they say when they'd come back?" "To-day, sir, about the same time as they come yesterday and the day before." He pulled out his watch. "It's close on seven now. Perhaps you will like to see them if they come presently, sir." "On the other hand, perhaps I shall not," I said, and I lit a cigarette. "At the same time, if they call, you can tell me." "Certainly, sir—if anybody rings, I'll come at once and tell you." He shuffled for a moment, then added: "And these notes, sir; am I entitled to keep them?" "Of course you are. Anybody has a right to accept and keep a gift. At the same time, I would warn you not to be disappointed if, when you try to cash them, you find the numbers have been stopped." Downstairs, with Albeury, I began to look through my correspondence. The third telegram I opened puzzled me. "_Is it all right?—Dick."_ It had been awaiting me two days. Guessing that there must be a letter from Dick which would throw light on this telegram, I glanced quickly through the pile. I soon came to one addressed in his handwriting. I had to read it through twice before I fully realized what it all meant. Then I turned quickly to Albeury. "Read that," I said, pushing the letter to him across the table. He picked it up and adjusted his glasses. A few moments later he sprang suddenly to his feet. "My God! Mr. Berrington!" he exclaimed, "this is most serious! And it was written"—he glanced at the date—"eight days ago—the very day you left London." "What is to be done?" I said quickly. "You may well ask," he answered. He looked up at the clock. "The police must be shown this at once, and, under the circumstances, told everything that happened in France. I had hoped to be able to entrap the gang without dealing with Scotland Yard direct."