The next moment the light-haired one was at his table, talking in a feverish whisper. "I say," he said, "it's frightfully good of you, old chap. It's frightfully awkward. I've come out with too little money. I hardly like to--What I mean to say is, you've never seen me before, and----" "That's all right," said Jimmy. "Only too glad to help. It might have happened to any one. Will this be enough?" He placed a five-pound note on the table. The young man grabbed at it with a rush of thanks. "I say, thanks fearfully," he said. "I don't know what I'd have done. I'll let you have it back to-morrow. Here's my card. Blunt's my name. Spennie Blunt. Is your address on your card? I can't remember. Oh, by Jove, I've got it in my hand all the time." The gurgling laugh came into action again, freshened and strengthened by its rest. "Savoy Mansions, eh? I'll come round to-morrow. Thanks, frightfully, again old chap. I don't know what I should have done." He flitted back to his table, bearing the spoil, and Jimmy, having finished his cigarette, paid his check, and got up to go. It was a perfect summer night. He looked at his watch. There was time for a stroll on the Embankment before bed. He was leaning on the balustrade, looking across the river at the vague, mysterious mass of buildings on the Surrey side, when a voice broke in on his thoughts. "Say, boss. Excuse me." Jimmy spun round. A ragged man with a crop of fiery red hair was standing at his side. The light was dim, but Jimmy recognized that hair. "Spike!" he cried. The other gaped, then grinned a vast grin of recognition. "Mr. Chames! Gee, dis cops de limit!" Three years had passed since Jimmy had parted from Spike Mullins, Red Spike to the New York police, but time had not touched him. To Jimmy he looked precisely the same as in the old New York days. A policeman sauntered past, and glanced curiously at them. He made as if to stop, then walked on. A few yards away he halted. Jimmy could see him watching covertly. He realized that this was not the place for a prolonged conversation. "Spike," he said, "do you know Savoy Mansions?" "Sure. Foist to de left across de way." "Come on there. I'll meet you at the door. We can't talk here. That cop's got his eye on us." He walked away. As he went, he smiled. The policeman's inspection had made him suddenly alert and on his guard. Yet why? What did it matter to Sir James Pitt, baronet, if the whole police force of London stopped and looked at him? "Queer thing, habit," he said, as he made his way across the road. CHAPTER II. A black figure detached itself from the blacker shadows, and shuffled stealthily to where Jimmy stood on the doorstep. "That you, Spike?" asked Jimmy, in a low voice. "Dat's right, Mr. Chames." "Come on in." He led the way up to his rooms, switched on the electric light, and shut the door. Spike stood blinking at the sudden glare. He twirled his battered hat in his hands. His red hair shone fiercely.