He unlocked the safe and took out a book. This, too, was fastened by two locks. He opened it, laid it down, and began writing on a sheet of paper, carefully, laboriously checking the result. That night the gentleman who is responsible for the good order of Egypt received a telegram which ran: "Premium Fellow Collect Wady Barrage Meridian Tainted Inoculate Weary Sulphur." There was a great deal more written in the same interesting style. When the Egyptian Chief of Police unlocked his book to decode the message, he was humming a little tune that he had heard the band playing outside Shepheard's Hotel. Long before he had finished decoding the message, his humming stopped. Ten minutes later the wires were humming, and a battalion of infantry was hastily entrained from Khartoum. Having despatched the wire, T. B. turned to the young man, who was sitting solemnly regarding a small gossamer handkerchief and a crushed rosebud that lay on the table. "Well?" demanded T. B. Smith, leaning over the table, "what do you make of 'em?" "They are not Sir George's," replied Van Ingen, with a grin. "So much I gather," said T. B. "A client's?" "A very depressed and agitated client--feel." T. B.'s fingers touched the little handkerchief; it was still quite damp. He nodded. "The rosebud?" "Did you notice our austere banker's button-hole?" "Not particularly--but I remember no flowers." "No," agreed Van Ingen, "there were no flowers. I noticed particularly that his buttonhole was sewn, and yet----" "And yet?" "Hidden in one of those drawers was a bunch of these roses. I saw them when he was getting your balance-sheet." "H'm!" T. B. tapped the table impatiently. "So, you see," Van Ingen went on, "we have an interest in this lady client of his, who comes after office hours, weeps copiously, and leaves a bunch of rosebuds as a souvenir of her visit. It may have been a client, of course." "And the roses may have been security for an overdraft," said the ironic T. B. "What do you make of the handkerchief?" It was an exquisite little thing of the most delicate cambric. Along one hem, in letters minutely embroidered in flowing script, there ran a line of writing. T. B. took up a magnifying glass and read it. "'Que dieu te garde,'" he read, "and a little monogram--a gift of some sort, I gather. As far as I can see, the lettering is 'N.H.C.'--and what that means, Heaven knows! I'm afraid that, beyond intruding to an unjustifiable extent into the private affairs of our banker, we get no further. Well, Jones?" With a knock at the door, an officer had entered. "Sir George has returned to his house. We have just received a telephone message from one of our men." "What has he been doing to-night--Sir George?" "He dined at home; went to his club and returned; he does not go out again." T. B. nodded. "Watch the house and report," he said. The man saluted and left. T. B. turned again to the contemplation of the handkerchief.