"It seems to me that I have heard that remark before," said T. B., "but that's beside the matter; you were talking about a man called Hyatt who bowled Poltavo." The young man pulled himself erect. "In a sense I was," he said, with dignity, "in a sense I wasn't; and now I must be toddling." T. B. saw the sudden suspicion that came to him. "What do you know about the barrage?" he asked abruptly. The man started back, sobered. "Nothing," he said harshly. "I know nothing. I know you, though, Mr. Bloomin' Smith, and you ain't goin' to pump me. Here, I'm going." He pushed T. B. aside. Van Ingen would have stopped him but for a look from his companion. "Let him go," he said. "I have a feeling that----" The young man was crossing St. James's Street, and disappeared for a moment in the gloom between the street lamps. T. B. waited a time for him to reappear, but he did not come into sight. "That's rum," murmured Van Ingen; "he couldn't have gone into Sir George's; his house is on the other side of the street--hello, there he is!" A man appeared momentarily in the rays of the lamp they were watching, and walked rapidly away. "That isn't him," said T. B., puzzled; "he's too tall; it must be somebody from one of the houses. Let us stroll along and see what has become of Mr. Moss." The little party crossed the street. The thoroughfare was deserted now, save for the disappearing figure of the tall gentleman. The black patch where Moss had disappeared was the entrance of the mews. "He must have mistaken this for a thoroughfare," said T. B. "We'll probably find him asleep in a corner somewhere." He took a little electric lamp from his pocket and shot a white beam into the darkness. "I don't see him anywhere," he said, and walked into the mews. "There he is!" said Van Ingen suddenly. The man was lying flat on his back, his eyes wide open, one arm moving feebly. "Drunk?" said T. B., and leant over him. Then he saw the blood and the wound in the man's throat. "Murder! by the Lord!" he cried. He was not dead, but, even as the sound of Van Ingen's running feet grew fainter, T. B. knew that this was a case beyond the power of the divisional surgeon. The man tried to speak, and the detective bent his head to listen. "Can't tell you all," the poor wreck whispered, "get Hyatt or the man on the Eiffel Tower--they know. His sister's got the book--Hyatt's sister--down in Falmouth--you'll find N.H.C. I don't know who they are, but you'll find them." He muttered a little incoherently, and T. B. strained his ears, but heard nothing. "N.H.C.," he repeated under his breath, and remembered the handkerchief. The man on the ground spoke again--"The Admiralty--they could fix it for you. Poltavo----" Then he died. CHAPTER XIII HYATT "Get Hyatt or the man on the Eiffel Tower!"