"I am satisfied," said T. B., "that an attempt will be made to destroy the barrage on the day for which you are liable. All the features of the present market position point to this fact." "In that case," said the banker, "the 'bears' must be clairvoyant. The day on which the barrage comes into the hands of the Egyptian Government is known to two persons only. I am one, and the other is a gentleman the mere mention of whose name would satisfy you as to his integrity." "And none other?" "None other," said the banker. And that was all he would say. But at six o'clock that night T. B. received a message. It was written in pencil on the torn edges of a newspaper. "To-night Sir George Calliper is dining with the Spanish dancing girl, La Belle Espagnole." That, and an initial, was all the note contained, but it came from the most reliable man in the Criminal Investigation Department, and T. B. whistled his astonishment. CHAPTER XIV SIR GEORGE DINES Sir George Calliper lived in St. James's Street. A bachelor--some regarded him as a misogynist--his establishment was nevertheless a model of order; and if you had missed the indefinable something that betrays a woman's hand in the arrangement of furniture, you recognised that the controlling spirit of the household was one possessed of a rigid sense of domesticity, that found expression in solid comfort and sober luxury. The banker sat in his study engaged in writing a letter. He was in evening dress, and the little French clock on the mantel had just chimed seven. He finished the note and folded it in its envelope. Then he pressed a bell. A servant entered. "I am dining out," said Sir George shortly. "I shall be home at eleven." It was characteristic that he did not say "may be home," or "at about eleven." "Shall I order the car, Sir George?" "No; I'll take a cab." A shrill whistle brought a taxi-cab to the door. A passing commissionaire stopped to ask the cabman which was the nearest way to Berkeley Square as the banker came down the two steps of the house. "Meggioli's," he instructed the cabman, and added, "the Vine Street entrance." The commissionaire stood back respectfully as the whining taxi jerked forward. "Meggioli's!" murmured the commissionaire, "and by the private door! That's rum. I wonder whether Van Ingen has started for Cornwall yet?" He walked into St. James's Square, and a smart one-horse brougham, that had been idly moving round the circle of garden in the centre, pulled up at the curb by his side. "Meggioli's--front entrance," said the commissionaire. It was a uniformed man who entered the carriage; it was T. B. Smith in his well-fitting dress clothes who emerged at Meggioli's. "I want a private room," he informed the proprietor, who came to meet him with a bow. "I'm ver' sorry, Mr. Smith, but I have not----" "But you have three," said T. B. indignantly.