"I offer a thousand regrets," said the distressed restaurateur; "they are engaged. If you had only----" "But, name of dog! name of a sacred pipe!" expostulated T. B. unscrupulously. Was it not possible to pretend that there had been a mistake; that one room had already been engaged? "Impossible, m'sieur! In No. 1 we have no less a person than the Premier of Southwest Australia, who is being dined by his fellow-colonists; in No. 2 a family party of Lord Redlands; in No. 3--ah! in No. 3----" "Ah, in No. 3!" repeated T. B. cunningly, and the proprietor dropped his voice to a whisper. "'La Belle Espagnole'!" he murmured. He named the great Spanish dancer with relish. "She, and her _fiancé's_ friend, eh?" "Her _fiancé_? I didn't know----" "It is a secret----" He looked round as if he were fearful of eavesdroppers. "But it is said that 'La Belle Espagnole' is to be married to a rich admirer." "Name?" asked T. B. carelessly. The proprietor shrugged his shoulders. "I do not enquire the name of my patrons," he said, "but I understand that it is to be the young Lord Carleby." The name told T. B. nothing. "Well," he said easily, "I will take a table in the restaurant. I do not wish to interrupt a _tête-à-tête_." "Oh, it is not Carleby to-night," the proprietor hastened to assure him. "I think mamzelle would prefer that it was--not; it is a stranger." T. B. sauntered into the brilliantly lighted room, having handed his hat and coat to a waiter. He found a deserted table. Luck was with him to an extraordinary extent; that Sir George should have chosen Meggioli's was the greatest good fortune of all. At that time Count Menshikoff was paying one of his visits to England. The master of the St. Petersburg secret police was a responsibility. For his protection it was necessary that a small army of men should be detailed, and since Meggioli's was the restaurant he favoured, at least one man of the Criminal Investigation Department was permanently employed at that establishment. T. B. called a waiter, and the man came swiftly. He had a large white face, big unwinking black eyes, and heavy bushy eyebrows, that stamped his face as one out of the common. His name--which is unimportant--was Vellair, and foreign notabilities his specialty. "Soup--_consommé, crème de_----" T. B., studying his menu, asked quietly, "Is it possible to see and hear what is going on in No. 3?" "The private room?" "Yes." The waiter adjusted the table with a soft professional touch. "There is a small anteroom, and a ventilator, a table that might be pushed against the wall and a chair," said the waiter concisely. "If you remain here I will make sure." He scribbled a mythical order on his little pad and disappeared. He came back in five minutes with a small tureen of soup. As he emptied its contents into the plate before T. B. he said, "All right; the key is on the inside.--The door is numbered 11." T. B. picked up the wine list.