"Take this card," he said, and scribbled a few words hastily upon a visiting-card; "that will admit you to my rooms at the Savoy. Make yourself comfortable until I return." He gave the man a few directions, piloted him from the restaurant, saw him enter a cab, then turned his steps toward Baker Street. CHAPTER XVI MARY BROWN Pentonby Mansions are within a stone's throw of Baker Street Station. T. B. jumped out of his cab some distance from the great entrance hall, and paid the driver. Just before he turned into the vestibule a man, strolling towards him, asked him for a match. "Well?" "She came straight from the restaurant and has been inside ten minutes," reported the man, ostentatiously lighting his pipe. "She hasn't sent a telegram?" "So far as I know, no, sir." In the vestibule a hall porter sat reading the evening paper. "Can I telephone from here?" asked T. B. "Yes, sir," said the man, and T. B.'s heart sank, for he had overlooked this possibility. "I suppose you have 'phones in every room?" he asked carelessly. But the man shook his head. "No, sir," he said; "there is some talk of putting 'em in, but so far this 'phone in my office is the only one in the building." T. B. smiled genially. "And I suppose," he said, "that you're bothered day and night with calls from tenants?" He waited anxiously for the answer. "Sometimes I am, and sometimes I go a whole day without calls. No; to-day, for instance, I haven't had a message since five o'clock." T. B. murmured polite surprise and began his ascent of the stairs. So far, so good. His business was to prevent the girl communicating with Poltavo. He had already formed a plan in his mind. Turning at the first landing, he walked briskly along the corridor to the left. "29, 31, 33," he counted, "35, 37. Here we are." The corridor was empty; he slipped his skeleton-key from his pocket and deftly manipulated it. The door opened noiselessly. He was in a dark little hallway. At the end was a door, and a gleam of light shone under it. He closed the door behind him, stepped softly along the carpeted floor, and his hand was on the handle of the further door, when a sweet voice called him by name from the room. "_Adelante_! Señor Smit'," it said; and, obeying the summons, T. B. entered. The room was well, if floridly, furnished; but T. B. had no eyes save for the graceful figure lounging in a big wicker-chair, a thin cigarette between her red lips, and her hands carelessly folded on her lap. "Come in," she repeated, this time in French. "I have been expecting you." T. B. bowed slightly. "I was told that I should probably receive a visit from you." "First," said T. B. gently, "let me relieve you of that ugly toy." Before she could realise what was happening, two strong hands seized her wrists and lifted them. Then one hand clasped her two, and a tiny pistol that lay in her lap was in the detective's possession. * * * * * * *