T. B. found the Chief Commissioner of Police at his club, and unfolded his plan. The Chief looked grave. "It might very easily lead to a horrible catastrophe if you carry that scheme into execution." "It might very easily lead to a worse if I don't," said T. B. brutally. "I am too young to die. At the worst it can only be a 'police blunder,' such as you read about in every evening newspaper that's published," he urged, "and I look at the other side of the picture. If this woman communicates with her principals, nothing is more certain than that Thursday will see the blowing up of the Wady Semlik Barrage. These 'Nine Bears' are operating on the sure knowledge that Bronte's Bank is going to break. The stocks they are attacking are companies banking with Bronte, and it's ten chances to one they will kill Sir George Calliper in order to give an artistic finish to the failure." The Commissioner bit his lip thoughtfully. "And," urged T. B. Smith, "the N.H.C. will be warned, and bang goes our only chance of bagging the lot!" The Commissioner smiled. "Your language, T. B.!" he deplored; then, "Do as you wish--but what about the real Mary Brown?" "Oh, she can be sent on next week with apologies. We can get a new warrant if necessary." "Where is she?" "At Bow Street." "No; I mean the Spanish lady?" T. B. grinned. "She's locked up in your office, sir," he said cheerfully. The Commissioner said nothing, but T. B. declined to meet his eye. At four o'clock the next morning, a woman attendant woke "La Belle Espagnole" from a fitful sleep, and a few minutes afterwards T. B., dressed for a journey and accompanied by a hard-faced wardress and a detective, came in. "Where are you going to take me?" she demanded, but T. B.'s reply was not very informing. A closed carriage deposited them at Euston in time to catch the early morning train. In the compartment reserved for her and the wardress--it was a corridor carriage, and T. B. and his man occupied the next compartment--she found a dainty breakfast waiting for her, and a supply of literature. She slept the greater part of the journey and woke at the jolting of a shunting engine being attached to the carriage. "Where are we?" she asked. "We're there," was the cryptic reply of the woman attendant. She was soon to discover, for, when the carriage finally came to a standstill and the door was opened, she stepped down onto a wind-swept quay. Ahead of her the great white hull of a steamer rose, and before she could realise the situation she had been hurried up the sloping gangway onto the deck. Evidently T. B.'s night had been profitably spent, for he was expected. The purser met him. "We got your telegrams," he said. "Is this the lady?" T. B. nodded. The purser led the way down the spacious companion. "I have prepared 'C' suite," he said, and ushered the party into a beautifully appointed cabin.