"Gone to blazes! Spanish Fours are so low that you'd get pain in your back if you stooped to pick them up." T. B. nodded. "I'll use your telephone," he said, and stooped over the desk. He called for a number, and after an interval-- "Yes--that you, Maitland? Go to 375 St. John Street, and take into custody Count Ivan Poltavo on a charge of murder. Take with you fifty men and surround the place. Detain every caller, and every person you find in the house." He hung up the receiver. "It is a bluff, as my gay American friend says," he remarked to the editor, "because, of course, I have no real evidence against him. But I want a chance to ransack that studio of his, anyway. "Now, my friend," he said in French, "what shall we do with you?" The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders listlessly. "What does it matter?" he said. "They will have me--it is only a matter of hours." "I take a brighter view," said T. B. cheerily; "you shall walk with us to Scotland Yard and there you shall be taken care of." But the Frenchman shrank back. "Come, there is no danger," smiled T. B. Reluctantly the engineer accompanied the detective and the editor from the building. A yellow fog lay like a damp cloth over London, and the Thames Embankment was almost deserted. "Do you think he followed you here?" asked T. B. "I am sure." The Frenchman looked from left to right in an agony of apprehension. "He killed Hyatt and he killed Moss--of that I am certain--and now----" A motor-car loomed suddenly through the fog, coming from the direction of Northumberland Avenue, and overtook them. A man leant out of the window as the car swept abreast. His face was masked and his actions were deliberate. "Look out!" cried the editor and clutched the Frenchman's arm. The pistol that was levelled from the window of the car cracked twice and T. B. felt the wind of the bullets as they passed his head. Then the car disappeared into the mist, leaving behind three men, one half fainting with terror, one immensely pleased with the novel sensation--our editor, you may be sure--and one using language unbecoming to an Assistant-Commissioner of Police. CHAPTER XIX THE BOOK The house in St. John Street had been raided. In a little room on the top floor there was evidence that an instrument of some considerable size had been hastily dismantled. Broken ends of wire were hanging from the wall, and one other room on the same floor was packed with storage batteries. Pursuing their investigations, the detectives ascended to the roof through a trap door. Here was the flagstaff and the arrangement for hoisting the wires. Apparently, night was usually chosen for the reception and despatch of messages. By night, the taut strands of wire would not attract attention. Only in cases of extremest urgency were they employed in daylight.