A drunken sailor, obviously of foreign extraction, was ejected, fighting, from a small public-house in the Edgware Road. He rose from the ground slowly, and stood apparently debating in his mind whether he should go away quietly or whether he should return to the attack. It is not too much to say that had he decided upon the pacific course, the mystery of the whereabouts of the Nine Bears might never have been elucidated. In that two seconds of deliberation hung the fates of Baggin and his confederates, and the reputation of Scotland Yard. The foreign sailor made up his mind. Back to the swing-doors of the tavern he staggered, pushed them open, and entered. A few minutes later a police-whistle blew, and a commonplace constable strolled leisurely to the scene of the disturbance and took into custody the pugnacious foreigner on a charge of "drunk and disorderly." This was the beginning of the final fight with the "Bears," a fight which cost Europe over a million of money and many lives, but which closed forever the account of the Nine Bears of Cadiz. "Here is a case that will amuse you, T. B.," said the Chief, strolling into his bureau; "a man, giving the name of Silva, who has been taken to the police-station on the prosaic charge of 'D. and D.,' is found to be a walking cash deposit. Twelve hundred pounds in Bank of England notes and 26,000 francs in French money was found in his possession. He speaks little or no English, has the appearance of being a sailor--will you go down and see what you can make of him?" In a quarter of an hour the Assistant-Commissioner was at the police-station. "Yes, sir," said the station sergeant, "he's quiet now. I don't think he's so very drunk, only pugilistically so." "What do you make of him?" "He's a sailor; a deserter from some foreign navy, I should say. He has underclothes of a uniform type, and there's a sort of device on his singlet--three stars and a number." "Brazilian Navy," said T. B. with promptness. "Talkative?" The sergeant smiled. "In his own language, very," he said drily. "When I searched him, he said a great number of things which were probably very rude." T. B. nodded. "I'll see him," he said. A gaoler led him down a long corridor. On either side were long stone-painted doors, each with a little steel wicket. Stopping before one door, he inserted his bright key in the lock, snapped back a polished bolt, and the door swung open. A man who was sitting on a wooden bench with his head in his hands, jumped to his feet as the Assistant-Commissioner entered, and poured forth a volume of language. "Softly, softly," said T. B. "You speak French, my friend." "Oui, monsieur," said the man. "Though I am Spanish." "You are a deserter from a Brazilian warship," said T. B. The man stared at him defiantly. "Is not that so, friend?" The prisoner shrugged his shoulders. "I should like to smoke," was all that he said.