“The Continent,” said Lambaire. “I’ll leave by the Harwich route for Holland--we had better separate.” Whitey nodded. “I’ll get out by way of Ireland,” he lied. He looked at his watch. It was nearly ten o’clock. “I shall see you--sometime,” he said, turning as he left the room, and Lambaire nodded. When he returned the big man had gone. There is a train which leaves for the Continent at eleven from Victoria--a very dangerous train, as Whitey knew, for it is well watched. There was another which left at the same hour from Holborn--this stops at Herne Hill. Whitey resolved to take a tourist ticket at an office in Ludgate Hill and a taxi-cab to Herne Hill. He purchased the ticket and was leaving the office, when a thought struck him. He crossed to the counter where the money-changers sit. “Let me have a hundred pounds’ worth of French money.” He took two fifty-pound notes and pushed them through the grill. The clerk looked at them, fingered them, then looked at Whitey. “Notice anything curious about these?” he asked dryly. “No.” There was a horribly sinking sensation in Whitey’s heart. “They are both numbered the same,” said the clerk, “and they are forgeries.” Mechanically Whitey took the bundle of notes from his pocket and examined them. They were all of the same number. His obvious perturbation saved him from an embarrassing inquiry. “Have you been sold?” “I have,” muttered the duped man. He took the notes the man offered him and walked out. A passing taxi drew to the kerb at his uplifted hand. He gave the address of Lambaire’s lodging. Lambaire had gone when he arrived: he had probably left before Whitey. Harwich was a blind--Whitey knew that. He went to Lambaire’s room. In his flight Lambaire had left many things behind. Into one of the trunks so left Whitey stuck the bundle of forgeries. If he was to be captured he would not be found in possession of these damning proofs of villainy. A search of the room at first revealed no clue to Lambaire’s destination, then Whitey happened upon a tourist’s guide. It opened naturally at one page, which meant that one page had been consulted more frequently than any other. “Winter excursions to the Netherlands, eh?” said Whitey; “that’s not a bad move, Lammie: no splits watch excursion trains.” The train left Holborn at a quarter to eleven by way of Queensborough- Flushing. He looked at his watch: it wanted five minutes to the quarter, and to catch that train seemed an impossibility. Then an idea came to him. There was a telephone in the hall of the boarding-house usually well patronized. It was his good luck that he reached it before another boarder came. It was greater luck that he got through to the traffic manager’s office at Victoria with little delay. “I want to know,” he asked rapidly, “if the ten forty-five excursion from Holborn stops at any London stations?” “Every one of ’em,” was the prompt reply, “as far as Penge: we pick up all through the suburbs.”