“I forgot that,” admitted Lambaire. “You didn’t know it, so you couldn’t have forgotten it,” said Whitey rudely. “Get out of these glad clothes of yours and meet me at my hotel in about an hour’s time.” “I’ll do anything that’s reasonable,” said Lambaire. An hour later he presented himself at the little hotel which Whitey used as his London headquarters. It was situated in a narrow street that runs from the Strand to Northumberland Avenue--a street that contains more hotels than any other thoroughfare in London. Whitey’s suite occupied the whole of the third floor, in fine he had three small rooms. From the time Lambaire entered until he emerged from the swing door, two hours elapsed. The conference was highly satisfactory to both men. “We shall have to be a bit careful,” were Lambaire’s parting words. Whitey sniffed, but said nothing. “I’ll walk with you as far as--which way do you go?” he asked. “Along the Embankment to Westminster,” said Lambaire. They walked from Northumberland Avenue and crossed the broad road opposite the National Liberal Club. Big Ben struck eleven as they reached the Embankment. An occasional taxi whirred past. The tramway cars, ablaze with lights and crowded with theatre-goers, glided eastward and westward. They shared the pavement with a few shuffling night wanderers. One of these came sidling towards them with a whine. “... couple o’ ’apence ... get a night’s bed, sir ... gnawing hunger...!” They heard and took no notice. The man followed them, keeping pace with his awkward gait. He was nearest Whitey, and as they reached an electric standard he turned suddenly and gripped the man by the coat. “Let’s have a look at you,” he said. For one so apparently enfeebled by want the vagrant displayed considerable strength as he wrenched himself free. Whitey caught a momentary glimpse of his face, strong, resolute, unshaven. “That’ll do, guv’nor,” growled the man, “keep your hands to yourself.” Whitey dived into his pocket and produced half a crown. “Here,” he said, “get yourself a drink and a bed, my son.” With muttered thanks the beggar took the coin and turned on his heel. “You’re getting soft,” said the sarcastic Lambaire as they pursued their way. “I dare say,” said the other carelessly, “I am full of generous impulses--did you see his dial?” “No.” Whitey laughed. “Well?” “A split,” said Whitey shortly, “that’s all--man named Mardock from Scotland Yard.” Lambaire turned pale. “What’s the game?” he demanded fretfully; “what’s he mean, Whitey--it’s disgraceful, watching two men of our position!” “Don’t bleat,” Whitey snapped; “you don’t suppose Amber is leavin’ a stone unturned to catch us, do you? It’s another argument for doing something quick.” He left his companion at Westminster, and walked back the way he had come. A slow-moving taxi-cab overtook him and he hailed it. There was nobody near to overhear his directions, but he took no risks.