The taxi was standing far down the street with the bonnet open and the driver bending over the engine. French got in and he and Carter sat watching the house. For half an hour they waited; then Mrs. Berlyn appeared, and walking to King’s Road, turned in the direction of Sloan Square. Presently she hailed a taxi, causing French to congratulate himself on his prevision. Mrs. Berlyn drove to Victoria, and hurriedly paying off their own man, the detectives followed her into the station. With a rapid look round she made her way to the telephone boxes and disappeared into one of them. “I’ll drop out here, Carter,” French said. “You stick to the woman and as far as possible keep in touch with the Yard.” Approaching the boxes, French slipped into a convenient doorway and watched until Mrs. Berlyn reappeared. As soon as she was out of sight he entered the box she had left. “Inspector from Scotland Yard speaking,” he told the operator. “Keep the number of that last call. It’s wanted in connection with a murder case. I’ll get you the authority to divulge. Now give me Scotland Yard, please.” He put through the request for the number, then returned to the Yard to wait for the reply. After a short delay he received both number and name: Thomas Ganope, news agent and tobacconist, 27 Oakley Street, off Russell Street. In half an hour he reached the place. Ganope’s was a small, untidy shop, and Ganope a ruffianly-looking man with purple cheeks and a cast in his left eye. He was the only occupant of the shop. “Can I use your telephone?” French asked, laying a shilling on the counter. “Sure.” French rang up his wife to say that he had mislaid Mr. Walker’s address and could she let him have it again, a code message designed for such occasions and to which no attention was paid, but which enabled him to use a telephone without arousing suspicion, as well as a writing pad, should such be available. For in this case his quick eye had seen such a pad on the instrument and from many a pad he had read the last message to be written from the impression left on the paper. On chance, therefore, he made a pretense of noting the mythical Mr. Walker’s address, and removing the top sheet, put it in his pocketbook. Then he turned to Mr. Ganope. “Say,” he said, confidentially, “what would you charge for taking in telephone messages and sending them to an address? Private, you know.” Mr. Ganope looked him over keenly with one of his shrewd little eyes. “A bob a message, if it’s near by.” “That’s a lot. Do you never do it for less?” Mr. Ganope seemed disgusted. “If you can get anyone to do it for less you’d better go to them,” he advised, sourly. “I might manage the money if I was sure the thing would be done right,” French went on. “How do you send out the messages? I mean is your arrangement reliable? Do you do it yourself or have you a messenger?”