The buttons were off, and Sheard felt the point at his throat. For there was no mistaking the grim earnestness of the man from Scotland Yard. The kindly blue eyes were grown hard as steel, and in them the pressman read that upon his next words rested his whole career. A lie could avail his friend nothing; it meant his own ruin. "Severac Bablon!" he said. "I knew that!" replied Sheffield; "you did well to admit it! Where has he gone?" "I have no idea." "Don't take any chances, sir! I'm tired of the responsibility of shielding the fools who know him! If you give me your word on that, I'll take it." "I give you my word. I was unable to hear his directions to the driver." "Very good. There are other things I might ask you--but I know you'd refuse to answer, and then I'd have no alternative. So I won't. Good-day." "Good-day, Inspector. And thank you." Sheffield nodded shortly and walked up to the driver of the next waiting cab. "What number was the man who drove away last?" "LH-00896, sir." "Know where he went?" "No, sir; but not far. He told a pal o' mine--the chauffeur of Mr. Rohscheimer's car, there, sir--that he'd be back in seven minutes." "Good!" said Sheffield. Matters were befalling as well as he could have hoped; for he had come out too late to have followed the cab. He glanced at his watch. Provided the man picked up no fare on his way back, he was due in three minutes. The detective strolled off towards Belgrave Road. Inside the three minutes a cab turned into the other end of the square. Inspector Sheffield retraced his steps hurriedly. Without a word to the man, he opened the cab door. A faint, familiar perfume reached his nostrils. He glanced at the ash-trays, but neither contained a cigarette end. He turned to the driver. "Where did you take the gentleman you picked up here, my man?" A newsboy came racing along the pavement, with an armful of sheets, wet from the press. The journal was the _Gleaner's_ most powerful opponent. "War de-clared, piper! War de-clared, speshul!" His shrill cries drowned the taximan's reply. As the boy ran on crying his mendacious "news" (for the front-page article was not headed "War declared," but "Is war declared?"), Sheffield repeated his question. "To Buckingham Palace, sir!" he was answered. The detective stared incredulously. "I mean a tall gentleman, clean shaven, and very dark, with quite black hair----" "Smoked some sort of Russian smokes, sir--yellow?" "That one--yes!" "That's the one I mean, sir--Buckingham Palace!" Sheffield continued to stare. "Where did you actually drop him?" "At the gate." "Well? Where did he go?" "He went in, sir!" "Went in! He was admitted?" "Yes, sir; I saw him pass the sentry!" Chief Inspector Sheffield leapt into the cab with a face grimly set. "Buckingham Palace!" he snapped. * * * * *