"I am Duquesne of Paris," he said in his fluent English to the clerk who had taken the message, and showed his card. "On official business I wish to inspect the last telegram which you received." The clerk shook his head. "Can't be done. Only for Scotland Yard." Duquesne was a man of action. He wasted not a precious moment in feckless argument. It was hard that he should have to share this treasure with another. But in seven minutes he was at New Scotland Yard, and in fifteen he was back again to his great good fortune, with Inspector Sheffield. The matter was adjusted. In the notebooks of Messrs Duquesne and Sheffield the following was written: "Sheard, _Gleaner_, Tudor Street. Laurel Cottage, Dulwich Village, eight to-night." Returning to the Astoria to make arrangements for the evening's expedition, Duquesne upon entering his room, found there a large-boned man, with a great, sparsely-covered skull, and a thin, untidy beard. He sat writing by the window, and, at the other's entrance, cast a slow glance from heavy-lidded eyes across his shoulder. M. Duquesne bowed profoundly, hat in hand. It was the great Lemage. There were overwhelming forces about to take the field. France, England and the United States were combining against Severac Bablon. It seemed that at Laurel Cottage he was like to meet his Waterloo. At twenty-five minutes to seven that evening a smart plain-clothes constable reported in Chief Inspector Sheffield's room. "Well, Dawson?" said the inspector, looking up from his writing. "Laurel Cottage, Dulwich, was let by the Old College authorities, sir, to a Mr. Sanrack a month ago." "What is he like, this Mr. Sanrack?" "A tall, dark gentleman. Very handsome. Looks like an actor." "Sanrack--Severac," mused Sheffield. "Daring! All right, Dawson, you can go. You know where to wait." Fifteen minutes later arrived M. Duquesne. He had been carpeted by his chief for invoking the aid of the London police in the matter of the telegram. "Five methods occur to me instantly, stupid pig," the great Lemage had said, "whereby you might have learnt its contents alone!" Heavy with a sense of his own dull powers of invention--for he found himself unable to conceive one, much less five such schemes--M. Duquesne came into the inspector's room. "Does your chief join us to-night?" inquired Sheffield, on learning that the famous investigator was in London. "He may do so, m'sieur; but his plans are uncertain." Almost immediately afterwards they were joined by Harborne, and all three, entering one of the taxi-cabs that always are in waiting in the Yard, set out for Dulwich Village. The night was very dark, with ample promise of early rain, and as the cab ran past Westminster Abbey a car ahead swung sharply around Sanctuary Corner. Harborne, whose business it was to know all about smart society, reported: