"This is from friend Dawkins," he said. "He tells me that he has brought the girl to London, and has put her in safe hands; he thinks, however, that he should have something for his trouble." He broke off, and turned to the letter. "'I am not a rich man,'" he read, "'and a small matter of five hundred pounds would be extremely useful to me just now. Didn't I mention this last night? Under the circumstances, and for the sake of the young lady, I think it better that you should know that I want this sum in exchange for her address. She's a dear girl, and quite worth it.'" He banged the letter savagely with his fist, and began to pace about the room, muttering to himself. "First one and then another--this threat and that; what do you all think I'm made of? So this dog thinks he'll hold the girl to ransom, does he? Sends me an address to which letters are to be forwarded." He suddenly strode to the door, and opened it. "What are you going to do?" I asked quickly. "I'm going out to face them--this fellow who threatens my life, and this other who threatens my pocket. I won't skulk like a dog here, and let them think I'm afraid of them." I caught his arm, and strove to draw him back into the room. "Don't do that!" I pleaded--"don't do that!" He came back into the room, and closed the door; suddenly he began to laugh in a grim fashion, as though he rather enjoyed the situation. "If I had anybody in whom I could put any confidence," he said, "I'd cheat them both yet. But you're not fighting for me--and you may be against me. If Fanshawe were here, I might be able to do something; Fanshawe's got a sort of deadly hatred of this girl that would carry him to any lengths. I wonder what is best to be done?" Whatever he decided to do then he kept to himself; after pacing about the room for a time he told me I could go, and that if I came back to him on the following day he might have news for me. His last words to me as I left him were characteristic of the man. "I'll beat you all yet--and I'll win my game!" he said. In the grey of a winter twilight I found Barbara Savell--that older Barbara who had belonged to my life--pacing about at the north side of Trafalgar Square. We met--she full of eagerness and anxiety, I dejectedly enough. I told her that I had failed, but that I had hopes that I might yet find that other Barbara. She told me that she had secured a little lodging in a humble quarter, and told me where it was; I walked with her to it, and left her there for the night. Then, because I did not know what else to do, I went off to that place in which I had stayed before with Jervis Fanshawe--that shabby room in a shabby house near the river. I was worn out and miserable when I knocked at the door, and was admitted by the girl Moggs. "'Ullo!" she exclaimed, her face expanding in a grin--"so you've come back, 'ave yer? The other party 'asn't bin 'ere fer days an' days; but I fink 'e's expected." "Why do you think that?" I asked carelessly.