For ten minutes we allowed him to remain there undisturbed--"Just to allow him to settle himself," as Pickering whispered grimly. Then one by one the officers crept noiselessly up until we had assembled on the landing outside the closed door. Then, of a sudden, Pickering drew his revolver, threw open the door, and the sleek-haired newcomer was revealed. He fell back as though he had received a blow. "We are police officers," explained Pickering, "and I arrest you." Then we saw that from his bag he had taken out a suit of clothes and some linen, which were flung upon a chair, while upon the table were two packets of German bank-notes, amounting to a considerable sum. A third packet he still held in his hand, for he had been in the act of counting them when surprised. His dark eyes met mine, and the fellow started. "I know you!" he cried to me. "You are not a detective at any rate. You are Wilfrid Hughes." "I have, I regret, not the pleasure of your acquaintance," was my quick answer, somewhat surprised at his declaration. "That woman has betrayed us--that woman, Sybil Burnet," he cried angrily, his eyes flashing at us. "She shall pay for this--by heaven, she shall! She defied me, but I have not yet said my last word. Arrest me to-day, and to-morrow she will be arrested also," he laughed, triumphantly. "My name's Ralph Vickers--if you must know," he said to Pickering in reply to a question. "And you're just back from Germany--eh? Arrived by the night mail _via_ the Hook of Holland." "Well, what of that?" "And you've been to Germany to dispose of stolen property, and this money is the price you received for it. Am I not correct?" "Find out," was the smooth-haired young man's insulting response. "Take him to the station, Edwards, and ask Inspector Nicholls to step round here with two plain-clothes men. I'll wait for him. Search the prisoner, and I'll charge him--when I come round." And the young man, without a word, was conducted down the stairs. Then the inspector began counting the German notes rapidly, taking a note of the number in each of the packets secured by pins. "We've done a good night's work, I think, Mr Hughes," he said afterwards, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. "Thanks to you we're on the track of one of the biggest criminal conspiracies that London has known for years. But," he added, "who's the woman that fellow mentioned--Sybil Burnet? He seems to know something against her-- alleges that she's also a member of the gang. I think we'd better arrest her, or in any case keep her under observation, for the instant she hears of the arrests she'll, of course, fly." I held my breath, and I think I must have turned pale at this unforeseen result of my information against the malefactors. I recollected the affair in Charlton Wood. What could I reply? "It is true, Inspector Pickering, that I am acquainted with Miss Sybil Burnet, but I have reason for being confident of her innocence."