"_Au revoir_," she said, bending to me from the carriage window. "Remember, next Tuesday in Carlisle. You are my friend--promise you will not desert me." "Next Tuesday," I repeated, lifting my cloth cap. "I promise. Till then, adieu." And she smiled sadly as the express glided out of the station. Half an hour later I was on my way to London again, and a little after five o'clock entered the offices of the _Daily Telegraph_ and handed in a cipher advertisement, which read,-- "To Nello.--Meet me outside Baker Street Station to-night at eight. Very urgent. Nothing to fear.--S." I was convinced that the mysterious Nello lived in London, and therefore would see the paper next morning. I was determined to ascertain who it was in whom Tibbie placed such implicit trust. I feared to approach Bolton Street; therefore I took a room at the Caledonian Hotel on Adelphi Terrace and sent a note to Budd to come and see me. In an hour my man stood before me, telling me of the eager inquiries made for me by Mr Ellice Winsloe, and the message he had left, asking me to call and see him as soon as ever I returned. The scoundrel never believed that I would return. He expected that my body was far out to sea by this time, just as other bodies had been despatched from that house of mystery. Budd brought me some clean linen and my letters, but I still retained my guise as a working-man, for I had yet a very difficult and delicate task before me, namely, the watching of the man whom Tibbie addressed as Nello. At noon next day I received a telegram from the woman upon whom rested the dark shadow of a secret crime, telling me of her safe arrival in Newcastle, and reminding me of my promise to return. Then I went forth and lounged about the Burlington in the hope of catching a glimpse of the man who was her enemy as well as mine. He generally strolled through the Arcade about five o'clock, for he went daily to old General Taylor, in the Albany. I knew his haunts well, therefore, keeping away from his path, I watched until I saw him pass in deep conversation with a man of his own age, whose sharp, clean-shaved face gave me the impression that he was a barrister. Winsloe looked more refined, more fashionably dressed, with his frock coat cleanly brushed and his glossy silk hat apparently only that moment out of the ironer's hands. I pretended to be deeply interested in a hosier's window as he passed. But even had we met face to face I doubt if he would have recognised me in the disguise of a working-man. His face was harder and more evil-looking and his shifty eyes were everywhere. From the way the pair were talking, I could not resist the conviction that the clean-shaven fellow was one of his associates or accomplices.