"My advice to you is to clear out of this as quickly as you can, on some pretext or another. Write a private note to Greatorex to recall you; mention my name, he knows me well. Tell your father to pretend to be ill, and get leave of absence to go to his bedside. You understand." "Why should I do this?" queried Guy sharply. Moreno looked at him steadily. "Go home as I advise you, and marry the girl you love. Stay here, and this country, fair as it looks to outward seeming, is likely to provide you with a grave." For a second, Rossett's face blanched. He was young, and death seemed far distant. The ominous words of his companion had brought it very near. "Why, why?" he stammered. His glance sought the sinister figure of the eavesdropping waiter hovering in the background. Moreno looked in the same direction. "You see that scoundrel yonder, whom I chased away just now. He carries a knife always with him; so do hundreds of his fellow ruffians. You are in the black books of the brotherhood. There are several looking out for an opportunity to put you out of the way, because you know too much of them and their doings. Take my advice, and clear out. If you stop here, you have only a dog's chance." Rossett spoke slowly and distinctly, the sturdy bulldog breed asserting itself. "I am sure you mean well. But do you think I would run away before this cowardly pack? Let them do their worst." "Think of the girl you love," pleaded Moreno pensively. He thought the young man was a bit of a fool, but he could not help admiring him. A spasm of pain crossed Rossett's face. On the one hand, home and love, Isobel Clandon for his wife. On the other, flight before the dagger of the anarchist assassin. Was there any doubt as to the choice, to a man of his breed? "I will stay," he said doggedly. "And, if I put the issue to her, Isobel would say the same. I will stay, and, with your help, I will win through to safety." Moreno at this juncture could not help swaggering a little. "You have the best brains of the Secret Service at your disposal," he said, "but you are a heavy charge, Mr Rossett. I should be much happier if you were back in England." "I go back in honour, not as a fugitive," answered Guy quietly, as the two men walked together out of the restaurant. "If that man had known who you were," observed Moreno, as they passed the waiter, "he would have slipped the knife into your ribs. Adieu, my friend. As you have chosen to stay here, we shall meet often. I shall let you know how things are going on." And then, as they were parting, Rossett suddenly arrested him with a question. "But, I say, how do you justify your existence here? What does Fleet Street say to your absence?"