On my return to London I had the very unpleasant experience of being closely watched by detectives, just as the fugitive had foreseen. It was quite evident that the police intended to rediscover Dawnay through my instrumentality. I wrote to "Mr Hamilton Davis," at the Poste Restante, Charing Cross, giving him my London address at the Hotel Cecil, and also my address at Upton End, hoping that he would send me an appointment. Yet he had shown himself so wary that I hardly believed he would at once reveal his hiding-place. I was extremely anxious to meet him again, for I hoped to learn more from him and solve the mystery of the man whom I had known as Melvill Arnold. In order to evade the unwelcome attentions of detectives, I went down to Upton End for a few days, for I knew that if any stranger were lurking in the vicinity old Tucker would certainly know of it. Not three days had I been there, indeed, before one morning he lingered over watering the plants in the conservatory when I came down to breakfast, to declare that he was much puzzled over the fact that a man--"a decent-looking man" he described him--seemed to be for ever passing and repassing the lodge. "I can't think, sir, what can be his business," he said. "I don't like the looks of him at all. Maybe he's one of a gang who intends to rob the house, sir. Therefore I've told Thomas and Mason to keep their eyes open." He referred to the groom and the under-gardener. "I've half a mind to set the dogs on 'im," he added. "Only let 'im come into the drive and I'd let Prince after 'im. His whole suit of clothes wouldn't be worth sixpence afterwards." "Some inquisitive fellow, I suppose, Tucker," I said, in an endeavour to treat the incident with utter unconcern. "I don't fancy burglars would come here." "Don't you believe it, sir. There's lots of things--pictures and curios which your father, the late Sir Lionel, collected--which would fetch a big price in London, you know, sir." "Well," I laughed, "if burglars really do pay us a visit, Prince will see to them. I'd be sorry to face the dog if I were a thief." "So would I, sir. Only there's such a thing as a dose o' strychnine on a bit o' meat, you know." "Abroad, yes. In Italy it is the favourite ruse of burglars, Tucker. But here in England we are much more secure." And then, watering-can in hand, the faithful old fellow passed out, while I sat down to my lonely breakfast. A week after I had written to the Charing Cross Post Office I received a note, dated from the Hotel de la Boule d'Or at Provins, a small town some sixty miles east of Paris.