ou're back--and safe?" he asked.

She forced a smile.

"Yes, back safe and sound!"

"But tired, I know?"

"Yes--a little. But--"

She broke off, and he could see that she was rising from her momentary
luxury of relaxation as a fugitive rises after a minute's breathing-spell.

"Well?" he asked anxiously.

"_Pobloff has found us_!" she said, in her quiet contralto.

"He's here, you mean?"

"He's in Genoa. I caught sight of him in a cab, hurrying from the French
Consulate to the Cafe Jazelli. I slipped into a silversmith's shop, as
he raced past, and escaped him."

"And then what?"

"Then several things happened. But first, tell me this: did you get a
chance to look over Keenan's room?"

"I was bolted inside twenty minutes after you and he had left the hotel.
His trunk was even unlocked; I looked through everything!"

"Which, of course, was charming work!" she interpolated, with not
ungentle scorn.

He shrugged his shoulders deprecatively. "Not quite as charming as
dining with your new friend!"

"I almost like him!" admitted the woman frankly, femininely rejoicing at
the note of jealousy in the other's voice.

"And no worse than some of the work we've done, or may soon have to do!"

Then he went on, with rising passion: "And I'll tell you this, Frank
whatever we do, and whatever we have to go through, we've got to get
those securities out of Keenan! We've got to have them, now! We've got
to pound at it, and dog him, and fight him, and outwit him, until we
either win or lose and go under! It's a big game, and it has big risks,
but we're in it too deep, now, to talk about drawing back, or to complain
about the dirty work it leads to!"

"I wasn't complaining," she reproved, in her dead voice. "I only spoke a
bald truth. But you don't tell me what you've found."

"I got nothing--absolutely nothing; not one shred of information even.
There's nothing in the room. It stands to reason, then, as I told you
from the first, that he is carrying the papers about with him!"

"That will make it harder," she murmured monotonously. "And you're sure
your telegram has sent the Scotland Yard men to Como?"

"It must have, or we'd be running into them. The New Yorker is a
Pinkerton man."

He started pacing back and forth in front of her, frowning with mingled
irritation and impatience.

"Then what about Pobloff?" he suddenly asked.

"Five minutes after we had stepped out of the hotel he met us, face t