res assistance. Bedad, if she
does, she shall have it, guardian or no guardian. If we don't whip her
out in a brace of shakes me name's not Clutterbuck."

"You must remember," remarked Baumser, "dat dese people are desperate.
If dey intend to murder a voman dey vould certainly not stick at a man
or two men. You have no knowledge of how many dere may be. Dere is
certainly Herr Girdlestone and his son and de man mit de eye, but madame
knows not how many may be at de house. Remember also dat de police are
not on your side, but rather against you, for as yet dere is no evidence
dat any crime is intentioned. Ven you think of all dis I am sure dat
you vill agree with me dat it would be vell to take mit you two or tree
men dat would stick by you through thin and broad."

The major was so busy in making his preparations for departure that he
could only signify by a nod that he agreed with his friend's remarks.
"What men could I git?" he asked.

"Dere is I myself," said the German, counting upon his big red fingers,
"and dere are some of our society who would very gladly come on such an
errand, and are men who are altogether to be relied upon. Dere is
little Fritz Bulow, of Kiel, and a Russian man whose name I disremember,
but he is a good man. He vas a Nihilist at Odessa, and is sentenced to
death suppose they could him catch. Dere are others as good, but it
might take me time to find dem. Dese two I can very easily get.
Dey are living together, and have neither of dem nothing to do."

"Bring them, then," said the major. "Git a cab and run them down to
Waterloo Station. That's the one for Bedsworth. I'll bring Dimsdale
down with me and mate you there. In me opinion there's no time to be
lost."

The major was ready to start, so Von Baumser threw on his coat and hat,
and picked out a thick stick from a rack in the corner. "We may need
something of de sort," he said.

"I have me derringer," the soldier answered. They left the house
together, and Von Baumser drove off to the East End, where his political
friends resided. The major called a cab and rattled away to Phillimore
Gardens and thence to the office, without being able to find the man of
whom he was in search. He then rushed down the Strand as quickly as he
could, intending to catch the next train and go alone, but on his way to
Waterloo Station he fell in with Tom Dimsdale, as recorded in a
preceding chapter.

The letter was a thunderbolt to Tom, I