n't think of the number, sir,"
replied the other shakily. (The proximity of a police officer always
injuriously affected his heart.) "But I can show you the 'ouse."

"Come on!" ordered Harborne. "Walk behind me; and when I pass it,
whistle."

Off went the detective without delay, and walked briskly along the
Finchley Road. He had proceeded more than half-way, when, as he came
abreast of a gate set in a high wall, from his rear quavered a moist
whistle.

"70A," he muttered. "Right-oh!"

He thrilled with the joy of the chase, anticipating the triumph that
awaited him. Inspector Sheffield's pursuit was more than likely to prove
futile, but Severac Bablon, he argued, was practically certain to return
to his head-quarters sooner or later.

He thought of the weeks and months during which they had sought for this
very house in vain; of the useless tracking of divers persons known to
be acquainted with the man of mystery; of the simple means--the yellow
cigarettes--by which, at last, they had come to it.

Mr. Aloys. X Alden had been very reticent of late--and Mr. Oppner knew
of the cigarette clue. At that reflection the roseate horizon grew
darkened by the figure of a triumphant American holding up Severac
Bablon with a neat silver-plated model by Smith and Wesson. If Alden
should forestall him!

Harborne, who had been pursuing these reflections whilst, within sight
of No. 70A, he stood slowly loading his pipe, paused, pouch in hand. On
one memorable occasion, the super-subtlety of Sheffield (who was tainted
with French heresies) had led to a fiasco which had made them the
laughing-stock of Scotland Yard. Harborne felt in his breast pocket,
where there reposed a copy of the warrant for the arrest of Severac
Bablon. And before he withdrew his hand his mind was made up. He was a
man of indomitable pluck.

Walking briskly to the gate in the high wall, he opened it, passed
around a very neat little lawn, and stood in the porch of 70A. As he
glanced about for bell or knocker, and failed to find either, the door
was opened quietly by a tall man in black--an Arab.

"I have important business with Mr. Sanrack," said Harborne quietly, and
handed the Arab a card which simply bore the name: "Mr. Goodson."

"He is not at home, but expected," replied the man, in guttural English.
"Will Mr. Goodson await?"

"Yes," said Harborne, "if Mr. Sanrack won't be long."

The Arab bowed, and conducted him to a small but cosy room, furnis