, he can reach the coast. At a certain spot near Southampton
there is a small steamer waiting. After that, everything is easy."

"My task, then," Peter Ruff said, thoughtfully, "is to take Jean
Lemaitre from this cafe in Soho, as far as Putney, and get him a fair
start?"

"It is enough," she answered. "There is a cordon of spies around the
district. Every day they seem to chose in upon us. They search the
houses, one by one. Only last night, the Hotel de Netherlands--a
miserable little place on the other side of the street--was suddenly
surrounded by policemen and every room ransacked. It may be our turn
to-night."

"In one hour's time," Peter Ruff said, glancing at his watch, "I shall
present myself as a doctor at the cafe. Tell me the address. Tell me
what to say which will insure my admission to Jean Lemaitre!"

"The cafe," she answered, "is called the Hotel de Flandres. You enter
the restaurant and you walk to the desk. There you find always Monsieur
Antoine. You say to him simply--'The Double-Four!' He will answer that
he understands, and he will conduct you at once to Lemaitre."

Ruff nodded.

"In the meantime," he said, "let it be understood in the cafe--if there
is any one who is not in the secret--that one of the waiters is sick. I
shall come to attend him."

She nodded thoughtfully.

"As well that way as any other," she answered. "Monsieur is very kind. A
bientot!"

She shook hands and they parted. Peter Ruff drove back to his rooms,
rang up an adjoining garage for a small covered car such as are usually
let out to medical men, and commenced to pack a small black bag with the
outfit necessary for his purpose. Now that he was actually immersed in
his work, the sense of depression had passed away. The keen stimulus of
danger had quickened his blood. He knew very well that the woman had not
exaggerated. There was no man more wanted by the French or the English
police than the man who had sought his aid, and the district in which he
had taken shelter was, in some respects, the very worst for his purpose.
Nevertheless, Peter Ruff, who believed, at the bottom of his heart, in
his star, went on with his preparations feeling morally certain that
Jean Lemaitre would sleep on the following night in his native land.

At precisely the hour agreed upon, a small motor brougham pulled
up outside the door of the Hotel de Flandres and its occupant--whom
ninety-nine men out of a hundred would at once, unhesitatingly