and he forcibly detained Theodore Racksole for a moment and
scrutinized his face.

'Now, officer,' said Racksole quietly, 'none of your larks, if you
please.

I've no time to lose.'

'Beg your pardon, sir,' the policeman remarked, though hesitatingly and
not quite with good temper, and Racksole was allowed to proceed on his
way. The millionaire's scheme for trapping Jules was to get down into
the little sunk yard by means of the ladder, and then to secrete himself
behind some convenient abutment of brickwork until Mr Tom Jackson
should have got into the cellar. He therefore nimbly surmounted the
railings--the railings of his own hotel--and was gingerly descending the
ladder, when lo! a rough hand seized him by the coat-collar and with a
ferocious jerk urged him backwards. The fact was, Theodore Racksole had
counted without the policeman. That guardian of the peace, mistrusting
Racksole's manner, quietly followed him down the lane. The sight of the
millionaire climbing the railings had put him on his mettle, and
the result was the ignominious capture of Racksole. In vain Theodore
expostulated, explained, anathematized. Only one thing would satisfy the
stolid policeman--namely, that Racksole should return with him to the
hotel and there establish his identity. If Racksole then proved to
be Racksole, owner of the Grand Babylon, well and good--the policeman
promised to apologize. So Theodore had no alternative but to accept the
suggestion. To prove his identity was, of course, the work of only a few
minutes, after which Racksole, annoyed, but cool as ever, returned to
his railings, while the policeman went off to another part of his beat,
where he would be likely to meet a comrade and have a chat.

In the meantime, our friend Jules, sublimely unconscious of the
altercation going on outside, and of the special risk which he ran, was
of course actually in the cellar, which he had reached before Racksole
got to the railings for the first time. It was, indeed, a happy chance
for Jules that his exit from the cellar coincided with the period during
which Racksole was absent from the railings. As Racksole came down the
lane for the second time, he saw a figure walking about fifty yards in
front of him towards the Embankment. Instantly he divined that it was
Jules, and that the policeman had thrown him just too late. He ran, and
Jules, hearing the noise of pursuit, ran also. The ex-waiter was fleet;
he made direct for a certain