serious consequences for you."

Three minutes later Poltavo walked out of Scotland Yard like a man in a
dream. He hailed the first cab that came past and drove back to his
flat. He was there for ten minutes and emerged with a handbag.

He drove to the Grand Marylebone Hotel, and detective inspector Ela, who
had watched his every movement, followed in another taxi. He waited
until he saw Poltavo enter the hotel, then the officer descended some
distance from the door, and walked nonchalantly to the entrance.

There was no sign of Poltavo.

Ela strolled carelessly through the corridor, and down into the big palm
court. From the palm court another entrance led into the Marylebone
Road. Ela quickened his steps, went through the big swing doors to the
vestibule.

Yes, the porter on duty had seen the gentleman; he had called a taxi and
gone a few minutes before.

Ela cursed himself for his folly in letting the man out of his sight.

He reported the result of his shadowing to T. B. Smith over the
telephone, and T. B. was frankly uncomplimentary.

"However, I think I know where we will pick him up," he said. "Meet me
at Waterloo; we must catch the 6:15 to Great Bradley."

CHAPTER XI

"You want to see Mr. Moole?" Dr. Fall asked the visitor.

"I wish to see Mr. Moole," replied Poltavo. He stood at the door of the
Secret House, and after a brief scrutiny the big-faced doctor admitted
him, closing the door behind him.

"Tell me, what do you want?" he asked. He had seen the curious gesture
that Poltavo had made--the pass sign which had unbarred the entrance to
many strange people.

"I want to see Farrington!" replied Poltavo, coolly.

"Farrington!" Fall's brow knit in a puzzled frown.

"Farrington," repeated Poltavo, impatiently. "Do not let us have any of
this nonsense, Fall. I want to see him on a matter of urgency. I am
Poltavo."

"I know just who you are," said Fall, calmly, "but why you should come
here under the impression that the late Mr. Farrington is an inmate of
this establishment I do not understand. We are a lunatic asylum, not a
mortuary," he said, with heavy humour.

Still, he led the way upstairs to the drawing-room on the first floor.

"What is the trouble?" he asked, as he closed the door behind him.

Poltavo chose to tell the story of his identification by T. B. Smith
rather than the real object of his journey. Fall listened in silence.

"I doubt very much whether he will see you,"