. Inside the three
minutes a cab turned into the other end of the square.

Inspector Sheffield retraced his steps hurriedly.

Without a word to the man, he opened the cab door. A faint, familiar
perfume reached his nostrils. He glanced at the ash-trays, but neither
contained a cigarette end. He turned to the driver.

"Where did you take the gentleman you picked up here, my man?"

A newsboy came racing along the pavement, with an armful of sheets, wet
from the press. The journal was the _Gleaner's_ most powerful opponent.

"War de-clared, piper! War de-clared, speshul!"

His shrill cries drowned the taximan's reply. As the boy ran on crying
his mendacious "news" (for the front-page article was not headed "War
declared," but "Is war declared?"), Sheffield repeated his question.

"To Buckingham Palace, sir!" he was answered.

The detective stared incredulously.

"I mean a tall gentleman, clean shaven, and very dark, with quite black
hair----"

"Smoked some sort of Russian smokes, sir--yellow?"

"That one--yes!"

"That's the one I mean, sir--Buckingham Palace!"

Sheffield continued to stare.

"Where did you actually drop him?"

"At the gate."

"Well? Where did he go?"

"He went in, sir!"

"Went in! He was admitted?"

"Yes, sir; I saw him pass the sentry!"

Chief Inspector Sheffield leapt into the cab with a face grimly set.

"Buckingham Palace!" he snapped.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, Detective-Sergeant Harborne, following back the clue of the
yellow cigarettes, in accordance with the instructions of his superior,
who had elected to follow it forward, made his way to a cab-rank at the
end of Finchley Road.

To a cab-minder he showed a photograph. It was from that unique negative
which the Home Secretary had shown to the pseudo-Inspector Sheffield at
Womsley Old Place; moreover, it was the only copy which the right
honourable gentleman had authorised to be printed.

"Does this person often take cabs from this rank, my lad?"

The man surveyed it with beer-weakened eyes.

"Mr. Sanrack it is, guv'nor! Yes, he's often here!"

Harborne, who was a believer in the straightforward British methods, and
who scorned alike the unnecessary subtlety of the French school, as
represented by Lemage or Duquesne, and the Fenimore-Cooper-like tactics
dear to the men of the American agencies, showed his card.

"What's his address?" he snapped.

"It's farther down on this side; I ca