hile Nevill was speeding along the Kentish Town road in a cab, Mr.
Timmins, _alias_ Noah Hawker, was at home in the dingy little room which
he had selected for his residence in London. With a short pipe between
his teeth, he reclined in a wooden chair, which was tipped back against
the wall. On a table, within easy reach of him, were a packet of tobacco
and a bottle of stout. A candle furnished light.

"I wonder if the bloke'll turn up," he reflected, as he puffed rank
smoke from his mouth. "If he don't he knows what to expect--I ain't a
man to go back on my word. But I needn't fear. He'll come all right, and
he'll have the dust with him. Is it likely he'd throw away a fortune,
such as I'm offerin' him? Not a bit of it! I'll be glad when the thing
is done and over with. A thousand pounds ain't to be laughed at. I'll go
abroad and spend it, where the sun shines in winter and--"

At this point Mr. Hawker's soliloquies were interrupted by footsteps
just outside the room.

"That's my swell," he thought, "and he's a bit early. He must be in a
hurry to get hold of the documents."

The door opened quickly and sharply, and two sinewy, plainly-dressed men
stepped into the room. Hawker knew his visitors to be detectives.

His jaw dropped, his face turned livid with rage and fear, and he tried
to thrust one hand behind him. But the move was anticipated, and he
abandoned all thought of resistance when the muzzle of a revolver stared
him in the eyes.

"None of that, Hawker," said the detective who held the weapon. "You'd
best come quietly. Didn't expect to catch us napping, did you?"

"I ain't done nothin'," panted Hawker, who was breathing like a winded
beast.

"I didn't say you had," was the reply, "but you've been missing for a
few months. Last spring you stopped reporting yourself and went abroad.
We want you for that--nothing else _at present_."

The two final words were spoken with an emphasis and significance that
did not escape the prisoner, and brought a desperate look to his face.
He seemed about to show fight, but the next instant a pair of irons were
clapped on his wrists, and he was helpless.

A brief time was required to search the room, but nothing was found,
for all that Hawker owned was on his person. The bedding was pulled
apart, and the strip of ragged carpet was lifted up. Then the detectives
went downstairs with their prisoner, followed by the indignant and
scandalized Mrs. Miggs. She angrily upbraide