T.B. knew from repute. He had expected the high colourings, the blacks and scarlets of the Andalusian; but this girl had the creamy complexion of the wellbred Spaniard, with eyes that might have been hazel or violet in the uncertain light, but which were decidedly not black. Her lips, now tightly compressed, were neither too full nor too thin, her nose straight, her hair, brushed back from her forehead in an unfamiliar style, was that exact tint between bronze and brown that your connoisseur so greatly values.
A plain filet of dull gold about her head, and the broad collar of pearls around her neck, were the only jewels she displayed. Her dress was black, unrelieved by any touch of colour. She was talking rapidly in Spanish, a language with which T.B. was very well conversant.
“…but, Sir George,” she pleaded, “it would be horrible, wicked, cruel not to see him again!”
“It would be worse if you saw him,” said the other drily. “You know, my dear young lady, you would both be miserable in a month. The title would be no compensation for you; Carleby would bore you; Carleby House would drive you mad; Carleby’s relatives would incite you to murder.”
“You are one!” she blazed.
“Exactly; and do I not exasperate you? Think of me magnified by a hundred. Come, come, there are better men than Carleby in the world, and you are young, you are little more than a child.”
“But I love him,” she sobbed.
“I suppose you do.” T.B. from his hiding-place bestowed an admiring grin upon the patronage in the baronet’s tone. “When did you meet him first?”
“Three weeks ago.” She spoke with a catch in her voice that affected T.B. strangely.
“That girl is acting,” he thought.
“Three weeks?” mused the banker. “Um — when did you discover he was a relative of mine?”
“A few days since,” she said eagerly. “I was in Cornwall, visiting some friends—”
“Cornwall!” T.B. had hard work to suppress an exclamation.
“and I learned from them that you were related. I did not know of any other relation. My friends told me it would be wicked to marry without the knowledge of his people. ‘ Go to Sir George Calliper and explain,’ they said; ‘he will help you’; instead of which—”
The banker smiled again.
“Instead of which I pointed out how impossible it was, eh? and persuaded you to give up all idea of marrying Carleby. Yes, I suppose you think I am a heartless brute.”
She sat with bent head.
“You will give him my message?” she asked suddenly.
He nodded.
“And the flowers?”
“And the flowers,” he repeated gravely.
(“That clears the banker,” thought T.B.)
“I shall leave for Spain tomorrow. It was good of you to let me have this talk.”
“It was good of you to come.”
“Somehow,” she said drearily. “I cannot help feeling that it is for the best.”
Again T.B. thought he detected a note of insincerity.
“When will you see him?”
“Carleby?” he asked.
“Tomorrow?”
“Not tomorrow.”
“The next day?”‘
T.B. was alert now; he saw in a flash the significance of this interview; saw the plot which had lured a foolish relative of Calliper’s to a love affair; and now, the manoeuvring to the crucial moment of the interview which she had so cleverly planned.
“Nor the next day,” smiled Sir George.
“Well, the next day?”
He shook his head. “That is the day of all days I am not likely to leave London.”
“Why?” she asked innocently, her eyes wide open and her lips parted.
“I have some very important business to transact on that day,” he said briefly.
“Oh, I forgot,” she said, with a hint of awe in her voice. “You’re a great banker, aren’t you?” she smiled. “Oh, yes, Carleby told me—”
“I thought you didn’t know about me until your Cornish friends told you?” he asked.
“Not that you were related to him,” she rejoined quickly, “but he spoke of the great house of Bronte—”
(“Neat,” approved the hidden T.B.)
“So Thursday will be the day,” she mused.
“What day?” the banker’s voice was sharp.
“The day you will see Carleby,” she said, with a look of surprise.
“I said not Thursday on any account, but possibly the next day,” said Sir George stiffly.
“She has the information she wants,” said T.B. to himself, “and so have I,” he reflected. “I will now retire.”
He stepped carefully down, and reached the floor, and was feeling his way to the door, when a strange noise attracted his attention. It came, not from the next room, but from that in which he stood. He stood stock still, holding his breath, and the noise he heard was repeated.
Somebody was in the room with him. Somebody was moving stealthily along the wall at the opposite side of the apartment. T.B. waited for a moment to locate his man, then leaped noiselessly in the direction of the sound. His strong hands grasped a man’s shoulder; another instant and his fingers were at the spy’s throat. “Utter a word and I’ll knock your head off!” he hissed. No terrible threat when uttered facetiously, but T.B.’s words were the reverse to humorous. Retaining a hold of his prisoner he waited until the noise of a door closing told him that the diners in the next room had departed, then he dragged his man to where he judged the electric light switch would be. His fingers found the button, turned it, and the room was instantly flooded with light.
He released the man with a little push, and stood with his back to the door.
“Now, sir,” said T.B. virtuously, “will you kindly explain what you mean by spying on me?”
The man was tall and thin. He was under thirty and decently dressed; but it was his face that held the detective’s attention. It was the face of a man in mortal terror — the eyes staring, the lips tremulous, the cheeks lined and seamed like an old man’s. He stood blinking in the light for a moment, and when he spoke he was incoherent and hoarse.
“You’re T.B. Smith,” he croaked. “I know you; I’ve been wanting to find you.”
“Well, you’ve found me,” said the detective grimly.
“I wasn’t looking for you — now. I’m Hyatt.”
He said this simply enough, and it was the detective ‘s turn to stare.
“I’m Hyatt,” the man went on; “and I’ve a communication to make; King’s evidence; but you’ve got to hide me!” He came forward and laid his hand on the other’s arm. “I’m not going to be done in like Moss; it’s your responsibility, and you’ll be blamed if anything happens to me,” he almost whispered, in his fear. “They’ve had Moss, and they’ll try to have me. They’ve played me false because they thought I’d get to know the day the barrage was to be handed over, and spoil their market. They brought me up to London, because I’d have found out if I’d been in Cornwall—”
“Steady, steady!” T.B. checked the man. He was talking