“I knew it was you last night.  Don’t go this evening.  They’ll be
lying in wait for you.  They’re taking us away this morning.  I
heard something about Wales—­Holyhead, I think.  I’ll drop this on
the road if I get a chance.  Annette told me how you’d escaped. 
Buck up. 
    “Yours,
    “Twopence.”

Tommy raised a shout for Albert before he had even finished perusing this characteristic epistle.

“Pack my bag!  We’re off!”

“Yes, sir.”  The boots of Albert could be heard racing upstairs.  Holyhead?  Did that mean that, after all——­Tommy was puzzled.  He read on slowly.

The boots of Albert continued to be active on the floor above.

Suddenly a second shout came from below.

“Albert!  I’m a damned fool!  Unpack that bag!”

“Yes, sir.”

Tommy smoothed out the note thoughtfully.

“Yes, a damned fool,” he said softly.  “But so’s some one else!  And at last I know who it is!”

CHAPTER XXIV

JULIUS TAKES A HAND

In his suite at Claridge’s, Kramenin reclined on a couch and dictated to his secretary in sibilant Russian.

Presently the telephone at the secretary’s elbow purred, and he took up the receiver, spoke for a minute or two, then turned to his employer.

“Some one below is asking for you.”

“Who is it?”

“He gives the name of Mr. Julius P. Hersheimmer.”

“Hersheimmer,” repeated Kramenin thoughtfully.  “I have heard that name before.”

“His father was one of the steel kings of America,” explained the secretary, whose business it was to know everything.  “This young man must be a millionaire several times over.”

The other’s eyes narrowed appreciatively.

“You had better go down and see him, Ivan.  Find out what he wants.”

The secretary obeyed, closing the door noiselessly behind him.  In a few minutes he returned.

“He declines to state his business—­says it is entirely private and personal, and that he must see you.”

“A millionaire several times over,” murmured Kramenin.  “Bring him up, my dear Ivan.”

The secretary left the room once more, and returned escorting Julius.

“Monsieur Kramenin?” said the latter abruptly.

The Russian, studying him attentively with his pale venomous eyes, bowed.

“Pleased to meet you,” said the American.  “I’ve got some very important business I’d like to talk over with you, if I can see you alone.”  He looked pointedly at the other.

“My secretary, Monsieur Grieber, from whom I have no secrets.”

“That may be so—­but I have,” said Julius dryly.  “So I’d be obliged if you’d tell him to scoot.”

“Ivan,” said the Russian softly, “perhaps you would not mind retiring into the next room——­”