He leapt for the door, slamming it behind him.  The square was deserted.  In front of the house was a baker’s van.  Evidently he was to have been taken out of London in that, and his body found many miles from the house in Soho.  The driver jumped to the pavement and tried to bar Tommy’s way.  Again Tommy’s fist shot out, and the driver sprawled on the pavement.

Tommy took to his heels and ran—­none too soon.  The front door opened and a hail of bullets followed him.  Fortunately none of them hit him.  He turned the corner of the square.

“There’s one thing,” he thought to himself, “they can’t go on shooting.  They’ll have the police after them if they do.  I wonder they dared to there.”

He heard the footsteps of his pursuers behind him, and redoubled his own pace.  Once he got out of these by-ways he would be safe.  There would be a policeman about somewhere—­not that he really wanted to invoke the aid of the police if he could possibly do without it.  It meant explanations, and general awkwardness.  In another moment he had reason to bless his luck.  He stumbled over a prostrate figure, which started up with a yell of alarm and dashed off down the street.  Tommy drew back into a doorway.  In a minute he had the pleasure of seeing his two pursuers, of whom the German was one, industriously tracking down the red herring!

Tommy sat down quietly on the doorstep and allowed a few moments to elapse while he recovered his breath.  Then he strolled gently in the opposite direction.  He glanced at his watch.  It was a little after half-past five.  It was rapidly growing light.  At the next corner he passed a policeman.  The policeman cast a suspicious eye on him.  Tommy felt slightly offended.  Then, passing his hand over his face, he laughed.  He had not shaved or washed for three days!  What a guy he must look.

He betook himself without more ado to a Turkish Bath establishment which he knew to be open all night.  He emerged into the busy daylight feeling himself once more, and able to make plans.

First of all, he must have a square meal.  He had eaten nothing since midday yesterday.  He turned into an A.B.C. shop and ordered eggs and bacon and coffee.  Whilst he ate, he read a morning paper propped up in front of him.  Suddenly he stiffened.  There was a long article on Kramenin, who was described as the “man behind Bolshevism” in Russia, and who had just arrived in London—­some thought as an unofficial envoy.  His career was sketched lightly, and it was firmly asserted that he, and not the figurehead leaders, had been the author of the Russian Revolution.

In the centre of the page was his portrait.

“So that’s who Number 1 is,” said Tommy with his mouth full of eggs and bacon.  “Not a doubt about it, I must push on.”

He paid for his breakfast, and betook himself to Whitehall.  There he sent up his name, and the message that it was urgent.  A few minutes later he was in the presence of the man who did not here go by the name of “Mr. Carter.”  There was a frown on his face.