had mapped out for himself a sufficiently daring and ingenious plan of campaign to satisfy the most exacting of romantic minds. It was, indeed, with almost boyish zest that he entered on the adventure, and with all the enthusiasm of an amateur detective had paved the way for slipping up to London, there to become a lost nonentity.

He knew better than to take the boat-train. Instead, he went up to the Adelphi Hotel, where fewer of his fellow-passengers were likely to congregate than at the North-Western, deposited his bag, and thereafter sauntered out to enjoy a stroll through the crowded streets of Liverpool.

At the Adelphi he slept that night, proceeding up to London on the following day.

He arrived at Euston about one o'clock, and drove straight to Walter's, a small yet comfortable hotel on the north side of the Strand.

Before going there, however, he had taken the precaution to buy some passable, if ready-made, clothes, together with a tweed cap, so that there was left about him no trace of the clerical disguise which he had assumed on arriving at Liverpool.

His presence, indeed, was sufficiently honest and prosperous to warrant not the slightest inquiry as to his bona fides at the hotel. In an hour he had comfortably settled himself in his new and temporary home, taking a small bedroom and a small sitting-room on the second floor.

Immediately on taking the room he had written a note to his friend, Lord Dunton, who was practically the only man in the whole of London whom he considered he could trust.

Dunton called at about five o'clock, and the two men spent a couple of hours in a quiet corner chuckling over the vivid accounts in the various newspapers which told of the mysterious disappearance of the miner baronet from the Gigantic.

Every theory which could be advanced was exploited to the full—murder, suicide, lapse of memory, and accidents of every sort and description were set forth to account for Sir Paul Westerham's vanishment. There were interviews with the captain and purser of the Gigantic; interviews with a score of passengers, and, much to Westerham's amusement, numerous bearded portraits of himself in a miner's guise.

Then, over a whisky-and-soda, Westerham briefly outlined to Dunton the adventure with Melun in his cabin and of his voluntary disappearance.

“The only thing that troubles me,” Westerham concluded, “is whether you will stand by and see me through. It is practically impossible for me to achieve what I consider necessary unless I have at least one friend who will keep his mouth shut tight.”

“My dear fellow,” said Dunton, earnestly, “I assure you that if this is your whim I see no reason why I should not do my best not only to humour it but to help it. By Jove!” he added, “but it's a ripping good idea!”

For Lord Dunton, who was very light-haired, very blue-eyed, and very vapid, had in his composition a great tendency to what he called “a ripping good lark.”

And so the two men arranged the matter between them.

They dined together very quietly in a little restaurant in Soho, where nobody who knew Dunton was likely to meet them, and where the cooking, if unpretentious, was at least good.

Afterwards Westerham went back to Dunton's rooms in Ryder Street, where they talked far into the night. They sat together, indeed, until past two o'clock, so that even the polite porter at Walter's raised his eyebrows at Westerham with some disapprobation when he finally returned to his hotel.

Next morning Dunton called early, and together the two men went up to the baronet's solicitors in Lincoln's Inn. There they had a long and not wholly placid interview with Mr. Victor Hantell, a somewhat elderly gentleman with pronounced views on the law and the propriety of abiding strictly by it.

In answer to all his objections, however, the baronet had one extremely awkward reply:

Did or did not the lawyer wish to remain entrusted with the care of his vast estates and fortune?

So after a couple of hours' talk matters were arranged to Westerham's way of thinking.

A hundred thousand pounds were to be paid into Lord Dunton's account in order that Westerham might be able to draw such sums of money as he required without any knowledge in any quarter of the fact that the baronet himself was dealing with the bank.

Mr. Hantell, moreover, was pledged to complete and absolute secrecy, so that with the exception of the lawyer and Dunton no one knew of Westerham's arrival in London.

The only tinge of humour that was introduced into the debate on Westerham's affairs was when, from time to time, a sleek and grave-mannered senior clerk entered quietly and placed on Mr. Hantell's desk a card that bore the name of some great London newspaper; for the newspapers had discovered quickly enough who Sir Paul's lawyers were. But they sought information in vain.

The few matters of moment that required to be settled having been dealt with, Westerham and Dunton went to lunch, and at lunch Westerham unfolded his further schemes to his friend.

They acted upon them without delay, and that afternoon Westerham secured more than luxurious rooms in Bruton Street in the name of James Robinson. It should be mentioned that at Walter's Hotel Westerham was known by the same simple title.

“In fact,” said Westerham to his friend, laughing, as they afterwards sat over a whisky-and-soda at Long's, “I seem to be setting out to lead a double life on a somewhat splendid scale. Where, of course, it will land me, and into what difficulties it will plunge me, naturally I cannot tell, but it is really comforting to reflect that, no matter what caprice I may indulge in, I have at least sufficient money behind me to provide a complete excuse.

“You see,” he went on a trifle more gravely, “I rely so much upon my intuition that I feel perfectly justified in regarding Melun with the very gravest suspicion. If I do my country no other service, I may at least be able to unmask what I am certain is a gang of international criminals, and, at the worst, I shall have plenty of fun for my money.”

The main reason for his peculiar mode of disappearing Westerham kept to himself. He said nothing to Dunton of the girl with the steadfast eyes.

And there he was wrong, for the difficulties—the very serious and dangerous difficulties—into which he was afterwards plunged would have been far more easily surmounted had he taken his friend into his full confidence.

Melun, in obedience to his instructions, had called at Walter's Hotel on the second day following the arrival of the Gigantic, but having no use for him then, and desiring to see a little of London before he proceeded to investigate the mysteries of Melun's life, Westerham told the urbane, if somewhat sinister, captain that he did not require his presence. Westerham, indeed, informed Melun pretty curtly that he would send for him when he needed him.

The next five days were spent by Westerham very quietly. The best of tailors that Dunton could recommend were hard at work building innumerable suits for Mr. James Robinson, whose magnificent motor car was at least a guarantee of the soundness of his banking account.

When he had possessed himself of such clothes as he required in order to live as James Robinson, Esq., of Bruton Street, plain Mr. Robinson, of Walter's Hotel, informed the proprietor there that he was going into the country, and for two days Westerham lived in his new quarters.

Then he made excuses to the correct, soft-footed, and soft-spoken valet with whom Dunton had provided him, and went back to live at Walter's.

As a matter of fact he rather