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 trance of the big hotel at the corner, the South-Western. He went in—and that's where they are! What're you going to do about it, Mr. Wedgwood?"

Wedgwood drank off the last mouthful of his glass of beer, rose, buttoned up his overcoat, and picked up his umbrella, all with an air of determination.

"Do, my lad?" he answered. "Well, I'm going first of all to pay a visit to the police authorities here, to give certain information, and to get the assistance of another man. And then I'm going to see Mr. Thomas Wraypoole, who from what you tell me seems safe until at any rate four o'clock."

"And—collar him?" asked Stainsby.

"I don't think Thomas'll cross the Atlantic this trip, my lad!" answered Wedgwood. "Well, now, come along, and we'll find the police headquarters."

Stainsby cooled his heels in an ante-room of the police-station for some little time before Wedgwood, meanwhile closeted with various officials, appeared again. He began to get restive, having ascertained during the morning that intending passengers for New York could go aboard the Mauretania some little time before the vessel was due to sail: it seemed to him that if his late employer once got aboard and