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took up the receiver.

      “Hullo,” he said curtly.

      For a second there was no reply, and then, very clear and distinct, came a voice.

      “T.B. Smith, I presume.”

      It was the voice of Count Poltavo.

      If there had been anybody in the room but T.B., he might have imagined it was a very ordinary call the detective was receiving. Save for the fact that his face twitched, as was a characteristic of his when labouring under any great excitement, he gave no sign of the varied emotions Poltavo’s voice had aroused.

      “Yes, I am T.B. Smith; you are, of course, Count Poltavo?”

      “I am, of course, Count Poltavo,” said the voice suavely, “and it is on the tip of your tongue to ask me where I am.”

      “I am hardly as foolish as that,” said T.B. drily, “but wherever you are — and I gather from the clearness of your voice that you are in London — I shall have you.”

      There was a little laugh at the other end of the wire.

      T.B.’s hand stole out and pressed a little bellpush that rested on the table.

      “Yes,” said Poltavo’s voice mockingly, “I am in London. I am desirous of knowing where my friends have hidden.”

      “Your friends?” T.B. was genuinely astonished.

      “My friends,” said the voice gravely, “who so ungenerously left me to die on the salt plains near Jerez whilst they were making their escape.”

      A constable entered the room whilst Poltavo was talking, and T.B. raised his hand warningly.

      “Tell me,” he said carelessly, “why you have not joined them.”

      Then, like a flash, he brought his hand down over the transmitter and turned to the waiting constable.

      “Run across to Mr. Elk’s room,” he said rapidly; “call the Treasury Exchange and ask what part of London — what office — this man is speaking to me from.”

      Poltavo was talking before T.B. had finished giving his instructions.

      “Why have I not joined them?” he said, and there was a little bitterness in his voice,—” because they do not wish to have me. Poltavo has served his purpose! Where are they now? — that is what I wish to know. More important still, I greatly desire a piece of information which you alone, monsieur, can afford me.”

      The sublime audacity of the man brought a grin to T.B.’s face.

      “And that is?” he asked.

      “There was,” said Poltavo, “amongst the documents you found at our headquarters in Jerez a scrap of paper written somewhat unintelligibly, and apparently — I should imagine, for I have not seen it — without much meaning.”

      “There was,” said T.B. cheerfully.

      “So much I gathered from Baggin’s agitation on our retreat,” said Poltavo. “Where, may I ask, is this interesting piece of literature deposited?”

      The cool, matter-of-fact demand almost took T.B.’s breath away.

      “It is at present at Scotland Yard,” he said “With my — er — dossier?” asked the voice, and a little laugh followed.

      “Rather with the dossier of your friend Baggin,” said T.B.

      “In case I should ever want to — how do you say — burgle Scotland Yard,” said the drawling voice again, “could you give me explicit instructions where to find it?”

      T.B.’s anxiety was to keep Poltavo engaged in conversation until the officer he had despatched to the telephone returned.

      “Yes,” he said, “at present it is in the cabinet marked ‘ Unclassified Data,’ but I cannot promise you that it will remain there. You see, count, I have too high an opinion of your enterprise and daring.”

      He waited for a reply, but no reply came, and at that moment the door opened and the constable he had sent on the errand appeared.

      T.B. covered the transmitter again.

      “The Treasury say that you are not connected with anybody, sir,” he said.

      “What?”

      T.B. stared at him.

      He moved his hand from the transmitter and called softly, “Poltavo!”

      There was no reply, and he called again.

      He looked up with the receiver still at his ear.

      “He’s rung off.”

      Then a new voice spoke.

      “Finished, sir?”

      “No — who are you?” demanded T.B. quickly.

      “Exchange, sir — Private Exchange, Scotland Yard.”

      “Who was talking to me then? Where was he talking from?”

      “Why, from the Record Office.”

      T.B., his face white, leapt to his feet.

      “Follow me,” he said, and went racing down the long corridor. He went down the broad stairs three at a time.

      A constable on duty in the hall turned in astonishment.

      “Has anybody left here recently?” asked T.B. breathlessly.

      “A gentleman just gone out, sir,” said the man; “went away in a motorcar.”

      “Is Mr. Elk in the building?”

      “In the Record Office, sir,” said the man. Up the stairs again flew the detective.

      The Record Office was at the far end of the building.

      The door was ajar and the room in darkness, but T.B. was in the room and had switched on the light.

      In the centre of the room was stretched the unfortunate Elk in a pool of blood. A life-preserver lay near him. T.B. leant over him; he was alive, but terribly injured; then he shot a swift glance round the room. He saw the telephone with the receiver off; he saw an open cabinet marked “Unclassified Data,” and it was empty.

27. The Lost Warship

       Table of Contents

      Poltavo had escaped. There was pother enough — eight of the Nine Bears had melted into nothingness. No official feather came to T.B.’s cap for that, whatever praise the mistaken public might award. Worst of all, and most shocking outrage of all, the Record Office at Scotland Yard had been burgled and important documents had been stolen. But Elk had not been killed, so the incident did not come before the public.

      The contents of the documents were not lost to the police, for Scotland Yard does not put all its eggs into one basket, even when the basket is as secure a one as the Record Office. There were photographs innumerable of the scrap of paper, and one of these was on T.B. Smith’s desk the morning after the robbery.

      The memorandum, for such it was, was contained in less than a hundred words. Literally, and with all its erasures written out, it ran:

      “Idea [crossed out]. Ideas [written again]. Suppose we separated; where to meet; allowing for accidental partings; must be some spot; yet that would be dangerous; otherwise, must be figures easily remembered; especially as none of these people have knowledge [crossed out and rewritten]; especially as difficult for nontechnical [word undecipherable] to fix in mind, and one cipher makes all difference. LOLO be good, accessible, unfrequented. Suggest on first Ju every year we rendezvous at Lolo.

      “(Mem.

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