Loide lifted himself on his elbow and looked round. Then he remembered—he was in his room at the New York hotel.

He had entered the room and then—of course, some one had sprung on him from behind.

A horrible thought smote him. He plunged his hand into his breast pocket and screamed with rage—the pocket was empty!

The notes were gone!

He sprang to his feet and thought.

What should he do? Give information to the police—would it be safe?

He had—foreseeing possession again—written the Bank of England withdrawing the stop on the notes, saying they were now in his client's possession.

How then was he to account for the holding of them himself? Would not unpleasant inquiries be made?

Would he be able to answer them—without danger?

Had all his labor been in vain? How had the robber possibly known that he had these notes in his possession?

At the money changer's he had purposely only spoken of one.

He knew it was not the work of a common hotel thief, for his studs, watch, and loose money had not been touched. It must have been some one who knew.

He would, at that moment, have cheerfully given one of the missing notes to know who the thief was.

He was afraid to go to the police, to say that he was an English lawyer bringing the money over to his client, Depew, and that he had been robbed, because if there was a real Depew, he would step forward and claim the money, and he—Loide—would be worse off than ever.

Besides, what explanation of his attempt to cash the one note could he give?

There was the thousand pounds fortunately saved from the robbery. This was safe in the money changer's hands. He looked at his watch. By the time he reached the banker's office, time would have elapsed, the reply cable would probably be back.

He would secure the thousand pounds first, and consider what he should do about the others after.

He took a car to Broadway and entered the banker's office.

The money changer looked at him.

"You haf come back—alone, eh?"

"Alone?—yes. I told you I was a stranger in New York."

"Dat vos so. But you haf frents here—frents anxious to meet wit you."

"What do you mean? What nonsense are you talking? Have you got a cable back from England?"

"No, mine frent, nor did I cable out there—I saves the oxpense."

"You——"

"You see, von of the peeples vat is so anxious to meet mit you, he comes in directly you leaf here."

"My—friend?"

"Oh, yes. He know you quite well. He say to me, 'Dat vos my very goot frent, Meestair Loide, the lawyer, of London, England, eh?'"

"Said—that—to—you?"

"Ogsactly. I say, 'Yes, dat vos so.' Den your frent he answers that he came after you about stolen notes. He say, 'Dat I change him.' I smile. He go out to seeks you. I am much surprised to see you alone here all by yourself."

"Alone!"

"Yes, because he say that he tink to-day he arrest you."

"Arrest me!"

"Dat is a way vid detectives; dey do dat wid peoples vot steals bank notes."

"Steals!"

"So."

"This is a trick! Give me back my note."

"Your note?"

"Yes—damn you—give me back my money."

"Shacob," the money changer called to his assistant sitting in the glass office behind, "will you oblige me by ring up the call for the police."

"Police," said Loide.

"So."

"What the devil do you mean?"

"Vait, mine frent. Do not get oxcited. It is big mistakes. Vait till the police come. They explain tings bettaire."

"Curse you!"

"So—if it please you, it pass the times."

"I shall go to my lawyer," he was making for the door as he spoke, "you shall pay for this."

"Ogsactly."

Loide disappeared. He saw a couple of policemen coming along the sidewalk, and promptly jumped on a car going in the opposite direction.

It took him the way of the hotel. There would be time to go in, get his bag, and leave before the police turned up there.

There was a little money left in the bag; he must secure that.

He got his key in the hotel office, and was carried in the elevator to his floor.

Locking himself in his room, he tore open his bag, and threw the contents on the floor.

Papers—he crammed them into the grate, and, applying a match, set them burning. He destroyed everything which would link him with the name of Loide.

Then he started to resume the disguise which had been so successful on the boat. He would be safe in it, he thought.

He would wait for the police, and give another name and—and then there flashed to his memory the recollection of the register! He had signed there his full name, Richard Loide. His signature would convict him.

He sank with a groan on the bed. What should—what could he do?

The police were on his track without doubt, or why the call at the money changer's? What a fool he had been to set foot in America—how could he set foot out of it?

If he was to escape, there was no time to be lost. He took his bag in his hand and passed out into the passage.

Looking over the staircase, he saw on the ground floor two policemen talking to the hotel clerk. Was he too late?

One of the officers stepped into the ever moving elevator. Slowly he was being borne upwards.

What should he do? The thought occurred to him that they would find his room empty, and think him gone.

He would hide—on the floor above. They would not think of searching there.

He sprang into the elevator—he should have waited for the next up coming car—the floor was nearly level with his knees when he jumped. The result was that he slipped, staggered, and fell prone on the floor of the lift, his head projecting.

Before he could move, the floor of the compartment reached the next floor of the building.

There was a scream of agony, a sudden wrenching jerk which shook the lift and halted the powerful machinery for half a moment, and then the cars went on in their old automatic way.

But when the policeman alighted on the floor on which room No. 14 was situate, he was horrified to see a bleeding human head staring him in the face, and marked the trail of blood across the floor leading to it, while the policeman below was equally shocked when the lift reached the ground to see the headless trunk of a human body lying on the floor.

The coroner's jury brought in the usual verdict.

Loide had at one time feared death by hanging, English fashion; later by electrocution, American fashion; he had never feared a French performance—the guillotine—and yet, after all, decapitation was his end.