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"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

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The Secret Adversary