At eight o'clock came a wire:
"Not leaving by Hook of Holland route."
Soon after nine:
"Continental mail clear."
Then in rapid succession the great caravanserais reported themselves. Theatres, bars, restaurants, every place in London where men and women gather together, sent, through the plain-clothes watchers, their messages.
At eleven o'clock T. B. was reading a telegram from Harwich when the telephone at his elbow buzzed.
He 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."