"Yes, my lord! To what particular police station shall I head this omnibus?"
"The nearest, Jones; the very nearest you can think of! Some day, when I'm rich, I'll hire you for my chauffeur. But for the present I shall expect at least a box of Partagas out of that hundred."
Jones chuckled. "I'll buy you a box out of my own pocket. That hundred goes to charity."
"Here we are! Out with you," said Jim to his prisoners. He shouldered them into the police station, to the captain's desk.
"Holdup men," said Jim. "Entered this man's car and tried to rob him."
"Oho! Hey, there; I mean you!" said the captain, leveling a finger at Otto. "Lift up that hat; lift it up. Sure, it's Fountain Pen Otto! Well, well; an' we've been lookin' for you for ten months on the last forgery case. Mr. Norton, my thanks. Take 'em below, sergeant. You'll be here to make the complaint in th' mornin', sir," he added to Servan.
"It may be against Otto's pal. I don't know him."
[Illustration: THE POLICE CAPTAIN'S DESK]
And Jones and Norton and Servan trooped out of the station.
At last Jones and the reporter entered a cheap restaurant and ordered coffee and toast.
"You're a wonderful man, Jones, even if you are an Englishman," said Jim as he called for the check.
"English? What makes you think I am English?" asked Jones with a curious glitter in his eyes.
"I'll tell you on the night we put the rollers under Braine and company."
Jones stared long and intently at his young partner. What did he really know?
The federal government agreed to say nothing, to put no obstacles in the way of the Russian agent, provided he could abduct his trio without seriously clashing with the New York police authorities. It was a recognized fact that the local police force wanted the newspaper glory which would attend the crushing of the Black Hundred. It would be an exploit. But their glory was nil; nor did Servan take his trio back with him to Russia.
Many strange things happened that night, the night of the final adventure.
Florence sat in her room reading. The book was Oliver Twist, not the pleasantest sort of book to read under the existing circumstances. Several times--she had reached the place where Fagin overheard Nancy's confession--she fancied she heard doors closing softly, but credited it to her imagination. Poor Nancy, who wanted to be good but did not find time to be! Florence possessed a habit familiar to most of us; the need of apples or candy when we are reading. So she rang the bell for her maid, intending to ask her to bring up some apples. She turned to her reading, presently to break off and strike the bell again. Where was that maid? She waited perhaps five minutes, then laid down the book and began to investigate.