“You must remember,” remarked Baumser, “dat dese people are desperate.  If dey intend to murder a voman dey vould certainly not stick at a man or two men.  You have no knowledge of how many dere may be.  Dere is certainly Herr Girdlestone and his son and de man mit de eye, but madame knows not how many may be at de house.  Remember also dat de police are not on your side, but rather against you, for as yet dere is no evidence dat any crime is intentioned.  Ven you think of all dis I am sure dat you vill agree with me dat it would be vell to take mit you two or tree men dat would stick by you through thin and broad.”

The major was so busy in making his preparations for departure that he could only signify by a nod that he agreed with his friend’s remarks.  “What men could I git?” he asked.

“Dere is I myself,” said the German, counting upon his big red fingers, “and dere are some of our society who would very gladly come on such an errand, and are men who are altogether to be relied upon.  Dere is little Fritz Bulow, of Kiel, and a Russian man whose name I disremember, but he is a good man.  He vas a Nihilist at Odessa, and is sentenced to death suppose they could him catch.  Dere are others as good, but it might take me time to find dem.  Dese two I can very easily get.  Dey are living together, and have neither of dem nothing to do.”

“Bring them, then,” said the major.  “Git a cab and run them down to Waterloo Station.  That’s the one for Bedsworth.  I’ll bring Dimsdale down with me and mate you there.  In me opinion there’s no time to be lost.”

The major was ready to start, so Von Baumser threw on his coat and hat, and picked out a thick stick from a rack in the corner.  “We may need something of de sort,” he said.

“I have me derringer,” the soldier answered.  They left the house together, and Von Baumser drove off to the East End, where his political friends resided.  The major called a cab and rattled away to Phillimore Gardens and thence to the office, without being able to find the man of whom he was in search.  He then rushed down the Strand as quickly as he could, intending to catch the next train and go alone, but on his way to Waterloo Station he fell in with Tom Dimsdale, as recorded in a preceding chapter.

The letter was a thunderbolt to Tom, In his worst dreams he had never imagined anything so dark as this.  He hurried back to the station at such a pace that the poor major was reduced to a most asthmatical and wheezy condition.  He trotted along pluckily, however, and as he went heard the account of Tom’s adventures in the morning and of the departure of Ezra Girdlestone and of his red-bearded companion.  The major’s face grew more anxious still when he heard of it.  “Pray God we may not be too late!” he panted.

CHAPTER XLI.

THE CLOUDS GROW DARKER.