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                       THE SINS OF SÉVERAC BABLON

                            By Sax Rohmer




    CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD
    London, New York, Toronto & Melbourne

    First published _January 1914_.
    Popular Edition _February 1919_.




CONTENTS


1. TO INTRODUCE MR. JULIUS ROHSCHEIMER

2. "THIRTY MEN WHO WERE ALL ALIKE"

3. MIDNIGHT--AND THE MAN

4. THE HEAD OF CÆSAR

5. A MYSTIC HAND

6. THE SHADOW OF SÉVERAC BABLON

7. THE RING

8. IN THE DRESSING-ROOM

9. ES-SINDIBAD OF CADOGAN GARDENS

10. KIMBERLEY

11. MR. SANRACK VISITS THE HOTEL ASTORIA

12. LOVE, LUCRE AND MR. ALDEN

13. THE LISTENER

14. ZOE DREAMS

15. AT "THE CEDARS"

16. THE LAMP AND THE MASK

17. THE DAMASCUS CURTAIN

18. A WHITE ORCHID

19. THREE LETTERS

20. CLOSED DOORS

21. A CORNER IN MILLIONAIRES

22. THE TURKISH YATAGHAN

23. M. LEVI

24. "V-E-N-G-E-N-C-E"

25. AN OFFICIAL CALL

26. GRIMSDYKE

27. YELLOW CIGARETTES

28. AT THE PALACE--AND LATER




CHAPTER I

TO INTRODUCE MR. JULIUS ROHSCHEIMER


"There's half a score of your ancestral halls," said Julius Rohscheimer,
"that I could sell up to-morrow morning!"

Of the quartet that heard his words no two members seemed quite
similarly impressed.

The pale face of Adeler, the great financier's confidential secretary,
expressed no emotion whatever. Sir Richard Haredale flashed contempt
from his grey eyes--only to veil his scorn of the man's vulgarity
beneath a cloud of tobacco smoke. Tom Sheard, of the _Gleaner_, drew
down a corner of his mouth and felt ashamed of the acquaintance. Denby,
the music-hall comedian, softly whistled those bars of a popular ballad
set to the words, "I stood in old Jerusalem."

"Come along to Park Lane with me," continued Rohscheimer, fixing his
dull, prominent eyes upon Sheard, "and you'll see more English nobility
than you'd find inside the House of Lords!"

"What's made him break out?" the comedian whispered, aside, to Adeler.
For it was an open secret that this man, whose financial operations
shook the thrones of monarchy, whose social fêtes were attended by the
smartest people, was subject to outbursts of the kind which now saw him
seated before a rapidly emptying magnum in a corner of the great
restaurant. At such times he would frequent the promenades of
music-halls, consorting with whom he found there, and would display the
gross vulgarity of a Whitechapel pawnbroker or tenth-rate variety agent.

"'S-sh!" replied the secretary. "A big coup! It is always so with him.
Mr. Rohscheimer is overwrought. I shall induce him to take a holiday."

"Trip up the Jordan?" suggested Denby, with cheery rudeness.

The secretary's drooping eyelids flickered significantly, but no other
indication of resentment displayed itself upon that impassive face.

"A good Jew is proud of his race--and with reason!" he said quietly.
"There are Jews and Jews."

He turned, deferentially, to his employer--that great man having
solicited his attention with the words, "Hark to him, Adeler!"

"I did not quite catch Mr. Sheard's remark," said Adeler.

"I merely invited Mr. Rohscheimer to observe the scene upon his right,"
explained Sheard.

The others turned their eyes in that direction. Through a screen of palm
leaves the rose-shaded table lights, sparkling silver, and snowy covers
of the supper room were visible. Here a high-light gleamed upon a bare
shoulder; there, a stalwart male back showed, blocked out in bold black
upon the bright canvas. Waiters flitted noiselessly about. The drone of
that vocal orchestra filled the place: the masculine conversation, the
brass and wood-wind--the sweeter tones of women, the violins; their
laughter, tremolo passages.

"I'm observing it," growled Rohscheimer. "Nobody in particular there."

"There is comfort, luxury, there," said Sheard.

The financier stared, uncomprehensively.

"Now look out yonder," continued the other.

It was a different prospect whereto he directed their eyes.

The diminuendo of the Embankment lamps, the steely glitter of the waters
beyond, the looming bulk of the bridge, the silhouette shape of the On
monolith; these things lay below them, dimly to be seen from the
brilliant room. Within was warmth, light, and gladness; without, a cold
place of shadows, limned in the grey of discontent and the black of want
and desolation.

"Every seat there," continued Sheard, as the company gazed vaguely from
the window, "has its burden of hopelessness and misery. Ranks of
homeless wretches form up in the arch yonder, awaiting the arrival of
the Salvation Army officials. Where, in the whole world, can misery in
bulk be found thus side by side with all that wealth can procure?"

There was a brief silence. Sheard was on his hobbyhorse, and there were
few there disposed to follow him. The views of the _Gleaner_ are not
everybody's money.

"What sort of gas are you handing us out?" asked Rohscheimer. "Those
lazy scamps don't deserve any comfort; they never worked to get it! The
people here are moneyed people."

"Just so!" interrupted Sheard, taking up the challenge with true
_Gleaner_ ardour. "Moneyed people! That's the whole distinction in two
words!"

"Well, then--what about it?"

"This--that if every guest now in the hotel would write a cheque for an
amount representing 1 per cent. of his weekly income, every man, woman,
and child under the arch yonder would be provided with board and lodging
for the next six months!"

"Why do it?" demanded Rohscheimer, not unreasonably. "Why feed 'em up on
idleness?"

"Their idleness may be compulsory," replied Sheard. "Few would employ a
starving man while a well-nourished one was available."

"Cut the Socialist twaddle!" directed the other coarsely. "It gets on my
nerves! You and your cheques! Who'd you make 'em payable to? Editor of
the _Gleaner_."

"I would suggest," said Sir Richard Haredale, smiling, "to Séverac
Bablon."

"To who?" inquired Rohscheimer, with greater interest than grammar.

"Séverac Bablon," said Sheard, informatively, "the man who gave a
hundred dollars to each of the hands discharged from the Runek Mill,
somewhere in Ontario. That's whom you mean, isn't it, Haredale?"

"Yes," assented the latter. "I was reading about it to-day."

"We had it in this morning," continued Sheard. "Two thousand men."

"Eh?" grunted Rohscheimer hoarsely.

"Two thousand men," repeated Sheard. "Each of them received notes to the
value of a hundred dollars on the morning after the mill closed down,
and a card, 'With the compliments of Séverac Bablon.'"

"Forty thousand pounds!" shouted the millionaire. "I don't believe it!"

"It's confirmed by Reuter to-night."

"Then the man's a madman!" pronounced Rohscheimer conclusively.

"Pity he doesn't have a cut at London!" came Denby's voice.

"Is it?" growled the previous speaker. "Don't you believe it! A maniac
like that would mean ruination for business if he was allowed to get
away with it!"

"Ah, well!" yawned Sheard, standing up and glancing at his watch, "you
may be right. Anyway, I've got a report to put in. I'm off!"

"Me, too!" said the financier thickly. "Come on, Haredale. We're overdue
at Park Lane! It's time we were on view in Park Lane, Adeler!"

The tide of our narrative setting in that direction, it will be well if
we, too, look in at the Rohscheimer establishment. We shall find
ourselves in brilliant company.

Julius's harshest critics were forced to concede that the house in Park
Lane was a focus of all smart society. Yet smart society felt oddly ill
at ease in the salon of Mrs. Julius Rohscheimer. Nobody knew whether the
man to whom he might be talking at the moment were endeavouring to
arrange a mortgage with Rohscheimer; whether the man's wife had fallen
in arrears with her interest--to the imminent peril of the family
necklace; or whether the man had simply dropped in because others of his
set did so, and because, being invited, he chanced to have nothing
better to do.

These things did not add to the gaiety of the entertainments, but of
their brilliancy there could be no possible doubt.

Jewish society was well represented, and neither at Streeter's nor
elsewhere could a finer display of diamonds be viewed than upon one of
Mrs. Rohscheimer's nights. The lady had enjoyed some reputation as a
hostess before the demise of her first husband had led her to seek
consolation in the arms (and in the cheque-book) of the financier. So
the house in Park Lane was visited by the smartest people--to the mutual
satisfaction of host and hostess.

"Where's the Dook?" inquired the former, peering over a gilded
balustrade at the throng below. They had entered, unseen, by a private
stair.

"I understand," replied Haredale, "that the Duke is unfortunately
indisposed."

"Never turns up!" growled Rohscheimer.

"Never likely to!" was Haredale's mental comment; but, his situation
being a delicate one, he diplomatically replied, "We have certainly been
unfortunate in that respect."

Haredale--one of the best-known men in town--worked as few men work to
bring the right people to the house in Park Lane (and to save his
commission). This arrangement led Mr. Rohscheimer to rejoice exceedingly
over his growing social circle, and made Haredale so ashamed of himself
that, so he declared to an intimate friend, he had not looked in a
mirror for nine months, but relied implicitly upon the good taste of his
man.

"Come up and give me your opinion of the new waistcoats," said
Rohscheimer. "I don't fancy my luck in 'em, personally."

Following the financier to his dressing-room, Haredale, as a smart maid
stood aside to let them pass, felt the girl's hand slip a note into his
own. Glancing at it, behind Rohscheimer's back, he read: "Keep him away
as much as ever you can."

"She has spotted him!" he muttered; and, in his sympathy with the
difficulties of poor Mrs. Rohscheimer's position, he forgot,
temporarily, the difficulties of his own.

"By the way," said Rohscheimer, "did you bring along that late edition
with the details of the Runek Mill business?"

"Yes," said Haredale, producing it from his overcoat pocket.

"Just read it out, will you?" continued the other, "while I have a rub
down."

Haredale nodded, and, lighting a cigarette, sank into a deep arm-chair
and read the following paragraph:

     "A FAIRY GODMOTHER IN ONTARIO

     "(_From our Toronto Correspondent_)

     "The identity of the philanthropist who indemnified the
     ex-employees of the Runek Mill still remains a mystery. Beyond the
     fact that his name, real or assumed, is Séverac Bablon, nothing
     whatever is known regarding him. The business was recently acquired
     by J. J. Oppner, who will be remembered for his late gigantic
     operation on Wall Street, and the whole of the working staff
     received immediate notice to quit. No reason is assigned for this
     wholesale dismissal. But each of the 2,000 men thus suddenly thrown
     out of employment received at his home, in a plain envelope,
     stamped with the Three Rivers postmark, the sum of one hundred
     dollars, and a typed slip bearing the name, 'Séverac Bablon.' Mr.
     Oppner had been approached, but is very reticent upon the subject.
     There is a rumour circulating here to the effect that he himself is
     the donor. But I have been unable to obtain confirmation of this."

"It wouldn't be Oppner," spluttered Rohscheimer, appearing, towel in
hand. "He's not such a fool! Sounds like one of these 'Yellow' fables to
me."

Haredale shrugged his shoulders, dropping the paper on the rug.

"A man at once wealthy and generous is an improbable, but not an
impossible, being," he said.

Rohscheimer stared, dully. There were times when he suspected Haredale
of being studiously rude to him. He preserved a gloomy silence
throughout the rest of the period occupied by his toilet, and in silence
descended to the ballroom.

The throng was considerable, and the warmth oppressive at what time Mrs.
Rohscheimer's ball was in full swing. Scarcely anyone was dancing, but
the walls were well lined, and the crush about the doors suggestive of a
cup tie.

"Who's that tall chap with the white hair?" inquired Rohscheimer from
the palmy corner to which Haredale discreetly had conveyed him.

"That is the Comte de Noeue," replied his informant; "a distinguished
member of the French diplomatic corps."

"We're getting on!" chuckled the millionaire. "He's a good man to have,
isn't he Haredale?"

"Highly respectable!" said the latter dryly.

"We don't seem to get the dooks, and so on?"

"The older nobility is highly conservative!" explained Haredale
evasively. "But Mrs. Rohscheimer is a recognised leader of the smart
set."

Rohscheimer swayed his massive head in bear-like discontent.

"I don't get the hang of this smart set business," he complained.
"Aren't the dooks and earls and so on in the smart set?"

"Not strictly so!" answered Haredale, helping himself to
brandy-and-soda.

This social conundrum was too much for the millionaire, and he lapsed
into heavy silence, to be presently broken with the remark:

"All the Johnnies holding the wall up are alike, Haredale! It's funny I
don't know any of 'em! You see them in the sixpenny monthlies, with the
girl they're going to marry in the opposite column. Give me their names,
will you--starting with the one this end?"

Haredale, intending, good-humouredly, to comply, glanced around the
spacious room--only to realise that he, too, was unacquainted with the
possibly distinguished company of muralites.

"I rather fancy," he said, "a lot of the people you mean are
Discoveries--of Mrs. Rohscheimer's, you know--writers and painters and
so forth."

"No, no!" complained the host. "I know all that lot--and they all know
me! I mean the nice-looking fellows round the wall! I haven't been
introduced, Haredale. They've come in since this waltz started."

Haredale looked again, and his slightly bored expression gave place to
one of curiosity.




CHAPTER II

"THIRTY MEN WHO WERE ALL ALIKE"


The room was so inconveniently crowded that dancing was a mere farce,
only kept up by the loyal support of Mrs. Rohscheimer's compatriots. The
bulk of the company crowded around in intermingling groups, to the
accompaniment of ceaseless shuffling and murmuring which all but drowned
the strains of the celebrated orchestra. But lining the wall around was
a rank of immaculately groomed gentlemen who seemed to assume a closer
formation as Haredale, from behind the palms, observed them.

In two particulars this rank excited his curiosity.

The individuals comprising it were, as Rohscheimer had pointed out,
remarkably alike, being all of a conventional Army type; and they were
unobtrusively entering, one behind the other, and methodically taking up
their places around the room!

Even as he watched, the last man entered, and the big double doors were
closed behind him!

"What's this, Haredale?" came a hoarse whisper from Rohscheimer. "Where
are these Johnnies comin' from? Does Mrs. R. know they're here?"

"Couldn't say," was the reply. "But it would be a simple matter for a
number of impostors to gain access to the house whilst dancing was in
progress, provided they came in small parties and looked the part."

"Impostors!" growled Rohscheimer uneasily. "Don't you think they've been
invited, then?"

"Well, who shut those doors?" muttered Haredale, leaning across the
little table the better to observe what was going forward.

"You don't mean----" began Rohscheimer, and broke off, as the orchestra
dashed through the coda of the waltz and ceased.

For stark amazement froze the words upon his tongue.

Coincident with the last pair of dancers performing their final gyration
and the hum of voices assuming a louder tone, each of the men standing
around the walls produced a brace of revolvers and covered the
particular group nearest to him!

The conversational hum rose to a momentary roar, and ceased abruptly.
The horns of taxi-cabs passing below could be plainly heard, and the
drone and rattle of motor-buses. Men who had done good work in other
emergencies looked down the gleaming barrels, back to the crowds of
women--and had no inspiration, but merely wondered. Nobody moved. Nobody
fainted.

"Held up!" came, in pronounced Kansas, from somewhere amongst the crush.

"Quick!" whispered Haredale. "We're overlooked! Through the
conservatory, and----"

"Pardon me!"

Rohscheimer and Haredale turned, together, and each found himself
looking directly into the little ring of a revolver's muzzle. A tall,
slim figure in faultless evening dress stood behind them, half in the
shadows. This mysterious stranger had jet black hair, and wore a black
silk half-mask.

The melodramatic absurdity of the thing came home strongly to Haredale.
But its harsh reality was equally obvious.

"Perhaps," continued the masked speaker, in a low, refined voice, and
with a faint, elusive accent, "you will oblige me, Mr. Rohscheimer, by
stepping forward so that your guests can see you? Sir Richard
Haredale--may I trouble you?"

Rohscheimer, his heavy features slightly pale, rose unsteadily.
Haredale, after a rapid glance about him, rose also, with tightened
lips; and the trio moved forward into full view of the assembled
company.

"The gentlemen surrounding you," said the man in the mask, slightly
raising his voice, "are all sworn to the Cause which I represent. You
would, perhaps, term them anarchists!"

An audible shudder passed through the assemblage.

"They are desperate men," he continued, "indifferent to death, and
would, without compunction, shoot down everyone present--if I merely
raised my hand! Each of them is a social pariah, with a price upon his
head. Let no man think this is a jest! Any movement made without my
permission will be instantly fatal."

_Dzing!_ went the bell of a bus below. _Grr-r-r!_ went the motor in
re-starting. _OO-oo! OO-oo!_ came from the horn of a taxi-cab. And
around the wall stood the silent rank with the raised revolvers.

"I shall call upon those gentlemen whom I consider most philanthropic,"
resumed the musical voice, "to subscribe to my Cause! Mr. Rohscheimer,
your host, will head the list with a diamond stud, valued at one
thousand guineas, and two rings, representing, together, three thousand
pounds! Place them on that pedestal, Mr. Rohscheimer!"

"I won't do it!" cried the financier, in rising cadence. "I defy you!
I----"

"Cut it!" snapped Haredale roughly. "Don't be such a cad as to expose
women----" He had caught sight of a pretty, pale face in the throng,
that made the idea of these mysterious robbers opening fire doubly,
trebly horrible. "It goes against the grain, but hand them over. We can
do nothing--yet!"

"Thank you, Sir Richard!" said the masked spokesman, and waved aside the
hand with which Haredale proffered his own signet ring. "I have not
called upon you, sir! Mr. Hohsmann, your daughters would feel affronted
did you not give them an opportunity of appearing upon the subscription
list! The necklace and the aigrette will do! I shall post, of course, a
formal receipt to Hamilton Place!"

And so the incredible comedy proceeded--until thousands of pounds' worth
of jewellery lay upon the pedestal at the foot of a bronze statuette of
Pandora!

"The list is closed!" called the spokesman. "Doors!"

Open came the doors at his command, and revealed to those who could see
outside, a double rank of evening-dress bandits.

"The company," he resumed, "will pass out in single file to the white
drawing-room. Mr. Rohscheimer--will you lead the way?"

In sullen submission out went Rohscheimer, and after him his guests--or,
rather, his wife's guests--until that whole brilliant company was packed
into the small white room. Someone had thoughtfully closed the shutters
of the windows giving on Park Lane, and securely screwed them; so that,
when the last straggler had entered, and the door was shut, they were in
a trap!

"Listen, everybody!" came Haredale's voice. "Keep cool! You fellows by
the door--get your shoulders to it!"

At his words, the men standing nearest to the door turned to execute
these instructions, and were confronted by the following type-written
notice pinned upon the white panels:--

     "A detailed subscription list will appear in the leading papers
     to-morrow, and it will doubtless relieve and gratify subscribers to
     learn that _the revolvers were not loaded_!"

There was little delay after that. Within sixty seconds the door was
open; within three minutes the wires were humming with the astounding
news.

Tom Sheard, his work completed, was about to leave the _Gleaner_ office,
when--

"Sheard!" shouted the news editor from an upper landing. "Amazing
business at Rohscheimer's in Park Lane! Robbery! Brigands! Terrific! Off
you go! Taxi!"

And off went Sheard without delay.

He entered Park Lane, to find that part of the thoroughfare adjacent to
the financier's house packed with vehicles of all sorts and sizes. Women
in full dress, pressmen, policemen, loafers, were pouring out and
rushing in to Mr. Rohscheimer's residence! Never before was such a scene
witnessed at that hour of the night in Park Lane.

As he passed under the awning, pressing his way towards the steps, he
encountered an excited young gentleman who wore a closed opera hat, but
was evidently ignorant of his interesting appearance. This young
gentleman he chanced to know, and having rectified the irregularity in
his toilet, from him he secured some splendid copy.

"You see, I just dropped in to take a look round, and as I strolled up a
mob of jokers jumped out of a cab just in front of me, and we all
crawled in together, sort of thing. I happened to notice a footman going
upstairs and two of the jokers I spoke about behind him. They were
laughing, and so forth, and he was just on the first landing, when they
nabbed him from behind--positive fact!--and threw the chap down on his
face! I'm thinking it's a poor kind of joke when the other two fellows
jolly well nobble _me_! Before I know what's up, I'm pushed into an
anteroom or somewhere, and I hear these chaps banging the front door and
running upstairs! I should have sung out like steam, only they'd
handcuffed me wrong way round and tied a beastly cork arrangement in my
mouth!

"Just before I burst a blood-vessel it occurred to me that I might as
well keep quiet; so I sat on the floor listening; but I didn't hear
anything for what seemed like an hour! Then there was a mob of fellows
came downstairs--and the door opened. They seemed to slip out in twos
and threes from what I could gather, and by the time they'd nearly all
gone a perfect pandemonium broke out, upstairs and down!

"The servants--who'd all been locked in the cellar--got out first. Then
Haredale came bounding downstairs, and, luckily for me, heard me kicking
at the door. Then everybody was rushing about! Rohscheimer was bawling
in the telephone! Some other chap was rushing for a doctor--for Adeler,
who got knocked on the head in the library. Now here's the wretched
police arresting everybody who looks as though he'd been in the Army!
That's all the beastly description anyone can give! They suspected Dick
Langley the minute they saw him, because he's got a military appearance!
And I shouldn't be surprised to hear that they'd arrested every fellow
in the Guards' Club!

"Here's the thing, though: they've all got clean away! With about forty
thousand pounds' worth of jewellery! It's a preposterous sort of thing,
isn't it?"

Sheard agreed that it was the most preposterous sort of thing
imaginable; and, leaving his excited acquaintance, he set out to seek
further particulars. But very few were forthcoming.

As to the manner in which the clique had obtained admission, that called
for little explanation. They had simply presented themselves, armed with
invitations, singly and in small parties, whilst dancing was in
progress, and in a house open to such mixed society had been admitted
without arousing suspicion. There was little that was obscure or
inexplicable in the coup; it was an amazing display of _force majeure_,
an act of stark audacity. It pointed to the existence in London of a
hitherto unsuspected genius. Such was Sheard's opinion.

From an American guest, who had kept perfectly cool during the
"hold-up," and had quietly taken stock of the robbers, he learnt that,
exclusive of the spokesman, they numbered exactly thirty; were much of a
similar build, being well-set-up men of military bearing; and, most
extraordinary circumstance, were facially all alike!

"Gee! but it's a fact!" declared his informant. "They all had moderate
fair hair, worn short and parted left-centre, neat blonde moustaches,
and fresh complexions, and the whole thirty were like as beans!"

Two other interesting facts Sheard elicited from Adeler, who wore a
white bandage about his damaged skull. The whole of the guests
victimised were compatriots of their host.

"It is from those who are of my nation that they have taken all their
booty," he said, smiling. "This daring robber has evidently strong
racial prejudices! Then, each of the victims had received, during the
past month threatening letters demanding money for various charities.
These letters did not emanate from the institutions named, but were
anonymous appeals. The point seems worth notice."

And so, armed with the usual police assurance that several sensational
arrests might be expected in the morning, Sheard departed with this
enthralling copy hot for the machines that had been stopped to take it.

When, thoroughly tired, he again quitted the _Gleaner_ office, it was to
direct his weary footsteps towards the Embankment and the all-night car
that should bear him home.

Crossing Tallis Street, he became aware of a confused murmur proceeding
from somewhere ahead, and as he approached nearer to the river this took
definite form and proclaimed itself a chaotic chorus of human voices.

As he came out on to the Embankment an extraordinary scene presented
itself.

Directly in his path stood a ragged object--a piece of social flotsam--a
unit of London's misery. This poor filthy fellow was singing at the top
of his voice, a music-hall song upon that fertile topic, "the girls,"
was dancing wildly around a dilapidated hat which stood upon the
pavement at his feet, and was throwing sovereigns into this same hat
from an apparently inexhaustible store in his coat pocket!

Seeing Sheard standing watching him, he changed his tune and burst into
an extempore lyric, "_The quids! The quids! The golden quids--the
quids!_" and so on, until, filled with a sudden hot suspicion, he
snatched up his hat, with its jingling contents, hugged it to his
breast, and ran like the wind!

Following him with his eyes as he made off towards Waterloo Bridge, the
bewildered pressman all but came to the conclusion that he was the
victim of a weird hallucination.

For the night was filled with the songs, the shouts, the curses, the
screams, of a ragged army of wretches who threw up gold in the air--who
juggled with gold--who played pitch-and-toss with gold--who ran with
great handfuls of gold clutched to their bosoms--who pursued one another
for gold--who fought to defend the gold they had gained--who wept for
the gold they had lost.

One poor old woman knelt at the kerb, counting bright sovereigns into
neat little piles, and perfectly indifferent to the advice of a kindly
policeman, who, though evidently half dazed with the wonders of the
night, urged her to get along to a safer place.

Two dilapidated tramps, one of whom wore a battered straw hat, whilst
his friend held an ancient green parasol over his bare head, appeared
arm-in-arm, displaying much elegance of deportment, and, hailing a
passing cab, gave the address, "Savoy," with great aplomb.

Fights were plentiful, and the available police were kept busy arresting
the combatants. Two officers passed Sheard, escorting a lean, ragged
individual whose pockets jingled as he walked, and who spoke of the
displeasure with which this unseemly arrest would fill "his people."

Presently a bewildered Salvation Army official appeared. Sheard promptly
buttonholed him.

"Don't ask me, sir!" he said, in response to the obvious question.
"Heaven only knows what it _is_ about! But I can tell you this much: no
less than forty thousand pounds has been given away on the Embankment
to-night! And in gold! Such an incredible example of ill-considered
generosity I've never heard of! More harm has been done to our work
to-night than we can hope to rectify in a twelvemonth!

"Of course, it will do good in a few, a very few, cases. But, on the
whole, it will do, I may say, incalculable harm. How was it distributed?
In little paper bags, like those used by the banks. It sent half the
poor fellows crazy! Just imagine--a broken-down wretch who'd lived on
the verge of starvation for, maybe, years, suddenly has a bag of
sovereigns put into his hand! Good heavens! what madness!"

"Who did the distributing?"

"That's the curious part of it! The bags were distributed by a number of
men wearing the dark overcoats and uniform caps of the Salvation Army!
That's how they managed to get through with the business without
arousing the curiosity of the police. I don't know how many of them
there were, but I should imagine twenty or thirty. They were through
with it and gone before we woke up to what they had done!"

Sheard thanked him for his information, stood a moment, irresolute; and
turned back once more to the _Gleaner_ office.

       *       *       *       *       *

Thus, then, did a strange personality announce his coming and flood the
British press with adjectives.

The sensation created, on the following day, by the news of the Park
Lane robbery was no greater than that occasioned by the news of the
extraordinary Embankment affair.

"What do we deduce," demanded a talkative and obtrusively clever person
in a late City train, "from the circumstance that all thirty of the Park
Lane brigands were alike?"

"Obviously," replied a quiet voice, "that it was a 'make-up.' Thirty
identical wigs, thirty identical moustaches, and the same grease-paint!"

A singularly handsome man was the speaker. He was dark, masterful, and
had notably piercing eyes. The clever person became silent.

"Being all made up as a very common type of man-about-town," continued
this striking-looking stranger, "they would pass unnoticed anywhere. If
the police are looking for thirty blonde men of similar appearance they
are childishly wasting their time. They are wasting their time in any
event--as the future will show."

Everyone in the carriage was listening now, and a man in a corner asked:
"Do you think there is any connection between the Park Lane and
Embankment affairs, sir?"

"Think!" smiled the other, rising as the train slowed into Ludgate Hill.
"You evidently have not seen this."

He handed his questioner an early edition of an evening paper, and with
a terse "Good morning," left the carriage.

Glaringly displayed on the front page was the following:

     WHO IS HE?

     "We received early this morning the following advertisement,
     prepaid in cash, and insert it here by reason of the great interest
     which we feel sure it will possess for our readers:

     "'On Behalf of the Poor Ones of the Embankment, I thank the
     following philanthropists for their generous donations:"

     _(Here followed a list of those guests of Mrs. Rohscheimer's who
     had been victimised upon the previous night, headed with the name
     of Julius Rohscheimer himself; and beside each name appeared an
     amount representing the value of the article, or articles,
     appropriated.)_

     "'They may rest assured that not one halfpenny has been deducted
     for working expenses. In fact, when the donations come to be
     realised the Operative may be the loser. But no matter. "Expend
     your money in pious uses, either voluntarily or by constraint."

     "'(Signed) Séverac Bablon.'"

The paper was passed around in silence.

"That fellow seemed to know a lot about it!" said someone.

None of the men replied; but each looked at the other strangely--and
wondered.




CHAPTER III

MIDNIGHT--AND THE MAN


The next two days were busy ones for Sheard, who, from a variety of
causes--the chief being his intimacy with the little circle which,
whether it would or not, gathered around Mr. Julius Rohscheimer--found
himself involved in the mystery of Séverac Bablon. He had interviewed
this man and that, endeavouring to obtain some coherent story of the
great "hold up," but with little success. Everything was a mysterious
maze, and Scotland Yard was without any clue that might lead to the
solution. All the Fleet Street crime specialists had advanced theories,
and now, on the night of the third day after the audacious robbery,
Sheard was contributing his theory to the Sunday newspaper for which he
worked.

The subject of his article was the identity of Séverac Bablon, whom
Sheard was endeavouring to prove to be not an individual, but a society;
a society, so he argued, formed for the immolation of Capital upon the
altars of Demos.

The course of reasoning that he had taken up proved more elusive than he
had anticipated.

His bundle of notes lay before him on the table. The news of the latest
outrage, the burning of the great Runek Mills in Ontario, had served to
convince him that his solution was the right one; yet he could make no
headway, and the labours of the last day or so had left him tired and
drowsy.

He left his table and sank into an arm-chair by the study fire, knocking
out his briar on a coal and carefully refilling and lighting that
invaluable collaborator. With his data presently arranged in better
mental order, he returned to the table and covered page after page with
facile reasoning. Then the drowsiness which he could not altogether
shake off crept upon him again, and staring at the words "Such societies
have existed in fiction, now we have one existing in fact," he dropped
into a doze--as the clock in the hall struck one.

When he awoke, with his chin on his breast, it was to observe, firstly,
that the MS. no longer lay on the pad, and, secondly, on looking up,
that a stranger sat in the arm-chair, opposite, reading it!

"Who----" began Sheard, starting to his feet.

Whereupon the stranger raised a white, protesting hand.

"Give me but one moment's grace, Mr. Sheard," he said quietly, "and I
will at once apologise and explain!"

"What do you mean?" rapped the journalist. "How dare you enter my house
in this way, and----" He broke off from sheer lack of words, for this
calm, scrupulously dressed intruder was something outside the zone of
things comprehensible.

In person he was slender, but of his height it was impossible to judge
accurately whilst he remained seated. He was perfectly attired in
evening-dress, and wore a heavy, fur-lined coat. A silk hat, by an
eminent hatter, stood upon Sheard's writing-table, a pair of gloves
beside it. A gold-mounted ebony walking-stick was propped against the
fireplace. But the notable and unusual characteristic of the man was his
face. Its beauty was literally amazing. Sheard, who had studied
black-and-white, told himself that here was an ideal head--that of
Apollo himself.

And this extraordinary man, with his absolutely flawless features
composed, and his large, luminous eyes half closed, lounged in Sheard's
study at half-past one in the early morning and toyed with an unfinished
manuscript--like some old and privileged friend who had dropped in for a
chat.

"Look here!" said the outraged pressman, stepping around the table as
the calm effrontery of the thing burst fully upon him. "Get out! _Now!_"

"Mr. Sheard," said the other, "if I apologise frankly and fully for my
intrusion, will you permit me to give my reasons for it?"

Sheard again found himself inarticulate. He was angrily conscious of a
vague disquiet. The visitor's suave courtesy under circumstances so
utterly unusual disarmed him, as it must have disarmed any average man
similarly situated. For a moment his left fist clenched, his mind swung
in the balance, irresolute. The other turned back a loose page and
quietly resumed his perusal of the manuscript.

That decided Sheard's attitude, and he laughed.

Whereat the stranger again raised the protestant hand.

"We shall awake Mrs. Sheard!" he said solicitously. "And now, as I see
you have decided to give me a hearing, let me begin by offering you my
sincere apology for entering your house uninvited."

Sheard, his mind filled with a sense of phantasy, dropped into a chair
opposite the visitor, reached into the cabinet at his elbow, and
proffered a box of Turkish cigarettes.

"Your methods place you beyond the reach of ordinary castigation," he
said. "I don't know your name and I don't know your business; but I
honestly admire your stark impudence!"

"Very well," replied the other in his quiet, melodious voice, with its
faint, elusive accent. "A compliment is intended, and I thank you! And
now, I see you are wondering how I obtained admittance. Yet it is so
simple. Your front door is not bolted, and Mrs. Sheard, but a few days
since, had the misfortune to lose a key. You recollect? I found that
key! Is it enough?"

"Quite enough!" said Sheard grimly. "But why go to the trouble? What do
you want?"

"I want to insure that one, at least, of the influential dailies shall
not persistently misrepresent my actions!"

"Then who----" began Sheard, and got no farther; for the stranger handed
him a card--

     SÉVERAC BABLON

"You see," continued the man already notorious in two continents, "your
paper, here, is inaccurate in several important particulars! Your
premises are incorrect, and your inferences consequently wrong!"

Sheard stared at him, silent, astounded.

"I have been described in the Press of England and America as an
incendiary, because I burned the Runek Mills; as a maniac, because I
compensated men cruelly thrown out of employment; as a thief, because I
took from the rich in Park Lane and gave to the poor on the Embankment.
I say that this is unjust!"

His eyes gleamed into a sudden blaze. The delicate, white hand that held
Sheard's manuscript gripped it so harshly that the paper was crushed
into a ball. That Séverac Bablon was mad seemed an unavoidable
conclusion; that he was forceful, dominant, a power to be counted with,
was a truth legible in every line of his fine features, in every vibrant
tone of his voice, in the fire of his eyes. The air of the study seemed
charged with his electric passion.

Then, in an instant, he regained his former calm. Rising to his feet, he
threw off the heavy coat he wore and stood, a tall, handsome figure,
with his hands spread out, interrogatively.

"Do I look such a man?" he demanded.

Despite the theatrical savour of the thing, Sheard could not but feel
the real sincerity of his appeal; and, as he stared, wondering, at the
fine brow, the widely-opened eyes, the keen nostrils and delicate yet
indomitable mouth and chin, he was forced to admit that here was no mere
up-to-date cracksman, but something else, something more. "Is he mad?"
flashed again through his mind.

"No!" smiled Séverac Bablon, dropping back into the chair; "I am as sane
as you yourself!"

"Have I questioned it?"

"With your eyes and the left corner of your mouth, yes!" Sheard was
silent.

"I shall not weary you with a detailed exculpation of my acts,"
continued his visitor; "but you have a list on your table, no doubt, of
the people whom I forced to assist the Embankment poor?"

Sheard nodded.

"Mention but one whose name has ever before been associated with
charity; I mean the charity that has no relation to advertisement! You
are silent! You say"--glancing over the unfinished article--"that 'this
was a capricious burlesque of true philanthropy.' I reply that it served
its purpose--of proclaiming my arrival in London and of clearly
demonstrating the purpose of my coming! You ask who are my accomplices!
I answer--they are as the sands of the desert! You seek to learn who I
am. Seek, rather, to learn _what_ I am!"

"Why have you selected me for this--honour?"

"I overheard some remarks of yours, contrasting a restaurant supper-room
with the Embankment which appealed to me! But, to come to the point, do
you believe me to be a rogue?"

Sheard smiled a trifle uneasily.

"You are doubtful," the other continued. "It has entered your mind that
a proper course would be to ring up Scotland Yard! Instead, come with
me! I will show you how little you know of me and of what I can do. I
will show you that no door is closed to me! Why do you hesitate? You
shall be home again, safe, within two hours. I pledge my word!"

Possessing the true journalistic soul, Sheard was sorely tempted; for to
the passion of the copy-hunter such an invitation could not fail in its
appeal. With only a momentary hesitation, he stood up.

"I'll come!" he said.

A smart landaulette stood waiting outside the house; and, without a word
to the chauffeur, Séverac Bablon opened the door and entered after
Sheard. The motor immediately started, and the car moved off silently.
The blinds were drawn.

"You will have to trust yourself implicitly in my hands," said Sheard's
extraordinary companion. "In a moment I shall ask you to fasten your
handkerchief about your eyes and to give me your word that you are
securely blindfolded!"

"Is it necessary?"

"Quite! Are you nervous?"

"No!"--shortly.

There was a brief interval of silence, during which the car, as well as
it was possible to judge, whirled through the deserted streets at a
furious speed.

"Will you oblige me?" came the musical voice.

The journalist took out his pocket-handkerchief, and making it into a
bandage, tied it firmly about his head.

"Are you ready?" asked Séverac Bablon.

"Yes."

A click told of a raised blind.

"Can you see?"

"Not a thing!"

"Then take my hand and follow quickly. Do not speak; do not stumble!"

Cautiously feeling his way, Sheard, one hand clasping that of his guide,
stepped out into the keen night air, and was assisted by some third
person--probably the chauffeur--on to the roof of the car!

"Be silent!" from Séverac Bablon. "Fear nothing! Step forward as your
feet will be directed and trust implicitly to me!"

As a man in a dream Sheard stood there--on the roof of a motor-car, in a
London street--and waited. There came dimly to his ears, and from no
great distance, the sound of late traffic along what he judged to be a
main road. But immediately about him quiet reigned. They were evidently
in some deserted back-water of a great thoroughfare. A faint scuffling
sound arose, followed by that of someone lightly dropping upon a stone
pavement.

Then an arm was slipped about him and he was directed, in a whisper, to
step forward. He found his foot upon what he thought to be a flat
railing. His ankle was grasped from below and the voice of Séverac
Bablon came, "On to my shoulders--so!"

Still with the supporting arm about him, he stepped gingerly
forward--and stood upon the shoulders of the man below.

"Stand quite rigidly!" said Séverac Bablon.

He obeyed; and was lifted, lightly as a feather, and deposited upon the
ground! It was such a feat as he had seen professional athletes perform,
and he marvelled at the physical strength of his companion.

A keen zest for this extravagant adventure seized him. He thought that
it must be good to be a burglar. Then, as he heard the motor re-started
and the car move off, a sudden qualm of disquiet came; for it was
tantamount to burning one's boats.

"Take my hand!" he heard; and was led to the head of a flight of steps.
Cautiously he felt his way down, in the wake of his guide.

A key was turned in a well-oiled lock, and he was guided inside a
building. There was a faint, crypt-like smell--vaguely familiar.

"Quick!" said the soft voice--"remove your boots and leave them here!"

Sheard obeyed, and holding the guiding hand tightly in his own,
traversed a stone-paved corridor. Doors were unlocked and re-locked. A
flight of steps was negotiated in phantom silence; for his companion's
footsteps, like his own, were noiseless. Another door was unlocked.

"Now!" came the whispered words: "Remove the handkerchief!"

Rapidly enough, Sheard obeyed, and, burning with curiosity, looked about
him.

"Good heavens!" he muttered.

A supernatural fear of his mysterious cicerone momentarily possessed
him. For he thought that he stood in a lofty pagan temple!

High above his head a watery moonbeam filtered through a window, and
spilled its light about the base of a gigantic stone pillar. Towering
shapes, as of statues of gods, loomed, awesomely, in the gloom. Behind
the pillar dimly he could discern a painted procession of deities upon
the wall. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the tall figure of
Séverac Bablon was at his elbow.

"Where do you stand?" questioned his low voice.

And, like an inspiration, the truth burst in upon Sheard's mind.

"The British Museum!" he whispered hoarsely.

"Correct!" was the answer; "the treasure-house of your modern Babylon!
Wait, now, until I return; and, if you have no relish for arrest as a
burglar, do not move--do not breathe!"

With that, he was gone, into the dense shadows about; and Henry Thomas
Sheard, of the _Gleaner_, found himself, at, approximately, a
quarter-past two in the morning, standing in an apartment of the British
Museum, with no better explanation to offer, in the event of detection,
than that he had come there in the company of Séverac Bablon.

He thought of the many printing-presses busy, even then, with the
deductions of Fleet Street theorists, regarding this man of mystery. All
of their conclusions must necessarily be wrong, since their premises
were certainly so. For which of them who had assured his readers that
Séverac Bablon was a common cracksman (on a large scale) would not have
reconsidered his opinion had he learned that the common cracksman held
private keys of the national treasure-house?

His eyes growing more accustomed to the darkness, Sheard began to see
more clearly the objects about him. A seated figure of the Pharaoh Seti
I. surveyed him with a scorn but thinly veiled; beyond, two towering
Assyrian bulls showed gigantic in the semi-light. He could discern, now,
the whole length of the lofty hall--a carven avenue; and, as his gaze
wandered along that dim vista, he detected a black shape emerging from
the blacker shadows beyond the bulls.

It was Séverac Bablon. In an instant he stood beside him, and Sheard saw
that he carried a bag.

"Follow me--quickly!" he said. "Not a second to spare!"

But too fully alive to their peril, Sheard slipped away in the wake of
this greatly daring man. The horror of his position was strong upon him
now.

"This way!"

Blindly he stumbled forward, upstairs, around a sharp corner, and then a
door was unlocked and re-locked behind them. "Egyptian Room!" came a
quick whisper. "In here!"

A white beam cut the blackness, temporarily dazzling him, and Sheard saw
that his companion was directing the light of an electric torch into a
wall-cabinet--which he held open. It contained mummy cases, and, without
quite knowing how he got there, Sheard found himself crouching behind
one. Séverac Bablon vanished.

Darkness followed, and to his ears stole the sound of distant voices.

The voices grew louder.

Behind him, upon the back of the cabinet, danced a sudden disc of light,
and, within it, a moving shadow! Someone was searching the room!

Muffled and indistinct the voices sounded through the glass and the
mummy-case; but that the searchers were standing within a foot of his
hiding-place Sheard was painfully certain. He shrank behind the
sarcophagus lid like a tortoise within its shell, fearful lest a hand,
an arm, a patch of clothing should protrude.




CHAPTER IV

THE HEAD OF CÆSAR


The voices died away. A door banged somewhere.

Then Sheard all but cried out; for a hand was laid upon his arm.

"_Ssh!_" came Séverac Bablon's voice from the next mummy-case; and a
creak told of the cabinet door swinging open. "This way!"

Sheard followed immediately, and was guided along the whole length of
the room. A door was unlocked and re-locked behind them. Downstairs they
passed, and along a narrow corridor lined with cases, as he could dimly
see. Through another door they went, and came upon stone steps.

"Your boots!" said his companion, and put them into his hands.

Rapidly enough he fastened them. A faint creak was followed by a draught
of cool air; and, being gently pushed forward, Sheard found himself
outside the Museum and somewhere in the rear of the building. The place
lay in deep shadow.

"_Sss! Sss!_" came in his ear. "Quiet!"

Whilst he all but held his breath, a policeman tramped past slowly
outside the railings. As the sound of his solid tread died away, Séverac
Bablon raised something to his lips and blew a long-sustained, minor
note--shrill, eerie.

A motor-car appeared, as if by magic, stopped before them, and was
backed right on to the pavement. The chauffeur, mounting on the roof,
threw a short rope ladder across the railings.

"Up!" Sheard was directed, and, nothing loath, climbed over.

He was joined immediately by his companion in this night's bizarre
adventures; and, almost before he realised that they were safe, he found
himself seated once more in the swiftly moving car.

"What's the meaning of it?" he demanded rapidly.

"Fear nothing!" was the reply. "You have my word!"

"But to what are you committing me?"

"To nothing that shall lie very heavily upon your conscience! You have
seen, to-night, something of my opportunities. With the treasures of the
nation thus at my mercy, am I a common cracksman? If I were, should I
not ere this have removed the portable gems of the collection? I say to
you again, that no door is closed to me; yet never have I sought to
enrich myself. But why should these things lie idle, when they are such
all-powerful instruments?"

"I don't follow you."

"To-morrow all will be clear!"

"Why did you blindfold me?"

"Should you have followed had you seen where I led? I wish to number you
among my friends. You are not of my people, and I can claim no fealty of
you; but I desire your friendship. Can I count upon it?"

The light of a street-lamp flashed momentarily into the car, striking a
dull, venomous green spark from a curious ring which Séverac Bablon
wore. In some strange fashion it startled Sheard, but, in the ensuing
darkness, he sought out the handsome face of his companion and found the
big, luminous eyes fixed upon him. Something about the man--his daring,
perhaps, his enthusiasm, his utterly mysterious purpose--appealed,
suddenly, all but irresistibly.

Sheard held out his hand. And withdrew it again.

"To-morrow----" he began.

"To-morrow you will have no choice!"

"How so? You have placed yourself in my hands. I can now, if I desire,
publish your description!--report all that you have told me--all that I
have seen!"

"You will not do so! You will be my friend, my defender in the Press. Of
what you have seen to-night you will say nothing!"

"Why?"

"No matter! It will be so!"

A silence fell between them that endured until the car pulled up before
Sheard's gate.

With ironic courtesy, he invited Séverac Bablon to enter and partake of
some refreshment after the night's excitement. With a grace that made
the journalist slightly ashamed of his irony, that incomprehensible man
accepted.

Leaving him in the same arm-chair which he had occupied when first he
set eyes upon him, Sheard went to the dining-room and returned with a
siphon, a decanter, and glasses. He found Séverac Bablon glancing
through an edition of Brugsch's "Egypt Under the Pharaohs." He replaced
the book on the shelf as Sheard entered.

"These Egyptologists," he said, "they amuse me! Dissolve them all in a
giant test-tube, and the keenest analysis must fail to detect one single
grain of imagination!"

His words aroused Sheard's curiosity, but the lateness of the hour
precluded the possibility of any discussion upon the subject.

When, shortly, Séverac Bablon made his departure, he paused at the gate
and proffered his hand, which Sheard took without hesitation.

"Good-night--or, rather, good-morning!" he said smilingly. "We shall
meet again very soon!"

The other, too tired to wonder what his words might portend, returned to
the house, and, lingering only to scrawl a note that he was not to be
awakened at the usual time, hastened to bed. As he laid his weary head
upon the pillow the cold grey of dawn was stealing in at the windows and
brushing out the depths of night's blacker shadows.

It was noon when Sheard awoke--to find his wife gently shaking him.

He sat up with a start.

"What is it, dear?"

"A messenger boy. Will you sign for the letter?"

But half awake, he took the pencil and signed. Then, sleepily, he tore
open the envelope and read as follows.

     "DEAR MR. SHEARD,--

     "You were tired last night, so I did not further weary you with a
     discourse upon Egyptology; moreover, I had a matter of urgency to
     attend to; but you may remember I hinted that the initiated look
     beyond Brugsch.

     "I should be indebted if you could possibly arrange to call upon
     Sir Leopold Jesson in Hamilton Place at half-past four. You will
     find him at home. It is important that you take a friend with you.
     In your Press capacity, desire him to show you his celebrated
     collection of pottery. Seize the opportunity to ask him for a
     subscription (not less than £10,000) towards the re-opening of the
     closed ward of Sladen Hospital. He will decline. Offer to accept,
     instead, the mahogany case which he has in his smaller Etruscan
     urn. When you have secured this, decide to accept a cheque also.
     Arrange to be alone in your study at 12.40 to-night.

     "By the way, although Brugsch's book is elementary, there is
     something more behind it. Look into the matter.--S.B."

This singular communication served fully to arouse Sheard, and,
refreshed by his bath, he sat down to a late breakfast. Propping the
letter against the coffee-pot, he read and re-read every line of the
small, neat, and oddly square writing.

The more he reflected upon it the more puzzled he grew. It was a link
with the fantastic happenings of the night, and, as such, not wholly
welcome.

Why Séverac Bablon desired him to inspect the famous Jesson collection
he could not imagine; and that part of his instructions: "Decide to
accept a cheque," seemed to presume somewhat generously upon Sheard's
persuasive eloquence. The re-opening of the closed ward was a good and
worthy object, and the sum of ten, or even twenty thousand pounds, one
which Sir Leopold Jesson well could afford. But he did not remember to
have heard that the salving of derelict hospitals was one of Sir
Leopold's hobbies.

Moreover, he considered the whole thing a piece of presumption upon the
part of his extraordinary acquaintance. Why should he run about London
at the behest of Séverac Bablon?

"Eleven-thirty results!" came the sing-song of a newsboy. And Sheard
slipped his hand in his pocket for a coin. As he did so, the boy paused
directly outside the house.

"Robbery at the British Museum! Eleven-thirty!"

His heart gave a sudden leap, and he cast a covert glance towards his
wife. She was deep in a new novel.

Without a word, Sheard went to the door, and walking down to the gate,
bought a paper. The late news was very brief.

     BRITISH MUSEUM MYSTERY

     "An incredibly mysterious burglary was carried out last night at
     the British Museum. By some means at present unexplained the Head
     of Cæsar has been removed from its pedestal and stolen, and the
     world-famous Hamilton Vase (valued at £30,000) is also missing. The
     burglar has left no trace behind him, but as we go to press the
     police report an important clue."

Sheard returned to the house.

Seated in his study with the newspaper and Séverac Bablon's letter
before him, he strove to arrange his ideas in order, to settle upon a
plan of action--to understand.

That the "important clue" would lead to the apprehension of the real
culprit he did not believe for a moment. Séverac Bablon, unless Sheard
were greatly mistaken, stood beyond the reach of the police measures.
But what was the meaning of this crass misuse of his mysterious power?
How could it be reconciled with his assurances of the previous night?
Finally, what was the meaning of his letter?

He wished him to interview Sir Leopold Jesson, for some obscure reason.
So much was evident. But by what right did he impose that task upon him?
Sheard was nonplussed, and had all but decided not to go, when the
closing lines of the letter again caught his eye. "Although Brugsch's
book is elementary, there is something more behind it----"

A sudden idea came into his head, an unpleasant idea, and with it, a
memory.

His visitor of the night before had brought a mysterious bag (which
Sheard first had observed in his hand as they fled from the Museum) into
the house with him. It was evidently heavy; but to questions regarding
it he had shaken his head, smilingly replying that he would know in good
time why it called for such special attention. He remembered, too, that
the midnight caller carried it when he departed, for he had rested it
upon the gravel path whilst bidding him good-night.

Frowning uneasily, he stepped to the bookcase.

It was a very deep one, occupying a recess. With nervous haste he
removed "Egypt Under the Pharaohs," and his painful suspicion became a
certainty.

Why, he had asked himself, should he run about London at the behest of
Séverac Bablon? And here was the answer.

Placed between the books and the wall at the back, and seeming to frown
upon him through the gap, was the stolen Head of Cæsar!

Sheard hastily replaced the volume, and with fingers that were none too
steady filled and lighted his pipe.

His reflections brought him little solace. He was in the toils. The
intervening hours with their divers happenings passed all but unnoticed.
That day had space for but one event, and its coming overshadowed all
others. The hour came, then, all too soon, and punctually at four-thirty
Sheard presented himself in Hamilton Place.

Sir Leopold Jesson's collection of china and pottery is one of the three
finest in Europe, and Sheard, under happier auspices, would have enjoyed
examining it. Ralph Crofter, the popular black-and-white artist who
accompanied him, was lost in admiration of the pure lines and exquisite
colouring of the old Chinese ware in particular.

"This piece would be hard to replace, Sir Leopold?" he said, resting his
hand upon a magnificent jar of delicate rose tint, that seemed to blush
in the soft light.

The owner nodded complacently. He was a small man, sparely built, and
had contracted, during forty years' labour in the money market, a
pronounced stoop. His neat moustache was wonderfully black, blacker than
Nature had designed it, and the entire absence of hair upon his high,
gleaming crown enabled the craniologist to detect, without difficulty,
Sir Leopold's abnormal aptitude for finance.

"Two thousand would not buy it, sir!" he answered.

Crofton whistled softly and then passed along the room.

"This is very beautiful!" he said suddenly, and bent over a small vase
with figures in relief. "The design and sculpture are amazingly fine!"

"That piece," replied Sir Leopold, clearing his throat, "is almost
unique. There is only one other example known--the Hamilton Vase!"

"The stolen one?"

"Yes. They are of the same period, and both from the Barberini Palace."

"Of course you have read the latest particulars of that extraordinary
affair? What do you make of it?"

Jesson shrugged his shoulders.

"The vase is known to every connoisseur in Europe," he said. "No one
dare buy it--though," he added smiling, "many would like to!"

Sheard coughed uneasily. He had a task to perform.

"Your collection represents a huge fortune, Sir Leopold," he said.

"Say four hundred thousand pounds!" answered the collector comfortably.

"A large sum. Think of the thousands whom that amount would make happy!"

Having broken the ice, Sheard found his enforced task not altogether
distasteful. It seemed wrong to him, unjust, and in strict disaccordance
with the views of the _Gleaner_, that these thousands should be locked
up for one man's pleasure, while starvation levied its toll upon the
many. Moreover, he nurtured a temperamental distaste for the whole
Semitic race--a Western resentment of that insidious Eastern power.

Crofter looked surprised, and clearly thought his friend's remark in
rather bad taste. Sir Leopold faced round abruptly, and a hard look
crept into his small bright eyes.

"Mr. Sheard," he said harshly. "I began life as a pauper. What I have, I
have worked for."

"You have enjoyed excellent health."

"I admit it."

"Had you, in those days of early poverty, been smitten down with
sickness, of what use to you would your admittedly fine commercial
capacity have been? You would then, only too gladly, have availed
yourself of such an institution as the Sladen Hospital, for instance."

Sir Leopold started.

"What have you to do with the Sladen Hospital?"

"Nothing. It has accomplished great work in the past."

"Do you know anything of _this_?"

Jesson's manner became truculent. He pulled some papers from his pocket,
and selecting a plain correspondence card, handed it to Sheard.

The card bore no address, being headed simply: "Final appeal." It read:

     "Your cheque toward the re-opening of the Out-Patient's Wing of
     Sladen Hospital has not been forwarded."

Sheard failed to recognise the writing, and handed the card back,
shaking his head.

"Oh!" said Jesson suspiciously; "because I've had three of these
anonymous applications--and they don't come from the hospital
authorities."

"Why not comply?" asked Sheard. "Let me announce in the _Gleaner_ that
you have generously subscribed ten thousand pounds."

"_What!_" rapped Sir Leopold. "Do you take me for a fool?" He glared
angrily. "Before we go any farther, sir--is this touting business the
real object of your visit?"

The pressman flushed. His conduct, he knew well, was irreconcilable with
good form; but Jesson's tone had become grossly offensive. Something
about the man repelled Sheard's naturally generous instincts, and no
shade of compunction remained. A score of times, during the past quarter
of an hour, he had all but determined to throw up this unsavoury affair
and to let Séverac Bablon do with him as he would. Now, he stifled all
scruples and was glad that the task had been required of him. He would
shirk no more, but would go through with the part allotted him in this
strange comedy, lead him where it might.

"Yes, and no!" he answered evasively. "Really I have come to ask you for
something--the mahogany case which is in your smaller Etruscan urn!"

Jesson stared; first at Sheard, and then, significantly, at Crofter.

"I begin to suspect that you have lunched unwisely!" he sneered.

Sheard repressed a hot retort, and Crofter, to cover the embarrassment
which he felt at this seeming contretemps, hummed softly and instituted
a painstaking search for the vessel referred to. He experienced little
difficulty in finding it, for it was one of two huge urns standing upon
ebony pedestals.

"The smaller, you say?" he called with affected cheeriness.

Sheard nodded. It was a crucial moment. Did the pot contain anything? If
not, he had made a fool of himself. And if it did, in what way could its
contents assist him in his campaign of extortion?

The artist, standing on tiptoe, reached into the urn--and produced a
mahogany case, such as is used for packing silver ware.

"What's that?" rapped Jesson excitedly. "I know nothing of it!"

"You might open it, Crofter!" directed Sheard with enforced calm.

Crofter did so--and revealed, in a nest of black velvet, a small piece
of exquisite pottery.

A passage hitherto obscure in Séverac Bablon's letter instantly
explained itself in Sheard's mind. "I did not further weary you with a
discourse upon Egyptology; moreover, _I had a matter of urgency to
attend to_!"

Sir Leopold Jesson took one step forward, and then, with staring eyes,
and face unusually pale, turned on the journalist.

"The Hamilton Vase! You villain!"

"Sir Leopold!" cried Sheard with sudden asperity, "be good enough to
moderate your language! If you can offer any explanation of how this
vase, stolen only last night from the national collection, comes to be
concealed in your house, I shall be interested to hear it!"

Jesson looked at Crofter, who still held the case in his hands; the
artist's face expressed nothing but blank amazement. He looked at
Sheard, who met his eyes calmly.

"There is roguery here!" he said. "I don't know if there are two of
you----"

"Sir Leopold Jesson!" cried Crofter angrily, "you have said more than
enough! Your hobby has become a mania, sir! How you obtained possession
of the vase I do not know, nor do I know how my friend has traced the
theft to you; least of all how this scandal is to be hushed up. But have
the decency to admit facts! There is no defence, absolutely!"

"What do you want?" said Jesson tersely. "This is a cunning trap--and
I've fallen right into it!"

"You have!" said Crofter grimly. "I must congratulate my friend on a
very smart piece of detective work!"

"What do you want?" repeated Jesson, moistening his dry lips.

His quick mind had been at work since the stolen vase was discovered in
his possession, and although he knew himself the victim of an amazing
plot, he also recognised that rebellion was out of the question. As
Crofter had said, there was no defence.

"Suppose," suggested Sheard, "you authorise the announcement in the
_Gleaner_ to which I have already referred? I, for my part, will
undertake to return the vase to the proper authorities and to keep your
name out of the matter entirely. Would you agree to keep silent,
Crofter?"

"Can you manage what you propose?"

"I can!" answered Sheard, confidently.

"All right!" said Crofter slowly. "It's connivance, but in a good
cause!"

"I shall make the cheque payable to the hospital!" said Jesson,
significantly.

Sheard stared for a moment, then, as the insinuation came home to his
mind: "How dare you!" he cried hotly. "Do you take us for thieves?"

"I hardly know what to take you for," replied the other. "Your
proceedings are unique."




CHAPTER V

A MYSTIC HAND


"It amounts," said J. J. Oppner, the lord of Wall Street, "to a panic.
No man of money is safe. I ain't boilin' over with confidence in
Scotland Yard, and I've got some Agency boys here in London with me."

"A panic, eh?" grunted Baron Hague, Teutonically. "So you vear this
Bablon, eh?"

"A bit we do," drawled Oppner, "and then some. After that a whole lot,
and we're well scared. He held me up at my Canadian mills for a pile;
but I've got wise to him, and if he crowds me again he's a full-blown
genius."

Mrs. Rohscheimer's dinner party murmured sympathetically.

"Of course you have heard, Baron," said the hostess, "that in his
outrage here--here, in Park Lane!--he was assisted by no fewer than
thirty accomplices?"

"Dirty aggomblices, eh? Dirty?"

"Dirty's the word!" growled Mr. Oppner.

"The wonder is," said Sir Richard Haredale, "that a rogue with so many
assistants has not been betrayed."

To those present at the Rohscheimer board this subject, indeed, was one
of quite extraordinary interest, in view of the fact that it was only a
few days since the affair of the dramatic ball. Sixteen diners there
were, and in order to appreciate the electric atmosphere which prevailed
in the airy salon, let us survey the board. Reading from left to right,
as in the case of society wedding groups, the diners were:

    Mrs. Julius Rohscheimer.[1]
    Baron Hague.[1]
    Miss Zoe Oppner.[1]
    Sir Richard Haredale.
    Mrs. Maurice Hohsmann.[1]
    Mr. J. J. Oppner.[1]
    Mrs. Wellington Lacey.
    Mr. Sheard (Press).
    Miss Salome Hohsmann.[1]
    Sir Leopold Jesson.[1]
    Lady Vignoles.[1]
    Mr. Julius Rohscheimer.[1]
    Lady Mary Evershed.
    Lord Vignoles.
    Miss Charlotte Hohsmann.[1]
    Mr. Antony Elschild.[1]

[Footnote 1: Representatives of capital.]

"I understand that the man holds private keys to the British Museum!"
cried Mrs. Hohsmann.

"Nobody would be surprised to hear," came the thick voice of Julius
Rohscheimer, "that he'd got a private subway between his bedroom and the
Bank of England!"

Extravagant though this may appear, it would not indeed, at this time,
have surprised the world at large to learn _anything_--however amazing
in an ordinary man--respecting Séverac Bablon. The real facts of his
most recent exploit were known only to a select few; but it was
universal property how, at about half-past eleven one morning shortly
after the theft from the British Museum, and whilst all London, together
with a great part of the Empire, was discussing the incredibly
mysterious robbery, a cab drove up to the main entrance of that
institution, containing a District Messenger and a large box.

The box was consigned to the trustees of the Museum, and the boy, being
questioned, described the consigner as "a very old gentleman, with long,
white hair."

It contained, carefully and scientifically packed, the Hamilton Vase and
the Head of Cæsar!

Furthermore, it contained the following note:

     "GENTLEMEN,--

     "I beg to return, per messenger, the Head of Cæsar and the Hamilton
     Vase. My reason for taking the liberty of borrowing them was that I
     desired to convince a wealthy friend that a rare curio is a
     powerful instrument for good, and that to allow of great wealth
     lying idle when thousands sicken and die in poverty is a misuse of
     a power conferred by Heaven.

     "I trust that you will forgive my having unavoidably occasioned you
     so much anxiety.

     "SÉVERAC BABLON."

The contents of the note were made public with the appearance of the
3.30 editions; nor was there a news-sheet of them all that failed to
reprint, from the _Gleaner_, a paragraph announcing that Sir Leopold
Jesson had made the magnificent donation of £10,000 to the Sladen
Hospital. But the link that bound these items together was invisible to
the eyes of the world. Two persons at Rohscheimer's table, however, were
aware of all the facts; and although Sheard often glanced at Jesson, he
studiously avoided meeting his eyes.

Séverac Bablon's activities had not failed to react upon the temperature
of the Stock Exchange. Loudly it was whispered that influential and
highly-placed persons were concerned with him. No capitalist felt safe.
No man trusted his staff, his solicitor, his broker. It was felt that
minions of Séverac Bablon were everywhere; that Séverac Bablon was
omnipresent.

"You've gone pretty deep into the case, Sheard," said Rohscheimer. "What
do you know about these cards he sends to people he's goin' to rob?"

Sheard cleared his throat somewhat nervously. All eyes sought him.

"The authorities have established the fact," he replied, "that all those
whom Séverac Bablon has victimised have received--due warning."

Sir Leopold Jesson was watching him covertly.

"What do you mean by 'due warning'?" he snapped.

"They have been requested, anonymously," Sheard explained, "to subscribe
to some worthy object. When they have failed voluntarily to comply they
have been _compelled_, forcibly, to do so!"

Julius Rohscheimer began to turn purple. He spluttered furiously, ere
gaining command of speech.

"Is this a free country?" came in a hoarse roar. "If a man ain't out
buildin' hospitals for beggars does he have to be held up----"

He caught Mrs. Rohscheimer's glance, laden with entreaty.

"Good Lord!" he concluded, weakly. "Isn't it funny!"

Baron Hague was understood to growl that he should no longer feel safe
until back to Berlin he had gone.

"I am told," said Mr. Antony Elschild, "that a new Séverac Bablon
outrage is anticipated by the authorities."

That loosed the flood-gates. A dozen voices were asking at once: "Have
_you_ received a card?"

It seemed that this was a matter which had lain at the back of each
mind; that each had feared to broach; that each, now, was glad to
discuss. An extraordinary and ominous circumstance, then, was now
brought to light.

A note had been received by each of the capitalists present, stating
that £1,000,000 was urgently needed by the British Government for the
establishment of an aerial fleet. That was all. But the notes all bore a
certain seal.

"How many of us"--Julius Rohscheimer's coarse voice rose above them
all--"have got these notes?"

A moment's silence, wherein it became evident that five of the gentlemen
present had received such communications. Mrs. Hohsmann stated that her
husband had been the recipient of a note also.

"With Hohsmann," resumed Rohscheimer, "six of us."

"It appears to me," the soft voice was Antony Elschild's, "that no time
should be lost in ascertaining how many of these notes have been
sent----"

"Why?" asked Rohscheimer.

"Because, from what we know of Séverac Bablon, it is evident that he
intends to raise this sum, or a great part of it, for this highly
patriotic purpose, amongst our particular set. One is naturally anxious
to learn the amount of one's share in the responsibility!"

Baron Hague inquired, in stentorian but complicated English, whether
_he_ was to be expected to contribute towards the establishment of a
British aerial fleet.

"You have British interests, Baron!" said Sheard, smiling.

"What about me?" said Mr. Oppner.

Replied his beautiful daughter, laughing:

"You've got Canadian interests, Pa!"

So the impending outrage--for all present felt that these notes presaged
an outrage--was treated lightly enough, and the question, serious though
it was felt to be, might well have given place to topics less exciting,
when a buzz of conversation arose at the lower end of the table.

"Exactly the same," came Miss Salome Hohsmann's voice, "as the one
father received!"

She was observed to be passing something to her neighbour--Mr. Sheard.
He examined it curiously, and passed it on to Mrs. Lacey. Thus, from
hand to hand it performed a circuit of the table and came to Julius
Rohscheimer.

"That's one of 'em!" He threw it down upon the cloth--a small, square
correspondence card. It bore the words:

     "£1,000,000 is required by His Majesty's Government, immediately,
     in order to found an aerial service commensurate with Great
     Britain's urgent requirements. A fund for the purpose (under the
     patronage of the Marquess of Evershed and the Lord Mayor) has been
     opened by the _Gleaner_."

At the foot was a seal, designed in the form of two triangles crossed.

"Whose is this?" continued Rohscheimer, and turned the card over.

He read what was neatly type-written upon the other side, and his gross,
empurpled face was seen to change, to assume a patchy greyness.

The superscription was:

     "To Baron Hague, Sir Leopold Jesson, Messrs. Julius Rohscheimer,
     John Jacob Oppner, and Antony Elschild.

     _"Second Notice"_

He clutched the arms of his chair, and stood up. A dead silence had
fallen.

"Where"--Rohscheimer moistened his lips--"did this come from?"

A moment more of silence, then:

"Sir Leopold passed it to me," came Salome Hohsmann's frightened voice.

Rohscheimer stared at Jesson. Jesson turned and stared at Miss Hohsmann.

"You are mistaken," he replied slowly. "I have not had the card in my
hand!"

Miss Hohsmann's fine, dark eyes grew round in wonder.

"But, Sir Leopold!" she cried. "I _took_ it from your hand!"

Jesson's face was a study in perplexity.

"I can only say," contributed Sheard, who sat upon the other side of the
girl, "that I saw Miss Hohsmann looking at the card and I asked to be
allowed to examine it. I then passed it on to Mrs. Lacey. I may
add"--smiling--"that it does not emanate from the _Gleaner_ office, and
is in no way official!"

"Mrs. Lacey passed it along to me," came Oppner's parched voice.

"But," Sir Leopold's incisive tones cut in upon the bewildering
conversation, "Miss Hohsmann is in error in supposing that she received
the card from me. I have not handled it--neither, I believe, has Lady
Vignoles?" He turned to the latter.

She shook her head.

"No, sir," she said transatlantically, "I saw Mr. Rohscheimer take it
from Mary" (Lady Mary Evershed).

"I mean to say, Sheila"--Lord Vignoles leant forward in his chair and
looked along to his wife--"I mean to say, _I_ had it from Miss Charlotte
Hohsmann, on my left."

Rohscheimer's protruding eyes looked from face to face. Wonder was
written upon every one.

"Where the----" Mrs. Rohscheimer coughed.

The great financier sat down. Let us conclude his sentence for him:

_Where had the ominous "second notice" come from?_

Amid a thrilling silence, the guests sought, each in his or her own
fashion, for the solution to this truly amazing conundrum. The order may
be seen from a glance at the foregoing list of guests. It has only to be
remembered that they were seated around a large oval table and their
relative positions become apparent.

"It appears to me," said Sir Leopold Jesson, "that the mystery has its
root here. Miss Hohsmann is under the impression that I handed the card
to her. I did not do so. Miss Hohsmann, as well as myself, has been
victimised by this common enemy, so that"--he smiled dryly--"we cannot
suspect her, and you cannot suspect me, of complicity. Was there any
servant in the room at the time?"

A brief inquiry served to show that there had been no servant on that
side of the room at the time.

"Did you pick it up from the table, dear," cried Mrs. Hohsmann, "or
actually take it from--someone's hand?"

Amid a tense silence the girl replied:

"From--someone's hand!"




CHAPTER VI

THE SHADOW OF SÉVERAC BABLON


The mystery of personality is one which eludes research along the most
scientific lines. It is a species of animal magnetism as yet
unclassified. Personality is not confined to the individual: it clings
to his picture, his garments, his writing; it has the persistency of a
civet perfume.

From this slip of cardboard lying upon Rohscheimer's famous oval table
emanated rays--unseen, but cogent. The magnetic words "Séverac Bablon"
seemed to glow upon the walls, as of old those other words had glowed
upon a Babylonian wall.

There were those present to whom the line "Who steals my purse steals
trash" appealed, as the silliest ever written. And it was at the purses
of these that the blow would be struck--_id est_, at the most vital and
fonder part of their beings.

"That card"--Julius Rohscheimer moistened his lips--"can't have dropped
from the ceiling!"

But he looked upward as he spoke; and it was evident that he credited
Séverac Bablon with the powers of an Indian fakir.

"It would appear," said Antony Elschild, "that a phantom hand appeared
in our midst!"

The incident was eerie; a thousand times more so in that it was
associated with Séverac Bablon. Rohscheimer gave orders that the outer
door was on no account to be opened, until the house had been thoroughly
searched. He himself headed the search party--whilst Mrs. Rohscheimer
remained with the guests.

All search proving futile, Rohscheimer returned and learnt that a new
discovery had been made. He was met outside the dining-room door by
Baron Hague.

"Rohscheimer!" cried the latter, "my name on that card, it is underlined
in red ink!"

Rohscheimer's rejoinder was dramatic.

"The diamonds!" he whispered.

Indeed, this latest discovery was significant. Baron Hague had brought
with him, for Rohscheimer's examination, a packet of rough diamonds.
Rohscheimer had established his fortunes in South Africa; and, be it
whispered, there were points of contact between his own early history
and the history of the packet of diamonds which Hague carried to-night.
In both records there were I.D.B. chapters.

The two men stared at each other--and sometimes glanced into the shadows
of the corridor.

"He must be in league with the devil," continued Rohscheimer, "if he has
got to know about those stones! But it certainly looks as though----"

"Where can I hide them from _him_--from this man who I hear cannot be
kept out of anywhere?"

"Hague," said Rohscheimer, shakily, "you'd be safer at your hotel than
here. He's held people up in my house once before!"

As may be divined, Rohscheimer's chiefest fear was that _his_ name,
_his_ house, should be associated with another mysterious outrage. He
knew Baron Hague to have about his person stones worth a small fortune,
and he was all anxiety--first, to save them from Séverac Bablon, the
common enemy; second, if Baron Hague _must_ be robbed, to arrange that
he be robbed somewhere else!

"I have not ordered my gar until twelve o'clock," said the Baron.

"Mine can be got ready in----"

"I won't wait! Gall me a gab!"

That proposal fell into line with Rohscheimer's personal views, and he
wasted not a moment in making the necessary arrangements.

The library door opening, and Adeler, his private secretary, appearing,
with a book under his arm, Mr. Rohscheimer called to him:

"Adeler!"

Adeler approached, deferentially. His pale, intellectual face was quite
expressionless.

"If you're goin' downstairs, Adeler, tell someone to call a cab for the
Baron: Heard nothing suspicious while you've been in the library, have
you?"

"Nothing," said Adeler--bowed, and departed.

The two plutocrats rejoined the guests. Sir Leopold Jesson was standing
in a corner engaged in an evidently interesting conversation with Salome
Hohsmann.

"You positively saw the hand?"

"Positively!" the girl assured him. "It just slipped the card into mine
as Mr. Sheard leaned over and asked me if my diamond aigrette had been
traced--the one that was stolen from me here, in this house, by Séverac
Bablon."

Sheard was standing near.

"I saw you take the card, Miss Hohsmann!" he said; "though I was unable
to see from whose hand you took it. Sir Leopold sat on your left,
however, and there was no one else near at the time."

Sir Leopold Jesson stared hard at Sheard. Sheard stared back
aggressively. There was that between them that cried out for open
conflict. Yet open conflict was impossible!

"Now then, you two!" Rohscheimer's coarse voice broke in, "what's the
good o' fightin' about it?"

But the atmosphere of uneasiness prevailed throughout the gilded salon.
Mrs. Rohscheimer, clever hostess though admittedly she was, found
herself hard put to it to keep up the spirits of her guests--or those of
her guests whose names had appeared upon the mysterious "second notice."

Lady Mary Evershed and Sir Richard Haredale sat under a drooping palm
behind a charming statuette representing Pandora in the familiar
attitude with the casket.

"It was through that door, yonder," said Haredale, pointing, "that the
masked man came."

"Yes," assented the girl. "I was over there--by the double doors."

"You were," replied Haredale; "I saw you first of all, when I looked
up!"

A short silence fell, then:

"Do you know," said Lady Mary, "I cannot sympathise with any of the
people who lost their property. They were all of them people who never
gave a penny away in their lives! In fact, Mr. Rohscheimer's particular
set are all dreadfully mean! When you come to think of it, isn't it
funny how everybody visits here?"

When he came to think of it, Haredale did not find it amusing in the
slightest degree. Julius Rohscheimer was an octopus whose tentacles were
fastened upon the heart of society. Haredale was so closely in the coils
that, short of handing in his papers, he had no alternative but to
appear as Rohscheimer's social _alter ego_. Lord and Lady Vignoles were
regular visitors to the house in Park Lane; and although the Marquess of
Evershed did not actually visit there, he countenanced the appearance of
his daughter, chaperoned by Mrs. Wellington Lacey, at the millionaire's
palace. Moreover, Haredale knew why!

What a wondrous power is gold!

Haredale was watching the fleeting expressions which crossed Lady Mary's
beautiful face as, with a little puzzled frown, she glanced about the
room.

Baron Hague came to make his _adieux_. He was a man badly frightened.
When finally he departed, Julius Rohscheimer conducted him downstairs.

"Take care of yourself, Hague," he said with anxiety. "First thing in
the morning I should put the parcel in safe deposit till it's wanted."

The Baron assured him that he should follow his advice.

Outside, in Park Lane, a taxi-cab was waiting, and Adeler held the door
open. Baron Hague made no acknowledgment of the attention, ignoring the
secretary as completely as he would have ignored a loafer who had opened
the door for him.

Adeler seemed to expect no thanks, but turned and walked up the steps to
the house again.

"Good-bye, Hague!" called Rohscheimer. "Don't forget what I told you
about the one with the brown stain!"

The cab drove off.

A cloud of apprehension had settled upon the house, it seemed. Several
others of the party determined, upon one pretence or another, to return
home earlier than they had anticipated doing. From this Julius
Rohscheimer did nothing to discourage them.

A family party was the next to leave, then, consisting of Lord and Lady
Vignoles, Mr. J. J. Oppner and Zoe. Mrs. Hohsmann and the Misses
Hohsmann followed very shortly. Mrs. Wellington Lacey, with Lady Mary
Evershed, departed next, Sir Richard Haredale escorting them.

"Half a minute, though, Haredale!" called the host.

Haredale, in the hall-way, turned.

"I suppose," continued Rohscheimer, half closing his eyes from the
bottom upward--"you haven't got any sort of idea how the card trick was
done, Haredale? Do you think I ought to let the police know?"

"I haven't the slightest idea," was the reply. "In regard to the police,
I should most certainly ring them up at once. Good night."

Haredale escaped, well aware that Rohscheimer was seeking some excuse to
detain him. Even at the risk of offending that weighty financier he was
not going to be deprived of the drive, short though it was, with Mary
Evershed, with the possibility of a delightful little intimate chat at
the end of it.

"I endorse what Haredale says," came Sheard's voice.

Rohscheimer turned. A footman was assisting the popular Fleet Street man
into his overcoat. Mr. Antony Elschild, already equipped, was lighting a
cigarette and evidently waiting for Sheard.

"What's the name of the man who has the Séverac Bablon case in hand?"
asked the host.

"Chief Inspector Sheffield."

"Right-oh!" said Rohscheimer. "I'll give him a ring."

Upstairs Sir Leopold Jesson was waiting for a quiet talk with
Rohscheimer.

"Come into the library," said the latter. "Adeler's finished, so there's
no one to interrupt us."

The pair entered the luxuriously appointed library, with its rows of
morocco-bound, unopened works. Jesson stood before the fire looking down
at Rohscheimer, who had spread himself inelegantly in a deep arm-chair,
and lay back puffing at the stump of a cigar.

"I distrust Sheard!" snapped Jesson suddenly.

"Eh," grunted the other. "Pull yourself together! It ain't likely that a
man who gets his livin', you might say, by keepin' in with the right
people" (he glanced down at his diamond studs) "is goin' to be mixed up
with a brigand like Bablon!"

"I'm not so sure!" persisted Jesson. "My position is a peculiar one; but
I'll go so far as to say that I don't trust him, and I won't go a step
farther. I don't expect you," he added, "to quote my opinion to
anybody."

"I shan't," said Rohscheimer. "It's too damn silly! What would he have
to gain? He ain't one of us."

"I'll say no more!" declared Jesson. "But keep your eyes open!"

"I'll do that!" Rohscheimer assured him. "I suppose you haven't any idea
who worked the card trick?"

"As to that--yes! I _have_ an idea--but I can only repeat that I'll say
no more."

"I hope Hague is all right," growled Rohscheimer. "He's got some good
rough stuff on him to-night. Brought it over to show me. I didn't like
that red line under his name. Looked as if he was sort of number one on
the list!"

"That's how it struck me. By the way, what became of the card?"

"Don't know," was the reply. "Push that bell. I want a whisky and soda."

Jesson pressed the bell, and Rohscheimer, tossing the stump into the
grate, dipped two fat fingers into his waistcoat pocket in quest of a
new cigar. It was his custom to carry two or three stuck therein.

"Hallo!"

Jesson turned to him--and saw that he held a card in his hand.

"Have you got the card?"

"Yes," said Rohscheimer, and turned it over.

Whereupon his face changed colour, and became an unclean grey.

"What's the matter?" cried Jesson.

His hand shaking slightly, Rohscheimer passed him the card. Jesson
peered at it anxiously.

The message which it bore was the same as that borne by the mysterious
card which had caused such a panic at the dinner table, but, upon the
other side, only one name appeared.

It was that of Julius Rohscheimer, and it was heavily underlined in red!




CHAPTER VII

THE RING


As the cab containing Baron Hague drove off along Park Lane, the Baron
heaved a sigh of relief. This incomprehensible Séverac Bablon who had
descended like a simoon upon London was a perturbing presence--a breath
of hot fear that parched the mind! And the house in Park Lane, too,
recently had been made the scene of a unique outrage by this most
singular robber to afford any sense of security.

The Baron was glad to be away from that house, and, as the cab turned
the corner by the Park, was glad to be away from Park Lane. A man with
several thousand pounds' worth of diamonds upon him may be excused a
certain nervousness.

Baron Hague was not intimately acquainted with London; but it seemed to
him, now, that the taxi-driver was pursuing an unfamiliar route. Had he
made some error? Perhaps that fool Adeler had directed him wrongly.

The Baron took up the speaking-tube.

"Hi!" he called. "Hi, you! Is it the Hotel Astoria you take me?"

No notice did the man vouchsafe; looking neither to right nor to left,
but driving straight ahead. Baron Hague snorted with anger. Again he
raised the tube.

A cloud of something seemed to strike him in the face.

He dropped the tube, and reached out towards a window. Vaguely he
wondered to find it immovable. The lights of the thoroughfare--the sound
of the traffic, were fading away, farther, farther, to a remote
distance. He clutched at the cushions--slipping--slipping----

His next impression was of a cell-like room, the floor composed of
blocks of red granite, the walls smoothly plastered. An unglazed window
made a black patch in one wall; and upon a big table covered with books
and papers stood a queer-looking lamp. It was apparently silver, and in
the form of a clutching hand. Within the hand rested a globe of light,
above which was attached a coloured shade. The table was black with
great age, and a carven chair, equally antique, stood by it upon a
coarse fibre mat. The place was the abode of an anchorite, save for a
rich Damascene curtain draped before a recess at one end.

The Baron found himself to be in a heavily cushioned chair, gazing
across at this table--whereat was seated a very dark and singularly
handsome man who wore a garment like an Arab's robe.

This stranger had his large, luminous eyes set fixedly upon the Baron's
face.

"I am dreaming!"

Baron Hague stood up, unsteadily, raising his hand to his head.

There was a faint perfume in the air of the room; and now Hague saw that
the man who sat so attentively watching him was smoking a yellow-wrapped
cigarette. His brain grew clearer. Memory began to return; and he knew
that he was not dreaming. Frantically he thrust his hand into the inside
breast pocket.

"Do not trouble yourself, Baron," the speaker's voice was low and
musical; "the packet of diamonds lies here!"

And as he spoke the man at the table held up the missing packet.

Hague started forward, fists clenched.

"You have robbed me! Gott! you shall be sorry for this! Who the devil
are you, eh?"

"Sit down, Baron," was the reply. "I am Séverac Bablon!"

Baron Hague paused, in the centre of the room, staring, with a sort of
madness, at this notorious free-booter--this suave, devilishly handsome
enemy of Capital.

Then he turned and leapt to the door. It was locked. He faced about.
Séverac Bablon smoked.

"Sit down, Baron," he reiterated.

The head of the great Berlin banking house looked about for a weapon.
None offered. The big, carven, chair was too heavy to wield. With his
fingers twitching, he approached again, closer to the table.

Séverac Bablon stood up, keeping his magnetic gaze upon the
Baron--seeming to pierce to his brain.

"For the last time--sit down, Baron!"

The words were spoken quietly enough, and yet they seemed to clamour
upon the hearer's brain--to strike upon his consciousness as though it
were a gong. Again Hague paused, pulled up short by the force of those
strange eyes. He weighed his chances.

From all that he had heard and read of Séverac Bablon, his accomplices
were innumerable. Where this cell might be situate he could form no
idea, nor by whom or what surrounded. Séverac Bablon apparently was
unarmed (save that his glance was a sword to stay almost any man);
therefore he had others near to guard him. Baron Hague decided that to
resort to personal violence at that juncture would be the height of
unwisdom.

He sat down.

"Now," said Séverac Bablon, in turn resuming his seat, "let us consider
this matter of the million pounds!"

"I will not----" began Hague.

Séverac Bablon checked him, with a gesture.

"You will not contribute to a fund designed to aid in the defence of
England? That is unjust. You reap large profits from England, Baron. To
mention but one instance--you must draw quite twenty thousand pounds per
annum from the firm of Romilis and Imer, Hatton Garden!"

Baron Hague stared in angry bewilderment.

"I have nothing to do with Romilis and Imer!"

"No? Then you can have no objection to my placing in the proper hands
particulars--which, you will find, have been abstracted from your
notebook--of the manner in which this parcel of diamonds reached Hatton
Garden! I have the letter from your agent in Cape Town, addressed to the
firm, and I have one signed 'Geo. Imer,' addressed to _you_! Finally, I
am a telephone subscriber, and De Beers' number is Bank 5740! Shall I
ring up the London office in the morning and draw their attention to
this parcel, and to the interesting correspondence bearing upon it?"

Baron Hague's large features grew suddenly pinched in appearance. He
leant forward, his hands resting upon his knees. Rôles were reversed.
The great banker found himself seeking for a defence--one that might
satisfy the rogue for whom the police of Europe were seeking!

"Why do you make a victim of _me_?" he gasped. "Antony Elschild is----"

"Mr. Antony Elschild is a member of one of the greatest Jewish families
in Europe, you would say? And his interests are wholly British? He has
recognised that, Baron. I have his cheque for fifty thousand pounds!"

"For _how much_?"

"For fifty thousand pounds! Should you care to see it? I am forwarding
it immediately to the _Gleaner_. Mr. Elschild is my friend. He it was
who proposed that this fund be started by the great capitalists so as to
stimulate smaller subscribers. His name is never absent from such lists,
Baron."

The Baron gulped.

"In Berlin--they would say I was mad!"

"And what will they say in Berlin if I call up De Beers in the morning?
Which reputation is preferable, Baron?"

Hague sat staring, fascinated, at the man in the long robe, who smoked
yellow cigarettes and filled the air with their peculiar fumes. It
seemed to him, suddenly, that he had taken leave of his senses, and that
this cell--this pungent perfume--this man with the soul-searching eyes,
the incisive voice--all were tricks of his senses.

What had he preserved the secret of his connection with the Hatton
Garden firm for all these long years--each year determining to quit
whilst safe, but each year lured on by the prospect of vaster gain--only
to lay it at the feet of this Séverac Bablon, who would ruin him?

Faintly, sounds of occasional traffic penetrated. From a place of
half-shadows beyond the table, Séverac Bablon's luminous eyes watched.
Save for those distant sounds which told of a thoroughfare near by,
silence lay like a fog upon the place, and upon the mind of Baron Hague.

It grew intolerable, this stillness; it bred fear. Who was Séverac
Bablon? What was the secret of his power?

Hague looked up.

"Gott im Himmel!" he said hoarsely. "Who are you? Why do you persecute
those who are Jewish?"

Séverac Bablon stretched his hand over the great carved table, holding
it, motionless, beneath the lamp. From the bezel of the solitary ring
which he wore gleamed iridescent lights, venomous as those within the
eye of a serpent.

A device, which seemed to be formed of lines of fire within the stone,
glowed, redly, through the greenness. The ring was old--incalculably
old--as anyone could see at a glance. And, in some occult fashion, it
_spoke_ to Baron Hague; spoke to that which was within him--stirred up
the Jewish blood and set it leaping madly through his veins.

Back to his mind came certain words of a rabbi, long since gone to his
fathers; before his eyes glittered words which he had had impressed upon
his mind more recently than in those half-forgotten childish days.

And now, he feared. Slowly, he rose from the big cushioned chair. He
feared the man whom all the world knew as Séverac Bablon, and his fear,
for once, was something that did not arise from his purse. It was
something which arose from the green stone--and from the one who
possessed it--who dared to wear it. Hague backed yet farther from the
table, squarely, whereupon, beneath the globular lamp, lay the long
white hand.

"_Gott!_" he muttered. "I am going mad! You cannot be--you----"

"I am _he_!"

Baron Hague's knees began to tremble.

"It is impossible!"

"Israel Hagar," continued the other sternly. "Those before you changed
your ancient name to Hague; but to me you are Israel Hagar! You doubt,
because you dare not believe. But there is that within your soul--that
which you inherit from forefathers who obeyed the great King, from
forefathers who toiled for Pharaoh--there is that within your soul which
tells you _who I am_!"

The Baron could scarcely stand.

"Ach, no!" he groaned. "What do you want? I will do anything--anything;
but let me go!"

"I want you," continued Séverac Bablon, "since you deny the ring, to
draw aside yonder curtain and look upon what it conceals!"

But Hague drew back yet further.

"Ach, no!" he said, huskily. "I deny nothing! I dare not!"

"By which I know that you have recognised in whose presence you stand,
Israel Hagar! Knowing yourself at heart to be a robber, a liar, a
hypocrite, you dare not, being also a Jew, raise that veil!"

Baron Hague offered no defence; made no reply.

"You are found guilty, Israel Hagar," resumed the merciless voice, "of
dragging through the mire of greed--through the sloughs of lust of
gold--a name once honoured among nations. It is such as you that have
earned for the Jewish people a repute it ill deserves. Save for such as
Mr. Antony Elschild, you and your like must have blotted out for ever
all that is glorious in the Jewish name. Despite all, you have succeeded
in staining it--and darkly. I have a mission. It is to erase that stain.
Therefore, when the list appears of those who wish to preserve intact
the British Empire, your name shall figure amongst the rest!"

Hague groaned.

"It will be explained, for the benefit of the curious, and to the glory
of the Jews, that in some measure of recognition of those vast profits
reaped from British ventures, you are desirous of showing your interest
in British welfare!"

"It will be my ruin in Berlin!"

"I should regret to think so. Had you, in the whole of your career,
during the entire period that you have been swelling your money-bags
with British money, devoted one guinea--one paltry guinea--to any
charitable purpose here, I had spared you the risk. As matters stand, I
shall require your cheque for an amount equal to that subscribed by Mr.
Elschild."

"_Fifty thousand pounds!_" gasped Hague.

"Exactly! Pen and ink are on the table. Your cheque book I have left in
your pocket!"

"I won't----"

Hague met the eyes of the incomprehensible man who watched him from
beyond the table; he saw the gleam of the ring, as Séverac Bablon placed
a pen within reach.

"You--must be--mad!"

"You will decidedly be mad, Baron, if you refuse, for I assure you, upon
my word of honour, I shall lay those papers before those whom they will
interest in the morning!"

"And--if--I give you such a----"

"Immediately your cheque is cleared I will return the papers."

"And--the diamonds?"

"I shall consider my course in regard to the diamonds."

"This--is robbery!"

"And your mode of obtaining the diamonds, Baron--what should you term
that?"

"You mean to ruin me!"

"Be good enough either to draw the cheque, payable to the editor of the
_Gleaner_--who will act in this matter, since I cannot appear--or to
decline definitely to do so."

"It will ruin me."

"To decline? I admit that!"

Very shakily, having taken his cheque book from his pocket, Baron Hague
drew and signed a cheque for the fabulous, the atrocious sum of £50,000.

A heavy smell--overpowering--crept to his nostrils as he bent forward
over the table. He mentally ascribed it to the yellow cigarettes.

He laid down the pen with trembling fingers. That same sense of
increasing distances which had heralded the stupor in the cab was coming
upon him again. The cell-like room seemed to be receding. Séverac
Bablon's voice reached him from a remote distance:

"In future, Israel Hagar, seek to make--better use of
your--opportunities."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Wake up, sir! Hadn't you better be getting home?"

Baron Hague strove to stand. What had happened? Where was he?

"Hold up, sir! Here's a cab waiting! What address, sir?"

The Baron rubbed his eyes and looked dazedly about him. He was half
supported by a police constable.

"Officer! Where am I, eh?"

"_I_ found you sitting on the step of the Burlington Arcade, sir! Where
you'd been before that isn't for me to say! Come on, jump in!"

Hague found himself bundled into the cab.

"Hotel--Astoria!" he mumbled, and his head fell forward on his breast
again.




CHAPTER VIII

IN THE DRESSING-ROOM


The house was very quiet.

Julius Rohscheimer stood quite motionless in his dressing-room listening
for a sound which he expected to hear, but which he also feared to hear.
The household in Park Lane slept now. Park Lane is never quite still at
any hour of the night, and now as Rohscheimer listened, all but holding
his breath, a hundred sounds conflicted in the highway below. But none
of these interested him.

He had been in his room for more than half an hour; had long since
dismissed his man; and had sat down, arrayed in brilliant pyjamas (quite
a new line from Paris, recommended by Haredale, a sartorial expert with
a keen sense of humour), for a cigarette and a mental review of the
situation.

Having shown himself active in other directions, Séverac Bablon had
evidently turned his eyes once more toward Park Lane. Julius Rohscheimer
mentally likened himself and his set to those early martyrs who,
defenceless, were subjected to the attacks of armed gladiators. No
precautions, it seemed, prevailed against this enemy of Capital. Police
protection was utterly useless. Thus far, not a solitary arrest had been
made. So, now, in his own palatial house, but with a strip of cardboard
lying before him bearing his name, underlined in red, Rohscheimer
anticipated mysterious outrage at any moment--and knew, instinctively,
that he would be unable to defend himself against it.

Again came that vague stirring; and it seemed to come, not from beyond
the walls, but from somewhere close at hand--from----

Rohscheimer turned, stealthily, in his chair. The cigarette dropped from
between his nerveless fingers, and lay smouldering upon the Persian
carpet.

His bulging eyes grew more and more prominent, and his adipose jaw
dropped. And he sat, quivering fatly, his gaze upon the doors of the big
wardrobe which occupied the space between the windows. Distinctly he
remembered that these doors had been closed. But now they were open.

Palsied with fear of what might be within, he sat, watched, and grew
pale.

The doors were opening slowly!

No move he made toward defence. He was a man inert from panic.

Something gleamed out of the dark gap--a revolver barrel. Two fingers
pushed a card into view. Upon it, in red letters, were the words:

_"Do not move!"_

The warning was, at once, needless and disregarded. Rohscheimer shook
the chair with his tremblings.

A smaller card was tossed across on to the table.

The fat hand which the financier extended toward the card shook
grotesquely; the diamonds which adorned it sparkled and twinkled
starrily. Before his eyes a red mist seemed to dance; but, through it,
Rohscheimer made out the following:

"There is a cheque-book in your coat pocket, and your coat hangs beside
me in the wardrobe. I will throw the book across to you. You will make
out a cheque for £100,000, payable to the editor of the _Gleaner_, and
also write a note explaining that this is your contribution towards the
fund for the founding, by patriotic Britons, of a suitable air fleet."

Rohscheimer, out of the corner of his eye, was watching the gleaming
barrel, which pointed straightly at his head. From the dark gap between
the wardrobe doors sped a second projectile, and fell before him on the
table.

It was his cheque-book. Mechanically he opened it. Within was stuck
another card. Upon it, in the same evidently disguised handwriting,
appeared:

"A fountain pen lies on the table before you. Do not hesitate to follow
instructions--or I shall shoot you. All arrangements are made for my
escape. Throw the cheque and the note behind you and do not dare to look
around again until you have my permission. If you do so once, I may only
warn you; if you do so twice, I shall kill you."

Perfect silence ruled. Even the traffic in Park Lane outside seemed
momentarily to have ceased. From the wardrobe behind Julius Rohscheimer
came no sound. He took up the pen; made out and signed the preposterous
cheque.

To the ruling but silent intelligence concealed behind those double
doors he had no thought of appeal. He dared not even address himself to
that invisible being. Such idea was as far from his mind as it must have
been of old from the mind of him who listened to a Sybilline oracle
delivered from the mystic tripod.

Sufficiently he controlled his twitching fingers to write a note, as
follows--(what awful irony!):


     "To the Editor of the _Gleaner_,

     "SIR,--I enclose a cheque for £100,000" (as he wrote these dreadful
     words, Rohscheimer almost contemplated rebellion; but the
     silence--the fearful silence--and the thought of the one who
     watched him proved too potent for his elusive courage. He wrote
     on). "I desire you to place it at the disposal of the Government
     for purposes of ariel" (Rohscheimer was no scholar) "defence. I
     hope others will follow suit." (He _did_. It was horrible to be
     immolated thus, a solitary but giant sacrifice, upon the altar of
     this priest of iconoclasm)--"I am, sir, yours, etc.

     "JULIUS ROHSCHEIMER."

Cheque and note he folded together, and stretching his hand behind him,
threw them in the direction of the haunted wardrobe. His fear that, even
now, he might be assassinated, grew to such dimensions that he came near
to swooning. But upon no rearward glance did he venture.

Several heavy vehicles passed along the Lane. Rohscheimer listened
intently, but gathered no sound from amid those others that gave clue to
the enemy's movements.

Clutching at the table-edge he sat, and tasted of violent death, by
anticipation.

The traffic sounds subsided again. A new stillness was born. Within the
great house nothing moved. But still Julius Rohscheimer shook and
quivered. Only his mind was clearing; and already he was at work upon a
scheme to save his money.

One hundred thousand pounds. Heavens above! It was ruination!

A faint creak.

"Do not dare to look around again until you have my permission," read
the card before his eyes. "If you do so once I _may_ only warn you; if
you do so twice, I shall kill you."

One hundred thousand pounds! He could have cried. But, after all, he was
a rich man--a very rich man; not so rich as Oppner, nor even so rich as
Hague; but a comfortably wealthy man. Life was very good in his eyes.
There were those little convivial evenings--those week-end motoring
trips. He would take no chances. Life was worth more than one hundred
thousand pounds.

He did not glance around.

So, the minutes passed. They passed, for the most part, in ghostly
silence, sometimes broken by the hum of the traffic below, by the horn
of a cab or car. Nothing from within the house broke that nerve-racking
stillness.

If only there had been a mirror, so placed that by moving his eyes only
he could have obtained a glimpse of the wardrobe. But there was no
mirror so placed.

Faintly to his ears came the striking of a clock. He listened intently,
but could not determine if it struck the quarter, half, three-quarters,
or hour. Certainly, from the decrease of traffic in Park Lane, it must
be getting very late, he knew.

His limbs began to ache. Cautiously he changed the position of his
slippered feet. The clock in the hall began to strike. And Rohscheimer's
heart seemed to stand still.

It struck the half-hour. So it was half-past one! He had been sitting
there for an hour--an agonised hour!

What could the Unseen be waiting for?

Gradually his heart-beats grew normal again, and his keen mind got to
work once more upon the scheme for frustrating the audacious plan of
this robber who robbed from incredible motives.

An air fleet! What rot! What did he care about air fleets? One hundred
thousand pounds! But if he presented himself at the _Gleaner_ office as
soon as it opened that morning, and explained, before the editor (curse
him!) had had time to deal with his correspondence, that by an oversight
(late night; the editor, as a man of the world, would understand) he had
been thinking of a hundred and had written a hundred thousand, and also
had written too many noughts after the amount of his subscription to the
_Gleaner_ fund, what then? The editor could not possibly object to
returning him his cheque and accepting one for a thousand. A thousand
was bad enough; but a hundred thousand!

He was growing stiff again.

Two o'clock!

Beneath his eyes lay the card which read:

"If you do so once, I _may_ only warn you----"

A sudden burst of courage came to Julius Rohscheimer. Anything, he now
determined, was preferable to this suspense.

He began to turn his head.

It was a ruse, he saw it all; a ruse to keep him there, silent,
prisoned, whilst his cheque, his precious cheque, was placed in the
hands of the _Gleaner_ people.

Around he turned--and around. The corner of the wardrobe came within his
field of vision. Still farther he moved. The doors, now, were visible.

And the gleaming barrel pointed truly at his head!

"No; no!" he whispered tremulously, huskily. "Ah, God! no! Spare me! I
swear--I swear--I will not look again. I won't move. I'll make no
sound."

He dropped his head into his hands--quaking; the lamp, the table, were
swimming about him; he had never passed through ten such seconds of
dread as those which followed his spell of temerity.

Yet he lived--and knew himself spared. Not for _five_ hundred thousand
pounds would he have looked again.

The minutes wore on--became hours. It seemed to Julius Rohscheimer that
all London slept now; all London save one unhappy man in Park Lane.

Three o'clock, four o'clock, five o'clock struck. His head fell forward.
He aroused himself with a jerk. Again his head fell forward. And this
time he did not arouse himself; he slept.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Mr. Rohscheimer! Mr. Rohscheimer!"

There were voices about him. He could distinguish that of his wife.
Adeler was shaking him. Was that Haredale at the door?

Shakily, he got upon his feet.

"Why, Mr. Rohscheimer!" exclaimed Adeler, in blank wonderment, "have you
not been to bed?"

"What time?" muttered Rohscheimer, "what time----"

Sir Richard Haredale, who evidently thought that the financier had had
one of his "heavy nights," smiled discreetly.

"Pull yourself together, Rohscheimer!" he said. "Just put your head
under the tap and jump into a dressing-gown. The green one with golden
dragons is the most unique. You'll have to hold an informal reception
here in your dressing-room. We can't keep the Marquess waiting."

"The Marquess?" groaned Rohscheimer, clutching at his head. "The
Marquess?"

It had been his social dream for years to behold a real live Marquess
beneath that roof. He had gone so far as to offer Haredale five hundred
pounds down if he could bring one to dinner. But Haredale's best
achievement to date had been Lord Vignoles.

Rohscheimer's mind was a furious chaos. Had the horrors of the night
been no more than a dream, after all?

Sheard, of the _Gleaner_, pressed forward and grasped both his hands.
Rohscheimer became ghastly pale.

"Mr. Rohscheimer," said the pressman, "England is proud of you! On such
occasions as this, all formality--_all_ formality--is swept away. A
great man is great anywhere--at any time, any place, in any garb! I have
Mrs. Rohscheimer's permission, and therefore am honoured to introduce to
this apartment the Premier, the Most Honourable the Marquess of
Evershed!"

Trembling wildly, fighting down a desire to laugh, to scream,
Rohscheimer stood and looked toward the door.

The Marquess entered.

He wore the familiar grey frock-coat, with the red rose in his
buttonhole, as made famous by _Punch_. His massive head he carried very
high, looking downward through the pebbles of the gold-rimmed pince-nez.

"No apologies, Mr. Rohscheimer!" he began, hand raised forensically.
"Positively I will listen to no apologies! This entire absence of
formality--showing that you had not anticipated my visit--delights me,
confirms me in my estimation of your character. For it reveals you as a
man actuated by the purest motive which can stir the human heart. I
refer to love of country--patriotism."

He paused, characteristically thrusting two fingers into his
watch-pocket. Sheard wrote furiously. Julius Rohscheimer fought for air.

"The implied compliment, Mr. Rohscheimer," continued the Premier, "to
myself, is deeply appreciated. I am, of course, aware that the idea of
this fund was suggested to its promoters by my speech at Portsmouth
regarding England's danger. The promptitude of the _Gleaner_ newspaper
in opening a subscription list is only less admirable than your own in
making so munificent a donation.

"My policy during my present term of office, as you are aware, Mr.
Rohscheimer, has been different, wholly different, from that of my
immediate predecessor. I have placed the necessity of Britain's ruling,
not only the seas, but the air, in the forefront of my programme----"

"Hear, hear!" murmured Sheard.

"And this substantial support from such men as yourself is very
gratifying to me. I cannot recall any incident in recent years which has
afforded me such keen pleasure. It is such confirmation of one's hopes
that he acts for the welfare of his fellow-countrymen which purifies and
exalts political life. And in another particular where my policy has
differed from that of my friends opposite--I refer to my _encouragement_
of foreign immigration--I have been nobly confirmed.

"Baron Hague, in recognition of the commercial support and protection
which our British hospitality has accorded to him, contributes fifty
thousand pounds to the further safeguarding of our national, though most
catholic, interests. At an early hour this morning, Mr. Rohscheimer, I
was aroused by a special messenger from the _Gleaner_ newspaper, who
brought me this glorious news of your noble, your magnificent, response
to my--to our--appeal. Casting ceremony to the winds, I hastened hither.
Mr. Rohscheimer--your hand!"

At that, Rohscheimer was surrounded.

"Socially," Haredale murmured in his ear, "you are made!"

"Financially," groaned Rohscheimer, "I'm broke!"

Mrs. Rohscheimer, in elegant _décolletée_, appeared among the excited
throng. She was anxious for a sight of her husband, whom she was
convinced had gone mad. Sheard thrust his way to the financier's side.

"Is there anything you would care to say for our next edition?" he
enquired, a notebook in his hand. "We're having a full-page photograph,
and----"

Crash! Crackle! Crackle! Crackle! A blinding light leapt up.

"My God! What's that?"

"All right," said Sheard. "Only our photographer doing a flash. If
there's anything you'd like to say, hurry up, because I'm off to
interview Baron Hague."

"Say that I believe I've gone mad!" groaned the financier, clutching his
hair, "and that I'm damn sure Hague has!"

Sheard laughed, treating the words as a witticism, and hurried away.
Mrs. Rohscheimer approached and bent over her husband.

"Have you pains in your head, dear?" she inquired anxiously.

"No!" snapped Rohscheimer. "I've got a pain in my pocket! I'm a ruined
man! I'll be the laughing-stock of the whole money market!"

Adeler reappeared.

"Adeler," said Rohscheimer, "get the rest of the people out of the
house! And, Adeler"--he glanced about him--"what did you do with those
cards that were on the table, here?"

Adeler stared.

"Cards, Mr. Rohscheimer? I saw none."

"Who came in here first this morning? Who woke me up?"

"I."

Rohscheimer studied the pale, intellectual face of his secretary with
uneasy curiosity.

"And there were no cards on the table--no cheque-book?"

"No."

"Sure you were first in?"

"I am not sure, but I think so. I found you fast asleep, at any rate."

"Why do you ask, dear?" said Mrs. Rohscheimer in growing anxiety.

"Just for a lark!" snapped her husband sourly. "I want to make Adeler
laugh!"

Haredale, who, failing Rohscheimer or Mrs. Rohscheimer, did the honours
of the house in Park Lane, returned from having conducted the Marquess
to his car. He carried a first edition copy of the _Gleaner_.

"They've managed to get it in, even in this one," he said. "When did you
send the cheque--early last evening?"

"Don't talk about it!" implored Rohscheimer.

"Why?" inquired Haredale curiously. "You must have seen your way to
something big before you spent so much money. It was a great idea!
You're certain of a knighthood, if not something bigger. But I wonder
you kept it dark from me."

"Ah!" said Rohscheimer. "Do you?"

"Very much. It's a situation that calls for very delicate handling.
Hitherto, because of certain mortgages, the Marquess has not prohibited
his daughter visiting here, with the Oppners or Vignoles; but you've
forced him, now, to recognise you _in propria persona_. He cannot very
well withhold a title; but you'll have to release the mortgage
gracefully."

"I'll do it gracefully," was the reply. "I'm gettin' plenty of practice
at chuckin' fortunes away, and smilin'!"

His attitude puzzled Haredale, who glanced interrogatively at Mrs.
Rohscheimer. She shook her head in worried perplexity.

"Go and get dressed, dear," said Rohscheimer, with much irritation. "I'm
not ill; I've only turned patriotic."

Mrs. Rohscheimer departing, Haredale lingered.

"Leave me alone a bit, Haredale," begged the financier. "I want to get
used to bein' a bloomin' hero! Send Lawson up in half an hour--and you
come too, if you wouldn't mind."

Haredale left the room.

As the door closed, Rohscheimer turned and looked fully at the wardrobe.

From the gap pointed a gleaming tube!

_"Ah!"_

He dropped back in his chair. Nothing moved. The activity of the
household stirred reassuringly about him. He stood up, crossed to the
wardrobe, and threw wide its doors.

In the pocket of a hanging coat was thrust a nickelled rod from a patent
trousers-stretcher, so that it pointed out into the room.

Rohscheimer stared--and stared--and stared.

"My God!" he whispered. "He slipped out directly he got the cheque, and
I sat here all night----"




CHAPTER IX

ES-SINDIBAD OF CADOGAN GARDENS


Upon the night following the ill-omened banquet in Park Lane was held a
second dinner party, in Cadogan Gardens. Like veritable gourmets, we
must be present.

It is close upon the dining hour.

"Zoe is late!" said Lady Vignoles.

"I think not, dear," her husband corrected her, consulting his
celebrated chronometer. "They have one minute in which to demonstrate
the efficiency of American methods!"

"Thank you--Greenwich!" smiled her vivacious ladyship, whose husband's
love of punctuality was the only trace of character which six months of
marital intimacy had enabled her to discover in him.

"You know," said Lord Vignoles to Zimmermann, the famous _littérateur_
of the Ghetto, "she is proud of Yankee smartness. Only natural." And his
light blue eyes followed his wife's pretty figure as she flitted
hospitably amongst her guests. Admiration beamed through his monocle.

"Lady Vignoles is a staunch American," agreed the novelist. "I gather
that your opinion of that nation differs from hers?"

"Well, you know," explained his host, "I don't seriously contend--that
is, when Sheila is about--I don't contend that their methods aren't
smart. But it seems to me that their smartness is all--just--well, d'you
see what I mean? Look at these Pinkerton fellows!"

"Those who you were telling me called upon you this morning?"

"Yes. They came over with Oppner to look for this Séverac Bablon."

"What is your contention?"

"Well," said Vignoles, rather flustered at being thus pinned to the
point, "I mean to say--they haven't caught him!"

"Neither has Scotland Yard!"

"No, by Jove, you're right! Scotland Yard hasn't!"

"Do you think it likely that Scotland Yard will?" asked the other.

But Lord Vignoles, having caught his wife's eye, was performing a
humorous grimace, and, watch in hand, delivering a pantomimic indictment
of American unpunctuality. At which moment Miss Oppner was announced,
and Lady Vignoles made a pretty _moue_ of triumph.

Zoe Oppner entered the room, regally carrying her small head crowned
with the slightly frizzy mop of chestnut hair, conscious of her fine
eyes, her perfect features, and her pretty shoulders, happy in her slim
young beauty, and withal wholly unaffected. Therein lay her greatest
charm. A beautiful woman, fully aware of her loveliness, she was too
sensible to be vain of a gift of the gods--to pride herself upon a
heavenly accident.

"Why, Zoe!" said Lady Vignoles, "what's become of uncle?"

"Pa couldn't get," announced Zoe composedly; "so I came along without
him. Told me to apologise, but didn't explain. I've promised to rejoin
him early, so I shall have to quit directly after dinner. The car is
coming for me."

Lord Vignoles looked amused.

"_Les affaires!_" he said resignedly. "These Americans!"

Dinner was announced.

The usual air of slightly annoyed surprise crept over the faces of the
company at the announcement, so that to the uninitiate it would have
seemed that no one was hungry. However, they accepted the inevitable.

Then Vignoles made a discovery.

"I say, Sheila," he exclaimed, "where is your American efficiency? We're
thirteen!"

His wife made a rapid mental calculation and flushed slightly.

"Anybody might do it!" she pouted; "and it's uncle's fault, anyway!"

"Why!" exclaimed Zoe Oppner, "you're surely not going to make a fuss
over a silly thing like that!"

"A lot of people don't like it," declared Lady Vignoles hurriedly. "I
shouldn't mind, of course, if it happened at somebody else's house."

Zimmermann strolled up to the group.

"I gather that we number thirteen?" he said.

"That is so," replied Vignoles; "but," dropping his voice, "I don't
think anyone else has noticed it yet."

"A romantic idea occurs to me!" smiled the novelist. "I submit it in all
deference----"

"Oh, go on, Mr. Zimmermann!" cried Zoe, with sparkling eyes.

"Why not, upon the precedent of our ancient Arabian friend, Es-Sindibad
of the Sea, summon to the feast some chance wayfarer?"

"Oh, I say!" protested the host mildly. "Do you mean to go outside in
Cadogan Gardens and stop anybody that comes along?"

"Well," said Zimmermann, "it should, strictly, be some pious person who
tarries there to extol Allah! But if we waited for such a traveller I
fear the soup would be spoiled! You are a gentleman short, I think? So
make it, simply, the first gentleman."

"But he might be a tramp or a taxi-driver, or worse!" protested
Vignoles.

"That is true," agreed the other. "So let us determine upon a criterion
of respectability. Shall we say the first man, provided he be agreeable,
who wears a dress-suit?"

"That's just grand!" cried Zoe Oppner enthusiastically. "It's too cute
for anything! Oh, Jerry, let's! Make him do it, Sheila!"

Jerry, otherwise Lord Vignoles, clearly regarded the projected Oriental
experiment with no friendly eye.

"I mean to say----"

"That's settled, Zoe!" said the pretty hostess calmly. "Never mind him!
Alexander!"

The footman addressed came forward.

"You will step out on the front porch, Alexander, and say to the first
gentleman who passes, if he's in evening dress: 'Lady Vignoles requests
the pleasure of your company at dinner.' If he says he doesn't know me,
reply that I am quite aware of that! Do you understand?"

Alexander was shocked.

"I mean to say, Sheila----" began his lordship.

"Did you hear me, Alexander?"

"I've got to stand out in Cadogan Gardens, my lady----"

"Shall I repeat it again, slowly?"

"I heard you, my lady."

"Very well. Show the gentleman into the library. You have only five
minutes."

With an appealing look towards Lord Vignoles, who, having ostentatiously
removed and burnished his eyeglass, seemed to experience some difficulty
in replacing it, Alexander departed.

"_I_ claim him!" cried Zoe, as the footman disappeared. "Whoever he is
or whatever he's like, he shall take me in to dinner!"

"What I mean to say is," blurted Vignoles, "that it would be all right
at a country-house party at Christmas, say----"

"It's going to be all right here, dear!" interrupted his wife,
affectionately squeezing his arm. "Why, think of the possibilities! New
York would just go crazy on the idea!"

A silence fell between them as, with Zoe Oppner and the Zimmermanns,
they made their way to the library. Only a few minutes elapsed, to their
surprise, ere Alexander reappeared. Martyr-like, he had performed his
painful duty, and a beatific consciousness of his martyrdom was writ
large upon him. In an absolutely toneless voice he announced:

"Detective-Inspector Pepys!"

"Here! I mean to say--we can't have a policeman----" began Vignoles, but
his wife's little hand was laid upon his lips.

Zoe Oppner, with brimming eyes, made a brave attempt, and then fled to a
distant settee, striving with her handkerchief to stifle her laughter.

The guest entered.

From her remote corner Zoe Oppner peeped at him, and her laughter
ceased. Lady Vignoles looked pleased; her husband seemed surprised.
Zimmermann watched the stranger with a curious expression in his eyes.

Detective-Inspector Pepys was a tall man of military bearing, bronzed,
and wearing a slight beard, trimmed to a point. He was perfectly
composed, and came forward with an easy smile upon his handsome face.
His clothes fitted him faultlessly. Even Lord Vignoles (a sartorial
connoisseur) had to concede that his dress-suit was a success. He looked
a wealthy Colonial gentleman.

"This pleasure is the greater in being unexpected, Lady Vignoles!" he
said. "I gather I am thus favoured that I may take the place of an
absentee. Shall I hazard a guess? Your party numbered thirteen?"

His infectious smile, easy acceptance of a bizarre situation, and
evident good breeding, bridged a rather difficult interval. Lord
Vignoles had had an idea that detective-inspectors were just ordinary
plain-clothes policemen, and had determined, a second before, to assert
himself, give the man half-a-sovereign, and put an end to this
ridiculous extravaganza. Now he changed his mind. Detective-Inspector
Pepys was a revelation.

Vignoles (to his own surprise) offered his hand.

"It is very good of you," he said, rather awkwardly. "You are sure you
have no other dinner engagement, Inspector?"

"None," replied the latter. "I am, strictly speaking, engaged upon
official duty; but bodily nutriment is allowed--even by Scotland Yard!"

"You don't mind my presenting you to--the other guests--in
your--ah--unofficial capacity--as plain Mr. Pepys? They might--think
there was something wrong!"

He felt vaguely confused, as though he were insulting the visitor by his
request, and with the detective's disconcerting eyes fixed upon his face
was more than half ashamed of himself.

"Not in the least, Lord Vignoles. I should have suggested it had you not
done so."

The host was resentfully conscious of a subtle sense of inward gratitude
for this concession. Of the easy assumption of equality by the detective
he experienced no resentment whatever. The circumstances possibly
warranted it, and, in any event, it was assumed so quietly and naturally
that he accepted it as a matter of course.

Since Lord Vignoles' marriage with an American heiress the atmosphere of
his establishments had grown very transatlantic; so much so, indeed,
that someone had dubbed the house in Cadogan Gardens "The Millionaires'
Meeting House," and another wit (unknown) had referred to his place in
Norfolk as "The Week-end Synagogue." Furthermore, Lady Vignoles had a
weakness for "odd people," for which reason the presence of a guest
hitherto socially unknown occasioned no comment.

Mr. Pepys having brought in Zoe Oppner, everyone assumed the late
arrival to be one of Lady Vignoles' odd people, and everyone was
pleasantly surprised to find him such a charming companion.

Zoe Oppner, for her part, became so utterly absorbed in his conversation
that her cousin grew seriously alarmed. Zoe was notoriously eccentric,
and, her cousin did not doubt, even capable of forming an attachment for
a policeman.

In fact, Lady Vignoles, who was wearing the historic Lyrpa Diamond--her
father's wedding-present--was so concerned that she had entirely lost
track of the general conversation, which, from the great gem, had
drifted automatically into criminology.

Zimmermann was citing the famous case of the Kimberley mail robbery in
'83.

"That was a big haul," he said. "Twelve thousand pounds' worth of rough
diamonds!"

"Fifteen!" corrected Bernard Megger, director of a world-famed mining
syndicate.

"Oh, was it fifteen?" continued Zimmermann. "No doubt you are correct.
Were you in Africa in '83?"

"No," replied Megger; "I was in 'Frisco till the autumn of '85, but I
remember the affair. Three men were captured--one dead. The
fourth--Isaac Jacobsen--got away, and with the booty!"

"Never traced, I believe!" asked the novelist.

"Never," confirmed Megger; "neither the man nor the diamonds."

"It was a big thing, certainly," came Vignoles' voice; "but this Séverac
Bablon has beaten all records in that line!"

The remark afforded his wife an opportunity, for which she had sought,
to break off the too confidential _tête-à-tête_ between Zoe and the
detective.

"Zoe," she said, "surely Mr. Pepys can tell us something about this
mysterious Séverac Bablon?"

"Oh, yes!" replied Zoe. "He has been telling me! He knows quite a lot
about him!"

Now, the dinner-table topic all over London was the mystery of Séverac
Bablon, and Lady Vignoles' party was not exceptional in this respect. It
had already been several times referred to, and at Miss Oppner's words
all eyes were directed towards the handsome stranger, who bore this
scrutiny with such smiling composure.

"I cannot go into particulars, Lady Vignoles," he said; "but, as you are
aware, I have a kind of official connection with the matter!"

This was beautifully mysterious, and everyone became intensely
interested.

"Of such facts as have come to light you all know as much as I, but
there is a certain theory which seems to have occurred to no one." He
paused impressively, throwing a glance around the table. "What is the
notable point in regard to the victims of Séverac Bablon?"

"They are Jews--or of Jewish extraction," said Zoe Oppner promptly. "Pa
has noticed that! He's taken considerable interest since his mills were
burned in Ontario!"

"And what is the conclusion?"

"That he hates Jews!" snapped Bernard Megger hotly. "That he has a
deadly hatred of all the race!"

"You think so?" said Pepys softly, and turned his eyes upon the gross,
empurpled face of the speaker. "It has not occurred to you that he might
himself be a Jew?"

That theory was so new to them that it was received in silent
astonishment. Lady Vignoles, though her mother was Irish, had a marked
leaning towards her father's people, and, as was usually the case, that
ancient race was fairly represented at her dinner-table. Lord Vignoles,
on the contrary, was not fond of his wife's Semitic friends--in fact,
was ashamed of them; and he accordingly felt the present conversation to
be drifting in an unpleasant direction.

"Consider," resumed Pepys, before the host could think of any suitable
remark, "that this man wields an enormous and far-reaching influence. No
door is locked to him! From out of nowhere he can summon up numbers of
willing servants, who obey him blindly, and return--whence they came!

"He would seem, then, to be served by high and low, and--a notable
point--no one of his servants has yet betrayed him! His wealth clearly
is enormous. He invites the rich to give--as _he_ gives--and if they
decline he takes! For what purpose? That he may relieve the poor! No
friend of the needy yet has suffered at the hands of Séverac Bablon."

"I believe that's a fact!" agreed Zoe Oppner. "He's my own parent, but
Pa's real mean, I'll allow!"

Her words were greeted with laughter; but everyone was anxious to hear
more from this man who spoke so confidently upon the topic of the hour.

"You may say," he continued, "that he is no more than a glorified Claude
Duval, but might he not be one who sought to purge the Jewish name of
the taint of greed--who forced those responsible for fostering that
taint to disburse--who hated those mean of soul and loved those worthy
of their ancient line? It is thus he would war! And the price of defeat
would be--a felon's cell! Whom would he be--this man at enmity with all
who have brought shame upon the Jewish race? Whom could he be, save a
monarch with eight millions of subjects--a royal Jew? I say that such a
man exists, and that Séverac Bablon, if not that man himself, is his
chosen emissary!"

More and more rapidly he had spoken, in tones growing momentarily louder
and more masterful. He burned with the enthusiasm of the specialist.
Now, as he ceased, a long sigh arose from his listeners, who had hung
breathless upon his words, and one lady whispered to her neighbour, "Is
he something to do with the Secret Service?"

"Mr. Bernard Megger is wanted on the telephone!"

"How annoying!" ejaculated Lady Vignoles at this sudden interruption.

"Oh, I have said my say," laughed Pepys. "It is a pet theory of mine,
that's all! I am alone in my belief, however, save for a writer in the
_Gleaner_, who seems to share it."




CHAPTER X

KIMBERLEY


Dessert was being placed upon the table when Bernard Megger went out to
the telephone, and a fairly general conversation upon the all-absorbing
topic had sprung up when he returned--pale, flabby--a stricken man!

"Vignoles!" he said hoarsely. "A word with you."

The host, who did not care for the society of Mr. Megger, rose in some
surprise and stepped aside with his wife's guest.

"I am a ruined man!" said Megger. "My chambers have been entered and my
safe rifled!"

"But----" began Vignoles, in bewilderment.

"You do not understand!" snapped the other, "and I cannot explain. It is
Séverac Bablon who has robbed me!"

"Séverac Bablon?"

"Yes! I must be off at once and learn exactly what has happened. I shall
call at Scotland Yard----"

"_Ssh!_" whispered Vignoles. "There is no need for that! The man
speaking to Miss Oppner there is Detective-Inspector Pepys!"

"Detective-Inspector Pepys! But what----"

"Never mind now, Megger; he is--that's the point. I'll bring him into
the billiard-room. No doubt he can arrange to accompany you."

Too perturbed in mind to wonder greatly at the presence of a police
officer at Lord Vignoles' dinner-table, Bernard Megger strode hurriedly
into the billiard-room, his obese body quivering with his suppressed
emotions, and was almost immediately joined by his host, accompanied by
Pepys. The latter began at once:

"I understand that your chambers have been burgled by Séverac Bablon? By
a curious instance of what literary critics term the long arm of
coincidence I am in charge of the Séverac Bablon case--I and Inspector
Sheffield."

"Before we go any further," said Megger rudely, "I don't share your
tomfool ideas about the rogue!"

"No?" replied Pepys blandly. "Well, never mind. You must not suppose
that, because of them, I am any less anxious to apprehend my man. Tell
me, when was the burglary committed?"

"While Simons, my servant, was out on an errand. He returned to find the
safe open--and empty. He immediately rang me up here."

"I believe you have already communicated with Scotland Yard in regard to
Séverac Bablon?"

"Yes, I have. He has threatened me."

"In what form?"

"He endeavoured to extort money."

"By what means?"

Bernard Megger frowned, angrily. His flabby cheeks were twitching
significantly.

"The point is," he said sharply, "that he has rifled my safe."

"Did it contain valuables?"

"Certainly."

"Diamonds?"

"It contained valuable papers."

"Where is the safe situated?"

"It is concealed, I thought securely, at the back of a bookcase. No one
else holds a key. No one--not even my man--knows of its location.
_Curse_ Séverac Bablon! How, in Heaven's name, has he discovered it? I
thought it secure from the fiend himself!"

Detective-Inspector Pepys scratched his chin thoughtfully, and Bernard
Megger seemed to experience some difficulty in meeting the disconcerting
gaze of his eyes.

"Possibly," said the inspector slowly, "an examination of your chambers
may afford a clue. With your permission, Lord Vignoles, we will start at
once."

"Certainly," said Vignoles. "I fear I have no car in readiness, so
someone shall call a cab."

He moved to the bell.

"What's that, Jerry?" came a musical American voice. "Someone want a
lift?"

The three men looked towards the door and saw there Zoe Oppner, a
bewitching picture in her motor-furs.

"I was coming to say good-night," she explained. "I'm off to pick up Pa.
But I've got time to run as far as Brighton and back, say. Nearly half
an hour anyway!"

"You will not be called upon to create that amazing record, Zoe,"
responded Lord Vignoles. "Inspector Pepys and Mr. Megger are merely
proceeding to Victoria Street."

"Is it something exciting?" asked Zoe, her bright eyes glancing from one
to another of the three.

"Very!" replied the inspector. "A robbery at Mr. Megger's chambers!"

"Come right along!" said Zoe. "I'm glad I didn't miss this!" And the odd
trio departed forthwith.

"Can I come in?" she asked, with characteristic disregard of the
conventional, as her luxuriously appointed car pulled up in Victoria
Street.

"I should greatly prefer that you did not, Miss Oppner!" said Pepys
quietly.

"That's unkind! Why mayn't I?"

"I have a reason, believe me. If you will carry out your original plan
and go on to join Mr. Oppner, it will be better."

She met the gaze of his earnest eyes frankly.

"All right!" she agreed. "But will you come to the hotel to-morrow,
Inspector, and tell me all about it?"

"If you will inform no one of the appointment and arrange to be
alone--yes, at eleven o'clock!"

Zoe's big eyes opened widely.

"You are mysterious!" she said; "but I shall expect you at eleven
o'clock!"

"I shall be punctual!"

With that he turned and passed quickly through the door behind Bernard
Megger. Up the stairs he ran and reached the first floor in time to see
the other entering his chambers.

"Simons!" cried Megger, loudly.

But there was no reply.

"He must have gone at once to Scotland Yard," said Pepys. "Where is the
safe?"

Megger switched on the light and unlocked a door on his immediate left.
It gave access to a study. In the dim glow of the green shaded lamps the
place looked quiet and reposeful. Everything was neatly arranged, as
befits the sanctum of a business man. Nothing seemed out of place.

"There are no signs of burglars here!" said Pepys, in a surprised
manner.

"Simons may have reclosed the safe door," replied Megger.

His voice trembled slightly.

Wheeling a chair across the thick carpet, he placed it by a tall,
unglazed bookcase and mounted upon the seat.

"The safe is not open," he muttered excitedly.

And the man watching him saw that his puffy hand shook like a leaf in
the breeze.

Removing a small oil-painting from the wall adjoining, he tore at his
collar and produced a key attached to a thin chain about his neck. This
he inserted in the cunning lock which the picture served to conceal. The
next moment a hoarse cry escaped him.

"It hasn't been opened at all!" he shouted.

Snatching at the cord of a hanging lamp, he wildly hurled books about
the floor and directed the light into a cavity that now had revealed
itself. The other observed him keenly.

"Are you certain _nothing_ is gone?" he asked.

Megger plunged his hand inside and threw out several boxes and some
bundles of legal-looking documents. Leaning yet farther forward, he
touched a hidden spring that operated with a sharp _click_.

"_That_ hasn't gone, Inspector!" he cried triumphantly, and held out a
large envelope, sealed in several places.

His eyes were feverish. His features worked.

"You are wrong, Isaac Jacobsen!" rapped Pepys, and snatched the packet
in a flash. "It has!"

The man on the chair lurched. Every speck of colour fled from his
naturally florid face, leaving it a dull, neutral grey. He threw out one
hand to steady himself, and with the other plunged to his hip.

"Both up!" ordered Pepys crisply.

And Mr. Bernard Megger found himself looking down a revolver barrel that
pointed accurately between his twitching eyebrows, nor wavered one
hair's breadth!

Unsteadily he raised his arms--staring, with dilated pupils, at this
master of consummate craft.

"It is by such acts of fatuity as your careful preservation of these
proofs of identity," came in ironic tones, "that all rogues are bowled
out, Jacobsen! I will admit that you had them well hidden. It was good
of you to find them. I had despaired of doing so myself!" With that the
speaker backed towards the open door.

"Inspector Pepys!" gasped Bernard Megger, swallowing between the words,
"I shall remember you!"

"You will be wasting grey matter!" replied the man addressed, and was
gone.

Megger, dropping heavily into the chair, saw that the departing visitor
had thrown a slip of pasteboard upon the carpet.

As the key turned in the lock, and the dim footsteps sounded upon the
stair, he lurched unsteadily to his feet, and, stooping, picked up the
card.

Simons, his man, returned half an hour later, having been detained in
his favourite saloon by a chance acquaintance who had conceived a
delirious passion for his society. He found his master locked in the
study--with the key on the wrong side--and, furthermore, in the grip of
apoplexy, with a crumpled visiting-card crushed in his clenched right
hand.




CHAPTER XI

MR. SANRACK VISITS THE HOTEL ASTORIA


Mr. J. J. Oppner and his daughter sat at breakfast the next morning at
the Astoria. Oppner was deeply interested in the _Gleaner_.

"Zoe," he said suddenly. "This is junk--joss--ponk!"

His voice had a tone quality which suggested that it had passed through
hot sand.

Zoe looked up. Zoe Oppner was said to be the prettiest girl in the
United States. Allowing that discount necessary in the case of John
Jacob Oppner's daughter, Zoe still was undeniably very pretty indeed.
She looked charming this morning in a loose wrap from Paris, which had
cost rather more than an ordinary, fairly well-to-do young lady,
residing, say, at Hampstead, expends upon her entire toilette in twelve
months.

"What's that, Pa?" she inquired.

"What but this Séverac Bablon business!"

Assisted by her father, she had diligently searched that morning through
stacks of daily papers for news of the robbery in Victoria Street. But
in vain.

"Guess it's a false alarm, Zoe!" Mr. Oppner had drawled, in his dusty
fashion. "Some humorist got a big hustle on him last night. Like enough
Mr. Megger was guyed by the same comic that sent _me_ on a pie-chase!"

Zoe thought otherwise, preferring to believe that Inspector Pepys had
suppressed the news; now she wondered if, after all, they had overlooked
it.

"Is there something about Séverac Bablon in the paper?" she asked
interestedly. "_I_ can't find anything."

"Nope?" drawled Oppner. "Nope? H'm! Then what about all this front page,
with Julius Rohscheimer sitting in his _pie_-jams and the Marquess of
Evershed talking at him? Ain't that Séverac Bablon? Sure! Did you think
that Julius found it good for his health to part up a cool hundred
thou.? And look at Hague up in the corner--and Elschild in the other
corner! There's only one way to open the cheque-books of either of them
guys; with a gun!"

"Oh!" cried Zoe--"how exciting!"

"I'm with you," drawled her father. "It's as thrilling as having all
your front teeth out."

"Do you mean, Pa, that this is something to do with the card----"

"There's me and Jesson to shell out yet. That's what I mean! He's raised
two hundred thousand. I'm richer'n any of 'em and he'll mulct me on my
Canadian investments for the balance of half a million! Or maybe he'll
split it between me and Jesson and Hohsmann!"

"Oh!" said Zoe, "what a pity! And I was going to ask you to buy me two
new hats!"

Her father looked at her long and earnestly.

"You haven't got any proper kind of balance where money is concerned,
Zoe," he drawled. "Your brain pod ain't burstin' with financial genius.
You don't seem to care worth a baked bean that I'm bein' fleeced of
thousands! That hog Bablon cleaned me out a level million dollars when
he burned the Runek Mills, and now I know, plain as if I saw him, he's
got me booked for another pile! Where d'you suppose money comes from?
D'you think I can grab out like a coin manipulator, and my hand comes
back full of dollars?"

Zoe made no reply. She was staring, absently, over her father's head,
into a dream-world. Had Mr. Oppner been endowed with the power to read
from another's eyes, he would have found a startling story written in
the beautiful book fringed by Zoe's dark lashes. She was thinking of
Séverac Bablon; thinking of him, not as a felon, but as he had been
depicted to her by the strange man whom she had met at Lord
Vignoles'--the man who pursued him, yet condoned his sins.

Her father's sandy voice broke in upon her reverie:

"Where I'm tied up--same with Rohscheimer and the rest--I don't know
this thief Bablon when I see him."

"No," said Zoe. "Of course."

Mr. Oppner stared. His daughter's attitude was oddly unemotional, wholly
detached and impersonal.

"H'm!" he grunted dryly. "I've got to see Alden, the Agency boy,
upstairs. I'll be pushing off."

He "pushed off."

Almost immediately afterwards, Zoe's maid entered. There was a gentleman
to see her. He would not give his card.

"Show him into the next room," said Zoe, full of excitement, "and if Mr.
Oppner comes back, tell him I am engaged."

She entered the cosy reception-room, feeling that she was about to be
admitted behind the scenes, and, woman-like, delightfully curious. A
moment later, her visitor arrived.

"I have kept my promise, Miss Oppner!"

She turned, to greet him--and a little, quick cry escaped her.

For this was not Detective-Inspector Pepys who stood, smiling, in the
doorway!

It was a man who was, or who seemed to be, taller than he; a slim man,
having but one thing in common with the detective: his black
morning-coat fitted him as perfectly as the dress-coat had fitted the
inspector. An irreproachably attired man is a greater rarity than most
people realise; and Zoe Oppner wondered why, even in that moment of
amazement, she noted this fact.

Her visitor was singularly handsome. She knew, instantly, that she had
never seen one so handsome before. He was of a puzzling type, wholly
unlike any European she had met, though no darker of complexion than
many Americans. With his waving black hair, extraordinarily perfect
features, and the light of conscious power in his large eyes, he awoke
something within her that was half memory--yet not wholly so.

She was vaguely afraid, but strongly attracted towards this mysterious
stranger.

"But," she said, staring the while as one fascinated, "you--are not
Inspector Pepys!"

"True!" he answered smilingly. "I am not Inspector Pepys; nor is there
any such person!"

The voice was different, yet somehow reminiscent. Only now, a faint,
indefinable accent had crept into it.

"What do you mean?"

Zoe, at the idea that she had been imposed upon, grew regally indignant.
She was a lovely woman, and accustomed to the homage which mankind pays
to beauty. Her naturally frank, laughter-loving nature made her a
charming companion; but she could be distant, scornful--could crush the
most presumptuous with a glance of her eyes.

Now she looked at her strange visitor with frigid dignity, and he merely
smiled amusedly, as one smiles at a pretty child.

"Be good enough to explain yourself. If you dared to impose upon Lady
Vignoles last night--if you are not really a detective--what are you?"

"That question would take too long to answer, Miss Oppner!"

"I demand an answer! Who are you?"

"That is another question," replied the stranger, in his soft, musical
voice, "and I will try to answer it. At dinner last night I told you of
a man whose fathers saw the Great Pyramid built, whose race was old when
that pyramid was new. I told you of an unbroken line of kings--of kings
who wore no crowns, whose throne was lost in the long ago."

She closed and re-opened her right hand nervously, and a new light came
into her eyes. His words had touched again, as the night before, the
hidden deeps of her nature, quickening into life the mysticism that lay
there. She would have spoken, but he quietly motioned her to
silence--and she was silent.

"I said that the time approached when that ancient line again should
claim place among the monarchies of the world. I said that millions of
men and women, in every habitable quarter of the globe, owed allegiance
to that man who was, by divine right, their king!"

His face lighted up with a wild enthusiasm. To the beautiful girl who
listened, spell-bound, he seemed as one inspired.

"Upon his people lay a cloud--a tainting shadow grown black through the
centuries. He must disperse it, proclaiming to the world that his was a
noble people, a nation with a mighty soul! The evil came not from
without but from within. The worst enemies of the Jews are the Jews. In
attacking those enemies of his people, inevitably he would come into
collision with many governments. But he would do them no wrong, save in
showing them powerless to protect the traitors from his righteous
wrath!"

For a long moment she watched him, and no words came to her. That this
splendid man was mad flashed through her mind as a possible thing; but
that thought she dismissed, and remained bewildered.

"Is it true?" she asked, in a pleading voice; "or are you jesting with
me?"

He smiled, having resumed his habitual calm.

"It is true!" he answered. "Upon the word of a rogue--a thief--upon the
honour of Séverac Bablon!"

Zoe started, yet she was not afraid; for something had told her almost
from his entrance that this was he--the man whose name at that very hour
glared from countless placards, upon a great part of the civilised
world; whose deeds at that moment were being babbled of in every tongue
from Chinese to Italian.

"But, if you are that man, and----" She hesitated. "You are wrong, I am
sure! Oh! indeed, truly, I think you are wrong! Not in your aims, but in
making so many new enemies! You have placed yourself outside all laws!
You may be arrested at any hour!"

"That phase of my campaign will pass. I shall meet the Ministers of all
the Powers upon equality--as the plenipotentiary of eight million
people! All that I have done will be forgotten in the light of what I
_shall_ do!"

"I cannot understand about last night. Your presence was an
accident----"

He laughed softly.

"I knew that Lady Vignoles' party numbered fourteen. I caused your
father to be detained. One of my friends--I will not name him--suggested
a novel mode of seeking a guest: I caused Megger's man to be absent
whilst another of my friends, imitating his speech, sent the telephone
message! Is that accident?"

"It is----"

"Unworthy, you would say? The work of a common cracksman? But, by those
lowly means I secured proof that Bernard Megger, director of the Uitland
Rands Consolidated Mines Syndicate, and Isaac Jacobsen, the Kimberley
mail robber, were one and the same! He has escaped the laws of England,
but he cannot escape me!"

She shrank involuntarily, her now frightened eyes fixed upon the face of
this man, whose patriotism, whose zeal, whose incredibly lofty purpose
she did not, could not, doubt, but whose methods she could, not
condone--by whose will her own father had suffered. Then, in a quickly
imperious yet kindly manner, he placed both his hands upon her
shoulders, looking, with earnest, searching eyes, deep into her own.

"What would you desire me to do that half a million pounds can compass?"
he asked.

"Return it to those it belongs to, if you can, and, with any that you
cannot return, endow homes by the shore for sick slum children!"

He moved his left hand, and she saw dully gleaming upon his finger, a
great green stone, bearing a strange device. In some weird fashion it
seemed to convey a message to her--intimate, convincing. Within those
green depths there dwelt a mystery. She felt that the ring was
incalculably old, and that its wearer must wield almost limitless power.
It was an uncanny idea, but she lived to know that her instincts had not
wholly misled her.

"It shall be done!" said Séverac Bablon. "And you will be my friend?"

"I will try!" whispered Zoe, "if you wish. But, oh, believe me! You are
wrong! You are wrong! There is, there _must_ be some better way!"

As he removed his hands from her shoulders she turned aside and glanced
through the open window, seeing nothing of the panorama of London below,
but seeing only a great throne, and upon it a regal figure, his head
crowned with the ancient crown of the Jewish kings. When she turned
again her father stood behind her. But Séverac Bablon was gone!

"Thought you had a visitor, Zoe?" said Mr. Oppner. "There's a gentleman
here would like to have a look at him!"

He turned to a big, burly man, dressed in neat serge, who bowed
awkwardly and immediately took a sharp look around the room. Mr. Oppner
eyed his daughter with grim suspicion.

"Inspector Sheffield would like to ask you something!"

"Sorry to trouble you, miss," said the inspector, misinterpreting the
sudden, strained look that had come into her eyes, and smiling in kindly
fashion. "But I've been following a man all the morning, and I rather
think he came into this hotel! Also--please excuse me if I'm wrong--I
rather fancy he came up here!"

"What is he like--this--man?" she asked mechanically, looking away from
the detective.

"This morning he was like the handsomest gentleman in Europe, miss! But
he may have altered since I saw him last! He's the latest thing in
quick-change artists I've met to date!"

"What do you want him for?"

Sheffield raised his eyebrows.

"He's Séverac Bablon!" he said simply. "Does your late visitor answer to
the description?"

"My visitor was a gentleman who wanted funds for building a home for
invalid children!"

"You're sure it wasn't our man, miss?"

("And you will be my friend" he had asked. "I will try," had been her
promise.)

"I am quite sure my visitor was not a criminal of any kind!" she
answered. "You have made a strange mistake!"

The inspector bowed and quitted the room immediately. Mr. Oppner stood
for some moments watching his daughter--and then followed the officer.
Zoe went to her room, and allowed her maid to dress her, without
proposing a solitary alteration in the scheme. She was very preoccupied.
In the lounge she found her father deep in conversation with a
clean-shaven man who had the features and complexion of a Sioux, and
wore a tweed suit which to British eyes must have appeared several sizes
too large for him. His Stetson was tilted well to the rear of his skull,
and he lay back smoking a black cheroot. This was Aloys X. Alden of
Pinkerton's. Zoe hesitated. The conversation clearly was a business one.

And, at that moment, a tall figure appeared beside her.

Zoe drew a sharp breath--almost a breath of pain. She glanced toward the
group of two in the distant corner. They were discussing, as she knew
quite well, various plans for the apprehension of the man who had become
a nightmare to certain capitalists. They were devising, or seeking to
devise, schemes for penetrating the secret of his real identity--for
peering beneath the mask of the real man.

And here, by her side, stood Séverac Bablon!

"Pray, pray go!" she whispered tremulously. "I thought you had left the
hotel. For your own sake, if not for mine, you should have done so."

"But if it happens that I am staying here?"

"Please go! There--with my father--is a detective----"

"I know him well!" was the reply. Séverac Bablon's melodious voice was
calm. He smiled serenely. "But, fortunately, he does not know me! My
name, then, for the present, is Mr. Sanrack; and I have taken this
risk--though believe me it is not so great as you deem it--because I
have something more to say. I was interrupted by the arrival of
Inspector Sheffield."

"He may come in at any moment!"

"Then, _I_ shall go out! But first I wish to tell you that I consider it
my duty to force your father's hand in regard to a large sum of money!"

Zoe's little foot tapped the floor nervously.

"How do you dare?" she said. "How do you dare to tell _me_ such a
thing?"

"I dare, because what I do is right and just," he resumed; "and because,
although I know that its justice will be apparent to you, I am anxious
to have your personal assurance upon that point."

"My assurance that I think you are right in robbing my father!"

"I could scarcely expect that; I certainly should not ask for it. But
you know that despite enormous benefactions, the Jews as a race bear the
stigma of cupidity and meanness. It is wholly undeserved. The sums
annually devoted to charitable purposes, by such a family as the
Elschilds--my very good friends--are truly stupendous. But the Elschilds
do not seek the limelight. Mr. Rohscheimer, Baron Hague, Sir Leopold
Jesson, Mr. Hohsmann--and your father, are celebrated only for their
unscrupulous commercial methods in the formation of combines. They do
not distribute their wealth. Is it not true?"

Zoe nodded. Vaguely, she felt indignant, but Séverac Bablon was entirely
unanswerable. Then:

"Heavens!" she whispered--"here comes my father!"

It was true. Mr. Oppner and the detective were approaching.

"I wish to meet your father," whispered Séverac Bablon. "Remember, I am
Mr. Sanrack!"

As he spoke, he watched her keenly. It was a crucial test, and both knew
it. Zoe was slightly pale. She fully realised that to conform now to
Séverac Bablon's wishes was tantamount to becoming a member of his
organisation (which operated against her father!)--was to take a
possibly irrevocable step in the dark.

Whilst in many respects she disagreed with Séverac Bablon's wildly
unlawful methods, yet, knowing something of his exalted aims she could
not--despite all--withhold her sympathy. In some strange fashion, the
wishes of this fugitive from the law partook of the nature of commands.
But she could have wished to be spared this trial.

Oppner came up.

"Oh, father," began Zoe, striving to veil her confusion, "I don't think
you have met Mr. Sanrack before? This is my father, Mr. Sanrack--Mr.
Alden."

The millionaire stared, ere nodding shortly. The detective showed no
emotion whatever.

"There is something which I am particularly anxious to explain to you,
Mr. Oppner," began Sanrack, having acknowledged the introductions with
easy courtesy. "It has reference to Séverac Bablon!"

Zoe held her breath. Alden moved his cheroot from the left corner of his
mouth to the right. Mr. Oppner wrinkled up his eyes and scrutinised the
speaker with a blank astonishment.

"I hold no brief for Séverac Bablon," continued the fascinating voice.

"Nope?" drawled Oppner.

"His deeds must speak for themselves. But on behalf of an important
financial group I have a proposition to make."

Mr. Oppner took a step forward.

"What group's that?"

"Shall I say, simply, the most influential in Europe?"

"The Elschilds?"

"If you consider them to be so, you may construe my words in that way."

"Mr. Antony Elschild has been pulling my leg with some fool proposition
about whitewashing the millionaire, or something to that effect. It's
always seemed to me he's got more money than sense. He's passed out a
cheque to this _Gleaner_ fund big enough to build a soap factory!"

"So has Mr. Rohscheimer, and so has Baron Hague!"

"I'm not laughin'! They were held up! Why they don't say so, straight
out, is their business. Jesson and Hohsmann will part out next, I
suppose, if it ain't me. But if I subscribe it will be because I had a
gun screwed in my ear while I wrote the cheque!"

"That is what my friends so deeply lament!"

"It is, eh? Yep? They'd like to see me paperin' all the workhouses with
ten-dollar bills, I reckon? Mr. Ransack, I've got better uses for my
money. It ain't my line of business buyin' caviare for loafers, and I
don't consider it's up to me to buy airships for Great Britain! When you
see me start in buyin' airships it's time to smother me! It means I'm
too old and silly to be trusted with money!"

"My friends and myself--for I take a keen interest in everything
appertaining to the Jewish nation--are anxious to save you from the
ignominy of being compelled to subscribe!"

"That's thoughtful! Can your friends and yourself find any reason why a
United States citizen should buy airships for England? If I got a rush
of dollars to the head and was anxious to be bled of half a million, I
might as well buy submarines for China, for all the good it'd do me!"

"On the contrary! So far as my knowledge goes you derive no part of your
income from China, whereas your interests throughout Greater Britain are
extensive. Thus, by becoming a subscriber, you would be indirectly
protecting yourself, in addition to establishing a reputation which,
speaking sordidly, would be of inestimable value to you throughout the
British dominions."

Mr. Oppner nodded.

"It's good of you to drop in and deputise for my Dutch uncle!" he said.
"Though no more than I might expect from a friend of my daughter's. But
your arguments strike me as the foolishest I ever heard out of any man's
mouth. As an old advertiser, I reckon your proposition ain't worth a
rat's whiskers!"

Mr. Sanrack smiled. Alden was closely observing him.

"You are quite entitled to your opinion. My friends are anxious to learn
if there be any purely philanthropic cause you would prefer to support.
The mere interest on your capital, Mr. Oppner, is more than you can ever
hope to spend, however lavish your mode of living."

"Thanks," drawled Oppner. "For a brand-new acquaintance you're nice and
chatty and confidential. Your friends are such experts at spending their
own money that it's not surprisin' they'd like to teach me a thing or
two. But during the last forty years I haven't found any cause better
worthy of support than my own. Give my love to Mr. Elschild. Good
morning!"

He moved off, with the stoical Alden.

"You see," said Séverac Bablon to Zoe, who lingered, "your father is
impervious to the demands of Charity!"

"Is that why you did this? Were you anxious to bring out Pa's meanness
as a sort of excuse for what you contemplate?"

"Partly, that was my motive. A demand upon an American citizen to found
a British air fleet is extravagant--in a sense, absurd. But I was
anxious to offer Mr. Oppner one more opportunity of distributing some of
the vast sum which he has locked up for his own amusement--financial
chess."

"You have placed me in an impossible situation."

"Why? If you consider me to be what I have been accused of being--a
thief--an incendiary--an iconoclast--denounce me--to whom you will! At
any time I will see you, and any friend you may care to bring, be it
Inspector Sheffield of New Scotland Yard, at Laurel Cottage, Dulwich
Village. I impose no yoke upon you that you cannot shake off!"

But as Zoe Oppner looked into the great luminous eyes she knew that he
had imposed upon her the yoke of a mysterious sovereignty.

From the foyer came a sound, unfamiliar enough in the Astoria--the sound
of someone whistling. Even as Zoe started, wondering if she could trust
her ears, Séverac Bablon took both her hands, in the impulsive and
strangely imperious way she knew.

"Good-bye," he said. "Perhaps I am wrong and you are right. Time will
reveal that. If you ever wish to see me, you know where I may be found.
Good-bye!"

He turned abruptly and ascended the stairs. He had but just disappeared
when Inspector Sheffield entered!

Zoe felt that her face turned pale; but she bravely smiled as the
Scotland Yard man approached her.

"You see, I am back again, Miss Oppner! Do you know if Mr. Oppner has
gone out?"

"I am not sure. But I think he went out with Mr. Alden."

Sheffield's face clouded. This employment of a private detective was a
sore point with the Inspector. It seemed strangely like a slight upon
the official service. Not that Sheffield was on bad terms with Alden. He
was too keen a diplomat for that. But he went in hourly dread that the
Pinkerton man would forestall Scotland Yard.

To Sheffield it appeared impossible that Séverac Bablon could much
longer evade arrest. In fact, it was incomprehensible to him how this
elusive character had thus far remained at large. Slowly, and by painful
degrees, Sheffield was learning that Séverac Bablon's organisation was
more elaborate and far-reaching, and embraced more highly placed
persons, than at one time he could have credited.

It would appear that there were Government officials in the group which
surrounded this man, pointing to ramifications which sometimes the
detective despaired of following. News from Paris, received only that
morning, would seem to indicate that a similar state of affairs
prevailed in the French capital. With whom, Sheffield asked himself, had
he to deal? Who _was_ Séverac Bablon? That he was in some way associated
with Jewish people and Jewish interests the Yard man was convinced. But
he could not determine, to his own satisfaction, if Séverac Bablon's
activities were inimical to Juda or otherwise. It was a bewildering
case.

"I hope Mr. Oppner hasn't gone out," he said, after a pause. "I
particularly wanted to see him again."

"Is there some new clue?" asked Zoe eagerly.

Inspector Sheffield was nonplussed. Here was the daughter of J. J.
Oppner, the last girl in the world whom any sane man would suspect of
complicity in the Séverac Bablon outrages; yet, for reasons of his own,
Sheffield wondered if she were as wholly ignorant of Bablon's identity
as the rest of the world. He distrusted everyone. He had said to
Detective-Sergeant Harborne, who was associated with him in the case,
"Where Séverac Bablon is concerned, I wouldn't trust the Lord Mayor of
London--no, nor the Archbishop of Canterbury."

Accordingly, he replied, "I think not, Miss Oppner. I'll just run
upstairs and see if there's anybody about."




CHAPTER XII

LOVE, LUCRE AND MR. ALDEN


Zoe was waiting for Lady Mary Evershed. Lady Mary was late--an
unremarkable circumstance, since Lady Mary was a woman, and less
remarkable than ordinarily for the reason that Lady Mary had met Sir
Richard Haredale on the way. At the time she should have been at the
Astoria she was pacing slowly through St. James's Park, beside Haredale.

"My position is becoming impossible, Mary," he said, with painful
distinctness. "Every day seems to see the time more distant, instead of
nearer, when I can say good-bye to Mr. Julius Rohscheimer. My situation
is little better than that of his secretary. By hard work, and it _is_
hard work to act as Rohscheimer's social Virgil!--and by harder
self-repression, I have struggled to earn enough to enable me to cry
quits with the other rogues who preyed upon me, when--before I knew you.
I've scarcely a shred of self-respect left, Mary!"

She looked down at the gravelled path and made no answer to his
self-accusation.

"It is only my sense of humour that has saved me. But one day I shall
break out! It is inevitable. I cannot pander for ever to Rohscheimer's
social ambitions. Yet, if I show fight, he will break me! Saving the
prospect--with a hale and hearty uncle intervening, and one of the best;
may he live to be a hundred!--of the title, and all that goes with it,
what have I to offer you, Mary? I am a man sailing under false colours.
Practically, I am a salaried servant of Rohscheimer's. I don't actually
draw my salary; but in recognition of my services in popularising his
wife's entertainments, he keeps the vultures at bay! Bah! I despise
myself!"

Mary looked up to him, tenderly reproachful.

"You silly boy!" she said. "There is nothing dishonourable in what you
do!"

"Possibly not. But how would your father like to know of my position."

She lowered her eyes again.

"Is my father indebted to Julius Rohscheimer in any way, Dick?" she
asked suddenly.

Haredale laughed nervously.

"Rohscheimer does not honour me with the whole of his confidence in
financial matters," he replied. "It is a question Adeler would be better
able to answer."

"Mr. Adeler, yes. What a singular man! Do you know, Dick, in spite of
father's ideas respecting our old English aristocracy, I have sometimes
felt, in Mr. Adeler's presence, that he, though a Jew, was a thousand
times more of an aristocrat than I?"

Haredale glanced at her oddly.

"I have at times been conscious of a similar feeling!" he said. "No
doubt one's instincts are true enough. Adeler's pedigree conceivably may
go back to Jewish nobles who entertained monarchs in their marble
palaces when the Eversheds and Haredales considered several streaks of
red ochre an adequate costume for the most important functions."

He laughed boyishly at his own words.

"Oh, Dick!" said Mary. "How absurd of you. It is impossible to imagine
an Evershed in such a condition. But yet, you are right. How singular
that most people should overlook so obvious a fact; that there is a
Jewish aristocracy, possibly one of the most ancient in the world."

"The Jews are an Eastern people," replied Haredale. "That is the fact
which is generally overlooked. They are, excepting one, the most
remarkable people in the modern world."

"Do you know," said the girl, unconsciously lowering her voice, "I have
sometimes thought that Séverac Bablon was in some way connected----"

"Yes?"

"With the ancient history of the Jews!"

"What do you mean exactly?"

"I can hardly explain. But at the Rohscheimers, on the night of the
ball, Séverac Bablon was masked, of course; yet it seemed to me----"

"Mary," interrupted Haredale, "don't tell me that you believe the
romantic stories circulating about the man!"

"What stories, Dick?"

"Why, about his holding the Seal of Suleyman, whatever that may be----"

"But Mrs. Elschild says he _does_!"

Haredale started.

"How can she possibly know?"

A flush tinged Lady Mary's clear complexion for a moment, and left it
paler than it was wont to be. She despised a woman who could not
preserve a secret (and therefore must have had a poor opinion of her
sex), yet she had nearly allowed her own tongue to betray her. Whatever
Mrs. Elschild had told her had been told in confidence, and under the
seal of friendship.

"Perhaps she does not know. Someone may have told her."

"It's all over London," said Haredale; "in the clubs, everywhere! I
wonder you have not heard it before. There seems to be an organised
attempt to glorify this man, who, after all, is no more than an
up-to-date highwayman. Someone has spread the absurd story that he is of
Jewish royal blood; whereas the royal line of the Jews must have been
extinct for untold generations!"

"Why must it? You have just said that the Jews are an Eastern people.
And all Eastern peoples are subtle and secretive. I invariably lose half
of my self-importance in Egypt, for instance. There is something in the
eye of the meanest _fellah_ which is painfully like patronage!"

Haredale shrugged his shoulders.

"What a thing it is," he said humorously, "to be born with black hair,
flashing eyes and an olive skin! One can then be any kind of mountebank
or robber, and yet rest assured of the ladies' homage."

They walked on in silence for awhile. Then--

"Heaven knows what happened to Rohscheimer," said Haredale abruptly, "to
have frightened him into writing such a stupendous cheque! I may hear,
later, but thus far he is too sore to touch upon the matter!"

"My father has visited him."

"At last--yes! Do you remember when Rohscheimer offered me five hundred
pounds if I could induce the Marquess to come to dinner? Gad! He came
perilously near to a just retribution that day! I think if I had been in
uniform I should have run him through!"

"These extraordinary donations of course are the sequel to the
mysterious business of the card and the unseen hand?"

"Certainly. Séverac Bablon is at the bottom of the whole business. I
described the device, introducing two triangles, do you remember, which
appeared on the cards, to a chap at the club who is rather a learned
Orientalist, and he assured me that, so far as he could judge from my
description, it corresponded with that of the supposed seal of Solomon.
I was unable to remember part of the design, of course. But, at any
rate, this merely goes to prove that Bablon is an accomplished showman."

"I am afraid I must be going, Dick. I have to meet Zoe Oppner."

"Let's go and find a cab, then. But it was so delightful to have you all
to myself, Mary, if only for a very little while."

The boyishness had gone out of his voice again, and Lady Mary knew all
too well of what he was thinking. She took his arm and pressed it hard.

"I don't think anyone was ever in such a dreadful position in the world
before, Dick!" she declared. "To tolerate it seems impossible, seems
wrong. But to defy Rohscheimer, with your affairs as they are,
means--what does it mean, Dick?"

"I dare not think what it means, Mary," he replied. "Not when _you_ are
with me. But one day--soon, I am afraid--it will all be taken out of my
hands. I shall tell Mr. Julius Rohscheimer exactly what I think of him,
and there will be an end of the whole arrangement."

They said no more until the girl was entering the cab. Then:

"_I_ understand, Dick," she whispered, "and nobody else knows, so try to
be diplomatic for a little longer."

Holding her hand, he looked into her eyes. Then, without another word
between them, the cab moved off, and Haredale stood looking after it
until it was lost amid the traffic. He started to walk across to Park
Lane.

At the Astoria Zoe was waiting patiently. But when, at last, Mary found
herself in her friend's room, the gloomy companionship of the thoughts
with which she had been alone since leaving Haredale, proved too
grievous to be borne alone. She threw herself on to a cushioned settee,
and her troubles found vent in tears.

"Mary, dear!" cried Zoe, all that was maternal protective in her nature,
asserting itself. "Tell me all about it."

The unruly mop of her brown hair mingled with the gold of her friend's,
and presently, between sobs, the story was told--an old, old story
enough.

"He will have to resign his commission," she sobbed. "And then he will
have to go abroad! Oh, Zoe! I know it must come soon. Even _I_ cannot
expect him, nor wish him to dance attendance on that odious Julius
Rohscheimer for ever! And he makes so little headway."

Zoe's little foot beat a soft tatoo upon the carpet.

"I wonder--will there always be a Julius Rohscheimer for him to dance
attendance upon!" she said softly.

Mary raised her tearful eyes.

"What do you mean, Zoe?"

"Has it never occurred to you that--Séverac Bablon will ultimately make
a poor man of Rohscheimer?"

"Oh! I should not like to think that, because----"

"If he went that far, he might do the same for Pa. I can't believe that,
Mary. Pa's awful mean, but after all his money is cleaner than
Rohscheimer's."

Mary dried her eyes.

"I hardly know whether to regard that strange man, Séverac Bablon, as a
friend or a foe," she said. "He certainly seems to confine his outrages
to those who have plenty but object to spending it."

"Except on themselves! He's a friend right enough, Mary. I believe he is
anxious to reveal all these rich people in a new light, to whitewash
them. If only they would change their ideas and do some good with their
money, I don't think they would be troubled any more by Séverac Bablon.
You never hear of Mr. Elschild being robbed by him--nor any of the
family suffering in any way."

"Mr. Elschild received one of the mysterious cards, and he has sent a
big cheque to the _Gleaner_ fund."

"He has to keep up appearances, Mary, don't you see? But it is certain
that he sent the money quite voluntarily. He did not wait to be
squeezed. I wish Pa would come to his senses. If, instead of spending a
small fortune on private detectives, he would start to use his money for
good, he would have no further need for the Pinkerton men. Certainly he
would not be made to buy airships for England!"

A smile dawned upon Lady Mary's face.

"Isn't it preposterous!" she said. "The idea of raising money for such a
purpose from people like Baron Hague!"

"Baron Hague left for Berlin this morning. We shall probably never know
under what circumstances he issued his cheque for fifty thousand pounds!
Doesn't it seem just awful, with all this money floating about, that
poor Sir Richard is nearly stranded for quite a trifle!"

"Oh, it is dreadful! And I can see no way out."

"No," murmured Zoe. "Yet there must be a way."

She walked to the window, and stood looking out thoughtfully upon the
Embankment far below.

What a strange, complex drama moved about her! It was impossible even to
determine for what parts some of the players were cast. Where, she
wondered, was Inspector Sheffield now? And where was Séverac Bablon? So
far as she was aware, both were actually in the Astoria. There was
something almost uncanny in the elusiveness of Séverac Bablon. His
disdain of all attempts to compass his downfall betokened something more
than bravado. He must _know_ himself immune.

Why?

If what he had rather hinted than declared were true--and never for a
moment did she doubt his sincerity--then his accomplices, his friends,
his subjects (she knew not how to name them), must be numberless. Was
she, herself, not of their ranks?

Of the thousands who moved beneath her, upon trams, in cabs, in cars, on
foot, how many were servants of that mysterious master? It was
fascinating, yet terrifying, this inside knowledge of a giant
conspiracy, of which, at that moment, the civilised world was talking.
Mary Evershed's voice broke in upon her musing:

"Come along, Zoe. We shall never be back in time for lunch if we don't
hurry."

They descended in the lift and walked out to where Mr. Oppner's big car
awaited them. A moment later, as the man turned out into the Strand,
Sheard passed close by upon the pavement. He raised his hat to the two
pretty travellers. Clearly, he was bound for the Astoria.

And a few yards further on, unobtrusively walking behind a very large
German tourist, appeared the person of Mr. A. X. Alden.

"Why!" whispered Zoe. "I believe he is following Mr. Sheard."

Her surmise was correct. The astute Mr. Alden had found himself at a
loss to account for some of the exclusive items respecting the doings of
Séverac Bablon which latterly had been appearing in the _Gleaner_. By
dint of judiciously oiling the tongue of a chatty compositor, he had
learned that the unique copy was contributed by Mr. H. T. Sheard. Mr.
Oppner had advised him to keep a close watch upon the movements of Mr.
Antony Elschild. Although Alden found it hard to credit the idea that
the great Elschild family should be in any way associated with the
campaign of brigandage, Mr. Oppner was more open-minded.

Now Alden, too, was beginning to wonder. There seemed to be a friendship
between Elschild and the pressman; and Sheard, from some source
evidently unopen to his fellow copy-hunters, obtained much curious
information anent Séverac Bablon. One of Alden's American colleagues
accordingly was devoting some unobtrusive attention to whomsoever came
and went at the Elschild establishment in Lombard Street, whilst Alden
addressed himself to the task of shadowing Sheard.

When the latter walked into the lobby of the Astoria, Mr. Alden was not
far away.

"Has Mr. Gale of New York arrived yet?" was the pressman's inquiry.

Yes. Mr. Gale of New York had arrived.

Upon learning which, Sheard seemed to hesitate, glancing about him as if
suspicious of espionage. Mr. Alden, deeply engaged, or so it appeared,
in selecting a cigar at the stall, was all ears--and through a mirror
before which he had intentionally placed himself, he could watch
Sheard's movements whilst standing with his back towards him.

At last Sheard took out his notebook and hastily scribbled something
therein. Tearing out the leaf, he asked for an envelope, which the boy
procured for him. With the closed book as a writing-pad, he addressed
the envelope. Then, enclosing the note, carefully sealed up the message,
and handed it to the boy, glancing about him the while with a palpable
apprehension.

Finally, lighting a cigarette with an air of nonchalance but ill
assumed, Sheard strolled out of the hotel.

He had not passed the door ere Alden was clamouring for an hotel
envelope. The boy was just about to enter a lift as the detective darted
across the lobby and entered with him. Short as the time at his disposal
had been, Mr. Alden had scrawled some illegible initial followed by
"Gale, Esq.," upon the envelope, and had stuck down the flap.

The boy quitted the lift on the fourth floor. So did Alden. One or two
passengers joined at that landing, but the unsuspecting boy went on his
way along the corridor, turned to the right and rapped on a door
numbered 63.

"Come in," he was instructed.

He entered, tray in hand. A tanned and bearded gentleman who was busily
engaged unpacking a large steamer trunk, looked up inquiringly.

"Gentleman couldn't wait, sir," said the boy, and proffered the message.

The bearded man took the envelope, drew his brows together in an
endeavour to recognise the scrawly handwriting; failed, and tore the
envelope open.

It was empty!

"See here, boy! What's the game?"

He threw the envelope on the floor beside him and stared hard at the
page.

"Excuse me, sir"--the boy was frightened--"excuse me, sir; but I saw the
gentleman put a note in!"

"Did you!" laughed the American, readily perceiving that whoever the
joker might be the boy was innocent of complicity. "You mean, you
thought you did! See here, what was he like?"

The boy described Sheard, and described him so aptly that he was
recognised.

"That's Sheard," muttered the recipient of the empty envelope. "It's
Sheard, sure! Right oh! I'll ring him up at the office in a minute and
see what sort of game he's playing. Here boy, stick that in your pocket;
you might make a descriptive writer, but you'll never shine at sleight
of hand! You didn't watch that envelope half close enough!"

Thus, the man to whom the note was addressed. Let us glance at Mr. Alden
again.

Having effected the substitution with the ease of a David Devant, he
hastened to a quiet corner to inspect his haul. He was not unduly
elated. He had been prompt and clever, but in justice to him, it must be
admitted that he was a clever man. Therefore he regarded the incident
merely as part of the day's work. His success wrought no quickening of
the pulse.

In a little palmy balcony which overlooked the lobby he took the
envelope from his pocket. It bore the inscription:

     RADLEY GALE, ESQ.

Quietly, his cheroot stuck in a corner of his mouth, he opened
it--tearing the end off as all Americans do. He pulled out the scribbled
note, and read as follows:

     "MY DEAR GALE,--Don't forget that we're expecting your wife and
     yourself along about 7. I will say no more as I rather think an
     impudent American detective (?) is going to purloin this note.

     "SHEARD."

Mr. Alden carefully replaced the torn leaf in the envelope, and the
envelope in his case. He rolled his smoke from the left corner of his
mouth to the right, and, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, walked
slowly downstairs. He was not offended. Mr. Aloys. X. Alden was a Stoic
who had known for many years that he was not the only clever man in the
world.




CHAPTER XIII

THE LISTENER


Sheard sat with both elbows resting upon his writing-table. A suburban
quietude reigned about him, for the hour was long past midnight. Before
him was spread out the final edition of the _Gleaner_ and prominent upon
the front page appeared:--

    SIR LEOPOLD JESSON AND
         MR. HOHSMANN
        FALL INTO LINE

With a tact which was inspired by private information from a certain
source, the _Gleaner_ had pooh-poohed the story of the mysterious cards
received by the guests at Julius Rohscheimer's. The story had leaked
out, of course, but Sheard was in no way responsible for the leakage.

Frantically, representatives of the _Gleaner's_ rivals had sought for
confirmation from the lips of the victims; but, as had been foreseen by
the astute Sheard, no confirmation was forthcoming. There had been an
informal council held at the urgent request of Rohscheimer, whereat it
had been decided that for the latter to appear, now, in the light of a
victim of Séverac Bablon, would be for him to throw away such advantages
as might accrue--to throw a potential peerage after his lost £100,000!

Baron Hague had been coerced into silence, and had left for Berlin
without seeing a single newspaper man. Mr. Elschild had persisted that
his donation was entirely a voluntary one. Jesson had been most urgent
for placing the true facts before Scotland Yard, but had finally fallen
in with Rohscheimer's wishes.

"You see, Jesson," the latter had argued, "I'll never get my money back.
It's gone as completely as if I'd burnt it! All I've got to hope for is
a peerage; and I'd lose that if I started crying."

"I agree," Antony Elschild had contributed, "Rohscheimer had suddenly
become a popular hero! So that a title is all the return he is ever
likely to get for his money. It is popularly expected that Hohsmann and
yourself will also subscribe. You must remember that owing to the
attitude of a section of the Press it is not generally believed that
Séverac Bablon has anything to do with this burst of generosity!"

Jesson had muttered something about "the _Gleaner_," and a decision had
been arrived at to organise a private campaign against Séverac Bablon
whilst professing, publicly, that he was in no way concerned in the
swelling of the _Gleaner_ fund.

Now, Jesson and Hohsmann had both sent huge cheques to the paper, and
interviews with the philanthropic and patriotic capitalists appeared
upon the front page. Sheard had not done either interview.

Encouraged by their amazing donations, the general public was responding
in an unheard-of manner to the _Gleaner's_ appeal. The Marquess of
Evershed had contributed a long personal letter, which was reproduced in
the centre of the first page of every issue. The Imperialistic spirit
ran rampant throughout Great Britain.

Meanwhile, Mr. Oppner's detectives were everywhere. Inspector Sheffield,
C.I.D., was not idle. And Sheard found his position at times a dangerous
one.

He stood up, walked to the grate, and knocked out his pipe. Having
refilled and lighted it, he tiptoed upstairs, and from a convenient
window surveyed the empty road. So far as he could judge, its emptiness
was real enough. Yet on looking out a quarter of an hour earlier, he had
detected, or thought he had detected, a lurking form under the trees
some hundred yards beyond his gate.

His visit to the Astoria, the morning before, had been in response to an
invitation from Séverac Bablon, but divining that he was closely
watched, he had sent the message to Gale--an American friend whom he
knew to have just arrived--which had fallen into the hands of Mr. Aloys.
X. Alden. Sheard had actually had an appointment with Gale, and had rung
him up later in the morning--gaining confirmation of his suspicions, in
the form of Gale's story of the empty envelope.

Then, at night, his American friend had been followed to the house and
followed back again to the hotel. This had been merely humorous; but
to-night there existed more real cause of apprehension. Sheard had
received a plain correspondence card, bearing the following, in a small
neat hand:

     "Do not bolt your front door. Expect me at about one o'clock A.M."

For a time it had been exciting, absorbingly interesting, to know
himself behind the scenes of this mystery play which had all the world
for an audience. But it was a situation of quite unique danger. Séverac
Bablon was opposed to tremendous interests. Apart from the activity of
the ordinary authorities, there were those in the field against this man
of mystery to whom money, in furtherance of their end, was no object.

Sheard realised, at times--and these were uncomfortable times--that his
strange acquaintance with Séverac Bablon quite conceivably might end in
Brixton Prison.

Yet there are some respects wherein the copy-hunter and the scalp-hunter
tally. The thrill of the New Journalism has enlisted in the ranks of the
Fleet Street army some who, in a former age, must have sought their
fortune with the less mighty weapon. A love of adventure was some part
of the complement of Sheard; and now, suspecting that a Pinkerton man
lurked in the neighbourhood, and uncertain if his wife slept, he awaited
his visitor, with nerves tensely strung. But there was an exquisite
delight tingling through his veins--an appreciation of his peril wholly
pleasurable.

Faintly, he heard a key grate in the lock of the front door. The door
was opened, and gently closed.

Sheard stood up.

Into the study walked Séverac Bablon.

He was perfectly attired, as usual; wore evening-dress, and a heavy
fur-lined coat. His silk hat he held in his hand. As he stood within the
doorway, where the rays from the shaded lamp failed to touch his
features, he seemed, in the semi-light, a man more than humanly
handsome.

"The house is watched," began Sheard--and broke off.

A shadow had showed, momentarily, upon the cream of the drawn
casement-curtains. Someone was crouching on the lawn, under the study
window.

"Did you see that?" jerked the pressman. "Somebody looked in! The
curtain isn't quite drawn to at that corner."

"My dear Sheard"--Séverac Bablon's musical voice was untroubled by any
trace of apprehension--"there is no occasion to worry! Mr. Aloys. X.
Alden looked in!"

"But----"

"Had it been Inspector Sheffield there had been some cause for
excitement. Inspector Sheffield, if I am rightly informed, holds a
warrant for my arrest. Mr. Alden is an unofficial investigator."

"But he can call a constable!"

"Reflect, Sheard. If he calls a constable, what happens?"

"You are arrested!"

"Not so; but I will grant you that much for the sake of argument. To
whom would the credit fall?"

"Patently, Mr. Alden."

"Wrong! You know that it is wrong! The official service would reap every
gain! Believe me, Sheard, Mr. Alden will not reveal my presence here to
a living soul! He may try to trap me when I leave, but there will be no
clamouring on the door by members of the Metropolitan Police force, as
you seemingly apprehend!"

Séverac Bablon threw himself into the big arm-chair, and lighted a
cigarette--a yellow cigarette.

"The trick you played upon Alden yesterday was such as no man with a
sense of humour could well have resisted," he said. "But it was
indiscreet."

"I know."

"Suspicion pointed to you as the perpetrator of the card trick at
Rohscheimer's. You must not run unnecessary risks."

"It was a thrilling moment for me, when I leant over to Miss Hohsmann,
my right hand extended for the salt or something of the kind, and my
left stretched behind her chair!"

"Jesson, of course, was looking in the opposite direction?"

"I selected a moment when he was talking to Lady Vignoles, and those
shaded table lights helped me very much. I could just reach the table,
and I intentionally touched Salome's hand with mine, in laying down the
card."

"She actually saw your hand!"

"I fancy not. She felt my fingers touch hers, I think. She turned so
quickly that Jesson turned, too, and just as she was taking the card
up."

"Critical moment."

"Not in the least. My object would have been as well served if the card
had gone no further. But my infernal sense of humour prompted me to make
a bid for complicating the mystery. I dropped my arm, of course, as
Jesson turned to her, and it never occurred to Salome that the hand
which had placed the card beside her was any other than that of her
neighbour on the left, Jesson. Before she could address him, or he
address her, I inquired if I might examine the card. Jesson continued
his conversation with Lady Vignoles, and the 'second notice' passed all
around the table."

"Excellent! Do you know, Sheard, these childish little conjuring tricks
help me immensely! Can you picture Julius Rohscheimer cowering
throughout a whole night before the rod of a trousers-stretcher
projecting from a wardrobe door!"

"Was that the solution of the 'patriotic' mystery?"

"Certainly. Adeler, who was concealed in the wardrobe, armed with the
necessary written threats, made his escape directly Rohscheimer's cheque
was in his hand--leaving the rod to mount guard whilst you got the
announcement into print and induced the Marquess to pay an early morning
visit."

Séverac Bablon's handsome face looked almost boyish as he related how
the financier had been forced to play the part of a patriot. Sheard,
watching him, found new matter for wonderment.

This was the man who claimed to command the destinies of eight million
people--the man who claimed to wield the power of a Solomon. This was
Séverac Bablon, the most inscrutably mysterious being who had ever sown
wonderment throughout the continents, the man who juggled with vast
fortunes as Cinquevalli juggles with billiard-balls! This was the man
whose great velvety eyes could gleam with uncanny force, whose will
could enthrall hypnotically, for whom the police of the world searched,
for whose apprehension huge rewards were offered, whose abode was
unknown, whose accomplices were unnumbered, to whom no door was locked,
from whose all-seeing gaze no secret was secret!

It was difficult, all but impossible, to realise.

"Yet I am he," said the melodious voice.

Sheard started as though a viper had touched him. He stared at his
visitor in wide-eyed amazement.

"Heavens! Was I thinking aloud?"

"Practically. Your mind was so intensely concentrated upon certain
incidents in my career--see, your pipe is out--that, in a broad sense, I
could hear you thinking!"

Sheard laughed dryly, and relighted his pipe. Séverac Bablon's trick of
replying to unspoken questions was too singular to be forgotten lightly.

"Mr. Hohsmann is now of my friends," continued the strange visitor. "You
received the paragraph? Ah! I see it appears in your later edition."

"But Jesson?"

"Sir Leopold can never be my friend, nor do I desire it. There is an
incident in his career----You understand? I do not reproach him with it.
It should never have been recalled to him had he held his purse-strings
less tightly. But it served as a lever. It was a poor one, for, though
he does not know it, I would cast stones at no man. But it served. He
has made his contribution. I begin to achieve something, Sheard. The
_Times_ has a leader in the press showing how the Jews are the backbone
of British prosperity, and truer patriots than any whose fathers crossed
with Norman William."

He ceased speaking, abruptly, and with his eyes, drew Sheard's attention
again to the window. Since Séverac Bablon's arrival, indeed, the
journalist had glanced thither often enough. But, now, he perceived
something which made him wonder.

There was a street lamp at the corner of the road, and, his own
table-lamp leaving the further window in shade, it was possible to
detect the presence of anything immediately outside by its faint shadow.

Something round was pressed upon a corner of the lower pane.

Séverac Bablon stepped to the table and scribbled upon a sheet of
paper:--

"He has some kind of portable telephonic arrangement designed for the
purpose, attached to the glass. No doubt he can follow our conversation.
He may attempt to hold me up as I leave the house. He cannot enter, of
course, or we could arrest him on a charge of housebreaking! You have a
back gate. If you will permit me to pass through your domestic offices
and your garden, I will leave by that exit. Continue to talk for some
minutes after I am gone. Do not fear that there is any evidence of my
having been here. Alden can prove nothing."

Replacing the pencil on the tray:

"I want you to join me at a little supper on Wednesday evening," said
Séverac Bablon. "Practically all our influential friends will be
present----"

He ignored Sheard's head-shakes and expressive nods directed towards the
window.

"There is an old house which I have rented for a time at Richmond. It is
known as 'The Cedars,' and overlooks the Thames. The grounds are fairly
extensive, and bordered by two very quiet roads. In fact, it is an ideal
spot for my purpose. I will send you further particulars"--he glanced
towards the window--"in writing. We meet there on Wednesday at
nine-thirty. Can I rely upon you?"

"Yes," said Sheard, wondering at the other's indiscretion, "unless I
wire you to the contrary. I might be unable to turn up at the last
moment, of course."

"You are nervous!" Séverac Bablon smiled, and slipped from the room.

"On the contrary," said Sheard, addressing the window. "There is nothing
I enjoy better than an evening in a haunted house!"

(Perhaps, he argued, Alden was not absolutely certain of his visitor's
identity. He did not know at what point in the conversation the
telephone device had come into action. It was a pity to waste words; he
might as well endeavour to throw the eavesdropper off the scent, in
addition to covering Séverac Bablon's retreat.)

"Let us hope, Professor," he resumed, with this laudable intention,
"that the Society for Psychical Research will be the richer in knowledge
for our experiment on Wednesday evening!"

Mr. Aloys. X. Alden, with his ear to the ingenious little "electric
eavesdropper," experienced an unpleasant chill upon hearing the visitor
within addressed as "Professor."

He had conceived the idea that Sheard--whom he strongly suspected, might
hold interviews with the mysterious and elusive Séverac Bablon in the
small hours of the morning, at his own house, when the rest of the
household were retired.

Mr. Alden had watched for five nights when he knew the pressman to be at
home. On four of them Sheard's light had been extinguished before
midnight. To-night, the fifth, it had remained burning, and long
vigilance had been rewarded.

A car had drawn up at some distance from the house, and its occupant had
proceeded forward on foot. He had been admitted so rapidly that Alden
had been unable to ascertain by whom. The car, too, had been driven off
immediately. He had had no chance of taking the number; but was astute
enough to know that in any event it would have availed him little,
since, if the car were Bablon's the number would almost certainly be a
false one.

For once in a way, Mr. Alden became excited. Whom could so late a
visitor be, save one who wished to keep secret his visit? In attaching
his eavesdropper he had clumsily raised his head above the level of the
window-ledge, but he had hoped that this gross error of strategy had
passed unnoticed. For a time he had failed to pick up the conversation
until his ear became attuned to the subdued tone in which it was
conducted. Thus, he had lost the key to its purport and had had to
improvise one.

But, even so, words had passed which had amply confirmed his suspicions;
so much so that, whilst he listened, all but breathlessly, he was
devising a scheme for capturing Sheard's visitor, single-handed, as he
left the house. Furthermore, he was devising a way out of the difficulty
in the event of the captive proving to be another than Séverac Bablon.

The latter part of the duologue had puzzled him badly. The visitor
seemed to have ceased talking altogether, and Sheard's remarks had in
some inexplicable way drifted into quite a different channel. They
appeared to appertain to what had preceded them but remotely. The
relation seemed forced.

Still the visitor said nothing. Sheard continued to talk, and in upon
the mind of the detective shone a light of inspiration.

He detached the cunning little instrument, crawled across the lawn and
slunk out at the gate. Then he _ran_ around to the rear of the house. A
narrow lane there was, and into its black mouth he plunged without
hesitation.

The gate of the tradesmen's entrance was unbolted.

Alden was perfectly familiar with the nightly customs of the Sheard
establishment, and knew this to be irregular. He tilted his hat back and
scratched his head reflectively.

Then, from somewhere down the road, on the other side of the house, came
the sound of a curious whistle, an eerie minor whistle.

Like an Indian, Alden set off running. He rounded the corner as a car
whirled into view five hundred yards further along, and from the next
turning on the right. It stopped. One of its doors slammed.

It was off again. It had vanished.

Mr. Alden carefully extracted a cheroot from his case and lighted it
with loving care.




CHAPTER XIV

ZOE DREAMS


If you know the Astoria, you will remember that all around the
north-west side of the arcade-like structure, which opens on the Old
Supper Room, the Rajah Suite, the Louis Ballroom, the Edwardian
Banqueting Hall, and the Persian Lounge, are tiny cosy-corners. In one
of these you may smoke your secluded cigar, cigarette or pipe, wholly
aloof from the bustle, with its marked New Yorkist note, which
characterises the more public apartments of the giant _caravanserai_.

There is a nicely shaded light, if you wish to read, or to write, at
night. But you control this by a switch, conveniently placed, so that
the darkness which aids reflection is also at your command. Then there
is the window, opening right down to the floor, from which, if it please
you, you may study the activity of the roofless ant-hill beneath, the
restless febrility of West End London.

To such a nook Zoe Oppner retired, after a dinner but little enjoyed in
solitary splendour amid the gaiety of one of the public dining-rooms.
Her father had been called away by some mysterious business, too late in
the evening for her to make other arrangements. So she had descended and
dined, a charming, but lonely figure, at the little corner table.

In some strange way, she had more than half anticipated that Séverac
Bablon would be there. But, although there were a number of people
present whom she knew, the audacious Mr. Sanrack was not one of them.

Zoe had nodded to a number of acquaintances, but had not encouraged any
of them to disturb her solitude. The long and tiresome meal dealt with,
she had fled to the nook I have mentioned, and, with an Egyptian
cigarette between her lips, lay back watching, from the perfumed
darkness, the lights of London below.

The idea of calling upon Mary Evershed had occurred to her. Then she had
remembered that Mary was at some semi-official function of her uncle's,
Mr. Belford's. Sheila Vignoles would be at home, but Zoe began to feel
too deliciously lazy to think seriously of driving even so short a
distance.

In a big, cane lounge-chair packed with cushions she curled up
luxuriously and began to reflect.

Her reflections, it is needless to say, centred around Séverac Bablon.
Why, she asked herself, despite his deeds, did she admire and respect
him? Her mind refused to face the problem, but she felt a hot blush rise
to her cheeks. She was a traitor to her father; she could not deny it.
But at any rate she was a frank traitor, if such a state be possible.
Only that morning she had explained her position to him.

"Séverac Bablon," she had maintained, "only makes you rich men do what
you ought to do with some of your money! Even if the object weren't a
good one, even were it a ridiculous one, like making Dutchmen and
Americans buy British airships, it does make you _spend_ something. And
that's a change!"

Mr. Oppner was used to these outspoken critcisms from his daughter. He
had smiled grimly, wryly.

"I guess," had been his comment, "you'd stand up for the Bablon man,
then, if he ever came your way?"

"Sure!" Zoe had cried. "You spend too much on me, and on Pinkertons, and
not enough on people who really want it."

"You ought to join the staff of the _Gleaner_, Zoe! They specialise in
that brand of junk, and they're in the popular market at the moment,
too. They'll win the next election hands down, I'm told."

"Why don't you start a fund for Canadian emigrants?" Zoe had proceeded.
"You've made a heap of money out of Canada. Then you wouldn't have to
buy any airships, maybe!"

"I don't have to! No Roman Emperor was watched closer'n me! If that guy
gets me held up he's earnin' his money! Zoe, you're a durned unnatural
daughter!"

The thought of that conversation made her smile. To her it seemed so
ridiculous that her father should guard his expenditure like one who has
but a few dollars between himself and starvation. The gold fever was an
incomprehensible disease to the daughter of the man who was more
savagely bitten with it than almost any other living plutocrat.

Musing upon these matters, Zoe slept, and dreamed.

She dreamed that she stood in the gateway of an ancient city, amid a
throng of people attired in the picturesque garb of the East. About her,
the city was _en fête_. Before her stretched the desert, an undulating
ocean of greyness, a dry ocean parched by a merciless sun.

Barbaric music sounded; the clashing of cymbals and quiver of strange
instruments rendering it unlike any music she had ever heard. A
procession was issuing from the gateway with much pomp. There were
venerable, white-bearded priests, and there were girls, too, arrayed in
festive garb, their hair bedecked with flowers. Their gay ranks, amid
which the slow-pacing patriarchs struck a sombre note, passed out across
the sands.

They were met by what seemed to be the advance guard of a great army. A
man whose golden armour glittered hotly in the blazing sun descended
from a chariot to receive them.

Then, amid music and shouting and the beating of drums, the procession
returned, surrounding the chariot in which the golden one rode. It was
filled to the brim with flowers.

As it passed in at the gate, the occupant stooped, took up a huge lily
and threw it to Zoe. His eyes met hers. And, amid that panoply of
long-ago, she recognised Séverac Bablon.

She dreamed on.

She lay in a huge temple, prone upon its marble floor, in the shadow of
a pillar curiously carven. The lily lay beside her. Two men stood upon
the other side of the pillar. She was invisible from where they were,
and in low voices they spoke together, and Zoe listened.

"It overlooks the river," said one. "Two sides of the garden are on
streets as lonely as the middle of the Atlantic. A narrow lane joins and
runs right down the back. We want six or eight men, as well as you and
I."

"What," inquired the other (his voice seemed strangely familiar), "is
the matter with Scotland Yard?"

A moment's silence followed. Then:

"I didn't want to call them in. Largely, I'm out for reputation."

"Mostly," came a drawling reply, "I'm out for business!"

A veil seemed to have taken the place of the carven pillar, a thin,
dream-veil. Although, in her curious mental state, Zoe could not know
it, this was the veil which separated dreamland from reality.

"Martin can come with us. The other two boys will have to hang on to the
tails of Mr. Elschild and Sheard. We mustn't neglect the rest of the
programme because this item looks like a top-liner. I asked Sullivan if
he could draft me half-a-dozen smart boys for Wednesday evening, and he
said yep."

"More expense! What do you want to go and get men from a private
detective agency for, when there's official police whose business it is
to do it for nothing?"

"I thought there'd be people there, maybe, with big names. If we're in
charge we can hush up what we like. If Scotland Yard had the job in hand
there'd be a big scandal."

"You weren't thinkin' of that so much as huggin' all the credit! This
blame man'll ruin me anyway. I can see it. What have you found out about
this house?"

"It's called 'The Cedars' and it fronts on J---- Road. It's just been
leased to a Dr. Ignatius Phillips, who's supposed to be a brain
specialist. I've weighed up every inch of ground and my plan's this: Two
boys come along directly after dusk, and take up their posts behind the
hedge of the back lane; ten minutes after, two more make themselves
scarce on the west side and two more on the towing-path. There's a thick
clump of trees with some railings around, right opposite the door. You
and I will hide there with Martin. We'll see who goes in. There's just a
short, crescent-shaped drive, and only a low hedge. When everybody has
arrived, _we_ march up to the front door. As soon as it's opened, in we
go, a whole crush of us! The house will be surrounded----"

"It sounds a bit on the dangerous side!"

"There'll be plenty of us--four or five."

"Make it six. He's got such a crowd of accomplices!"

"Six of us, then----"

"I wish you'd let Scotland Yard take it in hand."

"As you please. It's for you to say. But they have made so many
blunders----"

"You're right! Hang the expense! I'll see to this business myself!"

"Then we shall want rather more men than I'd arranged for. Suppose we go
and ring up Sullivan's?"

Zoe was wide awake now. A door shut. She sat up with a start. The
darkness was redolent of strong tobacco-smoke, the smoke of a cheroot.
She realised, instantly, what had happened--

Her father and Alden had entered the little room for an undisturbed chat
and had not troubled to switch the light on. Many people like to talk in
the dark; J.J. Oppner was one of them. Hidden amid the cushions of the
big chair, she had not been seen. Since they had found the room in
darkness, her presence had not been suspected. And what had she thus
overheard?

A plot to capture Séverac Bablon!

Now, indeed, she was face to face with the hard facts of her situation.
What should she do? What _could_ she do?

He must be warned. It was impossible to think of seeing him a
prisoner--seeing him in the dock like a common felon. It was impossible
to think of meeting his eyes, his grave, luminous eyes, and reading
reproach there!

But how should she act? This was Tuesday, and they had spoken of
Wednesday as the day when the attempt was to be made. If only she had a
confidant! It was so hard to come, unaided, to a decision respecting the
right course to follow.

Laurel Cottage, Dulwich Village, that was the address which he had
confided to her. But how should she get there? To go in the car was
tantamount to taking the chauffeur into her confidence. She must go,
then, in a cab.

Zoe was a member of that branch of American society which laughs at the
theory of chaperons. There was nothing to prevent her going where she
pleased, when she pleased, and how she pleased. Her mind, then, was made
up very quickly.

She ran to her room, and without troubling her maid, quickly changed
into a dark tweed costume and put on one of those simple, apparently
untrimmed hats which the masculine mind values at about three-and-nine,
but which actually cost as much as a masculine dress suit.

Fearful of meeting her father in the lifts, she went down by the stair,
and slipped out of the hotel unnoticed.

"A cab, madam?"

She nodded. Then, just as the man raised his whistle, she shook her
head.

"No thanks," she said. "I think I'll walk."

She passed out across the courtyard and mingled with the stream of
pedestrians. Right at the beginning of her adventure she had nearly
blundered. She laughed, with a certain glee. It was novel and
exhilarating, this conspiracy against the powers that be. There was
something that appealed to the adventurous within her in thus being
under the necessity of covering her tracks.

Certainly, she was a novice. It would never have done to lay a trail
right from the hotel door to Laurel Cottage.

She walked into Charing Cross Station and approached the driver of the
first vacant taxi that offered.

"I want to go to Dulwich Village."

The man pulled a wry face. If he undertook that journey it would mean
that he would in all probability have to run back empty, and then he
would miss the theatre people.

"Sorry, miss. But I don't think I've got enough petrol!"

"Oh, how tiresome."

The American accent, now suddenly pronounced, induced him to change his
mind.

"Should you want me to bring you back, miss?"

"Sure! I don't want to be left there!"

"All right, miss. Jump in."

"But I thought you hadn't enough petrol?"

The man grinned.

"I didn't want to be stranded right out there with no chance of a fare,
miss!" he confessed.

Zoe laughed, good-naturedly, and entered the cab.

The man set off, and soon Zoe found herself upon unfamiliar ground.
Through slummish localities they passed, and through popular suburbs,
where all the activity of the West End prevailed without its
fascinating, cosmopolitan glitter.

Dulwich Village was reached at last, and the cab was drawn up on a
corner bearing a signpost.

"Which house did you want, miss?"

"I want Laurel Cottage."

The taxi-man scratched his head.

"You see, some of the houses in the village aren't numbered," he said;
"and I don't know this part very well. I never heard of Laurel Cottage.
Any idea which way it lies?"

"Not the slightest. Do you think you could find out for me?"

A policeman was standing on the opposite corner, and, crossing, the
taxi-man held some conversation with him. He returned very shortly.

"It's round at the back of the College buildings, miss," he reported.

Again the cab proceeded onward. This was a curiously lonely spot, more
lonely than Zoe could have believed to exist within so short a distance
from the ever-throbbing heart of London. She began to wish that she had
shared her secret with another; that she had a companion. After all, how
little, how very little, she knew of Séverac Bablon. With all her
romantic and mystic qualities Zoe was at heart a shrewd American girl,
and not one to be readily beguiled by any man, however fascinating. She
was not afraid, but she admitted to herself that the expedition was
compromising, if not dangerous. If she ever had occasion to come again,
she would confide in Mary and come in her company.

"This road isn't paved, miss. I don't think I can get any further."

The cab, after jolting horribly, had come to a stand-still. Zoe got out.

"Is Laurel Cottage much farther on?"

"It stands all alone, on the left, about a hundred yards along."

"Thank you. Please wait here."

Zoe walked ahead. It was a very lonely spot. The cab had stopped before
some partially-constructed houses. Beyond that lay vacant lots, on
either side. In front, showed a clump of trees, and, at the back of them
on a slight acclivity, a big house.

The night was fine but moonless. Save for the taxi-man and herself, it
would seem that nothing moved anywhere about. She came up level with the
trees. There was a kind of very small lodge among them, closely invested
with ragged shrubs and overshadowed by heavier foliage.

Beyond, farther along the road, showed nothing but uninviting darkness,
solitude and vacancy. This then must be the place.

Zoe peered between the bars of the gate. No light was anywhere to be
seen. The house appeared to be deserted. Could the cabman have made a
mistake or have been misinformed?

Zoe carried a little case, containing, amongst a number of other things,
a tiny matchbox. She extracted and lighted a match. There was no breeze,
or she must certainly have failed to accomplish the operation.

Shading the light with her gloved hands, she bent and examined some
half-defaced white characters which adorned the top bar of the gate; by
which means she made out the words:--

     LAUREL COTTAGE

There had been no mistake, then. She opened the gate, and by a narrow,
moss-grown path through the bushes, came to the door. All was still. It
was impossible to suppose the place inhabited.

No bell was to be found, but an iron knocker hung upon the low door.

Zoe knocked.

The way in which the sound echoed through the little cottage almost
frightened her. It seemed to point to emptiness. Surely Laurel Cottage
must be unfurnished.

There was no reply, no sign of life.

She knocked again. She knocked a third time.

Then the stillness of the place, and the darkness of the long avenue
away up where the trees met in a verdant arch, became intolerable. She
turned and walked quickly out on to the road again.




CHAPTER XV

AT "THE CEDARS"


Zoe was nonplussed. She was unable to believe that this deserted place
was the spot referred to by Séverac Bablon. She still clung to the idea
that there must be some mistake, though she had the evidence of her own
eyes that the cottage was called Laurel Cottage.

The notion of writing a note and slipping it through the letter-box came
to her. But she remembered that there was no letter-box. Then, such a
course might be dangerous.

She looked gratefully towards the beam of light from the cab lamps. The
solitude was getting on her nerves. Yes, she determined, she _would_
write a note, and put it under the door. She need not sign it.

With that determination, she returned to where the taxi-man waited.

"Find it all right, miss?"

"Yes, but there's no one at home. I want to write a note and I should
like you to go and slip it under the door for me. It is so lonely there,
it has made me feel quite nervous. I can mind the cab!"

The man smiled and touched his cap. Taxi-men are possessed of
intuitions; and this one knew perfectly well that he had a good fare and
one that would pay him well enough for his trouble.

"Certainly, miss, with pleasure."

"Have you a piece of paper and a pencil?"

The man tore a leaf from a notebook and handed Zoe a pencil. Using the
book as a pad, she, by the light of the near-side lamp, wrote:

"Your meeting at The Cedars known to Mr. Alden. Don't go."

"It is such a tiny piece of paper," she said. "He--they may not see it."

"I believe I've got an envelope somewhere, miss. It's got the company's
name and address printed on it, and it won't be extra clean, but----"

"Oh, thank you! If you could find it----"

It was found, and proved to be even more dirty than the man's words had
indicated. Zoe enclosed the note, wetted a finger of her glove, and
stuck down the lapel.

"Will you please put it under the door?"

"Yes, miss. Shan't be a minute."

He was absent but a few moments.

"Back to Charing Cross Station," directed Zoe, and got into the cab
again.

She had done her best. But, throughout the whole of the journey to the
Strand, her mind was occupied with dire possibilities. It almost alarmed
her, this too keen interest which she found herself taking in the
fortunes of Séverac Bablon.

At Charing Cross the taxi-man received a sovereign. It was more than
double his fare. He knew, then, that his professional instincts had not
misled him, but that he had been driving an American millionairess.

In the foyer of the Astoria, Mary Evershed was waiting, with Mrs.
Wellington Lacey in stately attendance. Mary was simply radiant. She
sprang forward to meet Zoe, both hands outsretched.

"Wherever have you been?" she cried.

"Picture show!" said Zoe, with composed mendacity, glancing at the
aristocratic chaperon.

"I could not possibly wait until the morning," Mary ran on, her eyes
sparkling with excitement. "I had to run along here straight from
horrid, stuffy Downing Street to tell you. Dick has inherited a
fortune."

"What!" said Zoe, and grasped both her friend's hands. "Inherited a
fortune!"

"Well--not quite a fortune, perhaps--five thousand pounds."

And John Jacob Oppner's daughter, a real chum to the core, never even
smiled. For she knew what five thousand pounds meant to these two, knew
that it meant more than five _hundred_ thousands meant to her; since it
meant the difference between union and parting, between love and loss,
meant that Sir Richard Haredale could now shake off the fetters that
bound him, and look the world in the face.

"Oh, Mary," she said, and her pretty eyes were quite tearful. "How very,
very glad I am! Isn't it just great! It sounds almost too good to be
true! Come right upstairs and tell me all about it!"

In Zoe's cosy room the story was told, not a romantic one in its
essentials, but romantic enough in its potential sequel. A remote aunt
was the benefactress; and her death, news of which had been communicated
to Sir Richard that evening, had enriched him by five thousand pounds
and served to acquaint him, at its termination, with the existence of a
relation whom he had never met and rarely heard of.

Mr. Oppner came in towards the close of the story, and offered dry
congratulations in that singular voice which seemed to have been
preserved, for generations, in sand.

"He ought to invest it," he said. "Runeks are a good thing."

"You see," explained Mary. "He hasn't actually got it yet, only the
solicitor's letter. And he says he will be unable to believe in his good
luck until the money is actually in the bank!"

"Never let money lie idle," preached Oppner. "Banks fatten on such
foolishness. Look at Hague. Ain't _he_ fat?"

Though it must have been imperceptible to another, Zoe detected, in her
father's manner, a suppressed excitement; and augured from it a belief
that the capture of Séverac Bablon was imminent.

However, when Mary was gone, Mr. Oppner said nothing of the matter
which, doubtless, occupied his mind, and Zoe felt too guilty to broach
the subject. They retired at last, without having mentioned the name of
Séverac Bablon.

Zoe found sleep to be impossible, and lay reading until long past one
o'clock. But when the book dropped from her hands, she slept soundly and
dreamlessly.

In the morning she scanned her mail anxiously. But there was nothing to
show that her warning had been received. Could it be that Séverac Bablon
had suddenly deserted the cottage for some reason, and that he would
to-night walk, blindly, into the trap prepared for him?

She was anxious to see her father. And his manner, at breakfast, but
dimly veiled an evident exultation. He ate very little, leaving her at
the table, with one of his dry though not unkindly apologies, to go off
with the stoical Mr. Alden.

If only she had a friend in whom she might confide, whose advice she
might seek. Zoe laughed a little to think how excited she was on behalf
of Séverac Bablon and how placidly she surveyed the possibility of her
father's being relieved of a huge sum of money.

"That's the worst of knowing Pa's so rich!" she mused philosophically.

The morning dragged wearily on. Noon came. Nothing and nobody interested
Zoe. She went to be measured for a gown and could not support the tedium
of the operation.

"Send someone to the Astoria to-morrow," she said. "I just can't stand
here any longer."

In the afternoon she called upon Sheila Vignoles, but everyone, from
Lord Vignoles to the butler, irritated her. She came away with a
headache. With the falling of dusk, her condition grew all but
insupportable. Her father had been absent all day. She had met no one
who would be likely to know anything about the night's expedition.

She sat looking out from her window at the Embankment, where lights were
now glowing, point after point, through the deepening gloom.

It was as she stood there, vainly wondering what was going forward, that
her father, his spare figure enveloped in a big motor coat, his cap
pulled down upon his brow, walked along Richmond High Street beside Mr.
Alden.

"By the time we get there," said the latter, rolling the inevitable
cheroot from one corner of his mouth to the other, "it will be dark
enough for our purpose. It's a warm night, and dry, which is fortunate,
and I've marked a place right opposite the gate where we can lie all
snug until we're wanted."

"Can you rely on Sullivan's men?"

"He's sending eight of the best. At his office, this afternoon I went
over a plan of the place with them. It's impossible to march a troop up
to the house to reconnoitre. They know exactly what they've got to do.
It will be covered all around. A cat won't be able to come out of The
Cedars, sir, without being noted!"

"Yep. And when we march up to the door?"

"Directly it's opened," explained Alden patiently, "I'll _hold_ it open!
Then, in go five Sullivan men, Martin and you. But there'll still be a
man covering every egress from the house. If anybody tries to get out
there'll be someone to hold him up and to whistle for more help if it's
needed."

"Seems all right," said Oppner; "if we don't get loaded up with lead. Is
this place much further? We seem to have been walkin' up this blame hill
for hours."

"See that white milestone? Well, the first gate is fifty yards beyond,
on the right."

"Have the crowd arrived yet?"

"Some of them. They're drafting up singly and in couples. There ought to
be four on the river side of the place by now, and Martin waiting
somewhere around the front."

"Four to come, yet?"

"Yep. Two for the other gate of the drive, and two for the lane that
leads down to the river."

They plodded on in silence. Abreast of the milestone, but without
stopping, Alden whistled softly.

He was answered from somewhere among the trees bordering the left of the
road.

"That's Martin!" he said. "Come on, Mr. Oppner, through this gap in the
fence."

Mr. Oppner crawled, in undignified silence, through the gap indicated.

"You see," explained Alden's voice out of the gloom, "farther along are
open rails and dense bushes. That's where we're going to watch from.
We'll see every soul that comes up."

"You're stone sure it's to-night they arranged?"

Patiently, Alden replied: "Stone sure."

"Because," drawled Oppner, stumbling along in the darkness, "this is not
in my line."

"_Sss!_" came from close at hand.

Mr. Oppner started.

"That you, Martin?" from Alden.

"Yes; no one has gone in yet. But a ground floor room is lighted up, and
also the conservatory."

"Right."

There was a momentary faint gleam of light. Mr. Alden was consulting his
electrically-lighted watch.

"Time they were all posted," he said. "Martin, do the rounds. Hustle!"

Martin was heard slipping away through the bushes. Then came silence.
Oppner and Alden were now at a point directly opposite a gate, and in
full view of the house. Many of the windows were illuminated.

"Does the lawn slope down to the towpath?" came Oppner's voice.

"Sure. There are men on the towpath."

Silence fell once more. From somewhere down the road, in the direction
of Richmond, was wafted a faint tinkling sound. Oppner heard Alden
moving.

"I'll have to leave you for a minute," said the detective. "Don't be
scared if Martin comes back."

Without waiting for a reply, Alden departed. Mr. Oppner heard him
brushing against the bushes in passing. Crouching there uncomfortably,
and looking out across the road to the gateway of The Cedars, Oppner saw
a singular thing, a thing that made him wonder.

He saw Alden run swiftly across from the gap in the fence by which they
had entered their hiding-place, to the gate opposite. He saw him run in.
Then he disappeared. Whilst Oppner was thrashing his brains for a
solution to this man[oe]uvre, a faint rattling sound drew his gaze down
the hill.

Someone was approaching on a bicycle!

Almost holding his breath, he watched. Nearer came the rider, and
nearer. Immediately before the gate of The Cedars he dismounted. He was
a telegraph messenger.

At that moment Alden came strolling out, smoking his cigar and pulling
on a pair of gloves.

"Hullo, boy!" he said; his voice was clearly audible to the listening
Oppner. "Got a wire for me? I've been expecting it all the evening."

The boy opened his wallet, but with some hesitation.

"Dr. Phillips," continued Alden, "that right?"

The boy hesitated no longer.

"Phillips, yes, sir," he said, and handed the telegram to Alden.

With a nonchalant air which excited Mr. Oppner's admiration, Alden
walked to a lamp some little distance away, tore open the yellow
envelope, and read the message.

"All right, boy," he said. "No reply. Here, catch!"

He tossed the boy a coin, and with a touch of genius which showed him to
be a really great detective, halted a moment, scratched his chin, and as
the boy again mounted his bicycle, re-entered the gate of The Cedars.

"That's real cute!" murmured Oppner.

The boy having ridden off, Alden slipped warily out on to the road, ran
across, and was lost to view. Presently a rustling in the bushes told of
his return to Oppner's side.

"It's from Sheard," whispered the detective. "Our man must have written
him further particulars, same as he said he'd do. It just reads:
'Detained. S.' But it was handed in at Fleet Street, and I haven't any
doubt who sent it."

"He's smart, is Sheard," said Mr. Oppner. "He smelled trouble, or maybe
he got wise to us----"

_"Sss!"_

"That you, Martin?"--from Alden.

"All right. Everybody seems to be posted. They're all finely out of
sight, too."

"Good. The newspaper man isn't coming. See me get the wire?"

"Yes. I wonder if the rest will come."

"Hope so. I don't want to have to open the ball, because until some
visitors have gone in we haven't got any real evidence that Séverac
Bablon is there himself."

"Quiet," said Martin.

A measured tread proclaimed itself, drew nearer, and a policeman passed
their hiding-place. When the regular footsteps had died away again:

"If _he_ knew who's leased The Cedars," murmured Alden, "he'd be a
sergeant sooner than he expects."

Which remark was the last contributed by any of the party for some
considerable time. Alden's description of the road before The Cedars as
a lonely one was fully justified. From the time of Martin's return until
that when the big car drove up and turned into the drive, not a solitary
pedestrian passed their hiding-place.

A laggard moon sailed out from a cloud-bank and painted the road white
as far as the eye could follow it. Then came a breeze from the river, to
sing drearily through the trees. In the intervals, when the breeze was
still, its absence seemed in some way, to stimulate the watchers' power
of hearing, so that they could detect vague sounds which proceeded from
the river. The creak of oars told of a late rower on the stream--a voice
was wafted up to them, to be drowned in the sighing of the leaves set
swaying by the new breeze.

Then came the car.

The whirr of the motor announced its coming from afar off; but, so
swiftly did it travel, that it was upon them a moment later. As it swung
around and on to the drive of The Cedars its number showed clearly.

"3509," said Martin. "That's Mr. Antony Elschild!"

"Gee!" said Oppner, and his sandy voice shook somewhat, perhaps owing to
the chill of the breeze. "This is getting real exciting!"

The car was delayed some little time before the door of the house, then
driven around, and out at the further gate of the drive. It returned by
the way it had come, racing down the hill at something considerably
exceeding the legal speed. The _thud-thud-thud_ of the motor died away,
and became inaudible.

"I'm glad the police aren't with us, and yet sorry," said Oppner. "This
is a whole-hog conspiracy properly. No wonder he was so hard to catch;
look at the class of people he's got in with him! Think of Elschild!
Gee! There's goin' to be a scene in a minute."

"For the present," said Alden, "we'll make no move; we'll just sit
tight. There's maybe a lot to arrive yet."

Just before the breeze came creeping up from the river again,
_thud-thud-thud_ was borne to their ears. Another car was approaching.




CHAPTER XVI

THE LAMP AND THE MASK


"10761," said Alden. "I wonder whose car that is."

None of the watchful trio had any idea. But whomever was within it, the
second car performed exactly the same man[oe]uvres as the first, and, a
few moments after its appearance, was lost to sight and hearing once
more.

But a matter of seconds later, came the familiar _thud-thud-thud_; and a
third car plunged up the hill and went swinging around the drive. Again,
no one of the three was able to recognise the number. Out by the further
gate of the drive it passed, turned, and flashed by them in the
darkness, to go leaping down the slope.

"Three," said Alden. "I wonder if there's any more."

His tone was thoughtful.

"Say," began Mr. Oppner, "we'd better get on with it now, because----"

"I know," Alden interrupted, "there may be only one more to come? You're
thinking that, after all those expected have arrived, there'll be
trouble in getting the door to open?"

"I was thinking that, too," said Martin. "Maybe they're all arrived as
it is; but we stand a still worse chance if we wait."

"Come on," said Mr. Oppner, with a rising excitement evident in his
voice. "We know there's one big fish in the net, anyway!"

_Thud-thud-thud!_

"There's another car coming," cried Alden. "Hurry up, Mr. Oppner! This
way. Mind your head through this broken part. We'll be on the steps as
the car comes around the drive!"

They crept through the gap below and ran across the road, Oppner as
actively as either of his companions. Already, the white beam of the
headlight was cutting-the gloom, below, where the road was heavily
bordered with trees.

"Just in time!"

Past the gate they ran, and pattered on to the drive. Behind them, a big
car was just spinning past the gate. As it came leaping along the drive
Alden ran up the four stone steps to the door and jammed his thumb hard
against the bell button.

At the same moment, Martin whistled shrilly, three times.

Whereupon affairs began to move in meteoric fashion.

Several people came bundling out of the car. From the gloom all about it
there sounded the scamper of hurrying feet.

The door was thrown open, and a blaze of light swept the steps.

Alden leapt over the threshold, pistol in hand, yelling at the same
time:

"Follow me, boys!"

Like the swoop of heated play to a goal burst a human wave upon the
steps. Oppner and Martin were swept irresistibly upward and inward. They
were surrounded, penned in. Then:

"Break away, you goldarned idiot!" rose Alden's angry voice ahead.

The lights went out. The door slammed.

"Alden!" cried Mr. Oppner. "Alden!"

Someone pinioned him from behind.

"There's a mistake, you blamed ass!" he screamed. "I ain't one of 'em!
Alden! Martin!"

A hand was pressed firmly over his mouth, and with veins swelling up and
eyes starting from his head in impotent fury, Mr. Oppner was hustled
forward through the darkness.

Around him a number of people seemed to be moving, and when he found his
feet upon stairs, several unseen hands were outstretched to thrust him
upward. The darkness was impenetrable.

Apparently the stair was uncarpeted, as likewise was the corridor along
which he presently found himself proceeding. The echo of many footsteps
rang through the house. It sounded shell-like, empty. Then it seemed to
him that not so many were about him. He felt his revolver slide from his
hip-pocket. He was pushed gently forward, and a door closed behind him.
The sound of footsteps died away with that of whispering voices.

Came a sudden angry roar, muffled, distant, he thought in the voice of
Alden. It was stifled, cut off ere it had come to full crescendo, in a
very significant manner. Silence, then, fell about him, the chill
silence of an empty house.

Cautiously he turned and felt for the door, which he knew to be close
behind him. He was obsessed by a childish, though not unnatural, fear of
falling through some trap.

He touched the door-knob, turned it. As he had anticipated, the door was
locked. He wondered if there were any windows to this strangely dark
apartment. With his fingers touching the wall, he crept slowly forward,
halting at every other step to listen; but the night gave up no sound.

The tenth pace brought him to a corner. He turned off at right angles,
still pursuing the wall, and came upon shutters, closely barred. He
pressed on, came to another corner; proceeded, another; and finally
touched the door-knob again.

This was a square room, apparently, and unfurnished. But what might not
yawn for him in the middle of the floor? He remembered that the river
ran at the end of the garden.

Pressing his ear to the door, he listened intently.

Without, absolutely nothing stirred. He drew a quick, sibilant breath,
and turned, planting his back against the door and clenching his fists.

Suddenly it had been borne in upon his mind that something, someone, was
in the room with him!

Vainly he sought to peer through the darkness. His throat was parched.

A dim glow was born in the heart of the gloom. Scarce able to draw
breath, fearing what he might see, yet more greatly fearing to look
away, even for an instant, Mr. Oppner stared and stared. His eyes ached.

Brighter became the glow, and proclaimed itself a ball of light. It
illuminated the face that was but a few inches removed from it. In the
midst of that absolute darkness the effect was indescribably weird.
Nothing for some moments was visible but just that ball of light and the
dark face with the piercing eyes gleaming out from slits in a silk mask.

Then the ball became fully illuminated, and Oppner saw that it was some
unfamiliar kind of lamp, and that it rested in a sort of metal tripod
upon a plain deal table, otherwise absolutely bare.

Save for this table, the lamp, and a chair, the room was entirely
innocent of furniture. Upon the chair, with his elbows resting on the
table, sat a man in evening dress. He was very dark, very well groomed,
and seemingly very handsome; but the black silk half-mask effectually
disguised him. His eyes were arresting. Mr. Oppner did not move, and he
could not look away.

For he knew that he stood in the presence of Séverac Bablon.

The latter pushed something across the table in Oppner's direction.

"Your cheque-book," he said, "and a fountain pen."

Mr. Oppner gulped; did not stir, did not speak. Séverac Bablon's voice
was vaguely familiar to him.

"You are the second richest man in the United States," he continued,
"and the first in parsimony. I shall mulct you in one hundred thousand
pounds!"

"You'll never get it!" rasped Oppner.

"No? Well let us weigh the possibilities, one against the other. There
have been protests, from rival journals, against the _Gleaner's_
acceptance of foreign money for British national purposes. This I had
anticipated, but such donations have had the effect of stimulating the
British public. If the cheques already received, and your own, which you
are about to draw, are not directly devoted to the purpose for which
they are intended, I can guarantee that you shall not be humiliated by
their return!"

"Ah!" sighed Oppner.

"The _Gleaner_ newspaper has made all arrangements with an important
English firm to construct several air vessels. The materials and the
workmanship will be British throughout, and the vessels will be placed
at the disposal of the authorities. The source of the _Gleaner's_ fund
thus becomes immaterial. But, in recognition of the subscribers, the
vessels will be named 'Oppner I.,' 'Oppner II.,' 'Hague I.,' etc."

"Yep?"

"At some future time we may understand one another better, Mr. Oppner.
For the present I shall make no overtures. I have no desire unduly to
mystify you, however. The men whom Mr. Martin of Pinkerton's, found
surrounding this house were not the men from Sullivan's Agency, but
friends of my own. Sullivans were informed at the last moment that the
raid had been abandoned. The car, again, which you observed, is my own.
I caused it to be driven to and fro between here and Richmond Bridge for
your especial amusement, altering the number on each occasion. Finally,
any outcry you may care to raise will pass unnoticed, as The Cedars has
been leased for the purpose of a private establishment for the care of
mental cases."

"You're holding me to ransom?"

"In a sense. But you would not remain here. I should remove you to a
safer place. My car is waiting."

"You can't hold me for ever." Mr. Oppner was gathering courage. This
interview was so very businesslike, so dissimilar from the methods of
American brigandage, that his keen, commercial instincts were coming to
the surface. "Any time I get out I can tell the truth and demand my
money back."

"It is so. But on the day that you act in that manner, within an hour
from the time, your New York mansion will be burned to a shell, without
loss of life, but with destruction of property considerably exceeding in
value the amount of your donation to the _Gleaner_ fund. I may add that
I shall continue to force your expenditures in this way, Mr. Oppner,
until such time as I bring you to see the falsity of your views. On that
day we shall become friends."

"Ah!"

"You may wonder why I have gone to the trouble to make a captive of you,
here, when by means of such a menace alone I might have achieved my
object; I reply that you possess that stubborn type of disposition which
only succumbs to _force majeure_. Your letter to the _Gleaner_
explaining your views respecting the Dominion, and proposing that an
air-vessel be christened 'The Canada,' is here, typed; you have only to
sign it. The future, immediate, and distant is entirely in your own
hands, Mr. Oppner. You will remain my guest until I have your cheque and
your signature to this letter. You will always be open to sudden demands
upon your capital, from me, so long as you continue, by your wrongful
employment of the power of wealth, to blacken the Jewish name. For it is
because you are a Jew that I require these things of you."




CHAPTER XVII

THE DAMASCUS CURTAIN


The British public poured contributions into the air-fleet fund with a
lavishness that has never been equalled in history. For, after the
stupendous sums, each one a big fortune in itself, which the Jewish
financiers had subscribed, every man who called himself a Britisher (and
who thought that Britain really needed airships) came forward with his
dole.

There was a special service held at the Great Synagogue in Aldgate, and
Juda was exalted in public estimation to a dizzy pinnacle.

One morning, whilst the enthusiasm was at its height, Mr. Oppner rose
from the breakfast table upon hearing the 'phone bell ring.

"Zoe," he said, "if that's a reporter, tell him I'm ill in bed."

He shuffled from the room. Since the night of the abortive raid upon The
Cedars he had showed a marked aversion from the society of newspaper
men. Regarding the facts of his donation to the fund he had vouchsafed
no word to Zoe. Closely had the story of his doings at Richmond been
hushed up; as closely as a bottomless purse can achieve such silencing,
but, nevertheless, Zoe knew the truth.

Sheard was shown in.

"Excuse me," he said hastily, "but I wanted to ask Mr. Oppner if there
is anything in this article"--he held out a proof slip--"that he would
like altered. It's for the _Magazine of Empire_. They're having
full-page photographs of all the Aero Millionaires, that's what they
call them now!"

"Can you leave it?" asked Zoe. "He is dressing--and not in a very good
temper."

"Right!" said Sheard promptly, and laid the slip on the table. "'Phone me
if there is anything to come out. Good-bye."

Zoe was reading the proof when her father came in again.

"Newspaper men been here?" he drawled. "Thought so. What a poor old
addle-pated martyr I am."

"Listen," began Zoe, "this is an article all about you! It quotes Dr.
Herman Hertz, that is to say, it represents you as quoting him! It
says:--

"'The true Jew is an integral part of the life and spiritual endeavour
of every nation where Providence has allotted his home. And as for the
Jews of this Empire, which is earth's nearest realisation hitherto of
justice coupled with humanity, finely has a noble Anglo-Jewish soldier,
Colonel Goldschmidt, expressed it: "Loyalty to the flag for which the
sun once stood still can only deepen our devotion to the flag on which
the sun never sets."' Is that all right?"

"H'm!" said Oppner. "Have Rohscheimer and Jesson seen this article?"

"Don't know!" answered Zoe.

"Because," explained Oppner, "they've showed their blame devotion to the
flag on which the sun don't set, same as me, and if _they_ can stand it,
my hide's as tough as theirs, I reckon."

It was whilst Mr. Oppner was thus expressing himself that Sheard, who,
having left the proof at the Astoria, had raced back to the club to keep
an appointment, quitted the club again (his man had disappointed him),
and walked down the court to Fleet Street.

Mr. Aloys. X. Alden, arrayed in his capacious tweed suit, a Stetson felt
hat, and a pair of brogues with eloquent Broadway welts, liquidated the
business that had detained him in the "Cheshire Cheese" and drifted idly
in the same direction.

A taxi-driver questioned Sheard with his eyebrows, but the pressman,
after a moment's hesitancy, shook his head, and, suddenly running out
into the stream of traffic, swung himself on a westward bound bus.
Pausing in the act of lighting a Havana cigarette, Alden hailed the
disappointed taxi-driver and gave him rapid instructions. The
broad-brimmed Stetson disappeared within the cab, and the cab darted off
in the wake of the westward bound bus.

Such was the price that Mr. Thomas Sheard must pay for the reputation
won by his inspired articles upon Séverac Bablon. For what he had learnt
of him during their brief association had enabled that clever journalist
to invest his copy with an atmosphere of "exclusiveness" which had
attracted universal attention.

As a less pleasant result, the staff of the _Gleaner_--and Sheard in
particular--were being kept under strict surveillance.

Sheard occupied an outside seat, and as the bus travelled rapidly
westward, Fleet Street and the Strand offered to his gratified gaze one
long vista of placards:

     "M. DUQUESNE IN LONDON."

That item was exclusive to the _Gleaner_, and had been communicated to
Sheard upon a plain correspondence card, such as he had learnt to
associate with Séverac Bablon. The _Gleaner_, amongst all London's
news-sheets, alone could inform a public, strung to a tense pitch of
excitement, that M. Duquesne, of the Paris police, was staying at the
Hotel Astoria, in connection with the Séverac Bablon case.

As the bus stopped outside Charing Cross Station, Sheard took a quick
and anxious look back down the Strand. A taxi standing near the gates
attracted his attention, for, although he could not see the Stetson
inside, he noted that the cab was engaged, and, therefore, possibly
occupied. It was sufficient, in these days of constant surveillance, to
arouse his suspicion; it was more than sufficient to-day to set his
brain working upon a plan to elude the hypothetical pursuer. He had
become, latterly, an expert in detecting detectives, and now his wits
must be taxed to the utmost.

For he had a correspondence card in his pocket which differed from those
he was used to, in that it bore the address, 70A Finchley Road, and
invited him to lunch with Séverac Bablon that day!

With the detectives of New York and London busy, and, now, with the
famous Duquesne in town, Sheard well might survey the Strand behind,
carefully, anxiously, distrustfully.

Séverac Bablon, so far as he was aware, no longer had any actual hold
upon him. There was no substantial reason why he should not hand the
invitation--bearing that address which one man, alone, in London at that
hour cheerfully would have given a thousand pounds to know--to the
proper authorities. But Séverac Bablon had appealed strongly,
irresistibly, to something within Sheard that had responded with warmth
and friendship. Despite his reckless, lawless deeds, the pressman no
more would have thought of betraying him than of betraying the most
sacred charge. In fact, as has appeared, he did not hesitate to aid and
abet him in his most outrageous projects. But yet he wondered at the
great, the incredible audacity of this super-audacious man who now had
entrusted to him the secret of his residence.

Hastily descending from the bus, he walked quickly forward to the
nearest tobacconist's and turned in the entrance to note if the man who
might be in the taxi would betray his presence.

He did.

The Stetson appeared from the window, and a pair of keen grey eyes fixed
themselves upon the door wherein Sheard was lurking.

A rapid calculation showed the pressman where lay his best chance.
Darting across the road, he dived, rabbit-like, into the burrow of the
Tube, got his ticket smartly, and ran to the stairway. With his head on
a level with the floor of the booking-offices he paused.

An instant later the canoe-shaped brogues came clattering down from
above. The American took in the people in the hall with one
comprehensive glance, got a ticket without a moment's delay, and jumped
into a lift that was about to descend.

Two minutes afterwards Sheard was in a cab bound for the house of
Séverac Bablon. The New Journalism is an exciting vocation.

He discharged the cabman at the corner of Finchley Road, and walked
along to No. 70A.

Opening the monastic looking gate, he passed around a trim lawn and
stood in the porch of one of those small and picturesque houses which
survive in some parts of red-brick London.

A man who wore conventional black, but who looked like an Ababdeh Arab,
opened the door before he had time to ring. He confirmed Sheard's guess
at his Eastern nationality by the manner of his silent salutation.
Without a word of inquiry he conducted the visitor to a small room on
the left of the hall and retired in the same noiseless fashion.

The journalist had anticipated a curious taste in decoration, and he was
not disappointed. For this apartment could not well be termed a room; it
was a mere cell.

The floor was composed of blocks--or perhaps only faced with layers of
red granite; the walls showed a surface of smooth plaster. An unglazed
window which opened on a garden afforded ample light, and, presumably
for illumination at night, an odd-looking antique lamp stood in a niche.
A littered table, black with great age and heavily carved, and a chair
to match, stood upon a rough fibre mat. There was no fireplace. The only
luxurious touch in the strange place was afforded by a richly Damascened
curtain, draped before a recess at the farther end.

From the table arose Séverac Bablon, wearing a novel garment strangely
like a bernouse.

"My dear Sheard," he said warmly and familiarly, "I am really delighted
to see you again."

Sheard shook his hand heartily. Séverac Bablon was as irresistible as
ever.

"Take the arm-chair," he continued, "and try to overlook the
peculiarities of my study. Believe me, they are not intended for mere
effect. Every item of my arrangements has its peculiar note of
inspiration, I assure you."

Sheard turned, and found that a deep-seated, heavily-cushioned chair,
also antique, and which he had overlooked, stood close behind him. An
odd perfume hung in the air.

"Ah," said Séverac Bablon, in his softly musical voice, "you have
detected my vice."

He passed an ebony box to his visitor, containing cigarettes of a dark
yellow colour. Sheard lighted one, and discovered it possessed a
peculiar aromatic flavour, which he found very fascinating. Séverac
Bablon watched him with a quizzical smile upon his wonderfully handsome
face.

"I am afraid there is opium in them," he said.

Sheard started.

"Do not fear," laughed the other. "You cannot develop the vice, for
these cigarettes are unobtainable in London. Their history serves to
disprove the popular theory that the use of tobacco was introduced from
Mexico in the sixteenth century. These were known in the East
generations earlier."

And so, with the mere melody of his voice, he re-established his
sovereignty over Sheard's mind. His extraordinary knowledge of
extraordinary matters occasioned the pressman's constant amazement. From
the preparations made for the reception of the Queen of Sheba at
Solomon's court in 980 B.C. he passed to the internal organisation of
the Criminal Investigation Department.

"I should mention," said Sheard at this point, "that an attempt was made
to follow me here."

Séverac Bablon waved a long white hand carelessly.

"Never mind," he replied soothingly. "It is annoying for you, but I give
you my word that you shall not be compromised by _me_--come, luncheon is
waiting. I will show you the only three men in Europe and America who
might associate the bandit, the incendiary, with him who calls himself
Séverac Bablon."

He stood up and gazed abstractedly in the direction of the garden. In
silence he stood looking, not at the garden, but beyond it, into some
vaster garden of his fancy. Sheard studied him with earnest curiosity.

"Will you never tell me," he began abruptly, "who you are really, what
is the source of your influence, and what is your aim in all this wild
business?"

Séverac Bablon turned and regarded him fixedly.

"I will," he said, "when the day comes--if ever it does come." A shadow
crept over his mobile features.

"I am a dreamer, Sheard," he continued, "and perhaps a trifle mad. I am
trying to wield a weapon that my fathers were content to let rust in its
scabbard. For the source of the influence you speak of--its emblem lies
there."

He pointed a long, thin finger to the recess veiled with its heavy
Damascus curtain.

"May I see it?"

The quizzical smile returned to the fine face.

"Oh, thou of the copy-hunting soul," exclaimed Séverac Bablon. "A day
may come. But it is not to-day."

He seized Sheard by the arm and led him out into the hall.

"Look at these three portraits," he directed. "The three great practical
investigators of the world. Mr. Brinsley Monro, of Dearborn Street,
Chicago; Mr. Paul Harley, of Chancery Lane; and last, but greatest, M.
Victor Lemage, of Paris."

"Is Duquesne acting under his instructions?"

"M. Lemage took charge of the case this morning."

Sheard looked hard at Séverac Bablon. Victor Lemage, inventor of the
anthroposcopic system of identification, the greatest living authority
upon criminology, was a man to be feared.

Séverac Bablon smiled, clapped both hands upon his shoulders, and looked
into his eyes.

"It is the lighter side of my strange warfare," he said. "I revel in it,
Sheard. It refreshes me for more serious things. This evening you must
arrange to meet me for a few moments. I shall have a 'scoop' to offer
you for the _Gleaner_. Do not fail me. It will leave you ample time to
get on to Downing Street afterwards. You see, I knew you were going to
Downing Street to-night! Am I not a magician? I shall wire you. If, when
you ring at the door of the house to which you will be directed, no one
replies, go away at once. I will then communicate the news later. And
now--lunch."




CHAPTER XVIII

A WHITE ORCHID


Whoever could have taken a peep into a certain bare-looking room at
Scotland Yard some three hours after Sheard had left Finchley Road must
have been drawn to the conclusion that the net was closing more tightly
about Séverac Bablon than he supposed.

Behind a large, bare table, upon which were some sheets of foolscap, a
metal inkpot, and pens, sat Chief Inspector Sheffield. On three
uncomfortable-looking chairs were disposed Detective Sergeant Harborne,
he of the Stetson and brogues, and M. Duquesne, of Paris. Stetson and
brogues, as became a non-official, observed much outward deference
towards the Chief Inspector in whose room he found himself.

"We may take it, then," said Sheffield, with a keen glance of his
shrewd, kindly eyes towards the American and the celebrated little
Frenchman, "that Bablon, when he isn't made up, is a man so extremely
handsome and of such marked personality that he'd be spotted anywhere.
We have some reason to believe that he's a Jew. The head of the greatest
Jewish house in Europe has declined to deny, according to M. Duquesne,
that he knows who he is, and"--consulting a sheet of foolscap--"Mr.
Alden, here, from New York, volunteers the information that H. T.
Sheard, of the _Gleaner_, went to see Bablon this morning. We are aware,
from information by Sir Leopold Jesson, that this newspaper man is
acquainted with B. But we can't act on it. We understand that Bablon has
a house in or near to London. None of us"--looking hard at Alden--"have
any idea of the locality. There are two rewards privately offered,
totalling £3,000--which is of more interest to Mr. Alden than to the
rest of us--and M. Duquesne is advised this morning that his Chief is
coming over at once. Now, we're all as wise as one another"--with a
second hard look at his French confrère and Alden--"so we can all set
about the job again in our own ways."

After this interesting conference, whereof each member had but sought to
pump the others, M. Duquesne, entering Whitehall, almost ran into a tall
man, wearing a most unusual and conspicuous caped overcoat, silk lined;
whose haughty, downward glance revealed his possession of very large,
dark eyes; whose face was so handsome that the little Frenchman caught
his breath; whose carriage was that of a monarch or of one of the
musketeers of Louis XIII.

With the ease of long practice, M. Duquesne formed an unseen escort for
this distinguished stranger.

Arriving at Charing Cross, the latter, without hesitation, entered the
telegraph office. M. Duquesne also recollected an important matter that
called for a telegram. In quest of a better pen he leaned over to the
compartment occupied by the handsome man, but was unable to get so much
as a glimpse of what he was writing. Having handed in his message in
such a manner that the ingenious Frenchman was foiled again, he strode
out, the observed of everyone in the place, but particularly of M.
Duquesne.

To the latter's unbounded astonishment, at the door he turned and raised
his hat to him ironically.

Familiar with the characteristic bravado of French criminals, that
decided the detective's next move. He stepped quickly back to the
counter as the polite stranger disappeared.

"I am Duquesne of Paris," he said in his fluent English to the clerk who
had taken the message, and showed his card. "On official business I wish
to inspect the last telegram which you received."

The clerk shook his head.

"Can't be done. Only for Scotland Yard."

Duquesne was a man of action. He wasted not a precious moment in
feckless argument. It was hard that he should have to share this
treasure with another. But in seven minutes he was at New Scotland Yard,
and in fifteen he was back again to his great good fortune, with
Inspector Sheffield.

The matter was adjusted. In the notebooks of Messrs Duquesne and
Sheffield the following was written:

"Sheard, _Gleaner_, Tudor Street. Laurel Cottage, Dulwich Village, eight
to-night."

Returning to the Astoria to make arrangements for the evening's
expedition, Duquesne upon entering his room, found there a large-boned
man, with a great, sparsely-covered skull, and a thin, untidy beard. He
sat writing by the window, and, at the other's entrance, cast a slow
glance from heavy-lidded eyes across his shoulder.

M. Duquesne bowed profoundly, hat in hand.

It was the great Lemage.

There were overwhelming forces about to take the field. France, England
and the United States were combining against Séverac Bablon. It seemed
that at Laurel Cottage he was like to meet his Waterloo.

At twenty-five minutes to seven that evening a smart plain-clothes
constable reported in Chief Inspector Sheffield's room.

"Well, Dawson?" said the inspector, looking up from his writing.

"Laurel Cottage, Dulwich, was let by the Old College authorities, sir,
to a Mr. Sanrack a month ago."

"What is he like, this Mr. Sanrack?"

"A tall, dark gentleman. Very handsome. Looks like an actor."

"Sanrack--Séverac," mused Sheffield. "Daring! All right, Dawson, you can
go. You know where to wait."

Fifteen minutes later arrived M. Duquesne. He had been carpeted by his
chief for invoking the aid of the London police in the matter of the
telegram.

"Five methods occur to me instantly, stupid pig," the great Lemage had
said, "whereby you might have learnt its contents alone!"

Heavy with a sense of his own dull powers of invention--for he found
himself unable to conceive one, much less five such schemes--M. Duquesne
came into the inspector's room.

"Does your chief join us to-night?" inquired Sheffield, on learning that
the famous investigator was in London.

"He may do so, m'sieur; but his plans are uncertain."

Almost immediately afterwards they were joined by Harborne, and all
three, entering one of the taxi-cabs that always are in waiting in the
Yard, set out for Dulwich Village.

The night was very dark, with ample promise of early rain, and as the
cab ran past Westminster Abbey a car ahead swung sharply around
Sanctuary Corner. Harborne, whose business it was to know all about
smart society, reported:

"Old Oppner's big Panhard in front. Going our way--Embankment is 'up.' I
wonder what his Agency men are driving at? Alden's got something up his
sleeve, I'll swear."

"I'd like a peep inside that car," said Sheffield.

Harborne took up the speaking-tube as the cab, in turn, rounded into
Great Smith Street.

"Switch off this inside light," he called to the driver, "and get up as
close alongside that Panhard ahead as you dare. She's not moving fast.
Stick there till I tell you to drop back."

The man nodded, and immediately the gear snatched the cab ahead with a
violent jerk. At a high speed they leapt forward upon the narrow road,
swung out to the off-side to avoid a bus, and closed up to the
brilliantly-lighted car.

It was occupied by two women in picturesque evening toilettes. One of
them was a frizzy haired soubrette and the other a blonde. Both were
conspicuously pretty. The fair girl wore a snow white orchid, splashed
with deepest crimson, pinned at her breast. Her companion, who lounged
in the near corner, her cloak negligently cast about her and one rounded
shoulder against the window, was reading a letter; and Harborne, who
found himself not a foot removed from her, was trying vainly to focus
his gaze upon the writing when the fair girl looked up and started to
find the cab so close. The light of a sudden suspicion leapt into her
eyes as, obedient to the detective's order, the taxi-driver slowed down
and permitted the car to pass. Almost immediately the big Panhard leapt
to renewed speed, and quickly disappeared ahead.

Harborne turned to Inspector Sheffield.

"That was Miss Zoe Oppner, the old man's daughter."

"I know," said Sheffield sharply. "Read any of the letter?"

"No," admitted Harborne; "we were bumping too much. But there's a
political affair on to-night in Downing Street. I should guess she's
going to be there."

"Why? Who was the fair girl?"

"Lady Mary Evershed," answered Harborne. "It's her father's 'do'
to-night. We want to keep an eye on Miss Oppner, after the Astoria Hotel
business. Wish we had a list of guests."

"If Séverac Bablon is down," replied Sheffield; grimly, "I don't think
she'll have the pleasure of seeing him this evening. But where on earth
is she off to now?"

"Give it up," said Harborne, philosophically.

"Oh, she of the golden hair and the white _odontoglossum_," sighed the
little Frenchman, rolling up his eyes. "What a perfection!"

They became silent as the cab rapidly bore them across Vauxhall Bridge
and through south-west to south-east London, finally to Dulwich Village,
that tiny and dwindling oasis in the stucco desert of Suburbia.

Talking to an officer on point duty at a corner, distinguished by the
presence of a pillar-box, was P.C. Dawson in mufti. He and the other
constable saluted as the three detectives left the cab and joined them.

"Been here long, Dawson?" asked Sheffield.

"No, sir. Just arrived."

"You and I will walk along on the far side from this Laurel Cottage,"
arranged the inspector, "and M. Duquesne might like a glass of wine,
Harborne, until I've looked over the ground. Then we can distribute
ourselves. We've got a full quarter of an hour."

It was arranged so, and Sheffield, guided by Dawson, proceeded to the
end of the Village, turned to the left, past the College buildings, and
found himself in a long, newly-cut road, with only a few unfinished
houses. Towards the farther end a gloomy little cottage frowned upon the
road. It looked deserted and lonely in its isolation amid marshy fields.
In the background, upon a slight acclivity, a larger building might
dimly be discerned. A clump of dismal poplars overhung the cottage on
the west.

"It's been a gate lodge at some time, sir," explained Dawson. "You can
see the old carriage sweep on the right. But the big house is to be
pulled down, and they've let the lodge, temporarily, as a separate
residence. There's no upstairs, only one door and very few windows. We
can absolutely surround it!"

"H'm! Unpleasant looking place," muttered Sheffield, as the two walked
by on the opposite side. "No lights. When we've passed this next tree,
slip along and tuck yourself away under that fence on the left. Don't
attempt any arrest until our man's well inside. Then, when you hear the
whistle, close in on the door. I'll get back now."

Ten minutes later, though Laurel Cottage presented its usual sad and
lonely aspect, it was efficiently surrounded by three detectives and a
constable.

Sheffield's scientific dispositions were but just completed when a
cursing taxi-man deposited Sheard half way up the road, having declined
resolutely to bump over the ruts any further. Dismissing the man, the
keenest copy-hunter in Fleet Street walked alone to the Cottage, all
unaware that he did so under the scrutiny of four pairs of eyes. Finding
a rusty bell-pull he rang three times. But none answered.

It was at the moment when he turned away that Mr. Alden and an Agency
colleague, who--on this occasion successfully--had tracked him since he
left the _Gleaner_ office, turned the corner by the Village. Seeing him
retracing his steps, they both darted up a plank into an unfinished
house with the agility of true ferrets, and let him pass. As he
re-entered the Village street one was at his heels. Mr. Alden strolled
along to Laurel Cottage.

With but a moment's consideration, he, taking a rapid glance up and down
the road, vaulted the low fence and disposed himself amongst the unkempt
laurel bushes flanking the cottage on the west. The investing forces
thus acquired a fifth member.

Then came the threatened rain.

Falling in a steady downpour, it sang its mournful song through poplar
and shrub. Soon the grey tiled roof of the cottage poured its libation
into spouting gutters, and every rut of the road became a miniature
ditch. But, with dogged persistency, the five watchers stuck to their
posts.

When Sheard had gone away again, Inspector Sheffield had found himself,
temporarily, in a dilemma. It was something he had not foreseen. But,
weighing the chances, he had come to the conclusion to give the others
no signal, but to wait.

At seven minutes past eight, by Mr. Alden's electrically lighted
timepiece, a car or a cab--it was impossible, at that distance, to
determine which--dropped a passenger at the Village end of the road. A
tall figure, completely enveloped in a huge, caped coat, and wearing a
dripping silk hat, walked with a swinging stride towards the ambush--and
entered the gate of the cottage.

M. Duquesne, who, from his damp post in a clump of rhododendrons on the
left of the door had watched him approach, rubbed his wet hands
delightedly. Without the peculiar coat that majestic walk was
sufficient.

"It is he!" he muttered. "The Séverac!"

With a key which he must have held ready in his hand, the new-comer
opened the door and entered the cottage. Acting upon a pre-arranged
plan, the watchers closed in upon the four sides of the building, and
Sheffield told himself triumphantly that he had shown sound generalship.
With a grim nod of recognition to Alden, who appeared from the laurel
thicket, he walked up to the door and rang smartly.

This had one notable result. A door banged inside.

Again he rang--and again.

Nothing stirred within. Only the steady drone of the falling rain broke
the chilling silence.

Sheffield whistled shrilly.

At that signal M. Duquesne immediately broke the window which he was
guarding, and stripping off his coat, he laid it over the jagged points
of glass along the sashes and through the thickness of the cloth forced
back the catch. Throwing up the glassless frame, he stepped into the
dark room beyond.

To the crash which he had made, an answering crash had told him that
Detective-sergeant Harborne had effected an entrance by the east window.

Cautiously he stepped forward in the darkness, a revolver in one hand;
with the other he fumbled for the electric lamp in his breast pocket.

As his fingers closed upon it a slight noise behind him brought him
right-about in a flash.

The figure of a man who was climbing in over the low ledge was
silhouetted vaguely in the frame of the broken window.

"_Ah!_" hissed Duquesne. "Quick! speak! Who is that?"

"Ssh! my Duquesne!" came a thick voice. "Do you think, then, I can leave
so beautiful a case to anyone?"

Duquesne turned the beam of the lantern on the speaker.

It was Victor Lemage.

Duquesne bowed, lantern in hand.

"Waste no moment," snapped Lemage. "Try that door!" pointing to the only
one in the room.

As the other stepped forward to obey, the famous investigator made a
comprehensive survey of the little kitchen, for such it was. Save for
its few and simple appointments, it was quite empty.

"The door is locked."

"Ah, yes. I thought so."

"Hullo!" came Sheffield's voice through the window, "who's there,
Duquesne?"

"It is M. Lemage. M'sieur, allow me to make known the great Scotland
Yard Inspector Sheffield."

With a queer parody of politeness, Duquesne turned the light of his
lantern alternately upon the face of each, as he mentioned his name.

Sheffield bowed awkwardly. For he knew that he stood in the presence of
the undisputed head of his profession--the first detective in Europe.

"You have not left the front door unguarded, M'sieur the Inspector?"
inquired Lemage sharply.

"No, Mr. Lemage," snapped Sheffield, "I have not. My man Dawson is
there, with an Agency man, too."

"Then we surround completely the room in which he is," declared Lemage.

Such was the case, as a glance at the following plan will show.

[Illustration]

"There are, then, three ways," said Lemage. "We may break into the front
room from here, or from the room where is m'sieur your colleague. There
is, no doubt, a door corresponding to this one. The other way is to go
in by the window of that front room, for I have made the observation
that its other window, that opens on the old drive to the east, is
barred most heavily. Do I accord with the views of m'sieur?"

"Quite," said Sheffield crisply. "We'll work through the front window.
Hullo, Harborne!"

"Hullo!" came the latter's voice from the next room.

"Nobody in there?"

"No. Empty room. Door's locked. What's up on your side?"

"Nothing. Mr. Lemage has joined us. Stand by for squalls. I'm going
round to get in at the front-room window."

He paused and listened. They all listened.

The rain droned monotonously on the roof, but there was no other sound.

Sheffield climbed out and passed around by the poplars and through the
laurel bushes to the front. Dawson and Alden stood by the door. With a
pair of handcuffs the inspector broke the glass, and, adopting the same
method as the Frenchman, used his coat to protect his hands from the
splintered pieces in forcing the catch. The rain came down in torrents.
He was drenched to the skin.

Seizing the yellow blind, he tore it from the roller, and also pulled
down the curtains. By the light of the bull's-eye lantern which Dawson
carried he surveyed the little sitting-room. Next, with a muttered
exclamation, he leapt through and searched the one hiding-place--beneath
a large sofa--which the room afforded.

On the common oval walnut table lay a caped overcoat and a rain-soaked
silk hat.

The two doors--other than that guarded by Dawson and Alden--gave (1) on
the room occupied by Harborne; (2) on the room occupied by Duquesne and
Lemage. The keys were missing. The one window, other than that by which
he had entered, was heavily barred, and in any case, visible from the
front door of the cottage.

All five had seen their man enter; all had heard the banging door when
Sheffield knocked. No possible exit had been unwatched for a single
instant.

But the place was empty.

When the others, having searched painfully every inch of ground, joined
the inspector in the front room, Harborne, taking up the silk-lined
caped overcoat, observed something lying on the polished walnut beneath.

He uttered a hasty exclamation.

"Damn!" cried Duquesne at his elbow, characteristically saying the right
thing at the wrong time. "A white _odontoglossum crispum_, with crimson
spots!"

Across the table all exchanged glances.

"He is very handsome," sighed the little Frenchman.

"That is an extreme privilege," said his chief, shrugging composedly and
lighting a cigarette. "It is so interesting to the women, and they are
so useful. It was the women who restored your English Charles II.--but
they were his ruin in the end. It is a clue, this white orchid, that
inspires in me two solutions immediately."

M. Duquesne suffered, temporarily, from a slight catarrh, occasioned, no
doubt, by his wetting. But he lacked the courage to meet the drooping
eye of his chief.

They were some distance from Laurel Cottage when Harborne, who carried
the caped coat on his arm, exclaimed:

"By the way, who _has_ the orchid?"

No one had it.

"M. Duquesne," said Lemage calmly, "of all the stupid pigs you are the
more complete."

Sheffield ran back. Dawson had been left on duty outside the cottage.
The inspector passed him and climbed back through the broken window. He
looked on the table and searched, on hands and knees, about the floor.

"Dawson!"

"Sir?"

"You have heard or seen nothing suspicious since we left?"

Dawson, through the window, stared uncomprehendingly.

"Nothing, sir."

The white orchid was missing.




CHAPTER XIX

THREE LETTERS


Sheard did not remain many minutes in Downing Street that night. The
rooms were uncomfortably crowded and insupportably stuffy. A vague idea
which his common sense was impotent to combat successfully, that he
would see or hear from Séverac Bablon amidst that political crush proved
to be fallacious--as common sense had argued. He wondered why his
extraordinary friend--for as a friend he had come to regard him--had
been unable to keep his appointment. He wondered when the promised news
would be communicated.

That one of the Americans, or two, to whose presence he was becoming
painfully familiar, had followed him since he had left the office he was
well aware. But, as he had thrown off the man who had tried to follow
him to Finchley Road, he was untroubled now. They had probably secured
the Dulwich address; but that was due to no fault of his own, and, in
any case, Bablon seemed to regard all their efforts with complete
indifference. So, presumably, it did not matter.

On his way out he met two hot and burly gentlemen, rather ill-dressed,
who were hastening in. Instinctively he knew them for detective
officers. Hailing a cab at the corner, he sank restfully into the seat
and felt in his pocket for his cigarette-case. There was a letter there
also, which he did not recollect to have been there before he entered
Downing Street.

In some excitement he took it out and opened the plain envelope.

It contained a correspondence-card and a letter. Both of these, and a
third letter which reached its destination on the following morning,
whilst all England and all France were discussing the amazing
circumstances set forth in No. 2, are appended in full.

       *       *       *       *       *

     No. 1

     "MY DEAR SHEARD,--I enclose the promised 'exclusive to the
     _Gleaner_.' It will appear in no other paper of London, but in two
     of Paris, to-morrow. Forgive me for sending you to Dulwich. I did
     so for a private purpose of my own, and rely upon your generous
     friendship to excuse the liberty. I write this prior to visiting
     Downing Street, where it will be quite impossible, amongst so many
     people, to speak to you. Do not fear that there exists any evidence
     of complicity between us. I assure you that you are safe."

       *       *       *       *       *

     No. 2

     "To the Editor of the _Gleaner_.

     "SIR,--I desire to show myself, as always, a man of honour, and
     presume to request the freedom of your most valuable columns for
     that purpose. I address myself to the British public through the
     medium of the _Gleaner_ as the most liberal journal in London, and
     that most opposed to government by plutocracy.

     As the inventor of the digital system of identification, of the
     anthroposcopic method, and of the _Code_ which bears my name, I am
     known to your readers, as well as for my years of labour against
     criminals of all classes and of all nations. I have been called the
     head of my profession, and shall I be accused of vanity if, with my
     hand upon my heart, I acknowledge that tribute and say, 'It is well
     deserved'?

     "Under date as above, I am resigning my office as Chief of that
     department which I have so long directed, being no more in a
     position to perform my duties as a man of honour, since I have been
     instructed to take charge of what is called 'the Séverac Bablon
     case.'

     "It is the first time that my duty to France has run contrary to my
     duty to the great, the marvellous man whom you know by that name,
     and to whom I owe all that I have, all that I am; whose orders I
     may not and would not disregard.

     "By his instructions I performed to-day a little deception upon the
     representatives of English law and upon one of my esteemed
     colleagues--a most capable and honourable man, for whom I cherish
     extreme regard, and whom I would wish to see in the office I now
     resign. He is not one of Us, and in every respect is a suitable
     candidate for that high post.

     "I was honoured, then, by instructions to impersonate my Leader. No
     reference here to my powers of disguise is necessary. I took the
     place of him you call Séverac Bablon at a certain Laurel Cottage in
     Dulwich. I entered with the key he had entrusted to me, too quickly
     to be arrested, if any had tried, and none made the attempt, which
     was an error of strategy (see _Code_, pp. 336-43). All in the dark
     I placed his coat and hat upon the table. I overlooked something in
     the gloom, but no matter. I correct my errors; it is the Secret. I
     was not otherwise disguised. It was not necessary. I waited until
     one of those watching broke into the little room at the back. I
     stood beside the window. Noiseless as the leopard I stepped behind
     him as he entered. I could have slain him with ease. I did not do
     so. I proclaimed myself. _I_ was entering, too!

     "Why should I name the man to whom I thus offered the one great
     chance of a lifetime? No, I am so old at this game. He overlooked
     no more than another must have done--any more than I.

     "But, although outside it poured with rain, my clothes were scarce
     wet. How had I watched and kept dry?

     "He did not ask himself. No matter. I gave him his chance. We
     French, to-day, are sportsmen!

     "I understand that my Leader brought about this _contretemps_ with
     deliberation, in order to terminate my false position, and make
     prominent this statement, and I am instructed to remind my
     authorities that State secrets of international importance are in
     my possession and thus in his. But, lastly, I would assure France
     and the world that no blot of dishonour is upon my name because I
     have served two masters. My great Leader never did and never will
     employ this knowledge to any improper end. But he would have my
     Government know something--so very little--of his influence and of
     his power. He would have them recall those warrants for his
     apprehension that place him on a level with the Apache, the
     ruffian; that are an _insult_ to a man who has never done wrong to
     a living soul, but who only has exercised the fundamental, the
     Divine, the Mosaic Law of _Justice_.

     "I loved my work and I love France. But I grieve not. Other work
     will be given to me. I make my bow; I disappear. Adieu!

     "I am, sir,

    "Your obedient servant,
    "VICTOR LEMAGE
    "(late _Service de Sûreté_)."

       *       *       *       *       *

     No. 3

     (Received by Lady Mary Evershed)

     "When, in your brave generosity, you accompanied your friend and
     mine on her perilous journey to warn me that Mr. Oppner's
     detectives had a plan for my capture, I knew, on the instant when
     you stepped into Laurel Cottage, that Miss Oppner had made a wise
     selection in the companion who should share her secret. I did not
     regret having confided that address to her discretion. The warning
     was unnecessary, but I valued it none the less. By an oversight,
     for which I reproach myself, a clue to your presence was left
     behind, when, but a few minutes before the police arrived, we left
     the cottage--which had served its purpose. But another of my good
     friends secured it, and I have it now. It is a white orchid. I have
     ventured to keep it, that it may remind me of the gratitude I owe
     to you both."




CHAPTER XX

CLOSED DOORS


"Why can't they open the doors? I can see there are people inside!"

A muffled roar, like that of a nearing storm at sea, drowned the
querulous voice.

"Move along here, please! Move on! Move on!"

The monotonous orders of the police rose above the loud drone of the
angry crowd.

Motor-buses made perilous navigation through the narrow street. The
hooting of horns on taxi-cabs played a brisk accompaniment to the
mournful chant. Almost from the Courts to the trebly guarded entrance of
the Chancery Legal Incorporated Credit Society Bank stretched that deep
rank of victims. For, at the corner of Chancery Lane, the contents-bill
of a daily paper thus displayed, in suitable order of precedence, the
vital topics of the moment:

     MISS PAULETTE DELOTUS _NOT_ MARRIED

     Australians' Plucky Fight

     IS SÉVERAC BABLON IN VIENNA?

     BIG CITY BANK SMASH

     SLUMP IN NICARAGUAN RAILS

To some, those closed doors meant the sacrifice of jewellery, of some
part of the luxury of life; to others, they meant--the drop-curtain that
blacked out the future, the end of the act, the end of the play.

"Move along here, please! Move on! Move on!"

"All right, constable," said Sir Richard Haredale, smiling unmirthfully;
"I'll move on--and move out!"

He extricated himself from the swaying, groaning, cursing multitude, and
stepped across to the opposite side of the street. Lost in unpleasant
meditation, he stood, a spruce, military figure, bearing upon his
exterior nothing indicative of the ruined man. He was quite unaware of
the approach of a graceful, fair girl, whose fresh English beauty
already had enslaved the imaginations of some fifty lawyers' clerks
returning from lunch. As ignorant of her train of conquests as Haredale
was ignorant of her presence, she came up to him--and tears gleamed upon
her lashes. She stood beside him, and he did not see her.

"Dick!"

The voice aroused him, and a flush came upon his tanned, healthy-looking
face. A beam of gladness and admiration lost itself in a cloud, as
mechanically he raised his hat, and, holding the girl's hand, glanced
uneasily aside, fearing to meet the anxious tenderness in the blue eyes
which, now, were deepened to something nearer violet.

"It is true, then?" she asked softly.

He nodded, his lips grimly compressed.

"Who told you," he questioned in turn, "that I had my poor scrapings in
it?"

"Oh, I don't know," she said wearily. "And it doesn't matter much, does
it?"

"Come away somewhere," Haredale suggested. "We can't stand here."

In silence they walked away from the clamouring crowd of depositors.

"Move along here, please! Move on! Move on!"

"Where can we go?" asked the girl.

"Anywhere," said Haredale, "where we can sit down. This will do."

They turned into a cheap café, and, finding a secluded table, took their
seats there, Haredale drearily ordering tea, without asking his
companion whether she wanted it or not. It was improbable that Lady Mary
Evershed had patronised such a tea-shop before, but the novelty of the
thing did not interest her in the least. It was only her pride, the
priceless legacy of British womanhood, which enabled her to preserve her
composure--which checked the hot tears that burned in her eyes. For the
mute misery in Haredale's face was more than he could hide. With all his
sang-froid, and all his training to back it, he was hard put to it to
keep up even an appearance of unconcern.

Presently she managed to speak again, biting her lips between every few
words.

"Had you--everything--there, Dick?"

He nodded.

"I was a fool, of course," he said. "I never did have the faintest idea
of business. There are dozens of sound investments--but what's the good
of whining? I have acted as unofficial secretary to Mr. Julius
Rohscheimer for two years, and eaten my pride at every meal. But--I
_cannot_ begin all over again, Mary. I shall have to let him break
me--and clear out."

He dropped his clenched fists upon his knees, and under the little table
a hand crept to his. He grasped it hard and released it.

Mary, with a strained look in her eyes, was drumming gloved fingers on
the table.

"I detest Julius Rohscheimer!" she flashed. "He is a perfect octopus.
Even father fears him--I don't know why."

Haredale smiled grimly.

"But there is _someone_ who could prevent him from ruining your life,
Dick," she continued, glancing down at the table.

She did not look up for a few moments. Then, as Haredale kept silent,
she was forced to do so. His grey eyes were fixed upon her face.

"Séverac Bablon? What do you know of him, Mary?"

She grew suddenly pale.

"I only know"--hesitating--"that is, I _think_, he is a man who, however
misguided, has a love of justice."

Haredale watched her.

"He is an up-to-date Claude Duval," he said harshly. "It hurts me,
rather, Mary, to hear you approve of him. Why do you do so? I have
noticed something of this before. Do you forget that this man, for all
the romance and mystery that surround him, still is no more than a
common thief--a criminal?"

Mary's lips tightened.

"He is not," she said, meeting his eyes bravely. "That is a very narrow
view, Dick-"

Then, seeing the pain in the grey eyes, and remembering that this man
with whom she disputed had just lost his hopes in life--his hopes of
_her_--she reached out impulsively and grasped his arm.

"Oh, Dick!" she said; "forgive me! But I am so utterly miserable, dear,
that any poor little straw seems worth grasping at."

So we must leave them; it was a situation full of poor human pathos. The
emotions surging within these two hearts would have afforded an
interesting study for the magical pen of Charles Dickens.

But we cannot pause to essay it; the tide of our narrative bears us
elsewhere.

Mr. J. J. Oppner, the pride of Wall Street, when, his fascinating
daughter, Zoe, beside him, he rose to address his guests at the Hotel
Astoria that evening, would have provided a study equally interesting to
Charles Dickens or to the late Professor Darwin. It would have puzzled
even the distinguished biologist to reconcile the two species,
represented by Mr. Oppner and Zoe, with any common origin. The
millionaire's seamed and yellow face looked like nothing so much as a
magnified section of a walnut. Whilst the girl, with her cloud of
copper-dusted brown hair trapped within an Oriental head-dress, her
piquant beauty enhanced, if that were possible, by the softly shaded
lights, and the bewitching curves revealed by her evening gown borrowing
a more subtle witchery from their sombre environment of black-coated
plutocrats, justified the most inspired panegyric that ever had poured
from the fountain-pen of a New York reporter. Mr. Oppner said:

"Gentlemen,--We have met this evening for _a_ special purpose. With
everyone's _per_mission, we will _ad_journ to another room and see how
we can fix things up for Mr. Séverac Bablon."

He led the way without loss of time, his small, dried figure lost
between that of John Macready ("the King of Coolgardie"), a stalwart,
iron-grey Irishman, and the unshapely bulk of Baron Hague, once more
perilously adventured upon English soil.

Sir Leopold Jesson, trim, perfectly groomed, his high, bald cranium
gleaming like the dome of Solomon's temple, followed, deep in
conversation with a red, raw-boned Scotsman, whose features seemed badly
out of drawing, and whose eyebrows suggested shrimps. This was Hector
Murray, the millionaire who had built and endowed more public baths and
institutions than any man since the Emperor Vespasian. Last of all, went
Julius Rohscheimer, that gross figurehead of British finance, saying,
with a satirish smile, to Haredale, who had made an eighth at dinner:

"You won't mind amusing Miss Oppner, Haredale, till we're through with
this little job? It's out of your line; you'll be more at home here, I'm
sure."

The room chosen for this important conference was a small one, having
but a single door, which opened on a tiny antechamber; this, in turn,
gave upon the corridor. When the six millionaires had entered, and Mr.
Oppner had satisfied himself that suitable refreshments were placed in
readiness, he returned to the corridor. Immediately outside the door
stood Mr. Aloys. X. Alden.

"You'll sit right there," instructed Oppner. "The man's bringing a chair
and smokes and liquor, and you'll let nobody in--_nobody_. We can't be
heard out here, with the anteroom between and both doors shut; there's
only one window, and this is the sixth storey. So I guess our Bablon
palaver will be private, some."

Alden nodded, bit off the end of a cheroot, and settled himself against
the wall. Mr. Oppner returned to his guests. In another room Zoe and Sir
Richard Haredale struggled with a conversation upon sundry matters
wherein neither was interested in the least. Suddenly Zoe said, in her
impulsive, earnest way:

"Sir Richard, I know you won't be angry, but Mary is my very dearest
friend; we were at school together, too; and--she told me all about it
this afternoon. I understand what this loss means to you, and that it's
quite impossible for you to remain with Mr. Rohscheimer any longer; that
you mean to resign your commission and go abroad. It isn't necessary for
me to say I am sorry."

He thanked her mutely, but it was with a certain expectancy that he
awaited her next words. Rumour had linked Zoe Oppner's name with that of
Séverac Bablon, extravagantly, as it seemed to Haredale; but everything
connected with that extraordinary man _was_ extravagant. He recalled how
Mary, on more than one occasion, had exhibited traces of embarrassment
when the topic was mooted, and how she had hinted that Séverac Bablon
might be induced to interest himself in his, Haredale's, financial loss.
Could it be that Mary--perhaps through her notoriously eccentric
American friend--had met the elusive wonder-worker? Haredale, be it
remembered, was hard hit, and completely down. This insane suspicion had
found no harbourage in his mind at any other time; but now, he hugged it
dejectedly, watching Zoe Oppner's pretty, expressive face for
confirmatory evidence.

"Of course, the bank has failed for more than three millions," said the
girl earnestly; "but, in your own case, can nothing be done?"

Haredale lighted a cigarette, slightly shaking his head.

"I shall have to clear out. That's all"

"Oh!--but--it's real hard to say what I want to say. But--my father has
business relations with Mr. Rohscheimer. May I try to do something?"

Haredale's true, generous instincts got the upper hand at that. He told
himself that he was behaving, mentally, like a cad.

"Miss Oppner," he said warmly, "you are all that Mary has assured me.
You are a real chum. I can say no more. But it is quite impossible,
believe me."

There was such finality in the words that she was silenced. Haredale
abruptly changed the subject.

An hour passed.

Two hours passed.

Zoe began to grow concerned on her father's behalf. He was in poor
health, and his physician's orders were imperative upon the point of
avoiding business.

Half-way through the third hour she made up her mind.

"He has wasted his time long enough," she pronounced firmly--and the
expression struck Haredale as oddly chosen. "I am going to inform him
that his 'conference' is closed."

She passed out into the corridor to where Mr. Alden, his chair tilted at
a comfortable angle, and his brogue-shod feet upon a coffee-table which
bore also a decanter, a siphon, and a box of cigars, contentedly was
pursuing his instructions. He stood up as she appeared.

"Mr. Alden," she said, "I wish to speak to Mr. Oppner."

The detective spread his hands significantly.

"I respect your scruples, Mr. Alden," Zoe continued, "but my father's
orders did not apply to me. Will you please go in and request him to see
me for a moment?"

Perceiving no alternative, Alden opened the door, crossed the little
anteroom, and knocked softly at the inner door.

He received no reply to his knocking, and knocked again. He knocked a
third, a fourth time. With a puzzled glance at Miss Oppner he opened the
door and entered.

An unemotional man, he usually was guilty of nothing demonstrative. But
the appearance of the room wrenched a hoarse exclamation from his stoic
lips.

In the first place, it was in darkness; in the second, when, with the
aid of the electric lantern which he was never without, he had dispersed
this darkness--he saw that _it was empty_!

The scene of confusion that ensued upon this incredible discovery defies
description.

All the telephones in the Astoria could not accommodate the frantic
people who sought them. Messenger boys in troops appeared. Hundreds of
guests ran upstairs and hundreds of guests ran downstairs. Every
groaning lift, ere long, was bearing its freight of police and pressmen
to the scene of the most astounding mystery that ever had set London
agape.

Soon it was ascertained that the current had been disconnected in some
way from the room where the six magnates had met. But how, otherwise
than through the door, they had been spirited away from a sixth floor
apartment, was a problem that no one appeared competent to tackle; that
they had not made their exit via the door was sufficiently proven by the
expression of stark perplexity which dwelt upon the face of Mr. Aloys.
X. Alden.

Whilst others came and went, scribbling hasty notes in dog-eared
notebooks, he, a human statue of Amaze, gazed at the open window,
continuously and vacantly. Jostled by the crowds of curious and
interested visitors, he stood, the most surprised man in the two
hemispheres.

Short of an airship, he could conceive no device whereby the missing six
could have made their silent departure. He was shaken out of his stupor
by Haredale.

"Pull yourself together, Mr. Alden," cried the latter. "Can't we _do_
something? Here's half Scotland Yard in the place and nobody with an
intelligent proposal to offer."

Mr. Alden shook himself, like a heavy sleeper awakened.

"Where's Miss Oppner?" he jerked.

Haredale started.

"I don't know," was his reply; "but I can go and see."

He forced his way past the knot of people at the door, ignoring
Inspector Sheffield, who sought to detain him. Rapidly he ran through
the rooms composing the suite. In one he met Zoe's maid, wringing her
hands with extravagant emotion.

"Where is your mistress?"

"She has gone out, m'sieur. I cannot tell where. I do not know."

Haredale's heart gave a leap--and seemed to pause.

He ran to the stairs, not waiting for the overworked lift, and down into
the hall.

"Has Miss Oppner gone out?" he demanded of the porter.

"Two minutes ago, sir."

"In her car?"

"No, sir. It was not ready. In a cab."

"Did you hear her directions?"

"No, sir. But the boy will know."

The boy was found.

"Where was Miss Oppner going, boy?" rapped Haredale.

"Eccleston Square, sir," was the prompt reply.

The Marquess of Evershed's. Then his suspicions had not been unfounded.
He saw, in a flash of inspiration, the truth. Zoe Oppner had seen in
this disappearance the hand of Séverac Bablon--if, indeed, if she did
not _know_ it for his work. She was anxious about her father. She wished
to appeal to Séverac Bablon upon his behalf. And she had gone--not
direct to the man--but to Eccleston Square. Why? Clearly because it was
Lady Mary, and not herself, who had influence with him.

Hatless, Haredale ran out into the courtyard. Rohscheimer's car was
waiting, and he leapt in, his grey eyes feverish. "Lord Evershed's," he
called to the man; "Eccleston Square."




CHAPTER XXI

A CORNER IN MILLIONAIRES


At the moment that Julius Rohscheimer's car turned into the Square, a
girl, enveloped in a dark opera wrap, but whose fair hair gleamed as she
passed the open door, came alone, out of Lord Evershed's house, and
entering a waiting taxi-cab, was driven away.

"Stop!" ordered Haredale hoarsely through the tube.

The big car pulled up as the cab passed around on the other side.

"Follow that cab."

With which the pursuit commenced. And Haredale found himself trembling,
so violent was the war of emotions that waged within him. His deductions
were proving painfully correct. Through Mayfair and St. John's Wood the
cab led the way; finally into Finchley Road. Fifty yards behind,
Haredale stopped the car as the cab drew up before a gate set in a high
wall.

Lady Mary stepped out, opened the gate, and disappeared within. Heedless
of the taxi-driver's curious stare, Haredale, a conspicuous figure in
evening dress, with no overcoat and no hat, entered almost immediately
afterwards.

Striding up to the porch, he was searching for bell or knocker when the
door opened silently, and an Arab in spotless white robes saluted him
with dignified courtesy.

"Take my card to your master," snapped Haredale, striving to exhibit no
surprise, and stepped inside rapidly.

The Arab waved him to a small reception room, furnished with a wealth of
curios for which the visitor had no eyes, and retired. As the man
withdrew Haredale moved to the door and listened. He admitted to himself
that this was the part of a common spy; but his consuming jealousy would
brook no restraint.

From somewhere farther along the hall he heard, though indistinctly, a
familiar voice.

Without stopping to reflect he made for a draped door, knocked
peremptorily, and entered.

He found himself in a small apartment, whose form and appointments, even
to his perturbed mind, conveyed a vague surprise. It was, to all intents
and purposes, a cell, with stone-paved floor and plaster walls. An
antique lamp, wherein rested what appeared to be a small ball of light,
unlike any illuminant he had seen, stood upon a massive table, which was
littered with papers. Excepting a chair of peculiar design and a
magnificently worked Oriental curtain which veiled either a second door
or a recess in the wall, the place otherwise was unfurnished.

Before this curtain, and facing him, pale but composed, stood Lady Mary
Evershed, a sweet picture in a bizarre setting.

"Has your friend run away, then?" said Haredale roughly.

The girl did not reply, but looked fully at him with something of scorn
and much of reproach in her eyes.

"I know whose house this is," continued Haredale violently, "and why you
have come. What is he to you? Why do you know him--visit him--shield
him? Oh! my God! it only wanted this to complete my misery. I have, now,
not one single happy memory to take away with me."

His voice shook upon those last words.

"Mary," he said sadly, and all his rage was turned to pleading--"what
does it mean? Tell me. I _know_ there is some simple explanation----"

"You shall hear it, Sir Richard," interrupted a softly musical voice.

He turned as though an adder had bitten him; the blasé composure which
is the pride of every British officer had melted in the rays of those
blue eyes that for years had been the stars of his worship. It was a
very human young man, badly shaken and badly conscious of his display of
weakness, who faced the tall figure in the tightly buttoned frock-coat
that now stood in the open doorway.

The man who had interrupted him was one to arrest attention anywhere and
in any company. With figure and face cast in a severely classic mould,
his intense, concentrated gaze conveyed to Haredale a throbbing sense of
_force_, in an uncanny degree.

"Séverac Bablon!" flashed through his mind.

"Himself, Sir Richard."

Haredale, who had not spoken, met the weird, fixed look, but with a
consciousness of physical loss--an indefinable sensation, probably
mental, of being drawn out of himself. No words came to help him.

"You have acted to-night," continued Séverac Bablon, and Haredale,
knowing himself in the presence of the most notorious criminal in
Europe, yet listened passively, as a schoolboy to the admonition of his
Head, "you have acted to-night unworthily. I had noted you, Sir Richard,
as a man whose friendship I had hoped to gain. Knowing your trials,
and"--glancing at the girl's pale face--"with what object you suffered
them, I had respected you, whilst desiring an opportunity to point out
to you the falsity of your position. I had thought that a man who could
win such a prize as has fallen to your lot must, essentially, be above
all that was petty--all that was mean."

Haredale clenched his hands angrily. Never since his Eton days had such
words been addressed to him. He glared at the over-presumptuous
mountebank--for so he appraised him; he told himself that, save for a
woman's presence, he would have knocked him down. He met the calm but
imperious gaze--and did nothing, said nothing.

"A woman may be judged," continued the fascinating voice, "not by her
capacity for love, but by her capacity for that rarer thing, friendship.
A woman who, at her great personal peril, can befriend another woman is
a pearl beyond price. Knowing me, you have ceased to fear me as a rival,
Sir Richard." (To his mental amazement something that was not of his
mind, it seemed, told Haredale that this was so.) "It remains only for
you to hear that simple explanation. Here it is."

He handed a note to him. It was as follows:

     "You have confided to me the secret of your residence, where I
     might see or communicate with you, and I was coming to see you
     to-night, but I have met with a slight accident--enough to prevent
     me. Lady Mary has volunteered to go alone. I will not betray your
     confidence, but our friendly acquaintance cannot continue unless
     you _instantly_ release my father--for I know that you have done
     this outrageous thing. He is ill and it is very, very cruel. I beg
     of you to let him return at once. If you admire true friendship and
     unselfishness, as you profess, do this to repay Mary Evershed, who
     risks irretrievably compromising herself to take this note--

     "ZOE OPPNER."

"Miss Oppner, descending the stairs at Lord Evershed's in too great
haste," explained Séverac Bablon, and a new note, faint but perceptible,
had crept into his voice, "had the misfortune to sustain a slight
accident--I am happy to know, no more than slight. Lady Mary brought me
her message. I commit no breach of trust in showing it to you. There is
a telephone in the room at Lord Evershed's in which Miss Oppner remains
at present, and, as you entered, I obtained her spoken consent to do
what I have done."

"Mary," Haredale burst out, "I know it is taking a mean advantage to
plead that if I had not been so unutterably wretched and depressed I
never could have doubted, but--will you forgive me?"

Whatever its ethical merits or demerits, it was the right, the one
appeal. And it served.

Séverac Bablon watched the reconciliation with a smile upon his handsome
face. Though clearly but a young man, he could at will invest himself
with the aloof but benevolent dignity of a father-confessor.

"The cloud has passed," he said. "I have a word for you, Sir Richard.
You have learnt to-night some of my secrets--my appearance, my
residence, and the identities of two of my friends. I do not regret
this, although I am a 'wanted man.' Only to-night I have committed a
gross outrage which, with the circulation of to-morrow's papers, will
cry out for redress to the civilised world. You are at liberty to act as
you see fit. I would wish, as a favour, that you grant me thirty-six
hours' grace--as Miss Oppner already has done. On my word--if you care
to accept it--I shall not run away. At the end of that time I will again
offer you the choice of detaining me or of condoning what I have done
and shall do. Which is it to be?"

Haredale did not feel sure of himself. In fact, the episodes of that
night seemed, now, like happenings in a dream--a dream from which he yet
was not fully awakened. He glanced from Mary to the incomprehensible man
who was so completely different from anything he had pictured, from
anything he ever had known. He looked about the bare, cell-like
apartment, illuminated by the soft light of the globe upon the massive
table. He thought of the Arab who had admitted him--of the entire
absence of subterfuge where subterfuge was to be expected.

"I will wait," he said.

But in less than thirty-six hours the world had news of Séverac Bablon.

At a time roughly corresponding with that when Mr. Aloys. X. Alden was
standing, temporarily petrified with astonishment, in a certain room of
the Hotel Astoria, two gentlemen in evening attire burst into a
Wandsworth police station. One was a very angry Irishman, the other a
profane Scot, whose language, which struck respectful awe to the hearts
of two constables, a sergeant, and an inspector--would have done credit
to the most eloquent mate in the mercantile marine.

He fired off a volley of redundant but gorgeously florid adjectives,
what time he peeled factitious whiskers from his face and shook their
stickiness from his fingers. His Irish friend, with brilliant but less
elaborate comments, struggled to depilate a Kaiser-like moustache from
his upper lip.

"What are ye sittin' still for-r?" shouted the Scotsman, and banged a
card on the desk. "I'm Hector Murray, and this is John Macready of
Melbourne. We've been held up by the highwaym'n Bablon. Turrn out the
forrce. Turrn out the dom'd diveesion. Get a move on ye, mon!"

The accumulated power of the three names--Hector Murray, John Macready,
and Séverac Bablon--galvanised the station into sudden activity, and an
extraordinary story, a fabulous story, was gleaned from the excited
gentlemen. It appeared in every paper on the following morning, so it
cannot better be presented here than in the comparatively simple form
wherein it met the eyes of readers of the _Gleaner's_ next issue. Cuts
have been made where the reporter's account overlaps the preceding, or
where he has become purely rhetorical.

     SIX FAMOUS CAPITALISTS KIDNAPPED

     SÉVERAC BABLON ACTIVE AGAIN

     AMAZING OUTRAGE AT THE ASTORIA

Under these heads appeared a full and finely descriptive account of the
happenings already noticed.

     DRAMATIC ESCAPE OF MR. MACREADY AND MR. HECTOR MURRAY

     SPECIAL INTERVIEW WITH MR. MURRAY

     WHERE ARE THE MISSING MAGNATES?

     IS SCOTLAND YARD EFFETE?

     From Mr. Hector Murray ... our special representative obtained a
     full account of the outrage, which threw much light upon a mystery
     that otherwise appeared insoluble. After ... they entered the room
     at the Astoria, where they had agreed to discuss a plan of mutual
     action against the common enemy of Capital, Mr. Murray informed our
     representative that nothing unusual took place for some twenty
     minutes or half an hour. Baron Hague had just risen to make a
     proposal, when the lights were extinguished.

     As it was a very black night, the room was plunged into complete
     darkness. Before anyone had time to ascertain the meaning of the
     occurrence, a voice, which our representative was informed seemed
     to proceed from the floor, uttered the following words:

     "Let no one speak or move. Mr. Macready place your revolver upon
     the table." (Mr. Macready was the only member of the company who
     was armed, and, curiously enough, as the voice commenced he had
     drawn his revolver.) "Otherwise, your son's yacht, the _Savannah_,
     will be posted missing. Hear me out, every one of you, lest great
     misfortune befall those dear to you. Mr. Murray, your sister and
     niece will disappear from the Villa Marina, Monte Carlo, within
     four hours of any movement made by you without my express
     permission. Mr. Oppner, you have a daughter. Believe me, she and
     you are quite safe--at present. Baron Hague, Sir Leopold Jesson,
     and Mr. Rohscheimer, my agents have orders, which only I can recall
     to bring you to Carey Street. I threaten no more than I can carry
     out. Give the alarm if it please you ... but I have warned."

     During this most extraordinary speech shadowy shapes seemed to be
     flitting about the room. The nature of the threats uttered had, for
     the time, quite unmanned the six gentlemen, which is no matter for
     surprise. Then, at a muttered command in what Mr. Murray informed
     our representative to have been Arabic, four lamps--or, rather,
     balls of fire--appeared at the four corners of the apartment. This
     bizarre scene, suggestive of nothing so much as an Eastern romance,
     was due to the presence of several Arabs in heavy robes, who had in
     some way entered in the darkness, and who now stood around the
     walls, four of their number holding in their brown hands these
     peculiar globular lights, which were of a kind quite new to those
     present. (An article by Mr. Pearce Baldry, of Messrs. Armiston,
     Baldry & Co., dealing with the possible construction of these
     lamps, appears on page 6.)

     Immediately inside the open window stood a tall man in a closely
     buttoned frock-coat. He carried no arms, but wore a black silk
     half-mask. Mr. Rohscheimer at this juncture rendered the episode
     even more dramatic by exclaiming:

     "Good heavens! It's Séverac Bablon!"

     "It is, indeed, Mr. Rohscheimer," said that menace to civilised
     society; "so that no doubt you will respect my orders. Mr.
     Macready, I do not see your revolver upon the table. I have warned
     you twice."

     Mr. Macready, who is not easily intimidated, evidently concluding
     that no good could come of resistance at that time, threw the
     revolver on to the table and folded his arms.

     "I give you my word," concluded Séverac Bablon, "that no bodily
     harm shall come to any one of you so long as you attempt no
     resistance. What will now be done is done only by way of
     precaution. Any sound would be fatal."

     At a signal to the Arabs the four lights were hidden, and each of
     the six gentlemen were seized in the darkness in such a manner that
     resistance was impossible. Each had a hand clapped over his mouth,
     whilst he was securely gagged and bound by men who evidently had
     the arts of the Thug at their fingers' ends. Mr. Murray informed
     our representative that so certain were they of Séverac Bablon's
     power to perform all that he had threatened that, in his opinion,
     no one struggled, with the exception of Mr. Macready, who, however,
     was promptly overpowered.

     It was then that they learnt how the Arabs and their master had
     entered. For each of the distinguished company, commencing with
     Baron Hague, was lowered by a rope to a window on the fifth floor
     and drawn in by men who waited there.

     There is no doubt that access had been gained by means of a short
     ladder from this lower window; indeed, Mr. Murray saw such a ladder
     in use when, all having descended through the darkness, the last to
     leave--an Arab--returned by that means. Such was the dispatch and
     perfect efficiency of this audacious man's Eastern gang, that Mr.
     Murray and his friends were all removed from the upper apartment to
     the lower in less than seven minutes. It will be remembered that
     the south wing of the Astoria has lately been faced with dark grey
     granite, that it was a moonless night, and that the daring
     operation could only have been visible, if visible at all, from the
     distant Embankment. No hitch occurred whatever; Séverac Bablon's
     Arabs exhibited all the agility and quickness of monkeys. It is
     illustrative of his brazen methods that he then removed the gags,
     and invited his victims to partake of some refreshments, "as they
     had a long drive before them."

     Needless to say, they were all severely shaken by their perilous
     adventure; and this led to an angry outburst from Mr. Macready, who
     demanded a full explanation of the outrage.

     "Sir," was the reply, "it is not for you to ask. As a final warning
     to you and to your friends--for the provisions I have made in your
     case are no more complete than those which I have made in the
     others--permit me to tell you that eight of the twelve men manning
     your son's boat including two officers--are under my orders. If any
     obstacle be placed in my way by you a wireless message will carry
     instructions, though I myself lie in detention, or dead, that the
     _Savannah_ be laid upon a certain course. That course, Mr.
     Macready, will not bring her into any port known to the Board of
     Trade. Shall I nominate the crew? Or are your doubts dispersed?"

     The insight thus afforded them to the far-reaching influence, the
     all-pervading power, of this arch-brigand whose presence in our
     midst is a disgrace to the police of the world, was sufficient to
     determine them upon a passive attitude. A gentleman who seemed very
     nervous then appeared, and skilfully disguised all six. Mr.
     Rohscheimer mentioned later to Mr. Murray that in this man he had
     recognised, beyond any shadow of doubt, a perruquier whose name is
     a household word. But this doubtless was but another clever trick
     of the master trickster.

     In three parties of two, each accompanied by an Arab dressed in
     European clothes, but wearing a tarboosh, they left the hotel.
     Disguised beyond recognition, they were conducted to a roomy car of
     the "family" pattern, which was in waiting; the blinds were drawn
     down, and they were driven away.

     At the end of a rapid drive of about an hour's duration, Messrs.
     Murray and Macready were requested by one of the three accompanying
     Arabs to alight, and were informed that Séverac Bablon desired to
     tender his sincere apologies for the inconvenience to which,
     unavoidably, he had put them, and for the evils with which--though
     only in the "most sacred interests"--he had been compelled to
     threaten them. They were absolved from all obligations and at
     liberty now to take what steps they thought fit. With which they
     were set down in a lonely spot, and the car was driven away. As our
     readers are already well aware, this lonely spot was upon
     Wandsworth Common.

     It is almost impossible to credit the fact that six influential men
     of world-wide reputation could thus, publicly, be kidnapped from a
     London hotel. But in this connection two things must be remembered.
     Firstly, for reasons readily to be understood and appreciated, they
     offered no resistance; secondly, the presence of so many Orientals
     in the hotel occasioned no surprise. A Prince Said Abu-el-Ahzab had
     been residing for some time in the apartments below those occupied
     by Mr. J. J. Oppner, and the members of his numerous suite are
     familiar to all residents. He and his following have disappeared,
     but a cash payment of all outstanding accounts has been left
     behind. It has been discovered that the light was cut off from one
     of the rooms occupied by the ci-devant prince, and the police are
     at work upon several other important clues which point beyond doubt
     to the fact that "Prince Said Abu-el-Ahzab" was none other than
     Séverac Bablon.

During the next twenty-four hours the entire habitable world touched by
cable service literally gasped at this latest stroke of the notorious
Séverac Bablon. Despite the frantic and unflagging labours of every man
that Scotland Yard could spare to the case nothing was accomplished. The
wife or nearest kin of each of the missing men had received a typed
card:

     "Fear nothing. No harm shall befall a guest of Séverac Bablon."

These cards, which could be traced to no maker or stationer, all had
been posted at Charing Cross.

Then, in the stop press of the _Gleaner's_ final edition, appeared the
following:

     "Baron Hague, Sir L. Jesson, Messrs. Rohscheimer and Oppner have
     returned to their homes."

It is improbable that in the history of the newspaper business, even
during war-time, there has ever been such a rush made for the papers as
that which worked the trade to the point of general exhaustion on the
following morning.

Without pausing here to consider the morning's news, let us return to
the Chancery Legal Incorporated Credit Society Bank.

"Move along here, please. Move on. Move on."

Again the street is packed with emotional humanity. But what a different
scene is this, although in its essentials so similar. For every face is
flushed with excitement--joyful excitement. As once before, they press
eagerly on toward the bank entrance; but this morning the doors are
_open_. Almost every member of that crushed and crushing assembly holds
a copy of the morning paper. Every man and every woman in the crowd
knows that the missing financiers have declined, firmly, to afford any
information whatever respecting their strange adventure--that they have
refused, all four of them, point blank either to substantiate or to deny
the sensational story of Messrs. Macready and Murray. "The incident is
closed," Baron Hague is reported as declaring. But what care the
depositors of the Chancery Legal Incorporated? For is it not announced,
also, that this quartet of public benefactors, with a fifth
philanthropist (who modestly remains anonymous) have put up between them
no less a sum than three and a half million pounds to salve the wrecked
bank?

"By your leave. Make way here. Stand back, _if_ you please."

Someone starts a cheer, and it is feverishly taken up by the highly
wrought throng, as an escorted van pulls slowly through the crowd. It is
bullion from the Bank of England. Good red gold and crisp notes. It is
dead hopes raised from the dust; happiness reborn, like a ph[oe]nix from
the ashes of misery.

"Hip, hip, hip, hooray!"

Again and again, and yet again that joyous cheer awakes the echoes of
the ancient Inns.

It was as a final cheer died away that Haredale, on the rim of the
throng, felt himself tapped upon the shoulder.

He turned a flushed face and saw a tall man, irreproachably attired,
standing smiling at his elbow. The large eyes, with their compelling
light of command, held nothing now but a command to friendship.

"Séverac Bablon!"

"Well, Haredale!" The musical voice made itself audible above all the
din. "These good people would rejoice to know the name of that anonymous
friend who, with four other disinterested philanthropists, has sought to
bring a little gladness into a grey world. Here am I. And there, on the
bank steps, are police. Make your decision. Either give me in charge or
give me your hand."

Haredale could not speak; but he took the outstretched hand of the most
surprising bandit the world ever has known, and wrung it hard.




CHAPTER XXII

THE TURKISH YATAGHAN


It was about a fortnight later that a City medical man, Dr. Simons, in
the dusk of a spring evening, might have been seen pressing his way
through the crowd of excited people who thronged the hall of Moorgate
Place, Moorgate Street.

Addressing himself to a portly, florid gentleman who exhibited signs of
having suffered a recent nervous shock, he said crisply.

"My name, sir, is Simons. You 'phoned me?"

The florid gentleman, mopping his forehead with a Cambridge-blue silk
handkerchief, replied rather pompously, if thickly:

"I'm Julius Rohscheimer. You'll have heard of me."

Everyone had heard of that financial magnate, and Dr. Simons bowed
slightly.

The two, followed by a murmuring chorus, ascended the stairs.

"Stand back, please," rapped the physician tartly, turning upon their
following. "Will someone send for the police and ring up Scotland Yard?
This is not a peep-show."

Abashed, the curious ones fell back, and Simons and Rohscheimer went
upstairs alone. Most of the people employed in those offices left sharp
at six, but a little group of belated workers from an upper floor were
nervously peeping in at an open door bearing the words:

     DOUGLAS GRAHAM

They stood aside for the doctor, who entered briskly, Rohscheimer at his
heels, and closed the door behind him. A chilly and indefinable
something pervaded the atmosphere of Moorgate Place a something that
floats, like a marsh mist, about the scene of a foul deed.

The outer office was in darkness, as was that opening off it on the
left; but out from the inner sanctum poured a flood of light.

Douglas Graham's private office was similar to the private offices of a
million other business men, but on this occasion it differed in one
dread particular.

Stretched upon the fur rug before the American desk lay a heavily built
figure, face downward. It was that of a fashionably dressed man, one who
had been portly, no longer young, but who had received a murderous
thrust behind the left shoulder-blade, and whose life had ebbed in the
grim red stream that stained the fur beneath him.

With a sharp glance about him, the doctor bent, turned the body and made
a rapid examination. He stood up almost immediately, shrugging slightly.

"Dead!"

Julius Rohscheimer wiped his forehead with the Cambridge silk.

"Poor Graham! How long?" he said huskily.

"Roughly, half an hour."

"Look! look! On the desk!"

The doctor turned sharply from the body and looked as directed.

Stuck upright amid the litter of papers was a long, curved dagger, with
a richly ornamented hilt. Several documents were impaled by its crimson
point, and upon the topmost the following had roughly and shakily been
printed:

     "VENGENCE IS MINE!
     "SÉVERAC BABLON."

Dr. Simons started perceptibly, and looked about the place with a sudden
apprehension. It seemed to Julius Rohscheimer that his face grew pale.

In the eerie silence of the dead man's room they faced one another.

The doctor, his straight brows drawn together, looked, again and again,
from the ominous writing to the poor, lifeless thing on the rug.

"Then, indeed, his sins were great," he whispered.

Rohscheimer, with his eyes fixed on the dagger, shuddered violently.

"Let's get out, doctor," he quavered thickly. "My--my nerve's goin'."

Dr. Simons, though visibly shaken by this later discovery, raised his
hand in protest. He was looking, for the twentieth time, at the words
printed upon the bloodstained paper.

"One moment," he said, and opened his bag. "Here"--pouring out a draught
into a little glass--"drink this. And favour me with two minutes'
conversation before the police arrive."

Rohscheimer drank it off and followed the movements of the doctor, who
stepped to the telephone and called up a Gerrard number.

"Doctor John Simons speaking," he said presently. "Come _at once_ to
Moorgate Place, Moorgate Street. Murder been committed by--Séverac
Bablon. Most peculiar weapon used. The police, no doubt, would value an
expert opinion. You _must_ be here within ten minutes."

The arrival of a couple of constables frustrated whatever object Dr.
Simons had had in detaining Mr. Rohscheimer, but the doctor lingered on,
evidently awaiting whoever he had spoken to on the telephone. The police
ascertained from Rohscheimer that he had held an interest in the
"Douglas Graham" business, that this business was of an usurious
character, that the dead man's real name was Paul Gottschalk, and that
he, Rohscheimer, found the outer door fastened when he arrived at about
seven o'clock, opened it with a key which he held, and saw Gottschalk as
they saw him now. The office was in darkness. Apparently, valuables had
been taken from the safe--which was open. The staff usually left at six.

This was the point reached when Detective Harborne put in an appearance
and, with professional nonchalance, took over the investigation. Dr.
Simons glanced at his watch and impatiently strode up and down the
outside office.

A few minutes later came a loud knocking on the door. Simons opened it
quickly, admitting a most strange old gentleman--tall and
ramshackle--who was buttoned up in a chess-board inverness; whose
trousers frayed out over his lustreless boots like much-defiled lace;
whose coat-sleeves, protruding from the cape of his inverness, sought to
make amends for the dullness of his footwear. He wore a turned-down
collar and a large, black French knot. His hirsute face was tanned to
the uniform hue of a coffee berry; his unkempt grey hair escaped in
tufts from beneath a huge slouched hat; and his keen old eyes peered
into the room through thickly pebbled spectacles.

"Dr. Lepardo!" cried Simons. "I am glad to see you, sir."

"Eh? Who's that?" said Harborne, looking out from the inner office,
notebook in hand. "You should not have let anybody in, doctor."

"Excuse me, Mr. Harborne," replied Simons civilly, "but I have taken the
liberty of asking Doctor Emmanuel Lepardo, whom I chanced to know was in
London, to give an opinion upon the rather odd weapon with which this
crime was perpetrated. He is one of the first authorities in Europe, and
I thought you might welcome his assistance at this early stage of your
inquiry."

"Oh," said the detective thoughtfully, "that's different. Thank you,
sir," nodding to the new-comer. "I'm afraid your name isn't known to me,
but if you can give us a tip or two I shall be grateful. I wish
Inspector Sheffield were here. These cases are fair nightmares to me.
And now it's got to murder, life won't be worth living at the Yard if we
don't make an arrest."

"Yes, yes," said Dr. Lepardo, peering about him, speaking in a most
peculiar, rumbling tone, and with a strong accent. "I would not have
missed such a chance. Where is this dagger? I have just returned from
the Izamal temples of Yucatan. I have brought some fine specimens to
Europe. Obsidian knives. Sacrificial. Beautiful."

He shuffled jerkily into the private office, seemed to grasp its every
detail in one comprehensive, peering glance, and pounced upon the dagger
with a hoarse exclamation. The Scotland Yard man watched him with
curiosity, and Julius Rohscheimer, in the open door, followed his
movements with a newly awakened interest.

"True Damascus!" he muttered, running a long finger up the blade. "Hilt,
Persian--not Kultwork--Persian. Yes. Can I pull it out? Yes? Damascened
to within three inches. Very early."

He turned to the detective, dagger in hand.

"This is a Turkish yataghan."

No one appeared to be greatly enlightened.

"When I say a Turkish yataghan I mean that from a broken Damascus
sword-blade and a Persian dagger handle, a yataghan of the Turkish
pattern has been made. There are stones incrusted in the hilt but the
blade is worth more. Very rare. This was made in Persia for the Turkish
market."

"One of Séverac Bablon's Arabs," burst in Rohscheimer hoarsely, "has
done this."

"Ah, yes. So? I read of him in Paris. He is in league with the chief of
the Paris detective. Him? So. I meet him once."

"Eh?" cried Harborne, "Séverac Bablon?"

Julius Rohscheimer's eyes grew more prominent than usual.

"No, no. The great Lemage. Lemage of Paris--his accomplice. This dagger
is worth two thousand francs. Let me see if a Turk has been in these
rooms. I meet Victor Lemage on such another occasion with this. He say
to me, 'Dr. Lepardo, come to the Rue So-and-such. A young person is
stabbed with a new kind of knife.' I tell him, 'It is Afghan, M.
Lemage.' He find one who had been in that country, arrest--and it is the
assassin. There is no smell of a Turk here. Ah, yes. The Turk, he have a
smell of his own, as have the negro, the Chinese, the Malay."

Pulling a magnifying-glass from one bulging pocket of his inverness, Dr.
Lepardo went peering over the writing desk, passing with a grunt from
the bloodstained paper bearing the name of Séverac Bablon to the other
documents and books lying there; to the pigeon-holes; to the chair; to
the rug; to the body. Crawling on all fours he went peering about the
floor, scratching at the carpet with his long nails like some monstrous,
restless cat.

Harborne glanced at Dr. Simons and tapped his forehead significantly.

"Humour my friend," whispered the physician. "He may appear mad, but he
is a man of most curious information. Believe me, if any Oriental has
been in these rooms within the last hour he will tell you so."

Dr. Lepardo from beneath a table rumbled hoarsely:

"There is a back stair. He went out that way as someone came in."

Julius Rohscheimer started violently.

"Good God! Then he was here when _I_ came in!" he exclaimed.

"Who speaks?" rumbled Lepardo, crawling away into the outside office,
and apparently following a trail visible only to himself.

"It is Mr. Julius Rohscheimer," explained Simons. "He was a partner, I
understand, of the late Mr. Graham's. He entered with a key about seven
o'clock and discovered the murder."

"As he came in our friend the assassin go out," cried Lepardo.

Harborne gave rapid orders to the two constables, both of whom
immediately departed.

"Are you sure of that, sir?" he called.

Against the promptings of his common sense, the eccentric methods of the
peculiar old traveller were beginning to impress him.

"Certainly. But look!"

Dr. Lepardo re-entered the inner office, carrying several files.

"See! He begins to destroy these letters. He has certainly taken many
away. If you look you see that he has torn pages from the private
accounts on the desk. He is disturbed by Mr. Someheimer. Can you know
the address of his lady secretary-typist?"

Harborne's eyes sparkled appreciatively.

"You're pretty wide at this business, doctor," he confessed. "I'm
looking after her myself. But Mr. Rohscheimer doesn't know, and all the
staff have gone long ago."

"Ah!" rumbled Dr. Lepardo, dropping his glass into the sack-like pocket.
"No Arab or such person has done this. He was one who wore gloves. So I
no longer am interested. Here"--placing a small object on the desk
beside the yataghan--"is new evidence I find for you. It is a
boot-button--foreign. Ah! if the great Lemage could be here. It is his
imagination that makes him supreme. In his imagination he would murder
again the poor Graham with the yataghan. He would lose his boot-button.
He would run away--as Mr. Heimar comes in--to some hiding-place, taking
with him the bills and the letters he had stolen, and the notes from the
safe. Once in his secret retreat, he would arrest himself--and behold,
in an hour--in ten minutes--his hand would be upon the shoulder of the
other assassin. Ah! such a case would be joy to him. He would revel. He
would gloat."

Harborne nodded.

"If Mr. Lemage would come and revel with me for half an hour I
wouldn't say no to learning from him," he said. "But it isn't
likely--particularly considering that this is a Séverac Bablon case."

"Ah!" rumbled Dr. Lepardo, "you should travel, my friend. You would
learn much of the imagination in the desert of Sahara, in the forests of
Yucatan."

"You know," continued Harborne, turning to Simons, "these Séverac Bablon
cases--I don't mind admitting it--are over my weight. They bristle with
clues. We get to know of addresses he uses--people he's acquainted
with--and what good does it do us? Not a ha'p'orth. Of course, it's a
fact that he's had influential friends up to now, but this job, unless
I'm mistaken, will alter the complexion of things. What d'you think
Victor Lemage will say to _this_, Dr. Lepardo?"

But there was no one to answer, for the man from the forests of Yucatan
had vanished.

The charwoman of Moorgate Place was the next person to encounter Dr.
Lepardo, and his kindly manner completely won her heart. She had seen
Miss Maitland--the dead man's secretary--regularly go to lunch and
sometimes to tea with a young lady from Messrs. Bowden and Ralph's. The
staff at this firm of stockbrokers was working late, and it was unlikely
that the young lady had left, even yet. Dr. Lepardo expressed his
anxiety to make her acquaintance, and was conducted by the garrulous old
charwoman to an office in Copthall Avenue. The required young lady was
found.

"My dear," said Dr. Lepardo, paternally, "I have a private matter of
utmost importance to tell to Miss Maitland--to-night. Where shall I find
her?"

She lived, he was informed, at No. ---- Stockwell Road, S.W. He took his
departure, leaving an excellent impression behind him and half a
sovereign in the hand of the charwoman. A torpedo-like racing car was
waiting near Lothbury corner, and therein, Dr. Lepardo very shortly was
whirling southward. The chauffeur negotiated London Bridge in a manner
that filled the hearts of a score of taxi drivers with awe and
wonderment. Stockwell Road was reached in twelve and a half minutes.

A dingy maid informed Dr. Lepardo that Miss Maitland had just finished
her dinner. Would he walk up?

Dr. Lepardo walked up and made himself known to the pretty brown-haired
girl who rose to greet him. Miss Maitland clearly was surprised--and a
little frightened--by this unexpected visit. Her glance strayed from the
visitor to a silver-framed photograph on the mantelpiece and back again
to Dr. Lepardo in a curiously wistful way.

"My dear," he said, and his kindly, paternal manner seemed to reassure
her somewhat, "I have come to ask your help in a----"

He suddenly stepped to the mantelpiece and peered at the photograph. It
was that of a rather odd-looking young man, and bore the inscription:
"To Iris. Lawrence."

"Why, yes," he burst out; "surely this is my old friend! Can it be my
old friend--Gardener--Gaston--ah! I have no memory for his name. The
good boy, Lawrence Greely?"

The girl's eyes opened wildly.

"Guthrie!" she said, blushing. "You mean Guthrie?"

"Ah! Guthrie," cried the doctor, triumphantly. "You know my old friend,
Lawrence Guthrie? He is in England?"

"He has never left it, to my knowledge," said the girl with sudden
doubt.

"Foolish me," exclaimed Lepardo. "It was his father that lives abroad,
in the East--Bagdad--Cairo."

"Constantinople," corrected Miss Maitland.

"Still the old foolish," rumbled her odd visitor. "Always the old fool.
To be certain, it was Constantinople."

A curious gleam had crept into the keen eyes that twinkled behind the
pebbles.

"He used to say to me, the Guthrie père, 'I send that boy Turkish pipes
and ornaments and curiosities for his room. I wonder if that bad
fellow'"--Dr. Lepardo poked a jesting finger at the girl--"'I wonder if
he sell them.'"

"I'm _sure_ he wouldn't," flashed Miss Maitland. Then came a sudden
cloud upon the young face. "That is--I don't think he would--if he could
help it."

"Ah, those money troubles," sighed the old doctor. "But I quite forgot
my business, thinking of Lawrence. There has been an--accident at your
office, my child. _He_ is quite well. Do not be afraid. Tell me--when
did you leave to-night?"

Iris Maitland retreated from him step by step, her eyes fixed
affrightedly upon his face. She sank into an arm-chair. The pretty blush
had fled now, and she was very pale.

"Why," she said tensely, "why have you asked me those questions? You do
not know Lawrence. What has happened? Oh, what has happened?"

She was trembling now.

"Oh," she said, "I am afraid of you, Dr. Lepardo. I don't know what you
want. Who are you? But I see now that you have made me tell you all
about him. I will tell you no more."

"My dear," said Dr. Lepardo, and the rumbling of his voice was kindly,
"a woman has that great gift, intuition. It is true. It is my rule, my
dear, never to neglect opportunity, however slight. When I arrive,
unexpected, you glance at his photograph. You associate him, then, with
the unexpected. I experiment. Forgive me. It is by such leaps in the
dark that great things are won. It is where a little intuition is worth
much wisdom. You are a brave girl, and so I tell you--it is for you to
save Lawrence. If the Scotland Yard Mr. Harborne knew so much as I,
nothing, I fear, could save him. I can do it--_I_. You shall help me. I
work, my child, as no man has worked before. For great things I work. I
work against time--against the police. I aspire to do the all but
impossible--the wonderful. Only what you call luck and what I call
intuition can make me win. A bargain--you answer me my questions and I
answer you yours?"

The girl nodded. Her fingers were clutching and releasing the arms of
the chair. Through the odd mask of peering benevolence worn by the brown
old traveller another, inspired, being momentarily had peeped forth.

"What time did you leave to-night?"

"A quarter past six."

"How many appointments had Mr. Graham afterwards? One with Lawrence.
What other?"

"With Mr. Rohscheimer."

"No other?"

"No."

"What time Lawrence?"

"Directly I left."

"Mr. Graham did not know you two are acquainted, eh?"

"He did not."

"Had you access to his private accounts that he keep in his safe?"

"No."

"You keep the files?"

"Yes."

"Who is the most important creditor filed under G? Lawrence?"

The girl shook her head emphatically.

"Why, he only owed about fifty pounds," she said. "There were none of
importance under G, except Garraway, the Hon. Claude Garraway and Count
de Guise."

"Ah! Count de Guise. So quaint a name. He is rich, yes?"

"Awfully rich. He is selling all the things in his flat and going abroad
for good. There is an advertisement in to-day's paper. His pictures and
things are valued at no less than thirty thousand pounds. I don't know
how his business stood with Mr. Graham; latterly, it had not passed
through my hands at all."

"And his address?"

"59b Bedford Court Mansions."

"And I must see Lawrence too. Where shall I find him?"

"At Bart's--St. Bartholomew's Hospital. He is studying there. You are
sure to find him there to-night. He is engaged there, I know, up to ten
o'clock."

Dr. Lepardo took the girl's hand and pressed it soothingly.

"Do not faint; be a brave girl," he said. "Your employer was killed
shortly after you left."

Deathly pale, she sat watching him.

"By--whom?"

"By Séverac Bablon, so it is written on his desk. It is unfortunate that
Lawrence was there to-night; but I--I am your friend, my child. Are you
going to faint--no?"

"No," said the girl, smiling bravely.

"Then good-night."

He pressed her hand again--and was gone.




CHAPTER XXIII

M. LEVI


The art of detection, in common with every other art, produces from time
to time a genius; and a genius, whatever else he may be, emphatically is
_not_ a person having "an infinite capacity for taking pains." Such
masters of criminology as Alphonse Bertillon or his famous compatriot,
Victor Lemage, whose resignation so recently had stirred the wide world
to wonder--achieve their results by painstaking labours, yes, but all
those labours would be more or less futile without that elusive element
of inspiration, intuition, luck--call it what you will--which
constitutes genius, which alone distinguishes such men from the other
capable plodders about them. A brief retrospective survey of the
surprising results achieved by Dr. Lepardo within the space of an hour
will show these to have been due to brilliant imagination, deep
knowledge of human nature, foresight, unusual mental activity, and--that
other capacity so hard to define.

Dr. Lepardo was studying the following paragraph marked by Miss
Maitland:

     FOR SALE.--Entire furniture, antique, of large flat, comprising
     pieces by Sheraton, Chippendale, Boule, etc. Paintings by Greuze,
     Murillo, Van Dyck, also modern masters. Pottery, Chinese, Sèvres,
     old English, etc. A collection of 500 pieces of early pewter, etc.,
     etc., etc. The whole valued at over £30,000.

The torpedo-like car had dropped him at Bedford Court Mansions, and,
shuffling up the steps into the hall, he addressed himself to the
porter.

"Ah, my friend, has the Count de Guise gone out again?"

"I have not seen him go out, sir."

"Not since you saw him come in?"

"Not since then, sir--no."

"About half-past seven he came in, I think? Yes, about half-past."

"Quite right, sir."

Again the odd gleam came into the doctor's eyes, as it had come when, by
one of his amazing leading questions he had learnt that Lawrence
Guthrie's father resided in Constantinople. The doctor mounted to the
first floor. He was about to ring the bell of No. 59b, when another idea
struck him. He descended and again addressed the porter.

"The Count must be resting. He does not reply. He has, of course,
discharged his servants?"

"Yes, sir. He leaves England next week."

"Ah, he is alone."

Upstairs once more.

He rang three times before the door was opened to him by a tall, slight
man, arrayed in a blue silk dressing-gown. He had a most pleasant face,
and wore his moustache and beard according to the latest Parisian mode.
He looked about thirty years of age, was fair, blue-eyed, and handsome.

"I am sorry to trouble you so late, Count," said the old doctor, in
perfect French; "but I think I can make you an offer for some, if not
all, of your collection."

He hunted, peering through a case which apparently contained some dozens
of cards, finally handing the Count the following:

    ISIDOR LEVI
    Fine Art Expert
    _London and Paris._

Count de Guise hesitated, glanced at his caller, glanced at his watch,
cleared his throat--and still hesitated.

"If I approve," continued 'Isidor Levi,' "I will hand you a cheque on
the Crédit Lyonnais."

The Count bowed.

"Enter, M. Levi. Your name, of course, is known to me."

Indeed it was a name familiar enough in art circles.

Dr. Lepardo entered.

The room into which the Count ushered him was most magnificently
appointed. The visitor's feet sank into the carpet as into banked moss.
Beautiful furniture stood about. Pictures by eminent artists graced the
walls. Statuettes, vases, busts, choice antiques, were everywhere. It
was the room of a wealthy connoisseur, of an æsthete whose delicacy of
taste bordered upon the effeminate. The doctor stared hard at the Count
without permitting the latter to observe that he did so. With his hands
thrust deep in the sack-like pockets of his inverness he drifted from
treasure to treasure--uninvited, from room to room--like some rudderless
craft. The Count followed. In his handsome face it might be read that he
resented the attitude of M. Levi, who behaved as though he found himself
in the gallery of a dealer. Suddenly, before a Van Dyck portrait, the
visitor cried:

"Ah, a forgery, m'sieur! Spurious."

Count de Guise leapt round upon him with perfect fury blazing in his
blue eyes. The veins had sprung into prominence upon his forehead, and
one throbbed--a virile blue cord--upon his left temple.

"M'sieur!"

He seemed to choke. His sudden passion was volcanic--terrible.

Dr. Lepardo, still peering, seemed not to heed him; then quickly:

"Ah, I apologise, I most sincerely apologise. I was misled by the
unusual tone of the brown. But--no, it is undoubted. None other than Van
Dyck painted that ruff."

The Count glared and quivered, his fine nostrils distended, a while
longer, but swallowed his rage and bowed in acknowledgment of the
apology. Dr. Lepardo was off again upon his voyage of discovery,
drifting from picture to vase, from statuette to buhl cabinet.

"M'sieur," he rumbled, peering around at de Guise, who now stood by the
fireplace of the room to which the visitor's driftings had led him, his
hands locked behind him. "I think I can propose you for the entire
collection. Is it agreeable?"

The Count bowed.

"Ah!"

M. Levi seated himself at the writing-table--for the room was a
beautifully appointed study--and produced a cheque-book.

"Twenty thousand pounds, English?"

The Count laughed contemptuously.

"Twenty-two?"

"Do not jest, m'sieur. Nothing but thirty."

"Twenty-eight is final. It is the price I had determined upon."

De Guise considered, bit his lip, glanced at the open
cheque-book--always a potent argument--and bowed in his grand fashion.
Lepardo changed his spectacles for a larger pair, reached for a pen,
peering, and overturned a massive inkstand. The ink poured in an oily
black stream across the leathern top of the table.

"Ah, clumsy!" he cried. "Blotting-paper, quick."

The other took some from a drawer and sopped up the ink. Lepardo rumbled
apologies, and, when the ink had been dried up, made out a cheque for
£28,000, payable to "The Count de Guise, in settlement for the entire
effects contained in his flat, No. 59b Bedford Court Mansions," signed
it "I. Levi," and handed it to de Guise, who was surveying his inky
hands, usually so spotless, with frowning disfavour.

The Count took the cheque, and Lepardo stood up.

"One moment, m'sieur."

Lepardo sat down again.

"You have dated this cheque 1928."

"Ah," cried the other, "always so absent. I had in mind the price,
m'sieur. Believe me, I shall lose on this deal, but no matter. Give it
back to me; I will write out another."

The second cheque made out, correctly, Lepardo shuffled to the door,
refusing de Guise's offer of refreshments. He was about to pass out on
to the landing when:

"Heavens! I am truly an absent fool. I wear my writing glasses and have
left my street glasses on your table. One moment. No, I would not
trouble you."

He shuffled quickly back to the study, to return almost immediately,
glasses in hand.

"Will seven-thirty in the morning be too early for my men to commence an
inventory?"

"Not at all."

"Good night, m'sieur le Comte."

"Good night, M. Levi."

So concluded an act in this strange comedy.

Let us glance for a moment at Thomas Sheard, of the _Gleaner_, who sat
in his study, his head resting upon his clenched hand, his pipe cold.

Twelve o'clock, and the household sleeping. He had spent the early part
of the night at Moorgate Place, had written his account of the murder,
seen it consigned to the machines, and returned wearily home. Now, in
the stillness, he was listening; every belated cab whose passing broke
the silence of the night set his heart beating, for he was
listening--listening for Séverac Bablon.

His faith was shaken.

He had been content to know himself the confidant of the man who had
taken from Park Lane to give to the Embankment; of the man who had
kidnapped four great millionaires and compelled them each to bear an
equal share with himself, towards salving a wrecked bank; of the man,
who assisted by M. Lemage, the first detective in Europe, had hoodwinked
Scotland Yard. But the thought that he had called "friend" the man who
had murdered, or caused to be murdered, Douglas Graham--whatever had
been the dead man's character--was dreadful--terrifying.

It meant? It meant that if Séverac Bablon did not come, and come that
night, to clear himself, then he, Sheard, must confess to his knowledge
of him--must, at whatever personal cost, give every assistance in his
power to those who sought to apprehend the murderer.

A key turned in the lock of the front door.

Sheard started to his feet. A soft step in the hall--and Séverac Bablon
entered.

The journalist could find no words to greet him; but he stood watching
the fine masterful face. There was a new, eager look in the long, dark
eyes.

Séverac Bablon extended his hand. Sheard shook his head and resting his
elbow on the mantelpiece, looked down into the dying embers of the fire.

"You, too, my friend?"

Sheard turned impulsively.

"Tell me you are in no way implicated in that ghastly crime!" he burst
out. "Only tell me, and I shall be satisfied."

Séverac Bablon stepped quickly forward, grasped him by both shoulders
and looked hard into his eyes with that strange, penetrating gaze that
seemed to pierce through all pretence into the mind beyond.

"Sheard, in the pursuit of what I--and my poor wisdom may be no better
than a wiser man's folly--of what I consider to be Nature's one
law--Justice, I have braved the laws of man, risked my honour and my
liberty. I have dared to hold the scales, to weigh in the balance some
of the affairs of men. But life, be it that of the lowliest insect, of
the vilest sinner against every code of mankind, is sacred. I--with all
my egotism, with all my poor human vanity--would not dare to rob a
fellow creature of that gift which only God can give, which only God may
take back."

"Then----"

"You, who knew me, doubted?"

Sheard grasped the proffered hand.

"Forgive my fears," he said warmly; "I should have known. But this
horrible thing has shaken me. I cannot survey murdered corpses with the
calmly professional eye of the Sheffields and Harbornes."

"It was the work of an enemy, Sheard. There are men labouring, even now,
piecing a false chain together, link by link; searching, spying, toiling
in the dark to prove that the robber, the incendiary, the iconoclast, is
also a murderer. I have need of all my friends to-night."

With a weary gesture, almost pathetic, he ran his fingers through his
black hair. The shaded light struck greenly venomous sparks from his
ring.

"This is such a coward's blow as I never had foreseen," he continued;
"but, as I believe, my resources are equal even to this."

"What! You know the murderer?"

"If the wrong man is not arrested by some one of the agents of Scotland
Yard, of Mr. Oppner, of Julius Rohscheimer, of Heaven alone knows how
many others that seek, I have hopes that within a few hours, at most, of
the world's learning I am an assassin, the world will learn that I am
not. Can you be ready to accompany me at any hour after 5 A.M. that I
may come for you?"

Sheard stared.

"Certainly."

"Then--to bed, oh, doughty copy-hunter. You still are my friend. That is
all I wished to know. For that alone I came like a thief in the night.
Until I return, au revoir."




CHAPTER XXIV

"V-E-N-G-E-N-C-E"


At half-past seven on the morning following M. Levi's visit the Count de
Guise opened the door of 59b Bedford Court Mansions to that eccentric
old art expert. M. Levi was accompanied by his partner, a tall, heavily
bearded man, who looked like a Russian, and by two other strangers, one
an alert-eyed, clean-shaven person in a tweed suit, the other a younger
man, evidently Scotch, who carried a little brown bag. These two would
commence an inventory, m'sieur being agreeable.

Entering the dining-room, with its massive old oak furniture, de Guise,
who found something uncomfortably fascinating in the eye of the partner,
lighted a cigarette and took up a position on the rug before the fire,
hands characteristically locked behind him.

"This is the Greuze," said Dr. Lepardo, pointing.

The Count, with the others, turned to look at the picture.

_Click! Click!_

He was securely handcuffed.

With an animal scream of rage the Count turned upon Lepardo, the vein
throbbing on his temple, his eyes glaring in maniacal fury. He sought to
speak, but only a slight froth rose to his lips; no word could he utter.

"Sit down in that chair," said Dr Lepardo.

With a gurgling scream de Guise's fury found utterance.

"Release me immediately. What----"

_"Sit down!"_

De Guise ground his white teeth together. The pulsing vein on his brow
seemed like to burst. He dropped into a chair, trembling and quivering
with passionate anger.

"You--shall--pay for--this!"

"My friend," said Lepardo, turning to the man who had carried the bag,
"this gentleman"--nodding at his companion in the tweed suit--"would
like to hear who you are, and for what you visited Moorgate Place last
evening."

"I am Lawrence Guthrie," explained the young man, "and yesterday, much
against my inclinations, but to prevent Graham's exposing the state of
my affairs to my father, I was forced to leave with him, as security for
fifty pounds, a Turkish yataghan worth considerably more."

"Stop! When I came to your Bart's last night, what did I tell you?"

"That Graham had been murdered with my yataghan."

"Well?"

"You said that the crime looked like the work of an old hand, for the
murderer had worn gloves. You told me that you had recognised, in one of
the victim's most important creditors, a notorious French criminal,
André Legun----"

The Count, deathly pale, his throbbing forehead wet as if douched, drew
a long, hissing breath. His eyes stared glassily at Dr. Lepardo.

"By what means?"

"By certain facial peculiarities."

"Rule 85."

"And particularly by a vein in his left temple, only visible when he was
roused. You had secured, by a trick----"

"Article Six."

"An imprint of his thumb upon a cheque. This you had compared with
certain in your possession--and forwarded to Paris."

"Unnecessary, but a usual form."

"You had secured from the grate in his study a pocketful of ash, some
scraps of torn leather--bloodstained--and some few other fragments.
These you and I spent the night examining and arranging. Amongst the
ashes was a patent glove button, also bloodstained."

"What have I yet to find?"

"A pair of boots."

"I depart to find them."

Dr. Lepardo quitted the room. Count de Guise followed him with his eyes
until he had disappeared. No one spoke nor stirred until the brown old
doctor returned, carrying a pair of glacé kid boots.

He placed them on the table beside the bag and pointed a long finger at
a gap in one row of buttons.

"Scotland Yard can complete the set, André," he said with grim humour.
"In this bag are the results of our examination. In your grate are more
ashes and fragments for the English Home Office to check us by. In this
bag is a complete account of how you came to Moorgate Place, knocked at
Gottschalk's door and were admitted. I do not know how you had _meant_
to kill him, but the yataghan, left on his table by Mr. Guthrie, was
tempting, eh? You then commenced to collect certain letters and papers,
André. You tore from his private book the page containing your little
account. Then you tore out others, to blind us all. You had begun upon
the letter files when you were interrupted by one entering with a key.
That was fortunate. It was file G you had commenced upon, André. And one
of the torn pages was G. So I knew that you were a G, too, my friend.
With what you took from the safe and with the letters and other papers,
you slipped down the back stair you knew of into Copthall Avenue. By my
great good luck, and not by my skill, I get upon your trail. But by my
skill I trap you."

The prisoner, whose handsome face now had assumed a leaden hue, whose
eyes were set in a fixed stare of horror and hatred, spoke slowly,
clearly.

"You talk nonsense. You taunt me, to drive me mad. I ask you--who are
you? You are not Levi, you are some spy."

Dr. Lepardo, or M. Isidor Levi, removed a grey wig and a pair of
spectacles and seemed by some relaxation of the facial muscles, to melt
out of existence, leaving in his place a heavy-eyed man, with stained
skin and thin, straggling hair.

De Guise, as though an unseen hand pushed him, stepped back--and
back--and back--until a heavy oak chair prevented further retreat.
There--like a mined fortress, hitherto staunch, defiant--he seemed to
crumble up.

"The good God!" he whispered. "It is _Victor Lemage_!"

"André Legun--Chevalier d'Oysan--Comte de Guise," said the famous
criminologist, "Paris wants you, but London now has a better claim. So,
when I have stolen back my cheque from your pocket-book, I hand you over
to London."

With the bravado of the true French criminal, Legun forced a smile to
his lips.

"It is finished, Victor," he said, dropping his affected manner and
speaking with an exaggerated low Paris accent. "I am glad it was you,
and not some stupid policeman of England who took me. Well, who cares? I
have had a short life but a merry one. You know, Victor, that my
misfortune in being the son of an aristocrat has pursued me always. I
have such refined tastes, and such a skill with the cards. You recall
the little house near the fortifications? But the inevitable run of bad
luck came. One question. Why"--he glanced at the Russian-looking man
with something like fear creeping again into his bold eyes--"why do you
hunt me down?"

The black beard and moustache were pulled off in a second by their
wearer, revealing a face of severely classic beauty. Lawrence Guthrie
stared hard.

"Mr. Guthrie," said the whilom Russian, "behold me at your mercy. You
know me innocent of one, at least, of the sins ascribed to me. I am
Séverac Bablon."

Guthrie hesitated for one tremendous moment; he looked from the handsome
face of the most notorious man in Europe to that of his companion who
wore the tweed suit, and whom he knew to be H. T. Sheard, the well-known
member of the _Gleaner_ staff. His decision was made. He stretched out
his hand and took that of Séverac Bablon.

"You ask," said the latter sternly to Legun, "why we have hunted you
down. I answer--first, in the sacred interest of Justice; second,
because you imputed your vile crime to _me_."

"What! To _you_? No! never!"

Victor Lemage's eyelids lifted quickly.

"Spell vengeance."

"V-e-n-g-e-a-n-c-e."

"My friends," said Lemage, reaching for the wide-brimmed hat of Dr.
Lepardo, "I all but have spoiled this, my greatest case, by a stupid
blunder. I have an early call to make. Advance your packing in my
absence. I shall shortly return."

And so it happened that Mr. Julius Rohscheimer, in Park Lane, was just
arising when his man brought him a card:

    _Detective-Inspector Sheffield_
    _C.I.D.,_
    _New Scotland Yard._

Rohscheimer, who looked as though he had spent a poor night, ordered
that Inspector Sheffield be shown up without delay. Immediately
afterwards there came in a tall, black-bearded man, wearing blue
spectacles, an old rain-coat, and a dilapidated silk hat. The drive,
though short, had been long enough to enable Victor Lemage, secure from
observation behind the drawn blinds of Séverac Bablon's big car, to
merge his personality into that of another man, distinct from Dr.
Lepardo--unlike M. Levi.

"Who are you?" blustered Rohscheimer, changing colour, and drawing a
brilliant dressing-gown more closely about him. "Who the blazes are
you?"

"_Ssh!_ I am Inspector Sheffield--disguised. You will excuse me if, even
here, I continue to impersonate an eccentric French character. You place
yourself within the reach of the law, my friend. You lay yourself open
to the suspicion of murder."

Julius Rohscheimer swallowed noisily. His flabby face assumed a dingy
hue; his eyes protruded to an unpleasant degree.

"Here, upon this, my card, write the words, 'Vengeance is mine.'"

Rohscheimer rose unsteadily; his puffy hands groped as if, feeling
himself slipping, he sought for something to lay hold upon.

"I swear----"

"Write!"

Rohscheimer shakily wrote the words, "_Vengence is mine._"

"No 'a,'" cried Lemage triumphantly, "no 'a'! Of all the stupid pigs I
am he. But I had not given you the credit of such nerve, M. Rohscheimer.
I had forgotten how once you lived the rough life in South Africa. It is
so? I did not think you had the courage to write--though wobbly--those
lying words in presence of the dead Gottschalk. Why did you do it, you
bad, foolish fellow? The yataghan already was stuck in the desk, eh?
That Legun is a fury when the blood thirst is upon him, when the big
vein throb. And you saw the blank paper? Yes? Or you feared that
you--you--the mighty Julius might be suspect? Yes, a little? Principally
you hope that this will spur the police and that _he_ will hang. You
prefer that the real one--who slays your partner--shall go free, if _he_
can be blackened. You throw sand in the eye of Justice, eh? Well--you
have influence; you shall use it to get yourself made Scotch-free. Very
good. You will now write in a few words how all this is. That or--I have
men outside. It is a public removal to--Good, you will write."

       *       *       *       *       *

At about that hour when, at thousands of breakfast tables, horrified
readers learned that Séverac Bablon's Arabs had committed a ghastly
crime in Moorgate Street, a cart drove up to New Scotland Yard, and two
green-aproned individuals both of whom would have been improved
artistically by a clean shave, dragged a heavy packing-case into the
office, said it contained curiosities from Bedford Court Mansions and
was for Inspector Sheffield.

When, half an hour later, the unwieldy box had been opened, out glared a
bound and gagged man, upon whose left temple there pulsed and throbbed a
dark blue vein!

Detailed evidence proving that this was the murderer of Gottschalk, his
record, his measurements, his thumb-prints, his boots, a number of tubes
containing scraps of stained leather, a number containing ashes, and all
neatly labelled together with a written confession, signed "Julius
Rohscheimer," to the authorship of the words "Vengeance is mine" were
also in this box. Finally, there was the following note:

     "DEAR INSPECTOR SHEFFIELD,

     "I enclose herewith André Legun, the man who murdered Paul
     Gottschalk, together with sufficient evidence to ensure a
     conviction, and completely to exculpate myself. I claim no credit.
     We both are indebted to M. Victor Lemage, who not only has
     surpassed his own brilliant records in the conduct of this case,
     but who kindly assisted me to carry the result of his labours into
     the office at New Scotland Yard. We both regretted our inability to
     see you personally.

     "SÉVERAC BABLON."




CHAPTER XXV

AN OFFICIAL CALL


The Home Secretary sat before the red-leathern expanse of his
writing-table. Papers of unique political importance were strewn
carelessly about that diplomatic battlefield, for at this famous table
the Right Honourable Walter Belford played political chess. To the right
honourable gentleman the game of politics was a pursuit only second in
its fascinations to the culture of rare orchids. It ranked in that fine,
if eccentric, mind about equal with the accumulating of rare editions,
early printed works, illuminated missals, palimpsests, and other MSS.,
or with the delights of the higher photography--a hobby to which Mr.
Belford devoted much attention.

Visitors to a well-known Sussex coast resort will need no introduction
to Womsley Old Place, the charming seat of that charming man, the Right
Hon. Walter Belford. With a frowning glance at a number of letters
pinned neatly together, Mr. Belford leant back in his heavily padded
chair, and, through his gold-rimmed pince-nez, allowed himself the
momentary luxury of surveying the loaded shelves of the noted Circular
Study wherein he now was seated. The great writing-table, with its
priceless bronze head of Cicero and its luxurious appointments; the
morocco, parchment, the vellum backs of the rare works about; the busts
above the belles-lettres, afforded him visible, if æsthetic enjoyment.
In a gap between two tall bookcases a Persian curtain partially
concealed the glass doors of a huge conservatory. Mr. Belford liked his
orchids near him when at work and not, as lesser men, when at play.

Sighing gently, he took up the bundle of letters, laid it down again,
and pressed a button.

"I will see Inspector Sheffield," he said to the footman who came.

Almost immediately entered a big man, fresh complexioned and of modest
bearing--a man, Mr. Belford determined after one shrewd glance, who,
once he saw his duty clearly, would pursue it through fire and flood,
but who frequently experienced some difficulty in this initial
particular.

"Sit down, inspector," said the politician genially, and with the
appearance of wishing to hasten a distasteful business. "You would like
to see the three communications which I have received from this man
Bablon?"

Sheffield, seated on the extreme edge of a big morocco-covered
lounge-chair, nodded deferentially. Mr. Belford took up the bundle of
letters.

"This," he said, passing one to the man from Scotland Yard, "is that
which I received upon the 28th ultimo."

Chief-Inspector Sheffield bent forward to the shaded light and ran his
eyes over the following, written in a neat hand upon a plain
correspondence card:

     "Séverac Bablon begs to present his compliments to His Majesty's
     Principal Secretary of State for the Home Department and to request
     the honour of a private interview, which, he begs to assure the
     right honourable gentleman, would be mutually advantageous. The
     words, 'Safe conduct.--W. B.,' together with time and place
     proposed, in the agony column of _The Times_, he will accept as a
     sufficient guarantee of the right honourable gentleman's
     intentions."

"And this," continued Mr. Belford, selecting a second, "reached me upon
the 7th instant":

     "Séverac Bablon begs to present his compliments to His Majesty's
     Principal Secretary of State for the Home Department and to urge
     upon him the absolute necessity of an immediate interview. He would
     respectfully assure the right honourable gentleman that high issues
     are at stake."

"Finally," continued the politician, as Sheffield laid the second card
upon the table, "I received this upon the 13th instant--yesterday":

     "Séverac Bablon begs to present his compliments to His Majesty's
     Principal Secretary of State for the Home Department and to inform
     the right honourable gentleman that he having failed to appoint a
     time of meeting, Séverac Bablon is forced by circumstances to make
     his own appointment, and will venture to present himself at Womsley
     Old Place on the evening of the 14th instant, between the hours of
     8 and 9."

Mr. Belford leant back in his chair, turning it slightly that he might
face the detective.

"My information is," he said, in his finely modulated voice, "that you
are personally familiar with the appearance of this Séverac
Bablon"--Sheffield nodded--"but that no one else, or--ah--no one whom we
may call upon--is in a position to identify him. Now, apart from the
fact that I have reason to fear his taking some improper measures to see
me here, this singular case is rapidly assuming a political
significance!" He made the impressive pause of the cultured
elocutionist. "Unofficially, I am advised that there is some wave of
afflated opinion passing through the Semitic races of the Near East--if,
indeed, it has not touched the Moslems. The Secretary for Foreign
Affairs anticipates--I speak as a member of the public--anticipates a
letter from a certain quarter respecting the advisablity of seizing the
person of this man without delay. Had such a letter actually reached my
friend, I had had no alternative but to place the matter in the hands of
the Secret Service."

Inspector Sheffield fidgeted.

"Excuse me, sir," he said; "but the S.S. could do no more than we are
doing."

"That I grant you," replied the Home Secretary, with his genial smile;
"but, in the event referred to, no choice would remain to me. Far from
desiring the intervention of another agent, I should regret it,
for--family reasons."

"Ah!" said the inspector; "I was about to--to--approach that side of the
matter, sir."

Mr. Belford's emotions were under perfect control, but at those words he
regarded the detective with a new interest.

"You have my respectful attention," he said.

"Well, sir,"--Sheffield was palpably embarrassed--"there's nothing to be
gained by beating about the bush! Excuse me, sir! But I know, and you
know, that Lady Mary Evershed--your niece, sir--and her American friend,
Miss Zoe Oppner, are----"

"Yes, inspector?"

"Are acquainted with Séverac Bablon!"

Mr. Belford scrutinised Sheffield closely. There was more in the man
than appeared at first sight.

"Is this regrettable fact so generally known?" he asked rather coldly.

"No, sir," replied the other; "but if the case went on the Secret
Service Fund it might be compromising!"

"Do I understand you to mean, inspector, that the discretion of our
political agents is not to be relied upon?"

"No, sir. But your--private information could hardly be withheld from
them--as it has been withheld from us!"

Even the politician's studied reserve was not proof against that thrust.
He started. Chief-Inspector Sheffield, after all, was a man to be
counted with. A silence fell between them--to be broken by the Home
Secretary.

"Your frankness pleases me, Inspector Sheffield."

The other bowed awkwardly.

"I perceive that you would make a bargain. I am to take you into my
confidence, and you, in turn, hope to render any employment of the Fund
unnecessary?"

"Whatever you tell me, sir, will go no farther--not to one other living.
Better confide in me than in a political agent. Then, you can't have
anything more incriminating than this."

He took a card from his pocket and placed it before Mr. Belford.

     "TO LADY MARY EVERSHED.

     "I shall always be indebted to you and to Miss Oppner, but I can
     assure you of Sir Richard's safety.

     "SÉVERAC BABLON."

"No one has seen that but myself," continued the detective. "I know
better! But anything further you can let me have, sir, will help me to
get them out of the tangle: that's what I'm aiming at!"

Mr. Belford's expression had changed when the damning card was placed
before him; but his decision was quickly come to. He opened a drawer of
the writing table.

"Here," he said, passing a sheet of foolscap to the inspector, "is the
plan of international co-operation which--I will return candour for
candour--the increasing importance of the case renders expedient. It was
drawn up by my friend the Foreign Secretary. It ensures secrecy,
dispatch, and affords no loophole by which Bablon can escape us."

His manner had grown brisk. The dilettante was lost in the man of
action.

Inspector Sheffield read carefully through the long document and
returned it to Belford, frowning thoughtfully.

"Thank you, sir," he said; "and what else?"

Mr. Belford smiled thoughtfully.

"You are aware that, owing to the family complications referred to, I
have been employing Mr. Paul Harley, the private detective?"

Sheffield nodded.

"He has secured other letters, incriminating a Mr. Sheard, of the staff
of the _Gleaner_; Sir Richard Haredale, of the ---- Guards; Miss Zoe
Oppner; and ... well--you know the worst--my niece, again!" The
inspector drew a long, deep breath.

"Next to Victor Lemage, who's also an accomplice," he said admiringly,
"I don't mind admitting that Harley is the smartest man in the business.
But in justice to us, sir, you must remember that our hands are tied. A
C.I.D. man isn't allowed to do what Harley can do."

"I grant it, inspector. Now, having given you my confidence, I rely upon
you to work with me--not against me."

"I am with you entirely, sir. May I have those letters?"

Mr. Belford hesitated.

"It is surely inconsistent with your duty to keep them private?"

"What about the one in my pocket, sir? That alone is sufficient, if I
wanted to make a scandal. No; I give you my word that no other eye shall
see them."

The Home Secretary shrugged his shoulders, and taking up the bundle from
which already he had selected Séverac Bablon's three communications, he
placed it in the detective's hands.

"I rely upon you to keep certain names out of the affair."

"I give you my word that they shall never be mentioned in connection
with it. You have taken the only course which could ensure that, sir.
May I see the photographs?"

If the Right Hon. Walter Belford had already revised his first estimate
of Inspector Sheffield, this last request upset it altogether. He
stared.

"I am glad to enjoy your co-operation, inspector," he said. "I prefer to
know that a man of your calibre is of my camp! You are evidently aware
that Harley has secured an elaborate series of snapshots of persons
known to Miss Oppner and to my niece. Of the several hundreds of persons
photographed, only one negative proved to be interesting. I have
enlarged the photograph myself. Here it is!"

He took a photograph from the drawer.

"This gentleman," he continued, "was taken in the act of bowing to Lady
Mary and Miss Oppner at the corner of Bond Street."

Sheffield glanced at the photograph. It represented a strikingly
handsome man, with dark, curling hair and singularly flashing eyes, who
was in the act of raising his hat.

"It's Séverac Bablon!" said the inspector simply.

"Ah!" cried Belford. "So I thought! So I thought!"

"May I take it with me?"

"I think not, inspector. You know the man; it is scarcely necessary."
And with a certain displeasure he laid the enlargement upon the table.

The detective accepted his refusal with one of the awkward bows.

"Regarding your protection to-night, sir," he said, standing up and
buttoning his coat, "there are six men on special duty round the house,
and no one can possibly get in unseen."

The Home Secretary, smiling, glanced at his watch. "A quarter to nine!"
he said. "He has fifteen minutes in which to make good his bluff. But I
do not fear interruption."

Sheffield awkwardly returned the statesman's bow of dismissal, and
withdrew under the patronage of a splendid footman. As the door closed,
Mr. Belford, with a long sigh of relief, stepped to a bookcase and
selected Petronius Arbiter's "_Satyricon_."

Book in hand, he slid back the noiseless glass doors of the
conservatory. A close smell of tropical plant life crept into the room,
but this was as frankincense and myrrh to his nostrils. He passed
through and seated himself in a cushioned cane chair amid the rare
flora. Switching on a shaded lamp conveniently hung in this retreat, he
settled down to read.

For it was a favourite relaxation of the right honourable gentleman's to
bury himself amid exotic blooms, and in such congenial company as that
of the Patrician æsthete, rekindle the torches of voluptuous Rome.

A few minutes later:

"Am I nowhere immune from interruption?" muttered Mr. Belford, with the
nearest approach to irritability of which his equable temper was deemed
capable.

But the next moment his genial smile dawned, as the charming face of his
niece, Lady Mary Evershed, peeped through the foliage.

"Truman was afraid to interrupt you, uncle, as you were in your cell!
But Inspector Sheffield is asking for you, and seems very excited."

"Dear me!" said her uncle, glancing at his watch; "but I saw him fifteen
minutes ago! It has just gone nine." Then, recalling Séverac Bablon's
boastful message: "He has not dared to attempt it! Unless--can it be
that he is arrested? Tell Truman to send the inspector here, Mary."

The girl, with a little puzzled frown on her forehead, withdrew, and
almost immediately a heavy step sounded in the library, and
Chief-Inspector Sheffield, pushing past the footman, burst
unceremoniously into the conservatory. His face was flushed, and his
eyes were angrily bright.

"We've been hoaxed, sir!" he cried. "We've been hoaxed!"

Mr. Belford raised a white hand.

"My dear inspector," he said, "be calm, I beg of you! Will you not take
a seat and explain this matter to me?"

Sheffield dropped into a chair, but the flow of excited words would not
be stayed nor dammed.

"He's tricked us again!" he burst out. "I suspect what he wanted, sir,
and I rely on you to give me all the help you can! I know Paul Harley
has got hold of evidence that we couldn't get; but a C.I.D. man can't
spend a week making love to Lady Mary Evershed's maid----"

"But others are better able to devote that amount of time to my maid, I
suppose?"

The interruption startled Mr. Belford out of his habitual calm, and
startled the detective into sudden silence.

Lady Mary stood at the door of the conservatory.

"I am sorry to appear as an eavesdropper," she continued; "but, as a
matter of fact, I had never left the study!"

"Er--Mary," began the Home Secretary, but for once in a way he was at a
loss for words. He knew from experience that the most obstreperous
friend "opposite" was easier to deal with than a pretty niece.

"Zoe is here with me, too," said Mary, and the frizzy head of Zoe Oppner
appeared over her friend's shoulder. "We are sorry to have overheard Mr.
Sheffield's words, but I think we have heard too much not to ask to hear
more. Do I understand, inspector, that someone has been spying on my
maid?"

Inspector Sheffield glanced at the Right Hon. Walter Belford, and read
an appeal in the eyes behind the pince-nez. He squared his shoulders in
a manner that had something admirably manly about it--and told a
straightforward lie.

"One of the Pinkerton men engaged by Mr. Oppner tried to get some
letters from your maid, I believe; but there's not a scrap of evidence
on the market, so he must have failed!"

"Evidence of what?" asked Zoe Oppner sharply.

Mr. Belford nervously tapped his fingers upon the chair-arm.

"Of your friendship, and Lady Mary's with Séverac Bablon!" replied the
inspector boldly.

Lady Mary was pale, and her eyes grew wide; but the American girl
laughed with undisguised glee.

"Séverac Bablon has never done a dirty thing yet," she said. "If we knew
him we should be proud of it! Come on, Mary! Mr. Belford, I'm almost
ashamed of you! You're nearly as bad as pa!"

They withdrew, and Mr. Belford heaved a great sigh of relief.

"Thank you, inspector," he said. "Lady Mary would never understand that
I sought only to save her from compromising herself. I am glad that the
letters are in such safe hands as yours."

"But they're not!" cried Sheffield, leaping excitedly to his feet.

Gruffness had come into his voice, which the other ascribed to
excitement.

"How so?"

An expression of blank wonderment was upon the politician's face.

"Because I never had them! Because I've never had a scrap of anything in
black and white! Because I've been tied up in an old tool-shed in a
turnip field for the past half-hour! And because the man who marched
through my silly troop a while ago and came in here and got back I don't
know what important evidence--_was Séverac Bablon_!"

It was a verbal thunderbolt. Mr. Belford sat with his eyes upon the
detective's face--speechless. And now he perceived minor differences.
The difference in voice he already had noted: now he saw that the eyes
of the real Inspector Sheffield were many shades lighter than those of
the spurious; that the red face was heavier and more rounded. It was
almost incredible, but not quite. He had seen Tree play Falstaff, and
the art of Séverac Bablon was only a shade greater.

"He's had months to study me!" explained the detective tersely. Then:
"I'm stopping at the 'Golden Tiger,' in the village. I'd been over the
ground in daylight, and I sent the men along first. They were round the
house by half-past seven. Just as I turned the corner out of the High
Street a big grey car overtook me; out jumped two fellows and had a
jiu-jitsu hold on in a second! They gagged me and tied me up inside, all
the time apologising and hoping they weren't hurting me! They drove me
to this shed and left me there. It was five minutes to nine when one of
them came back and untied my hands, giving himself a start while I undid
the rest of the knots. Here I am! Where's Séverac Bablon?"

The Right Hon. Walter Belford became the man of action again. He pulled
out his watch.

"Twenty-five minutes since he left the house," he said. "But he may not
have taken the road at once."

He rang.

"Truman," he cried to the footman, "the limousine ready--immediately!
This way, inspector!"

Off he went through the Circular Study, Sheffield following. At the door
Mr. Belford paused--and turned back.

He bent over his writing-table, searching for his own careful
enlargement of Séverac Bablon's photograph.

Séverac Bablon had not taken it with him, nor had he returned to the
room.

But it was gone!

"Rome divided! Treason in the camp!" he said, _sotto voce_. Then, aloud:
"This way, inspector!"

The tower of Womsley Old Place is a conspicuous landmark, to be seen
from distant points in the surrounding country, and visible for some
miles out to sea.

Mr. Belford raced up the many stairs at a speed which belied the story
of his silver-grey hair, and which left Inspector Sheffield hopelessly
in the rear. When at last the Scotland Yard man dragged weary feet into
the little square chamber at the summit, he saw the Home Secretary with
his eyes to the lens of a huge telescope, sweeping the country-side for
signs of the daring fugitive.

An unclouded moon bathed the landscape in solemn light. To north, east,
and west rolled the billows of the Downs, a verdant ocean. On the south
the country was wooded, whilst in the south-east might be seen the
gleaming expanse of the English Channel, a molten silver floor, its
distant edge seemingly upholding the pure blue sky dome. Roads inland
showed as white chalk lines, meadows as squares on a chess-board, houses
and farmsteads as chess-men.

"If he has made for Eastbourne we have lost him!" muttered Mr. Belford.
"If for Newhaven or Lewes we may not be too late. But there is a
possibility----ah! Yes; it is! They are making for Tunbridge
Wells--perhaps for London! Quick, inspector! Don't move the telescope.
On the straight road leading to the Norman church tower! Is that the
car?"

Sheffield lowered his eye to the glass, and after some little delay got
a sight of a long-bodied, waspish, shape, creeping, insect-wise, along a
white chalk mark. His eye growing more accustomed to the glass, he made
it out for a grey car.

"There's a chance, sir. It looks about the right cut."

"This way, inspector! We will take the risk."

Down the tower stairs they sped, Sheffield stumbling and delaying in the
dark and making better going where the light from a window showed the
stairs clearly.

"If that is he," panted the Home Secretary, "the motor is not a powerful
one. It is probably one hired for the occasion."

They came out from the tower into the hall and passed Lady Mary--who
glanced away with an odd expression--and Zoe Oppner. Zoe's pretty face
was flushed, and her breast rose and fell quickly. Her eyes were
sparkling, but she lowered them as the excited pair ran by.

The chauffeur was ready to start, when Mr. Belford, hatless, leapt on to
a footboard of the throbbing car with the agility of a sailor, Sheffield
more slowly following suit, for he would have preferred an inside berth.

A man in a blue serge suit touched the inspector's arm.

"What shall we do, sir?"

"Wait here."

The limousine was off.

"Left! left!" directed Mr. Belford, and the man swung sharply round the
curve and into the lane bordering the gardens of Womsley Old Place.

"Right!"

They leapt about again, and were humming along a chalky white road.

"Left! Straight ahead! Make for the church! Open her out!"

The pursuit had commenced!

Some dormant trait in the blood of His Majesty's Principal Secretary of
State for the Home Department had risen above the surface of suave,
polished courtesy which ordinarily passed for the character of the Right
Hon. Walter Belford. The veneer was off, and this was a primitive
Belford, kin of the Roger de Belfourd who had established the fortunes
of the house. The eyes behind the pince-nez were hard and bright; the
fine nostrils quivered with the joy of the chase; and the long, lean
neck, protruding from the characteristically low collar, was strung up
to whipcord tension.

"Let her go!" he shouted, his silvern hair streaming out grotesquely.
"Cut through Church Lane!"

"It's an awful road, sir!" The chauffeur's voice was blown back in his
teeth.

"Damn the road!" said the Right Hon. Walter Belford.

So, suddenly the powerful machine, spurning the solid earth like some
huge, infuriated brute, leapt sideways, two tyres thrashing empty air,
and went howling through an arch of verdure, between hedges which seemed
to shrink to right and left from its devastating course.

The man was understood to say something about "Overweighted on her
head."

"Scissors!" muttered Inspector Sheffield, wedging his bulk firmly
against the front window and clutching at anything that offered. "I hope
there are no police traps on this road!"

"He delayed for something!" yelled Belford through trumpeted hands. "We
shall catch him by Grimsdyke Farm!"

Sheffield wondered what that vastly daring man had delayed for. Belford,
with the fact of the missing photograph fresh in his mind, thought he
knew.

The old Norman church tower came rushing now to meet them; looked down
upon them, each venerable, lichened stone a mockery of this snorting,
ephemeral thing of the Speed Age; and dropped behind to join the other
vague memories which represented six miles of Sussex.

"Straight ahead now! Grimsdyke!"

Down swept the white road into a great bowl. Down shrieked the quivering
limousine, and Inspector Sheffield crouched back with an uncomfortable
sinking in the pit of the stomach, such as he had not known since he had
adventured his weighty person on a "joy-ride" at an exhibition.

From the time they had left Womsley Old Place the speed had been
consistently high, but now it rose to something enormous; increasing
with every ten yards of the slope, it became terrific. The bottom was
reached, and the climb began; but for some time little diminution was
perceptible in their headlong progress. Then it began to tell, and
presently they were mounting the long acclivity at what seemed a
tortoise pace after the breathless drop into the valley.

The car rose to the brow, and Mr. Belford mounted recklessly beside the
chauffeur, peering ahead under arched palms over the moon-bathed
country-side.

"There they are! There they are! We shall overtake them at the old
farm!"

His excitement was intensely contagious. Sheffield, who had been wedged
upon the footboard, rose unsteadily, and, supporting himself with
difficulty, looked along the gleaming ribbon of road.

There they were! The grey car was clearly discernible now, and even at
that distance he could estimate something of her progress. He exulted to
note that capture was becoming merely a question of minutes!

Then came a doubt. Suppose it should prove to be the wrong car!

Nearer they drew, and nearer.

The fugitives topped a slope, and against the blue sky was silhouetted a
figure which stood upright in the car--the figure of a big man with
raised arms and out-turned elbows. He was peering back, just as Belford
was peering forward.

"Look at his bowler hat!" yelled Sheffield. "Why, it might be me!"

"It might!" shouted Mr. Belford; "but it isn't! It's Séverac Bablon!"

A wood dipped down to the roadside, and its shadows ate up their quarry;
a breathless, nervous interval, and its glooms enveloped Mr. Belford's
party in turn. From out of the darkness the road ahead was clearly
visible. Deserted farm buildings lay scattered in their path where the
trees ended.

The trees slipped behind, and the old farm rose in front.

At the gate of the yard stood the grey car--empty!

"Pull up! Pull up!" cried Mr. Belford.

But long before the car became stationary he had precipitated himself
into the road.

Sheffield dropped heavily behind him, and grasped him by the arm.

"One moment, sir!" he said.

His voice was calm again. He was quite in his element now. A criminal
had to be apprehended, and the circumstances, though difficult, were not
unfamiliar. But strategy was called for; there must be no hot-headed
blundering.

"Yes? What is it?" demanded the Home Secretary excitedly.

"It's this, sir: he'll give us the slip yet, if we don't go slow! Now,
you take charge of the grey car. That's your post, sir. Here--have my
revolver. Step out into the lane there, and see nobody rushes the car!"

"Good--I agree!" cried Mr. Belford, and took the revolver.

"You, young fellow," continued the inspector, addressing the chauffeur,
"may know something of the ins and outs of this place. Do you know if
there's a back door to the main building?"

"There is--yes--down behind that barn."

"Then pull out a big spanner, or anything handy, and go round there.
When you reach the door, whistle. Stop there unless you hear my whistle
inside or till I come through and join you. If he's not in the main
building we can start on the outhouses. But his escape is cut off all
the time by Mr. Belford--see?"

"Quite right, inspector! Quite right!" cried Mr. Belford. "Go ahead! I
will get to the car! Go ahead!"

Off ran the agile politician to his appointed post; and the chauffeur,
armed with a heavy spanner, disappeared in the shadow of the barn.
Sheffield, taking from his breast-pocket an electric torch, strode up to
the doorless entrance of the abandoned farm, and waited.




CHAPTER XXVI

GRIMSDYKE


Not a sound disturbed the silence of the deserted place, save when the
slight breeze sighed through the trees of the adjoining coppice, and
swayed some invisible shutter which creaked upon its rusty hinges.

An owl hooted, and the detective was on the alert in a moment. It was a
well-known signal. Was the owl a feathered one or a human mimic?

No other sound followed, until the breeze came again, whispered in the
coppice, and shook the shutter.

Then the chauffeur's whistle came, faintly, and with something tremulous
in its note; for the adventure, though it offered little novelty to the
experience of the Scotland Yard man, was dangerously unique from the
mechanic's point of view. But where the Right Hon. Walter Belford led it
was impolitic, if not impossible, to decline to follow. Yet, the whistle
spoke of a man not over-confident. "Séverac Bablon" was a disturbing
name!

Sheffield pressed the knob of the torch and stepped into the bare and
dirty room beyond.

The beam of the torch swept the four walls, with faded paper peeling in
strips from the damp plaster; showed a grate full of rubbish, a battered
pail, and a bare floor littered with debris of all sorts, great cavities
gaping between many of the planks. A cupboard was searched, and proved
to contain a number of empty cans and bottles--nothing else.

Into the next room went the investigator, to meet with no better
fortune. The third was a big kitchen, empty; the fourth a paved
scullery, also empty--with the chauffeur at the door, holding his
spanner in readiness for sudden assault.

"Upstairs!" said Sheffield shortly.

Up the creaking stairs they passed, their footsteps filling the place
with ghostly echoes.

A square landing offered four doors, all closed, to their consideration.

Sheffield paused, and listened.

The owl had hooted again.

He directed the ray of the torch upon the door on the immediate right of
the stairhead.

"We're short-handed for this!" he muttered; "but it has to be risked
now. Stay where you are and be on the alert. Watch those other doors."
He tried the handle.

The door was locked.

To the next one he passed without hesitation. It yielded to his hand,
and he flashed the light about a bare room, with half of the ceiling
sloping down to the window. In the corner beyond this window a second
door was partly concealed by the recess. The inspector stepped across
the floor and threw the door open.

Then events moved rapidly.

Someone literally shot into the room behind him, falling with a crash
that shook the place like thunder. _Bang!_ sounded through the house,
and a key turned in a lock!

Sheffield spun round like an unwieldy top, and saw the chauffeur
struggling to his feet and rubbing his head vigorously.

The detective made no outcry, nor did he waste energy by trying a door
he knew to be locked. He stood, keenly alert, and listened.

Footsteps rapidly receded down the stairs.

"Who did it? How did he get behind me?" muttered the dazed chauffeur.

"Out of one of the other rooms! I told you to watch them!"

Inspector Sheffield was angry, but he had not lost his presence of mind.

"We must get out--quick! The window!"

He leapt to the low window, throwing it open.

"Too far to drop! We've got to smash the door! Perhaps they've left the
key in the lock! Set to on the panel with that bit of iron of yours!"

The man began a vigorous assault upon the woodwork. It was old, but very
tough, and yielded tardily to the blows of the instrument. Then a big
crack appeared as the result of a stroke shrewdly planted.

"Stand away!" directed Sheffield; and leaning back upon his left foot,
he dashed his right upon the broken panel, shattering it effectually.

At the moment that the chauffeur thrust his hand through the jagged
aperture to seek for the key, _thud! thud! thud!_ came from the lane
below.

"That's the car!" cried the inspector. "My God! what have they done to
Mr. Belford?"

The other paused and listened intently.

"It's the grey car," he said. "Why didn't they take the guv'nor's?"

"Open the door!" cried Sheffield impatiently. "Is the key there?"

"Yes," was the reply; "here we are!" And the door was opened.

Sheffield started down the stairs with noisy clatter, and, the chauffeur
a good second, raced through the rooms below and out into the yard.

"Mr. Belford! Mr. Belford!" he cried.

But no answer came, only a whisper from the coppice, followed by the
squeak of the crazy shutter.

They ran out to where they had left Belford on guard over the grey car;
but no sign of him remained, nor evidence of a struggle. The hum of the
retreating motor grew faint in the distance.

"Ah!" cried Sheffield, and started running towards Mr. Belford's
limousine on the edge of the coppice. "Quick! don't you see? _He's
kidnapped!_ In you go! This just about sees me out at Scotland Yard if
we don't overtake them!"

"They've gone back the way we've just come!" said the chauffeur, hurling
himself on board. "I can't make out where they're going--and I can't
make out why they took the worst car! It's an old crock, hired from
Lewes. We can run it down inside five minutes!"

"Thank God for that!" said Sheffield, as, for the second time that
night, he set out across moonlit Sussex on the front of the big car, in
pursuit of the most elusive man who ever had baffled the Criminal
Investigation Department.

Visions of degradation to the ranks from which he so laboriously had
risen occupied his mind to the exclusion of all else; for to have
allowed the notorious Séverac Bablon to kidnap the Home Secretary under
his very eyes was a blunder which he knew full well could not be
condoned.

Even the breathless drop into the great bowl on the Downs did not serve
to dispel his gloomy dreams. Then:

"There they are! And, as I live, making straight for Womsley!" cried the
chauffeur.

Sheffield stood up unsteadily on his insecure perch, and there was the
mysterious grey car, which now was become a veritable nightmare,
mounting the hill in front.

One minute passed, and Sheffield was straining his eyes to catch a
glimpse of the occupants. But no one was visible. Two minutes passed,
and the inspector began to think that his eyesight was failing, or that
a worse thing portended. For, as far as he could make out, only one man
occupied the car--the man who drove her!

"What does it mean?" muttered the detective, clutching at the shoulder
of the chauffeur to support himself. "It must be Séverac Bablon!
But--where's Mr. Belford?"

Three minutes passed, and the brilliant moonlight set at rest all doubts
respecting the identity of the man who drove the car.

His silvern hair flowed out, gleaming on his shoulders, as he bent
forward over the driving-wheel.

It was the Right Hon. Walter Belford!

"What in the name of murder does it mean?" cried Sheffield. "Has he gone
mad? Mr. Belford! Mr. Belford! Hoy! ... _Hoy! ... hoy! Mr. Belford!_"

But although he must have heard the cry, Mr. Belford, immovable at the
wheel, drove madly ahead!

"What shall I do?" asked the chauffeur in an awed voice.

"Do?" rapped Sheffield savagely. "Pass him and block the road! He's
stark, raving mad!"

So, along that white road, under the placid moon, was enacted the
strangest incident of this entirely bizarre adventure; for Mr. Belford,
in the hired motor, was pursued and overtaken by his own car, which
passed him, forged ahead, turned across the road, and blocked it.

For one moment the Home Secretary, racing down upon them, seemed to
contemplate leaving the path for the grassland, and thus proceeding on
his way; but the chauffeur ran out to meet him, holding up his arms and
crying:

"Stop, sir! _Stop!_"

Mr. Belford stopped the car and fixed his eyes upon the man with a look
of real amazement.

"You?" he said, and turned to Sheffield.

"Who else?" rapped the inspector irritably. "What on earth are you
doing, sir? Where's the quarry--where's Séverac Bablon?"

"What!" cried the Home Secretary, from the step of the car. "You have
lost him?"

"Lost him!" repeated Sheffield ironically. "I never had him!"

"But," said Mr. Belford distinctly, and in his question-answering voice,
"did you not return to where I was stationed and inform me that you had
them all locked in an upper room? Did I not, myself, hear their attempt
to break down the door? And did you not report that, their numbers being
considerable, you could not, single-handed, hope to arrest them?"

"Go on!" said Sheffield, in a tired voice. "What else did I tell you?"

"You see," resumed the politician triumphantly, "this _impasse_ is due
to no irregularity in my own conduct! You told me that my limousine had
mysteriously been tampered with, and that the only course was for you
and Jenkins to remain and endeavour to prevent the prisoners from
escaping, whilst I, in their car, returned to Womsley Old Place for your
men! Hearing you behind me, I naturally assumed that the prisoners had
overpowered you and were in pursuit of me!"

"I see!" said Sheffield, removing his hat and scratching his head
viciously.

"Finally," said Mr. Belford, with dignity, "you gave me this note for
your principal assistant, Dawson"--and handed an envelope to the
inspector.

The latter, with the resignation of despair, accepted it, tore it open,
and took out a card. Directing the ray of his pocket-torch upon it,
though in the brilliant moonlight no artificial aid really was
necessary, he read the following aloud:

     "Séverac Bablon begs to present his compliments to His Majesty's
     Principal Secretary of State for the Home Department and to thank
     him for according the privilege of a private interview. Whilst
     deprecating the subterfuge rendered necessary by the right
     honourable gentleman's attitude, he feels that it is justified by
     results, and begs respectfully to repeat his assurance that no one
     in whom the right honourable gentleman is interested shall be
     compromised, now or at any future time."

"You see," said the detective wearily, "that wasn't the real Inspector
Sheffield who spoke to you. I thought you might have known him by this
time, sir! That was Séverac Bablon!"




CHAPTER XXVII

YELLOW CIGARETTES


In our pursuit of the fantastic being, about whom so many mysteries
gathered, we have somewhat neglected the affairs of Sir Richard
Haredale. Thanks to Mr. Belford's elusive visitor, these now ran
smoothly.

In order to learn how smoothly we have only to present ourselves at a
certain important social function.

"These military weddings are so romantic," gushed Mrs. Rohscheimer.

"And so beastly stuffy," added her husband, mopping his damp brow with a
silk handkerchief bearing, in gold thread, the monogram "J. R."

"Doesn't Dick look real sweet?" whispered Lady Vignoles, following with
admiring eyes the soldierly figure of the bridegroom, Sir Richard
Haredale.

Lord Vignoles shouldered his way through the scrum about the door.

"I say, Sheila," he called to his wife, "where's Zoe?"

"She was here a minute ago," replied Julius Rohscheimer, rolling his
prominent eyes about in quest of the missing one.

"I mean to say," explained Vignoles, "her father is asking----"

"What! Has uncle turned up after all?" exclaimed Lady Vignoles, and
looked quickly towards the door.

Through the crowd a big red-faced man was forging, and behind him a
glimpse might be had of the shrivelled shape of John Jacob Oppner.

"Hallo," grunted Rohscheimer, "here's Inspector Sheffield, from Scotland
Yard!"--and apprehensively he fingered tie-pin and watch-chain, and
furtively counted the rings upon his fat fingers. "What's up?"

The shrewd but not unkindly eyes of the C. I. D. man were scanning the
packed rooms, over the heads of the crowd--keenly, suspiciously. With a
brief nod he passed the group, and pressed on his way. Mr. Oppner
halted.

"What's the trouble, Oppner?" inquired Rohscheimer thickly. "Is there a
thief here or something?"

"Worse!" drawled the other. "Séverac Bablon's here!"

"Oh, Lord!" groaned Rohscheimer, and surreptitiously slipped all his
rings off and into his trousers pocket. "Let's get out before we're all
held up!"

"He don't figure on a hold-up," replied Oppner; "it ain't a strong line
at a matinee. A hop-parade is the time for the crystals. We don't know
what he's layin' for, but it's a cinch he's here."

"How do you know?" asked a brother officer of Haredale's, who had joined
the group.

Mr. Oppner took a cigarette-case from his tail-pocket and held up
between finger and thumb a cigarette stump of an unusual yellow colour.

"We've got on his trail at last!" he said. "He sheds these cigs. like a
moulting chicken sheds feathers. This one was in the tray inside a
taxi--and the taxi dropped his fare right here!"

He returned the cigarette stump to the case, the case to his pocket, and
pushed on after Sheffield. As his stooping form disappeared from view
Sheard entered the room. Immediately he was claimed by Mr. Rohscheimer.

"Hallo, Sheard!" called the financier, and for the moment even the
imminence of the Séverac Bablon peril was forgotten--"what's the latest?
Is war declared?"

"There was nothing official up to the time I left," replied the
pressman; "but we are expecting it every minute. Mr. Belford and Lord
Evershed have just been summoned to Buckingham Palace. I met them going
as I came in."

Rohscheimer confidently seized the lapel of the journalist's coat.

"What do you think that means, now?" he asked cunningly.

"It means," replied Sheard, "that within the hour Europe may be in arms!
Haredale is on duty this evening--so there will be no honeymoon!
Everything is at sixes and sevens. I have a couple of cubs watching; and
if Baron Hecht, when he leaves the conference at the Palace, proceeds
home, there may be no war. If he starts for Victoria Station--war is
declared!"

An excited young lady wearing pince-nez, through which she peered
anxiously in quest of someone, tapping her rather prominent front teeth
the while with an HB pencil, sighted Sheard.

"Oh, there you are!" she cried, in evident relief. "Really, Mr. Sheard,
I was despairing of finding _anyone_ to tell me--but you always know
everything."

Sheard bowed ironically. The lady represented one of the oldest families
in Warwichshire and the Fashionable Intelligence of quite the smartest
morning journal in London.

"Sir Richard's best man----" she began again.

"Didn't you know?" burst in Lord Vignoles. "Bally nuisance--I mean to
say, inconsiderate of Roxborough; he could have sent some other
messenger, and need not have picked Anerly."

"Oh! I know all about that!" snapped the lady impatiently; "but who was
the distinguished-looking man who took Maurice's place?"

The Hon. Maurice Anerly, who should have officiated as best man, had
received instructions an hour before the ceremony to proceed to the
capital of the Power with whom Britain was on the verge of war. Sheard
would have given a hundred pounds for a glimpse of the dispatch he
carried.

"No idea," said Vignoles; "most amazing thing! Friend of Haredale's, who
turned up at the last minute and vanished directly the ceremony was
over. Perfect record! Don't suppose it's ever happened before."

"But he came to the house here; several people saw him here. You don't
want me to believe that Dick Haredale didn't tell anybody who his best
man was!"

"I was not present," said Sheard; "so I cannot help you."

"It's preposterous!" cried the lady. "I never heard of such a thing!"

"What was the gentleman like, miss?" came a quiet voice.

The eyes of all in the little group turned, together. Chief Inspector
Sheffield had joined them.

The lady addressed eyed the big man apprehensively. He was outside the
experience of Fashionable Intelligence, but there was a quiet authority
in his voice and manner which seemed to call for a reply.

"He was the most handsome man I have ever seen!" she answered briefly.

"Thank you!" said Sheffield, with even greater brevity, and turned on
his heel.

He went up to a footman, who looked more like a clean-shaven
policeman--possibly because he was one.

"You are certain that Miss Oppner and the man I have described actually
entered this house?"

"They were talking together in that room by the statue, sir."

"And Miss Oppner came out?"

"Yes, sir."

"But not the man?"

"No, sir."

Inspector Sheffield made his way to the little anteroom indicated. It
was quite a tiny apartment, with a divan, two lounge-chairs and a
Persian coffee-table. There was no one there.

A faint but very peculiar perfume hung in the air. Turkish tobacco went
to the making of it, but something else too. Sheffield bent over the
table.

In a little bronze ash-tray lay a cigarette end--yellow in colour.

       *       *       *       *       *

At about the same moment that Chief Inspector Sheffield was trying to
get used to the idea of the notorious Séverac Bablon's having actually
officiated as best man at the wedding of the only daughter of the
Marquess of Evershed, Mr. Thomas Sheard also had that astounding fact
brought home to him.

For, in the wide publicity of Eccleston Square, the observed of many
curious observers, Zoe Oppner stood shaking hands with this master of
audacity.

Sheard joined them hurriedly.

"This is the height of indiscretion!" he exclaimed, glancing
apprehensively about him. "You compromise others----"

Séverac Bablon checked him with a quiet smile.

"Have I ever compromised another?"

"But now you cannot avoid doing so. Sheffield is inside! What madness
brings you here?"

"In the absence of the Hon. Maurice Anerly, I acted as Haredale's best
man."

Sheard literally gasped.

"But you are not----"

"A Christian? My religious beliefs, Sheard, do not preclude my
attendance at a wedding ceremony. Some day I may explain this to you."

"You must have been recognised!"

"Who knows Séverac Bablon?"

"At least four people now in that house!"

"Possibly. But no one of those four has seen me. No one of them was
present at the ceremony; and, I assure you, I made myself scarce
afterwards."

"You must hurry. You have been traced----"

"Never fear; I shall hurry. But, before I go, Sheard, take this
envelope. It is the last 'scoop' that I have to offer to the _Gleaner_,
but it is the biggest of all! Good-bye."

"Do I understand that you are leaving England?"

So sincere was the emotion in the pressman's voice that Séverac Bablon's
own had changed when he replied:

"We may never meet again; I cannot tell."

He laid his hands upon the other's shoulders in a characteristic
gesture, and to Sheard, as he met the glance of those fine eyes, this
was no criminal flying from justice; rather, a ruler of peoples, an
enthusiast, a fanatic perhaps, but a royal man--and his friend.

"Good-bye!" said Séverac Bablon, and clasped Sheard's hand in both his
own.

He turned to Zoe Oppner, who, very pale, was glancing back at the house.

"Good-bye again!"

A cab waited, and Séverac Bablon, lighting a cigarette, leapt in and was
driven away. Sheard did not hear his directions to the man; and Zoe
Oppner left him abruptly and ran into the house again. Before he had
time to move, to collect his thoughts, a heavy hand was laid upon his
shoulder.

He started. Inspector Sheffield stood beside him.

"Who was in that cab?" he rapped.

Sheard realised that the moment to which he had long looked forward with
dread was come. He had been caught red-handed. At last Séverac Bablon
had dared too greatly, and he, Sheard, must pay the price of that
indiscretion.

"Why do you ask--and in that tone?"

"Mr. Sheard," said the detective grimly, "I've had my eye on you for a
long while, as you must be well aware. You may not be aware that but for
me you'd have been arrested long ago! I'm past the time when sensational
arrests appeal to me, though. I'm out to hide scandals, not to turn the
limelight on 'em. You're a well-known man, and it would break you, I
take it, if I hauled you up for complicity? But I've got my
responsibilities, too, remember; and I warn you--I warn you solemnly--if
you bandy words with me now, I'll have you in Marlborough Street inside
ten minutes!"

The buttons were off, and Sheard felt the point at his throat. For there
was no mistaking the grim earnestness of the man from Scotland Yard. The
kindly blue eyes were grown hard as steel, and in them the pressman read
that upon his next words rested his whole career. A lie could avail his
friend nothing; it meant his own ruin.

"Séverac Bablon!" he said.

"I knew that!" replied Sheffield; "you did well to admit it! Where has
he gone?"

"I have no idea."

"Don't take any chances, sir! I'm tired of the responsibility of
shielding the fools who know him! If you give me your word on that, I'll
take it."

"I give you my word. I was unable to hear his directions to the driver."

"Very good. There are other things I might ask you--but I know you'd
refuse to answer, and then I'd have no alternative. So I won't.
Good-day."

"Good-day, Inspector. And thank you." Sheffield nodded shortly and
walked up to the driver of the next waiting cab.

"What number was the man who drove away last?"

"LH-00896, sir."

"Know where he went?"

"No, sir; but not far. He told a pal o' mine--the chauffeur of Mr.
Rohscheimer's car, there, sir--that he'd be back in seven minutes."

"Good!" said Sheffield.

Matters were befalling as well as he could have hoped; for he had come
out too late to have followed the cab. He glanced at his watch. Provided
the man picked up no fare on his way back, he was due in three minutes.
The detective strolled off towards Belgrave Road. Inside the three
minutes a cab turned into the other end of the square.

Inspector Sheffield retraced his steps hurriedly.

Without a word to the man, he opened the cab door. A faint, familiar
perfume reached his nostrils. He glanced at the ash-trays, but neither
contained a cigarette end. He turned to the driver.

"Where did you take the gentleman you picked up here, my man?"

A newsboy came racing along the pavement, with an armful of sheets, wet
from the press. The journal was the _Gleaner's_ most powerful opponent.

"War de-clared, piper! War de-clared, speshul!"

His shrill cries drowned the taximan's reply. As the boy ran on crying
his mendacious "news" (for the front-page article was not headed "War
declared," but "Is war declared?"), Sheffield repeated his question.

"To Buckingham Palace, sir!" he was answered.

The detective stared incredulously.

"I mean a tall gentleman, clean shaven, and very dark, with quite black
hair----"

"Smoked some sort of Russian smokes, sir--yellow?"

"That one--yes!"

"That's the one I mean, sir--Buckingham Palace!"

Sheffield continued to stare.

"Where did you actually drop him?"

"At the gate."

"Well? Where did he go?"

"He went in, sir!"

"Went in! He was admitted?"

"Yes, sir; I saw him pass the sentry!"

Chief Inspector Sheffield leapt into the cab with a face grimly set.

"Buckingham Palace!" he snapped.

       *       *       *       *       *

Meanwhile, Detective-Sergeant Harborne, following back the clue of the
yellow cigarettes, in accordance with the instructions of his superior,
who had elected to follow it forward, made his way to a cab-rank at the
end of Finchley Road.

To a cab-minder he showed a photograph. It was from that unique negative
which the Home Secretary had shown to the pseudo-Inspector Sheffield at
Womsley Old Place; moreover, it was the only copy which the right
honourable gentleman had authorised to be printed.

"Does this person often take cabs from this rank, my lad?"

The man surveyed it with beer-weakened eyes.

"Mr. Sanrack it is, guv'nor! Yes, he's often here!"

Harborne, who was a believer in the straightforward British methods, and
who scorned alike the unnecessary subtlety of the French school, as
represented by Lemage or Duquesne, and the Fenimore-Cooper-like tactics
dear to the men of the American agencies, showed his card.

"What's his address?" he snapped.

"It's farther down on this side; I can't think of the number, sir,"
replied the other shakily. (The proximity of a police officer always
injuriously affected his heart.) "But I can show you the 'ouse."

"Come on!" ordered Harborne. "Walk behind me; and when I pass it,
whistle."

Off went the detective without delay, and walked briskly along the
Finchley Road. He had proceeded more than half-way, when, as he came
abreast of a gate set in a high wall, from his rear quavered a moist
whistle.

"70A," he muttered. "Right-oh!"

He thrilled with the joy of the chase, anticipating the triumph that
awaited him. Inspector Sheffield's pursuit was more than likely to prove
futile, but Séverac Bablon, he argued, was practically certain to return
to his head-quarters sooner or later.

He thought of the weeks and months during which they had sought for this
very house in vain; of the useless tracking of divers persons known to
be acquainted with the man of mystery; of the simple means--the yellow
cigarettes--by which, at last, they had come to it.

Mr. Aloys. X Alden had been very reticent of late--and Mr. Oppner knew
of the cigarette clue. At that reflection the roseate horizon grew
darkened by the figure of a triumphant American holding up Séverac
Bablon with a neat silver-plated model by Smith and Wesson. If Alden
should forestall him!

Harborne, who had been pursuing these reflections whilst, within sight
of No. 70A, he stood slowly loading his pipe, paused, pouch in hand. On
one memorable occasion, the super-subtlety of Sheffield (who was tainted
with French heresies) had led to a fiasco which had made them the
laughing-stock of Scotland Yard. Harborne felt in his breast pocket,
where there reposed a copy of the warrant for the arrest of Séverac
Bablon. And before he withdrew his hand his mind was made up. He was a
man of indomitable pluck.

Walking briskly to the gate in the high wall, he opened it, passed
around a very neat little lawn, and stood in the porch of 70A. As he
glanced about for bell or knocker, and failed to find either, the door
was opened quietly by a tall man in black--an Arab.

"I have important business with Mr. Sanrack," said Harborne quietly, and
handed the Arab a card which simply bore the name: "Mr. Goodson."

"He is not at home, but expected," replied the man, in guttural English.
"Will Mr. Goodson await?"

"Yes," said Harborne, "if Mr. Sanrack won't be long."

The Arab bowed, and conducted him to a small but cosy room, furnished
simply but with great good taste--and withdrew. Harborne congratulated
himself. The simple and direct, if old-fashioned, methods were, after
all, the best.

It was a very silent house. That fact struck him at once. Listen
intently as he would, no sound from within could he detect. What should
be his next move?

He stepped to the door and looked out into the hall. This was rather
narrow, and, owing to the presence of heavy Oriental drapings, very
dark. It would suit his purpose admirably. Directly "Mr. Sanrack" came
in he would spring upon him and get the handcuffs fast, then he could
throw open the front door, if there had been time for anyone to reclose
it, and summon assistance with his whistle.

He himself must effect the actual arrest--single-handed. He cared
nothing who came upon the scene after that. He placed the handcuffs in a
more convenient pocket, and buttoned up his double-breasted blue serge
coat.

Sheffield was certain to be Superintendent before long; and it only
required one other big case, such as this, to insure Harborne's
succession to an Inspectorship. From thence to the office vacated by
Sheffield was an easy step for a competent and ambitious man.

How silent the house was!

Harborne glanced at his watch. He had been waiting nearly five minutes.
Scarce another two had elapsed--when a brisk step sounded on the gravel.
The detective braced himself for a spring. Would he have the Arab to
contend with too?

No. A key was slipped into the well-oiled lock. The door opened.

With something of the irresistible force of a charging bull,
Detective-Sergeant Harborne hurled himself upon his man.

Human strength had been useless to oppose that attack; but by subtlety
it was frustrated. The man stepped agilely aside--and Harborne reclosed
the door with his head! That his skull withstood that crashing blow was
miraculous; but he was of tough stock. Perhaps the ruling passion helped
him, for dazed and dizzy as he was, he did the right thing when his
cunning opponent leapt upon him from behind.

He threw his hands above his shoulders and grasped the man round the
neck--then--slowly--shakily--his head swimming and the world a huge
teetotum--he rose upon his knees. Bent well forward, he rose to his
feet. The other choked, swore, struck useless blows, but hung limply,
helpless, in that bear-like, awful grip.

At the exact moment--no second too soon, no second too late--down went
Harborne's right hand to the wriggling, kicking, right foot of the man
upon whom he had secured that dreadful hold. A bend forward--a turn of
the hip--and his man fell crashing to the floor.

"That's called the Cornish grip!" panted the detective, dropping all his
heaviness upon the recumbent form.

_Click! Click!_

The handcuffed man wriggled into a sitting posture.

"You goddarned son of a skunk!" he gurgled--and stopped short--sat,
white-faced, manacled, looking up at his captor.

"Jumpin' Jenkins!" he whispered--"it's that plug-headed guy, Harborne!"

"Alden!" cried Harborne. "Alden! What the----!"

"Same to you!" snarled the Agency man. "Call yourself a detective! I
reckon you'd make a better show as a coal-heaver!"

When conversation--if not civil conversation, at least conversation
which did not wholly consist in mutual insult--became possible, the two
in that silent hall compared notes.

"Where in the name of wonder did you get the key?" demanded Harborne.

"House agent!" snapped the other. "I work on the lines that I'm after a
clever man, not trying to round up a herd of bullocks!"

Revolvers in readiness, they searched the house. No living thing was to
be found. Only one room was unfurnished. It opened off the hall, and was
on a lower level. The floor was paved and the walls plastered. An
unglazed window opened on a garden, and a deep recess opposite to the
door held only shadows and emptiness.

"It's a darned pie-trap!" muttered Mr. Aloys. X. Alden. "And you and me
are the pies properly!"

"But d'you mean to say he's going to leave all this furniture----!"

"Hired!" snapped the American. "Hired! I knew that before I came!"

Detective-Sergeant Harborne raised a hand to his throbbing head--and
sank dizzily into a cushioned hall-seat.




CHAPTER XXVIII

AT THE PALACE--AND LATER


How self-centred is man, and how darkly do his own petty interests
overshadow the giant things of life. Thrones may totter and fall,
monarchs pass to the limbo of memories, whilst we wrestle with an
intractable collar-stud. Had another than Inspector Sheffield been
driving to Buckingham Palace that day, he might have found his soul
attuned to the martial tone about him; for "War! War!" glared from
countless placards, and was cried aloud by countless newsboys. War was
in the air. Nothing else, it seemed, was thought of, spoken of, sung of.

But Sheffield at that time was quite impervious to the subtle influences
which had inspired music-hall song writers to pour forth patriotic
lyrics; which had adorned the button-holes of sober citizens with
miniature Union Jacks. For him the question of the hour was: "Shall I
capture Séverac Bablon?"

He reviewed, in the space of a few seconds, the whole bewildering case,
from the time when this incomprehensible man had robbed Park Lane to
scatter wealth broadcast upon the Embankment up to the present moment
when, it would appear, having acted as best man at a Society wedding, he
now was within the precincts of Buckingham Palace.

It was the boast of Séverac Bablon, as Sheffield knew, that no door was
closed to him. Perhaps that boast was no idle one. Who was Séverac
Bablon? Inspector Sheffield, who had asked himself that question many
months before, when he stood in the British Museum before the empty
pedestal which once had held the world-famed head of Cæsar, asked it
again now. Alas! it was a question to which he had no answer.

The cab stopped in front of Buckingham Palace.

Sheffield paid the man and walked up to the gates. He was not unknown to
those who sat in high places, having been chosen to command the secret
bodyguard of Royalty during one protracted foreign tour. An unassuming
man, few of his acquaintances, perhaps, knew that he shared with the
Lord Mayor of London the privilege of demanding audience at any hour of
the day or night.

It was a privilege which hitherto he had never exercised. He exercised
it now.

Some five minutes later he found himself in an antechamber, and by the
murmur of voices which proceeded from that direction he knew a draped
curtain alone separated him from a hastily summoned conference. A smell
of cigar smoke pervaded the apartment.

Suddenly, he became quite painfully nervous. Was it intended that he
should hear so much? Short of pressing his fingers to his ears, he had
no alternative.

"We had all along desired that amicable relations be maintained in this
matter, Baron."

That was the Marquess of Evershed. Sheffield knew his voice well.

"It has not appeared so from your attitude, Marquess!"

Whom could that be? Probably Baron Hecht.

"Your intense patriotism, your admirable love of country, Baron, has led
you to misconstrue, as affronts, actions designed to promote our
friendly relations."

Only one man in England possessed the suave, polished delivery of the
last speaker--the Right Honourable Walter Belford.

"I have misconstrued nothing; my instructions have been explicit."

"Fortunately, no further occasion exists for you to carry them out."

Sheffield knew that voice too.

"A Foreign Service Messenger, Mr. Maurice Anerly, left for my capital
this morning----"

"Captain Searles has been instructed to intercept him. His dispatch will
not be delivered."

Inspector Sheffield, who had been vainly endeavouring to become
temporarily deaf, started. Whose voice was that? Could he trust his
ears?

There followed the sound as of the clapping of hands upon someone's
shoulders.

"Baron Hecht, I hold a most sacred trust--the peace of nations. No one
shall rob me of it. Believe me, your great master already is drafting a
friendly letter----"

The musical voice again, with that vibrant, forceful note.

"In short, Baron" (Sheffield tried not to hear; for he knew this voice
too), "there is a power above the Eagle, a power above the Lion: the
power of wealth! Lacking her for ally, no nation can war with another!
The king of that power has spoken--and declared for peace! I am glad of
it, and so, I know, are you!"

Following a short interval, a shaking of hands, as the unwilling
eavesdropper divined. Then, by some other door, a number of people
withdrew, amid a hum of seemingly friendly conversation.

A gentleman pulled the curtain aside.

"Come in, Sheffield!" he said genially.

Chief Inspector Sheffield bowed very low and entered a large room,
which, save for the gentleman who had admitted him, now was occupied
only by the Right Hon. Walter Belford, Home Secretary.

"How do you do, Inspector?" asked Mr. Belford affably.

"Thank you, sir," replied the detective with diffidence; "I am quite
well, and trust you are."

"I think I know what has brought you here," continued the Home
Secretary. "You have been following----"

"Séverac Bablon! Yes, sir!"

"As I supposed. Well, it will be expedient, Inspector, religiously to
keep that name out of the Press in future! Furthermore--er--any warrant
that may be in existence must be cancelled! This is a matter of policy,
and I am sending the necessary instructions to the Criminal
Investigation Department. In short--drop the case!"

Chief Inspector Sheffield looked rather dazed.

"No doubt, this is a surprise to you," continued Mr. Belford; "but do
not allow it to be a disappointment. Your tactful conduct of the case,
and the delicate manner in which you have avoided compromising
anyone--in which you have handicapped yourself, that others might not be
implicated--has not been overlooked. Your future is assured, Inspector
Sheffield."

The gentleman who had admitted Sheffield had left the apartment almost
immediately afterwards. Now he returned, and fastened a pin in the
detective's tie.

"By way of apology for spoiling your case, Sheffield!" he said.

What Sheffield said or did at that moment he could never afterwards
remember. A faint recollection he had of muttering something about
"Séverac Bablon----!"

"Ssh!" Mr. Belford had replied. "There is no such person!"

It was at the moment of his leave-taking that his eyes were drawn to an
ash-tray upon the big table. A long tongue of bluish-grey smoke licked
the air, coiling sinuously upward from amid cigar ends and ashes. It
seemingly possessed a peculiar and pungent perfume.

And it proceeded from the smouldering fragment of a yellow cigarette.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Inspector Sheffield fully recovered his habitual composure and
presence of mind, he found himself proceeding along Piccadilly. War was
in the breeze; War was on all the placards. Would-be warriors looked out
from every club window. "Rule, Britannia" rang out from every street
organ.

Then came running a hoarse newsboy, aproned with a purple contents-bill,
a bundle of _Gleaners_ under his arm. His stock was becoming depleted at
record speed. He could scarce pass the sheets and grab the halfpence
rapidly enough.

For where all else spoke of war, his bill read and his blatant voice
proclaimed:

"PEACE! _Official!_"

Again the power of the Seal had been exercised in the interests of the
many, although popularly it was believed, and maintained, that Britain's
huge, efficient, and ever-growing air-fleet contributed not a little to
this peaceful conclusion.

The _Gleaner_ assured its many readers that such was indeed the case. To
what extent the _Gleaner_ spoke truly, and to what extent its statements
were inspired, you are as well equipped to judge as I.

And unless some future day shall free my pen, I have little more to tell
you of Séverac Bablon. Officially, as the Holder of the Seal, his work,
at any rate for the time, in England was done. Some day, Sheard may
carry his history farther, and he would probably begin where I leave
off.

This, then, will be at a certain pier-head, on a summer's day, and at a
time when, far out near the sky-line, grey shapes crept
southward--battleships--the flying squadron which thirty-six hours
earlier had proceeded to a neighbour's water-gate to demonstrate that
the command of the seas had not changed hands since the days of Nelson.
The squadron was returning to home waters. It was a concrete message of
peace, expressed in terms of war.

Nearer to the shore, indeed at no great distance from the pier-head, lay
a white yacht, under steam. A launch left her side, swung around her
stern, and headed for the pier.

In a lower gallery, shut off from the public promenades, where thousands
of curious holiday-makers jostled one another for a sight of the great
yacht, or for a glimpse of those about to join her, a tall man leaned
upon the wooden rail and looked out to sea. A girl in while drill, whose
pretty face was so pale that fashionable New York might have failed to
recognise Zoe Oppner, the millionaire's daughter, stood beside him.

"Though I have been wrong," he said slowly, "in much that I have done,
even you will agree that I have been right in this."

He waved his hand towards the fast disappearing squadron.

"Even I?" said Zoe sharply.

"Even you. For only you have shown me my errors."

"You admit, then, that your----!"

"Robberies?"

"Not that, of course! But your----"

"Outrages?"

"I did not mean that either. The means you have adopted have often been
violent, though the end always was good. But no really useful reform can
be brought about in such a way, I am sure."

The man turned his face and fixed his luminous eyes upon hers.

"It may be so," he said; "but even now I see no other way."

Zoe pointed to the almost invisible battleships.

"Ah!" continued Séverac Bablon, "that was a problem of a different kind.
In every civilised land there is a power above the throne. Do you think
that, unaided, Prussia ever could have conquered gallant France? The
people who owe allegiance to the German Emperor are a great people, but,
in such an undertaking as war, without the aid of that people who owe
allegiance to _me_, they are helpless as a group of children! Had I been
in 1870 what I am to-day, the Prussian arms had never been carried into
Paris!"

"You mean that a nation, to carry on a war, requires an enormous sum of
money?"

"Which can only be obtained from certain sources."

"From the Jews?"

"In part, at least. The finance of Europe is controlled by a group of
Jewish houses."

"But they are not all----"

"Amenable to my orders? True. But the outrages with which you reproach
me have served to show that when my orders are disobeyed I have power to
enforce them! Where I am not respected I am feared. I refused my consent
to the loan by aid of which Great Britain's enemies had designed to
prosecute a war against her. None of those theatrical displays with
which sometimes I have impressed the errant vulgar were necessary. The
greatest name in European finance was refused to the transaction--and
the Great War died in the hour of its birth!"

His eyes gleamed with almost fanatic ardour.

"For this will be forgotten all my errors, and forgiven all my sins!"

"I am sure of that," said Zoe earnestly. "But--whatever you came to
do----"

"I have not done--you would say? Only in part. Where I made my home in
London, you have seen a curtained recess. It held the Emblem of my
temporal power."

He moved his hand, and the sunlight struck green beams from the bezel of
the strange ring upon his finger. Zoe glanced at it with something that
was almost like fear.

"This," he said, replying, as was his uncanny custom to an unspoken
question, "is but the sign whereby I may be known for the holder of that
other Emblem. My house is empty now; the Emblem returns to the land
where it was fashioned."

"You are abandoning your projects--your mission? Why?"

"Perhaps because the sword is too heavy for the wielder. Perhaps because
I am only a man--and lonely."

The launch touched the pier, below them.

"You are the most loyal friend I have made in England--in Europe--in the
world," said Séverac Bablon. "Good-bye."

Zoe was very pale.

"Do you mean--for--always?"

"When you have said 'Good-bye' to me I have nothing else to stay for."

Zoe glanced at him once and looked away. Her charming face suddenly
flushed rosily, and a breeze from the sea curtained the bright eyes with
intractable curls.

"But if I _won't_ say 'Good-bye'?" she whispered.





End of Project Gutenberg's The Sins of Séverac Bablon, by Sax Rohmer