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THE PLACE OF DRAGONS

A MYSTERY

By
WILLIAM LE QUEUX

Author of "In White Raiment," "If Sinners Entice Thee,"
"The Room of Secrets," etc.

WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED
LONDON AND MELBOURNE


MADE IN ENGLAND

Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London




CONTENTS


 CHAP.                                 PAGE
     I  PRESENTS A PROBLEM                5

    II  IS MAINLY ASTONISHING            12

   III  SHOWS LIGHT FROM THE MIST        22

    IV  OPENS SEVERAL QUESTIONS          30

     V  IN WHICH THE SHADOW FALLS        38

    VI  MYSTERY INEXPLICABLE             44

   VII  TELLS OF TWO MEN                 52

  VIII  REMAINS AN ENIGMA                60

    IX  DESCRIBES A NIGHT VIGIL          67

     X  CONTAINS A CLUE                  73

    XI  THE AFFAIR OF THE SEVENTEENTH    81

   XII  LOLA                             87

  XIII  RELATES A STRANGE STORY          95

   XIV  WHEREIN CONFESSION IS MADE      103

    XV  CONFIRMS CERTAIN SUSPICIONS     110

   XVI  WHERE TWO C'S MEET              118

  XVII  REVEALS ANOTHER PLOT            125

 XVIII  DONE IN THE NIGHT               131

   XIX  RECORDS FURTHER FACTS           139

    XX  ANOTHER DISCOVERY IS MADE       145

   XXI  EXPLAINS LOLA'S FEARS           152

  XXII  THE ROAD OF RICHES              160

 XXIII  FOLLOWS THE ELUSIVE JULES       166

  XXIV  MAKES A STARTLING DISCLOSURE    173

   XXV  IS MORE MYSTERIOUS              181

  XXVI  HOT-FOOT ACROSS EUROPE          188

 XXVII  OPENS A DEATH-TRAP              196

XXVIII  DESCRIBES A CHASE               204

  XXIX  THE HOUSE IN HAMPSTEAD          212

   XXX  NARRATES A STARTLING AFFAIR     219

  XXXI  "SHEEP OF THY PASTURE"          227

 XXXII  THE TENTS OF UNGODLINESS        235

XXXIII  DISCLOSES A STRANGE TRUTH       241

 XXXIV  CONCERNS TO-DAY                 250




THE PLACE OF DRAGONS




CHAPTER I

PRESENTS A PROBLEM


"Curious affair, isn't it?"

"Very."

"Now, you're a bit of a mystery-monger, Vidal. What's your theory--eh?"

"I haven't one," I replied with a smile.

"I knew the old boy quite well by sight. Didn't you?" asked my friend,
Major Keppell, as we stood gossiping together in the doorway of the
_Hôtel de Paris_, high up on the cliff opposite the pier at Cromer.

"Perfectly. His habit was to go down the slope yonder, to the pier each
morning at ten, and to remain there till eleven," I said. "I used to
watch him every morning. He went as regularly as the clock, wet or
fine."

"A bit eccentric, I thought," remarked the Major, standing astride in
his rough golfing clothes, and puffing at his briar pipe. "Quite a
character for a novel--eh?" and he laughed. "You'll do a book about this
strange affair--what?"

I shrugged my shoulders and smiled, as I replied: "Not very likely, I
think. Yet the circumstances are, to say the least, extremely curious."

"They are, from all I hear," said my friend. Then, glancing at his
wristlet watch, he exclaimed: "By Jove!--nearly seven! I must get in and
dress for dinner. See you later."

With this he passed through the swing-doors of the hotel, leaving me
standing upon the short sweep of gravel gazing out upon the summer sea,
golden in the glorious June sunset.

The Major had spoken the truth. A discovery had been made in Cromer that
morning which possessed many remarkable features, and to me, an
investigator of crime, it presented an extremely interesting
problem--one such as I, Herbert Vidal, had never before heard of.

Briefly related, the facts were as follows. Early in February--four
months before--there had arrived in Cromer a queer, wizened, little old
man named Vernon Gregory. He was accompanied by his nephew, a rather
dandified, overdressed young fellow of twenty-three, named Edward Craig.

Strangers are very few in Cromer in winter, and therefore Mrs. Dean,
landlady of Beacon House, on the West Cliff, a few doors west of the
_Hôtel de Paris_, where the asphalted footpath runs along the top of the
cliff, was very glad to let the new-comers the first-floor front
sitting-room with two bedrooms above.

In winter and spring, Cromer, high and bleak, and swept by the wild,
howling winds from the grey North Sea, its beach white with the spume of
storm, is practically deserted. The hotels, with the exception of the
_Paris_, are closed, the boarding-houses are mostly shut, and the
landladies who let apartments wait weeks and weeks in vain for the
arrival of a chance visitor. In August, however, the place overflows
with visitors, all of the best class, and for six weeks each year Cromer
becomes one of the gayest little towns on the breezy East Coast.

So, all through the spring, with its grey, wet days, when the spindrift
swept in a haze across the promenade, old Mr. Gregory was a familiar
figure taking his daily walk, no matter how inclement the weather.

In appearance he was unusual, and seedy. His bony face was long, thin,
and grey; a countenance that was broad at the brow and narrowed to a
pointed chin. He had a longish white beard, yet his deep-set eyes with
their big bushy brows were so dark and piercing that the fire of youth
seemed still to burn within them. He was of medium height, rather
round-shouldered, and walked with a decided limp, aided by a stout ash
stick. Invariably he wore an old, dark grey, mackintosh cape, very
greasy at the collar; black trousers, old and baggy; boots very down at
heel; and on his mass of long white hair a broad-brimmed felt hat, which
gave him the appearance of a musician, or an artist.

Sometimes, on rare occasions, his well-dressed nephew walked with
him--but very seldom were they together.

Craig was a tall, well-set-up young fellow, who generally wore a drab
golf-suit, smoked cigarettes eternally, and frequently played billiards
at the _Red Lion_. He was also a golfer and well known on the links for
the excellence of his play.

Between uncle and nephew there was nothing in common. Craig had dropped
a hint that he was down there with his relative "just to look after the
old boy." He undoubtedly preferred London life, and it was stated that a
few years before he had succeeded to a large estate somewhere on the
Welsh border.

The residents of Cromer are as inquisitive as those of most small towns.
Therefore, it was not very long after the arrival of this curious
couple, that everybody knew that old Mr. Gregory was concealing the fact
that he was head of the famous Sheffield armour-plate making firm,
Messrs. Gregory and Thorpe, though he now took but little part in the
active work of the world-famed house that rolled plates for Britain's
mighty "Dreadnoughts."

Cromer, on learning his identity, at once regarded old Gregory's queer
figure with due reverence. His parsimonious ways, the clockwork
regularity with which he took his morning walk, bought his daily paper
at Munday's Library, and took his afternoon stroll up past the
coast-guard station, or towards the links, or along the Overstrand or
Sheringham roads, were looked upon as the eccentricities of an immensely
wealthy man.

In rich men the public tolerate idiosyncrasies, that in poorer persons
are declared to betoken either lunacy, or that vague excuse for the
contravention of the conventionalities known as "the artistic
temperament." Many men have actually earned reputations, and even
popularity, by the sheer force of cultivated eccentricities. With
professional men eccentricity is one of the pegs on which their astute
press-agents can always hang a paragraph.

In the case of Mr. Vernon Gregory, as he limped by, the good
shop-keeping public of Cromer looked after him with benevolent glances.
He was the great steel magnate who ate frugally, who grumbled loudly at
Mrs. Dean if his weekly bill exceeded that of the City clerk and his
wife who had occupied the same rooms for a fortnight in the previous
July. He was pointed at with admiration as the man of millions who eked
out every scuttleful of coal as though it were gold.

Undoubtedly Mr. Gregory was a person of many eccentricities. From his
secretary in Sheffield he daily received a bulky package of
correspondence, and this, each morning, was attended to by his nephew.
Yet the old man always made a point of posting all the letters with his
own hand, putting them into the box at the post-office opposite the
church.

Sometimes, but only at rare intervals--because, as he declared, "it was
so very costly"--Mr. Gregory hired an open motor-car from Miller's
garage. On such occasions, Craig, who was a practised motorist, would
drive, and the pair would go on long day excursions towards Yarmouth, or
Hunstanton, or inland to Holt or Norwich. At such times the old man
would don many wraps, and a big blue muffler, and wear an unsightly pair
of goggles.

Again, the old fellow preferred to do much of his shopping himself, and
it was no uncommon sight to see him in the street carrying home
two-pennyworth of cream in a little jug. Hence the good people of Cromer
grew to regard their out-of-season visitor as a harmless, but
philanthropic old buffer, for his hand was in his pocket for every local
charity. His amusements were as frugal as his housekeeping. During the
spring his only recreation was a visit to the cinema at the Town Hall
twice a week. When, however, the orchestral concerts commenced on the
pier, he became a constant attendant at them.

So small is Cromer, with its narrow streets near the sea, that in the
off-season strangers are constantly running into each other. Hence, I
frequently met old Gregory, and on such occasions we chatted about the
weather, or upon local topics. His voice was strangely high-pitched,
thin, but not unmusical. Indeed, he was a great lover of music, as was
afterwards shown by his constant attendance at the pier concerts.

His nephew, Craig, was what the people of Cromer, in vulgar parlance,
dubbed a "nut." He was always immaculately dressed, wore loud socks,
seemed to possess a dozen styles of hats, and was never seen without
perfectly clean wash-leather gloves. He laughed loudly, talked loudly,
displayed money freely and put on patronizing airs which filled those
who met him with an instinctive dislike.

I first made his acquaintance in April in the cosy bar of the _Albion_,
where, after a long walk one morning, I went to quench my thirst. Craig
was laughing with the barmaid and gingerly lighting a cigarette. Having
passed me by many times, he now addressed a casual remark to me, to
which I politely responded, and we got into conversation. But, somehow,
his speech jarred upon me, and, like his personal appearance, struck an
unpleasant note, for his white shoes and pale blue socks, his light
green Tyrolese hat, and his suit of check tweeds distinctly marked him
as being more of a cad than a gentleman.

I remarked that I had walked to Overstrand, whereupon he asked--

"Did you chance to meet my uncle? He's gone out that way, somewhere."

I replied in the negative.

"Wonderful old boy, you know," he went on. "Walks me clean right out!
But oh! such a dreadful old bore! Always talking about what he did in
the seventies, and how much better life was then than now. I don't
believe it. Do you?"

"I hardly know," was my reply. "I wasn't old enough then to appreciate
life."

"Neither was I," he responded. "But really, these eccentric old people
ought all to be put in an asylum. You don't know what I have to put up
with. I tell you, it's a terrible self-sacrifice to be down in this
confounded hole, instead of being on the Riviera in decent sunny
weather, and in decent society."

"Your uncle is always extremely pleasant to me when I meet him," I said.

"Ah, yes, but you don't know him, my dear sir," said his nephew. "He's
the very Old Nick himself sometimes, and his eccentricities border upon
insanity. Why, only last night, before he went to bed, he put on his
bed-gown, cut two wings out of brown paper, pinned them on his back, and
fancied himself the Archangel Gabriel. Last week he didn't speak to me
for two days because I bought a box of sardines. He declares they are
luxuries and he can't afford them--he, with an income of forty thousand
a year!"

"Rich men are often rather niggardly," I remarked.

"Oh, yes. But with Uncle Vernon it's become a craze. He shivers with
cold at night but won't have a fire in his bedroom because, he says,
coals are so dear."

I confess I did not like this young fellow. Why should he reveal all his
private grievances to me, a perfect stranger?

"Why did your uncle come to Cromer?" I asked. "This place is hardly a
winter resort, except for a few golfers."

"Oh, because when he was in Egypt last winter, some fool of a woman he
met at the _Savoy_ in Cairo, told him that Cromer was so horribly
healthy in the winter, and that if he spent six months each year in this
God-forgotten place, he'd live to be a hundred. Bad luck to her and her
words! I've had to come here with the old boy, and am their victim."
Then he added warmly: "My dear sir, just put yourself in my place. I've
nobody to talk to except the provincial Norfolk tradespeople, who think
they can play a good game at billiards. I've got the absolute hump, I
tell you frankly!"

Well, afterwards I met the loud-socked young man more frequently, but
somehow I had taken a violent and unaccountable dislike to him. Why, I
cannot tell, except perhaps that he had disgusted me by the way he
unbosomed himself to a stranger and aired his grievances against his
eccentric uncle.

To descend that asphalted slope which led, on the face of the cliff,
from the roadway in front of the _Hôtel de Paris_, away to the
Promenade, old Gregory had to pass beneath my window. Hence I saw him
several times daily, and noted how the brown-bloused fishermen who
lounged there hour after hour, gazing idly seaward, leaning upon the
railings and gossiping, respectfully touched their caps to the limping,
eccentric old gentleman who in his slouch hat and cape looked more like
a poet than a steel magnate, and who so regularly took the fresh,
bracing air on that breezy promenade.

On that morning--the morning of the twelfth of June--a startling rumour
had spread through the town. It at once reached me through Charles, the
head-waiter of the hotel, who told me the whole place was agog. The
strange story was that old Mr. Gregory had at three o'clock that morning
been found by a coast-guard lying near a seat on the top of the east
cliff at a point near the links, from which a delightful view could be
obtained westward over the town towards Rimton and Sheringham.

The coast-guard had at once summoned a doctor by telephone, and on
arrival the medical man had pronounced the mysterious old gentleman
dead, and, moreover, that he had been dead several hours.

More than that, nobody knew, except that the dead man's nephew could not
be found.

That fact in itself was certainly extraordinary, but it was not half so
curious, or startling, as certain other features of the amazing affair,
which were now being carefully withheld from the public by the
police--facts, which when viewed as a whole, formed one of the most
inexplicable criminal problems ever presented for solution.




CHAPTER II

IS MAINLY ASTONISHING


In virtue of the facts that I was well known in Cromer, on friendly
terms with the local superintendent of police, and what was more to the
purpose, known to be a close friend of the Chief Constable at
Norwich--also that I was a recognized writer of some authority upon
problems of crime--Inspector Treeton, of the Norfolk Constabulary,
greeted me affably when, after a very hasty breakfast, I called at the
police station.

Treeton was a thin, grey-haired man, usually very quiet and thoughtful
in manner, but this staggering affair had quite upset his normal
coolness.

"I expect the detectives over from Norwich in half an hour," he said,
with a distinct trace of excitement in his tones, as we stood in his
bare little office discussing the morning's discovery. "You being such a
close friend of the Chief Constable, I don't suppose there'll be any
objection whatever to your being present during our investigations."

All the same, his tone was somewhat dubious as he added cautiously, "You
won't, of course, give anything to the Press?"

"Certainly not," I replied. "You can rely upon my discretion. This isn't
the first mystery I have assisted the police to investigate. This sort
of thing is, so to speak, part of my profession."

"Yes," said Treeton, still with some hesitation, "so I understand, Mr.
Vidal. But our people are terribly particular, as you know, about
admitting unofficial persons into police work. No offence. But we are
bound to be very careful."

"If you like, I'll 'phone to the Chief Constable," I suggested.

"No, sir. No need for that," he said hastily. "When the plain-clothes
men arrive, I don't think any difficulty will be made as to your
accompanying them." Then he added, as if to give the conversation a
turn, "It's a very queer business, very. But I mustn't talk about it at
present. No doubt you'll soon see for yourself what a strange affair it
is."

"What is the curious feature, then?" I inquired anxiously.

"No," said Treeton, with a deprecatory gesture. "No. Mr. Vidal. Don't
ask me. You must wait till the officers come from Norwich. They'll have
a surprise, I can assure you they will. That's all I can say. I've taken
care to have everything kept as it was found so as not to interfere with
any clues, finger-prints, or things of that sort."

"Ah," I said. "Then you suspect foul play, eh?"

Treeton flushed slightly, as if annoyed with himself at having let slip
the words that prompted my query.

Then he said slowly: "Well, at present we can't tell. But there's
certainly something very mysterious about the whole business."

"Where is the body?"

"They've put it in the life-boat house."

"And that young fellow, Craig? I hear he's missing."

The Inspector looked at me with a strange expression on his face.

"Ah," he said briefly, "that isn't the only remarkable feature of this
affair by any manner of means." Then impatiently: "I wish they'd come. I
'phoned to Norwich at six o'clock this morning, and now it's nearly ten.
They might have come over in a car, instead of waiting for the train."

"Yes," I responded. "That is how so many inquiries are bungled. Red tape
and delay. In the meantime a criminal often gets away hours ahead of the
sleuths of the law and eventually may escape altogether. I've known a
dozen cases where, because of the delay in making expert investigation,
the culprit has never been caught."

As I spoke the telephone bell tinkled and Treeton answered the call. The
Superintendent at Holt was asking for information, but my companion
could give him but very little.

"I am watching the railway-station, sir," said Treeton over the 'phone,
"and I've sent word to all the fishermen in my district not to take out
any strangers. I've also warned all the garages to let me know if any
stranger hires a car. The party we fancy may be wanted won't be able to
get away if he's still in the district."

"Which is not very likely," I murmured in a low voice so that my words
should not be heard over the wire.

When the conversation over the phone was ended, I sat chatting with
Treeton, until, some twenty minutes later, three men, bearing
unmistakably the cut of police-officers in plain clothes, entered the
station.

Two of them were tall, dark-haired young fellows, dressed in neat
navy-blue serge and wearing bowler hats. The third man, Inspector
Frayne, as I learnt afterwards, was in dark grey, with a soft grey felt
hat with the brim turned down in front.

"Well Treeton," said the Inspector briskly, "what's all the fuss about
down here?"

"A case--a very funny case. That's all," replied the local inspector. "I
told you over the 'phone all I know about it."

Then followed a brief, low-pitched conversation between the two
officers. I saw Frayne look over at me inquisitively, and caught a few
snatches of Treeton's words to him. "Great personal friend of the Chief
Constable.... Yes, quite all right.... Writes about crime.... No, no,
nothing to do with newspapers ... amateur, of course ... decent sort."

I gathered from this that there was going to be no difficulty about my
joining the party of police investigators. I was right. In a few moments
Treeton brought Inspector Frayne over to me and we were introduced.
Then, after a few friendly words, we started for the scene of the
startling discovery of the morning.

We slipped out of the station in pairs, so as to avoid attracting
attention, which might have led to our being followed and hampered in
our movements by a crowd of idle and curious inhabitants.

Proceeding by way of the path which wound round the back of the high-up
coast-guard station and so up over the cliff, we soon came to the seat
where the body of old Mr. Gregory had been found.

The seat, a green-painted one with a curved back, that had more than
once afforded me a comfortable resting-place, was the first out of the
town towards the links. It was situate a little way from the footpath
amid the rough grass of the cliff-top. Around it the herbage never grew
on account of the constant tread from the feet of many daily visitors,
so that clear about it was a small patch of bare sand.

On the right, upon the next point of the cliff, was another similar
seat, while on the left the path leading back to the town was railed
off because it was dangerous to approach too near the crumbling edge.

At the seat stood a very tall, thin, fair-haired young constable who
had, since the discovery of old Gregory's body, remained on duty at the
spot to prevent any one approaching it. This was done by Treeton's
orders, who hoped, and very logically, that if the sand about the seat
was not disturbed some tell-tale mark or footprint might be found by the
detectives that would give a clue to the person or persons who had
visited the seat with old Gregory in the early hours of that fatal
morning.

Near the constable were two men with cameras, and at a little distance a
small knot of curious idlers, all that remained of the many inquisitive
folks who were at first attracted to the spot, but who, finding nothing
to satisfy their curiosity, had soon returned to the town.

The morning was bright and calm, the sunlight reflected from a glassy
sea, upon the surface of which were a dozen or so fishing-boats lifting
their crab-pots, for the crabs of Cromer are far-famed amongst epicures
for their excellencies. It was a peaceful, happy scene, that none could
have suspected was the setting of a ghastly tragedy.

On arrival, Inspector Frayne, tall, grey-haired, with aquiline,
clean-shaven face, assumed an attitude of ubiquitous importance that
amused me.

"The body was found lying face downwards six feet beyond the south end
of the seat," Treeton explained. "You see this mark in the grass?"

Looking, we all saw distinctly the impression that marked the spot where
the unfortunate man had lain.

"No doubt," said the detective inspector, "the old gentleman was sitting
on the seat when he was attacked from behind by somebody who sneaked
quietly across the footpath, and he fell sideways from the seat. Have
you looked for footprints?"

"There are a number of them, as you see," was Treeton's reply. "Nothing
has been disturbed. I left all to you."

Gazing around, I saw that there were many prints of soles and heels in
the soft sand about the seat. Many people had evidently sat there on the
previous day. In the sand, too, some one had traced with a stick, in
sprawly capitals, the word "Alice."

Frayne and his two provincial assistants bent and closely examined the
prints in question.

"Women's mostly, I should say," remarked the detective inspector after a
pause. "That's plain from the French heels, flat golf-shoe soles, and
narrow rubber-pads, that have left their marks behind them. Better take
some casts of these, Phelps," he said, addressing the elder of his
subordinates.

"Forgive me for making a remark," I ventured. "I'm not a detective, but
it strikes me that if anybody did creep across the grass from the path,
as the Inspector rightly suggested, to attack the old man, he, or she,
may have left some prints in the rear there. In the front here the
footprints we have been examining are obviously those of people who had
been sitting upon the seat long prior to the arrival of the victim."

"I quite agree, Mr. Vidal," exclaimed Treeton, and at this I thought the
expert from Norwich seemed somewhat annoyed. "Yes," continued the local
inspector, "it's quite possible, as Mr. Frayne said, that somebody did
creep across the grass behind the old man. But unfortunately, there have
been dozens of people over that very same spot this morning."

"Hopeless then!" grunted Frayne. "Why on earth, Treeton, did you let
them swarm over there?" he queried testily. "Their doing so has rendered
our inquiry a hundred per cent. more difficult. In all such cases the
public ought to be rigorously kept from the immediate neighbourhood of
the crime."

"At least we can make a search," I suggested.

"My dear Mr. Vidal, what is the use if half Cromer has been up here
prying about?" asked the detective impatiently. "No, those feminine
footprints in front of the seat are much more likely to help us. There's
bound to be a woman in such a case as this. My motto in regard to crime
mysteries is, first find the woman, and the rest is easy. In every great
problem the 'eternal feminine,' as you writers put it, is ever present.
She is in this one somewhere, you may depend upon it."

I did not answer him, judging that he merely emitted these sentiments in
order to impress his listening subordinates with a due sense of his
superior knowledge. But the search went on.

From the footpath across the grass to the seat was about thirty feet,
and over the whole area all of us made diligent investigation. In one of
the patches where the sand was bare of herbage I found the print of a
woman's shoe--a smart little shoe--size 3, I judged it to be. The sole
was well shaped and pointed, the heel was of the latest fashionable
model--rather American than French.

I at once pointed it out to Frayne, but though he had so strongly
expressed the opinion that there was a woman in the case, he dismissed
it with a glance.

"Some woman came here yesterday evening with her sweetheart, I suppose,"
he said with a laugh.

But to me that footprint was distinctly instructive, for among the many
impressed on the sand before the seat, I had not detected one that bore
any resemblance to it. The owner of that American shoe had walked from
the path to the back of the seat, but had certainly not sat down there.

I carefully marked the spot, and telling an old fisherman of my
acquaintance, who stood by, to allow no one to obliterate it, continued
my investigations.

Three feet behind the seat, in the midst of the trodden grass, I came
upon two hairpins lying close together. Picking them up, I found they
were rather thick, crinkled in the middle, and both of the same pale
bronze shade.

Was it possible there had been a struggle there--a struggle with the
woman who wore those American shoes--who was, moreover, a fair woman, if
those pins had fallen from her hair in the encounter?

I showed the hairpins to Frayne who was busy taking a measurement of the
distance from the seat to where the body had been found.

To my surprise, he seemed impatient and annoyed.

"My dear Mr. Vidal," he exclaimed, "you novelists are, I fear, far too
imaginative. I dare say there are hundreds of hairpins about here in the
grass if we choose to search for them. This seat is a popular resort for
visitors by day and a trysting place for lovers after sundown. In the
vicinity of any such seat you will always find hairpins, cigarette ends,
wrappings from chocolates, and tinfoil. Look around you and see."

"But these pins have not been here more than a day," I expostulated.
"They are bright and were lying lightly on the grass. Besides, are we
not looking for a woman?"

"I'll admit that they may perhaps have belonged to somebody who was here
last evening," he said. "But I can assure you they are no good to us."
With this he turned away with rather a contemptuous smile.

I began to suspect that I had in some way antagonized Frayne, who at
that moment seemed more intent upon working up formal evidence to give
before the coroner, rather than in pushing forward the investigation of
the crime, and so finding a clue to the culprit.

I could see that he regarded the minute investigations I was making with
undisguised and contemptuous amusement. Of course, he was polite to me,
for was I not the friend of the Chief Constable? But, all the same, I
was an amateur investigator, therefore, in his eyes, a blunderer. He, of
course, did not know at how many investigations of crime I had assisted
in Paris, in Brussels, and in Rome--investigations conducted by the
greatest detectives in Europe.

It was not to be expected that an officer of the Norfolk Constabulary,
more used to petty larceny than to murder, would be so alert or so
thorough in his methods as an officer from Scotland Yard, or of the
_Sûreté_ in Paris.

Arguing thus, I felt that I could cheerfully disregard the covert sneers
and glances of my companions; and plunged with renewed interest into the
work I had undertaken.

In the sand before the seat, I saw two long, wide marks which told me
that old Mr. Gregory must have slipped from his position in a totally
helpless condition. That being so, how was it that his body was found
several feet away?

Had it been dragged to that spot in the grass? Or, had he crawled there
in his death agony?

In the little knot of people who had gathered I noticed a young
fisherman in his brown blouse--a tall youth, with fair curly hair, whom
I knew well and could trust. Calling him over, I despatched him to the
town for a couple of pounds of plaster of Paris, a bucket, some water,
and a trowel.

Then I went on methodically with my investigations.

Presently the coast-guard, George Simmonds, a middle-aged, dark-haired
man, who was a well-known figure in Cromer, came up and was introduced
to Frayne as the man who, returning from duty as night patrol along the
cliffs, early that morning, had discovered the body.

I stood by listening as he described the incident to the detective
inspector.

"You see, sir," he said saluting, "I'd been along the cuffs to
Trimingham, and was on my way back about a quarter past three, when I
noticed a man lying yonder on the grass. It was a fine morning, quite
light, and at first I thought it was a tramp, for they often sleep on
the cliffs in the warm weather. But on going nearer I saw, to my
surprise, that the man was old Mr. Gregory. I thought he was asleep, and
bent down and shook him, his face being downwards on the grass and his
arms stretched out. He didn't wake up, so I turned him over, and the
colour of his face fair startled me. I opened his coat, put my hand on
his heart, and found he was quite dead. I then ran along to our station
and told Mr. Day, the Chief Officer, and he sent me off sharp to the
police."

"You saw nobody about?" Frayne asked sharply. "Nobody passed you?"

"I didn't see a soul all the way from Trimingham."

"Constable Baxter was along there somewhere keeping a point," remarked
Treeton. "Didn't you meet him?"

"Going out I met him, just beyond Overstrand, at about one o'clock, and
wished him good morning," was the coast-guard's reply.

"But where is Craig, the young nephew of the dead man?" I asked Treeton.
"Surely he may know something! He must have missed his uncle, who,
apparently, was out all night."

"Ah! That's just the mystery, Mr. Vidal," replied the Inspector. "Let us
go down to the life-boat house," he added, addressing the detective.

As they were moving away, and I was about to follow, the tall
fisher-youth arrived with the plaster of Paris and a pail of water.

Promising to be with them quickly, I remained behind, mixed the plaster
into a paste and within a few minutes had secured casts of the imprint
of the woman's American shoe, and those of several other footmarks,
which, with his superior knowledge, the expert from Norwich had
considered beneath his notice.

Then, placing my casts carefully in the empty pail, I sent them along to
the _Hôtel de Paris_ by the same fisher-youth. Afterwards, I walked
along the path, passed behind the lawn of the coast-guard station, where
the White Ensign was flying on the flagstaff, and then descending, at
last entered the life-boat house, where the officers and three doctors
had assembled.

One of the doctors, named Sladen, a grey-headed practitioner who had
been many years in Cromer, recognized me as I entered.

"Hulloa, Mr. Vidal! This is a very curious case, isn't it? Interests
you, of course. All mysteries do, no doubt. But this case is astounding.
In making our examination, do you know we've discovered a most amazing
fact?" and he pointed to the plank whereon lay the body, covered with
one of the brown sails from the life-boat.

"No. What?" I asked eagerly.

"Well--though we all at first, naturally, took the body to be that of
old Vernon Gregory, it isn't his at all!"

"Not Gregory's?" I gasped.

"No. He has white hair and a beard, and he is wearing old Gregory's cape
and hat, but it certainly is not Gregory's body."

"Who, then, is the dead man?" I gasped.

"His nephew, Edward Craig!"




CHAPTER III

SHOWS LIGHTS FROM THE MIST


"But Edward Craig is a young man--while Gregory must be nearly seventy!"
I exclaimed, staring at Dr. Sladen in blank amazement.

"Exactly. I attended Mr. Gregory a month ago for influenza. But I tell
you the body lying yonder is that of young Craig!" declared my friend.
Then he added: "There is something very extraordinary about the whole
affair, for Craig was made up to exactly resemble his uncle."

"And because of it was apparently done to death, eh?"

"That is certainly my theory."

"Amazing," I exclaimed. "This increases the mystery very considerably."
Then, gazing around, I saw that the two doctors, who had assisted Sladen
in his examination, were talking aside eagerly with the detective, while
Mr. Day, a short thick-set man, with his white-covered cap removed in
the presence of the dead, had joined the party.

Cromer is a "war-station," and Mr. Day was a well-known figure in the
place, a fine active type of the British sailor, who had seen many years
afloat, and now, with his "sea-time" put in, was an expert signal-man
ashore. He noticed me and saluted.

"Look," exclaimed Dr. Sladen, taking me across to a bench against the
side of the life-boat shed. "What do you think of these?" and he took up
a white wig and a long white beard.

I examined them. Then slowly replied, "There is much, very much more, in
this affair than any of us can at present see."

"Certainly. Why should the young man go forth at night, under cover of
darkness, made up to exactly resemble the old one?"

"To meet somebody in secret, no doubt; and that somebody killed him," I
said.

"Did they--ah, that's just the point," said the doctor. "As far as we
can find there's no apparent cause of death, no wound whatever. The
superficial examination we have made only reveals a slight abrasion on
the left wrist, which might have been caused when he fell from the seat
to the ground. The wrist is much swollen--from a recent sprain, I think.
But beyond that we can find nothing."

"Won't you prosecute your examination further?" I asked.

"Certainly. This afternoon we shall make a post-mortem--after I get the
order from the coroner."

"Ah. Then we shall know something definite?"

"I hope so."

"Gentlemen," exclaimed Inspector Frayne, addressing us all, "this latest
discovery, of the identity of the victim, is a very extraordinary and
startling one. I trust that you will all regard the matter as one of the
greatest secrecy--at least till after the inquest. Publicity now may
defeat the ends of justice. Do you all promise?"

With one accord we promised. Then, crossing to where the body lay, I
lifted the heavy brown sail that covered it, and in the dim light gazed
upon the white, dead countenance.

Yes. It was the face of Edward Craig.

Frayne at that moment came up, and after two men had taken the covering
from the body, commenced to search the dead man's pockets. In the old
mackintosh cape was a pouch, from which the detective drew a small
wallet of crocodile leather, much worn, together with two letters. The
latter were carried to the light and at once examined.

One proved to be a bill from a well-known hatter in Piccadilly. The
superscription on the other envelope, of pale blue-grey paper, was
undoubtedly in the hand of an educated woman.

Frayne drew from this envelope a sheet of notepaper, which bore neither
address nor date, merely the words--

"At Ealing, at 10 p.m., on the twenty-ninth of August, where the two C's
meet."

"Ah, an appointment," remarked Frayne. Then, looking at the post-mark,
he added: "It was posted the day before yesterday at Bridlington. I
wonder what it means?"

"I see it is addressed to Mr. Gregory!" I pointed out, "not to the dead
man."

"Then the old man had an appointment on the twenty-ninth of August
somewhere in Ealing--where the two C's meet. I wonder where that can be?
Some agreed-on spot, I suppose, where two persons, whose initials are C,
are in the habit of meeting."

"Probably," was my reply. But I was reflecting deeply.

In the wallet were four five-pound notes; a few of Gregory's cards; a
letter from a local charity, thanking him for a contribution of two
guineas; and a piece of paper bearing a number of very elaborate
calculations, apparently of measured paces.

It seemed as though the writer had been working out some very difficult
problem of distances, for the half-sheet of quarto paper was absolutely
covered with minute pencilled figures; lengths in metres apparently.

I looked at them, and at a glance saw that old Gregory had either
received his education abroad, or had lived for a long time upon the
continent when a young man. Why? Because, when he made a figure seven,
he drew a short cross-stroke half-way up the downward stroke, in order,
as foreigners do, to distinguish it from the figure one.

"I wonder what all these sums can mean?" remarked the detective, as
Treeton and I looked over his shoulder.

"Mr. Gregory was a business man," the local police officer said. "These
are, no doubt, his things, not his nephew's."

"They seem to be measurements," I said, "not sums of money."

"Perhaps the old man himself will tell us what they are," Frayne
remarked. Then again examining the wallet, he drew forth several slips
of thin foreign notepaper, which were carefully folded, and had the
appearance of having been carried there for a long time. Upon each was
written a separate word, together with a number, in carefully-formed
handwriting, thus--

"Lavelle 429; Kunzle 191; Geering 289; Souweine 17; Hodrickx 110."

The last one we opened contained the word, "Cromer 900," and I wondered
whether they were code words.

"These are rather funny, Mr. Vidal," Frayne remarked, as he slowly
replaced them in the wallet. "A little mysterious, eh?"

"No doubt, old Mr. Gregory will explain," I said. "The great puzzle to
me is why the nephew should carry the uncle's belongings in his
pockets. There was some deep motive in it, without a doubt."

Frayne returned to the body and made further search. There was nothing
more in the other pockets save a handkerchief, some loose silver and a
pocket-knife.

But, around the dead man's neck, suspended by a fine gold chain, and
worn beneath his shirt, was a lady's tiny, round locket, not more than
an inch in diameter, and engine-turned like a watch, a thin,
neatly-made, old-fashioned little thing.

Frayne carefully unclasped it, and taking it across to the light, opened
it, expecting to find a photograph, or, perhaps, a miniature. But there
was nothing. It had evidently not been opened for years, for behind the
little glass, where once had been a photograph, was only a little grey
powder. Something had been preserved there--some relic or other--that
had, with age, crumbled into dust.

"This doesn't tell us much," he said. "Yet, men seldom wear such things.
Some relic of his sweetheart, eh?" Then he searched once more, and drew
from the dead man's hip-pocket a serviceable Browning revolver, the
magazine of which was fully loaded.

"He evidently expected trouble, and was prepared for it," Treeton said,
as the Norwich detective produced the weapon.

"Well, he certainly had no time to use it," responded Frayne. "Death
must have been instantaneous."

"I think not," I ventured. "If so, why was he found several feet away
from the seat?"

Again Frayne showed impatience. He disliked any expression of outside
opinion.

"Well, Mr. Vidal, we've not yet established that it is a case of murder,
have we?" he said. "The young man may have died suddenly--of natural
causes."

I smiled.

"Curious," I exclaimed, a moment later, "that he should be made up to so
exactly resemble his uncle! No, Inspector Frayne, if I'm not greatly
mistaken, you'll find this a case of assassination--a murder by a very
subtle and ingenious assassin. It is a case of one master-criminal
against another. That is my opinion."

The man from Norwich smiled sarcastically. My opinion was only the
opinion of a mere amateur, and, to the professional thief-catcher, the
amateur detective is a person upon whom to play practical jokes. The
amateur who dares to investigate a crime from a purely independent
standpoint is a man to jeer and laugh at--a target for ridicule.

I could follow Frayne's thoughts. I had met many provincial police
officers of his type all over Europe, from Paris up to Petersburg. The
great detectives of Europe, are, on the contrary, always open to listen
to theories or suggestions.

The three doctors were standing aside, discussing the affair--the
absence of all outward signs of anything that might have caused death.
Until the coroner issued his order they could not, however, put their
doubts at rest by making the post-mortem examination. The case puzzled
them, and they were all three eager to have the opportunity of deciding
how the young man had died.

"The few symptoms offered superficially have some strange points about
them," I heard Dr. Sladen say. "Do you notice the clenched hands? and
yet the mouth is open. The eyes are open too--and the lips are curiously
discoloured. Yes, there is decidedly something very mysterious attaching
to the cause of death."

And he being the leading practitioner in Cromer, his two colleagues
entirely agreed with him.

After a long conversation, in which many theories--most of them
sensational, ridiculous, and baseless--had been advanced, Mr. Day, the
Chief Officer of Coast-guard, who had been outside the life-boat house,
chatting with some friends, entered and told us the results of some of
his own observations regarding the movements of the eccentric Mr.
Gregory. Day was a genial, pleasant man and very popular in Cromer. Of
course he was in ignorance that the body discovered was not that of the
old gentleman.

"I've had a good many opportunities of watching the old man, Mr. Vidal,"
said the short, keen-eyed naval man, turning to me with his hands in the
pockets of his pea-jacket, "and he was a funny 'un. He often went out
from Beacon House at one and two in the morning, and took long strolls
towards Rimton and Overstrand. But Mrs. Dean never knew as he wasn't
indoors, for I gather he used to let himself out very quietly. We often
used to meet him a-creepin' about of a night. I can't think what he went
out for, but I suppose he was a little bit eccentric, eh? Why," went on
the coast-guard officer, "he'd often come into the station early of a
mornin', and have a chat with me, and look through the big telescope. He
used, sometimes, to stand a-gazin' out at the sea, a-gazin' at nothing,
for half an hour on end--lost in thought like. I wonder what he fancied
he saw there?"

"Yes," I said. "He was eccentric, like many rich men."

"Well, one night, not long ago," Day went on, "there were some
destroyers a-passin' about midnight, and we'd been taking in their
signals by flash-light, when, in the middle of it, who should come into
the enclosure but old Mr. Gregory. He stood a-watchin' us for ten
minutes or so. Then, all at once he says, 'I see they're signalling to
the _Hermes_ at Harwich.' This remark gave me quite a start, for he'd
evidently been a-readin' all we had taken in--and it was a confidential
message, too."

"Then he could read the Morse code," I exclaimed.

"Read it? I should rather think he could!" was the coast-guard officer's
reply. "And mark you, the _Wolverene_ was a-flashin' very quick. It was
as much as I could do to pick it up through the haze. After that, I
confess I didn't like him hanging about here so much as he did. But
after all, I'm sorry--very sorry--that the poor old gent is dead."

"Did you ever see him meet anybody on his nightly rambles?" I asked.

"Yes, once. I saw him about six weeks ago, about three o'clock one dark,
and terrible wet, mornin', out on the cliff near Rimton Gap. As I passed
by he was a-talkin' to a tall young man in a drab mackintosh. Talkin'
excited, he was, and a-wavin' his arms wild-like towards the sea. The
young man spotted me first, and said something, whereupon the old gent
dropped his argument, and the two of 'em walked on quietly together. I
passed them, believing that his companion was only one of them
simple-like fools we get about here sometimes in the summer. But I'd
never seen him in Cromer. He was a perfect stranger to me."

"That's the only time you've seen him with any companion on these secret
night outings?" I asked.

"Yes. I don't remember ever having seen him in the night with anybody
else."

"Not even with his nephew?"

"No, not even with Mr. Craig."

"When he dropped in to chat with you at the coastguard station, did he
show any inquisitiveness?" I asked.

"Well, he wanted to know all about things, as most of 'em do," laughed
Day. "Ours is a war-station, you know, and folk like to look at the
inside, and the flash-lamp I invented."

"The old fellow struck you as a bit of a mystery, didn't he?" Frayne
asked, in his pleasant Norfolk brogue.

"Well, yes, he did," replied the coast-guard officer. "I remember one
night last March--the eleventh, I think it was--when our people at
Weybourne detected some mysterious search-lights far out at sea and
raised an alarm on the 'phone all along the coast. It was a very dirty
night, but the whole lot of us, from Wells right away to Yarmouth, were
at once on the look-out. We could see search-lights but could make
nothing of the signals. That's what puzzled us so. I went out along the
cliff, and up Rimton way, but could see nothing. Yet, on my way back, as
I got near the town, I suddenly saw a stream of light--about like a
search-light--coming from the sea-front here. It was a-flashin' some
signal. I was a couple of miles from the town, and naturally concluded
it was one of my men with the flash-lamp. As I passed Beacon House,
however, I saw old Mr. Gregory a-leanin' over the railings, looking out
to sea. It was then about two o'clock. I supposed he had seen the
distant lights, and, passing a word with him, I went along to the
station. To my surprise, I found that we'd not been signalling at all.
Then I recollected old Mr. Gregory's curious interest in the lights, and
I wondered. In fact, I've wondered ever since, whether that answering
signal I saw did not come from one of the front windows of Beacon House?
Perhaps he was practisin' Morse!"

"Strange, very strange!" Frayne remarked. "Didn't you discover what
craft it was making the signals?"

"No, sir. They are a mystery to this day. We reported by wire to the
Admiralty, of course, but we've never found out who it was a-signalling.
It's a complete mystery--and it gave us a bit of an alarm at the time, I
can tell you," he laughed. "There was a big Italian yacht, called the
_Carlo Alberta_, reported next day from Hunstanton, and it may, of
course, have been her. But I am not inclined to think so."




CHAPTER IV

OPENS SEVERAL QUESTIONS


Our next step in the inquiry was a domiciliary visit to Beacon House.

While the public, including Mr. Day, were expecting to see his nephew,
we, of course, were hoping to find old Gregory.

In this we were disappointed. Already Treeton knew that both men were
missing from their lodgings. Yet while the police were watching
everywhere for the dandified young man from London, the queer,
white-haired old Sheffield steel manufacturer had slipped through their
fingers and vanished as though the earth had swallowed him up.

Mrs. Dean's house was a typical seaside lodging-house, plainly and
comfortably furnished--a double-fronted house painted pale blue, with
large airy rooms and bay windows, which, situated high up and on the
very edge of the cliff, commanded extensive views up and down the coast.

The sitting-room occupied by uncle and nephew, proved to be a big
apartment on the first-floor, to the left of the entrance. The houses in
that row had a front door from the asphalt path along the edge of the
cliff and also a back entrance abutting upon the narrow street which ran
into the centre of the town. Therefore, the hall went from back to
front, the staircase ascending in the centre.

The room in which I stood with the detectives, was large, with a
cheerful lattice-work wall-paper, and substantial leather-covered
furniture. In the window was placed a writing-table, and upon it a
telescope mounted on a stand. A comfortable couch was placed against the
wall, while before the fire-place were a couple of deep-seated easy
chairs, and a large oval table in the centre.

Indeed, the room possessed an air of homely comfort, with an absence of
the inartistic seldom found in seaside apartments. The windows were open
and the light breeze from the sun-lit sea slowly fanned the lace
curtains. On the writing-table lay a quantity of papers, mostly
tradesmen's receipts--all of which the old gentleman carefully
preserved--some newspapers, a tin of tobacco, and several pipes.

Beside the fire-place lay a pair of Egyptian slippers in crimson
morocco, evidently the property of young Craig, while his straw hat and
cane lay upon the couch, together with the fawn Burberry coat which had
been one of the common objects in Cromer. Everywhere were signs of
occupation. Indeed, the cushions in the easy chairs were crumpled just
as if the two men had only a little while before arisen from them, while
in the grate were a number of ends of those gold-tipped cigarettes
without which Craig was never seen.

Upon a peg behind the door hung another old grey mackintosh belonging to
old Gregory--an exact replica of which had been worn by the man who had
so mysteriously met his death.

But where was old Gregory? Aye, that was the question.

With Mrs. Dean, a homely person with hair brushed tightly back, and her
husband looking on, we began a thorough search of the room, as well as
of the two bedrooms on the next floor. The sitting-room was investigated
first of all, but in the writing-table we found nothing of interest. One
of the drawers had been emptied and a mass of tinder in the grate told a
significant tale.

Old Mr. Gregory had burned a lot of documents before disappearing.

Why? Were they incriminating?

Why, too, had he so suddenly disappeared? Surely he would not have done
so without knowledge of his nephew's tragic death!

For a full half-hour we rummaged that room and all that was in it, but,
alas, found nothing.

In the old man's bedroom stood a battered leathern cabin-trunk bearing
many labels of Continental hotels. It was unlocked, and we found it
filled with clothes, but strangely enough, not the clothes of an old
man, but rather the smart attire of a middle-aged person of fashion.

At first Frayne refused to believe that the trunk belonged to old
Gregory. But Mrs. Dean was precise upon the point. That was Mr.
Gregory's room.

In the bottom of the cabin-trunk we found a number of folded sheets of
foolscap, upon which were written many cryptic calculations in feet and
metres; "wave-metres," it was written upon one slip. They seemed to be
electrical. Upon other sheets were lists of names together with certain
figures, all of which conveyed to us no meaning. Frayne, of course, took
possession of them for submission to examination later on.

"May I look at them later?" I asked him.

"Certainly, Mr. Vidal. They seem to be a bit of a puzzle, don't they?
They have something to do with electricity, I fancy."

In the corner of the room, opposite the window, stood a large wooden
sea-chest, similar to those used by naval officers. It was painted
black, and bore, in white, the initials "V. G." It had an old and
battered appearance, and the many labels upon it told of years of
transit by rail and steamer.

I bent to examine it, but found it securely locked and bound round with
iron bands.

"That's very heavy, sir," Mrs. Dean remarked. "He always kept it locked,
so I don't know what's inside. When the old gentleman came in, he always
went straight over to it as though to ascertain whether the lock had
been tampered with."

"Ah, then there's something in there he wished to keep away from prying
eyes!" said Frayne. "We must see what it is."

I remarked that the lock was a patent one, but he at once ordered a
locksmith to be fetched, while we turned our attention to the adjoining
room, the one that had been occupied by young Craig.

It was slightly smaller than the other one, and overlooked the narrow
street which ran along the back of the houses towards the church.

We searched the drawers carefully, one after another, but found nothing
except clothes--a rather extensive wardrobe. Of cravats, Craig had
possessed fully a hundred, and of collars, dozens upon dozens.

Upon his dressing-table stood the heavy silver fittings of a
travelling-bag, a very handsome set, and, in a little silver box, we
found a set of diamond studs, with several valuable scarf-pins. The
device of one of these was some intertwined initials, surmounted by a
royal crown in diamonds; apparently a present from some exalted
personage.

Presently, however, Treeton, who had remained in Gregory's room
assisting in the perquisition, entered with an ejaculation of surprise,
and we found that on pulling out the small drawer of the washstand, he
had discovered beneath it some papers that had been concealed there.

We at once eagerly examined them, and found that there were slips
exactly duplicating those discovered in old Gregory's wallet--slips with
names and numbers upon them--apparently code numbers.

Together with these were several papers bearing more remarkable
calculations, very similar to those we had found at the bottom of the
cabin-trunk. The last document we examined was, however, something very
different. It was a letter written upon a large sheet of that foreign
business paper which is ruled in small squares.

"Hulloa!" Frayne exclaimed, "this is in some foreign language--French or
German, I suppose."

"No," I said, glancing over his shoulder. "It's in Italian. I'll read
it, shall I?"

"Yes, please, Mr. Vidal," cried the detective, and handed it to me.

It bore no address--only a date--March 17th, and translating it into
English, I read as follows:--

"Illustrious Master,--The business we have been so long arranging was
most successfully concluded last night. It is in the _Matin_ to-day, a
copy of which I send you with our greeting. H. left as arranged. J.
arrives back in Algiers to-morrow, and the Nightingale still sings on
blithely. I leave by Brindisi for Egypt to-night and will wire my safe
arrival. Read the _Matin_. Does H. know anything, do you think?
Greetings from your most devoted servant, EGISTO."

"A very funny letter," remarked Treeton. "I wonder to what it alludes?"

"Mention of the _Matin_ newspaper would make it appear that it has been
written from Paris," I said. Then, with Frayne's assent, I rapidly
scribbled a copy of the letter upon the back of an envelope which I took
from my pocket.

A few moments later, the locksmith having arrived, we returned to old
Gregory's room, and watched the workman as he used his bunch of
skeleton-keys upon the lock of the big sea-chest. For ten minutes or so
he worked on unsuccessfully, but presently there was a click, and he
lifted the heavy wooden lid, displaying an old brown army blanket,
carefully folded, lying within.

This we removed, and then, as our astounded gaze fell upon the contents
of the chest, all involuntarily gave vent to loud ejaculations of
surprise.

Concealed beneath the rug we saw a quantity of antique ornaments of
silver and gold--rare objects of great value--ancient chalices,
reliquaries, golden cups studded with precious stones, gold coronets, a
great number of fine old watches, and a vast quantity of splendid
diamond and ruby jewellery.

The chest was literally crammed with jewels, and gold, and silver--was
the storehouse of a magnificent treasure, that must have been worth a
fabulous sum.

I assisted Frayne to take out the contents of the chest, until the floor
was covered with jewels. In one old brown morocco case that I opened, I
found a glorious ruby necklet, with one enormous centre stone of perfect
colour--the largest I had ever seen. In another was a wonderful collar
of perfectly matched pearls; in a third, a splendid diamond tiara worth
several thousand pounds.

"Enough to stock a jeweller's shop," said Frayne in an awed voice.
"Why, what's this at the bottom?"

He began to tug at a heavy square wooden box, which, when he had
succeeded in dragging it out and we opened it, we found to contain a
hand flash-lamp for signalling purposes--one of the most recent and
powerful inventions in night-signalling apparatus.

"Ha!" Treeton cried. "That's the lamp which Day suspected had been
flashed from these windows on the night of the coast alarm."

"Yes," I remarked reflectively, "I wonder for what purpose that lamp was
used?"

"At any rate, the old man has a fine collection of curiosities," said
Frayne. "I suppose it was one of his eccentricities to carry them with
him? No wonder he was so careful that the lock should not be tampered
with!"

I stood looking at that strange collection of valuables. There were
pieces of gold and silver plate absolutely unique. I am no connoisseur
of antique jewellery, but instinctively I knew that every piece was of
enormous value. And it had all been thrown pell-mell into the box,
together with some old rags--seemingly once parts of an old damask
curtain--in order to prevent the metal rattling. Much of the silver-ware
was, of course, blackened, as none of it had been cleaned for years. But
the gems sparkled and shone, like liquid drops of parti-coloured fire,
as they lay upon the shabby carpet. What could it all mean?

Mrs. Dean, who was standing utterly aghast at this amazing discovery,
jumped with nervousness as Frayne suddenly addressed her.

"Did Mr. Gregory have many visitors?"

"Not many, sir," was her reply. "His secretary used to come over from
Sheffield sometimes--Mr. Fielder, I think his name was--a tall, thin
gentleman, who spoke with an accent as though he were a foreigner. I
believe he was a Frenchman, though he had an English name."

"Anybody else?"

"Mr. Clayton, the old schoolmaster from Sheringham, and--oh, yes--a lady
came from London one day, a short time ago, to see him--a young French
lady," replied Mrs. Dean.

"What was her name?"

"I don't know. It's about a fortnight ago since she came, one morning
about eleven, so she must have left London by the newspaper train. She
rang, and I answered the bell. She wouldn't let me take her name up to
Mr. Gregory, saying: 'She would go up, as she wanted to give him a
surprise.' I pointed out his door and she went in. But I don't think the
old gentleman exactly welcomed her."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because I heard him raising his voice in anger," replied the landlady.

"Was Mr. Craig there?"

"No. He was out somewhere I think. My own belief is that the young lady
was Mr. Gregory's daughter. She stayed about an hour, and once, when I
opened the door, I heard her speaking with him very earnestly in French,
asking him to do something, it seemed like. But he flatly refused and
spoke to her very roughly; and at this she seemed very upset--quite
brokenhearted. I watched her leave. Her face was pale, and she looked
wretchedly miserable, as though in utter despair. But I forgot," added
Mrs. Dean. "Three days later I found her photograph, which the old man,
who was very angry, had flung into the waste-paper basket. I kept it,
because it was such a pretty face. I'll run down and get it--if you'd
like to see it."

"Excellent," exclaimed Frayne, and the good woman descended the stairs.

A few moments later she came back with a cabinet photograph, which she
handed to the detective.

I glanced at it over his shoulder.

Then I held my breath, staggered and dumbfounded.

The colour must have left my cheeks, I think, for I was entirely
unprepared for such a shock.

But I pulled myself together, bit my lip, and by dint of a great effort
managed to remain calm.

Nevertheless, my heart beat quickly as I gazed upon the picture of that
pretty face, that most open, innocent countenance, that I knew so well.

Those wide-open, trusting eyes, that sweet smile, those full red
lips--ah!

And what was the secret? Aye, what, indeed?




CHAPTER V

IN WHICH THE SHADOW FALLS


"A very charming portrait," Frayne remarked. "I see it was taken in
London. We ought to have no great difficulty in discovering the
original--eh, Treeton--if we find it necessary?"

I smiled to myself, for well I knew that the police would experience
considerable difficulty in ascertaining the identity of the original of
that picture.

"Are you quite sure, Mrs. Dean, that it was the same lady who came to
visit Mr. Gregory?" I asked the landlady.

"Quite positive, sir. That funny little pendant she is wearing in the
photograph, she was wearing when she came to see the old gentleman--a
funny little green stone thing--shaped like one of them heathen idols."

I knew to what she referred--the small green figure of Maat, the Goddess
of Truth--an ancient amulet I had found, while prying about in the ruins
of a temple on the left bank of the Nile, a few miles beyond
Wady-Halfa--the gate of the Sudan. I knew that amulet well, knew the
hieroglyphic inscription upon its back, for I had given it to her as a
souvenir.

Then Lola--the mysterious Lola, whose memory had occupied my thoughts,
both night and day, for many and many a month--had reappeared from
nowhere, and had visited the eccentric Gregory.

In that room I stood, unconscious of what was going on about me;
unconscious of that glittering litter of plate and jewels; of fifteenth
century chalices and gem-encrusted cups; of sixteenth century silver,
much of it ecclesiastical--probably from churches in France, Italy, and
Spain--of those heavy nineteenth century ornaments, that wonderful array
of diamonds and other precious stones, in ponderous early-Victorian
settings, which lay upon the faded, threadbare carpet at my feet.

I was thinking only of the past--of that strange adventure of mine,
which was now almost like some half-forgotten dream--and of Lola, the
beautiful and the mysterious--whose photograph I now held in my
nerveless fingers, just as the detective had given it to me.

At that moment a constable entered with a note for his inspector, who
took it and opened it.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, turning to Frayne. "Here's another surprise for us!
I made inquiries this morning of the Sheffield police concerning old Mr.
Gregory. Here's their reply. They've been up to Messrs. Gregory and
Thorpe's works, but there is no Mr. Gregory. Mr. Vernon Gregory, senior
partner in the firm, died, while on a voyage to India, nearly a year
ago!"

"What?" shrieked Mrs. Dean in scandalized tones. "Do you mean to say
that that there old man, my lodger, wasn't Mr. Gregory?"

"He may have been _a_ Mr. Gregory, but he certainly was not Mr. Vernon
Gregory, the steel manufacturer," responded Treeton, calmly.

"Well, that beats everything!" she gasped. "Then that old man was a
humbugging impostor--eh?"

"So it seems," Frayne replied.

"But it can't be true? I can't believe it! He was a real gentleman. See,
here, what he had got put away in that old box of his. Them there
Sheffield police is mistook, I'm sure they be. There'll be some good
explanation of all this, I'll be bound, if 'tis looked for."

"I sincerely hope so," I remarked. "But at present I certainly don't see
any."

Truth to tell, I was utterly staggered and confounded, the more so, by
that report from Sheffield. I confess I had all along believed old
Gregory to be what he had represented himself as being to the people of
Cromer.

Now I realized that I was face to face with a profound and amazing
problem--one which those provincial police-officers, patient and
well-meaning as they were, could never hope to solve.

Yes, old Vernon Gregory was an impostor. The reply from the Sheffield
police proved that beyond a doubt. Therefore, it also followed that the
man lying dead was certainly not what he had represented himself to
be--nephew of the great steel magnate.

But who was he? That was the present great question that baffled us.

The photograph I held in my hand bore the name: "Callard, Photographer,
Shepherd's Bush Road." But I knew that whatever inquiries were made at
that address, the result would be negative. The mysterious Lola was an
elusive little person, not at all likely to betray her identity to any
photographer.

There were reasons for her secrecy--very strong reasons, I knew.

So I smiled, when Frayne announced that he should send the picture up to
London, and put through an inquiry.

I picked up some pieces of the jewellery that was lying at my feet. In
my hand I held a splendid golden coronet in which were set great
emeralds and rubies of enormous value. Even my inexpert eye could see
that the workmanship was very ancient, and the stones but roughly cut
and polished. I judged it to be a crown which had adorned the head of
some famous Madonna in an Italian or Spanish church; a truly regal
ornament.

Again stooping, I picked up a small heavy box of blackened repoussé
silver of genuine Italian Renaissance work, and opening it, found it
filled with rings of all kinds, both ancient and modern. There were
signet rings bearing coats of arms; ladies' gem rings; men's plain gold
rings; and rings of various fancy devices.

One I picked out was distinctly curious. A man's flat gold ring set with
eight finely-coloured turquoises at equal intervals. It looked brighter
and newer than the others, and as I fingered it, a small portion of the
outer edge opened, revealing a neatly enamelled inscription in French,
"Thou art Mine." On further examination I found that each of the spaces
in which a turquoise was set, opened, and in each was also a tender love
passage, "I love you," "Faithful and True," and so on, executed probably
a century ago.

Yes, each piece in that wonderful collection was unique--the treasure of
one who was undoubtedly a connoisseur of gems and antiques. Indeed, in
no national collection had I ever seen a display more remarkable than
that flung out so unceremoniously upon the carpet, around that
mysterious flash-lamp.

While one of the detectives, at Frayne's order, began repacking the
treasure, I went with the two inspectors to a sitting-room on the
ground-floor, where, with the door closed, we discussed the situation.

Outside, upon the path in front of the house, were a knot of curious
persons, among them Mr. Day, and his subordinate officer who had made
the tragic discovery.

"Well," exclaimed Frayne, slowly rubbing his chin, "it's a very curious
case. What will you do now, Treeton?"

"Do?" asked the local officer. "Why, I've done all I can do. I've
reported it to the Coroner, and I suppose they'll make the post-mortem
to-day, and hold the inquest to-morrow."

"Yes, I know," said the other. "But we must find this old man, Gregory.
He seems to have been pretty slick at getting away."

"Frightened, I suppose," said Treeton.

"What. Do you think he killed his nephew?" queried the man from Norwich.

"Looks suspiciously like it," Treeton replied.

"Yes, but why did Craig go out disguised as the old man--that's the
question?"

"Yes," I repeated. "That is indeed the question."

"And all that jewellery? The old man is not likely to leave that lot
behind--unless he's guilty," said Frayne. "Again, that visit of the
young lady. If we could only get track of her, she'd have something to
tell us without a doubt."

"Of course," said Treeton. "Send the photograph to London, and find out
who she is. What a bit of luck, wasn't it, that Mrs. Dean kept the
picture she found in the waste-paper basket?"

I remained silent. Yes, if we could only discover the original of that
photograph we should, no doubt, learn much that would be startling. But
I felt assured that we should never find trace of her. The police could
follow in her direction if they chose. I intended to proceed upon an
entirely different path.

What I had learned in that brief hour, had staggered me. I could
scarcely realize that once again I was face to face with the mystery of
Lola--the sweetest, strangest, most shadowy little person I had ever met
in all my life. And yet she was so real, so enchanting, so
delightful--such a merry, light-hearted little friend.

Lola!

I drew a long breath when I recalled that perfect oval face, with the
wonderful blue eyes, the soft little hand--those lips that were made for
kisses.

Even as I stood there in the plainly-furnished sitting-room of that
seaside lodging-house, I remembered a strangely different scene. A fine,
luxurious chamber, rich with heavy gilt furniture, and crimson damask,
aglow under shaded electric lights.

I saw her upon her knees before me, her white hands grasping mine, her
hair dishevelled upon her shoulders, pleading with me--pleading, ah! I
remembered her wild, passionate words, her bitter tears--her terrible
confession.

And this provincial detective, whose chief feats had been confined to
cases of petty larceny, speed limit, and trivial offences, dealt with by
the local Justices of the Peace, actually hoped to unravel a mystery
which I instinctively felt to be fraught with a thousand difficulties.

Any swindler, providing he has made sufficient money by his tricks, has
bought a place in the country, and has been agreeable to the
Deputy-Lieutenant of the County, can become one of His Majesty's
Justices of the Peace. Some such are now and then unmasked, and off to
penal servitude have gone, men who have been the foremost to inflict
fines and imprisonment on the poor for the most trivial offences--men
who made the poaching of a rabbit a heinous crime.

I venture to assert that the past of many a J. P. does not bear
investigation. But even when glaring injustices are exposed to the Home
Secretary, he is often afraid to order an inquiry, for political
reasons. It is always "Party" that must be first considered in this poor
old England of ours to-day.

What does "Party" mean? Be it Liberal, Unionist, Conservative, Labour,
anything, there should at least be honesty, fair dealing, plain speaking
and uprightness. But alas, this is an age of sham in England.
Journalists, novelists, preachers, playwrights, are afraid to speak the
truth frankly, though they know it, and feel it. It is "Party" always.
Many a criminal has escaped conviction before our County Benches because
of "Party," and for the same reason many innocents have been condemned
and suffered.

This case of Mr. Vernon Gregory was a provincial case. The amusing farce
of local investigation, and local justice, would no doubt be duly
played. The coroner always agrees with the evidence of his own family
doctor, or the prominent local medico, and the twelve honest tradesmen
forming the jury are almost invariably led by the coroner in the
direction of the verdict.

Oh, the farce of it all! I hold no brief for France, Belgium, Germany,
or any other continental nation, for England is my native land. But I do
feel that methods of inquiry on the continent are just, though minutely
searching, that there Justice is merciful though inexorable, that her
scales weigh all evidence to the uttermost gramme.

These reflections passed through my mind as I stood in that
lodging-house room, while the two police officers discussed as to their
further procedure in the amazing case with which they had been called
upon to deal. I could not help such thoughts arising, for I was dubious,
very dubious, as to the thoroughness of investigation that would be
given to the affair by the local authorities. Slackness, undue delay,
party or personal interests, any one of these things might imperil the
inquiry and frustrate the ends of justice.

I knew we were confronted by one of the greatest criminal problems that
had ever been offered for solution, calling for the most prompt,
delicate and minute methods of investigation, if it was to be handled
successfully. And as I contrasted the heavy, cumbrous, restricted
conditions of English criminal procedure with the swift, far-reaching
methods in use across the Channel, I felt that something of the latter
was needed here if the mystery of Craig's death was ever to be solved.




CHAPTER VI

MYSTERY INEXPLICABLE


The town of Cromer was agog, when, next day, the coroner held his
inquiry.

The afternoon was warm, and the little room usually used as the police
court was packed to suffocation.

The jury--the foreman of which was a stout local butcher--having viewed
the body, the inquest was formally opened, and Mrs. Dean, the first
witness, identified the remains as those of her visitor, Mr. Edward
Craig.

This, the first intimation to the public that Mr. Gregory was not dead
after all, caused the greatest sensation.

In answer to the coroner, Mrs. Dean explained how, with his uncle, old
Mr. Gregory, Craig had taken apartments with her. She had always found
him a quiet, well-conducted young gentleman.

"Was he quite idle?" asked the grave-faced coroner.

"No. Not exactly, sir," replied the witness, looking round the closely
packed room. "He used to do a good deal of writing for his uncle, more
especially after the young man, Mr. Gregory's private secretary, had
been over from Sheffield."

"How often did he come?"

"At intervals of a week or more. He always carried a small despatch-box,
and on those occasions the three would sit together for half the day,
doing their business, with the door closed--and," added the landlady
vigorously, "Mr. Craig had no end of business sometimes, for he received
lots of telegrams. From what I heard him say one day to his Uncle, I
believe he was a betting man, and the telegrams were results of races."

"Ah, probably so," remarked the coroner. "I believe you have not seen
the elder gentleman since the tragic evening of his nephew's death?"

"No, sir. The last I saw of Mr. Gregory was when he wished me
'good-night,' and went to bed, as was his habit, about half-past ten, on
the night previous."

"And, where was the deceased then?"

"My servant Anne had taken up his hot water, and he had already gone to
bed."

"And, did you find next day that the beds had been slept in?"

"Mr. Craig's had, but Mr. Gregory's hadn't," was the reply. Whereat the
eager, listening crowd buzzed and moved uneasily.

The grave-faced county official holding the inquiry, having finished
writing down the replies to his questions upon blue foolscap, looked
across to the row of twelve tradesmen, and exclaimed in his sharp,
brusque manner----

"Have the jury any questions to put to this witness?"

"I'd like to ask, sir," said the fat butcher, "whether this Mr. Gregory
was not a very eccentric and extraordinary man?"

"He was," replied the good woman with a smile. "He always suspected that
people was a-robbin' him. He'd strike out threepence from my weekly
bill, and on the very same day, pay six or seven shillings for a pound
of fresh strawberries."

"During the night you heard nobody leave your house?"

"No, neither me, nor my husband, heard any sound. Of course, our dog
knew both of 'em, and was very friendly, so he'd make no noise."

"I would like to ask you, Mrs. Dean," said another juryman, the
thin-faced manager of a boot-shop, "whether Mr. Craig was in the habit
of receiving any strangers?"

"No," interrupted the coroner, "we are not here to inquire into that. We
are here solely to establish the identity of the deceased and the cause
of his death. The other matters must be left to the police."

"Oh! I beg pardon sir," ejaculated the offending juryman, and sat back
in his chair with a jerk.

George Simmonds, a picturesque figure in his coast-guard uniform, was
called next, and minutely described how he had found deceased, and had,
from his dress, believed him to be old Mr. Gregory. Afterwards he was
cross-examined by the foreman of the jury as to whom he had met during
his patrol that night, and what he knew personally about the dead man.

"I only know that he was a very nice young gentleman," replied the
coast-guard. "Both he and his uncle often used to pass the time o' day
with us out against the flagstaff, and sometimes they'd have a look
through the glass at the passing ships."

The police evidence then followed, and, after that Dr. Sladen, the chief
medical man in Cromer, took the oath and made the following statement,
in clear, business-like tones, the coroner writing it down rapidly.

"Henry Harden Sladen, Doctor of Medicine, 36, Cliff Avenue, Cromer. I
was called to see deceased by the police, at about half-past four on the
morning of the twelfth of June. He was lying upon a public seat on the
East Cliff, and on examination I found that he had been dead about two
hours or more."

"Any signs of violence?" inquired the coroner, looking up sharply at the
witness, and readjusting his gold-rimmed glasses.

"None whatever."

"Yes, Dr. Sladen?"

"Yesterday afternoon," continued the witness, "I made a post-mortem
examination in conjunction with Dr. Copping, of Cromer, and found the
body to be that of a young man about twenty-five years old, of somewhat
athletic build. All the organs were quite normal. There was an old wound
under the left shoulder, apparently a bullet wound, and two rather
curious scars on the right forearm, which, we agreed, had been received
while fencing. We, however, could find no trace of disease or injury."

"Then to what do you attribute death?" inquired the coroner.

"Well, I came to the conclusion that the young man had been suddenly
asphyxiated, but how, is a perfect mystery," responded the doctor. "It
would be difficult to asphyxiate any one in the open air without leaving
any mark of strangulation."

"I take it that you discovered no mark?"

"Not the slightest."

"Then you do not think death was due to natural causes?"

"It was due to asphyxiation--a rapid, almost instantaneous death it must
have been--but it was not due to natural causes."

"Briefly put, then, you consider that the deceased was the victim of
foul play?"

"Yes. The young man was murdered, without a doubt," replied the doctor,
slowly. "But so ingeniously was the crime committed, that no trace of
the methods by which death was accomplished has been left. The assassin,
whoever he was, must have been a perfect artist in crime."

"Why do you think so?" asked the coroner.

"For several reasons," was the reply. "The victim must have been sitting
upon the seat when suddenly attacked. He rose to defend himself and, as
he did so, he was struck down by a deadly blow which caused him to
stagger, reel, and fall lifeless some distance away from the seat. Yet
there is no bruise upon him--no sign of any blow having been struck. His
respiratory organs suddenly became paralysed, and he expired--a most
mysterious and yet instant death."

"But is there no way, that you--as a medical man--can account for such a
death, Dr. Sladen?" asked the coroner dryly.

"There are several ways, but none in which death could ensue in such
circumstances and with such an utter absence of symptoms. If death had
occurred naturally we should have been quickly able to detect the fact."

After one or two pointless questions had been put to the witness by
members of the jury, his place was taken by his colleague, Dr. Copping,
a pushing young medico who, though he had only been in Cromer a year,
had a rapidly-growing practice.

In every particular he corroborated Dr. Sladen's evidence, and gave it
as his professional opinion that the young man had met with foul play,
but how, was a complete mystery.

"You do not suspect poison, I take it?" asked the coroner, looking up
from his writing.

"Poison is entirely out of the question," was Dr. Copping's reply. "The
deceased was asphyxiated, and died almost instantly. How it was done, I
fail to understand and can formulate no theory."

The public, seated at the back of the court, were so silent that one
could have heard the dropping of the proverbial pin. They had expected
some remarkable revelations from the medical men, but were somewhat
disappointed.

After the evidence of Inspector Treeton had been taken, the coroner, in
a few brief words, put the matter before the jury.

It was, he said, a case which presented several very remarkable
features, not the least being the fact that the nephew had gone out in
the night, dressed in his uncle's clothes and made up to resemble the
elder man. That fact made it evident that there was some unusual motive
for going out that night on the part of the deceased man--either a
humorous one, or one not altogether honest. The latter seemed the most
reasonable theory. The young man evidently went out to keep a tryst in
the early morning, and while waiting on the seat, was suddenly attacked
and murdered.

"Well, gentlemen," he went on, removing his glasses, and polishing them
with his handkerchief, "it is for you to return your verdict--to say how
this young man met with his death, to-day, or, if you consider it
advisable, you can, of course, adjourn this inquiry in order to obtain
additional evidence. Personally, I do not see whence any additional
evidence can come. We have heard the depositions of all concerned, and
if you decide that it is a case of wilful murder, as both Dr. Sladen and
Dr. Copping have unhesitatingly stated it to be, the rest must be left
to the police, who will no doubt use their utmost endeavours to discover
the identity of this 'artist in crime,' as Dr. Sladen put it, who is
responsible for this young man's death. So far as I am concerned, and I
have acted as coroner for this district for twenty-three years, I have
never before held an inquiry into a case which has presented so many
puzzling features. Even the method by which the victim was done to death
is inexplicable. The whole thing, gentlemen, is inexplicable, and, as
far as we can discern, there is no motive for the crime. It is, of
course, for you to arrive at a verdict now, or to adjourn for a week.
Perhaps you will consult together."

The twelve Norfolk tradesmen, under the leadership of the obese butcher,
whispered together for a few moments and were quickly agreed.

The coroner's officer, a tall constable, standing near the door, saw
that the foreman wished to speak, and shouted: "Silence!"

"We will return our verdict at once, Mr. Coroner," said the butcher. "We
find that deceased was murdered."

"That is your verdict, eh? Then it will read, 'that deceased was
wilfully murdered by some person or persons unknown.' Is that what you
all agree?" he asked in his quick, business-like manner.

"Yes, sir. That is our verdict," was the response.

"Any dissentients?" asked the official. But there was none.

"Then the rest must be left to the police," said the coroner, resuming
his writing.

At those words, the public, disappointed at the lack of gory details,
began to file out into the street, while the jury were discharged.

Who was the murderer? That was the question upon every one's tongue.

And where was Vernon Gregory, the quaint, eccentric old fellow who had
become such a notable figure in Cromer streets and along the asphalted
parade. What had become of him?

The police had, of course, made no mention in their evidence of the
search in the rooms occupied by the two men--of the discovery of the
splendid treasure of gold and jewels--or of the fact that the real Mr.
Vernon Gregory had died while on a voyage to India.

With Frayne, I walked back to the police-station, where we found that no
trace had yet been discovered of the old man. He had disappeared swiftly
and completely, probably in clothes which in no way resembled those he
habitually wore, for, as his pocket-book and other things were found in
the cape worn by his nephew, we assumed that they were actually the
uncle's. Therefore, it would be but natural that old Gregory would have
left the house wearing clothes suitable to a younger man.

The fact that Lola had visited him told me much.

Gregory, whoever he was, was certainly no amateur in the art of
disguise. In all probability he now presented the appearance of a man of
thirty or so, and in no way resembled the eccentric old gentleman who
looked like a poet and whose habits were so regular.

That there was a mystery, a strange, amazing mystery, I knew
instinctively. Edward Craig had, I felt confident, fallen the victim of
a bitter and terrible vengeance--had been ingeniously done to death by
one whose hand was that of a relentless slayer.

So, as I walked past the grey old church of Cromer, back to the _Hôtel
de Paris_, I pondered deeply.

My own particular knowledge I kept a fast secret to myself. Among that
heterogeneous collection of treasures had been one object which I
recognized--an object I had seen and handled once before, in very
different circumstances.

How came it in that old sea-chest, and in the possession of the man who
was now exposed as an impostor?

Mr. Day, the chief officer of the coast-guard, passed me by and saluted.
But I was so preoccupied that I scarcely noticed him.

I had crossed by the path leading through the churchyard, and arrived
at the corner of Jetty Street--a narrow, old-fashioned lane which leads
along to the cliff-top in front of the _Hôtel de Paris_, and where an
inclined slope goes down to the pier.

Suddenly, on raising my eyes at a passer-by, my gaze met that of a tall,
thin, pale-faced, rather gentlemanly man in a dark grey suit, and
wearing a grey felt hat.

The stranger, without noticing me, went on with unconcern.

But in that second I had recognized him. We had met before, and in that
instant I had fixed him as the one man who knew the truth regarding that
remarkable secret I had now set out to investigate.

I halted aghast, and half-turned upon my heel to greet him.




CHAPTER VII

TELLS OF TWO MEN


The stranger, whose age was about forty-five, went on in the direction
of the post-office in the Church Square.

Should I dash back, overtake him and claim acquaintance? Or should I
keep my knowledge to myself, and watch in patience?

A single second had I in which to decide. And I decided.

I turned back upon my heel again as though I had not recognized him.

But what could that man's presence mean in that little East Coast town?
Aye, what indeed?

I tried to think, to conjecture, to form some theory--but I was too
confused. Lola had been there--and now that man who had just passed!

Along the narrow, old-fashioned Jetty Street I strode for some yards,
and then turned and retraced my steps till I saw him across the old
churchyard entering the post-office.

Treeton was coming up in my direction, little dreaming how near he was
to the one man who knew the truth. I smiled to myself at the ignorance
of the local police. And yet my own knowledge was that of a man who had
led a strange cosmopolitan life, who had mixed with all classes on the
Continent, who had trodden the streets of more than one capital in
disguise, and who had assisted the _Sûreté_ in half a dozen countries.

I smiled at Treeton as he went by, and he smiled back. That man in the
post-office yonder was a remarkable personage. That I well knew. What
would any agent in the _brigade mobile_ of Paris have given to be in my
place at that moment--to be able to enter the Cromer post-office and lay
hands upon Jules Jeanjean--the notorious Jules Jeanjean, of all men!

My thoughts were of Lola. Phew! Had ever man such a strange reverie as I
had in those moments when I halted, pretending to look into the
shop-window of the jeweller at the corner--yet all the time watching in
the direction of the door of the post-office!

To go back would betray recognition, so I was compelled to go
forward--to the hotel.

I did not, however, allow the grass to grow beneath my feet. That night,
instead of dining at the hotel, I ate a sandwich in the bar of the
_Albion_, and soon discovered that the man I had seen passing Cromer
Church was living in apartments in the Overstrand Road, the aristocratic
quarter of Cromer, close to the Doctor's steps.

I had kept careful watch all the evening. First, quite unconcernedly, he
had strolled along the East Cliff, past the seat where the man, now
dead, had sat early on that fatal morning. I had followed, and had
watched.

He paused close by, ostensibly to light a cigarette with a patent
lighter, then, after covertly making observations, he went on away to
the edge of the links, and up the path near the _Links Hotel_, where he
gained the Overstrand Road.

The evening was clear and bright, the sundown across the North Sea a
blaze of crimson and gold. There were many promenaders along that
well-trodden path, yet it required the exercise of all my cunning to
escape the observation of the shrewd and clever man I was following.

At eight o'clock he entered his lodging. Half an hour later, as I
lounged past, I saw him seated at dinner between two elderly women,
laughing with that easy-going cosmopolitan air--that foreign charm of
his, which had carried him through so many strange adventures.

Then I waited--waited until dusk deepened into night. Silent, and
without wind, the summer air was fresh and invigorating after the
oppressiveness of the day. The street-lamps were lit, yet I still
remained watching, and ever on the alert.

The Norfolk constabulary were observing the old, slow, stereotyped,
routine methods of police investigation, as I had expected them to do.

I alone had scented the clue to the mystery.

Not a sign had been seen of the cunning old fugitive. Telegrams had been
dispatched by the dozen. Scotland Yard had been, of course, "informed,"
but information from the country is there but lightly considered.
Therefore, in all probability, the shrewd old man, who had so cleverly
imposed upon the good people of Cromer, was by that time across the
Channel.

But, would he leave that splendid treasure of his behind?

All through that evening I waited in patience in the Overstrand
Road--waited to see if Jules Jeanjean would come forth again.

At half-past ten, when the moon was shining brightly over the calm sea,
I saw him come out, wearing a soft grey felt hat and light drab
overcoat. He laughed at the neat maid who opened the door for him, and
instinctively put his hand to his hat to raise it, as foreigners so
often do.

Instead of walking towards the town, as I had expected, he turned in the
direction of Suffield Park, the pretty suburb of Cromer, and actually
passed within a few yards of where I was crouching behind the laurel
hedge of somebody's front garden.

I allowed him to get some distance ahead, then, treading lightly upon my
rubber heels, swiftly followed.

He made in the direction of the great Eastern Railway Station, until he
came to the arch where the line crosses the road, when from the shadow
there crept silently another figure of a man.

At that hour, and at that point, all was deserted. From where I stood I
could see the lights of the great _Links Hotel_ high up, dominating the
landscape, and nearer were the long, slowly-moving shafts of extreme
brilliance, shining from the lighthouse as a warning to mariners on the
North Sea.

Jules Jeanjean, the man of a hundred adventures, met the stranger. It
was a tryst, most certainly. Under the shadow of a wall I drew back, and
watched the pair with eager interest. They whispered, and it was
apparent that they were discussing some very serious and weighty matter.
Of necessity I was so far away that I could not distinguish the features
of the stranger. All I could see was that he was very well dressed, and
wore dark clothes, a straw hat, and carried a cane.

Together they walked slowly in the shadow. Jeanjean had linked his arm
in that of the stranger, who seemed young and athletic, and was talking
very earnestly--perhaps relating what had occurred at the inquest that
afternoon, for, though I had not seen him there, I suspected that he
might have been present.

I saw Jeanjean give something to his companion, but I could not detect
what it was. Something he took very slowly and carefully from his pocket
and handed it to the young man, who at first hesitated to accept it,
and only did so after Jeanjean's repeated and firm insistence.

It was as though the man I had recognized that afternoon in Cromer was
bending the other by his dominant personality--compelling him to act
against his will.

And as I stood there I wondered whether after all Jeanjean had actually
recognized me when we met in Church Square--or whether he had been
struck merely by what he deemed a chance resemblance, and had passed me
by without further thought.

Had he recognized me I do not think he would have dared to remain in
Cromer a single hour. Hence, I hoped he had not. The fact would render
my work of investigation a thousandfold easier.

Presently, after a full quarter of an hour's conversation, the pair
strolled together along the moonlit road back towards the town, which at
that hour was wrapped in slumber.

By a circuitous route they reached the narrow street at the back of the
house where old Mr. Gregory and his nephew had lived, and, after passing
and repassing it several times, returned by the way they had come.

Near the railway bridge, where Jeanjean had first met the stranger, both
paused and had another earnest conversation. More than once in the
lamplight I had caught sight of the man's face, a keen face, with dark
moustache, and sharp, dark eyes. He had a quick, agile gait, and I
judged him to be about eight-and-twenty.

Presently the two walked out beyond the arch, and I saw the younger man
go behind a hedge, from which he wheeled forth a motor-cycle that had
been concealed there. They bade each other adieu, and then, starting his
engine, the stranger mounted the machine, and next moment was speeding
towards Norwich without having lit his lamp, possibly having forgotten
to do so in his hurry to get away.

The Frenchman watched his friend depart, then, leisurely lighting a
cigarette, turned and went back to the house in Overstrand Road where he
had taken up his temporary abode.

It was half-past two when the night-porter at the _Hôtel de Paris_
admitted me, and until the sun had risen over the sea, I sat at my open
window, smoking, and thinking.

The discovery that Jules Jeanjean was in that little East Coast town was
to me utterly amazing. What was his business in Cromer?

A wire to the _Sûreté_ in Paris, stating his whereabouts, would, I knew,
create no end of commotion, and Inspector Treeton would no doubt receive
urgent orders by telegram from London for the arrest of the seemingly
inoffensive man with the jaunty, foreign air.

The little town of Cromer, seething with excitement over the mysterious
murder of Edward Craig, little dreamed that it now harboured one of the
most dangerous criminals of modern times.

Next day, in the hotel, I was asked on every hand my opinion in regard
to the East Cliff murder mystery. The evidence at the inquest was given
verbatim in the Norwich papers, and every one was reading it. By reason
of my writings, I suppose, I had earned a reputation as a seeker-out of
mystery. But to all inquirers I now expressed my inability to theorize
on the affair, and carefully preserved an attitude of amazed ignorance.

I scarce dared to go forth that day lest I should again meet Jeanjean,
and he should become aware of my presence in Cromer. Had he recognized
me when we met? I was continually asking myself that question, and
always I came to the conclusion that he had not, or he would not have
dared to keep his tryst with the mysterious motor-cyclist.

Were either of the pair responsible for Edward Craig's death? That was
the great problem that was before me.

And where was Gregory? If he were not implicated in the crime, why had
he absconded?

I examined the copy of that curious letter signed by Egisto, but it
conveyed nothing very tangible to me.

Frayne and his men were still passing to and fro in Cromer, making all
kinds of abortive inquiries, and were, I knew, entirely on the wrong
scent. Like myself, they were seeking the motive which caused the sudden
disappearance of old Gregory. They were actually looking for him in the
county of Norfolk! I knew, too well, that he must be already safely far
away, abroad.

Frayne called in to see me after luncheon, and sat up in my room for an
hour, smoking cigarettes.

"I'm leaving the rooms that were occupied by Craig and his uncle just as
they are," he said to me. "I'm not touching a thing for the present, so
that when we find Gregory we can make him give explanations of what we
have secured there. I thought first of taking that sea-chest and its
contents over to Norwich with me, but I have now decided to seal up the
room and leave everything as it is."

"I understand," I replied, smiling to myself at his forlorn hope of ever
finding Mr. Vernon Gregory. For, the further my inquiries had gone, the
more apparent was it that the old man was a very wily customer.

"We've made one discovery," said the detective as he lit a fresh
cigarette.

"Oh, what's that?" I inquired.

"A young fisherman, named Britton, has come forward and told me that on
the night of the murder he was going along the road to Gunton, at about
midnight, when he met a man on a motor-cycle, with an empty side-car,
coming from the direction of Norwich. The man dismounted and asked
Britton how far it was to Cromer. The fisherman told him, and the fellow
rode off. Britton, who had been to see his brother, returned just before
two, and met the same motor-cyclist coming back from Cromer, and
travelling at a very high speed. He then had somebody in the side-car
with him. In the darkness Britton could not get a very good view of the
passenger, but he believes that it was a woman."

"A woman!" I echoed, somewhat surprised.

"Yes, he was sure it was a woman," Frayne said. "One good point is, that
Britton is able to give a fairly good description of the motor-cyclist,
whose face he saw when the fellow got off his machine to speak to him.
He pictures him as a sharp-faced man, with a small black moustache, who
spoke broken English."

"A foreigner, then?"

"Evidently." Then Frayne went on to remark, "It was foolish of this
fellow Britton not to have come forward before, Mr. Vidal. But you know
how slow these Norfolk fishermen are. It was only after he was pressed
by his friends, to whom he related the incident, that he consented to
come to the police-station and have a chat with me."

"Well--then you suspect the motor-cyclist and the woman?"

"Not without some further proof," replied the detective, with a look of
wisdom on his face. "We don't know yet if the passenger in the side-car
was a woman. Britton only believes so. The foreigner evidently only came
into Cromer to fetch a friend."

"But could not any foreigner come into Cromer to fetch a lady friend?" I
queried.

"Yes. That's just why I do not attach much importance to the young
fellow's story."

"Does he say he could recognize the cyclist again?"

"He believes so. But, unfortunately, he's not a lad of very high
intelligence," laughed Frayne.

To my companions the statement of that young fisherman evidently meant
but little.

To me, however, it revealed a very great deal.




CHAPTER VIII

REMAINS AN ENIGMA


Six days had gone by.

The funeral of the unfortunate Edward Craig had taken place, and locally
the sensation caused by the tragic discovery had died down.

The weather was beautifully warm, the sea calm, and gradually a few
holiday-makers were appearing in the streets; women in summer blouses,
knitted golf coats and cotton skirts, with flannel-trousered men. They
were of the class who are compelled to take their holidays early, before
their employers; with them came delighted children carrying spades and
buckets.

Fearing recognition by the notorious Frenchman, I was greatly
handicapped, for I was compelled to remain in the hotel all day, and go
forth only at night.

Frayne and his men had locked and sealed the rooms which had been
occupied by old Gregory and Craig, and had returned to Norwich. In their
place had come a plain-clothes man who, as far as I could gather,
lounged about the corners of the streets, and chatted idly with the
constables in uniform.

The plain-clothes man in our county constabulary system is not an
overwhelming success. His only real use seems to be mostly that of a
catcher of small boys who go out stealing fruit.

By dint of judicious inquiry, made by my manservant, Rayner, whom I had
summoned from London, I had discovered something regarding the foreign
gentleman, who had taken apartments in the Overstrand Road.

Rayner could always keep a secret. He was a fair-haired, bullet-headed
chap of thirty-two whom I had found, eight years before the date of this
story, wandering penniless in the streets of Constantinople. I had taken
him into my service, and never once had occasion to regret having done
so. He was a model of discretion, and to a man constantly travelling,
like myself, a veritable treasure.

Sometimes upon my erratic journeys on the Continent I took him with me,
at others he remained at home in my little flat off Berkeley Square. If
I ever called upon him to make inquiries for me, to watch, or to follow
a suspected person, he obeyed with an intelligence that would, I
believe, have done credit to any member of that remarkable combination
of brains--the Council of Seven, of New Scotland Yard.

Living an adventurous life, as he had done, his wits had been sharpened,
and his perception had become as keen as that of any detective.
Therefore, I had called upon him, under seal of secrecy, to assist me in
the investigation of many a mystery.

Knowing his value, I had wired to him to come to Cromer. He arrived when
I was out. First, he looked through my traps, folded my trousers and
coats, arranged my shirts and ties in order with professional precision,
and when I returned, entered my room, saying briefly--

"I'm here, sir."

I threw myself into a chair and told him all that had occurred--of
course, under strictest secrecy.

Then I gave him minute instructions as to making inquiries of the
servants at the house in the Overstrand Road. A servant can always get
useful information from other servants, for there is a freemasonry among
all who are employed in domestic capacities.

Therefore, it was with interest that I sat in my room, overlooking the
sea, on the following day, and listened to Rayner's report.

In his straw hat, and well-cut grey tweed suit, my man made a very
presentable appearance. It was the same suit in which he went out to
Richmond with his "young lady" on Sundays.

"Well, sir," he said, standing by the window, "I've managed to get to
know something. The gentleman is a Belgian doctor named Paul Arendt. He
has the two best rooms in the house and is the only visitor staying
there at present. They say he's a bit eccentric; goes out at all hours,
but gives lots of money in tips. Seemingly, he's pretty rich."

"Has he had any visitors?" I asked quickly.

"One. Another foreigner. An Italian named Bertini, who rides a
motor-cycle."

"Has he been there often?"

"He came last Monday afternoon--three days ago," my man replied.

"Anything else?"

"Well, sir, I managed to make friends with the maidservant, and then, on
pretence of wanting apartments myself, got her to show me several rooms
in the house in the absence of her mistress. Doctor Arendt was out, too,
therefore I took the opportunity of looking around his bedroom. I'd
given the girl a sovereign, so she didn't make any objection to my
prying about a bit. Arendt is a rather suspicious character, isn't he,
sir?" asked Rayner, looking at me curiously.

"That's for you to find out," I replied.

"Well, sir, I have found out," was his quick answer. "In the small top
left-hand drawer of the chest of drawers in his room I found a small
false moustache and some grease-paint; while in the right-hand drawer
was a Browning revolver in a brown leather case, a bottle of strong
ammonia, and a small steel tube, about an inch across, with an
india-rubber bulb attached to one end."

"Ah!" I said. "I thought as much. You know what the ammonia and rubber
ball are for, eh?"

The man grinned.

"Well, sir, I can guess," was his reply. "It's for blinding dogs--eh?"

"Exactly. We must keep a sharp eye upon that Belgian, Rayner."

"Yes, sir. I took the opportunity to have a chat with the maid about the
recent affair on the East Cliff, and she told me she believed that the
dead man and Doctor Arendt were friends."

"Friends!" I echoed, starting forward at his words.

"Yes, sir. The girl was not quite certain, but believes she saw the
Belgian doctor and young Mr. Craig walking together over the golf-links
one evening. It was her Sunday out and she was strolling that way just
at dusk with her sweetheart."

"She is not quite positive, eh?" I asked.

"No, sir, not quite positive. She only thinks it was young Mr. Craig."

"Did Craig or Gregory ever go to that house while our friend has been
there?"

"No, sir. She was quite positive on that point."

"What does the doctor do with himself all day?" I asked.

"Sits reading novels, or the French papers, greater part of the day.
Sometimes he writes letters, but very seldom. According to the books I
noticed in his room, he delights in stories of mystery and crime."

I smiled. Too well I knew the literary tastes of Jules Jeanjean, the man
who was fearless, and being so, was eminently dangerous, and who was
passing as a Belgian doctor. He, who had once distinguished himself by
holding the whole of the forces of the Paris police at arms' length, and
defying them--committing crimes under their very noses out of sheer
anarchical bravado--was actually living there as a quiet, studious,
steady-going man of literary tastes and refinement--Doctor Paul Arendt,
of Liège, Belgium.

Ah! Some further evil was intended without a doubt. Yet so clever were
Jeanjean's methods, and so entirely unsuspicious his actions, that I
confess I failed to see what piece of chicanery was now in progress.

My next inquiry was in the direction of establishing the identity of the
motor-cyclist.

That night Rayner kept watchful vigil instead of myself, for I had been
up five nights in succession and required sleep. But though he waited
near the house in the Overstrand Road from ten o'clock until four in
the morning, nothing occurred. Jeanjean had evidently retired to rest
and to sleep.

After that we took it in turns to watch, I having made it right with the
night-porter of the hotel, for a pecuniary consideration, to take no
notice of our going or coming.

For a whole week the notorious Frenchman did not emerge after he entered
the house at dinner-time. I was sorely puzzled regarding the identity of
that motor-cyclist. Would he return, or had he left the neighbourhood?

Early one morning Rayner, having taken his turn of watching, returned to
say that Bertini, with his motor-cycle, had again met the "foreign
gentleman" at the railway bridge--the same spot at which I had seen them
meet.

They had remained about half an hour in conversation, after which the
stranger had mounted and rode away again on the Norwich road, while
Jeanjean had returned to his lodgings.

My mind was then made up. That same morning I took train to Norwich,
where I hired a motor-car for a fortnight, and paying down a substantial
deposit, drove the car--an open "forty," though a trifle
old-fashioned--as far as Aylsham, a distance of ten miles, or half-way
between Norwich and Cromer. There I put up at a small hotel, where I
spent the rest of the day in idleness, and afterwards dined.

Aylsham is a sleepy little place, with nothing much to attract the
visitor save its church and ancient houses. Therefore, I devoted myself
to the newspapers until just before the hotel closed for the night.

Then I rang up Rayner on the telephone as I had made arrangement to do.

"That's me, sir," was his answer to my inquiry.

"Well," I asked, "anything fresh?"

"Yes, sir. A lady called to see you at seven o'clock--a young French
lady. I saw her and explained that you were away until to-morrow,
and----"

"Yes, yes!" I cried eagerly. "A French lady. Did she give her name?"

"No, sir. She only told me to tell you that if I mentioned the word
'nightingale,' you would know."

"The Nightingale!" I gasped, astounded. It was Lola! And she had called
upon me!

"When is she coming back?" I demanded eagerly.

"She didn't say, sir--only told me to tell you how sorry she was that
you were out. She had travelled a long way to see you."

"But didn't she say she'd call back?" I demanded, full of chagrin that I
should have so unfortunately been absent.

"No, sir. She said she might be able to call sometime to-morrow
afternoon, but was not at all certain."

I held the receiver in my trembling fingers in reflection. Nothing could
be done. I had missed her--missed seeing Lola!

Surely my absence had been a great, and, perhaps, unredeemable
misfortune.

"Very well," I said at last. "You know what to do to-night, Rayner?"

"Yes, sir."

"And I will be back in the morning."

"Very good, sir," responded my man, and I shut off. I paid my bill, went
outside and lit up the big headlamps of the car. Then I drove slowly out
of the yard, and out of the town, in the direction of Cromer.

It had been a close day, and the night, dark and oppressive, was
overcast with a threatening storm. The dust swept up before me with
every gust of wind as I went slowly along that high road which led
towards the sea. I proceeded very leisurely, my thoughts full of my fair
visitor.

Lola had called upon me! Why? Surely, after what had occurred, I could
never have hoped for another visit from her.

Yes. It must be something of the greatest importance upon which she
wished to consult me. Evidently she knew of my presence in
Cromer--knew, possibly, of the efforts I was making to unravel the
mystery of old Vernon Gregory.

Yet, I could only wait in impatience for the morrow. But would she
return? That was the question.

The car was running well, but I had plenty of time. Therefore, after
travelling five miles or so, I pulled up, took out my pipe and smoked.

I stopped my engine, and, in the silence of the night, strained my ears
to catch the sound of an approaching motor-cycle. But I could hear
nothing--only the distant rumble of thunder far northward across the
sea.

By my watch I saw that it was nearly midnight. So I restarted my engine
and went slowly along until I was within a couple of miles of Cromer,
and could see the flashing of the lighthouse, and the lights of the town
twinkling below. Then again I stopped and attended to my headlights,
which were growing dim.

A mile and a half further on I knew that Rayner, down the dip of the
hill, was lurking in the shadow. But my object in stationing myself
there was to follow the mysterious cyclist, not when he went to keep his
appointment, but when he left.

In order to avert suspicion, I presently turned the car round with its
lights towards Norwich, but scarcely had I done so, and stopped the
engine again, when I heard, in the darkness afar off, the throb of a
motor-cycle approaching at a furious pace.

My lamps lit up the road, while, standing in the shadow bending as
though attending to a tyre, my own form could not, I knew, be seen in
the darkness.

On came the cyclist. Was it the man for whom I was watching?

He gave a blast on his horn as he rounded the corner, for he could no
doubt see the reflection of my lamps from afar.

Then he passed me like a flash, but, in that instant as he came through
the zone of light, I recognized his features.

It was Bertini, the mysterious friend of Jules Jeanjean.

I had but to await his return, and by waiting I should learn the truth.

I confess that my heart beat quickly as I watched his small red light
disappear along the road.




CHAPTER IX

DESCRIBES A NIGHT-VIGIL


The gusty wind had died down.

In the silence of the night I listened to the receding noise of the
motor-cycle as it swept down the hill into Cromer town, where I knew
Rayner would be on the alert.

The sound died away, therefore I relit my pipe, and mounting again into
the driver's seat, sat back thinking--thinking mostly of Lola, and my
ill-luck at having missed her.

Before me, in the white glare of the lamps upon the road, where insects
of the night, attracted by the radiance, were dancing to their deaths,
there arose before me that sweet, perfect face, the face that had so
attracted me. I saw her smile--smile at me, as she did when first we had
met. Ah! How strange had been our friendship, stranger than novelist had
ever imagined. I had loved her--loved as I had never loved before, and
she had loved me, with that bright, intense look in her wonderful eyes,
the woman's look that can never lie.

There is but one love-look. A man knows it by his instinct, just as does
a woman. A woman knows by intuition that the fool who takes her out to
the theatre and supper, and is so profuse in his protestations of
undying admiration, is only uttering outpourings of vapid nonsense. Just
so, a man meets insincerity with insincerity. The woman gets to know in
time how much her vain, shallow admirer is good for, for she knows he
will soon pass out of her life, while the man's instinct is exactly the
same. In a word, it is life--the life of this, our Twentieth Century.

The man laughed at and derided to-day, is a hero ten years hence.

A few years ago Mr. John Burns carried a banner perspiringly along the
Thames Embankment, in a May Day procession, and I assisted him. To-day
he is a Cabinet Minister. A few years ago my dear friend, George
Griffith, wrote about air-ships in his romance, _The Angel of the
Revolution_, and everybody made merry at his expense. To-day airships
are declared to be the chief arm of Continental nations.

Ah, yes! The world proceeds apace, and the unknown to-morrow ever brings
its amazing surprises and the adoption of the "crank's" ideas of
yesterday.

Lola had called to see me. That fact conjured up in my imagination a
thousand startling theories.

Why?

Why had she called, after all that had passed between us?

I waited, waited for the coming of that mysterious cyclist, who arose
from nowhere, and whose business with Jules Jeanjean was of such vast
and secret importance.

The very fact of Jeanjean being in Cromer had staggered me. As I sat
there smoking, and listening, I recollected when last I had heard
mention of his name. Hamard--the great Hamard--Chief of the _Sûreté_ of
Paris, had been seated in his private bureau in the offices of the
detective police.

He had leaned back in his chair, and blowing a cloud of tobacco-smoke
from his lips, had said in French--

"Ah! Mon cher Vidal, we are face to face in this affair with Jules
Jeanjean, the most ingenious and most elusive criminal that we have met
this century in France. In other walks of life Jeanjean would have been
a great man--a millionaire financier, a Minister of the Cabinet, a
great general--a leader of men. But in the circumstances this
arch-adventurer, who slips through our fingers, no matter what trap we
set for him, is a criminal of a type such as Europe has never known
within the memory of living man. Personally I admire his pluck, his
energy, his inventiveness, his audacity, his iron nerve, and his amazing
cunning. Truly, now, cher ami, he is a marvel. There is but one
master-criminal, Jules Jeanjean."

That was the character given him by Monsieur Hamard, the greatest French
detective since Lecoq.

And now this master-criminal was beneath the railway arch at Cromer
meeting in secret a mysterious cyclist!

What evil was now intended?

I waited, my ears strained to catch every sound. But I only heard the
distant rumble of the thunder, away across the North Sea, and,
somewhere, the dismal howling of a dog.

I waited, and still waited. The sky grew brighter, and I grew
perceptibly colder, so that I turned up my coat-collar, and shivered,
even though the previous day had been so unusually warm. The car smelt
of petrol and oil--a smell that nauseated me--and yet my face was turned
to the open country ready to follow and track down the man who had swept
past me to keep that mysterious tryst in the darkness.

Looking back, I saw, away to the right, the white shafts of light from
the high-up lighthouse, slowly sweeping the horizon, flashing warning to
mariners upon that dangerous coast, while, far away in the distance over
the sea, I could just discern a flash from the lightship on the
Haisboro' Sands.

In the valley, deep below, lay Cromer, the street-lamps reflecting upon
the low storm-clouds. At that moment the thunder-storm threatened to
burst.

Yet I waited, and waited, watching the rose of dawn slowly spreading in
the Eastern sky.

Silence--a complete and impressive silence had fallen--even the dog had
now ceased to howl.

And yet I possessed myself in patience, my ears strained for the
"pop-pop" of the returning motor-cycle.

A farmer's cart, with fresh vegetables and fruit for the Cromer shops on
the morrow, creaked slowly past, and the driver in his broad Norfolk
dialect asked me--

"Any trouble, sir?"

I replied in the negative, whereupon he whipped up his horse, bade me a
cheery "good morning," and descended the hill. For a long time, as I
refilled and relit my pipe, I could hear the receding wheels, but no
sound of a motor-cycle could I hear.

Time passed, the flush of dawn crept over the sea, brightened swiftly,
and then overcast night gave place to a calm and clear morning. The
larks, in the fields on either side, rose to greet the rising sun, and
the day broke gloriously. Many a dawn had I witnessed in various parts
of the world, from the snows of Spitzbergen to the baking sands of the
Sahara, but never a more glorious one than that June morning in
Poppyland, for Cromer is one of the few places in England where you can
witness the sun both rise from, and set in the sea.

My headlights had burned themselves out long ago. It was now four
o'clock. Strange that the nocturnal cyclist did not return!

All my preparations had, it seemed, been in vain.

I knew, however, that I was dealing with Jules Jeanjean, a past-master
in crime, a man who, no doubt, was fully aware of the inquiries being
made by the plain-clothes officers from Norwich, and who inwardly
laughed them to scorn.

The man who had defied the Paris _Sûreté_ would hardly entertain any
fear of the Norfolk Constabulary.

Many country carts, most of them going towards Cromer, now passed me,
and their drivers wished me "Good morning," but I remained at my lonely
vigil until five o'clock. Then I decided that Jeanjean's friend must
have taken another road out of Cromer, either the Sheringham, the Holt,
or the Overstrand, the three other main roads out of the town.

What had Rayner done, I wondered? Where was he?

I sat down upon the grassy bank at the roadside, still pondering. Of all
the mysteries of crime I had assisted in investigating, in order to
write down the details in my book, this was assuredly the most
remarkable.

I knew that I was face to face with some great and startling affair,
some adventure which, when the truth became known, would amaze and
astound the world. Jules Jeanjean was not the man to attempt small
things. He left those to smaller men. In his profession he was the
master, and a thousand _escrocs_, all over the Continent, forgers,
international thieves, burglars, coiners, _rats d'hotel_--most ingenious
of malefactors--regarded the name of Jeanjean with awe.

One of his exploits was well known up and down the Continent--for the
_Matin_ had published the full story a year ago. Under another name, and
in the guise of a wealthy _rentier_ of Paris, he made the acquaintance
of one of the Inspectors of the Paris detective service. Inviting him to
his private sitting-room in the _Hôtel Royale_, on the Promenade des
Anglais, he gave him an _aperitif_ which in less than three minutes
caused the police official to lose consciousness. Thereupon Jeanjean
took from the Inspector's pocket his card of authority as a detective--a
card signed by the Prefect of Police--and at once left the hotel.

Next night, at the _Café Américain_ in Paris, he went up to a wealthy
German who was spending a harmless but gay evening at that well-known
supper-resort and arrested him for theft, exhibiting his warrant of
authority.

In a taxi he conducted him to the Prefecture of Police, but on their way
the German asked him if they could come to terms. The pseudo-Inspector
hesitated, then told the taxi-driver to go to a small hotel opposite
the Gare du Nord. There he and his prisoner discussed terms, it being
eventually agreed that the German--a well-known shipowner of
Hamburg--should in the morning telegraph to his bank for eighty thousand
marks, for which sum he would be allowed to go at liberty.

It was well known, of course, to Jeanjean that his "prisoner" had been
guilty of the offence for which he had "arrested" him, and the _coup_
was quite easy.

He kept the German in the hotel till ten o'clock next morning, and then
the pair went to the Crédit Lyonnais together. At four o'clock--the
bogus Inspector still with his "prisoner,"--the money was brought to the
obscure hotel, and after Jeanjean had carefully counted through the
notes he allowed his prey to go at liberty, advising him to take the
next train back to Germany.

At six o'clock, the sun shining out warm and brightly, my patience was
exhausted. I had spent the night hours there in vain. Yet I dare not
drive the car into Cromer, for I intended to repeat my effort on the
following night. Therefore I started the engine, and was soon back in
the yard of the small hotel in Aylsham.

There I put up the car, breakfasted, and then taking the first train to
North Walsham, arrived in Cromer about half-past nine o'clock.

When I entered my room at the _Hôtel de Paris_ the maid came quickly
along, saying--

"Will you please go up to see your servant, sir! He's very unwell!"

"Unwell?" I said. "Why, what's the matter?"

"I don't know, sir. The police brought him in about half an hour ago.
He's been out all night, they say. And they found him very ill."

I darted upstairs and entered Rayner's room without knocking.

He was lying upon the bed, still dressed, his face pale as death.

"Ah, sir!" he gasped, "I--I'm so glad you've come back! I--I wondered
whether anything had happened to you. I--I----"

He stretched out his hand to me, but no other word escaped his lips.

I saw that he had fainted.




CHAPTER X

CONTAINS A CLUE


At once I knew that some startling incident had happened.

Dr. Sladen, called by the police, entered the room a few moments
afterwards, whereupon I turned to him, and in order to allay any undue
curiosity, said--

"My man has been taken ill, doctor. Exhaustion, I suppose. He's a great
walker, and, unknown to me, has apparently been out for a night ramble."

"Ah, yes," answered the quiet, old-fashioned medical man, peering at the
invalid through his glasses.

Slowly he took Rayner's pulse, and then said--

"Heart a little weak, I suppose. There's nothing really wrong--eh?"

"I think not. He was talking to me only a few moments ago, and then
suddenly fainted. Been on a long ramble, I should think."

"At night, eh?" asked the doctor in some surprise.

"It is a habit of his to walk at night. He does the same thing in
London--walks miles and miles."

We dashed cold water into Rayner's face, gave him a smelling-bottle
belonging to one of the maids, and very soon he came round again,
opening his eyes in wonder at his surroundings.

"Here's Doctor Sladen," I said. "You feel better now, don't you,
Rayner?"

"Yes, sir," was his feeble reply.

"Ah, you've been on one of your night rambles again," I said
reprovingly. "You over-do it, you know."

Then Sladen asked him a few questions, and finding that he had
recovered, shook my hand and left.

The instant the door was closed upon the doctor Rayner sat up, and with
a serious expression upon his face said--

"Something has happened, sir. I don't know what. I'll tell you all I
know. I went up to the railway arch as you directed, and lay down in the
hedge to wait. After a long time the foreigner from the Overstrand Road
came along, lit a cigar, and waited. He was wearing an overcoat, and I
suppose he must have waited a full half-hour, until, at last, the
cyclist came. They had a brief talk. Then the cyclist left his cycle
about fifty yards from where I was in hiding, and both men set off
towards the town. I, of course, followed at a decent distance, and they
didn't hear me because of the rubber soles on my boots."

"Well, what then?" I inquired impatiently.

"They separated just against the _Albion_, and then followed one another
past the church, and to the left, behind this hotel, and along to the
house where the dead man lived--the house you pointed out to me. Close
by they met another man who, in the darkness, I took to be a chauffeur.
But I had, then, to draw back into a doorway to watch their movements.
The chap I took to be a chauffeur, after a few words with the two
foreigners, came along in my direction, and passed within a yard of me,
when of a sudden he turned and faced me. 'What are you doing here?' he
asked quickly. 'Nothing,' was my reply. 'Then take that for your
inquisitiveness,' he said, and in a second I felt something over both my
nose and mouth. It was only for a second, but I recollect I smelt a
strong smell of almonds; and then I knew no more, nothing until I found
myself here."

"That's most extraordinary!" I exclaimed. "Then you don't know what
became of the three men?"

"Not in the least, sir," Rayner replied. "I was so thoroughly taken
aback, that I must have gone down like a log."

"Then, that's all you know?"

"Yes, sir."

Scarcely had he finished relating his strange adventure than Inspector
Treeton entered, and greeting me, explained how Rayner had been found by
a constable, lying senseless, about three miles out of the town on the
road to Holt.

By that I knew he must have been conveyed there, probably by a
motor-car, driven by the chauffeur who had so mysteriously attacked him,
apparently at the foreigners' orders. It was Jeanjean's work, no doubt.
The Frenchman had seemingly eyes at the back of his head, and had
evidently detected that his actions were being spied upon.

To the police inspector I made no mystery of the affair, merely
replying, as I had to the doctor, that my manservant was in the habit of
taking long walks, long nocturnal rambles, and that he evidently had
overdone it.

"Doctor Sladen has already been here and seen him," I added. "He says
he's quite right again."

This satisfied the highly-esteemed local inspector, and presently he
left us, expressing the hope that Rayner would very soon be himself once
more.

"Well," I said to my man when the inspector had gone, "it's evident that
while you were unconscious they picked you up, put you in the car, and
tipped you out upon the road outside the town. Perhaps they believed you
to be dead."

"Like enough, sir," he said, smiling grimly.

"They evidently trapped you, Rayner," I said, laughing. "You were not
sharp enough."

"But, who'd have thought that the fellow could have come straight for
me, and rendered me insensible in a tick--as he did?" asked my man as he
lay, still extended on the bed, a dirty, dishevelled figure. "I know I
was caught, sir; those men were cleverer than I was, I admit."

"Yes, Rayner," was my reply. "I don't blame you in the least. I'm only
glad that your plight isn't worse. The men had a motor-car, it seems, at
their disposal somewhere, and they went in the direction of Holt."

"That appears so, sir."

"Why, I wonder? Bertini probably obtained his machine and followed the
car. They must have gone either through Wells and Fakenham, or East
Dereham."

"Back to Norwich, perhaps, sir. All roads from here seem to lead to
Norwich."

"But you say the incident happened close to Beacon House, where old
Gregory lived--eh?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then they objected to you being present. Evidently something was
intended and you prevented it."

"No. Perhaps I didn't prevent it. They prevented me instead."

Rayner was a bit of a humorist.

"Quite likely," I answered, smiling. But I was full of chagrin that I
had been out all night, waiting on that lonely road, while that
mysterious affair had been in progress.

"Well, at any rate, Rayner, you've had a very funny experience," I said,
with a laugh.

"And not the first, sir, eh?" he replied, stretching lazily on the bed.
"Do you recollect that funny case at Pegli, just outside Genoa? My word,
those two assassins nearly did me in that night, sir."

"And three nights later we gave them over to agents of the Department of
Public Security," I said. "Yes, Rayner, you had a tough half-hour, I
know. But you're an adventurer, like myself. As long as we solve a
mystery we don't regret the peril, or the adventure, do we?"

"No, sir. I don't--as long as you give a guiding eye over it. But I
tell you straight, sir, I don't like detectives. They're chumps, most of
'em."

"No. Don't condemn them," I said. "Rather condemn the blind and silly
police system of England. The man who snares a rabbit gets a conviction
recorded against him, while the shark in the city pays toll to the Party
and becomes a Baronet. I'm no socialist," I added, "but I believe in
honesty in our daily life. Honesty in man, and modesty in woman, are the
two ideals we should always retain, even in this age of degeneracy and
irreligion."

"I think the local police are blundering the whole of this affair,"
Rayner went on. "Yet I can't make out by what means I was so suddenly
put out of action. That curious, strong smell of almonds puzzles me.
It's in my nostrils now."

"Your fancy, I expect," I said.

At that moment came a knock at the door, and the tall young constable
entered, the same man who had been on duty when I had gone up to inspect
the seat where Craig's body had been found.

"The Inspector has sent me, sir," he exclaimed, saluting, "to say he'd
like to see you at once. He's just along the West Cliff--at Beacon
House, where Mr. Craig lived in."

"Certainly," I replied. "Tell him I will come at once."

The constable disappeared, and turning to Rayner, I said: "I wonder why
Treeton wishes to see me in such a hurry? What has happened now?" Then,
promising to return quickly, I went out.

At Beacon House, I found Treeton standing in the front sitting-room, on
the ground-floor, talking seriously with the landlady.

"Hulloa! Mr. Vidal," he exclaimed as I entered. "Something more has
occurred in this house during the night. The place has been broken into
by burglars, who've got clean away with all old Mr. Gregory's collection
of jewellery."

"Burglary," I repeated slowly; and then all that Rayner had told me
flashed across my mind. I saw the reason for Jeanjean and his mysterious
cyclist companion being near the house, and also why Rayner, on being
detected, had been rendered senseless.

"Have you found any trace of the thieves?" I asked, having already
decided to keep my own information to myself.

"Lots of traces," laughed Treeton. "Come and see for yourself."

We ascended the stairs, followed by the excited landlady and her
husband.

"This is really terrible," moaned the woman. "I wish we'd never set eyes
upon the poor young man and his uncle. We heard nothing in the night,
nothing. In fact, I didn't discover that the room had been opened until
an hour ago, when I was sweeping down the stairs. Then I noticed that
the seals placed upon it had been broken, and the lock sawn right out.
Why we didn't hear them, I can't think!"

"Ah, you don't hear much when the modern burglar is at work," declared
Treeton. "They're far too scientific for that."

He showed me the door, from which the lock had been cut away, saying--

"They evidently got in by the window of the room downstairs, where we've
just been, for it was found closed but not latched. They came up these
stairs, cut out the lock, as you see--and look at that!" he added as we
entered the old man's room.

The strong old sea-chest stood in the centre of the room. The lid, which
had been nailed down, and sealed by the police, had been wrenched off
and the box stood empty!

"Look!" cried Treeton again. "Every scrap gone--and it must have been a
pretty bulky lot--a couple, or even three, sacksful at the least."

I went to the two windows which overlooked the narrow street behind, and
examining the sills, saw marks where the paint had recently been rubbed
away.

"Yes, I see," I remarked, "and they lowered the plunder to confederates
outside."

"But who could have known of the existence of the jewellery, here?"
asked Treeton. "Only ourselves were aware of it. At the inquest all
mention of it was carefully suppressed."

"Somebody, of course, must have talked, perhaps unthinkingly, about it,
and the news got round to the thieves," remarked the landlord.

I remained silent. Had I not, from the first, marvelled that old Mr.
Gregory should disappear and leave behind him that collection of
valuables?

"I've wired to Norwich, to Frayne, to come over at once, and see if he
can find any finger-prints," said the local inspector. "We've discovered
something here which the burglars left behind. Look at this."

And from a corner of the room he picked up something and handed it to
me.

It was a woman's little, patent leather walking-shoe, with two white
pearl buttons as fastening. The size I judged to be threes, but, as it
was still fastened, it must have been too large for the wearer, who
apparently having dropped it, was unable for some reason to regain it,
and so left it behind.

"That's very strange!" I said, turning the little shoe over in my hand.
It was not much worn, and of very good quality. "A woman has evidently
been here!"

"Evidently, Mr. Vidal," replied the officer. "But surely a woman would
never have the pluck to do a job of this sort. Nine people slept in this
house last night and never heard a sound."

Truth to tell, I did not expect they would have done, now that I knew
the robbery had been engineered by Jules Jeanjean.

"Very remarkable--very," I declared. "Probably Frayne, when he takes the
finger-prints, will find some clue," I added, laughing inwardly, for I
knew that those who had committed that robbery were far too clever to
leave behind any traces of their identity. Besides, to actually lower
the booty down into a public street showed a daring spirit which one
only finds in the most expert criminals.

I could not, however, account for the discovery of that little shoe. Had
it really been lost--or had it been placed there in order to mystify and
mislead the police?

The latter suggestion had, of course, never entered Treeton's head.

"I wonder," I said to him, "if you would allow me to take this shoe
along to the hotel? I want to take the exact measurements."

"Certainly, Mr. Vidal," was his reply. "You'll send it round to me, at
the station, afterwards?"

"In an hour you shall have it," I promised him. Then I placed the shoe
in my pocket, and made a tour of the room, touching nothing because of
Frayne's coming hunt for finger-prints.

Jeanjean always wore gloves, skin-thin, rubber-gloves, which left no
trace of his light touch. The curved lines of his thumb and forefinger
were far too well known in Paris, in London, in Berlin and Rome, where
the bureaux of detective police all possessed enlarged photographs of
them.

Back in my room at the _Hôtel de Paris_, I took from a drawer the
plaster cast of the woman's footprints I had found near the spot where
Craig had been found.

Then, carrying it down to the shore near the pier, I made a print with
the cast in the wet sand left hard by the receding tide.

Afterwards, I took the tiny, patent leather shoe from my pocket, and
placed it carefully in the print.

It fitted exactly.




CHAPTER XI

THE AFFAIR ON THE SEVENTEENTH


The ingenious theft of old Gregory's treasure created the greatest
consternation amongst the police, though the truth was carefully
concealed from the public.

Treeton pledged Mr. and Mrs. Dean and their servant to secrecy,
therefore all that was known in Cromer was that there had been an
attempted burglary at Beacon House.

Cromer is a quiet, law-abiding town, and burglars had not been known
there for years. Therefore the inhabitants were naturally alarmed, and
now carefully locked and bolted their doors at night.

I returned the shoe to the police-station, but made no mention of the
result of my test.

From the first I had guessed that old Gregory would not leave his
treasure behind. Yet, if he were not guilty of Craig's murder, why had
he fled?

Lola had visited him, and Jeanjean had been in Cromer. Those two facts
were, in themselves, sufficient to tell me that Gregory was an impostor
and that Craig, whoever he might really have been, had fallen the victim
of some deadly vengeance.

Would Lola return to see me?

In the days that followed--bright June days, with the North Sea lying
calm and blue below the cliffs--I waited in patience, scarce leaving the
hotel all day, in fear lest she might again seek me, and, paying me a
visit, find me absent.

Rayner considered me inactive and grumbled in consequence.

He spent his time lolling upon one of the seats on the cliff-top outside
the hotel, idly smoking Virginian cigarettes. He had openly expressed
his dissatisfaction that I had not made any attempt to follow the
mysterious Doctor Arendt and his Italian friend.

Truth to tell, I was utterly confounded.

To follow Jules Jeanjean, now that he had got clean away with Gregory's
treasure, would, I felt, be an utterly futile task. He was too clever to
leave any trace behind--a past-master in the art of evasion, and a man
of a hundred clever disguises.

What would they say at the Prefecture of Police in Paris, when I related
to them the strange story of Jeanjean's exploits in England? Was it
possible, I wondered, that the master-criminal, finding the Continent of
Europe growing a trifle too hot for him, had come to England to follow
his nefarious profession. If so, then he would certainly cause a great
deal of trouble to the famous Council of Seven at the Criminal
Investigation Department in London.

Thus days went on--warm, idle, summer days with holiday visitors daily
arriving, houses being repainted, and Cromer putting on her best
appearance for the coming "season." Seaside towns always blossom forth
into fresh paint in the month of June, window-sashes in white and doors
in green. But Cromer, with its golf and high-class music, is essentially
a resort of the wealthy, a place where the tripper is unwanted and where
there are no importunate long-shoremen suggesting that it is a "Nice day
for a bowot, sir!"

Where was Lola? Would she ever return?

I idled about the hotel, impatient and angry with myself. Yes, Rayner
was right after all! I ought to have made some effort to follow the
three men. But now, it was quite impossible. They were, no doubt, far
away, and probably old Gregory's treasure was by that time safe in his
own hands.

The evidence of the shoe puzzled me. The wearer of that little shoe with
the two pearl buttons had, without doubt, been near that seat on the
East Cliff where Craig had been killed--present, in all probability,
when he had been so mysteriously stricken down.

Was it possible that a woman--the same woman--had assisted in the
burglary, and had inadvertently lost her shoe? Perhaps she had taken
her shoes off in order to move noiselessly, and in trying to recover
them could only regain one!

Lola, I remembered, possessed a very small foot. She was always
extremely neat and dainty about the ankles and wore silk stockings and
pretty shoes. Was it the print of her foot that I had found near that
fatal seat? Was it her shoe that had been found at Beacon House?

Ah! If I could but see her? If she would only call upon me once again!

Day after day I waited, but, alas, she did not come.

That she was most anxious to see me was proved by the fact that she had
dared to call at all after what had occurred. She had some strong motive
in meeting me again, therefore I lived on in hope that she would return.

The Nightingale! Heavens! What strange memories that one word brought
back to me as I sat in the window of my high-up room, gazing over the
summer sea.

It was now July, and Cromer was rapidly filling with better-class folk.
Now and then I went to London, but only for the day, fearing lest Lola
should send me a telegram to meet her. In my absence Rayner always
remained on duty.

I had written to her address in the Avenue Pereire, in Paris, but had
received no reply. Then I had sent a line to the concierge of the house
wherein the flat was situated. To this I had received an ill-scribbled
few lines in French, expressing a regret that Mademoiselle had vacated
the place some weeks previously and that her present address was
unknown.

Unknown! Well, that, after all, scarcely surprised me. Lola's address
generally was unknown. Only her most intimate friends ever knew it; and
for obvious reasons. She existed always in a deadly fear.

Perhaps it was that very fear which even now kept her from me!

Several times I had advertised in the personal column of the _Matin_ in
the hope that she might see it and communicate with me, but all to no
avail.

In Cromer the sensation caused by the mysterious crime had quite died
down.

Frayne, in Norwich, had ceased to make further inquiry, and Treeton now
regarded the problem as one that would never be solved. So, with the
daily arrival of visitors, Cromer and its tradespeople and landladies
forgot the curious affair which had afforded them such a "nine days'
wonder."

The month of July passed, and, with the London season over, every one
rushed to the seaside. Cromer was filled to overflowing. The narrow
streets were crowded with well-dressed folk, and large cars passed one
at every turn. Stifled town-dwellers were there to enjoy the strong,
healthy breezes from the North Sea, and to indulge in the bathing and
the golf.

Yet, though August came, I still kept on my room at the _Paris_, hoping
against hope that Lola might yet return.

Quite suddenly, one day, I recollected that curious letter in Italian,
signed "Egisto," and addressed to his "Illustrious Master," found at
Beacon House.

It had referred to something which had appeared in the Paris _Matin_ of
March 17. Consequently I sent to Paris for a copy of the paper, and, one
morning, the pale yellow sheet arrived.

"The business we have been so long arranging, was successfully concluded
last night," the writer of the letter had said, adding that a report of
it appeared in the _Matin_ on the day of this letter.

Eagerly I searched the paper, which was, as usual, full of sensational
reports, for the French newspaper reader dearly loves a tragedy.

The "feature" of the paper is always placed in the right-hand corner
near the bottom, and, as I searched, my eyes fell upon the words, in
bold capitals: "Motor Bandits: Dastardly Outrage near Fontainebleau."

What followed, roughly translated into English, read--

"By telephone from Fontainebleau. Early this morning we have received
information of a dastardly outrage in which two lives have been
sacrificed. It appears that, just after midnight, Monsieur Charles
Benoy, the well-known jeweller of the Rue de la Paix, was travelling
from Paris to his château near Maret-sur-Loire, on the other side of the
Forest of Fontainebleau. He was accompanied by his son Pierre, aged
twenty-four, and driven by the chauffeur, named Petit. With him, in the
car, M. Benoy had in their leather cases four diamond collars of great
value, and two pearl necklaces, which he intended to show next day to a
certain American gentleman who has recently purchased the ancient
Château de Provins, and who was one of the jeweller's customers.

"M. Benoy's intention was to take the jewels over to Provins in his car
on the following morning. Apparently all went well on the journey. They
passed through Melun, entered the Forest, and at a high speed passed
through the little hamlet of Chantoïseau, where they were seen by two
gendarmes.

"According to the story of the chauffeur, when about four kilometres
beyond Chantoïseau, at a lonely point of the forest, he saw two red
lights being waved in the roadway, and reduced his speed on this sign of
danger.

"As he did so, however, three men sprang out from the undergrowth. They
called upon him to stop, and a revolver was fired point-blank at him.
Next moment the bandits fired, without further ado, upon the occupants
of the car, but the chauffeur, severely wounded, then fainted, and knew
no more until he recovered consciousness in the barracks of the
Gendarmerie in Moret.

"What happened, apparently, was that the three assassins, after shooting
all three of the occupants of the car, threw the bodies into the
roadway, seized the automobile, and drove off with the jewels. M. Benoy
and his son were dead when found, the father having two bullet-wounds in
his head, while the son had been struck in the region of the heart. The
chauffeur, Petit, lies in a critical condition, and only with great
difficulty has been able to give an account of the murderous attack.

"Inquiries at M. Benoy's shop, in the Rue de la Paix, have revealed the
fact that the jewellery is worth about four hundred thousand francs.

"The car was seen returning through Melun, being driven at a furious
pace by the bandits, but, unfortunately, all traces of it, and of the
three men, have been lost.

"According to the chauffeur's description of one of the men, who wore
motor-goggles as a disguise, the police believe the outrage to be the
work of the notorious Jules Jeanjean, the ingenious criminal of whom the
police have been so long in search.

"The occupants of the car were treated with inhuman brutality. The
bodies of both father and son, together with the number-plates of the
car, were thrown unceremoniously into the undergrowth; that of Petit was
allowed to lie across the footpath, but for what reason cannot be
guessed at.

"From the fact that the number-plates of the car have been found, it
would appear that before the bandits moved off they replaced the correct
numbers by false ones. No doubt, also, a rapid attempt was made to alter
the appearance of the body of the car, because, close by, there were
found two pails containing grey paint, and large brushes with the paint
still wet in them.

"From this it is seen that the intention of the bandits was to make a
long run, perhaps all through the following day, to reach some distant
point of safety.

"It will be remembered that Jules Jeanjean was the prime mover in the
terrible outrage near Lyons, where three motorists were shot dead and
two wounded. Two men named Dubois, and Leblon, were arrested, and before
their condemnation confessed that Jeanjean, a dangerous anarchist, had
instigated the plot.

"Readers of the _Matin_ will not need to be reminded of the many
desperate crimes of which this atrocious scoundrel has been the author;
of his amazing daring and marvellous cunning; and of the almost uncanny
ease with which he, time after time, defies every effort of the police
to trace and capture him.

"M. Hamard, Chef de la Sûreté, and several inspectors have left Paris,
and are upon the scene of the outrage, while descriptions of the missing
jewellery have already been circulated."




CHAPTER XII

LOLA


Several times I re-read the account of the dastardly outrage.

Too well I knew how dangerous and desperate a man was Jules Jeanjean,
the studious, and apparently harmless, Belgian doctor, who had lodged in
the Overstrand Road, and had strolled about the pier and promenade of
Cromer. His name, during the last three years or so, had become well
known from end to end of Europe as an Anarchist who defied all the
powers of law and order; a man who moved from place to place with
marvellous swiftness, and who passed from frontier to frontier under the
very noses of the commissaries of police stationed there.

His narrowest escape of capture had been one day in Charleroi, where,
while sitting before the _Café des XXV_, he had been recognized by an
inspector of the French _Sûreté_, who was in Belgium upon another
matter. The inspector called a local agent of police, who suddenly
pounced upon him, but in an instant Jeanjean had drawn a revolver, with
which he shot the unfortunate policeman dead, and, in the confusion,
escaped.

He then wrote an impudent letter to the Prefecture of Police in Paris,
telling them that his intention was to serve any other police agent the
same who might attempt to arrest him.

I took from my dispatch-box the copy I had made of the letter in
Italian, found at Beacon House. In the light of that newspaper report it
proved curious and interesting reading.

Who was the writer, Egisto? Evidently one of the conspirators. It was a
report to his "Illustrious Master," of what had been done. Who was his
Master? Surely not Jules Jeanjean, because one sentence read, "J.
arrives back in Algiers to-morrow."

Was it possible that the "Illustrious Master"--the man who actually
plotted and directed those dramatic coups--was none other than old
Gregory himself!

The letter was certainly a report to the head of an association of
dangerous malefactors. Who "H." was, who had "left as arranged," I knew
not, but "J." evidently indicated Jules Jeanjean, and the fact that he
would arrive back in Algiers on the morrow, showed first, that his
hiding-place was on the other side of the Mediterranean; and, secondly,
that after the crime a dash had been made to the south to join the
mail-boat at Marseilles. The writer, Egisto, had left the other,
travelling via Brindisi, to Port Said, so leaving the Paris police to
again search for them in vain.

"Does H. know anything, do you think?" was the question Egisto had asked
in his letter.

Did "H." indicate Monsieur Hamard, the Chef de la Sûreté?

My own theory was that "H." did indicate that well-known official, whom
the gang had so often defied.

The writer, too, declared that "The Nightingale" still sang on blithely.

I knew the singer, the pretty, refined, fair-haired girl, so neat and
dainty, with the sweet, clear contralto voice. It was Lola--Lola Sorel!

On the morning of August 24, I was standing with Mr. Day on the
well-kept lawn outside the coast-guard station, watching the life-boat
being launched for the benefit of the visitors, and in order to collect
funds for the Life-boat Institution. The morning was perfect, with
bright sunshine, a clear sky and glassy sea. Below us, the promenade and
beach were thronged with summer visitors in light clothes, and the scene
was one of brightness and merriment.

Amid the cheers of the waiting crowd the life-boat, guided by its
gallant crew of North Sea fishermen, wearing their cork belts, went
slowly down to the water's edge. The instant it was launched, Mr. Day,
who held a huge pistol in his hand, fired a green rocket high into the
air--the signal to the Haisboro' Lightship that aid was on its way.

Just as he had done so, a telegraph-boy handed me a message.

I tore it open and read the words--

"Can you meet me at the _Maid's Head Hotel_, Norwich, this afternoon at
four? Urgent. Reply, _King's Head Hotel_, Beccles--LOLA."

My heart gave a great bound.

From the messenger I obtained a telegraph-form, and at once replied in
the affirmative.

Just before four o'clock I entered the covered courtyard of the old
_Maid's Head Hotel_, in Norwich, one of the most famous and popular
hostelries in Norfolk. John Peston mentioned it in 1472, when its sign
was _The Murtel_ or _Molde Fish_, and to-day, remodelled with taste, and
its ancient features jealously preserved, it is well known to every
motorist who visits the capital of Norfolk, the metropolis of Eastern
England.

I engaged a small private sitting-room on the first-floor, a pretty,
old-fashioned apartment with bright chintzes, and a bowl of fresh roses
upon the polished table in the centre. Telling the waiter I expected a
lady, I stood at the window to await my visitor.

As I stood there, all-impatient, the Cathedral chimes close by told the
hour of four, and shortly afterwards I heard the noise of a car turning
from the street into the courtyard.

Was it Lola?

From the room in which I was I could not see either roadway or
courtyard, therefore I waited, my ears strained to catch the sound of
footsteps upon the stairs.

Suddenly I heard some one ascending. The handle of the door was turned,
and next second I found myself face to face with the slim, fair-haired
girl whose coming I had so long awaited.

She came forward smiling, her white-gloved hand outstretched, her pretty
countenance slightly flushed, exclaiming in French--

"Ah! M'sieu' Vidal! After all this time!"

"It is not my fault, Mademoiselle, that we are such strangers," I
replied with a smile, bowing over her hand as the waiter closed the
door.

She was a charming little person, sweet and dainty from head to foot.
Dressed in a black coat and skirt, the former relieved with a collar of
turquoise silk, and the latter cut short, so that her silk-encased
ankles and small shoes were revealed. She wore a tiny close-fitting felt
hat, and a boa of grey ostrich feathers around her neck.

Her countenance was pale with well-moulded features of soft sympathetic
beauty, a finely-poised head with pretty dimpled chin, and a straight
nose, well-defined eyebrows, and a pair of eyes of that clear blue that
always seemed to me unfathomable.

I drew forward a chair, and she sank into it, stretching forth her small
feet and displaying her neat black silk stockings from beneath the hem
of her short skirt, which, adorned with big ball buttons, was discreetly
opened at the side to allow freedom in walking.

"Well, and why did you not call again upon me in Cromer?" I asked in
English, for I knew that she spoke our language always perfectly.

"Because--well, because I was unable," was her reply.

"Why did you not write?" I asked. "I've been waiting weeks for you."

"I know. I heard so," she said with a smile. "I am ve-ry sorry, but I
was prevented," she went on with a pretty, musical accent. "That same
evening I called upon you, I had to leave Cromer ve-ry hurriedly."

A strange thought flashed across my mind. Had her sudden departure been
due to the theft at Beacon House? Had she been present then and lost her
shoe?

I glanced at the shoes she wore. They were very smart, of black patent
leather, with a strip of white leather along the upper edge. Yes, the
size looked to me just the same as that of the little shoe which so
exactly fitted the imprint I had made in the sand.

"Why did you leave so quickly?" I asked, standing before her, and
leaning against the table, as I looked into the wonderful eyes of the
chic little Parisienne.

"I was compelled," was her brief response.

"You might have written to me."

"What was the use, M'sieu' Vidal? I went straight back to France. Then
to Austria, Hungary, and Russia," she answered. "Only the day before
yesterday I returned to London."

"From where?"

"From Algiers."

Algiers! The mention of that town recalled the fact that it was the
hiding-place of the notorious Jules Jeanjean.

"Why have you been in Algiers--and in August, too?"

"Not for pleasure," she replied with a grim smile. "The place is a
perfect oven just now--as you may well imagine. But I was forced to go."

"Forced against your will, Lola, eh?" I asked, bending towards her, and
looking her full in the face very seriously.

"Yes," she admitted, her eyes cast down, "against my will. I had a
message to deliver."

"To whom?"

"To my uncle."

"Not a message," I said, correcting her. "Something more valuable than
mere words. Is not that so?"

The Nightingale nodded in the affirmative, her blue eyes still downcast
in shame.

"Where was your starting-point?" I asked.

"In St. Petersburg, a fortnight ago. I was given the little box in the
_Hôtel de l'Europe_, and that night I concealed its contents in the
clothes I wore. Some of them I sewed into the hem of my travelling-coat,
and, and----"

"Stones they were, I suppose?" I said, interrupting.

"Yes, from Lobenski's, the jeweller's in the Nevski," she replied.
"Well, that night I left Petersburg and travelled to Vienna, thence to
Trieste, where I found my uncle's yacht awaiting me, and we went down
the Adriatic and along the Mediterranean to Algiers. My uncle was
already at home. The _coup_ was a large one, I believe. Have you seen
reports of it in the English papers?" she asked.

"Certainly," I replied. For a fortnight before I had read in several of
the newspapers of the daring robbery committed at the shop of Lobenski,
the Russian Court Jeweller, and of the theft of a large quantity of
diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. The safe, believed to be impregnable,
had been fused by an oxygen acetylene jet, and the whole of its contents
stolen. From what Lola had revealed, it seemed that Jeanjean had had no
actual hand in the theft, for he had been in Algiers awaiting the booty.
But he always travelled swiftly after a _coup_.

"Did the papers say much about it?" asked Lola, with interest.

"Oh, just a sensational story," I replied. "But I never dreamt that you
were in Russia, Lola--that you had carried the stones across Europe sewn
in your dress!"

"Ah! It is not the first time, as you know, M'sieu' Vidal," she sighed.
"There is always danger of some customs officer or agent of police
recognizing me. But uncle says I am unsuspected, and hence the work is
assigned always to me."

"And you have come to England to see me--eh? Why?" I asked, looking
again into her clear blue eyes.

"I have come, M'sieu' Vidal, in order to ask a further favour of you--a
request I almost fear to make after your great generosity towards me."

"Oh! Don't let us speak of that," I said. "It is all past and over. I
only acted as any other man would have done in the circumstances, Lola!"

"You acted as a gentleman would act," she said. "But, alas! How few real
gentlemen are met by a wretched girl like myself," she added bitterly.
"Suppose you had acted as thousands would have done. Where should I be
now? Spending my days in one of your female prisons here."

"Instead of which you are still the little Nightingale, who sings so
blithely, and who is so inexpressibly dainty and charming," I said with
a smile. "At the best hotels up and down Europe, Lola Sorel is a
well-known figure, always ready to flirt with the idle youngsters, and
to make herself pleasant to those of her own sex. Only they must be
wealthy--eh?"

She made a quick movement as though to arrest the flow of my words.

"You are, alas! right, M'sieu' Vidal," she replied. "Ah, if you only
knew how I hate it all--how day by day, hour by hour--I fear that I may
blunder and consequently find myself in the hands of the police--if----"

"Never, if you follow your uncle, Jules Jeanjean," I interrupted. "And,
I suppose, you are still doing so?"

She sighed heavily, and a hard expression crossed her pretty face.

"Alas! I am forced to. You know the bitter truth, M'sieu' Vidal--the
tragedy of my life."

For a few moments I remained silent, my eyes upon her.

I knew full well the strange, romantic story of that pretty French girl
seated before me--the sweet, refined little person--scarcely more than a
child--whose present, and whose future, were so entirely in the hands of
that notorious criminal.

Why had I not telegraphed to the Paris police on discovering Jeanjean's
presence in Cromer? For one reason alone. Because his arrest would also
mean hers. He had too vowed in my presence that if he were ever taken
alive, he would betray his niece, because she had once, in a moment of
despair and horror, at one of his cold-blooded crimes, threatened to
give him away.

As she sat there, her face sweet and soft as a child's, her blue eyes so
clear and innocent, one would never dream that she was the cat's-paw of
the most ingenious and dangerous association of jewel thieves in the
whole of Europe.

Truly her story was a strange one--one of the strangest of any girl in
the world.

She noticed my thoughtfulness, and suddenly put out her little hand
until it touched mine; then, looking into my eyes, she asked, in a low,
intense voice--

"What are you thinking about?"

"I am thinking of you, Lola," I replied. "I am wondering what really
happened in Cromer, back in the month of June. You are here to
explain--eh? Will you tell me?"

Her brows contracted slightly, and she drew her hand back from mine.

"You know what happened," she said.

"I don't. Explain it all to me in confidence," I urged. "You surely know
me well enough to rely upon my keeping the secret."

"Ah, no!" she cried, starting up suddenly, a strange light of fear in
her eyes. "Never, M'sieu' Vidal! I--I can tell you nothing of
that--nothing more than what you already know. Please don't ask
me--never ask me again, for I--I can't tell you! It was all too
dastardly, too terrible!"

And the girl, with a wild gesture, covered her pale face with her little
hands as though to shut out from memory the grim recollection of a scene
that was full of bitterness and horror.

"But you will tell me the truth, Lola. Do. I beg of you?" I urged,
placing my hand tenderly upon her shoulder.

"No," she cried in a voice scarcely above a whisper. "No. Don't ask me.
Please don't ask me."




CHAPTER XIII

RELATES A STRANGE STORY


I stood before Lola, grieved at her distress.

Too well I knew, alas! how deeply she had suffered, of all the
bitterness and remorse with which her young life was filled, blighted by
an ever-present terror, her youth sapped and her ideas warped by living
in an atmosphere of criminality.

Rapidly, as I took her little hands in unspoken sympathy, recollections
of our strangely-made acquaintanceship ran through my memory, and before
me arose a truly dramatic and impressive scene.

I had first seen Lola, two years before, seated alone at luncheon in the
pretty salle-à-manger of the _Hôtel d'Angleterre_ in Copenhagen. Many
eyes were upon her because of her youth and beauty, and many men sitting
at the various tables cast admiring glances at her.

I was with my friend, Jack Bellairs, and we were breaking our journey
for a few days in the Danish capital, before going up to Norway
salmon-fishing.

Jack first noted her, and drew my attention to the fact that she was
alone. At the time, I knew nothing of the two men who were lunching
together at another table at the further end of the room, and that the
name of one of them was Jules Jeanjean.

The girl, we discovered from the concierge, had been living alone in the
hotel for a month, and had become on very friendly terms with a certain
very wealthy Hungarian lady, the Baroness Függer, of Budapest. She
accompanied the Baroness everywhere, but the reason she was lunching
alone that morning was because the Baroness was absent for the day at
Elsinore.

During the next day or two we saw the stately old lady, whose chief
delight seemed to be the ostentatious display of jewellery, constantly
in Lola's company. The girl, though admired everywhere, treated all the
men about her with utter unconcern, being most modest and reserved.

On the fourth morning of our stay, at about ten o'clock, the hotel was
thrown into the greatest commotion by an amazing report that the
Baroness's bedroom had been entered during the night and the whole
contents of her jewel-case stolen. The police were at once called, and
were mystified by the fact that the Baroness had locked her door before
retiring, and that it was still locked when she awoke in the morning.
Therefore, it seemed that the jewels had been abstracted immediately
before she had entered the room on the previous night--stolen by some
one well acquainted with their hiding-place--for the jewel-case was kept
for safety at the bottom of a trunk full of soiled linen.

Naturally the police inquired if any of the visitors had left the hotel
since the previous night, but no person had left. All the visitors who
had been in the hotel the previous day at noon were still there. The
night-porter had not noticed anything suspicious, and nobody had heard
any unusual sound during the night.

All of us in the hotel were closely interrogated, including Lola, who
preserved an air of deepest regret that her dear friend, the Baroness,
should have been so ingeniously robbed. Indeed, it was during that
interrogation that I had first exchanged words with her.

"I can't understand it," she had declared to me in French. "I was in the
Baroness's room until she returned at a quarter to twelve, and I am
quite sure the jewels were there because, when she took off her diamond
necklet, I got out the case, and placed it with the other jewels."

"The case might then have been already empty," said the Commissary of
Police, who was making the investigation.

"It might have been, of course," replied the girl. "But the diamond
necklet is no longer there!"

Well, to go into the whole details of the inquiry is unnecessary.
Suffice it to say that, though the police searched everywhere, and the
Baroness indignantly invoked the aid of her Legation, nothing was ever
recovered, and at last I departed for Norway, leaving the Baroness still
enjoying the bright companionship of the young and pretty Lola.

The two sedate visitors, one of whom I knew later on as Jules Jeanjean,
also remained idling their days in the pleasant city, awaiting the
conclusion of a business deal, but, of course, holding no communication
with the fair-haired young girl.

After that, quite a year passed, and I found myself, in the course of my
erratic wanderings, guest of Lord Bracondale at a shooting-party at
Balmaclellan Castle, up in Kirkcudbrightshire--in that wild, lonely,
heather-clad land which lies between New Galloway and the Solway Firth.

As is well known, the Earl and Countess of Bracondale surround
themselves with a very smart set, and the party in question was a big
one. Indeed, most of the rooms in the historic Scottish Castle were
occupied, and while there was good sport by day, there was at night much
dancing in the fine old ball-room, and much bridge-playing.

In the midst of all the gaiety came the County Ball at Dumfries, to
which the whole party went over, the ladies eclipsing each other with
their jewels, as the function is always one of the smartest in Scotland.

My room at the castle, a big oak-panelled one, was in the east wing, at
the top of a steep flight of spiral stairs set in a corner tower, and on
the night following that of the ball, at about half-past two in the
morning, I awoke, and lay thinking, when I fancied I heard somebody
moving about, outside my door.

I strained my ears to listen.

The room next mine, further along the corridor, was occupied by a Mrs.
Forbes Wilson, the widow of the well-known American millionaire, while
further beyond slept Lady Oxborough, and beyond these were several other
visitors' rooms.

I suppose I must have listened for nearly a quarter of an hour, drowsily
wondering who could be on the move, when suddenly I was thoroughly
roused by hearing a sharp click. The door of the room adjoining mine had
been closed!

This struck me as distinctly curious, because, only at six o'clock the
previous evening, Mrs. Forbes Wilson had been called away suddenly to
the bedside of her little daughter, who had been taken ill at Wigton,
where she was stopping with friends. The widow had taken her maid with
her, and left very hurriedly, leaving her luggage behind, and promising
to return next day if there was nothing seriously wrong with her child.

Some one was moving about in her room!

I lay there wondering. But as the minutes passed, and I heard no further
sound, I began to believe that my imagination had deceived me. I had
almost dozed off to sleep again when suddenly a brilliant ray of
electricity shot across my room--the light of a small electric
torch--and I was immediately aware that my own door had been opened
noiselessly, and an intruder had entered.

Quick as thought I sprang out of bed in my pyjamas, but, as I did so, I
heard a woman's light scream, while the torch was instantly
extinguished.

I was at the door, behind the intruder, and when, next moment, I
switched on the light, to my astonishment I found myself confronted with
Lola Sorel!

"You!" I gasped, as the girl shrank from me against the wall, her face
white as death. "You--Mademoiselle! What is the meaning of this
visit--eh?"

"Will you--will you close the door, M'sieur?" she begged in a low
whisper, in broken English. "Some one may overhear."

I did as she bade, and slipped on my dressing-gown, which was hanging
over the foot-rail of the bed.

"Well?" I asked, with a good deal of severity, for I saw by her manner
that she was there for some nefarious purpose. She was dressed in plain
black, with a neat little velvet cap, and wore slippers with rubber
soles. Her hands were covered with india-rubber gloves, such as surgeons
often wear when operating or making post-mortem examinations. Her
electric torch was attached to her wrist, while, beneath her dark
golf-coat, which fell open, I saw that she wore around her waist a
capacious bag of black silk.

"I--I never dreamed that this was your room, M'sieur," the girl
declared, terrified. "I--I----"

But she did not conclude her sentence, for she realized how completely
she had been trapped. Her pretty countenance betrayed terror in every
line, her eyes were staring and haggard, and her hands were trembling.

"I--I--know there is no escape," she said with her pleasing French
accent. "You are aware of the truth, M'sieur--of what occurred in
Copenhagen. Ah, yes. It is Fate that you and I should again meet--and in
these circumstances."

"Please be seated, Mademoiselle," I said. "You have no cause for alarm.
Naturally, this encounter has upset you."

I feared that she might faint, therefore I went to the table where, on
the previous night, the valet had placed some brandy and a siphon of
soda. Mixing a little, I gave it to her to drink.

"This will do you good," I said.

Then, when she had swallowed it, I asked her to explain the reason of
her nocturnal visit to the castle.

She looked a pale, pathetic little figure, seated there before me, her
fair head bowed with shame and confusion, her terrified eyes staring
into space.

"I--I--am entirely in your hands, M'sieur," she stammered at last. "I
came here to thieve, because--because I am forced to do so. It was work
of peril for all three of us--for me most of all. This room was the last
I intended to visit--and in it I found the very last person I wished to
meet--you!"

"Tell me more about yourself," I urged. "I'm greatly interested."

"What is there to tell you?" she cried, her eyes filling with bitter
tears. "I am a thief--that's all. You are a guest here--and it is your
duty to your host to keep me here, and call the police. Jules was
watching on the stairs below. By this time he knows you have trapped me,
and they have both escaped--without a doubt--escaped with the stuff I
handed to them ten minutes ago."

"Jules? Who is he?" I asked quickly.

"Jules Jeanjean--my uncle," she replied.

"Jules Jeanjean!" I ejaculated, "that man!" for the name was synonymous
for all that was audacious and criminal.

"Yes, M'sieur."

"And he is your uncle?"

"Yes. At his instigation I am forced to do these things against my
will," she declared in a hard, bitter voice. "Ah, if only you knew--if
you knew everything, M'sieur, I believe you would have pity and
compassion for me--you would allow me one more chance--a chance to
escape--a chance to try once more to break away from these hateful men
who hold me in the hollow of their hands!"

She spoke so fervently, so earnestly, that her appeal sank deeply into
my heart. By her despairing manner I saw that she hoped for no clemency,
for no sympathy, especially from me, who had actually been suspected of
the robbery in Copenhagen which she and her confederates had committed.

"What have you in that bag?" I asked, indicating the black silk bag
beneath her coat.

She placed her small hand into it and slowly and shamefacedly drew forth
a splendid collar of large pearls.

"I took it from the next room," she said briefly. "I will replace it
if--if only you would allow me to get away," she added wistfully.

"And the other stuff you have stolen?"

"Ah! My uncle has it. He has already gone--carrying it with him!"

"Deserted you--and left you to your fate--as soon as he realized the
danger," I remarked. "The coward!"

"Yes. But it was fortunate that you did not come out of this room--upon
the stairs," she said.

"Why?"

"Because he would have killed you with as little compunction as he would
kill a fly," she replied slowly.

"I quite believe that. His reputation is known all over Europe," I said.
"Mine was, no doubt, a fortunate escape."

"Will you let me put these pearls back?" she asked eagerly.

"No. Leave them on the table. I will replace them," I said.

"Then, what do you intend doing with me?" she asked very seriously.
"Only allow me to go, and I shall always be grateful to you,
M'sieur--grateful to you all my life."

And with a sudden movement she took my hand in hers, and looked so
earnestly into my eyes, that I stood before her fascinated by her
wonderful beauty.

The scene was indeed a strange one. She pleaded to me for her liberty,
pleaded to me, throwing herself wildly upon her knees, covering her face
with her hands, and bursting into a torrent of hot, bitter tears.

My duty, both towards my host and towards the guests whose jewellery had
been stolen by that silent-footed, expert little thief, was to raise the
alarm, and hand her over to the police.

Yet so pitiful was her appeal, so tragic the story she had briefly
related to me, so earnest her promise never to offend again, that I
confess I could not bring myself to commit her to prison.

I saw that she was but the unwilling cat's-paw of the most dangerous
criminal in Europe. Therefore, I gently assisted her to rise to her feet
and began to further question her.

In confidence she told me her address in Paris--a flat in the Boulevard
Pereire--and then, after nearly half an hour's further conversation, I
said--

"Very well, Lola. You shall leave here, and I hope to see you in Paris
very shortly. I hope, too, that you will succeed in breaking away from
your uncle and his associates and so have a chance to live a life of
honesty."

"Ah!" she sighed, gripping my hand with heartfelt thanks, as she turned
to creep from the room, and down the stairs. "Ah! If I could! If I only
could. _Au revoir_, M'sieur. You are indeed generous. I--I owe my life
to you--_au revoir_!"

And, then? Well, she had slipped noiselessly down the winding stair,
while I had taken the pearl necklace and replaced it in the room of Mrs.
Forbes Wilson.

Imagine the consternation next morning, when it was discovered that
burglars had entered the place, and had got clean away with jewellery
worth in all about thirty thousand pounds.

I watched the investigations made by the police, who were summoned from
Dumfries by telephone.

But I remained silent, and kept the secret of little Lola Sorel to
myself.

And here she was, once again--standing before me!




CHAPTER XIV

WHEREIN CONFESSION IS MADE


"Well, Lola," I said at last, still holding her little hand in mine,
"and why cannot you reveal to me the truth regarding the mystery of the
death of Edward Craig?"

"For a very good reason--because I do not myself know the exact
circumstances," was her prompt response, dropping into French. "I know
that you have made an investigation. What have you discovered?"

"If you will be frank with me," I said, also in French, "I will be
equally frank with you."

"But, have I not always been frank?" she protested. "Have I not always
told you the truth, ever since that night in Scotland when you trapped
me in your room. Don't you remember?"

"Yes," I replied in a low voice. "I remember, alas! too well. You
promised in return for your liberty that you would break away from your
uncle."

"Ah, I did--but I have been utterly unable, M'sieur Vidal," she cried
quickly in her broken English. "You don't know how much I have suffered
this past year--how terrible is my present position," she added in a
tone of poignant bitterness.

"Yes, I quite understand and sympathize with you," I said, taking out a
cigarette and lighting it, while she sat back in the big old-fashioned
horse-hair arm-chair. "For weeks I have been endeavouring to find
you--after you came to Cromer to call upon me. You have left the
Boulevard Pereire."

"Yes. I have been travelling constantly of late."

"After the affair of the jeweller, Benoy--eh? Where were you at that
time?"

"In Marseilles, awaiting my uncle. We crossed to Algiers together.
Thence we went along to Alexandria, and on to Cairo, where we met our
friends."

"It was a dastardly business. I read of it in the _Matin_," I said.

"Brutal--horrible!" declared the girl. "But is not my uncle an inhuman
brute--a fearless, desperate man, who carries out, with utter disregard
of human life, the amazing plots which are formed by one who is the
master of all the criminal arts."

"Then he is not the prime mover of all these ingenious thefts?" I
exclaimed in some surprise, for I had always believed Jules Jeanjean to
be the head of that international band.

"No. He acts under the direction of another, a man of amazing ingenuity
and colossal intellect. It is he who cleverly investigates, and gains
knowledge of those who possess rare jewels; he who watches craftily for
opportunities, who so carefully plans the _coups_, and who afterwards
arranges for the stones to be re-cut in Antwerp or Amsterdam."

"Who is he?" I asked eagerly. "You may tell me in confidence. I will not
betray your secret."

"He poses as a dealer in precious stones in London."

"In London?"

"Yes. He has an office in Hatton Garden, and is believed by other
dealers in precious stones to be a most respectable member of that
select little coterie that deals in gems."

"What is his name?"

The girl was silent for a few seconds. Then she said--

"In Cromer he has been known under the name of Vernon Gregory."

"Gregory!" I gasped in astonishment. "What, to that quiet old man is due
the conception of all these great and daring robberies committed by
Jules Jeanjean?"

"Yes. My uncle acts upon plans and information which the old man
supplies," Lola replied. "Being in the trade, the crafty old fellow
knows in whose hands lie the most valuable stones, and then lays his
cunningly-prepared plans accordingly--plans that my uncle desperately
carries out to the very letter."

This statement much surprised me, for I had always regarded Jeanjean as
the instigator of the plots. But now, it appeared, old Gregory was the
head of Europe's most dangerous association of criminals.

"Then the jewels found in Gregory's rooms at Cromer were all stolen
property?"

"Yes. We were surprised that the police did not discover the real
owners," Lola replied. "The greater part of the jewels were taken from
the castle of the Grand Duke Alexander of Russia, just outside Kiev,
about nine months ago."

"By you?" I asked with a grim smile.

"Not all. Some," admitted the girl with a light laugh. Then she
continued: "We expected that when the old gentleman made such a hurried
flight from Cromer, the police would recognize the property from the
circulated description. But, as they did not, Uncle determined to regain
possession of it--which he did."

"Who aided him?"

"Egisto--a man who is generally known as Egisto Bertini."

"The man who rode the motor-cycle?"

She nodded.

"And you assisted," I said. "Why did you leave your shoe behind?"

"By accident. I thought I heard some of the occupants of the house
stirring, so fled without having an opportunity of recovering it. I
suppose it has puzzled the local police--eh?" she laughed merrily.

"It did. You were all very clever, and my man, Rayner, was rendered
insensible."

"Because he was a trifle too inquisitive. He was watching, and did not
know that my uncle, in such expeditions, has eyes in the back of his
head," she answered. "It was fortunate for him that he was not killed
outright, for, as you know, my uncle always, alas! believes in the old
maxim that dead men tell no tales."

"The assassin!" I cried in fierce anger. "He will have many crimes to
answer for when at last the police lay hands upon him."

"He will never be taken alive," she said. "He will denounce me, and then
kill himself. That is what he constantly threatens."

"And because of that you fear to hold aloof and defy him?" I asked. "You
live in constant terror, Lola."

"Yes. How can I act--how can I escape them? Advise me," she urged, her
face pale and intensely in earnest.

I hesitated. It was certainly a difficult matter upon which to give
advice. The pretty girl before me had for several years been the
unwilling tool of that scoundrelly gang of bandits, whose organization
was so perfect that they were never arrested, nor was any of their booty
ever traced.

The four or five men acting under the direction of the master-mind of
old Gregory were, in private life, all of them affluent and respected
citizens, either in England or in France, while Jules Jeanjean, I
afterwards learned, occupied a big white villa overlooking the blue sea
three miles out of Algiers. It was a place with wonderful gardens filled
with high date-palms and brilliant tropical flowers. There, in his hours
of retirement, Jules Jeanjean lived amid the most artistic and luxurious
surroundings, with many servants, and a couple of motor-cars, devoting
himself to experiments in wireless telegraphy, having fitted up a
powerful station for both receiving and transmitting.

The science of wireless telegraphy was indeed his chief hobby, and he
spent many hours in listening to the messages from Pold, Poldhu,
Clifden, Soller, Paris, Port Said, or Norddeich on the North Sea, in
communicating with ships in the Mediterranean, the Adriatic, the Levant,
or on the Atlantic.

I was wondering how to advise my little friend. Ever since our first
meeting my heart had been full of sympathy and compassion for her, so
frail seemed her frame, so tragic her life, and so fettered did she seem
to that disreputable gang. Yet, had she not pointed out to me, on the
several occasions on which we had met in Paris, the impossibility of
breaking the bonds which bound her to that detestable life? Indeed she
had, more than once, declared our meetings to be filled with peril for
myself.

Her uncle knew me by repute as an investigator of crime, and if he ever
suspected me of prying into any affair in which he might be concerned,
then my life would most certainly be in jeopardy. Jules Jeanjean never
did things by halves. It was, I found, for that reason she had now
sought me--to beseech me to relinquish my efforts to fathom the mystery
of the death of Edward Craig.

"Do heed what I say, M'sieur Vidal," she exclaimed with deep
earnestness. "My uncle knows that you are still in Cromer, and that you
have been investigating. In Algiers, a fortnight ago, he mentioned it to
me, and declared that very shortly you would cease to trouble him."

"He intends foul play--eh?" I remarked with a grim smile, lighting
another cigarette.

"He means mischief," she assured me. "He knows, too well, of your
success in other cases in which you have interested yourself," she
remarked quickly. "And he fears--fears lest you may discover the secret
of the young man's death."

"And if I do?" I asked, looking straight into her face.

"He does not intend that you shall," she replied very earnestly, adding:
"Ah! M'sieur Vidal, do heed my words--I beg you. Be warned by me!"

"But, why?" I queried. "I am not afraid of Jules Jeanjean. I have never
done him an evil turn. Therefore, why should he conspire to take my
life? Besides, I already know of his connexion with the Cromer mystery,
the Benoy affair, and others. Could I not easily have sent a telegram to
the Prefecture of Police in Paris, when I recognized him in Cromer? But
I did not."

"Why?"

"For two reasons. First, I wished to stand aside and watch, and,
secondly, I feared to betray him for your sake, Lola."

"Ah!" she exclaimed. "But you are always so generous. You know quite
well that he already believes that I have told you the truth. Therefore,
he suspects us both and is determined to put an end to your
inquisitiveness."

"Unless I act swiftly--eh?" I suggested.

"But think--what would then become of me?" she exclaimed, her eyes open
in quick alarm.

"I can't see what you really have to fear," I said. "It is true, Lola,
that you live, like your friends, by dishonest methods, but have you not
been forced into it by your uncle? Even if you were arrested, the law
would treat you with the greatest leniency. Indeed, if necessary, I
would come forward and tell the Court all I have known and discovered
concerning the baneful influence which has been exercised upon you by
the man Jeanjean."

She shook her head mournfully.

"Alas! That would be of no avail," she declared in a low, strained
voice.

"Why?"

"Because--because, ah!--you do not know the truth," she faltered, her
face pale to the lips.

"Cannot you explain it to me?" I asked, bending down to her, and placing
my hand tenderly upon her shoulder.

I felt her shudder beneath my touch, while her big blue eyes were
downcast--downcast in shame.

"No. I cannot explain," she replied. "If you knew, M'sieur Vidal, how
horrible, how terrible all this is for me, you would not press your
question."

"But I do--in your interests," I said with deep earnestness. "I want to
help you to escape from these scoundrels--I want to stand as your
friend."

"My friend!" she exclaimed blankly. "My friend--ah! that you can never
be."

"Why not?"

"You would not wish to cultivate my acquaintance further, M'sieur Vidal,
if--if you were aware of the actual truth. Besides, this friendship
which you have shown to me may, in itself, prove fatal to you. If you do
not exercise the greatest precaution, your reward for saving me, as you
did that night at Balmaclellan, will be death!"

"You are apprehensive on my account?" I asked, wondering whether she
were really in earnest--or whether beneath her strange warning there lay
some subtle motive.

"Yes," was her frank response. "Take great care, or death will come to
you at a moment when you least expect it."

For an instant I was silent. Her warning was truly a curious and
disconcerting one, for I knew the dangerous character of Jules Jeanjean.
That if he threatened, he meant action.

"I do not care for myself, Lola," I said at last. "I am thinking how I
can protect you, and rescue you from the hands of these unscrupulous
men."

"You cannot," she declared, with a hard, fixed look of desperation. "No,
only be careful of yourself, and, at the same time, dismiss me from your
thoughts. I--I am unworthy of your regard," she murmured, her voice
choked by a sob. "Alas, entirely unworthy!"

"No, no," I urged. "I will not allow you to speak like that, Lola. Ever
since you entered my room, on that well-remembered night in Scotland, I
have wondered how best I could assist you to lead an honest life; how I
could----"

"I can accept no further assistance from you, M'sieur Vidal," she
interposed, in a quivering voice. "I repeat that I am utterly
unworthy," she cried, and shivered with despair, as she stood erect
before me. "And--and--if you only knew the truth--the terrible truth of
the past--you would at once, I know, turn and discard me--nay, you would
probably ring for the waiter and hand me over to the police without
either compunction or regret."

And the girl, known as "The Nightingale," stood before me, her face
white and hard, her eyes with a strange light in them, staring straight
before her, her breast heaving and falling with emotion which she was
trying in vain to suppress.




CHAPTER XV

CONFIRMS CERTAIN SUSPICIONS


For yet another hour we sat together, but Lola would reveal nothing
further.

She only repeated that serious warning, urging me to abandon this
investigation of the strange affair at Cromer.

She refused to tell me the name under which old Gregory was known in
Hatton Garden, and she likewise firmly declined to give me any
information concerning the curious code which had been found in
Gregory's room. Indeed, she affected ignorance of it, as well as of the
mysterious spot in Ealing "where the two C's meet."

"My uncle is in Antwerp," she told me in reply to a question. "I join
him to-morrow, and then we go travelling--where, I have no idea. But you
know how erratic and sudden our movements necessarily are. The master
usually meets my uncle in Antwerp, going there regularly in the guise of
a diamond merchant."

"And you will not tell me the master's real name?" I asked
persuasively.

"I am not allowed. If you discover it for yourself, then I shall not be
to blame," she said, with a meaning smile. "But do, I beg of you, give
up the search, M'sieu' Vidal. It can only end fatally if you still
persist."

"You have warned me, Lola, and I thank you sincerely for doing so, but I
shall continue to act as I have begun."

"At your own peril--a deadly peril!" she ejaculated, with an
apprehensive look.

"I must accept the risk," I said quietly. "And I intend to still stand
your friend, Lola."

"But you must not, you cannot!" she protested. "Of course I most deeply
appreciate all that you have done for me--and how generous you have
been, knowing that I am, alas! what I am. But I will not allow you to
risk your life further on my account."

"That is really my own affair."

"No. It is mine. I am here to-day, in secret, solely to warn you--to ask
you--to give up this inquiry, and allow the matter to rest a mystery,"
she protested. "Will you not do this for my sake?" she pleaded.

For a few seconds I paused, smiling at her. Then I replied--

"No. I cannot promise that. Young Craig was foully murdered, of that I
am confident, and I intend to unravel the mystery."

"Even though it costs you your life?" she asked slowly.

Why, I wondered, was she so frantically anxious for me to abandon the
inquiry? Was it really because she feared that her uncle might attempt
to rid himself of me, or had she some other hidden motive?

The expression upon her sweet face had altered. It was eager and
apprehensive--a curious look, such as I had never witnessed there
before.

Deeply in earnest, she was persuading me, with all the arts of which
she, as a woman, was capable to give up the investigation--why?

My refusal evidently caused her the greatest anxiety--even deadly fear.
She would, however, reveal nothing more to me. Therefore, I told her
point-blank that I would make her no promise.

"But you will think over my words," she said earnestly. "You will be
forewarned of the evil that is intended!"

"If there is evil, then I will combat it," I replied briefly. "My first
concern is yourself, Lola. Do you remember our confidential talks when
we strolled together in the Bois--when you told me all your troubles,
and your fears?"

"Yes," she replied in a strange, dreary voice. "But--but, I did not tell
you all. You do not know," she added in a whisper.

"Tell me all," I urged. "I know you are--well, let us say it quite
plainly--a thief."

"Ah! If I were only _that_, I might dare to look you in the face--to
crave your sympathy--your interest--your generosity once again. But I
cannot. No! I cannot," and she burst into tears.

"Are we not friends?" I queried. "And between friends surely there may
be confidences."

"To a certain degree, yes. But there is a limit even to confidences
between friends," was her slow, thoughtful reply, as she dried her eyes
with a little wisp of lace.

I was disappointed. I had fully expected to obtain from her some clue
which might lead to a solution of the mystery of Craig's death. But she
was obdurate.

"Lola," I said, taking her trembling hand again, "I wish to tell you
something."

"Well, what is it?" she asked.

"Simply this. I think I ought to tell you that, near that seat on the
cliff at Cromer, where Craig was found, there was discovered a clear
print of a lady's shoe," and I watched her countenance narrowly.

Her face went paler in an instant, and in her eyes showed a quick look
of terror. But in a second she had recovered herself, and said--

"That is interesting. Do you think that its presence there gives any
clue to the assassin?"

"I don't know," was my reply. I stood before her in wonder. Her perfect
sang-froid was truly amazing. "But," I went on, "curiously enough, the
same lady's shoe was found in Beacon House, after Gregory's property had
been carried off. It fitted exactly the imprint in the sand near the
seat."

The only sign that her mind was perturbed by my knowledge was a slight
twitching at the corners of her pretty mouth. Yes, she preserved an
astounding calm.

"That is curious," she remarked with unconcern.

"Very," I declared, still gazing fixedly into her white face. "And can
you tell me nothing further regarding this affair?" I asked, bending to
her, and speaking in a whisper.

She shook her head.

I did not suspect--nay, I could not bring myself to believe--that Edward
Craig had fallen by her hand. Yet the facts were strange--amazingly
strange--and her demeanour was stranger still.

We had tea together. She poured it out, and handed it to me daintily,
with a sweet smile upon her lips. Then after a further chat, she drew on
her long gloves, settled her skirts and prepared to leave.

"A letter addressed to the Poste Restante at Versailles will always find
me," she said, in reply to my request for an address. "I use the name
Elise Leblanc."

I made a rapid note of it upon my shirt-cuff, and having paid the bill,
we descended, and walked together, through the busy streets of Norwich,
to the Thorpe Station, where I saw her into the evening express for
London.

"_Au revoir_, M'sieu' Vidal," she said, as she held my hand, before
entering the first-class compartment. "Do heed my warning, I beg of you.
Do not further imperil yourself. Will you?"

"I cannot promise," I replied with a smile.

"But you must not persist--or something will most surely happen," she
declared. "_Au revoir!_ If we meet again it must be in the strictest
secrecy. My uncle must never know."

"_Au revoir!_" I said as the porter closed the door, and next moment the
train moved off.

I saw her face smiling, and a white-gloved hand waving at the window,
and then "The Nightingale" had gone.

A fortnight went by. I had packed my traps, and leaving Cromer, returned
to my rooms in London, and then crossed to Paris, where I spent a week
in close, anxious inquiry.

Paris in August is given over to the Cookites and provincials, and most
of my friends were absent.

The Prefecture of Police was, however, the chief centre of my sphere of
operations, for in that sombre room, with its large, littered
writing-table, its telephones, its green-painted walls, and green-baize
covered door, the private cabinet of my friend Henri Jonet--the famous
Chief Inspector of the _Sûreté_--I sat on several occasions discussing
the activity of Jeanjean and his clever gang.

Jonet was a sharp-featured, clean-shaven man of about forty-five, short
and slightly stout, with a pair of merry dark eyes, his hair carefully
brushed and trousers always well creased. He was something of a dandy in
private life, even though he so often assumed various disguises, passing
very frequently as a camelot, or a respectable workman. Of his successes
in detection of crime all the world knew.

Next to the Chef de la Sûreté, Chief Inspector Jonet was the most famous
police official in Paris, or even in France. In the course of the past
few years he had many times dealt unsuccessfully with crimes in which
the amazing Jules Jeanjean had been implicated.

I had on many occasions assisted him in his investigations into other
matters, and, therefore, on the sultry afternoon, when I called and
presented my card, I was shown up immediately into his private
bureau--that dismal and rather depressing room, which I so well
remembered.

We sat smoking together for a long time before I approached the subject
upon which I had called to consult him.

He sat back in his chair enjoying the excellent Bogdanoff cigarette, a
fellow to which he had handed to me, and recalling a strange affair
that, a year ago, had occupied us both--a theft of bonds from a private
bank in the Boulevard Haussmann.

Outside, the afternoon was blazing hot, therefore the green sun-shutters
were closed, and the room was in semi-darkness. Jonet's big
writing-table was piled with reports and correspondence, as well as one
or two recently-arrived photographs of persons wanted by the police
authorities of other European countries.

Now and then the telephone buzzed, and he would reply, and give
instructions in a quick, sharp voice. Then he turned to me again and
continued our conversation.

"The Benoy affair in March last was a sensational one--the murder of the
jeweller while in his motor-car in the Forest of Fontainebleau--you
remember," I remarked presently in French, leaning back in my chair and
puffing at my cigarette. "You made no arrest, did you?"

"Yes, several. But we didn't get the culprits," he replied with a dry
smile. "It was our friend Jules Jeanjean again, without a doubt. But he
and his accomplices got clean away in the stolen car. It was found two
days later a mile out of Maçon, painted grey, and bearing another
number. The bandits evidently took train."

"Where to?"

"Who knows? Back to Paris, perhaps," was his reply, flicking the ash
from his cigarette. "Yet, though we made a close search, we found no
trace whatever of the interesting Jules. _Sapristí!_ I only wish I could
lay hands upon him. He is undoubtedly the most daring and dangerous
criminal in the whole of Europe," Jonet went on. "Of late we have had
reports of his doings from Germany and Russia, but he always escapes. A
big jewel robbery in Petersburg is his latest clever exploit. Yet how he
disposes of his booty always puzzles me. He must get rid of it
somewhere, and yet we never find any trace of it."

I said nothing. From his words I saw how utterly ignorant even Jonet was
of the truth, and how little he suspected the actual fact that Jeanjean
was not the originator of those ingenious crimes but merely the
instrument of another and a master-brain.

The great police official drew a long sigh, and expressed wonder as to
whether the elusive jewel-thief and assassin would ever fall into the
hands of justice.

"At present he seems to bear quite a charmed life," he declared with a
smile. "He openly defies us each time--sometimes even going the length
of writing us an insulting letter, denouncing us as incompetent and
heaping ridicule upon the whole department of the _Sûreté_. It is that
which makes my officers so intensely keen to capture him."

"I fear you will never do so," I remarked.

"Why?"

"Because Jeanjean is too clever to be caught. He is wary, rich, and
takes every precaution against surprise."

"You know him--eh?"

"Yes," I admitted. "But what is the latest information you have
regarding him?"

Jonet took up the telephone and gave instructions for the dossier of the
great criminal to be brought to him.

In a few moments a clerk entered bearing three formidable portfolios
full of reports, photographs, lists of stolen jewellery, and other
matters concerning the career of the man who had constantly baffled all
attempts to capture him.

Jonet opened one of the portfolios and scanned several sheets of
closely-written reports. Then he said--

"It seems that he, with a young girl, said to be a niece of his, were in
Russia just prior to the great robbery from a jeweller in Petersburg. No
doubt they were implicated in it. The girl, travelling alone, passed the
frontier at Wirballen on the following day, but the telegram from the
Petersburg police arrived at the frontier too late, and in Germany she
disappeared."

"And what about Jeanjean?" I asked.

The famous Chief Inspector read on for a few moments. Then he replied--

"He was seen on the day of the theft, together with an Italian, believed
to be one of his accomplices, but after that nothing further was heard
of him until four days later. Then an inspector at Lille recognized him
from his circulated photograph, but not being quite certain, and also
knowing that, if the suspect were actually the man wanted, he would be
armed, and recollecting the affair at Charleroi, he did not care to make
a pounce single-handed. He went back to the police-station, but while he
was looking for the photograph, his man, evidently seeing he was
suspected, made his escape."

"And have you a photograph of the girl?" I asked anxiously.

"She has never been arrested, therefore we have no official portrait,"
was his reply. "But last summer, one of my assistants, a young man named
Rothera, was in Dinard at the _Hôtel Royal_, keeping observation in
another matter, when one evening he saw a young girl, who was staying in
the hotel with an elderly aunt, meet in the Casino a man who greatly
resembled Jeanjean. The pair went out and had a long stroll, speaking
confidentially together. Meanwhile Rothera, like the inspector at Lille,
went to the local bureau de police to turn up the description of the
wanted man. Having done so, and having satisfied himself that it was
actually the master-criminal so long wanted, he took three men and
waited in patience in the country road along which the pair had
strolled. Two hours elapsed, when, to their dismay, the young girl
returned alone. Jeanjean, it was afterwards discovered, had a motor-car
awaiting him about four kilometres away along the Dinan road. Rothera
said nothing to the girl, but next day got into conversation with her in
the hotel. He was exceedingly attentive through several succeeding days,
and being an amateur photographer, asked to be allowed to take a
snapshot of her. He had satisfied himself that, from her description,
she was that female accomplice of the notorious jewel-thief, of whom we
possessed no portrait. She, quite unsuspecting, believed Rothera to be
an idle young man of means. He took the picture--and here it is," added
the Inspector, and passed over to me a photograph of post-card size.

It was Lola. Lola, in a pretty white summer gown, lolling lazily in a
long cane chair upon the beach at Dinard, and laughing merrily, her hat
flung upon the ground, and her book in her lap. A pretty scene of summer
idleness.




CHAPTER XVI

"WHERE THE TWO C'S MEET"


So Lola's portrait was in the hands of the French police. The fact
jarred upon me.

But I was careful not to betray any of the agitation I felt, and after
gazing upon it in silence I remarked in a light tone to Jonet--

"That is the only portrait you've got--eh? Rather good-looking, isn't
she?"

"Good-looking! Ah, mon cher Vidal, extremely beautiful, I call her,"
declared the Inspector, taking the picture and gazing upon it. "Really,"
he added, "it hardly seems possible that such a pretty girl should be
such a hardened and expert thief as she is reported to be."

"I thought Jeanjean was the thief," I said with a pretence of surprise.

Jonet lit a fresh cigarette, after offering me one. Then he said--

"It is on record here," and he tapped the damning portfolio that lay
under his hand, "that in at least half a dozen cases the methods have
been the same. The Nightingale--as the girl, whose real name is Lola
Sorel, but who has a dozen aliases--is called by her friends, goes with
her maid to one of the smartest hotels, say at Carlsbad, Nice, Aix,
Trouville, or London, Berlin, anywhere, where there are usually wealthy
women. She is a modest little person, and makes a long stay, keeping her
blue eyes well open for any visitor possessed of valuable jewellery.
Having fixed upon one, she carefully cultivates the lady's acquaintance,
is extremely affable, and soon becomes on such intimate terms with her
that she is admitted to her bedroom, and is then able to discover where
the lady's jewels are kept--whether the case is sufficiently small to be
portable, and if not, what kind of lock it has. Every detail she
carefully notes and passes on to Jeanjean, who, when the _coup_ is
ready, appears from nowhere. He is too wary to stay in the same hotel."

"Then the girl has a maid with her!" I exclaimed.

"Invariably," was Jonet's reply. "But the methods by which the robberies
are carried out are varied. In some cases the pretty Lola has simply
seized an opportunity to transfer her 'friend's' jewel-case to her own
room, whence it has been abstracted in her absence by Jeanjean. In other
cases while she has been out with the owner of the jewels, motoring, or
shopping, or at the theatre, Jeanjean, having had the tip from his
niece, has slipped in and secured the valuables. Again this method has
been varied by Lola stealing the best piece from the victim's room and
in the night handing it to Jeanjean from her bedroom window, as was done
at Cannes last winter, when the Princess Tynarowski lost her diamond
collar after a brief acquaintance with the fascinating Lola. The latter
remained in the hotel for nearly a fortnight following the theft and
left still enjoying the greatest friendship of the unsuspecting victim."

"Then this girl must be very clever and daring," I exclaimed.

"Yes. She is the tool of that scoundrel Jeanjean," declared Jonet,
closing the dossier. "Poor girl. Probably she acts entirely against her
will. The brute has her in his power, as so many girls are in the power
of unscrupulous men in the criminal under-world. They, in their
innocence, commit one crime, perhaps unconsciously, and for years
afterwards they are threatened with exposure to us; so, in order to
purchase their liberty, they are forced to become thieves and
adventuresses. Ah, yes, mon cher Vidal, that is a curious and tragic
side of criminal life, one of which the world never dreams."

"Then you do not believe this girl is really a criminal from instinct?"
I asked eagerly.

"No. She is under the all-compelling influence of Jeanjean, who will not
hesitate to take a life if it suits him; the man who has set at naught
every law of our civilized existence."

"Her position must be one full of terror," I said.

"Yes. Poor girl. Though I have never seen her, to my knowledge, yet I,
even though I am a police functionary, cannot help feeling pity for her.
Think what a girl forced into crime by such a man must suffer! Rothera
in his report says she is extremely refined and full of personal charm."

"That is why wealthy women find her such a pleasant and engaging
companion, I suppose."

"No doubt. Most middle-aged women take an interest in a pretty girl,
especially if she can tell a good story of her unhappiness with her
parents, or of some sorrowful love affair," remarked Jonet. "I expect
she can romance as well as you can, my friend," he laughed. "And you are
a professional writer."

"Better, in all probability," I rejoined, also laughing. "At any rate it
seems that, by her romances, this fellow Jeanjean reaps a golden
harvest."

"And I dare say her profits are not very much," said the police
official. "He probably pays all her hotel bills, and gives her a little
over for pocket money."

"And the maid?"

"Ah! She must be one of the gang. They would never risk being given away
by one who was not in the swim. The maid, if she were in ignorance of
what went on, would very quickly scent some mystery, for each time her
young mistress found a new friend in an hotel she would notice that
jewels invariably were reported missing, and a hue and cry raised. No.
The maid is an accomplice, and at this moment I am doing all I can to
fix the interesting pair."

"And you will arrest them?"

"Of course," he replied determinedly. "I sympathize with the pretty
little thief, yet I have my duty to perform. Besides, if I have the
interesting little lady here before me for interrogation, I shall, I
think, not be very long before I discover our friend Jeanjean in his
secret hiding-place."

I did not answer for several minutes.

A trap had evidently been laid for Lola, and, in her own interests, she
should be warned.

Continuing, I further questioned my friend, and he told me some
astounding stories of Jeanjean's elusiveness. I, however, said nothing
of what I knew. I remained silent regarding the curious affair in
Cromer, and as to my knowledge that the pretty villa near Algiers
concealed the man for whom all the police of Europe were in search.

My chief concern was for Lola, and that same evening I wrote to her at
the Poste Restante at Versailles giving her warning of what was
intended. She was probably in Brussels, but in due course would, no
doubt, receive my letter, and see me again, as I requested.

On two other occasions I saw Jonet, but he had no further information
regarding Jeanjean and his gang. The chief point which puzzled him
seemed to be the fact that not a single stone, out of all the stolen
jewels, had been traced.

"The receiver is an absolute mystery," he declared. "Perhaps the stuff
goes to London."

"Perhaps," I said. "Have you made inquiry of Scotland Yard?"

"Oh, yes. I was over there a month ago. But they either know nothing, or
else they are not inclined to help us." Then with a faint smile he
added, "As you know, mon cher ami, I have no very great admiration for
your English police. Their laws are always in favour of the criminal,
and their slowness of movement is astounding to us."

"Yes. Your methods are more drastic and more effective in the detection
of crime," I admitted.

"And in its prevention," he added.

That day was the twenty-sixth of August, and as I walked along the Rue
de Rivoli back to the _Hotel Meurice_, I suddenly remembered the
mysterious tryst contained in that letter found in the pocket of Edward
Craig. The appointment at the spot, "where the two C's meet," at Ealing.

I left Paris that night by the mail-train, crossed from Calais to Dover,
and at noon next day alighted at Ealing Broadway station.

I had never been in Ealing before, and spent several hours wandering
about its quiet, well-kept suburban roads, many of them of
comfortable-looking detached villas. But I found the district a perfect
maze of streets, therefore I went and sat on one of the seats in the
small park in front of the station, wondering how best to act.

Two clear days were still before me ere the meeting which had apparently
been arranged with old Gregory--the man with the master-mind.

"Where the two C's meet."

I lunched at the _Feathers Hotel_ near the station, and all that hot
afternoon wandered the streets, but failed to discover any clue. What
"C's" were meant? Possibly two persons whose initials were C were in the
habit of meeting at some spot, or in some house at Ealing--and Ealing is
a big place when one is presented with such a problem.

Fagged and hungry, I returned to my rooms in Carlos Place, off Berkeley
Square, where Rayner was awaiting me. He knew the object of my search,
and as he admitted me, asked if I had been successful.

"No, Rayner, I haven't," I snapped. "I can see no ray of daylight yet.
The appointment is an important one, no doubt, and one which we should
watch. But how?"

"Well, sir," he replied, as I cast myself into my big arm-chair, and he
got out my slippers, "we could watch the two railway stations at Ealing,
and see if we detect old Gregory, or any of the others."

"They might go to Ealing in a tram or a taxi," I suggested.

"Yes, sir. But there'll be no harm in watching the trains, will there?"
my man remarked. "If he went in a taxi he might leave by train."

"True," I said, and after a few seconds' reflection, added, "Yes. We'll
try the trains."

So, on the night of the twenty-ninth, at about nine o'clock in the
evening, I took up my post in the small arcade which formed the exit of
the station and there waited patiently.

I was in a shabby tweed suit, with patched boots, and a cloth golf-cap,
presenting the appearance of a respectable workman, as I smoked my
short briar-pipe and idled over the _Evening News_.

As each train arrived I eagerly scanned the emerging passengers, while
pretending to look in the shop window, but I saw nobody whom I knew.

The expression, "Where the two C's meet," kept running through my mind
as I stood there in impatient inactivity. It was already past nine, and,
in three-quarters of an hour, the fateful meeting, for somehow I felt
that it was a fateful meeting, would be held.

The two "C's." The idea suddenly flashed across my mind, whether the
spot indicated could be the junction of two roads, or streets, the names
of which commenced with "C." Yet, how could I satisfy myself? If I
searched Ealing again for roads commencing with a "C," I could only do
so in daylight, too late to learn what I so dearly wished.

Of a porter I inquired the time of arrival of the next underground train
and found that I had eight minutes. So I dashed along to the _Feathers
Hotel_, where I obtained a map of the Ealing district and eagerly
scanned it to find streets commencing with "C."

For some minutes I was unsuccessful, until of a sudden I noticed
Castlebar Road, and examining the map carefully saw, to my excitement,
that at an acute angle it joined another road, called Carlton Road, a
triangular open space lying between the two thoroughfares.

It was the spot in Ealing where the two C's met!

I glanced at the clock.

It still wanted a quarter to ten, therefore I drained my glass hastily
and, leaving the hotel, struck across the small open space opposite the
station, in which, in a direct line, lay the junction of the two roads.

The evening was dark and sultry, with every indication of a
thunderstorm. I remembered Rayner's vigil, but alas! had no time to go
to him and explain my altered plans.

Along the dark, rather ill-lit, suburban road I hurried until, before
me, I saw a big electric-light standard with four great inverted globes.

It showed a parting of the ways.

I looked at my watch as I passed a street-lamp, and saw that it wanted
two minutes to ten.

And as I looked on ahead I saw, standing back in the shadow of the
trees, on the left-hand, a dark figure, but in the distance I could not
distinguish whether a man or a woman waited there.

I hurried forward, full of eagerness, to witness the secret meeting, and
with an intention of watching and following those who met.

Yet, could I have foreseen the due result of such inquisitiveness, I
scarcely think that I would have dared to tread ground so highly
dangerous.




CHAPTER XVII

REVEALS ANOTHER PLOT


Approaching from Ealing Broadway, the huge electric-light standard,
which was also a sign-post, shed a bright glow across the junction of
the two roads. The thoroughfare on the right was Castlebar Road and on
the left Carlton Road. In the latter road stood half a dozen big old
trees, relics of a day when Ealing was a rural village and those trees
formed a leafy way.

Beyond the sign-post, placed at the end of the triangle, lay a small
open space of grass, and behind it a pleasant house with many trees in
its spacious grounds.

At that hour silence reigned in that highly respectable suburban
neighbourhood, and, as I went forward, I noticed that the figure beneath
the trees was that of a man, who, emerging from the shadow, crossed the
road leisurely and passed across the grass into the Castlebar Road, on
the right hand.

He was dressed in dark clothes with a light grey felt hat, but so far
was I away that to see his features was impossible, though the zone of
light from the sign-post revealed his figure plainly.

Once he halted and looked in my direction, on hearing my footsteps, I
suppose, but then continued his leisurely stroll.

I was upon the left-hand pavement, and in order not to attract the man's
attention, passed along by the garden walls of the series of detached
villas, for about two hundred yards, until the road ran in a curve round
to the left, and thus I became hidden from his view.

When I found that I had not attracted the attention of the waiting man
in the grey hat, I halted.

Was that the spot indicated? Was he one of those keeping the
long-arranged appointment?

Ten o'clock had struck fully five minutes before, therefore, treading
noiselessly, I retraced my steps until I could cautiously peep around
the corner and see over the triangular plot of grass to the Castlebar
Road.

Yes, the man was still standing there awaiting somebody. I could see the
glowing end of his cigar.

Fortunately, he had his back turned towards me, gazing in the direction
of the Broadway in apparent expectation. This allowed me to slip along a
few yards, and entering the garden gate of one of the villas, I crouched
down behind the low stone wall which separated the garden from the
footway.

Kneeling there, I could watch without being seen, for fortunately the
stranger opposite had not seen me.

I suppose I must have been there fully ten minutes. Several people
passed within a few inches of me quite unsuspicious of my presence. In
Castlebar Road a few people went along, but none interested the watcher.

Of a sudden, however, after straining his eyes for a long time in the
direction whence I had come, he suddenly threw away his cigar and
started off eagerly.

A few moments later I witnessed the approach of a short, thinnish man,
wearing a black overcoat, open, over his evening clothes, and an opera
hat.

And as he approached I recognized him. It was none other than Gregory
himself!

The two men shook hands heartily, and by their mutual enthusiasm I
realized that they could not have met for some considerable time.

They halted on the kerb in eager consultation, then both with one accord
turned and strolled together in the direction of the station.

Next moment I had slipped from my hiding-place and was lounging along at
a respectable distance behind them.

How I regretted that I had had no time to hail Rayner, for he would have
had no difficulty in keeping observation upon the pair, while I, at any
moment, might be recognized by the cunning, clever old fellow to whose
inventiveness all the _coups_ of the notorious Jules Jeanjean were due.

He seemed to walk more erect, and with more sprightliness, than at
Cromer, where his advanced age and slight infirmity were undoubtedly
assumed. In his present garb he really looked what he was supposed to
be--a wealthy dealer in gems.

Engaged in earnest conversation, Gregory and his companion walked
together along the dark road until they came to a taxi-stand near the
station, when, entering the first cab, they drove rapidly away.

The moment they had left, I leapt into the next cab and, telling the
driver to keep his friend in sight, we were soon moving along after the
red tail-light of the first taxi.

The chase was an exciting one, for we whizzed along dark roads, quite
unfamiliar to me, roads lying to the south of Ealing towards the Thames.
My driver believed me to be a detective from my garb, and I did not
discourage the belief.

Suddenly we turned to the right, when I recognized that we were in the
long, narrow town of Brentford, and travelling in the direction of Syon
House, the main road to Hounslow and Staines. At Spring Grove, which I
had known slightly in years gone by, we turned again to the right, and
were soon passing through a district of market-gardens and solitary
houses.

On the way I had leaned out of the window and instructed the taxi-driver
to keep well behind the other cab, so as not to be discovered.
Therefore, in carrying out my orders, he suddenly put on his brakes and
stopped, saying--

"They're going into that house yonder, sir. See?"

I nipped out quickly and saw that in the distance the other taxi had
pulled up and the two men had alighted before a garden gate.

"Put out your lights, go back to the end of the road, and wait for me,"
I said.

Then I hurried forward to ascertain what I could.

The taxi, having put down its two fares and been dismissed, turned and
passed me as I went forward. At last I had run the sly old fox, Gregory,
to earth, and I now meant to keep in touch with him.

On approaching the house I found it to be a good-sized one, standing
back, lonely and deserted, in a weedy garden, and surrounded by big,
high elms. From the neglect apparent everywhere, the decayed oak fence,
and the grass-grown path leading to the front door, it was plain that
the place was unoccupied, though in two windows lights now shone, behind
dark-green holland blinds.

The place seemed situated in the centre of some market-gardens, without
any other house in the near vicinity. A dismal, old-fashioned dwelling
far removed from the bustle of London life, and yet within hearing of
it, for, as I stood, I could see the night-glare of the metropolis
shining in the sky, upon my right, and could hear the roar of
motor-buses upon the main road through Spring Grove.

For a few moments I stood up under the shadow of a big bush which
overhung the road, my eyes upon the lower window where the fights
showed. The house was half-covered with ivy and had bay-windows upon
each side of the front door, which was approached by a short flight of
moss-grown steps.

That I was not mistaken in my surmise that the house was uninhabited was
proved by the "To Let" notice-board which I discerned lying behind the
fence, thrown down purposely, perhaps.

Was old Gregory an intruder there? Had he purposely thrown down that
board in order that any person, seeing lights in the window, would not
have their suspicions sufficiently aroused to cause them to investigate?

The house was a dark, weird one. But what would I not have given to be
inside, and to overhear what was being planned!

Vernon Gregory was, according to Lola, the instigator of all those
marvellously ingenious thefts effected by Jeanjean. Was another great
robbery being planned?

Perhaps the man in the grey hat had travelled from afar. Possibly so,
because of the long time in advance the appointment had been made.

All was silent. Therefore I crept over the weedy garden until I stood
beneath the bay window in which a light was shining.

I could hear voices--men's voices raised in controversy. Then, suddenly,
they only conversed in whispers. What was said, I could not distinguish.
They were speaking in French, but further than that I could catch
nothing.

Sometimes they laughed heartily at something evidently hailed as a huge
joke. I distinctly heard Gregory's tones, but the others' I could not
recognize. As far as I could gather they were strangers to me.

Was the place, I wondered, one of old Gregory's hiding-places? Though he
conducted his business in Hatton Garden, where he was well known, his
private address, Lola had told me, had always been a mystery, such pains
did he take to conceal it.

Was that lonely house his place of abode? Had he met his friend in
Ealing and taken him there in order to place before him certain plans
for the future?

I looked at the grim old house, with its mantle of ivy, and reflected
upon what quantities of stolen property it might contain!

That the man I knew as Vernon Gregory was head of an association of the
cleverest jewel-thieves in the world, had been alleged by Lola, and I
believed her. His deep cunning and clever elusiveness, his amazing
craftiness and astounding foresight had been well illustrated by his
disappearance from Cromer, even though his flight had been so sudden
that he had been compelled to abandon his treasures. Yet as I stood
there, upon the carpet of weeds, with my ears strained, I could hear his
familiar voice speaking in slow measured tones, as he was explaining
something in elaborate detail.

What was it? I stood there in a fever of excitement and curiosity.

Yet I had one satisfaction. I had run him to earth at last.

Presently the voices of the men were again raised in dissension. Gregory
had apparently made some statement from which the others--how many there
were, I knew not--dissented. They spoke rapidly in French, and I could
hear one man's mouth full of execrations, a hard, hoarse voice of one of
the lower class.

Then I distinctly heard some one say in English--

"I don't believe it! He knows nothing. Why take such a step against an
innocent man?"

"Because, I tell you, he knows too much!" declared Gregory, now speaking
loudly in English. "He was at Cromer, and discovered everything. Ah! you
don't know how shrewd and painstaking he is. Read his books and you will
see. He is the greatest danger confronting you to-day, my friends."

I held my breath. They were discussing me!

"I object," exclaimed the man who had first spoken in English. "He has
no evil intentions against us."

"But he knows the Nightingale, and through her has learnt much,"
Gregory replied promptly.

"What?" gasped the unseen speaker. "Has she told him anything? Has the
girl betrayed us?"

"Ask her," the old man urged. "She's upstairs. Call her."

Lola was there--in that house!




CHAPTER XVIII

DONE IN THE NIGHT


I heard the stranger's voice call--

"Lola! Lola! Come here. We want you."

I heard her rather impatient reply, and then, a few moments later, she
descended the stairs and entered the room where the gang had been
discussing me.

Some quick words in French were exchanged. Then I heard her cry--

"I tell you, I refuse!"

A man's voice protested.

"No, You shall not!" she declared in a loud, defiant voice. "If you do,
then the police shall know!"

"Oh!" exclaimed old Gregory, whose voice I recognized. "Then you object,
Mademoiselle, eh?"

"Yes. I do object, M'sieu'!" she cried. "If any attempt is made against
him, then I shall myself inform the police. Remember, M'sieu' Vidal is
my friend."

"Your lover, perhaps," sneered the old man.

"No," she cried in loud, angry protest. "He is not my lover! Would he
love a girl like myself--a girl who has been brought by you, and your
friends, to what I am?"

"Well, you are a very pretty girl, and sometimes uncommonly useful to
your uncle," replied old Gregory tauntingly.

"Of use to you!" she cried. "Yes, I know I am! And when you have no
further use for me, then--then--an accident will happen to me, and I
shall trouble you no further--an accident like that which you intend
shall befall Mr. Vidal!"

I crouched against the window, my ears glued to the glass. I tried to
picture to myself the scene within--how the young girl I had befriended
in such curious circumstances was standing before them, defying them to
make any attempt to put me out of action.

"You speak like a little fool, Lola," old Gregory declared. "You lead
the life of a lady of means. You travel with a maid, and all you have to
do is to be pleasant to people, and keep your eyes and ears open. For
that you receive very handsome rewards, and----"

"And you make a million francs a year, M'sieur Gregory," she
interrupted. "Ah! when the police trace these marvellous plots to their
source, they will be surprised. One day the papers will be full of you
and your wicked doings--mark me!"

"You are mad, you ungrateful little minx!" shouted the old man in
furious anger. "If you try to prevent me carrying out any of my schemes,
depend upon it you will rue it. I'm not a man to be played with!"

"Neither am I to be played with, though I am only a girl!" she retorted.
"I'm desperate now--rendered desperate by you and your blackguardly
gang."

"Because you fear for this novelist friend of yours--this prying person
who is so fond of investigating other people's affairs, and using the
material for his books, eh?"

"Yes. I fear for him, because I know what is intended."

"I tell you it's a matter which does not concern you," said the man with
the master-mind, as I listened attentively.

"It does. He is my friend," she exclaimed in French. "I know that you
intend he shall die--and I will warn him."

"You will, will you!" shouted Gregory, and I heard him spring to his
feet. "Repeat that, at your peril!"

"I do repeat it!" said the girl wildly. "He shall not be harmed!"

"Eh? So you are ready to betray us, are you!" said the old man in a
hard, hissing voice.

"Yes," she cried in defiance. "I will, if you so much as touch a hair of
his head."

"You will! Then take that!" screamed the old man, while, at the same
instant, I heard a heavy blow struck, followed by a woman's scream, and
a loud noise as she fell upon the floor.

"_Dieu!_" I heard a man's voice exclaim. "Why--master--you've killed
her!"

Then as I stood there, breathless, I heard some further conversation in
low tones. The ruffians were discussing the tragedy--for a tragedy I
felt it to be. A defenceless girl struck down by old Gregory--her lips
closed for ever because she had sought to protect me!

These men feared me! This thought, despite the horror and anger with
which I was seething, flashed through my mind like fire. They believed
that I knew more than I really did.

But it was a moment for action. Old Gregory had deliberately struck down
that unfortunate girl who had been trained until she had become an
expert thief, made a cat's paw and tool for that dangerous gang of
criminals.

Creeping along the wall of the house, I managed to find and noiselessly
place against the window a rustic garden-chair, and discovering also a
heavy piece of wood. I prepared to make a dramatic entry into the room
where this tragedy had happened, and the conspiracy against my life was
being hatched.

Again I listened. The voices were now so low that I could not catch the
words uttered.

Then standing on a level with the window-sill, I raised my arm and with
the block of wood smashed one of the huge, long panes to fragments.

The crash was startling, no doubt, but ere they could recover from it I
had dashed the holland blind aside and stepped boldly into the room, my
big Browning revolver in my hand, and my back instantly against the
wall.

The scene there was truly a strange one.

It was a dingy, old-fashioned drawing-room furnished in early Victorian
style, with ponderous walnut furniture, a brown threadbare carpet, ugly
arm-chairs, a what-not, and wax flowers under a glass dome, in the
fashion beloved by our grandmothers. By the fireplace was a cosy corner,
the upholstery of which was tattered and moth-eaten, while the stuffing
of some of the chairs appeared through the corners of the cushions. Near
where I stood was an old chintz-covered couch, and beyond, an arm-chair,
of the same inartistic description.

The place smelt damp and musty, and in places the faded grey paper was
peeling from the walls.

Three men were there. Gregory, and two others, strangers. The old man's
appearance had greatly altered from what it was when I had seen him
wandering about in Cromer. Then he had worn his white hair and beard
long, and with his broad forehead, his pointed chin, and wide-brimmed
slouch hat presented the picturesque appearance such as twenty years ago
used to be affected by literary men or artists.

But now, as he stood before me, startled by my sudden appearance, I saw
that he wore both beard and hair much shorter, and, though he could not
alter his height, his facial expression was considerably different.

In an instant I realized that I saw him now as he naturally was, while
in Cromer he had so disguised himself as to appear many years older than
was actually the case.

His two companions were rather well-dressed men of perhaps thirty, one
of whom, a foreigner, wore a small pointed brown beard, while the other,
clean-shaven, was unmistakably an Englishman. Thieves they were both,
assuredly, yet in the street one would have passed them by as
respectable and rather refined citizens.

"You! Vidal!" cried Gregory, starting back when I sprang so
unceremoniously into their midst.

"Yes, Vidal, Mr. Gregory!" I cried, striving to remain calm. Yet how
could I, when my eyes fell upon the form of Lola, who, dressed in a
dark-brown walking-costume, was lying huddled up in a heap on the floor,
a few feet from where I stood.

Blood was upon the bosom of her dress. She had been struck down brutally
with a knife!

"I may tell you, Gregory," I said, as coolly as I could, "that I have
been listening to your interesting conspiracy to kill me. Well, do so
now, if you dare! My friends are outside. They will be charmed to meet
you, I assure you, especially after the foul deed you committed only a
few minutes ago."

The three men started and exchanged glances. I saw by their faces that
they were frightened. Yet I dared not lower my pistol, or bend down to
Lola, for they would have jumped upon me instantly.

As I spoke, I pushed forth my weapon threateningly, covering them with
it determinedly. But it required all my nerve to face them.

"You are an assassin, sir!" I cried, "and I have caught you redhanded."

"You haven't caught us yet," remarked the foreigner, defiantly, speaking
English with a strong accent; and the expressions upon the faces of all
three were villainous.

My thoughts were not of myself, but to avenge that murderous blow which
had been struck at the poor defenceless girl. They were scoundrels,
without pity and without compunction, who held human life cheaply
whenever the existence of a person stood in the way of their schemes.

And I knew that they intended that I, too, should die.

But they were not quite sure whether I had the police waiting outside or
not. My bluff had worked. I saw how they hesitated. Even Gregory was
taken aback by my boldness in entering there and facing them.

"I may tell you," I said, still keeping my back to the wall and my
useful Browning ready for business, "that I have discovered much more
concerning your interesting doings and your intentions than you
imagine."

"Lola has told you!" burst forth old Gregory. "Well, she won't have
further opportunity of doing so."

"And you will not have further opportunity of engineering your
remarkable thefts, my dear sir," I replied quite coolly. "The police
desire to see you, and to question you about a certain little affair at
Cromer, remember. You are extremely clever, Mr. Gregory--or whatever
your real name may be--but I tell you that you are at last unmasked.
To-morrow the papers will be full of your interesting career, and one
diamond-broker will disappear from Hatton Garden for ever."

"Listen," cried the master-criminal to his companions, his face now
white as paper. "Hark what that little chit of a girl has been saying!
Was I not right to strike her down?"

"Quite," admitted his two companions.

"And now you will pay the penalty, my dear sir," I declared. "I intend
that you shall."

"Put that revolver down," Gregory commanded. "Let us talk. You are
clever, Mr. Vidal, and I--well, I confess you have the whip hand of us."

His companions looked at each other, dismayed at these words of the
Master. He had actually admitted defeat!

For a few seconds I did not reply. I was reflecting, and it struck me
that this pretence of being vanquished might only be a ruse. Gregory was
far too clever and defiant a criminal to be beaten single-handed by the
man he so sincerely hated and feared.

"No," I replied with a grim smile. "It is war between us, Mr.
Gregory--not peace. Therefore, I shall hold my revolver here until my
friends arrive. They will not be long, and I shall not suffer from
fatigue, I assure you."

Gregory, quick-witted and shrewd, cast a rapid glance around as he stood
before me, a smart figure in his well-cut evening clothes, with a fine
diamond glistening in his pleated shirt-front.

"Well," he exclaimed after a brief pause, "if you deliberately take on
the duties of the police, and pry into affairs which do not concern you,
then you must take the consequences."

"For that very reason I have entered here," I said, "to become witness
of your dastardly crime. You have killed that girl--killed her because
you feared she would betray you."

"She has betrayed us," he retorted. "And she deserves all she has got."

"You infernal brute!" I cried. "If it were not that it would be
deliberate murder, I'd put a bullet through you in return."

"Try it," he laughed jeeringly. "This quixotic temperament of yours will
be your undoing."

"I befriended that unfortunate girl," I said. "And she has appreciated
what I did."

"The little fool ran her head into a noose, I know," was his reply. "But
even though you befriended her, it gave her no right to betray us."

"Nor any right to you to strike her down," I said, glancing at the white
face of the prostrate form.

"Ah! You are her champion!" he laughed. "But you wouldn't be if you knew
the truth. She wasn't the innocent little person she led you to believe
she was."

"No," I cried angrily. "You shall say nothing against your victim's
honour, curse you! I only thank Heaven that I'm here to-night--that I
know the truth regarding this tragedy. Your intention was--the intention
of all three of you, no doubt, was--to get rid of the evidence of your
crime. But that will now be impossible."

As I uttered that last sentence, the bearded Frenchman made a movement
towards the door.

"Halt!" I cried in a loud, imperious voice. "Come back here. Do not
attempt to leave this room or I'll shoot you," and as he glanced at me
he found himself looking into the barrel of my weapon.

"Come," said Gregory. "Enough of this fooling! It's a drawn game between
us, Mr. Vidal. Why not let us discuss the future quietly and without any
ill-feeling on either side. I admit what I have done--killed the
traitress."

"And by Heaven! you shall pay the penalty of your crime!" I cried.

"Oh, shall I?" he laughed with a nonchalant air. "We shall see."

Next instant I heard a sharp click in the passage outside and the room
was plunged in darkness. The electric light had been switched off by one
of Gregory's confederates out in the hall.

I heard the door opened, and voices shouted wildly in French.

"Just in time," I heard the new-comer cry.

"Ah, Jules!" gasped Gregory. "You are late. Where have you been? Where
are you?"

And, by the shuffling of feet, I knew that the men were groping about in
the darkness.

Jules Jeanjean was there, in that room!

"_Dieu!_ You were nearly trapped, all of you," I heard him cry. "Where
is he?" he asked, referring to myself. "He shall not live to blab. Mind
he doesn't get out by the window."

But I still stood with my back against the wall, my pistol raised in
self-defence.

A few moments elapsed--moments that seemed like hours--when of a sudden
my eyes were blinded by the ray of an electric torch which threw a
strong light upon me from the doorway.

Ere I could realize my peril, there was a red flash, followed by a loud
explosion, and I felt a hot, stinging sensation in my throat.

Then next second the blackness of unconsciousness fell upon me, and I
knew no more.




CHAPTER XIX

RECORDS FURTHER FACTS


How long I remained there, or what subsequently happened to me, I did
not learn till long afterwards.

I only knew, when I again awoke to consciousness, that it was day, and I
found myself in a narrow bed, with two nurses in blue linen dresses, and
white caps and aprons, standing near me, while two doctors were gazing
into my face with keen, anxious expressions.

At first they would tell me nothing, even though, with a great effort, I
asked what had happened. Bandages were around my throat and across my
left shoulder, and I felt a nausea and a giddiness that I knew arose
from chloroform, and therefore that some operation had been performed. I
slowly struggled back to a knowledge of things about me.

"It's all right, Mr. Vidal," the youngest of the two doctors assured me.
"Try and sleep. Don't worry. Everything is all right."

I felt uncommonly drowsy, and again slept, and not until night had
fallen did I re-open my eyes.

A night-nurse was seated at my bedside, reading by a green-shaded lamp.
The little room was in darkness, and I think I startled her when I
suddenly spoke.

"Where am I, Nurse?" I inquired in a thin, weak voice, and with
difficulty.

"This is the Cottage Hospital at Hounslow," was the reply. "You've been
here two days, but you are much better now. Don't talk, however, for the
doctor has forbidden it."

"But I want to know what has happened," I protested.

"Well, I don't exactly know," the dark-haired young woman answered. "I
only know what I've been told. That is, that a taxi-driver who took you
to some house beyond Spring Grove, grew tired of waiting for you, and on
going to the house found you in one of the rooms, dying."

"Dying!" I gasped. "Ah! yes, I remember," I added, as recollections of
that fateful night arose within my memory.

"Yes. You were suffering from a serious bullet-wound in the throat," she
went on. "The window of the room was smashed, but your friends had all
fled."

"My friends!" I echoed. "Who said they were my friends?"

"The taxi-driver said so, I believe."

"Where is he?"

"He has promised to come to-morrow, to see you."

"But was not a lady found in the same room?" I inquired eagerly, trying
to raise myself. "She had been killed--deliberately struck down!"

"Yes. I've heard that a lady was found there."

"Was she brought here, with me?"

"No" was the nurse's reply. "She was removed, but to what place I've not
heard."

Lola was dead! Ah! The sight of that white, upturned face, so delicate
and sweet, and of that dark, ugly stream of blood across the bosom of
her dress, haunted me. I recollected those hideous moments when, being
on my guard against the assassins, I alas! had no opportunity of lending
her aid.

She was found dead, apparently, and they had removed her body--probably
to the nearest mortuary to await an inquest.

All my thoughts became confused when I realized the tragic truth. The
nurse saw that I was upset and urged to try to sleep again. Indeed she
gave me a draught which the doctor had ordered and, presently, though
much against my inclination, I again dozed off.

It was once more day--a warm, sunny day--when I became thoroughly alive
to things about me. The doctors came and expressed satisfaction at my
improvement, dressed my wound, which I confess was very painful, and
declared that I had had a very narrow escape.

"A quarter of an inch further to the left, Mr. Vidal," one of the
surgeons remarked, "and we couldn't have saved you."

Towards noon the taxi-driver, cap in hand, came up to my bedside to
inquire how I was. His name was Stevens. The nurse would not, however,
allow me to put many questions to him.

"You were such a long time gone, sir, that I thought I'd just come up
and see if you wanted me any more. I had to get over to Acton to the
garage, for I'd had a long day," he told me. "I'd just got to the garden
gate when I heard a pistol shot and, entering the garden, and seeing the
window smashed, I suspected something wrong. I got in at the window and
found the room in darkness. A light was burning in the hall and the door
was open. Quickly I found the electric switch and, turning it, saw you
lying on the floor close beside the body of a young lady."

"Did you see the other men?" I asked eagerly.

"At first sir, I believed it to be a case of murder and suicide,"
answered Stevens, "but a moment later, as I stood in the room horrified
at the discovery, I heard several persons leave the house. I tried to
raise an alarm, but nobody heard me, so they got clean away. I examined
the young lady and yourself, then I rushed out for help. At the bottom
of the road I went towards my cab, but as I did so, I heard the engine
started and the red tail-lamp moved off, away from me. Those fellows
that had run from the house were inside. Yes, sir, them vagabonds had
stolen my cab!"

"What did you do then?" I asked excitedly.

"Why, I yelled after 'em, but nobody heard me, until presently I came
across a copper and told him what was up. We soon got another taxi and
went back to the house, and there we found you both a-lying as I'd left
you."

"Was the lady alive?" I queried huskily.

"Yes. She was a-breathing slightly, and as we thought she was injured
worse than you, the copper took her off at once to the Brentford
Hospital by herself, as there wasn't room for both of you in the cab. On
the way he sent another taxi back for me and I brought you here."

"But is the young lady alive now?" I asked.

"I believe so, but I'm not quite sure. She was last night when I called
at the hospital, but she was dreadful bad, and in great danger, they
told me."

"Ah!" I sighed. "I only hope and pray that she may recover to face and
condemn her brutal enemies."

"Was she a friend of yours, sir?" asked the man with some curiosity.

"Yes, a great friend," was my reply.

"But who tried to kill you, sir?" Stevens asked. "Those blokes as
escaped seemed to be a pretty desperate lot. My cab ain't been found
yet," he added.

"They were her enemies as well as mine," I replied vaguely, for I had no
intention of telling him the whole story, though I thanked him sincerely
for his prompt help. Had it not been for him I fear that Lola and myself
would never have lived through the night. Jeanjean would have taken good
care that the lips of both of us were closed for ever.

"Well, sir, you've had a pretty narrow shave of it," Stevens declared.
"There's something very queer about that house, it seems. People say
that though the place, as was to be let furnished, had nobody a-living
in it, strange lights have been seen a-moving about it, and in the
windows now and again and always very late at night."

"Will you do a favour for me, Stevens?" I asked.

"Certainly, sir."

Then I gave him instructions first to go to the hospital where Lola was
lying, to inquire how she was. Then he was to go on to my flat in
Carlos Place, tell Rayner all that had occurred, and order him to come
to me at once.

Just then the nurse kindly, but very firmly intervened, and the
taxi-driver rose from the chair at my bedside and left.

For some hours I dozed. Then woke to find the faithful Rayner standing
by me, much concerned.

"I've had an awful fright, sir," he said. "When you didn't come home for
forty-eight hours, I went to Vine Street Police Station and reported
that you were missing. Inspector Palmer, of the C.I. Department, knows
you well, sir, and he quickly stirred himself. But I heard nothing till
that taxi-driver came and told me you were here. He explained how you'd
been shot at a house in Spring Grove, Isleworth. I hope you're all right
again, sir?"

"Yes, Rayner, so far," I answered rather feebly. "I've a bit of pain in
my throat, but they've bandaged me up all right, and I'll soon be about
again. That fellow you knew as Dr. Arendt, in Cromer, plugged me."

"What! The man Jeanjean!"

"The same," I said. "Gregory was there, too. I tracked them into their
den, and this is what I got for my trouble," I added grimly.

"Well, sir, I'm no end glad you escaped. They're a desperate crowd and
you might very easily have gone under. Can I do anything?"

"Yes. Take a message for me to the Brentford Hospital, to Mademoiselle
Sorel."

"The lady the taxi-man told me about?" Rayner asked.

"Yes. An attempt was made upon her life," I replied. "Go there, take
some nice flowers, and send up a message from me expressing a hope that
she's better, and say that I will see her as soon as ever I'm able."

"Very well, sir. I'll be off at once," he replied.

But for some time longer he sat with me, while I gave him instructions
regarding various matters. Then he left, promising me to quickly return
and bring me news of Lola.

He was absent about a couple of hours, and on re-entering told me that
he had seen the Sister in charge, who had given Lola my flowers and my
message and had received one in return from her. This was that she felt
much better, and that until we met and consulted it would be best to
take no action against the assassins.

That same evening, with the doctor's sanction, a tall, clean-shaven man
in grey tweeds approached my bed and, seating himself, announced that
his name was Warton, and that he was an Inspector of the Criminal
Investigation Department.

He brought out a business-like book and pencil and in a rather abrupt
manner commenced to interrogate me regarding the events of that night
when I so narrowly escaped being murdered.

From his methods I judged that he had risen from a constable. He was
bluff and to the point. He told me he was attached to the Brentford
Station, and I set him down as a man of similar mental calibre to
Frayne.

No good could accrue at that moment from any full explanation, so, after
listening to him for some little time, I pretended to be very unwell and
only answered his questions with plain "yes" or "no."

It was not likely that I would tell all I knew to this local detective.
Had Henri Jonet been present it would have been a different matter, but
I saw at a glance that Warton was a very ordinary type of
police-officer.

He asked me what took me to the house in Spring Grove on that fateful
night. To this I merely replied with the one word--

"Curiosity."

Then he asked--

"Did you know the lady who was found stabbed a few feet from you?"

"Yes. I had met her," was my reply.

"Do you know the circumstances in which she was struck down?"

"I was not present then, therefore I could know nothing," was my evasive
response.

"But the men in the house were friends of yours, were they not?" he
asked.

"No. They were not," was my prompt reply.

"Then, who were they?" he asked, scribbling down my answers with his
stumpy pencil.

"I--I don't feel well enough to be questioned like this," I complained
to the Sister, who was standing by. "I've committed no crime, and I
object to the police making a cross-examination as though I were a
criminal. I appeal to you, Sister."

The middle-aged woman in her cool linen uniform, with a silver medal
upon her breast, looked hard at me for a moment. Then, realizing the
situation, she turned to the detective, and said--

"You must come to-morrow. The patient still suffers much from shock, and
I cannot allow him to be questioned further. He is too weak."

"Very well, Sister," replied Warton, as he closed his pocket-book. "I'll
come to-morrow. But a strange mystery envelopes that house in Spring
Grove, Mr. Vidal," he added, turning back to me. "You'll be surprised
when you go there and see for yourself."

"Perhaps Mr. Vidal may be well enough to do so in a few days," said the
Sister. "We shall see."

And with that the police-officer was forced to depart.




CHAPTER XX

ANOTHER DISCOVERY IS MADE


On several occasions during the weary week that followed Inspector
Warton called and saw me, but I always managed, by one subterfuge or
another, to evade the more pointed of his questions.

The three men who had attacked Lola and myself that night knew from the
papers that we both still lived as witnesses against them.

The nurses would not allow me to see the papers, but from Rayner I
learnt that the more sensational section of the London Press had
published reports headed, "Novelist Found Shot." Indeed, a great many
reporters had called at the hospital, but had been promptly sent empty
away.

At last, one morning, I was declared convalescent and sufficiently well
to be removed to my chambers. Therefore Rayner ordered Stevens to bring
his taxi for me, and we left the hospital.

Though still feeling far from well, I was all curiosity to see the house
in Spring Grove by daylight, so we called at the police-station and a
stout sergeant of the T. Division accompanied us with the key, the place
being still in the hands of the police.

As we pulled up in that unfrequented side-road I saw how mysterious and
desolate the place was in the warm sunshine--an old red-brick Georgian
house, with square, inartistic windows, standing solitary and alone,
half covered by its ivy mantle, and surrounded by a spacious garden
dotted with high trees, and neglected and overgrown with weeds.

As we walked over the moss-grown flags leading to the steps, I noticed
the window I had smashed in making my entry that night.

The constable unlocked the door and we found ourselves in a wide,
spacious hall, its stone flags worn hollow and containing some
old-fashioned furniture. The atmosphere of the house was musty and
close, and long cobwebs hung in festoons in the corners.

The room on the right, the one in which I had been found, I remembered
well. It was just the same as when I had stood there in the presence of
the Master and the notorious Jules Jeanjean. Upon its brown threadbare
carpet were two ugly stains in close proximity to each other--the spots
where both Lola and I had lain!

I saw the wall against which I had stood in defiance. An evening
overcoat still lay upon a chair--the coat which old Gregory had
abandoned in his hurried flight, when Stevens, the taxi-driver, had so
opportunely appeared upon the scene.

"Nothing's been touched, sir," remarked the fat sergeant. "We've been
waiting for you to see the place, and to tell us what you know."

I exchanged glances with Rayner.

"I know very little," I replied. "I simply fell in with a very dangerous
set. They were evidently plotting something, and believing that I had
overheard, attempted to put me out of the way."

"And the lady?"

"I imagine the same sort of thing happened to her. They considered she
knew too much of their movements and might betray them."

"But what were they plotting?"

"They spoke in French, so I couldn't catch."

"Oh! They were foreigners--eh?" exclaimed the sergeant in surprise.
"Coiners or anarchists, perhaps."

"Perhaps," I said. "Who knows?"

"Ah. I've heard that two strangers have been seen up and down here in
the night time," continued the sergeant. "We've got their description
from a constable who's been doing night-duty. He says he'd know 'em
again. Once he saw a woman with 'em, and he believes it was the young
lady now in the hospital."

"He saw them together--eh?"

"He says so."

Then I changed the conversation, and I followed him from room to room
through the dirty, neglected house, which nevertheless, with slight
signs here and there, showed marks of recent occupation.

Two of the beds in the upstairs rooms had been slept in, and there was
other evidence in both kitchen and dining-room that, as I had surmised,
it had been the secret hiding-place of the man who posed in Hatton
Garden as a substantial and respectable dealer in precious stones.

No doubt he came there late at night, and if he remained during the day
he never went out.

Surely the place was one where he might effectively conceal himself from
the police; yet to live in such a house, and in that manner, certainly
showed a daring and audacity unequalled. He, of course, never knew when
a prospective tenant might come to visit it, or the agents in Hounslow
might send to inspect its condition.

"You had a very narrow escape here, sir," said the sergeant as we
descended the stairs. "Will you step outside? I want to show you
something."

We all went out by the kitchen door into the weedy garden where, behind
a low wall, lay a mound of newly-dug earth. By its side I saw a rough,
yawning hole about five feet long by three broad.

"That's the grave they'd prepared for you, sir, without a doubt! By gum!
It was lucky that taxi-driver got up here just in time, or they'd have
flung you in and covered you up, dead or alive!"

I stood aghast, staring at the hole prepared for the concealment--not of
my body--but that of Lola. They had had no inkling of my expected
presence, hence that prepared grave had been for her--and her alone!

She had been invited there by old Gregory, who had intended that she
should die, and ere morning broke all trace of the crime would have been
removed.

Yes. The fat sergeant spoke the truth. Had not Stevens fortunately come
to that house at the moment he did, we should both have been flung into
that gaping hole and there buried. In a week the weeds of the garden
would have spread and all traces of the soil having been moved would
have been obliterated.

How many secret crimes are yearly committed in the suburbs of London!
How many poor innocent victims of both sexes, and of all ages, lie
concealed beneath the floors of kitchens and cellars, or in the back
gardens of the snug, old-fashioned houses around London? Once, Seven
Dials or Drury Lane were dangerous. But to-day they are not half so
dangerous to the unwary as our semi-rural suburbs. The clever criminal
never seeks to dissect, burn, or otherwise get rid of his victim save to
bury the body. Burial conceals everything, and the corpse rapidly
moulders into dust.

If the walls of the middle-class houses of suburban London could speak,
what grim stories some of them could tell! And how many quiet,
respectable families are now living in houses where, beneath the
basement floor, or in the little back garden, lie the rotting remains of
the victim of some brutal crime.

It is the same in Paris, in Brussels, in Vienna, aye, in every capital.
The innocent pay the toll always. Men make laws and cleverer men break
them. But God reigns supreme, and sooner or later places His hand
heavily upon the guilty.

Ask any of the heads of the police of the European Powers, and they will
tell you that Providence assists them to bring the guilty to justice. It
may be mere chance, mere coincidence, vengeance of those who have been
tricked, jealousy of a woman--a dozen motives--yet the result is ever
the same, the criminal at last stands before his judges.

The great detective--and there are a dozen in Europe--takes no kudos
unto himself. He will tell you that his success in such and such a case
is due to some lucky circumstance. Ask him who controlled it, and he
will go further and tell you that the punishment meted out to the
assassin by man is the punishment decreed by his Creator. He has taken a
life which is God-given--hence his own life must pay the penalty.

Rayner, as he looked into the hole which had been so roughly dug, was
inclined to hilarity.

"Well, sir," he exclaimed. "It's hardly long enough for you, is it?"

"Enough!" I said. "Had it not been for Stevens, I should have been
lying down there with the earth over me."

"I was afraid I shouldn't get my fare," said the taxi-driver, simply. "I
didn't know you, sir, and I had four-and-sixpence on the clock--a lot to
me."

"And a good job, too," declared Rayner. "If it had only been a bob fare
you might have gone back to Acton and left Mr. Vidal to his fate."

"Ah! I quite agree," Stevens said. "It was only by mere chance, as I had
promised my wife to be home early that night, it being our wedding-day,
and we had two or three friends coming in."

"Then your wedding anniversary saved my life, Stevens!" I exclaimed.

"Well, if you put it that way, sir, I suppose it really did," he replied
with a laugh. "But this preparation of a grave is a surprise to me. They
evidently got it ready for the young lady--eh?"

I paused. My blood rose against the crafty old Gregory and his
associates. They knew of Lola's friendship with me, and they had
deliberately plotted the poor girl's death. They had actually dug a
grave ready to receive her!

Within myself I made a solemn vow that I would be even with the man whom
the mysterious Egisto had addressed as "Master."

Surely I should have a strange and interesting story to relate to my
friend Jonet in Paris.

I glanced at the surroundings. About the oblong excavation was a tangled
mass of herbage, peas and beans with fading leaves, for it was in the
corner of a kitchen-garden, which in the fall of the previous year had
been allowed to run wild. And in such a position had the grave been dug
that it was entirely concealed.

That it had been purposely prepared for Lola was apparent. She had been
invited there to her death!

Had it not been for my fortunate presence, combined with the fact that
Stevens had called just at the opportune moment, then the dainty little
girl who, against her will, was the cat's paw of the most daring and
dangerous gang of criminals in Europe, would be lying there concealed
beneath that long tangle of vegetables and weeds.

"The house has been to let for nearly three years," the sergeant
informed me. "But this hole has only been recently dug, a little over a
week, we think. It was probably on the evening previous to your
adventure, sir."

"Probably," I said, for the earth looked still fresh, though the rain
had caked it somewhat. Two spades were lying near, therefore, I
conjectured, the work had been accomplished by two men. The two I had
seen with Gregory, I presumed.

"We're making inquiries regarding the intruders," the sergeant went on.
"I only wish Mr. Warton were here, but he had to go up to the Yard this
morning. Can't you give any description of the people you saw here?"

"I thought you had described them, Stevens," I said, addressing the
taxi-driver.

"So I have, sir. But in the dark I wasn't able to see very much."

"Well," I exclaimed, in reply to the sergeant, "I, too, did not have
much opportunity of seeing them. The electric light was switched off the
moment I entered and I was shot by the aid of an electric torch. I had
no means of defending myself. I fired at the light at the time, it's
true, but the scoundrel evidently held it away from him, knowing that I
might shoot."

I did not intend to assist the police. The Criminal Investigation
Department never showed very great eagerness to assist me in any of my
investigations.

"But you saw the men?"

"Yes. As I have already told Inspector Warton."

"What brought you here?"

"I followed two of the men from Ealing."

"I know. But for what reason did you follow them?"

"Because I believed that I recognized them."

"But you were mistaken, eh?" asked the fat sergeant as we still stood at
the edge of the grave.

"I hardly know," I answered vaguely, "except that a dastardly attempt
was made upon my life because I had pried into the men's business."

The sergeant was silent for a few moments, and I had distinct suspicion
that, from the expression upon his face, he did not believe me.

Then he remarked in a slow, reflective tone--

"I suppose, Mr. Vidal, you know that the young French lady who was found
here has made a statement to Inspector Warton?"

"What!" I gasped. "What has she told him?"

"I don't know, except that he's gone up to Scotland Yard to-day
regarding it."

I held my breath.

What indiscretions, I wondered, had Lola committed!




CHAPTER XXI

EXPLAINS LOLA'S FEARS


After leaving the house in which I had so narrowly escaped death, I
dropped the sergeant at Spring Place station and, with Rayner, drove
over to Brentford, where, at the hospital, I stood beside Lola's bed.

She looked a pale, frail, pathetic little figure, clad in a light blue
dressing-jacket, and propped up among the pillows. When she recognized
me she put forth a slim white hand and smiled a glad welcome.

"I have been so very anxious about you, Lola," I said after the nurse
had gone. "You know, of course, what happened?"

"Yes," she answered weakly in French. "I am so very sorry that you
should have fallen into the trap as well as myself, M'sieur Vidal. They
induced me to call there for one purpose--to kill me," she added in
English, with her pretty French accent.

"I fear that is so," was my reply. "But did you not receive my warnings?
The Paris _Sûreté_ are searching for you everywhere, and Jonet is most
anxious to find you."

"Ah, I know!" she exclaimed with a slight laugh. "Yes, I got your kind
letters, but I could not reply to them. There were reasons which, at the
time, prevented me."

She looked very sweet, her fair, soft hair in two long plaits hanging
over her shoulders, the ends being secured by big bows of turquoise
ribbon.

Yes, she was decidedly pretty; her big, blue, wide-open eyes turned upon
me.

"I wrote to Elise Leblanc at Versailles," I said, for want of something
else to say.

"I got the letters. I was in Dresden at the time."

"With your uncle?"

"No. He has been in Vienna," was her brief response.

"But he was at that house in Spring Grove."

"Yes. It was a trap for me--a dastardly trap laid for me by old
Gregory," she cried in anger. "He intended that I should die, but he
never expected you to come so suddenly upon the scene."

"How was it that Jeanjean arrived there also?" I asked.

"He came there to consult the Master," she replied. "A huge affair was
being planned to take place at the offices of one of the best known
diamond dealers in Hatton Garden. Gregory, being in the diamond trade,
knows most of the secrets of the other dealers, and in this case had
learned of the arrival of three very fine stones, among the most notable
diamonds known to the world. For three months he had carefully laid his
plans of attack, and on the night in question had called his
confederates together, as was his habit, in order to put his plans
finally before them, and to allocate each his work. Through my uncle,
however, I knew of the proposed robbery, and the old man, fearing me,
had decided that it would be in their interests if I died. Hence the
attack upon me."

"A most base and brutal one!" I cried. "But thank Heaven! Lola, you are
recovering. I overheard all that you said regarding myself."

She flushed slightly, but did not reply.

"To-day I have heard that you have made a statement to the police," I
went on in a low voice so that I should not be overheard by the nurse
who stood outside the door of the small two-bedded ward, the second bed
being unoccupied.

"Yes. An agent of police came and questioned me," was her reply, "but I
did not tell him much--at least, nothing which might give them any
clue--or which would jeopardize either of us. I had heard that you were
recovering, and therefore I thought you would prefer to unmask Gregory
and his associates yourself, rather than leave it to the London police.
Besides, they have escaped and I have no idea where they may now be."

"Quite right," I replied, much relieved at her words. "You acted wisely,
for had you told them the truth they would in all probability have
arrested you."

She smiled faintly.

"Yes. That was one of the reasons which caused me to exercise
discretion. I felt that we should soon meet again, M'sieur Vidal," she
added. "They say that I shall be discharged from here in about a week."

"I hope so," I declared earnestly. "You had a very narrow escape from
those fiends."

"I was quite unsuspicious when I went there," she said. "That house has
been our meeting-place for the past eighteen months or so. Sometimes we
met at Gregory's flat in Amsterdam, and sometimes at the tenantless
house in Spring Grove, or at one which has been to let at Cricklewood,
and also at a house in West Hampstead."

"The spot 'where the three C's meet' at Ealing is the usual rendezvous,
I suppose?"

"Yes, the place is easy of access, quiet, and entirely unsuspicious. I
have met my uncle there sometimes when in London, and sometimes Gregory
or the others. The conference usually took place there, and then we went
together in a taxi to one or other of the meeting-places which Gregory
had established."

"As soon as you have quite recovered we will lay a trap and secure the
whole gang," I whispered confidently.

"Ah! I fear that will not be easy," she exclaimed, slowly shaking her
head. "We shall be too well watched."

"And we can watch also," I remarked. "I know that from to-day I shall be
kept under close supervision because they will fear me more than ever.
But I shall manage to evade them, never fear. As soon as you leave
hospital we must join forces and exterminate this gang of assassins."

She drew a long breath, bent her fair brows and looked straight across
at the pale-green wall. I could see that she was not at all confident of
escape. She knew how clever, designing and unscrupulous was the old man
Gregory; how cheaply her uncle, Jules Jeanjean, held human life.

"Where is Gregory now, I wonder?" I exclaimed.

"Who knows? They are all in France or Belgium, I expect. They may be in
Amsterdam, but I do not think so, as they might suspect me of making a
statement to the police."

"What did you tell the police?"

For a moment she hesitated.

"Simply that I was enticed there by a young man whom I knew in Paris,
and found myself in the company of several men who were undoubtedly
thieves. These men I described. I stated that I was pressed to act as
their decoy, and on refusal was struck down."

"Then they will be already searching for the men!" I exclaimed,
remembering that Warton had that morning gone up to consult his chief at
Scotland Yard.

"They will be searching for men whose descriptions do not tally with
those of my uncle and his friends," she whispered frankly, with a
mischievous smile.

"Tell me, Lola," I asked, after complimenting her upon her astuteness,
"do you recognize the names of Lavelle, Kunzle, Geering, or Hodrickx?"

She started, staring at me.

"Why? What do you know of them?" she inquired quickly, an apprehensive
look upon her pretty face.

"They are associates of your uncle, are they not--in fact, members of
the gang?"

"Yes. But how did you discover their true names?"

Then I explained how, after poor Craig's death, I had found the paper
with the elaborate calculations, and the list of names with
corresponding numbers.

"They are code-numbers, so that mention of them can be made in telegrams
or letters, and their identity still concealed."

"And what were the columns of figures?" I asked, describing them.

"Probably either the calculations of weights and values of precious
stones, or calculations of wave-lengths of wireless telegraphy in which
Gregory experiments," she replied. "After a _coup_ Gregory always valued
the stolen gems very carefully before they were sent to Antwerp or
Amsterdam to be re-cut and altered out of recognition. At one _coup_, a
year ago, when at Klein's, the principal jeweller in Vienna, the
night-watchman was killed and the safe opened with the acetylene jet. We
got clear away with jewels valued at three-quarters of a million francs.
Afterwards, I motored from Vienna to Antwerp, carrying most of the unset
stones and pearls in the radiator of my car. The prying _douaniers_ at
the frontiers never suspect anything there, nor in the inner tube of a
spare wheel. Besides, I was the daughter of the Baronne de Lericourt,
travelling with her maid, therefore nobody suspected, and Kunzle, a
young Dane, acted as my chauffeur."

"In which direction did your uncle travel?"

"To Algiers, by way of Trieste, and home to his hobby, wireless
telegraphy. He has high aerial wires across the grounds of his villa,
and can receive on his delicate apparatus messages from Clifden in
Ireland, Trieste, Paris, Madrid, London, Port Said, and stations all
over Europe."

"Can he transmit messages?" I asked.

She sighed slightly, her wound was giving her pain.

"Oh, yes. His transmitter is very powerful, and sometimes, at night, he
can reach Poldhu in Cornwall."

"Then your uncle is, apparently, a skilled scientist, as well as a
daring criminal!" I said, surprised.

"_Oui_, M'sieur. He is just now experimenting with a wireless telephone,
and has already heard from Algiers, across the Mediterranean, to Genoa,
where his friend, the man Hodrickx, has established a similar station.
It was Hodrickx you saw at Spring Grove."

"And the wireless is sometimes used for their nefarious purposes, I
suppose?"

"Probably. But that is, of course, their own secret. I am told nothing,"
was her reply, dropping into French. "Sometimes, when at home, my uncle
sits for hours with the telephones over his ears, listening--listening
attentively--and now and then, scribbling down the mysterious
call-letters he hears, and referring to his registers to see whose
attention is being attracted. Every night, at twelve o'clock, he
receives the day's news sent out from Clifden in Ireland to ships in the
Atlantic."

"It must be an exceedingly interesting hobby," I remarked.

"It is. If I were a man I should certainly go in for experimenting.
There is something weirdly mysterious about it," she said with a sweet
expression.

"If he can speak by telephone across the Mediterranean to Genoa, then,
no doubt, such an instrument is of greatest use to him in the pursuit
of his shameful profession," I said.

"I expect it is," she answered rather grimly, regarding me with
half-closed eyes. "But, oh! M'sieu', how can I bear the future? What
will happen now? I cannot tell. For me it must be either a violent
death, at a moment when I least expect it, or--or----"

"Leave it all to me, Lola," I interrupted. "I'll leave no stone unturned
to effect the arrest of the whole gang."

"Do be careful of yourself," she urged, with apprehension. "Remember,
they intend at all hazards to kill you! Gregory and my uncle fear you
more than they do the police. Ever since you unearthed that mystery in
Brussels, they have held you in terror. The evidence you gave in the
Assize Court against the man Lefranc showed them that you entertained
suspicion of who killed the jeweller, Josse Vanderelst, in the Avenue
Louise. And for that reason you have since been a marked man," she
added, looking very earnestly into my face.

"I assure you I have now no fear of them, Lola. I will extricate you
from the guilty bonds in which they hold you, if you will only render me
assistance."

For a moment she remained thoughtful, a very serious expression upon her
fair face.

"_Bien!_ But if the men are arrested they will at once turn upon me,"
she argued. "Then I too will stand in the criminal dock beside them!"

"Not if you act as I direct," I assured her, placing my hand upon hers,
which lay outside the coverlet.

Then, after a brief pause, during which I again looked straight into her
great blue eyes, I suddenly asked--

"Where can I find trace of old Gregory? As soon as I am a little better
I shall resume my investigations, and run the whole gang to earth."

"I do not know where he lives. My uncle once remarked that he was so
evasive that he changed his abode as often as he did his collars. His
office, however, is in Hatton Garden over a watchmaker's named
Etherington, on the second floor. You will find on a door, 'Loicq
Freres, Diamond Dealers, Antwerp.' Mr. Gregory Vernon, not Vernon
Gregory, poses as the London manager of the firm of 'Loicq Freres,' who,
by reason of their wealth and the magnitude of their purchases and
sales, are well known in the diamond trade. So, by carrying on a genuine
business, he very successfully conceals his illegitimate one of
re-cutting stones and re-placing them upon the market."

"Good!" I said, enthusiastically, in English. "I shall endeavour to
trace his hiding-place, for most certainly he is no longer in London,
now that he knows that his attempt upon you was unsuccessful."

"And the police are now looking for mythical persons!" she laughed
merrily, displaying her white, even teeth.

Yes, the more I saw of my dainty little divinity, the greater I became
attracted by her, even though force of circumstances had, alas!
compelled her, against her will, to become an expert jewel-thief, who by
reason of her charm, her beauty, and her astuteness, had passed without
suspicion.

What a strange and tragic career had been that of the frail little
creature now smiling so sweetly at me! My heart went out in sympathy
towards her, just as it had done ever since that memorable night when I
had gripped her slim waist and captured her in my room.

The nurse entered, so I rose from my chair, and clasping Lola's little
hand, bade her _au revoir_, promising to return again in two days' time,
and also suggesting that when she became convalescent I should take her
down to some friends of mine at Boscombe to recuperate.

My suggestion she adopted at once, and then I turned, and thanking the
nurse for all her kindness, left the hospital.




CHAPTER XXII

THE ROAD OF RICHES


When my doctor first allowed me forth on foot it was fully a week later.

I had driven to Brentford in a taxi on three occasions to visit Lola,
taking her fresh flowers, grapes and other dainties. Each time I
recognized a marked improvement in her.

I felt certain that every movement of mine was being watched, but
neither Rayner nor myself could discover any one spying upon us. I had
always flattered myself that nobody could keep observation upon me
without I detected them, and I certainly felt considerable chagrin at my
present helplessness.

Rayner, a shrewd, clever watcher himself, was up to every ruse in the
science of keeping observation and remaining unseen. Yet he also failed
to discover any one.

Therefore, one morning I left Carlos Place in a taxi and drove to King's
Cross Station, where I alighted, paid the man, and went on to the main
line departure platform. Thence I passed across to the arrival platform,
so as to evade any pursuer, though no one had followed me to my
knowledge, and then I drove down to Brentford.

Though still weak, I that afternoon accompanied the dainty little
invalid down to Bournemouth, where I saw her comfortably installed with
a very worthy family--a retired excise officer and his wife and
daughter, living at Boscombe--and, after a night at the _Bath Hotel_, I
returned to London to resume my investigations.

Through three days following I felt very unwell and unable to go out,
the journey to Bournemouth having rather upset me in my weak state.
Indeed, it was not before another week that one afternoon I alighted
from a taxi at Holborn Circus and strolled leisurely down Hatton Garden
in search of the watchmaker's Lola had indicated.

I found it with but little difficulty, about half-way down on the
left-hand side.

A stranger passing along Hatton Garden, that dreary, rather mean street,
leading from busy Holborn away to the poverty-stricken district of
Saffron Hill, with its poor Italian denizens and its Italian church,
would never dream that it contained all the chief wholesale dealers in
precious stones in London. In that one street, hidden away in the safes
of the various dealers, Jew and Gentile, are gems and pearls worth
millions.

The houses are sombre, grimed, and old-fashioned, and there is an air of
middle-class respectability about them which disguises from the stranger
the real character of their contents. The very passers-by are for the
most part shabby, though, now and then, one may see a well-dressed man
enter or leave one of the houses let out in floors to the diamond
dealers.

It is a street of experts, of men who pay thousands of pounds for a
single stone, and who regard the little paper packets of glittering
diamonds as the ordinary person would regard packets of seed-peas.

Many a shabby man with shiny coat, and rather down at heel, passing up
the street, carries in his pocket, in a well-worn leathern wallet,
diamonds, rubies or emeralds worth the proverbial king's ransom.

On that autumn afternoon the sun was shining brightly as I passed the
house where "Gregory Vernon's" office was situated. Seldom, indeed, does
the sun shine in Hatton Garden or in Saffron Hill, but when it does it
brings gladness to the hearts of those sons and daughters of the sunny
Italy, who are wearing out their lives in the vicinity. To them, born
and bred in the fertile land where August is indeed the Lion Month, the
sun is their very life. Alas! it comes to them so very seldom, but when
it does, the women and children go forth into the streets bare-headed to
enjoy the "bella giornata."

And so it was then. Some Italian women and children, with a few old
men, white-haired and short of stature, were passing up and down the
Road of Riches into which I had ventured.

I knew not, of course, whether old Gregory was still in London. He might
be at his upper window for aught I knew. Therefore I had adopted the
dress of a curate of the Church of England, a disguise which on many an
occasion had stood me in good stead. And as I loitered through the road,
with eyes about me on all hands, I presented the appearance of the
hard-worked curate of a poor London parish.

Before the watchmaker's I halted, looking in at the side door, where I
saw written up with the names in dark, dingy lettering, "Loicq Freres,
Second Floor."

Beyond was a dark, well-worn stair leading to the other offices, but all
looked so dingy and so dismal, that it was hard to believe that within
were stored riches of such untold value.

I did not hesitate long, but with sudden resolve entered boldly and
mounted the stairs.

On the second floor, on a narrow landing, was a dingy, dark-brown door
on which the words "Loicq Freres" were painted.

At this I knocked, whereupon a foreign voice called, "Come in."

I entered a clerk's room where, at a table, sat a man who, when he
raised his head and sallow face, I recognized instantly as the
mysterious motor-cyclist of Cromer, the man Egisto Bertini, who had so
cleverly evaded me on the night of my long vigil on the Norwich road,
and who had assisted Gregory, or Vernon as he called himself, to remove
the jewels from Beacon House.

He did not, of course, recognize me, though I knew his face in an
instant. He rose and came forward.

"Is Mr. Gregory Vernon in?" I asked, assuming a clerical drawl.

"No, sare," replied the dark-eyed Italian. "Can I gif him any message?"
he asked with a strong accent.

The reply satisfied me, for my object in going there was not to see the
man whose real name was Vernon, but to get a peep at the unsuspicious
headquarters of the greatest criminal in Europe.

"Ah, I--I called to ask him to be good enough to subscribe to an outing
we are giving to the poor children of my parish--that of St. Anne's. We
have much poverty, you know, and the poor children want a day in the
country before autumn is over. Several kind friends----"

"Meester Vernon, he will not be able to make a subscription--he is
away," broke in the Italian.

My quick eye had noticed that opposite me was a door of ground-glass. A
shadow had flitted across that glass, for the short curtains behind it
were inadvertently drawn slightly aside.

Some one was within. If it were Vernon, then he might have a secret hole
for spying and would recognize me. Thereupon I instantly altered my
position, turning my back towards the door, as though unconsciously.

"I'm sorry," I said. "Perhaps you could subscribe a trifle yourself, if
only one shilling?" and I took out a penny account book with which I had
provided myself.

"Ah, no," was his reply. "I haf none to gif," and he shook his head and
held out his palms. "Meester Vernon--he reech man--me, no! Me only
clerk!"

"I'm sorry," I said. "Perhaps you will tell Mr. Vernon that the Reverend
Harold Hawke called."

"Yes, sare," replied the expert motor-cyclist, whom I knew to be one of
the clever gang. And he pretended to scribble something upon a pad. He
posed as a clerk perfectly, even to the shabbiness of his office-coat.
He presented the appearance of a poor, under-paid foreign clerk, of whom
there are thousands in the City of London.

Standing in such a position that old Mr. Vernon could not see my face, I
conversed with the Italian a few moments longer as I wished to make some
further observations. What I saw surprised me, for there seemed every
evidence that a _bona fide_ trade was actually conducted there.

The shadow across the private office had puzzled me. I entertained a
strong suspicion that old Vernon was within that room, and the man,
Egisto Bertini, had orders to tell all strangers that his master was
absent.

If he feared arrest--as no doubt he did, knowing that Lola might make a
statement to the police--then it was but natural that he would not see
any stranger.

No. I watched Bertini very closely as I chatted with him, feeling
assured that he was lying.

So I apologized for my intrusion, as a good curate should do, and
descended the dark, narrow stairs with the firm conviction that Gregory
Vernon was actually in his office.

In the street I walked leisurely towards Holborn, fearing to hurry lest
the crafty old man should be watching my departure. Having turned the
corner, however, I rushed to the nearest telephone and got on to Rayner.

He answered me quickly, and I gave him instructions to dress instantly
as a poor, half-starved labourer--for my several suits of disguise
fitted him--and to meet me at the earliest moment at Holborn Circus,
outside Wallis's shop.

"All right, sir," was the man's prompt reply. "I'll be there inside half
an hour."

"And, Rayner," I added, "bring my small suit-case with things for the
night, and an extra suit. Drop it at the cloak-room at Charing Cross on
your way here. I may have to leave London."

"Anything interesting, sir?" he asked, his natural curiosity rising.

"Yes. I'll tell you when we meet," was my answer, and I rang off.

I have always found clerical clothes an excellent disguise for keeping
observation. It may be conspicuous, but the clergyman is never regarded
with any suspicion, where an ill-dressed man who loiters is in peril of
being interfered with by the police, "moved on," or even taken into
custody on suspicion of loitering for the purpose of committing a
felony. England is not exactly the "free country" which those ignorant
of our by-laws are so fond of declaring.

Having spoken to Rayner, I returned to the corner of Hatton Garden, and
idling about aimlessly, kept a sharp eye upon the watchmaker's shop.

If my visit to the offices of Loicq Brothers had aroused any suspicion
in the mind of Gregory Vernon, then he would, no doubt, make a bolt for
it. If not, he would remain there till he left for his home.

In the latter case I should certainly discover the place of his abode,
and take the first step towards striking the blow.

On the one hand, I argued that Vernon would never dare to remain in
England after his brutal attack upon Lola, knowing that the police must
question her. Then there was the tell-tale excavation in the garden at
Spring Grove--the nameless grave ready prepared for her! But, on the
other hand, I recollected the subtle cunning of the man, his bold
audacity, his astounding daring, and his immunity hitherto from the
slightest suspicion.

The flitting shadow upon the ground-glass was, I felt confident, his
silhouette--that silhouette I had known so well--when he had been in the
habit of passing the _Hôtel de Paris_, at Cromer, a dozen times a day.

The afternoon wore on, but I still remained at the Holborn end of Hatton
Garden, ever watchful of all who came and went. Rayner was longer than
he had anticipated, for he had to drive down to Charing Cross before
coming to me. But at last I saw a wretched, ill-dressed, pale-faced man
alight from a bus outside Wallis's drapery shop, and, glancing round, he
quickly found me.

I walked round a corner and, when we met, I explained in a few brief
words the exact situation.

Then I instructed him to pass down Hatton Garden to the Clerkenwell
Road end and watch there while I maintained a vigilance in Holborn. When
Vernon came out we would both follow him, and track him to his
dwelling-place.

I told Rayner of Bertini's presence there as a clerk, whereupon my man
grew full of vengeful anger, expressing a hope that later on he would
meet the Italian face to face and get even for the treatment meted out
to him on that memorable night at Cromer.

We had walked together to the end of the Road of Riches in earnest
discussion, when, on suddenly glancing along the pavement in the
direction of the watchmaker's, I recognized the figure of a well-dressed
man coming in our direction.

I held my breath, for his presence there was entirely unexpected.

It was Jules Jeanjean.




CHAPTER XXIII

FOLLOWS THE ELUSIVE JULES


The man of a hundred aliases, and as many crimes, was walking swiftly in
our direction, and I only just had time to nip back and cross to the
street refuge in the centre of Holborn Circus.

Rayner recognized him in an instant, and I had just time to exclaim--

"There's Jeanjean! Take him up, but be careful. Got your revolver?"

"Trust me, sir," Rayner laughed. "I don't forget Cromer."

"Be careful," I whispered, and next instant we had separated.

I saw Jeanjean gain the end of the drab thoroughfare and glance around
apprehensively. He was dressed smartly in a well-cut suit of blue serge
and wore a grey hat of soft felt, and a pair of yellow wash-leather
gloves, like those poor Craig had habitually affected. His quick, shifty
eyes searched everywhere for a few seconds, then he turned into the
bustle of the traffic in Holborn and walked westward in the direction of
Oxford Street.

A moment later Rayner, a poor wretched-looking figure, penurious and
ill, crossed from the opposite side of the road and lounged slowly after
Jeanjean until I lost them amidst the crowd.

I was divided in my intentions, for if I followed the pair I should miss
the Italian clerk, and as he undoubtedly was a member of the interesting
association, I felt that it would be judicious to follow and ascertain
where he lived.

For nearly two hours, nevertheless, my vigilance remained unrewarded.
Office-boys came forth from the various houses laden with letters, and
middle-aged clerks carried in black bags packets of precious stones in
order to insure them for transmission by post. Then as the dusk crept
on, the offices and workshops in the vicinity emptied their workers, who
hurried home by train or motor-bus, while in a constant stream came
weary Italians, painfully and patiently dragging piano-organs and
ice-cream barrows on their way to their quarters at the other end of the
road, their day's wanderings over.

A perfect panorama of London life passed by me as I stood there watching
in vain.

At length, about seven o'clock, when it had grown dark and the
street-lamps had been lit, I saw the figure of the Italian emerge from
the door, and turning his back towards me, he walked in the direction of
Clerkenwell Road.

In eagerness I took a few quick steps after him, but halted as a sudden
suggestion arose within me. If Jeanjean had been there it was for
consultation with his chief--the man he regarded as his master--the
master-mind of that daring and dangerous association. Was it possible,
therefore, that these two men had left the place at long intervals,
because of the suspicion in which they held the curate who had called
for a subscription? Was it possible that Gregory Vernon, alias Gregory,
and alias a dozen other names, no doubt, was still safe in his high-up
dingy little office wherein lay concealed stolen gems of untold value?

Rayner was, without doubt, hot upon the track of the elusive bandit
whose _empreintes digitales_, and whose _cliches_ and _relevés_ were so
carefully preserved in that formidable dossier at the Prefecture of
Police of the Seine. Rayner was a past master in the art of observation,
and I felt convinced that ere long I should learn where Jeanjean made
his headquarters in London.

Therefore, after a second's reflection, I decided not to follow Bertini,
but to still remain on and watch for the clever old rascal to whose
plots so many jewel robberies in Europe, with and without violence, were
due. By some vague intuition I felt that if Jeanjean dared to go to the
offices of Loicq Freres, then certainly the elder man would have no
hesitation. But their daring was astounding in face of the
circumstances.

Perhaps, so completely and entirely did they hold Lola in their grip,
that they felt confident she dare not reveal the truth. Was it not a
fact, alas! that the sweet, dainty little girl was actually a thief,
forced into crime and trained by her uncle to act the part of decoy, her
very innocence disarming suspicion? Her youth was her protection, for
nobody would believe that she was actually a clever adventuress and a
professional thief.

Ah! how I pitied her, knowing all that I did. How often recollections
arose in my mind of that never-to-be-forgotten night in Scotland when
she had inadvertently entered my bedroom, and I had seized her--of her
piteous appeal to me, and of her expression of heartfelt thanks when I
allowed her her liberty. Yes, assuredly Lola Sorel was to be pitied, not
blamed. She had been struggling all along to free herself from those
bonds of guilt which had bound her to that unscrupulous brutal gang of
malefactors who were undoubtedly the most dangerous criminals in Europe.
But, alas! all in vain. They had held her in their inexorable grip
until, fearing lest she should appeal to me and make revelations, the
sinister-faced old rascal who ruled them had ruthlessly struck her down
and left her for dead.

Such a formidable band as that, constituted as it was, and with enormous
funds at command, could hold the police in contempt. Money was of no
object, and Lola had once told me how police officials, both in Berlin
and in Rome, had been judiciously "squared" by a certain obscure lawyer
who had an office in the Italian capital, and who, being a member of the
gang, conducted their legal affairs--which mainly consisted in the
obtaining of information concerning the whereabouts of jewels in the
possession of private families, and in bribing any obnoxious police
official, from a _sous-prefet_ down to a humble _agent_.

Bribery among the Continental police is far more rife than is generally
supposed. Poor pay, especially in Italy, is the prime cause. There are,
of course, black sheep in every flock, even in England, but in the
southern countries the aspect of the flock is much darker than in the
northern ones. Many a law-breaker to-day pays toll to the police, even
in our own London, and from the street bookmaker in the East End slums
to the keeper of the luxurious gaming-house near Piccadilly Circus,
hundreds of men are allowed to carry on their nefarious practices by
sending anonymous presents to the private addresses of those who might
trouble them.

So it is even in matters criminal. There is not a single member of the
Criminal Investigation Department who has not been sorely tempted at one
time or another. And perhaps in the light of certain recent
prosecutions, and the allegations of Mr. Keir Hardie, big names--the
names of certain men who are leaders of our present-day life and
thought--are suppressed, and grave scandals concealed by the judicious
application of gold.

My watch proved a wearying one, especially in my weak state.

With the darkness there were fewer people in the streets. The City
traffic had now died down, and at eight o'clock Hatton Garden had become
practically deserted.

I had been chatting to the constable on duty, who, on account of my
clerical attire, had not viewed me with any suspicion, when of a sudden
Rayner alighted from a taxi and approached me.

"Well?" I asked eagerly, when we were together.

"He gave me the slip, sir," exclaimed my man breathlessly. "He's
devilish clever, he is, sir."

"You surely knew that before, Rayner," I said, reproachfully.

"Yes, and I took every precaution. But he did me in the end."

"How?"

"Well, when he left here, he walked as far as Gamage's very leisurely.
Then he took a taxi up to Baker Street Station. I followed him, and saw
that he took a ticket to Swiss Cottage, where he took another taxi along
the Finchley Road, alighting at the end of a rather quiet thoroughfare
of superior houses called Arkwright Road. He went into one of them, a
new red-brick house, called Merton Lodge."

"You were near when he entered?" I asked.

"Quite. I watched the door open to admit him, but couldn't see who
opened it," he replied. "Then I waited for nearly two hours, concealing
myself in the area of an unoccupied house close by. The road was so
quiet and unfrequented that I dare not show myself. The house seemed
smart and well-kept, with a large garden behind."

"No one came out?"

"Nobody. But at last I grew impatient and got out on to the pavement,
when, a few seconds later, the door opened, and a middle-aged, dark-eyed
man came out straight up to me. He had a Hebrew cast in his features.
Without ado, he asked me with indignation why I was watching his house.
Whereupon I told him I was waiting for a friend who had entered there.
In reply, he denied that any friend of mine was there. He said, 'I
object to my house being watched like this, and if you don't be off, I
shall telephone for the police, and have you arrested for loitering. I
believe you intend to commit a burglary.'"

"Ah! that was rather disconcerting, eh, Rayner?"

"Yes, sir. What could I do? I saw I'd been spotted, and so the game was
up. Well, a thought occurred to me, and I replied to him, 'Very good.
Telephone at once. I'll be pleased to have a constable here to help me.'
It was a bold move, but it worked. He believed me to be a detective, and
his tone altered at once. 'I tell you,' he said, 'I have nobody in my
house. Nobody has come in since I returned home at five o'clock. You may
search, if you wish!' I smiled and said, 'Oh, so you don't now suspect
me of being a thief?' 'Well,' he replied, 'if you think your friend is
here, come over and satisfy yourself.'"

"Clever of him--very clever," I remarked. "But there might have been a
trap! Jeanjean would set one without the slightest hesitation."

"Just what I suspected, sir," replied Rayner. "At first I hesitated, but
I had my revolver with me, so I resolved to search the place. Just as I
crossed the road a constable turned the corner idly, and in a moment I
was beside him. In a few words I asked him to accompany me, at the same
time slipping a couple of half-crowns into his hand, much to the chagrin
of the occupier of the house. To the constable I explained that I had
reason to believe that a friend of mine was hidden in the house and I
had been invited to search. So together we went in, and while the
constable remained in the hall, I went from room to room with the
dark-faced Hebrew. The place was well furnished, evidently the abode of
a man of wealth and taste. He was something of a student, too, for in a
corner of the small library at the rear, on the ground-floor, was a
table, and on it several queer-looking electrical instruments and a
telephone receiver. From room to room I went, and found nobody. Indeed,
there was nobody else in the house except a sallow-looking youth, the
son of the man who had invited me in. The back premises, however, told
their own tale. At the end of the dark garden was a door in the wall,
leading to a narrow lane beyond the tradesmen's entrance. By that way
Jules Jeanjean had escaped nearly two hours before!"

"So he has eluded you, as he always does," I remarked regretfully.

"Yes. But the owner of Merton Lodge no doubt knows him and gives him
shelter when he's in London," Rayner said.

"He may, but, if I judge correctly, Jeanjean knew he was followed from
the first, and simply led you there to mystify you. He entered by the
front door and went out at once by the back one," I said. "In all
probability he only knows the owner of Merton Lodge quite slightly. If
not, why did the Hebrew come out so boldly and ask you to search?"

"Bluff," declared Rayner promptly.

"No, not exactly," I remarked. "If Jeanjean knew he was followed he
would never have gone to a house where he could be again found, depend
upon it. No. He perhaps told the person who opened the door to him some
cock-and-bull story, and only remained in the house a minute or two. To
me, all seems quite clear. He led you on a wild-goose chase, Rayner," I
laughed, as we stood together in Holborn.

Yet scarcely had these words left my mouth when there passed close by us
a thin, old gentleman in black, and wearing a silk hat. His grey hair
and beard were close-cropped, but his broad forehead and narrow chin
could not be disguised.

I held my breath as I recognized him at a glance. He had not noticed me,
for my back had been towards him. Yet my heart beat quickly, for might
he not have identified me by my clerical hat!

It was the man I had suspected of lying closely concealed in his
office--old Gregory Vernon, the dealer in stolen gems.




CHAPTER XXIV

MAKES A STARTLING DISCLOSURE


He crossed Holborn, walking leisurely, and smoking a cigar, and
continued down St. Andrew Street and along towards Shoe Lane, I
strolling after him at some distance behind.

At that hour the thoroughfare was practically deserted, therefore
concealment was extremely difficult. Yet by his leisurely walk I felt
convinced that in passing he had, fortunately, not recognized me.

Behind me came Rayner to see, as he swiftly put it, "that no harm came"
to me.

The old man in the full enjoyment of his cigar, and apparently quite
happy that if his offices were watched his two confederates would have
taken off the watchers, strolled along St. Bride Street as far as the
corner of Ludgate Hill, when he hailed a taxi and drove westward. His
example I quickly followed, leaving Rayner standing on the kerb, unable
to follow, as no third cab was in sight.

Up Fleet Street we drove quickly and along the Strand as far as Charing
Cross, when the taxi I was pursuing turned into Northumberland Avenue
and pulled up before the _Hôtel Metropole_.

I drew up further along, at the corner of the Embankment, at the same
time watching the old man pay the driver and enter, being saluted by
the uniformed porter, who evidently knew him.

For about five minutes I waited. Then I entered the hotel, where I also
was well known, having very often stayed there.

Of the porter at the door, who touched his hat as I went in, I asked the
name of the old gentleman who had just entered.

"I don't know his name, sir. He often stays here. They'll tell you at
the key-office."

So I ascended the stairs into the hall, and made inquiry of the
sharp-eyed, dark-faced man at the key-counter.

"Oh, Mr. Vernon, you mean, sir? Been in about five minutes. He's just
gone up in the lift--Room 139_a_, first-floor--shall I send your name
up, Mr. Vidal?"

"No, I'll go up," I said. "You're sure he is up in his room?"

"Quite sure, sir. He took his key about five minutes ago."

"Is he often here?"

"Every month," was the reply. "He usually spends about a week with us,
and always has the same room."

"What is he? Have you any idea?"

"I've heard that he's a diamond-broker. Lives in Paris, I fancy."

"Has he many callers?"

"One or two business men sometimes; but only one lady."

"A lady!" I echoed. "Who?"

"Oh, a very pretty young French girl who comes sometimes to see him,"
replied the clerk. Then, after reflection, he added: "I think the name
is Sorel--Mademoiselle Sorel."

I started at mention of the name.

"Does she come alone?" I asked. "Excuse me making these inquiries," I
added apologetically, "but I have strong reasons for doing so."

"Once she came alone, I think about six weeks ago. But she generally
comes with a tall, rather ugly, but well-dressed Frenchman of about
forty-five, a man who seems to be Mr. Vernon's most intimate friend."

I asked for a further description of her companion, and decided that it
was Jules Jeanjean.

"Is the hotel detective about?" I asked.

"Yes. He's somewhere down on the smoking-room floor. Do you want him?"
he asked, surprised.

I replied in the affirmative. Whereupon a page was at once dispatched,
and returned with an insignificant-looking man, an ex-sergeant of
Scotland Yard, engaged by the hotel as its private inquiry agent.

He knew me well, therefore I said--

"Will you come up with me to 139_a_. I want to see a Mr. Vernon, and
there may be a little trouble. I may have to call in the police."

"What's the trouble, sir?" he asked in surprise, though he knew me to be
an investigator of crime.

"Only a little difference between us," I said. "He may have a revolver.
Have you got one?"

The detective smiled, and produced a serviceable-looking Colt from his
hip-pocket, while I drew a long, plated, hammerless Smith & Wesson,
which has been my constant companion throughout my adventurous life.

Then together we ascended in the lift, and passed along the corridor
till we found the room which the clerk had indicated.

I tapped loudly at the door, at the same moment summoning all my
self-possession. I was about to secure one of the most cunning and
clever criminals on earth.

There was no answer. Yet I distinctly heard some one within the room.

Again I knocked loudly.

Then I heard footsteps advancing to the door, which was thrown open, and
a chambermaid stood there.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said apologetically.

I drew back in dismay.

"Is Mr. Vernon in here?" I asked breathlessly.

"Mr. Vernon--the gentleman in this room, sir?"

"Yes. He has come up here, I know."

"He did come in a few minutes ago, and took a small leather case, but he
went out again at once."

"Went out? You saw him?"

"Yes. He was coming out just as I came in, sir," replied the girl.

"Gone!" I gasped, turning to the ex-sergeant.

"He must have gone down the stairs, sir," the man suggested.

With a glance round the room, which only contained a suit-case, I dashed
down the stairs and into the hall.

Of the porter at the door I asked a quick question.

"No, sir," he replied. "Mr. Vernon hasn't gone out this way. He may have
gone out by the door in Whitehall Place."

I rushed through the hotel and, at the door indicated, the man in
uniform told me that Mr. Vernon had left on foot five minutes before,
going towards Whitehall.

I hurried after him, but alas! I was too late.

Again, he had evaded me!

So I returned to my rooms utterly fagged by the long vigil, and feeling
thoroughly ill. Indeed, in my weak state, it had been a somewhat
injudicious proceeding, yet I felt anxious and impatient, eager to
strike a crushing blow against the daring band who held poor Lola so
completely in their power.

The result of my imprudence, however, was another whole week in bed, and
a further confinement to my room for a second week. Meanwhile Rayner was
active and watchful.

Observation upon the offices of Loicq Frères showed that only an English
clerk was left in charge, and that neither Vernon, Jeanjean nor Bertini
had since been there. Vigilance upon Merton Lodge, in Hampstead, also
resulted in nothing. It was clear, therefore, that the trio had become
alarmed at my visit to Hatton Garden, even though I had exercised every
precaution to avoid recognition.

As I sat in my big arm-chair, day after day, unable to go out, I
carefully reviewed all the events of the past, just as I have set them
down in these pages. Somehow--how it came to pass, I cannot tell--I
found myself thinking more than ever of Lola Sorel, the sweet-faced,
innocent-looking girl whose career had been fraught with so much
tragedy, apprehension and bitterness.

Every day, nay, every hour, her pretty, fair face arose before my
vision--that pale, delicately-moulded countenance, with the big, blue,
wondering eyes, larger and more perfect than the eyes of any woman I had
ever before met in the course of my adventurous career.

Time after time I asked myself why my thoughts should so constantly
revert to her. Sleeping or waking, I dreamed ever of that dainty little
figure with its sweet, rather sad face, the pathetic countenance of the
pretty Parisienne who had so gradually fascinated and entranced me.

Within myself, I laughed at my own feelings of sympathy towards her. Why
should I entertain any regard for a girl who, after all, was only a
thief--a girl whose innocence had decoyed men, and caused women to
betray the whereabouts of their jewels, so that her associates could rob
them with impunity?

From the moment when I had seized her in my bedroom at Balmaclellan I
had pitied her, and that pity had now deepened into keen sympathy for
her, held, as she was, in those bonds of guilt, yet struggling always to
free herself, like a poor frightened bird beating its wings against the
bars.

Had I fallen in love with her? Time after time I asked myself that
question. But time after time did I scout the very idea and laughed
myself to ridicule.

The thought that I loved Lola Sorel, beautiful as she was, seemed
utterly absurd.

Yes. During that fortnight of forced inactivity I had plenty of time to
carefully analyse the whole situation, to examine every detail of the
mystery surrounding the death of Edward Craig and, also, to formulate
fresh plans.

One fact was evident--that Vernon and his friends intended that Lola
should die. In addition, so subtle were they, I knew not when some
secret and desperate attack might not be made upon myself.

Foul play was intended. Of that I had no doubt.

The autumn days were passing. Business London had returned from the
country and the sea, and even the blinds of houses in Berkeley Square
were, one after another, being raised, indicative of the fact that many
people in Society were already again in town.

I exchanged letters with Lola almost daily. She was very happy and had
greatly improved, she said, and also expressed a hope that we should
soon meet, a hope which I devoutly reciprocated.

My one great fear, however, was that some dastardly attack might be made
upon her if any of the bandits succeeded in discovering her
hiding-place. For that reason I sent Rayner to Bournemouth in secret to
watch the house, and to ascertain whether any signs of intended evil
were apparent.

He remained there a week, until one morning in October I received an
urgent telegram from him asking me, if I were well enough, to lose no
time in coming to Bournemouth. He gave no reason for the urgency of his
message, but gravely apprehensive, I took the next train from Waterloo,
arriving in Bournemouth about four o'clock. Rayner refused to meet me
openly, so I drove to the _Grand Hotel_, where he was staying, and found
him in his room awaiting me.

"There's something up, sir," he said very seriously, when I had closed
the door. "But I can't exactly make out what is intended. Mademoiselle
does not, of course, know I'm here. She went to the Winter Gardens with
two young ladies last night, and they were followed by a man--a
stranger. He went behind them to the concert, and sat in the back seats
watching them, and when they walked home, he followed."

"Have you ever seen him before?"

"Never, sir."

"Is he young or old?"

"Young, and looks like a gentleman."

"A foreigner?"

"No, an Englishman, sir," was my man's reply. "I dare say if we go along
to Boscombe to-night, and watch the house, we might see him. He's up to
no good, I believe."

I readily adopted Rayner's suggestion.

As soon as darkness fell, we took the tram eastward, and at length
alighted at the end of a quiet road of comfortable red-brick villas, in
one of which Lola was residing, a road which ran from the highway
towards the sea.

Separating, I passed up the road, while my man waited at the corner. The
house of my friends stood in its own small garden, a neat, artistic
little red-and-white place with a long verandah in front and a pleasant
garden full of dahlias. As I passed it I saw that many of the rooms were
lit, and I was eager to go and ring at the door and meet Lola, after our
long separation.

But I remembered I was there to watch and to ward off any danger that
might threaten. Therefore I turned upon my heel, and finding a hedge,
behind which lay some vacant land, I hid myself behind it and waited,
wondering what had become of Rayner.

All was quiet, save for the rumble of electric trams passing along the
main road to Bournemouth. From where I lurked, smoking a cigarette, I
could hear a woman's sweet contralto voice singing gaily one of the
latest songs of the Paris Café concerts, which ran--


     "_C'est la femme aux bijoux,
     Celle qui rend fou,
     C'est une enjôleuse,
     Tous ceux qui l'ont aimée,
     Ont souffert, ont pleuré._

     _Ell' n'aime que l'argent,
     Se rit des serments,
     Prends garde à la gueuse!
     Le coeur n'est qu'un joujou,
     Pour la femme aux bijoux!_"


_La femme aux bijoux!_ The words fell upon my ears, causing me to
ponder. Was she not herself "_La femme aux bijoux_"! How strangely
appropriate was that merry _chanson_ which I had so often heard in
Paris, Brussels, and elsewhere.

Suddenly the train of my reflections was interrupted by the sound of a
light footstep coming in my direction, and, peering eagerly forth, I
discerned the figure of a rather smart-looking man advancing towards me.

I watched him come forward, tall and erect, into the light of the
street-lamp a little to my left. He was well dressed in a smart suit of
dark brown with well-creased trousers, and wore a soft Hungarian hat of
dark-brown plush. On his hands were wash-leather gloves and he carried a
gold-mounted stick.

As he came nearer I saw his face, and my heart gave a great leap. I
stared again, not being able to believe my own eyes!

Was it, indeed, any wonder? How would you, my reader, have felt in
similar circumstances? I ask, for the man who came past me, within a
couple of feet from where I stood concealed, all unconscious of my
presence, was no stranger.

It was Edward Craig--Edward Craig, risen from the dead!




CHAPTER XXV

IS MORE MYSTERIOUS


I stood there aghast, staggered, open-mouthed. The man was walking
slowly towards the house whence issued the gay _chanson_, the house
where, in the great bay window, shone a bright light across the tiny
strip of lawn which separated it from the roadway.

I watched him like a man in a dream. As he approached the house he trod
lightly on tip-toe, unaware of my presence behind the bushes. In a flash
the recollections of that strange affair by the North Sea, in Cromer,
recurred to me. I remembered that green-painted seat upon the cliff,
where the coast-guard, in the early dawn, had found him lying dead, of
his strange disguise, and of the coroner's inquiry which followed. I
remembered too, all too well, the puzzling incidents which followed; the
presence of the notorious Jeanjean in that quiet little cliff-resort;
the disappearance of the man of master-mind; the discovery of his hoard
of gold and gems, and how, subsequently, it had been spirited away in a
manner which had absolutely flabbergasted the astute members of the
Norfolk Constabulary, unused as they were to cases of ingenious crime.

Truly it was all amazing--utterly astounding.

I watched Craig's receding figure in startled wonder, holding my breath,
and trying to convince myself that I had been mistaken in some
resemblance.

But I was not. The man who had passed me was Edward Craig in the
flesh--the man upon whose death twelve honest tradesmen of Cromer had
delivered their verdict--the man who had been placed in his coffin and
buried.

Was ever there incident such as this, I wondered? Had ever man met with
a similar experience?

By the light of the street-lamp I saw him glance anxiously up and down
that quiet, dark road. Then satisfying himself that he was unobserved,
he crept in at the gate, crossed the lawn noiselessly, and peered in at
the window through the chink between the windowframe and the blind.

For fully five minutes he remained with his eyes glued to the window. In
the light which fell upon him I saw that his face had assumed an angry,
vengeful look, and that his gloved hands were clenched.

Yes. He certainly meant mischief. He was watching her as she sat, all
unconsciously, at the piano, singing the gay _chansons_ of the
boulevards, "Mimi d'Amour," "Le tic-tac du Moulin," "Petit Pierre," and
others, so popular in Paris at the moment.

The family of the retired excise-officer knew but little French, but
they evidently enjoyed the spontaneous gaiety of the songs.

That Edward Craig, after his mysterious death, should reappear as a
shadow in the night was certainly most astounding. At first I tried to
convince myself that only a strong resemblance existed, but his gait,
his figure, his face, the manner in which he held his cane, and the
slight angle at which he wore his hat--the angle affected by those
elegant young men who in these days are termed "nuts"--were all the
same.

Yes. It was Edward Craig and none other!

And yet, who was the man who so suddenly lost his life while
masquerading in the clothes of old Gregory Vernon?

Aye, that was the question.

With strained eyes I watched and saw him change his position in order to
obtain a better view of the interior of the room. There was no sign of
Rayner, who, I supposed, had not risked following him, knowing that I
was lurking close to the house.

That his intentions were evil ones I could not doubt, and yet the light
shining upon his countenance revealed a strange, almost fascinated
expression, as his eyes were fixed into the room, and upon her without a
doubt.

The music had not ceased. Her quick fingers were still running over the
keys, and in her sweet contralto she was singing the catching refrain--


     "_Mimi d'amour,
       Petite fleur jolie,
     Oui pour toujours
       Je t'ai donné ma vie.
     Les jours sont courts
       Grisons-nous, ma chérie,
     Petit' Mimi jolie,
       Mimi d'amour!_"


Her voice ceased, and, as it did so, the silent watcher crept away,
gaining the pavement and walking lightly in my direction.

As he passed, within a couple of feet of where I was concealed, I was
able to confirm my belief. There was no doubt as to his identity. By
this discovery the cliff-mystery at Cromer had become a more formidable
and astounding problem. Who could have been the actual victim? What
facts did Lola actually know?

So well organized and so far extended the ramifications of the criminal
association of which Gregory Vernon was the head and brains, that I
became bewildered.

I stood gazing over the hedge watching Craig disappear back towards the
main road, where at the corner a small red light now showed.

When he had got a safe distance from me, I emerged and, crossing the
road quickly, hastened after him. Rayner was in waiting and would, no
doubt, take up the chase.

Yet when he approached the corner I saw that he suddenly crossed to
where the red light showed, and entering the car, which was evidently
waiting for him, was driven swiftly off to the right in the direction of
Christchurch.

Rayner met me in breathless haste a few moments after the car had turned
the corner, saying--

"I didn't know that car was waiting for him, sir. It only pulled up a
moment ago."

"Was anybody in it?"

"Only the driver."

"Did you take the number?"

"Yes, sir. It's local, we'll soon find out its owner."

"You must do so," I said. "The police will help you. But do you know who
that man was?"

"No, sir. He's a stranger to me," Rayner replied.

"Well," I said, "he's Edward Craig."

"Edward Craig!" echoed Rayner, staring at me as we stood at the street
corner together. "Why, that's the man who was murdered at Cromer!"

"The same."

"But he died. An inquest was held."

"I tell you, Rayner, that Edward Craig--the man who is supposed to be
nephew of old Gregory Vernon--is still alive. I could identify him among
ten thousand."

Rayner was silent. Then at last he said--

"Well, sir, that's utterly astounding. Who, then, was the man who was
killed?"

"That's just what we have to discover," I replied. "We must find out,
too, why he wore old Vernon's clothes on that fatal night."

Thoughts of the footprint, and the tiny shoe which had so exactly fitted
it, arose within me, but I kept my own counsel and said nothing.

Having told Rayner to inquire of the police regarding the mysterious
car, and to return to the hotel and await me, I retraced my steps along
that quiet, eminently respectable road, inhabited mostly by retired
tradespeople from London or the North of England, who live in their
"model" villas or "ideal homes" so pleasantly situated, after the smoke
and bustle of business life.

When I entered the pretty little drawing-room where Lola was, she sprang
to her feet to receive me, holding out her small white hand in glad
welcome.

In her smiling, sweet face was a far healthier look than when I had
taken leave of her, and returned to London, and in reply to my question,
she declared that she felt much stronger. The sea air had done her an
immense amount of good. Yes, she was a delightful little person who had
been ever in my thoughts.

She anxiously inquired after my health, but I laughingly declared that I
was now quite right again.

Her hostess, Mrs. Featherstone, with her daughter, Winifred, and a young
fellow to whom the latter was engaged, were present, so I sat down for a
chat, all four being apparently delighted by my unexpected visit. Mr.
Featherstone had, I found, gone to London that morning and would not
return for three days.

Presently mother and daughter, and the young man, probably knowing that
I wished to speak with Mademoiselle alone, made excuses and left the
room.

Then when the door had closed I rose and walked over to where Lola, in a
simple semi-evening gown of soft cream silk, was reclining in an
arm-chair, her neat little shoes placed upon a velvet footstool.

"To-night," I said in a low voice in French, as I stood near her chair,
my hand resting upon it. "To-night, Lola, I have made a very startling
discovery."

"A discovery!" she exclaimed, instantly interested. "What?"

"Edward Craig is still alive!" I answered. "He did not die in Cromer, as
we have all believed."

"Edward Craig!" she echoed, amazed. "How do you know? I--I mean--_mon
Dieu_!--it's impossible!"

"It seems impossible, but it is, nevertheless, a fact, Lola," I declared
in a low, earnest tone as I bent towards her. I had watched her face
and, by its expression, knew the truth. "And you," I added, slowly,
"have been aware of this all along."

"I--I----" she faltered in French, opening her big blue eyes widely, as
the colour mounted to her cheeks in her confusion.

"No," I interrupted, raising my hand in protest. "Please do not deny
it. You have known that Craig did not die, Lola. You may as well, at
once, admit your knowledge."

"Certainement, I have not denied it," was her low reply.

"How did you know he was alive?" I asked.

"Well," and then she hesitated. But, after a few seconds' reflection,
she went on: "After that affair at Lobenski's in Petersburg, I was
leaving at night for Berlin, by the Ostend rapide, with some of the
stolen stones sewn in my dress, as I told you, when, just as the train
moved off from the platform, I fancied I caught sight of him. But only
for a second. Then, when I came to consider all the facts, I felt
convinced that my eyes must have deceived me. Edward Craig was dead and
buried, and the man on the railway platform must have only borne some
slight resemblance to him."

Was she deceiving me? I wondered.

"Have you since seen the same man anywhere else?" I asked her,
seriously.

"Well, yes," she replied slowly. "Curiously enough, I saw the same
person once in Paris, and again in London. I was in a taxi going along
Knightsbridge on the afternoon of the day when I afterwards walked so
innocently into the trap at Spring Grove. He was just coming out of the
post-office in Knightsbridge, but did not notice me as I passed. I
turned to look at him a second time, but he had gone in the opposite
direction and his back was towards me. Yet I felt certain that he was
actually the same man whom I had seen as the Ostend Express had left
Petersburg. And now," she added, looking straight into my eyes, "you
tell me that Edward Craig still lives!"

"He does. And he has been here--at this house--to-night!"

"At this house!" gasped the Nightingale, starting instantly to her feet,
her face as pale as death.

"Yes. He has been standing on the lawn outside, peering in at this
window, watching you seated at the piano," I explained.

"Watching me!"

"Yes," I replied. "And, if my surmise is correct, he is certainly no
friend of yours. He has watched you during the _coup_ in Petersburg,
again in Paris, and in London, and now he has discovered your
hiding-place," I answered. "What does it all mean?"

Deathly pale, with thin, quivering lips, and hands clasped helplessly
before her, she stood there in an attitude of deadly fear, of blank
despair.

"Yes," she whispered in a low, strained voice, full of apprehension. "I
believed that he was dead, that----"

But she halted, as if suddenly recollecting that her words might betray
her. Her bosom, beneath the laces of her corsage, rose and fell
convulsively.

"That--what?" I asked in a soft, sympathetic voice, placing my hand
tenderly upon her shoulder, and looking into her wonderful eyes.

"Oh! I--I----" she exclaimed in a half-choked voice. "I thought him
dead. But now, alas! I find that my suspicions are well grounded. He is
alive--and he has actually been here!"

"Then you are in fear of him--in deadly fear, Lola," I said. "Why?" And
I looked straight at my dainty little friend.

She tried to make response, but though her white lips moved no sound
escaped them. I saw how upset and overwrought she was by the amazing
information I had conveyed to her.

"Tell me the truth, Lola--the truth of what happened in Cromer," I
urged, my hand still upon her shoulder. "Do not withhold it from me.
Remember, I am your friend, your most devoted friend."

She trembled at my question.

"If the dead man was not Edward Craig, then, who was he?" I asked, as
she had made no reply.

"How can I tell?" she asked in French. "I thought it was Craig. Was he
not identified as Craig and buried as him?"

"Certainly. And I, too, most certainly believed the body to be that of
Craig," I answered.

For a few moments there was a dead silence. Then I repeated my question.
I could see that she feared that young man's visit even more than she
did either her uncle or the old scoundrel Vernon.

For some mysterious reason the fact that Craig still lived held her in
breathless suspense and apprehension.

"Lola," I said at last, speaking very earnestly and sympathetically, "am
I correct in my surmise that this man, whom both you and I have believed
to be in his grave, is in possession of some secret of yours--some
weighty secret? Tell me frankly."

For answer she slowly nodded, and next moment burst into a torrent of
hot, bitter tears, saying, in a faltering voice, scarce above a
whisper--

"Yes, alas! M'sieur Vidal. He--he is in possession of my
secret--and--and the past has risen against me!"




CHAPTER XXVI

HOT-FOOT ACROSS EUROPE


By Lola's attitude I became more than ever mystified. I tried to induce
her to tell me the exact position of affairs, but she seemed far too
nervous and unstrung. The fact that Craig had found out her hiding-place
seemed to cause her the most breathless anxiety.

That he knew some guilty secret of hers seemed plain.

It was eleven o'clock before I rose to go, after begging her many times
in vain to tell me the truth. I felt confident that she could reveal
the strange mystery of Cromer, yet she steadfastly refused.

"You surely see, Lola, that we are both in serious peril," I said,
standing before the chair upon which she had sunk in deep dejection.
"These daring, unscrupulous people must, sooner or later, make a fatal
attack upon us, if we do not deliver our blow against them. To invoke
the aid or protection of the police is useless. They set all authority
at defiance, for they are wealthy, and the ramifications of their
society extend all over Europe."

"I know," she admitted. "Vernon has agents in every country. I have met
many of them--quite unsuspicious persons. My uncle has introduced me to
people at whose apparent honesty and respectability I have been amazed."

"Then you must surely realize how insecure is the present position of
both of us," I said.

"I do. But disaster cannot be averted," was her sorrowful response.

"Unless you unite with me in avenging the attack made upon us at Spring
Grove."

"What is the use?" she queried. "They have all left London."

"What?" I exclaimed quickly. "You know that?"

"Yes," she replied. "I know they have."

"How?"

"By an advertisement I saw in the paper three days ago," she answered.
"They use a certain column of a certain paper on a certain day to
distribute general information to all those interested."

"In a code?"

"In a secret cipher--known only to the friends of M'sieur Vernon," she
said. "They always look for his orders or his warnings on the eighteenth
of each month. My uncle is back at Algiers."

"Where is Vernon?"

"Ah! I do not know. Perhaps he is with my uncle."

"But the young man, Craig. Why is he watching you? It can only be with
evil intent."

She drew a long breath, but said nothing. And to all my further
questions she remained dumb, so that when I bent over her outstretched
hand and left, I felt annoyed at her resolute secrecy--a secrecy which
must, I felt, result fatally.

And yet by her manner I was confident that she was still prevented by
fear from revealing everything to me. Yes, after all, I pitied her
deeply.

At the _Grand_ I found Rayner awaiting me. He had already learnt from
the police that the car in which Craig had driven away belonged to a
garage in Bournemouth.

On going there he had found the car had just returned. It had been hired
for the evening by Craig himself, who had first driven out to Boscombe
and was afterwards driven to Christchurch, where he had caught the
express for London.

He had, therefore, gone.

This news I scribbled in a note to Lola, and before midnight Rayner had
delivered it at Mr. Featherstone's house.

Then I retired to rest full of strange thoughts and serious
apprehensions. The revelations of that night had indeed been astounding.
Craig was alive, and his intentions were, undoubtedly, sinister ones.

But who was the man who had met with such a mysterious death and had
been buried as "Mr. Gregory's nephew?"

At eleven o'clock next morning I took the tram along to Boscombe and
rang at the door of the house where my delightful little friend was
living.

The neat maid who answered amazed me by saying--

"Mademoiselle left for London by the eight o'clock train this morning,
sir. She packed all her things after you left last night, and ordered a
cab by telephone."

"Didn't she leave me any message?" I asked Mrs. Featherstone, when I
saw her a few moments later.

"No, none, Mr. Vidal," replied the old lady. "After you had gone, and
she received your note, she became suddenly very terrified, why, I don't
know. Then she packed, and though we tried to persuade her to stay till
you called, she declined. All she said, besides thanking us, was that
she would write to you."

"Most extraordinary!" I exclaimed. "I wonder what caused her such sudden
fear?"

Could it have been that she had discovered any one else watching the
house? Strange, I thought, that she had not sent me word of her intended
departure. She could so easily have spoken to me on the telephone.

Well, two hours later, I followed her to London, and began an inquiry of
hotels where I knew she had stayed on previous occasions--the _Cecil_,
the _Savoy_, the _Carlton_, the _Metropole_, the _Grand_, and so forth.
But though I spent a couple of hours on the telephone, speaking with
various reception clerks, I could get no news of Mademoiselle Sorel.

Yet, was it surprising? She would hardly, in the circumstances, stay in
London in her own name.

Ten days went by. By each post I expected news of Lola, but none came,
and I felt confident that she had gone abroad.

I wired and wrote to Mademoiselle Elise Leblanc, at the Poste Restante
at Versailles. But I obtained no reply. At last I went down to Cromer
and remained at the _Hôtel de Paris_ for nearly a week, carefully going
over all the details of the mystery with Mr. Day and Inspector Treeton,
who were, of course, both as much puzzled as I was myself.

The autumn weather was perfect. The holiday crowd had left, and Cromer
looked her brightest and best in the glorious sunshine and golden tints
of the declining year. On the links I played one or two most enjoyable
rounds, and once or twice I sat outside the Golf Club and smoked and
chatted with men I knew in London.

Daily I wondered what had become of Lola.

Time after time I visited that green-painted seat near which the dead
man had been found and where I had discovered the imprint of Lola's
shoe. But, beyond what I have already recorded in the foregoing pages, I
could discover absolutely nothing. The identity of the man who had
masqueraded in the clothes of the master-criminal was entirely
enshrouded in mystery.

The law had buried Edward Craig, and in the cemetery, on the road to
Holt was a plain head-stone bearing his name and the date of his death.

How could I have been mistaken in his identity? That was the chief fact
which held me puzzled and confused. I had looked upon his face, as
others had done, and all had agreed that the man who died was actually
Craig.

I told Treeton nothing of my discovery, but one day, as I stood at the
window of the hotel gazing across the sea, I made a sudden resolve, and
that evening I found myself back again in my rooms in London, with
Rayner packing my traps for a trip across the Channel.

My one most deadly fear was that Lola might, already, have fallen into
one or other of the pitfalls which were, no doubt, spread open for her.
The crafty, unscrupulous gang, with Vernon at their head, were
determined that we both should die.

On the morning of my arrival from Cromer I left Charing Cross by the
boat-train, and that same evening entered the long, dusty _wagon-lit_ of
the night rapide for Marseilles.

Marseilles! How many times in my life had I trod the broad Cannebière,
drank cocktails at the Louvre et Paix, ate my boullibuisse at the little
underground café, where the best in the world is served, or sauntered
along the double row of booths placed under the trees of the
boulevard--shops where one can buy anything from a toothpick to a
kitchen-stove. Yes, even to the blasé cosmopolitan, Marseilles is always
interesting, and as I drove along from the station up the Cannebière, I
found the place full of life and movement, with the masts of shipping
and glimpses of huge docks showing at the end of the broad, handsome
thoroughfare.

From the station I drove direct to the big black mail-boat of the French
Transatlantic Company, and by noon we had swung out of the harbour past
the historic Château d'If, our bows set due south, for Algiers. Lola had
told me that Jeanjean had fled to his hiding-place. And I intended to
seek him and face him.

There were few passengers on board--one or two French officers on their
way to join their regiments, a few commercial men; while in the third
class I saw more than one squatting, brown-faced Arab, picturesque in
his white burnouse and turban, placidly smoking, with his belongings
tied in bundles arranged around him on the deck. The sea in the Gulf of
Lyons was rough, as it usually is, yet the bright autumn weather on land
had seemed perfect. As soon, however, as we were away from the gulf and
in the open sea, following for hours in the wake of an Orient liner on
her way to Australia, the weather abated and the voyage became most
enjoyable.

As a student of men, I found the passengers in the steerage far more
interesting than those in the saloon. Among the former was a knot of
young, active-looking men of various nationalities, who leaned over the
side watching the crimson sunset, and smoking and chattering, sometimes
trying to make each other understand. I saw they were in charge of a
military officer, and one of them being a smart, rather gentlemanly
young Englishman--the only other Englishman on board, as far as I could
gather--I spoke to him.

"Yes," he laughed, "my comrades here are rather a queer lot. We've all
of us come to grief in one way or another. Bad luck, that's it. I speak
for myself. I had a commission in the Hussars, but the gambling fever
bit me hard, and I went a little too often to Dick Seddon's snug little
place in Knightsbridge. Then I came a cropper, the governor cut up
rough, and there was only one thing left to do--to hand in my papers, go
to Paris, and join the French Foreign Legion. So, here I am, drafted to
Algeria as a private with my friends, who are all in the same glorious
predicament. See that fair-bearded chap over there?" he added, pointing
to a well-set-up man of thirty-five who was just lighting a cigarette.
"He's a German Baron, captain of one of the crack regiments in
Saxony--quite a decent chap--a woman, I think, is at the bottom of his
trouble."

And so, while the Arabs knelt towards Mecca, and touched the decks with
their foreheads, we chatted on, he telling me what he knew concerning
each of his hard-up companions who, under names not their own, were now
on their way to serve France, as privates, in the "Legion of the Lost
Ones," and start their careers afresh.

At last, after a couple of days, the blue coast of Africa could be
discerned straight ahead, and gradually, as I stood leaning upon the
rail and watching, the long white front of Algiers, with its breakwater,
its white domes of mosques, and high minarets, and its heights crowned
by white villas, came into view.

The city, dazzling white against the intense blue of the Mediterranean,
presented a picture like the illustration to a fairy tale, and I stood
watching, the sunny strip of African shore until at last we dropped
anchor in the shelter of the bay, and presently went ashore in a boat.

I followed my traps across the sun-baked promenade to the nearest
hotel--the old-fashioned _Régence_, in The Place--and after a wash, and
a marzagran at the café outside, I inquired my way to the Prefecture of
Police, where, on presenting an open letter, which Henri Jonet, of the
_Sûreté_, had given me a couple of years before, and which had often
served as an introduction, I was received very cordially.

To the French detective-inspector I said--

"I am making an inquiry, and I want, M'sieur, to ask you to allow me to
have one of your men. I am meeting an individual who may prove
desperate."

"There is danger--eh? Why, of course, M'sieur, a man shall accompany
you." And he shouted through the open window to one of his underlings
who was seated on a bench in the inner courtyard.

I made no mention of the name of Jules Jeanjean. Had I done so the
effect would, I know, have been electrical.

But when I got outside with the dark-eyed, sunburnt little man in a
shabby straw hat and rather frayed suit, I exclaimed in French--

"There is a villa somewhere outside the town where some experiments in
wireless telegraphy are being conducted. Do you happen to know the
place?"

"Ah! M'sieur means the Villa Beni Hassan, out near the Jardin d'Essai.
There are two high masts in the grounds with four long wires suspended
between them."

"Who lives there?"

"The Comte Paul d'Esneux."

"Is he French?" I asked, at the same time inquiring his description.

From the latter, as the detective gave it to me, I at once knew that the
Comte d'Esneux and Jules Jeanjean were one and the same.

"Non, Monsieur," replied the man. "He is a great Belgian financier. He
comes here at frequent intervals, and carries on his experiments with
wireless telegraphy. It is said that he has made several discoveries in
wireless telephony, hence the Government have given him permission to
establish a station with as great a power as that at Oran."

"And he is often experimenting?"

"Constantly. It is said that he can actually transmit messages to Paris
and England. Last year, when the station at Oran was injured by fire,
the Government operators came here, took his instruments over and
worked them. The installation is, I believe, most up-to-date."

"_Bien!_" I said. "Then let us go up there, and see this Comte
d'Esneux."

And together we entered a ramshackle fiacre in The Place, and drove away
out by the city gate to the white, dusty high-road, along which many
white-robed Arabs and a few Europeans were trudging in the burning glare
of the African sun.

When I had mentioned the Count as the person whom I wished to see, I
noticed that the detective hesitated, and, with a strange look, regarded
me with some apprehension.

Did he suspect? Was he suspicious of the truth concerning the actual
identity of the wealthy Belgian financier who dabbled in wireless?

Were rumours already afloat, I wondered?

Had the ever-active Jonet at last succeeded in establishing the secret
hiding-place of the notorious Jules Jeanjean--the prince of European
jewel-thieves?




CHAPTER XXVII

OPENS A DEATH-TRAP


The Villa Beni Hassan, a great red-and-white house of Moorish
architecture, with three large domes, and many minarets, and long-arched
windows of stained glass, I found standing high up, facing the azure
sea, amid a wonderful tropical garden full of tall, feathery palms, dark
oleanders, fiery pointsettias, and a perfect tangle of aloes, roses,
giant geraniums and other brilliant flowers.

A high white wall hid it from the dusty highway, its position being
between the road and the sea with spacious, well-kept grounds sloping
away down to the golden beach. Truly it was a princely residence, one of
the finest in the picturesque suburbs of Algiers. That afternoon beneath
the blazing African sun, shining like burnished copper, all was still in
the fiery heat, which, after the coolness of autumn in England, seemed
overpowering.

At length the ricketty fiacre pulled up before great gates of ornamental
iron-work, the tops of which were gilded, and on ringing, a gigantic
Arab janitor in blue and gold livery appeared from the concierge's
lodge, and salaamed.

In Arabic my companion explained that we wished to see the Comte,
whereupon he opened the gates, and on foot we proceeded up the winding,
well-kept drive, bordered by flowers, and shaded by palms of various
species. On our left, across a sun-baked lawn, in the centre of which a
big handsome fountain was playing, I caught sight of an aerial mast of
iron lattice nearly a hundred feet high, and across from it to another
similar mast were suspended four thin wires, kept apart by wooden
crosses.

I held my breath. I was actually upon the domain of the most daring
criminal known to the European police.

"There are the wires of the wireless station," the detective exclaimed.
"But why, M'sieur, do you wish to see the Comte?" he asked with sudden
curiosity.

"To ask him a plain question," was my brief and, I fear, rather snappish
reply. "But tell me," I added, "have you ever seen his niece here
visiting him?"

"Mademoiselle Sorel, M'sieur means. Yes, certainly. She has often been
here--young, about nineteen--_très petite_, and very pretty. She lives
in Paris."

"Yes. When was she here last?"

"Ah! I have not seen her here for several months," replied the man in
the shabby straw hat. "I saw the Comte only yesterday. I was in Mustapha
Pasha when he went past in his grey automobile. He had with him the
tall elderly Englishman who sometimes visits here, a M'sieur Vernon, I
think, is his name."

"Vernon!" I exclaimed with quick satisfaction. "Is he here?"

"I believe so, M'sieur. He was here yesterday."

As he uttered the words we turned the corner, and the great white
Moorish house, with the broad dark-red bands upon the walls, and
dark-red decorations over the arched corridors, came into view.

Boldly we approached the front door, before which was a great arched
portico lined with dark-blue tiles, delightfully cool after the sun
without. Yet scarcely had we placed our feet upon the threshold when a
tall servant, with face jet-black and three scars upon his cheeks, his
tribal marks, stood before us with a look of inquiry, silently barring
our further passage.

Beyond we saw a cool courtyard, where vine were trailing overhead, and
water plashed pleasantly into a marble basin.

Again the detective explained that we wished to see the Comte d'Esneux,
whereupon the silent servant, bowing, motioned us to enter a small
elegantly furnished room on the left of the courtyard, and then
disappeared, closing the door after him.

The room, panelled in cedar-wood, was Moorish in character, the light
filtering in through long windows of stained glass. Around the vaulted
ceiling was a symmetrical device in Arabesque in gold, red and blue,
while about the place were soft Moorish divans and silken cushions, with
rich rugs on the floor, and a heavy brass arabesque lamp suspended from
the centre of the ornamented ceiling. The place was full of the subtlest
perfume of burning pastilles, and, in a cabinet, I noted a collection of
rare Arab gold and silver jewellery.

And this was the home of the motor-bandit of the Forest of
Fontainebleau--the man who had shot dead the Paris jeweller, Benoy, with
as little compunction as he killed a fly.

I strode around the room, bewildered by its Arabian Nights aspect.
Truly Jules Jeanjean lived in a style befitting an Eastern Prince.

"Hush!" I exclaimed, and we both listened to a loud crackling. "That," I
said, "is the sound of wireless telegraphy. A message is being sent out
across the sea."

Jeanjean was evidently in a room in the vicinity.

Suddenly the noise ceased. The door-keeper, who had not asked our names,
had evidently sent in the message that two strangers desired to see his
master.

But it was only a pause, for in a few seconds the message was resumed. I
could easily distinguish the long and short cracks of the spark across
the gap, as the electric waves were sent into the ether over the
Mediterranean to Europe.

I happen to know the Continental Morse code, for I had dabbled in
wireless telegraphy two years before. So I stood with strained ears
trying to decipher the tapped-out message. I heard that it was directed
to some station the call-letters of which were "B. X." But the message
was a mere jumble of letters and numerals of some pre-arranged code.

I listened attentively till I heard the rapid short sound followed by
four long sounds, and another short one, which indicated the conclusion
of the message.

Then we both waited breathlessly. Who was B. X., I wondered?

I felt myself upon the verge of a great and effective triumph. I would
give Jeanjean into custody upon a charge of murder, and if Vernon were
still there, he should also be captured at the point of the revolver.

Those seconds seemed hours.

In a whisper I urged my companion to hold himself in readiness for a
great surprise, and to have his revolver handy--which he had.

I laughed within myself at the great surprise the pair would have.

The heavy atmosphere of the room where, from a big old bowl of brass
with a pierced cover, ascended the blue smoke of perfume being burnt
upon charcoal ashes, became almost unbearable. The pastilles as burnt by
the Orientals is pleasing to the nostrils unless some foreign matter be
mixed with them, or the smoke is not allowed to escape. In this case the
round-headed stained glass windows were fully twelve feet from the
ground, had wire-work in front of them, and apparently did not open. The
designs of dark-blue, purple, red and yellow were very elegant, and they
were probably very ancient windows brought from some fairy-like palace
of the days before the occupation of Algeria by the French.

Again I gazed around the delightfully luxurious apartment, so
essentially Moorish and artistic. Amid such surroundings had lived
Lola--the girl who had fled from me and disappeared.

What would the world say when it became known that that magnificent
house, almost indeed a palace, was the home of the man of a hundred
crimes, the daring and unscrupulous criminal, Jules Jeanjean?

I was listening for a repetition of the wireless signals to B.X., but
could distinguish nothing. Probably he was receiving their reply, in
which case there would be no sounds except in the head-telephones.

"_Mon Dieu!_" gasped my companion, whose name he had told me was
Fournier. "This atmosphere is becoming suffocating!"

I agreed, and tried to extinguish the fire within the brazier.
Unfortunately I failed to open the lid, which was held down by some
spring the catch of which I could not detect.

Indeed, the thin column of blue smoke grew darker and denser, as we
watched. The room became full of a perfume which gradually changed to a
curious odour which suffocated us.

We both coughed violently, and upon me grew the feeling that I was being
asphyxiated. My throat became contracted, my eyes smarted, and I could
only take short, quick gasps.

"Let's get out of this," I exclaimed, reaching to open the door.

But it was locked.

We were caught like rats in a trap.

In an instant we both realized that we were imprisoned, and began to
bang violently upon the heavy doors of iron-bound and unpolished oak,
shouting to be let out. The fool of an Arab had secured us there while
he went to announce our visit to his master.

I took up a small ebony and pearl coffee-table inlaid with a verse from
the Koran, and raising it frantically above my head, attacked the locked
door. But when it struck the oak it flew into a dozen pieces. Fournier
took up a small chair with equally futile result, and then in silence we
exchanged glances.

Could it be, that on our approach to the house, we had been recognized
by the owner and invited into that room which, with its rising fumes,
was nothing less than an ingenious death-trap.

I remembered the sinister grin upon the villainous black face of the
silent servant.

Again and again we attacked the door, for we knew that our lives
depended upon our escape. We shouted, yelled and banged, but attracted
no attention. We threw things at the windows, but they were protected by
the wire-work.

Then a sudden thought occurred to me.

Swiftly I bent down and examined the large keyhole. The key had been
taken and, it seemed to me, the heavy bolt of the lock had been shot
into a deep socket in the framework of the door.

Without a word I motioned Fournier to stand back, and finding that the
barrel of my revolver was, fortunately, small enough to insert into the
keyhole, I pushed it in and pulled the trigger.

A loud explosion followed, and splinters of wood and iron flew in all
directions. The bolt of the lock was blown away and the door forced
open.

Next second, with revolvers in our hands, we stood facing two black
faced servants, who drew back in alarm as we rushed from that lethal
chamber.

Fournier, excited as a Frenchman naturally would be in such
circumstances, raised his weapon and shouted in Arabic that he was a
police-officer, and that all persons in that house were to consider
themselves under arrest. Whereupon both men, Moors they were most
probably, fell upon their knees begging for mercy.

My companion exchanged some quick words with them, and they entered into
a conversation, while at the same moment, casting my eyes across the
beautiful, blue-tiled, vaulted hall, I looked through an open door into
the room which the Count d'Esneux used for his experiments in wireless.

At a glance I recognized, by the variety of the apparatus, the size of
the great spiral transmitting helix, by the pattern of the loose-coupled
tuning inductance, the big variable condensers, those strange-looking
circular instruments of zinc vanes enclosed in a round glass, used for
receiving, the electrolytic detector, and the big crystal detector, a
gold point working over silicon, carborundum, galena, and copper
pyrites--that the station must have a very wide range. The spark-gap was
bigger than any I had ever before seen, while there was a long loading
coil enabling any distant station using long wave-lengths to be picked
up, as well as the latest type of potentiometer, used to regulate the
voltage and current supplied to the detectors.

At a glance I took in the whole arrangement, placed as it was, upon a
long table beneath a window of stained glass at the further end of that
luxurious little Moorish chamber. Apparently no cost had been spared in
its installation, and I fully believed that with it the notorious
criminal could communicate with any station within a radius of, perhaps,
two thousand miles.

Fournier had questioned the native servants rapidly, and received their
replies, which were at first unsatisfactory. I saw by the fear in their
faces that he had threatened them, when suddenly one of them excitedly
made a statement.

"_Diable!_" cried the detective in French, turning to me. "The Count
recognized us, and had us locked in that death-chamber while he and the
Englishman, M'sieur Vernon, got away!"

"Escaped!" I gasped in dismay. "Then let us follow."

A quick word in Arabic, and the two servants, without further
reluctance, dashed away along the big hall, through several
luxuriously-furnished rooms full of soft divans, where the air was heavy
with Eastern perfumes and the decorations were mostly in dark red and
blue. Then across a small cool courtyard paved with polished marble,
where another fountain plashed, and out to the sun-baked palm-grove
which sloped from the front of the house away to the calm sapphire sea.

Excitedly the men pointed, as we stood upon the marble terrace, to a
white speck far away along the broken coast of pale brown rocks, a speck
fast receding around the next point, behind which was hidden the harbour
of Algiers.

"By Gad!" I cried, gazing eagerly after it, "that's a motor-boat, and
they are making for the town! We mustn't lose an instant or they will
get away to some place of safety."

So together we dashed back to the road as fast as our legs could carry
us, and drove with all possible speed back to the town, in order to
reach the harbour before the fugitives could land.




CHAPTER XXVIII

DESCRIBES A CHASE


The driver, with the southerner's disregard of the feelings of animals,
lashed his weedy horse into a gallop, as up-hill and down-hill we sped,
back to the town.

Entering the city gate, the man scattered the dogs and foot-passengers
by his warning yells in Arabic, until at last we were down upon the
long, semi-circular quay, our eager eyes looking over the blue, sun-lit
sea.

No sign could we discern of the motor-boat, but Fournier, with his hand
uplifted, cried--

"See! Look at that white steam-yacht at the end of the Mole--the long,
low-built one. That belongs to the Count. Perhaps he has already boarded
her!"

I looked in the direction my companion indicated, and there saw lying
anchored about half a mile from the shore a small white-painted yacht,
built so low that her decks were almost awash, with two rakish-looking
funnels, and a light mast at either end with a wireless telegraph
suspended between them. The French tricolour was flying at the stern.

From the funnels smoke was issuing, and from where I stood, I could see
men running backwards and forwards.

"She's getting under weigh," I cried. "The fugitives must be aboard. We
must stop them."

"How can we?" asked the Frenchman, dismayed. "Besides, why should
we--except that we were nearly suffocated in that room."

"That man you know as the Comte d'Esneux is the most dangerous criminal
in all Europe," I told him. "To the Prefecture of Police in Paris--to
you in Algiers also--he is known as Jules Jeanjean!"

"Jules Jeanjean!" choked out the man in the shabby straw hat. "Is that
the actual truth, M'sieur?"

"It is," I replied. "And now you know the cause of my anxiety."

"Why, there is a reward of four hundred thousand francs for his capture,
offered by companies who have insured jewels he has stolen," he cried.

"I know. Now, what shall we do?" I asked, feeling myself helpless, for
at that moment I saw the motor-boat draw away from the yacht, with only
one occupant, the man driving the engine. It had turned and was speeding
along the coast back in the direction of the villa, white foam rising at
its elevated bows.

"What can we do?" queried my companion. "That yacht is the fastest
privately owned craft in the Mediterranean. It is the _Carlo Alberta_,
the Italian torpedo-boat built at Spezzia two years ago. Because it did
not quite fulfil the specifications, it was disarmed and sold. The Count
purchased her, and turned her into a yacht."

"But surely there must be some craft on which we could follow?" I
exclaimed. "Let's see."

We drove down to the port, and after a few rapid inquiries at the bureau
of the harbour-master, found that there was lying beyond the Mole, a big
steam-yacht belonging to an American railway magnate named Veale. The
owner and some ladies were on board, and he might perhaps assist the
police and give chase.

Quickly we were aboard the fast motor-boat belonging to the harbour
authorities, but ere we had set out, the _Carlo Alberta_, with long
lines of black smoke issuing from her funnels, had weighed anchor and
was slowly steaming away.

Silas J. Veale, of the New York Central Railroad, a tall, very thin,
very bald-headed man in a smart yachting suit, greeted us pleasantly
when we boarded his splendid yacht. When he heard our appeal he entered
into the adventure with spirit and gave the order to sail at once.

Beside us, on his own broad white deck, he stood scanning the
low-built, rapidly disappearing _Carlo Alberta_ through his binoculars.

"Guess they'll be able to travel some! We'll have all our work cut out
if we mean to keep touch with them. Never mind. We'll see what the old
_Viking_ can do."

Then he shouted another order to his captain, a red-whiskered American,
urging him to "hurry up and get a move on!"

As we stood there, three ladies, his wife and two daughters, the latter
respectively about twenty-two and twenty, all of them in yachting
costumes, came and joined us, eagerly inquiring whither we were bound.

"Don't know, Jenny," he replied to his wife. "We're just following a
couple of crooks who've got slick away in that two-funnelled boat
yonder, and we mean to keep in touch with them till they land. That's
all."

"Then we're leaving Algiers!" exclaimed the younger girl regretfully.

"Looks like it, Sadie," was his reply. "The police have requested our
aid, an' we can't very well refuse it." Then turning to me he exclaimed,
"Say, I wonder where they're making for?"

"They are the most elusive pair of thieves in Europe," I replied. "They
are certain to get away if we do not exercise the greatest caution."

The ladies grew most excited, and as the vessel began at last to move
through the water, the chief officer shouting at her men, the girl whose
name was Sadie, a smart, rather good-looking little person, though
typically American, exclaimed to me, as she fixed her grey eyes on the
fleeing vessel--

"Do you think they are faster than we are?"

"I fear so," was my reply. "But your father has promised to do his
best."

"What crime is alleged against the men?" inquired Mrs. Veale, in a
high-pitched, nasal tone.

"Murder," replied Fournier, in French, understanding English, but never
speaking it.

"Murder!" all three ladies echoed in unison. "How exciting!"

And exciting that chase proved. Old Mr. Veale entered thoroughly into
the spirit of the adventure. With Fournier, I took off my coat and,
descending to the engine-room, assisted to stoke, we having put to sea
short-handed, three men being ashore. Amateur stoking, of course, is not
conducive to speed, but Veale himself, his coat also off, and perspiring
freely, directed our efforts.

Still our speed was not up to what it should have been. Therefore the
owner of the yacht went along to the storeroom, and dragging out sides
of cured bacon, chopped them up, and with the pieces fed the furnaces,
until we got up sufficient steam-pressure, and were moving through the
calm, sun-lit waters at the maximum speed the fine yacht had attained on
her trials.

As the golden sun sank away in the direction of Gibraltar, the fugitive
vessel held on her course to the north-east, straight to where the
nightclouds were rising upon the horizon. Far away we could see the long
line of black smoke lying out behind her upon the glassy sea. And though
we had every ounce of pressure in our boilers, yet with heart-sinking we
watched her slowly but very surely, getting further and further away
from us, growing smaller as each half-hour passed.

The fiery sun sank into the glassy sea, and was followed by a wonderful
crimson afterglow, which shone upon our anxious faces as, ever and anon,
we left our work in the stifling stokehold, and went on deck for a
breath of fresh air.

Fournier's face was grimy with coal-dust, and so was mine, while Veale
himself also took his turn in handling the shovel.

The chase was full of wildest excitement, which was certainly shared by
the three ladies, to whom the hunting of criminals was a decided
novelty.

With the aid of a whisky and soda now and then, and on odd ham
sandwich, we worked far into the night.

The captain reported that before darkness had fallen the _Carlo Alberta_
had, according to the laws of navigation, put up her lights. But an hour
after the darkness became complete she must have either extinguished
them or had passed through a bank of mist. For fully half an hour
nothing was seen of the lights, though most of the men on board were
eagerly on the watch for a sight of them. Suddenly, however, they again
reappeared.

Then our captain, after consultation with Mr. Veale, decided to try a
ruse. He extinguished every light in the ship, but still held on his
course, following the distant yacht. For quite an hour we went
full-speed ahead with all lights extinguished, keeping an active
look-out for shipping, or for obstacles.

We did this in order that the fugitives should believe we had given up
the chase. Though their vessel was so fast, it was apparent that
something must have happened to them, for they had not drawn away from
us so far as we had expected. An ordinary steam-yacht, however swift she
may be, can never hold her own with a destroyer.

"Guess she's got engine-trouble," remarked the American captain as I
stood with him upon the bridge, peering into the darkness. "We may
overhaul her yet if you gentlemen keep the furnaces a-going as you have
been. Hot job, ain't it?"

"Rather," I laughed. "But I don't mind as long as we can get alongside
that boat." And then I returned to my place in the stokehold, perspiring
so freely that I had not a stitch of dry clothing upon me.

Half an hour later I was again on deck for a blow, and saw that the
fugitive steamer had perceptibly increased the distance between us. Had
her engines been working well she would, no doubt, have been well out of
sight two hours after we had left Algiers. Yet, as it was, we were still
following in her wake, all our lights out, so that in the darkness she
could not see us following.

The whole of that night was an exciting one. All of us worked at the
furnaces with a will, pouring in coal to keep up every ounce of steam of
which our boilers were capable. No one slept, and Mrs. Veale, now as
excited as the rest, brought us big draughts of tea below.

In the stokehold the heat became unbearable. I was not used to such a
temperature, neither were the railway magnate nor the detective. The
latter was all eagerness now that he knew who was on board the vessel
away there on the horizon.

"She's making for Genoa, I believe," declared the captain, towards four
o'clock in the morning. "She's not going to Marseilles, that's very
evident. If only we had wireless on board we might warn the
harbour-police at Genoa to detain them, but, unfortunately, we haven't."

"And they have!" I remarked with a grin.

Dawn came at last, and the spreading light revealed us. From the two low
funnels of the escaping vessel a long trail of black smoke extended far
away across the sea, while from our funnel went up a whirling,
woolly-looking, dunnish column, due to our unprofessional stoking.

All the bacon had been used, as well as other stores, to make as much
steam as possible, yet even though the _Carlo Alberta_ had plainly
something amiss with her engines, we found it quite impossible to
overhaul her.

The day went past, long and exciting. The captain held to his opinion
that our quarry was making for Savona or Genoa. The weather was perfect,
and the voyage would have been most enjoyable had not the race been one
of life and death.

To Veale and his party I related some of the marvellous exploits of the
criminal pair, and told how cleverly they had escaped us from the Villa
Beni Hassan. I described the dastardly attempt made upon my life, and
that of Lola, and my narrative caused every one on board to work with a
will in order to break up the desperate gang.

As we had feared, when night again fell the vessel we were chasing
showed no lights. Only by aid of his night-glasses could our captain
distinguish her in the darkness, but fortunately it was not so cloudy as
on the previous night, and the moon shone from behind the light patches
of drifting vapour much, no doubt, to Jeanjean's chagrin, for it
revealed their presence and allowed us to still hang on to them.

Our American captain was a tough-looking fellow, of bull-dog type, and
full of humorous remarks concerning the fugitives.

I recollected what Lola had told me in regard to her uncle's wireless
experiments with a friend of his in Genoa. Yes. Finding themselves
pressed by us they, no doubt, intended to land at that port. How
devoutly we all wished that their engines would break down entirely. But
that was not likely in a boat of her powerful description. Yet something
was, undoubtedly, interfering with her speed.

The second day passed much as the first. We were already within sight of
the rocky coast near Toulon, and in the track of the liners passing up
and down between Port Said and Gib'. We passed two P. and O. mail
steamers, and a yellow-funnelled North German Lloyd homeward bound from
China. Still we kept at our enemies' heels like a terrier, though the
seas were heavy off the coast, and a strong wind was blowing.

Fournier suffered from sea-sickness, so did Mr. Veale's second daughter,
but we kept doggedly on, snatching hasty meals and performing the
monotonous, soul-killing work of stoking. The run was as hard a strain
as ever had been put upon the engines of the _Viking_, and I knew that
the engineer was in hourly dread of their breaking down under it.

If she did, then all our efforts would be in vain.

So he alternately nursed them, and urged them along through the long,
angry waves which had now arisen.

Another long and weary night passed, and again we both steamed along
with all lights out, a dangerous proceeding now that we were right in
the track of the shipping. Then, when morning broke, we found we were
off the yellow Ligurian coast, close to Savona, and heading, as our
captain had predicted, for Genoa. The race became fiercely contested. We
stood on deck full of excitement. Even Fournier shook off his
sea-sickness.

Soon the high, square lighthouse came into view through the haze, and we
then put on all the speed of which we were capable in a vain endeavour
to get closer to the fugitives. But again the black smoke trailed out
upon the horizon, and suddenly rounding the lighthouse, they were lost
to view.

At last we, too, rounded the end of the Mole, and entered the harbour
where the _Carlo Alberta_ had moored three-quarters of an hour earlier.
Fournier instantly invoked the aid of the dock police and, with them, we
boarded the vessel, only, alas! to find that its owner and his English
guest had landed and left, leaving orders to the captain to proceed to
Southampton.

The vessel was, we found, spick and span, luxuriously appointed, and
tremendously swift, though, on that run across the Mediterranean, one of
the engines had been under repair when the Count and his friend had so
unexpectedly come on board, and the other was working indifferently.

The captain, a dark-bearded, pleasant-faced Englishman from Portsmouth,
believed that his master had dashed to catch the express for Rome. He
had, he said, heard him speaking with Mr. Vernon as to whether they
could catch it.

"Did they use the wireless apparatus on board?" I asked quickly.

"Once, sir," was the captain's reply. "The Comte was in the wireless
cabin last night for nearly an hour. He's always experimenting."

"You don't know if he sent any messages--eh?"

"Oh, yes. He sent some, for I heard them, but I didn't trouble to try to
read the sounds."

Therefore, having thanked Mr. Veale and his family, I set forth,
accompanied by Fournier and the two Italian police officers, to the
railway station up the hill, above the busy docks.

Eagerly I asked one of the ticket-collectors in Italian if the Rome
express had gone, knowing well that in Italy long-distance trains are
often an hour or more late.

"No, Signore," was his reply. "It is still here, fifty-five minutes
late, from Turin." Then glancing down upon the lines, where several
trains were standing in the huge, vaulted station, he added: "Platform
number four. Hurry quickly, Signore, and you will catch it."




CHAPTER XXIX

THE HOUSE IN HAMPSTEAD


I dashed down to the platform, three steps at a time, followed by my
three companions, but ere I gained it the train had begun to move out of
the station.

One of the Italian police officers shouted to the scarlet-capped
station-master to have the train stopped, but that stately official, his
hands behind his back, only walked calmly in our direction to hear the
voluble words which fell from the French officer's lips.

By that time the train had rounded the curve and was dropping from
sight.

My heart sank within me. Once again Jeanjean had escaped!

We were making frantic inquiry regarding the two fugitives when a
porter, who chanced to overhear my words, expressed a belief that they
had not left by the Rome express, but for Turin by the train that had
and started a quarter of an hour before.

I rushed to the booking office, and, after some inquiry of the lazy,
cigar-smoking clerk, learned that two foreigners, answering the
descriptions of the men I wanted, had taken tickets for London by way of
the Mont Cenis Paris-Calais route. He gave me the ticket numbers.

Yes. The porter was correct. They had left by the express for Turin, and
the frontier at Modane!

With Fournier and the two policemen, I went to the Questura, or Central
Police Office, situated in a big, gloomy, old medieval palace--for Genoa
is eminently a city of ancient palaces--and before the Chief of the
Brigade Mobile, a dapper little man with bristling white hair and yellow
boots, I laid information, requesting that the pair be detained at the
frontier.

When I revealed the real name of the soi-disant Comte d'Esneux, the
police official started, staring at me open-mouthed. Then, even as we
sat in his bare, gloomy office with its heavily-barred windows--the
original windows of the palace, in the days when it had also been a
fortress--he spoke over the telephone with the Commissary of Police at
Bardonnechia in the Alps, the last Italian station before the great Mont
Cenis tunnel is entered.

After me he repeated over the wire a minute description of both men
wanted, while the official at the other end wrote them down.

"They will probably travel by the train which arrives from Turin at
6.16," the Chief of the Brigade Mobile went on. "The numbers of their
tickets are 4,176 B. and 4,177 B., issued to London. Search them, as
they may have stolen jewels upon them. Understand?"

An affirmative reply was given, and the white-haired little man
replaced the telephone receiver.

Thanking him I went outside into the Via Garibaldi, with a sigh of
relief. At last the two men were running straight into the arms of the
police. My chief thought now was of Lola. Where could she be, that she
had not answered my urgent letters sent to the Poste Restante at
Versailles?

The next train--the through sleeping-car express from Rome to
Calais--left at a few minutes to six, and for this we were compelled to
wait.

I recollected that Lola had told me how Jeanjean was in the habit of
communicating with his confederate Hodrickx, who had also established a
wireless station in Genoa. Thereupon I made inquiry, and found that
aerial wires were placed high over the roof of a house close to the
Acqua Sola Gardens at the end of the broad, handsome Via Roma.

The house, however, was tenantless, Hodrickx, apparently a Belgian,
having sold his furniture and disappeared, no one knew where, a
fortnight previously.

At six o'clock we entered the Calais express, and travelling by way of
Alessandria and Turin, ascended, through the moon-lit Alps, that night a
perfect fairyland, up the long steep incline, mounting ever higher and
higher, until the two engines hauling the _train-de-luxe_ at last, at
midnight, pulled up at the little ill-lit station of Bardonnechia.
There, we hastily alighted and sought the Commissary of Police.

To him Fournier presented his card of identity which every French
detective carries, and at once the brown-bearded official told us that,
although strict watch had been kept upon every train, the fugitives had
not arrived!

"They may have left the train at Turin, and gone across to Milan, and
thence by the Gotthard route to Basle and Paris," he suggested to me.
"If they believe they were followed that is what they most certainly
would do."

Then he swiftly turned over the leaves of a timetable upon the desk of
his little office, and, after a minute examination, added in Italian--

"If they have gone by that route they will join the same Channel-boat at
Calais as this train catches, whether they go from Basle, by way of
Paris, or direct on to Calais."

The train we had travelled by was still waiting in the station, for one
of the engines was being detached.

"Then you suggest that we had better go by this?" I said.

"I certainly should, Signore, if I were you," was his polite answer.
"Besides they are wanted in England, you say, therefore it would be
better to arrest them on the English steamer, or on their arrival in
Dover, and thus avoid the long formalities of extradition. Our
Government, as you know, never gives up criminals to England."

Instantly I realized the soundness of his argument, and, thanking him,
we both climbed back into the _wagon-lit_ we had occupied, and were soon
slowly entering the black, stifling tunnel.

Need I further describe that eager, anxious journey, save to say that
when next day we traversed the Ceinture in Paris, and arrived from the
Gare de Lyon, at the Gare du Nord, we kept a vigilant and expectant
watch, for it was there that the two men might join our train. Our
watch, however, proved futile. They might have joined the ordinary
express from Paris to Calais which had left half an hour before us--ours
being a _train-de-luxe_. So we possessed ourselves in patience till at
length, after a halt at Calais-Ville, we slowly drew up on the quay near
where the big white Dover boat was lying.

The soft felt hat I had bought in Genoa, I pulled over my eyes, and then
rushed along the gangway, and on board, with Fournier at my side, making
a complete tour of the vessel, peeping into every cabin, and in every
hole and corner, to discover the fugitives.

Already the gangway was up, and the three blasts sounded upon the siren
announcing the departure of the boat. Therefore the pair, if on board,
could not now escape.

Throughout the hour occupied in the crossing I was ever active, and when
we were moored beside the pier in Dover Harbour, I stood at the gangway
to watch every one leave.

Yet all my efforts were, alas! in vain.

They had evidently changed their route to London a second time, and had
travelled from Bâle to Brussels and Ostend!

The thought occurred to me as I stood watching the last passengers
leaving the steamer. If they had travelled direct by way of Ostend, then
they would be seated in the train for Charing Cross, for the Ostend boat
had been in half an hour, we were told.

The train, one of those gloomy, grimy, South-Eastern "expresses," was
waiting close by. Therefore I ran frantically from end to end, peering
into each carriage, but, to my dismay, the men I sought were not there!

So Fournier and I entered a first-class compartment and, full of bitter
disappointment, travelled up to Charing Cross, where we arrived about
seven o'clock.

I was alighting from the train into the usual crowd of arriving
passengers, and their friends who were present to meet them, for there
is always a quick bustle when the boat-train comes alongside the customs
barrier, when of a sudden my quick eyes caught sight of two men in
Homburg hats and overcoats.

My heart gave a bound.

Vernon and Jeanjean had alighted from the same train in which I and
Fournier had travelled, and were hurrying out of the station.

Jeanjean carried a small brown leather handbag, while Vernon had only a
walking-stick. Both men looked fagged, weary and travel-worn.

"Look!" I whispered to Fournier. "There they are!"

Then, holding back in the crowd, and keeping our eyes upon the hats of
the fugitives, we followed them out into the station yard, where they
hurriedly entered a taxi and drove away, all unconscious of our
presence.

In another moment we were in a second taxi, following them up Regent
Street, through Regent's Park, and along Finchley Road, until suddenly
they turned into Arkwright Road.

Then I stopped our vehicle and descended, just in time to see them enter
the house called Merton Lodge--the house which Rayner had described to
me on the night of my long vigil at the corner of Hatton Garden.

For a few moments I stood, undecided how to act. Should I drive at once
to Scotland Yard and lay the whole affair before them, or should I still
keep my counsel until I rediscovered Lola?

I knew where they were hiding, and if I watched, I might learn something
further. Both Rayner and Fournier were known to the two culprits.
Therefore I decided to invoke the aid of an ex-detective-sergeant who,
since his retirement from Scotland Yard, had more than once assisted me.

Truth to tell, I had a far higher opinion of the astuteness of the Paris
police than that of Scotland Yard. The latter disregarded my theories,
whereas Jonet was always ready to listen to me. For that reason I
hesitated to go down to the "Yard," preferring to send word to Jonet,
and allow him to act as he thought fit.

William Benham lived in the Camberwell New Road; so I went to the
nearest telephone call-box and, ringing him up, asked him to meet me at
Swiss Cottage Station and bring a trustworthy friend.

I knew that Merton Lodge had a convenient exit at the rear, hence, to be
watched effectively, two men must be employed.

Towards half-past nine, leaving Fournier to watch at the end of the
road, I met Benham, who came attired as one of the County Council
employés engaged in watering the roads at night, accompanied by a
burly-looking labourer who was introduced to me as an ex-detective from
Vine Street. Without revealing the whole story, or who the two men were,
I explained that I had followed them post-haste from Algiers, and that
both were wanted for serious crimes. All I desired was that a strict
surveillance should be placed upon them, and that they should be
followed and all their movements watched.

"Very well, Mr. Vidal," Benham replied.

He was a pleasant-faced, grey-haired man, with a broad countenance, and
a little grey moustache.

"I quite understand," he said. "We'll keep on them, and if I find it
necessary, I'll get a third person. They won't get very far ahead of us,
you bet," he laughed.

"They're extremely wary birds," I cautioned. "So you'll both of you be
compelled to keep your eyes skinned."

"You merely want to know what's doing--eh?"

"Yes. I'm fagged out, and want a rest to-night. I'll come up and see you
in the morning," I said.

Then we entered a bar, and having had a drink together, we went to
Arkwright Road, where I rejoined Fournier, and with him returned to my
rooms.

Next day nothing happened. The two men wanted, wearing different
clothes, and Vernon in blue glasses, went out about eleven for a walk as
far as Hampstead Heath, and returned to luncheon. That was all my
watchers reported.

On the following evening, however, I met Benham by appointment in a bar
in the Finchley Road, when he said--

"There's something in the wind, Mr. Vidal. But I can't make out what it
is. This afternoon a well-dressed man, apparently an Italian, called,
and about half an hour later a smart young French girl, with fair hair,
and wearing a short dark blue dress and brown silk stockings and shoes,
also paid the pair a visit. She's there now."

From the further description he gave of her, I found that it tallied
exactly with the identity of Lola.

And she was there! with Vernon and his two confederates.

"There's also something else strange about that house, Mr. Vidal," added
Benham. "I dare say you didn't notice it in the dark, but away,
half-hidden by the trees in the garden, there's a long stretch of four
wires, suspended from two high poles. A wireless telegraph, I take it to
be."

"Wireless at Merton Lodge!" I cried.

"Yes. To-day I asked a man who was repairing an underground wire in the
Finchley Road, and he says it's a very powerful station, and he wonders
that the Post Office ever licensed it."

"It was probably licensed as a small station, and then its power was
secretly increased," I suggested.

"But you say that the young French lady is still there?"

"Yes," replied Benham, "she was when I left ten minutes ago."




CHAPTER XXX

NARRATES A STARTLING AFFAIR


I lost no time, but quickly hurried round to Arkwright Road, strolling
past the new, well-kept, red-brick house which, upon its gate, bore the
words in neat white letters, "Merton Lodge."

In several of the windows were lights. What, I wondered, was the nature
of the consultation going on within?

While I walked to the corner of Frognal, Benham remained at the Finchley
Road end, within call.

I watched patiently, when, about half-past eight, the front door opened
and Lola, descending the steps, left the house, walking alone in my
direction.

Drawing back quickly, I resolved to follow her, and doing so, went after
her straight up Arkwright Road, and up Fitzjohn's Avenue, till she came
to the Hampstead Tube Station, where, in the entrance, I was astounded
to see Edward Craig awaiting her.

He raised his hat and shook her hand warmly, while she, flushed with
pleasure, strolled at his side up the steep hill towards the Heath.

The attitude of the man, who was once supposed to have been dead and
buried, was now very different to what it had been when he had watched
her in secret at Boscombe.

I stood watching the pair, puzzled and wondering. What could it mean?

They were both smart and handsome. She, with all the vivacious
mannerisms of the chic Parisienne, was explaining something with much
gesticulation, while he strode at her side, bending to listen.

Behind them, I came on unobserved, following them on the high road over
the dark, windy Heath, past the well-known inn called _Jack Straw's
Castle_--the Mecca of the East-End seeker after fresh air--and on across
the long, straight road which led to the ancient Spaniards, one of the
landmarks of suburban London.

Half-way along that wide, open road, at that hour deserted, they sat
together upon a seat, talking earnestly, while I, leaving the road, lay
hidden in a bush upon the Heath. Lola seemed to be making some long
explanation, and then I distinctly saw him take her hand, and hold it
sympathetically, as he looked her full in the face.

Presently they rose, and walked the whole length of the open road, which
led across the top of the Heath, as far as the Spaniards. On either
side, far below, lay the lights of London, while, above, the red
night-glare was reflected from the lowering sky.

As they walked closely beside each other, with halting steps, as though
the moments of their meeting were passing all too rapidly, the man from
the grave was speaking, low and earnestly, into her ear.

She seemed to be listening to him in silence. And I watched on,
half-inclined to the belief that they were lovers.

Nevertheless, such an idea seemed ridiculous after Craig's demeanour
when he had watched her through the window on that night in Boscombe.

Yes. The friendship between Lola and the man whom every one believed to
be in his grave, was a complete mystery.

I followed them back, past the infrequent street-lamps, to the seat
whereon they had at first sat. Upon it they sank again, and until nearly
ten o'clock they remained in deep, earnest conversation.

When they rose, at last, I thought he raised her hand reverently to his
lips. But I was so far away that I could not be absolutely certain. As
they sauntered slowly down the hill to the station, I lounged leisurely
after them.

They were too occupied with each other to be conscious of my
surveillance.

I saw them descend in the lift to the platform below, and I was
compelled to take the next lift.

Fortunately, the train had not left ere I gained it, and I got in the
rear carriage, keeping a wary eye upon each platform as we reached it.

At Oxford Street they alighted, and while they ascended by the lift, I
tore up the stairs two steps at a time, reaching the street just as they
entered the big, grey, closed motor-car, which was apparently there
awaiting them, and moved off down the street.

In a moment I had hailed a taxi and was speeding after the grey car.

The red light showing the number-plate and the "G.B." plaque, went
swiftly down to Piccadilly Circus, then turning to the right along
Piccadilly, pulled up suddenly before the _Berkeley Hotel_, where both
alighted.

Craig went as far as the door and stood speaking with her for a moment
or two; then, raising his hat, re-entered the grey car and drove rapidly
in the direction of Hyde Park Corner.

Having established the fact that Lola was staying at the _Berkeley_, I
re-entered my taxi, and in about half an hour alighted once more at the
junction of Arkwright Road with Finchley Road.

Benham quickly detected my arrival, and approaching me from the
darkness, said--

"I wondered where you'd gone to, sir, all the evening. Nobody has come
out. The three men are in there still."

I was very tired and hungry, therefore we both went into the
neighbouring bar and swallowed some sandwiches. Then we went forth
again, and though midnight chimed from a distant church clock, there was
no sign of the interesting trio. Perhaps Vernon and Jeanjean were
fatigued after their swift journey from the African coast.

The solution of the mystery at Cromer was still as far off as ever. The
reappearance of the supposed dead man had increased the complications in
the amazing problem which had, long ago, been given up by Frayne of the
estimable Norfolk Constabulary as constituting an unsolvable "mystery."
Both he and Treeton were, no doubt, busily engaged in trapping motorists
who exceeded "the limit," for to secure a conviction is a far greater
credit to the local police officer than the patient unravelling of a
mystery of crime. Hence the persistent lack of intelligence amongst too
many of the country police.

It was past one o'clock in the morning when, lurking together in a
doorway, we saw the portals of Merton Lodge open, and Vernon with his
two friends, all in evening dress, come out. They buttoned their black
overcoats, pressed their crush-hats upon their heads against the wind,
and all three sallied briskly forth in the direction of Fitzjohn's
Avenue.

Bertini was, I noticed, carrying a small leather bag, very strong, like
those used by bankers to convey their coin.

One thing, which struck me as curious, was that they made no noise
whatever as they walked. They were seemingly wearing boots with rubber
soles. Yet, being in evening clothes, they might all be wearing
dancing-pumps.

We followed at a respectable distance, and, watching, saw some
astounding manoeuvres.

Passing down Fitzjohn's Avenue to Swiss Cottage Station, they separated,
Vernon taking a taxi and the others crossing to the station, which still
remained open.

I followed Vernon in another taxi while Benham, unknown to the other
two, stood upon the kerb in the darkness and lit a cigarette.

Vernon's cab went direct to Tottenham Court Road, where, opposite the
_Horse Shoe_, he alighted, and turning to the right, strolled along
Oxford Street past the Oxford Music Hall, I dogging his steps all the
time.

Half-way down Oxford Street he paused and, turning into Wells Street,
lit a cigar. Then he glanced up and down in expectancy till, some ten
minutes later, a taxi-cab pulled up some distance away, and his two
friends alighted from it. Close on their heels came a second taxi, from
which I saw Benham jump out.

The trio separated, and neither took any notice of the others.

Jeanjean came out into Oxford Street, where I was standing in the
shadow, and walking a few doors down in the direction of Great Portland
Street, halted suddenly before the door of a large jeweller's shop,
swiftly unlocked it with a key he held ready in his hand, and, ere I
could realize his intention, he was inside with the door closed behind
him.

The key had, no doubt, been already prepared from a cast of the
original, and the scene of action well prospected. Otherwise he would
never have dared to act in that openly defiant manner almost under the
very noses of the police.

I drew back and waited, watching the operations of the most notorious
jewel-thief in Europe, Benham keeping a wary eye upon the other pair.

Vernon, after a few moments, crossed into Poland Street, a narrow
thoroughfare nearly opposite, while Bertini, carrying the bag, slipped
along to the jeweller's shop, and also entered by the unlocked door.

In the heavy iron revolving shutters were gratings, allowing the police
on the beat to see within, but from where I stood I could see no light
inside. All was quite quiet and unsuspicious. It was a marvel to me how
silently and actively both men had slipped from view right under the
noses of the police in Oxford Street, who are ever vigilant at night.

Vernon, watched by Benham, had hidden himself in a doorway with the
evident intention of remaining until the _coup_ was successfully
effected, and to immediately take over the spoils and lock them away in
his safes in Hatton Garden.

Five, ten, fifteen breathless minutes went by.

I saw the constable on the beat, walking with his sergeant, approaching
me. Both were blissfully ignorant that within a few yards of them was
the great Jules Jeanjean, for whose capture the French police had long
ago offered a vast reward.

I was compelled to shift from my point of vantage, yet I remained in the
vicinity unseen by either.

What if the constable were to try the jeweller's door as he passed?

I watched the pair strolling slowly, their shiny capes on their
shoulders, for rain had begun to fall, watched them breathlessly.

Of a sudden the constable halted as he was passing the jeweller's shop
door, and, stepping aside, tried it.

My heart stood still.

Next second, however, the truth was plain. The door had been
re-fastened, and the constable, reassured, went on, resuming his night
gossip with his sergeant at the point where he had broken off.

Yes. The two thieves were inside, no doubt sacking the place of all that
was most valuable.

Their daring, swiftness, and expert methods were astounding. Truly Jules
Jeanjean was a veritable prince among jewel-thieves. Not another man in
the whole of Europe could approach him either for knowledge as to
whether a gem were good or bad, for nerve and daring, for impudent
effrontery, or for swift and decisive action. He was a king among
jewel-thieves, and as such acknowledged by the dishonest fraternity
whose special prey was precious stones.

I stood in blank wonder and amazement.

My first impulse was to turn and step along to Oxford Circus, where I
knew another constable would be on point-duty. Indeed, I was about to
raise the alarm without arousing old Vernon's suspicions, when I saw the
jeweller's door open quickly and both men dashed out wildly and up Wells
Street as fast as their legs could carry them.

In a moment I saw that they had been desperately alarmed and were
fleeing without waiting to secure their booty, for next second a man--a
watchman who had been sleeping on the premises--staggered out upon the
pavement, shouting, "Murder! Help! Thieves!" and then fell on the ground
senseless.

I rushed over to him, and by the light of the street-lamp saw that blood
was flowing from a great wound in his skull. Then, in a moment, Benham
was beside me, and the constable and sergeant came running back, being
joined by a second constable.

Meanwhile Vernon, as well as the two thieves, had disappeared.

The man attacked was senseless. The wound in his head was a terrible
one, apparently inflicted by a jemmy or life-preserver; so quickly an
ambulance was sent for, and the poor fellow was swiftly conveyed,
apparently in a dying condition, to the Middlesex Hospital.

At first the police regarded me with some suspicion, but when Benham
explained who he was, and that our attention had been attracted by
"something wrong," they were satisfied. We, however, went round to the
police-station and there made a statement that, in passing we had seen
two men--whom we described--enter the premises with a key, and as they
did not emerge, we waited, until we saw them escape, followed by the
injured watchman.

Then--it being about half-past three in the morning--we went back to the
jeweller's, and there found the place in a state of great disorder. At
the back of the window pieces of black linen had been suspended, in
order to shut out the light from the small gratings in the shutters,
and, in what they had believed to be perfect security, the thieves,
wearing gloves, had forced open several show-cases and packed their most
valuable contents in a cotton bag ready for removal. The big safe, one
by a well-known maker, stood open, and the various valuable articles it
contained had been pulled roughly out, examined, and placed aside ready
to be packed up, together with a bag containing about one hundred
sovereigns, and a small packet of banknotes.

On the floor lay a beautiful pearl collar, while everywhere empty cases
were strewn about. Yet, as far as could be ascertained from the manager,
who had come up hastily in a taxi, nothing had been taken.

Detectives came and began a thorough examination of the premises, and
the damage done.

They were looking for finger-prints, but it was not likely that
practised experts such as Jules Jeanjean and his companion would risk
detection by leaving any.

I kept my knowledge to myself, and returned, weary and hungry, to my
rooms, Benham accompanying me, and there we discussed our plans for the
morrow.




CHAPTER XXXI

"SHEEP OF THY PASTURE"


The autumn sun shone brightly into the artistic little sitting-room at
the _Berkeley Hotel_, overlooking Piccadilly and the Green Park, where,
next morning, I was seated alone with Lola.

She was dressed in a pretty, neatly-made gown of a delicate brown shade,
with silk stockings and smart little shoes to match, and as she leaned
back in her cosy arm-chair, her pointed chin upon her white hand, her
big blue eyes, so full of expression, were turned upon me, their brows
slightly knit in her earnestness.

Upon the centre table stood a big silver bowl of dahlias and autumn
foliage, while upon a sideboard was lying a fine bouquet of roses which
a page-boy had brought in as we had been chatting.

I related my strange experience of the previous night, whereupon she had
said, in a low, intense voice--

"Yes. I heard yesterday afternoon, when I was at Vernon's house in
Hampstead, that an attempt was to be made somewhere. But I was not told
where."

"Lola," I exclaimed, taking her hand tenderly, and looking into her
eyes, "I am here this morning to save you from these people, and to save
myself. If we remain inactive like this, they will deal us both a secret
blow. They fear you, and in addition they know that I have discovered
who they are, and the truth concerning some of their crimes."

She nodded, but no sound escaped her lips.

At last, however, by dint of long persuasion and argument, I succeeded
in convincing her that I really was her friend, and that even if I
exposed the gang, and caused them to be arrested, I could at the same
time keep her out of the sensational affair which must inevitably
result.

She rose, and for a long time stood at the window, gazing out upon the
never-ceasing traffic in Piccadilly, her countenance very grave and
thoughtful. By the quick rising and falling of her bosom, and by her
pursed lips, I saw how deep was her agitation, how torn was her mind by
conflicting emotions.

At last, as she leaned upon a chair, her eyes still fixed blankly out
upon the long, rather monotonous façade of the _Ritz Hotel_, she began
to tell me some of the facts she knew concerning her notorious uncle,
Jules Jeanjean.

"He started life," she explained, "as an employé of the Nord Railway of
France, and, being honest and hardworking, rose from an obscure
situation in the goods-yard at Creil to become chief conductor on the
express line between Calais and Paris. His sister, who was my mother,
had married Felix Sorel, a leather-merchant in the Boulevard de Clichy,
and they had one daughter, myself. Jules, however, remained unmarried.
Apparently he held advanced Republican views, and soon entertained
Anarchist ideas, yet no fault was ever found with the performance of his
duties by the railway officials. He was, I have heard, a model servant,
always punctual, sober, and so extremely polite that all the habitual
passengers knew and liked him."

She paused, reflecting.

"It seems," she went on after a few moments, "it seems that as chief of
the express which left Calais for Paris each day, after the arrival of
the midday boat from Dover, his position was much coveted by the other
employés. After about two and a half years of this, however, the Company
one day offered him the post of Station-Inspector at Abbeville, where
the boat expresses stop for water. But, to the surprise of his friends,
he declined and, moreover, resigned from the service, pleading an
internal trouble, and left France."

"Curious," I remarked. "He must have had some other motive than that for
his sudden decision, I suppose."

Then, continuing her narrative, the pretty blue-eyed girl revealed to
me a very remarkable story. From what she said it appeared that during
his two and a half years' service between Calais and Dover, her uncle
had been reaping a golden harvest and placing great sums of money in an
English bank. The device by which the money had been gained was both
ingenious and simple. Employed in the Customs House at the Maritime
Station at Calais--through which all persons travelling from England by
that route have to pass--was a _douanier_ from Corsica who, though a
French subject, bore an Italian name, Egisto Bertini. Between Bertini
and the honest train-conductor a close friendship had arisen. Then
Bertini, who had become acquainted with a London diamond-broker, Mr.
Gregory Vernon, a constant traveller between the French and English
capitals, one day introduced his friend. Before long Vernon's
master-mind was at work, and at a meeting of the three men, held one
evening on Dover cliffs, a very neat conspiracy was formed. It was
simply this--

Bertini's duty was to examine passengers' baggage registered beyond
Paris, and when it was placed upon the counter in the Customs House, he
kept an open eye for any jewel-cases. Exercising his power, he would
have them opened and inspect their contents, and then, being replaced,
the box would be locked by the unsuspecting passenger. The Customs
Officer would, however, chalk a peculiar mark upon the trunk containing
the valuables, and during its transit between Calais and Paris Jeanjean
would go to the baggage-wagon, and, with a big bunch of duplicate keys,
unlock the marked trunks, abstract the jewellery, and relock it again.
By the time the unfortunate passenger discovered the loss, the stolen
property would probably be on its way into old Vernon's hands for
disposal in Antwerp or Amsterdam.

Thus the two made some huge _coups_. In one instance, the pearls of the
Duchess of Carcassonne, valued at forty-five thousand pounds, were
secured, and never traced, for they were sold east of Suez. In another
instance the celebrated diamond necklace belonging to Mademoiselle
Montbard, the famous actress at the Ambigu in Paris, worth thirty
thousand pounds, was abstracted from her baggage. Emeralds to the value
of over twenty thousand pounds, the property of the wife of an American
millionaire, and the whole of the famous jewels of the Princess
Tchernowski were also among the articles stolen.

So constant, however, were these mysterious thefts, that at last the
police established a strict surveillance upon all baggage, and hence the
interesting little game was at an end.

Matters grew a trifle too warm, and though neither Jeanjean nor Bertini
changed their mode of life with their rapidly-gained wealth, yet it was
felt that to retire was best. So, within a month of each other, they
left. Jeanjean crossed over to England, and Bertini accepted promotion
to Boulogne, where he remained several months, fearing that if he
resigned too quickly suspicions might be aroused.

Of course, after this, the organized thefts between Calais and Paris
ceased suddenly, though the Company never entertained the slightest
suspicion of the guilty persons, or of the mode in which each trunk
containing jewellery was made known to the thief.

Vernon's craft and cunning were unequalled, for at his suggestion,
Jeanjean, though he had over fifty thousand pounds in the Bank of
England, now embarked upon the career of a jewel-thief, whose audacity,
daring and elusiveness was astounding. His anarchist views prompted him
to disregard human life wherever it interfered with his plans, and so
clever and ingenious were his _coups_, that the police of Europe, whom
he so often defied, stood dumbfounded.

About this time Lola's father, the honest leather-merchant of Paris,
went bankrupt, and died a few weeks afterwards of phthisis, while Madame
Sorel, brokenhearted, followed her husband to the grave two months
later, leaving little Lola alone. She was then fifteen, and her uncle,
seeing that she might be of use to him, adopted her as his daughter,
and gradually initiated her into the arts and wiles of an expert-thief.
His whole surroundings were criminal, she declared to me. She lived in
an atmosphere of crime, for to the flat in the Boulevard Pereire, which
her uncle made his headquarters when in Paris, came the men, Bertini,
Vernon, Hodrickx, Hunzle, and others, great _coups_ being discussed
between them, and arranged, thefts carried out in various cities of
Europe, often at great cost and frequently with the assistance of Lola,
who was pressed into the service, and upon whom her uncle had bestowed
the name of "The Nightingale," on account of her sweet voice.

Vernon was the brain of the organization. By his connection with the
diamond trade he obtained information as to who had valuable gems in
their possession, and by the exercise of his marvellous wit and
subterfuge would devise deep and remarkable plots of which the
assassination of the well-known Paris jeweller, M. Benoy, was one. In
three years the daring gang, so perfectly organized, perpetrated no
fewer than eighteen big jewel robberies as well as other smaller thefts
and burglaries. In many, robbery was, alas! accompanied by brutal
violence. The Paris _Sûreté_, Scotland Yard, and the Detective
Departments of Berlin, Brussels, and Rome were ever on the alert
endeavouring to trace, capture, and break up the gang, but with the
large funds at their disposal they were able to bribe even responsible
officials who became obnoxious, and by such means evade arrest. Of these
bribings there had been many sinister whispers, as Henri Jonet told me
months afterwards.

"Ah! Lola!" I exclaimed. "How strangely romantic your career has been!"

"Yes, M'sieur Vidal," she replied, turning her splendid eyes upon mine.
"And were it not for your generosity towards me, I should have been
arrested that night at Balmaclellan, and at this moment would have been
in prison."

"I know that you have been associated with these men through no fault
of your own--that you have been forced to become a confederate of
thieves and assassins," I said. "Surely no other girl in all England,
or, indeed, in Europe, has found herself in a similar position--the
decoy of such a dangerous and unscrupulous gang."

"No," faltered the girl. "It was not my fault, I assure you. Ah! Heaven
knows how, times without number, I have endeavoured to defy and break
away from them. But they were always too artful, too strong for me. My
uncle held me in his grip, and though he was never unkind, yet he was
always determined, and constantly threatened me with exposure if I did
not blindly do his bidding. Thus I was forced to remain his cat's paw,
even till to-day," she added, in a voice full of sorrow and regret.

I recollected the scene I had witnessed on Hampstead Heath on the
previous night--her meeting with the man who had so mysteriously died in
Cromer, and as I gazed upon her fair face, I pondered.

What could it mean?

Apparently she was staying at the _Berkeley_ alone, and I mentioned this
fact.

"Oh, they know me well, here. When I'm alone, I often stay here," she
explained, still speaking in French. "I like the place far better than
the _Carlton_ or the _Ritz_. I have had quite enough of the big hotels,"
she added with a meaning smile.

She referred to those hotels where she had lived in order to rub
shoulders with women who possessed rich jewels.

At that moment a foreign waiter knocked at the door and interrupted our
_tête-à-tête_, by announcing--

"Mr. Craig to see you, miss."

"Show him in," was her prompt reply in English, as she rose and glanced
quickly at me. I saw that her cheeks were slightly flushed in her sudden
excitement.

And a few seconds later I stood face to face with the man upon whose
body a Coroner's verdict had been pronounced.

He was tall, good-looking, and smartly-dressed in a grey lounge-suit,
carrying his plush Tyrolese hat in his hand.

On seeing me he drew back, and cast a quick, inquisitive glance at Lola.

"This is M'sieur Vidal," the girl exclaimed in her pretty broken
English, introducing us. "My very good friend of whom I spoke
yesterday--M'sieur Edouard Craig."

We bowed to each other, and I thought I saw upon his face a look of
annoyance. He had evidently believed Lola to be alone.

In an instant, however, the shadow fled from the young man's face, and
he exclaimed with frankness--

"I'm extremely pleased to know you, sir, more especially after what Lola
has told me concerning you."

"What has she told you?" I asked, with a smile. "Nothing very terrible,
I hope?"

For a second he did not reply. Then, looking over at her as she stood on
the opposite side of the table, he replied--

"Well, she has told me of your long friendship and--and--may I be
permitted to tell Mr. Vidal, Lola?" he suddenly asked, turning to her.

"Tell him what you wish," she answered.

"Then I will not conceal it," he went on, turning back to me. "Lola has
explained to me her position, her connection with certain undesirable
persons, whom we need not mention, and how you in your generosity
allowed her her freedom."

"She has told you!" I gasped in surprise, not understanding in what
position he stood towards the dainty little Parisienne. "Well, Mr.
Craig, I thought you knew that long ago," I added after a pause.

"Until last night, I was in entire ignorance of the whole truth. I met
Lola at Hampstead, and she explained many things that have astounded
me."

"I have told Mr. Craig the truth," declared the girl, her cheeks flushed
with excitement. "It was only right that he should know who and what I
am--especially as----" she broke off suddenly.

"Especially as--what?" I asked.

"Especially as I love you, Lola, eh?" the young man chimed in, grasping
her hand and raising it to his lips fondly.

This revelation staggered me. The pair were lovers! This man, whose
attitude when he saw her in secret at Boscombe was so antagonistic, was
now deeply in love with her! Surely I was living in a world of
surprises!

How much, I wondered, had she revealed to this man who was believed to
have been buried?

For some moments all three of us stood looking at each other, neither
uttering a word.

Then I swiftly put to the young man several questions, and receiving
answers, excused myself, and went below to the telephone.

I had three calls in various directions, and then returned to where Lola
and her lover were standing together. Heedless of my presence, so deeply
in love was he, that he was holding her hand and looking affectionately
into the girl's eyes as he bent, whispering lovingly, to her.

Yes, they were indeed a well-matched pair standing there together. She
sweet and innocent-looking, he tall and athletic, with all the
appearance of a gentleman.

Yet it was Edward Craig, the man who had lived at Beacon House at
Cromer, the man whom I had seen lying stark and dead, killed by some
mysterious means which medical men could not discover. Edward Craig, the
dead man in the flesh!




CHAPTER XXXII

THE TENTS OF UNGODLINESS


Frank Sommerville, Chief Inspector of the Criminal Investigation
Department, a big, dark-moustached man, stretched his long legs from the
easy chair in which he was sitting, some half an hour after my interview
with Lola and Edward Craig, clasped his hands behind his head, and
looking over at me, exclaimed--

"By Jove! Vidal. That's one of the most astounding stories I've ever
heard! And the young lady is actually in the next room with the 'dead'
man Craig?"

"Yes, they're ready to go up to Hampstead," I said. "If we are shrewd we
shall catch all three. They did that burglary at Bennington's, in Oxford
Street, last night."

"How do you know, my dear fellow?" he asked.

"For the simple reason that I was there," I laughed.

He looked astounded.

"I remember the report on the Cromer mystery, last June, perfectly
well," he said. "But I never dreamed that you'd taken the matter up. We
shall certainly do well if we can lay hands on Jeanjean, for we get
constant reports from Paris about his wonderful exploits. I had one only
this morning. He is suspected of having done a big job at a jeweller's
in St. Petersburg, lately."

"Very well," I answered. "Let us take a taxi up to Arkwright Road at
once. Benham, your ex-sergeant, is already there awaiting us, as well as
my servant, Rayner."

Together we entered the next room, where Craig and Lola were sitting
closely together, and I introduced them to the well-known Chief
Detective-Inspector. Then, after Sommerville had telephoned to his
office, and ordered up to Hampstead three of his men, we waited for
another quarter of an hour to give them time to get to the appointed
spot--the public-house in the Finchley Road.

At last we started, and on the way I explained many facts to my old
friend Sommerville, who, with a hearty laugh, said--

"Well, Vidal, I know you're pretty painstaking over an inquiry, but I
never thought you'd ferret out this great French jewel-thief when we had
failed! Of course, we've looked upon this man Vernon with suspicion for
some little time. He sold some stolen rubies in Antwerp two months ago,
and it was reported to us, but we couldn't get sufficient evidence. I
made some inquiry, and found that he's immensely wealthy, although he
lives such a changeful life. The house in Arkwright Road is his, but he
is never there more than two or three days at a time. He experiments in
wireless telegraphy, judging from the masts and wires in his back
garden."

I told him of Jeanjean's powerful station in Algiers, and we agreed
that, by means of a code, the pair were in the habit of exchanging
messages, just as Jeanjean did with his confederate in Genoa.

"Yes," Lola said. "At Merton Lodge there are big dynamos down in the
cellars, and when I've been with my uncle at the Villa Beni Hassan, he
has often come from the wireless room and told me he has been speaking
with his friend Vernon in London. Wireless telegraphy is wonderful, is
it not?"

Briefly I had described the murderous attack made upon the girl and
myself at that untenanted house in Spring Grove, and, as I finished, the
taxi drew up a few doors from the bar to which I had directed the man to
drive.

Ere we could alight, Benham, in the guise of a loafer, had opened the
door and touched his cap to me with a grin.

In the bar we found the three sergeants from Scotland Yard, as well as
Rayner, who was greatly excited, and, of course, unaware of the identity
of the three men who had entered casually, and were chatting at his
elbow.

"We're going to make three arrests in a house close by," Sommerville
explained to the trio. "They may make a pretty tough fight, and they
probably carry revolvers. So keep a sharp look-out."

"All right, sir," the men replied, and were quickly in readiness.

In order not to arouse the suspicion of the three men, we arranged that
Lola should first go there alone. Then we would surround the house, back
and front, while Sommerville went to the front door and made some
pretext. With a man behind him, he would wait until the door opened, and
then rush in, followed by myself and two detectives and the young man
Craig.

The arrangements were made in the private room behind the bar, and
presently Lola, bidding us a merry _au revoir_, tripped out.

We gave her about ten minutes, and then in pairs, and by different
routes, we approached the quiet, highly-respectable-looking house, first
having got a couple of constables off the beat.

While Benham, as a loafer, went round to the back entrance, under the
pretext of asking for an odd job to clean up the garden, Sommerville and
one of his men slipped in and up the front steps.

For a little time his ring remained unanswered, but suddenly the door
was opened slightly by Bertini.

For a second there was a sharp tussle, the Italian raising the alarm,
but in a few moments I found myself, with Craig and Sommerville, inside
the house.

Those moments were indeed exciting ones. Craig's only thought was for
Lola's safety, and I saw him rush down the prettily-furnished hall and
take her in his arms.

Shouts were raised on all sides.

In the scurry old Vernon dashed out of the room on the left and, meeting
Lola with her lover, raised the revolver he had drawn and fired
point-blank at her.

Fortunately, he missed. One of the detectives instantly closed with
him, and I sprang to the officer's assistance. The old fellow, his face
livid, his eyes staring wildly from his head, fought like a tiger,
trying to turn his weapon upon us. He had forced the barrel of his big
revolver right against my jaw, and was in the act of firing, when I
ducked my head, and seizing his wrist, twisted it.

At that moment there was a loud explosion, and before I knew the truth I
found his grip relaxing.

The weapon had been turned upon him as he, in desperation, had fired,
and the bullet, entering his brain, had struck him dead.

He collapsed in our arms and we laid him upon the tiled floor.

Within the room, whence the old man had come, a desperate struggle was
in progress, and entering, I found it to be a small library, at one end
of which, upon a large table, was arranged a quantity of electrical
apparatus--the various instruments necessary for wireless telegraphy.
Close to this table, as we entered, stood Jules Jeanjean in the hands of
Benham and the two detectives, while Rayner was standing covering the
culprit resolutely with the revolver which he had wrenched from the
prisoner's grasp.

Jeanjean's face was changed, his eyes wild and full of evil. In his
fierce dash for liberty his collar had been torn from its studs and the
sleeve of his smart blue serge jacket torn out. His hair was awry, and
from a long scratch on his left cheek blood was freely flowing.

Truly he presented a weird, unkempt appearance, held as he was in the
grip of those three strong, burly officers.

"Be careful!" I urged. "He'll get away if you don't exercise every care.
He's as slippery as an eel!"

At my words his captors forced him back against the wall, redoubling
their grip upon him.

Sommerville and Craig were standing beside Lola, who looked on, nervous
and pale-faced. She had been witness to the tragedy out in the hall,
and realized what a narrow escape she had had from the vicious old
scoundrel's bullet.

Bertini was in the hall, held in a merciless grip by the two constables
who had been summoned from their beats, and was standing close to the
fallen body of the man who had so long been his acknowledged master.

Jules Jeanjean, though forced against the wall by those four men, was
still wildly defiant, his face distorted by anger. He ceased struggling
in order to curse and abuse his captors, pouring out upon them torrents
of voluble French, a language with which only one of the four men,
Rayner, was acquainted, and he but slightly.

"Listen, Jules Jeanjean!" said Sommerville, in a hard, commanding voice.
"I am a police officer, and I arrest you on charges of theft and
murder."

"Fools!" snarled the prisoner in defiance. "You've made a mistake, a
great mistake! Arrest that girl yonder. Make inquiries about her, and
you will find lots that will interest you."

"It is sufficient for the present to arrest you, my friend," was the
Chief Inspector's response. "One of your comrades is outside, dead, and
the other is under arrest."

Then turning to Lola, he asked--

"Do you identify this man as Jules Jeanjean, Mademoiselle?"

"Yes," the girl replied. "He is my uncle."

"You infernal brat!" shrieked the prisoner, livid with fury. "So it is
you who have given me away, after all! I should have taken the old man's
advice, and have put you out of the way. _Dieu!_ You and your friend,
Vidal, over there, had a narrow escape at Spring Grove. Your grave was
already dug for you!"

"And yours will also be dug for you before long--when the Judge has
sentenced you to death!" I cried.

"Enough!" exclaimed Sommerville, holding up his hand to command
silence. "We want no recriminations, only the truth. You, and your
friend Bertini, will have plenty of opportunity for defending yourselves
when before the court. I think, Mademoiselle," he added, turning to
where Lola was standing beside the man once believed to be dead, "you
will have a strange story to relate to the Judge."

"She'll lie, no doubt," declared Jeanjean with a sneer. "She always
does."

"No," the girl cried in her pretty, broken English, "I shall the truth
speak. All of the truth."

"Yes," I urged, eagerly. "Reveal to us now the truth concerning the
mystery on Cromer Cliffs. How it is that Edward Craig, the man who died,
is now standing beside you!"

The prisoner, with a frantic struggle to free his arms, and throw
himself upon her, to silence her lips, made a sudden dash forward. But
his captors closed with him, pinioned him, and held him fiercely by the
throat.

Lola, standing by, drew a long breath, but remained silent.

Her frail little figure seemed unbalanced, she was unnerved and
trembling, two bright spots showing in the centre of her pale cheeks, as
she stood there. Upon her shoulder rested the tender hand of the man
whose end had been so wrapped in mystery.

"Speak, Lola," I urged again. "Have no fear of these men now. Tell us
the plain truth."

"Yes, Lola," Craig added earnestly, "tell them the strange story. There
is nothing now to be afraid of. Speak the truth and let the law deal
with that assassin."

Again Jeanjean went into a perfect paroxysm of rage. But all to no
purpose, though he bit his lips till the blood came. The men held him so
firmly that he could move neither hand nor foot.

The heavy hand of Justice had fallen upon him!




CHAPTER XXXIII

DISCLOSES A STRANGE TRUTH


"I think, Lola, I had better explain to them the circumstances in which
we met," young Craig exclaimed with frankness. His hand was still upon
her shoulder, his eyes gazing straight into hers with that intense
love-light which, in this world of falsity and fraud, is one of the
things which can never be feigned.

"Yes, do," she urged, clinging closely to him, her frail frame
trembling, for she was still upset and unnerved.

"Well, last January, I was staying with my mother at the _Hôtel Adlon_,
in Berlin, for though I have a place near Monmouth called Huttoft Hall,
left to me by my father, Sir Alexander Craig, I am constantly on the
Continent. As a bachelor I prefer life abroad, and indeed, at that time,
I had not been in England since I came of age, four years before. At the
hotel, I found Lola staying with her uncle--that man!" and he pointed to
Jeanjean--held there prisoner. "He called himself Dr. Paul Arendt, and
gave himself out to be a Belgian from Liège. He was very affable, and we
became on friendly terms, while my mother took a great fancy to Lola.
After about ten days or so an English friend of Arendt's, a young man
named Richard Perceval, arrived, and we three men went about Berlin, and
saw the sights and the night-life, a good deal together. This went on
for nearly three weeks, Lola and I becoming very fast friends. At last,
however, her uncle being suddenly recalled to Paris, we were compelled
to part, though we constantly exchanged letters. From Berlin, my mother
moved to Cannes, and I followed her. We spent February and March on the
Riviera, and then went north to the Italian Lakes, the most lovely spot
in Europe in the springtide." He paused and, turning to the girl, said,
"Now, Lola, will you explain what happened?"

The man under arrest again fought violently for freedom. His face was
flushed with exertion, his long teeth clenched, his black eyes starting
wildly from his head. Now that the villainous old man he had obeyed as
master was dead, he saw that he must, at all hazards, save himself.

From his grey lips there issued a torrent of abuse, and the most fearful
maledictions, in the French tongue.

Lola, requested by her lover to speak, held her breath for a moment, and
then, with an effort, calming the flood of emotion that arose within
her, said in her pretty English--

"After we met in Berlin, I, at my uncle's orders, ingratiated myself
with Lady Craig, for the purpose of ascertaining whether she had with
her jewellery of any value. Meanwhile, finding that Edouard had become
very friendly with me, he at once instituted inquiries and found that
Lady Craig was widow of Sir Alexander Craig, Knight, who had died
leaving his only son possessor of a great fortune and a large estate
near Monmouth. He also, through inquiries made by Vernon, found that
Edouard had not been in England since he came of age. Vernon and my
uncle met secretly one day at Frankfort, whereupon the crafty old man
elaborated an ingenious plan which, within a few days, was put into
execution. Among Vernon's wily confederates was a very smart,
gentlemanly young man named Richard Perceval, who had been an actor, and
who was the same height and much the same build as Edouard. This man
came to our hotel in Berlin, but with what object I was, then, entirely
ignorant. I now know that the reason he joined us was in order to
carefully watch Mr. Craig's manners, his gait, his style of dress, and
all his idiosyncrasies. While Edouard was unaware of it, he took many
snapshots of him in secret, and one day for a joke they both went to a
photographer's and had their portraits taken, the object of my uncle and
Perceval being to obtain a thoroughly good likeness of M'sieur Craig.
After three weeks, however, their preparations being completed, though
I, of course, had no suspicion as to what was intended, we left Berlin
and returned to Paris."

"To Brussels," interrupted the notorious criminal. "Be correct, at
least." And his face broadened in an evil grin.

"To Brussels first, and then next day to Paris," Lola went on. "For some
weeks nothing was done, it seems. I had constant letters from Edouard,
who was at Beau Site, at Cannes, and I frequently wrote to him there.
Then I accompanied my uncle to Algiers, where we remained some time, our
movements being always sudden and always uncertain. My uncle, at
Algiers, was engaged with his wireless telegraphy, sending and receiving
messages from nowhere. Meanwhile, old Vernon's wits were at work and he
laid his plans for a great _coup_. He took Richard Perceval to Cromer,
then dull, sleepy, and out-of-season, the young man arriving there as
his nephew, Edward Craig. He possessed an exact counterpart of M'sieur
Craig's wardrobe, his hair was cut in the style you see Edouard wearing
it, and by means of certain small but expert touches to his countenance,
so artistic as not to be discernible, he had become transformed into the
exact counterpart of the owner of Huttoft. Early in June we returned
from Algiers to Paris, and my uncle, leaving me, went to London. Then,
when he returned to the Boulevard Pereire three days later, I noticed a
great change in him. He seemed greatly incensed with the Master."

"Had they quarrelled?" I inquired eagerly.

"Yes, over the division of the profits arising from the theft, in the
month of March, of four hundred thousand francs' worth of diamonds, and
pearls from a Paris jeweller named Benoy, while he was in a motor-car in
the Forest of Fontainebleau. Vernon, he told me, had sold the stones and
had retained three-fourths of the plunder. My uncle was furious and
vowed most terrible vengeance. Next day, he sent me from Paris direct
to Norfolk with a letter to Vernon. On arrival in Cromer I was utterly
astounded to meet Perceval in the street dressed as Edouard Craig and
presenting an exact likeness to him! Perceval, however, did not see me,
and I went to Beacon House, delivered the letter to the old man,
obtained a reply, returned to London, and next day to Paris. From my
uncle, who became more incensed than ever against Vernon on receipt of
the reply to his letter, I managed to elicit what was intended. This was
that Vernon, knowing that Edouard lived always on the Continent, and had
not been home for four years, had devised a devilish plan by which
Perceval, representing himself to be the owner of Huttoft, was to obtain
from his late father's lawyers, a reputable firm whose address is in
Lincoln's Inn Fields, the deeds relating to the great Huttoft estate, as
well as a quantity of family jewels, and raise a large mortgage upon the
property from a well-known firm of money-lenders. The preliminary
negotiations with the latter had already been opened, and it was only a
question of days when the bogus Edouard Craig, already practised in the
art of forging the signature of the real M'sieur Craig, would present
himself to his late father's solicitors. The deep cunning of the whole
plot, and the fine and elaborate detail in which it had all been worked
out, held me aghast. If carried out, it was expected that fully seventy
thousand pounds would be neatly netted and the bogus Craig would
disappear into thin air!"

"What did you do then?" I asked, amazed at her revelation.

"At once I wrote to M'sieur Craig, who was at Villa d'Este, on the Lake
of Como, asking him to meet me in secret in Paris, at the earliest
possible moment. He met me one afternoon in the tea-rooms in the corner
of the Place Vendome, and there I told him what I had discovered.
And--and--well, I was forced to confess to him, for the first time, that
I was a thief." She added in a changed voice, "the cat's paw of my
uncle. I know I----"

"That's enough, Lola!" exclaimed the young man. "We need not refer to
that. With Mr. Vidal, I am fully aware that your connection with those
terrible crimes has been a purely innocent one. You have been forced
into assisting them--held to them and to silence on pain of death."

"Yes," I added, "that's true. Lola is innocent. I vouch for that."

"Yes. Put upon my guard by Lola," Craig exclaimed, "I crossed at once to
London, and without revealing who it was who intended to personate me, I
told old Jerningham, the solicitor, to be careful. I remained in London
a week, and then, unable to further repress my curiosity, I went to
Cromer. I----"

"Ah, perhaps I had better continue my narrative, so that we shall be
rightly understood," Lola interrupted, with cheeks flushed in her
excitement. "A couple of days after Edouard had gone to London, my
uncle, stung to fury by a letter he had received from old Vernon,
suddenly announced that we were both going to Cromer. Therefore, we left
Paris, and duly landed at Charing Cross, just in time to catch the last
train up to Cromer, where we arrived between ten and eleven o'clock at
night. In order to spring a surprise upon Vernon, we evaded the hotel
and went to some rooms in Overstrand Road for which he had already
telegraphed, having seen an advertisement in a railway guide."

"To the house where he afterwards lodged?" I asked.

"Yes. He had taken the same name he had used in Berlin, Doctor Arendt,"
she replied. "Well, I had gone to my room, but was standing at the open
window, without switching on the light, when I saw him leave the house.
Wondering what might be in progress, I put on my knitted golf coat and
cap, and went after him. He took a long night-ramble past the flashing
lighthouse on the cliff, and away across the golf-links, towards
Overstrand, apparently reflecting deeply, his anger rising more and more
against Vernon, whom he had accused of robbing him. For a long time I
watched as he sat upon a log on top of the cliffs about a mile and a
half from the town, gazing out upon the sea, and smoking a cigar, I
having hid myself behind a bush. I was rather sorry I had come out, yet
in the circumstances, and in the interests of Edouard, I felt it my duty
to watch in patience. At last my uncle rose and strolled back over the
golf-course, along the cliff-path, towards the town. As he came along
over the low hill from the lighthouse, strolling on the grass, and
making no sound, he suddenly discerned upon a seat the figure of a man
in wide-brimmed hat and cape seated with his back to him and looking out
to sea. The night was warm and pleasant, a calm and perfect night on the
North Sea----"

"Were you near him?" Sommerville interrupted.

"I was walking along under the shadow of the hedge, while he walked over
the open, undulating ground," was the girl's reply. "On recognizing the
Master seated there, he was apparently seized by a sudden impulse of
revenge--perhaps cupidity as well--for I saw him creep up behind the
seat, and taking something from his pocket, thrust it quick as a flash
into the old man's face. The man attacked clawed the air frantically,
rose to his feet, staggered a few steps, and reeling, fell to the ground
without uttering a sound--dead. I saw, in my uncle's hand a
strange-looking and most terrible instrument, which he sometimes carried
when engaged on one of his desperate exploits, a specially-constructed
pistol the barrel of which was of soft india-rubber and finishing in a
bell-mouth about three inches across. This he had suddenly pressed over
the old man's nose and mouth--as he had done, alas! I knew, in other
cases where the victim had been found dead, and doctors had been unable
to establish the mysterious cause--then, pulling the trigger, he had
discharged a glass capsule containing a mixture of compressed amyl
nitrate and hydrocyanic gas, which, when released, a single inhalation
caused instant death. The discoverer of the compound killed himself
accidentally by it. Aghast, I stood watching him. He bent and examined
the dead man's face. Then he searched his pockets, took out something,
and then, moving quickly, dashed away towards the town, evidently
alarmed at his own action."

And the girl paused, the accused man before her shouting strenuous
denials.

"The instant he had gone," she continued, "I crept over the grass, past
the seat whereon the dead man had rested, and, bending to see if he was
still breathing, I found to my horror and dismay that it was not the
Master at all, but his supposed nephew, Richard Perceval! Back I hurried
to the house where we had rooms, and entering noiselessly--for I had
been taught to move without noise at night"--and she smiled grimly at
me. "I found my uncle had, fortunately, not yet come in. Therefore I
retired to bed. Next morning we left hurriedly for London, Jeanjean not
daring to face Vernon after what had occurred, and moreover, ignorant of
the fact that Vernon had left Cromer during the night, alarmed by the
real Edouard Craig calling upon him, and hinting that he knew the truth
concerning certain recent jewel robberies. Jeanjean, however, returned
to Cromer a few days later, and I followed and helped to secure the
jewels Vernon had left behind."

"Yes," Craig exclaimed. "True. I saw nothing of Perceval on that evening
when I called upon old Vernon. My visit, however, completely upset him.
Lola had telegraphed to me that she was coming to England, therefore I
asked Vernon where she was. The old scoundrel replied that she was in
Cromer, and that if I went at a certain hour at night to a seat upon the
East Cliff, which he indicated, I should meet her there--that she had a
tryst with a secret lover. This naturally upset me, and I went, only to
discover Perceval, dressed in the old man's cape and hat, lying stark
dead. Why was he wearing those clothes, I wonder?"

"I have only recently learnt the truth," Lola answered. "When you, saw
the old man, he believed me to be still in Paris, but when you inquired
for me he, keen and crafty as he was, instantly discerned a means by
which to entrap you. Therefore, saying nothing of his fear and intended
flight to Perceval, he arranged with that young impostor that the latter
should go to the seat dressed as himself, face you on your arrival,
Edouard, and close your mouth for ever by exactly the same dastardly,
silent and instant method as that adopted by Jeanjean--the gas pistol.
My uncle found the weapon upon the body and carried it off."

"You had a very narrow escape, Mr. Craig," I remarked. "I sincerely
congratulate you."

"Ah! I know," the young man said hastily. "Had not that man yonder
killed Perceval by mistake, I should most certainly by now have been a
dead man. But when I quickly realized the tragedy that had happened, and
feared lest I might be suspected, I went off, and making my way out of
the town, I walked through the night for twenty miles to Norwich, whence
I took train to London, and at once back to Italy."

"Did you afterwards read of the affair in the papers?" asked
Sommerville, amazed, like ourselves at the startling revelations.

"Of course. I followed every detail. But I did not come forward, for two
reasons. First I was--I frankly confess--deeply in love with Lola, and
feared to implicate her; and, secondly, for my mother's sake. I had no
desire to be mixed up in such an unsavoury and sensational affair, or
with such a notorious gang of criminals."

"Did you see much of Lola after the affair at Cromer?" I queried.

"I saw her once in Petersburg, where I followed her, also in Paris, and
again in London."

"And also once at Boscombe--eh?" I added, "when you were so very
annoyed."

"How do you know," he asked, starting, and at the same time laughing.

"Because I met you, and believing you had arisen from the dead, I
watched you."

"I was in entire ignorance of it," he declared. "Yes, I was annoyed
that night, for, on looking inside the room, I saw a young man standing
beside the piano, admiring Lola."

"Oh!" she cried. "How foolish of you, Edouard! That was Mr. Burton, who
is engaged to Winifred Featherstone!"

While these revelations had been made, Jules Jeanjean, wanted by the
police of nearly every country in Europe for a number of desperate
crimes, remained silent, listening to the words of Lola and her lover,
listening to the grim story of his own murderous treachery towards the
man whom he had acknowledged as Master.

Suddenly, without warning, he burst from the men who held him, and with
a spring bounded like some wild animal towards Lola, and would have
thrown himself upon her, and strangled her, were it not that we all fell
upon him with one accord, and threw him to the ground, while handcuffs
were placed upon his wrists to prevent further violence.

"You infernal devils!" he cried in French. "I vowed you should never
take me alive--and you shan't. You hear!" he yelled. "You shan't. I defy
you!"

"Ah!" laughed Sommerville in triumph. "But thanks to Mr. Vidal, we have
at last got you, my ingenious friend." Then turning to Rayner, he said:
"Will you go and get two taxis? We'll take him to Bow Street, and the
other fellow also."

Jeanjean cursed and shouted defiance, but his captors only laughed at
him. In those gyves of steel he was their prisoner, and held for the
justice he so richly deserved.




CHAPTER XXXIV

CONCERNS TO-DAY


The next day the London papers were full of the raid upon Merton Lodge,
the tragic death of the well-known diamond-broker, Gregory Vernon, and
the arrest of Jules Jeanjean and Egisto Bertini.

The police had given but the most meagre details to the Press, therefore
the report was only vague, and no hint was forthcoming as to the actual
charges against the three men, or that they had any connection with the
cliff-mystery at Cromer.

The most sensational passage of the report, which was regarded as "the
story," or principal feature by most of the papers, was the fact that
Jules Jeanjean, having been charged at Bow Street with robbery and
murder, was placed in the cells to be brought up next morning before the
magistrate.

A warder, however, on going to the cell about half-past eight in the
evening, found the prisoner standing before him in defiance.

"I refuse to be tried, after all!" he cried in English, in a loud voice,
"I'll escape you yet!"

And before the man was aware of the prisoner's intention, he had placed
his right hand to his mouth, and with his left held his nostrils
tightly.

The warder sprung upon him, but beneath his teeth the prisoner crushed a
small capsule of glass, while the fact that his nose was held caused him
to inhale the gas compressed within the capsule, and next second he
fell, inert, dead.

I read the report in breathless eagerness, and then I realized that
Jules Jeanjean, alias Arendt, alias dozens of other names, had destroyed
himself with that combination of nitrate of amyl and hydrocyanic gas, a
single whiff of which was sufficient to cause instant death--the same
lethal gas which the criminal had discharged in the face of young
Perceval, and alas! into the faces of others of his victims who had been
found mysteriously dead on the scenes of the bandit's daring and
desperate exploits.

Truly he had been a veritable artist in crime, but as he sowed, so also
had he reaped. The wages of sin are, indeed, death.

From Sommerville, a few weeks later, I gathered a few further
interesting details.

The man Hodrickx, together with two other men named Kunzle and Lavelle,
had been arrested while committing a clever burglary at a jeweller's in
the Corso in Rome; while tests at the private wireless station in
Arkwright Road and at the Villa Beni Hassan, near Algiers, had proved
conclusively that messages could be exchanged, as no doubt they often
were, but, being in a prearranged code, could not be read by the dozens
of other receiving stations, commercial and amateur, which picked them
up.

In due course Bertini, the ex-customs officer of Calais, was extradited
to Paris, where he took his trial before the Assize Court of the Seine,
and was sentenced to a long term of penal servitude, which he is at
present serving at the penal island of New Caledonia, in the far
Pacific.

As for myself, I still live in blessed singleness, and am a confirmed
bachelor, and a constant investigator of problems of crime. With the
ever-faithful Rayner, I still occupy my cosy rooms off Berkeley Square,
and, I may add, am still an intimate friend of Lola.

But she is now Mrs. Edward Craig, mistress of Huttoft Hall, and wife of
an immensely wealthy man. She is a prominent figure in the country, but
none, save her husband, myself and Rayner, know that she was, not so
long ago, the confederate of the cleverest gang of international thieves
that has ever puzzled the police, or that she was then known to them as
"The Nightingale."

Yes. The pair are both extremely happy, living solely for each other.
Perhaps if I were not such a confirmed bachelor, an iron-grey-headed
"uncle" to many a flapper niece, and jeered at by the schoolgirl reader
of novels as an "old man," I might be just a little jealous.

But as things are, I am delighted to see my charming, delightful little
friend so happy.

Often I am their guest at the fine, historic, sixteenth-century mansion
standing in its broad park, a few miles out of Monmouth. Indeed, it is
beneath their roof that, on this bright summer evening, while the
crimson after-glow is shining over the tops of the distant belt of dark
firs across the park, that I am setting down the concluding lines of
this strange story of daring and ingenious crime, this drama which so
nearly cost all three of us our lives at the hands of that unscrupulous
gang of dastardly malefactors.

Edward Craig, and his wife, Lola, who returned from their honeymoon,
spent first in Khartoum, and afterwards in India, six months ago, and
have now quite settled, have just come in from tennis. As they stand
together, upon the threshold of the big oak-panelled library, a handsome
pair in white, hand-in-hand, hot and flushed from playing, Lola says,
with a merry smile upon her bright, open countenance and a pretty accent
in her voice--

"In your narrative of what has recently happened, M'sieur Vidal, please
tell the reader, man and woman, that the long, grim night has at last
passed, the dawn has broken, yet 'The Nightingale' still sings on more
blithely than ever, for she is at last supremely happy. At last,
Edouard!" she adds, throwing her white arms about her husband's neck.
"At last!"

And the tall, handsome fellow in flannels bent until his lips met hers.

"Ah, yes, Lola, darling!" he whispered earnestly. "You are
mine--mine--mine, for always. We have, as the Psalmist of old has put
it, passed through the Place of Dragons, and been covered with the
Shadow of Death. But God in His justice has smitten the transgressors,
and we have been delivered from the hand of the ungodly, into a world of
peace, of happiness, and of love."


THE END




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Delicate Fiend
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Diana of the Islands
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End of Project Gutenberg's The Place of Dragons, by William Le Queux