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    [Illustration: "So!" she whispered. "They will know from
    whom that rose comes." FRONTISPIECE. _See page_ 148.]



    THE
    SEVEN CONUNDRUMS


    BY
    E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM


    WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
    WALLACE MORGAN


    TORONTO
    McCLELLAND AND STEWART
    1923




    _Copyright, 1923_,
    BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.


    _All rights reserved_

    Published February, 1923


    PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA






                   CONTENTS


                 Introduction
                                       PAGE

    THE COMPACT                           3

             Conundrum Number One

    THE STOLEN MINUTE BOOK               15

             Conundrum Number Two

    WHAT HAPPENED AT BATH                39

             Conundrum Number Three

    THE SPIDER'S PARLOUR                 97

             Conundrum Number Four

    THE COURTSHIP OF NAIDA              131

             Conundrum Number Five

    THE TRAGEDY AT GREYMARSHES          167

             Conundrum Number Six

    THE DUKE'S DILEMMA                  205

             Conundrum Number Seven

    THE GREATEST ARGUMENT               243







                             ILLUSTRATIONS


    "So!" she whispered. "They will know from
    whom that rose comes"                      _Frontispiece_

                                                         PAGE

    There were shrieks from the women, and some of
    the men, amongst them myself, hurried towards
    the staircase                                          64

    "Don't be a fool," I answered. "There's a submerged
    rock right across here"                               191

    There seemed to be an almost universal gasp of
    astonishment                                          216




THE SEVEN CONUNDRUMS




INTRODUCTION

THE COMPACT


The wind, storming up from the sea, beat against the frail little wooden
building till every rafter creaked and groaned. The canvas sides flapped
and strained madly at the imprisoning ropes. Those hanging lamps which
were not already extinguished swung in perilous arcs. In the auditorium
of the frail little temporary theatre, only one man lingered near the
entrance, and he, as we well knew, with sinister purpose. In the little
make-up room behind the stage, we three performers, shorn of our
mummer's disguise, presented perhaps the most melancholy spectacle of
all. The worst of it was that Leonard and I were all broken up with
trying to make the best of the situation for Rose's sake, yet prevented
by circumstances from altogether ignoring it.

"Seems to me we're in rather a tightish corner, Leonard," I ventured,
watching that grim figure in the doorway through a hole in the curtain.

"First turn to the left off Queer Street," Leonard admitted gloomily.

Rose said nothing. She was seated in the one chair which went with the
portable property, and her head had fallen forward upon her arms, which
were stretched upon the deal table. Her hat, a poor little woollen
tam-o'-shanter, was pushed back from her head. Her jacket was
unfastened. The rain beat down upon the tin roof.

"I'd sell my soul for a whisky and soda," Leonard, our erstwhile
humourist, declared wistfully.

"And I mine," I echoed, thinking of Rose, "for a good supper, a warm
fire and a comfortable bed."

"And I mine," Rose faltered, looking up and dabbing at her eyes with a
morsel of handkerchief, "for a cigarette."

There was a clap of thunder. The flap of canvas which led to the back of
the stage shook as though the whole place were coming down. We looked up
apprehensively and found that we were no longer alone. A clean-shaven
man of medium height, dressed in a long mackintosh and carrying a tweed
cap in his hand, had succeeded in effecting a difficult entrance. His
appearance, even at that time, puzzled us. His face was perfectly
smooth, he was inclined to be bald, his eyes were unusually bright, and
there was a noticeable curve at the corners of his lips which might have
meant either humour or malevolence. We had no idea what to make of him.
One thing was certain, however,--he was not the man an interview with
whom we were dreading.

"Mephistopheles himself could scarcely have made a more opportune
entrance," he remarked, as the crash of thunder subsided into a distant
mutter. "Permit me."

He crossed towards us with a courteous little bow and extended a gold
cigarette case, amply filled. Rose took one without hesitation and lit
it. We also helped ourselves. The newcomer replaced the case in his
pocket.

"I will take the liberty," he continued, "of introducing myself. My name
is Richard Thomson."

"A very excellent name," Leonard murmured.

"A more than excellent cigarette," I echoed.

"You are the gentleman who sat in the three-shilling seats," Rose
remarked, looking at him curiously.

Mr. Richard Thomson bowed.

"I was there last night and the night before," he acknowledged. "On each
occasion I found with regret that I was alone."

No one likes to be reminded of failure. I answered a little hastily.

"You have established your position, sir, as a patron of our ill-omened
enterprise. May I ask to what we are indebted for the honour of this
visit?"

"In the first place, to invite you all to supper," was the brisk reply.
"Secondly, to ask if I can be of any service in helping you to get rid
of that bearded rascal Drummond, whom I see hanging about at the
entrance. And in the third place--but I think," he added, after a queer
and oddly prolonged pause, "that we might leave that till afterwards."

I stared at him like a booby, for I was never a believer in miracles.
The quiver on Rose's lips was almost pathetic, for like all
sweet-natured women she was an optimist to the last degree. Leonard, I
could see, shared my incredulity. The thing didn't seem possible, for
although he was obviously a man of means, and although his manner was
convincing and there was a smile upon his lips, Mr. Richard Thomson did
not look in the least like a philanthropist.

"Come, come," the latter continued, "mine is a serious offer. Are you
afraid that I shall need payment for my help and hospitality? What more
could you have to give than the souls you proffered so freely as I came
in?"

"You can have mine," Leonard assured him hastily.

"Mine also is at your service," I told him. "The only trouble seems to
be to reduce it to a negotiable medium."

"We will make that a subject of discussion later on," our new friend
declared. "Mr. Lister," he added, turning to me, "may I take it for
granted that you are the business head of this enterprise? How do you
stand?"

I choked down the pitiful remnants of my pride and answered him frankly.

"We are in the worst plight three human beings could possibly find
themselves in. We've played here for six nights, and we haven't taken
enough money to pay for the lighting. We owe the bill at our lodgings,
we haven't a scrap of food, a scrap of drink, a scrap of tobacco, a
scrap of credit. We've nothing to pawn, and Drummond outside wants four
pounds."

"That settles it," our visitor declared curtly. "Follow me."

We obeyed him dumbly. It is my belief that we should have obeyed any one
helplessly at that moment, whether they had ordered us to set fire to
the place or to stand on our heads. We saw Drummond go off into the
darkness, gripping in his hand unexpected money, and followed our guide
across the windy space which led to the brilliantly lit front of the
Grand Hotel, whose luxurious portals we passed for the first time. We
had a tangled impression of bowing servants, an amiable lift man, a
short walk along a carpeted corridor, a door thrown open, a comfortable
sitting room and a blazing fire, a round table laid for four, a
sideboard set out with food, and gold-foiled bottles of champagne. A
waiter bustled in after us and set down a tureen of smoking hot soup.

"You needn't wait," our host ordered, taking off his mackintosh and
straightening his black evening bow in the glass. "Miss Mindel, allow me
to take your jacket. Sit on this side of the table, near the fire; you
there, Cotton, and you opposite me, Lister. We will just start the
proceedings so," he went on, cutting the wires of a bottle of champagne
and pouring out its contents. "A little soup first, eh, and then I'll
carve. Miss Mindel--gentlemen--your very good health. I drink to our
better acquaintance."

Rose's hand shook and I could see that she was on the verge of tears. It
is my belief that nothing but our host's matter-of-fact manner saved
her at that moment from a breakdown. Leonard and I, too, made our poor
little efforts at unsentimental cheerfulness.

"If this is hell," the former declared, eyeing the chickens hungrily,
"I'm through with earth."

"Drink your wine, Rose," I advised, raising my own glass, "and remember
the mummers' philosophy."

Rose wiped away the tears, emptied her glass of champagne and smiled.

"Nothing in the world," she declared fervently, "ever smelt or tasted so
good as this soup."

The psychological effect of food, wine, warmth and tobacco upon three
gently nurtured but half-starved human beings became even more evident
at a later stage in the evening. Its immediate manifestations, however,
were little short of remarkable. For my part, I forgot entirely the
agony of the last few weeks, and realised once more with complacent
optimism the adventurous possibilities of our vagabond life. Leonard,
with flushed cheeks, a many times refilled glass, and a big cigar in
the corner of his mouth, had without the slightest doubt completely
forgotten the misery of having to try and be funny on an empty stomach
to an insufficient audience. With a little colour in her cheeks, a smile
once more upon her lips, and a sparkle in her grey eyes, Rose was once
more herself, the most desirable and attractive young woman in the world
as, alas! both Leonard and I had discovered. The only person who
remained unmoved, either by the bounty he was dispensing or by the wine
and food of which he also partook, was the giver of the feast.
Sphinxlike, at times almost saturnine looking, his eyes taking frequent
and restless note of us, his mouth, with its queer upward curve, a
constant puzzle, he remained as mysterious a benefactor when the meal
was finished as when he had made his ominous appearance behind the stage
at the framework theatre. He was an attentive although a silent host. It
was never apparent that his thoughts were elsewhere, and I, watching him
more closely, perhaps, than the other two, realised that most of the
time he was living in a world of his own, in which we three guests were
very small puppets indeed.

Cigars were lit, chairs were drawn around the fire, Rose was installed
on a superlatively comfortable couch, with a box of cigarettes at her
elbow, and her favourite liqueur, untasted for many weeks, at her side.

"Let me try your wits," our host proposed, a little abruptly. "Tell me
your life history in as few words as possible. Mr. Lister? Tabloid form,
if you please?"

"Clergyman's son, without a shilling in the family," I replied;
"straight from the 'Varsity, where I had meant to work hard for a
degree, to the Army, where after three and a half years of it I lost
this,"--touching my empty left coat sleeve. "Tried six months for a job,
without success. Heard of a chap who had made a concert party pay,
realised that my only gifts were a decent voice and some idea of
dancing, so had a shot at it myself."

"Mr. Cotton?"

"Idle and dissolute son of a wine merchant at Barnstaple who failed
during the war," Leonard expounded; "drifted into this sort of thing
because I'd made some small successes locally and didn't want to be a
clerk."

"Miss Mindel?"

The girl shook her head.

"I am quite alone in the world," she said. "My mother taught music at
Torquay and she died quite suddenly. I put my name down for a concert
party, and in a way I was very fortunate," she added, glancing sweetly
at Leonard and at me. "These two men have been so dear to me and I don't
think it's any one's fault that we're such a failure. The weather's been
bad, and people stay in their hotels and dance all the time now."

She held out a hand to each of us. She knew perfectly well how we both
felt, and she treated us always just like that, as though she understood
and realised the compact which Leonard and I had made. So we sat, linked
together, as it were, while our host studied us thoughtfully,
appreciating, without a doubt, our air of somewhat nervous expectancy. A
fine sense of psychology guided him to the conviction that we were in a
properly receptive state of mind. The smile which had first puzzled us
played once more upon his lips.

"And now," he said, "about those souls!"




CONUNDRUM NUMBER ONE

THE STOLEN MINUTE BOOK


Rose always insisted that she was psychic, and I have some faith myself
in presentiments. At any rate, we both declared, on that Monday night
before the curtain went up, that something was going to happen. Leonard
had no convictions of the sort himself but he was favourably disposed
towards our attitude. He put the matter succinctly.

"Here we are," he pointed out, "sold to the devil, body and soul, and if
the old boy doesn't make some use of us, I shall begin to be afraid the
whole thing's coming to an end. Five pounds a week, and a reserve fund
for costumes and posters suits me very nicely, thank you."

"I don't think you need worry," I told him. "It doesn't seem reasonable
to imagine that we've been sent to the slums of Liverpool for nothing."

"Then there are those posters," Rose put in, "offering prizes to
amateurs. I'm quite certain there's some method in that. Besides----"

She hesitated. We both pressed her to go on.

"You'll think this silly, but for the last three nights I've had a queer
sort of feeling that Mr. Thomson was somewhere in the audience. I can't
explain it. I looked everywhere for him. I even tried looking at the
people one by one, all down the rows. I never saw any one in the least
like him. All the same, I expected to hear his voice at any moment."

"Granted the old boy's Satanic connections," Leonard observed, "he may
appear to us in any form. Brimstone and horns are clean out of date.
He'll probably send his disembodied voice with instructions."

I strolled to the wings and had a look at the house. Although it still
wanted a quarter of an hour before the performance was due to commence,
the hall was almost packed with people. The audience, as was natural
considering the locality, was a pretty tough lot. It seemed to consist
chiefly of stewards and sailors from the great liners which lay in the
river near by, with a sprinkling of operatives and some of the smaller
shopkeepers. The study of faces has always interested me, and there were
two which I picked out from the crowd during that brief survey and
remembered. One was the face of a youngish man, dressed in the clothes
of a labourer and seated in a dark corner of the room. He was very pale,
almost consumptive-looking, with a black beard which looked as though it
had been recently grown, and coal black hair. His features were utterly
unlike the features of his presumed class, and there was a certain
furtiveness about his expression which puzzled me. A quietly dressed
girl sat by his side, whose face was even more in the shadow than his,
but it struck me that she had been crying, and that for some reason or
other there was a disagreement between her and the young man. The other
person whom I noticed was a stout, middle-aged man, with curly black
hair, a rather yellow complexion, of distinctly Semitic appearance. His
hands were folded upon his waistcoat, he was smoking with much obvious
enjoyment a large cigar, and his eyes were half-closed, as though he
were enjoying a brief rest. I put him down as a small shopkeeper, for
choice a seller of ready-made garments, who had had a long day's work
and was giving himself a treat on the strength of it.

At half-past seven the hall was crammed and the curtain rang up. We went
through the first part of our programme with a reasonable amount of
success, Leonard in particular getting two encores for one of his
humorous songs. At the beginning of the second part, I came out upon the
stage and made the little speech which our mysterious patron's wishes
rendered necessary.

"Ladies and gentlemen," I said, "I have much pleasure in announcing,
according to our posters outside, that if there are any amateurs here
willing to try their luck upon the stage, either with a song or a dance,
we shall be very happy to provide them with music and any slight change
of costume. A prize of one pound will be given to the performer whose
song meets with the greatest approval, and a second prize of five
shillings for the next most successful item."

I gagged on for a few more minutes, trying to encourage those whom I
thought likely aspirants, amidst the laughter and cheers of the
audience. Presently a showily dressed young woman threw aside a cheap
fur cloak, displaying a low-cut blue satin gown, jumped nimbly on to the
stage, ignoring my outstretched hand, and held out a roll of music to
Rose, who came smilingly from the background.

"I'll try 'The Old Folks down Wapping Way', dear," she announced, "and
don't you hurry me when the sloppy stuff comes. I like to give 'em time
for a snivel or two. Sit you down at the piano. I'm that nervous, I
can't stand fussing about here."

They bent over the music together and I turned back to the audience.
There were only two others who showed any disposition to follow the
example of the lady in blue satin. One was the young man whom I had
previously noticed, and who had now risen to his feet. It was obvious
that the girl by his side was doing all she could to dissuade him from
his purpose. I could almost hear the sob in her throat as she tried to
drag him back to his place. I myself felt curiously indisposed to
interfere, but Leonard, who was standing by my side, and who saw them
for the first time, imagining that a word of encouragement was all that
was necessary, concluded the business.

"Come along, sir," he called out. "You look as though you had a good
tenor voice, and nothing fetches 'em like it. You let him come, my dear,
and he'll buy you a new hat with the money."

The young man shook himself free and stepped on to the platform,
obviously ill at ease at the cheer which his enterprise evoked. He was
followed, to my surprise, by the middle-aged man whom I had previously
noticed.

"Here, Mister," was his greeting, as he stepped on to the platform,
"I'll have a go at 'em. Sheeny patter and a clog dance, eh?"

"You must find me some sort of a change," the young man insisted
hurriedly.

"And I'll tidy up a bit myself," his rival observed. "We'll let the gal
have first go."

I conducted them behind and showed the young man into the men's dressing
room.

"You'll find an old dress suit of mine there," I pointed out. "Change as
quickly as you can. I don't fancy the young lady will hold them for
long."

He nodded and drew me a little on one side. His manner was distinctly
uneasy, and his clothes were shabbier even than they had seemed at a
distance, but his voice was the voice of a person of education,
pleasant, notwithstanding a queer, rather musical accent which at the
moment was unfamiliar to me.

"Shall I be able to lock my things up?" he asked, in an undertone. "No
offence," he went on hastily, "only I happen to be carrying something
rather valuable about with me."

I handed him the key of the dressing room, for which he thanked me.

"How long will that screeching woman be?" he asked impatiently.

"You can go on directly she's finished murdering this one," I promised
him. "I don't think they'll stand any more."

He nodded, and I turned back towards where the other aspirant was
standing in the shadow of the wings.

"Now what can I do for you, sir?" I asked. "I don't think you need to
change, do you?"

There was no immediate reply. Suddenly I felt a little shiver, and I had
hard work to keep back the exclamation from my lips. I knew now that
Rose had been right. It was a very wonderful disguise, but our master
had at last appeared. He drew a little nearer to me. Even then, although
I knew that it was Richard Thomson, I could see nothing but the Jew
shopkeeper.

"I shall pretend to make some slight change behind that screen," he said
in a low tone. "Come back here when you've taken him on the stage. I may
want you."

He disappeared behind a screen a few feet away, and I stood there like a
dazed man. From the stage I could still hear the lusty contralto of the
young lady candidate. I heard her finish her song amidst moderate
applause, chiefly contributed by a little group of her supporters. There
was a brief pause. The young lady obliged with an encore. Then the door
of the men's dressing room opened, was closed and locked. The young man,
looking a little haggard but remarkably handsome, came towards me,
clenching the key in his hand.

"I was a fool to take this on," he confided nervously. "You are sure my
things will be all right in there?"

I pointed to the key in his hand.

"You have every assurance of it," I told him.

He fidgeted about, listening with obvious suffering to the girl's
raucous voice.

"Ever been in the profession?" I enquired.

"Never," was the hasty reply.

"What's your line to-night?"

"Tenor. Your pianist will be able to do what I want. I've heard her."

"If you win the prize, do you want a job?" I asked, more for the sake of
making conversation than from any real curiosity.

He shook his head.

"I've other work on."

"Down at the docks?"

"That's of no consequence, is it?" was the somewhat curt
reply.--"There, she's finished, thank heavens! Let me get this over."

I escorted him to the wings. The young lady, amidst a little volley of
good-natured chaff, jumped off the stage and returned to her friends.
Her successor crossed quickly towards Rose, who was still seated at the
piano. I slipped back behind the scenes. Mr. Richard Thomson was
examining the lock of the men's dressing room.

"He's got the key," I told him.

There was no reply. Then I saw that our patron held something in his
hand made of steel, which glittered in the light of an electric torch
which he had just turned towards the keyhole. A moment later the door
was opened and he disappeared. Out on the stage, Rose was playing the
first chords of a well-known Irish ballad. Then the young man began to
sing, and, notwithstanding my state of excitement, I found myself
listening with something like awe. The silence in the hall was of itself
an extraordinary tribute to the singer. Shuffling of feet, whispering
and coughing had ceased. I felt myself holding my own breath, listening
to those long, sweet notes with their curious, underlying surge of
passion. Then I heard Mr. Thomson's voice in my ear, curt and brisk.

"You've a telephone somewhere. Where is it?"

"In the passage," I pointed out.

He disappeared and returned just as a roar of applause greeted the
conclusion of the song. The young man hurried in from the stage. The Jew
shopkeeper was seated in the same chair, with his hands in his pockets
and a disconsolate expression upon his face. Outside, the audience was
literally yelling for an encore.

"You'll have to sing again," I told him.

"I don't want to," he declared passionately. "I was a fool to come."

"Nonsense!" I protested, for the uproar outside was becoming unbearable.
"Listen! They'll have the place down if you don't."

"I sha'n't go on," his rival competitor grumbled sombrely, thrusting a
cigar into his mouth and feeling in his pockets for a match. "You've
queered my pitch all right. They're all Irish down in this quarter.
You've fairly got 'em by the throat."

The young man stood still for a moment, listening to the strange cries
which came from the excited audience. Suddenly inspiration seemed to
come to him. His eyes flashed. He turned away and strode out on to the
stage almost with the air of a man possessed by some holy purpose. I
followed him to the wings, and from there I had a wonderful view of all
that happened during the next few minutes. The young man stood in the
middle of the stage, waved his hand towards Rose, to intimate that he
needed no music, waited for a few more moments with half-closed eyes and
a strange smile upon his face, and commenced to sing. I realised then
what inspiration meant. He sang against his will, carried away by an
all-conquering emotion, sang in Gaelic, a strange, rhythmic chant, full
of deep, sweet notes, but having in it something almost Oriental in its
lack of compass and superficial monotony. Again the silence was amazing,
only this time, as the song went on, several of the women began to sob,
and a dozen or more men in the audience stood up. Afterwards I knew
what that song meant. It was the Hymn of Revolution, and every line was
a curse.

From my place in the wings I was able to follow better, perhaps, than
any one else in the room, the events of the next sixty seconds. I saw
two policemen push their way along the stone passage, past the box
office and into the back of the hall, led by a man in plain clothes, a
stalwart, determined-looking man with a look of the hunter in his face.
Almost at the same moment the singer saw them. His song appeared somehow
to become suspended in the air, ceased so abruptly that there seemed
something inhuman in the breaking off of so wonderful a strain. He stood
gazing at the slowly approaching figures like a man stricken sick and
paralysed with fear. Then, without a word, he left the stage, pushed
past me, sprang for the dressing room, and, turning the key in the lock,
disappeared inside. I followed him for a few yards and then hesitated.
Behind, I could hear the heavy, slowly moving footsteps of the police,
making their way with difficulty through the crowd, a slight
altercation, the stern voice of the detective in charge. Then, facing
me, the young man emerged from the dressing room, ghastly pale, shaking
the coat in which he had arrived, distraught, furious, like a man who
looks upon madness. Mr. Richard Thomson leaned back in his chair, his
mouth open, his whole attitude indicative of mingled curiosity and
surprise.

"What you break off for like that, young man?" he demanded. "Have you
forgotten the words? You've won the quid all right, anyway."

"I've been robbed!" the singer called out. "Something has been stolen
from the pocket of this coat!"

"You locked it up yourself," I reminded him, with a sudden sinking of
the heart.

"I don't care!" was the wild reply. "It was there and it is gone!"

He flung the coat to the ground with a gesture of despair. The advancing
footsteps and voices were louder now. The man in the plain clothes
pushed his way through the wings, beckoned the police to follow and
pointed to the young man.

"The game's up, Mountjoy," he said curtly. "We don't want any shooting
here," he added, as he saw the flash of a revolver in the other's hand.
"I've half a dozen men outside besides these two."

The trapped man seemed in some measure to recover himself. He half faced
me, and the revolver in his hand was a wicked looking instrument.

"Some one has been at my clothes," he muttered, his great black eyes
glaring at me. "If I thought that it was you----"

I was incapable of reply, but I imagine that my obviously dazed
condition satisfied him. He turned from me towards where Mr. Richard
Thomson was seated, watching the proceedings with stupefied interest,
breathing heavily with excitement, his mouth still a little open.

"Or you," the young man added menacingly.

Thomson held out his hands in front of his face.

"You put that up, Mister," he enjoined earnestly. "If you're in a bit of
trouble with the cops, you go through with it. Don't you get brandishing
those things about. I've known 'em go off sometimes."

The singer's suspicions, if ever he had any, died away. He tossed the
revolver to the officer, who had halted a few yards away.

"Better take me out the back away," he advised. "There'll be trouble if
the crowd in front gets to know who I am."

The officer clinked a pair of handcuffs on his captive's wrists with a
sigh of satisfaction. They moved off down the passage. All the time
there had been a queer sort of rumble of voices in front, which might
well have been a presage of the gathering storm. I moved back to the
wings just in time to see the torch thrown. The girl who had been seated
with the young man, suddenly leaped upon a bench. She snatched off her
hat and veil as though afraid that they might impede her voice. A coil
of black hair hung down her back, her face was as white as marble, but
the strength of her voice was wonderful. It rang through the hall so
that there could not have been a person there who did not hear it.

"You cowards!" she shouted. "You have let him be taken before your eyes!
That was Mountjoy who sang to you--our liberator! Rescue him! Is there
any one here from Donegal?"

Never in my life have I looked upon such a scene. The men came streaming
like animals across the benches and chairs, which they dashed on one
side and destroyed as though they had been paper. I was just in time to
seize Rose and draw her back to the farthest corner when the sea of
human forms broke across the stage. Nobody took any notice of us. They
went for the back way into the street, shouting strange cries,
brandishing sticks and clenched fists, fighting even one another in
their eagerness to be first. Until they were gone, the tumult was too
great for speech. Rose clung to my arm.

"What does it mean, Maurice?" she asked breathlessly. "Who is he?"

"I have no idea," I answered, "but I can tell you one thing. To-night
has been our début."

"Talk plain English," Leonard begged. "Remember we had to be on the
stage all the time."

"It means," I explained, "that we've begun our little job as spokes in
the wheel which our friend Mr. Richard Thomson is turning. You remember
the other competitor, a man who never sang at all, who looked like a Jew
fishmonger in his best clothes?"

"What about him?" Rose demanded.

"He was Mr. Richard Thomson," I told her. "You and I, Leonard, are
simply mugs at making up. It was the most wonderful disguise I ever saw
in my life."

"That accounts for it," she declared, with a little shiver. "He has been
here before, watching. I told you that I felt him around, without ever
recognising him."

"Where is he now?" Leonard asked abruptly.

We searched the place. There was no sign of our patron. Just as
mysteriously as he had come, he had disappeared. The young lady in blue
satin came up and claimed her sovereign. We went down into the
auditorium and inspected the damage. Finally, as we were on the point of
leaving, a smartly dressed page came in through the back door and handed
me a note. It was dated from the Adelphi Hotel and consisted only of a
few lines:

     Mr. Richard Thomson presents his compliments and will be glad
     to see Miss Mindel, Mr. Lister and Mr. Cotton to supper
     to-night at eleven-thirty.

History repeated itself. When we presented ourselves at the Adelphi
Hotel and enquired for Mr. Richard Thomson, doors seemed to fly open
before us, a reception clerk himself hurried out with smiles and bows,
and conducted us to the lift. We were ushered into a luxurious sitting
room on the first floor and welcomed by our host, whose carefully donned
dinner clothes and generally well-cared-for appearance revealed gifts
which filled me with amazement.

"This is a very pleasant meeting," Mr. Thomson declared, as he placed us
at the table and gave orders that the wine should be opened. "We met
last on the east coast, I remember. I trust that you are finding
business better?"

"Business is wonderfully good," I acknowledged.

"We turned away money last week," Leonard announced.

There was something a little unreal about the feast which was presently
served, excellent though it was, and I am quite sure that we three
guests breathed a sigh of relief when at last the table was cleared and
the waiter dismissed. Our host lit a cigar and leaned back in his high
chair. With the passing of that smile of hospitality from his lips, his
face seemed to have grown hard and unpropitious.

"I trust," he said slowly, "that you are all satisfied with our
arrangement so far?"

"We are more than satisfied," I assured him, trying to infuse as much
gratitude as I could into my tone. "I am thankful to say that we are
able to put by a little every week, too, towards the capital which you
advanced. The new costumes, songs and posters are bringing something of
their own back."

Mr. Thomson waved his hand.

"That is a matter of no concern," he pronounced. "Have you anything
further to say?"

I looked at Leonard and at Rose. We all three looked at our host.

"I should like to know," I asked bluntly, "how much of my soul was
scotched by to-night's little adventure?"

Mr. Thomson stretched out his hand for the evening paper which the
waiter has just placed by his side.

"I do not wish to encourage curiosity," he remarked coldly. "Our bargain
renders any explanation on my part unnecessary. You had better read
aloud that item in the stop press news, however. It may allay your
qualms, if you are foolish enough to have any."

The sheet was wet from the press. I held it under the light and read:--

            ARREST OF MOUNTJOY, THE CASTLE DERMOY MURDERER!

     Denis Mountjoy was arrested to-night at a music hall in
     Watergate Street. A determined attempt was made at a rescue,
     and a free fight took place outside the Watergate Street
     police station, all the windows of which were broken. With the
     arrest of Mountjoy, who will be charged with no less than five
     murders, it is hoped that the whole conspiracy of which he was
     the head will be broken up. It is known that he has in his
     possession the famous minute book of the revolutionary secret
     society which bore his name, and numerous other arrests may be
     expected at any moment. The chief constable has received a
     telephone message of congratulation from Scotland Yard.

       *       *       *       *       *

I laid down the paper. For the life of me I could not keep back the
question which rose to my lips.

"There was five hundred pounds reward for the arrest of Mountjoy. Are
you claiming it?"

"Blood money," Mr. Thomson confessed, with a queer smile, "is not in my
line."

"It was you who put the police on to Mountjoy?" I persisted.

He made no direct reply. He was stonily thoughtful for a moment.

"I knew," he continued presently, "I believe even the police knew, that
Mountjoy was lying hidden somewhere within a quarter of a mile of
Watergate Street. How to draw him out of his hiding place was the
problem. I remembered his two failings,--vanity, and love of hearing
that beautiful voice of his. I pandered to them."

"You laid a trap on behalf of the police, then?"

Mr. Thomson knocked the ash from his cigar.

"That might be considered the truth," he admitted.

"And the minute book?"

"Concerning the minute book," he replied, "I have nothing to say."

Rose drew her chair a little nearer towards him. The rose-shaded
electric light shone upon her fair hair, her wonderful eyes, her piquant
face with its alluring smile. She leaned forward towards our host, and
it seemed to me that the soft entreaty in her tone and the pleading of
her eyes were irresistible.

"Mr. Thomson," she said, "I am a woman, and I am desperately, insatiably
curious. I must know--please tell me--what are we--you and we three?
Your confederates, I suppose we are? Are we on the side of the police or
the criminal, the informer, or do we come somewhere between? I must
adapt my conscience to our position."

Mr. Thomson was unshaken. He looked at Rose just as though she had been
an ordinary human being.

"That," he said, "may be put in the category of questions which you will
be at liberty to ask me when our agreement comes to an end. Shall we
call it Conundrum Number 1? By the bye, if it is any convenience to you
to know your movements in advance, I may tell you that you will open at
Bath next week."




CONUNDRUM NUMBER TWO

WHAT HAPPENED AT BATH


                                   I

The thing which surprised me most about the unseen hand which seemed to
be always with us was the way in which it disposed of the ladies'
orchestra in the Crown Hotel at Bath. I met the pianiste in the street
while I was waiting for instructions, and it was she who made the matter
plain to me.

"I suppose you have heard that we have finished at the Crown for the
present?" she asked.

I had been genuinely surprised to hear that this was the case, and I
told her so. After a moment's hesitation, she unburdened herself of a
secret.

"Please don't tell a soul," she begged, "except Miss Mindel and Mr.
Cotton, if you want to. The fact of it is, the most extraordinary thing
is taking us away. We have been offered, without a word of explanation,
a hundred pounds between the four of us to go away for a month."

"Nonsense!" I exclaimed.

"It is perfectly true," she repeated. "A lawyer in the city brought the
notes and an agreement, absolutely refusing a single word of
explanation. We didn't worry very much, I can tell you. Twenty-five
pounds isn't picked up every day, but I don't mind confessing that when
I think about it, I get so curious it makes me positively ill. Miss
Brown's theory is that it's one of these old cranks in the hotel, with
more money than he knows what to do with, who hates music. On the other
hand, the management has received no complaints, and there's nothing to
prevent another orchestra taking our place next Monday."

I made my way to the lounge of the hotel where Leonard, Rose and I had
arranged to meet for afternoon tea. We were having rather a quiet time,
having already performed for a week at the local music hall with some
success, and were now obeying instructions by staying on at our rooms
and waiting for orders. There were too many people about for me to
impart the news to them at that moment, so we fell to criticising the
passers-by, an uninteresting crowd with one or two exceptions. There was
a large but not unwieldly man, carefully dressed, with a walrus-like
beard and moustache, heavy eyebrows and a surly manner, who was
generally muttering to himself. His name was Grant, he was reputed to be
over eighty, to be without a friend in the hotel, and to growl at every
one who spoke to him. Every afternoon at half-past four he came in from
a turn in his bath chair, and stumped past the orchestra with his finger
to his ear. Then there was a frail, olive-skinned man, tall and gaunt,
with wonderful black eyes, escorted every day to the baths and brought
back again by a manservant who looked like a Cossack. His name was
Kinlosti, and he was reported to have been an official at the Court of
the late Tsar, and even to have accompanied him to Siberia. The third
person, who interested us because we all detested her, was an enormously
fat old lady, with false teeth, false grey ringlets, a profusion of
jewellery, and a voice which Leonard said reminded him of the hissing of
a rattlesnake. Her name was Mrs. Cotesham, she was stone deaf, and
between her and Mr. Grant there was a deadly feud. They never spoke, but
if glances could kill both would have been in their coffins many times a
day. They both wanted the same chair in front of the fire, they both
struggled for the _Times_ after lunch, they ordered their coffee at the
same moment, and whichever was served last bullied the waiter. They
provided plenty of amusement for lookers-on and to the guests generally,
but I think that the management, and certainly the waiters, were
prepared to welcome the day they left the hotel. When the people had
thinned out a little, and there was no one in our immediate vicinity, I
told my two companions of the strange thing which had happened to the
ladies' orchestra.

"It must have been Mr. Grant," Rose declared.

"I put my money on the old lady," Leonard decided.

But I knew that it was neither, for even while they were speaking the
hall porter, who knew me by sight, had brought me a typewritten note,
which he said had been left by hand. I tore it open and read. There was
no address nor any signature. Neither was needed:

     Apply at office of Crown Hotel for permission to give
     entertainments, commencing soon as possible.

I passed the note on to the others.

"We needn't speculate any more about that hundred pounds," I remarked.

There were no difficulties at the office. The next afternoon, at
half-past four, we took the place of the departed orchestra. The change
was pleasantly received by the majority of the guests. Mr. Grant,
however, while Rose was still in the middle of her introductory
pianoforte solo, stumped out of the room with his hand to his ear, and
Mrs. Cotesham deliberately turned her chair round and sat with her back
to us. On the other hand, Mr. Kinlosti, passing through the hall
leaning on his servant's arm, on his way from his bath, caught sight of
Rose at the piano and lingered. He whispered in his servant's ear, found
a chair and a table, and seated himself in a dark corner. Presently the
latter brought him from upstairs a pot of specially prepared tea and
some cigarettes. He remained there throughout the whole of our
performance, his eyes fixed upon Rose,--strange, uncanny eyes they were.
The corner he had chosen was close to where we were playing, and the
flavour of his Russian cigarettes and highly scented tea attracted
Rose's attention, so that more than once she turned and looked at him.
For the first time I saw a very faint smile part his thin lips.

"A conquest," I whispered to Rose, as I bent over her chair to move some
music.

She made a little grimace.

"All the same," she said, "I'd love some of his cigarettes."

That evening, just before the time fixed for the commencement of our
performance, another typewritten note was put into my hand, again
unsigned and undated. This is what I read:

     It is my wish that if a person of the name of Kinlosti should
     seek acquaintance with any of you, he should be encouraged.
     Particularly impress this upon Miss Mindel.

I took Leonard on one side.

"Leonard," I said, "our souls are trash, and what happens to us doesn't
matter a damn. But read this!"

Leonard read it and swore.

"Can you get into touch with Thomson?" he asked.

"Only through the banker's address in London," I replied. "Where these
typewritten notes drop from not a soul seems to know."

Rose came up and read the message over our shoulders. Her view of the
matter was different.

"What fun!" she exclaimed. "Perhaps I shall get some cigarettes."

"You don't suppose we are going to allow this?" I asked hotly.

"Not for one moment!" Leonard echoed.

She laughed softly.

"You idiots!" she exclaimed. "Do you think I can't take care of myself?
Or don't you trust me?"

"You know that it isn't that," I rejoined, "but neither Leonard nor I
are willing to see you made a cat's-paw of."

"Russians don't know how to treat women," Leonard put in.

She became serious, but she remained very determined.

"Anyhow," she said, "I know how to treat Russians, so please leave me
alone. Remember that I, too, am under contract to Mr. Mephistopheles
Thomson, and although I love you both, you're not my guardians."

That was the end of the matter, so far as we were concerned. When we
commenced our performance, Kinlosti was established in the dark corner,
his coffee and a whole box of his inevitable cigarettes before him. His
dinner clothes were severe and unadorned, but three wonderful black
pearls shone dully in his shirt front. The lounge was more than
ordinarily full, for our previous week's performance in Bath had brought
us some popularity. Mr. Grant, however, again stumped out of the place,
muttering rudely to himself as he passed us, and the old lady turned her
back and tried by means of an ear trumpet to enter into conversation
with any one who was unfortunate enough to be near. These two were the
only exceptions, however. The rest of the audience was unmistakably
friendly.

Leonard and I were to learn something that night of the subtlety of a
woman's ways. No one who had been watching could have said that she
deliberately encouraged this mysterious admirer. On the other hand, she
returned his bold glances with something which I had never seen in her
eyes before, something indefinably provocative, certainly with no shadow
of rebuke. Her acceptance of his overt admiration was in itself a more
significant thing than the frank smiles of a more easily accessible
siren. By the time I started off round with the plate for the usual
silver collection, I was in such a temper that I found it difficult to
pause even for a moment as I reached his corner. He laid a ten-shilling
note upon the little pile of silver, and also placed an envelope there.
I saw with gathering anger that it contained something heavy, and that
it was addressed to Miss Mindel.

"I have ventured," he said, in a very low and extraordinarily pleasant
voice, "to offer for the young lady's acceptance, in return for her
delightful music, a little souvenir from the country in which I have
lived all my life."

"Miss Mindel does not accept presents from strangers, sir," I said,
returning him the envelope.

He shrugged his shoulders slightly, stretched out his hand for his
jade-headed stick, and, leaning heavily upon it, crossed the floor
towards the spot where Rose was seated at the piano, playing soft music.
Notwithstanding his lameness, his bow, as he approached her, would have
done credit to a courtier.

"May I be allowed," he said, "to congratulate you upon your very
delightful singing and playing? It has given so much pleasure to an
invalid whose life just now is very monotonous, that I am venturing to
ask your acceptance of this little trifle, a souvenir from a great
country, now, alas! stricken to the earth."

Rose opened the envelope, and held in her hand a quaint ring in which
was a black stone. I leaned over her. It was engraved with the royal
arms of the Romanoffs, and at the top was a small 'N.'

"I thank you very much indeed," she replied, smiling up at him, "but I
could not possibly accept so valuable a gift."

"Will you believe me," he persisted, "that the ring has little, if any,
intrinsic value. It is an offering which an artist in a small way might
at any time be permitted to present to such gifts as yours."

He passed on towards the lift with a little bow which included all of
us, and somehow or other the ring was on Rose's finger, and whether we
liked it or not she had accepted it. After that we saw a great deal of
Mr. Kinlosti. He was never obtrusive and yet he was persistent. On the
day following the presentation of the ring, we somehow found ourselves
lunching with him. On the day after that we used his car, and on the
following day, although both Leonard and I protested, he took Rose out
for a drive alone. She came home sooner than we had expected and was a
little silent for the rest of that day. At supper time she took us into
her confidence.

"Mr. Kinlosti," she said, "told me a very strange story this afternoon.
Parts of it were so horrible that it made me shiver. It seems he was one
of the few members of the household who accompanied Nicholas to Siberia.
He got away just before the final tragedy."

"What was his excuse for leaving his master?" I asked, a little coldly.

We were all three in the parlour of our lodging house, and quite alone.
Nevertheless, Rose lowered her voice as she answered me.

"The Tsar entrusted him with the knowledge of where a portion of the
Crown jewels were secreted. He was to find them, raise money, and try
and bribe the Siberian Guards. He found the jewels all right, but not
until Nicholas and the whole of his family had been assassinated."

"What did he do with the jewels?" Leonard asked.

"He has not told me so in so many words, but I believe that he has them
here," she replied. "He told me they were still in his possession and he
held them in trust for the Romanoffs. The terrible part of the business
for him is that he has been tracked all over Europe by Bolshevist
agents, who claim that the jewels belong to the Russian State."

"Why did he tell you all this?" I enquired, with growing suspicion.

Rose shook her head.

"Perhaps to account for the fact that he seemed so nervous all the
time," she suggested. "He started whenever another motor car passed us,
and as long as we were in Bath itself he watched the faces on the
pavements, as though all the time he were looking for some one. He told
me that when first he arrived here he suspected even the masseurs at the
baths."

"I still don't see why he was so confidential with you," Leonard
grumbled.

"He likes me," she acknowledged, with a demure smile. "In fact, if he
tells the truth, he likes me very much. Don't look so black, please,"
she went on, with a glance at our faces. "Remember I am only obeying
orders."

That phrase cost us a good deal of uneasiness during the next few days.
Whenever we performed, Kinlosti sat in his corner, watching and
listening. In the intervals, he came and made timid and courteous
conversation. Without going so far as to say that he pursued Rose, he
certainly took up a great deal of her time. On the fourth afternoon I
received another typewritten note, handed to me again from the porter's
office without any intimation as to its source. There was only a line or
two:

     Miss Mindel should show some curiosity as to the Crown Jewels.
     Mr. Kinlosti would probably like to show them to her.

Within half an hour Rose made her request. Both Leonard and I were
within a few yards, and we saw the sudden terror in his face, heard his
almost hysterical refusal.

"No one has ever seen them," he told Rose, "since they first came into
my possession. I do not dare even to look at them myself. Directly my
rheumatism permits me to move without pain, I shall acquit myself of the
trust. It weighs upon me night and day."

With that the matter would have been ended, so far as Leonard and myself
were concerned. Rose, however, took it differently. For the rest of that
afternoon we were able to appreciate fully the guile of our little
companion. She received Kinlosti's refusal in silence. Presently she
developed a headache and refused to talk. She sat with her shoulder
turned away from him while she played and never once glanced in his
direction while she sang. At the close of our performance, he came up
and whispered to her earnestly. She shook her head at first and then
turned to me.

"Mr. Kinlosti is going to show me something in his sitting room. Please
come with us."

For the first time I saw the Russian in this sallow-faced invalid. His
lips curved into a snarl and for a moment he glared at me. The fit of
anger was gone in a moment, before Rose had even observed it. With a
little courteous gesture towards her, he turned and limped towards the
lift. We followed, and he led us into his suite on the first floor.

"Do not be frightened of John," he enjoined, as he opened the door.
"John is the guardian of my treasure, and he is obsessed with the idea
that there are thieves in this hotel."

From the appearance of John, it seemed as though any adventurous thieves
would have had a pretty poor time. He was seated with folded arms upon a
hard, straight-backed chair. On a table by his side, only partially
concealed by a large handkerchief, was an obvious revolver. There was
also a glass of strong brandy and water. He rose to his feet at our
entrance, but his bearing was grim and unfriendly. His master talked to
him for a few moments in his own language, apparently trying to assure
him of the harmlessness of our presence. John, however, remained sulky.
Kinlosti crossed to the farthest corner of the room, took a key from his
pocket, a key which seemed to be attached to a band of snakelike silver
which encircled his leg, and unfastened an ordinary black tin dispatch
box, which stood on the floor. From this he drew out a coffer of some
almost black-coloured wood, with brass clamps. He held it up towards
Rose.

"Even for you, my dear young friend," he said, "I may not raise the lid,
but I show you this much of your desire. This is one of the coffers
which for eleven hundred years has held the ceremonial jewels of the
Russian Royal Family. There were at one time five of them. This is the
one that remains."

"Mayn't I have just one little peep inside?" Rose pleaded.

We heard John's heavy breathing, and Kinlosti scarcely waited even to
answer her. He thrust the coffer back into the box and locked it.

"It is impossible," he pronounced. "I do not bear this trust alone. In
the spirit I fear that I break it already. You will rest here for a
little while, mademoiselle?"

If this was meant as a hint to me, it was of no avail. I stood by Rose's
side and she shook her head.

"You will not let me make you some of our own Russian tea?" he begged.

"Bring me some downstairs," she suggested. "I should love the tea, if it
isn't too much trouble, and I will come over and sit in your corner."

In the corridor, on our way down, we met the malevolent Mrs. Cotesham,
who paused, leaning on her stick, and watched Rose and her companion
with the hungry glare of the professional scandalmonger. Kinlosti
hurried past her with a little shiver, and Rose laughed gaily as she
descended the stairs.

"I believe that you have a penchant for Mrs. Cotesham," she declared.

"She is the most horrible old lady I have ever seen anywhere," he said
fervently. "They tell me that she is over ninety, and that she has but
one joy in life--to make where she can mischief and trouble and
unhappiness. She comes here every year, and every servant hates her.
Even the managers would keep her away if they could, but she has bought
shares in the hotel and has interest with the directors."

"The old man Mr. Grant is nearly as bad," Rose remarked.

"Him I know nothing of," Kinlosti replied, "save that he is one of those
who have surely lived too long."

Leonard and I left Rose to her tête-à-tête and took a seat in the
lounge. A few yards from us, the little daily comedy which never failed
to amuse the onlookers was in progress. Mr. Grant was seated in the easy
chair affected by Mrs. Cotesham. She came stumping along from the lift
and stopped about a foot from the chair.

"This man has taken my chair!" she exclaimed in a loud voice, for the
benefit of every one. "I left a book in it."

Mr. Grant continued to read through his heavy spectacles, unmoved. She
struck the side of his chair with her stick.

"I want my chair," she repeated.

Mr. Grant half turned round.

"What does the woman want?" he snarled. "This isn't her chair. It's an
hotel chair. I found it empty and I sat down. I am going to stay."

"Where's my book?" Mrs. Cotesham demanded, handing him the end of her
ear trumpet.

"I threw it on the lounge," he shouted. "There it is. Now don't bother
me any more."

"He calls himself a gentleman!" the old lady declared, shaking with
fury.

"Never called myself anything of the sort in my life," he snapped.

I rose, and wheeled the easy chair in which I was sitting to the side of
Mr. Grant's.

"Will you sit here, madam?" I ventured. "It is as near your favourite
position as possible."

She pushed her speaking trumpet almost into my face.

"Say that again, young man," she directed.

I repeated it at the top of my voice. She nodded and subsided into the
chair.

"I don't like having to sit near such people," she said, "but I prefer
this side of the fireplace."

Her neighbour looked out of the corner of his eye.

"I wish the pestilential old woman would stay up in her room," he
growled. "I hate her next me."

She handed him her speaking trumpet.

"Say that again, will you?" she invited. "I don't like people talking
about me when I can't hear what they say."

Mr. Grant shut his book with a snap, rose to his feet and hobbled across
to a distant part of the lounge.

"That old woman ought to be locked up," he declared at the top of his
voice. "She's a damned nuisance to everybody!"

He found another seat and recommenced his book. Mrs. Cotesham, with a
purr of content, settled herself down in the chair which he had vacated,
stretched out her feet upon the footstool and looked around
triumphantly.

"I've been to a good many hotels in my life," she confided to every one
within hearing, "but I never met a man who called himself a gentleman,
with such disgusting manners!"

Leonard and I strolled away presently to find Rose. It was time for us
to go back to our rooms and change for the evening performance. We found
her with Kinlosti in his corner, and the air above them overhung with a
thin cloud of blue tobacco smoke. Kinlosti was smoking furiously and
talking hard. Rose welcomed our approach, I thought, with something
almost like eagerness.

"It is time to go, I am sure," she declared, springing to her feet.

Her companion broke off in the middle of a sentence and frowned.

"We speak together to-night, then?"

She shook her head at him, smiling all the time though, and with that
little tantalising look in her eyes which Leonard and I both knew so
well.

"I am not sure," she replied. "The management will complain if I talk so
much with one of the guests, but I will play 'Valse Triste' for you. Au
revoir!"

We had almost left the hotel--we were on the outside steps, indeed--when
the hall porter caught me up. I saw at once what he was carrying. It was
one of the now familiar typewritten letters. This time I asked him a
point-blank question.

"Look here," I said, with my hand in my trousers pocket, "this is the
third note I have received from my friend in this fashion. I want to
know how they come into your possession. Who leaves them at the bureau?"

The man saw the ten-shilling note in my hand but he only shook his head.
I believe that he was perfectly honest.

"I would tell you in a minute if I knew, sir," he declared, "but to tell
you the truth I have never seen one delivered. All three I have picked
up from the desk in my office, evidently left there when my back was
turned for a moment."

"You haven't any idea who leaves them there, then?" I persisted.

"Not the slightest, sir," the man assured me.

"Keep a good lookout," I begged him, "and let me know if you do find
out. There may be another one--I can't tell--but I'll double this ten
shillings if you succeed."

The man thanked me and withdrew. We three crossed to the less frequented
side of the road. I walked in the middle, with Rose and Leonard on
either arm. We read the note together:

     If the box Miss Mindel saw in Kinlosti's room was of purple
     leather, with gold clasps and corners, let the first item in
     your repertoire to-night be the Missouri Waltz. If it was a box
     of any other description, play the selection from
     "Chu-Chin-Chow."

"Well, I'm damned!" Leonard exclaimed.

"Be careful," I advised. "Thomson's probably underneath these paving
stones."

Rose shivered a little.

"Do you think he wants to steal the jewels, Maurice?" she asked me.

"Oh, no!" I answered. "He probably wants to borrow them to wear at the
Lord Mayor's show!"

She made a grimace.

"That's all very well, Mr. Lister," she said, with a great attempt at
hauteur, "but will you kindly remember that you two are not in at this
show? It is I who seem to be chosen as principal accomplice. I am not
exactly infatuated with Mr. Kinlosti, but I don't want him to lose his
jewels."

"I bet you a four-pound box of chocolates he does lose them," Leonard
observed.

Rose sighed.

"Anyhow," she murmured, "we shall have to play 'Chu-Chin-Chow'
to-night."

Leonard and Rose played a selection from "Chu-Chin-Chow" that evening as
well as they could with an extemporised rendering. Rose played the
piano, Leonard the violin, and I pretended to be turning over the pages
of the music, although all the time I was engaged in a furtive search of
the crowded lounge for some sign of our patron or a possible emissary.
There were the usual little groups about, and a more harmless or obvious
set of people I don't think I ever came across. Mrs. Cotesham was seated
with her back to us, with a shawl arranged around her head so as to
still further deaden sound, and ostentatiously reading a novel. Mr.
Grant had stumped past us on his way to the billiard room, muttering to
himself, before the first few bars of our little effort had been played.
The others were nearly all known to us by name or reputation. There
seemed something uncanny in the thought that somewhere or other were
ears waiting for the message our selection conveyed. We were half-way
through the "Cobbler's Song" when, without the slightest warning, Rose,
who was facing the staircase, broke off abruptly in her playing. I
caught sight of her face, suddenly pale, upturned towards the head of
the staircase, followed the direction of her gaze, and was myself
stricken dumb and nerveless. At the top of the staircase John was
standing, holding out a terrified, struggling figure almost at arm's
length. The fingers of his right hand seemed to be clasped around the
neck of his unfortunate victim, while with his left hand he held him by
the ankle. This was all in full view of the lounge. There were shrieks
from the women, and some of the men, amongst them myself, hurried
towards the staircase. We were too late, however, to be of any practical
use. John, who seemed like a man beside himself with passion, suddenly
swung the prostrate form of his captive a little farther back, and then
dashed it from him down the stairs. A little cry of horror rippled and
sobbed through the tense air. The man lay on the rug at the bottom of
the stairs, a crumpled-up heap, motionless and without speech.

[Illustration: There were shrieks from the women, and some of the men,
amongst them myself, hurried towards the staircase. _Page_ 64.]


                                   II

I was one of those who helped to carry the unfortunate victim of John's
fury into the manager's office. He appeared to be a man of about medium
height and build, dressed in the severest clerical clothes. I remembered
having seen him arrive on the previous day. We laid him upon a sofa and
left him there while one of us telephoned for a doctor. Out in the
lounge, every one was grouped around the stairs, where Kinlosti was
talking to John. The veins of the latter's temples were still standing
out, but he was rapidly calming down. He spoke in a loud voice, so that
every one might hear.

"That man is a thief in disguise," he shouted. "You will find burglar's
tools in his pocket and a revolver. He came into the room where I was
guarding my master's property, pretended to have mistaken the room, and
tried to slip in behind me. I was too quick for him. He has followed us
from Russia, that man. My master will tell you."

The manager, who had been lingering in the background, came down the
stairs.

"The man's story may be true," he said. "Two of the maids saw him
hanging about. They heard the altercation, and there is a chloroformed
handkerchief in the sitting room."

"I have a valuable box there," Kinlosti explained, "which it is my
servant's duty to guard. It contains property which belongs to the
dead."

"All the same," one of the bystanders observed, "one does not treat even
a thief like that. The man's neck is probably broken."

Kinlosti seemed to have lost his nervousness in this minute of crisis.

"I beg," he said to the manager, "that you will await the doctor's
verdict before you send for the police. If the man is not seriously
injured, he got no more than his deserts. It was John's duty to guard
what he was guarding with his life."

"Here is the doctor," the manager announced.

Half a dozen of us followed the manager and the doctor back to the room
where we had carried the injured man. When we opened the door, however,
we were faced with a great surprise. There was a current of cold air,
the window was wide open, the sofa was empty! To all appearance, a
miracle had happened. We examined the ground below the window and found
traces of where a man had stepped out. To those of us who had seen the
fall, the thing grew more wonderful the more we thought of it.

"I think," the doctor pronounced, "that this is more a case for the
police."

Kinlosti shook his head.

"I do not think," he said drily, "that the police of Bath are likely to
be of much service in this matter."

"You have a suspicion, perhaps?" the manager asked.

Kinlosti smiled a little bitterly.

"I know the people who have been following me," he replied, "who would
follow me around the world until I am quit of my trust. They are
Jugo-Slav Jews, boneless and bloodless as the worm that you cut in two
only to find of dual life. No Bath policeman will ever lay hands upon
that seemingly reverend gentleman."

"At the same time," the manager said a little stiffly, "I shall give
information. It appears that he wrote for a room a week ago, from a
vicarage near London, and signed himself 'The Reverend Edward
Cummings.'"

"You will find that vicarage a myth," Kinlosti observed, "as much a myth
as the Reverend Edward Cummings himself."

The sensation died away. We all drifted back to our places. At the
manager's earnest request we recommenced our programme, but I am quite
sure that no one listened, for the buzz of conversation almost drowned
the sound of our instruments. The manager carried on an earnest
conversation with Kinlosti in his corner, greatly, apparently, to the
latter's distress. After our first essay we attempted no more music.
Leonard went off to speak to some friends in the lounge. I was talking
to Rose and showing her a paragraph in the evening paper, when Kinlosti
approached.

"It is very distressing," he said. "Because of this unfortunate
happening, the manager has asked me to leave the hotel. Every place in
Bath is full, and my cure is not complete."

I showed him the paragraph in the paper.

"You may not be able to go," I pointed out. "It seems that there is
every possibility of a railway strike being declared to-night."

He glanced at the paragraph and returned the paper to me unmoved.

"It would not affect me," he said. "I travel everywhere by car. I think
after what has happened I shall go. In London I can acquit myself of my
trust. I see that the person who is empowered to take over my
responsibility is back in London a few days sooner than he was
expected."

I looked at the paragraph underneath the one which I had indicated,
which announced that a royal personage had returned to London a few days
earlier than intended, owing to the threatened strike.

"To-morrow," Kinlosti continued quietly, "I shall order my car and
depart. It will perhaps be better. If things get worse, they may
commandeer the petrol. I will rid myself of this responsibility and
either return or try Harrogate. You three will come up and have a bottle
of wine with me and some sandwiches?"

Rose, to my joy, was quite firm in her refusal. She returned with him to
his corner, however, and they sat there with their heads very close
together whilst Leonard and I fidgetted about in the lounge. A period of
quietude had followed the excitement of the last half-hour. Mr. Grant
had apparently fallen asleep in his easy chair. Mrs. Cotesham watched
him malevolently through her horn-rimmed spectacles.

"What a pity for a man to make such ugly noises when he's asleep!" she
remarked to her neighbour. "I wish some one would wake him up. He's
disturbing the whole room."

Mr. Grant opened one eye, then the other. Finally he sat up.

"Madam," he shouted, as she raised her trumpet to her ear, "you forget
that I am not like you--deaf!"

"I don't care whether you are or not," she replied. "I'm glad I woke you
up. Bed's the place for you."

"A coffin's the place for you," Mr. Grant muttered under his breath.
"How are you going to get away from here, ma'am?" he continued, raising
his tone. "I hear your rooms are let from to-morrow."

"I sha'n't ask you for a place in your car," she answered. "Very likely
I sha'n't go. They can't turn me out."

"I don't think they'll miss the opportunity," her interlocutor retorted,
with a sardonic smile.

She laid her speaking trumpet in her lap.

"I sha'n't listen to you any more," she declared. "You're a rude old
man. If it interests any one else to know what will become of me, I have
relatives in Bristol who will be only too glad for me to pay them a
visit."

"They'll be gladder to get rid of her," Mr. Grant observed, looking
around for sympathy.

At that moment the hall porter touched me on the shoulder. The
inevitable note was thrust into my hand.

"I found this on my desk just now, sir," he announced, in answer to my
look of enquiry. "Sorry I can't tell you how it got there."

I opened it and read:

     You will terminate your engagement at the Crown this evening.
     Proceed to London to-morrow, where you will find rooms taken
     for you at the Mayfair Hotel. Accept any offer you may receive
     of a lift to London, individually or collectively.

I showed Leonard the note, and hurried away to the manager's office. He
made no difficulty about letting us go; in fact, I gathered that half
the residents in the hotel were hurrying away by motor car, fearing a
general confiscation of petrol. He detained me just as I was leaving the
room.

"Queer affair, that attempted robbery, Mr. Lister," he remarked.

"Extraordinary," I agreed.

"I notice you people seem quite friendly with Mr. Kinlosti," he
continued. "Do you know if it is true that he is related to the late
Tsar?"

"I have no idea," I answered. "All that he has told us is that he was a
member of the household."

"He may be a nobleman, and I dare say he is," the manager went on, a
little nervously, "but I don't care about people at my hotel with a
savage manservant like his and half a million pounds' worth of jewels.
Bath isn't the place for that sort of thing. My clients like a quiet
life."

"No doubt," I answered. "Anyhow, he's leaving to-morrow."

"Prince or no prince, I am glad to hear it," was the heartfelt reply.
"People ought to deposit valuables like that in a bank. They're simply
asking for trouble when they cart them about the country. It's a thing
I've very seldom done to a client, but I told Mr. Kinlosti this evening
that I should be glad for him to leave as soon as convenient."

I went back to the corner where I had left Rose. My disquietude
increased as I approached. Both she and her companion were quite
unconscious of my coming. Kinlosti was leaning forward, talking
earnestly, and Rose was listening with a queer and unfamiliar look in
her eyes. Leonard suddenly gripped me by the arm and led me a little
distance away.

"Maurice," he confided, "that fellow Kinlosti is making love to her."

"If I thought so!" I muttered, clenching my fists.

"But she's letting him," Leonard groaned. "What the mischief can we do?
We've no hold over her. Owing to that silly bargain we made, she doesn't
dream that either of us care a snap of the fingers about her, except as
a little pal and a partner. It's all clear sailing for that unwholesome
brute."

My anger died away, but a very solid determination was there in its
place.

"Leonard," I said, "we aren't going to leave her, and whatever happens,
we'll know more about that fellow before many days have passed."

I retraced my steps then and went up to them. There was certainly a
change in Rose's face. Kinlosti looked up at me a little impatiently.

"Is it late?" he asked. "I am leaving to-morrow, and I am anxious to
have a few minutes' more conversation with Miss Mindel."

"As it happens, we are leaving ourselves," I replied. "I thought perhaps
that Miss Mindel would like to know."

"What, to-morrow?" she exclaimed.

"I have received a message," I told her.

She sprang up and drew me to one side, with a little nod to Kinlosti
which seemed to promise a swift return. I showed her the typewritten
sheet.

"Maurice," she whispered, "Mr. Kinlosti has already been begging me to
accept a seat in his car to London to-morrow."

"Indeed!" I answered coldly.

"Of course, I never had any idea of leaving you two," she went on, "but
now--well, you see what our instructions are."

"Damn our instructions!" I muttered, losing control of myself for a
moment. "Rose, you're not falling in love with that fellow?"

"Don't be foolish, please," she answered, "and don't call him a fellow."

"I'll call him a scoundrel if he behaves like one," I retorted.

She looked at me queerly for a moment. I thought that she was going to
be angry, but she answered me without any signs of ill-feeling.

"You and Leonard are both very kind in looking after me," she admitted,
"but after all I am quite able, when it is necessary, to make up my mind
for myself on things that concern me personally."

"You're not going up to London alone with Kinlosti," I said doggedly.

She swung around and rejoined him before I could reply. Leonard and I
went and fetched our coats and hats. A little ostentatiously we laid her
fur coat upon the top of the piano and waited. In a moment or two she
got up and came over towards us, Kinlosti by her side. He turned
courteously to me.

"Miss Mindel reminds me that you also are leaving Bath to-morrow. I have
two seats in my car, one of which I have offered to Miss Mindel. If the
other is of any service to you, I shall be delighted."

I thanked him a little perfunctorily.

"We don't, as a rule, separate when we have a journey to make," I said.
"However, in this case the circumstances are a little exceptional. If
you will take Miss Mindel and Mr. Cotton, I dare say I can manage to get
up somehow."

"We can't leave you, Maurice," Rose protested.

"So far as I am concerned, I am afraid it must be so," Kinlosti
intervened, in a tone full of courteous regret. "I have John outside
with the chauffeur, and there is only room for two comfortably in the
inside. We shall have to improvise a seat for Mr. Cotton."

"You don't anticipate any adventures on the way, I suppose?" I asked.
"Nothing after the style of this evening's happenings?"

"I sincerely trust not," was the earnest reply. "However, both John and
I are armed, and I do not think any one will venture so far as to hold
up the car."

"In that case, Rose," I said, "I think you and Leonard had better accept
Mr. Kinlosti's offer. At the worst I hear there are some char-à-bancs
running. I shall probably get a lift. At what hour did you think of
starting?"

"At nine o'clock, if Miss Mindel doesn't mind," Kinlosti answered
hastily. "The sooner we get away, the better. My chauffeur tells me that
they are asking two pounds a tin for petrol, and a Government order,
commandeering stocks, is expected out to-morrow."

We were more silent than usual on our walk home, perhaps because the
events of the evening had left us all something to think about. Once
Rose pressed my arm.

"I feel rather mean about you to-morrow, Maurice," she ventured.

I reminded her of the mandate we had received.

"No help for it. Two were invited and two have to go. I can't tell what
surprises may be in store for me. I may get an invitation myself."

Rose turned a troubled face towards me. Her lips quivered a little, her
eyes were full of distress.

"Maurice," she confessed, "I'm afraid of to-morrow. I'm afraid that we
are being made use of to rob Mr. Kinlosti."

"Can't be helped," Leonard put in, as I remained for a moment silent.
"We took this business on with our eyes open. Our consciences weren't
very active when we were starving and cold and in debt. It's no good
finding them too sensitive now that we're living on the fat of the land.
We've just got to see the thing through, for a year, at any rate."

"Leonard is right," I assented. "We've got to grin and bear it. This
time," I added, "it seems as though you two were going to have the show
to yourself."

"You can have my share," Rose sighed.

       *       *       *       *       *

The hall of the Crown Hotel at a few minutes before nine on the
following morning presented a scene of curious animation. All trains had
ceased to run, and rumours as to the Government commandeering of petrol
were universal. Fully a score of cars were outside, waiting, besides one
of the smaller char-à-bancs, and half a dozen luggage porters were
working their hardest. Kinlosti, looking curiously shrunken in a great
fur coat, pale and nervous, greeted us on the steps. His car, laden with
luggage, stood at the entrance. On the box seat sat John, an immovable
figure of fierce watchfulness.

"We could start any time you liked," Kinlosti said, addressing Rose
eagerly. "We have left room for your trunk behind, and there will be a
quite comfortable place for Mr. Cotton. You are ready, Miss Mindel?"

"Quite," she answered.

He gripped Leonard's arm and commenced to descend the steps. It was
obvious that he was in great pain, and I supported him on the other
side. Outside, a grey mist hung over the street, and he shivered as we
made our slow progress.

"It is the damp which has brought this on again," he confided. "Only a
few days ago I was better. Every one says the same thing. It is when one
leaves here that one reaps the benefit of the treatment. I am ashamed to
be so much trouble."

We had almost to lift him into the car, and notwithstanding the chill of
the morning, there were beads of perspiration upon his forehead. Rose
took her place by his side, and Leonard on a camp stool placed against
the door. I felt a little forlorn as I saw them start, but I waved my
hand encouragingly.

"I'll get up somehow," I shouted. "See you to-night."

I turned back into the hotel to look for the driver of the char-à-banc
and try to bargain with him for a seat to London. Mrs. Cotesham, almost
undistinguishable in rugs and wraps, was seated on a chair, watching the
carrying out of her luggage, all neatly wrapped, after the continental
fashion, in brown holland covers. She counted the articles one by one as
they passed, muttering to herself all the time.

"Never another shilling shall any railway porter have so long as I
live!--eleven--one more. And as to the management of this hotel, I call
it disgraceful! Flung out like cattle, that's what's happening to us!"

Mr. Grant, also attired for motoring, came shuffling along. He picked up
Mrs. Cotesham's speaking trumpet.

"Got any one to take you in?" he asked.

She snatched it away from him.

"Of course I have," she answered. "I'm not a miserable, disagreeable old
curmudgeon like you! My friends are glad to have me pay them a visit."

Mr. Grant chuckled.

"Gladder to get rid of you, I know!"

His eye fell upon me.

"Well, young Mr. Musician," he went on, "how are you going to get away?
Pad the hoof, eh, as your sort used to a few hundred years ago?"

"Not at all," I answered cheerfully. "I'm hoping some one will offer me
a lift to London. If not, I shall have to buy a seat for myself in the
char-à-banc."

The hall porter, who was passing, shook his head.

"Not a bit of use thinking about the char-à-banc, sir," he said. "We've
a dozen guests in the hotel we've had to refuse already."

Mr. Grant chuckled.

"Good walker, eh, young man?" he asked.

"Oh, I could get there, all right," I assured him, "but it won't be
necessary. Why won't you give me a lift, sir?" I added, putting a bold
front on it. "I see your car out there, empty."

"Yes, why don't you give the poor young man a ride?" Mrs. Cotesham
chipped in, lowering the speaking trumpet from her ear. "Fancy wanting
all that great car to yourself! I hate selfishness."

Mr. Grant smiled.

"I couldn't persuade you, my dear lady----" he began.

"No, you couldn't!" she interrupted vigorously. "I wouldn't step inside
your old car if you paid me. I'm not going your way, either. I'm going
to Clifton. And I hope that as long as I live I'll never set eyes upon
your repulsive face again."

Mr. Grant lifted his hat solemnly.

"Amen!" he said. "Come on, young fellow," he added gruffly. "I'll take
you to London as long as you promise not to try and sing to me."

I spared my benefactor any exuberant show of gratitude, but I felt that
I was in luck's way as I stretched myself out in the luxuriously
cushioned seat of Mr. Grant's limousine. We swung off along the Bristol
road.

"Got to call at a house three miles out on this road," Mr. Grant
explained thickly. "We'll be in London before the fastest of them,
though."

"It's quite immaterial to me so long as we get there by this evening," I
answered.

We drove on for between three and four miles. Then, without any order
from Mr. Grant, the car came to a standstill by the side of the road. I
looked at my companion for some explanation. He was leaning a little
forward, with both hands clasped around the knob of his stick. His
attitude was one of listening.

"Is the house where you want to call near here?" I asked.

"Listen!" was the brusque reply.

I thrust my head out of the window of the car and held my breath.
Climbing the hill behind us, hidden by the mist, was another car,
puffing and snorting as though in some difficulties. It came into sight
in a minute or two--a Bath taxicab, laden with luggage. Mr. Grant
descended.

"Something wrong with that engine," he remarked. "Perhaps we had better
enquire if we can help."

The car behind had come to a standstill, and the chauffeur, who had
already jumped from his place and opened the bonnet, was tinkering with
his engine. I fancied that a glance of intelligence passed between him
and Mr. Grant.

"Dear me," the latter exclaimed, turning around and finding me at his
heels. "Our amiable old friend on her way to Bristol! We must see
whether we cannot be of some assistance."

What followed--the rapidity and the wonder of it--kept me spellbound.
There was no stump about Mr. Grant as he threw open the door of the
taxicab. His spring was the spring of a young man, and before I could
realise what was happening, he had Mrs. Cotesham by the throat. With the
other hand he passed out to me the box which she had been using as a
footstool.

"The game's up, Kinlosti," he said, and the voice was the voice of
Thomson. "I'll shake the life out of you if you reach for that pistol."

For a moment I stood in the middle of the road, spellbound. The pseudo
Mrs. Cotesham was a wonderful sight. Her false front and mass of grey
curls had slipped over her ear, disclosing the clean-shaven head of a
young man. The paint was cracking upon her face. Thomson's terrible grip
seemed to be slowly strangling her, and slowly from out of the wreck
there seemed to creep another face, the face of a man with Kinlosti's
haunting eyes. He seemed to wrench himself at that moment a little freer
from the cruel grip upon his windpipe, and a cry of terror rang out into
the mist, the thrilling, horrible cry of a man in fear of his life. The
cry was stifled by something which Thomson held in his hand. He turned
to me.

"Get back in the car and take that box with you," he directed.

I obeyed him, glad enough to be away from whatever else might happen. In
a minute or two Mr. Thomson returned. He gave a brief order to the
chauffeur, the car swung round, and we headed once more for Bath. As we
flashed past the taxicab, I caught a momentary glimpse of its amazing
occupant, leaning forward, his face buried in his hands. The taxicab man
had lit a cigarette and was waiting apparently for orders.

"Sha'n't we be stopped?" I asked my companion. "He can telephone."

Mr. Thomson shook his head.

"The game isn't played that way," he said shortly.

Whereupon he put his feet on the opposite cushion and either slept or
pretended to sleep until we reached Hungerford. Then he yawned and
looked at me.

"Can you hold out until we reach London?" he asked. "I don't want to
stop for luncheon."

"Easily," I replied. "I had a good breakfast, and to tell you the
truth," I added boldly, "I'm too curious to be hungry."

Mr. Thomson yawned and closed his eyes again.

"You can keep your curiosity and your appetite, too, if you like," he
said, "until eight o'clock this evening, Milan Restaurant--not Grill
Room."

"All three of us?" I asked.

"Yes."

Mr. Thomson closed his eyes, and not another word was spoken until he
set me down at the Mayfair Hotel.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was evidently not only at hotels that Mr. Thomson was _persona
grata_. The table to which he led us on our arrival at the Milan was one
of the best in the room. The chief _maître d'hôtel_ himself was in
attendance to exchange amenities with an evidently well-known and
respected patron. The menu of a specially prepared dinner was
deferentially handed to him by one of the minor luminaries. We seated
ourselves with some faint return of that unreal feeling which had been
evoked by the two previous feasts at which we had assisted. This one
especially was hard to realise. Nowhere could the appurtenances of
luxury have been more elaborately displayed. Pink, hothouse roses almost
covered the tablecloth and gave a faint, exotic odour to the restful
atmosphere of the room. Outside, the orchestra was playing with subdued
and melodious cadence the music of "Louise." We seemed in an oasis, in a
world far removed from the tragedies of the day.

"I fear," our host said, as he watched the wine being poured into Rose's
glass, "that your journey up to-day has fatigued you. I beg that you
will drink half a glass of that wine at once. There is nothing so
refreshing as champagne after a long motor ride."

"It wasn't the distance," Rose replied, as she followed his advice. "It
was Mr. Kinlosti's extraordinary behaviour. I have never seen a man so
nervous in all my life. He could not sit still. He seemed to lose
sometimes almost the power of speech. Always he seemed to be expecting
something which never happened."

"Ah!" Mr. Thomson murmured. "That is not to be wondered at."

"When we neared London," Rose continued, "and I ventured to congratulate
him upon the near fulfilment of his trust, I certainly thought he would
have hysterics. We left him at Hammersmith, telephoning wildly. After
waiting half an hour, we moved our things into a taxi."

"Things did not turn out," Mr. Thomson reflected, "exactly as Mr.
Kinlosti had anticipated."

"It has been your custom, sir," I reminded him, leaning forward in my
place, "on the occasion of these little celebrations, to vouchsafe us
some slight inkling as to the meaning of our efforts. I feel that we
should do more justice to this wonderful dinner if you could give us
some faint idea as to the nature of the tragedy, or farce, or whatever
it may be, at which we have been assisting."

Mr. Thomson ruminated for a moment. He seemed to be watching two
unobtrusive-looking men, still in morning dress, who were making their
way through the room towards the more retired tables set out on the
balcony.

"That is true," he admitted. "I will tell you, then, a little history.
It may perhaps bring some part of the colour back to Miss Mindel's
cheeks."

"It may also," I observed, "stop me from thinking I can see two of
everything."

"A month ago," Mr. Thomson said, "there landed in England three of the
greatest rascals who ever drew breath in any country. One was Andrea
Kinlosti, at one time valet and barber to the Tsar of Russia. The other
was Paul Kinlosti, his brother, an actor of some small note in a stock
company at St. Petersburg. The third was a hardened criminal, whom, not
to confuse you, we will call John, wanted even in his own country for
something like thirteen murders. Andrea Kinlosti was the gentleman, Miss
Rose, who brought you to London to-day. Paul Kinlosti, the actor, gave a
very wonderful rendering of Mrs. Cotesham. And John--well, you know
about him."

"Andrea Kinlosti's story, then," Rose began----

"A tissue of lies," our host interrupted. "The true facts about his
appearance in England are these. A very valuable portion of the Crown
jewels was hidden by one of the Monarchist party in St. Petersburg.
Partly through Andrea Kinlosti's intervention, these jewels fell into
the hands of the Bolshevists. The two Kinlostis and John, however,
managed to secure possession of them and escaped to England. Hard on
their heels came four or five of their kidney, and the attempt you saw
at theft at the Crown Hotel was the third or fourth which has been made
since they arrived in this country. In the absence of any extradition
treaty between the present Government of Russia and this country, the
trio thought that they would be safe here and could make their plans to
realise the jewels. They did not count, however, upon the little stream
of fellow rascals who found their way over here after them. The Bath
idea seems fantastic, but on the whole it had its points. Andrea was
really suffering horribly from rheumatism, and an hotel of the class of
the Crown seemed as good a hiding place as any from the kind of person
whom they desired to avoid. The scheme was that Kinlosti should be quite
frank about his possession of the jewels, but the box which was supposed
to contain them was a dummy. Paul, the actor, impersonated an old lady
and was really in possession of the jewels, and the idea was that he
should watch his opportunity and take steamer direct from Bristol to
some little port at which he could reship to New York."

We murmured comprehension.

"Miss Mindel here," Thomson continued, "kept admirably in touch with
Andrea Kinlosti, the pseudo-nobleman. She was able to give me the
information I desired, as to which of the two really possessed the
jewels. Furthermore, directly Andrea sought her companionship for the
journey to London, I knew that it was Paul who was to have the jewels.
Upon the whole," he concluded, "for two arch criminals of wonderful
reputation, I think their final attempt to get away with the booty was a
little disappointing."

"What has happened to them?" Rose asked.

Mr. Thomson picked up the evening paper which he had placed by the side
of his plate.

"This is just a telegram," he observed, turning to the stop press news:

     Just before the sailing of the S. S. _Avonmouth_ from Bristol
     this afternoon, the body of an elderly lady, who had booked a
     passage to Jamaica in the name of Mrs. Cotesham, was found in
     her cabin. It is feared that the deceased lady was the victim
     of foul play, as there were marks of strangulation upon her
     throat, and her property had apparently been rifled.


     LATER.

     Further extraordinary revelations concerning the murder on the
     _Avonmouth_ have just come to hand, from which it appears that
     the deceased was a man in woman's clothes.

"What made him go on?" I asked.

Mr. Thomson smiled.

"A little information I whispered to him," he said, "concerning the
movements of some of his cutthroat friends from Russia. They were hard
on his track, as this paragraph proves."

"And what about--the other one?" Rose asked, in a stifled, breathless
voice--"the one I travelled up with?"

"Andrea," Mr. Thomson replied. "I am afraid, Miss Mindel, that he is a
very bad lot indeed. If I had not been sure that your protection was
adequate, I should certainly have hesitated before I asked you to play
Delilah."

"I am still wondering," Rose murmured, "what has become of him."

Mr. Thomson had been watching the progress of three men through the
crowded restaurant. By a silent gesture he invited her attention to
them. The foremost figure was the man whom we had known as Andrea
Kinlosti, behind him the two unobtrusive-looking men who had passed
through the restaurant a few minutes before. Kinlosti looked neither to
the right nor to the left; his cheeks were ashen pale, his dark eyes
more brilliant and sunken than ever. The two men who followed watched
his every movement with catlike intensity. When they had passed into the
lounge, they drew one on either side of him.

"He is in luck," Mr. Thomson said grimly. "Scotland Yard has a pretty
black record against him since his last visit to England, six or seven
years ago, but if it had been the others--I don't think they would have
been so kind to him as they were to his brother. And now that's the end
of my story," he went on, in an altered tone. "Miss Mindel, I am assured
that this young turkey is as tender as the chestnut stuffing. Lister,
you ought to have an appetite, for I did you out of your lunch. Cotton,
a glass of wine with you."

I think that a certain callousness, born of our recent adventures, was
finding its way into our natures, for each one of us responded
cheerfully to our host's invitation. There was one--the great
question--however, which I could not refrain from asking.

"About those jewels, sir--where are they?" I asked.

Mr. Thomson scratched his chin.

"Young man," he replied, "don't you think you'd be better off without
knowing where half a million pounds' worth of jewels are?"

"That isn't what I meant," I persisted. "You seem to have recovered them
from the original thieves. What are you going to do about it?"

Mr. Thomson smiled.

"Let me see," he observed, "that will be Conundrum Number Two."




CONUNDRUM NUMBER THREE

THE SPIDER'S PARLOUR


We three--Leonard Cotton, Rose Mindel and I, Maurice Lister, who
comprised the much-advertised little troupe of English artistes recently
arrived at Brussels--sipped the very excellent black coffee provided for
our delectation by Monsieur Huber, the proprietor of the Quatres
Etoiles, gazed around with interest at the motley crowd by which we were
surrounded, applauded the performance of a little French soubrette upon
the stage with all the abandon required by fellow artistes, and
exchanged mutual smiles of well-being and content. To tell the truth,
the Café des Quatres Etoiles, its clientele, and the character of the
entertainment provided were nothing so very wonderful, but it was our
first glimpse of foreign life for some five or six years. We were young
and athirst for adventure, and with our unseen patron behind us we were
pretty certain that before long we should be brought into touch with
interesting things. So far we had spent a week in Brussels, and no word
had followed the mandate which had sent us there. We had been perfectly
content, however, to wait our time and take our nightly part in the
performances. Rose had made quite a hit with her topical songs and
graceful dancing. Leonard's droll stories were much appreciated by an
audience which during the last four years had received a mighty English
lesson. My own baritone songs were well enough received, and we
thoroughly enjoyed the cosmopolitan habit established at the little
music hall of coming down to one of the tables in the café between our
turns and taking our place amongst the audience. Rose was somewhat of a
responsibility to us, but since the affair Kinlosti she had shunned all
new acquaintances and was quite content that we should play the part of
watchdogs. Even as we sat there that evening, she received with the
pleasant indifference of the true artiste many admiring, many inviting
glances. Prosperity had agreed with Rose, as I suppose it had also with
Leonard and me. The slight thinness of her face, the discontented curl
of the lips, had vanished. Her cheeks had filled out, those wonderful
blue eyes of hers seemed always soft and full of life. She had a
perpetual and distracting smile upon her lips; she moved as one who
walks on air. "The little lady," Monsieur Huber had said to us on the
evening of our first performance, "has the gaiety of Paris. It is
incredible that she is of London. She makes happiness wherever she
goes." And, by the bye, Mr. Huber was not accustomed to overpraise any
artiste to whom he was in the habit of paying a salary.

"Maurice--and you, old solemn-face," Rose said, turning to Leonard, "I
like this place. I am prepared to enjoy myself here. I am more glad than
ever that I sold my soul."

"I am entirely with you," Leonard assented, "so long as the future does
not present any such penalties as the incarceration of the body."

"You're all right," I reminded him. "I'm the person who nearly found
trouble. A few more paragraphs about that mysterious jewel robbery and
the probability of immediate arrest would have sent me into a nervous
decline."

Rose laughed in my face, her white teeth gleaming. The little creases at
the corners of her eyes deepened.

"Rubbish!" she scoffed. "You know perfectly well that you never turned a
hair."

"As a matter of fact," I admitted, "I am beginning to have confidence in
Mr. Mephistopheles Thomson. Whether he is of heaven or earth, of the law
or of the underworld, he seems to have a remarkably good idea of how to
take care of himself and his minions."

"Considering that he has three perfectly good consciences to look after
besides his own," Rose agreed, "I must say that he does very well."

"His interests appear to be somewhat cosmopolitan," Leonard observed,
leaning back in his chair and gazing around him.

"So much the better," Rose declared. "It means plenty of change for us,
and I like change, only this time I hope my affections are not going to
be trifled with."

"You shouldn't wear your heart on your sleeve for sentimental Russians
to nibble at," I ventured.

She made a little grimace. I fancy I should have been the recipient of a
scathing remark but for the approach of Monsieur Huber, the proprietor
of the café. He bowed with great politeness to Rose and handed me a
typewritten envelope of familiar appearance. I tore it open and glanced
at its brief contents:

     I beg that you will respond to any advances made to you by any
     regular patrons of the Café des Quatres Etoiles.

I held the note out so that the two others could read it. Then I thrust
it into my pocket.

"Mademoiselle sang charmingly to-night," Monsieur Huber declared,
rolling his eyes.

"I didn't see you amongst the audience, Monsieur Huber," she replied
demurely.

"When you sing I am never far away, Mademoiselle," was the impressive
response. "I was standing at the back of the Baroness Spens' box."

Rose glanced upwards at the box which he indicated. A large woman was
seated there, dressed in an elaborate evening gown, with jewels
sparkling from her bosom and hair. She was dark, with a strong masculine
face, a woman who had once, beyond a doubt, been handsome, but whose
countenance was now almost forbidding. I recognised her as one of the
regular patrons of the café.

"The Baroness," Monsieur Huber continued, "is one of my best clients.
She is very good to all my artistes. Sometimes she has them at her home.
She pays, too--pays very well. But excuse me--she calls."

The Baroness, with a short, rather thick-set Belgian girl, and a fat,
elderly man, who had almost fallen on to the stage applauding the little
French soubrette, occupied the stage box, which was on a level with the
promenade. Monsieur Huber hurried over towards it, exchanged a few words
with his patroness and returned to us.

"The Baroness desires that you three will visit her box and take a glass
of wine," he announced, with the air of one conveying a royal command.
"François, a bottle of _34_ to the stage box at once."

Apart from our desire to oblige little Mr. Huber, who was really a most
good-natured person, our recently received mandate left us no
alternative but to comply. We were ushered, therefore, into the box,
where the Baroness received us, rather to my surprise, with the air of a
woman of breeding, the girl without any special enthusiasm, and the old
man, whose eyes were glued upon the soubrette, with indifference. We
were offered chairs and suffered the martyrdom of sweet champagne. The
Baroness said polite things about our performance, enquired about our
impressions of Brussels, and spoke calmly of her residence in the city
during the period of German occupation. Her conversation was easy
enough, and gracious, yet I could not get it out of my head that her
interest in us did not arise solely from the fact of our being
professional entertainers.

"You find it pays," she asked, a little abruptly, "while living in
Brussels is so dear, to perform at this café for Monsieur Huber's
salary?"

"Financially," I admitted, "our trip here is not particularly
remunerative, but we were all three very anxious to get over here and
look around."

"You find it very changed--the city?"

"Only as regards the absence of Germans," I replied. "In the old days
one met them everywhere."

"They will return," she observed.

"But surely they will not be welcome guests?" I ventured.

"Not at first," she answered indifferently. "Brussels, however, is too
cosmopolitan and too near the frontier to preserve her isolation. The
intermarrying alone would prevent any ostracism."

"I hope," I ventured to say, "that they will keep away until our stay
here is over."

She glanced at my stiff left arm.

"You lost that in the War?"

"That and better things," I told her--"a brother, two cousins and an
uncle."

She nodded gravely yet with little pretence at sympathy.

"You English were wonderful," she said coldly.

The little fat man, who had been leaning over the edge of the box,
suddenly turned around, mopping his forehead. He was not a pleasant
sight to look upon. There were wine stains upon his shirt front and
cigar ash upon his waistcoat. His cheeks were pale and puffy; there were
bags underneath his eyes. His grey beard and moustache, though carefully
trimmed, were scanty and unprepossessing.

"But she is wonderful, that little one," he declared. "Marvellous!"

He poured out a glass of wine, ignoring us in his ecstasy. The Baroness
endeavoured to correct his manners.

"You were unfortunate, dear Henri," she said, "that you arrived too late
to hear Mademoiselle Mindel sing and to watch her dance. You would have
thought less of your little French girl's performance."

Monsieur Henri recovered himself sufficiently to bow to Rose.

"It will be my pleasure another evening," he said. "Meanwhile, dear
Baroness, if you will excuse me. Mademoiselle expects me. We shall meet
again."

He made us a comprehensive bow and departed. The phlegmatic young woman,
who had been introduced to us as Mademoiselle Trudens, muttered
something in Flemish as he left the box. The Baroness shook her head
reprovingly.

"Monsieur Henri Destin," she pronounced, "is a person of importance. One
must humour his whims."

Leonard glanced at his watch and rose.

"I fear that I must be excused, Baroness," he regretted. "My turn to
sing is close at hand."

We also rose. The Baroness eyed us reflectively.

"I am having a few friends out to supper to-night at my chateau," she
said. "It will give me great pleasure if you will come after the
performance. My car will be at the stage door at half-past eleven, and I
shall send you back to your hotel."

Her thoughtful hesitation before extending the invitation had been so
apparent that we should never have dreamed of accepting it but for our
mandate. As it was, we had no alternative. We professed ourselves
delighted, and were permitted to depart.

       *       *       *       *       *

The automobile which awaited us at the stage door at the conclusion of
the performance, and which contained our prospective hostess only, was
the swiftest and most luxurious in which we had any of us ever ridden.
We passed over several miles of cobbled streets with incredible speed,
penetrated some distance into the country, and finally turned in at an
avenue which led through a dense wood and terminated in front of a
chateau, finely situated and of imposing proportions. Even as we
descended, however, a curious fact concerning it occurred both to
Leonard and myself. The Baroness, who must have been watching us more
closely than I had imagined, surprised me by referring to it.

"You are wondering why half my chateau is illuminated and the remainder
is in darkness, is it not so?" she enquired. "Well, I will tell you.
The portion which you see in darkness was the headquarters of the most
detested German who ever set foot in this country during the enemy
occupation of the city. Since his departure, I have not yet been able to
accustom myself to the existence of apartments in which he and his suite
lived and breathed."

She spoke with a little undernote of passion, waited for no comment from
us, but led the way into the brightly lit hall, where servants relieved
us of our wraps and we were at once made conscious of an air of luxury
and comfort. The apartment into which we were presently shown was almost
stately in its proportions, and as a pleasure room almost unique. At one
end was a little raised stage for theatrical performances, occupied now
by a small orchestra; and fitted into the wall was an electric organ.
There was a considerable space of polished floor for dancing, and at the
opposite end of the apartment a large round table laid for supper.

"I fear," the Baroness confided, "that my apartment resembles too much a
restaurant. Still, what can one do? My friends love dancing informally,
the men love their supper, and this huge apartment, which was built for
a music room, would be wasted if I used it in any other fashion. We have
a custom here which always prevails. Supper is served at 12.30. As
guests arrive, they seat themselves."

"We shall find no difficulty in accommodating ourselves to your
delightful customs," I assured her, as we took the places she indicated.
"One must dine at six while our present engagement is on, and it seems a
long time ago."

The precise character of that entertainment, the status of the guests
who presently arrived, and the significance of the whole affair to us
personally puzzled us all for a long time. Several beautiful ladies
arrived, of apparently satisfactory social position, not possessed of a
universal desire to attach themselves to something responsive amongst
the male sex. Madame Sara Clèry, of the French Opera Company, a cousin
of our hostess, was kind enough to show a marked interest in me and my
presence in Brussels.

"Tell me, Monsieur," she begged, in her very attractive undertone, as we
sat in a corner after a waltz, "why are you really in Brussels? You tell
me that you perform at the Café des Quatres Etoiles, but that is a joke,
is it not?"

"Nothing of the sort, indeed, Madame," I assured her. "I am there on a
short engagement with my two friends. I am merely what we call in
English a strolling mountebank."

"You had no other reason, then, for coming to Brussels?" she persisted.

"Unless I was subconsciously aware of the joy in store for me in meeting
Madame," I answered, "there was no other reason."

"Or in coming to this house?'"

I shook my head.

"The Baroness was good enough to ask us all," I explained, "and Monsieur
Huber likes his artistes to accept the hospitality of his patrons."

She pouted a little.

"You do not treat me with confidence, Monsieur," she complained, "and I
am your wellwisher."

"Madame," I replied, "if you would search my heart, which, alas! is in
your possession, you would realise that I don't understand a word of
what you are talking about."

She laughed as though but half convinced. We danced again, drank wine
together, and talked a great deal of nonsense. All the time I kept my
eye on Rose, who found many partners and seemed to be enjoying the
evening exceedingly. As the night wore on, I thought it was almost time
for a counterattack.

"Tell me, Madame," I begged, as we sat enjoying a cigarette in a remote
corner of the room, "what made you think that I might have other affairs
in Brussels?"

She looked at me meditatively. I could see that she had not as yet made
up her mind about me.

"There are so many," she said, "who come to Brussels for another
purpose."

"But what purpose?"

We were resting in a deep window seat. She drew aside the curtains for a
moment. Before us stretched the black, unlit wing of the chateau.

"Just that, monsieur," she whispered.

"Come, we dance again. This is the waltz we both love."

And after that, Madame would dance but she would not talk. So we all
went back to our rooms in the Hotel de l'Univers more than a little
puzzled.

Things began to shape themselves on the following day, when Monsieur
Huber handed me another typewritten communication. My instructions were
concise but a trifle embarrassing:

     Cultivate Madame Sara Clèry. She is at home from five to seven.
     At all hazards be there on Thursday. Leave report of visit with
     Monsieur Huber, addressed Thomson.

Rose made a little grimace as she read over my shoulder.

"Perhaps," she exclaimed, with her head in the air, "you won't have so
much to say about poor Mr. Kinlosti now."

"This isn't of my seeking, is it?" I protested.

"Nor was L'Affaire Kinlosti mine," she retorted. "There was a wonderful
little Belgian Count, with moustaches half an inch long, the other
night. I shall let him call upon me."

"I shall leave you in Leonard's charge," I replied stiffly.

"Dear old Len!" she mocked. "He won't have an earthly chance if I take
it into my head to be frisky, and I'm sure I shall. It isn't natural for
a girl to see no men except two ogres of guardians."

"You be thankful you've got us to look after you," Leonard intervened.
"From what I've seen of this city, Sodom and Gomorrah weren't in it for
levity."

"I can take care of myself," Rose declared, tossing her head.

"Perhaps," I replied. "In the meantime, when I am away on duty--on duty,
mind you--Leonard is going to play watchdog."

She dropped a little curtsey to both of us.

"One would think that I were a masquerading princess," she observed.

"You're our princess," I answered quickly.

The peevishness passed from her face in a moment.

"If only you'd tell me so sometimes!" she murmured.

I was at no time quite able to make up my mind how Sara Clèry really
regarded my visits. On the first day, she received my present of roses
and my compliments with unmistakable pleasure. On the second day, she
was still amiable but a little puzzled. On the third day she received me
with greater intimacy than ever before, and I was never so relieved as
when the opportune arrival of one of her regular admirers--the tenor
with whom she was singing--enabled me to beat a graceful retreat. On the
fourth afternoon, the specially indicated Thursday, I found her in a
state of agitation. It is my confident belief that on that occasion, but
for my _douceur_ to her maid, which ensured my prompt entry, I should
have been denied admission. She welcomed me with mingled
affection--simulated--and suspicion. There was no return of her previous
day's attitude.

"You find me distracted," she declared presently. "A terrible tragedy
has happened."

I murmured a word or two of sympathy. She looked at me earnestly, as
though anxious to probe my mind, to assure herself of my sincerity.

"If I dared to confide in you!" she murmured.

"Dear Sara," I ventured--we had progressed so far--"what is to prevent
it? You know that I am your slave."

She drew a dispatch from the bosom of her gown.

"Listen," she said. "There is a secret in my life which has troubled me
many times--more than ever," she murmured, dropping her eyes, "since I
have known you."

I did not hesitate to play her game, because in my mind I knew that she
was deceiving me.

"Tell me?" I begged. "I am impatient to hear."

"There is one in my family," she continued, "who is a criminal."

"What does that matter," I answered, "so long as it is not you?"

"You feel like that, Maurice?" she exclaimed earnestly.

"Indeed I do," I assured her.

"You are English," she went on. "You fought in the War for Belgium's
deliverance. The halo of heroism still rests around your head. You can
do what others dared not. Listen. This telegram is from my brother. He
has escaped from prison in Antwerp. Never mind the charge. The police
search for him everywhere, but he promises that he will reach my flat at
ten o'clock to-night."

"In disguise?"

"He comes as the victim of a motor accident, in an ambulance car, his
face bandaged. But here--how can I keep him here! The Chief of the
Police is amongst my intimates. There are people coming and going all
day."

"You have a suggestion?" I ventured.

"Yes," she answered. "I was at the Café des Quatres Etoiles when you did
your imitations the other night. You have a wonderful gift of making up.
My cousin has undertaken to hide Albert at the chateau, if we can get
him there. Good! You must come here, make up my brother, say, to imitate
your friend Monsieur Cotton, whom he is not unlike. Then you drive out
to the chateau quite openly to one of my cousin's supper parties.
Albert will disappear and all will be well."

"And when is this to be?" I asked.

"To-night," she answered. "You consent?"

She leaned towards me. I hesitated merely out of policy. Her lips almost
touched my cheek.

"You have perhaps a price, a reward to ask?" she murmured.

I knew then that I was in love with Rose, if I had ever doubted it. I
have always flattered myself that I displayed great presence of mind.

"Sara," I said, giving a very excellent extempore performance of British
stupidity and magnanimity combined, "I ask for no reward beforehand. I
wait till the task is done."

I was vain enough to think that she was almost disappointed. She brushed
my cheek with her lips and murmured in my ear.

"You shall not be the loser, Maurice. At eleven o'clock to-night you
will come? I am not singing and you must finish early."

"At eleven o'clock," I promised.

That evening I wrote my report and left it with Monsieur Huber, and at
eleven o'clock, with my make-up outfit, I presented myself at Madame
Clèry's flat. She herself opened the door and detained me for a moment
in the hall.

"All is well, so far," she murmured. "Albert arrived in a motor
ambulance, all bandaged up. We are alone in the flat. If he is a little
nervous, you will forgive him."

She led me into the sitting room. A man of medium height, thin and with
a hard, square face, rose from an easy-chair, and turned a
half-enquiring, half-suspicious gaze upon me. I was thankful then for
the obscurity of the room, no longer ashamed of my deceit, a willing
coadjutor in this scheme, whatever it might be. I knew, too, why my
services were so earnestly required. The photographer's art had made the
face before me infamous.

"This is Monsieur Lister," Sara said. "He has promised to disguise you,
Albert."

"Let him be quick about it, then," was the harsh reply.

I never had a more distasteful task, but in the end I succeeded. I
concealed the cruel mouth and softened the brutal jaw, until at last a
very passable imitation of Leonard appeared. Sara was loud in her
praises and exuberant in her gratitude. Her pseudo-brother did nothing
save make my task more difficult by his irritation and impatience. In
the end, when all was finished, I handed him an overcoat of Leonard's
which I had brought, and we three started out in a large motor car,
which was waiting below, for the chateau. We arrived there a little
before the accustomed hour for Madame's reception, and the whole place
seemed dark and deserted. A strange manservant let us in and disappeared
almost immediately. The Baroness came out of the shadows. She, too,
seemed affected by the tragedy of the moment. Her cheeks were unusually
pale. Her almost Flemish stolidity had disappeared.

"The passages are unlocked," she whispered. "Let us go quickly. In half
an hour there may be people who arrive."

She led the way up the broad staircase. I hesitated, but Sara thrust her
arm through mine.

"We trust you," she said. "You must come with us."

Arrived on the first floor, we traversed what seemed to be an
interminable corridor until we came at last to a green baize door which,
on being swung open, revealed an inner one, which the Baroness unlocked.
Immediately I was conscious that we were in the uninhabited part of the
chateau. The Baroness, who was in front, came to a stop and we all
paused.

"We make a mistake," she said in a low tone. "There is no place here for
strangers."

She inclined her head towards me. The man laughed a little brutally.

"Stranger or not," he replied, "do you think I am going to let him go
until this little affair is finished?"

"And after then, what about us?" the Baroness demanded. "Safety, with
you, is a matter of an hour or so, but we remain."

"Bah!" was the contemptuous reply. "He will not inform against women.
Sara will see to that."

I felt that it was time I had a word to say on my own account.

"On the whole," I decided, "I have seen as much as I care to of these
proceedings. I will find my way back again and await your return,
Baroness."

The man laughed scornfully. No art of mine could conceal the scowl which
disfigured his face.

"Too late, Mr. Englishman," he said. "You know too much. Remain where
you are."

I looked down the muzzle of a particularly unpleasant-looking revolver,
which instinct told me the man at the other end would not hesitate to
use. At the same time I heard the sharp click of the door being closed
behind me.

"Quite unnecessary," I declared, waving my hand towards the revolver.
"If you wish me to stay, I am entirely at your service. In fact, to tell
you the truth," I went on, "I am beginning to feel a certain amount of
curiosity about this enterprise."

Sara's reputed brother laughed harshly.

"You'll have time to get over that," he said.

Warned by his tone, Sara stepped out of the shadows of the room.

"He is not to be hurt!" she exclaimed. "That was a promise."

There was silence. The room in which we were was unlit save by the
little points of fire from the electric torches carried by the Baroness
and her companion. There was something sinister in the sound of their
soft breathing against the background of deep and solemn stillness.
Suddenly a tongue of light flashed from Sara's own torch. I saw then
that the others were too much engrossed to be even considering my fate.
With a tape measure in his hand, the man was tapping certain places upon
the wall. Presently he made a mark with a pencil and turned around. His
face was livid with excitement.

"Nothing seems to have been touched here," he muttered.

"Nothing has been touched," the Baroness assented calmly. "Other rooms,
as you know, have been ransacked, the grounds have been dug up, and the
tower almost pulled to pieces. But here, where you sat in state and
pulled the legs out of the spiders' bodies and the souls out of your
poor human victims, well, no one has thought of looking here."

The man chuckled, but there was a certain malevolent uneasiness in his
expression as he stared at the speaker.

"My victims were not all unwilling, eh?" he demanded.

The Baroness had been feeling along the wall. She touched a switch, and
a dull glow of light shone through a dust-encrusted globe set in the
ceiling.

"There is still a connection," she said. "It is better so? You need have
no fear. The shutters are tightly closed. No one will know that human
beings have dared to penetrate into the spider's parlour."

I had my first comprehensive view of the room--a bare, official-looking
apartment, with a huge writing table near the window, a heap of empty
champagne bottles and cigar boxes in one corner. There was dust
everywhere. It seemed, indeed, as though the room might not have been
opened for many months.

"You need have no fear," the Baroness repeated. "The shutters are fast
closed. You can look around on the scene of your former triumphs. The
telephone wires have been cut. Nothing else has been altered."

They stood facing one another, the man and the woman. From my point of
vantage in the background, I was conscious of a subtle change in the
Baroness. The cold stolidity, almost woodenness of her deportment, had
gone. Her lips were parted a little, and there was something menacing in
the gleam of her white teeth. Her eyes held expression, expression which
I could not analyse. She seemed to bristle with sensation. The man who
faced her had become uneasy.

"We talk too much," he muttered. "It is enough for me that you have
obeyed my orders and left all here untouched."

"It is true," she acknowledged. "Searchers have almost wrecked this wing
of the chateau and destroyed my grounds, in search of your spoil, but
this bare little room--no! It seemed so harmless, so empty, and besides,
there were many who shuddered to come near it."

He busied himself once more with the wall. Suddenly he took a knife from
his pocket and cut down a great strip of the wall paper. A little cry of
triumph broke from his lips. His fingers seemed to feel a crack. He
pushed and tugged till the sweat ran down his face. Finally, with a
rumble, a sliding door opened to the extent of about a foot. He paused
to gain breath and turned back to the Baroness with a leer of triumph.

"Your treasure hunters were but simpletons," he scoffed. "They saw as
far as the end of their noses."

He seemed to become suddenly conscious that no one was looking at him.
We were all staring at that gradually widening aperture in the wall,
staring at the menacing figure which had unexpectedly appeared there.
The man on whose behalf we had embarked upon this expedition swung
abruptly around. His lips opened but no sound came. He stood shaking and
choking. Mr. Thomson, wiping the dust from his clothes, stepped into the
room.

"Excellently timed," he said, nodding pleasantly at me. "Count----"

The trapped man's recovery was amazing. I doubt whether Mr. Thomson,
quick though he was, would have escaped the bullet from that suddenly
upraised revolver, but for the Baroness. I have never before nor since
looked upon anything so marvellous as her swift action. She struck his
arm such a blow that we heard the cracking of the bone, caught him by
the shoulders as though he had been a boy, flung him on to the floor,
and was there with her hand upon his throat, and all the devils ever
born of a woman's hatred glaring out of her face as she leaned over him.
It took the three of us to drag her away while there was still a spark
of life in the man. When at last we succeeded, he was unconscious, and
the marks of her fingers were there, as though photographed on his
throat. Mr. Thomson raised a whistle to his lips and blew it.

"I think, perhaps," he remarked, "the police will be kinder."

       *       *       *       *       *

The little supper party which we had grown accustomed to expect after
each period of utility to our chief took place on the following night
under somewhat unusual circumstances--in the saloon of the steamship
_Zeebrugge_, one of the new Dover and Ostend fleet. We were pitching
pretty heavily and facing a northwest gale, but it happened that we were
all pretty good sailors, and though the high seas came thundering
against the closed portholes, and the electric lights swung above our
heads, we were quite able to do justice to a very excellent repast.
There were so few passengers that the chief steward winked at our
smoking in a corner of the saloon, and over our last glass of wine our
host threw a little cautious light upon the meaning of our latest
adventure.

"The particularly unpleasant gentleman," he observed, "upon whom you
inflicted a likeness--a very excellent likeness--to Mr. Leonard Cotton,
was, as you have doubtless surmised, at one time known as the Count von
Hantzauel, whose notorious deeds in Brussels during the German
occupation are infamous throughout the world."

"I wouldn't have insulted Leonard to such an extent if I'd had the least
idea beforehand who he was going to turn out to be," I declared.

"I shall hate my own face more than ever," Leonard groaned.

Mr. Thomson smiled amiably.

"Von Hantzauel certainly seemed to have the gift," he observed, "of
making his name hated even amongst those who were personally strangers
to him. The Baroness Spens, as you may have surmised, was one of those
who, unfortunately for her, had been forced into a certain degree of
association with him. He made his headquarters in her house and sowed
the seeds of a hatred of which last night he reaped the harvest. Forgive
my somewhat confused metaphor. You follow me, I dare say."

"Why was he such an idiot as to come back?" Rose enquired.

"Because," Mr. Thomson explained, "it was the Baroness' wish. The
Baroness Spens is a very clever and unforgiving woman, and she has been
several years laying her plans for getting von Hantzauel back into
Brussels."

"But the inducement?" Rose persisted.

"Von Hantzauel," Thomson explained, "followed in the footsteps of his
illustrious chief. He was a collector of such trifles as jewellery,
money, and all manner of _objets d'arts_ of a small and portable
character. With the aid of a German smith whom he sent for when in
residence at Brussels, he constructed a very ingenious hiding place in
the chateau for his loot. When the reversal of fortunes came, he was one
of those pig-headed, obstinate asses who refused to believe in what was
coming, and he only escaped from Brussels by a miracle. Since then he
has used every argument to persuade the Baroness to bring his little
collection over the frontier to Holland. The Baroness played with him as
a cat might with a mouse. She declared that his hiding place was so
ingenious that even with the plan he had sent her she had failed to
discover it. Then she reminded him of the past and declared that the
treasure should not leave her house without a visit from him. Finally,
as you know, she succeeded. The visit was arranged for. The whole affair
called for a certain amount of diplomacy. The direct intervention of
the Belgian police would have meant the arrest of von Hantzauel on the
frontier. The affair had to be managed differently. The Baroness is an
old friend of mine and she sought my aid."

"In what capacity?" I asked quickly. "And what has become of the
treasure?"

Mr. Thomson smiled vaguely. He listened for a moment to the bump of the
sea against the portholes. Then he filled our glasses.

"An answer to those questions just now is scarcely possible," he
replied. "We will call them, if you please, Conundrum Number Three."




CONUNDRUM NUMBER FOUR

THE COURTSHIP OF NAIDA


Rose, Leonard and I first saw Naida Modeschka dance from the wings of
the great London music hall where she was the star performer, and where
we, very much to our surprise, had been offered a brief engagement. I
think that from our point of vantage she was even more wonderful than
from the vast and densely packed auditorium. None of us had ever before
seen movement like it. The wooden boards her feet touched seemed at the
moment of contact to become a sea of quicksilver. She had her own
arrangement of lights, and she floated in and out of them, her pale face
and limbs glittering at one moment like polished marble, the next only a
shadow, a skulking, floating shadow, with a pair of great black eyes
shining from a terrified face. She never told us or any one else whence
came the music to which she danced, notes as full of Arcadian and
mysterious poetry as Grieg, and sometimes breathing the riotous passion
of Dvorák. She seemed to delight in unexpected interludes, in sudden
changes, and there was something even a little cynical in the outburst
of savage passion with which her dance concluded. There was not the
slightest doubt, however, as to her complete success. The audience at
this particular music hall, the Parthenon, is seldom jaded--they are
drawn from too wholesome a class of people--but they are as quick to
appreciate a new thing as any audience in the world. There were
qualities in Naida's dancing which even the Russian Ballet had failed to
disclose--pride of the body, cynical contempt of passion for its own
sake, and underneath, the soft, alluring call to Love. She stood by us,
panting, after her fifth recall. The faintest of perfumes, something
between green tea and Russian violets, seemed to be exuded of her
breathlessness from the trembling, exquisitely shaped body, concealed,
for the sake of ancient prejudices, under a flowing veil of black net,
more subtly appealing to modern perceptions than even the naked Eve
reaching up to the branches of the apple tree. We were a little
spellbound, but her eyes caught mine and I spoke.

"Mademoiselle," I said, "you dance as no other on earth."

"Why not include heaven, monsieur," she answered quickly, "for I fear
there will be no dancing like mine there."

She made her final bow and came back to where a gaunt and stolid maid
pushed past us and wrapped her in a long black satin coat, trimmed and
lined with black sable fur. The maid would have hurried her off but she
lingered.

"It is your turn, Monsieur?" she asked me. "You three who appear now?"

I assented. The piano was already being drawn into position. Rose stood
a few yards away, looking at her hair in a glass. She had already thrown
aside her coat. In the auditorium I fancied that I could still hear that
faint emotional quiver lingering like the echo of feeling.

"It is our turn," I replied, "but how an audience could be expected to
listen to our banalities after the atmosphere you have created, I can't
imagine!"

She made no acknowledgment of my compliment. She was looking at me as
though engrossed in her own thoughts, so that in those few seconds I
found myself studying her. No breathing person could have called her
beautiful, even good-looking. She was dark, with dark hair, eyes and
eyebrows. Her cheek bones were almost prominent, her chin narrow, her
mouth large but so sensitive that it seemed never at rest. There was not
an atom of make-up on her face, and her pallor in the light in which she
stood was almost ghastly. Her arms and hands were as lovely as the rest
of her body. I could have imagined her, severely dressed, in the
classical shades of a great library, one of the leaders of women's
thought.

"I shall stay here for your performance," she announced. "Please do your
best. Sanda, fetch me a chair."

At the risk of seeming egotistical, I am here going to announce that we
three had very much improved in our work during these days of our
prosperity. Rose's perfectly chosen gowns, her renewed health of body
and mind, seemed to have given to her voice a richer and sweeter note,
and to her feet all the fascinating lightness of modern dancing.
Leonard's sense of humour had broadened, and his capacity for finding
new stories amounted positively to genius. I myself, in better health,
certainly found myself a more adequate partner for Rose, both in singing
and dancing. Whatever influence our patron had had to use in the earlier
days to secure us engagements was unneeded now. We were at the Parthenon
according to instructions, but the engagement had been given to us on
our own application and without any outside intervention. Perhaps
because our unambitious performance soothed the jangled nerves of our
audience, we were extraordinarily well received that night. When it was
all over, I found Naida still waiting in her chair. She rose at once and
took my arm.

"You will escort me to my dressing room," she said.

"With the greatest pleasure," I assented.

"You see," she went on, "I am making the way easy for you. You are a
myrmidon of the great Mr. Thomson, are you not?"

I was startled.

"I know a Mr. Thomson," I admitted, "but it is some time since I have
heard from him."

Her eyes mocked me.

"The cleverest of all conspirators," she said, as she came to a
standstill outside her dressing room and waved her hand to Rose and
Leonard, "are those who do not fear to tell the truth. Lies lead far on
the road to failure, but we each have our own methods."

"Believe me," I assured her earnestly, "I have never heard of you in my
life except from the newspapers."

"And you have never seen me before?"

"Never!"

She looked at me steadfastly. Her dark, heavily lidded eyes seemed a
little contracted; her lips smiled as though they had a joke to
themselves. She was a strange-looking creature.

"Well," she conceded, "granted that this is our first meeting--what of
it, Monsieur?"

"I pray that it may not be our last," I answered, with ready sincerity.

Her fingers strayed to the knob of the door.

"You will receive your belated instructions before very long," she said.
"Then I shall make it easy for you. You may visit me when you like. I
live at 96, Milan Court. And so, Monsieur!"

She held her fingers to my lips. I am bound to admit that I hurried back
to Leonard, a little shaken.

"A conquest, my son," he observed, looking up from a bowl of cold water
and rubbing his head vigorously. "Rose is furious with you. She has
asked me to take her out to supper."

"Capital!" I replied spitefully. "I will join you."

       *       *       *       *       *

Our conversation that evening finally turned upon a subject which we had
once or twice lately skirted somewhat apprehensively. We supped at an
inconspicuous but desirable table in the Milan Grill Room, and in a
style which would have seemed to us, only a few months ago, wildly
extravagant. There was no jazz band to affront our ears and disturb our
digestion. We were in touch with the more epicurean type of deliberate
pleasure-seekers, the more select crowd who had studied or imbibed the
philosophy of pleasure. Everywhere was an air of warmth and luxury. The
men and women, mostly in couples, by whom we were surrounded, were
chiefly those who had eschewed the hysterical quest of promiscuous
pleasure for the more settled but not less fascinating ways of Bohemian
domesticity. An actor-manager, close at hand, was giving a digest of a
play he had read that afternoon to his leading lady--also his
inseparable companion. A celebrated producer and well-known actor was
enjoying a brief period of rest with the only woman in his life who had
learnt to soothe as well as to fascinate. A widely known and hard-worked
barrister, the tragedy of whose domestic life was known to all his
friends, was revelling in one hour of peace during the day in the
company of a sympathetic and very human little lady from an adjoining
theatre. The atmosphere to us, who had only lately found our way into
the paths of prosperity, was almost intoxicating.

It was Leonard who started things by raising his glass to our
benefactor. We drank the toast gratefully enough. Then Rose for the
first time put into words what was so often in the minds of all of us.

"Maurice," she asked me, "how long does our bargain with Mr. Thomson
actually last?"

"There was no time limit," I answered.

"Not, perhaps, in words," she persisted, "but how long in your mind do
you consider we are morally bound?"

"Metaphysical history would suggest the period of our lifetime," I
replied. "There is no precedent for a soul, once disposed of, being
returned to its owner."

She sighed.

"It seems a pity. We really haven't anything more to gain. One would
like to settle down and enjoy now with a clear conscience. Why, one of
you could marry me."

"We hadn't thought of that," Leonard said drily.

"The fact of it is," I groaned, "we are both in love with you." She
leaned back in her chair and looked at us for a moment. I think she
realised that I had spoken the truth.

"Then all I can say," she murmured, "is that you are better actors than
I thought you were--and greater dears."

"We are wandering from the subject," I said firmly. "I propose that we
apply to Mr. Mephistopheles Thomson for a time limit. I should
think----"

That is just as far as I got in my daring proposal. I sat with my mouth
unbecomingly open and a fatuous look of astonishment upon my face. My
two companions also were stricken dumb. Arrived apparently from nowhere,
neat, inconspicuous and unobtrusive, Mr. Thomson paused before our table
and greeted us with pleasing cordiality.

"Congratulations to all of you," he said, as he drew up a chair and
seated himself. "I was at the Parthenon to-night. If Naida Modeschka's
performance was the most wonderful, yours was certainly the most
pleasing item upon the programme."

"We have improved, I think," Rose admitted modestly. "Nice frocks do
make so much difference."

"And good food," Leonard murmured.

"And no anxieties," I ventured.

"Apropos of which," the newcomer enquired, "how goes our bargain? Do you
want your souls back again?"

"If you've quite finished with them," Rose confessed. "We should hate to
seem ungrateful, but so far as we are concerned all our ambitions are
satisfied."

"We are earning twice as much as we spend," Leonard pointed out.

"And we could book up for two years," I put in.

Mr. Thomson, who upon his arrival had made mystic signs to a waiter,
watched the champagne being poured into our glasses. We were not
overcareful in the matter of our expenditure, but champagne was the one
luxury we denied ourselves except on special occasions.

"You disappoint me," our patron confessed.

Rose leaned forward across the table. She spoke quickly, almost
tumultuously.

"Don't think us ungrateful," she begged. "We are not. We often think of
that wretched night at Cromer when you became our good angel. Many and
many a time since we have blessed your name."

Mr. Thomson bowed.

"Ours was a bargain," he said, "and you have fulfilled your share of it.
My disappointment springs from another cause. I have pictured you in my
mind as children of the land of Adventure."

"We have lifted the curtain," I ventured to remind him.

"You have done more," he admitted. "You have all three shown capacity
and courage. Why withdraw? Believe me, the end and aim of life is not
prosperity. The moment the love of adventure ceases, the slumber of
middle age commences. There isn't anything more fatal to genius or to
the fuller life than a contented conscience, a swelling bank account,
and an amble along the easy ways. I give you back what you are pleased
to call your souls, if you will. In five years' time, the three of you
will be prematurely middle-aged, the limits of your ambitions will be
fixed, one day will be as another. With the passing of all mystery from
your lives, will come the adipose somnolence which breeds mental and
moral indigestion."

I think that we were all hypnotised. The calmness of his speech, his
precise and unemotional handling of words, seemed to lend to them an
even greater significance. Before we had realised what was happening,
Mr. Thomson was on his feet again.

"We will make that time limit one year, dating from the night at
Cromer," he pronounced.

"Yes!" we all three assented.

"To-morrow afternoon at four o'clock," he added, turning to me, "you
will call upon Naida Modeschka, the dancer who is now performing at the
Parthenon."

"I have already made her acquaintance," I told him. "She spoke to me
this evening. She referred to you."

Mr. Thomson smiled benevolently.

"Naida is wonderful," he said. "Nevertheless, you will call. Ask her
what has become of Felix Worth. Afterwards, place yourself in her hands.
She will explain exactly what is required of you."

As unobtrusively as he had come, he departed. He attracted no attention,
and looked neither to the right nor to the left. As he vanished through
the revolving door, we all looked at one another.

"Mr. Mephistopheles Thomson," Rose murmured.

"With an accent on the Christian name," Leonard remarked.

       *       *       *       *       *

Naida received me very graciously on the following afternoon. I was a
little surprised that she had made no attempt whatever to alter her
surroundings or in any way to create an atmosphere. The ordinary hotel
furniture and hangings were lightened only by a profusion of flowers,
mostly deep red roses. In place of the flowing robes one might have
expected, the great dancer wore a severe tailor-made costume of grey
tweed. Her hair was brushed plainly back from her forehead and tied
with ribbon behind. There was no other caller present when I arrived.

"It would be charming of you to come so soon," she murmured, as she held
out her hand, "if it were your own will which brought you."

"My own will would have brought me here in any case," I assured her,
"but as it happens I have another mission. I am to ask you what has
become of Felix Worth."

I looked into the eyes of another woman for a moment, and I was afraid.
Her momentary fit of fury, however, passed. She motioned me to a chair.

"How much do you know of this matter?" she asked.

"Nothing at all," I answered promptly.

"That is the way with him," she ruminated. "His agents never know
anything."

"That does not, I trust, prevent my finding great pleasure in making
your acquaintance, Mademoiselle," I ventured.

She looked at me curiously. Sixty seconds ago I should have described
her as being, off the stage, disappointedly plain. I realised my
mistake.

"It does not prevent your paying me any compliments you choose," she
replied. "There is no reason why we should not be friends--even
comrades. The only cloud between us appears to be that it will fall to
your lot to kill the only man I have ever really cared for."

I started in my chair.

"I can assure you," I told her, "I am not out for that sort of thing at
all."

"But it will come," she persisted.

"It will not," I contradicted her firmly. "I have done all the killing I
want to, in fair fighting. I have a weakness for adventures, but nothing
would induce me to become an assassin."

She looked at me contemplatively, leaning across from her chair with her
chin balanced upon her hands. Then she got up and brought me a queer
round wooden box of fragrant Russian cigarettes. She herself lit one,
and I followed her example.

"Are you afraid, dear earnest Englishman," she asked, "that I should
hate you? Let me tell you the truth. For this man I have no love any
more. And he must die."

"He may live or he may die," I answered, "but I am no man's
executioner."

"We shall see," she remarked indifferently. "You are a just man, beyond
a doubt, but I like you. You are different from all others."

"In what respect?" I enquired.

"I admit you here," she replied, "to the intimacy of a private visit,
yet you have not yet suggested that you should become my lover. It
intrigues me, this diffidence."

I felt a sudden desire to get out of the room. She laughed at me,
laughed with simple, unaffected mirth, laughed till she came over and
laid her hands upon my shoulders.

"Go away, dear man," she begged, "before I make myself foolish about
you. You shall sit at my side to-night, and perhaps then, when you see
what others think of me, you may whisper different things."

"And where do I sit by your side to-night?" I asked.

"You and your two friends," she said, "sup with me in the restaurant
downstairs at midnight. Convey my compliments and this invitation to
your charming lady companion. I shall see her at the theatre and will
confirm it."

She gave me her fingers and held them for a moment against my lips. Then
I went out, a little dazed.

I began to fear that Naida was going to make trouble for me. At the
theatre that evening she demanded my constant attendance. Twice she sent
notes to my dressing room, and in the midst of the tumultuous applause
which followed her wonderful dancing, when she stood in the wings with
us after her seventh recall, she tore one of the red roses which had
been thrown on to the stage from its cluster, and thrust it in my
buttonhole.

"So!" she whispered. "They will know from whom that rose comes. Your
fingers will caress it when you sing. They will applaud you the more for
my sake."

This was all very pretty and soothing to my vanity, and, I frankly
admit, in its way pleasant, but I had all the time the feeling that it
was likely to bring trouble upon me. When, in her most charming manner,
Naida had issued her invitation to Rose, her enthusiastic acceptance
was entirely marred for me by the manner of it.

"A supper party will be perfectly delightful," Rose declared, smiling
with dangerous sweetness. "I have a little headache to-night but that
will pass. In any case you will not mind if Leonard--if Mr. Cotton
should bring me away early."

"So long as you do not rob me of my dear cavalier," Naida replied, to my
dismay, squeezing my arm.

I marched Leonard on one side, taking advantage of the insistent roars
of recall which drew Naida back on to the stage.

"Look here, Len," I said, "I don't know what this game is, but I'm
playing it for the three of us. I am obeying orders so far as
Mademoiselle Naida is concerned. If Rose won't see it, I shall rely upon
you."

"I'll do my best, old chap," he promised, with a gloom which I fancied
was not altogether natural. "It's a jolly hard situation, though. Rose
had asked me to take her out to supper to-night, and to dinner on Sunday
night."

"You can count that dinner off," I said firmly. "We three have dined
together every Sunday night since we started out. Sometimes it's been a
scrag of mutton and a glass of beer; once or twice--that week at Cromer,
Len--not even that. On Sunday night it's going to be caviare and a
Maryland chicken, and I'm in it."

"That's all right," Leonard assured me. "Of course, Rose thought that
you'd be in attendance on Naida."

"You and I won't have any misunderstanding, at any rate, Len," I
insisted. "Naida means just as much to me as that bit of fluff on your
coat. When our year is up, I shall ask Rose to marry me, and though
you're the dearest fellow in the world, I hope she'll have me and not
you."

"I sha'n't take advantage, old chap," Leonard promised, with a sigh,
"but it's getting filthily difficult. She pretended she wanted me to
kiss her last night."

"I'll punch your head if you do," I answered savagely. "Our call."

The supper party did not improve matters. We found quite a
distinguished little gathering in the foyer of the Milan, including the
managing director of the Parthenon, some of the best known dramatic
critics, a famous actor and his wife, another and a lady who might have
been, a foreign ambassador, and two other well-known and distinguished
men about town. Naida did her duty by placing a very distinguished
nobleman with cosmopolitan tastes upon her right, but, to my secret
dismay and the wonder of the rest of the company, she insisted upon my
occupying the seat on the other side of her.

"Now," she whispered, looking at me from under her eyelashes with that
slow, curious smile upon her lips, "I have made the little lady jealous,
is it not so? And also the great managing director who pays me my
salary, and perhaps others. But what does it matter? You are content?"

The lie came uneasily from my lips. Naida, however, seemed satisfied. It
was borne in upon me now that it was her deliberate purpose, part of the
game, in fact, not only to exploit me as a victim of her charms but to
practically advertise her simulated infatuation. I watched Rose flirting
desperately with a very attractive man who was seated upon her left, and
for a moment I felt that the situation was impossible--that I should do
best to mutter a few plain words to my hostess and deliberately
dissociate myself from the rôle into which I had drifted. Then I
remembered our chief's confidence--Naida spoke to me with unexpected
kindness. I caught the echo of Rose's unnecessarily joyous laughter, and
I changed my mind. Thenceforth I played my part. I lent myself to the
gaiety of the moment. We were all young together. The wine was good,
life was good, the very music seemed playing us down the avenues of
pleasure. From a gay party we became almost an uproarious one. We moved
outside into the lounge for our coffee, Naida never letting me for an
instant leave her side, relegating to me the duties of host, thrusting
her pocketbook into my hand, insisting that I should order the cigars
and liqueurs, fee the waiters, and even sign the bill on her behalf.
There were many smiles amongst the little company, shrugs of the
shoulders, and whispered enquiries as to my identity. My fictitious
position seemed to make me an object of envy, but I never altogether
lost my head. I waited for my opportunity, and when it came I rose
quickly to my feet and walked over to Rose's side. Her companion of the
moment had been summoned away to speak to some acquaintances in another
part of the lounge.

"Rose," I began sternly----

She looked at me with a bright but artificial smile. I leaned down and
continued under my breath.

"I play the buffoon to order," I reminded her. "You, too, have your part
in this."

"Indeed?" she murmured.

"Yes! Your part is not to make mine more difficult. Your part is to
remember----"

Then I stopped short. It was a difficult position. There was my contract
with Leonard to be borne in mind.

"To remember what?" she asked, looking at me more naturally.

"The things of which your heart assures you," I answered. "I am only
human. If I fail to-night, the fault will not be wholly mine."

After that there was a change in Rose's demeanour, and once, when our
eyes met, she smiled. Naida, however, still played her part of
sorceress. She seemed impatient of every word she was forced to speak to
others. She whispered often in my ear. Even her fingers sought mine. It
was just at this stage that for the first time I noticed the somewhat
singular appearance of a man who was watching us from the few seats
upstairs reserved for guests of the hotel who were not in evening dress.
As though he sought concealment, he had found a chair in the most remote
corner and was half hidden by a slight projection of the wall. He had a
mass of black hair, a heavy, sallow face, from which one formed the idea
that he had recently removed a beard, and dark staring eyes. He was
untidily dressed for his surroundings, amongst which he seemed curiously
out of place. An impulse prompted me to point him out to Naida. She
glanced in the direction I indicated but merely shrugged her shoulders.

"Dear friend," she whispered, "you forget that I am a famous person,
more so abroad than in your little island. There are many who watch me
with thoughts in their heart which they will never dare to utter. There
are many who would give a share of their possessions to be seated where
you are seated, to be treated as I am treating you."

"The man is a foreigner, without a doubt," I remarked.

"And foreigners," she answered, with a stabbing little glance, "are
quicker to feel and understand than Englishmen."

We kept the party going until long past closing time, and then an
adjournment of our diminished numbers was made to Naida's suite. Here
she distributed signed photographs to her remaining guests, accompanied
by a wave of the hand which meant dismissal. Rose and Leonard were
amongst the first to leave, Rose with a look in her eyes which might
have meant anything. I stepped quickly forward. Naida looked at me
warningly. Now that we had left the lounge, it seemed to me that her
demeanour had to some extent changed.

"For your impatience, Monsieur Maurice," she said, "you will be the
last. Offer the cigarettes, if you please. And your friend Mr. Cotton,
will he not take a whisky and soda before he goes?"

One by one they drifted away. Rose and Leonard were driven home by one
of the former's new admirers. The time came when we were alone. Naida
listened to the closing of the door and to the clanging of the lift
gate. Then with her back to the table against which she was leaning, she
looked across at me with an odd little smile upon her lips.

"So we are alone, my friend."

"It has that appearance," I admitted, taking one of her cigarettes and
lighting it. "I await your further instructions."

She nodded her head slowly. She seemed to be considering my attitude.

"My further instructions," she mimicked. "Oh, Monsieur Maurice, what a
strange person! Ring the bell on your left, please."

I obeyed. A maid presented herself at once from the inner room. Naida
spoke to her for a moment in some weird language. Then she turned
towards me, yawned and stretched herself.

"Prepare for a shock," she said. "For ten minutes I leave you. You seat
yourself in that easy chair, you take a whisky and soda and the evening
paper, you make yourself at home. You understand?"

"Perfectly," I answered, not at all sorry for a few minutes' solitude.

"Then au revoir! But have no fear," she added, looking back with a
mocking smile, "I shall return."

A quarter of an hour or so passed. I heard Naida telephoning from her
bedroom and heard her voice in conversation with her maid. Then she
reappeared. She was wearing a yellow creation tied around her with a
girdle, Chinese sandals tied with broad yellow ribbon; and her unloosed
hair was gathered together with ribbon of the same colour. She displayed
herself for my admiration.

"You admire, Monsieur Maurice? You like the colour?"

"You look charming," I replied. "And now?"

She held up her finger.

"You are not to stir," she directed, waving her finger at me.

She moved towards the door which led into the corridor, opened it softly
and peered outside. Then, as though not satisfied, she disappeared
altogether. When she returned, she closed the door with a little slam
and threw herself into a chair opposite to me.

"And now?" I repeated patiently.

"It is the hardest part of your task, this, Monsieur Maurice," she said,
with a demure little droop of the eyes. "You see the time? It is exactly
two o'clock. For one hour you remain where you are. At the end of that
hour you are free. You may then leave, and, if you wish it so, your
courtship of Naida is over."

"And for that hour?" I asked, a little unsteadily.

She came and sat on the arm of my chair. Her face was upturned to mine.

"Shall I keep you company?" she whispered.

I leaned down and took the kiss she offered me. I held her for a moment
in my arms. Then I gripped her wrists.

"Naida," I said, and my own voice sounded to me unfamiliar, "of course I
know this is a game, but I don't understand the rules."

"We make them," she murmured.

"I am in love with Rose Mindel," I continued. "I should be married to
her at the present moment but for a stupid agreement between Leonard
Cotton and myself, made when we three started out together. I am in love
with her, but I'm no Joseph. You know what you are, and your power. I'm
not any different from other men."

"But you do not care, then?" she asked quickly.

"There isn't any ordinary young man of my type," I answered, "who has
drunk your wine and sat by your side all the evening, and received your
kindness, and finds himself here alone with you, who wouldn't care--in a
way--the wrong way. I care like that, if it's any good. And now you
understand."

She slipped from her place, kissed me on both eyes, and ran across to
the door of the inner room. She looked back at me only for a moment,
opened her lips, said nothing, and disappeared, closing the door softly
behind her. I mixed myself the stiffest whisky and soda I had ever
concocted in my life, lit a cigar from a box I found on the sideboard,
and sat down to watch the clock.

At five minutes to three, I was walking up and down the room with my
overcoat on. At a minute to the hour, as I stood with my eyes glued to
the clock, the inner door softly opened. Naida stood framed upon the
threshold. There was a look of distress upon her face.

"Monsieur Maurice," she said, "I had made up my mind to say nothing, but
that was wrong. You are a very honourable young man and I have not met
many. It has been promised to me that no harm shall come to you, but
yet--go warily to the lift."

She disappeared and closed the door. For the first time she locked it.
Somehow, I felt, as I stepped out into the corridor, that the dangers
which might be waiting for me were small things. I stood for several
seconds, looking up and down. To reach the lift I had to traverse the
whole of the corridor, turn to the left and pass along another shorter
one. I stepped out carelessly enough, and then--the scantily lit passage
seemed suddenly filled with whispering voices, with eyes peering at me
from mysterious corners; the soft carpets behind me were reverberant
with muffled and stealthy footsteps. I was acutely conscious of the
presence of danger. As I neared the corner of the corridor every nerve
of my body was bristling with apprehension. Before I turned, I paused
for a moment and looked behind. There was only a single electric lamp
burning, but I could see dimly along the empty space to the end. There
was no sign of any moving figure, nor any sound. Then I turned the
corner to find myself suddenly seized in a pair of giant arms, the dull
flicker of upraised steel before my eyes, the sallow, brutelike face,
the black, flaming eyes of the man who had watched me from the lounge,
within an inch or two of me.

I had no chance to call out. My assailant's left hand was upon my
throat. I could see him gathering strength to drive that knife down
into my heart. My brain was perfectly active. I waited with tense
muscles for the terrible moment, meaning to fling myself on one side in
the hope that I might escape mortal injury from that first blow, at any
rate. And then I saw something loom up behind. I saw an arm raised even
higher than my captor's, and I heard the wickedest sound in life--the
crash of dull metal into a man's skull. The grasp upon my throat was
instantly relaxed, doors were thrown open along the corridor, and I sank
back into a momentary fit of unconsciousness.

       *       *       *       *       *

If our customary supper party with Mr. Thomson lacked some of those
qualities which in the earlier days of our adventures had made it so
wonderful a thing, the change of venue, and our host's curious genius in
devising new dishes, still contrived to make the occasion a memorable
one. We met this time in a private room at the Hotel Albion at Brighton,
whither a telephone message had summoned us earlier in the day. Mr.
Thomson, spick and span as ever, looking in the pink of condition,
commended to us the best oysters in the world and sipped almost
reverently the contents of a dust-covered bottle of Chablis.

"I am not sure," he told us, with the air of one imparting grave
knowledge, "that in these days it is not possible to find better
vintages out of London than one comes across even in the restaurants de
luxe. This wine, for instance."

"The wine is wonderful," Rose agreed. "These oysters are wonderful, too,
and I never saw such a lobster mayonnaise as that upon the sideboard.
But, dear Mr. Thomson, if you expect us to enjoy our supper, do be
merciful. There will be no waiter in the room for at least five minutes.
Give us some idea as to the meaning of this last adventure."

Mr. Thomson smiled benevolently.

"Why not?" he said. "Here is the story in a very few words. There was in
London, ten days ago, the most dangerous anarchist and political
disturber of the peace in Europe. His name is a household word to all of
you. He passed here as Paul Kansky."

"Naida's lover," I ventured.

"As a matter of fact, her husband," Mr. Thomson explained. "His removal
was absolutely necessary for the internal peace of this country. There
were a hundred charges on which he could have been arrested, but not one
for which he could have been safely put out of the way. Being at times
open to accept a contract of this nature, I undertook to dispose of
him."

I shivered a little as I listened. Mr. Thomson continued very much as
though he were referring to some ordinary commercial undertaking.

"Kansky's one weakness was Naida Modeschka, his one passion jealousy.
With the aid of our young friend here, I succeeded in fanning that
passion into a red-hot flame. I succeeded, too, in engineering such an
attempt at wilful murder on the part of Kansky that his own demise,
owing to the apparently accidental intervention of a casual rescuer,
seemed to occur quite naturally. You behold the result of an exceedingly
well-laid scheme. This mischievous person is dead and buried under the
name he bore at the Milan Hotel, and which the great world of his
followers does not recognise."

"Then my rescuer," I exclaimed, "John P. Martin, the American Oil Trust
man----"

"Precisely," Mr. Thomson interrupted. "Mr. Martin was my agent, a man of
iron and a professional fighter, planted in room number eighty-four,
with instructions to intervene on your behalf in such a way that Kansky
could give no more trouble."

"And those other two men who gave evidence--the witnesses?"

"Also arranged for," Mr. Thomson acknowledged. "It was really a very
well-planned affair. The man Kansky's passion for Naida was proved by
the letters produced in court. His attack upon our young friend here
provided ample excuse for Mr. Martin's vigorous action. The witnesses,
of course, were able to declare that Kansky was in the act of committing
a probable murder, and that Martin's contra attack, with its unfortunate
results, saved your life."

"And Naida?" Rose enquired.

Mr. Thomson smiled.

"How should we be able to deal with these little affairs," he observed,
"but for the vagaries, my dear Miss Mindel, of your wonderful sex? Naida
was a very willing accomplice in our little scheme. For seven years in a
brutalised Russia she had lived under that man's dominance. When she was
fortunate enough to escape over here, it was certainly not with the idea
of again submitting to it. I hear the waiter. Any more questions?"

"For whom were you acting?" I asked eagerly. "How did this affair come
into your hands?"

Mr. Thomson seemed to be listening to the roar of the sea, which came to
us pleasantly through the open window.

"Ah!" he murmured. "That again is a question the answer to which I fear
must be postponed. Shall we call it Conundrum Number Four?"




CONUNDRUM NUMBER FIVE

THE TRAGEDY AT GREYMARSHES


"Spring," Leonard declared, fanning himself with his straw hat and
breathing in the ozone from the waves which rippled up to within a few
yards of our chairs, "is upon us."

"I must get some new frocks," Rose murmured absently.

"To-morrow," I reflected, "I must go through my tennis flannels."

"Jolly good-looking girl that was with the party from the Grange at the
show last night," Leonard continued reminiscently. "I liked the way her
eyelashes curled. Jolly fine figure, too."

"The tutor man is quite handsome," Rose ruminated. "He ties his black
evening bow just the way I like."

"Handsome!" I scoffed. "Why, he's got a cast in his eye! He reminds me,
more than anything, of the plaster villains in the Chamber of Horrors
at Madame Tussaud's."

"I didn't notice any cast," Rose sighed, her eyes turned dreamily
seawards. "He looked at me hard enough, too, when I was dancing."

"They're a strange crew at the Grange," I observed, lighting a cigarette
from the case which Leonard had thrown me. "I can't altogether size them
up."

Rose turned towards me reproachfully.

"You are becoming obsessed, Maurice, with your love of adventures," she
complained gently. "You think of nothing else. Surely, in this dear,
old-world place we can have a little rest; we can drop the tenseness of
the last few months and become just simple, natural human beings again."

"The chief didn't send us down here for nothing," I ventured.

"Don't forget," she reminded me, "that at our last supper at Brighton I
begged for a little rest. Only a few weeks afterwards, he sent us here.
I am quite certain that nothing ever happened at Greymarshes. If we get
into any trouble here, it will simply be because the spring is so
disturbing."

She looked at me lazily, almost affectionately. Then she looked at
Leonard. His hat was tilted over his eyes and his hands were clasped
around his knees. There was very little of his good-natured, pudgy face
to be seen.

"I wonder," she continued, with a little sigh, "why neither of you ever
make love to me. I'm very attractive."

"The situation," Leonard began, taking his hat off and sitting up----

"Oh, hang the situation!" Rose interrupted irritably. "If you can't make
up your minds which of you it is to be, you might toss up or something.
Here's spring coming on. I'm twenty-two years old, and I haven't got a
young man. You will drive me to answer some of the desperate notes which
are showered upon me by lovesick youths from the front row. I had
another last night from Arthur. I believe that he really loves me."

"I'm afraid Arthur will have to be spanked," I said.

Rose made a little grimace.

"There is such a thing, Mr. Maurice Lister," she declared, "as playing
the watchdog just a little too zealously--especially in the springtime.
See who's coming. I think I shall turn round and smile."

We both looked along the sands in the direction which she had indicated
by her parasol. A tall, weedy young man, dressed with the utmost care in
a grey flannel suit, brown shoes and linen spats, a Panama hat and a
quaintly impossible tie, came slowly towards us, swinging a stick in his
hand. As he drew near, he diffused multitudinous odours. His pimply face
was suffused with a deep flow of colour. We realised at once what was
going to happen. The young man whom we knew by repute only as Mr. Arthur
Dompers, established at the Grange with a tutor and a small company of
satellites, had evidently made up his mind to speak to us.

He came to a standstill, sidled round to the front of us, and raised his
hat.

"Good morning! I say, you'll forgive my saying so--what? Awfully jolly
show of yours! Ripping!"

Now I cannot say that any of us took to this young man, and, considering
our Bohemian manner of life, we none of us had a fancy for chance
acquaintances. The gentle rebuke which we had meditated, however, died
away, first on Rose's lips and then on mine. It became apparent to us
that the boy was horribly nervous.

"Glad you like it," I rejoined.

"So nice of you," Rose murmured.

"Quite a crowd from your place last night, wasn't there?" Leonard
observed.

"That's right," the young man acquiesced. "We all weighed in--had dinner
early on purpose. Jolly place you've got here."

"Won't you sit down?" Rose invited.

The boy squatted promptly at her feet. He wore pink socks and he reeked
of scent, yet there was something a little pathetic in his obvious
desire to be friendly.

"Are you cramming for anything in particular?" I asked him.

"I was supposed to go in for the Army," was the dubious reply, "but the
exams are so jolly difficult. I failed for Sandhurst twice. Now they're
trying to get me in at Cambridge so that I can join a cadet corps."

"The exams are so much stiffer since the war," Rose remarked
consolingly.

"Are any of your people down here with you?" I enquired.

The boy shook his head.

"I haven't any people to speak of," he confided, "except an uncle I have
scarcely ever seen. Another uncle--my father's brother--left me all my
money. Sometimes," the young man added, with a queer flash of
seriousness which made one forget his socks and his tie and his pimples,
"I wish he hadn't."

"It must be awfully nice, though, to feel that you've plenty of time in
life for games and all that sort of thing," Rose remarked, with a mild
attempt at consolation.

"I'm not very good at games," the young man confessed. "Mr. Duncombe and
his friends are so much better than I am, and they always laugh at me."

"That is a very untutorlike thing to do," Rose declared indignantly.

The young man looked frightened.

"Mr. Duncombe is very good to me--very kind indeed," he repeated, in
parrot-like fashion.

"Is he?" Rose queried drily.

"He has no end of people down so that we shouldn't be dull," the young
man went on. "There's his sister--she's very kind to me, too. I think I
shall have to marry her."

"Why?" Rose asked in bewilderment.

"I think Mr. Duncombe would like me to," was the resigned reply. "I am
very fond of Ella. She sings and dances beautifully."

"How old are you?" Rose enquired.

The boy seemed on the point of making another parrot-like reply. Then he
chanced to meet the kindly expression in Rose's face as she leaned
towards him. He hesitated.

"There's a sort of secret about my age," he confided. "Mr. Duncombe
likes me to tell every one that I am twenty."

"And aren't you?" I asked curiously.

He shook his head.

"I shall be twenty-one on Saturday," he said. "I shall be able to sign
cheques of my own then--and make my will."

"What do you want to make your will for?" Rose asked. "You're strong
enough, aren't you?"

"It is the duty of every one with a great deal of money to make their
will directly they are twenty-one," the boy declared, as though
repeating a lesson. "If I had my own way," he added, looking up at Rose,
"I should leave a great deal of money to you, but I don't suppose I
shall be allowed to."

"Good gracious, Mr. Dompers!" Rose exclaimed. "Why, I scarcely know
you!"

"I like your face," the young man continued earnestly. "If you saw the
faces of the people who are staying at the Grange, you would know what I
mean. They all look as though they wanted something. They remind me
sometimes of a pack of hounds. And they pretend not to, but they are
always watching me."

We had been so engrossed in the self-disclosures of this half-witted
young man that we had not noticed the approach of another promenader
along the sands. It was a very different person who now accosted us, hat
in hand and a courteous smile upon his lips. There was not a single
criticism in which the most fastidious might indulge against Hilary
Duncombe's address, his manners or his clothes.

"Good morning! I am glad to see that my young ward has been finding
friends."

The young man scrambled at once to his feet and stood, awkward and
speechless, a little apart. His tutor, the very prototype of kindly and
aristocratic ease, addressed a few kindly remarks to us.

"I am so thankful," he went on, "when Arthur finds courage to speak to
any one. He is a good boy, but he finds conversation with strangers as a
rule difficult."

"We haven't found him at all shy," Rose assured him, with a smile at the
subject of these remarks. "On the contrary, he has been entertaining us
quite nicely."

Mr. Duncombe appeared to find Rose's favourable judgment a matter for
personal gratification.

"You are very kind," he said. "I am sure that Arthur has already told
you how charmed we were with your performance last night. My guests are
agitating for a permanent change in our dinner hour, that we may be more
frequent attendants."

"How nice!" Rose murmured. "It does make quite a difference to see some
civilised people in the reserved seats."

"My sister," Duncombe continued, "would be delighted to make your
acquaintance. We may, perhaps, persuade you to pay us a little visit at
the Grange after the performance one evening. Arthur," he went on, "we
must get back now. Ella is waiting for a set of tennis."

They moved off together. The impression they left behind was an
unpleasant one.

"A second Ardalmont case," Leonard suggested.

"In which case," I reflected gloomily, "the mystery of our presence here
is solved."

We were a little depressed as we returned to the hotel--a long,
grey-stone building, once a farmhouse and still entirely unpretentious.
Our worst prognostications were promptly verified. The maidservant who
waited upon us in the coffee room brought me a note with a typewritten
address.

"This was left here by a motor-cyclist soon after you went out, sir,"
she announced.

I tore open the envelope and we pored over it:

     Accept any hospitality proffered from the Grange. Encourage the
     young man, Arthur Dompers, to talk, watch Duncombe, and report
     on the situation.

"Dull as ditchwater!" I exclaimed, as I tore up the communication in
disgust. "An unprepossessing cub of a boy, whom his tutor permits to be
fleeced at billiards and whom he is probably going to marry to his
sister. Sordid as it can be. Not a thrill in it for us."

"This may be my show," Rose mused, her blue eyes very wide open and
innocent. "I may be able to guide the young man from the matrimonial
noose. I wonder if he is really very rich. Perhaps I'll marry him
myself. I suppose I could keep him on a chain."

I sipped my _apéritif_ gloomily. The taste of true adventures was still
upon my palate, and the obviousness of this one repelled.

Our ideas as to the menacing nature of Arthur Dompers' surroundings were
to some extent modified by our first visit to the Grange, which took
place that night after the performance. Ella Duncombe was a rather
slangy, somewhat unpleasant-looking young woman of apparently twenty-six
or twenty-seven years of age. She had a bad temper, which she scarcely
troubled to conceal, and conducted herself generally towards her
brother's charge with more contempt than toleration. She scarcely
fulfilled one's idea of an adventuress. Major Lethwaite, a guest in the
house whom we had fixed upon as the person accustomed to play Arthur
Dompers for a hundred pounds at billiards whenever finances ran low, was
to all appearance a perfectly harmless person who played sixpenny points
at bridge and thought sixpenny pool excessive. Laura Richardson, a
friend of Ella's, was just an ordinary, fairly well-bred, good-looking
but rather boisterous young person. Mrs. Scatterwell, whose place
apparently was that of chaperon, was a handsome and rather silent woman,
whose sole interest seemed to be centred in Duncombe himself. The
ménage was perhaps a curious one, but scarcely suspicious. Our host
himself appeared to have no reserves except on the subject of his young
charge.

"After the war was a bit of a knock for most of us," he remarked
meditatively, as we men sat in the smoking room of the Grange after a
very excellent supper. "Here are you, Lister, with a game arm, going
round the country entertaining, more or less, I take it, for your
living. I tried every job that was offered me and did very little good
at any of them. Last of all I took this bear-leading on, and, between
you and me, I sometimes wish to God I hadn't!"

"Why?" I asked. "The boy seems amiable enough."

"He seems so," Duncombe assented drily, "but the fact of it is that he
is innately clumsy and innately deceitful. There is no sport for which
he shows the least aptitude. I've tried them all with the same result.
The only thing he can do is swim, and even then it's hard work to get
him into the sea unless the sun shines. He hasn't the slightest taste;
I am bound by the trustees' deed to allow him pocket money at the rate
of a hundred pounds a month, and half of it he spends in buying most
outrageous clothes. You know who he is, I suppose?"

"Not an idea," I replied.

Duncombe's eyebrows were slightly raised. He looked at me keenly.

"Dear me!" he exclaimed. "I took it for granted that you knew the story.
He is the Welsh miner's orphan, who inherited two and a quarter million
from Jacob Dompers of New York. A nice little windfall for a cub like
this, isn't it?"

I remembered reading the story in the newspapers some years ago. So did
Leonard.

"What about his relatives?" the latter asked.

"The only one with whom I have had any communication," Duncombe replied,
"was a Welsh Baptist Minister who declined to have anything to say to
the young man, and who wrote me on half a sheet of brown grocery paper,
pointing out by means of many Biblical texts that no person with a
banking account could hope to escape the flames of the bottomless pit."

"Who placed the boy in your charge, then?" I enquired.

"The London agents for the New York solicitors. I answered an
advertisement. I think they realise," he went on, "that I have done my
best. I have tried to fit him for one or two professions, in vain."

"How long have you had him?" Leonard asked.

Duncombe's long fingers played for a moment with his small black
moustache. There was a quick light in his eyes as he glanced towards
Leonard.

"Three years this June," he answered.

"Then he was sixteen when he came to you?"

Duncombe assented with a little motion of his head.

"You probably think that he is backward now for nineteen," he said. "You
should have seen him when he came to me."

"I suppose he is backward," I admitted, "and yet, to tell you the
truth, I should have thought him older."

"His twentieth birthday is this week," Duncombe told us. "I am getting a
thousand a year and my expenses for looking after him, and I haven't any
prospects of a job when he is out of my hands, but I wish to heavens it
was his twenty-first!--I suppose we ought to see what the others are
doing."

We made our way out into the hall, which was the main living room of the
Grange. Arthur was playing billiards with Lethwaite, playing sullenly
and without interest, and turning around after every stroke to listen to
the conversation between Rose and the other two girls, who were seated
upon a lounge, watching. Lethwaite, just as we appeared, went out with a
stroke which was an obvious fluke. Arthur flung half a crown across the
table and put up his cue ill-humoredly.

"Beastly fluke!" he grumbled. "No one can play against such luck."

He strode over with his hands in his pockets to where Rose was seated.
Miss Duncombe watched him approach with a sombre light in her dark
eyes.

"Bad-tempered again, Arthur?" she observed.

"He's a rotten fluker," the young man rejoined surlily. "He wins all my
pocket money."

For a single moment the whole situation seemed to be commonplace, almost
absurd. Here was a sulky, ill-conditioned boy, pitchforked into the
charge of a very ordinary little company of gentlepeople, who were doing
their best to make him one of themselves. Duncombe's rebuke was free
from all severity, and it was certainly merited.

"Arthur," he said, "you should never accuse your opponent of fluking at
any game. Take your defeat in silence if you cannot be pleasant about
it. Mr. Lister or Mr. Cotton would tell you that I am giving you good
advice."

"It was rather hard lines," Rose remarked, smiling up at him.

The change in the boy's face was almost amazing.

"You see, I was ninety-eight," he explained, "and that's the seventh
half-crown I've lost following, just on the last stroke--Miss Mindel--I
say--would you sing something?"

Rose got up and made her way to the piano, followed by the young man.
For a moment I saw precisely the look in Miss Duncombe's dark eyes as
had flashed in her brother's a few minutes before, a look, I fancied, of
patient but subdued malevolence. Almost as I realised it, however, it
passed. She motioned me to sit by her side.

"Mr. Lister," she said, "I envy you your profession. I think that
anything in the world must be better than being bear-leader to a boy
like Arthur."

"Your brother seems to have quite a great deal of influence over him," I
observed.

"As much as any one could have, perhaps," she agreed. "After all, what
can one expect? You can't make bricks without straw, and it's hard to
give even the appearance of a gentleman to the son of a Welsh miner.
Look at him now!"

Arthur was standing by the piano, listening to Rose, who had commenced
to sing. He was awkward, self-conscious and ill at ease. He kept on
thrusting his hands into his pockets and taking them out again. There
was an expression in his eyes which angered me.

"I suppose he's rather a handful," I said.

Duncombe, who had been strolling about the room, joined us just in time
to hear the last remark.

"He is that," he admitted, "and yet, after all, I suppose I ought not to
grumble. I'm well enough paid for looking after him. A word with you,
Lister."

He drew me away to the farther end of the room. We stepped out of the
open window on to the broad gravel path. It was a soft, dark night, with
jagged masses of black cloud stretched across the sky. Below us was the
sandy beach, and away westwards we could hear the waves crashing amongst
the rocks of the Greymarshes Bay.

"It's like this, you see, Lister," Duncombe began, speaking a little
jerkily and watching me closely. "I've an agreement to look after this
cub for five years--a thousand a year and every mortal expense. I must
say the lawyers are generous about expenses. I don't mind admitting that
they cover the whole cost of my housekeeping, and I'm able to save
practically the lot. I'm going in for fruit farming when the job comes
to an end, but the boy's health is uncertain. I can't help wondering
what would happen to me if he were to die."

"I suppose," I ventured, "that your job would come to an end."

"I couldn't afford that," Duncombe declared. "I want to secure against
it if I can. You're a stranger. You can look at this matter with an open
mind. What do you think about insuring his life for, say, five or ten
thousand pounds?"

"I wouldn't think of it," I told him bluntly, "while the boy is under
your charge."

He seemed disappointed, but he nodded understandingly.

"Strikes you like that, does it?" he sighed. "Well, I was afraid it
might. I expect you're right, too. Reminiscent of the Ardalmont mystery,
and all that sort of thing, eh?"

"As you say," I assented, a little grimly.

The three of us were inclined to be gloomy during our walk home.

"I don't know why," Rose said, "but I detest that household."

"They're all right in their way," Leonard observed dubiously, "but they
seem all of them to hate their job so. If they're paid for looking after
that young cub, they ought to stomach their prejudices and do it."

"I don't like him," Rose pronounced abruptly. "I thought he was just
simple and foolish at first, but I've come to the conclusion that I
don't like him. There isn't a single member of the household I do like.
They're just sordid and peevish. I think the chief might have found us
something better to do."

"Perhaps he looks upon this in the light of a holiday task," I
suggested.

Rose had a flash of inspiration just then. She passed her arm through
mine, and notwithstanding the warm wind, she shivered a little.

"There is just one person in that household," she said, "of whom I am
terrified."

"Who is it?" Leonard asked.

She shook her head.

"Wait," she begged.

A few days later, we were invited to a picnic party at Greymarshes Bay
to celebrate Arthur's supposed twentieth birthday. Duncombe had hired a
little petrol launch, and we took our lunch and bathing clothes along
the coast. It was a hot, almost breathless day, and we entered the water
eagerly for our pre-luncheon bathe. Every one except Mrs. Scatterwell
bathed, and she busied herself with one of the servants, preparing
luncheon in a shady spot. Somehow or other, perhaps because of the
brilliancy of the weather, every one was in better spirits. Even
Duncombe and his pupil seemed to be on quite good terms. They vied with
one another in diving feats, and Arthur, exulting in his one
accomplishment, clambered up the rocks more than once to a considerable
height, before he made his plunge. Presently, however, we all tired a
little of the sport. Rose was already dressing in a convenient cave. I
was lying at full length, enjoying a sun bath on the shingle, when I
heard Duncombe's voice from behind a great rocky promontory jutting out
from the sea a little to my left.

"One more, Arthur. I've found a new place. It's the best of the lot."

I watched the young man climb obediently up the jagged boulder of rock.
The topmost ledge must have been at least twenty or thirty feet high,
and he was well on his way to it, with his back turned to me, when I
became conscious of a queer feeling of apprehension. The space of water
into which Arthur was to plunge was out of my sight, but there was a
little foam at the corner, and I remembered how once on a stormy day I
had stood and seen the broken waves thunder along this opening. I rose
to my feet, waded in as far as I could, and swam on my side towards the
promontory. Arthur by now had reached the summit and was cautiously
scrambling to his feet. There was no sign anywhere of Duncombe. I swam
on a few more strokes, until I was suddenly conscious of a current. I
swam round it, until I was directly facing Arthur, now standing upright
and commencing to poise.

"Wait a moment, Arthur," I called out.

"Get out of the way, then," he replied. "I'm coming over. Where's
Duncombe?"

I looked around but there was no sign of him, yet I knew very well that
he could not be more than a few yards away.

"One moment, Arthur," I shouted back.

He dropped his arms and stood there impatiently. The water beneath me
was a green colour, full and sullen, but there were little eddies which
I could not understand considering the width of the channel. Then, with
a shock which, notwithstanding the hot sun, brought a shiver of fear
through my body, I discovered the truth. Scarcely three feet under water
was a long line of jagged rock. I turned over on my back and held up my
hand.

"Arthur!"

"Get out of the way, will you?" he shouted. "I'm coming."

His hands were already upraised. There was no time for anything but the
truth.

[Illustration: "Don't be a fool," I answered. "There's a submerged rock
right across here." _Page_ 191.]

"Don't be a fool," I answered. "There's a submerged rock right across
here. You couldn't miss it. Climb down, do you hear?"

His arms fell to his sides. For a single moment he stood there,
immovable. Not even his youth, his bathing costume, and the clear
background of blue sky and sunlit air could lend him any grace of form
or outline. He seemed, indeed, from his short neck and hunched
shoulders, as he turned away, almost deformed. I looked all around.
There was no sign anywhere of Duncombe. I raised my voice and shouted.

"Hello, Duncombe!"

I heard a splash, as though he had slipped off the ledge of the rock
behind me. Presently he came swimming round the corner.

"What's the matter?" he shouted. "And where's Arthur?"

"He's climbing down from that rock," I answered, as Duncombe came
alongside. "I've just stopped his diving into this pool."

"Why?"

He was by my side now and I pointed downwards to the dark line of
cruelly jagged rock. He looked for a moment concerned.

"Jove, I've never noticed those!" he muttered.

"They're barely three feet," I answered. "I can reach them."

Duncombe turned over on his back. We were in the shadow, almost
surrounded by rocks. The voices of the others, preparing the lunch,
sounded a long way away. I suddenly felt as though I were cut off, as
though I could read the thoughts at the back of this man's brain, as
though I myself were in danger. All the time he was drawing a little
closer to me.

Leonard and Ella Duncombe suddenly appeared upon the summit of one of
the lower ranges of rocks.

"Come along to lunch," the former shouted.

The moment had passed. Duncombe began to swim vigorously for the shore.
He was quite himself when he stepped out on to the sand.

"I wouldn't make a fuss about that, if I were you, Lister," he
suggested. "It looks as though I weren't careful enough. As a matter of
fact, I don't think the boy would have come to any harm."

Arthur was seated by himself on the sands, his arms clenched around his
knees, his face turned away from all of us. He seemed to have ignored
the summons to prepare for lunch.

"Probably not," I answered, trying to speak in as unconcerned a tone as
possible. "Boys and drunken men have a wonderful knack of avoiding
accidents."

We strolled up the beach together. Duncombe paused and spoke to Arthur.

"Come along," he said, "they're waiting luncheon for us."

Arthur turned and looked at him. I could not say that there was anything
either malicious or reproachful in that look, and yet it worried me. He
made no answer in words. A few moments later, however, he scrambled to
his feet and went to the rock behind which his clothes were lying.

Duncombe seemed determined that nothing which had happened should
interfere with the success of the picnic. He abandoned all his reserve,
related anecdotes, chaffed everybody in turn, opened wine, and
absolutely created an atmosphere of pleasure. Leonard told stories and
Rose sang to us and danced upon the sands. Arthur, after a preliminary
fit of gloom, drank far too much champagne for his age and became, in
his rather clumsy way, as light-hearted as the rest. He and Ella sat for
some time apart from the others, his arm drawn through hers, until
presently they wandered off together to look for Venetian shells, the
spoils of some long-forgotten shipwreck. On the whole, the excursion
which I had seen foredoomed to failure, turned out a great success.
Duncombe only once, during the rest of the afternoon, referred to the
disturbing subject.

"You don't suppose," he suggested, "that Arthur is thinking any more
about that little affair, eh?"

"Why should he?" I answered coolly. "He must know that you made a
mistake."

"Naturally," Duncombe assented. "I still don't think he'd have come to
any harm unless he bungled his dive, but I'm glad, all the same, that
you noticed the rocks."

That marked the end of the incidents worthy of note connected with the
picnic, except that Arthur and Ella stayed away for over an hour, and
that when they returned she was clinging to his arm with an almost
protective air. That night, for the first time, not a single member from
the Grange turned up at our performance.

Somehow or other, when I started for my customary early morning walk on
the following day, I knew that there was tragedy in the air. A strange
mist, presage of storm and heat, hung like an oppressive curtain over
the land and stretched out seawards. I almost regretted, as I stood at
the end of the little jetty, that I had not departed from my usual
custom and bathed. The thought made me look back towards the shore.
Duncombe, in his dressing gown, had just left the gardens of the Grange
and was descending the shingle to the sands. I watched him throw off his
gown and wade into the water. Presently he turned on his side and began
swimming slowly out. Watching him, I felt more than ever inclined to go
and fetch my own bathing clothes. Then, as I hesitated, I noticed
Arthur, following through the Grange gardens, scramble down the shingle,
throw off his dressing gown and also plunge into the sea. Something a
little furtive about the manner in which he made his way across the
lawn, keeping always to the side of the hedge as though to escape
observation, and his subsequent almost crawling progress along the
shingle, puzzled me. I had been down here many mornings, but I had never
seen Arthur bathing before. He was in the water now, and swimming out
with long, powerful strokes towards Duncombe.

Whilst Arthur was still almost undistinguishable in the sea, and
Duncombe was lying lazily on his back, as yet unconscious of his pupil's
approach, I began to feel my first misgivings. There was something
unnatural in the very atmosphere that morning, the sulphurous gloom, the
entire absence of sunshine, the still, oily water. I found myself
straining my eyes to catch a nearer glimpse of the boy's face, asking
myself all the time why he had chosen this particular morning to bathe
for the first time before breakfast. Nearer and nearer he came. He
passed me within a matter of fifty yards, but he took no notice of my
shout of greeting. Then, as he rolled from side to side, I caught a
glimpse of his face. He seemed to be swimming in entire unconsciousness
of any physical effort. His chin was a little protruded, his eyes were
fixed in an unnatural stare upon the spot where Duncombe lay floating.
For a moment or two I felt a queer sensation of helplessness. I called
out again, and I knew this time, although I would not acknowledge it to
myself, that my cry was meant to be a warning to Duncombe. He heard me,
turned over on his side, and to my horror began to swim away from the
approaching form, to swim away like a man in fear.

I really did all that a man could do. Attached by a rope to the end of
the jetty were several rowing boats. I unfastened one, clambered down
some steps and jumped into it. As I swung it round, I was just in time
to see the boy alter his pace a little, as though to intercept
Duncombe, who had made for the jetty. Duncombe, seeing himself cut off,
hesitated. I held up my hand and shouted.

"Hullo, there!" I bawled. "Hullo! Duncombe, I'm coming to take you in."

Arthur took not the slightest notice of me. He was now within a yard or
so of Duncombe, and he suddenly seemed to raise himself from the water.
I had no doubt whatever then but that this was tragedy. His mouth was
opened, and his rather prominent teeth showed in a wholly animal
fashion. His eyes seemed like specks of fire. He was by the side of
Duncombe now, and from where I was I can only say that it seemed to me
as though he sprang at him just as a sea cat might have done, if such a
creature had ever existed. His arms went round the other man's neck, his
legs around his loins. Then for the first time Duncombe cried out, a
horrible cry, the cry of a man face to face with a hideous death, a cry
which died away only as the water filled his mouth. Very slowly,
Duncombe struggling in the other's pitiless clasp like a weakling in the
grip of an octopus, the two bodies disappeared. I rowed about for more
than half an hour without seeing a sign of either. They were washed up
two days later.

       *       *       *       *       *

The supper at a Midland Hotel, where our chief bade us meet him a few
evenings later, was one of the least festive of all our meetings. Our
depression was so noticeable that he presently commented upon it.

"For whom this sorrow?" he enquired coldly. "For the tutor or his
charge?"

"For the boy," Rose declared. "After all, he was very young."

"I'm sorry for Duncombe," Leonard admitted frankly. "Whatever he'd been
up to, it was the most horrible death any one could die."

"I'm sorry for both," I insisted. "I think that somehow we ought to have
prevented it."

Mr. Thomson looked at us, one by one, out of his bright piercing eyes.
It was obvious that he was out of sympathy with us.

"I continually forget," he said coldly, "that I have to deal with
sentimentalists. No person who looked upon life from a sane point of
view, and who possessed full knowledge of all the facts, could possibly
regret the departure of either of them."

"Was Duncombe's story really true?" Rose asked.

"This one is, at any rate," our host replied. "Arthur Dompers was the
orphan son of a Welsh miner. When he was fourteen years of age, a
relative in America died intestate and this boy was discovered to be the
heir. Some lawyers in London were entrusted with the charge of him. He
was sent to four private schools, from each one of which he was
expelled. Three tutors one by one relinquished the task of training him
up in the way he should go. Duncombe was the fourth."

"Tell us about Mr. Duncombe, please," Rose begged.

"Duncombe was one of those criminals who are too clever to come under
the ban of the law," Thomson continued. "He was also a person against
whom I had a very strong grievance. When I heard that the boy, Arthur
Dompers, had been committed to his charge, I felt that, if carefully
watched, Duncombe's time had come at last. By some irony of fate, the
fortune left to Arthur Dompers became trebled and quadrupled in the
hands of his trustees. Duncombe's appetite for plunder, already
insatiable, must have become a fever. He was clever, though. He bided
his time. For three years he had charge of Arthur Dompers, and during
that three years he improved him immensely. It was perfectly clear what
he was waiting for--for the only period when the boy could be of real
service to him--namely after his twenty-first birthday. He made his
plans a long way ahead. With great cunning he kept secret the day of the
boy's majority. You attended a picnic, I think--a birthday party?"

"It was supposed to be his twentieth birthday," Leonard observed.

"In reality his twenty-first," Thomson went on. "On the morning of that
day, the boy made his will, leaving the bulk of his estate to Ella
Duncombe, and large legacies to the rest of the family. He also left a
letter addressed to Ella Duncombe, in which he made clear the relations
between them and spoke of their impending marriage. With those
documents in his possession, Duncombe had no more use for the boy. There
is no doubt, from your report, Lister, that he deliberately made his
first attempt upon his life on that very morning. There is no doubt,
also, that the boy, half-witted though he was, in his sullen way saw
through the whole thing. His hate for Duncombe became a slow-burning
passion--and there, I think, is the story of the tragedy."

"And the will?" I asked.

"It was committed to the flames on the morning of the tragedy by
Duncombe's sister--also the letter. The estate goes to the Crown."

Rose sighed.

"All that money and no one any better off!"

Mr. Thomson shrugged his shoulders.

"The lawyers to the estate," he told us, "have made over ten thousand
pounds to the Duncombe family."

I took my courage into my hands.

"I know your attitude towards questions, sir," I said, "but I feel bound
to ask you one concerning this episode. What on earth did you expect to
gain by bringing us in touch with it?"

Our host sipped his wine thoughtfully.

"I do not welcome questions," he admitted, "but bearing in mind the fact
that this affair has been without any features of interest for you, I
will reply. I knew perfectly well that Duncombe would make some attempt
upon the life of Arthur Dompers. You were there to watch for it. You
succeeded. Your report would have released the boy from Duncombe's
control. Events, however, marched too quickly."

"On whose behalf, then, were we acting," Leonard asked, "you and all of
us? Were we philanthropists or detectives?"

Our host shrugged his shoulders and helped himself to a cigar.

"That," he replied, "will be Conundrum Number Five."




CONUNDRUM NUMBER SIX

THE DUKE'S DILEMMA


"How does one address a duke?" Rose asked, looking up from the depth of
her easy-chair.

"No idea," I replied. "I don't suppose we shall see anything of him."

"I only knew one," Leonard murmured reminiscently. "He was at Harrow and
we used to call him Tubby."

"I don't see that that's going to help us," Rose remarked. "However----"

Then the door of our sitting room opened and to our surprise our host
entered. He bowed to Rose and nodded to us in friendly fashion.

"Very good of you to come down here and help us along," he said,
pleasantly ignoring the fact that we were being paid fifty pounds a week
and our expenses to help provide his guests with entertainment. "I hope
you're quite comfortable?"

We all three murmured an unqualified affirmative. The arrangements made
for our comfort were indeed beyond criticism.

"You're not any relation to the Cotton who started bowling googlies for
Harrow in his last term, I suppose?" the Duke queried, addressing
Leonard.

Leonard modestly pleaded guilty, and our host showed his first signs of
real interest.

"You'll play for the Castle this afternoon?" he begged. "We're playing
the rest of the County, and they're bringing a pretty hot side. Our
batting's all right but our bowling's rotten."

"I haven't played for two years," Leonard said, a little doubtfully.

"At three o'clock," the Duke announced, ignoring Leonard's hesitation.
"You'll find a couple of pros down at the nets if you want a knock
first. Don't give your bowling away too much, as some of the enemy are
prowling around."

Our host took gracious leave of us. Rose watched him curiously.

"Maurice," she observed, as the door closed, "there's something queer
about this place."

"I suppose there must be," I admitted, "or we shouldn't be here."

"Exactly what are our instructions?" Leonard enquired.

"Vague," I replied. "The only letter I received from our chief told me
to accept the offer through Keith Prowse, to come here, to sit tight and
study conditions."

"What did he mean by 'conditions'?" Rose asked.

"Just get in touch with our environment, I suppose. For instance, here
we are with half a dozen others, brought up to Westmoreland to amuse the
Duke's house party. We are being treated royally, the house party seems
to comprise some of the best-known names in England, and the whole thing
seems to be marvellously done."

"But so far no glimmering as to how or where we may come in?" Leonard
persisted.

"Not the slightest," I admitted. "Of course, this place is a perfect
treasure house. They say that the jewels alone are insured for more than
two millions. There may be some robbery scheme on."

"Perhaps," Rose suggested, "we are to be the thieves. In that case, I'll
keep one of the famous pink pearls if I have to swallow it."

I looked out across the park and a certain feeling of depression stole
over me. We were alone in a little sitting room which had been made over
to our exclusive use.

"I can't help wishing," I confessed, "that we knew a little more where
we stood. We've been working for Mr. Thomson now for the best part of a
year, and there isn't one of us three can tell whether we've been
helping the greatest crook the world has ever known, or a master
detective."

"I'm not sure that I care," Rose said sweetly.

Leonard helped himself to a cigarette.

"When I think of that night at Cromer," he reflected--"you remember how
wet it was, how the wind howled, and we hadn't enough fire in our
lodgings, or enough money to buy food?--when I think of those days and
realise how life has changed since our mysterious god came out of the
machine, I feel very much like Rose. I feel like a pagan, Maurice. We're
back again in our old lives, wearing the right sort of clothes, eating
and drinking like civilised beings, travelling in comfort, and with a
bank account growing all the time. It's good enough for me."

"And for me," Rose echoed.

I fell in with their mood. After all, the sun was shining and a long
summer's day lay before us.

"Begone, dull care," I invoked, "at any rate until our next letter of
instructions arrives. Into flannels, Leonard, and then to the nets. I
suppose they'll let me have a knock."

"I shall come and watch," Rose decided graciously.

Our entertainment at Lorringham Castle was in its way princely. We had a
suite of rooms to ourselves, and a dining room which we shared with
Charles Jacoty, the leader of the Duke's private orchestra, David
Faraday, the famous illusionist, a Mrs. Middleham, widow of the Duke's
private chaplain, who arranged the dance programmes and painted the
menus, and a young man--Gerald Formby--the son of Sir James Formby, the
agent to the estate, who presided at the dinner table and from whom we
heard most of the gossip of the place. It was on the evening after the
cricket match that we received from him the first inkling as to what the
nature of our mission might be.

"Have you seen the Lorringham treasures yet?" he asked Rose.

She shook her head.

"I don't even know what they are."

The young man appeared incredulous.

"You mean to say that you haven't heard of the Lorringham pearls and the
seven tiaras?"

"I've heard of them vaguely," she replied. "I didn't even know that they
were on view."

Jacoty leaned a little forward in his chair. Faraday also appeared to be
interested. The young man lowered his voice a little. There was
inherited awe in its inflexion.

"The Lorringham pink pearls," he said, "are the most famous in history,
although they are very seldom seen. They were last worn, in fact, by
Eleanor, Duchess of Lorringham, at Queen Victoria's wedding. The seven
tiaras are famous throughout the world. The earliest dates from the time
of Charles the First."

"And they are really on view?" Rose asked.

"Not to the public. Whenever there is a house party here, they are
generally shown to the guests."

"They are immensely valuable, these jewels?" Faraday enquired.

"They are insured for two millions," was the young man's portentous
reply.

There was a little silence. I chanced to glance at Faraday, and I was
almost startled by the gleam in his sunken eyes. He sat like a man in a
brown study, tapping the tablecloth with his fingers.

"Has any attempt at robbery ever been made?" Leonard asked.

Gerald Formby shook his head.

"They are too well guarded," he said.

"It is interesting, this," Faraday remarked quietly. "Are the jewels
kept in safes?"

The young man smiled.

"The room in which they are is in itself a safe. There are steel
shutters to the windows, and steel safes let into the wall. There is a
man on guard outside, day and night, and the only key in existence which
could unlock the safes is in the possession of the Duke himself."

My eyes met Leonard's. For the first time I understood the only three
words of admonition which we had received:

     Watch the Duke.

Faraday spoke what was in my own mind.

"That fact may do away with some risk," he observed, "but isn't it
rather a danger to his Grace? Fancy being in constant possession of a
key which secures a treasure like that!"

"And you mean to say that no one has ever made any attempt to steal
them?" Rose asked.

"Once only, twenty-two years ago, in the late Duke's time," Formby
admitted. "A gang of burglars--they say that Charles Peace was one of
them--broke into the Castle, but they never got anywhere near the room.
Soon after that these shutters were built, and the safes let into the
wall, and quite recently an American expert came over, who designed the
lock. Robbery is now an impossibility."

We gave our first performance later on that evening. The Duke himself
came up and congratulated us afterwards. He invited us to join the rest
of the guests, a courteous offer of which, however, we did not avail
ourselves.

"You will at least join my personally conducted party," he suggested,
turning to Rose, "and have a look at the Lorringham treasures? I am
taking a few of my guests there at eleven o'clock. I shall expect you
three."

We accepted that invitation willingly enough, and the Duke returned to
his guests. Afterwards, Faraday gave one of the most astonishing
performances of sleight of hand I have ever seen. With scarcely any
appliances, he succeeded in puzzling everybody. One of the guests,
selected at random, was made to disappear in such a fashion that he
himself, when questioned afterwards, was utterly confused about his
experience. Later on he brought a locked-up mastiff from his kennel and
a singing bird down from the top of the great hall. The Duke, with
several of his companions, came up to congratulate the illusionist.
Faraday received their compliments with the grave pleasure of one who
recognises his supremacy. As the Duke was leaving, he addressed him.

"I heard your Grace inviting Miss Mindel and her companions to inspect
the treasure chamber to-night," he said. "May I be permitted to
accompany them?"

The Duke seemed on the point of giving a ready consent, then suddenly he
hesitated. He looked at Faraday with a dubious smile.

"After that performance of yours, Mr. Faraday," he confessed, "I really
don't know what to say. I seem to have a horrible vision of watching my
tiaras come out through the steel doors, and my pink pearls drop out
from the ceiling into your waistcoat pocket."

Faraday did not smile. It seemed to me that he was very much in earnest.

"I will undertake to refrain from any extempore performance," he said.
"As a matter of fact, your Grace, there are limitations to my magic."

The Duke turned away. He seemed rather to resent the other's
persistence.

"Another time, perhaps," he promised, a little coldly. "My party
to-night is made up."

Faraday was standing a little in the shadows and I watched him eagerly.
From that moment our mission to Lorringham Castle seemed to become
clearer to me.

An hour or so later, our host led a small company of us to the treasure
chamber. We paused outside a green baize door leading into one of the
galleries, which was guarded by a servant in the livery of the house.
The Duke, with a word of apology, took off his coat and rolled up his
shirt sleeves, disclosing a plain platinum band around his arm.

"This is an American idea," he explained.

He touched a spring in the band, one side opened and disclosed a key,
attached to a thin chain of platinum wire. With this he unlocked the
door of a small chamber, brilliantly lit. One side of the room seemed to
be composed, up to the height of about six feet, of solid steel
shutters. The Duke fitted the other end of the key into a concealed
crevice. There was a little click, and the whole of the shutters rolled
back. From behind windows of solid plate-glass, on a background of black
velvet, were displayed the famous tiaras, rows of marvellous pearls,
some of them as large as marbles and pink as sea coral, and a further
collection of magnificent jewellery. There seemed to be an almost
universal gasp of astonishment. The women of the party especially were
speechless.

[Illustration: There seemed to be an almost universal gasp of
astonishment. _Page_ 216.]

"We keep them like this instead of in coffers," the Duke explained, "so
that they can be shown without being handled."

"Supposing you wanted to get at them?" some one asked.

"There is a secret spring," he replied, "which releases these windows.
You should look at the diamonds in that Queen Anne tiara, Lady
Mordaunt," he added, turning to one of his guests. "The greatest
diamond expert in the world, who was here last year, declared that he
had never seen stones to match those in his life."

We gazed, we admired, we marvelled. In a few minutes the show was over,
the doors locked, the key back in its wonderful hiding place, and the
Duke's coat once more hanging from his shapely shoulders.

"I don't wear this platinum affair except when I am down here," he told
us. "The rest of the time I leave it at my banker's. Tell me what you
are thinking about, Miss Mindel?" he asked, turning to her with a smile.

Rose answered him frankly.

"I was wondering why you wouldn't let Mr. Faraday come with us."

The Duke frowned slightly.

"Well," he admitted, "I suppose it was foolish of me. All the same, the
man's performance took away my breath. Of course," he went on, "I know
that it was all illusion, and yet it doesn't seem to me any more
wonderful to think of his thrusting his hand through my plate-glass
windows and helping himself to my pearls, than to perform some of the
feats he achieved this evening. The guardianship of several million
pounds' worth of family treasures," he concluded, with an apologetic
smile, "sometimes tends to make one unreasonable."

Leonard and I turned into the little smoking room assigned to our use,
after we had said good night to Rose. Faraday was seated there alone,
with a block and pencil in his hand, apparently making idle sketches. He
laid the block by his side, face downwards, at our entrance.

"Well," he said, a little ill-naturedly, "I suppose you've seen the
treasures?"

"We have," I admitted, helping myself to a whisky and soda.

"Are they as wonderful as report says?" he enquired.

"I'm no judge," I told him, a little shortly.

"By the bye, there's a note for you on the table."

I recognised at once the familiar, typewritten envelope--a message from
the chief. Leonard looked over my shoulder as I tore open the envelope:

     Watch Faraday. Suspect Edwards, one of the custodians.
     Registered post to-morrow brings you key of door leading to
     balcony, end of north gallery.

I tore the note into small pieces. Faraday sat watching me with gloomy
curiosity.

"Nothing annoying, I hope?" he queried.

I watched the pieces filter through my fingers into the waste-paper
basket.

"Nothing of any importance," I assured him.

The next day several things happened. In the first place, the key of the
door leading to the little gallery facing the jewel chamber arrived,
wrapped in tissue paper and with an obliterated postmark. Secondly, I
took five wickets for fifteen against the team brought over from a
neighbouring country house, and Leonard, by indefensible slogging,
managed to knock up fifty-five before he was caught on the boundary.
These last two episodes seemed to obliterate all memory of the
professional character of our stay. The Duke, who had played a very
useful innings himself, and whose joy at winning the match was almost
like a schoolboy's, treated us as honoured guests and insisted upon all
three of us accepting his invitation to dine in the great hall that
evening. The third event of the day was the coming of the Princess Anne
of Chantilly, the last representative of a famous French family, a great
heiress, related to royalty, and one of the beauties of the world. The
three of us chanced to witness her arrival, and our host's secret was
manifest in the first few minutes. In her presence he seemed
rejuvenated. He watched her every movement. The slight austerity of his
tone and deportment vanished as though by magic. A new and more genial
side of him appeared. He paid his court almost openly. It did not need
the gossip of the place to tell us that he was her suitor.

I was ready for dinner early that evening and strolled up and down the
north gallery, waiting for Rose, who was naturally taking some pains
with her toilette. I made my way as though by accident to the notice
board containing the names of the watchmen selected from the
menservants of the establishment. There were eleven altogether, and the
watch for the next twenty-four hours had just been put in. For the first
time I saw there the name of Edwards. He was on duty, it seemed, from
three to six on the following morning. I felt a little shiver of
excitement as I strolled away, after a surreptitious glance at the
little gallery. The beginning of my task was close at hand.

Dinner that night was a pageant rather than a meal. Sixty-four of us sat
down at a long table, the decoration of which with hothouse flowers had
taken two gardeners the greater part of the day. We were served from
gold plate and we drank strange wines from Venetian glasses. The Duke
sat at one end of the table, with the Princess at his right hand, and
his sister, the Marchioness of Leicestershire, sat at the other end. The
Princess, of whom I had a good view, was one of the most beautiful women
I had ever seen. She was fair and slim, with a perfect complexion, dark,
rather tired eyes, a fascinating mouth, and corn-coloured hair, whose
seemingly simple arrangement was an artistic triumph. The one
remarkable thing about her, though, was that she wore not a single
article of jewellery. Her neck and bosom were bare, her fingers were
ringless. I ventured to remark upon this fact to my neighbour, whose
acquaintance I had made on the cricket field. She glanced down the table
and nodded.

"The Princess has strange fancies," she remarked. "I have seen her
wearing the Chantilly emeralds at a small dinner party, and afterwards
go to a Court function wearing the jewels of an ingénue."

I looked back at her with a very genuine admiration.

"She ought to marry the Duke," I whispered, "if only for the sake of
wearing the wonderful pink pearls."

My companion smiled.

"She would look better in them than any woman in the world," she agreed.
"The pity of it is that she would only be able to wear them up here, and
for a woman of her cosmopolitan tastes, Westmoreland would seem a little
confining."

"But if she were Duchess of Lorringham?"

My companion shook her head.

"The jewels are a very solemn family trust," she told me. "I believe I
am right in saying that they cannot be taken out of the United Kingdom.
One of the famous tiaras was stolen about a hundred years ago in London,
and the deed of trust was amended then. I suppose it is quite all
right," she went on meditatively, "but in a way it seems a cruel thing
to keep jewels of such value practically hidden."

We gave our little entertainment that evening, after which a great
pianist who had travelled down from London gave a recital, Faraday made
more magic, and a girl, who was one of the house party, danced. All the
time our host never left the Princess's side. There was no doubt at all
but that he was deeply in love with her. She, for her part, won all
hearts. She was gracious and charming to every one. She seemed, indeed,
to the Duke's delight, to almost assume at times the position of
gracious chatelaine. A thought came to me during the evening and I
sought out young Formby, with whom Leonard and I had become quite
intimate. I found him with some of the younger spirits in the billiard
room. I drew him on one side whilst he was waiting to play his shot at
pool.

"Formby," I said, "I don't want to seem impertinent but I should like to
ask you a question."

"Go ahead," the young man invited.

"Is the Duke a rich man?" I asked.

Formby looked at me in astonishment.

"What on earth makes you ask a question like that?" he demanded
curiously.

"Well, I really haven't any reason," I hastened to assure him. "I just
wondered, that's all."

"The Duke," he told me impressively, "is one of the richest men in
England. He spends money in a princely fashion but he has never yet
succeeded in spending half his income. What about a game of snooker--you
and Cotton, too, if he likes? We are breaking up after this. Sir Charles
wants to dance."

I left Cotton there and went in search of Rose. I found her on the
balcony in our own sitting room, looking down at the guests--strange,
picturesque figures as they strolled about the moon-dappled lawn,
listening to the music.

"Maurice," she asked me, as I sank into a chair by her side, "have you
found out yet what we are here for?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," I replied. "The chief has been even less
communicative than usual. It seems to have something to do with the
jewels and that is all I know."

"You don't think," she went on nervously, "that by any chance we are
sent here to aid in any attempt to steal them?"

"No, I don't think that," I assured her. "Where the chief stands
sometimes I can't quite make up my mind, but I don't think a jewel
robbery, even on such a scale as this, is quite in his line. If our
presence here has anything to do with jewels at all, and I think it
has," I added, dropping my voice, "I should say that we were here
indirectly to aid their guardians."

"Then why doesn't the Duke mention it to us?" she asked curiously.

"It's beyond me," I confessed.

She laid her hand upon my arm and drew me very near indeed.

"Maurice," she whispered, "there's something wrong about Faraday."

"Go on," I begged her.

"Well, for one thing, then, what does he want with a ninety horse-power
car, concerning which he hasn't said a word to any of us? I saw him
driving it in the lower stretches of the park this morning."

"Well, that might be any man's hobby," I replied. "What else?"

"I found him poring over a map this afternoon," she continued. "I looked
over his shoulder. It was a road map of Westmoreland, and I am perfectly
certain that he was tracing out the road from here to the sea. It is
only twenty miles."

I nodded.

"Well," I said, "let us assume, then, that Faraday means to make an
attempt to steal the jewels, that he has a high-powered car in
readiness, and a boat of some sort waiting by the sea. I dare say that
part of it might be managed all right. It's a desolate coast, the road
to it lies over a mountain range, and he could easily start from a place
where there is no telephone or telegraph. But--it's the robbery itself
that seems to me so impossible. I can't conceive how any one could get
at the Duke's key, and, having got it, how they could pass the man on
duty at the door, to say nothing of leaving the Castle afterwards."

"Most robberies seem like that until afterwards," Rose answered, a
little drily.

"Besides," I argued, "Faraday is, in his way, a famous man. He must earn
several thousands a year. Why should he run such appalling risks?"

"Go and look at the _Era_, which I left on the sitting-room table," she
enjoined. "Look at the paragraph at the bottom of the sixth page."

I obeyed her, and read with a little start of surprise of the great
deception accorded to Faraday at Melbourne the previous week.

"What does it mean?" I asked Rose, when I returned.

"It means that this man isn't Faraday at all," she declared. "I was
doubtful of him from the first. I saw Faraday at the Coliseum about two
years ago, and I am sure that he was a much older man."

"In that case," I said thoughtfully, "I suppose it is our duty to warn
the Duke."

"You must do as you think best," Rose decided.

I made my way reluctantly downstairs and turned into the gardens where I
was told the Duke was. I found him at the end of a rose pergola. The
Princess was seated by his side, and at the sound of their voices I
hesitated and would have turned back. The Duke, however, recognised me
and called out. In the bright moonlight which was flooding the gardens,
he seemed unnaturally pale. His tone, too, when he addressed me, had
lost its smooth, pleasant intonation. He was like a man who has been
undergoing torture. The slight smile upon the Princess's lips chilled
and depressed me. I felt that it was not a pleasant interview which I
had disturbed.

"Were you looking for me, Lister?" the Duke asked.

"In a sense I was, your Grace," I admitted. "I--er--there was a little
matter I thought I ought to mention to you."

"Well?"

I felt suddenly that my mission was ridiculous and my suspicions
intolerable. Since I was there, however, I had to go through with it.

"The man Faraday, the illusionist," I began----

"Well, what about him?" the Duke interrupted sharply.

"Some one who saw Faraday perform at the Coliseum two years ago," I
continued, "is of opinion that this man is not Faraday at all. The
suspicion is confirmed by the fact that, according to this week's _Era_,
Faraday is performing in Melbourne."

"I have no doubt that your information is correct," the Duke replied
coldly. "Now I come to think of it, I believe the agents told me that
they were sending a Faraday man but not Faraday himself. You surely had
some reason for bringing me this--information?"

The wild absurdity of the whole thing made me feel like a fool. Then I
remembered, however, that we had been deliberately sent here by our
Machiavellian chief, and we had never been sent anywhere in vain.

"It must sound idiotic, your Grace," I confessed, "but we were all very
much impressed by the precautions against robbery connected with your
jewel chamber. The fact that there was a man staying here to whom you
yourself preferred not to show the jewels--staying here under a false
name, with a ninety horse-power motor car in the garage----"

The Duke interrupted me with a slight exclamation and a little wave of
the hand.

"I never dreamed that you were such an old woman, Lister," he said. "I
am much obliged to you for your warning," he added, with some return of
his old courtesy. "As it happens, however, I was already aware that this
man was not Faraday himself, and I fancy that my precautions for
guarding the Lorringham treasures are adequate."

The Princess leaned a little forward. I sympathised with the Duke. In
this faint, enchanting light, she was ravishingly beautiful.

"Do not be too confident, dear host," she murmured. "If women were only
made of sterner stuff, a lock has never been fashioned which could keep
a pearl lover from your jewel chamber."

The Duke smiled.

"Nevertheless," he added, turning to me with a friendly gesture of
dismissal, "you may sleep soundly to-night and as many nights as you
remain under my roof. The spells are not yet woven which could charm
those jewels from their cases."

I made my way back to the Castle, a little confused. There seemed to be
in the Duke's last words a subtle behest to me, a warning not to concern
myself further in his affairs. And from three to six on this coming
morning, Edwards was guard of the chamber, and my rôle of watcher was
already established.

It must have been within a few seconds of the chiming of a quarter past
three, that the intense silence of the gallery, into which I had found
my way without difficulty, was broken in even the slightest degree.
Opposite where I crouched, in a high-backed chair, with a glass of cold
water by his side, sat the custodian of the jewel chamber. A little to
the right was the narrow passage leading to the Duke's apartments. Two
electric lights were burning, and through one of the windows came pale
splashes of faint moonlight. The effect was a weird and confusing
illumination which made it hard to recognise even the simplest objects.
The armoured figures cast fantastic shadows across the floor, the
outline of the watching man seemed distorted and unreal, and the whole
setting of the little scene was unnatural, a stimulus to nervous
imagination. For this very reason I covered my eyes and looked again for
a moment at the apparition which at first presented every semblance of
the impossible. The second time I knew that I had not been deceived--I
knew that something was happening.

The end of that little passage leading from the Duke's apartments to the
watching figure was wrapped in gloom. The faint creaking which had first
attracted my attention might have come from an unseen door there, or it
might have been the not unnatural creaking of timbers in an old house.
The sound, however, was followed by a strange vision. I saw an arm
stretched out from the shadows, linger for a moment over the tumbler,
and then disappear. I rubbed my eyes. Was this Faraday and his toy
magic, or reality? I waited. It might have been ten minutes before the
next happening. The watcher in the chair stretched out his arm, lifted
the tumbler to his lips and drank. After that there was silence again.
Then from the spot where the arm had come, a figure dressed in black
stole out, the figure of a man of medium height, without betraying
collar or shirt front, black as a bat save for the pale blur of an
indistinguishable face, and noiseless. He stooped over the custodian,
now evidently either asleep or unconscious. In a moment or two he stood
upright, paused before the door of the jewel chamber, and with a
curious, apparently effortless movement, passed through it. Then it
seemed to me that my time had come for action. I stole quietly down the
few stairs, unfastened the door of the gallery, and crept up the
corridor. The door of the jewel chamber was ajar, and through it I could
see the shining of the electric light inside, a glimmer of which fell
upon the face of the drugged custodian. Suddenly, upon the very
threshold of the jewel chamber, I stopped short. All my wariness was
gone, lost in a shock of surprise. A little exclamation broke from my
lips. The next second I found myself struggling for my life. The walls
swam round. I raised my voice and gave a great cry. After that there was
silence.

At twelve o'clock the next morning, with a bandage around my head, and
feeling still the effects of an almost delirious night, I stepped into
the car which was waiting to take us to the station. The Duke, who was
practising at the cricket nets, came hurrying across to us, his bat
still in his hand.

"I had no idea that you were going by this early train!" he exclaimed.
"So glad that I did not miss you altogether."

Rose murmured something polite, and Leonard said a word or two about the
pleasure of our stay. I remained silent.

"I am afraid," our host continued, smiling at me, "that I was a little
unsympathetic in the small hours of the morning. I am never at my best
when I am roused from sleep. However, you must let me express my regrets
to you now, Mr. Lister, for your little accident. At the same time," he
went on, "I am sure you will agree with me that the neighbourhood of the
jewel chamber is rather a dangerous place for a man addicted to
nightmares to be wandering about at three o'clock in the morning."

I looked the Duke in the face.

"What I saw was no nightmare," I said. "I saw some sort of powder
dropped into Edwards' glass, and I saw a man pass into the jewel
chamber."

The Duke smiled tolerantly.

"My dear Mr. Lister," he protested, "if the man Edwards had been drugged
as you suggest, could he have attacked you in the way he did and got the
better of you in a scrap? Further, how was it possible for any one to
open the door of the jewel chamber without a key?"

He rolled up the sleeve of his flannel shirt a little higher, touched
the spring of his platinum bracelet, showed us the key and replaced it.
I said nothing. I continued to watch the Duke's face.

"Perhaps the most satisfactory part of your hallucination," he went on,
"is the fact that the jewels have neither been disturbed nor removed. I
beg, Mr. Lister," he concluded indulgently, "that you will not let this
unfortunate incident disturb any agreeable impressions you may have had
of your stay here. It has been a great pleasure to me to entertain you.
If you will allow me to refer for a moment to a business matter, my
steward has sent a cheque this morning to your agent. And if you will
allow me to offer you a slight memento of your stay here, I will ask you
to accept this bat from me. It is one of Wisden's, and I think the best
I have ever handled."

He held it out to me, and there passed between us one of those long and
silent glances which convey more than words. I held out my hand and
accepted the bat.

"Thank you, Duke," I said.

He stood away and lifted his cap. Then we drove off.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Thomson had his own methods of surprising us. Three nights after our
return to town, we found ourselves, for instance, under the great plane
tree at Ranelagh, drinking wonderful yellow chartreuse with our coffee,
listening to the music and to the little murmur of pleasant,
after-dinner conversation. The moment for which I had waited so eagerly
had come at last.

"On this occasion," our host remarked tolerantly, "I feel that I must be
a little more lenient than usual as regards questions. You came away
from Lorringham a little puzzled, I have no doubt?"

"We did indeed," I replied. "We want to know why the Duke was engaged in
a conspiracy to steal his own jewels, and why our mission there seemed
to be to prevent it."

"Quite a little romance," our host observed. "The Duke, as you may have
noticed, is very much in love with the Princess of Chantilly. The
Princess is one of those women in whom the love of jewels amounts to a
passion. The Lorringham pink pearls are, as you may know, priceless.
More than anything in the world the Princess desires to wear those
pearls."

"Then why doesn't she acquire them by marrying the Duke?" I asked.

"Because," Mr. Thomson explained, "in the trust deed relating to the
jewels they can none of them be moved outside the United Kingdom. The
Princess would never live in England for more than a month or so in the
year, which means that she would be separated from the jewels she loves
for the greater part of the time. The Duke has taken every sort of legal
opinion, and there is no doubt that if they were stolen from the Castle
and returned to him in some foreign country, there is no law which could
compel him to bring them back here. That is why the Duke connived at the
theft, which you prevented."

The elucidation was simple enough but scarcely satisfactory.

"If I had known this," I confessed, "I'm afraid my sympathies would
have been with the Duke."

Mr. Thomson smiled indulgently.

"That proves, then," he said, "how wise I am to explain these little
affairs with which you chance to become associated, afterwards instead
of before. You were acting for the insurance companies, who would have
to pay a very large sum to the vested estate if the jewels were stolen
from Lorringham. On their behalf," he added, handing me an oblong strip
of paper, "I am asked to hand you this cheque for five hundred pounds."

I passed it over to Leonard, who usually kept our accounts.

"All the same," I observed, "I don't wonder the Duke thought I was a
meddlesome idiot."

"His Grace has probably forgiven you," Mr. Thomson remarked, "for the
Princess has relented at last. If you buy an evening paper on your way
home, you will see that they were married by special license this
afternoon."

We found plenty to think and talk about for the next few minutes. Then
Mr. Thomson, who had been leaning back in his chair, watching the stars
and listening to the music, electrified us.

"In one month," he said, "the year for which you pledged your services
to me will be up. At the end of that time we shall say good-by."

"You will not want us again?" Rose asked.

Mr. Thomson shook his head.

"Please do not consider that any reflection upon your efforts," he
begged. "During the last ten years I have had assistants in every walk
of life. No one has served me more intelligently or on the whole more
successfully than you three. The fact of the matter is that I am going
to retire."

"Retire from what?" I asked him impetuously. "Who are you? What are you?
I have never been able to make up my mind whether we have been on the
side of the sheep or the goats. How did you become interested, for
instance, in this last affair? Did the insurance companies give you a
brief? And if so, did they give it to a master criminal, to police
headquarters, or to a private detective?"

"Shall we call that Conundrum Number Six?" Mr. Thomson suggested,
watching the ash on his cigar. "You understand, of course, that we are
going to have a grand finale. You have a week in which to rest, and I
think a study of your banking account will prove that you are justified
in taking a holiday if you wish to. On next Thursday evening, at six
o'clock, I desire that all three of you will be at the rooms which you
are now occupying in Clarges Street. You will there receive a message
from me. I shall ask your help once more before I retire into private
life--and safety."

The music surged in our ears, and the froth of light conversation filled
the air. Of all the little groups of people seated about, we alone
seemed to have our faces set towards the serious things. Perhaps our
host noticed it, for he rose to his feet and drew Leonard on one side.

"If I were your age, Lister," he said, turning to me, "I should ask Miss
Mindel to drift about with me in one of those shadowy boats."

So Rose and I strolled down towards the lake.

"To think," she murmured, a little tremulously, "that very soon we shall
come to the end of our adventures!"

I drew her arm through mine. The sound of the music was growing fainter
in the distance and the ripple of the water was in our ears.

"Or to the beginning," I whispered.




CONUNDRUM NUMBER SEVEN

THE GREATEST ARGUMENT


The clock had scarcely finished striking six when a two-seated car,
throaty but sonorous, came to a standstill in front of the house in
Clarges Street where Rose, Leonard and I had our temporary abode. An
elegantly dressed but weary young man was shown into our sitting room.
He bowed to Rose and addressed me.

"You're Maurice Lister, what, and Mr. Leonard Cotton?" he began. "No use
telling you my name because you wouldn't know it. I've brought you a
message."

I indicated a chair but our visitor shook his head.

"Got to be tooting off in a moment," he continued. "I have just come
from the old man. He's in a nursing home round the corner."

"What, Mr. Thomson?" I exclaimed.

The young man assented, although at the mention of the name he winced.

"They nearly laid him out last night in Lansdowne Passage," he
announced. "Fortunately, I wasn't far away. Number 100, John Street.
He'd like you there in a quarter of an hour, Mr. Lister."

"But who laid him out?" I asked. "Is he seriously hurt?"

Leonard intervened, holding out a newspaper.

"There's an account here!" he exclaimed. "'Murderous assault in
Lansdowne Passage.' They say the victim, name unknown, is in a
precarious condition."

"Was that really Mr. Thomson?" Rose demanded, in a shocked tone.

"Less said, less trouble," the young man replied, embracing us all in a
common farewell salute. "So long."

He took his leave, lit a cigarette on the kerb, assumed an almost
horizontal position in the car, and shot like a rocket into the heart of
the Piccadilly traffic. In rather less than five minutes I was ringing
the bell at Number 100, John Street, and after a very brief delay was
taken upstairs to a cool and pleasantly furnished bedroom. Mr. Thomson,
almost undistinguishable for bandages, motioned to a chair by his
bedside and the nurse departed.

"They pretty nearly got me this time, Lister," he remarked.

Curiosity mastered sympathy.

"Who did?" I asked breathlessly.

Mr. Thomson lay quite still, with his eyes fixed upon the ceiling.

"A little company of men," he said, "who are dangerous fellows to deal
with--very dangerous," he repeated pensively.

"Are you badly hurt?"

He shook his head.

"I am scarcely hurt at all."

"The newspapers," I began----

"Inspired."

"You are on the side of the law this time, then!" I exclaimed
triumphantly.

He smiled.

"I confess it. The newspapers which speak of my perilous condition
exaggerate. Nevertheless," he went on, "I have decided to spend a week
here. The surroundings are pleasant and the rest is good. During that
week you will take my place."

"The devil I shall!" I murmured, gazing at his head swathed with
bandages.

"One reason," Mr. Thomson condescended to explain, "for my retirement
from an active pursuit of--shall we call it my hobby?--is that,
notwithstanding my repeated efforts to keep it in the background, my
personality has become too well known amongst the inner circle of those
against whom our energies are directed. In this present instance, the
scene for a very stirring little drama in the history of to-day is laid
in a comparatively small manufacturing town in the heart of Yorkshire.
Whatever form of disguise I might select, my presence in that place
would certainly be detected. Besides, the task before us is one in which
direct action is impossible. We can only bait the trap and wait, and if
the quarry refuses to enter, we must choose another trap and another
bait. A good deal will rest with you, Lister. If you are completely
successful in the undertaking which I shall presently disclose to you,
you will receive a parting gift of ten thousand pounds for division
amongst the three of you."

"It is princely," I acknowledged enthusiastically.

"If you succeed," Mr. Thomson continued, "it is a flea bite. Now leave
me. To-morrow you will depart for the Grand Hotel at Blackham. Before
midnight to-night you will receive from me a written report which will
contain all the information you require. Read it, commit it to memory
and destroy it. If you need further advice or help, do not hesitate to
apply to me. There is a telephone here at my elbow, and I shall never be
so ill as the papers may lead you to believe. Good fortune to you!"

I left our chief and returned to Clarges Street, impressed with a
conviction that we were about to enter upon the most important
enterprise which had yet come our way.

       *       *       *       *       *

We found Blackham hideous, uninspiring, yet not without a certain
impressiveness. It was situated in the midst of a district black with
coal shafts and forges which squatted upon the ground, festering sores
in the daytime, like drops from a spilt hell at night, when the roar of
their flames was like a fiery wind, and the red vomit of their furnaces
stained the very clouds. There were never-ending electric cars, linking
up a whole series of town-villages, more public houses than I had ever
seen before, a plethora of libraries and a perfect plague of cinema
palaces. Day and night the streets were thronged. Food and living were
inordinately dear but money was plentiful, although everywhere there
seemed brooding over the place the shadow of that sullen storm of
industrial unrest with which in those days the whole country was
agitated. The shops, the cinema palaces, the theatre itself and the
smaller music halls were packed every night. We only obtained a hall for
our own performance with the utmost difficulty, and for our rooms and
sitting room at the so-called Grand Hotel, which was little more than a
glorified public house, we had to pay as much as though we were at a
West End hotel. We advanced the price of the seats, however, at the
building in which our performance was given, and were rewarded by
finding the place packed on the first night. The only empty places were
in the cheaper seats.

Late that night, Leonard and I came across a very valuable acquaintance,
Arthur Rastall, a journalist on a London paper, a man whom I had known
for years and who hailed from Leonard's part of the world. He visited
our sitting room for a final whisky and soda, and he helped us to
understand the somewhat tense atmosphere of the place.

"What on earth are you doing here?" was almost the first question I
asked him.

He filled his pipe and lit it.

"I am here," he replied, "because during the course of the next few days
history will be made in this most unattractive town. I am not alone,
either. Fisher is here from _The Times_, Simpson from _The Post_, and I
passed the _Express_ man in the town this afternoon."

"A Labour conference?" I asked.

"Something even more than that. These devils have got something up their
sleeves. They have some reason for meeting in a small place like this,
and meeting privately. There's something brewing."

"What sort of a something?" I asked. "Is it a secret from two harmless
strolling players?"

"No secret at all that I know of," our friend replied gruffly, "except
from the Government, who won't believe it, and Scotland Yard, who don't
know how to act. They say that Creslin is coming, and two
representatives from America."

I suppose I still looked a little puzzled, although what Rastall was
telling us was not altogether news. He went on after a moment's pause.

"Every country," he explained, "has been able to deal with its own
Labour question more or less successfully, except Russia. The greatest
danger the world might have to face would be an internationalisation of
so-called Labour. Creslin is the apostle of internationalisation."

"Do you mean Creslin, the Bolshevist?" Leonard demanded--"the man whom
the Prime Minister referred to as the Horror of the World?"

"The same," was the grim admission.

"But how is it that that man is free to walk the streets of any English
town?" Leonard persisted. "I should have thought such a criminal could
have been shot anywhere."

"I don't think there is any offence against the English law under which
he could be charged," Rastall declared. "Every port was watched, and
they did try to keep him out of the country. They hadn't a chance,
though. He was far too clever for them."

The story of Creslin's coming was already known to me, but I asked
Rastall a question which had been in my mind all the time.

"Tell me what there is against the Government putting a bold front on
the matter, arresting Creslin, and deporting him as an undesirable
alien?"

"Just this. The whole country just now is in a dangerously inflammatory
state. The committees for settling Labour disputes worked well enough at
first, but so much of this false, socialistic literature, anarchistic
stuff, has made its way into the country during the last few years, that
Labour, fat and well-fed and surfeited with pleasure, is more dangerous
to-day than it was in the old days of starvation. Wages to-day are an
enormous tax upon capital, but you know what the screaming Bolshevist
is. He wants all the time to kill the goose that lays the golden egg; he
wants to pull down the capitalist and reign in his stead. If ever he
succeeded, as he did in Russia, England would be industrially and
commercially ruined."

"Yet even with that certainty before us, you mean to tell me that the
Government is going to let Creslin meet the heads of all the trades
unions here and pour his filth down their throats?"

"Seems like it," was Rastall's laconic reply.

There was a knock at the door. The manager of the hotel presented
himself. Behind him stood another and a slighter figure. The former
glanced around the apartment and with a little bow drew me on one side.

"Can I have a word with you, Mr. Lister?"

"Get right on with it," I invited.

"I wondered if by any chance you could be induced to give up your
sitting room? It happens to be the only one I have in the house, and we
have a very distinguished visitor from abroad, just arrived, who objects
to the public rooms."

"Sorry," I said firmly, "but I took the rooms for a week, as you know,
and a sitting room is an absolute necessity to us."

The manager glanced at his companion. The latter came a little forward.
He was a fair, quiet-looking man, clean-shaven, moody, with
light-coloured hair brushed back from his forehead. He was at first
glance almost prepossessing. He had the nervous mouth and quick smile of
an artist. It was only his rather light-coloured eyes which left one a
little doubtful about him.

"It is on my behalf that the manager is speaking," he said. "I have the
good or evil fortune to bear a name which in an industrial neighbourhood
like this is somewhat too well known. I am Paul Creslin."

Somehow or other I had already surmised the fact, and I was able to
control my countenance. Rose had dropped her newspaper and was studying
the newcomer with interest. He seemed to observe her for the first time,
and a look crept into his eyes which stamped him at once in my mind.
There is a certain type of profligacy which is self-revealing. I felt
myself in a quandary. My hatred of the man was already born and the
words of dismissal were quivering upon my lips. Then I remembered my
mission. I remembered Thomson's words--"Success is born of the brain and
wrecked by impulse." I choked back the impulse.

"I am not a politician," I said, "but your name is of course known to
me. I cannot offer you our sitting room, for the simple reason that
there is no other place in the hotel for the young lady, but any time
you would care to take refuge here we should be very pleased, and if you
happen to be a late person, it will be at your disposal after twelve
o'clock."

The manager glanced anxiously at his guest. Again the latter's eyes
rested for a moment upon Rose, and he seemed satisfied.

"You are most courteous," he acknowledged. "I am going to my room for a
few minutes. Afterwards I shall venture to intrude."

The two men left the room, followed a few minutes later by Rastall, in
hot haste for the telegraph office. Leonard's expression, as he looked
at me, was almost of horror. Rose, too, seemed troubled.

"What on earth do you mean, Maurice," she exclaimed, "by asking us even
to breathe the same air as that hateful person?"

I thrust Leonard into a chair by Rose's side and stood on the shabby
little bit of hearth rug, close to them.

"The time has come," I said, addressing myself particularly to Rose,
"for me to pass on to you the chief's instructions."

       *       *       *       *       *

In the days that followed, we seemed to have caught up into our own
apparently uneventful lives something of that spirit of waiting drama
which pervaded the teeming town and the smoke-stained countryside. The
people all seemed to be waiting for something. We, too, waited, and in
the meantime Creslin made free use of our sitting room, drove out with
us in the car which I had hired for a week, and never failed to attend
our performances. Our sitting room was almost a bower of roses and
orchids, flowers which arrived in mysterious parcels from London and
which must have cost a small fortune. I ventured to protest on the
grounds of political economy, but Creslin only smiled.

"Every man is allowed one extravagance in life," he said. "You and your
friend, for instance, drink wine and whisky and soda and smoke cigars. I
do neither. My weakness lies elsewhere."

He glanced across at Rose as he spoke, and at the expression in his
eyes, the slow, amorous, calculating expression, I had to grip the sides
of my chair and look down at the carpet towards some spilt tobacco ash,
to hide my fury. Creslin, who had been strolling uneasily around the
room, seated himself on the sofa by Rose's side.

"You love flowers, Miss Mindel?" he asked softly, following the
direction of her eyes, which were resting upon a bowl of red roses.

"I adore them," she acknowledged, "for their own sake--and sometimes,
too," she went on, meeting his gaze with a coquetry for which I could
never have given her credit, "sometimes, too, for the sake of those from
whom they come."

He glanced almost imperceptibly towards Leonard and myself, one of those
slow, inimical glances which seemed yet to betray some evil purpose.
Bearing in mind the stories which one had been told of this man's
cold-blooded and indiscriminate cruelty, it was easy to believe that if
a word from him could have wiped us off the face of the earth at that
moment, it would certainly have been spoken. Making the best of our
presence, however, he continued his conversation in a low tone. Once I
saw Rose flinch and glance up as though in distress. I came across the
room, making a pretence at filling my pipe from a jar which stood upon a
table near them. Creslin looked at me through his half-closed eyes.

"Miss Mindel does not approve of the coming emancipation of her sex," he
observed. "I suppose the doctrines of the new world must sound strange
at first to those who have counted the hard and fast chastity of the
Puritan amongst the virtues."

"What are the doctrines of the new world?" I enquired.

"They include, at any rate," he replied, in his quiet, sibilant voice,
"a complete reconstruction of the relations between man and woman."

"That sounds like Bolshevism, pure and simple," Leonard remarked
bluntly.

"The actual principles of Bolshevism," Creslin asserted, "contain more
than a germ of the truth."

"I should be sorry," I declared, "for the man who made a serious attempt
to wipe out the marriage laws of this country."

He looked at me with a cynical turn of his thin lips.

"There was never a race of people in the world," he pronounced, "who
hugged their chains like the British. In their hearts they love the lash
of authority. Think. For generations their leaders, their prophets and
their preachers have been drawn from one class only, the class which
they are accustomed to obey. The people have never found their Rienzi
in politics, in literature or in sociology. That is because of the
age-long snobbishness of the Englishman. During the last ten years, for
the first time, the people have kicked over the traces so far as regards
their material prosperity. They are being fed with doles and pittances
but they are moving forward. Soon they will begin to think. Then, just
as they have asserted themselves in material ways, they will begin to
demand an active voice in the reconstruction of Society."

"What is your substitute for the marriage laws?" Rose asked him bluntly.

To do him justice, I must say that he spoke with the conviction of one
who enunciates the most obvious truths, truths which did not even admit
of argument.

"Union between man and woman," he explained, "is intended for the
production of children. The only sane restraint which common sense
should place upon this connection is the presence of human affection.
That is the only restraint there should be."

"I see," Leonard murmured. "And what would become of the children?"

"They are for the State--children of the State," was the almost
wondering reply. "Every household should have its nursery. For every
child born, a State grant should be given."

"Is there any literature," I enquired, "setting out these altruistic
views?"

"There is," Creslin replied, after a moment's pause. "The time is
scarcely ripe, however, for its dissemination. If you would care to
possess a text book, drawn up by myself and embodying the principles
which I desire sooner or later to be accepted by the whole world, I will
present you with one."

Before we went to bed that night, the precious pamphlet was in our
possession.

The presence of Creslin in the country was now universally admitted by
the Press, although his exact whereabouts did not once appear in print.
The day fixed for the Congress of Labour leaders, to be held at
Blackham, drew near. Meanwhile, Creslin was watched by detectives and
press men alike. It occurred to us more than once that he almost
expected and certainly hoped for arrest. I spoke on this matter to
Rastall.

"There is nothing Creslin desires so much," he pointed out, "as to pose
as a martyr over here. Until he begins to preach his abominable
doctrines or disseminate his literature, he is on the side of the law.
The sociology he preaches, apart from its sexual side, is reasonable and
even finely conceived."

"Supposing he were to be arrested?" I asked.

"The police would never get him out of town," Rastall replied. "There
are a million of his followers within a radius of twenty miles from
here. I think we should see a riot that would approach almost to a
revolution. The man is as cunning as a fox. He will preach his
idealistic sociology first. The rest will creep in by degrees."

Meanwhile, Creslin spent the greater part of his spare time in our
sitting room. He scarcely now made a pretence of taking any particular
interest in either Leonard or myself. His whole attention was directed
towards Rose. To do him justice, he was a man of considerable culture
and fine perceptions on many subjects. There were times when Rose's face
seemed to light up, when she seemed to find a genuine pleasure in his
conversation. There were others when I saw her cold and wooden, parrying
the unspoken pleadings of his meretricious philosophy with a skill for
which I should never have given her credit. It was evident that Creslin
was very much in earnest indeed. He was continually inviting her to
lunch, to motor, to leave the hotel alone with him, all of which
invitations she contrived to evade. In the end, he even had the
effrontery to appeal to me.

"I gather," he said, one morning, "that Miss Rose Mindel is nothing to
either of you who are her companions."

"She is nothing to us," I replied, "except a very dear sister who has a
claim upon our joint protection."

"I will not conceal from you," he continued, "that I have the greatest
admiration for Miss Mindel--I might even venture to say affection."

I received the confession in silence. He seemed much less at his ease
than usual.

"I have met with no woman," he went on, "in whose companionship I could
find more joy."

"Then why don't you ask her to marry you?" I demanded.

He looked at me with his narrow eyes almost wide open.

"You are a little ignorant of the way things are moving in the world,"
he said quietly. "You are wrapped up, perhaps--in your art. I am
Creslin. To-morrow, if I chose, I could be dictator of Russia or
Germany, Hungary or Austria. It pleases me instead to be the spokesman
of my class in every country of the world. I do not understand the word
'marriage'."

I had never harder work in controlling my temper, but I knew that the
time had not yet come. I answered him a little abruptly.

"I am afraid you will find some of us a little insular. Miss Mindel is
of course free to make her own decisions in life, but it is as well,
perhaps, to impress upon you the fact that whilst she is travelling
with us we consider ourselves, Mr. Cotton and I, her guardians. We
should resent forcibly any offer to her which was not in accordance with
the established conventions."

He smiled in maddening fashion.

"You speak like the hero of one of those melodramas in which I used to
revel when I was a youthful student in London. What I choose to say to
Miss Mindel I shall say. It will be a strange thing to me if she refuses
to listen. Be sensible, my young friend, and remember."

"Remember what?" I demanded.

"Who I am," he answered, with cool and splendid assurance. "I carry the
burden of the new world upon my shoulders. I am the future dictator of
all human Society."

That finished my scruples. I went off with Leonard and discussed our
plans. Creslin, with all the priceless imperturbability of his sublime
conceit, remained in our sitting room, waiting for Rose.

On the day before the great Conference, Creslin was a busy man. All the
time he was back and forth between the temporary offices arranged for
the reception of the delegates and the hotel. When we returned to the
sitting room after our evening performance, he was still absent. The
three of us held a little consultation. We were all of one mind.

"On general principles," Rose agreed, "I think that Creslin is a
detestable person, and I should like to see him publicly disgraced for
ever. On the other hand, I don't think," she went on, with a little
grimace, "that I was cut out for a Delilah. So far, my conscience is
clear enough. I have never given him a word of encouragement, and if he
were to insult me he would deserve any punishment my guardians might
choose to inflict. But what does make me unhappy is the idea that I
might have to deceive him even by my silence if----"

"But listen," Leonard interrupted eagerly, "I heard him distinctly
whispering to you that to-morrow was to be his great day; all that he
needed was inspiration, that he must carry with him on to the platform
memories and hopes--and a lot of slush of that sort."

Rose nodded.

"Quite right," she assented. "I promised that I would not go to bed
to-night until I had seen him. I am sure he will be here presently."

"Very well, then," I decided, "he shall have his chance. If he is just
ordinarily offensive, he shall get the hiding he deserves, as publicly
as possible, and the chief must be satisfied with that. If he attempts
anything else--well, we are prepared."

Leonard was out of the room for a few minutes, and Rose held out a hand
to me a little tremulously.

"Maurice," she said, and there was a look of trouble in her dear eyes,
"I don't like this. I hate that man near me. I hate the idea that I may
have to listen to horrible things from him."

"And I hate the thought of your doing it," I answered firmly. "Say the
word, Rose, and we'll finish here. The pamphlet's enough. Any reasonable
Englishman would be justified in giving him a thrashing for that."

She shook her head regretfully.

"The other is better, of course; only swear that you will not leave me
alone for five seconds."

"I can promise that," I told her grimly.

After all, we need not have troubled ourselves with scruples. Creslin
had made his own plans and made them with devilish cunning. At midnight,
as we had seen nothing of him, I sent down an enquiry and was told that
he had come in quite exhausted and gone at once to his room. To Leonard
and me the news sounded natural enough. Rose's instinct, however, was
not to be denied.

"I know that he meant what he said about to-night," she assured us
uneasily. "Swear that you will be near, Maurice."

We promised, and soon afterwards she retired. Her bedroom adjoined the
sitting room, and after she had passed through the connecting door we
heard the click of the turning key on the other side. The outside door,
opening upon the corridor, was secured by a bolt. It certainly seemed as
though she could have no cause for fear. Leonard and I, however, took up
our vigil behind a black lacquer screen at the farther end of the room.
We heard the slow dying away of the footsteps upon the pavement below,
the lessening scream of the electric cars, and finally silence. One
o'clock struck, and half-past. We had both of us given up the idea that
anything was likely to happen, when the door of the sitting room was
quietly opened, and Creslin, in his dressing gown and slippers, entered.
He stood listening for a moment, as though to make sure that he had not
been followed. Then he turned on the electric light, drew a key from his
pocket--a new, shining key--rubbed it with a little oil, and stole
across the room towards the door which led into Rose's apartment. He
essayed no knock, no whispered invitation. He fitted the key noiselessly
into the lock, turned it softly and disappeared. In five seconds we
heard the sound of her muffled cry. In ten we had dragged him out into
the sitting room. He lay on the carpet, looking at us with frightened
eyes, and that expression upon his face which had so often puzzled me
now made clear. The man was a coward.

"What are you going to do?" he whimpered.

"Horsewhip you first," I told him, "and afterwards punish you. I
shouldn't call out, if I were you," I added, as he opened his lips.
"There's the skeleton key still in the door there, and the hotel is full
of journalists. Better make up your mind to go through with it."

"If you do me an injury," he cried, "the people to-morrow will tear you
limb from limb."

"Get up," I ordered roughly. "We're taking our chance about that."

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Thomson presided over our usual banquet, a few evenings later, in
the dining room of a suite at the Ritz. He was a little gaunt and pale,
but otherwise showed few signs of his indisposition. By the side of the
plate of each one of us was an envelope, which he begged us not to open
until the end of the festivities.

"You three," he said musingly, "especially you, Lister, have put your
finger upon one of the quaintest features of the psychology of these
days. Reason and argument, common sense, statesmanlike appeal, may all
fail. It is ridicule alone which kills. You three, my trusted
confederates, have probably prevented a revolution. You have brought to
an end in ridicule and disgust a great social upheaval."

"Helped by the Press," I reminded him.

"Helped by the Press, without a doubt," he assented. "Their tone was in
every respect admirable. The _Daily Hour_ cartoon of Creslin, the
pure-minded idealist, staggering to his feet from the bench in the Town
Hall Square, tarred and feathered, a disgraced debauchee, with fragments
of his pamphlet sticking in pieces to his body, and another copy of it
hung around his neck, was the most wonderful thing in educational
journalism. All the same, Lister, you had a narrow escape. It was the
women who saved you."

"The women and again the Press," I reminded him. "Just as the people
themselves were hesitating, the morning papers came out with a
humourous recital of the true story and a digest of the pamphlet.
Creslin could never again present a heroic picture to any one. The only
earthly chance he ever had of posing successfully as a prophet of the
new social law would have been the possession of a personal character of
unblemished purity."

"At the same time," Mr. Thomson observed, a little gravely, "I want you
to remember this. Creslin has many friends of his own ilk, friends who
knew his real character and who were indifferent. I think a short sea
voyage would be good for you and Miss Mindel, at any rate. I will speak
of that again presently."

I met Rose's eyes, and with the knowledge that our compact ended that
evening I attempted no more concealment. She looked for a moment
startled--and then I knew.

"As this is our last official reunion," our host continued, "I am
reminded that there are a good many questions which you have asked me at
various times during our association, the answers to which I have
postponed until this evening. Question me now as much as you will."

"Let me start," Rose begged. "I asked the first question, remember. When
you arrested Mountjoy, for whom were you acting? Were you for the
police, or just an ordinary informer?"

"For neither," was the calm reply. "I have been for ten years the head
of the Home Secret Service, an institution, I believe," he added, "which
is never mentioned, and which not one person in a thousand knows
anything about. The Secret Service still possesses the minute book I
found on Mountjoy. If it had come into the hands of the police, they
would have been compelled to have taken indiscriminate action and the
results would have been disastrous."

"The jewels which you took from Kinlosti?" I asked.

"They were sold, and the amount stands to the credit of the Secret
Service funds."

"What became of the treasure which was found in the Spens chateau?"

"It was all returned to its various owners. The Baroness sought my aid
because she, too, is a member of our Secret Service."

"And Naida?"

"There was one of our complete successes," Mr. Thomson replied. "No
court could have tried Kansky. There was no possible way in which he
could have been brought to book for his crimes. The Secret Service
undertook to dispose of him and it did."

"And what about the boy Arthur Dompers and his tutor Duncombe?" Rose
asked.

"A little outside our ordinary course of business," Mr. Thomson
admitted. "Some one or other, however, managed to convince Scotland Yard
that Duncombe meant mischief, and I took the matter up to oblige them."

"What about the Duke and the Lorringham jewels?" Leonard enquired.

"That affair was passed over to my supervision," our chief explained,
"because the Lorringham jewels are looked upon as a sort of national
asset in the country, and their retention here is considered advisable
for diplomatic reasons."

"Tell us," Rose begged, "exactly the meaning of the attack upon you in
the Landsdowne Passage."

Mr. Thomson made a little grimace.

"It simply means," he admitted, "that the agents of the Black Peril have
a secret service almost equal to our own. They flattered me so far as to
believe that I was the only man likely to render abortive the great
stroke which Creslin intended to deliver here. Hence their endeavour to
anticipate my activities."

"You seem to have unlimited powers," Leonard said thoughtfully. "Doesn't
it ever occur to you, sir, to make wider use of them? For instance,
every Englishman knows Creslin was a terrible danger to the country. He
stood for revolution, disorganisation and anarchy. Why didn't you have
him secretly put out of the way?"

"Because the men who share with me the responsibilities of my position,"
Mr. Thomson replied, "my lieutenants and coadjutors, are men of
imagination. We try to see a little beyond the actual circumstances with
which we are confronted. It would have been the easiest matter in the
world for us to have wiped Creslin from the face of the earth, but if we
had done so, his principles would have lived after him. Everything
except the man's corporal frame would have survived. To-day, a certain
amount of the fascination of his doctrines has perished in the morass of
ridicule which has sucked the man under. His doctrines never had a
moment's chance in this country unless they were preached by a man of
personal purity. We did better than slay Creslin. We made him
ridiculous."

"What made you first approach us at Cromer?" Rose asked, with a touch of
feminine curiosity. "What was there about us, I mean, which made you
think we might be useful?"

"The fact, perhaps, that you looked so innocuous," was the smiling
reply. "I have agents in many walks of life, and the one thing I aim at
as much as possible is to select recruits who not only appear
simple-minded and innocent, but who actually are. You are none of you
intriguers by disposition; you are simple English gentlepeople. You
have escaped suspicion many times for this reason and have therefore
been able to succeed, when any ordinary agent would have been suspected
from the first."

"I see," Rose murmured.

"You will gratify me," Mr. Thomson suggested, "if you open your
envelopes."

We obeyed. Then I saw what I had never dreamed of seeing in my life--not
one but five thousand-pound Bank of England notes.

"I have treated you all the same," our benefactor said. "I hope that you
will never regret this year out of your lives. I have answered all your
conundrums. I will now ask you one. What are you going to do with your
money?"

"I don't know," Rose gasped.

"I am going to buy a share in my father's business and go back to the
wine trade," Leonard decided. "Half this money will make a new man of
him."

"I am going to marry Rose," I declared.

"But you haven't asked me!" she protested indignantly.

I glanced at Leonard.

"The year's up, I suppose, old fellow," he said, with a sigh. "We both
ask you to marry us, Rose."

"Bolshevists!" she exclaimed.

"I mean we ask you to choose," he corrected.

She gave me her hand. Leonard drank a glass of champagne in gloomy
silence and afterwards shook hands with both of us. Rose and he
exchanged a few earnest sentences. Mr. Thomson spoke a valedictory word.

"My friends," he said, "to-night we part. I have helped, I hope, to
bring colour into your lives. I ask but one thing of you in return, and
that is--silence for twelve months."

We promised, and we kept our word.


                                   THE END



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    | Transcriber's Note:--                                        |
    |                                                              |
    | Punctuation errors have been corrected.                      |
    |                                                              |
    | The following suspected printer's errors have been addressed.|
    |                                                              |
    | Page 11. insufficent changed to insufficient.                |
    | (an insufficient audience)                                   |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 113. Gomorroh changed to Gomorrah.                      |
    | (Sodom and Gomorrah)                                         |
    |                                                              |
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End of Project Gutenberg's The Seven Conundrums, by E. Phillips Oppenheim