"How sinister plans?" I asked, in pretence of ignorance.

"You well know," she answered. "I am not blind, even if Duperre and his wife think I am. They forget that there is such a thing as illustrated papers."

"I don't follow," I said.

"Well, in the Daily Graphic three days ago I saw the portrait of a man named Lawrence, well-known as a jewel thief, who was sentenced to ten years' penal servitude at the Old Bailey. I recognized him as Mr. Moody, one of my father's friends who often came to see us at Overstow—a man you also know. Why has my father thieves for his friends, unless he is in some way connected with them?"

"Moody sentenced!" I gasped. "Why, he was one of Duperre's most intimate friends. I've met them together often," I remarked, and then the conversation dropped, and we sat silent for a full quarter of an hour.

"I'm longing to get back to Overstow, Mr. Hargreave," the girl went on presently. "I feel that ere long Mrs. Blumenfeld, who is a very clever and astute woman, will discover something about us, and then——"

"And if she does, it will upset your father's plans—whatever they are!"

"But Mr. Blumenfeld, as a great financier, has agents in all the capitals, and they might inquire and discover more about us than would be pleasant," she said apprehensively. "I wonder why we are visiting these people?" she added.

I did not reply. I was constantly puzzled and bewildered by the actions and movements of Rayne and his questionable friends.

That evening after dinner, while old Blumenfeld played billiards with his guest, I marked. They played three closely contested games, for both were good players; until at eleven o'clock we all three went to the great drawing-room to bid the ladies good night. With our host I returned to the billiard-room, leaving Rayne to follow. Mr. Blumenfeld poured me out a whisky-and-soda and took a glass of port himself. Then a few minutes later he suggested, that as Rayne had not returned, he and I should have a final game before retiring.

He had made about twenty-five when of a sudden he leaned heavily against the table, his face blanched, and placing his hand to his heart, exclaimed:

"Oh! I have such a pain here! I—I——"

And before I could run round to his assistance he had collapsed heavily upon the floor.

In an instant I was at his side, but saw that he was already unconscious.

I flew to the door and down the corridor, when luckily I encountered Rayne, who was at that moment returning to us.

In breathless haste I told him what had occurred.

"Good heavens!" he gasped. "Don't alarm the ladies. Find the butler and get him to telephone for the doctor in secret. I'll run in and look after him in the meantime," he said, and hurried to the billiard-room.

I was not long in finding the butler, and quickly we went to the library and spoke to the doctor, who lived about five miles away. He was already in bed, but would, he said, motor over immediately.

On our return to the billiard-room we found, to our relief, that Mr. Blumenfeld had recovered consciousness. He was still lying upon the floor, Rayne having forced some brandy between his lips.

"He's getting right again!" Rayne exclaimed to the white-haired old servant, and together we lifted our host on to the sofa.

He recovered quite rapidly, and presently he whispered weakly:

"I suppose it's my heart! A doctor in Rome three years ago said it was rather weak."

"I'm glad you're better, my dear fellow," said Rayne. "I was much worried about you. You were playing with Hargreave, and he alarmed me."

"I'm cold," our host said. "Will you shut that window."

For the first time I noticed the window, which had certainly been closed when we were playing, was open about a foot. Besides, Mr. Blumenfeld's glass of port, of which he had drunk only half, was now empty, two facts which, however, at the time conveyed nothing to me.

In due course the doctor, an elderly country practitioner, arrived in hot haste, and grave concern, but as soon as he saw his patient he realized that it had been only a fainting fit and was nothing serious. Indeed, within an hour Blumenfeld was laughing with us as though nothing had occurred.

But what had really occurred, I wondered? That window had been opened, apparently to admit fresh air to revive an unconscious man. But surely our host had not drained his port glass after his sudden seizure!

The incident was, at Blumenfeld's request, hidden from the ladies, and next day he was quite his old self again.

About noon I strolled with Rayne out along the wide terrace which ran in front of the house overlooking the great park, whereupon he said:

"We'll leave here to-morrow, Hargreave. Duperre is at Overstow. Write to him this afternoon and tell him to send me a wire recalling me immediately upon urgent business."

"We've finished here, eh?" I asked meaningly.

"Yes," he grinned, "and the sooner we're out of this place the better."

So I sent Vincent a note, telling him to wire Rayne at once on receipt of it.

The urgent message recalling Rudolph Rayne to Yorkshire arrived about half-past ten next morning, just as we were going out shooting. Blumenfeld was much disappointed, but his guest pleaded that he had some very important business to transact with his agent who was over from New York and desired to meet him at once. Therefore to Lola's complete satisfaction the trunks were packed and put into the car, and immediately after luncheon we set forth to Overstow.

On our way back I racked my brain to discern the nature of the latest plot, but could see nothing tangible. Mr. Blumenfeld had been taken suddenly ill while playing billiards with me, and Rayne, when summoned, had done his best to resuscitate him. Yet Rayne's manner was triumphant and he was in most excellent spirits.

We arrived back at Overstow Hall just before midnight, and he and Duperre held a long conversation before retiring. Of its nature I could gather nothing. As for Lola, she retired at once very cramped and tired.

The whole of the following morning Duperre and Rayne were closeted together, while afterwards I drove Duperre into York, where from the telegraph office in the railway station he sent several cryptic messages abroad, of course posing to the telegraph clerk as a passing railway passenger. Rayne never sent important telegrams from the village post-office at Overstow, or even from Thirsk. They were all dispatched from places where, even if inquiry were made, the sender could not be traced.

"What's in the wind?" I asked Duperre as he sat by my side on our drive back to Overstow.

"Something, my dear George," he answered, smiling mysteriously. "At present I can't tell you. In due course you'll know—something big. Whenever Rudolph superintends in person it is always big. He never touches minor matters. He devises and arranges them as a general plans a battle, but he never superintends himself—only in the real big things. Even then he never acts himself."

With that I was compelled to be satisfied. That night we all had quite a pleasant evening over bridge in the drawing-room, until just about ten o'clock Rayne was called to the telephone. When he rejoined us I noticed that his countenance was a trifle pale. He looked worried and ill at ease. He sat down beside Madame Duperre, and after pensively lighting one of his expensive cigars, he bent and whispered something to her.

By what he said the woman became greatly agitated, and a few moments later rose and left the room.

The household at Overstow was certainly a strange and incongruous one, consisting as it did of persons who seemed all in league with each other, the master-criminal whose shrewd, steel-grey eyes were so uncanny, and his accomplices and underlings who all profited and grew fat upon the great coups planned by Rayne's amazing mind. The squire of Overstow mesmerized his fellows and fascinated his victims of both sexes. His personality was clear-cut and outstanding. Men and women who met him for the first time felt that in conversation he held them by some curious, indescribable influence—held them as long as he cared, until by his will they were released from a strange thraldom that was both weird and astounding.

Whatever message Rayne had received it was evidently of paramount importance, for when Madame Duperre had left the room and Lola had retired, he turned to me and with a queer look in his eyes, exclaimed:

"I expect you'll have to be making some rather rapid journeys soon, George. Better be up early to-morrow. Good night." And then dismissing me, he asked Duperre to go with him to the smoking-room.

"I've heard from Tracy," I overheard him say as I followed them along the softly carpeted corridor. "We're up against that infernal Benton again because of old Moody's blunder. I never expected he'd be caught, of all men. Benton is now looking for Moody's guiding hand."

"Well, I hope he won't get very far," Duperre replied.

"We must make certain that he doesn't, Vincent, or it will go badly—very badly—with us! That's what I want to discuss with you."

Of the result of the consultation I, of course, remained in ignorance, but next morning Rayne sent for me and said he had decided to meet his friend Tracy at the Unicorn Hotel at Ripon.

"I telephoned him to the Station Hotel at York during the night," he added. "He'll have a lady with him. I want you to drive me over to Ripon and drive the lady back here."

So an hour later we set out across country and arrived in Ripon in time for lunch.

Gerald Tracy I had met before, a big, stout, round-faced man of prosperous appearance, bald-headed and loud of speech. That he was a crook I had no doubt, but what his actual metier was I could not discover. He met us on the threshold of the old-fashioned hotel in that old-fashioned Yorkshire town, and with him was a well-dressed young woman, Italian or Spanish, I saw at a glance.

When Tracy introduced her to Rayne she was apparently much impressed, replying in very fair English. Her name, I learnt, was Signorina Lacava, and she was Italian.

We all lunched together but no business was discussed. Rayne expressed a hope that the signorina's journey from Milan had been a pleasant one.

"Quite," the handsome black-eyed girl replied. "I stayed one day in Paris."

"The signorina has made a conquest in Milan," laughed Tracy. "Farini, the commissario of police, has fallen in love with her!"

Rayne smiled, and turning to her, said:

"I congratulate you, signorina. Your friendship may one day stand you in very good stead."

That the young woman was someone of great importance in the criminal combine was apparent from the fact that she had been actually introduced to its secret head.

It struck me as curious when, after leaving Tracy and Rayne together, I was driving the signorina across the moors to Overstow, that while he hesitated to allow Tracy to go there, yet it was safe for the young Italian woman.

I knew that Benton was still making eager inquiries, and I also knew that Rayne was full of gravest apprehensions. Rudolph Rayne was playing a double game!

On arrival back home, Duperre's wife received our visitor. Lola had gone to Newcastle to visit an old schoolfellow, and Duperre was away in York so his wife informed me.

Three uneventful days passed, but neither Rayne nor Lola returned. On the third evening I was called to the telephone, and Rayne spoke to me from his rooms in London.

"I can't get back just yet, George," he said. "You'll receive a registered letter from me to-morrow. Act upon it and use your own discretion."

I promised him I would and then he rang off.



CHAPTER VI

AT THREE-EIGHTEEN A.M.

The letter brought to my bedside next morning contained some curious instructions, namely, to take the car on the following Saturday to Flamborough Head, arriving at a spot he named about a quarter of a mile from the lighthouse, where I would be accosted by a Dutch sailor, who would ask me if I were Mr. Skelton. I was not to fear treachery, but to reply in the affirmative and drive him through the night to an address he gave me in Providence Court, a turning off Dean Street, Soho.

That address was sufficient for me! I had once before, at Rayne's orders, driven a stranger to Dean Street and conducted him to that house. It was no doubt a harbor of refuge for foreign criminals in London, but was kept by an apparently respectable Italian who carried on a small grocery shop in Old Compton Street.

As I was ordered, I duly arrived on that wild spot on the Yorkshire coast. It blew half a gale, the wind howling about the car as I sat with only the red rearlight on, waiting in patience.

Very soon a short, thick-set man with decidedly evil face and seafaring aspect, emerged from the shadows and asked in broken English whether I was Mr. Skelton. I replied that I was and bade him jump in, and then, switching on the big headlights, turned the car in the direction of London.

From what I had seen of the stranger I certainly was not prepossessed. His clothes were rough and half soaked by the rain that had been falling, while it became apparent as we talked that he had landed surreptitiously from a Dutch fishing-boat early that morning and had not dared to show himself. Hence he was half famished. I happened to have a vacuum flask and some sandwiches, and these I divided with him.

A long silence fell between us as with difficulty in keeping myself awake I drove over the two hundred odd miles of wet roads which separated us from London, and just before nine o'clock next morning I left the car in Wardour Street and walked with the stranger to the frowsy house in Providence Court, where to my great surprise Gerald Tracy opened the door. He laughed at my astonishment, but with a gesture indicative of silence, he merely said:

"Hallo, Hargreave! Back all right, eh?"

Then he admitted the Dutchman and closed the door.

Tracy was evidently there to hold consultation with the stranger whose entrance into England was unknown. He would certainly never risk a long stay in that house, for the stout, bald-headed man had, I knew, no wish to come face to face with Benton or any other officer of the C.I.D.

Certainly something sinister and important was intended.

On calling at Half Moon Street, after having breakfasted, I found Duperre there.

"Rayne wants you to go down to the Pavilion Hotel at Folkestone and garage the car there," he said. "He and I are running a risk in a couple of night's time—the risk whether Benton identifies us. We both have tickets for the annual dinner of the staff of the Criminal Investigation Department, which is to be held in the Elgin Rooms."

"And are you actually going?" I asked, much surprised.

"Yes. And our places are close to Benton's! He'll never dream that the men he is hunting for everywhere are sitting exactly opposite him as guests of one of his superiors."

Boldness was one of Rudolph Rayne's characteristics. He was fearless in all his clever and ingenious conspiracies, though his cunning was unequaled.

As I drove down to Folkestone I ruminated, as I so often did. No doubt some devilish plot was underlying the acceptance of the high police official's invitation to the staff dinner.

Its nature became revealed a few days later when, on opening my newspaper one morning, being still at Folkestone waiting in patience, I read a paragraph which aroused within me considerable interest.

It was to the effect that Superintendent Arthur Benton, the well-known Scotland Yard officer, had, after the annual dinner a few nights before, been suddenly taken ill on his way home to Hampstead, and was at the moment lying in a very critical condition suffering from some mysterious form of ptomaine poisoning, his life being despaired of.

I was quite unaware until long afterwards of the deeply laid attempt upon Benton's life, how the mysterious Dutchman was really a waiter much wanted by the French police for a poisoning affair in Marseilles, and that he had been able, by means best known to Rayne, to obtain temporary employment at the Elgin Rooms on the night of the banquet. It was he who had served the table at which had sat the unsuspicious detective superintendent.

The latter fortunately did not succumb, but he was incapacitated from duty for over twelve months, during which period the inquiries regarding the unknown head of the criminal band were dropped, much to the relief of Rayne and Duperre.

All this, however, was, I saw, preliminary and in preparation for some great coup.

I suppose I had been kicking my heels about Folkestone for perhaps ten days when, without warning, Rayne and Lola arrived with Tracy and a quantity of luggage. No doubt the mysterious Dutchman had returned to the Continent by the fishing-boat in which he had come over to act at Rayne's orders.

"We are going to the Continent by the morning service the day after to-morrow, George," Rayne told me. "Tracy leaves to-night. Lola will go with us as far as Paris, where Duperre will meet us, and we go south together."

And he produced a batch of tickets, among which I saw coupons for reserved compartments in the wagon-lit.

Afterwards he gave some peculiar instructions to Tracy.

"You'll recollect the map I showed you," he said. "Creches is two miles south of Macon. At about two kilometres towards Lyons there is a short bridge over a ravine. That's the spot. The train passes there at three-eighteen in the morning."

"I follow you exactly," replied his stout, bald-headed accomplice. And I was left wondering what was intended.

That evening Tracy left us and crossed to Boulogne, while two days later we went on board the morning cross-Channel steamer, where, to my surprise, we met Mr. and Mrs. Blumenfeld.

The encounter was a most unexpected and pleasant one. The great financier and his wife were on their way to the Riviera, and we were going as far as Cannes.

"I had no idea that you were going south!" laughed Rayne happily as Lola, warmly dressed in furs, stood on deck chatting with Mrs. Blumenfeld and watching the boat casting off from the quay. "It will be most delightful to travel together," he went on. "Lola stays in Paris and we go on to the Riviera. I suppose you've got your sleeping berths from Paris to-night?"

"Yes," replied the financier, and then on comparing the numbers on the coupons the old man discovered that by a coincidence his berth adjoined the one which had been taken for myself.

We travelled merrily across to Boulogne, the weather being unusually fine, and took our dejeuner together in the wagon-restaurant on the way to Paris. With old Blumenfeld was his faithful valet who looked especially after two battered old leather kitbags, a fact which, I noticed, did not escape Rudolph's watchful eye.

Arrived at the Gare du Nord, Lola was met by an elderly Englishwoman whom I recollected as having been a guest at Overstow, and after hurried farewells drove away in a car, while we took taxis across to the big hotel at the Gare de Lyon. There we dined, and at half-past eight joined the Marseilles express upon which was a single wagon-lit.

Just as I was about to enter it, Rayne took me by the arm, and walking along the platform out of hearing, whispered:

"Vincent is here. Don't recognize him. Be alert at three o'clock. I may want you!"

"For what?"

"Wait! We've something big in progress, George. Don't ask any questions," he said in that blustering impelling manner which he assumed when he was really serious.

Several times in the corridor I met the financier and his wife with their bony-faced valet, and, of course, I made myself polite and engaging to Mrs. Blumenfeld.

While the express roared through its first stage to Moret, I chatted with Rudolph and Blumenfeld after the latter's wife had retired, and as we sat in the dim light of the corridor of the sleeping-car smoking cigarettes, all seemed absolutely normal.

Suddenly from the end compartment of the car Duperre came forth. As a perfect stranger he apologized in French as he passed us and walked to the little compartment at the end of the car where he ordered a drink from the conductor.

Hence old Mr. Blumenfeld was in ignorance that Vincent had any knowledge of us, or that Signorina Lacava, who was another of the passengers, was our friend. Yet the thin-faced valet who had brought up my early cup of tea when we had stayed at Bradbourne continually hovered about his master.

Later, as the express was tearing on at increased speed, Mr. Blumenfeld retired to his compartment, with his wife sleeping in the adjoining one, and within half an hour Rayne beckoned me into his compartment at the farther end, where we were joined by Duperre.

"I want you to be out in the corridor at three o'clock," Rayne said to me. "Open the window and sit by it as though you want fresh air. The conductor won't trouble you as he'll be put to sleep. After the train leaves Macon, Vincent will pass you something. You will watch for three white lights set in a row beside the railway line. Tracy will be down there in waiting. When you see the three lights throw out what Vincent gives to you. Understand?"

I now saw the plot. They had knowledge that old Blumenfeld was travelling with a quantity of negotiable securities which he intended to hand to his agent at Marseilles on his way to Cannes, and they meant to relieve him of them!

"I shall be fast asleep," Rayne went on, and turning to Duperre, he said: "Here's the old fellow's master-key. It opens everything."

"By Jove!" whispered Vincent. "That was a clever ruse of yours to contrive the old man to faint and then take an impression of the key upon his chain."

"It was the only way to get possession of it," Rayne declared with an evil grin. "But both of you know how to act, so I'll soon retire."

And a few moments later I went out leaving both men together. The train roared into a long tunnel and then out again across many high embankments and over bridges. Rain was falling in torrents and lashed the windows as we sped due south on our way to Dijon. At last I knew the cause and motive of the old financier's fainting fit. The reason of our visit to Bradbourne had been in order to obtain an impression of the old fellow's little master-key which opened all his luggage, his dispatch-boxes, and even the great safes at the office in Old Broad Street.

I hated the part I was forced to play, yet there certainly was an element of danger in it, and in that I delighted. Therefore I partially undressed, turned in, and read the newspaper, anxiously waiting for the hour of three and wondering in what manner Duperre intended to rob the victim. I hoped that no violence would be used.

The minutes crept on slowly as, time after time, I glanced at my watch. In the compartment next to mine the millionaire was sleeping, all unconscious of the insidious plot. The brown-uniformed conductor was asleep—no doubt he had taken a drink with Duperre. Besides, the corridor at each end of the sleeping-saloon was closed and locked.

At last, at five minutes to three, I very cautiously opened my door and stepped into the empty corridor. The train was again in a tunnel, the noise deafening and the atmosphere stifling. As soon as we were out in the open I noiselessly lowered the window and found that we were passing through a mountainous country, for every moment we passed over some rushing torrent or through some narrow ravine.

It was already three o'clock when my nostrils were greeted with a pungent sickly odor of attar of roses, which seemed to be wafted along the corridor. It emanated, I imagined, from one of the compartments occupied by lady travellers.

Of a sudden we ran into the big station at Macon, where there was a wait of about five minutes—for the wheels to be tested. Nobody left or entered. All was quite still after the roaring and rocking of the express.

As we waited the odor of roses became much more pronounced, yet I sat at my post by the open window as though wanting fresh air, for the big sleeping-car was very stuffy, the heating apparatus being on. At last we moved out again, and I breathlessly waited for Duperre to hand me something to toss out to Tracy who was ready with the three signal lights beside the line.

The train gathered speed quickly. We had travelled two hundred and seventy miles and now had only a little farther to go. With my eye upon the side of the track, I sat scarce daring to breathe.

The ravine! We were crossing it! I glanced along the corridor. Nobody came in sight.

Next instant I saw three white lights arranged in a row. But we flashed past them!

For some reason, why, I knew not, the plot had failed!

I dared not go to the compartment of either of my companions, so after sitting up a further half-hour I crept back to my sleeping-berth feeling very drowsy, and turning in, slept heavily.

I was awakened by a loud hammering upon my door, and an excited voice outside calling:

"Mr. Hargreave! Mr. Hargreave!"

I opened it in astonishment to find the gray-headed old millionaire in his pajamas.

"I've been robbed!" he gasped. "I can't wake the conductor. He's been drugged, I believe! What number is Mr. Rayne's compartment?"

"Number four," I answered. "But what has been taken?" I asked.

"Bonds that I was taking to my agent in Marseilles—over sixty thousand pounds' worth! My kitbag has been opened and the dispatch-box has been opened also while I've been asleep. The thief has evidently had the conductor's key or he couldn't have got into my compartment! The bonds must be still in the possession of one of the passengers," he added. "Our last stop was at Macon and I was awake then."

Together we woke up Rayne, who at once busied himself in great alarm.

"Possibly the bonds have been thrown from the train to an accomplice," he suggested, exchanging glances with me.

"No. I'm sure they are still here—in the car. When next we stop I will prevent anyone leaving, and have all the passengers searched. The one thing that puzzles me is how the thief got to work without waking me, as I always place a little electric alarm on my bag when travelling with securities—and secondly, how did he manage to open both the bag and the dispatch-box it contained?"

"Well," said Rayne. "Don't let us raise any alarm, but just wait till we get to Lyons. Then we'll see that nobody alights before we call the police." Then, turning to me, he said: "You'll keep one door, Hargreave, and I'll keep the other, while Mr. Blumenfeld gives information."

Thus we waited. But I was sorely puzzled as to the whereabouts of the stolen bonds. If Duperre had taken them, how had he got rid of them? That he had done so was quite plain by Rayne's open attitude.

Presently, in the dawn, we ran slowly into Lyons, whereupon, with Rayne, I mounted guard, allowing no one to leave. Two men wanted to descend to obtain some cafe au lait, as is customary, and were surprised when prevented.

The commissary of police, with several plain-clothes officers, were quickly upon the spot, and to them Mr. Blumenfeld related his story—declaring that while lying awake he smelt a very strong odor of roses which caused him to become drowsy, and he slept. On awakening he saw that his dispatch-box had been rifled.

When the millionaire explained who he was and the extent of his loss, the commissary was at once upon the alert, and ordered every passenger to be closely searched. In consequence, everyone was turned out and searched, a woman searching the female passengers, Signorina Lacava waxing highly indignant. Rayne, Duperre and myself were also very closely searched, while every nook and cranny of the compartments and baggage were rummaged during the transit of the train from Lyons down to Marseilles. The missing bonds could not be discovered, nor did any suspicion attach to anyone.

I confess myself entirely puzzled as to what had actually occurred. The well-arranged plan to drop them from the train beyond Dijon had failed, I knew, because old Mr. Blumenfeld was still awake; but what alternative plan had been put into action?

It was only when we arrived in Marseilles that the bewildered conductor, a most reliable servant of the wagon-lit company, recovered from his lethargy and could not in the least account for his long heavy sleep. He had, it appeared, smelt the same pleasant perfume of roses as Mr. Blumenfeld. At Marseilles there was still more excitement and inquiry, but at last we moved off to Toulon and along the beautiful Cote d'Azur, with its grey-green olives and glimpses of sapphire sea.

We were passing along by the seashore, when I ventured to slip into Duperre's compartment, old Blumenfeld and his wife being then in the luncheon-car adjoining.

I inquired in a whisper what had happened.

For answer he crossed to one of the windows and drew down the brown cloth blind used at night, when upon the inside I saw, to my astonishment, some bonds spread out and pinned to the fabric!

He touched the spring, the blind rolled up and they disappeared within.

Each of the four blinds in his compartment contained their valuable documents which, in due course, he removed and placed in his pockets before he stepped out upon the platform at Hyeres. He was, of course, an entire stranger to Rudolph and me, and we continued our journey with the victimized millionaire to Cannes, where we were compelled to remain for a week lest our abrupt return should excite anybody's suspicion. Meanwhile, of course, Duperre was already back in London with the spoils.

In the whole affair Rayne, whose master-brain was responsible for the ingenious coup, remained with clean hands and ready at any moment to prove his own innocence.

The original plan of tossing out the sixty thousand pounds' worth of bonds to Tracy, who was waiting with his three warning lights, failed because of old Blumenfeld's sleeplessness, but it was substituted by a far more secretive yet simple plan—one never even dreamed of by the astute police attached to the Paris, Lyons and Mediterranean Railway. It being daylight at Lyons, the blinds were up!



CHAPTER VII

LITTLE LADY LYDBROOK

From the very first I felt that, owing to my passionate love for Lola, I was treading upon very thin ice.

As the cat's-paw of her father I was being drawn into such subtle devilish schemes that I felt to draw back must only bring upon my head the vengeance, through fear, of a man who was so entirely unscrupulous and so elusive that the police could never trace him.

Why a few weeks later I had been sent to Biarritz with Vincent was an enigma I failed to solve. At any rate, at Rayne's suggestion, we had gone there and had stayed under assumed names at the Hotel du Palais, that handsome place standing high upon the rocks with such charming views of the rocky headland of St. Martin and the dozen grey-green islets.

We both lived expensively and enjoyed ourselves at the Casino and elsewhere, but the object of our visit was quite obscure. I knew, however, that Duperre was prospecting new ground, but in what direction I failed to discover. One day we returned to London quite suddenly, but he refused to disclose anything concerning the object of our visit, which, after all, had been for me quite an enjoyable holiday.

About a week after our return Rayne called me into the morning-room. The keen grey-eyed middle-aged man was smoking a cigar and with him was Madame, whose cleverness as a crook was only equalled by that of her husband.

"Well, Hargreave!" exclaimed Rayne. "I hope you had a nice time at Biarritz, eh? Well, I want you to go on a further little holiday down to Eastbourne. Drive the Rolls down to the Grand Hotel there and stay as a gentleman of leisure."

"I'm always that nowadays," I laughed.

"Stay there under the name of George Cottingham," he went on, "and spend rather freely, so as to give yourself a good appearance. You understand?"

"No, I don't understand," I said. "At least, I don't understand what game is to be played."

"You needn't, George," was his short reply. "You are paid not to understand, and to keep your mouth shut. So please recollect that. Now at the hotel," he went on, "there is staying Lady Lydbrook, wife of the great Sheffield ironmaster. I want you to scrape up acquaintance with her."

"Why?" I asked.

"For reasons best known to myself," he snapped. "It's nice weather just now, and you ought to enjoy yourself at Eastbourne. It's a smart place for an English resort, and there's lots going on there. They will think you such a nice sociable young man. Besides, you will spend money and make pretense of being rich. And let me give you a valuable tip. On the first evening you arrive at the hotel call the valet, give him a pound note and tell him to go out and buy a pound bottle of eau-de-Cologne to put in your bath. There's nothing that gets round an hotel so quickly as wanton extravagance like that. The guests hear of it through the servants, and everyone is impressed by your wealth."

I laughed. Only a man with such a brain as Rudolph Rayne could have thought of such a ruse to inspire confidence.

Two days later I arrived at the smart south coast hotel. Though not the season, Eastbourne was filled by quite a fashionable crowd. The Grand, situated at the far end of the town towards Beachy Head, is the resort of wealthy Londoners. I arrived alone in the showy Rolls just before luncheon, when many of the visitors were seated in the cane chairs outside or on the glass-covered veranda.

I noticed, too, that the Rolls was well scrutinized, as well as myself. Under my assumed name, I took one of the most expensive rooms, and later, in the big dining-room, the waiter pointed out to me Lady Lydbrook, a young, blue-eyed, fluffy-haired little lady who, exquisitely dressed, was seated in a corner with another young woman about her own age.

They were chatting merrily, quite unconscious of the fact that I was watching them.

Her companion was dark and exceedingly well dressed. I learnt from the waiter that Sir Owen Lydbrook was not with his wife, and that the name of her companion was Miss Elsie Wallis.

"I fancy she's on the stage, sir," the man added confidently. "Only I don't know her stage name. They've been 'ere nearly a month. Sir Owen is in Paris, I think. They say 'e's a lot older than 'er."

I realized in the cockney waiter a man who might be useful, hence I gave him a substantial tip when I signed the bill for my meal.

Why Rayne had ordered me to contrive to make the acquaintance of the fluffy-haired little woman was a problem that was beyond me, save that I knew full well the motive was, without doubt, an evil one.

It goaded me to frenzy to think that Lola should eventually be called upon in all her innocence to become, like myself, an unwilling agent in the carrying out of Rayne's subtle and insidious plots.

I was his paid servant, hence against my will I was forced to obey. My ever-present hope was to be able one day to extricate Lola from that atmosphere of criminality and mystery in which she lived, that environment of stealthy plotting and malice aforethought.

On the evening of my arrival there happened to be a dance in the hotel, and watching, I saw Lady Lydbrook enter the ballroom. She looked very charming in a dance frock of bright orange, with a wreath of silver leaves in her hair. Her gown was certainly the most chic of any in the room, and she wore a beautiful rope of pearls.

Presently I summoned courage, and bowing, invited her to dance with me. She smiled with dignity and accepted. Hence we were soon acquaintances, for she danced beautifully, and I am told that I dance fairly well. After the fox-trot we sat down and chatted. I told her that I had only arrived that day.

"I saw you," she said. "What a topping car you have! Ours is a Rolls but an old pattern. I'm always pressing my husband to get rid of it and buy a new model. But he won't. Business men are all the same. They tot up figures and weigh the cost of everything," and she laughed lightly, showing a set of pearly teeth. "They weigh up everything one eats and wears. I hope you're not a business man?"

"No. I'm not," I replied with a smile. "If I were I might be a bit richer than I am."

"Money! Bah!" she exclaimed as she waved the big ostrich feather that served her as fan. "It's all very well in its way, but some men get stifled with their money-bags, just as Owen is. Their wealth is so great that its very heaviness presses out all their good qualities and only leaves avarice behind."

"But to have great wealth at one's command must be a source of great joy. Look how much good one could do!" I said philosophically.

"Good! Yes," she laughed. "The rich man can be philanthropic—if he is not a business man, Mr. Cottingham. The latter—if he tries to do good to his fellow-creatures—is dubbed a fool in his business circles and invariably comes to grief. At least that is what Owen tells me. He's double my age, and he ought to know," added the charming little woman.

I admitted that there was much truth in what she had said. Indeed, we had already grown to be such good friends that, at her invitation, the night being clear and moonlit, we strolled out of the hotel and along the promenade, half-way to the pier, and back.

Her companion, Miss Wallis, I had seen in the ballroom dancing with an elderly man who had "the City" stamped all over him. We chatted upon many subjects as we strolled in the balmy moonlit night.

"I expect my husband back in a day or two. He has been to Warsaw upon some financial business for the Government. When we leave here we go to Trouville for a week or so, and in the autumn I believe we go to America. My husband goes over each year."

Then I learned from her that they had a town house in Curzon Street, a country place in Berkshire, and a villa at Cannes. They had, it appeared, only recently been married.

"We generally manage to get to Cannes each winter for a month or two. I love the Riviera," she said. "Do you know it?"

"Yes," I replied. "I've been there once or twice."

"The Villa Jaumont is out on the road to Nice, on the left. Perhaps if you happen to be there this winter you will call. I shall be most delighted to see you."

When presently we were back in the hotel and I had gone to my room, I realized that I had made rather good progress. I had ingratiated myself with her, and she had grown very confidential, inasmuch as I was already able to judge that she rather despised her elderly and parsimonious husband, and that she preferred to lead her own untrammelled life.

But what was the real object of my mission?

A few days later I received a scribbled note signed "Rudolph" to say that a friend of his, an Italian named Giulio Ansaldi, was arriving at the hotel and would meet me in strictest secrecy. I was to leave my bedroom door unlocked at midnight, when he would enter unannounced. Enclosed was half one of Duperre's visiting-cards torn across in a jagged manner.

"Your visitor will present to you the missing half of the enclosed card as credential," he wrote. "If the two pieces fit, then trust him implicitly and act according to his instructions which he will convey from me."

I turned over the portion of the torn visiting-card, wondering what fresh instructions I was to receive in such strict secrecy.

I thought of Lola and wondered whether she had returned home from a visit she was paying in Devonshire, and whether, by her watchfulness, she had gained any inkling of the nature of this latest plot.

Little Lady Lydbrook had now become my constant companion. Her friend, Elsie Wallis, had apparently become on friendly terms with a tall, slim, dark-haired young man who often took her out in his car, while on several occasions Lady Lydbrook had accepted my invitation for an afternoon run and tea somewhere. The one fact that I did not like was that a quiet, middle-aged man seemed always to be watching our movements, for whether we chatted together in the lounge, went out motoring, walking on the promenade, or dancing, he always appeared somewhere in the vicinity. But on the day I received Rayne's note he had paid his bill and left the hotel, a fact by which my mind was much relieved.

That day I motored my pretty little friend over to Brighton, where we lunched at the Metropole and arrived back for tea. Her husband, she said, had that morning telegraphed to her from Hamburg regretting that he could not rejoin her at present as he was on his way to Italy.

"I suppose all our plans are upset again!" she remarked with a pretty pout, as she sat at my side while we went carefully through the old-world town of Lewes. She had become just a little inquisitive about myself. It seemed that she enjoyed her dances with me. Indeed, she admitted it, but I could discern that she was a good deal puzzled as to my means of livelihood. I had to be very circumspect, yet for the life of me I could not imagine why I had been ordered to carry on what was, after all, a mild flirtation with a very pretty young married lady.

I could see that the other visitors at the hotel were whispering, and more especially had I incurred the displeasure of a Mrs. Glenbury, an elderly lady of distinctly out-of-date views, who with pathetic effort tried to ape youth.

Late in the evening after our return from Brighton, I took a long stroll alone along the lower promenade, close to the beach, which at night is very ill-lit, being below the level of the well-illuminated roadway. I suppose I had walked for quite a couple of miles when, on my return, I discerned in front of me two figures, a man and a woman. A ray of light from the roadway above shone on them as they passed, and I noticed that while the woman wore an ordinary dark cloth coat, the man was in tweeds and a golf cap.

An altercation had arisen between them.

"All right," he cried. "You won't live here very much longer—I'll see to that! You've tried to do me down, and very nearly succeeded. And now you refuse to give me even a fiver!"

Those words aroused my curiosity. I held back; for my feet fell noiselessly because of my rubber heels. I strained my ears to catch their further conversation.

"I've never refused you, Arthur!" replied the woman's voice.

I held my breath. The voice was Lady Lydbrook's. I could recognize it anywhere!

I watched. The young man's attitude was certainly threatening.

"I don't intend now that you'll get off lightly. You'll have to pay me not a fiver but fifty pounds to-night. So go back to the hotel and bring me out a cheque. I'll wait at the Wish Tower. But mind it isn't a dud one. If it is, then, by gad! I'll tell them right away. And won't the fur fly then, eh?"

He spoke in a refined voice, though his appearance was that of a loafer.

His companion was evidently in fear. She tried to argue, to cajole, and to appear defiant, but all was useless. He only laughed triumphantly at her as they walked along the deserted promenade in the direction of the hotel.

Suddenly they halted. I held back at once. They conversed in lower tones—intense words that I could not catch. But it seemed to me that the frail little woman who was so often my companion was cowed and terrified. Why? What did she fear?

She left him, while he drew back into the shadow. I waited also in the shadow for nearly ten minutes, then I passed on, ascended some steps and reentered the hotel. In the lounge I sank into a seat in a hidden corner and lit a cigarette. Presently I heard the swish of a woman's skirt behind me, and rising, peered out. It was Lady Lydbrook on her way out. She was carrying the cheque to the mysterious stranger!

Alone in my room that night I threw myself into a chair and pondered deeply. I had learned that Lady Lydbrook was under the influence of that ill-dressed man who spoke so well, and whom I at first took to be an undergraduate or perhaps a hospital student.

It was a point to report to Rayne. Somehow I felt a rising antagonism towards the young man who had successfully extracted fifty pounds from my dainty little companion who was so passionately fond of jewels and who frequently wore some exquisite rings and pendants. What hold could the fellow have upon her?

Next morning she appeared bright and radiant at breakfast—which, of course, she took with her rather retiring friend Elsie Wallis—and I smiled across at her. She was, after all, a bright up-to-date little married woman possessed of great wealth and influence, her whole life being devoted to self-enjoyment at the expense of her elderly and despised husband. She was a typical girl of society who had married an old man for his money and afterwards sought younger male society. We have them to-day in hundreds on every side.

After breakfast we went together along the sea-front where the band was playing. The weather was glorious and Eastbourne looked at its best.

I now regarded her as a mystery after what I had witnessed on the previous night.

"I'm horribly bored here!" she declared to me, as in her white summer gown she strolled by my side towards the town. "Owen is not coming, so I think I shall soon get away somewhere."

"What about your friend Elsie?" I asked, wondering whether her decision had any connection with the unwelcome arrival of that mysterious young man in tweeds.

"Oh, she's going back to London to-day—so I shall be horribly lonely," she replied.

I recollected her nervousness and apprehension before she had paid the man who had undoubtedly blackmailed her, and became more than ever puzzled.



CHAPTER VIII

THE CAT'S TOOTH

That night I went to my room at about ten minutes before midnight, and waited for the appearance of my secret visitor.

Just as midnight struck the handle of the door slowly turned and a well-dressed, dark-mustached man of about thirty-five entered silently and bowed.

"Mr. Hargreave?" he asked with a foreign accent. "Or is it Cottingham?"

"Which you please," I replied in a low voice, laughing.

"I have this to hand to you," he said as he produced the portion of the visiting-card which I found fitted exactly to that which I had received from Rayne.

"Well?" I asked, inviting him to a chair and afterwards turning the key in the door. "What message have you for me?" Then I noticed for the first time that he bore in his hand a small brown leather attache-case.

"I know you well by name, Mr. Hargreave," he said. "You are one of us, I know. Therefore 'The Golden Face' sends you a message."

"Have you seen him?" I asked.

"No," was his reply. "Though we have been in association for several years, I always receive messages through Vincent Duperre."

I knew that only too well. Rudolph Rayne took the most elaborate precautions to preserve a clean pair of hands himself, no matter what dirty work he planned to be carried out by others.

"Duperre saw me in London yesterday, gave me that piece of card, and told me to come here and explain matters," the Italian went on in a low voice. "You see this case. I am to hand it to you," and as he took it, he touched the bottom, which I saw was hinged and fell inwards in two pieces, both of which sprang back again into their places by means of strong springs. My small collar-box stood upon the dressing-table.

"You see how it works," he said, and placing the attache-case over the collar-box, he snatched it up and the collar-box had disappeared inside! It was an old invention of thieves and possessed no originality. I wondered that Rayne's friends employed such a contrivance, which, of course, was useful when it became necessary that valuable objects should disappear.

"Well, and what of it?" I asked, as, opening the case, he took out my collar-box and replaced it upon the table.

"I am told that you are on very friendly terms with Lady Lydbrook. Our friend old Hesketh has been here and watched your progress—a grey-mustached man with a slight limp. I dare say you may have noticed him."

I recollected the silent watcher who I had feared might be a detective, and who had recently left the hotel. So Rayne had set secret watch upon my movements—a fact which irritated me.

"Yes. I know Sir Owen's wife," I said. "Why?"

"Possibly you don't know that she has in a small dark-green morocco case a rope of pearls worth twenty thousand, as well as some other magnificent jewels. Haven't you seen her wearing her pearls?"

"I have," I said, "but I put them down as artificial ones."

"No—every one of them is real! They were a present to her from her husband on her marriage," said the foreigner, his dark eyes glowing as he spoke. "We want them," he whispered eagerly. "And as you know her, you'll have to get them."

"I shall do no such thing!" I protested quickly. "I may be employed by Mr. Rayne, but I'm not paid to commit a theft."

My visitor looked me very straight in the face with his searching eyes, and after a moment's pause, asked:

"Is that really your decision? Am I to report that to Duperre—that you refuse?"

"If you want to steal the woman's pearls why don't you do it yourself?" I suggested.

"Because I am not her friend. You have called at her room for her, Hesketh has reported. You would not be suspected, being her friend," he added with sly persuasiveness.

"No. Tell them I refuse!" I cried, furious that such a proposition should be put to me.

The foreigner, in whom I now recognized a polished international crook, shrugged his shoulders and elevated his eyebrows. Then he asked:

"Will you not reconsider your decision, Signor Hargreave? I fear this refusal will mean a great deal to you. When 'The Golden Face' becomes hostile he always manages to put those who disobey him into the hands of the police. And I have knowledge that he intends you to act in this case as he directs, or—well, I fear that some unpleasantness will arise for you!"

"What do you threaten?" I demanded angrily. "I don't know who you are—and I don't care! One fact is plain, that you, like myself, are an agent of the man of abnormal brain known as 'The Golden Face,' but I tell you I refuse to become a jewel-thief."

"Very well, if that is your irrevocable decision I will return to-morrow and report," he answered in very good English, though he was typically Italian. "But I warn you that mischief is meant if you do not obey. Duperre told me so. Like myself you are paid to act as directed and to keep a silent tongue. Only six months ago Jean Durand, in Paris, refused to obey a demand, and to-day he is in the convict prison in Toulon serving a sentence of seven years. He attempted to reveal facts concerning 'The Golden Face,' but the judge at the Seine Assizes ridiculed the idea of our head director living respected and unsuspected in England. You may believe yourself safe and able to adopt a defiant attitude, but I, for one, can tell you that such a policy can only bring upon you dire misfortune. Once one becomes a servant of 'The Golden Face' one remains so always, extremely well paid and highly prosperous providing one is alert and shrewd, but ruined and imprisoned if one either makes a slip or grows defiant. I hope you will understand me, signor. I have been given a master-key to the hotel. It will open Lady Lydbrook's door. Here it is."

"But I really cannot accede to this!" I declared. "Though I have fallen into a clever trap and have assisted in certain schemes, yet I have never acted as the actual thief."

"'The Golden Face,' whose marvelous activity and influence we must all admire, has decided that you must do so in this case," he said inexorably.

I craved time to consider the matter, and after some further conversation told him I would meet him near the bandstand on the sea-front at noon next day, for we did not want to be associated in the hotel.

That night I slept but little, for I realized that if I refused I must assuredly be cast into the melting-pot as one who might, in return, give Rayne away. I thought of Lola with whom I was so madly in love, and whom I intended to eventually rescue from the criminal atmosphere in which, though innocent, she was compelled to live.

I hated to take such a downward step, though the innocent-looking little attache-case with the steel grips and spring bottom was there by my bedside ready for use. I was torn between the path of honesty from which, alas! I had been slowly slipping ever since I had made that accursed compact with Rudolph Rayne, and my love for Lola, who had, I knew, every confidence in me, while at the same time she was growing highly suspicious of her father.

The reader will readily realize my feelings that night. I had taken a false step, and to withdraw would mean arrest, conviction and imprisonment, notwithstanding any disclosures I might make. Rudolph Rayne remained always with clean hands, the rich country gentleman and personal friend of certain Justices of the Peace, officials, and others, with whom he played golf and invited to his shooting parties on the Yorkshire moors which he rented with money stolen in divers ways and in various cities.

So, to cut a long story short, I met the mysterious Italian crook next day—and I fell, for I took the master-key and agreed to attempt the theft of Lady Lydbrook's pearls!

I now saw through Rayne's devilish plot. I was to be used still further as his cat's-paw, and he had planned that because of my friendship with the pretty young woman, at his orders I was to steal her property.

I felt myself alone and in a cleft stick. That afternoon, as I sat at tea in the lounge with the woman whose jewels I was ordered to steal, I was torn by a thousand emotions, yet I pretended to be my usual self, and at my invitation she went out for a motor run between tea and dinner.

Though I laughed at my foolishness, I somehow suspected that she now viewed me with distinct misgiving. It now became necessary for me to prospect for the little morocco case in which I knew she kept her pearls. Therefore I at last summoned courage, and one evening, just before half-past seven, while she was dressing for dinner, I knocked and made excuse to ask her if she would go to the theater with me.

"Do come in," she cried, for she was already dressed in a bright sapphire-colored gown which greatly heightened her beauty. As she admitted me, I saw the little jewel-case standing upon a tiny side-table near the window. She was not wearing her beautiful rope of pearls, therefore they were, without a doubt, safe in the case.

She thanked me and accepted, so I quickly went downstairs and told the hall porter to telephone for two stalls.

That night, on arrival back at the hotel, it occurred to me that if the little jewel-case had been left where it was my chance had now arrived. I was being forced against my will to become a thief. Rayne, the man who held me in his grip, had driven me to it and had placed the means at my disposal. To refuse would mean arrest and the loss of Lola.

We sat down in the lounge and I called for drinks—she was thirsty and would like a lemon squash, she said. Before the waiter brought them, I made leisurely excuse to go to the bureau to see if there were any letters. Instead, I rushed up to my own room, obtained the "trick" attache-case, and carrying it along to Lady Lydbrook's room, stealthily opened the door with the master-key which Ansaldi had given me.

All was dark within. I switched on the light, when, before me, upon the little table, I saw the small green jewel-box.

In an instant I placed the attache-case over it and next second it had disappeared.

But as I did so, I heard a movement behind me, and, on turning, to my breathless horror saw, standing before me, the pretty, fair-haired young woman whom I had robbed!

"Well, Mr. Cottingham—or whatever your name is," she exclaimed in a hard, altered voice as, closing the door behind her, she advanced to me with a fierce light in her eyes. "And what are you doing here, pray?"

Then, glancing at the table and noticing her jewel-case missing, she added:

"I see! You have scraped acquaintance with me in order to steal my jewels. You have them in that case in your hand!"

I stammered something. What it was I have no recollection. I only know that my words infuriated her, and she dashed out into the corridor to raise the alarm, leaving me in possession of the trick bag with the jewel-case inside.

I dashed after her, seizing her roughly by the waist as she ran down the corridor.

"Listen!" I whispered fiercely into her ear. "Listen one moment. You surely won't give me away? Listen to what I have to tell you. Do—I—implore you," I said. "I am no thief! I will tell you everything—and ask your advice. No harm has been done. Your pearls are here."

"Yes," she said, turning back upon me. "But you—the man I liked and trusted—are a common thief!"

"I admit it," I said hoarsely as I dragged her back to her room, her dress being torn in the struggle. "I have been forced against my will into robbing you, as I will explain."

Back in her bedroom she assumed a very serious attitude. She invited me to sit down, after I had handed back her jewel-case, and then, also seating herself in an arm-chair, she said in determination:

"Now look here, George Hargreave ... you see, I know your real name. I know your game. By a word I can have you arrested, while, on the other hand, my silence would give you your liberty."

"You will remain silent, Lady Lydbrook—I beg of you! I know that I have committed an unpardonable crime for which there is no excuse." I thought of that strange midnight scene I had witnessed and it was on the tip of my tongue to mention it. But would it further infuriate her? So I refrained from alluding to it.

Her attitude towards me had completely altered. She was hard-mouthed and indignant, which, after all, was but natural.

"My whole future is in your hands," I added.

She still hesitated. A word from her and not only would I be arrested, but Rayne would probably be exposed and arrested also. She seemed, I feared, to be aware of the whole organization, hence she was one of the last persons who should have been marked down as a victim. Rayne had evidently committed a fatal error.

"Well," she said at last, "I am open to remain silent, and the matter shall never be mentioned between us—but on one condition."

"And what is that?" I asked anxiously.

"I am in want of someone to help me. Will you do so?"

"I will do anything to serve you if you give me my liberty," I said, much ashamed.

"Very well, then. Listen," she said in a hard, strained voice. "If you resolve, in return for my silence, to assist me, you will be compelled to act at my orders without seeking for any motive, but in blind obedience."

"I quite understand," I replied. "I agree."

No doubt she desired me to act against her enemy—the young fellow who had extracted fifty pounds from her by threat.

"You must say nothing to a soul but meet me in secret in Paris. Stay at the Hotel Continental where I shall stay on the night of the twenty-fourth. That is next Wednesday. At ten o'clock I shall be on the terrace of the Cafe Vachette in the Boulevard St. Michel. Remember the day and hour, and meet me there. Then I will tell you what service I require of you. I shall leave here to-morrow, and I suppose you will leave also." And she opened her jewel-case to reassure herself that her pearls and other ornaments were safe.

So she forgave me, shook my hand, and I went out of the room with the cold perspiration still upon me.

I made no report of my failure to Rayne, but on the following Wednesday night, after taking a room at the Continental, in Paris, an hotel which I knew well, I crossed the Seine at about half-past nine, and at ten o'clock sauntered up the boulevard to the popular, and rather Bohemian, Cafe Vachette, where at a little table in the corner, set well back from the pavement, I found her seated alone. She was wearing the same dark cloth coat in which I had seen her when she met the mysterious stranger at night at Eastbourne.

"Well? So you've kept the appointment, Mr. Cottingham!" she laughed cheerily as I sank into a chair beside her. "You'll order a drink and pay for mine, eh?" she laughed.

Then when I had swallowed my liqueur, she suggested that we should stroll down the boulevard and talk.

This we did. The proposition which she made without much preliminary held me aghast.

"Though I like you very much, Mr. Cottingham," she said as we conversed in low voices, "I cannot conceal from myself that you are a thief. Well, now to be perfectly frank, I want a thief's help—and I know that, as we are friends, you will assist me. You know my inordinate love of jewels. Indeed, I wouldn't have married Owen if he had not given me my pearls. And you know the other ornaments I have—which I might very well never have seen again, eh?"

"I know," I said.

"Well, now, at the Continental there is at the present moment staying a Madame Rodanet, the widow of the millionaire chocolate manufacturer. She possesses among her jewels the famous Dent du Chat—the Cat's Tooth Ruby. It is called so because it is a perfect stone and curiously pointed, the only one of its kind in the world. I want it, and you must get it for me—as the price of my silence regarding the affair at Eastbourne."

I held my breath.

Her suggestion appalled me. I was to commit a second theft as the price of the first! The pretty wife of the great Sheffield ironmaster was a thief herself at heart! Truly, the situation was a strange and bewildering one.

I protested, and pointed out the risk and difficulties, but she met all my arguments with remarkable cleverness.

"I know Madame," she said. "I will make your path smooth for you, and I myself will spirit the jewel out of France so that no possible suspicion can attach to you," was her reply. "Will you leave it all to me?"

We walked on down the well-lit boulevard, my brain a-whirl, until at last, pressed hard by her, I consented to act as she directed.

I found, in the course of the next three days, that Lady Lydbrook's whole life was centered upon the possession of jewels of great value, and I was amazed to discover how very cleverly she plotted the coup which I was to carry out.

One evening, after dinner, she introduced me casually to the rich widow, an ugly overdressed old woman who was wearing as a pendant the famous Dent du Chat. It was, to say the least, a wonderful gem. But I passed as a person of no importance.

Next night with Lady Lydbrook's help I was, however, able to get into the old woman's bedroom and carry out my contract for the preservation of silence concerning the affair at Eastbourne.

I shall always recollect the moment when I slipped the pendant into Lady Lydbrook's soft hand as she stood in deshabille at the half-opened door of her bedroom and her quick whispered words:

"I shall be away by the first train. Stay here to-morrow and cross to London the next day. Au revoir! Let us meet again soon!" And she gripped my hand warmly in hers and closed her door noiselessly.

Ah! A week later I learned how, by Rayne's devilish cunning, I had been tricked. When I knew the truth, I bit my lips to the blood.

The widow Rodanet had, it appeared, been staying at the Palais, in Biarritz, when Duperre and I had been there. She had been marked down by Rayne as a victim, for the Dent du Chat was a stone of enormous value.

The planned robbery had, however, gone wrong and we had been compelled to return to London. Then Rayne had conceived the sinister idea of sending me to Lady Lydbrook—who was not Sir Owen's wife at all but one of his agents like myself, and whose real name was Betty Tressider—a girl-thief whose chief possession was a rope of imitation pearls.

I, alas! dropped into the trap, whereupon she, on her part, compelled me to steal old Madame Rodanet's wonderful ruby; and thus, though I confess it to my shame, I became an actual thief and one of Rudolph Rayne's active agents. What happened to me further I will now tell you.



CHAPTER IX

LOLA IS AGAIN SUSPICIOUS

The devilish cunning of Rudolph Rayne was indeed well illustrated by the clever trap which he had set for me by the instrumentality of that pretty woman-thief, Betty Tressider, who called herself Lady Lydbrook.

I now realized by Rayne's overbearing attitude that he had, by a ruse, succeeded in his object in compelling me to become an active accomplice of the gang.

When back again once more in Yorkshire, I was delighted to find that Lola had returned from her visit to Devonshire. She was just as sweet and charming as ever, but just a trifle too inquisitive regarding my visits to Eastbourne and Paris. I was much ashamed of the theft I had been forced to commit in order to preserve secrecy regarding my first downfall, hence rather awkwardly, I fear, I evaded all her questions.

Nevertheless, we were a great deal in each other's company, and had many confidential chats. I loved her, yet somehow I could not be frank and open. How could I without revealing the secret of her father?

One spring afternoon we had been playing tennis and were sitting together in the pretty arbor at the end of the well-kept lawn, both smoking cigarettes after a strenuous game, when suddenly she turned to me, saying:

"Do you know, Mr. Hargreave, I don't like the look of things at all! Mr. Duperre is not playing a straight game—of that I'm sure!"

"Oh—why?" I asked with affected ignorance.

"I have again overheard something. Yesterday I was just going into the morning-room, the door of which stood ajar, when I heard father warning Duperre of something—I couldn't quite catch what it was. Only he said that he didn't approve of such drastic measures, and that 'the old man might lose his life.' To that Duperre replied: 'And if he did, nobody would be any wiser.' What can it mean?"

"I fear I am just as ignorant as yourself," I replied, looking the arch-crook's pretty daughter full in the face.

"Well," she said, "I know I can trust you, Mr. Hargreave. I have only you in whom I can confide."

"Yes," I assured her, bending across to her. "You can trust me implicitly. I, too, am just as puzzled as yourself."

"I know they have some business schemes together, Madame has often told me so," went on the girl. "But while I was away at Keswick I purposely got into conversation with an old gentleman named Lloyd at Madame's suggestion, as she told me our acquaintanceship would be useful to some business scheme of Vincent's. It appears that he wanted to become acquainted with Mr. Lloyd."

"And you acted upon her suggestion?" I asked, horrified that she was becoming the decoy of that circle of super-crooks.

"Yes, though it was against my will," was her reply. "I contrived to allow him to have an opportunity to chat with me, and I afterwards introduced Madame as my companion."

"And what followed?" I asked eagerly.

"Oh, he was very often with us, and took us for rides in his car all through the Lakes. The hotel was full of smart people, and I think they envied us."

I was silent for a moment.

"Have you any idea who Mr. Lloyd may be?" I asked.

"No, except that Madame told me that he is immensely rich. A few days later father came over to Keswick and stayed a few days and met him. But the whole affair was most mysterious. I can't make it out," declared the girl. "Mr. Duperre never met him after all."

"We must remain patient and watch," I urged.

This we did, and very soon there came a strange development of that carefully planned introduction.

One day, on entering Rayne's study, I found him in conversation with a tall, dark, fashionably dressed foreign woman—Spanish, I believed her to be. As I went in unexpectedly she seemed to have risen and assumed a fierce defiant attitude, while he, seated at his writing-table, was smoking one of his favorite expensive cigars and contemplating her with amusement.

"My dear Madame," he said, laughing, "pray sit down and let us discuss the matter coolly. I do not wish you to act in any way to jeopardize yourself. I have made certain plans; it is for you and your friends to carry them out. And I know how clever is your friend Louis Larroca. So there is no need for apprehension. Besides, if you trust me, as you have done hitherto, you will find the whole affair works quite easily—and without the least risk to yourselves."

Next second he realized that I had entered, and turning to me, said quite quietly:

"I'm engaged just now, Hargreave."

So I was forced to withdraw, full of wonder as to the nature of the latest conspiracy.

I found that a hired car from a garage at Thirsk was awaiting the lady, who, I learned from the young footman, had given her name as Madame Martoz.

A quarter of an hour later she drove away without, so far as I could discern, having seen either Duperre or his wife.

Next day Rayne, whom I drove into York in the new two-seater Vauxhall, told me as we went along that he was having a small house-party on the following Thursday.

"Just a few personal friends," he added.

I smiled within myself, for I knew the character of the personal friends of "The Golden Face."

Yet to my surprise, when Thursday came I found assembled half a dozen perfectly honest and respectable men and their wives, and in some cases their daughters. One was a London barrister, another a well-known member of Parliament, a third a rich Leeds manufacturer, while the others were more or less well known, and certainly all of the highest respectability. When Rayne gave a house-party he always did the thing well, and the days passed in a round of well-ordered enjoyment, motoring, golf, tennis and visits to neighbors to the full delight of everyone. In the evening there were dancing and billiards, Duperre being the life and soul of the smart party.

On the fourth day, about twelve o'clock, Lola, who had made friends with Enid Claverton, the barrister's daughter, who was about the same age as herself, came to me in the garage, and said:

"Mr. Lloyd, whom we met at Keswick, has just arrived. He's come on a visit. Father told me nothing about it. Did he tell you?"

"Not a word," I replied, wondering why the person in question had been enticed into the spider's parlor. No doubt the highly respectable house-party had been invited to form a suitable setting for some secret villainy.

I met the new guest just before luncheon and found him a white-bearded, bald-headed, fresh-complexioned and rather dapper little man, whose merry eyes and easy-going manner marked him as a bon vivant and something after Rayne's own style.

He greeted me when in the big hall with its long armorial windows, its old family portraits, and the many trophies of the chase that had been secured by the noble family who were previous owners of the Hall. Rayne introduced me as his secretary.

I looked into the smartly dressed old fellow's blue eyes and wondered what foul plot against him had emanated from the abnormal brain of the arch-criminal who was his host. I smiled when I reflected on the horror of those guests did they but know who Rudolph Rayne really was. But in their ignorance they enjoyed his unbounded hospitality and voted him a real good sort—as outwardly he was.

My time was occupied mostly in driving the Rolls, but when at home I watched narrowly yet was utterly unable to discern why the friendship of Mr. Gordon Lloyd, whose profession or status I failed to discover, had been so cleverly secured and carefully cultivated until he had now become a welcome guest under Rayne's roof.

There was a sinister design somewhere, but in what direction? Rudolph Rayne never lifted a finger or smiled upon a stranger without some evil intent by which to enrich himself. Usurers in the City have always been clever people backed by capital, but this super-crook had, I learned, risen in a few years from a small bookmaker in Balham to control the biggest combine of Thiefdom ever known in the annals of our time.

One day I drove Mr. Lloyd with Lola and a Mrs. Charlesworth, one of the guests, into Ripon to see the cathedral. We had inspected the fine transepts, the choir and the famous Saxon crypt—of which there is only one other in England—and had gone to the old Unicorn to tea.

We had sat down when, chancing to glance around, I saw, to my surprise, seated in a corner alone, the handsome Madame Martoz, who had had that confidential interview with Lola's father some days before. Our recognition was mutual, I saw, for she lowered her dark eyes and busied herself with the teapot before her. Yet I noticed that with covert glances she was still regarding us with some curiosity.

Ten minutes later a tall, swarthy-faced man with well-trimmed black mustache, a typical Spaniard, lounged in and sat at her table, while she gave him tea. Mr. Lloyd, Lola and Mrs. Charlesworth were busily chatting, but I noted that the Spanish woman whispered some words to her companion which caused him to glance in our direction. Afterwards they both rose and went out.

Later, when we had finished our tea, I went to the office in order to pay—for on such excursions I always paid on Rayne's behalf—and when doing so, I asked casually:

"Have you a Spanish gentleman staying here—a Mr. Larroca?"

"No, sir," replied the rather stout, pleasant bookkeeper. "We have a Mr. Bellido, a Spanish gentleman. He's just gone out with Madame Calleja, who is also Spanish, though they both speak English well."

I thanked her and rejoined my party. At least I had ascertained the names under which they were known, for Larroca was no doubt the real name of Bellido.

What mischief was intended? It was evident that we had been purposely sent by Rayne to that hotel in Ripon in order that Madame and her accomplice should see us, so that we could be identified again. Certainly it was unnecessary for them to see Lola, Mrs. Charlesworth or myself. We had, I felt convinced, made that excursion in order that old Mr. Lloyd should be seen and known to the mysterious pair.

Two days afterwards our guests dispersed, but Mr. Lloyd, pressed by Madame Duperre, remained behind.

To me he seemed one of those wealthy, rather faddy men whom one encounters sometimes in the best hotels, men who move up and down the country aimlessly during the spring and summer and in winter go abroad for a few months; men with piles of well-battered and be-labelled baggage whose home is always in hotels and whose chief object in life is to dress in the fashion of the younger generation, to be seen everywhere, to give cosy little luncheon and dinner-parties, and be the "fairy" uncle of any pretty girl they may come across.

We have lots of such in England to-day. Ask the chef-de-reception of any of our smartest hotels, and they will reel off the names of half a dozen or so elderly bachelors, widowers or wife-quarrelers with huge incomes who prefer to pass along the line of least resistance in domesticity—the private suite in an up-to-date hotel.

Mr. Gordon Lloyd was one of such, and it seemed that Rudolph Rayne, who now treated me with the greatest intimacy because he saw that he had drawn me so completely into his net, had become his dearest friend.

On the night when the last guest had departed I sat with the pair over the port, after Lola and Madame had left the dinner-table.

"Really," said the merry old gentleman with his glass of '74 poised in his hand, "I don't know whether I shall go back to Colwyn Bay again this winter—or go abroad. I've no ties, and I'm getting fed up. I haven't been abroad since the war."

"Go abroad, my dear fellow," said Rayne. "The change would certainly do you good—go somewhere in the south. The Riviera is played out. Why not go to Sicily?"

"I've been there," replied old Mr. Lloyd as he sipped his glass of fine wine.

"Then why not try Italy? Glorious bright weather all through our foggy season—Rome or Florence, for instance?"

"No, I hate Italy."

"Spain, then? Good hotels in Madrid and Barcelona. In Madrid there is a small circle of English society, good opera, and lots of interesting places to visit by motor," Rayne suggested, for, as a rapid traveler all over Europe, he knew every Continental city of importance.

The old man was rather struck by the latter suggestion.

"I certainly am rather tired of Bournemouth and Colwyn Bay and Hove in winter," he admitted. "I've never been to Madrid."

"Then go, my dear fellow. Go by all means. The journey is quite easy. Just the train by day to Paris, and then by sleeping-car on the Sud Express right through to Madrid."

"Yes. But it's an awful trouble," replied the rich old man.

"No trouble at all!" laughed Rayne as he pulled at his cigar. "I don't like to see you in this rut of hotels. It's bad for you! It only leads to drinks in the bar till late and bad headaches in the morning. You must buck up and get out of it."

"Well, I'll see," replied the old fellow, and then we all three rose and rejoined the ladies.

Oh, what a farce the whole thing was! I longed—I yearned to yell my disclosures against the man who like an octopus had now placed his tentacles around me. But I saw that it was futile to kick against the pricks. I had only to wait and to watch.

For a whole week things proceeded in good, well-ordered regularity. Mr. Lloyd was our guest and everyone made themselves pleasant towards him. Lola, with whom I had frequent chats in secret, had somehow become disarmed. She no longer suspected her father of any sinister intent, the reason being that he had taken the old man as his dearest and most intimate confidant.

One night after I had beaten old Mr. Lloyd at billiards and he had gone to bed, I passed by the door of the library and saw a streak of light beneath the door.

Therefore, believing that the electric light had been inadvertently left on, I opened the door, when I had a great surprise.

Rayne was seated in an arm-chair chatting with Madame Martoz, while on a settee near the window sat Madame Duperre.

All three started up as I entered, but a word of apology instantly rose to my lips, and Rayne said: "That's all right, Hargreave. Indeed, I wanted to talk to you. Look here," he went on, "I want you to go to Madrid after old Mr. Lloyd goes there, as no doubt he will. You'll stay at the Ritz in the Plaza de Canovas, and ask no questions. I'll send you instructions—or perhaps Duperre may be with you."

"When?" I asked in surprise, as it appeared that the rich old gentleman had, after all, arranged to go to Spain.

"In ten days or so. When I tell you. Till then, don't worry, my dear boy. When I make plans you know that you have only to act."

"To the detriment of our unsuspecting guest, eh?" I remarked in a low bitter voice.

"That is not polite, George," he said sharply. "You are our paid servant, and such a remark does not befit you."

"Whether it does or not, Mr. Rayne, I repeat it," I said defiantly. "I am not blind to your subtle machinations by which I have become your accomplice."

He laughed triumphantly in my face.

"You are paid—and well paid for it all. Why should you resent? Are you an idiot?"

"I certainly refuse to be your tool!" I cried furiously.

"You have thrown in your lot with me as one who ventures constantly in big things just as any man who operates on the Stock Exchange. It is good sport. You, George, are a sportsman, as I am. And from one sport we both derive a good deal of fun."

"And the victim of our fun, as you term it, is to be old Mr. Lloyd!" I remarked, looking him straight in his face.

But he only laughed, and said:

"Don't be a fool. You are a most excellent fellow, Hargreave, except when you get these little fits of squeamishness."

It was on the tip of my tongue to roundly refuse to have anything further to do with him and leave the house, but I knew, alas! that now I had stolen the famous ruby in Paris he would have no compunction in giving me over to the police.

And if I, in turn, gave information against him, what could I really prove? Practically nothing! Rayne was always clever enough to preserve himself from any possibility of suspicion. It was that fact which marked him as the most amazing and ingenious crook.

So I was forced to remain silent, and a few minutes later left the room.

On the following Friday Mr. Lloyd left us. Rayne bade him a regretful farewell, after making him promise to return to us for a fortnight when he got back from Spain.

"Probably my secretary, Hargreave, will have to go to Madrid upon business for me. I have some interest in a tramway company at Salamanca. So you may possibly meet."

"I hope we do, Mr. Hargreave," said the old gentleman, turning to me warmly. "I shall certainly take your advice and try Madrid for a few weeks."

"Yes, do. You'll like it, I'm sure," his host assured him, and then we drove away.

"When are you going to Spain?" Mr. Lloyd asked me as he sat at my side on our way to Thirsk station.

"I really don't know," was my evasive reply. "Mr. Rayne has not yet fixed the date."

"Well, here's my address," he said, handing me a card with his name and "Reform Club" on it. "I wish you'd write me when your journey is fixed and perhaps we might travel together. I'd be most delighted to have you as my companion on the journey."

I took the card, thanked him, and promised that I would let him know the date of my departure.



CHAPTER X

THE PAINTED ENVELOPE

On my return I told Rayne of the old man's invitation, whereat he rubbed his hands in warm approval.

"Excellent!" he cried. "You must travel with him and keep an eye upon him—just to see that nobody—well, that nobody molests the poor old fellow," he laughed grimly.

I saw his meaning, but I was in no way anxious to become the traveling companion of a man who had, without doubt, been marked down as the next victim.

A fact that aroused my curiosity was that all the time Mr. Lloyd had been with us Duperre had been absent—in Brussels, I believe. His identity was evidently being concealed with some distinctly malicious purpose.

I waited with curiosity. Next day Lola, who with her woman's intuition had scented that something sinister was intended, expressed surprise to me that Mr. Lloyd was going to Spain.

We were walking together across the park beyond the lower gardens on our way to the village.

"Mr. Lloyd told me that he was going to Spain at father's suggestion," she said. "It seems to me rather strange that I should have been the means of bringing father and him together. I can't understand the reason of it all," she added, evidently much puzzled.

"Perhaps your father has some idea of transacting some lucrative business with him. Remember, he has a lot of financial interests in Spain."

"Ah! yes," replied the girl. "Of course. I never thought of that! Father has been to Madrid several times of late."

I feared to tell her what I suspected of the secret visit of that handsome Spanish woman, or of how we had been observed at the Unicorn at Ripon.

On that same day Duperre returned. He had been abroad, for when I met him at the station I noticed that his luggage bore fresh labels of the Palace Hotel, at Brussels, and some railway destinations. At ten o'clock that night, after Lola had retired to bed, I was called to consult with Rayne and Duperre, who were smoking together in the billiard-room. Duperre had evidently related to him the result of his mysterious journeyings, and Rayne seemed in an unusually good humor.

"Sit down, George, and listen," he said. "We have a little piece of important business to transact—something that will bring in big money. Duperre will explain."

Vincent turned, and looking at me through the haze of his cigarette-smoke, said:

"There's not much to explain, George. You have only to act on Rayne's instructions. The matter does not concern you as, after all, you're only a pawn in this merry little game which will do no harm to anyone——"

"Only to old Lloyd," I interrupted.

"To his pocket, perhaps," Duperre laughed.

"Frankly, you mean to rob him, as you have so many others."

Duperre frowned darkly, and exchanged angry glances with Rayne.

"I think that remark is entirely uncalled for," Rayne said resentfully. "You have thrown in your lot with us, as I have told you before, and with your eyes wide open have become one of my trusted assistants. As such you will receive my instructions—and act upon them without question. That is your position. And now," he added, turning to Duperre, "please explain."

Duperre laid down his cigarette-end in the tray, and said:

"Well, look here, George. What you must do is this. You will write to old Lloyd at the Reform Club to-morrow and tell him that you are leaving for Madrid on Tuesday week upon important business for our friend Rayne. You will suggest that he goes to the Ritz while you go to the Hotel de la Paix in the Puerta del Sol, as being less expensive. You, as Rayne's secretary, cannot afford to stay at the Ritz, you understand?"

"Then there is a specific reason why we should not stay at the same hotel, eh?" I asked.

Duperre hesitated, and then nodded.

"I may come out to Spain and join you in a few days after your arrival. At present I don't exactly know."

So, though full of resentment, I was compelled to the inevitable. Next day I wrote to the Reform Club, and in reply received a letter appointing to meet me at Charing Cross Station on the following Tuesday week.

Lola became even more inquisitive next day. Whether her father had inadvertently dropped a word in her presence I know not, but she had somehow become aware that I had received orders to travel with Mr. Lloyd to Spain.

What was intended? The "business" upon which I was being sent to Spain was some coup which Rayne's ever-active brain had carefully conceived. He had used his daughter's bright and winning manners in order to become friendly with the wealthy and somewhat mysterious old man whom I was to conduct to Spain.

Naturally I was evasive as usually. I loved her, it was true. She was all the world to me. And my love was, I believed, reciprocated, but how could I admit my shameful compact with her father? I was now a thief, having been drawn into that insidious plot which I described in the previous chapter of my reminiscences as a servant to the King of Crookdom.

So we walked pleasantly along to the white-headed old village clockmaker, who was grandson of a well-known man who had fashioned the little grandmother clocks which to-day are so rare—the pet timekeepers of our bewigged ancestors. The name of the old fellow's grandfather was on the list of famous makers of clocks in the days of George the Third, which you can find in any book upon old clocks.

On our walk back to the Hall we chatted merrily.

"I rather envy you your run out to Madrid," Lola laughed. "I wish I could go to Spain."

She was wearing a canary-colored jersey, stout boots, and carried a hefty ash stick, for she was essentially an out-of-door girl, though at night she could put on a short and flimsy dance frock and look the perfection of charm.

I took no notice of her remark, but purposely turned the conversation, and as we strolled back together we discussed a dance which was to be given two nights later by her friends the Fishers at Atherton Towers, about five miles distant.

On the morning appointed I met old Mr. Lloyd, who, to my surprise, had with him his niece, Miss Sylvia Andrews, a smart and pretty dark-haired girl of about twenty-five.

"At the last moment Sylvia wanted to come with me to see Spain," the old gentleman explained as we sat in the boat-train speeding towards Dover. "I managed yesterday to get an extra sleeping-berth in the Sud Express."

"I hope you will like Madrid, Miss Andrews," I said gallantly. "You will find life there very bright and gay—quite an experience."

"I'm greatly looking forward to it," she said. "I've read all about it, and though I've been in France and in Italy quite a lot, I've never been in Spain, though I've always longed to see it."

"I propose we break our journey at San Sebastian," said Mr. Lloyd. "I want to see the place, and the Casino which is making such a bid against the counter-attraction of Monte Carlo. What do you say?"

"I'm quite agreeable," I replied. "A couple of days' delay makes no difference to me. As long as I am in Madrid on the sixteenth it will be all right. I have to attend a directors' meeting on behalf of Mr. Rayne on that day."

"Good! uncle," cried the girl. "Then we'll break our journey at San Sebastian, eh?"

And so it was arranged.

Two days later we stepped from the dusty sleeping-car in which we had traveled from Paris, and soon found ourselves driving around a wide bay with calm sapphire sea and golden sands—the far-famed La Concha.

We remained for two days at that luxurious hotel the Continental, on the Paseo, and visited all the sights, including the Casino, where we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. Old Mr. Lloyd was an amusing companion, as I well knew, a man who seemed never tired notwithstanding his advanced age, while his niece was a particularly jolly girl who enjoyed every moment of her life.

Then we proceeded by the night express to Madrid.

Mr. Lloyd insisted that I should stay with them at the Ritz, but, compelled to obey Rayne's instructions, I was forced to excuse myself on the plea that two of Rayne's co-directors were to stay at the Hotel de la Paix, and Rayne had wished me to stay with them for certain business reasons.

With this explanation the old gentleman was satisfied, so when at last we arrived in the Spanish capital I saw them safely to the Ritz, then went on alone to the Puerta del Sol.

That night we dined together, and afterwards we went to the opera at the Teatro Real. Next day we met again, and on several days that followed. I took them to see the sights of the capital, the sights which everyone visits, the Armeria, the Academy, the Naval Museum, the street life of the Plaza Mayor and the Calle de Toledo, the afternoon promenades in the Retiro Park and the Paseo de Fernan Nunez.