In all they evinced the greatest interest. To both uncle and niece it presented fresh scenes such as neither had before seen, and I realized that old Mr. Lloyd had become brighter and far more cheerful than when with us at Overstow.

I had been at the Hotel de la Paix for about ten days, when on returning late one night from visiting with Miss Andrews the celebrated Verbena de la Paloma—the famous fair held in the Calle de la Paloma—I found, to my surprise, Duperre awaiting me.

I explained the situation, but when I mentioned the presence of old Lloyd's niece his countenance instantly fell.

"Why in the name of Fate did the old fool bring her here?" he exclaimed. "I thought he would come alone!"

"She's quite a nice girl," I remarked. "Full of high spirits and vitality."

But Duperre only grunted, and I saw by the expression of his face that he was far from pleased that the old man was not alone.

"I don't want to be introduced yet," he said. "At present, though we can meet here in the hotel, we must be strangers outside."

"And what is the game?" I demanded boldly, for we were together in my bedroom overlooking the great square and the door was locked.

"Nothing that concerns you, Hargreave," was his hard reply. "I know you're foolishly squeamish about some things. Well, in this affair just act as Rudolph orders and don't trouble about the consequences."

I realized that some evil was intended. Yet it was prevented by the presence there of Sylvia Andrews. What could it be?

Next day I met uncle and niece as usual, and we went for a motor ride together out to Aranjuez, where we saw the Palacio Real, and then on to Toledo where we visited the wonderful cathedral and the great Elcazar. I did not get back to the hotel till past ten o'clock that night, but I found Duperre anxious and perturbed. Why, I failed to understand, except that he seemed filled with annoyance that his plans had somehow gone awry.

Two days later when I called at the Ritz with the intention of accompanying Mr. Lloyd and his niece over the mountains to Valladolid, I found them both greatly excited.

"Sylvia had a telegram an hour ago recalling her to London as her mother is ill, and I am going with her. I cannot allow her to travel alone. We leave by the express at six o'clock this evening," Mr. Lloyd said. "I am so very sorry to depart so suddenly, Mr. Hargreave. We were both enjoying our visit so much," he added apologetically.

This surprised me until I returned to my hotel to luncheon, when Duperre, meeting me eagerly in the hall, asked:

"Well, is the girl going?"

"Yes," I said. "How do you know?"

He smiled meaningly, and I felt that in all probability the telegram recalling the girl had been sent at his instigation, as indeed I afterwards knew it had been. So cleverly had matters been arranged by the crooks that Mrs. Andrews was actually very unwell.

"Yes, she's off to-night—and the old man also," I said, glad that he was to get out of the mysterious danger that undoubtedly threatened him.

"What!" cried my companion, staggered. "Is the old fellow actually leaving also? At what time?"

"By the six o'clock train—the express to Irun," I replied.

He was thoughtful for a moment. Then he said abruptly in a thick voice:

"I don't want any lunch. I want to think. Come up to my room when you've had your meal," and then, turning on his heel, he ascended in the lift.

On going to his room after luncheon I found him standing by the window, with his hands in his pockets, looking blankly out upon the great square below.

Close by, upon the writing-table, was a small medicine phial and a camel-hair brush, together with several pieces of paper. It struck me that he had painted one of the pieces with some of the colorless liquid, for, having dried, it was now crinkled in the center.

"Look here, Hargreave," he said. "I want you to telephone to the girl Andrews and ask her to meet you this afternoon at four, say in the ladies' cafe in the Cafe Suzio, so that you can have tea together. When you've done that come back here."

I obeyed, in wonder at what was intended. Then when I returned, he said:

"Sit down and write a note to the old man, asking him to let you have his address so that you can collect any letters from the Ritz for him and forward them. He'll think it awfully kind of you. And enclose an envelope addressed to yourself; it will save him trouble."

This I did, taking paper and envelope from the rack in front of me. I was about to address the envelope to myself, when he said:

"That's too large, have this one! It will fit in the other envelope," and he took from the rack one of a smaller size which I used according to his suggestion.

"Now," he said, "you go and take the girl out and I'll see that this letter is delivered—and that you get an answer."

I met Sylvia, and we had quite a jolly tea together. Then, at five o'clock, I left her at the door of the Ritz, saying that I had sent a letter to her uncle asking for his address, and that knowing he would be very busy preparing to leave I would not come in.

On entering the Hotel de la Paix the concierge handed me two letters, one from old Mr. Lloyd in reply to my note and the other that had been left for me by Duperre.

"I have already left Madrid," he wrote briefly. "Whatever you hear, you know nothing, remember. Wait another week and then come home."

I was not long in hearing something, for within a quarter of an hour Sylvia rang me up asking me to come round at once to the Ritz.

In trepidation I took a taxi there and found old Mr. Lloyd in a state of unconsciousness, with a doctor at his side, Sylvia having found him lying on the floor of the sitting-room. The doctor told her that the old gentleman had apparently been seized by a stroke, but that he was very slowly recovering.

Sylvia, however, pointed out that his dispatch-box had been broken open and rifled. What had been taken she had no idea.

Inquiries made of the hotel staff proved that just after his niece had gone out a boy had arrived with a note requiring an answer, and had been shown up to Mr. Lloyd's room. The old gentleman wrote the answer, and the boy left with it. To whom the answer was addressed was not known.

The only person seen in the corridor afterwards was a guest who occupied a room close by, a Spaniard named Larroca.

I recollected the name. It was the man I had seen at the Unicorn at Ripon!

I made discreet inquiries, and discovered that Madame Martoz was living in the hotel.

The truth was plain. I longed to denounce them, but in fear I held my secret.

Old Mr. Lloyd hovered between life and death for a week, when at last he recovered, but to this day he cannot account for the mysterious seizure. I, however, know that it was due to a certain secret colorless liquid with which the gum upon the envelope I had addressed to myself had been painted over by Duperre. The old gentleman had licked it, and within five minutes he had fallen unconscious.

When he was sufficiently well to be shown his dispatch-box he grew frantic.

In it had been his cheque-book containing four signed cheques, as it was his habit to send weekly cheques to the woman who acted as housekeeper at his flat at Hove, which, by the way, he very seldom visited.

By some means Rayne had got to know of this, and by that clever ruse his accomplice got possession of the cheques, and ere the old man could wire to London to stop payment, all four had been cashed for large amounts without question.

Rayne and his friends netted nearly ten thousand pounds, but to this day old Mr. Lloyd entertains no suspicion.



CHAPTER XI

THE GENTLEMAN FROM ROME

I knew that my love for Lola was increasing, yet I did not know whether my affection was really reciprocated.

We were close friends, but that was all. I was seated with her in the pretty morning-room one day about a fortnight after my return from Madrid, when the footman entered with a card.

"Mr. Rayne is not in, sir. Will you see the gentleman?"

"Cav. Enrico Graniani—Roma," was the name upon the card.

"He's a stranger, sir. I've never seen him before," the servant added.

"I wonder who he is?" asked Lola, looking over my shoulder at the card. "Father doesn't somehow like strangers, does he?"

"No," I said. "But I'll see him. Show him into the library."

When a few moments later I entered the room I found a tall, elegant, well-dressed Italian who, addressing me in very fair English, said:

"I understand, signore, that Mr. Rayne is not in. I have come from Italy to see him, and I bring an introduction from a mutual friend. You are his secretary, I believe?"

I replied in the affirmative, and took the note which he handed me.

"I will give it to Mr. Rayne when he returns to-morrow," I promised him. "Where shall he write to in order to make an appointment?"

"I am at the Majestic Hotel at Harrogate," he answered. "I will await a letter—I thank you very much," and he departed.

Next afternoon when I gave Rayne the letter of introduction he became at once eager and somewhat excited.

"Ring up the Majestic," he said. "See if you can get hold of the Cavaliere, and tell him I will see him at any hour he likes to-morrow."

I could see that after reading the letter brought by the Italian, he was most eager to learn something further.

After two attempts I succeeded in speaking with the Cavaliere Graniani, and fixed an appointment for him to call on the following morning at half-past eleven.

What actually occurred during the interview I do not know.

Across the table at luncheon, Rayne suddenly asked me:

"You know Italy well—don't you, Hargreave?"

"I lived in the Val d'Arno for several years before the war," I replied. "My people rented a villa there."

Then, turning to Lola, he asked:

"Would you like to go for a trip to Italy with Madame and Hargreave?"

"Oh! It would be delightful, dad!" she cried. "Can we go? When?"

"Quite soon," he replied. "I want Hargreave to go on a mission for me—and you can both go with him. It would be a change for you all."

"Delightful!" exclaimed the well-preserved Madame Duperre. "Won't it be fun, Lola?"

"Ripping!" agreed the girl, turning her sparkling eyes to mine, while I myself expressed the greatest satisfaction at returning to the country I had learned to love so well.

That afternoon, as I sat with Rayne in the smoking-room, he explained to me the reason he wished me to go to Italy—to make certain secret inquiries, it seemed. But the motive he did not reveal.

At his orders I took a piece of paper upon which I made certain notes of names and places, of suspicions and facts which he wished me to ascertain and prove—curious and apparently mysterious facts.

"Lola and Madame will go with you in order to allay any suspicions," he added. "I place this matter entirely in your hands to act as you think fit."

A week later, with Lola and Madame, I left Charing Cross and duly arrived in the old marble-built city of Pisa, with its Leaning Tower and its magnificent cathedral, and while my companions stayed at the Hotel Victoria I went up the picturesque Valley of the Arno on the first stage of my quest.

At last, having climbed the steep hill among the olives and vines which leads from the station of Signa—that ancient little town of the long-ago Guelfs—I came to the old Convent of San Domenico, a row of big sun-blanched buildings with a church and crumbling tower set upon the conical hill which overlooked the red roofs of Florence deep below.

The ancient bell of the monastery clanged out the hour of evening prayer, as it had done for centuries, sounding loud and far through the dry, clear evening atmosphere.

Five minutes after ringing the clanging bell at the monastery door and being inspected by a brother through the small iron grill, I found myself with Fra Pacifico in his scrupulously clean narrow cell, with its truckle bed and its praying stool set before the crucifix, but on hearing hurried footsteps in the stone corridor outside I rose, and my strange friend exclaimed in Italian:

"No, Signor Hargreave! Remain seated. I am excused from attendance in the chapel. I had to meet you."

The narrow little cubicle was bare and whitewashed. Fra Pacifico, of the Capuchin Order, with his shaven head, his brown habit tied around the waist with a hempen rope, and his well-worn sandals, had long been my friend. Of his past I could never ascertain anything. He had called humbly upon my father when we first went to live at old-world Signa, years before, and he had asked his charity for the poor down in the Val d'Arno.

"You will always have beggars around you, signore," I remembered he said. "We up at the monastery keep open house for the needy—soup, bread, and other things—to all who come from eight to ten o'clock in the morning. If you grant us alms we will see that those who beg of you never go empty away. Send them to us."

My father saw instantly an easy way out of the great beggar problem, hence he promised him a fixed subscription each month, which Fra Pacifico regularly collected.

So though I had returned to live in London and afterwards played my part in the war, we had still been friends.

On my arrival at Pisa I had made an appointment to see him, and as we now sat together in his narrow cell, I questioned him whether, by mere chance, he had ever heard of a certain lady named Yolanda Romanelli. It was quite a chance shot of mine, but I knew that he came from the same district as the lady.

He was evasive. He had heard of her, he admitted, but would go no further.

His attitude concerning the lady I had mentioned filled me with curiosity.

In his coarse brown habit and hood he had always been a mystery to me. He was about forty-five years of age. He knew English, and spoke it as well as he did French, for, though a monk, he was a classical scholar and a keen student of modern science.

"Now, Fra Pacifico," I said, as I reseated myself. "I know you are cognizant of something concerning this lady, Yolanda Romanelli. What is it? Tell me."

Thus pressed, he rather reluctantly told me a strange story.

"Well!" I exclaimed at last when he had finished. "It is all really incredible. Are you quite certain of it?"

"Signor Hargreave, what I have told you is what I really believe to be true. That woman is in a high position, I know. She married the Marchese, but I am convinced that she is an adventuress—and more. She is a wicked woman! God forgive me for telling you this."

"But are you quite certain?" I repeated.

"Signore, I have told you what I know," he answered gravely, tapping his great horn snuff-box and taking a pinch, tobacco being forbidden him by the rules of his Order. "I have told you what I know—and also what I suspect. You can make whatever use of the knowledge you like. Yolanda Romanelli is a handsome woman—as you will see for yourself if you meet her," he added in a strange reflective voice.

"That means going down to Naples," I remarked.

"Yes, go there. Be watchful, and you will discover something in progress which will interest you. But be careful. As an enemy she is dangerous."

"But her husband, the Marquis? Does he know nothing?"

Fra Pacifico hitched up the rope around his waist and made an impetuous gesture.

"Poor fellow! He suspects nothing!"

"Well, Pacifico," I said, "do be frank with me. How do you know all this?"

"No," he replied. "There are certain things I cannot tell you—things which occurred in the past—before I took my vow and entered this place. I was once of your own world, Signor Hargreave. Now I am not. It is all of the past," he added in a hard, determined voice.

"You have been in London. I feel sure of it, Pacifico," I said, for by his conversation he had often betrayed knowledge of England, and more especially of London.

"Ah! I do not deny it," laughed the broad-faced, easy-going man, now again seated in his rush-bottomed chair. "I know your hotels in London—the Savoy, the Carlton, the Ritz, and the Berkeley. I've lunched and dined and supped at them all. I've shopped in Bond Street, and I've lost money at Ascot. Oh, yes!" he laughed. "I know your wonderful London! And now I have nothing in the world—not a soldo of my own. I am simply a Brother—and I am content," he said, with a strange look of peace and resignation.

We who live outside the high monastery walls can never understand the delightful, old-world peace that reigns within—that big family of whom the father is the fat Priore, always indulgent and kind to his grown-up children, yet so very severe upon any broken rule.

Fra Pacifico had that evening told me something which had placed me very much upon the alert. I had not been mistaken when I suspected that he might know something of the woman Yolanda Romanelli—the woman whom Rayne had sent me to inquire about—and I felt that I had done well to first inquire of my old friend. He had hinted certain things concerning the Marchesa, the gay leader of society in Rome, whose name was in the Tribuna almost daily, and whose husband possessed a fine old palazzo in the Corso, as well as an official residence in Naples, where, in addition to being one of the most popular men in Italy, he was Admiral of the Port.

"May I be forgiven for uttering those ill-words," exclaimed the monk, as though speaking to himself. "We are taught to forgive our enemies. But I cannot forgive her!"

"Why?" I asked.

"She has desecrated the house of God," he replied in a low tense voice.

Two hours later I was back with Lola and Madame Duperre at the Hotel Victoria at Pisa.

Coming from the lips of any other than those of Fra Pacifico I should have suspected that the Marchesa Romanelli had once done him some evil turn. Yet when a man renounces the world and enters the cloisters, he puts aside all jealousies and thought of injury, and lives a life of devotion and of strictest piety. Fra Pacifico was a man I much admired, and whose word I accepted without query.

Next day Lola was inquisitive as to my visit to the monastery, but I was compelled to keep my own counsel, and that evening we all three took the night express to Rome, arriving at the Grand at nine o'clock after a dusty and sleepless journey, for the wagons-lit which run over the Maremma marshes roll and rock until sleep becomes quite impossible.

With the Eternal City Lola was delighted, though it was out of the season and the deserted streets were like furnaces. Still, I was able to drive her out to see some of the antiquities which I had myself visited half a dozen times before.

My notes included the name of a man named Enrico Prati, who lived humbly in the Via d'Aranico, and one evening, two days after our arrival, I called upon him. Lola had been anxious that I should stay for a small dance in the hotel, but I had been compelled to plead business, for, as a matter of fact, I had become filled with curiosity regarding the mission of inquiry upon which I had been sent.

Prati kept a wine-shop, an obscure place which did not inspire confidence. He was a beetle-browed fellow, short, with deep-set furtive eyes, and he struck me as being a thief—or perhaps a receiver of stolen property. The atmosphere of the place seemed mysterious and forbidding.

I told him that I had come from "The Golden Face." At mention of the name he started and instantly became obsequious. By that I knew that he had some connection with the gang.

Then I demanded of him what he knew of the mysterious Marchesa Romanelli, adding that I had come from England to obtain the information which "The Golden Face" knew he could furnish.

I saw that I was dealing with a clever thief who carried on his criminal activities under the guise of a dealer of wines.

"Yes, signore," he said. "I know the Marchesa. She is a leader of smart society, both here and in Naples. During the war she spent a large sum of money in establishing her fine hospital out at Porta Milvio. She was foremost in arranging charity concerts, bazaars, and other things in aid of those blinded at the war. Could such a wealthy patriotic woman, whose husband is one of Italy's most famous admirals, possibly be anything other than honest and upright?"

His reply took me aback, until his sinister face broadened into a smile. Then I said:

"I admit that. But you know more than you have told me, Signor Prati," and then added: "Because the woman has risen to such high favor and her actions have always shown her to be intensely charitable, there is no reason why she should not be wearing a mask—eh?"

He only laughed, and, shrugging his shoulders, replied:

"Go to Naples and seek for yourself. The suspicions of 'The Golden Face' are well-grounded, I assure you."

So, unconvinced, I returned to the Grand Hotel full of wonder. I was not satisfied, so I determined to take Prati's advice and see for myself what manner of woman was this Marchesa. Fortunately, although it was out of the season, she was in Naples. Having two old friends there I went south with my companions two days later, and we installed ourselves at the Palace Hotel with its wonderful views across the bay. I had little difficulty in obtaining an introduction to the woman whom I sought. It took place one evening at the house of one of my friends, who was now a Deputy.

When she heard my name, I noticed that she started slightly, but I bowed over her hand in pretense of ignorance.

She expressed gratification at meeting me, and soon we were chatting pleasantly. She was a handsome woman of about forty-five, dark-haired and beautifully gowned. With her was her daughter Flavia, a pretty, dark-eyed girl of twenty or so, bright, vivacious, and very chic. The latter spoke English excellently, and told me that she had been at school for years at Cheltenham.



CHAPTER XII

THE SILVER SPIDER

That night, after a chat with Lola, I sat in my room at the palace and could not help recollecting how strangely the Marchesa had started when my name had been uttered.

Did she know of my connection with "The Golden Face"? If she did, then she might naturally suspect me and hold me at arm's length. Yet if she feared me, why should she have asked me, as well as Lola and Madame, to call at the Palazzo Romanelli?

I had thanked her, and accepted.

Therefore on Tuesday night, with Lola and Madame both smartly dressed, I went to the huge, old fifteenth-century palace, grim and prison-like because of its heavily barred windows of the days when every palazzo was a fortress, and within found it the acme of luxury and refinement, its great salons filled with priceless pictures and ancient statuary, and magnificent furniture of the Renaissance.

About thirty people were present, most of them the elite of Naples society, all the ladies being exquisitely dressed. My hostess expressed delight as I bowed and raised her hand to my lips, in Italian fashion, and then I introduced my two companions. A few moments after I found myself chatting with the pretty Flavia, who, to my annoyance, seemed to be very inquisitive concerning my movements.

As I stood gossiping with her, my eyes fell upon a little Florentine table of polished black marble inlaid with colored stones forming a basket of fruit, a marvel of Renaissance art, and upon it there stood a silver model of a gigantic tarantula, or spider, the body being about seven inches long by five broad, with eight long curved legs, most perfectly copied from nature.

Flavia noticed that I had seen it.

"That's our Silver Spider!" she laughed. "It's the ancient mascot of the Romanelli."

I walked over and examined it, but without, of course, taking it in my hand. Then I remarked upon its beautiful workmanship, and we turned away.

It was a gay informal assembly. Among the men there were several naval and military attaches from the Embassies, as well as one or two Deputies with their wives. Once or twice I had brief chats with the Marchesa, who, of course, was the center of her guests. One man, tall, with deep-set eyes and a well-trimmed black beard, seemed to pay her particular attention, and on discreet inquiry as to who he was, I discovered him to be the well-known banker, Pietro Zuccari, who represented Orvieto in the Chamber.

Now the reason of our visit to the Marchesa's was to see what manner of company she kept, but I detected nothing suspicious in any person in that chattering assembly. Yet I could not put away from myself what Fra Pacifico had told me in the silence of the cloisters of San Domenico.

Again I looked upon the handsome face of that gay society woman and wondered what secret could be hidden behind that happy, laughing countenance.

After leaving the Palazzo Romanelli that night I resolved to "fade out" and watch.

Now Admiral the Marquis Romanelli, who was in charge of the important port of Naples, had, during the late war, returned to his position as a high naval officer, and with all his patriotism as the head of a noble Roman house, had done his level best against the enemy until the proclamation of peace.

Wherever one went one heard loud praises of "Torquato," as he was affectionately called by his Christian name by the populace.

After due consideration I decided that we should move from Naples to the pretty little town of Salerno at the other end of the blue bay, and there at the Hotel d'Angleterre, facing the sapphire sea, I spent several delightful days with the girl I so passionately loved.

"I cannot see the reason for all this inquiry, Mr. Hargreave," she said one evening, as we were walking by the moonlit sea after we had dined and Madame had retired. "Why should father wish you to watch the Marchesa so narrowly? How can she concern him? They are strangers."

I was silent for a few seconds.

"Your father's business is a confidential one, no doubt. He has his own views, and I am, after all, his secretary and servant."

"I—I often wish you were not," the girl blurted forth.

"Why?" I asked in surprise.

"Oh! I don't really know. Sometimes I feel so horribly apprehensive. Madame is always so discreet and so mysterious. She will never tell me anything; and you—you, Mr. Hargreave, you are the same," she declared petulantly.

"I cannot, I regret, disclose to you facts of which I am ignorant," I protested. "I am just as much in the dark concerning the actual object of our mission here as you are."

"Do you think Madame knows anything of your mission here?" asked the girl.

"I don't expect so. Your father is a very close and secretive man concerning his own business."

"Ah! a mysterious business!" she exclaimed in a strange meaning voice. "Sometimes, Mr. Hargreave—sometimes I feel that it is not altogether an honest business."

"Many brilliant pieces of business savor of dishonesty," I remarked. "The successful business man cannot always, in these days of double-dealing chicanery and cut prices, act squarely, otherwise he is quickly left behind by his more shrewd competitors."

And then I thought it wise to turn the subject of our conversation.

Salerno is only thirty miles from Naples, therefore I often traveled to the latter place—indeed, almost daily.

In Italian they have an old saying, "A chi veglia tutto si rivela" ("To him who remains watchful everything becomes revealed"). That had long been my motto. With Lola and Madame Duperre I was in Italy in order to learn what I could concerning the woman whom Fra Pacifico had so bitterly denounced.

One warm afternoon when, without being seen, I was watching the Marchesa's pretty daughter Flavia who had strolled into the town, I saw her meet, close to the Cafe Ferrari, that tall, black-bearded, middle-aged banker Pietro Zuccari, whom I had seen at their palazzo. They walked as far as the Piazza San Ferdinando and entered the Gambrinus, where they sat at a little table eating ices, while he talked to her very confidentially. As I idled outside in a shabby suit and battered straw hat which I had bought, I saw this great Italian banker gesticulating and whispering into her ear.

The girl's attitude was that of a person absorbing all his arguments in order to repeat them, for she nodded slowly from time to time, though she uttered but few words; indeed, only now and then did she ask any question.

I could, of course, hear nothing. But what I was able to observe aroused my curiosity, for the meeting between the girl and the middle-aged banker was palpably a clandestine one.

On emerging, they parted, he walking in the direction of the railway station, while the girl strolled homeward. Was she carrying a message to her mother from the famous financier?

The excitement he had betrayed interested me. I noticed that he had once clenched his fist and brought it down heavily before her as they sat together.

For a whole month we remained at Salerno, and a delightful month it proved, for I had long chats and walks with Lola, and we became even greater and more intimate friends. Madame Duperre noticed it but said nothing.

I went each day to slouch and idle in Naples, to sit before cafes and eat my frugal meal at one or other of the osterie which abound in the city, or to take my aperatif at the liquoristi, Canevera's, Attila's, or the others'.

I confess that I was mystified why I should have been sent to watch that woman.

So clever, so well-thought-out and so insidious were all Rayne's methods to obtain information of the intentions and movements of certain people of wealth, that I knew from experience that there was some cleverly concealed scheme afoot which could only be carried out after certain accurate details had been obtained.

I was torn between two intentions, either to reappear suddenly as a passing traveler and call at the Palazzo Romanelli, or still to lie low.

Many times I discussed it with Lola and Madame.

"Zuccari is always with the Marchesa," I said one morning as we sat together at dejeuner at Salerno. "I can't quite make things out. I have been watching intently, yet I can discover nothing. He sent a message to her by Flavia the other day—an urgent and defiant message, I believe. I hear also that the Admiral goes to Rome to-night," I added. "He has been suddenly called to the Ministry of Marine."

"Then you will follow, of course? We will remain here to keep an eye upon the Marchesa," said Madame.

"You do not suspect the Admiral?" I asked.

"Not at all," she said. "It is the woman we have to watch."

"And also the pretty daughter?" I suggested.

With that she agreed. We were, however, faced by a strangely complex problem. Here was a woman—one of the most popular in all Italy—denounced by the humble monk of San Domenico as a dangerous adventuress. And yet she was the strongest supporter of the popular Pietro Zuccari—the wealthy man by whose efforts the finances of Italy had been reestablished after the war.

After a long conference it was arranged that Madame and Lola should go to Rome and there watch the Admiral's movements, while I remained in Naples ever on the alert.

Sometimes I became obsessed by the feeling that I was off the track. Once or twice I had received "ferma in posta"—confidential letters from Rudolph Rayne and also from Duperre. To these I replied to an unsuspicious address—a library in Knightsbridge.

By reason, however, of keeping observation upon the Palazzo Romanelli I gained considerable knowledge concerning those who came and went. I knew, for instance, that the pretty Flavia was in the habit of meeting in strictest secrecy a good-looking young lieutenant of artillery named Rinaldo Ricci. Indeed, they met almost daily. It struck me as more than curious that on the day after the Admiral had left hurriedly for Rome Zuccari should arrive from Bari, and having taken a room at the Excelsior Hotel, dine at the palazzo.

My vigil that night was a long one. I managed to creep up through the grounds and peer through the wooden shutters into the fine, well-furnished salon of the palazzo. It was unoccupied, but upon a table on the opposite side of the room stood the Silver Spider, the strange but exquisite mascot of the Romanelli. No doubt some legend was attached to it, just as there are legends to many family heirlooms.

That night I made a further discovery, namely, that when Zuccari left he returned to his hotel, where Flavia's secret lover had a long chat with him.

Next day a strange thing happened. While watching the Marchesa I saw her, about eleven o'clock in the morning, walking alone in the Corso Vittorio when she accidentally encountered the banker Zuccari. They passed each other as total strangers!

Why? There was some deep motive in that pretended ignorance of each other's identity. Could it be because they feared they were being watched? And yet was not Zuccari a frequent visitor at the Palazzo Romanelli, for it was there I had first met him? In any case, it was curious that Zuccari and young Rinaldo Ricci should be friends apparently unknown to either the Marchesa or to Flavia.

In order to probe the mystery I decided that it would be necessary to learn more of Zuccari's movements. Therefore, having watched him call at the Palazzo Romanelli, I waited for him to leave, and at ten o'clock that same night he suddenly departed from Naples for the north. I traveled by the same train. Arrived at Rome, the banker remained at the buffet about half an hour, when he joined the express train for Milan, and all through the day and the night I traveled, wondering what might be his destination.

On arrival at Milan, I kept observation upon him. From the chief telegraph office he dispatched a telegram and then drove to the Hotel Cavour, where he engaged a room. At once I telegraphed to Madame to bring Lola and join me at the Hotel de Milan. They arrived next day and I told them of my movements.

Three days later Zuccari left the Cavour and traveled to the frontier, little dreaming that he was being so closely followed. Madame and Lola went by the same train, but having discovered that he had bought a ticket for Zurich, I left by the train that followed.

On arrival at Zurich, I was not long in rejoining my companions, for we had a rendezvous at the Savoy, when I learnt that Zuccari was staying at the Dolder Hotel, up on the Zurichberg above the Lake.

"A man named Hauser is calling upon him this evening," Madame told me. "We must watch."

This we did. More respectably dressed than when in Naples, I was smoking my after-dinner cigar in the handsome hall of the Dolder Hotel when a tall, well-set-up man, whose fair hair and square jaw stamped him as German-Swiss, inquired of the hall porter for Signor Zuccari, and was at once shown up to the banker's private sitting-room, where they remained together for nearly an hour.

As I sat waiting impatiently below, I wondered what was happening.

I had already reported our movements to Rayne, who had, in a telegram, expressed great surprise that the Deputy should have left Italy and gone to Zurich—of all places.

Zuccari, on descending the stairs with his friend Hauser, confronted me face to face, but it was apparent that he did not recognize me. Hence I took courage and, later on, engaging a room, moved to the same hotel. Next morning I saw the banker meet the man Hauser a second time, and together they took a long walk on the outskirts of the town above the Lake.

From the concierge I extracted certain valuable information in exchange for the hundred-franc note I slipped into his hands. It seemed that the banker Zuccari frequently visited that hotel, and on every occasion the man Hauser came to Zurich to see him.

"They are conducting some crooked business—that is my belief, m'sieur!" the uniformed man told me in confidence.

"Why do you suspect that?" I asked quickly.

"Well," he said confidentially, "Isler, the commissary of police, who is now at Berne, once pointed him out to me and said he was a friend, and believed to be one of the accomplices, of Ferdinando Morosini, the notorious jewel-thief who was caught in Milan six months ago and sent to fifteen years at Gorgona."

At the mention of jewel theft I at once pricked up my ears.

"Then Hauser may be a receiver of stolen jewels, eh?" I whispered.

"I would not like to say that, m'sieur, but depend upon it he is a person to be gravely suspected. What business he has with the banker I cannot imagine."

I knew Morosini by repute. I had heard Rayne mention him, and no doubt he was a member of the gang who had blundered and fallen into the hands of the police. Was it in connection with this incident that I had been sent to Italy to make inquiries?

I told Madame when alone what I had discovered, whereat she smiled.

"I expect you have discovered the truth," she said. "We must let Rudolph know at once."

To telegraph was impossible, therefore I sat down and wrote a long letter, and then I waited inactive but anxious for a reply.

It came at last. He expressed himself fully satisfied, but urged me to continue my investigations regarding the handsome wife of the Marchese.

"Be careful how you act," he added. "If they suspected you of prying something disagreeable might happen to you."

I was not surprised at his warning, for I knew the character of some of the international crooks who were Rayne's "friends."

But surely the banker Zuccari could not be a crook? If he were, then he was a master-criminal like Rayne himself. If so, what was the motive of his close association with the Marchesa Romanelli? I had noticed when at the palazzo that he seemed infatuated with her, yet she no doubt little dreamed of his active association with such a person as Hauser.

It seemed quite plain that whatever the truth the Admiral had no suspicion of his wife.

Zuccari and Hauser still remained in Zurich, so, though I had arranged with Madame and Lola to return with them to Naples, I sent them back alone and remained to watch.

On the night of their departure I was tired and must have slept soundly after a heavy day, when I was suddenly awakened by a strong light flashed into my face, and at the same instant I saw a hand holding a silken cord which had been slowly slipped beneath my ear as I lay upon the pillow.

For a second I held my breath, but next moment I realized that I was being attacked, and that the cord being already round my neck with a slip-knot, those sinewy hands I had seen in the flash of light intended to strangle me.

My only chance was to keep cool. So I grunted in pretense of being only half-awake, and turning very slightly to my side, my hand slowly reached against my pillow. At any second the cord might be drawn tight when all chance of giving the alarm would be swept away from me. Yet my assailant was deliberate, apparently in order to make quite certain that the cord around my neck should effect its fatal purpose.

Of a sudden I grasped what I had against my pillow—a small rubber ball—and suddenly shooting out my hand in his direction, squeezed it.

A yell of excruciating pain rang through the hotel, and he sprang back, releasing his hold upon the cord.

Then next moment, when I switched on the light, I found the man Hauser dancing about my room, his face covered with his hands—blinded, and his countenance burnt by the dose of sulphuric acid I had, in self-defense, squirted full into it.

For defense against secret attack the rubber ball filled with acid Rayne always compelled me to carry, as being far preferable to revolver, knife or sword-cane. It is easily carried, easily concealed in the palm of the hand, makes no noise, and if used suddenly is entirely efficacious.

My assailant, blinded, shrieking with pain, and his face forever scarred, quickly disappeared to make what excuse he might. Later I found that he had previously tampered with the brass bolt of my door by removing the screws of the socket, enlarging the holes and embedding the screws in soft putty so that on turning the handle and pressing the door the socket gave way and fell noiselessly upon the carpet!

This attempt upon me at once proved that I was on the right scent, and according to Rayne's instructions I that day followed Madame and Lola back to Salerno.

On changing trains at the Central Station at Rome I bought a newspaper, and the first heading that met my eyes was one which told of a mysterious robbery of the wonderful pearls of the Princess di Acquanero.

With avidity I read that the young Princess, as noted for her beauty as for her jewels, the only daughter of the millionaire Italian shipowner Andrea Ottone, of Genoa, who had married the Prince a year ago, had been robbed of her famous string of pearls under most mysterious circumstances.

Two days before she had been staying at the great Castello di Antigniano, near Bari, where her uncle, the Baron Bertolini, had been entertaining a party of friends. On dressing for dinner she found that her jewel-case had been rifled and the pearls, worth twenty thousand pounds sterling, were missing!

"The police have a theory that the guilty person was introduced into the castello by one of the many servants," the report went on. "The thief, whoever it was, must, however, have had great difficulty in reaching the Princess' room, as the Baron, knowing that his lady guests bring valuable jewelry, always sets a watch upon the only staircase by which the ladies' rooms can be approached."

With the paper in my hand the train slowly drew out of Rome on its way south. My mind was filled with suspicion. I was wondering vaguely whether the Marchesa Romanelli had been among the guests, for I recollected those words of Fra Pacifico that "the woman had committed sacrilege in the House of God."

Could it be possible that he knew the Marchesa to be a thief who had stolen some valuable church plate from one or other of the ancient churches in Italy? If so, then, though the wife of the Admiral, she was also a thief.

On arrival at Salerno I took Madame aside, and telling her of my adventure with the man Hauser, I showed her the newspaper and declared my suspicions.

"It may be so," she said. "If she is so friendly with this banker whose past is quite obscure, it may be her hand which takes the stuff and passes it on to Zuccari, who in turn sells it to Hauser."

With that theory I agreed.

On the following day I took train into Naples, and that afternoon I called upon the Marchesa.

Fortunately I found her alone, and when I was shown into her salon I thought she looked rather wan and pale, but she greeted me affably and expressed delight that I should call before returning to England.

As we chatted she let drop, as I expected she would, the fact that she had been staying at the Castello di Antigniano.

"You've seen in the papers, I suppose, all about the pearls of the Princess di Acquanero?" she went on. "A most mysterious affair!"

I looked the pretty woman straight in the face, and replied:

"Not so very mysterious, Marchesa."

"Why not?" she asked, opening her big, black eyes widely.

"Not so mysterious if I may be permitted to look inside that ornament over there—the heirloom of the Romanelli—the Silver Spider," I said calmly.

"What do you mean?" she cried resentfully. "I don't understand you."

I smiled.

"Then let me be a little more explicit," I said. "Have you heard of a man named Hauser? Well, he made an attempt upon my life. Hence I am here this afternoon to see you. May I lift the body of the Silver Spider and look inside?"

"Certainly not!" she cried, facing me boldly.

"Then you fear me—eh?"

"I do not fear you. I don't know you!" she cried.

I laughed, and said:

"Then if not, why may I not be permitted to look inside your husband's family heirloom?"

She was silent for a moment. My question nonplussed her. I was, I confess, bitter because of the deliberate attempt to kill me.

"I will not allow any stranger to tamper with our Silver Spider!" she cried resentfully.

"Very well. Then I shall take my own course, and I shall inform your husband that you stole the Princess's pearls, that your banker friend acts as intermediary in your clever thefts, and that Hauser disposes of the jewels in Amsterdam."

"I—I——" she gasped.

"I know everything," I said, while she looked around bewildered. "I know that you are playing a crooked game even with those who played straight with you before your marriage to the Marchese. He is in ignorance of your past. But I know it. Listen!" and I paused and looked straight into her eyes.

"You were a widow with a young daughter before you married the Marchese. That was nine years ago. To him you passed yourself off as the widow of an Italian advocate named Terroni, of Perugia; but you were not. You are Austrian. Your name is Frieda Hoheisel, and you were an adventuress and a thief! You married a certain man who is to-day in a monastery at Signa in the Val d'Arno, and though you pose as the loving wife of one of Italy's premier admirals, you are a noted jewel-thief, and commit these robberies in order to supply your bogus banker friend Zuccari with funds. Now," I added, "I will take the Princess's necklace from the Silver Spider and you will, in my presence, pack it up and address it to her. I will post it."

"Never! I risked too much to get it!" she cried, her face aflame.

"Very well. Then within an hour your husband and the police will know the truth. Remember, I have been suspected of making inquiries by your friends and have very nearly lost my life in consequence."

"But—oh! I can't——"

"You shall, woman!" I thundered. "You shall give back those stolen pearls!"

And crossing to the table whereon stood the Silver Spider, I opened it, and there within reposed the pearls in a place that nobody would suspect.

I stood over her while she packed them into a common cardboard box and addressed them to the Princess in Rome. At first she demurred about her handwriting, but I insisted. I intended her to take the risk—just as I had taken a risk.

And, further, I compelled her to order her car, and we drove to the General Post Office in Naples, where I saw that she registered the valuable packet.

The anonymous return of the pearls was a nine days' wonder throughout Italy; but the Marchesa never knew how I had obtained my information, and never dreamed that I had come to her upon a mission of inquiry from the one person in all the world whom she feared, the man in whose clutches she had been for years—the mysterious "Golden Face."

When, with Lola and Madame, I returned home a week later and explained the whole of my adventures, Rayne sat for a few moments silent. Then, as I looked, I saw vengeance written upon his face.

"I suspected that she was playing me false, and selling stuff in secret through that fellow Zuccari! She is carrying on the business by herself. I now have proof of it—and I shall take my own steps! You will see!"

He did—and a month later the Marchesa Romanelli was arrested and sent to prison for the theft of a pair of diamond earrings belonging to a fellow-guest staying at one of the great palaces of Florence.

It was a scandal that Italy is not likely to easily forget.



CHAPTER XIII

ABDUL HAMID'S JEWELS

Rudolph Rayne, though the ruler of aristocratic Crookdom, was sometimes most sympathetic and generous towards lovers.

The following well illustrates his strange abnormal personality and complex nature:

One night I chanced to enter his bedroom at Half Moon Street, when I found him looking critically through a quantity of the most magnificent sparkling gems my eyes had ever seen. Some were set as pendants, brooches, and earrings, while others—great rubies and emeralds of immense value—were uncut.

As I entered he put his hands over them in distinct annoyance. Then, a few seconds later, removed them, saying with a queer laugh:

"A nice little lot this, eh? One of the very finest collections I've seen."

On the table lay a pair of jewelers' tweezers and a magnifying glass, therefore it was apparent that, as a connoisseur of gems, he had been estimating their value.

"By Jove!" I exclaimed. "They certainly are magnificent! Whose are they?"

"They once belonged to the dead Sultan Abdul Hamid of Turkey," he replied; "but at present they belong to me!" He laughed grimly.

Inwardly I wondered by what means the priceless gems had fallen into his hands. He read my thoughts at once, for he said:

"You are curious, of course, as to how I became possessed of them. Naturally. Well, Hargreave, it's a very funny story and concerns a real good fellow and, incidentally, a very pretty girl. Take a cigar, sit down, and I'll tell you frankly all about it—only, of course, not a word of the facts will ever pass your lips—not to Lola, or to anybody else. Your lips are sealed."

"I promise," I said, selecting one of his choice cigars and lighting it, my curiosity aroused.

"Then listen," he said, "and I'll tell you the whole facts, as far as I've been able to gather them."

What he recounted was certainly romantic, though a little involved, for he was not a very good raconteur. However, in setting down this curious story—a story which shows that he was not altogether bad, and was a sportsman after all—I have rearranged his words in narrative form, so that readers of these curious adventures may fully understand.

* * * * *

"How horribly glum you are to-night, dear! What's the matter? Are you sad that we should meet here—in Paris?" asked a pretty girl.

"Glum!" echoed the smooth-haired young man in the perfectly fitting dinner-jacket and black tie. "I really didn't know that I looked glum," and then, straightening himself, he looked across the table a deux in the gay Restaurant Volnay at the handsome, dark-haired, exquisitely dressed girl who sat before him with her elbows on the table.

"Yes, you really are jolly glum, my dear Old Thing. You looked a moment ago as serious as though you were going to a funeral," declared the girl. "The war is over, you are prospering immensely—so what on earth causes you to worry?"

"I'm not worrying, dearest, I assure you," he replied with a forced smile, but her keen woman's intuition told her that her lover was not himself, and that his mind was full of some very keen anxiety.

Charles Otley had taken her to a most amusing play at the Palais-Royal, a comedy which had kept the house in roars of laughter all the evening, and now, as they sat at supper, she saw that his spirits had fallen to a very low ebb. This puzzled her greatly.

Peggy Urquhart, daughter of Sir Polworth Urquhart, of the Colonial Service, who until the Armistice had held a high official appointment at Hong Kong, was one of the smartest and prettiest young women in London Society. She was twenty-two, a thorough-going out-of-door girl who looked slightly older than she really was. Her father had retired as soon as war was over, and they had come to England. By reason of her mother being the daughter of the Earl of Carringford, she had soon found herself a popular figure in a mad, go-ahead post-war set.

She had known Charlie Otley soon after she had left Roedene—long before they had gone out to Hong Kong—and now they were back they were lovers in secret.

Charlie, who had been a motor engineer before he "joined up" in the war and got his D.S.O. and his rank as captain, had done splendidly. On being demobilized he had returned to his old profession, taking the managership of a very well-known Bond Street firm.

The directors, finding in Otley a man who knew his business, whose persuasive powers induced many persons to purchase cars, and whose fearless tests at Brooklands were paragraphed in the daily newspapers, treated him most generously and left everything, even many of their financial affairs, in his hands.

Lady Urquhart was, however, an ambitious woman. She inherited all the exclusiveness of the Carringfords, and she was actively scheming to marry Peggy to Cis Eastwood, the heir to the estates of old Lord Drumone. It was the old story of the ambitious mother. Peggy knew this, and, smiling within herself, had pledged her love to Charlie. Hence, with the latitude allowed to a girl nowadays, she went about a good deal with him in London—to the Embassy, the Grafton, the Diplomats, and several of the smartest dance-clubs, of which both were members.

Though Otley was often at her house in Mount Street, and frequently met Lord Drumone's fair-haired and rather effeminate son there, Peggy's mother never dreamed they were in love. Both were extremely careful to conceal it, and in their efforts they had been successful.

The orchestra was at the moment playing that plaintive Hungarian gypsy air, Bela's Valse Banffy, that sweet, weird song of the Tziganes which one hears everywhere along the Danube from Vienna to Belgrade.

"Look here, Charlie," said the girl, much perturbed at what she had recognized in his handsome countenance. "Tell me, Old Thing, what's the matter?"

"Matter—why, nothing!" he replied, laughing. "I was only thinking." And he looked around upon the smart crowd of Parisians who were laughing and chatting.

"Of what?"

He hesitated for a second. In that hesitation the girl who loved him so fondly, and who preferred him to old Drumone's son and a title, realized that he had some heavy weight upon his mind, and quickly she resolved to learn it, and try to bear the burden with him.

Since her return from China, with all its Asiatic mysteries, its amusements, and its quaint Eastern life, she had had what she declared to be a "topping" time in London. Her beauty was remarked everywhere and her sweet charm of manner appealed to all. Her mother, who had returned from her exile in the Far East, went everywhere, while her father, a hard, austere Colonial official who had browsed upon reports, and regarded all natives of any nationality or culture as mere "blacks," was one of those men who had never been able to assimilate his own views with those of the nation to which he had been sent as British representative. He was a hide-bound official, a man who despised any colored race, and treated all natives with stern and unrelenting hand. Indeed, the Colonial Office had discovered him to be a square peg in a round hole, and at Whitehall they were relieved when he went into honorable retirement.

"Do tell me what's the matter, dear," whispered the girl across the table, hoping that the pair seated near them did not know English.

"The matter! Why, nothing," again laughed the handsome young man. "Have a liqueur," and he ordered two from the waiter. "I can't think what you've got into your head to-night regarding me, Peggy. I was only reflecting for a few seconds—on some business."

"Grave business—it seems."

"Not at all. But we men who have to earn our living by business have to think overnight what we are to do on the morrow," he said airily, as he handed his cigarette-case to her and then lit the one she took.

"But Charlie—I'm certain there's something—something you are concealing from me."

"I conceal nothing from you, dearest," he answered, looking across the little table straight into her fine dark eyes. Then again he bent towards her and whispered very seriously: "Do you really love me, Peggy?"

In his glance was a tense eager expression, yet upon his face was written a mystery she could not fathom.

"Why do you ask, dear?" she said. "Have I not told you so a hundred times. What I have said, I mean."

"You really mean—you really mean that you love me—eh?" he whispered in deep earnestness as he still bent to her over the table, his eyes fixed on hers. And he drew a long breath.

"Yes," she answered. "But why do you ask the question in that tone? How tragic you seem!"

"Because," and he sighed, "because your answer lifts a great weight from my mind." Then, after a pause, he added: "Yet—yet, I wonder——"

"Wonder what?"

"Nothing," he answered. "I was only wondering."

"But you really are tantalizing to-night, my dear boy," she said. "I don't understand you at all."

"Ah! you will before long. Let's go out into the lounge," he suggested. "It's growing late."

So, having drained their two glasses of triple sec, they passed out into the big palm-lounge, which is so popular with the Parisians after the play.

Peggy and her parents had come to Paris in mid-December to do some shopping. Before she had been exiled to China, Lady Urquhart's habit was to go to Paris twice each year to buy her hats and gowns, for she was always elegantly dressed, and she took care that her daughter should dress equally well.

Indeed, the gown worn by Peggy that night was one of Worth's latest creations, and her cloak was an expensive one of the newest mode. They were staying at the Continental when Charlie, who had some business in Paris on behalf of his firm, had run over for three days really to meet in secret the girl he loved. That night Peggy had excused herself to her mother, saying that she was going out to Neuilly to dine with an old schoolfellow—a little matter she had arranged with the latter—but instead, she had met Charlie at Voisin's, and they had been to the theater together.

Peggy, amid the exuberant atmosphere of Paris with its lights, movement and gaiety—the old Paris just as it was before the war—naturally expected her lover to be gay and irresponsible as she herself felt. Instead, he seemed gloomy and apprehensive. Therefore the girl was disappointed. She thought a good deal, but said little.

Though the distance between the Volnay and the Rue de Rivoli was not great, Charlie ordered a taxi, and on the way she sat locked in his strong arms, her lips smothered with his hot, passionate kisses, until they parted.

Little did she dream, however, the bitterness in her lover's heart.

Next morning at eleven o'clock, as Peggy was coming up the Avenue de l'Opera, she passed the Brasserie de la Paix, that popular cafe on the left-hand side of the broad thoroughfare, the place where the Parisian gets such exquisite dishes at fair prices. Charlie was seated in the window, as they had arranged, and on seeing her, he dashed out and joined her.

"Well?" she asked. "How are you to-day? Not so awfully gloomy, I hope."

"Not at all, dearest," he laughed, for his old nonchalance had returned to him. "I've been full of business since nine o'clock. I have an appointment out at La Muette at two, and I'll have to get back to London to-night."

"To-night!" she echoed disappointedly. "We don't return till next Tuesday."

"I have to be back to see my people about some cars that can't be delivered for another six weeks. There's a beastly hitch about delivery."

"Well," said the girl, as they walked side by side in the cold, bright morning. The winter mornings are always bright and clearer in Paris than in London. "Well, I have some news for you, dear."

"What news?" he asked.

"Lady Teesdale has asked us up to Hawstead, her place in Yorkshire. In her letter to mother this morning she mentions that she is also asking you."

"Me?"

"Yes. And, of course, you'll accept. Won't it be ripping? The Teesdales have a lovely old place—oak-paneled, ghost-haunted, and all that sort of thing. We've been there twice. The Teesdales' shooting-parties are famed for their fun and merriment."

"I know Lady Teesdale," Otley said. "But I wonder why she has asked me?"

"Don't wonder, dear boy—but accept and come. We'll have a real jolly time."

And then they turned into the Boulevard des Italiens and idled before some of the shops.

At noon she was compelled to leave him and return to her mother. He put her into a taxi outside the Grand Hotel, and then they parted.

Before doing so, the girl said:

"What about next Wednesday? Shall we meet?"

"Yes," he replied.

"Very well," she exclaimed. "Wednesday at six—eh? I'll come up to your rooms. We can talk there. I don't like to see you so worried, dear. There's something you're concealing from me, I'm sure of it."

Then he bent over her hand in a fashion more courtly than the "Cheerio!" of to-day, and standing on the curb watched the taxi speed down the Rue de la Paix.

"Ah!" he murmured aloud, drawing a deep sigh. "Ah! If she only knew!—if she only knew!"

He strode along the boulevard caring nothing where his footsteps led him. The gay, elegant, careless crowd of Paris passed, but he had no eyes for it all.

"Shall I tell her?" he went on aloud to himself. "Or shall I fade out, and let her learn the worst after I'm gone? Yet would not that be a coward's action? And I'm no coward. I went through the war—that hell at Vimy, and I did my best for King and Country. Now, when love happens and all that life means to a man is just within my grasp, I have to retire to ignominy or death. I prefer the latter."

Next morning he stepped from the train at Victoria and drove to his rooms in Bennett Street, St. James's. He was still obsessed by those same thoughts which had prevented him from sleeping for the past week. His man, Sanford, who had been his batman in France, met him with a cheery smile, and after a bath and a shave he went round to his business in Bond Street.

He was of good birth and had graduated at Brasenose. His father had been a well-known official at the Foreign Office in the days of King Edward and had died after a short retirement. In his life Charlie had done his best, and had distinguished himself not only in his Army career, but in that of the world of motoring, where his name was as well known as any of the fearless drivers at Brooklands.

Otley was, indeed, a real good fellow, whose personality dominated those with whom he did business, and the many cars, from Fords to Rolls, which he sold for the profit of his directors paid tribute to his easy-going merriment and his slim, well-set-up appearance. Those who met him in that showroom in Bond Street never dreamed of the alert leather-coated and helmeted figure who tore round the rough track at Brooklands testing cars, and so often rising up that steep cemented slope, the test of great speed.

At six o'clock on the Wednesday evening he stood in his cosy room in Bennett Street awaiting Peggy. At last there was a ring at the outer door, and Sanford showed her in.

She entered merrily, bringing with her a whiff of the latest Paris perfume, and grasping his hand, cried:

"Well, are you feeling any happier?"

"Happier!" he echoed. "Why, of course!"

"And have you had Lady Teesdale's letter?"

"Yes. And I've accepted."

"Good. We'll have a real good time. But the worst of it is Cis has been asked too!"

"I suppose your mother engineered that?"

"I don't think so. You see, he's Lady Teesdale's nephew. And it's a big family party. Old Mr. Bainbridge, the steel king of Sheffield, and his wife are to be there. She is a fat, rather coarse woman who has wonderful jewels. They say that old Bainbridge gave eighty thousand pounds for a unique string of stones, emeralds, diamonds, rubies and sapphires which belonged to the old Sultan of Turkey, Abdul Hamid, and which were sold in Paris six months ago."

"Yes. I've always heard that the old fellow has money to burn. Wish I had!"

"So do I, Charlie. But, after all, money isn't everything. What shall we do to-night?"

"Let's dance later on—shall we?" he suggested, and she consented readily.

They sat by the fire together for half an hour chatting, while she told him of her doings in Paris after he had left. Then she rose and made an inspection of his bachelor room, examining his photographs, as was her habit. Ten years ago a girl would hesitate to go to a bachelor's room, but not so to-day when women can venture wherever men can go.

On that same afternoon Sir Polworth Urquhart, returning home to Mount Street at six o'clock, found among his letters on the study table a thin one which bore a Hong Kong stamp. The superscription was, he saw, in a native hand. He hated the sly Chinese and all their ways.

On tearing it open he found within a slip of rice-paper on which some Chinese characters had been traced. He looked at them for a few seconds and then translated them aloud to himself:

"Tai-K'an has not forgotten the great English mandarin!"

"Curse Tai-K'an!" growled Sir Polworth under his breath. "After ten years I thought he had forgotten. But those Orientals are slim folk. I hope his memory is a pleasant one," he added grimly as he rose and placed the envelope and the paper in the fire.

"A very curious message," he reflected as he passed back to his writing-table. "It's a threat—because of that last sign. I remember seeing that sign before and being told that it was the sign of vengeance of the Tchan-Yan, the secret society of the Yellow Riband. But, bah! what need I care? I'm not in China now—thank Heaven!"

As he seated himself to answer his correspondence, however, a curious drama rose before his eyes. One day, ten years ago, while acting as Deputy-Governor, he had had before him a criminal case in which a young Chinese girl was alleged to have caused her lover's death by poison. The girl was the daughter of a small merchant named Tai-K'an, who sold all his possessions in order to pay for the girl's defense.

The case was a flimsy one from the start, but in the native court where it was heard there was much bribery by the friends of the dead lover. Notwithstanding the fact that Tai-K'an devoted the whole of his possessions to his daughter's defense, and that strong proof of guilt fell upon a young Chinaman who was jealous of the dead man, the poor girl was convicted of murder.

Sir Polworth remembered all the circumstances well. At the time he did not believe in the girl's guilt, but the court had decided it so, therefore why should he worry his official mind over the affairs of mere natives? The day came—he recollected it well—when the sentence of death was put before him for confirmation. Tai-K'an himself, a youngish man, came to his house to beg the clemency of the great British mandarin. With him was his wife and the brother of the murdered man. All three begged upon their knees that the girl should be released because she was innocent. But he only shook his head, and with callous heartlessness signed the death-sentence and ordered them to be shown out.

The girl's father then drew himself up and, with the fire of hatred in his slant black eyes, exclaimed in very good English:

"You have sent my daughter to her death though she is innocent! You have a daughter, Sir Polworth Urquhart. The vengeance of Tai-K'an will fall upon her. Remember my words! May the Great Meng place his curse upon you and yours for ever!" And the trio left the Deputy-Governor's room.

That was nearly ten years ago.

He paced the room, for his reflections even now were uneasy ones. He remembered how the facts were placed before the Colonial Office and how the sentence of death was commuted to one of imprisonment. For five years she remained in jail, until the real assassin committed suicide after writing a confession.

Yet like all Chinese, Tai-K'an evidently nursed his grievance, and time had not dulled the bitterness of his hatred.

But the offensive Chinaman was in Hong Kong—therefore what mattered, Sir Polworth thought. So he seated himself and wrote his letters.



CHAPTER XIV

THE VENGEANCE OF TAI-K'AN

At that moment Lola, who was shopping in London, entered and her father cut off quickly.

The girl glanced at me and smiled. Then she asked some question regarding the purchase of some cutlery, and on her father replying she left the flat.

After she had gone, he resumed the narrative, which was certainly of deep interest, as you will see.

He went on:

In the first week in January, a gay house-party assembled at Hawstead Park, Lord Teesdale's fine old Elizabethan seat a few miles from Malton, not very far from Overstow. The shooting-parties at Hawstead were well known for their happy enjoyment. They were talked about in the drawing-rooms of Yorkshire and clubs in town each year, for Lady Teesdale was one of the most popular of hostesses and delighted in surrounding herself with young people.

So it was that Charlie Otley, on his arrival, met Peggy in the big paneled hall, and by her side stood young Eastwood, the fair-haired effeminate son of Lord Drumone. The party assembled at tea consisted of some twenty guests, most of them young. After dinner that night there was, of course, dancing upon the fine polished floor.

Before Lady Urquhart, Otley was compelled to exercise a good deal of caution, allowing young Eastwood to dance attendance upon Peggy while he, in turn, spent a good deal of time with Maud Bainbridge, the rather angular daughter of the steel magnate. Towards Mrs. Bainbridge and his hostess Charlie was most attentive, but all the time he was watching Peggy with the elegant young idler to whom Lady Urquhart hoped to marry her.

Now and then Peggy would glance across the room meaningly, but he never once asked her to dance, so determined was he that her mother should not suspect the true state of affairs. His position, however, was not a very pleasant one, therefore part of the time he spent in the great old smoking-room with his host, Sir Polworth, and several other guests, some of them being women, for nowadays the ladies of a country house-party invariably invade the room which formerly was sacred to the men.

When the dance had ended and the guests were about to retire, Otley managed to whisper a word to the girl he loved. He made an appointment to meet her at a secluded spot in the park near the lodge on the following morning at eleven.

She kept the appointment, and when they met she stood for a few moments clasped in her lover's arms.

"I had such awful difficulty to get away from Cecil," she said, laughing. She looked a sweet attractive figure in her short tweed skirt, strong country shoes and furs. "He wanted to go for a walk with me. So I slipped out and left him guessing."

Her companion remained silent.

A few moments later they turned along a path which led to a stile, and thence through a thick wood of leafless oaks and beeches. Along the winding path carpeted with dead leaves they strolled hand-in-hand, until suddenly Otley halted, and in a thick hoarse voice quite unusual to him, said:

"Peggy. I—I have something to say to you. I—I have to go back to London."

"To London—why?" gasped the girl in dismay.

"Because—well, because I can't bear to be here with the glaring truth ever before me—that I——"

"What do you mean?" she asked, laying her hand upon his arm.

"I mean, dearest," he said in a low, hard voice, "I mean that we can never marry. There is a barrier between us—a barrier of disgrace!"

"Of disgrace!" she gasped. "Oh! do explain, dear."

"The explanation is quite simple," he replied in a tone of despair. "You asked me in Paris what worried me. Well, Peggy, I'll confess to you," he went on, lowering his voice, his eyes downcast. "I am not worthy your love, and I here renounce it, for—for I am a thief!"

"A thief!" she echoed. "How?"

"I've been hard up of late, and at the motor show I sold three cars, for which I have not accounted to the firm. The books will be audited next week and my defalcations discovered. I have no means of repaying the four thousand five hundred pounds, and therefore I shall be arrested and sent to prison as a common thief. That's briefly the position!"

The girl was speechless at such staggering revelations. Charlie—a thief! It seemed incredible.

"But have you no means whatever of raising the money?" she asked at last, her face pale, while the gloved hand that lay upon his arm trembled.

"None. I've tried all my friends, but money is so difficult to raise nowadays. No, Peggy," he added with suppressed emotion, "let me go my own way—and try to forget me. Now that I am in disgrace it is only right that I should make a clean breast of it to you, and then you alone will understand why I have made excuse to Lady Teesdale and left."

"Oh, you mustn't do that, dear," she urged. "Stay over the week-end! Something will turn up. Do please me by staying."

"I feel that I really can't," he answered. "I'm an outsider to have thus brought unhappiness on you, but it is my fault. I am alone to blame. You must have your freedom and forget me. I took the money to pay a debt of honor, thinking that I could repay it by borrowing elsewhere. But I find I can't, therefore I must face the music next week. Even if I ran away I should soon be found and arrested."

"Poor boy!" sighed the girl, stroking his cheek tenderly, while in her eyes showed the light of unshed tears. "Don't worry. Stay here with me—at least till Monday."

But he shook his head sadly.

"I couldn't bear it, my darling," he answered in a low voice. "How can I possibly enjoy dancing and fun when I know that in a few days I shall go to prison in disgrace. My firm are not the kind of people to let me off."

"Four thousand five hundred!" the girl repeated as though to herself.

"Yes. And I haven't the slightest prospect of getting it anywhere. If I could only borrow it I could sail along into smooth waters again. But that is quite out of the question."

Peggy remained silent for a few moments. Then, of a sudden, she looked straight into her lover's eyes, and taking his hand in hers said:

"Poor dear! What can I do to help you?"

"Nothing," was his low reply. "Only—only forget me. That's all. You can't marry a man who's been to prison."

Again a silence fell between them, while the dead leaves whirled along the path.

"But you will stay here over the week-end, won't you, dear?" she urged. "I ask you to do so. Do not refuse me—will you?"

He tried to excuse himself. But she clung to him and kissed him, declaring that at least they might spend the week-end together before he left to face the worst.

Her lover endeavored to point out the impossibility of their marriage, but she remained inexorable.

"I still love you, Charlie—even though you are in such dire straits. And I do not intend that you shall go back to London to brood over your misfortune. Keep a stout heart, dear, and something may turn up after all," she added, as they turned and went slowly back over the rustling leaves towards the park.

He now realized that she loved him with a strong and fervent affection, even though he had confessed to her his offense. And that knowledge caused his burden of apprehension the harder to bear.

That night there were, after the day's shooting, merry junketings at Hawstead, and Charles Otley bore himself bravely though his heart was heavy. Ever and anon when Peggy had opportunity she whispered cheering words to him, words that encouraged him, though none of the gay party dreamed that they were chatting and dancing with a man who would in a few days stand in a criminal dock.

Next day was Sunday. The whole house-party attended the village church in the morning, and in the afternoon the guests split up and went for walks.

Soon after dinner Otley, whose seat had been between the steel magnate's wife and her daughter, went outside on the veranda alone. He was in no mood for bridge and preferred a breath of air outside. As he let himself out by one of the French windows of the small drawing-room in the farther wing of the house, a dark figure brushed past him swiftly, and next second had vaulted over the ironwork of the veranda and was lost in the dark bushes beyond.

As the stranger had paused to leap from the veranda, a ray of light from the window had caught his countenance. It was only for one brief second, yet Charlie had felt convinced that the countenance was that of a Chinaman. Besides the stealthy cat-like movement of the man was that of an Oriental. Yet what could a Chinaman be doing about that house?

He was half inclined to tell his host, yet on reflecting, he thought the probability was that it was some stranger who, attracted by the music and laughter within, had been trying to get a glimpse of the gay party.

That night, as the auction bridge proceeded, Otley withdrew from it and went to his room, where he sat down and wrote two notes—one to Peggy and the other to his hostess. In the latter he apologized that he had been suddenly recalled to London on some very urgent business, and that he would leave Malton by the first train in the morning.

The note to Peggy he placed in his pocket, and returning to the room where they were now dancing, found her in a flimsy cream gown, sleeveless and cut low—a dress that suited her to perfection—dancing with apparent merriment with young Eastwood, though he knew that her heart was sad. But her face was flushed by excitement, and she was entering thoroughly into the country-house gayety. Presently, however, he was able to slip the note into her hand and whisper a good-by.

"I shall be in London on Tuesday and will call at Bennett Street in the evening. We will then talk it all over, dear. Don't despair—for my sake—don't despair!" she said.

And compelled to slip back to the ballroom, she crushed the note into her corsage.

Early next morning a car took Charlie to the station, and soon after luncheon he reentered his rooms. The day was Monday, wet and dreary. All hope had left him, for his defalcations must be discovered and the directors would, without a doubt, prosecute him. Hence he went about London interested in nothing and obsessed by the terrible disgrace which must inevitably befall him.

On the evening of his sudden departure from Hawstead, at about half-past six, the house-party was thrown into a state of great concern by the amazing announcement that Mrs. Bainbridge had lost her jewels—the unique string of precious stones which had once belonged to the late Sultan Abdul Hamid! Mrs. Bainbridge's maid discovered the loss when her mistress went to dress for dinner.

She declared that on the previous evening she had placed them out upon a little polished table set against the heavy red-plush curtains and close to the dressing-table. She believed that her mistress had worn them upon her corsage on the Sunday night, and that on retiring she had locked them in her jewel-box. On the contrary, Mrs. Bainbridge did not wear them, a fact to which everyone testified. The millionaire's wife had left the Sultan's famous jewels upon the little polished table when she descended for dinner on Sunday night, and naturally concluded that her maid—who had been with her over twelve years—would see them and place them in safety.

Suspicion instantly fell upon Charles Otley. Old Mr. Bainbridge was, of course, furious, whereupon Lord Teesdale took it upon himself to go at once to London to see Otley.

This he did, and when that afternoon Sanford showed his lordship unexpectedly into the room, the young man stood aghast at the news.

"Tell me, Otley—if you know nothing of this affair—why, then, did you leave Hawstead so suddenly?" he demanded.

"Because I had business here in town," was his reply. Instantly across his mind flashed the recollection of the incident of the fleeting figure which he believed to be that of an Oriental. He related to his late host the exact facts. But Lord Teesdale listened quite unimpressed. As a matter of fact, he felt, in his own mind, that the young fellow was the thief.

The story of the Chinaman was far too fantastic for his old-fashioned mind. He had heard of the Chinese, the opium traffic and suchlike things, and he saw in Otley's statement a distinct attempt to mislead him.

The police were not called in because Mr. Bainbridge did not desire to bring the Teesdales' house-party into the newspapers, and, moreover, both he and his wife were confident that young Otley was the thief.

Peggy hearing her lover denounced so openly, was naturally full of indignation, though she hardly dared show it.

Sir Polworth and his wife and daughter returned to London as early as possible, for the spirits of all the guests had fallen in consequence of Mrs. Bainbridge's loss.

And now a curious thing happened.

That evening Charlie, knowing himself under suspicion of stealing the jewels, had an intuition that it would be better if Peggy did not visit him at Bennett Street. Therefore at about half-past five, when darkness had fallen, he went along to Mount Street, and there watched outside Sir Polworth's house.

After a little while an empty taxi which had evidently been summoned by telephone, stopped at the door, and Peggy, very plainly dressed, got into it and drove away. Another taxi happened to be near, therefore her lover, unable to shout and stop her, got into it and followed her.

They went along Piccadilly, and passing Arlington Street, which led into Bennett Street, continued away to the Strand and across the City eastward, until Otley was seized with curiosity as to the girl's destination.

Past Aldgate went the taxi and down Commercial Road East, that broad long thoroughfare that leads to the East India Docks. At Limehouse Church the taxi stopped, and Peggy alighted and paid the man.

Almost immediately a young man, the cut of whose overcoat and the angle of whose hat at once marked him as a Spaniard, approached her. Otley, full of wonder, had alighted from his taxi at some distance away and was eagerly watching.

Peggy and the stranger exchanged a few words, whereupon he started off along a narrow and rather ill-lit road called Three Colt Street, past Limehouse Causeway. Suddenly it occurred to the young man that they were in the center of London's Chinatown! He recollected the escaping Chinaman from Lord Teesdale's house! But why was Peggy there? Surely she was not a drug-taker! The very thought caused him to shudder.

Silently he followed the pair before him, and saw them turn into a narrow by-street and halt at a small house. Her conductor knocked on the door four times. And then repeated the summons.

The door opened slowly and they entered. Then, when the door was closed again, Peggy's lover crept along and listened at the shutter outside.

Why was she there? He stood bewildered. She had promised to call upon him at his rooms, and yet she was there in that low-class house—a veritable den it seemed!

The window was closely shuttered, as were all in that mysterious silent thoroughfare—one into which the police would hardly venture to penetrate alone.

The young man listened, his ears strained to catch any sound.

Suddenly he heard Peggy shriek. He listened breathlessly. Yes, it was her voice raised distinctly.

"You!" he heard her cry. "You! You are Tai-K'an! My father has told me of you!"

"Ye-es, my lil ladee—you are lil ladee of the Engleesh mandarin!" he heard the reply—the reply of a Chinaman. "I now take my vengeance for my own child as I have each year promised. Give me the pretty jewels. You wanted to sell them, eh? But you will give them to me! I watched you take them from the table while they were all at the party. Your father never thought that Tai-K'an followed you on your country journey, eh?"

Otley heard the words faintly through the shutters and stood rooted to the spot.

Peggy was the thief? She had wanted to sell them and had been entrapped. In an instant he realized her position.

He heard her voice raised first in faint protest, and then she implored the Chinaman to release her.

"Ah, no!" cried the cruel triumphant Oriental. "Tai-K'an warned your father that he would have his revenge. His daughter was to him as much as you are to your own father the mandarin," and he laughed that short, grating laugh of the Chinaman, which caused Otley to clench his fists.

For a few seconds he hesitated as to how he should act. Then, quick as his feet could carry him, he dashed back into the Commercial Road, where he enlisted the aid of a constable.

Together they hurried back to the house after the young man had made a brief statement that a white girl had been entrapped.

At first they were denied admittance, but when the constable demanded that the door should be opened, the bars were drawn and they entered the wretched den.

Peggy was naturally terrified until she heard her lover's voice, and a few seconds later the pair were locked once more in each other's arms, but the gems of Abdul Hamid were nowhere to be found. Indeed, neither Peggy nor Charlie dared mention the stolen jewels, so the Chinaman kept them.

"Do you wish to charge this Chink?" asked the constable of the girl. "If so, I'll take him along to the station at once."

But at Charlie's suggestion she would prefer no charge, and after profuse thanks to the policeman, they found a taxi and drove back at once to Bennett Street.

On the way Peggy sobbed as she confessed to the theft; how, in desperation, she had stolen those wonderful jewels from Mrs. Bainbridge's room in the hope of raising sufficient money to pay Charlie's defalcations, and how she had two days later received a mysterious letter asking her if she happened to have any discarded jewelry that she wished to dispose of secretly. If she had, an appointment could be made at Limehouse Church. It was, she thought, an opportunity. So she took the jewels to sell to them. But to her amazement and horror she had found herself in the hands of the revengeful Chinaman who had a, possibly just, grievance against her father.

* * * * *

Rayne, taking the magnificent jewels and running them through his hands, said:

"The Chink is a friend of ours, and we've had our eye upon these stones for a very long time, but rather than the young fellow and the girl shall be ruined I am sending them back to Mrs. Bainbridge's anonymously by to-night's post. Sir Polworth Urquhart will think they have come from Tai-K'an. See, Hargreave? I've typed out a letter. Just pack them up and address them to her. I can't bear to take them now I know the truth—poor girl!"

And he handed the gems over to me, together with a small wooden box.

That evening I registered the box from the post office at Darlington, and three days later Charles Otley, who had managed to clear himself of all suspicion, received an anonymous gift of four thousand five hundred pounds which had been placed to his credit at the bank.

And none of the actors in that strange drama suspect the hand of the clever, unscrupulous, but sometimes generous, Squire of Overstow.



CHAPTER XV

OTHER PEOPLE'S MONEY

"Mr. Hargreave, father is sending you upon a very strange mission," Lola told me in confidence one dull morning, after we had had breakfast at the Midland Hotel, in Manchester, where we three were staying about a fortnight after Rayne's generosity in returning the famous jewels of the dead Sultan.

"What kind of mission?" I inquired with curiosity, as we sat together in the lounge prior to going out to idle at the shop windows.

"I don't know its object at all," was her reply. "But from what I've gathered it is something most important. I—I do hope you will take care of yourself—won't you?" she asked appealingly.

"Why, of course," I laughed. "I generally manage to take care of myself. I'd do better, however, if—well, if I were not associated with Duperre and the rest," I added bitterly.

The pretty girl was silent for a few moments. Then she said:

"Of course you won't breathe a word of what I've said, will you?"

"Certainly not, Lola," was my reply. "Whatever you tell me never passes my lips."

"I know—I know I can trust you, Mr. Hargreave," she exclaimed. "Well, in this matter there are several mysterious circumstances. I believe it is something political my father wants to work—some business which concerns something in the Near East. That's all I know. You will, in due course, hear all about it. And now let's go along to Deansgate. I want to buy something."

In consequence we strolled along together, Rayne having gone out an hour before to keep an appointment—with whom he carefully concealed from me.

That same night Rayne disclosed to me the mission which he desired me to carry out. He was a man of a hundred moods and as many schemes.

One fact which delighted me was that in the present suggestion there seemed no criminal intent. And for that reason I quite willingly left London for the Near East three days later.

My destination was Sofia, the Bulgarian capital, and the journey by the Orient Express across Europe was a long and tedious one.

I was much occupied with the piece of scheming which I had undertaken to carry out in Sofia. My patriotism had led me to attempt a very difficult task—one which would require delicate tact and a good deal of courage and resource, but which would, if successful, Rayne had said, mean that a loan of three millions would be raised in London, and that British influence would become paramount in that go-ahead country, which ere long must be the power of the Balkans.

The tentacles of the great criminal octopus which Rayne controlled were indeed far-spread. In this he was making a bid for fortune, without a doubt.

To the majority of people, the Balkan States are, even to-day, terra incognita. The popular idea is that they are wild, inaccessible countries, inhabited by brigands. That is not so. True, there are brigands, even now after the war, in the Balkans, but Belgrade, the Serbian capital, is as civilized as Berlin, and the main boulevard of Sofia, whither I was bound, is at night almost a replica of the Boulevard des Italiens.

I knew, however, that there were others in Sofia upon the same errand as myself, emissaries of other Governments and other financial houses. Therefore in those three long, never-ending days and nights which the journey occupied, my mind was constantly filled with the thoughts of the best and most judicious course to pursue in order to attain my object.

The run East was uneventful, save for one fact—at the Staatsbahnhof, at Vienna, just before our train left for Budapest, a queer, fussy little old man in brown entered and was given the compartment next to mine.

His nationality I could not determine. He spoke in a deep guttural voice with the fair-bearded conductor of the train, but by his clothes—which were rather dandified for so old a man—I did not believe him to be a native of the Fatherland.

I heard him rumbling about with his bags in the next compartment, apparently settling himself, when of a sudden, my quick ear caught an imprecation which he uttered to himself in English.

A few hours later, at dinner in the wagon-restaurant, I found him placed at the same little table opposite me, and naturally we began to chat. He spoke in French, perfect French it was, but refused to speak English, though, of course, he could had he wished.

"Ah! non," he laughed. "I cannot. Excuse me. My pronunciation is so faulty. Your English is so ve-ry deefecult!"

And so we talked in French, and I found the queer old fellow was on his way to Sofia. He seemed slightly deformed, his face was distinctly ugly, broad, clean-shaven, with a pair of black, piercing eyes that gave him a most striking appearance. His grey hair was long, his nose aquiline, his teeth protruding and yellow; and he was a grumbler of the most pronounced type. He growled at the food, at the service, at the draughts, at the light in the restaurant, at the staleness of the bread we had brought with us from Paris, and at the butter, which he declared to be only Danish margarine.

His complaints were amusing. At first the maitre d'hotel bustled about to do the bidding of the newcomer, but very quickly summed him up, and only grinned knowingly when called to listen to his biting sarcasm of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lit and all its works.

Next day, at Semlin, where our passports were examined, the passport officer took off his hat to him, bowed low and vised his passport without question, saying, as he handed back the document to its owner:

"Bon voyage, Highness."

I stared at the pair. My fussy friend with the big head must therefore be either a prince or a grand duke!

As I sat opposite him at dinner that night, he was discussing with me the harmful writings of some newly discovered Swiss author who was posing as a cheap philosopher, and denouncing them as dangerous to the community. He leaned his elbow upon the narrow table and supported his clean-shaven chin upon his fingers, displaying to me—most certainly by accident—the palm of his thin right hand.

What I discovered there caused me a great deal of surprise. In its center was a dark, livid mark, as though it had been branded there by a hot iron, the plain and distinct imprint of a pet dog's pad!