It fascinated me. There was some hidden meaning in that mark, I felt convinced. It was just as though a small dog had stepped in blood with one of its forepaws and trodden upon his hand.

Whether he noticed that I had detected it or not, I cannot say, but he moved his hand quickly, and ever after kept it closed.

His name, he told me, was Konstantinos Vassos, and he lived in Athens. But I took that information cum grano, for I instinctively knew him to be a prince traveling incognito. Before the passport officer at Semlin, every one must pass before entering Serbia.

But if actually a prince, why did he carry a passport?

There is no good hotel at Sofia. The best is called the Grand Hotel de Bulgarie, kept by a pleasant old lady, and in this we found ourselves next night installed. He, of course, gave his name as Vassos, and to all intents and purposes was more of a stranger in the Bulgarian capital than I myself was, for I had been there previously once just before the war.

Now Rayne had given me a letter of introduction to a certain Nicolas Titeroff, who contrived rather mysteriously to get me elected to the smart diplomats' club—the Union—during my stay.

The days passed. From the first morning of my arrival I found myself at once in the vortex of gayety; invitations poured in upon me—thanks to the black-bearded Titeroff—cards for dances here and there and receptions and dinners, while I spent each afternoon with Titeroff and a wandering Englishman named Mayhew, who told me he was an ex-colonel in the British Army.

All the while, I must confess, I was working my cards carefully. Thanks to the mysterious Titeroff I had received an introduction to Nicholas Petkoff, the grave, grey-haired Minister of Finance, who had early in life lost his right arm at the battle of the Shipka Pass—and he was inclined to admit my proposals. A French syndicate had approached him, but Petkoff would have none of them.

The mission entrusted to me by Rayne was one which, if I could obtain the Government Concession which I asked, would mean the formation of a great company and a matter of millions. And it seemed to me that my black-bearded friend Titeroff, and Mayhew, were both pulling the strings cleverly for me in the right direction. Often I considered whether they were both crooks and members of the gang organized by Rayne. I could not determine.

One night at the weekly dance at the Military Club—a function at which the smart set of Sofia always attend, and at which the Ministers of State themselves with their women-folk put in an appearance—I had been waltzing with the Minister Petkoff's daughter, a pretty, dark-haired girl in blue, whom I had met at Titeroff's house—when presently the Turkish attache, a pale-faced young man in a fez, introduced me to a tall, very handsome, sweet-faced girl in a black evening gown.

Mademoiselle Balesco was her name, and I found her inexpressibly charming. She spoke French perfectly, and English quite well. She had been at school in England, she said—at Scarborough. Her home was at Galatz, in Roumania.

We had several dances, and afterwards I took her down to supper. Then we had a couple of fox-trots, and I conducted her out to the car that was awaiting her and bowing, watched her drive off, alone.

But while doing so, there came along the pavement, out of the shadow, the short, ugly figure of the old Greek, Vassos, with his coat collar turned up, evidently passing without noticing me.

A few days later when in the evening I was chatting with Mayhew at the hotel, he said:

"What have you been up to, Hargreave? Look here! This letter was left upon me, with a note, asking me to give it to you in secret. Looks like a woman's hand! Mind what you're about in this place, old chap. There are some nasty pitfalls, you know!"

With a bachelor's curiosity he was eager to know who was my fair correspondent. But I refused to satisfy him.

Suffice it to say that that same night I went alone to a house on the outskirts of Sofia, and there met, at her urgent request, Marie Balesco. After apologizing for thus approaching me and throwing all the convenances to the wind, she seemed to be highly interested in my welfare, and very inquisitive concerning the reasons that had brought me to Bulgaria.

Like most women of to-day, she smoked, and offered me her cigarette-case. I took one—a delicious one it was, but rather strong—so strong, indeed, that a strange drowsiness suddenly overcame me. Before I could fight against it, the small, well-furnished room seemed to whirl about me, and I must have fallen unconscious. Indeed, I knew no more until, on awakening, I found myself back in my bed at the Hotel de Bulgarie.

I gazed at the morning sunshine upon the wall, and tried to recollect what had occurred.

My hand seemed strangely painful. Raising it from the sheets, I looked at it.

Upon my right palm, branded as by a hot iron, was the sign of the dog's pad!

Horrified, I stared at it! It was the same mark I had seen upon the hand of old Vassos! What could be its significance?

In a few days the burn healed, leaving a dark red scar, the distinct imprint of a dog's foot. From Mayhew I tried, by cautious questions, to obtain some information concerning the fair-faced girl who had played such a trick upon me. But he only knew her slightly. He amazed me by saying that she had been staying with a certain Madame Sovoff, who was something of a mystery, but had left Sofia.

Vassos, who was still at the hotel, annoyed me on account of his extreme politeness, and the manner in which he appeared to spy upon my movements.

I came across him everywhere. Inquiries concerning the reason of the ugly Greek's presence in Bulgaria met with a negative result. One thing seemed certain, he was not, as I believed, a prince incognito.

How I longed to go to him, show him the mark upon my hand, and demand an explanation. But my curiosity was aroused, therefore I patiently awaited developments, my revolver always ready in my pocket in case of foul play.

The mysterious action of the pretty girl from Galatz also puzzled me.

At last the Cabinet, after much political jugglery, being deposed, the Council were in complete accord with Petkoff regarding my proposals. All had been done in secret from the party in opposition, and one day I had lunched with His Excellency the Minister of Finance at his house in the suburbs of the city.

Nevertheless, I was obsessed by the strange mark which had been so mysteriously placed upon my hand—the same mark as that borne by the mysterious Vassos.

"You may send a cipher dispatch to London if you like, Mr. Hargreave," said the Minister Petkoff, as we sat over our cigars. "The documents will be all signed at the Cabinet meeting at noon to-morrow. In exchange for this loan raised in London, all the contracts for the new quick-firing guns and ammunition go to your group of London financiers."

Such was the welcome news His Excellency imparted to me, and you may imagine that I lost no time in writing out a well-concealed message to Rayne, and sending it by the manservant to the telegraph office.

For a long time I sat with His Excellency, and then he rose, inviting me to walk with him in the Boris Gardens, as was his habit every afternoon, before going down to the sitting of the Sobranje, or Parliament.

On our way we passed Vassos, who raised his hat politely to me.

"Who's that man?" inquired the Minister quickly, and I told him all I knew concerning the old fellow.

He grunted.

In the pretty public garden we were strolling together in the sundown, chatting upon the European unrest after the war, the new loan, and other matters, when, of a sudden, a black-mustached man in a dark grey overcoat and a round fur cap sprang from the bushes at a lonely spot, and, raising a big service revolver, fired point-blank at His Excellency.

I felt for my own weapon. Alas! it was not there! I had forgotten it!

The assassin, seeing the Minister reel and fall, turned his weapon upon me. Thereupon in an instant I threw up my hands, crying that I was unarmed, and an Englishman.

As I did so, he started back as though terrified, and with a spring he disappeared again into the bushes.

All had happened in a few brief instants, for ere I could realize that a tragedy had actually occurred, I found the unfortunate Minister lying lifeless at my feet. My friend had been shot through the heart! It was a repetition of the assassination of the Minister Stambuloff.

Readers of the newspapers will recollect the tragic affair which is, no doubt, still fresh in their minds.

I told the Chief of Police of Sofia of my strange experience, and showed him the mark upon my palm. Though detectives searched high and low for the Greek, for Madame Sovoff, and for the fascinating mademoiselle, none of them was ever found.

The assassin was, nevertheless, arrested a week later, while trying to cross the frontier into Serbia. I, of course, lost by an ace Rayne's great financial coup, but before execution the prisoner made a confession which revealed the existence of a terrible and widespread conspiracy, fostered by Turkey, to remove certain members of the Cabinet who were in favor of British protection and assistance.

Quite unconsciously I had, it seemed, become an especial favorite of the silent, watchful old Konstantinos Vassos. Fearing lest I, in my innocence, should fall a victim with His Excellency—being so often his companion—he had, with the assistance of the pretty Marie Balesco, contrived to impress upon my palm the secret sign of the conspirators.

To this fact I certainly owe my life, for the assassin—a stranger to Sofia, who had been drawn by lot—would, no doubt, have shot me dead, had he not seen the secret sign upon my raised hand.

When I returned to Overstow and related my strange adventure, Rayne was furious that just at the very moment when the deal by which he was to reap such a huge profit was complete, our friend the Minister should have been assassinated.

Lola was in the room when I described all that had occurred, listening breathlessly to my narrative.

I showed them both the strange mark upon my palm, a brand which I suppose I shall bear to my dying day.

"Then you really owe your life to that girl Balesco, Mr. Hargreave?" she said, raising her fine dark eyes to mine.

"I certainly do," I replied.

Her father grunted, and after congratulating me upon my escape, said:

"You had nothing to complain about regarding Titeroff, and the assistance he and Mayhew gave you—eh?"

"Nothing. Without them I could never have acted. Indeed, I could never have approached the Minister Petkoff."

"Yes," he remarked reflectively. "They're both wily birds. Titeroff feathered his nest well when he was in Constantinople, and Mayhew is there because of a little bit of serious trouble in Genoa a couple of years ago. Of course you never mentioned my name—eh?"

"I only mentioned you as Mr. Goodwin—as you told me," I replied.

He smiled.

"They remembered me, of course?"

"Yes, when I delivered your note of introduction to Titeroff, he at once made me welcome, and seemed much surprised that I was acquainted with his friend, Mr. Goodwin."

It was now evident, as I had suspected, that the two men who were so eager to serve me were international crooks, and members of the great gang which Rayne controlled.

"Just describe the man Vassos as fully as you can," urged Rayne.

In consequence I went into a minute description of the fussy old Greek, to which Rayne listened most interestedly.

"Yes," he said at last. "But tell me one thing. Did you notice if he had any deformity?"

"Well—he walked with a distinct limp."

"And his hand?"

"The little finger on his left hand was deformed," I replied. "I now remember it."

"Ah!" he cried in instant anger. "As I thought! It was old Boukaris—the sly old devil. How, I wonder, did he know that I had sent you to Sofia? He, no doubt, saved you by putting that mark on your hand, Hargreave; but the brutes have been one too many for me, and have done me down!"



CHAPTER XVI

THE MAN WHO WAS SHY

Some two months after that curious experience in Sofia, we were guests of some friends of Rayne's called Baynes, who lived at Enderby Manor, a few miles out of Winchester.

The reason of our visit was somewhat obscure, yet as far as I could gather it had no connection with "business." So Rayne, Lola, and myself spent a very pleasant four days with one of the most charming families I think I have ever met.

Enderby was a beautiful old place lying back in a great park and surrounded by woods, half-way between Winchester and Romsey, and George Baynes, who had made a fortune in South America, and whose wife was a Brazilian lady, was a splendid host.

One bright afternoon Rayne had gone off somewhere with Mr. Baynes, so I found Lola and we both went for a stroll in the beautiful woods.

For a long time we chatted merrily, when, of a sudden—I don't exactly know how it happened—but I took her hand, and, looking straight into her eyes, I declared my passion for her.

I must have taken her unawares, for she drew back with a strange, half-frightened expression. Her breath came and went in quick gasps, and when she found her tongue, she replied:

"No, George. It is impossible—quite impossible!"

"Why?" I demanded quickly. "I love you, Lola. Can you never reciprocate my affection?"

She shook her head sadly, but still allowing me to hold her soft little hand.

"You must not speak of love," she whispered. "You are an honest man who has been entrapped and compelled to act dishonestly as you do. I know it all, alas! I—I know——" and she burst into tears. "I have discovered," she sobbed, "that my father is a thief!"

"We cannot help that, Lola," I said, in deep sympathy at her distress.

"No. Unfortunately we can't," she replied faintly, in a voice full of emotion. "But it would be fatal to us both if we loved each other. Surely, George, you can see that!"

"I don't see it, dearest," I exclaimed, bending and kissing her fondly on the cheek for the first time. We had halted in the forest path, and now I held her in my arms, though she resisted slightly. "I love you, darling!" I cried. "I love you!"

"No! No!" she protested. "You must not—you cannot love me. I am only the daughter of a man who, at any moment, might be arrested—a man for whom the police are ever in search, but cannot find."

"I know all that; but you, dearest, are not a thief!" I urged, for I loved her with all the strength of my being—with all my soul.

She trembled and sobbed, but did not reply. Her tearful face was hidden upon my shoulder.

"Do you care for me in the least?" I whispered to her. "Tell me, dear, do."

She was silent.

I repeated my question, until at last she raised her face to mine, and, though she did not speak, I knew with joy that her answer was in the affirmative. And then I poured out my secret to her, how ever since I had first seen her I had loved her to distraction; and how the knowledge that she reciprocated my affection had rendered me the happiest man in the world.

For a long time we remained locked in each other's arms. How long I cannot tell.

Suddenly, when she had dried her tears, she seemed full of apprehension concerning my welfare.

"Oh! do be careful of yourself, George!" she cried. "I am always so anxious about you when you are away. Father sends you on those strange and highly dangerous missions because he trusts you, and you, alas! are compelled to do his bidding. But do take care. You know well what the slightest blunder would mean—and you would never clear yourself, you know!"

I promised I would take great care always, and again we moved along. It was not, however, until dusk that we returned to the Manor.

I could not help wondering how Lola had discovered her father's true character and the nature of his secret "business," but on the whole I felt it was just as well that she knew, for she herself would exercise great care. And then I thought in ecstasy, "She is mine—mine!"

Just before midnight, soon after I had retired, the door of my room opened, and I found Rayne in his pajamas.

He placed his finger upon his lips with a gesture of silence. Then, closing the door noiselessly, he drew me to the opposite side of the room, and, showing me a photograph, said:

"Look at this well, George. You'd recognize him, wouldn't you?"

It was a cabinet photograph of a good-looking gentlemanly, clean-shaven man of about twenty-five.

"Note his tiepin—a single moonstone!" added Rayne.

"Yes," I said, as I gazed at the photograph.

"Well, to-day is Monday," he said. "Next Thursday night I want you to take Madame from London in the Rolls. Go out on the Portsmouth Road by way of Kingston and Ditton, through Cobham, and on to Ripley. There, about twenty miles from London, you will find on the left-hand side an old-fashioned hotel called the Talbot. Stop there at half-past nine, and, leaving Madame in the car, go in and have a drink. Edward Houston will be awaiting you. Madame is just now at the Carlton. You will pick her up at half-past eight."

"And Lola?" I asked, wondering if his daughter was to play any part in this new piece of trickery, whatever it might be.

"She is going to Scarborough on Thursday afternoon," was her father's reply.

"And when I meet this Mr. Houston," I asked, "what then?"

"You will not meet openly. When you've had your drink and he has seen you, you will drive a little way along the road and there await him. He does not wish to be seen with you. He's rather shy, you see!" and the pleasant-faced man who controlled the most dangerous criminal gang in Europe smiled sardonically. "He has his instructions, and you will follow them. Take a suit-case with you, for you may be away a few days, or longer."

I wondered what devilry he had now planned. I tried to obtain from him some further details, but his replies were sharp and firm.

"Act just as I've told you, Hargreave. And please don't be so infernally inquisitive." Then, wishing me good night, he turned and left my room.

I longed there and then to defy him and refuse to obey, yet I dared not, knowing full well the fate that would await me if I resisted. Moreover, I had Lola to consider, and if I defied her father he most certainly would not allow his daughter to marry me.

Next morning we left Enderby by train and returned to Overstow in the late afternoon.

Duperre had gone up to Glasgow upon some mysterious business—crooked without a doubt—so that night, after dining together, Rayne and I played a game of billiards. While we were smoking in the library prior to turning in, the footman tapped at the door and entered with a note.

Rayne tore it open, and as he read it, I noticed that his countenance fell. A second later I saw that he was extremely annoyed.

He rose from his chair and for a few moments hesitated. Then, in a rather thick voice, said:

"Show him in." After the servant had gone he turned to me, and in a changed voice said: "Remain here, George. But never breathe a word of what you hear to a living soul! Remember that!"

In a few moment a well-dressed, narrow-faced, bald-headed, rather cadaverous man was shown in. He clicked his heels together and bowed with foreign politeness and with a smile upon his sinister countenance.

"I have the honor to meet Signor Rayne?" he asked, with a distinctly Italian accent.

"That is my name," replied Rudolph inquiringly.

"Good! Then you will recognize me, and my name upon my letter in which I have asked for this private interview."

"No. I certainly do not," he said. "I have no knowledge of ever meeting you before!"

"Ah!" laughed the stranger. "The signore's memory is evidently at fault. I—I hesitate to refresh it—before this gentleman," and he glanced at me.

"Oh! you need not mind. Mr. Hargreave is my secretary, and knows all my confidential affairs," said Rayne, assuming an air of bonhomie, though I knew he was greatly perturbed by his visitor.

"Then may I be permitted to remind you of our meeting at the Bristol Cafe, in Copenhagen, on that July night two years ago, and what happened to Henri Gerard, the Marseilles shipowner, later that same night? True, we never spoke together, for you posed as a stranger to my friends. But you were pointed out to me. You surely cannot ignore it?"

"I have never been to Copenhagen in my life," protested Rayne. "What do you suggest?"

"The truth; one that you know well, signore, notwithstanding your denials. You are the man known as 'The Golden Face,'" declared the stranger bitterly, pointing his finger at him. "You neither forget me nor my name, Luigi Gori, for you have much cause to remember it—you and your friend Stevenson, otherwise Duperre."

Rayne turned furiously upon his visitor, and said:

"I am in no mood to discuss anything with you. So get out! You wished to see me privately, and I have granted you this interview. I don't know your name or your business, nor do I want to know them! You seem to be trying to claim acquaintance with me, and——"

"Pardon me, but I do so, Signor Rayne," laughed the dark-eyed man. "It has taken me two years to trace you, and at last I find you here! I came at this hour because I thought I would find you apart from your honorable family."

"What rubbish are you talking?" demanded Rayne.

"Rubbish!" echoed the stranger. "I am talking no rubbish. I am simply reminding you of a very serious and secret matter, namely, the mysterious end of Monsieur Gerard, of the Chateau du Sierroz in the Jura, and of the Avenue des Champs Elysees. The Surete, in combination with the Danish detective service, are still trying to clear up the affair. You and I can do it," he said; and, after a pause, he looked Rayne straight in the face, and asked: "Shall we? It rests with you!"

Rayne frowned darkly. Never before had I witnessed such an evil look upon the face of any man. I knew that his brain was working swiftly, and I also saw that our visitor was most unwelcome—evidently an accomplice who had managed by some unaccountable means to penetrate the veil of secrecy in which the super-crook had always so successfully enveloped his identity.

"Well," he laughed. "You really are a most dramatic person, Signor Gori, or whatever your name may be. I really don't understand you, unless you are attempting to blackmail me. And if you are, then I'll get my servant to show you the door."

The stranger smiled meaningly, and asked quite quietly:

"Is it not to your advantage, Signor Rayne, to talk this little matter over in a friendly spirit? I offer you the opportunity. If you refuse it——" And he shrugged his shoulders meaningly, without concluding his sentence.

Rayne was silent for a few seconds. Then he said in quite a changed and genial tone:

"I am much mystified at your visit, Signor Gori, for I certainly have no knowledge of you. But the hour is late. If you are staying in the neighborhood could you call again at noon to-morrow, when we will go further into this tangled affair? We seem to be at cross-purposes to-night."

"As you wish," replied the visitor, bowing with exquisite politeness. "I am staying at the Fleece Hotel, at Thirsk, and I have motored out here. To-morrow at noon I will call upon you." And then he added in a hard, relentless tone: "And then I trust your memory will be refreshed. Signori, I wish you both buona sera."

"Stay! I quite forgot! I shall not be here to-morrow," Rayne replied quickly. "I have to be out some part of the day, and also I expect visitors."

"Then the day after?" suggested the visitor politely, to which Rayne sullenly replied:

"Yes. The day after to-morrow, at six o'clock in the evening. I will be here to see you, if you still persist in pestering me. But I warn you, Signor Gori, that it is quite useless."

The Italian smiled, bowed, and again wishing us good night, crossed the room as Rayne pressed the electric button for the servant.

I realized that a big cloud of trouble had unexpectedly descended upon Overstow. When he had gone Rayne broke out into a furious series of imprecations and vows of vengeance upon some person whom he did not name, but whom he suspected of having made a faux pas.

Suddenly, however, he bade me good night in his usual manner, as though nothing had occurred to disturb him. He was a man of abnormal intellect, defiant, fearless, and with a brain which, had it been put to proper usage, would undoubtedly have made him a world-famous Englishman. After all, the brains of great criminals, properly cultivated and directed, are the same brains as those possessed by our great leaders, whether political, commercial, or social.

That night I scarcely closed my eyes in sleep. The Damoclean sword had apparently fallen upon the Squire of Overstow. And I recollected his daughter's warning.

Next morning, directly after breakfast, which he ate with relish, and seemed quite his normal self, I drove with him at his orders over to Heathcote Hall, about five miles away, where lived Sir Johnson Burnham, one of the old Yorkshire aristocracy, who was also chairman of quarter sessions.

I waited at the wheel while he called. I knew that the baronet was not at home, as a week before Lola had told me that he had gone to San Remo. Nevertheless, Rayne went inside, and was there quite half an hour. I was puzzled at his absence, but the reason seemed plain when the butler, bowing him out, exclaimed:

"I am so sorry, Mr. Rayne, but the telephone people are, I fear, very slack in these days. It takes so long to get a number."

So Rayne had gone to Heathcote in order to telephone to somebody in great urgency—somebody he dare not speak with from Overstow.

As we drove back again, Rayne said:

"Of course, George, you will never breathe a word of this—well, this little contretemps—or of its result. When I'm up against the wall I always hit hard. That's the only way. I'm not going to be blackmailed!"

"The affair does not concern me," I replied. "What I hear in your presence I never repeat."

"I'm glad you appreciate your position," he answered. "I'm a good employer to those who trust me, but an infernally bad one to those who doubt, who blunder, or who betray me, as you have probably learned," he said in a hard voice, as we swung into the handsome lodge gates of Overstow.

Just before luncheon Rayne was called to the telephone. I was in the room at the time. He apparently recognized the voice, and scribbled something upon the pad before him.

"Will you repeat that?" he asked. "I want to be quite clear."

Then he listened again very intently.

"Right! I'll be with you at ten to-night," he replied, and then hung up the receiver.

"I must go to London," he said, turning to me. "You'll drive me into York, and I can catch the four-thirty up. You stay here and meet that Italian chap to-morrow at six, and tell him that I'm up at Half Moon Street. Give him my address, and ask him to see me there. After you've seen him, start in the car for London and carry out the instructions I gave you on Monday."

Then he went to his room, changed his clothes, and came down to lunch in very bright spirits. It seemed that by the Italian's visit he was now not in the least perturbed.

I drove him with Lola to York, where he went to London and Lola to Scarborough. Afterwards I dined at the Station Hotel alone, and returned to Overstow, which seemed chill and lonely. The local doctor happily looked in during the evening, and I played him a game at billiards.

In impatient curiosity I waited until next day, when, punctually at six o'clock, Signor Gori was shown into a little room adjoining the great hall, and there I joined him in the capacity of a busy man's secretary.

"I much regret, Signor Gori," I said, after we had bowed, "but Mr. Rayne was called to London quite unexpectedly upon some very urgent business. He presents his apologies and asks whether you can manage to meet him in London when it is convenient to you. Will you telephone to him?" And I gave him the address of Rayne's rooms.

"His apologies!" echoed the Italian, with a very marked accent and a gesture of ridicule. "The apologies of 'The Golden Face'! Ah! my dear friend, you are his secretary; you are not the principal in this very serious affair."

"Serious. How?" I asked in pretense of ignorance, and hoping thereby to learn something.

"Madonna Santa! You do not know—you do not realize the depths of that man's villainy! I do! I am the one person who has penetrated the veil of secrecy beneath which he has so long remained hidden. Querot, of the Paris Surete, and Tetani, of the Public Security of Italy, are my friends. I can now go to them, as I shall."

"My dear sir!" I exclaimed. "The matter is no affair of mine! I am simply a paid secretary to do Mr. Rayne's correspondence, and sometimes to drive his car. There my engagement ends."

"Then be very careful! Be warned by me!" the Italian cried, gazing at me very seriously. "This man, your employer, is the leader of the most wonderfully organized gang of criminals in Europe. I happen to know."

"How?" I asked.

He looked at me strangely, and his manner changed. His dark eyes seemed to search mine, and then next instant he smiled mysteriously.

"I will tell you the truth," he said. "The reason I know is because I have unwittingly—owing to a little lapse from the path of honesty—been made one of the tools of this man whose marvelous brain controls the actions of dozens of the most unscrupulous and dangerous thieves on the Continent. My suspicions were aroused by something a woman told me in Paris, and for many months I have been unceasing in my inquiries. I have at last discovered the well-concealed chief who gives his orders like a general in the field, and those orders are obeyed to the letter without question, and always to the profit of those who execute them. And here," he added, gazing around, "I am in the fine house of the man of mystery for whom the police are ever seeking—'The Golden Face'!"

"What you have said certainly surprises me," I replied. "Surely there must be some mistake. Mr. Rayne is not the leader of a criminal gang. He is simply a country landowner here."

"Under that guise he poses unsuspected by the police," laughed my visitor. "You can rest assured that I have made every inquiry and that now I know."

"And what are your intentions?" I asked. "Surely you will go and see him in London?"

The truth was out, and I saw that the Italian meant mischief.

"Perhaps I shall go to the police at once," he said. "Perhaps I shall go to London. I shall consider. He made an appointment and he has broken his promise. He fears me! That is quite plain. But, signore, I am here in England to bring him to justice, if only for one very serious crime—a crime that a woman witness I have can prove!"

"This is all very distressing to me, especially as Mr. Rayne has a daughter, a young lady who is entirely ignorant of her father's source of income," I said.

"Ignorant!" he echoed. "Ah! my dear signore, do not think the Signorina Lola is ignorant! I have waited and watched. I know more than you or Signor Rayne ever suspect. The girl may affect ignorance, but she knows, and I can prove it!"

His words caused me to start. I certainly did not like the man's attitude, for whatever I said, or whatever pretense I made, he refused to be appeased. All I could do in the circumstances was to express regret that Mr. Rayne had been compelled to go to London, and to again ask him to call at Half Moon Street.

His allegations against Lola incensed me. I tried to obtain from him further details of his allegations, but he remained mysterious and triumphant. So in that spirit he left me, and departed in the car he had hired from Thirsk.

After a hurried dinner I got out the Rolls, filled up the tank, and set out on the long journey to London. As hour after hour I swept along the great North Road, my big headlights glaring before me, I felt more than ever apprehensive.

Could it be that the bald-headed man had actually discovered the leading spirit of the great gang of which I could only suppose he had been an unimportant member? If so, then for my own safety I ought to warn Rayne of his peril. Yet it was all hateful to me. I had been inveigled into that untenable position which I held, and now escape was impossible. I felt, however, in honor bound to protect Lola, even though that Italian crook had made those airy allegations against her.

I drove on through the night against a pelting rain that fell between Grantham and Stamford, but at the Wansford cross-roads it cleared up, and gradually the gray dawn showed.

It was half-past eight when I drove into the garage off the Tottenham Court Road, and I took a taxi to the Great Central Hotel, where I had a wash and a sleep till noon.

Then I went round to Half Moon Street, but found that Rayne was at the Automobile Club. I found him there just as he was going in to lunch with two ladies whom I had never before seen.

My presence seemed to alarm him, for with excuse he left the ladies and took me out into the big hall.

There I told him of Gori's visit and of his threats.

He laughed.

"I only hope he will come and see me, George," he said. "But somehow, I don't think he will! You know now what to do. Madame is alone at the Carlton and ready to accompany you. I'm sorry I can't give you lunch, George, but I have two guests. I shall be anxious to know how you get on. Telephone to me in confidence after you've been to Ripley, won't you? Good-by."

And he passed across the hall and rejoined his two smartly dressed guests, crooks, like himself, I supposed.



CHAPTER XVII

THE SIGN OF NINETY-NINE

At half-past eight I called for Duperre's wife at the hotel, and she came down wearing a plain, dark-brown motor coat with a small, close-fitting cap to match. She was, indeed, unusually dowdy in appearance.

"Well, George," she exclaimed, as she sat behind me in the car and I drove down Pall Mall, "we're going out on a little adventure, I understand. Do you know where we're going?"

"Down to Ripley, on the Portsmouth Road," I replied. "I have to meet a man named Houston at the Talbot Hotel. That's all I know," I answered.

"Yes," she said. "I know Houston. We must be careful to-night—very careful."

We went through the crooked roads of Kingston and out through Surbiton towards Ditton, when, after a long silence, she exclaimed as she bent towards me:

"Tell me, George, have you ever heard the name of Gori, and if so, in what connection? I ask this in confidence between ourselves, as the outcome may mean much to both of us."

"I don't quite understand you, Madame," was my polite reply. "I only wish your husband had asked that question."

"Look here," she said in a low, tense voice, "you love Lola! I know you do. Then will you, for her sake, reply to me openly and frankly? Have you in these past few days met a bald-headed Italian named Luigi Gori? And in what circumstances?"

I remained silent for some minutes. Then I said:

"I have met a man named Gori. He called upon Rudolph."

"When?" she gasped.

"He called on Monday night."

Madame Duperre held her breath for a few moments. She seemed to be calculating.

"I recognize certain grave probabilities in Gori's visit," she said, and then lapsed again into silence.

Presently I pulled up before the big old seventeenth-century posting-house in the long, quiet village of Ripley, once noted in the late Victorian craze of the "push-bike" as being the Mecca of the daring cyclist who ran out of London and back.

The great gateway through which the mail coaches for Portsmouth used to rumble was dark and cavernous, but on the right I saw a small door, and opening it found myself in a very low-ceiled but cosy bar, in which burned a great log fire with shining pewters above it. The Talbot is nothing if not a link with the days of the highwaymen of Weybridge Heath. Few inns in England are so unspoiled by modern improvements as the Talbot, at Ripley.

In the rather dim light of that low-pitched, well-warmed inn parlor, with its wide, inviting chimney-corner, I saw four men. One of them, facing the firelight, I recognized from the photographs Rayne had shown me—the man with the moonstone in his tie.

I ordered my drink loudly, and looked him full in the face. Then, when a few moments later I had drunk it, I wished the barman good night and went out. Reentering the car, I drove out of the village towards Guildford, and there waited expectantly. In ten minutes he came out of the darkness.

"Mr. Hargreave?" he asked, and, after replying, I invited him inside the car, whereupon he at once recognized Madame in the half-light. It was plain that they were known to each other.

"I expected Vincent would be with you. Where is he?" asked the man named Houston.

"He's away. I don't know exactly where he is," Madame replied. "But what game are we going to play to-night?"

"A very merry one. It may be amusing, it may be tragic," was the man's reply. "We're picking up May Cranston at Horsley Station presently."

"May Cranston!" echoed Madame, astounded. "I thought she went to America after that affair in Dinard!"

"So she did, but she's back again. May is a pretty shrewd girl, you know."

"I'm well aware of that. But why are we meeting her?"

"She'll probably tell you," was the fellow's reply, and, at his direction, I turned the car into a narrow side road which ran for miles through woods and coppices until at last, after passing through two small villages, we came to a wayside station dimly lit by oil lamps.

There we waited for about a quarter of an hour, when the slow train from Waterloo ran in, and from a first-class carriage there stepped a tall, well-dressed girl wearing a rich fur coat and small hat. She was evidently expecting the car to meet her, for she walked straight up to it and entered, being greeted by Madame and Houston, who were inside.

I followed the newcomer and got into the driver's seat, whereupon Madame introduced me.

The moment she opened her lips I knew she was American, and also from her speech and expressions I knew that she was a crook who moved in good society.

"We'll drive through Merrow and over to Hindhead," Houston said. "We'd better avoid the High Street of Guildford, for the police might possibly spot the car. So we'll go by the side roads. I was over there three days ago on a motor-bike, so I'll pilot you."

And then he turned to gossip merrily with the good-looking American girl, who seemed most enthusiastic concerning our mysterious adventure.

"To-night ought to bring us a clear twenty thousand pounds," he said.

"More, my dear Teddy," the girl replied. "But since I saw you in Chicago four months ago I've had a very narrow squeak. I was nearly pinched by old Shenstone from New York. Dicky Diamond gave me the tip, and I cleared out from my hotel just in time. Had to leave all my trunks and eight thousand dollars' worth of jewelry behind me. And now I dare not claim them, for the police have seized them. Somebody gave me away, but I don't know who. Wouldn't I like to know—just! You bet I'd get even on them!"

"A good job you were warned," said Madame. "Dicky was over here last June. I spent the evening with him at Prince's."

"He's over here now. Waiting for me in Liverpool. I've got my passage booked back for to-morrow night, so if the hue and cry is raised I shall have left. I'm in the passengers' list as Mrs. George C. Meredith, wife of the well-known Chicago stock-broker. See my ring!" she laughed, holding up her hand in the semi-darkness. "Ain't it a real fine one? And you are my mother, Madame! See?"

"But where are we going?" asked Duperre's wife.

"Going to make an unexpected call upon old Bethmeyer," she replied.

"Bethmeyer!" I exclaimed. "What, old Sir Joseph Bethmeyer, the millionaire whom they call the mystery man of Europe, the man who is said to have a finger in every financial pie all over Europe?"

"Yes, I guess it's the same man," replied our sprightly companion. "He lives at Frenbury Park, a splendid place between Hindhead and Farnham."

What, I wondered, could they possibly want with Sir Joseph Bethmeyer, the man who had, it was said, been behind the ex-Emperor Carl in his endeavor to regain the throne of the Hapsburgs, and who was declared to be immensely wealthy, though the source of his great riches could never be discovered. I knew him from the photographs so frequently in the papers, a stout, full-bearded, Teutonic-looking man, who claimed Swedish nationality, and who frequently gave large sums to charity, apparently in order to propitiate the British Government, who were more than suspicious of his oft-repeated good intentions.

At Houston's suggestion we stopped at a small hotel in Godalming, and there had supper, for it was yet early, and the American girl had dropped a hint that we should not go near Frenbury till past midnight. As we sat at table in a private room, I saw that she was exceedingly handsome, with a pair of coal-black eyes and a shrewd, alert expression, but her American accent was not always pronounced. Indeed, when she liked, she could conceal it altogether.

She wore a fine diamond bracelet, her only ornament. Yet during our meal Houston whispered something to her, whereupon she half drew from beneath her fur coat something that glinted in the light, and I saw it was a very serviceable-looking revolver.

A few moments later we heard a car pull up, and a heavy-booted man entered the hall of the hotel. The door of our room opened, and a thick-set, clean-shaven man of about forty glanced in inquisitively, almost instantly shutting the door again.

Next second May Cranston sprang to her feet with blanched face and terrified eyes.

"That's Hedley!—old Bethmeyer's secretary! If he's recognized me, then the game is up," she whispered hoarsely.

"But did he?" queried Houston, who sat next to her. "I don't think he noticed anybody. He simply saw that this was a private party and withdrew. He's evidently gone to the bar."

"He's on his way to Frenbury from London, no doubt," said the girl.

"Don't go farther if you think there's any risk," Madame urged.

"But it must be done, and to-night!" the girl said. "Remember I leave Liverpool to-morrow evening if there's trouble, and you—my mother—have got to see me off!"

"I'll go into the bar and watch him," I volunteered, and rising, I went to a kind of pigeon-hole which gave access to the bar, and through which I could see into the room beyond. The man whom Miss Cranston had recognized as Hedley was smoking a cigarette and calmly drinking a whisky-and-soda. Afterwards I walked to the door and saw that the car was turned towards London, a reassuring fact which I reported to my companions.

"Then he's going away from Frenbury, and won't be at home to-night!" cried the American girl gleefully.

When he had gone we drove nearly to Petersfield, and it was considerably past midnight when, on our return, we descended that long hill which leads from Hindhead. Then, after turning off the main road for some time, we came to a narrow lane which led into a dark wood, where Houston suddenly stopped me and ordered me to switch out the lights.

Scarcely had I done this when two men emerged mysteriously from the shadow, and one of them, addressing Houston, said:

"You're pretty punctual, Teddy! Sam isn't here yet. He's walking from Haslemere."

"No! he's here all right!" exclaimed a voice clearly in the darkness, as a third man came forward.

"May is in the car," Houston explained. "Is everything ready?"

"Yes; when you get along here fifty yards more you can see the house. The old fellow sleeps in the first-floor room on the corner. The light has just been switched off, so he's gone to bed all right."

Meanwhile the American girl had stepped from the car, and, greeting them all as "boys," listened to what was said.

"Let's hope the old boy will sleep comfortably, eh?" she laughed gayly. "If he doesn't it will be the worse for him! His wife is in Paris, or she might prove a bit of trouble to us."

"I know the ground exactly," remarked one of the three men. "I wasn't in service here as footman for six weeks for nothing," he added with a laugh.

"Well, come on," said Houston, who seemed to be the leader of the adventures. "Let's get to work," and, picking up a bag which one of the men had put down, he pressed into my hand a short, circular electric torch, saying:

"Be careful not to press the button, because when the light is switched on the shot is fired! Only you might require it. One never knows! Come on."

May Cranston walked noiselessly with us, while in front the three men stalked quietly, speaking only in low whispers. Soon we came to a path which led into a great park, which we skirted, keeping still in the shadow of the trees, for the moon, though nearly gone, still shed some unwelcome light. The silence was only broken by our footsteps on the leaves. Silhouetted against the sky was the magnificent old castle-like mansion with many turrets in which dwelt the world's mystery man of finance.

At last we approached quite close to the house, and, crossing the broad terrace, we halted at the direction of our guide who had acted as footman there.

Before us was a row of long French windows. One of these the man known as Sam attacked in a methodical way with a short steel jimmy, and in a few moments he had noiselessly opened it, and while somebody showed a torch, we all entered what was, I found, a long and luxurious drawing-room.

"Mr. Hargreave! You remain here!" said the girl Cranston, who now assumed the leadership. "If occasion arises don't hesitate to use your torch. All you have to do is to keep this way of retreat open. Leave all the rest to us."

Then, still guided by the ex-footman, she disappeared with the four men.

What was intended I could not guess. We had broken into one of the most magnificent houses in England, and no doubt an extensive burglary had been planned.

I waited in the big, dark room for nearly twenty minutes, when suddenly I heard heavy, stumbling footsteps returning, and became conscious that the men, aided by the woman, were carrying with them a heavy human form. It was enveloped in black cloth and trussed up firmly with stout rope.

"Say, are you all right, Mr. Hargreave?" inquired the American girl-crook.

I replied in the affirmative, whereupon she whispered: "Good! Come right along. It's worked beautifully. The old boy started up to see me at his bedside, and put on his dressing-gown to talk to me. Oh! it was real fun! He dared only speak in a whisper for fear the servants overheard. I told him I was thirsty, and he took me into his study. We had drinks, and I put him quietly to sleep with a couple of drops of the soothing syrup. When he comes to himself he'll have the shock of his life. Six months ago in Philadelphia—when I wanted some money—he defied me. Now it will cost the old skinflint a very big sum if he wants to see the light of day again! If he won't pay up, well, we are none the worse off, are we?"

A quarter of an hour later they had placed the unconscious form of Sir Joseph in the car, and, bidding farewell to the three stalwart men, who were, no doubt, professional thieves from London, we started back swiftly through Farnham and Aldershot, thence by way of Reading and along the Bath Road to a lonely house somewhere outside Hounslow, where the American girl stopped me.

There the unconscious man was carried in, and while the others remained in the house—which I think had been taken furnished and specially for the purpose—I was ordered to return to London alone, which I did, most thankful to end that exciting night's adventure.

* * * * *

On my return to the garage off the Tottenham Court Road at half-past three in the morning, the man on duty told me that a man's voice had inquired for me about nine o'clock.

"He seemed very anxious indeed to find you. But he told me to give you a number—number ninety-nine! Sounds like a doctor, eh, sir?" remarked the man.

I stood aghast at the message.

"Are you sure that was the number?" I asked.

"Yes, sir. I wrote it down here. He gave a Mayfair telephone number," and he showed me the note he had made.

It was a message from Rayne! That number was the one agreed upon by all of us as a signal that some extreme danger had occurred, and it became necessary for us all to keep apart and disperse.

I got into the car and drove out of the garage again, not knowing how to act. In Oxford Street, at that hour silent and deserted, I drew up, and, taking a piece of paper from my notebook, I wrote down the figures "99," and, placing it in a small envelope which I fortunately found in my wallet, I addressed it to Madame Duperre, and left it with the night porter at the Carlton, urging him to give it to her immediately on her return.

Then I drove to the Strand telegraph office, and thence dispatched a well-guarded message to Lola at Scarborough, telling her to meet me without fail at the Station Hotel at Hull that afternoon and bring her passport with her.

This she did, and when we met I told her of her father's unwelcome visitor, the man Gori, and that he feared the police. Both of us decided to pose as runaway lovers and leave the country, which we did, I having succeeded in obtaining two berths upon a Wilson steamer crossing to Bergen.

It was not until a week later that we read in the English newspapers the sensation caused by the arrest of Mr. Rudolph Rayne of Overstow Hall, Yorkshire, upon an extradition warrant applied for by the Danish Government. The prisoner had been brought up at Bow Street, and, after certain mysterious evidence had been given, he had been remanded.

In due course Rayne was conveyed to Copenhagen, where he was tried for complicity in a great bank fraud on the Danish National Bank, and sent to twenty years' penal servitude. Hence to the British public Rayne's actual activities were never revealed.

I can only suppose that my warning to Madame had its effect, and that she, her husband and all her friends took flight.

Whether they obtained the money they sought as ransom for old Sir Joseph Bethmeyer I know not. Probably they did, for nothing appeared in the papers concerning his disappearance.

Eventually I succeeded in getting Lola safely to her aunt in Paris, where, though her father's downfall is still a great blow to her, she is living in peace under another name, while I have found honest employment in the office of a French shipping company in Bordeaux.

Lola is my fiancee, and we are to be married next June. One subject, however, we have mutually agreed never to mention, namely, the evil machinations and ingenious activities of her father, the man who had, for some mysterious reason of his own, ascertained that I could sing, and who, in overconfidence at his own cunning, was at last unmasked—"The Golden Face."



TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Minor changes have been made to correct obvious typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent.

THE END