Grady did a lot of talking in those days, explaining in detail the remarkable measures he was taking to capture the criminal; but the fact remained that three men had been killed, and that no one had been punished; that a series of crimes had been committed, and that the criminal was still at large, and seemed likely to remain so; and, naturally enough, the papers, having exhausted every other phase of the case, were soon echoing public sentiment that something was wrong somewhere, and that the detective bureau needed an overhauling, beginning at the top.

The Boule cabinet remained locked up in a cell at the Twenty-third Street station; and Simmonds kept the key in his pocket. I know now that he was as much in the dark concerning the cabinet as the general public was; and the general public was very much in the dark indeed, for the cabinet had not figured in the accounts of the first two tragedies at all, and only incidentally in the reports of the latest one. As far as it was concerned, the affair seemed clear enough to most of the reporters, as an attempt to smuggle into the country an art object of great value. Such cases were too common to attract especial attention.

But Simmonds had come to see that Grady was tottering on his throne; he realised, perhaps, that his own head was not safe; and he had made up his mind to pin his faith to Godfrey as the only one at all likely to lead him out of the maze. And Godfrey laid the greatest stress upon the necessity of keeping the cabinet under lock and key; so under lock and key it was kept. As for Grady, I do not believe that, even at the last, he realised the important part the cabinet had played in the drama.

But while the Boule cabinet failed to focus the attention of the public, and while most of the reporters promptly forgot all about it, I was amused at the pains which Godfrey took to inform the fugitive as to its whereabouts and as to how it was guarded. Over and over again, while the other papers wondered at his imbecility, he told how it had been placed in the strongest cell at the Twenty-third Street station; a cell whose bars were made of chrome-nickle steel which no saw could bite into; a cell whose lock was worked not only by a key but by a combination, known to one man only; a cell isolated from the others, standing alone in the middle of the third corridor, in full view of the officer on guard, so that no one could approach it, day or night, without being instantly discovered; a cell whose door was connected with an automatic alarm over the sergeant's desk in the front room; a cell, in short, from which no man could possibly escape, and which no man could possibly enter unobserved.

Of the Boule cabinet itself Godfrey said little, saving his story for the denouement which he seemed so sure would come; but the details which I have given above were dwelt upon in the Record, until, happening to meet Godfrey on the street one day, I protested that he would only succeed in frightening the fugitive away altogether, even if he still had any designs on the cabinet, which I very much doubted. But Godfrey only laughed.

"There's not the slightest danger of frightening him away," he said. "This fellow isn't that kind. If I am right in sizing him up, he's the sort of dare-devil whom an insuperable difficulty only attracts. The harder the job, the more he is drawn to it. That's the reason I am making this one just as hard as I can."

"But a man would be a fool to attempt to get to that cabinet," I protested. "It's simply impossible."

"It looks impossible, I'm free to admit," he agreed. "But, just the same, I wake every morning cold with fear, and run to the 'phone to make sure the cabinet's safe. If I could think of any further safeguards, I would certainly employ them."

I looked at Godfrey searchingly, for it seemed to me that he must be jesting. He smiled as he caught my glance.

"I was never more in earnest in my life, Lester," he said. "You don't appreciate this fellow as I do. He's a genius; nothing is impossible to him. He disdains easy jobs; when he thinks a job is too easy, he makes it harder, just as a sporting chance. He has been known to warn people that they kept their jewels too carelessly, and then, after they had put them in a safer place, he would go and take them."

"That seems rather foolish, doesn't it?" I queried.

"Not from his point of view. He doesn't steal because he needs money, but because he needs excitement."

"You know who he is, then?" I demanded.

"I think I do—I hope I do; but I am not going to tell even you till I'm sure. I'll say this—if he is who I think he is, it would be a delight to match one's brains with his. We haven't got any one like him over here—which is a pity!"

I was inclined to doubt this, for I have no romantic admiration for gentlemen burglars, even in fiction. However picturesque and chivalric, a thief is, after all, a thief. Perhaps it is my training as a lawyer, or perhaps I am simply narrow, but crime, however brilliantly carried out, seems to me a sordid and unlovely thing. I know quite well that there are many people who look at these things from a different angle, Godfrey is one of them.

I pointed out to him now that, if his intuitions were correct, he would soon have a chance to match his wits with those of the Great Unknown.

"Yes," he agreed, "and I'm scared to death—I have been ever since I began to suspect his identity. I feel like a tyro going up against a master in a game of chess—mate in six moves!"

"I shouldn't consider you exactly a tyro," I said, drily.

"It's long odds that the Great Unknown will," Godfrey retorted, and bade me good-bye.

Except for that chance meeting, I saw nothing of him, and in this I was disappointed, for there were many things about the whole affair which I did not understand. In fact, when I sat down of an evening and lit my pipe and began to think it over, I found that I understood nothing at all. Godfrey's theory held together perfectly, so far as I could see, but it led nowhere. How had Drouet and Vantine been killed? Why had they been killed? What was the secret of the cabinet? In a word, what was all this mystery about? Not one of these questions could I answer; and the solutions I guessed at seemed so absurd that I dismissed them in disgust. In the end, I found that the affair was interfering with my work, and I banished it from my mind, turning my face resolutely away from it whenever it tried to break into my thoughts.

But though I could shut it out of my waking hours successfully enough, I could not control my sleeping ones, and my dreams became more and more horrible. Always there was the serpent with dripping fangs, sometimes with Armand's head, sometimes with a face unknown to me, but hideous beyond description; its slimy body glittered with inlay and arabesque; its scaly legs were curved like those of the Boule cabinet; sometimes the golden sun glittered on its forehead like a great eye. Over and over again I saw this monster slay its three victims; and always, when that was done, it raised its head and glared at me, as though selecting me for the fourth.... But I shall not try to describe those dreams; even yet I cannot recall them without a shudder.

It was while I was sitting moodily in my room one night, debating whether or not to go to bed; weary to exhaustion and yet reluctant to resign myself to a sleep from which I knew I should wake shrieking, that a knock came at the door—a knock I recognised; and I arose joyfully to admit Godfrey.

I could see by the way his eyes were shining that he had something unusual to tell me; and then, as he looked at me, his face changed.

"What's the matter, Lester?" he demanded. "You're looking fagged out. Working too hard?"

"It's not that," I said. "I can't sleep. This thing has upset my nerves, Godfrey. I dream about it—have regular nightmares."

He sat down opposite me, concern and anxiety in his face.

"That won't do," he protested. "You must go away somewhere—take a rest, and a good long one."

"A rest wouldn't do me any good, as long as this mystery is unsolved," I said. "It's only by working that I can keep my mind off of it."

"Well," he smiled, "just to oblige you, we will solve it first, then."

"Do you mean you know...."

"I know who the Great Unknown is, and I'm going to tell you presently. Day after to-morrow—Wednesday—I'll know all the rest. The whole story will be in Thursday morning's paper. Suppose you arrange to start Thursday afternoon."

I could only stare at him. He smiled as he met my gaze.

"You're looking better already," he said, "as though you were taking a little more interest in life," and he helped himself to a cigar.

"Godfrey," I protested, "I wish you would pick out somebody else to practise on. You come up here and explode a bomb just to see how high I'll jump. It's amusing to you, no doubt, and perhaps a little instructive; but my nerves won't stand it."

"My dear Lester," he broke in, "that wasn't a bomb; that was a simple statement of fact."

"Are you serious?"

"Perfectly so."

"But how do you know...."

"Before I answer any questions, I want to ask you one. Did you, by any chance, mention me to the gentleman known to you as M. Felix Armand?"

"Yes," I answered, after a moment's thought; "I believe I did. I was telling him about our trying to find the secret drawer—I mentioned your name—and he asked who you were. I told him you were a genius at solving mysteries."

Godfrey nodded.

"That," he said, "explains the one thing I didn't understand. Now go ahead with your questions."

"You said a while ago that you would know all about this affair day after to-morrow."

"Yes."

"How do you know you will?"

"Because I have received a letter which sets the date," and he took from his pocket a sheet of paper and handed it over to me. "Read it!"

The letter was written in pencil, in a delicate and somewhat feminine hand, on a sheet of plain, unruled paper. With an astonishment which increased with every word, I read this extraordinary epistle:—

"My Dear Mr. Godfrey:

"I have been highly flattered by your interest in the affaire of the cabinet Boule, and admire most deeply your penetration in arriving at a conclusion so nearly correct regarding it. I must thank you, also, for your kindness in keeping me informed of the measures which have been taken to guard the cabinet, and which seem to me very complete and well thought out. I have myself visited the station and inspected the cell, and I find that in every detail you were correct.

"It is because I so esteem you as an adversary that I tell you, in confidence, that it is my intention to regain possession of my property on Wednesday next, and that, having done so, I shall beg you to accept a small souvenir of the occasion.

"I am, my dear sir,

"Most cordially yours,

"JACQUES CROCHARD,

"L'Invincible!"

I looked up to find Godfrey regarding me with a quizzical smile.

"Of course it's a joke," I said. Then I looked at him again. "Surely, Godfrey, you don't believe this is genuine!"

"Perhaps we can prove it," he said, quietly. "That is one reason I came up. Didn't Armand leave a note for you the day he failed to see you?"

"Yes; on his card; I have it here!" and with trembling fingers, I got out my pocket-book and drew the card from the compartment in which I had carefully preserved it.

One glance at it was enough. The pencilled line on the back was unquestionably written by the same hand which wrote the letter.

"And now you know his name," Godfrey added, tapping the signature with his finger. "I have been certain from the first that it was he!"

I gazed at the signature without answering. I had, of course, read in the papers many times of the Gargantuan exploits of Crochard—"The Invincible," as he loved to call himself, and with good reason. But his achievements, at least as the papers described them, seemed too fantastic to be true. I had suspected more than once that he was merely a figment of the Parisian space-writers, a sort of reserve for the dull season; or else that he was a kind of scape-goat saddled by the French police with every crime which proved too much for them. Now, however, it seemed that Crochard really existed; I held his letter in my hand; I had even talked with him—and as I remembered the fascination, the finish, the distinguished culture of M. Felix Armand, I understood something of the reason of his extraordinary reputation.

"There can be no two opinions about him," said Godfrey, reaching out his hand for the letter and sinking back in his chair to contemplate it. "Crochard is one of the greatest criminals who ever lived, full of imagination and resource, and with a sense of humour most acute. I have followed his career for years—it was this fact that gave me my first clue. He killed a man once before, just as he killed this last one. The man had betrayed him to the police. He was never betrayed again."

"What a fiend he must be!" I said, with a shudder.

But Godfrey shook his head quickly.

"Don't get that idea of him," he protested earnestly. "Up to the time of his arrival in New York, he had never killed any man except that traitor. Him he had a certain right to kill—according to thieves' ethics, anyway. His own life has been in peril scores of times, but he has never killed a man to save himself. Put that down to his credit."

"But Drouet and Vantine," I objected.

"An accident for which he was in no way responsible," said Godfrey promptly.

"You mean he didn't kill them?"

"Most certainly not. This last man he did kill was a traitor like the first. Crochard, I think, reasons like this; to kill an adversary is too easy; it is too brutal; it lacks finesse. Besides, it removes the adversary. And without adversaries, Crochard's life would be of no interest to him. After he had killed his last adversary, he would have to kill himself."

"I can't understand a man like that," I said.

"Well, look at this," said Godfrey, and tapped the letter again. "He honours me by considering me an adversary. Does he seek to remove me? On the contrary, he gives me a handicap. He takes off his queen in order that it may be a little more difficult to mate me!"

"But, surely, Godfrey," I protested, "you don't take that letter seriously! If he wrote it at all, he wrote it merely to throw you off the track. If he says Wednesday, he really intends to try for the cabinet to-morrow."

"I don't think so. I told you he would think me only a tyro. And, beside him, that is all I am. Do you know where he wrote that letter, Lester? Right in the Record office. That is a sheet of our copy paper. He sat down there, right under my nose, wrote that letter, dropped it into my box, and walked out. And all that sometime this evening, when the office was crowded."

"But it's absurd for him to write a letter like that, if he really means it. You have only to warn the police...."

"You'll notice he says it is in confidence."

"And you're going to keep it so?"

"Certainly I am; I consider that he has paid me a high compliment. I have shown it to no one but you—also in confidence."

"It is not the sort of confidence the law recognises," I pointed out. "To keep a confidence like that is practically to abet a felony."

"And yet you will keep it," said Godfrey cheerfully. "You see, I am going to do everything I can to prevent that felony. And we will see if Crochard is really invincible!"

"I'll keep it," I agreed, "because I think the letter is just a blind. And, by the way," I added, "I have a letter from Armand & Son confirming the fact that their books show that the Boule cabinet was bought by Philip Vantine. Under the circumstances, I shall have to claim it and hand it over to the Metropolitan."

"I hope you won't disturb it until after Wednesday," said Godfrey, quickly. "I won't have any interest in it after that."

"You really think Crochard will try for it Wednesday?"

"I really do."

I shrugged my shoulders. What was the use of arguing with a man like that?

"Till after Wednesday, then," I agreed; and Godfrey, having verified his letter and secured from me the two promises he was after, bade me good-night.



CHAPTER XXIII

WE MEET M. PIGOT

I was just getting ready to leave the office the next afternoon when Godfrey called me up.

"How are you feeling to-day, Lester?" he asked.

"Not as fit as I might," I said.

"Have you arranged to start on that vacation Thursday?"

"I don't think that's a good joke, Godfrey."

"It isn't a joke at all. I want you to arrange it. But meanwhile, how would you like a whiff of salt air this evening?"

"First rate. How will I get it?"

"The Savoie will get to quarantine about six o'clock. I'm going down on our boat to meet her. I want to have a talk with Inspector Pigot—the French detective. Will you come along?"

"Will I!" I said. "Where shall I meet you?"

"At the foot of Liberty Street, at five o'clock."

"I'll be there," I promised. And I was.

The boat was cast loose as soon as we got aboard, backed out into the busy river, her whistle shrieking shrilly, then swung about and headed down stream. It was a fast boat—the Record, which prided itself on outdistancing its contemporaries in other directions, would of course try to do so in this—and when she got fairly into her stride, with her engines throbbing rhythmically, the shore on either hand slipped past us rapidly.

The New York sky-line, as seen from the river, is one of the wonders of the world, and I stood looking at it until we swung out into the bay. There were two other men on board—the regular ship reporters, I suppose—and Godfrey had gone into the cabin with them to talk over some detail of the evening's work; so I went forward to the bow, where I would get the full benefit of the salt breeze, with the taste of it on my lips. The Statue of Liberty was just ahead, and already the great search-light in her torch was winking across the water. Craft innumerable crossed and re-crossed, their lights reflected in the waves, and far ahead, a little to the left, I could see the white glow against the sky which marked the position of Coney Island.

Godfrey joined me presently, and we stood for some time looking at this scene in silence.

"It's a great sight, isn't it?" he said, at last. "Hello! look at that boat!" he added, as a yacht, coming down the bay, drew abreast of us and then slowly forged ahead. "She can go some, can't she? This boat of ours is no slouch, you know; but just look how that one walks away from us. I wonder who she is? What boat is that, captain?" he called to the man on the bridge.

"Don't know, sir," answered the captain, after a look through his glasses. "Private yacht—can't make out her name—there's a flag or something hanging over the stern. She's flying the French flag. There come the other press boats behind us, sir," he added. "And there's the Savoie just slowing down at quarantine."

Far ahead we could see the great hull of the liner, dark against the horizon, and crowned with row upon row of glowing lights.

"One doesn't appreciate how big those boats are until one sees them from the water," I remarked. "Isn't she immense?"

"And yet she's not an especially big boat, either," said Godfrey. "To swing in under the really big ones—like the Olympic—is an experience to remember."

The Savoie had by this time slowed down until she was just holding her own against the tide, and one of her lower ports swung open. A moment later, a boat puffed up beside her, made fast, and three or four men clambered aboard and disappeared through the port.

"There go the doctors," said Godfrey. "And there is that French boat going alongside."

The tug from quarantine dropped astern and the French yacht took her place. After a short colloquy, one man from her was helped aboard the Savoie. Then it was our turn, and after what seemed to me a tremendous swishing and swirling at imminent risk of collision, we swung up to the open port, a line was flung out and made fast, and a moment later Godfrey and I and the other two men were aboard the liner.

My companions exchanged greetings with the officer in charge of the open port, and then we hurried forward along a narrow corridor, smelling of rubber and heated metal, then up stair after stair, until at last we came to the main companionway. Here the two men left us, to seek certain distinguished passengers, I suppose, whose views upon the questions of the day were (presumably) anxiously awaited by an expectant public. Godfrey stopped in front of the purser's office, and passed his card through the little window to the man inside the cage.

"I should like to see M. Pigot, of the Paris Service du Surete" he said. "Perhaps you will be so kind as to have a steward take my card to him?"

"That is unnecessary, sir," replied the purser, courteously. "That is M. Pigot yonder—the gentleman with the white hair, with his back to us. You will have to wait for a moment, however; the gentleman speaking with him is from the French consulate, and has but this moment come aboard."

I could not see Inspector Pigot's face, but I could see that he held himself very erect, in a manner bespeaking military training. The messenger from the legation was a youngish man, with waxed moustache and wearing an eyeglass. He was greeting M. Pigot at the moment, and, after a word or two, produced from an inside pocket an official-looking envelope, tied with red tape and secured with an immense red seal.

M. Pigot looked at it an instant, while his companion added a sentence in his ear; then, with a nod of assent, the detective turned down one of the passage-ways, the other man at his heels.

"Official business, no doubt," commented the purser, who had also been watching this little scene. "M. Pigot is one of the best of our officers, and you will find it a pleasure to talk with him. He will no doubt soon be disengaged."

"Yes, but meanwhile my esteemed contemporaries will arrive," said Godfrey, with a grimace. "They are on my heels—here they are now!"

In fact, for the next twenty minutes, reporters from the other papers kept arriving, till there was quite a crowd before the purser's office. And from nearly every paper a special man had been detailed to interview M. Pigot. Evidently all the papers were alive to the importance of the subject. There was some good-natured chaffing, and then one of the stewards was bribed to carry the cards of the assembled multitude to M. Pigot's stateroom, with the request for an audience.

The steward went away laughing, and came back presently to say that M. Pigot would be pleased to see us in a few minutes. But when five minutes more passed and he did not appear, impatience broke out anew. The lords of the press were not accustomed to being kept waiting.

"I move we storm his castle," suggested the World man.

And just then, M. Pigot himself stepped out into the companionway. In an instant he was surrounded.

"My good friends of the press," he said, speaking slowly, but with only the faintest accent, and he smiled around at the faces bent upon him. "You will pardon me for keeping you in waiting, but I had some matters of the first importance to attend to; and also my bag to pack. Steward," he added, "you will find my bag outside my door. Please bring it here, so that I may be ready to go ashore at once." The steward hurried away, and M. Pigot turned back to us. "Now, gentlemen," he went on, "what is it that I can do for you?"

It was to Godfrey that the position of spokesman naturally fell.

"We wish first to welcome you to America, M. Pigot," he said, "and to hope that you will have a pleasant and interesting stay in our country."

"You are most kind," responded the Frenchman, with a charming smile. "I am sure that I shall find it most interesting—especially your wonderful city, of which I have heard many marvellous things."

"And in the next place," continued Godfrey, "we hope that, with your assistance, our police may be able to solve the mystery surrounding the death of the three men recently killed here, and to arrest the murderer. Of themselves, they seem to be able to do nothing."

M. Pigot spread out his hands with a little deprecating gesture.

"I also hope we may be successful," he said; "but if your police have not been, my poor help will be of little account. I have a profound admiration for your police; the results which they accomplish are wonderful, when one considers the difficulties under which they labour."

He spoke with an accent so sincere that I was almost convinced he meant every word of it; but Godfrey only smiled.

"It is a proverb," he said, "that the French police are the best in the world. You, no doubt, have a theory in regard to the death of these men?"

"I fear it is impossible, sir," said M. Pigot, regretfully, "to answer that question at present, or to discuss this case with you. I have my report first to make to the chief of your detective bureau. To-morrow I shall be most happy to tell you all that I can. But for to-night my lips are closed, sad as it makes me to seem discourteous."

I could hear behind me the little indrawn breath of disappointment at the failure of the direct attack. M. Pigot's position was, of course, absolutely correct; but nevertheless Godfrey prepared to attack it on the flank.

"You are going ashore to-night?" he inquired.

"I was expecting a representative of your bureau to meet me here," M. Pigot explained. "I was hoping to return with him to the city. I have no time to lose. In addition, the more quickly we get to work, the more likely we shall be to succeed. Ah! perhaps that is he," he added, as a voice was heard inquiring loudly for Moosseer Piggott.

I recognised that voice, and so did Godfrey, and I saw the cloud of disappointment which fell upon his face.

An instant later, Grady, with Simmonds in his wake, elbowed his way through the group.

"Moosseer Piggott!" he cried, and enveloped the Frenchman's slender hand in his great paw, and gave it a squeeze which was no doubt painful.

"Glad to see you, sir. Welcome to our city, as we say over here in America. I certainly hope you can speak English, for I don't know a word of your lingo. I'm Commissioner Grady, in charge of the detective bureau; and this is Simmonds, one of my men."

M. Pigot's perfect suavity was not even ruffled.

"I am most pleased to meet you, sir; and you Monsieur Simmon," he said. "Yes—I speak English—though, as you see, with some difficulty."

"These reporters bothering your life out, I see," and Grady glanced about the group, scowling as his eyes met Godfrey's. "Now you boys might as well fade away. You won't get anything out of either of us to-night—eh, Moosseer Piggott?"

"I have but just told them that my first report must be made to you, sir," assented Pigot.

"Then let's go somewhere and have a drink," suggested Grady.

"I was hoping," said M. Pigot, gently, "that we might go ashore at once. I have my papers ready for you...."

"All right," agreed Grady. "And after I've looked over your papers, I'll show you Broadway, and I'll bet you agree with me that it beats anything in gay Paree. Our boat's waiting, and we can start right away. This your bag? Yes? Bring it along, Simmonds," and Grady started for the stair.

But the attentive steward got ahead of Simmonds.

M. Pigot turned to us with a little smile.

"Till to-morrow, gentlemen," he said. "I shall be at the Hotel Astor, and shall be glad to see you—shall we say at eleven o'clock? I am truly sorry that I can tell you nothing to-night."

He shook hands with the purser, waved his hand to us, and joined Grady, who was watching these amenities with evident impatience. Together they disappeared down the stair.

"A contrast in manners, was it not, gentlemen?" asked Godfrey, looking about him. "Didn't you blush for America?"

The men laughed, for they knew he was after Grady, and yet it was evident enough that they agreed with him.

"Come on, Lester," he added; "we might as well be getting back. I can send the boat down again after the other boys," and he turned down the stair.



CHAPTER XXIV

THE SECRET OF THE CABINET

Godfrey bade me good-bye at the dock and hastened away to the office to write his story, which, I could guess, would be concerned with the manners of Americans, especially with Grady's. As for me, that whiff of salt air had put an unaccustomed edge to my appetite, and I took a cab to Murray's, deciding to spend the remainder of the evening there, over a good dinner. Except in a certain mood, Murray's does not appeal to me; the pseudo-Grecian temple in the corner, with water cascading down its steps, the make-believe clouds which float across the ceiling, the tables of glass lighted from beneath—all this, ordinarily, seems trivial and banal; but occasionally, in an esoteric mood, I like Murray's, and can even find something picturesque and romantic in bright gowns, and gleaming shoulders, and handsome faces seen amid these bizarre surroundings. And then, of course, there is always the cooking, which leaves nothing to be desired.

I was in the right mood to-night for the enjoyment of the place, and I ambled through the dinner in a fashion so leisurely and trifled so long over coffee and cigarette that it was far past ten o'clock when I came out again into Forty-second Street. After an instant's hesitation, I decided to walk home, and turned back toward Broadway, already filling with the after-theatre crowd.

Often as I have seen it, Broadway at night is still a fascinating place to me, with its blazing signs, its changing crowds, its clanging street traffic, its bright shop-windows. Grady was right in saying that "gay Paree" had nothing like it; nor has any other city that I know. It is, indeed, unique and thoroughly American; and I walked along it that night in the most leisurely fashion, savouring it to the full; pausing, now and then, for a glance at a shop-window, and stopping at the Hoffman House—now denuded, alas! of its Bouguereau—to replenish my supply of cigarettes.

Reaching Madison Square, at last, I walked out under the trees, as I almost always do, to have a look at the Flatiron Building, white against the sky. Then I glanced up at the Metropolitan tower, higher but far less romantic in appearance, and saw by the big illuminated clock that it was nearly half-past eleven.

I crossed back over Broadway, at last, and turned down Twenty-third Street in the direction of the Marathon, when, just at the corner, I came face to face with three men as they swung around the corner in the same direction, and, with a little start, I recognised Grady and Simmonds, with M. Pigot between them. Evidently Grady had felt it incumbent upon himself to make good his promise in the most liberal manner, and to display the wonders of the Great White Way from end to end—the ceremony no doubt involving the introduction of the stranger to a number of typical American drinks—and the result of all this was that Grady's legs wobbled perceptibly. As a matter of racial comparison, I glanced at M. Pigot's, but they seemed in every way normal.

"Hello, Lester," said Simmonds, in a voice which showed that he had not wholly escaped the influences of the evening's celebration; and even Grady condescended to nod, from which I inferred that he was feeling very unusually happy.

"Hello, Simmonds," I answered, and, as I turned westward with them, he dropped back and; fell into step beside me.

"Piggott is certainly a wonder," he said. "A regular sport—wanted to see everything and taste everything. He says Paris ain't in the same class with this town."

"Where are you going now?" I asked.

"We're going round to the station. Piggott says he's got a sensation up his sleeve for us—it's got something to do with that cabinet."

"With the cabinet?"

"Yes—that shiny thing Godfrey got me to lock up in a cell."

"Simmonds," I said, seriously, "does Godfrey know about this?"

"No," said Simmonds, looking a little uncomfortable. "I told Grady we ought to 'phone him to come up, but the chief got mad and told me to mind my own business. Godfrey's been after him, you know, for a long time."

"Suppose I 'phone him," I suggested. "There'd be no objection to that, would there?"

"I won't object," said Simmonds, "and I don't know who else will, since nobody else will know about it."

"All right. And drag out the preliminaries as long as you can, to give him a chance to get up here."

Simmonds nodded.

"I'll do what I can," he agreed, "but I don't see what good it will do. The chief won't let him in, even if he does come up."

"We'll have to leave that to Godfrey. But he ought to be told. He's responsible for the cabinet being where it is."

"I know he is, and Piggott says it was a mighty wise thing to put it there, though I'm blessed if I know why. Hurry Godfrey along as much as you can. Good-night," and he followed his companions into the station.

There was a drugstore at the corner with a public telephone station, and two minutes later, I was asking to be connected with the city-room at the Record office.

No, said a supercilious voice, Mr. Godfrey was not there; he had left some time before; no, the speaker did not know where he was going, nor when he would be back.

"Look here," I said, "this is important. I want to talk to the city editor—and be quick about it."

There was an instant's astonished silence.

"What name?" asked the voice.

"Lester, of Royce and Lester—and you might tell your city editor that Godfrey is a close friend of mine."

The city editor seemed to understand, for I was switched on to him a moment later. But he was scarcely more satisfactory.

"We sent Godfrey up into Westchester to see a man," he said, "on a tip that looked pretty good. He started just as soon as he got his Pigot story written, and he ought to be back almost any time. Is there a message I can give him?"

"Yes—tell him Pigot is at the Twenty-third Street station, and that he'd better come up as soon as he can."

"Very good. I'll give him the message the moment he comes in."

"Thank you," I said, but the disappointment was a bitter one.

In the street again, I paused hesitatingly at the curb, my eyes on the red light of the police station. What was about to happen there? What was the sensation M. Pigot had up his sleeve? Had I any excuse for being present?

And then, remembering Grady's nod and his wobbly legs—remembering, too, that, at the worst, he could only put me out!—I turned toward the light, pushed open the door and entered.

There was no one in sight except the sergeant at the desk.

"My name is Lester," I said. "You have a cabinet here belonging to the estate of the late Philip Vantine."

"We've got a cabinet, all right; but I don't know who it belongs to."

"It belongs to Mr. Vantine's estate."

"Well, what about it?" he asked, looking at me to see if I was drunk. "You haven't come in here at midnight to tell me that, I hope?"

"No; but I'd like to see the cabinet a minute."

"You can't see it to-night. Come around to-morrow. Besides, I don't know you."

"Here's my card. Either Mr. Simmonds or Mr. Grady would know me. And to-morrow won't do."

The sergeant took the card, looked at it, and looked at me.

"Wait a minute," he said, at last, and disappeared through a door at the farther side of the room. He was gone three or four minutes, and the station-clock struck twelve as I stood there. I counted the sonorous, deliberate strokes, and then, in the silence that followed, my hands began to tremble with the suspense. Suppose Grady should refuse to see me? But at last the sergeant came back.

"Come along," he said, opening the gate in the railing and motioning me through. "Straight on through that door," he added, and sat down again at his desk.

With a desperate effort at careless unconcern, I opened the door and passed through. Then, involuntarily, I stopped. For there, in the middle of the floor, was the Boule cabinet, with M. Pigot standing beside it, and Grady and Simmonds sitting opposite, flung carelessly back in their chairs, and puffing at black cigars.

They all looked at me as I entered, Pigot with an evident contraction of the brows which showed how strongly his urbanity was strained; Simmonds with an affectation of surprise, and Grady with a bland and somewhat vacant smile. My heart rose when I saw that smile.

"Well, Mr. Lester," he said, "so you want to see this cabinet?"

"Yes," I answered; "it really belongs to the Vantine estate, you know; I'm going to put in a claim for it—that is, if you are not willing to surrender it without contest."

"Did you just happen to think of this in the middle of the night?" he inquired quizzically.

"No," I said, boldly; "but I saw you and Mr. Simmonds and this gentleman"—with a bow to M. Pigot—"turn in here a moment ago, and it occurred to me that the cabinet might have something to do with your visit. Of course, we don't want the cabinet injured. It is very valuable."

"Don't worry," said Grady, easily, "we're not going to injure it. And I think we'll be ready to surrender it to you at any time after to-night. Moosseer Piggott here wants to do a few tricks with it first. I suppose you have a certain right to be present—so, if you like sleight-of-hand, sit down."

I hastily sought a chair, my heart singing within me. Then I attempted to assume a mask of indifference, for M. Pigot was obviously annoyed at my presence, and I feared for a moment that his Gallic suavity would be strained to breaking. But Grady, if he noticed his guest's annoyance, paid no heed to it; and I began to suspect that the Frenchman's courtesy and good-breeding had ended by rubbing Grady the wrong way, they were in such painful contrast to his own hob-nailed manners. Whatever the cause, there was a certain malice in the smile he turned upon the Frenchman.

"And now, Moosseer Piggott," he said, settling back in his chair a little farther, "we're ready for the show."

"What I have to tell you, sir," began M. Pigot, in a voice as hard as steel and cold as ice, "has, understand well, to be told in confidence. It must remain between ourselves until the criminal is secured."

Grady's smile hardened a little. Perhaps he did not like the imperatives. At any rate, he ignored the hint.

"Understand, Mr. Lester?" he asked, looking at me, and I nodded.

I saw Pigot's eyes flame and his face flush with anger, for Grady's tone was almost insulting. For an instant I thought that he would refuse to proceed; but he controlled himself.

Standing there facing me, in the full light, it was possible for me to examine him much more closely than had been possible on board the boat, and I looked at him with interest. He was typically French, —smooth-shaven, with a face seamed with little wrinkles and very white, eyes shadowed by enormously bushy lashes, and close-cropped hair as white as his face. But what attracted me most was the mouth —a mouth at once delicate and humourous, a little large and with the lips full enough to betoken vigour, yet not too full for fineness. He was about sixty years of age, I guessed; and there was about him the air of a man who had passed through a hundred remarkable experiences, without once losing his aplomb. Certainly he was not going to lose it now.

"The story which I have to relate," he began in his careful English, clipping his words a little now and then, "has to do with the theft of the famous Michaelovitch diamonds. You may, perhaps, remember the case."

I remembered it, certainly, for the robbery had been conceived and carried out with such brilliancy and daring that its details had at once arrested my attention—to say nothing of the fact that the diamonds, which formed the celebrated collection belonging to the Grand Duke Michael, of Russia,—sojourning in Paris because unappreciated in his native land and also because of the supreme attraction of the French capital to one of his temperament—were valued at something like eight million francs.

"That theft," continued M. Pigot, "was accomplished in a manner at once so bold and so unique that we were certain it could be the work of but a single man—a rascal named Crochard, who calls himself also 'The Invincible'—a rascal who has given us very great trouble, but whom we have never been able to convict. In this case, we had against him no direct evidence; we subjected him to an interrogation and found that he had taken care to provide a perfect alibi; so we were compelled to release him. We knew that it would be quite useless to arrest him unless we should find some of the stolen jewels in his possession. He appeared as usual upon the boulevards, at the cafes, everywhere. He laughed in our faces. For us, it was not pleasant; but our law is strict. For us to accuse a man, to arrest him, and then to be compelled to own ourselves mistaken, is a very serious matter. But we did what we could. We kept Crochard under constant surveillance; we searched his rooms and those of his mistress not once but many times. On one occasion, when he passed the barrier at Vincennes, our agents fell upon him and searched him, under pretence of robbing him.

"He was, understand well, not for an instant deceived. He knew thoroughly what we were doing, for what we were searching. He knew also that nowhere in Europe would he dare to attempt to sell a single one of those jewels. We suspected that he would attempt to bring them to this country, and we warned your department of customs. For we knew that here he could sell all but the very largest not only almost without danger, but at a price far greater than he could obtain for them in Europe. We closed every avenue to him, as we thought—and then, all at once, he disappeared.

"For two weeks we heard nothing—then came the story of this man Drouet, killed by a stab on the hand. At once we recognised the work of Crochard, for he alone of living men possesses the secret of the poison of the Medici. It is a fearful secret, which, in his whole life, he had used but once—and that upon a man who had betrayed him."

M. Pigot paused and passed his hand across his forehead.

"We were at a loss to understand Crochard's connection with Drouet," M. Pigot continued. "Drouet, while a mere hanger-on of the cafes of the boulevards, was not a criminal. Then came the death of that creature Morel, in an effort to gain possession of this cabinet, and we began to understand. We made inquiries concerning the cabinet; we learned its history, and the secret of its construction, and we arrived at a certain conclusion. It was to ascertain if that conclusion is correct that I came to America."

"What is the conclusion?" queried Grady, who had listened to all this with a manifest impatience in strong contrast to my own absorbed interest.

For I had already guessed what the conclusion was, and my pulses were bounding with excitement. "Our theory," replied M. Pigot, without the slightest acceleration of speech, "is that the Michaelovitch diamonds are concealed in this cabinet. Everything points to it—and we shall soon see." As he spoke, he drew from his pocket a steel gauntlet, marvellously like the one Godfrey had used, and slipped it over his right hand. "When one attempts to fathom the secrets of L'Invincible" he said with a smile, "one must go armoured. Already three men have paid with their lives the penalty of their rashness." "Three men!" repeated Grady, wonderingly. "Three," and Pigot checked them off upon his fingers. "First the man who gave his name as d'Aurelle, but who was really a blackmailer named Drouet; second, M. Vantine, the connoisseur; and third, the creature Morel. Of these, the only one that really matters is M. Vantine; his death was most unfortunate, and I am sure that Crochard regrets it exceedingly. He might also regret my death, but, at any rate, I have no wish to be the fourth. Not I," and he adjusted the gauntlet carefully. "One moment, monsieur," I said, bursting in, unable to remain longer silent. "This is all so wonderful—so thrilling—will you not tell us more? For what were these three men searching? For the jewels?" "Monsieur is as familiar with the facts as I," he answered, in a sarcastic tone. "He knows that Drouet was killed while searching for a packet of letters, which would have compromised most seriously a great lady; he knows that M. Vantine was killed while endeavouring to open the drawer after its secret had been revealed to him by the maid of that same great lady, who was hoping to get a reward for them; Morel met death directly at the hands of Crochard because he was a traitor and deserved it." More and more fascinated, I stared at him. What secret was safe, I asked myself, from this astonishing man? Or was he merely piecing together the whole story from such fragments as he knew? "But even yet," I stammered, "I do not understand. We have opened the secret drawer of the cabinet—there was no poison. How could it have killed Drouet and Mr. Vantine?"

"Very simply," said M. Pigot, coldly. "Death came to Drouet and M. Vantine because the maid of Madame la Duchesse mistook her left hand for her right. The drawer which contained the letters is at the left of the cabinet—see," and he pressed the series of springs, caught the little handle, and pulled the drawer open. "You will notice that the letters are gone, for the drawer was opened by Madame la Duchesse herself, in the presence of M. Lestaire, who very gallantly permitted her to resume possession of them. The drawer which Drouet and M. Vantine opened," and here his voice became a little strident under the stress of great emotion, "is on the right side of the cabinet, exactly opposite the other, and opened by a similar combination. But there is one great difference. About the first drawer, there is nothing to harm any one; the other is guarded by the deadliest poison the world has ever known. Observe me, gentlemen!" Impelled by an excitement so intense as to be almost painful, I had risen from my chair and drawn near to him. As he spoke, he bent above the desk and pressed three fingers along the right edge. There was a sharp click, and a section of the inlay fell outward, forming a handle, just as I had seen it do on the other side of the desk. M. Pigot hesitated an instant—any man would have hesitated before that awful risk!—then, catching the handle firmly with his armoured hand, he drew it quickly out. There was a sharp clash, as of steel on steel, and the drawer stood open.



CHAPTER XXV

THE MICHAELOVITCH DIAMONDS

M. Pigot, cool and imperturbable, held out to us, with a little smile, a hand which showed not a quiver of emotion—his gauntleted hand; and I saw that, on the back of it, were two tiny depressions. At the bottom of each depression lay a drop of bright red liquid— blood-red, I told myself, as I stared at it, fascinated. And what nerves of steel this man possessed! A sudden warmth of admiration for him glowed within me. "That liquid, gentlemen," he said in his smooth voice, "is the most powerful poison ever distilled by man. Those two tiny drops would kill a score of people, and kill them instantly. Its odour betrays its origin"—and, indeed, the air was heavy with the scent of bitter almonds—"but the poison ordinarily derived from that source is as nothing compared with this. This poison is said to have been discovered by Remy, the remarkable man who brought about the death of the Duc d'Anjou. Its distillation was supposed to be one of the lost arts, but the secret was rediscovered by this man Crochard. No secret, indeed, is safe from him; criminal history, criminal memoirs—the mysteries and achievements of the great confederacy of crime which has existed for many centuries, and whose existence few persons even suspect—all this is to him an open book. It is this which renders him so formidable. No man can stand against him. Even the secret of this drawer was known to him, and he availed himself of it when need arose." M. Pigot paused, his head bent in thought; and I seemed to be gazing with him down long avenues of crime, extending far into the past—dismal avenues like those of Pere Lachaise, where tombs elbowed each other; where, at every step, one came face to face with a mystery, a secret, or a tragedy. Only, here, the mysteries were all solved, the secrets all uncovered, the tragedies all understood. But only to the elect, to criminals really great, were these avenues open; to all others they were forbidden. Alone of living men, perhaps, Crochard was free to wander there unchallenged.

Some such vision as this, I say, passed before my eyes, and I had a feeling that M. Pigot shared in it; but, after an instant, he turned back to the cabinet.

"Now, M. Simmon," he said, briskly, in an altered voice, "if you will have the kindness to hold the drawer for a moment in this position, I will draw the serpent's fangs. There is not the slightest danger," he added, seeing that Simmonds very naturally hesitated.

Thus assured, Simmonds grasped the handle of the drawer, and held it open, while the Frenchman took from his pocket a tiny flask of crystal.

"A little farther," he said; and as Simmonds, with evident effort, drew the drawer out to its full length, a tiny, two-tined prong pushed itself forward from underneath the cabinet. "There are the fangs," said M. Pigot. He held the mouth of the flask under first one and then the other, passing his other hand carefully behind and above them. "The poison is held in place by what we in French call attraction capillaire—I do not know the English; but I drive it out by introducing the air behind it—ah, you see!"

He stood erect and held the flask up to the light. It was half full of the red liquid.

"Enough to decimate France," he said, screwed the stopper carefully into place, and put the flask in his pocket. "Release the drawer, if you please, monsieur," he added to Simmonds.

It sprang back into place on the instant, the arabesqued handle snapping up with a little click.

"You will observe its ingenuity," said M. Pigot. "It is really most clever. For whenever the hand, struck by the poisoned fangs, loosened its hold on the drawer, the drawer sprang shut as you see, and everything was as before—except that one man more had tasted death. Now I open it. The fangs fall again; they strike the gauntlet; but for that, they would pierce the hand, but death no longer follows. By turning this button, I lock the spring, and the drawer remains open. The man who devised this mechanism was so proud of it that he described it in a secret memoir for the entertainment of the Grand Louis. There is a copy of that memoir among the archives of the Bibliotheque Nationale; the original is owned by Crochard. It was he who connected that memoir with this cabinet, who rediscovered the mechanism, rewound the spring, and renewed the poison. No doubt the stroke with the poisoned fangs, which he used to punish traitors, was the result of reading that memoir."

"This Croshar—or whatever his name is,—seems to be a 'strordinary feller," observed Grady, relighting his cigar.

"He is," agreed M. Pigot, quietly; "a most extraordinary man. But even he is not infallible; for, since the memoir made no mention of the other secret drawer—the one in which Madame la Duchesse concealed her love letters—Crochard knew nothing of it. It was that fact which defeated his combinations—a pure accident which he could not foresee. And now, gentlemen, it shall be my pleasure to display before you some very beautiful brilliants."

Not until that instant had I thought of what the drawer contained; I had been too fascinated by the poisoned fangs and by the story told so quietly but so effectively by the French detective; but now I perceived that the drawer was filled with little rolls of cotton, which had been pressed into it quite tightly.

M. Pigot removed the first of these, unrolled it and spread it out upon the desk, and instantly we caught the glitter of diamonds —diamonds so large, so brilliant, so faultlessly white that I drew a deep breath of admiration. Even M. Pigot, evidently as he prided himself upon his imperturbability, could not look upon those gems wholly unmoved; a slow colour crept into his cheeks as he gazed down at them, and he picked up one or two of the larger ones to admire them more closely. Then he unfolded roll after roll, stopping from time to time for a look at the larger brilliants.

"These are from the famous necklace which the Grand Duke inherited from his grandmother," he said, calling our attention to a little pile of marvellous gems in one of the last packets. "Crochard, of course, removed them from their settings—that was inevitable. He could melt down the settings and sell the gold; but not one of these brilliants would be marketable in Europe for many years. Each of them is a marked gem. Here in America, your police regulations are not so complete; but I fancy that, even here, he would have had difficulty in marketing this one," and he unfolded the last packet, and held up to the light a rose-diamond which seemed to me as large as a walnut, and a-glow with lovely colour.

"Perhaps you have stopped to admire the Mazarin diamond in the galerie d'Apollon at the Louvre," said M. Pigot. "There is always a crowd about that case, and a special attendant is installed there to guard it, for it contains some articles of great value. But the Mazarin is not one of them; for it is not a diamond at all; it is paste—a paste facsimile of which this is the original. Oh, it is all quite honest," he added, as Grady snorted derisively. "Some years ago, the directors of the Louvre needed a fund for the purchase of new paintings; needed also to clean and restore the old ones. They decided that it was folly to keep three millions of francs imprisoned in a single gem, when their Michael Angelos and da Vincis and Murillos were encrusted with dirt and fading daily. So they sought a purchaser for the Mazarin; they found one in the empress of Russia, who had a craze for precious stones, and who, at her death, left this remarkable collection to her favourite son, who had inherited her passion. A paste replica of the Mazarin was placed in the Louvre for the crowds to admire, and every one soon forgot that it was not really the diamond. For myself, I think the directors acted most wisely. And now," he added, with a gesture toward the glittering heaps, "what shall we do with all this?"

"There's only one thing to do," said Grady, awaking suddenly as from a trance, "and that's to get them in a safe-deposit box as quick as possible. There's no police-safe I'd trust with 'em! Why, they'd tempt the angel Gabriel!" and he drew a deep breath.

"Can we find a box of safe-deposit at this hour of the night?" asked M. Pigot, glancing at his watch. "It is almost one o'clock and a half."

"That's easy in New York," said Grady. "We'll take 'em over to the Day and Night Bank on Fifth Avenue. It never closes. Wait till I get something to put 'em in."

He went out and came back presently with a small valise.

"This will do," he said. "Stow 'em away, and I'll call up the bank and arrange for the box."

Simmonds and Pigot rolled up the packets carefully and placed them in the valise, while I sat watching them in a kind of daze. And I understood the temptation which would assail a man in the presence of so much beauty. It was not the value of the jewels which shook and dazzled me—I scarcely thought of that; it was their seductive brilliance, it was the thought that, if I possessed them, I might take them out at any hour of the day or night and run my fingers through them and watch them shimmer and quiver in the light.

"The Grand Duke Michael must have been considerably upset," remarked Simmonds, who, throughout all this scene, had lost no whit of his serenity of demeanour.

"He has been like a madman," said M. Pigot, smiling a little at Simmonds's unemotional tone. "These jewels are a passion with him; he worships them; he never has parted with them, even for a day; where he goes, they have gone. In his most desperate need of money—and he has had such need many times—he has never sold one of his brilliants. On the contrary, whenever he has money or credit, and the opportunity comes to purchase a stone of unusual beauty, he cannot resist, even though his debts go unpaid. Since the loss of these stones, he has raved, he has cursed, he has beat his servants—one of them has died, in consequence. We are all a little mad on some one subject, I have heard it said; well, the Grand Duke Michael is very mad on the subject of diamonds."

"Why didn't he offer a reward for their return?" queried Simmonds.

"Oh, he did," said M. Pigot. "He offered immediately his whole fortune for their return. But his fortune was not large enough to tempt Crochard, for the Grand Duke really has nothing but the income from his family estates, and you may well believe that he spends all of it. It will be a great joy to him that we have found them."

The thought flashed through my mind that doubtless M. Pigot was in the way of receiving a handsome present.

"There they are," said Simmonds, and closed the bag with a snap, as Grady came in again.

"I've arranged for the box," said Grady, "and one of our wagons is at the door. I thought we'd better not trust a taxi—might turn over or run into something, and we can't afford to take any chances—not this trip. Simmonds, you go along with Moosseer Piggott, and put an extra man on the seat with the driver. Maybe that Croshar might try to hold you up."

The same thought was in my own mind, for Crochard must have learned of M. Pigot's arrival; and I could scarcely imagine that he would sit quietly by and permit the jewels to be taken away from him—to say nothing of his chagrin over his unfulfilled boast to Godfrey. So I was relieved that Grady was wise enough to take no risk.

"You'd better get a receipt," Grady went on, "and arrange that the valise is to be delivered only when you and Moosseer Piggott appear together. That will be satisfactory, moosseer?" he added, turning to the Frenchman.

"Entirely so, sir."

"Very well, then; I'll see you in the morning. I congratulate you on the find. It was certainly great work."

"I thank you, sir," replied M. Pigot, gravely. "Au revoir, monsieur," and with a bow to me, he followed Simmonds into the outer room.

Grady sat down and got out a fresh cigar.

"Well, Mr. Lester," he said, as he struck a match, "what do you think of these Frenchmen, anyway?"

"They're marvellous," I said. "Even yet I can't understand how he knew so much."

"Maybe he was just guessing at some of it," Grady suggested.

"I thought of that; but I don't believe anybody could guess so accurately. For instance, how did he know about those letters?"

"Fact is," broke in Grady, "that's the first I'd heard of 'em. What is that story?"

I told him the story briefly, carefully suppressing everything which would give him a clue to the identity of the veiled lady.

"There were certain details," I added, "which I supposed were known to no one except myself and two other persons—and yet M. Pigot knew them. Then again, how did he know so certainly just how the mechanism worked? How did he know which roll of cotton contained that Mazarin diamond? You will remember he told us what was in that roll before he opened it."

Grady smiled good-naturedly and a little patronisingly.

"That was the last roll, wasn't it?" he demanded. "Since that big diamond hadn't shown up in any of the others, he knew it had to be in that roll. It was just one of the little plays for effect them Frenchies are so fond of."

"Perhaps you are right," I agreed. "But it seemed to me that he handled that mechanism as though he was familiar with it. Of course, he may have prepared himself by studying the drawings which no doubt accompany the secret memoir. He may even have had a working model made."

Grady nodded tolerantly.

"Them fellers go to a lot of trouble over little things like that," he said. "They like to slam their cards down on the table with a big hurrah, even when the cards ain't worth a damn."

"He certainly held trumps this time, anyway," I commented. "And he played his hand superbly. He is an extraordinary man."

"And a great actor," Grady supplemented. "Them fellers always behave like they was on the stage, right in the spot-light. It makes me a little tired, sometimes. Hello! Who's that?"

The front door had been flung open; there was an instant's colloquy with the desk-sergeant, then a rapid step crossed the outer room, and Godfrey burst in upon us.

He cast a rapid glance at the Boule cabinet, at the secret drawer standing open, empty; and then his eyes rested upon Grady.

"So he got away with it, did he?" he inquired.

"Who in hell do you think you are?" shouted Grady, his face purple, "coming in here like this? Get out, or I'll have you thrown out!"

"Oh, I'll go," retorted Godfrey coolly. "I've seen all I care to see. Only I'll tell you one thing, Grady—you've signed your own death-warrant to-night!"

"What do you mean by that?" Grady demanded, in a lower tone.

"I mean that you won't last an hour after the story of this night's work gets out."

Grady's colour slowly faded as he met the burning and contemptuous gaze Godfrey turned upon him. As for me, an awful fear had gripped my heart.

"Do you mean to say it wasn't Piggott?" stammered Grady, at last.

Godfrey laughed scornfully.

"No, you blithering idiot!" he said. "It wasn't Pigot. It was Crochard himself!"

And he stalked out, slamming the door behind him.



CHAPTER XXVI

THE FATE OF M. PIGOT

Whatever may have been Grady's defects of insight and imagination, he was energetic enough when thoroughly aroused. Almost before the echo of that slamming door had died away, he was beside the sergeant's desk.

"Get out the reserves," he ordered, "and have the other wagon around. 'Phone headquarters to rush every man available up to the Day and Night Bank, and say it's from me!"

He stood chewing his cigar savagely as the sergeant hastened to obey. In a moment, the reserves came tumbling out, struggling into their coats; there was a clatter of hoofs in the street as the wagon dashed up; the reserves piled into it, permitting me to crowd in beside them, Grady jumped to the seat beside the driver, and we were off at a gallop, our gong waking the echoes of the silent street.

I clung to the hand-rail as the wagon swayed back and forth or bounded into the air as it struck the car-tracks, and stared out into the night, struggling to understand. Could Godfrey be right? But of course he was right! Some intuition told me that; and yet, how had Crochard managed to substitute himself for the French detective? Where was Pigot? Was he lying somewhere in a crumpled heap, with a tiny wound upon his hand? But that could not be—Grady and Simmonds had been with him all the evening! And could that aged Frenchman with the white, fine, wrinkled skin be also the bronzed and virile personage whom I had known as Felix Armand? My reason reeled before the seeming impossibility of it—and yet, somehow, I knew that Godfrey was right!

The wagon came to a stop so suddenly that I was thrown violently against the man next to me, and the reserves, leaping out, swept me before them. We were in front of the Day and Night Bank, and at a word from Grady, the men spread into a close cordon before the building.

Another police wagon stood at the curb, with the driver still on the seat, but as Grady started toward it, a figure appeared at the door of the bank and shouted to us—shouted in inarticulate words which I could not understand. But Grady seemed to understand them, and went up the steps two at a time, with an agility surprising in so large a man, and which I was hard put to it to match. A little group stood at one side of the vestibule looking down at some one extended on a cushioned seat. And, an instant later, I saw that it was Simmonds, lying on his back, his eyes open and staring apparently at the ceiling.

But, at the second glance, I saw that the eyes were sightless.

Grady elbowed his way savagely through the group.

"Where's Kelly?" he demanded.

At the words, a white-faced man in uniform arose from a chair into which he had plainly dropped exhausted.

"Oh, there you are!" and Grady glowered at him ferociously. "Now tell me what happened—and tell it quick!"

"Why, sir," stammered Kelly, "there wasn't anything happened. Only when we stopped out there at the curb and I got down and opened the door, there wasn't nobody in the wagon but Mr. Simmonds. I spoke to him and he didn't answer—and then I touched him and he kind of fell over—and then I rushed in here and 'phoned the station; but they said you'd already started for the bank; and then we went out and brought him in here—and that's all I know, sir."

"You didn't hear anything—no sound of a struggle?"

"Not a sound, sir; not a single sound."

"And you haven't any idea where the other man got out?"

"No, sir."

"Mr. Simmonds had a little valise with him—did you notice it?"

"Yes, sir; and I looked for it in the wagon, but it ain't there."

Grady turned away with a curse as four or five men ran in from the street—the men from headquarters, I told myself. I could hear him talking to them in sharp, low tones, and then they departed as suddenly as they had come. The reserves also hurried away, and I concluded that Grady was trying to throw a net about the territory in which the fugitive was probably concealed; but my interest in that manoeuvre was overshadowed, for the time being, by my anxiety for Simmonds. I picked up his right hand and looked at it; then I drew a deep breath of relief, for it was uninjured.

"Has anyone sent for a doctor?" I asked.

"Yes, sir," one of the bank attaches answered. "We telephoned for one at once—here he is, now!" he added, as a little black-bearded man entered, carry the inevitably-identifying medicine case.

The newcomer glanced at the body, waved us back, fell on one knee, stripped away the clothing from the breast and applied his ear to the heart. Then he looked into the staring eyes, drew down the lids, watched them snap up again, and then hastily opened his case.

"Let's have some water," he said.

"Then he's not dead?" I questioned, as one of the clerks sprang to obey.

"Dead? No; but he's had a taste or whiff of something that has stopped the heart action."

With a queer, creepy feeling over my scalp, I remembered the little flask half-full of blood-red liquid which Crochard carried in his pocket.

But he had not meant murder this time; I remembered that Godfrey had said he never killed an adversary. The doctor worked briskly away, and, at the end of a few minutes, Simmonds's eyes suddenly closed, he drew a long breath, and sat erect. Then his eyes opened, and he sat swaying unsteadily and staring amazedly about him.

"Best lie down again," said the doctor soothingly. "You're a little wobbly yet, you know."

"Where am I?" gasped Simmonds. Then his eyes encountered mine. "Lester!" he said. "Where is he—Piggott? Not...."

He stopped short, looked once around at the gleaming marble of the bank, fumbled for something at his side, and fell senseless on the seat.

I have no recollection of how I got back to the Marathon. I suppose I must have walked; but my first distinct remembrance is of finding myself sitting in my favourite chair, pipe in hand. The pipe was lit, so I suppose I must have lighted it mechanically, and I found that I had also mechanically changed into my lounging-coat. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was nearly four o'clock.

The top of my head was burning as though with fever, and I went into the bathroom and turned the cold water on it. The shock did me a world of good, and by the time I had finished a vigorous toweling I felt immensely better. So I returned to my chair and sat down to review the events of the evening; but I found that somehow my brain refused to work, and black circles began to whirl before my eyes again.

"I told Godfrey I couldn't stand any more of this," I muttered, and stumbled into my bedroom, undressed with difficulty, and turned out the light.

Then, as I lay there, staring up into the darkness, a stinging thought brought me upright.

Godfrey—where was Godfrey? Was he on the track of Crochard? Was he daring a contest with him? Perhaps, even at this moment....

Scarcely knowing what I did, I groped my way to the telephone and asked for Godfrey's number—hoping against hope absurdly—and at last, to my intense surprise and relief, I heard his voice—not a very amiable voice....

"Hello!" he said.

"Godfrey," I began, "it's Lester. He got away."

"Of course he got away. You didn't call me out of bed to tell me that, I hope?"

"Then you knew about it?"

"I knew he'd get away."

"When the wagon got to the bank there was nobody inside but Simmonds. Simmonds went along, you know."

"Was he hurt?"

"He was unconscious, but he came around all right."

"That's good—but Crochard wouldn't hurt him. He got away with the jewels, of course?"

"Of course," I assented, surprised that Godfrey should take it so coolly. "When you rushed out that way," I added, "I thought maybe you were going after him."

"With him twenty minutes in the lead? I'm no such fool! He got away from me the other day with a start of about half a second."

"I tried to get you," I explained, "as soon as Simmonds told me they were going to look at the cabinet. I 'phoned the office. The city editor said he had sent you out into Westchester."

Godfrey laughed shortly.

"It was a wild-goose chase," he said, "cooked up by our friend Crochard. But even then, I'd have got back, if we hadn't punctured a tire when we were five miles from anywhere. I knew what was up—but there I was. Oh, he's made fools of us all, Lester. I told you he would!"

"Then you didn't get my message?"

"Yes—they gave it to me when I 'phoned in that the Westchester business was a fake. I rushed for the station, though I knew I'd be too late."

"But, Godfrey," I said, "I can't understand, even yet, how he did it. Grady and Simmonds left the boat with Pigot and were with him all evening, showing him the sights. How did Crochard get into it? What did he do with Pigot? Where is Pigot?"

"He's on the Savoie. I rushed a wireless down to her as soon as I left the station. They made a search and found Pigot bound and gagged under the berth in his stateroom."

I could only gasp.

"And to think I didn't suspect!" added Godfrey, bitterly. "We stood there and saw that yacht with the French flag walk away from us; we saw her put a man aboard the Savoie; we saw that man talking to Pigot...."

"Yes," I said, breathlessly; "yes."

"Well, that man was Crochard. He got Pigot into his stateroom—gave him a whiff of the same stuff he used on Simmonds, no doubt; put him out of the way under the berth; got into his clothes, made up his face, put on a wig—and all that while we were kicking our heels outside waiting for him."

"But it was a tremendous risk," I said. "There were so many people on board who knew Pigot—it would have to be a perfect disguise."

"Crochard wouldn't stop for that. But it wasn't much of a risk. None of us had seen Pigot closely; all we had seen of him was the back of his head; and the passengers were all on deck watching the quarantine men. And yet, of course, the disguise was a perfect one. Crochard is an artist in that line, and he was, no doubt, thoroughly familiar with Pigot's appearance. He deceived the purser—but the purser wouldn't suspect anything!"

"So it was really Crochard...."

"But we ought to have suspected. We ought to have suspected everything, questioned everything; I ought to have looked up that visitor and found out what became of him. Instead of which, Crochard put Pigot's papers in his pocket, set his bag outside the stateroom door, and then came out calmly to meet his dear friends of the press; and I stood there talking to him like a little schoolboy—no wonder he thinks I'm a fool!"

"But nobody would have suspected!" I gasped. "Why, that man is- is...."

"A genius," said Godfrey. "An absolute and unquestioned genius. But I knew that all the time, and I ought to have been on guard. You remember he said he would come to-day?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't believe it."

"I can't believe it yet."

"There's one consolation—it will break Grady."

"But, Godfrey," I said, "if you could have seen those diamonds—those beautiful diamonds—and to think he should be able to get away with them from right under our noses!"

"It's pretty bad, isn't it? But there's no use crying over spilt milk. Lester," he added, in another tone, "I want you to be in your office at noon to-morrow—or rather, to-day."

"All right," I promised; "I'll be there."

"Don't fail me. There is one act of the comedy still to be played."

"I'll be there," I said again. "But I'm afraid the last act will be an anti-climax. Look here, Godfrey...."

"Now go to bed," he broke in; "you're talking like a somnambulist. Get some sleep. Have you arranged for that vacation?"

"Godfrey," I said, "tell me...."

"I won't tell you anything. Only I've got one more bomb to explode, Lester, and it's a big one. It will make you jump!"

I could hear him chuckling to himself.

"Good-night," he said, and hung up.



CHAPTER XXVII

THE LAST ACT OF THE DRAMA

I overslept, next morning, so outrageously that it was not until I had got a seat in a subway express that I had time to open my paper. My first glance was for the big head that would tell of the diamond robbery; and then I realised that no morning paper would have a word of it. For the robbery was only a few hours old—and yet, it seemed to me an age had passed since that moment when Godfrey had rushed in upon Grady and me. So the city moved on, as yet blissfully unconscious of the sensation which would be sprung with the first afternoon editions, and over which reporters and artists and photographers were even now, no doubt, labouring. I promised myself a happy half hour in reading Godfrey's story!

It was then that I remembered the appointment for twelve o'clock. The last act of the drama was yet to be staged, Godfrey had said, and he had also spoken of a bomb—a big one! I wondered what it could be, One thing was certain: if Godfrey had prepared it, its explosion would be startling enough!

There were a number of things at the office demanding my attention, and I was so late in getting there and the morning passed so rapidly that when the office-boy came in and announced that Mr. Grady and Mr. Simmonds were outside and wished to see me, I did not, for a moment, connect their visit with Godfrey. Then I looked at my watch, saw that it was five minutes to twelve, and realised that the actors were assembling.

"Show them in," I said, and they entered together a minute later.

Grady was evidently much perturbed. His usually florid face was drawn and haggard, his cheeks hung in ugly lines, there were dark pouches under his eyes, and the eyes themselves were blood-shot. I guessed that he had not been to bed; that he had spent the night searching for Crochard—and it was easy enough to see that the search had been unsuccessful. Simmonds, too, was looking rather shaky, and no doubt still felt the after-effects of that whiff of poison.

"I'm glad to see you are better, Simmonds," I said, shaking hands with him. "That was a close call."

"It certainly was," Simmonds agreed, sinking into a chair. "If I had got a little more of it, I'd never have waked up."

"Do you remember anything about it?"

"Not a thing. One minute we were sitting there talking together as nice as you please—and the next thing I knew was when I woke up in the bank."

"Where's that man Godfrey?" broke in Grady.

"He said he'd be here at noon," I said, and glanced at my watch. "It's noon now. Were you to meet him here?"

Grady glanced at me suspiciously.

"Don't you know nothing about it?" he asked.

"I only know that Godfrey asked me to be here at noon to-day. What's up?"

"Blamed if I know," said Grady sulkily. "I got word from him that I'd better be here, and I thought maybe he might know something. I'm so dizzy over last night's business that I'm running around in circles this morning. But I won't wait for him. He can't make me do that! Come along, Simmonds."

"Wait a minute," I broke in, as the outer door opened. "Perhaps that's Godfrey, now."

And so it proved. He came in accompanied by a man whom I knew to be Arthur Shearrow, chief counsel for the Record.

Godfrey nodded all around.

"I think you know Mr. Shearrow," he said, placing on my desk a small leather bag he was carrying. "This is Mr. Lester, Mr. Shearrow," he added, and we shook hands. "The object of this conference, Lester," he concluded, "is to straighten out certain matters connected with the Michaelovitch diamonds—and incidentally to give the Record the biggest scoop it has had for months."

"I ain't here to fix up no scoop for the Record", broke in Grady. "That paper never did treat me right."

"It has treated you as well as you deserved," retorted Godfrey. "I'm going to talk plainly to you, Grady. Your goose is cooked. You can't hold on for an hour after last night's get-away becomes public."

"We'll see about that!" growled Grady, but the fight had evidently been taken out of him.

"I understand you wouldn't let Simmonds telephone for me last night?" queried Godfrey.

"That's right—it wasn't none of your business."

"Perhaps not. And yet, if I had been there, the cleverest thief in Paris, if not in the world, would be safe behind those chrome-nickle steel bars at the Twenty-third Street station, instead of at liberty to go ahead and rob somebody else."

"You're mighty cocksure," retorted Grady. "It's easy to be wise after it's all over."

"Well, I'm not going to argue with you," said Godfrey. "I admit it was a good disguise, and a clever idea—but, just the same, you ought to have seen through it. That's your business."

Grady mopped his face.

"Oh, of course!" he sneered. "I ought to have seen through it! I ought to have suspected, even when I found you tryin' to interview him; even when I got him off the boat myself; even when I went through his papers and found them all right—yes, even to the photograph on his passport! That's plain enough now, ain't it! If people only had as good foresight as they have hindsight, how easy it would be!"

"Look here, Grady," said Godfrey, more kindly, "I haven't anything against you personally, and I admit that it was foolish of me to stand there talking to Crochard and never suspect who he was. But that's all beside the mark. You're at the head of the detective bureau, and you're the man who is responsible for all this. You're energetic enough and all that; but you're not fit for your job—it's too big for you, and you know it. Take my advice, and go to the 'phone there and send in your resignation."

Grady stared at him as though unable to believe his ears.

"'Phone in my resignation!" he echoed. "What kind of a fool do you think I am?"

"I see you're a bigger one than I thought you were! Your pull can't help you any longer, Grady."

"Was it to tell me that you got me over here?"

"No," said Godfrey, "all this is just incidental—you began the discussion yourself, didn't you? I got you here to meet...."

The outer door opened again, and Godfrey looked toward it, smiling.

"Moosseer Piggott!" announced the office-boy.

And then I almost bounced from my seat, for I would have sworn that the man who stood on the threshold was the man who had opened the secret drawer.

He came forward, looking from face to face; then his eyes met Godfrey's and he smiled.

"Behold that I am here, monsieur," he said and I started anew at the voice, for it was the voice of Crochard. "I hope that I have not kept you waiting."

"Not at all, M. Pigot," Godfrey assured him, and placed a chair for him.

I could see Grady and Simmonds gripping the arms of their chairs and staring at the newcomer, their mouths open; and I knew the thought that was flashing through their brains. Was this Pigot? Or was the man who had opened the cabinet Pigot? Or was neither Pigot? Was it possible that this could be a different man than the one who had opened the cabinet?

I confess that some such thought flashed through my own mind—a suspicion that Godfrey, in some way, was playing with us.

Godfrey looked about at us, smiling as he saw our expressions.

"I went down the bay this morning and met the Savoie," he said. "I related to M. Pigot last night's occurrences, and begged him to be present at this meeting. He was good enough to agree. I assure you," he added, seeing Grady's look, "that this is M. Pigot, of the Paris Service du Surete, and not Crochard."

"Oh, yes," said M. Pigot, with a deprecating shrug. "I am myself—and greatly humiliated that I should have fallen so readily into the trap which Crochard set for me. But he is a very clever man."

"It was certainly a marvellous disguise," I said. "It was more than that—it was an impersonation."

"Crochard has had occasion to study me," explained M. Pigot, drily. "And he is an artist in whatever he does. But some day I shall get him—every pitcher to the well goes once too often. There is no hope of finding him here in New York?"

"I am afraid not," said Godfrey.

"Don't be too sure of that!" broke in Grady ponderously. "I ain't done yet—not by no manner of means!"

"Pardon me for not introducing you, M. Pigot," said Godfrey. "This gentleman is Mr. Grady, who has been the head of our detective bureau; this is Mr. Simmonds, a member of his staff; this is Mr. Lester, an attorney and friend of mine; and this is Mr. Shearrow, my personal counsel. Mr. Grady, Mr. Simmonds and Mr. Lester were present, last night," he added blandly, "when Crochard opened the secret drawer."

Grady reddened visibly, and even I felt my face grow hot. M. Pigot looked at us with a smile of amusement.

"It must have been a most interesting experience," he said, "to have seen Crochard at work. I have never had that privilege. But I regret that he should have made good his escape."

"More especially since he took the Michaelovitch diamonds with him," I added.

"Before we go into that," said Godfrey, with a little smile, "there are one or two questions I should like to ask you, M. Pigot, in order to clear up some minor details which are as yet a little obscure. Is it true that the theft of the Michaelovitch diamonds was planned by Crochard?"

"Undoubtedly. No other thief in France would be capable of it."

"Is it also true that no direct evidence could be found against him?"

"That also is true, monsieur. He had arranged the affair so cleverly that we were wholly unable to convict him, unless we should find him with the stolen brilliants in his possession."

"And you were not able to do that?"

"No; we could discover no trace of the brilliants, though we searched for them everywhere."

"But you did not know of the Boule cabinet and of the secret drawer?"

"No; of that we knew nothing. I must examine that famous cabinet."

"It is worth examining. And it has an interesting history. But you did know, of course, that Crochard would seek a market for the diamonds here in America?"

"We knew that he would try to do so, and we did everything in our power to prevent it. We especially relied upon your customs department to search most thoroughly the belongings of every person with whom they were not personally acquainted."

"The customs people did their part," said Godfrey with a chuckle. "They have quite upset the country! But the diamonds got in, in spite of them. For, of course, a cabinet imported by a man so well known and so above suspicion as Mr. Vantine was passed without question!"

"Yes," agreed M. Pigot, a little bitterly. "It was a most clever plan; and now, no doubt, Crochard can sell the brilliants at his leisure."

"Not if you've got a good description of them," protested Grady. "I'll make it a point to warn every dealer in the country; I'll keep my whole force on the job; I'll get Chief Wilkie to lend me some of his men...."

"Oh, there is no use taking all that trouble," broke in Godfrey, negligently. "Crochard won't try to sell them."

"Won't try to sell them?" echoed Grady. "What's the reason he won't?"

"Because he hasn't got them," answered Godfrey, smiling with an evidently deep enjoyment of Grady's dazed countenance.

"Oh, come off!" said that worthy disgustedly. "If he hasn't got 'em I'd like to know who has!"

"I have," said Godfrey, and cleared my desk with a sweep of his arm. "Spread out your handkerchief, Lester," and as I dazedly obeyed, he picked up the little leather bag, opened it, and poured out its contents in a sparkling flood. "There," he added, turning to Grady, "are the Michaelovitch diamonds."



CHAPTER XXVIII

CROCHARD WRITES AN EPILOGUE

For an instant, we gazed at the glittering heap with dazzled eyes; then Grady, with an inarticulate cry, sprang to his feet and picked up a handful of the diamonds, as though to convince himself of their reality.

"But I don't understand!" he gasped. "Have you got Croshar too?"

"No such luck," said Godfrey.

"Do you mean to say he'd give these up without a fight!"

The same thought was in my own mind; if Godfrey had run down Crochard and got the diamonds, without a life-and-death struggle, that engaging rascal must be much less formidable than I had supposed.

"My dear Grady," said Godfrey, "I haven't seen Crochard since the minute you took him off the boat. I'd have had him, if you had let Simmonds call me. That's what I had planned. But he was too clever for us. I knew that he would come to-day...."

"You knew that he would come to-day?" repeated Grady blankly. "How did you know that—or is it merely hot air?"

"I knew that he would come," said Godfrey, curtly, "because he wrote and told me so."

M. Pigot laughed a dry little laugh.

"That is a favourite device of his," he said; "and he always keeps his word."

"The trouble was," continued Godfrey, "that I didn't look for him so early in the day, and so he was able to send me on a wild-goose chase after a sensation that didn't exist. There's where I was a fool. But I discovered the secret drawer ten days ago—while the cabinet was still at Vantine's—the evening after the veiled lady got her letters. It was easy enough. I am surprised you didn't think of it, Lester."

"Think of what?" I asked.

"Of the key to the mystery. The drawer containing the letters was on the left side of the desk; I saw at once that there must be another drawer, opened in the same way, on the right side."

"I didn't see it," I said. "I don't see it yet."

"Think a minute. Why was Drouet killed? Because he opened the wrong drawer. He pressed the combination at the right side of the desk, instead of that at the left side. The fair Julie must have thought the drawer was on the right side, instead of the left. It was a mistake very easy to make, since her mistress doubtless had her back turned when Julie saw her open the drawer. The suspicion that it was Julie's mistake becomes certainty when she shows the combination to Vantine, and he is killed, too. Besides, the veiled lady herself made a remark which revealed the whole story."