"And yet," said the official softly, "the thieves evidently went straight for that cigar-box when the critical moment came. Well," he continued, looking round at his visitors, "I don't know that we can do more to-night. Is there anything any of you ladies or gentlemen wish to suggest?"

"Yes!" said Allerdyke. "In my opinion a most important thing. It's my decided conviction that in this case we've got to offer a reward—no mere trifling sum, but one that'll set a few fingers tingling. And it's my concern, and the Princess's, and Miss Lennard's. And if you'll permit us three to have a quiet talk in yon corner of your room, I'll tell you its result when we've finished."

The result of that quiet talk—chiefly conducted by Allerdyke with masculine force and vigour—was that by noon of next day the exterior of every London police-station attracted vast attention by reason of a freshly-posted bill. It was a long bill, and it set out the surface particulars of three murders, and of two robberies in connection therewith. The particulars made interesting reading enough—but the real fascination of the bill was in its big, staring headline—

FIFTY THOUSAND POUNDS REWARD.



CHAPTER XV

THE BAYSWATER BOARDING-HOUSE

Some time previous to these remarkable events, Marshall Allerdyke, being constantly in London, and having to spend much time on business in the Mansion House region, had sought and obtained membership of the City Carlton Club, in St. Swithin's Lane, and at noon of the day following the arrival of the Princess Nastirsevitch, he stood in a window of the smoking-room, looking out for Appleyard, whom he had asked to lunch. In one hand he carried a folded copy of the reward bill, which Blindway had left at the Waldorf Hotel for him, and while he waited—the room being empty just then save for an old gentleman who read The Times in a far corner—he unfolded and took a surreptitious glance at it, chuckling to himself at the thought of the cupidity which its contents and promises would arouse in the breasts of the many thousands of folk who would read it.

"Fifty thousand pounds!" he thought, with high amusement. "Egad, some of 'em 'ud feel like Rothschild himself if they could shove that bit in their pockets—they'd take on all the airs of a Croesus!"

The thought of the Rothschild wealth made him lift his eyes and glance through the window at the gate of the quiet, ultra-respectable establishment across the way. Allerdyke, like all men of considerable means, had a mighty respect for wealth in its colossal forms, and he never visited the City Carlton, nor looked out of its smoking-room windows, without glancing with interest and admiration at the famous Rothschild offices, immediately opposite. It amused him to speculate and theorize about the vast amounts of money which must needs be turned over in theory and practice within those soberly quiet walls, to indulge in fancies about the secrets, financial and political, which must be discussed and locked up in human breasts there—to him the magic address, New Court, St. Swithin's Lane, was as full of potential mystery as the Sphinx is to an imaginative traveller. He glanced at its gates and at its sign now with an almost youthful awe and reverence—the reverence of the man of considerable wealth for the men of enormous wealth—and while his eyes were thus busy a taxi-cab came along the Lane, stopped by the entrance to New Court, and set down Mrs. Marlow.

Allerdyke instinctively shrank back within the curtains of the smoking-room window. There was no reason why he should have done so. He had no objection to Franklin Fullaway's secretary seeing him standing in a window of the City Carlton Club; he knew no reason why Mrs. Marlow should object to be seen getting out of a cab in St. Swithin's Lane. Yet, he drew back, and, from his concealed position, watched. Not that there was anything out of the ordinary to watch. Mrs. Marlow, who looked daintier, prettier, more charming than ever, paid her driver, gave him a smiling nod, and tripped into New Court, a bundle of papers in her well-gloved hand.

"Business with Rothschild's, eh?" mused Allerdyke.

"Well, I daresay there's a vast lot of folk in this city who do business across there. Um!—smart little woman that, and no doubt as clever as she's smart. I'd like to know—"

Just then the ancient hall-porter of the club (who surely missed his vocation in life, and should have been a bishop, or at least a dean) ushered in Appleyard, whom Allerdyke immediately beckoned to join him amongst the window-curtains.

"I say!" he whispered, with a side glance at The Times-reading old gentleman, "you remember me telling you yesterday about the lady-secretary of Fullaway's—Mrs. Marlow?—what a smart bit she looked to be. Eh?"

"Well?" replied Appleyard. "Of course, what about her?"

"She's just gone into Rothschild's across there," answered Allerdyke. "Come here, this corner; she'll be coming out before long, no doubt, and then you'll see her. As I told you about her, I want you to take a look at her—she's worth seeing for more reasons than one."

Appleyard allowed himself to be drawn into the embrasure. He waited patiently and in silence—presently Allerdyke dug a finger into his ribs.

"She's coming!" he whispered. "Now!"

Appleyard looked half-carelessly across the street—the next instant he was devoutly thanking his stars that since boyhood he had sedulously trained himself to control his countenance. He made no sign, gave no indication of previous acquaintance, as he watched Mrs. Marlow's svelt figure trip out of New Court and away up St. Swithin's Lane; his face was as calm and unemotional, his eyes as steady as ever when he turned to his employer.

"Pretty woman," he said. "Looks a sharp 'un, too, Mr. Allerdyke. Well," he went on, turning away into the room as if Mrs. Marlow no longer interested him. "I got those two reports for you—shall I tell you about them now?"

"Aye, for sure," replied Allerdyke. "Come into this corner—we'll have a glass of sherry—it's early for lunch yet. Those reports, eh? About Fullaway and Delkin, you mean?"

"Just so," said Appleyard, settling himself in the corner of a lounge and lighting the cigarette which Allerdyke offered him. "They're ordinary business reports, you know, got through the usual channels. Fullaway's all right, so far as the various commercial agencies know—nothing ever been heard against him, anyhow. The account of himself and his business which he gave to you is quite correct. To sum up—he's a sound man—quite straight—on the business surface, which is, of course, all we can get at. As for Delkin, that's a straight story, too—anyway, there's a Chicago millionaire of that name been in town some weeks—he's stopping at the Hotel Cecil—has a palatial suite there—and his daughter's about to marry Lord Hexwater. All correct there, Mr. Allerdyke, too—I mean as regards all that Fullaway told you."

"Well, there's something in knowing all that, Ambler, my lad," answered Allerdyke. "You can't get to know too much about the folks you're dealing with, you know. Very good—we'll leave that now. What d'ye think o' this?"

He unfolded and held up the reward bill, first looking as fondly at it as a youthful author looks at his first printed performance, and then glancing at his manager to see what effect it had upon him. And he saw Ambler Appleyard's sandy eyebrows go up in a definite arch.

"Fifty thousand!" muttered Appleyard. "Whew! It's a stiff figure, Mr. Allerdyke. You've put a thick finger in that pie, I'm thinking!"

"One half from the Princess; twenty thousand from me; five thousand from the singing lady," whispered Allerdyke. "That's how it's made up, my lad. And naught'll please me better than to see it paid out—that's a fact!"

"You'll have some triers," said Appleyard, with an emphatic wag of the head. "Make no mistake about that! Fifty thousand! Gosh!—why, anybody that's got the least clue, the slightest idea—and there must be somebody—'ll have a go in for all he or she's worth!"

"Let 'em try!" exclaimed Allerdyke. "The welcome man's the chap that enables us to recover and convict. Here, shove that bill in your pocket, and read it at your leisure—there's something to think about in what it says, I promise you."

Appleyard went away from the club an hour and a half later, thinking hard enough. But he was not thinking about the reward bill. What he was thinking about, had been thinking about from the moment in which Allerdyke had drawn him into the smoking-room window and pointed her out to him, was—Mrs. Marlow. For Appleyard knew Mrs. Marlow well enough, but (always those buts in life, he reflected with a cynical laugh as he threaded his way back to Gresham Street) he knew her by another name—Miss Slade. And now he was wondering why Miss Slade or Mrs. Marlow had two names, and why she appeared to be one person as he knew her in private life, and another as he had seen her that very morning.

On Appleyard's first coming to town in the capacity of sole manager of the London warehouse of Allerdyke and Partners, Limited, he had set himself up in two rooms in a Bloomsbury lodging-house. He knew little of London life at that time, or he would have known that he was thus condemning himself to a drab and dreary existence. As it was, he quickly learnt by experience, and within six months, having picked up a comfortable knowledge of things, he transferred himself to one of those well-equipped boarding establishments in the best part of Bayswater, wherein bachelors, old maids, young women, widowers, and married couples without encumbrance, can live together in as much or as little friendship and intercourse as pleases their individual tastes. Ambler Appleyard took his time and selected the likeliest place he could find after much inspection of many similar places. His salary of a thousand a year (to which was to be added a handsome, if varying commission) enabled him to pick and choose; the house which he did choose, in the immediate neighbourhood of Lancaster Gate, was of the luxurious order; its private rooms were models of the last thing in comfort, its public rooms were equal to those of the best modern hotels. If you wanted male society, you could find it in the smoking-room and the billiard-room; if you desired feminine influences there was a pleasing variety in the drawing-room and the lounges. You could be just as much alone, and just as much in company as you pleased—anyway, the place suited Ambler Appleyard, and there he had lived for two and a half years. And during a good two of them, the young lady whom he knew as Miss Slade had lived there too.

With Miss Slade, Appleyard, as fellow-resident in the same house, was on quite friendly terms. He sometimes talked to her in one of the drawing-rooms. He knew her for a clever, rather brilliant young woman, with ideas, and the power to express them. It was evident to him that she had travelled and had seen a good deal of the world and its men and women; she could talk politics with far more knowledge and insight than most women; she knew more than a little of economic matters, and was inclined, like Appleyard himself, to utilitarianism in all things affecting government and society. But of herself she never spoke directly; all Appleyard knew of her concerns was that she was engaged in business of some nature, and went to it every morning as regularly and punctually as he went to his. He judged that whatever her business was she must be well paid for it, or must possess means of her own; nobody, man or woman, could possibly live at that boarding-house, or private hotel, as its proprietors preferred to call it, for anything less than four guineas a week. Well—here was the explanation of Miss Slade's business; she was evidently private secretary to Mr. Franklin Fullaway, and competent to do business at a place like Rothschild's. And why not?—yet ... why did she call herself Miss Slade at the boarding-house and Mrs. Marlow in her business capacity?

"And yet why shouldn't she?" asked Appleyard of himself. "A woman's a right to do what she likes in that way, and she isn't necessarily deceitful because she passes as a single woman in one place and a widow in another. I daresay she could give a very good reason for all this—but who's got any right to ask her for one? Not me, certainly!"

He had no intention of asking Miss Slade anything when he left the City for Bayswater that evening, but chance threw him into her immediate company in one of the lounges, where, after dinner, they met at a table on which the evening newspapers were laid out. As Miss Slade picked up one, Appleyard picked up another—certain big, strong letters on the front sheets of both gave him an opening.

"Have you read anything about this affair?" he asked, with apparent carelessness, pointing to a row of capitals. "This extraordinary murder-robbery business which is becoming the talk of the town? Murders of three people—theft of nearly three hundred thousand pounds' worth of jewels—and fifty thousand pounds reward! It's colossal!"

Miss Slade, without showing the slightest shade of interest, shook her head.

"I don't read murders," she answered. "Fifty thousand pounds reward! That's an awful lot, isn't it?"

"Worth trying for, anyway!" replied Appleyard. He gave her a sly look, and smiled grimly. "I think I'll try for it," he said. "Fifty thousand!"

"How could any one try unless he or she's some clue?" she asked. "If you don't know anything about it, or any of the persons concerned, where would you begin?"

"There are plenty of persons named in these accounts about whom one could find something out, at any rate," replied Appleyard, tapping the newspaper with his finger. "There's a Russian Princess with a sneezy sort of name; a Yorkshire manufacturer named Allerdyke; an American man called Franklin Fullaway—all seem to be well-known people in town. You ever hear of any of them?"

Miss Slade turned a face of absolute indifference on him and the paper to which he was pointing.

"Never," she answered calmly. "But I daresay I shall hear of them now—for nine days."

Then she went off, with her own newspaper, and Appleyard carried his to a corner and sat down.

"That's a lie!" he said to himself. "And a woman who will tell a lie as calmly and quietly as that will tell a thousand with equal assurance and cleverness. She—"

There he stopped. In the doorway Miss Slade had also stopped—stopped to speak to another resident, a man, about whom Ambler Appleyard had often wondered as keenly as he was now wondering about Miss Slade herself.



CHAPTER XVI

MR. GERALD RAYNER

There were various reasons why Ambler Appleyard's wonder had often been aroused by the man to whom Miss Slade had stopped to speak. He wondered about him, first of all, because of his personal appearance. That was striking enough to excite wonder in anybody, for he was one of those remarkable men who possess great beauty of countenance allied to unfortunate deformity of body. The face was that of a poet and a dreamer, the body that of a hunchback and a cripple. Painter or sculptor alike would have rejoiced to depict the face on canvas or carve it in marble—its perfect shape, fine tinting, the lines of the features, the beauty of the eyes, the wealth of the dark, clustering hair, were all as near artistic perfection as could be. But all else spoke of deformity—the badly bent back, the twisted body, the short leg, the misshapen foot. It was as if Nature had endeavoured in some wickedly mischievous freak to show how beauty and ugliness can be combined in one creature.

That was one reason for wonder in Appleyard's mind—he had never come across quite this type before, though he knew that hunchbacks and cripples are often gifted with unusual strength, and more than usual good looks, as if in ironic compensation for their other disadvantages. But there were others. Mr. Gerald Rayner—everybody knew everybody else's name in that private hotel, for they were all more or less permanent residents—was something of a mystery man. In spite of his deformity, he was the best-dressed man in the house—they were all smart men there, but none of them came up to him in the way of clothes, linen, and personal adornment, always in the best and most cultured taste. Also it was easy to gather that he was a young man of large means. Although he made full use of the public rooms, and was always in and about them of an evening, from dinner-time to a late hour, he tenanted a private suite of apartments in the hotel—those residents, few in number, who had been privileged to obtain entrance to them spoke with almost awed admiration of their occupant's books, pictures, and objects of art. Mr. Gerald Rayner, it was evident, was a man of culture—that, indeed, was shown by his conversation. And at first Appleyard had set him down as a poet, or an artist, or a writing man of some sort—a dilettante who possessed private means. Then, being a sharp observer of all that went on around his own centre, he began to perceive that he must be mistaken in that—Rayner was obviously a business man, like himself. For every morning, at precisely half-past nine, a smart motor-brougham arrived at the door of the private hotel and carried Rayner off Citywards; every afternoon at exactly half-past five the same conveyance brought him back. Only business men, said Appleyard, are so regular, so punctual; therefore Rayner must be a business man.

But nobody in that hotel knew anything whatever of Rayner, beyond what they saw of him within its walls. Nobody knew whither the motor-brougham carried him, what he did when he reached his destination, nobody knew what or who he was. Appleyard, who was always knocking about the heart of the City, who was for ever in its business streets, who knew all the City clubs, all the best City restaurants, and was familiar with all sorts and shades of life in the City, never saw Rayner in any of his own purlieus. Accordingly, he came to the conclusion that Rayner's business, whatever it was, did not take him to the City. Nevertheless, it was certain, in Appleyard's opinion, that he was in business, and paid scrupulous attention to his daily duties.

Over the edge of his newspaper he watched Rayner and Miss Slade meet, exchange a word or two, and retire to a corner of an inner lounge in which they often sat talking together. He had often seen them talking together, and it had struck him that they seemed to talk with more than ordinary confidence. The hunchback was on terms of easy familiarity with everybody in the house, and he had a remarkable range of topics. He could talk sport, books, finance, politics, art, science, history, theology—the variety of his conversation was astonishing. But Appleyard had begun to notice that he rarely talked to any single person with the exception of Miss Slade—he would join a group in smoking-room or drawing-room and enter gaily into whatever was being discussed, but he seemed to have no desire to hold a tete-a-tete talk with any one except this young woman, who was now as much an object of mystery and speculation to Appleyard as he himself was. They were often seen talking together in quiet corners—and some of the old maids and eligible widows were already saying that Miss Slade was setting her cap at Mr. Rayner's evident deep purse.

Ambler Appleyard went to bed that night wondering greatly about two matters—first, why Miss Slade was Miss Slade in Bayswater and Mrs. Marlow at Fullaway's office; second, if Miss Slade or Mrs. Marlow, whichever she really was, had any secrets with the mysterious Mr. Rayner. From that he got to wondering who Rayner really was, and what his business was. And this process of speculation began again next morning, and continued all the way to the Gresham Street warehouse, and by the time he had arrived there he had half-determined to find out more about Miss Slade than was known to him up to then—and also, since he appeared to be such great friends with Miss Slade, about Mr. Gerald Rayner.

"But how?" he mused as he ran up the steps to the warehouse. "I'm not a private detective, and I don't propose to employ one. If I knew some sharp fellow—"

Just then he caught sight of Gaffney, who sat on a bale of goods within the warehouse door, holding a note in his hand. He stood up with a grin of friendly recognition when he saw Appleyard.

"Morning, sir," he said. "Letter from Mr. Allerdyke for you. No answer, but I was to wait till you'd read it."

Appleyard opened the note there and then. It was a mere hurried scrawl, saying that Allerdyke was just setting off for Hull, in obedience to a call from the police; as Gaffney had nothing to do, would Appleyard make use of him during Allerdyke's absence?

Appleyard bade Gaffney wait a while, went into his office, ran through his correspondence, gave the morning's orders out to the warehouseman, and called the chauffeur inside.

"Gaffney," he said as he carefully closed the door on them, "you're a Londoner, aren't you?"

Gaffney smiled widely.

"Ought to be, Mr. Appleyard," he answered. "I was born within sound of Bow Bells, anyhow. Off Aldersgate Street, sir. Yes, I'm a Cockney, right enough."

"Then you know London well, of course," suggested Appleyard.

"Never went out of it much, sir, till I went down to Bradford to this present job," replied Gaffney. "I shouldn't have left it if Mr. Allerdyke hadn't given me extra good wages and a real good place."

Appleyard tossed Allerdyke's note across his desk.

"You see what Mr. Allerdyke says," he remarked. "Wants me to find you something to do while he's off. How long is he likely to be off?"

"He said he might be back to-morrow night, sir," answered Gaffney, glancing at the note. "But possibly not till the day after to-morrow."

"Well, I don't know that there's anything you can do here," said Appleyard. "We're not particularly busy, and we've a full staff. But," he continued, with a sharp glance at the chauffeur, "there's something you can do for me, privately, to-morrow morning—a quite private matter—a matter entirely between ourselves. I'll account to Mr. Allerdyke for your time, but I don't want even him to know about this job that you can do for me—I'll pay you for doing it out of my own pocket."

"Just as you think right, sir," answered Gaffney. "So long as you make it right with the guv'nor, I'm willing."

"Very well," said Appleyard. He paused a moment, and then lowered his voice. "You've seen about this tremendous reward that's being offered in Mr. James Allerdyke's case?" he asked, with another sharp look. "You know what I mean?"

Gaffney's shrewd face grew shrewder, and he nodded knowingly.

"I know!" he said. "Fifty thousand! A fortune, sir!"

"What I want you to do," continued Appleyard, "may lead to something relating to that, and it mayn't. Anyway, I'll make you all right. Now, listen carefully. Do you think you could get hold of a private motor to-morrow morning? A smart, private cab in which you could put a friend of yours—well dressed—would be the thing. Early."

"Easy as winking, sir," answered Gaffney. "Know the cab, and know a friend o'mine who'd sit in it—as long as you like."

"Very good," said Appleyard. "Now, then, do you know Lancaster Gate?"

"Do I know St. Paul's?" exclaimed Gaffney, half-derisively. "Used to drive for an old gent who lived in Porchester Terrace."

"Oh!" replied Appleyard. "Then I daresay you know the Pompadour Private Hotel?"

"As well as I know my own fingers," responded Gaffney. "Driven to and from it many a hundred times."

"Just the man I want, then," continued Appleyard. "Now, to-morrow morning, get your cab early—put your friend in it—dressed up, of course—and at half-past nine to the very minute drive slowly past the front door of the Pompadour. You'll see a private motor-brougham there—dark green—you'll also see a hunchbacked gentleman enter it—you can't mistake him. Follow him! Never mind where he goes, or how long it takes to get there—or how few minutes it takes to get there, for that matter!—follow him and find out where that private cab puts him down. Then—come and report to me. Is that all clear?"

"Clear as noonday, sir," answered Gaffney. "I understand—I've been at that sort of game more than once."

"All right," said Appleyard. "I leave it to you. Take every care—I don't want this man to get the least suspicion that he's followed. And—" He hesitated, considering his plans over again. "Yes," he went on, "there's just another detail that I may mention—it'll save time. This hunchback gentleman's name is Rayner—Mr. Gerald Rayner. Can you remember it?"

"As well as my own," answered Gaffney. "Mr. Gerald Rayner. I've got it."

"Very good. Now, then, can you trust this friend of yours?" asked Appleyard. "Is he a chap of common sense?"

"It's my own brother," replied Gaffney. "Some people say I'm the sharper of the two, some say he is. There's a pair of us, anyhow."

"That'll do," said Appleyard. "Now, wherever you see this Mr. Rayner set down, let your brother get out of your cab and take particular notice if he goes into any shop, office, flats, buildings, anything of that sort which bears his name—Rayner. D'you see? I want to know what his business is. And now that you know what I want, you and your brother put your heads together and try to find it out, and come to me when you've done, and I'll make it worth your while. You'd better go now and make your arrangements."

Gaffney went away, evidently delighted with his commission, and Appleyard turned to his business of the day, wondering if he was not going to waste the chauffer's time and his own money. Next morning he purposely hung about the Pompadour until the time for Rayner's departure arrived; from one of the front windows he saw the hunchback enter his brougham and drive away; at the same moment he saw a neat private cab, driven by Gaffney, and occupied by a smart-looking young gentleman in a silk hat, come along and follow in quite an ordinary and usual manner. And on that he himself went to Gresham Street and waited.

Gaffney and his brother turned in during the morning, both evidently primed with news. Appleyard shut himself into his office with them.

"Well?" he asked.

"Easy job, Mr. Appleyard," replied Gaffney. "Drove straight through the Park, Constitution Hill, the Mall, Strand, to top of Arundel Street. There he got out; brougham went off—back—he walked down street. So my brother here he got out too, and strolled down street after him. He'll tell you the rest, sir."

"Just as plain as what he's told," said the other Gaffney. "I followed him down the street; he walked one side, I t'other side. He went into Clytemnestra House—one of those big houses of business flats and offices—almost at the bottom. I waited some time to see if he was settled like, or if it was only a call he was making. Then I went into the hall of Clytemnestra House, as if I was looking for somebody. There are two boards in that hall with the names of tenants painted on 'em. But there's not that name—Gerald Rayner. Still, I'll tell you what there is, sir—there's a name that begins with the same initials—G.R."

"What name?" asked Appleyard.

"The name," replied the second Gaffney, "is Gavin Ramsay—Agent."



CHAPTER XVII

THE PHOTOGRAPH

Allerdyke went off to Hull, post-haste, because of a telephone call which roused him out of bed an hour before his usual time. It came from Chettle, the New Scotland Yard man who had been sent down to Hull as soon as the news of Lydenberg's murder arrived. Chettle asked Allerdyke to join him by the very next express, and to come alone; he asked him, moreover, not to tell Mr. Franklin Fullaway whither he was bound. And Allerdyke, having taken a quick glance at a time-table, summoned Gaffney, told him of his journey, bade him keep his tongue quiet at the Waldorf, wrote his hasty note to Appleyard, dressed, and hurried away to King's Cross. He breakfasted on the train, and was in Hull by one o'clock, and Chettle hailed him as he set foot on the platform, and immediately led him off to a cab which awaited them outside the station.

"Much obliged to you for coming so promptly, Mr. Allerdyke," said the detective. "And for coming by yourself—that was just what I wanted."

"Aye, and why?" asked Allerdyke. "Why by myself? I've been wondering about that all the way down."

Chettle, a sleek, comfortable-looking man, with a quiet manner and a sly glance, laughed knowingly, twiddling his fat thumbs as he leaned back in the cab. "Oh, well, it doesn't do—in my opinion—to spread information amongst too many people, Mr. Allerdyke," he said. "That's my notion of things, anyway. I just wanted to go into a few matters with you, alone, d'ye see? I didn't want that American gentleman along with you. Eh?"

"Now, why?" asked Allerdyke. "Out with it!"

"Well, you see, Mr. Allerdyke," answered the detective, "we know you. You're a man of substance, you've got a big stake in the country—you're Allerdyke, of Allerdyke and Partners, Limited, Bradford and London. But we don't know Fullaway. He may be all right, but you could only call him a bird of passage, like. He can close down his business and be away out of England to-morrow, and, personally, I don't believe in letting him into every secret about all this affair until we know more about him. You see, Mr. Allerdyke, there's one thing very certain—so far as we've ascertained at present, nobody but Fullaway, and possibly whoever's in his employ, was acquainted with the fact that your cousin was carrying those jewels from Russia to England. Nobody in this country, at any rate. And—it's a thing of serious importance, sir."

Just what Appleyard had said!—what, indeed, no one of discernment could help saying, thought Allerdyke. The sole knowledge, of course, was with Fullaway and his lady clerk—so far as was known. Therefore—

"Just so," he said aloud. "I see your point—of course, I've already seen it. Well, what are we going to do—now? You've brought me down here for something special, no doubt."

"Quite so, sir," answered Chettle composedly. "I want to draw your attention to some very special features and to ask you certain questions arising out of 'em. We'll take things in order, Mr. Allerdyke. We're driving now to the High Street—I want to show you the exact spot where Lydenberg was shot dead. After that we'll go to the police-station and I'll show you two or three little matters, and we'll have a talk about them. And now, before we get to the High Street, I may as well tell you that on examining Lydenberg's body very little was found in the way of papers—scarcely anything, and nothing connecting him with your cousin's affair—in fact, the police here say they never saw a foreign gentleman with less on him in that way. But in the inside pocket of his overcoat there was a postcard, which had been posted here in Hull. Here it is—and you'll see that it was the cause of taking him to the spot where he was shot."

Chettle took from an old letter-case an innocent-looking postcard, on one corner of which was a stain.

"His blood," he remarked laconically. "He was shot clean through the heart. Well, you see, it's a mere line."

Allerdyke took the card and looked at it with a mingled feeling of repulsion and fascination. The writing on it was thin, angular, upright, and it suggested foreign origin. And the communication was brief—and unsigned—

"High Street morning eleven sharp left-hand side old houses."

"You don't recognize that handwriting, of course, Mr. Allerdyke?" asked Chettle. "Never seen it before, I suppose?"

"No!" replied Allerdyke. "Never. But I should say it's a foreigner's."

"Very likely," assented Chettle. "Aye, well, sir, it lured the man to his death. And now I'll show you where he died, and how easy it was for the murderer to kill him and get away unobserved."

He pulled the cab up at the corner of the High Street, and turned southward towards the river, looking round at his companion with one of his sly smiles.

"I daresay that you, being a Yorkshireman, Mr. Allerdyke, know all about this old street," he remarked as they walked forward. "I never saw it, never heard of it, until the other day, when I was sent down on this Lydenberg business, but it struck me at once. I should think it's one of the oldest streets left in England."

"It is," answered Allerdyke. "I know it well enough, and I've seen it changed. It used to be the street of the old Hull merchants—they had their houses and warehouses all combined, with gardens at the back running down to the river Hull. Queer old places there used to be in this street, I can tell you when I was a lad!—of late years they've pulled a lot of property down that had got what you might call thoroughly worm-eaten—oh, yes, the place isn't half as ancient or picturesque as it was even twenty years ago!"

"There's plenty of the ancient about it still, for all that," observed Chettle, with a dry laugh. "There was more than enough of it for Lydenberg the other day, at any rate. Now, then, you remember what it said on the postcard—he was to walk down the High Street, on the left-hand side, at eleven o'clock? Very well—down the High Street he walks, on this side which we are now—he strolls along, by these old houses, looking about him, of course, for the person he was to meet. The few people who were about down here that morning, and who saw him, said that he was looking about from side to side. And all of a sudden a shot rang out, and Lydenberg fell—just here—right on this very pavement."

He pulled Allerdyke up in a narrow part of the old street, jointed to the flags, and then to the house behind them—an ancient, ramshackle place, the doors and windows of which were boarded up, the entire fabric of which showed unmistakable readiness for the pick and shovel of the house-breaker. And he laid a hand on one of the shattered windows, close by a big hole in the decaying wood.

"There's no doubt the murderer was hidden behind this shutter, and that he fired at Lydenberg from it, through this hole," he said. "So, you see, he'd only be a few feet from his man. He was evidently a good shot, and a fellow of resolute nerve, for he made no mistake. He only fired once, but he shot Lydenberg clean through the heart, dead!"

"Anybody see it happen?" asked Allerdyke, staring about him at the scene of the tragedy, and thinking how very ordinary and commonplace everything looked. "I suppose there'd be people about, though the street, at this end, anyway, isn't as busy as it once was?"

"Several people saw him fall," answered Chettle.

"They say he jumped, spun round, and fell across the pavement. And they all thought it was a case of suicide. That, of course, gave the murderer a bigger and better chance of making off. You see, as these people saw no assailant, it never struck 'em that the shot had been fired from behind this window. When they collected their thoughts, found it wasn't suicide, and realized that it was murder, the murderer was—Lord knows where! From behind these old houses, Mr. Allerdyke, there's a perfect rabbit-warren of alleys, courts, slums, twists, and turns! The man could slip out at the back, go left or right, mix himself up with the crowd on the quays and wharves, walk into the streets, go anywhere—all in a minute or two."

"Clever—very clever! You've no clue?" asked Allerdyke.

"None; not a scrap!" replied the detective. "Bless you, there's score of foreigners knocking about Hull. Scores! Hundreds! We've done all we can, the local police and myself—we've no clue whatever. But, of course, it was done by one of the gang."

"By one of the gang!" exclaimed Allerdyke. "Ah you've got a theory of your own, then?"

Chettle laughed quietly as they turned and retraced their steps up the street.

"It 'ud be queer if I hadn't, by this time," he answered. "Oh yes, I've thought things out pretty well, and I should say our people at the Yard have come to the same conclusion that I have—I'm not conceited enough, Mr. Allerdyke, to fancy that I'm the only person who's arrived at a reasonable theory, not I?"

"Well—what is your theory?" asked Allerdyke.

"This," replied the detective. "The whole thing, the theft of the Princess Nastirsevitch's jewels from your cousin, of Miss de Longarde's or Lennard's jewels, was the work of a peculiarly clever gang—though it may be of an individual—who made use of both Lydenberg and the French maid as instruments, and subsequently murdered those two in order to silence them forever. I say it may be the work of an individual—it's quite possible that the man who killed the Frenchwoman is also the man who shot Lydenberg—but it may be the work of one, two, or three separate persons, acting in collusion. I believe that Lydenberg was the actual thief of the Princess's jewels from your cousin; that the Frenchwoman actually stole her mistress's jewels. But as to how it was worked—as to who invented and carried out the whole thing—ah!"

"And to that—to the real secret of the whole matter—we haven't the ghost of a clue!" muttered Allerdyke. "That's about it, eh?"

Chettle laughed—a sly, suggestive laugh. He gave his companion one of his half-apologetic looks.

"I'm not so sure, Mr. Allerdyke," he said. "We may have—and that's why I wanted to see you by yourself. Come round to the police-station."

In a quiet room in the usual drab and dismal atmosphere which Allerdyke was beginning to associate with police affairs, Chettle produced the personal property of the dead man, all removed, he said, from the Station Hotel, for safe keeping.

"There's little to go on, Mr. Allerdyke," he said, pointing to one article after another. "You'll remember that the man represented himself as being a Norwegian doctor, who had come to Hull on private business. He may have been that—we're making inquiries about him in Christiania, where he hailed from. According to those who're in a position to speak, his clothing, linen, boots, and so on are all of the sort you'd get in that country. But he'd no papers on him to show his business, no private letters, no documents connecting him with Hull in any way: he hadn't even a visiting-card. He'd a return ticket—from Hull to Christiania—and he'd plenty of money, English and foreign. When I got down here, I helped the local police to go through everything—we even searched the linings of his clothing and ripped his one handbag to pieces. But we've found no more than I've said. However—I've found something. Nobody knows that I've found it. I haven't told the people here—I haven't even reported it to headquarters in London. I wanted you to see it before I spoke of it to a soul. Look here!"

Chettle opened a square cardboard box in which certain personal effects belonging to Lydenberg had been placed—one or two rings, a pocket-knife, his purse and its contents, a cigar-case, his watch and chain. He took up the watch, detached it from the chain, and held it towards Allerdyke, who was regarding these proceedings with intense curiosity.

"You see this watch, Mr. Allerdyke," he said. "It's a watch of foreign make—Swiss—and it's an old one, a good many years old, I should say. Consequently, it's a bit what we might call massive. Now, I was looking at it yesterday—late last night, in fact—and an idea suddenly struck me. In consequence of that idea, I opened the back of the watch, and discovered—that!"

He snapped open the case of the watch as he spoke and showed Allerdyke, neatly cut out to a circle, neatly fitted into the case, a photograph—the photograph of James Allerdyke! And Allerdyke started as if he had been shot, and let out a sharp exclamation.

"My God!" he cried. "James! James, by all that's holy—and in there!"

"You recognize it, of course?" said Chettle, with a grim smile. "No doubt of it, eh?"

"Doubt! Recognize!" exclaimed Allerdyke. "Lord, man—why, I took it myself, not two months ago!"



CHAPTER XVIII

DEFINITE SUSPICION

Chettle laughed—a low, suggestive, satisfied chuckle. He laid the watch, its case still open, on the table at which they were standing, and tapped the photograph with the point of his finger.

"That may be the first step to the scaffold—for somebody," he said, with a meaning glance. "Ah—it's extraordinary what little, innocent-looking things help to put a bit of rope round a man's neck! So you took this, Mr. Allerdyke?—took it yourself, you say?"

"Took it myself, some eight or nine weeks ago," answered Allerdyke. "I took it in my garden one Sunday afternoon when my cousin James happened to be there. I do a bit in that way—amusement, you know. I just chanced to have a camera in my hand, and I saw James in a very favourable light and position, and I snapped him. And it was such a good 'un when developed that I printed off a few copies."

The detective's face became anxious.

"How many, now?" he asked. "How many, Mr. Allerdyke? I hope you can remember?—it's a point of the utmost seriousness."

"Naught easier," answered Allerdyke readily. "I've a good memory for little things as well as big 'uns. I printed off four copies. One of 'em I pasted into an album in which I keep particularly good photographs of my own taking; the other three I gave to him—he put 'em in his pocket-book."

"All unmounted—like this?" asked Chettle.

"All unmounted—like that," affirmed Allerdyke. "And now, then, since it seems to be a matter of importance, I can tell you what James did with at any rate two of 'em. He gave one to our cousin Grace—Mrs. Henry Mallins—a Bradford lady. He gave another to a friend of my own, another amateur photographer, Wilson Firth—gave him it in my presence at the Midland Hotel one day, when we were all three having a cigar together in the smoking-room there. Wilson Firth's a bit of a rival of mine in the amateur photographic line—we each try to beat the other, you understand. Now, then, James pulled one of these snapshots out and handed it over to Wilson with a laugh. 'There,' he says, 'that's our Marshall's latest performance—you'll have a job to do aught better than that, Wilson, my lad,' he says. So that accounts for two. And—this is the third!"

"And the question, Mr. Allerdyke, the big question—a most important question!—is, how did it come into this man Lydenberg's possession?" said the detective anxiously. "If we can find that out—"

"I've been thinking," interrupted Allerdyke. "There's this about it, you know: James and this Lydenberg came over together from Christiania to Hull in the Perisco. They talked to one another—that's certain. James may have given it to Lydenberg. But the thing is—is that likely?"

"No!" replied Chettle, with emphatic assurance. "No, sir! And I'll tell you why. If your cousin had given this photo to Lydenberg, as he might, of course, have given it to a mere passing acquaintance, because that acquaintance took a fancy to it, or something of that sort, Lydenberg would in all reasonable probability have just slipped in into his pocket-book, or put it loose amongst his letters and papers. But, as we see, however Lydenberg became possessed of this photo, he took unusual pains and precautions about it. You see, he cut it down, most carefully and neatly, to fit into the cover of his watch—he took the trouble to carry it where no one else would see it, but where he could see it himself at a second's notice—he'd nothing to do but to snap open that cover. No, sir, your cousin didn't give that photo to Lydenberg. That photo was sent to Lydenberg, Mr. Allerdyke—sent! And it was sent for one purpose only. What? That he should be able to identify Mr. James Allerdyke as soon as he set eyes on him!"

Allerdyke nodded his head—in complete understanding and affirmation. He was thinking the same thing—thinking, too, that here was at least a clue, a real tangible clue.

"Aye!" he said. "I agree with you. Then, of course, the one and only thing to do is—"

"To find out who the person was that your cousin gave this particular print to!" said Chettle eagerly. "Of course, it's a big field. So far as I understand things, he'd been knocking round a good bit between the time of your taking this photo and his death. He'd been in London, hadn't he? And in Russia—in two or three places. How can we find out when and how he parted with this? For give it to somebody he did, and that somebody was a person who knew of the jewel transaction, and employed Lydenberg in it, and sent the photo to Lydenberg so that he should know your cousin by sight—at once. Mr. Allerdyke, the secret of these murders and thefts is—there!"

Chettle replaced the watch in the cardboard box from which he had taken it, produced a bit of sealing-wax from his pocket, sealed up the box, and put it and the other things belonging to Lydenberg back in the small trunk from which he had withdrawn them to show his companion. And Allerdyke watched him in silence, wondering and speculating about this new development.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked suddenly. "You've got some scheme, of course, or you wouldn't have got me down here alone."

"Just so," agreed Chettle. "I have a scheme—and that's why I did get you down here alone. Mr. Allerdyke, you're a sharp, shrewd man—all you Yorkshiremen are!—at least, all that I've ever come across. You're good hands at ferreting things out. Now, Mr. Allerdyke, let's be plain—there's no two ways about it, no doubt whatever of it, the only people in England that we're aware of who knew about this Nastirsevitch jewel transaction are—Fullaway and whoever he has in his employ! We know of nobody else—unless, indeed, it's the Chicago millionaire, Delkin, and he's not very likely to have wanted to go in for a job of this sort. No, sir—Fullaway is the suspected person, in my opinion!—though I'm going to take precious good care to keep that opinion to myself yet awhile, I can tell you. Fullaway, Mr. Allerdyke, Fullaway!"

"Well?" demanded Allerdyke. "And so—"

"And so I want you to use your utmost ingenuity to find out if your cousin James gave that photo to Fullaway," continued Chettle. "We know very well that he was in touch with Fullaway before he went off to Russia—I have it in my notes that when Fullaway came to see you here in Hull, at the Station Hotel, the day of your cousin's death, he told you that he and Mr. James Allerdyke had been doing business for a couple of years, and that they'd last met in London about the end of March, just before your cousin set off on his journey to Russia. Is that correct?"

"Quite correct—to the letter," answered Allerdyke.

"Very well," said Chettle. "Now, according to you, that 'ud be not so very long after you took that snapshot of your cousin? So, he'd probably have the third print of it—the one we've just been looking at—on him when he was in London at that time?"

"Very likely," assented Allerdyke.

"Then," said Chettle with great eagerness, "try, Mr. Allerdyke, try your best and cleverest to find out if he gave it to Fullaway. You can think—you with a sharp brain!—of some cunning fashion of finding that out. What?"

"I don't know," replied Allerdyke, slowly and doubtfully. He possessed quite as much ingenuity as Chettle credited him with, but his own resourcefulness in that direction only inclined him to credit other men with the possession of just the same faculty. "I don't know about that. If James did give that print to Fullaway, and if Fullaway made use of it as you think, Fullaway'll be far too cute ever to let on that it was given to him. See!"

"I see that—been seeing it all through," answered Chettle. "All the same, there's ways and means. Think of something—you know Fullaway a bit by this time. Try it!"

"Oh, I'll try it, you bet!" exclaimed Allerdyke. "I'll try it for all it's worth, and as cleverly as I can. In fact, I've already thought of a plan, and if you don't want me any more just now, I'll go to the post-office and send off a telegram that's something to do with it."

"Nothing more now, sir," answered Chettle. "But look here—you're not going back to town to-night?"

"Why, that's just what I meant to do," replied Allerdyke. "There's naught to stop here for, is there?"

"I'm expecting a message from the Christiania police some time this afternoon or evening," said Chettle. "I cabled to them yesterday making full inquiries about Lydenberg—he represented himself here, to Dr. Orwin and the police-surgeons especially, as being a medical man in practice in Christiania, who had come across to Hull on some entirely private family business. Now, we've made the most exhaustive inquiries here in Hull—there isn't a soul in the town knows anything whatever of Lydenberg! I'm as certain as I am that I see you that he'd no business here at all—except to kill and rob your cousin. And so, of course, we want to know if he really was what he said he was, over there. I pressed upon the Christiania police to let me know all they could within thirty-six hours. So if you'll stop the night here, I'll likely be able to show you their reply to me."

"Right!" answered Allerdyke. "I'll put up at the Station Hotel. You come and have your dinner with me there at seven o'clock."

"Much obliged, Mr. Allerdyke," replied Chettle. "I'll come."

Then Allerdyke went off to the General Post Office and sent a telegram to his housekeeper in Bradford—

"Send off at once by registered parcel post to me at Waldorf Hotel, London, the morocco-bound photograph album lying on right-hand corner of my writing-desk in the library.—MARSHALL ALLERDYKE."

He went out of the post-office laughing cynically. Bit by bit things were coming out, he said to himself as he strolled away towards the hotel; link after link the chain was being forged. But around whom, in the end, was it going to be fastened? It was the first time in his life that he had ever been brought face to face with crime, and the seeking out of the criminal was beginning to fascinate him.

"Egad, it's a queer business!" he muttered. "A thread here, a thread there!—Heaven knows what it'll all come to. But this Chettle's a good 'un—he's like to do things."

Chettle joined him in the smoking-room of the hotel at a quarter to seven, and immediately produced a telegram.

"Came half an hour ago," he said as they sat down in a corner. "Nobody but myself seen it up to now. And—it's just what I expected. Read it."

Allerdyke slowly read the message through, pondering over it—

"We have made fullest inquiries concerning Lydenberg. He was certainly not in practice here either under that or any other name. Nothing is known of him as a resident in this city. We have definitely ascertained that he came to Christiania from Copenhagen, by land, via Lund and Copenhagen, arriving Christiania May 7th, and that he left here by steamship Perisco for Hull, May 10th."

"You notice the dates?" observed Chettle. "May 7th and 10th. Now, it was on May 8th that your cousin wired to Fullaway from Christiania, Mr. Allerdyke—there's no doubt about it! This man, Lydenberg, whoever he is or was, was sent to waylay your cousin at Christiania—sent from London. I've worked it out—he went overland—Belgium, Holland, Germany, Denmark, Sweden, Norway. Sounds a lot—but it's a quick journey. Sir—he was sent! And the sooner we find out about that photograph the better."

"I'm at work," answered Allerdyke. "Leave it to me."

He found his morocco-bound photograph album awaiting him when he arrived at the Waldorf Hotel next day, and during the afternoon he took it in his hand and strolled quietly and casually into Franklin Fullaway's rooms. Everything there looked as he had always seen it—Mrs. Marlow, charming as ever, was tapping steadily at her typewriter: Fullaway, himself a large cigar in his mouth, was reading the American newspapers, just arrived, in his own sanctum. He greeted Allerdyke with enthusiasm.

"Been away since yesterday, eh?" he said, after warm greetings. "Home?"

"Aye, I've been down to Yorkshire," responded Allerdyke offhandedly. "One or two things I wanted to see to, and some things I wanted to get. This is one of 'em."

"Family Bible?" inquired Fullaway, eyeing the solemnly bound album.

"No. Photos," answered Allerdyke. He was going to test things at once, and he opened the book at the fateful page. "I'm a bit of an amateur photographer," he went on, with a laugh. "Here's what's probably the last photo ever taken of James. What d'ye think of it?"

Fullaway glanced at the photograph, all unconscious that his caller was watching him as he had never been watched in his life. He waved his cigar at the open page.

"Oh!" he said airily. "A remarkably good likeness—wonderful! I said so when I saw it before—excellent likeness, Allerdyke, excellent! Couldn't be beaten by a professional. Excellent!"

Marshall Allerdyke felt his heart beating like a sledgehammer as he put his next question, and for the life of him he could not tell how he managed to keep his voice under control.

"Ah!" he said. "You've seen it before, then? James show it to you?"

Fullaway nodded towards the door of the outer room, from which came the faint click of the secretary's machine.

"He gave one to Mrs. Marlow the very last time he was here." he answered. "They were talking about amateur photography, and he pulled a print of that out of his pocket and made her a present of it; said it couldn't be beaten. You're a clever hand, Allerdyke—most lifelike portrait I ever saw. Well—any news?"



CHAPTER XIX

THE LATE CALL

It was with a mighty effort of will that Allerdyke controlled himself sufficiently to be able to answer Fullaway's question with calmness. This was for him a critical moment. He knew now to whom James Allerdyke had given the photograph which Chettle had found concealed in Lydenberg's watch; knew that the recipient was sitting close by him, separated only from him by a wall and a door; knew that between her and Lydenberg, or those who had been in touch with Lydenberg, there must be some strange, secret, and sinister connection. From Mrs. Marlow to Lydenberg that photograph had somehow passed, and, as Chettle had well said, the entire problem of the murders and thefts was mixed up in its transference. All that was certain—what seemed certain, too, was that Fullaway knew nothing of these things, and was as innocent as he himself. And for the fraction of a second he was half-minded to tell all he knew to Fullaway there and then—and it was only by a still stronger effort of will that he restrained his tongue, determined to keep a stricter silence than ever, and replied to the American in an offhand, casual tone.

"News?" he said, with a half-laugh. "Nay, not that I know of. They take their time, those detective chaps. You heard aught?"

"Nothing particular," answered Fullaway. "Except that the Princess was in here this morning, and that Miss Lennard came at the same time. But neither of them had anything of importance to tell. The Princess has been ransacking her memory all about her affairs with your cousin; she's more certain than ever now that nobody in Russia but he and she knew anything about the jewel deal. They were always in strict privacy when they discussed the matter; no one was present when she gave him the jewels; she never mentioned the affair to a soul, and she's confident from what she knew of him, that he wouldn't. So she's more convinced than ever that the news got out from this side."

"And Miss Lennard—what did she want?" asked Allerdyke.

"Oh! she's found the various references—two or three of 'em—that she had with the French maid," replied Fullaway. "I looked at them—there's nothing in them but what you'd expect to find. Two of the writers are well-known society women, the third was a French marquise. I don't think anything's to be got out of them, but, anyway, I sent her off to Scotland Yard with them—it's their work that. Fine photos there, Allerdyke," he continued, turning over the leaves of the album. "Some of your places in Bradford, eh."

Allerdyke, who was particularly anxious that he should not seem to have had an ulterior object in bringing the album up to Fullaway's office hailed this question with relief. He began to point out and explain the various pictures—photographs of his mills, warehouses, town office, his own private house, grounds, surroundings, chatting unconcernedly about each. And while the two men were thus engaged in came Mrs. Marlow, bringing letters which needed Fullaway's signature.

"Mrs. Marlow knows more about amateur photography than I do," remarked Fullaway, with a glance at his secretary. "Here, Mrs. Marlow, these are same of Mr. Allerdyke's productions—you remember that his cousin, Mr. James Allerdyke, gave you a photo which this Mr. Allerdyke had taken?"

Allerdyke, keenly watching the secretary's pretty face as she laid her papers on Fullaway's desk, saw no sign of embarrassment or confusion; Fullaway might have made the most innocent and ordinary remark in the world, and yet, according to Allerdyke's theory and positive knowledge, it must be fraught with serious meaning to this woman.

"Oh yes!" she flashed, without as much as the flicker of an eyelash. "I remember—a particularly good photo. So like him!"

Allerdyke's ingenuity immediately invented a remark; he was at that stage when, he wanted to know as much as possible.

"I wonder which print it was that he gave you?" he said. "One of them—I only did a few—had a spot in it that'll spread. If that's the one you've got, I'll give you another in its place, Mrs. Marlow. Have you got it here?"

But Mrs. Marlow shook her head and presented the same unabashed front.

"No," she answered readily enough. "I took it home, Mr. Allerdyke. But there's no spot on my print—I should have noticed it at once. May I look at your album when Mr. Fullaway's finished with it?"

Allerdyke left the album with them and went away. He was utterly astonished by Mrs. Marlow's coolness. If, as he already believed, she was mixed up in the murders and robberies, she must know that the photograph which James Allerdyke had given her was a most important factor, and yet she spoke of it as calmly and unconcernedly as if it had been a mere scrap of paper! Of course she hadn't got it at the office—nor at her home either—it was there at Hull, fitted into the cover of Lydenberg's old watch.

"A cool hand!" soliloquized Allerdyke as he went downstairs. "Cool, clever, calm, never off her guard. A damned dangerous woman!—that's the long and short of it. And—what next?"

Experience and observation of life had taught Marshall Allerdyke that good counsel is one of life's most valuable assets. He could think for himself and decide for himself at any moment, but he knew the worth and value of putting two heads together, especially at a juncture like this. And so, the afternoon being still young, he went off to his warehouse in Gresham Street, closeted himself with Ambler Appleyard, and having pledged him to secrecy, told him all that had happened since the previous morning.

Ambler Appleyard listened in silence. It was only two or three hours since he had listened to another story—the report of the two Gaffneys, and Allerdyke, all unaware of that business, had come upon him while he was still thinking it over. And while Appleyard gave full attention to all that his employer said, he was also thinking of what he himself could tell. By the time that Allerdyke had finished he, too, had decided to speak.

"So there it is, my lad!" exclaimed Allerdyke, throwing out his hands with an eloquent gesture as he made an end of his story. "I hope I've put it clearly to you. It's just as that Chap Chettle said—the whole secret is in that photograph! And isn't it plain?—that photograph must have been transferred somehow by this Mrs. Marlow to this Lydenberg. How? Why? When we can answer those questions—"

He paused at that, and, looking fixedly at his manager, shook his head half-threateningly.

"I'll tell you what it is, Ambler," he went on, after a moment's silence. "I've got a good, strong mind to go straight to the police authorities, tell 'em what I know, insist on 'em fetching Chettle up from Hull at once, and having that woman arrested. Why not?"

"No!" said Appleyard firmly. "Not yet. Too soon, Mr. Allerdyke—wait a bit. And now listen to me—I've something to tell you. I've been busy while you've been away—in this affair. Bit of detective work. I'll tell you all about it—all! You remember that day I went to lunch with you at the City Carlton, and you pointed out this Mrs. Marlow to me, going into Rothschild's? Yes, well—I recognized her."

"You did!" exclaimed Allerdyke. "Nay!"

"I recognized her," repeated Appleyard. "I said naught to you at the time, but I knew her well enough. As a matter of fact, I've known her for two years. She lives at the same boarding-house, the Pompadour Private Hotel, in Bayswater, that I live in. I see her—have been seeing her for two years—every day, morning and night. But I know her as Miss Slade."

"Miss?" ejaculated Allerdyke.

"Miss—Miss Slade," answered Appleyard. He drew his chair nearer to Allerdyke's, and went on in a lower voice. "Now, then, pay attention, and I'll tell you all about it, and what I've done since I got your note yesterday morning."

He told Allerdyke the whole story of his endeavour to find out something about Rayner merely because Rayner seemed to be in Miss Slade's confidence, and because Miss Slade was certainly a woman of mystery. And Allerdyke listened as quietly and attentively as Appleyard had listened to him, nodding his head at all the important points, and in the end he slapped his manager's shoulder with an approving hand.

"Good—good!" he said. "Good, Ambler! That was a bit of right work, and hang me if I don't believe we shall find something out. But what's to be done? You know, if these two are in at it, they may slip. That 'ud never do!"

"I don't think there's any fear of that—yet," answered Appleyard. "The probability is that neither has any suspicion of being watched—the whole thing's so clever that they probably believe themselves safe. Of course, mind you, this man Rayner may be as innocent as you or I. But against her, on the facts of that photograph affair, there's a prima facie case. Only—don't let's spoil things by undue haste or rashness. I've thought things out a good deal, and we can do a lot, you and me, before going to the police, though I don't think it 'ud do any harm to tell this man Chettle, supposing he were here—because his discovery of that photo is the real thing."

"What can we do, then?" asked Allerdyke.

"Make use of the two Gaffneys," answered Appleyard without hesitation. "They're smart chaps—-real keen 'uns. We want to find out who Rayner is; what his connection, if any, with Miss Slade, alias Mrs. Marlow, is; who she is, and why she goes under two names. That's all what you might call initial proceedings. What I propose is this—when you go back to your hotel, get Gaffney into your private sitting-room. You, of course, know him much better than I do, but from what bit I've seen of him I'm sure he's the sort of man one can trust. Tell him to get hold of that brother of his and bring him here at any hour you like to-morrow, and then—well, we can have a conference, and decide on some means of finding out more about Rayner and keeping an eye on him. For that sort of work I should say that other Gaffney's remarkably well cut out—he's a typical, sharp, knowing Cockney, with all his wits about him, and plenty of assurance."

"It's detective work, you know, Ambler," said Allerdyke. "It needs a bit of more than ordinary cuteness."

"From my observation, I should say both those chaps are just cut for it," answered Appleyard, with a laugh. "What's more, they enjoy it. And when men enjoy what they're doing—"

"Why, they do it well," agreed Allerdyke, finishing the sentence. "Aye, that's true enough. All right—I'll speak to Gaffney, when I go back. And look here—as you're so well known to this woman, Miss Slade or Mrs. Marlow, whichever her name is, you'd better not show up at the Waldorf at any time in my company, eh?"

"Of course," said Appleyard. "You trust me for that! What we've got to do must be done as secretly as possible."

Allerdyke rose to go, but turned before he reached the door.

"There's one thing I'm uneasy about," he said. "If—I say if, of course—if these folks—I mean the lot that's behind this woman, for I can't believe that she's worked it all herself—have got those jewels, won't they want to clear out with them? Isn't delay dangerous?"

"Not such delay as I'm thinking of," answered Appleyard firmly. "She's cute enough, this lady, and if she made herself scarce just now, she'd know very well that it would excite suspicion. Don't let's spoil things by being too previous. We've got a pretty good watch on her, you know. I should know very quickly if she cleared out of the Pompadour; you'd know if she didn't turn up at Fullaway's. Wait a bit, Mr. Allerdyke; it's the best policy. You'll come here to-morrow?"

"Eleven o'clock in the morning," replied Allerdyke. "I'll fix it with Gaffney to-night."

He went back to the Waldorf, summoned Gaffney to his private room, and sent him to arrange matters with his brother. Gaffney accepted the commission with alacrity; his brother, he said, was just then out of a job, having lost a clerkship through the sudden bankruptcy of his employers; such a bit of business as that which Mr. Appleyard had entrusted to him was so much meat and drink to one of his tastes—in more ways than one.

"It's the sort of thing he likes, sir," remarked Gaffney, confidentially. "He's always been a great hand at reading these detective tales, and to set him to watch anybody is like offering chickens to a nigger—he fair revels in it!"

"Well, there's plenty for him to revel in," observed Allerdyke grimly.

Plenty! he said to himself with a cynical laugh when Gaffney had left him—aye, plenty, and to spare. He spent the whole of that evening alone, turning every detail over in his own mind; he was still thinking, and speculating, and putting two and two together when he went to bed at eleven o'clock. And just as he was about to switch off his light a waiter knocked on his door.

"Gentleman downstairs, sir, very anxious to see you at once," he said, when Allerdyke opened it. "His card, sir."

Allerdyke gave one glance at the card—a plain bit of pasteboard on which one word had been hastily pencilled—

CHETTLE.



CHAPTER XX

NUMBER FIFTY-THREE

Chettle!—whom he had left only that morning in Hull, two hundred miles away, both of them agreed that the next step was still unseen, and that immediate action was yet problematical. Something had surely happened to bring Chettle up to town and to him.

"Show Mr. Chettle up here at once," he said to the waiter. "And here—bring a small decanter of whisky and a syphon of soda-water and glasses. Be sharp with 'em."

He pulled on a dressing-gown when the man had gone, and, tying its cord about his waist, went a step or two into the corridor to look out for his visitor. A few minutes elapsed; then the lift came up, and the waiter, killing two birds with one stone, appeared again, escorting the detective and carrying a tray. And Allerdyke, with a sly wink at Chettle, greeted him unconcernedly, ushered him into his room and chatted about nothing until the waiter had gone away. Then he turned on him eagerly.

"What is it?" he demanded. "Something, of course! Aught new?"

For answer Chettle thrust his hand inside his overcoat and brought out a small package, wrapped in cartridge paper, and sealed.

He began to break the seals and unwrap the covering.

"Well, it brought me up here—straight," he said. "I think I shall have to let our people at the yard know everything, Mr. Allerdyke. But I came to you first—-I only got to King's Cross half an hour ago, and I drove on to you at once. Well see what you think before I decide on anything."

"What is it!" repeated Allerdyke, gazing with interest at the package. "You've found something of fresh importance, eh!"

Chettle took the lid off a small box and produced Lydenberg's watch and postcard on which the appointment in the High Street had been made. He sat down at the table, laying his hand on the watch.

"After you left me this morning," he said, "I started puzzling and puzzling over what had been discovered, what had been done, whether there was more that I could do. I kept thinking things over all the morning, and half the afternoon. Then it suddenly struck me—there was one thing—that I'd never done and that ought to have been done—I don't know why I'd never thought of it till then—but I'd never had this photograph out of the watch. And so I went back to the police-station and got the watch and opened it, and—look there, Mr. Allerdyke!"

He had snapped open the case of the watch as he talked, and he now detached the photograph and turning it over, laid the reverse side down on the table by the postcard.

"Look at it!" he went on. "Do you see?—there's writing on it! You see what it says? 'This is J.A. Burn this when made use of.' You see? And—it's the same handwriting as that on this card, making the appointment! Here, look at both for yourself—hold 'em closer to the light. Mr. Allerdyke—that was all written by the same hand, or I'm—no good!"

Allerdyke went close to the electric globe above his dressing-table, the photograph in one hand, the postcard in the other. He looked searchingly at both, brought them back, and laid them down again.

"No doubt of it, Chettle," he said. "No doubt of it! It doesn't need any expert to be certain sure of that. The same, identical fist, without a shadow of doubt. Well—what d'ye make of it? Here—have a drink."

He mixed a couple of drinks, pushed one glass to the detective, and took the other himself.

"Egad!" he muttered, after drinking. "Things are getting—hottish, anyway. As I say, what do you make of this? Of course, you've come to some conclusion?"

"Yes," answered Chettle, taking up his glass and silently bowing his acknowledgments. "I have! The only one I could come to. The man who sent this photograph to Lydenberg, to help him to identify your cousin at sight, is the man who afterwards lured Lydenberg into that part of Hull High Street, and shot him dead. In plain words, the master shot his man—when he'd done with him. Just as he poisoned the Frenchwoman—when he'd done with her. Mr. Allerdyke, I'm more than ever convinced that these two murders—Lydenberg's and the French maid's—were the work of one hand."

"Likely!" assented Allerdyke. "It's getting to look like it. But—whose? That's the problem, Chettle. Well, I've done a bit since I got back this afternoon. You've had something to tell me—now I've something to tell you. I've found out who it was that James gave the photograph to!"

Chettle showed his gratification by a start of pleased surprise.

"You have—already!" he exclaimed.

"Already!" replied Allerdyke. "Found it out within an hour of getting back in here. He gave it"—here, though the door was closed and bolted, and there was no fear of eavesdroppers, he sank his voice to a whisper—"he gave it to Fullaway's secretary, the woman we discussed, Mrs. Marlow. That's a fact. He gave it to her just before he set off for Russia."

Chettle screwed his lips up to whistle—instead of whistling he suddenly relaxed them to a comprehending smile.

"Aye, just so!" he said. "I was sure it lay somewhere—here. Fullaway himself, now—does he know?"

"James gave it to her in Fullaway's presence," replied Allerdyke. "She's a bit of a photographer, I understand—they were talking about photography, I gathered, one day when James was in Fullaway's office, and James pulled that out and gave it to her as a specimen of my work."

"All that came out in talk this afternoon?" asked Chettle.

"Just so. Ordinary, casual talk," assented Allerdyke.

"No suspicion roused?" suggested Chettle.

"I don't think so. Of course, you never can tell. I should say," continued Allerdyke, "that she's as deep and clever as ever they make 'em! But it was all so casual, and so natural, that I don't think she'd the slightest idea that I was trying to get at anything. However, I found this much out—she couldn't produce the photograph. Said she'd taken it home. Well—there we are! That's part one of my bit of news, Chettle. Now for part two. This woman's leading a double life. She's Mrs. Marlow as Fullaway's secretary and here at his rooms and on his business; where she lives she's Miss Slade. Eh?"

Chettle pricked his ears.

"When did you find that out?" he asked. "Since you left me this morning?"

"Found it out this afternoon," replied Allerdyke, with something of triumph. He had been strolling about the bedroom up to that moment, but now he drew a chair to the table at which Chettle sat and dropped into it close beside his visitor.

"I'll tell you all about it," he went on. "You said at Hull yesterday that you'd always found Yorkshiremen sharp and shrewd—well, this is a bit more Yorkshire work—work of my manager here in town—Mr. Appleyard. Listen!"

He gave the detective a clear and succinct account of all that Appleyard and his satellites had done, and Chettle listened with deep attention, nodding his head at the various points.

"Yes," he said, when Allerdyke had made an end, "yes, that's all right, so far. Good, useful work. The thing is—can you fully trust these two young men—your chauffeur and his brother?"

"I could and would trust my chauffeur with my last shilling," answered Allerdyke. "And as for his brother, I'll take my man's word for him. Besides, they both know—or Mr. Gaffney knows—that I'm a pretty generous paymaster. If a man does aught for me, and does it well, he profits to a nice penny!"

"A good argument," agreed Chettle. "I don't know that you could beat it, Mr. Allerdyke. Well, well—we're getting to something and to somewhere! Now, as you've told me all this, I'll just keep things quiet until I've met you and your manager to-morrow, with these two Gaffneys—we'll have a conference. I won't go near the Yard until after that. Eleven o'clock to-morrow, then, at your warehouse in Gresham Street."

He presently replaced the watch and the postcard in an inner pocket, and took his leave, and Allerdyke, letting him out, walked along the corridor with him as far as the lift. And as Allerdyke turned back to his own room, the third event of that day happened, and seemed to him to be the most surprising and important one of all.

What made Allerdyke pause as he retraced his steps along the corridor, pause to look over the balustrade to the floor immediately below his own, he never knew nor could explain. But, just as he was about to re-enter his room, he did so pause, leaning over the railings and looking down for a moment. In that moment he saw Mrs. Marlow.

A considerable portion of the floor immediately beneath him was fully exposed to the view of any one leaning over the balustrade as Allerdyke did. This was a quiet part of the hotel, a sort of wing cut away from the main building; the floor at which he was looking was given up to private suites of rooms, one of them, a larger one than the others, being Fullaway's, which filled one side of the corridor; the others were suites of two, in some cases of three rooms. As he looked over and down, Allerdyke suddenly saw a door open in one of these smaller suites—open silently and stealthily. Then he saw Mrs. Marlow look out, and she glanced right and left about her. The next instant, she emerged from the room with the same stealthiness, closed and locked the door with a key which she immediately pocketed, slipped along the corridor, and disappeared into Franklin Fullaway's suite. It was all over in less than a minute, and Allerdyke turned into his own door, smiling cynically to himself.

"She looked right and left, but she forgot to look up!" he muttered. "Ah! those small details. And what does that mean? Anyway, I know which door she came out of!"

He glanced at his watch—precisely half-past eleven. He made a note of the time in his pocket-book and went to bed. And next morning, rising early, as was his custom, he descended to the ground floor by means of the stairs instead of the lift, and as he passed the door from which he had seen Mrs. Marlow emerge he mentally registered the number. Fifty-three. Number fifty-three.

Allerdyke, who could not exist without fresh air and exercise, went for a stroll before breakfast when he was in London—he usually chose the Embankment, as being the nearest convenient open space, and thither he now repaired, thinking things over. There were many new features of this affair to think about, but the one of the previous night now occupied his thoughts to the exclusion of the others. What was this woman doing, coming—with evident secrecy—out of one set of rooms, and entering another at that late hour? He wanted to know—he must find out—and he would find out with ease,—and indirectly, from Fullaway.

Fullaway always took his breakfast at a certain table in a certain corner of the coffee-room at the hotel; there Allerdyke had sometimes joined him. He found the American there, steadily eating, when he returned from his walk, and he dropped into a chair at his side with a casual remark about the fine morning.

"Didn't set eyes on you last night at all," he went on, as he picked up his napkin. "Off somewhere, eh?"

"Spent the evening out," answered Fullaway. "Not often I do, but I did—for once in a way. Van Koon and I (you don't know Van Koon, do you?—he's a fellow countryman of mine, stopping here for the summer, and a very clever man) we dined at the Carlton, and then went to the Haymarket Theatre. I was going to ask you to join us, Allerdyke, but you were out and hadn't come in by the time we had to go."

"Thank you—no, I didn't get in until seven o'clock or so," answered Allerdyke. "So I'd a quiet evening."

"No news, I suppose?" asked Fullaway, going vigorously forward with his breakfast. "Heard nothing from the police authorities?"

"Nothing," replied Allerdyke. "I suppose they're doing things in their own way, as usual."

"Just so," assented Fullaway. "Well, it's an odd thing to me that nobody comes forward to make some sort of a shot at that reward! Most extraordinary that the man of the Eastbourne Terrace affair should have been able to get clean away without anybody in London having seen him—or at any rate that the people who must have seen him are unable to connect him with the murder of that woman. Extraordinary!"

"It's all extraordinary," said Allerdyke. He took up a newspaper which Fullaway had thrown down and began to talk of some subject that caught his eye, until Fullaway rose, pleaded business, and went off to his rooms upstairs. When he had gone Allerdyke reconsidered matters. So Fullaway had been out the night before, had he—dining out, and at a theatre? Then, of course, it would be quite midnight before he got in. Therefore, presumably, he did not know that his secretary was about his rooms—and entering and leaving another suite close by. No—Fullaway knew nothing—that seemed certain.

The remembrance of what he had seen sent Allerdyke, as soon as he had breakfasted, to the hall of the hotel, and to the register of guests. There was no one at the register at that moment, and he turned the pages at his leisure until he came to what he wanted. And there it was—in plain black and white—

NUMBER 53. MR. JOHN VAN KOON. NEW YORK CITY, U.S.A.



CHAPTER XXI

THE YOUNG MAN WHO LED PUGS

Allerdyke, with a gesture peculiar to him, thrust his hands in the pockets of his trousers, strolled away from the desk on which the register lay open, and going over to the hall door stood there a while, staring out on the tide of life that rolled by, and listening to the subdued rattle of the traffic in its ceaseless traverse of the Strand. And as he stood in this apparently idle and purposeless lounging attitude, he thought—thought of a certain birthday of his, a good thirty years before, whereon a kind, elderly aunt had made him a present of a box of puzzles. There were all sorts of puzzles in that box—things that you had to put together, things that had to be arranged, things that had to be adjusted. But there was one in particular which had taken his youthful fancy, and had at the same time tried his youthful temper—a shallow tray wherein were a vast quantity of all sorts and sizes of bits of wood, gaily coloured. There were quite a hundred of those bits, and you had to fit them one into the other. When, after much trying of temper, much exercise of patience, you had accomplished the task, there was a beautiful bit of mosaic work, a picture, a harmonious whole, lovely to look upon, something worthy of the admiring approbation of uncles and aunts, grandmothers and grandfathers. But—the doing of it!

"Naught, however, to this confounded thing!" mused Allerdyke, gazing at and not seeing the folk on the broad sidewalk. "When all the bits of this puzzle have been fitted into place I daresay one'll be able to look down on it as a whole and say it looks simple enough when finished, but, egad, they're of so many sorts and shapes and queer angles that they're more than a bit difficult to fit at present. Now who the deuce is this Van Koon, and what was that Mrs. Marlow, alias Miss Slade, doing in his rooms last night when he was out?"

He was exercising his brains over a possible solution of this problem when Fullaway suddenly appeared in the hall behind him, accompanied by a man whom Allerdyke at once took to be the very individual about whom he was speculating. He was a man of apparently forty years of age, of average height and build, of a full countenance, sallow in complexion, clean-shaven, wearing gold-rimmed spectacles over a pair of sapphire blue eyes—a shrewd, able-looking man, clad in the loose fitting, square-cut garments just then affected by his fellow-countrymen, and having a low-crowned, soft straw hat pulled down over his forehead. His hands were thrust into the pockets of his jacket; a long, thin, black cigar stuck out of a corner of his humorous-looking lips; he cocked an intelligent eye at Allerdyke as he and Fullaway advanced to the door.

"Hullo, Allerdyke!" said Fullaway in his usual vivacious fashion. "Viewing the prospect o'er, eh? Allow me to introduce Mr. Van Koon, whom I don't think you've met, though he's under the same roof. Van Koon, this is the Mr. Allerdyke I've mentioned to you."

The two men shook hands and stared at each other. Whoever and whatever this man may be, thought Allerdyke, he gives you a straight look and a good grip—two characteristics which in his opinion went far to establish any unknown individual's honesty.

"No," remarked Van Koon. "I haven't had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Allerdyke before. But I'm out a great deal—I don't spend much time indoors this fine weather. You gentlemen know your London well—I don't, and I'm putting in all the time I can to cultivate her acquaintance."

"Been in town long?" asked Allerdyke, wanting to say something and impelled to this apparently trite question by the New Yorker's own observations.

"Since the first week in April," answered Van Koon, "And as this is my first visit to England, I'm endeavouring to do everything well. Fullaway tells me, Mr. Allerdyke, that you come from Bradford, the big manufacturing city up north. Well, now, Bradford is one of the places on my list—hullo!" he exclaimed, breaking off short. "I guess here's a man who's wanting you, Fullaway, in a considerable bit of a hurry."

Fullaway and Allerdyke looked out on to the pavement and saw Blindway, who had just jumped out of a taxi-cab, and was advancing upon them. He came up and addressed them jointly—would they go back with him at once to New Scotland Yard?—the chief wanted to see them for a few minutes.

"Come on, Allerdyke," said Fullaway. "We'd better go at once. Van Koon," he continued, turning to his compatriot, "do me a favour—just look in at my rooms upstairs, and tell Mrs. Marlow, if she's come—she hadn't arrived when I was up there ten minutes ago—that I'm called out for an hour or so—ask her to attend to anything that turns up until I come back—shan't be long."

Van Koon nodded and walked back into the hotel, while Allerdyke and Fullaway joined the detective in the cab and set out westward.

"What is it?" asked Fullaway. "Something new?"

"Can't say, exactly," replied Blindway. "The chief's got some woman there who thinks she can tell something about the French maid, so he sent me for you, and he's sent another man for Miss Lennard. It may be something good; it mayn't. Otherwise," he concluded with a shake of the head that was almost dismal, "otherwise, I don't know of anything new. Never knew of a case in my life, gentlemen, in which less turned up than's turning up in this affair! And fifty thousand pounds going a-begging!"

"I suppose this woman's after it," remarked Fullaway. "You didn't hear of anything she had to tell?"

"Nothing," answered Blindway. "You'll hear it in a minute or two."

He took them straight up into the same room, and the same official whom they had previously seen, and who now sat at his desk with Celia Lennard on one side of him, and a middle-aged woman, evidently of the poorer classes, on the other. Allerdyke and Fullaway, after a brief interchange of salutations with the official and the prima donna, looked at the stranger—a quiet, respectably-dressed woman who united a natural shyness with an evident determination to go through with the business that had brought her there. She was just the sort of woman who can be seen by the hundred—laundress, seamstress, charwoman, caretaker, got up in her Sunday best. Odd, indeed, it would be, thought Allerdyke, if this quiet, humble-looking creature should give information which would place fifty thousand pounds at her command!

"This is Mrs. Perrigo," said the chief pleasantly, as he motioned the two men to chairs near Celia's and beckoned Blindway to his side. "Mrs. Perrigo, of—where is it, ma'am?"

"I live in Alpha Place, off Park Street, sir," announced Mrs. Perrigo, in a small, quiet voice. "Number 14, sir. I'm a clear-starcher by trade, sir."

"Put that down, Blindway," said the chief, "and take a note of what Mrs. Perrigo tells us. Now, Mrs. Perrigo, you think you've seen the dead woman, Lisette Beaurepaire, at some time or another, in company with a young man? Where and when was this?"