"Well, three times, sir. Three times that I'm certain of—there was another time that I wasn't certain about; at least, that I'm not certain about now. If I could just tell you about it in my way, sir—"

"Certainly—certainly, Mrs. Perrigo! Exactly what I wish. Tell us all about it in your own way. Take your own time."

"Well, sir, it 'ud be, as near as I can fix it, about the middle of March—two months ago, sir," began Mrs. Perrigo. "You see, I had the misfortune to burn my right hand very badly, sir, and having to put my work aside, and it being nice weather, and warm for the time of year, I used to go and sit in Kensington Gardens a good deal, which, of course, was when I see this young lady whose picture's been in the paper of late, and—"

"A moment, Mrs. Perrigo," interrupted the official. "Miss Lennard, it will simplify matters considerably if I ask you a question. Were you and your late maid in town about the time Mrs. Perrigo speaks of—the middle of March?"

"Yes," replied Celia promptly. "We were here from March 3rd, when we came back from the Continent, to March 29th, when we left for Russia."

"Continue, Mrs. Perrigo, if you please," said the official. "Take your time—tell things your own way."

"Yes, sir," said Mrs. Perrigo dutifully. "If you please, sir. Well, when I see those pictures in the papers—several papers, sir—of the young lady with the foreign name I says to myself, and to my neighbour, Mrs. Watson, which is all I ever talk much to, 'That,' I says, 'is the young woman I see in Kensington Gardens a time or two and remarks of for her elegant figure and smart air in general—I could have picked her out from a thousand,' I says. Which there was, and is a particular spot, sir, in Kensington Gardens where I used to sit, and you pays a penny for a chair, which I did, and there's other chairs about, near a fallen tree, which is still there, for I went to make sure last night, and there, on three afternoons while I was there, this young lady came at about, say, four o'clock each time, and was met by this here young man what I don't remember as clear as I remember her, me not taking so much notice of him. And—"

"Another moment, Mrs. Perrigo." The chief turned again to Celia. "Did your maid ever go out in the afternoons about that time?" he asked.

"Probably every afternoon," replied Celia. "I myself was away from London from the 11th to the 18th of March, staying with friends in the country. I didn't take her with me—so, of course, she'd nothing to do but follow her own inclinations."

The chief turned to Mrs. Perrigo again.

"Yes?" he said. "You saw the young woman whose photograph you have seen in the papers meet a young man in Kensington Gardens on three separate occasions. Yes?"

"Three separate occasions, close by—on penny chairs, sir, where they sat and talked foreign, which I didn't understand—and on another occasion, when I see 'em walking by the Round Pond, me being at some distance, but recognizing her by her elegant figure. I took particular notice of the young woman's face, sir, me being a noticing person, and I'll take my dying oath, if need be, that this here picture is hers!"

Mrs. Perrigo here produced a much worn and crumpled illustrated newspaper and laid her hand solemnly upon it. That done, she shook her head.

"But I ain't so certain about the young man as met her," she said sorrowfully. "Him I did not notice with such attention, being, as I say, more attracted to her. All the same, he was a young man—and spoke the same foreign language as what she did. Of them facts, sure I am, sir."

"They sat near you, Mrs. Perrigo?"

"As near, sir, as I am now to that lady. And paid their pennies for their chairs in my presence; leastways, the young man paid. Always the same place it was, and always the same time—three days all within a week, and then the day when I see 'em walking at a distance."

"Can't you remember anything about the young man, Mrs. Perrigo?" asked the chief. "Come!—try to think. That is the really important thing. You must have some recollection of him, you know, some idea of what he was like."

Mrs. Perrigo took a corner of her shawl between her fingers and proceeded to fold and pleat it while she thoughtfully fixed her eyes on Blindway's unmoved countenance, as if to find inspiration there. And after a time she nodded her head as though memory had stirred within her.

"Which every time I see him," she said, with an evident quickening of interest, "he had two of them dogs with him what has turned-up noses and twisted tails."

"Pugs?" suggested the chief.

"No doubt that is their name, sir, but unbeknown to me as I never kept such an animal," answered Mrs. Perrigo. "My meaning being clear, no doubt, and there being no mistaking of 'em—their tails and noses being of that order. And had 'em always on a chain—gentlemen's dogs you could see they was, and carefully looked after with blue bows at the back of their necks, same as if they was Christians. And him, I should say, speaking from memory, a dark young man—such is my recollection."

"It comes to this," remarked the chief, looking at the three listeners with a smile. "Mrs. Perrigo says that she is certain that upon three occasions about the middle of March last she witnessed meetings at a particular spot in Kensington Gardens between a young woman answering the description and photographs of Lisette Beaurepaire and a young man of whom she cannot definitely remember anything except that she thinks he was dark, spoke a foreign language, and was in charge of two pug dogs which wore blue ribbons. That's it, isn't it, Mrs. Perrigo?"

"And willing to take my solemn oath of the same whenever convenient, sir," replied Mrs. Perrigo. "And if so be as what I've told you should lead to anything, gentlemen—and lady—I can assure you that me being a poor widow, and—"

Five minutes later, Mrs. Perrigo, with some present reward in her pocket, was walking quietly up Whitehall with a composed countenance, while Allerdyke, already late for his Gresham Street appointment, sped towards the City as fast as a hastily chartered taxi-cab could carry him. And all the way thither, being alone, he repeated certain words over and over again.

"A dark young man who led two pugs—a dark young man who led two pugs! With blue ribbons on their necks—with blue ribbons on their necks, same as Christians!"



CHAPTER XXII

THICK FOG

It was half-past eleven when Allerdyke reached Gresham Street: by half-past one, so curiously and rapidly did events crowd upon each other, he was in a state of complete mental confusion. He sat down to lunch that day feeling as a man feels who has lost his way in an unknown country in the midst of a blinding mist; as a weaver might feel who is at work on an intricate pattern and suddenly finds all his threads inextricably mixed up and tangled. Instead of things getting better and clearer, that morning's work made them more hopelessly muddled.

Chettle was hanging about the door of the warehouse when Allerdyke drove up. His usually sly look was accentuated that morning, and as soon as Allerdyke stepped from his cab he drew him aside with a meaning gesture.

"A word or two before we go in, Mr. Allerdyke," he said as they walked a few steps along the street. "Look here, sir," he went on in a whisper. "I've been reflecting on things since I saw you last night. Of course, I'm supposed to be in Hull, you know. But I shall have to report myself at the Yard this morning—can't avoid that. And I shall have to tell them why I came up. Now, it's here, Mr. Allerdyke—how much or how little shall I tell 'em? What I mean sir, is this—do you want to keep any of this recently acquired knowledge to yourself? Of course, if you do—well, I needn't tell any more there—at headquarters—than you wish me to tell. I can easy make excuse for coming up. And, of course, in that case—"

"Well!" demanded Allerdyke impatiently. "What then?"

Chettle gave him another look of suggestive meaning, and taking off his square felt hat, wiped his forehead with a big coloured handkerchief.

"Well, of course, Mr. Allerdyke," he said insinuatingly. "Of course, sir, I'm a poor man, and I've a rising family that I want to do my best for. I could do with a substantial amount of that reward, you know, Mr. Allerdyke. We've all a right to do the best we can for ourselves, sir. And if you're wanting to, follow this affair out on your own, sir, independent of the police—eh?"

Allerdyke's sense of duty arose in strong protest against this very palpable suggestion. He shook his head.

"No—no!" he said. "That won't do, Chettle. You must do your duty to your superiors. You'll find that you'll be all right. If the police solve this affair, that reward'll go to the police, and you'll get your proper share. No—no underhand work. You make your report in your ordinary way. No more of that!"

"Aye, but do you understand, Mr. Allerdyke?" said the detective anxiously. "Do you comprehend what it'll mean. You know very well that there's a lot of red tape in our work—they go a great deal by rule and precedent, as you might say. Now, if I go to the Yard—as I shall have to, as soon as you've done with me—and tell the chief that I've found this photo of your cousin in Lydenberg's watch, and that you're certain that your cousin gave that particular photo to Mrs. Marlow, alias Miss Slade, do you know what'll happen?"

"What?" asked Allerdyke.

"They'll arrest her within half an hour," answered Chettle. "Dead certain!"

"Well?" said Allerdyke. "And—what then!"

"Why, it'll probably upset the whole bag of tricks!" exclaimed Chettle. "The thing'll be spoiled before we've properly worked it out. See?"

Allerdyke did see. He had sufficient knowledge of police matters to know that Chettle was right, and that a too hasty step would probably ruin everything. He turned towards the warehouse.

"Just so," he said. "I take your meaning. Now then, come in, and we'll put it before my manager, Mr. Appleyard. I've great faith in his judgment—let's see what he's got to say."

The two Gaffneys were waiting just within the packingroom of the warehouse. Allerdyke bade them wait a little longer, and took the detective straight into Appleyard's office. There, behind the closed door, he told Appleyard of everything that had happened since their last meeting, and of what Chettle had just said. The problem was, in view of all that, of the mysterious proceedings of Mrs. Marlow the night before, and of what Allerdyke had just heard at New Scotland Yard—what was best to be done, severally and collectively, by all of them?

Ambler Appleyard grasped the situation at once and solved the problem in a few direct words. There was no need whatever, he said, for Chettle to do more than his plain duty, no need for him to exceed it. He was bound, being what he was, to make his report about his discovery of the photograph and the writing on it. That he must do. But he was not bound to tell anything that Allerdyke had told him: he was not bound to give information which Allerdyke had collected. Let Chettle go and tell the plain facts about his own knowledge of the photo and leave Allerdyke, for the moment, clean out of the question. Allerdyke himself could go with his news in due course. And, wound up Appleyard, who had a keen knowledge of human nature and saw deep into Chettle's mind, Mr. Allerdyke would doubtless see that Chettle lost nothing by holding his tongue about anything that wasn't exactly ripe for discussion. At present, he repeated, let Chettle do his duty—not exceed it.

"That's it," agreed Allerdyke. "You've hit it, Ambler. You go and tell what you know of your own knowledge," he went on, turning to Chettle. "Leave me clean out for the time being. I'll come in at the right moment. Say naught about me or of what I've told you. And if you're sent back to Hull, just contrive to see me before you go. And, as Mr. Appleyard says, I'll see you're all right, anyhow."

When Chettle had gone, Allerdyke closed the door on him and turned to his manager with a knowing look.

"That chap's right, you know, Ambler," he said. "A false move, a too hasty step'll ruin everything. If that woman's startled—if she gets a suspicion—egad, it's all mixed up about as badly as can be! Now, about these Gaffneys?"

"Wait a while," said Appleyard. "I don't know that we want their services just yet. I've found out a thing or two that may be useful. About this man Rayner now, who's in evident close touch with Miss Slade (by the by, you saw her at the Waldorf at half-past eleven last night, and I saw her come into the Pompadour at half-past twelve, with Rayner), and about whom we accordingly want to know something—I've found out, through ordinary business channels, that he does carry on a business at Clytemnestra House, in Arundel Street, under the name of Gavin Ramsay. And—if we want to know more of him—I've an idea. You go and see him, Mr. Allerdyke—on business."

"I? Business?" exclaimed Allerdyke. "What sort of business?"

"He's an inventor's agent," replied Appleyard. "It's a profession I never heard of before, but he seems to act as a go-between. Folks that have got an invention go to him—he helps 'em about it—helps 'em to perfect it, patent it, get it on the market. You've a good excuse—there's that patent railway chair of your man Gankrodgers, been lying there in that corner for the past year, and you promised Gankrodgers you'd help him about it. Put it in a cab and go to this Rayner, or Ramsay—there's your excuse, and you can say you heard of him in the City, from Wilmingtons—it was they who told me what he was. It's a good notion, Mr. Allerdyke."

"What object?" asked Allerdyke.

"Simply to get a look at him," replied Appleyard. "Look here—you know very well that there's a strong suspicion against Miss Slade. Miss Slade, to my knowledge, is in close touch, with Rayner. Therefore, let's know what we can about Rayner. You're the man to go and see him at his own place. Do it—and we'll consider the question of having him watched by the two Gaffneys when you've seen and talked to him."

Allerdyke considered this somewhat strange proposal in silence for a while. At last he rose with a look of decision.

"Well, I've certainly a good excuse," he said. "Here, have that thing packed up and put in a cab—I'll go."

Half an hour later he found himself shown into a smartly furnished office where Mr. Gavin Ramsay sat at a handsome desk surrounded by shelves and cabinets whereon and wherein were set out the products of the brains of many inventors—models of machines, mechanical toys, labour-saving notions, things plainly useful, things obviously extravagant. The occupant of this museum glanced at Allerdyke and the box which he carried with an amused smile, and Allerdyke said to himself that Appleyard was right in his description—if the man was crippled and deformed he certainly possessed a beautiful face.

"Mr. Marshall Allerdyke," said the hope of inventors, glancing at the card which his visitor had sent in.

"The same, sir," replied Allerdyke, setting down his box. "Mr. Ramsay, I presume? I heard of you, Mr. Ramsay, through Wilmingtons, in the City; heard you can be of great use to inventors. I have here," he continued, opening the box, "a railway chair, invented by one of my workmen, a clever fellow. You see, it 'ud do away with the present system of putting wooden blocks in the chairs now used—this would fasten the sleepers and rails together automatically. It is patented—provisionally protected, anyhow—but my man's never got a railway company to try it, so far. Think you can do anything, Mr. Ramsay?"

The hunchback got up from his desk, took the invention out of its box, and carefully inspected it, asking Allerdyke a few shrewd questions about the thing's possibilities which showed the caller that he knew what he was talking about. Then he sat down again and went into business details in a way which impressed Allerdyke—clearly this man, whoever he was, and whatever mystery might attach to him, was a smart individual. Also he had a frank, direct way of talking which gave his visitor a very good first opinion of him.

"Very well, Mr. Allerdyke," he said, in conclusion. "Leave the thing with me, and I will see what I can do. As I say, the proper course will be to get it tried on one of the smaller railway lines—if it answers there, we can, perhaps, induce one of the bigger companies to take it up. I'll do my best."

Allerdyke thanked him and rose. He had certainly done something for his man Gankrodgers, and he had seen Ramsay, or Rayner, at close quarters, but—Ramsay was speaking again. He had picked up Allerdyke's card, and glanced from it to its presenter, half shyly.

"You're the cousin of the Mr. Allerdyke whose name's been in the papers so much in connection with this murder and robbery affair, I suppose?" he said. "I've seen your own name, of course, in the various accounts."

"I am," replied Allerdyke. He had moved towards the door, but he turned and looked at his questioner. "You followed it, then?" he asked.

"Yes," assented Ramsay. "Closely. A curiously intricate case."

"Any solution of it present itself to your mind?" asked Allerdyke in his brusque, downright fashion. "Got any theory?"

Ramsay smiled and shook his finely shaped head. He, too, rose, walking towards the door.

"It's a little early for that, isn't it?" he said. "I've studied these affairs—criminology, you know—for many years. In my opinion, it's a mistake to be too hasty in trying to arrive at solutions. But," he added, with a shrug of his misshapen shoulders, "it's always the way of the police, and of most folk who try to get at the truth. Things that are deep down need some deep digging for!"

"There's the question of the present whereabouts of nearly three hundred thousand pounds' worth of jewels," remarked Allerdyke grimly. "Remember that!"

"Quite so," agreed Ramsay. "But—your own particular and personal desire, as I gather from the newspapers, is to find the murderer of your cousin?"

"Ah!" said Allerdyke. "And it is! Got any ideas on that point?"

Ramsay smiled as he opened the door.

"I think," he said, with a quiet significance. "I think that you'll be having all this mystery explained and cleared up all of a sudden, Mr. Allerdyke, in a way that'll surprise you. These things are like warfare—there's a sudden turn of events, a sudden big event just when you're not expecting it. Well, good-bye—thank you for giving me a chance with your man's invention."

Allerdyke found himself walking up Arundel Street before he had quite realized that this curious interview was over. At the top he paused, staring vacantly at the folk who passed and repassed along the Strand.

"I'd lay a pound to a penny that chap's all right," he muttered to himself. "He's not a wrong 'un—unless he's damned deceitful! All the same, he knows something! What? My conscience!—was there ever such a confounded muddle in this world as this is!"

But the muddle was a deeper one within the next few minutes. He crossed over to his hotel, and as he was entering he met Mrs. Marlow coming out, fresh, dainty, charming, as usual. She stopped at sight of him and held up the little hand-bag which hung from her wrist.

"Oh, Mr. Allerdyke!" she said, opening the bag and taking an envelope from it. "I've something for you. See—here's the photograph your cousin gave me. You were wrong, you see—there's no spot in it—it's a particularly clear print. Look!"

In Allerdyke's big palm she laid the very photograph which, according to all his reckoning, was that which Chettle had found within the cover of Lydenberg's watch.



CHAPTER XXIII

THE POSSIBLE DEATH WARRANT

"Quite a clear print, you see," repeated Mrs. Marlow brightly. "No spot there. You must have been thinking of another."

"Aye, just so," replied Allerdyke absentmindedly. "Another, yes, of course. Aye, to be sure—you're right. No spot on that, certainly."

He was talking aimlessly, confusedly, as he turned the print over in his hand, examining it back and front. And having no excuse for keeping it, he handed it back with a keen look at its owner. What the devil, he asked himself, was this mysterious woman playing at?

"I'm going to have this mounted and framed," said Mrs. Marlow, as she put the photograph back in her bag and turned to go. "I misplaced it some time ago and couldn't lay hands on it, but I came across it by accident this morning, so now I'll take care of it."

She nodded, smiled, and went off into the sunlight outside, and Allerdyke, more puzzled than ever, walked forward into the hotel and towards the restaurant. At its door he met Fullaway, coming out, and in his usual hurry.

Fullaway started at sight of Allerdyke, button-holed him, and led him into a corner.

"Oh, I say, Allerdyke!" he said, in his bustling fashion. "Look here, a word with you. You've no objection, have you?" he went on in subdued tones, "if Van Koon and I have a try for that reward? It doesn't matter to you, or to the Princess, or to Miss Lennard, who gets the reward so long as the criminals are brought to justice and the goods found—eh? And you know fifty thousand is—what it is."

"You've got an idea?" asked Allerdyke, regarding his questioner steadily.

"Frankly, yes—an idea—a notion," answered Fullaway. "Van Koon and I have been discussing the whole affair—just now. He's a smart man, and has had experience in these things on the other side. But, of course, we don't want to give our idea away. We want to work in entire independence of the police, for instance. What we're thinking of requires patience and deep investigation. So we want to work on our own methods. See?"

"It doesn't matter to me who gets the reward—as you say," said Allerdyke slowly. "I want justice. I'm not so much concerned about the jewels as about who killed my cousin. I believe that man Lydenberg did the actual killing—but who was at Lydenberg's back? Find that out, and—"

"Exactly—exactly!" broke in Fullaway. "The very thing! Well—you understand, Allerdyke. Van Koon and I will want to keep our operations to ourselves. We don't want police interference. So, if any of these Scotland Yard chaps come to you here for talk or information, don't bring me into it. And don't expect me to tell what we're doing until we've carried out our investigations. No interim reports, you know, Allerdyke. Personally, I believe we're on the track."

"Do just what you please," replied Allerdyke. "You're not the only two who are after that reward. Go ahead—your own way."

He turned into the restaurant and ordered his lunch, and while it was being brought sat drumming his fingers on the table, staring vacantly at the people about him and wondering over the events of the morning. Rayner's, or Ramsay's, vague hint that something might suddenly clear everything up; Fullaway's announcement that he and Van Koon had put their heads together; Mrs. Perrigo's story of the French maid and the young man who led blue-ribboned pug-dogs—but all these were as nothing compared to the fact that Mrs. Marlow had actually shown him the photograph which he had until then firmly believed to lie hidden in the case of Lydenberg's watch. That beat him.

"Is my blessed memory going wrong?" he said to himself. "Did I actually print more than four copies of that thing! No—no!—I'm shot if I did. My memory never fails. I did not print off more than four. James had three; I had one. Mine's in my album upstairs. I know what James did with his. Cousin Grace has one; Wilson Firth has another; he gave the third to this Mrs. Marlow—and she's got it! Then—how the devil did that photograph, which looks to be of my taking, which I'd swear is of my taking, come to be in Lydenberg's watch? Gad—it's enough to make a man's brain turn to pap!"

He was moodily finishing his lunch when Chettle came in to find him. Allerdyke, who was in a quiet corner, beckoned the detective to a seat, and offered him a drink.

"Well?" he asked. "What's been done?"

"It's all right," answered Chettle. "I've told no more than was necessary—just what we agreed upon. To tell you the truth, our folks don't attach such tremendous importance to it—they will, of course, when you tell them your story about the photo. Just at present they merely see the obvious fact—that Lydenberg was furnished with the photo as a means of ready identification of your brother. No—at this moment they're full of the Perrigo woman's story—they think that's a sure clue—a good beginning. Somebody, they say, must own, or have owned, those pugs! Therefore they're going strong on that. Meanwhile, I'm going back to Hull for at any rate a few days."

"You've still got that watch on you?" asked Allerdyke.

"Certainly," answered Chettle, clapping his hand to his breast-pocket. "Technically speaking, it's in charge of the Hull police—it'll have to be produced there. Did you want to see it again, Mr. Allerdyke?"

"Finish your drink and come up to my sitting-room," said Allerdyke. "I'll give you a cigar up there. Yes," he added, as they left the restaurant and went upstairs. "I do want to see it again—or, rather, the photograph. You're in no hurry?"

"A good hour to spare yet," replied Chettle.

Allerdyke locked the door of the sitting-room when they were once inside it, and that done he placed a decanter, a syphon, and a glass on his table, and flanked them with a box of cigars. He waved a hospitable hand towards these comforts.

"Sit down and help yourself, Chettle," he said. "A drop of my whisky'll do you no harm—that's some I got down from home, and you'll not find its like everywhere. Light a cigar—and put a couple in your pocket to smoke in the train. Now then, let's see that photograph once more."

Chettle handed over the watch, and Allerdyke, opening the case, delicately removed the print. He sat down at the table with his back to the light, and carefully examined the thing back and front, while the detective, glass in hand, cigar in lips, and thumb in the armhole of his waistcoat, watched him appreciatively and inquisitively.

"Make aught new out of it, sir?" he asked after a while.

Instead of answering, Allerdyke laid the photograph down, went across to another table, and took from it his album. He turned its leaves over until he came to a few loose prints. He picked them up one after another and examined them. And suddenly he knew the secret. There was no longer any problem, any difficulty about that photograph. He knew—now! And with a sharp exclamation, he flung the album back to the side-table, and turned to the detective.

"Chettle!" he said. "You know me well enough to know that I can make it well worth any man's while to keep a secret until I tell him he can speak about it! What!"

"I should think so, Mr. Allerdyke," responded Chettle, readily enough. "And if you want me to keep a secret—"

"I do—for the time being," answered Allerdyke. He sat down again and picked up the photograph which had exercised his thoughts so intensely. "I've found out the truth concerning this," he said, tapping it with his finger. "Yes, I've hit it! Listen, now—I told you I'd only made four prints of this photo, and that I knew exactly where they all were—one in my own album there, two given by James to friends in Bradford, one—as we more recently found out—given by James to Mrs. Marlow. That one—the Mrs. Marlow one—we believed to be—this—this!"

"And isn't it, Mr. Allerdyke?" asked Chettle wonderingly.

Allerdyke laughed—a laugh of relief and satisfaction.

"Less than an hour ago," he replied, "in fact, just before you came in, Mrs. Marlow showed me the photo which James gave her—showed it to me, out below there in the hall. No mistaking it! And so—when you came, I was racking my brains to rags trying to settle what this photo—this!—was. And now I know what it is—and damn me if I know whether the discovery makes things plainer or more mixed up! But—I know what this is, anyway."

"And—what is it, sir?" asked Chettle eagerly, eyeing the photo as if it were some fearful living curiosity. "What, Mr. Allerdyke?"

"Why, it's a photograph of my photograph!" almost shouted Allerdyke, with a thump of his big hand on the table. "That's the truth. This has been reproduced from mine, d'ye see? Look here—happen you don't know much about photography, but you'll follow me—I always use a certain sort of printing-out paper; I've stuck to one particular sort for years—all the photos in that album are done on that particular sort. The four prints I made of James's last photo were done on that paper. Now then—this photo, this print that you found in Lydenberg's watch, is not done on that paper—it's a totally different paper. Therefore—this is a reproduction! It is not my original print at all—it's been copied from it. See?"

Chettle, who had followed all this with concentrated attention, nodded his head several times.

"Clever—clever—clever!" he said with undisguised admiration. "Clever, indeed! That's a smart bit of work, sir. I see—I understand! Bless my soul! And what do you gather from that, Mr. Allerdyke?"

"This!" answered Allerdyke. "Just now, Mrs. Marlow said to me, speaking of her photo—the fourth print, you know—'I misplaced it some time ago,' she said, 'and couldn't lay hands on it, but I came across it accidentally this morning.' Now then, Chettle, here's the thing—somebody took that fourth print from Mrs. Marlow, reproduced it—and that—that print which you found in Lydenberg's watch is the reproduction!"

"So that," began Chettle suggestively, "so that—"

"So that the thing now is to find who it is that made the reproduction," said Allerdyke. "When we've found him—or her—I reckon we shall have found the man who's at the heart of all this. Leave that to me! Keep this a dead secret until I tell you to speak—we shall have to tell all this, and a bonny sight more, to your bosses at headquarters—off you go to Hull, and do what you have to do, and I'll get on with my work here. I said I didn't know whether this discovery makes things thicker or clearer, but, by George, it's a step forward anyway!"

Chettle put the reproduction back into the case of the watch and bestowed it safely in his pocket.

"One step forward's a good deal in a case like this, Mr. Allerdyke," he said. "What are you going to do about the next step, now?"

"Try to find out who made that reproduction," replied Allerdyke bluntly. "No easy job, either! The ground's continually shifting and changing under one's very feet. But I don't mind telling you my present theory—somebody's got information of that jewel deal from Fullaway's office, somebody who had access to his papers, somebody who managed to steal that photo of mine from Mrs. Marlow for a few days or until they could reproduce it. What I want to find now is—an idea of that somebody. And—I'll get it!—I'll move heaven and earth to get it! But—other matters. You say your folks at the Yard are going to follow up that Perrigo woman's clue? They think it important, then?"

"In the case of the Frenchwoman, yes," answered Chettle. He thrust his hand into a side-pocket and brought out a crumpled paper. "Here's a proof of the bill they're getting out," he said. "They set to work on that as soon as they'd got the information. That'll be up outside every police-station in a few hours, and it's gone out to the Press, too."

Allerdyke took the proof, still damp from the machine, and looked it over. It asked, in the usual formal language, for any information about a young man, dark, presumably a foreigner, who, about the middle of March, was in the habit of taking two pug dogs, generally bedecked with blue ribbons, into Kensington Gardens.

"There ought to be some response to that, you know, Mr. Allerdyke," remarked Chettle. "Somebody must remember and know something about that young fellow. But, upon my soul, as I said to Blindway just now, I don't know whether that bill's a mere advertisement or a—death warrant!"

"Death warrant!" exclaimed Allerdyke. "What d'you mean?"

Chettle chuckled knowingly.

"Mean," he said. "Why, this—if that young fellow who led pugs about, and talked to Mamselle Lisette in Kensington Gardens, is another of the cat's paws that this gang evidently made use of, I should say that when the gang sees he's being searched for, they'll out him, just as they outed her and Lydenberg. That's what I mean, Mr. Allerdyke—they'll do him in themselves before anybody else can get at him! See?"

Allerdyke saw. And when the detective had gone, he threw himself into a chair, lighted one of his strongest cigars, drew pen, ink, and paper to him, and began to work at his problem with a grim determination to evolve at any rate a clear theory of its possible solution.



CHAPTER XXIV

CONCERNING CARL FEDERMAN

Next morning, as Allerdyke was leaving the hotel with the intention of going down to Gresham Street, one of the hall-porters ran after and hailed him.

"You're wanted at the telephone, sir," he said. "Call for you just come through."

Allerdyke went back, to find himself hailed by Blindway. Would he drive on to the Yard at once and bring Mr. Fullaway with him?—both were wanted, particularly in connection with the Perrigo information.

Allerdyke promised for himself, and went upstairs to find Fullaway. He met him coming down, and gave him the message. Fullaway looked undecided.

"You know what I told you yesterday, Allerdyke," he said. "I didn't want to be bothered further with these police chaps. Van Koon and I are on a line of our own, and—"

"As you like," interrupted Allerdyke, "but all the same, if I were in your place I shouldn't refuse a chance of acquiring information. Even if you don't want to tell the police anything, that's no reason why you shouldn't learn something from them."

"There's that in it, certainly," assented Fullaway. "All right. You get a taxi and I'll join you in a minute or two."

As they got out of one cab at the police headquarters Celia Lennard appeared in another. She made a little grimace as the two men greeted her.

"Again!" she exclaimed, "What are we going to be treated to now? More old women with vague stories, I suppose. What good is it at all? And when am I going to hear something about my jewels?"

"You never know what you're going to hear when you visit these palatial halls," answered Fullaway. "You may be going to have the biggest surprise of your life, you know. They sent for you?"

"Rang me up in the middle of my breakfast," answered Celia. "Well—let's find out what new sensation this is. Some extraordinary creature on view again, of course."

The creature on view proved to be a little fat man, obviously French or Swiss, who sat, his rotund figure tightly enveloped in a frock-coat, the lapel of which was decorated with a bit of ribbon, on the edge of a chair facing the chief's desk. He was a nervous, alert little man; his carefully trimmed moustache and pointed beard quivered with excitement; his dark eyes blazed. And at sight of the elegantly attired lady he bounced out of his chair, swept his silk hat to the ground, and executed a deep bow of the most extreme politeness.

"This," observed the chief, with a smile at his visitors, "is Monsieur Aristide Bonnechose. M. Bonnechose believes that he can tell us something. It is a supplement to what Mrs. Perrigo told us yesterday. It relates, of course to the young man whom Mrs. Perrigo told us of—the young man who led pugs in Kensington Gardens."

"The pogs of Madame, my spouse," said M. Bonnechose, with a bow and a solemn expression. "Two pogs—Fifi and Chou-Chou."

"M. Bonnechose," continued the chief, regarding his company with yet another smile, "is the proprietor of a—what is your establishment, monsieur?"

"Cafe-restaurant, monsieur," replied M. Bonnechose, promptly and politely. "Small, but elegant. Of my name, monsieur—the Cafe Bonnechose, Oxford Street. Established nine years—I succeeded to a former proprietor, Monsieur Jules, on his lamented decease."

"I think M. Bonnechose had better tell us his history in his own fashion," remarked the chief, looking around. "You are aware, Mr. Allerdyke, and you, too, Mr. Fullaway, and so I suppose are you Miss Lennard, that after hearing what Mrs. Perrigo had to tell us I put out a bill asking for information about the young man Mrs. Perrigo described, and the matter was also mentioned in last night's and this morning's papers. M. Bonnechose read about it in his newspaper, and so he came here at once. He tells me that he knew a young man who was good enough during the early spring, to occasionally take out Madame Bonnechose's prize dogs for an airing. That seems to have been the same man referred to by Mrs. Perrigo. Now, M. Bonnechose, give us the details."

M. Bonnechose set down his tall, very Parisian hat on the edge of the chief's desk, and proceeded to use his hands in conjunction with his tongue.

"With pleasure, monsieur," he responded. "It is this way, then. You will comprehend that Madame, my spouse, and myself are of the busiest. We do not keep a great staff; accordingly we have much to do ourselves. Consequently we have not much time to go out, to take the air. Madame, my spouse, she has a love for the dogs—she keeps two, Fifi and Chou-Chou—pogs. What they call pedigree dogs—valuable. Beautiful animals—but needing exercise. It is a trouble to Madame that they cannot disport themselves more frequently. Now, about the beginning of this spring, a young man—compatriot of my own—a Swiss from the Vaud canton—he begins coming to my cafe. Sometimes he comes for his lunch—sometimes he drops in, as they say, for a cup of coffee. We find out, he and I, that we come from the same district. In the event, we become friendly."

"This young man's name, M. Bonnechose?" asked the chief.

"What we knew him by—Federman," replied M. Bonnechose. "Carl Federman. He told me he was looking out for a job as valet to a rich man. He had been a waiter—somewhere in London—some hotel, I think—I did not pay much attention. Anyway, while he was looking for his job he certainly had plenty of money—plenty! He do himself very well with his lunches—sometimes he come and have his dinner at night. We are not expensive, you understand—nice lunch for two shillings, nice dinner for three—nothing to him, that—he always carry plenty of money in his pockets. Well, then, of course, having nothing to do, often he talks to me and Madame. One day we talk of the pogs, then walking about the establishment. He remarks that they are too fat. Madame sighs and says the poor darlings do not get sufficient exercise. He is good-natured, this Federman—he say at once 'I will exercise them—I, myself,' So he come next day, like a good friend, Madame puts blue ribbons on the pogs, and bids them behave nicely—away they go with Federman for the excursion. Many days he thus takes them—to Hyde Park, to Kensington Gardens—out of the neighbourliness, you understand. Madame is much obliged to him—she regards him as a kind young man—eh? And then, all of a sudden, we do not see Federman any more—no. Nor hear of him until monsieur asks for news of him in the papers. I see that news last night—Madame sees it! We start—we look at each other—we regard ourselves with comprehension. We both make the same exclamation—'It is Federman! He is wanted! He has done something!' Then Madame says, 'Aristide, in the morning, you will go to the police commissary,' I say 'It shall be done—we will have no mystery around the Cafe Bonnechose.' Monsieur, I am here—and I have spoken!"

"And that is all you know, M. Bonnechose?" asked the chief.

"All, monsieur, absolutely all!"

"About when was it that this young man first came to your cafe, then?"

"About the beginning of March, or end of February, monsieur—it was the beginning of the good weather, you understand."

"And he left off coming—when?"

"Beginning of April, monsieur—after that we never see him again. Often we say to ourselves, 'Where is Federman?' The pogs, they look at the seat which he was accustomed to take, as much as to ask the same question. But," concluded M. Bonnechose, with a dismal shake of his close-cropped head, and a spreading forth of his hands, "he never visit us no more—no!"

"Now, listen, M. Bonnechose," said the chief; "did this man ever give you any particulars about himself?"

"None but what I have told you, monsieur—and which I do not now remember."

"Ever tell you where he lived in London—-at the time he was visiting you?"

"No, monsieur—never."

"Did he ever come to your place accompanied by anybody? Bring any friends there?"

M. Bonnechose put himself into an attitude of deep thought. He remained in it for a moment or two; then he exchanged it for one of joyful recollection.

"On one occasion, a lady!" he exclaimed. "A Frenchwoman. Tall—that is, taller than is usual amongst Frenchwomen—slender—elegant. Dark—dark, black eyes—not beautiful, you understand, but—engaging."

"Lisette!" muttered Celia.

"On only one occasion, you say, M. Bonnechose?" asked the chief. "When was it?"

"About the time I speak of, monsieur. They came in one night—rather late. They had a light supper—nothing much."

"He did not tell you who she was?"

"Not a word, monsieur! He was, as a rule, very secretive, this Federman, saying little about his own affairs."

"You don't remember that he ever brought any one else there! No men, for instance?"

M. Bonnechose shook his head. Then, once again, his face brightened.

"No!" he said. "But once—just once—I saw Federman talking to a man in the street—Shaftesbury Avenue. A clean-shaven man, well built, brown hair—a Frenchman, I think. But, of course, a stranger to me."

The chief exchanged a glance with Allerdyke and Fullaway—both knew what that glance meant. M. Bonnechose's description tallied remarkably with that of the man who had gone to Eastbourne Terrace Hotel with Lisette Beaurepaire.

"A clean-shaven man, with brown hair, and well built, eh?" said the chief. "And when—"

Just then an interruption came in the person of a man who entered the room and gave evident signs of a desire to tell something to his superior. The chief left his chair, went across to the door, and received a communication which was evidently of considerable moment. He turned and beckoned Blindway; the three went out of the room. Several minutes passed; then the chief came back alone, and looked at his visitors with a glance of significance.

"We have just got news of something that relates, I think, to the very subject we were discussing," he said. "A young man has been found dead in bed at a City hotel this morning under very suspicious circumstances—circumstances very similar to those of the Eastbourne Terrace affair. And," he went on, glancing at a scrap of paper which he held in his hand, "the description of him very closely resembles that of this man Federman. Of course, it's not an uncommon type, but—"

"Another of 'em!" exclaimed Allerdyke. He had suddenly remembered what Chettle had said about the new bill being a possible death-warrant, and the words started irrepressibly to his lips. "Good Lord!"

The chief gave him a quick glance; it seemed as if he instinctively divined what was passing in Allerdyke's mind.

"I'm sorry to trouble you," he said, without referring to Allerdyke's interruption, "but I'm afraid I must ask you—all of you—to run down to this City hotel with me. We mustn't leave a stone unturned, and if any of you can identify this man—"

"Oh, you don't want me, surely!" cried Celia. "Please let me off—I do so hate that sort of thing!"

"Naturally," remarked the chief. "But I'm afraid I want you more than any one, Miss Lennard—you and M. Bonnechose. Come—we'll go at once—Blindway has gone down to get two cabs for us."

Blindway, M. Bonnechose, and Fullaway rode to the City in one cab; Celia, Allerdyke, and the chief in another. Their journey came to an end in a quiet old street near the Docks, and at the door of an old-fashioned looking hotel. There was a much-worried landlord, and a detective or two, and sundry police to meet them, and inquisitive eyes looked out of doors and round corners as they went upstairs to a door which was guarded by two constables. The chief turned to Celia with a word of encouragement.

"One look will answer the purpose," he said quietly. "But—look closely!"

The next moment all six were standing round a narrow bed on which was laid out the dead body of a young man. The face, calm, composed, looked more like that of a man who lay quietly and peacefully asleep than one who had died under suspicious circumstances.

"Well?" asked the chief presently. "What do you say, Miss Lennard?"

Celia caught her breath.

"This—this is the man who came to Hull," she whispered. "The man, you know, who called himself Lisette's brother. I knew him instantly."

"And you, M. Bonnechose?" said the chief. "Do you recognize him?"

The cafe-keeper, who had been making inarticulate murmurs of surprise and grief, nodded.

"Federman!" he said. "Oh, yes, monsieur—Federman, without doubt. Poor fellow!"

The chief turned to leave the room, saying quietly that that was all he wished. But Fullaway, who had been staring moodily at the dead man, suddenly stopped him. "Look here!" he said. "I know this man, too—but not as Federman. I'm not mistaken about him, and I don't think Miss Lennard or M. Bonnechose are, either. But I knew him as Fritz Ebers. He acted as my valet at the Waldorf from the beginning of April to about the end of the first week in May last. And—since we now know what we do—it's my opinion that there—there in that dead man—is the last of the puppets! The Frenchwoman—Lydenberg—now this fellow—all three got rid of! Now, then—where's the man who pulled the strings! Where's the arch-murderer!"



CHAPTER XXV

THE CARD ON THE DOOR

The chief made no immediate reply to Fullaway's somewhat excited outburst; he led his little party from the room, and in the corridor turned to Celia and the cafe keeper.

"That's all, Miss Lennard, thank you," he said. "Sorry to have to ask you to take part in these painful affairs, but it can't be helped. M. Bonnechose, I'm obliged to you—you'll hear from me again very soon. In the meantime, keep counsel—don't talk to anybody except Madame—no gossiping with customers, you know. Mr. Allerdyke, will you see Miss Lennard downstairs and into a cab, and then join Mr. Fullaway and me again?—we must have a talk with the police and the hotel people."

When Allerdyke went back into the hotel he found Blindway waiting for him at the door of a ground-floor room in which the chief, Fullaway, a City police-inspector and a detective were already closeted with the landlord and landlady. The landlord, a somewhat sullen individual, who appeared to be greatly vexed and disconcerted by these events, was already being questioned by the chief as to what he knew of the young man whose body they had just seen, and he was replying somewhat testily.

"I know no more about him than I know of any chance customer," he was saying when Allerdyke was ushered in by Blindway, who immediately closed the door on this informal conclave. "You see what this house is?—a second-class house for gentlemen having business in this part, round about the Docks. We get a lot of commercial gentlemen, sea-faring men, such-like. Lots of our customers are people who are going to foreign places—Antwerp, Rotterdam, Hamburg, and so on—they put up here just for the night, before sailing. I took this young man for one of that sort—in fact, I think he made some inquiry about one of the boats."

"He did," affirmed the landlady. "He asked William, the head-waiter, what time the Rotterdam steamer sailed this morning."

"And that's about all we know," continued the landlord. "I never took any particular notice of him, and—"

"Just answer a few questions," said the chief, interrupting him quietly. "We shall get at what we want to know more easily that way. What time did this young man come to the hotel yesterday?"

The landlord turned to his wife with an expressive gesture.

"Ask her," he answered. "She looks after all that—I'm not so much in the office."

"He came at seven o'clock last night," said the landlady. "I was in the office, and I booked him and gave him his room—27."

"Was he alone?"

"Quite alone. He'd the suit-case that's upstairs in the room now, and an overcoat and an umbrella."

"Of course," said the chief, "he gave you some name—some address?"

"He gave the name and address of Frank Herman, Walthamstow," replied the landlady, opening a ledger which she had brought into the room. "There you are—that's his writing."

The chief drew the book to him, glanced at the entry, and closed the book again, keeping a finger in it.

"Well, what was seen of him during the evening!" he asked.

"Nothing much," replied the landlady. "He had his supper in the coffee-room—a couple of chops and coffee. He was reading the papers in the smoking-room until about half-past ten; I saw him myself going upstairs between that and eleven. As I didn't see him about next morning and as his breakfast wasn't booked, I asked where he was, and the chambermaid said there was a card on his door saying that he wasn't to be called till eleven."

"Where is that card?" asked the chief.

"It's here in this envelope," answered the landlady, who seemed to be much more alert and much sharper of intellect than her husband. "I took care of it when we found out what had happened. I suppose you'll take charge of it?"

"If you please," answered the chief. He took the envelope, looked inside it to make sure that the card was there, and turned to the landlady again.

"Yes?" he said. "When you found out what had happened. Now, who did find out what had happened?"

"Well," answered the landlady, "the chambermaid came down soon after eleven, and said she couldn't get 27 to answer her knock. Of course, I understood that he wanted to catch the Rotterdam boat which sailed about noon, so I sent my husband up. And as he couldn't get any answer—"

"I went in with the chambermaid's key," broke in the landlord, "and there he was—just as you've seen him—dead. And if you ask me, he was cold, too—been dead some time, in my opinion."

"The surgeon said several hours—six or seven," remarked the inspector in an aside to the chief. "Thought he'd been dead since four o'clock."

"No signs of anything in the room, I suppose?" asked the chief. "Nothing disturbed, eh?"

"Nothing!" replied the landlord stolidly. "The room was as you'd expect to find it; tidy enough. And nothing touched—as the police that were called in at first can testify. They can swear as his money was all right and his watch and chain all right—there'd been no robbery. And," he added with resentful emphasis, "I don't care what you nor nobody says!—'tain't no case of murder, this! It's suicide, that's what it is. I don't want my house to get the name and character of a murder place! I can't help it if a quiet-looking, apparently respectable young fellow comes and suicides himself in my house—there's nobody can avoid that, as I know of, but when it comes to murder—"

"No one has said anything about murder so far," interrupted the chief quietly. "But since you suggest it, perhaps we'd better ask who you'd got in the house last night." He opened the register at the page in which he had kept his finger, and looked at the last entries. "I see that three—no, four—people came in after this young man who called himself Frank Herman. You booked them, I suppose?" he went on, turning to the landlady. "Were they known to you?"

"Only one—that one, Mr. Peter Donaldson, Dundee," answered the landlady. "He's the representative of a jute firm—he often comes here. He's in the house now, or he was, an hour ago—he'll be here for two or three days. Those two, Mr. and Mrs. Nielsen—they appeared to be foreigners. They were here for the night, had breakfast early, and went away by some boat—our porter carried their things to it. Quiet, elderly folks, they were."

"And the fourth—John Barcombe, Manchester—you didn't know him?" asked the chief, pointing to the last entry. "I see you gave him Number 29—two doors from Herman."

"Yes," said the landlady. "No—I didn't know him. He came in about nine o'clock and had some supper before he went up. He'd his breakfast at eight o'clock this morning, and went away at once. Lots of our customers do that—they're just in for bed and breakfast, and we scarcely notice them."

"Did you notice this man—Barcombe?" asked the chief.

"Well, not particularly. But I've a fair recollection of him. A rather pale, stiffish-built man, lightish brown hair and moustache, dressed in a dark suit. He'd no luggage, and he paid me for supper, bed, and breakfast when he booked his room," replied the landlady. "Quite a quiet, respectable man—he said something about being unexpectedly obliged to stop for the night, but I didn't pay any great attention."

The chief looked attentively at the open page of the register. Then he drew the attention of those around him to the signature of John Barcombe. It was a big, sprawling signature, all the letters sloping downward from left to right, and being of an unusual size for a man.

"That looks to me like a feigned handwriting," he said. "However, note this. You see that entry of Frank Herman? Observe his handwriting. Now compare it with the writing on the card which was fixed on the door of 27—Herman's room. Look!"

He drew the card out of its envelope as he spoke and laid it beside the entry in the register. And Marshall Allerdyke, bending over his shoulder to look, almost cried out with astonishment, for the writing on the card was certainly the same as that which Chettle had shown him on the post-card found on Lydenberg, and on the back of the photograph of James Allerdyke discovered in Lydenberg's watch. It was only by a big effort that he checked the exclamation which was springing to his lips, and stopped himself from snatching up the card from the table.

"You observe," said the chief quietly, "you can't fail to observe that the writing in the register, is not the writing of the card pinned on the door of Number 27. They are quite different. The writing of Frank Herman in the register is in thick, stunted strokes; the writing on the card is in thin, angular, what are commonly called crabbed strokes. Yet it is supposed that Herman put that card outside his bedroom door. How is it, then, that Herman's handwriting was thick and stunted when he registered at seven o'clock and slender and a bit shaky when he wrote this card at, say, half-past ten or eleven? Of course, Herman, or whatever his real name is, never wrote the line on that card, and never pinned that card on his door!"

The landlord opened his heavy lips and gasped: the landlady sighed with a gradually awakening interest. Amidst a dead silence the chief went on with his critical inspection of the handwriting.

"But now look at the signature of the man who called himself John Barcombe, of Manchester. You will observe that he signed that name in a great, sprawling hand across the page, and that the letters slope from left to right, downward, instead of in the usually accepted fashion of left to right, upward. Now at first sight there is no great similarity in the writing of that entry in the register and that on the card—one is rounded and sprawling, and the other is thin and precise. But there is one remarkable and striking similarity. In the entry in the register there are two a's—the a in Barcombe, the a in Manchester. On the one line on the card found pinned to the door there are also two a's—the a in please; the a in call. Now observe—whether the writing is big, sprawling, thin, precise; feigned, obviously, in one case, natural, I think, in the other, all those four a's are the same! This man has grown so accustomed to making his a's after the Greek fashion—a—done in one turn of the pen—that he has made them even in his feigned handwriting! There's not a doubt, to my mind, that the card found on Herman's door was written, and put on that door, by the man who registered as John Barcombe. And," he added in an undertone to Allerdyke, "I've no doubt, either, that he's the man of the Eastbourne Terrace affair."

The landlord had risen to his feet, and was scowling gloomily at everybody.

"Then you are making it out to be murder?" he exclaimed sulkily. "Just what I expected! Never had police called in yet without 'em making mountains out of molehills! Murder, indeed!—nothing but a case of suicide, that's what I say. And as this is a temperance hotel, and not a licensed house, I'll be obliged to you if you'll have that body taken away to the mortuary—I shall be having the character of my place taken away next, and then where shall I be I should like to know!"

He swung indignantly out of the room, and his wife, murmuring that it was certainly very hard on innocent people that these things went on, followed him. The police, giving no heed to these protests, proceeded to examine the articles taken from the dead man's clothing. Whatever had been the object of the murderer, it was certainly not robbery. There was a purse and a pocket-book, containing a considerable amount of money in gold and notes; a good watch and chain, and a ring or two of some value.

"Just the same circumstances as in the Eastbourne Terrace affair," said the chief as he rose. "Well—the thing is to find that man. You've no doubt whatever, Mr. Fullaway, that this dead man upstairs is the man you knew as Ebers, a valet at your hotel?"

"None!" answered Fullaway emphatically. "None whatever. Lots of people will be able to identify him."

"That's good, at any rate," remarked the chief. "It's a long step towards—something. Well, I must go."

Allerdyke was in more than half a mind to draw the chief aside and tell him about Chettle's discoveries as regards the handwriting, but while he hesitated Fullaway tugged earnestly at his sleeve.

"Come away!" whispered Fullaway. "Come! We're going to cut in at this ourselves!"



CHAPTER XXVI

PARTICIPANTS IN THE SECRET

Allerdyke was scarcely prepared for the feverish energy with which Fullaway dragged him out of the hotel, forced him into the first taxi-cab they met, and bade the driver make haste to the Waldorf. He knew by that time that the American was a nervous, excitable individual who now and then took on tremendous fits of work in which he hustled and bustled everybody around him, but he had never seen him quite so excited and eager as now. The discovery at that shabby hotel which they had just quitted seemed to have acted on him like the smell of powder on an old war-horse; he appeared to be positively panting for action.

"Allerdyke!" he almost shouted as the cab moved away, and he himself smote one clenched fist upon the other. "Allerdyke—this thing has got to go through! I resign all claim to that reward. Allerdyke!—this affair is too serious for any hole-and-corner work. I shall tell Van Koon that what we know, or fancy, must be thrown into the common stock of knowledge! The thing is to get at the people who've been behind this poor chap Ebers, or Federman, or Herman, or whatever his name is. Allerdyke!—we must go right into things."

Allerdyke laughed sardonically. When Fullaway developed excitement, he developed coolness, and his voice became as dry and hard as the other's was fervid and eloquent.

"Aye!" he said in his most phlegmatic tones. "Aye, just so! And where d'ye intend to cut in, now, like? Is it a sort of Gordian knot affair that you're thinking of? Going to solve this difficulty at one blow?"

"Don't be sarcastic," retorted Fullaway. "I'm going to take things clean up from this Federman or Ebers affair. I'm going deep—deep! You'll see in a few minutes."

"Willing to see—and to hear—aught," remarked Allerdyke laconically. "I've been doing naught else since I got that wireless telegram."

Then they relapsed into silence until the Waldorf was reached. There Fullaway raced his companion upstairs to his rooms and burst in upon Mrs. Marlow like a whirlwind. The pretty secretary, busied with her typewriter, looked up, glanced at both men, and calmly resumed her labours.

"Mrs. Marlow!" exclaimed Fullaway. "Just step to Mr. Van Koon's rooms and beg him to come back here to my sitting-room with you—important business, Mrs. Marlow—I want you, too."

Allerdyke, closely watching the woman around whom so much mystery centred, saw that she did not move so much as an eyelash. She laid her work aside, left the room, and within a minute returned with Van Koon, who gazed at Fullaway with an air of half-amused inquiry.

"Something happened?" he asked, nodding to Allerdyke. "Town on fire?"

"Van Koon, sit down," commanded Fullaway, pushing his compatriot into the inner room. "Mrs. Marlow, fasten that outer door and come in here. We're going to have a stiff conference. Sit down, please, all of you. Now," he went on, when the other three had ranged themselves about the centre table, "There is news, Van Koon. Allerdyke and I have just come away from an hotel in the Docks where we've seen the dead body of a young man who's been found dead there under precisely similar circumstances to those which attended the death of the French maid in Eastbourne Terrace. We've also heard a description of a man who was at this hotel in the Docks last night—it corresponds to that of the fellow who accompanied Lisette Beaurepaire. I, personally, have no doubt that this man, whoever he is, is the murderer of Lisette and of this youngster whose body we've just seen. Mrs. Marlow, this dead young fellow, from whose death-chamber we've just come, is that valet I used to have here—Ebers. You remember him?"

"Sure!" answered Mrs. Marlow, quite calmly and unconcernedly. "Very well indeed."

"This Ebers," continued Fullaway, turning to Van Koon, "was a young fellow, Swiss, German, something of that sort, who acted as valet to me and to some other men here in this hotel for a time. I needn't go into too many details now, but there's no doubt that he knew, and was in touch with, Lisette Beaurepaire, and Miss Lennard positively identifies him as the man who met her and Lisette at Hull, and represented himself as Lisette's brother. Now then, Ebers—we'll stick to that name for the sake of clearness—was in and out of my rooms a good deal, of course. And what I want to know now, Mrs. Marlow, is—do you think he got access to our letters, papers, books? Could he find out, for instance, that I was engaged in this deal between the Princess Nastirsevitch and Mr. Delkin, and that Miss Lennard had bought the Pinkie Pell pearls? Think!"

Mrs. Marlow had evidently done her thinking; she replied without hesitation.

"If he did, or could, it would be through your own carelessness, Mr. Fullaway," she said. "You know that I am ridiculously careful about that sort of thing! From the time I come here in the morning—ten-o'clock—until I leave at five, no one has any chance of seeing our papers, or our letter book, or our telegram-copies book. They are always on my desk while I am in the office, and when I go downstairs to lunch I lock them up in the safe. But—you're not careful! How many times have I come in the morning, and found that you've taken these things out of the safe over-night and left them lying about for anybody to see? Dozens of times!"

"I know—I know!" admitted Fullaway with a groan. "I'm frightfully careless—always was. I quite admit it, Mrs. Marlow, quite!"

"Of course," continued Mrs. Marlow, in precise, even tones, "of course if you left the letter-book lying round, and the book in which the duplicates of all our telegrams and cablegrams are kept, too—why, this Ebers man could easily read what he liked for himself when he was in here of a morning before you got up. He was in and out a great deal, that's certain. And as regards those two affairs, the documents we have about them are pretty plain, Mr. Fullaway. Anybody of average intelligence could find out in ten minutes from our letter-book and telegram-book that we negotiated the sale of the Pinkie Pell pearls to Miss Lennard, and that Mr. James Allerdyke was bringing here a valuable parcel of jewels from Russia. And," concluded Mrs. Marlow quietly, "from what I saw of him, Ebers was a smart man."

Van Koon, who had been listening attentively to all this, turned a half-whimsical, half-reproving glance on Fullaway, who sat in a contrite attitude, drumming his fingers on the polished table.

"I guess you're a very careless individual, my friend," he said, shaking his head. "If you will leave your important papers lying about, as this lady says you're in the habit of doing, what do you expect? Now, you've been wondering who got wind of this jewel deal, and here's the very proof that you gave every chance to this Ebers to acquaint himself with it! And what I'd like to know now, Fullaway, is this—what use do you suppose this young fellow made of the information he acquired? That seems to me to be the point."

"Yes!" exclaimed Allerdyke suddenly. "That is the point!"

Fullaway smote the table.

"The thing's obvious!" he cried. "He sold his information to a gang. There must have been—I mean must be—a gang. It's utterly impossible that all this could have been worked by one man. The man we've heard of in connection with the deaths of Lisette Beaurepaire and of Ebers himself is only one of the combination. I'm as sure of that as I am that I see you. But—who are they?"

Nobody answered this question. Allerdyke plunged his hands in his pockets and stared at Fullaway; Mrs. Marlow began to trace imaginary patterns on the surface of the table; Van Koon produced a penknife and began to scrape the edges of his filbert nails with a preoccupied air.

"There's the thing I've insisted on all along, Fullaway, you know," he said at last, finding that no one seemed inclined to speak. "I've insisted on it, but you've always put it off. I don't care what you say—it'll have to come to it. Let me suggest it, now, to our friends here—they're both cute enough, I reckon!"

"Oh, as you please, as you please!" replied Fullaway, with a wave of his hands. "Say anything you like, Van Koon—it seems as if too much couldn't be said at this juncture."

"All right," answered Van Koon. He turned to Allerdyke and Mrs. Marlow. "Ever since this affair was brought under my notice," he said, "I've pointed out to Fullaway certain features in connection with it. First—there's no evidence whatever that this plot originated in or was worked from Russia. Second—there is evidence that it began here in London and was carried out from London. And following on that second proposition comes another. Fullaway knew that these jewels were coming—"

He paused and gave the secretary a keen look. And Allerdyke, watching her just as keenly, saw her face and eyes as calm and inscrutable as ever; it was absolutely evident that nothing could move this woman, no chance word or allusion take her unawares. Van Koon smiled, and leaned nearer.

"But," he said, tapping the table in emphasis of his words, "there was somebody else who knew of this deal, somebody whose name Fullaway there steadfastly refuses to bring in. Delkin!"

Fullaway suddenly laughed, throwing up his arms.

"Delkin!" he exclaimed satirically. "A millionaire several times over! The thing's ridiculous, Van Koon! Delkin would kick me out if I went and asked him—"

"Delkin will have to be asked," interrupted Van Koon. "You will not face the facts, Fullaway. Millionaire, multimillionaire, Delkin was the third person (I'm leaving this valet, Ebers, clean out, though I've not the slightest doubt he was one of the pieces of the machine) who knew that James Allerdyke was bringing two hundred and fifty thousand pounds' worth of jewels for his, Delkin's approval! That's a fact, Fullaway, which cannot be got over."

"Psha!" exclaimed Fullaway. "I suppose you think Delkin, who could buy up the best jeweller's shop in London or Paris and throw its contents to the street children to play with—"

"What is it that's in your mind, Mr. Van Koon?" asked Allerdyke, interrupting Fullaway's eloquence. "You've some theory?"

"Well, I don't know about theory," answered Van Koon, "but I guess I've got some natural common sense. If Fullaway there thinks I'm suggesting that Delkin organized a grand conspiracy to rob James Allerdyke, Fullaway's wrong—I'm not. What I am suggesting, and have been suggesting this last three days, is that Delkin should be asked a plain and simple question, which is this—did he ever tell anybody of this proposed deal? If so—whom did he tell? And if that isn't business," concluded Van Koon, "then I don't know business when I see it!"

"What's your objection?" asked Allerdyke, looking across at Fullaway. "What objection can you have?"

Fullaway shook his head.

"Oh, I don't know!" he said. "Except that it seems immaterial, and that I don't want to bother Delkin. I'm hoping that these jewels will be found, and that I'll be able to complete the transaction, and—besides, I don't believe for one instant that Delkin would tell anybody. I only had two interviews with Delkin—one at his hotel, one here. He understood the affair was an entirely private and secret transaction."

Mrs. Marlow suddenly raised her head, and spoke quickly.

"You're forgetting something, Mr. Fullaway," she said. "You had a letter from Mr. Delkin confirming the provisional agreement, which was that he should have the first option of buying the Princess Nastirsevitch's jewels, then being brought by Mr. James Allerdyke from Russia."

"True—true!" exclaimed Fullaway, clapping a hand to his forehead. "So I had! I'd forgotten that. But, after all, it was purely a private letter from Delkin, and—"

"No," interrupted Mrs. Marlow. "It was written and signed by Mr. Delkin's secretary. So that the secretary knew of the transaction."

Van Koon shook his head and glanced at Allerdyke.

"There you are!" he said. "The secretary knew—Delkin's secretary! How do we know that Delkin's secretary—?"

"Oh, that's all rot, Van Koon!" exclaimed Fullaway testily. "Delkin's secretary, Merrifield, has been with him for years to my knowledge, and—"

But Allerdyke had suddenly risen and was picking up his hat from a side table. He turned to Fullaway as he put it on.

"I quite agree with Mr. Van Koon," he said, "and as I'm James Allerdyke's cousin and his executor, I'm going to step round and see this Mr. Delkin at his hotel—the Cecil, you said. It's no use trifling, Fullaway—Delkin knew, and Mrs. Marlow now tells us his secretary knew. All right!—my job is to see, in person, anybody who knew. Then, maybe, I myself shall get to know."

Van Koon, too, rose.

"I know Delkin, slightly," he said. "I'll go with you."

At that, Fullaway jumped up, evidently annoyed and unwilling, but prepared to act against his own wishes.

"Oh, all right, all right!" he exclaimed. "In that case we'll all go. Come on—it's only across the Strand. Back after lunch, Mrs. Marlow, if anybody wants me."

The three men marched out, and left the pretty secretary standing by the table from which they had all risen. She stood there for a few minutes in deep thought—stood until a single stroke from the clock on the mantelpiece roused her. At that she walked into the outer office, put on her coat and hat, and, leaving the hotel, went sharply off in the direction of Arundel Street.



CHAPTER XXVII

THE MILLIONAIRE, THE STRANGER, AND THE PRINCESS

As the three men threaded their way through the crowded Strand and approached the Hotel Cecil, Fullaway suddenly drew their attention to a private automobile which was turning in at the entrance to the courtyard.

"There's Delkin, in his car," he exclaimed, "and, great Scott, there's our Princess with him—Nastirsevitch! But who's the other man? Looks like a compatriot of ours, Van Koon, eh?"

Van Koon, who had been staring about him as they crossed over from the corner of Wellington Street, turned and glanced at the occupants of the car. Allerdyke was looking there, too. He had never seen Delkin as yet, and he was curious to set eyes on a man who had made several millions out of canning meat. He had no very clear conception of American millionaires, and he scarcely knew what he expected to see. But there were two men in the car with the Princess Nastirsevitch, and they were both middle-aged. One man was a tall, handsome, military-looking fellow, dressed in grey tweeds and wearing a Homburg hat of light grey with a darker band; his upturned, grizzled moustache gave him a smart, rather aggressive appearance; the monocle in his eye added to his general impressiveness. The other man was not particularly impressive—a medium sized, rather plump little man, with a bland, smiling countenance and mild eyes beaming through gold-rimmed spectacles; he sat with his back to the driver, and was just then leaning forward to tell something to the Princess and the man in the Homburg hat who were bending towards him and, smiling at what he said.

"Which of 'em is Delkin, then?" asked Allerdyke as the automobile swept into the courtyard. "Big or little?"

"The little fellow with the spectacles," replied Fullaway. "Quiet, unobtrusive man, Delkin—but cute as they're made. Know the other man, Van Koon?"

Van Koon had twisted round and was staring back in the direction from which they had come, he shook his head, a little absent-mindedly.

"Not from Adam," he answered, "but there's a man—Bostonian—just gone along there that I do know and want to see badly. Wait a bit for me in the courtyard there, Fullaway—shan't be long."

He turned as he spoke, and darted off through the crowd, unusually dense at that moment because of the luncheon hour. Fullaway, making no comment, walked forward into the courtyard and looked about him. Suddenly he nodded his head towards a far corner.

"There's Delkin and the Princess, and the man who was with them, sitting at a table over there," he said. "I didn't know that Delkin and the Princess were acquainted. But then, of course, they're both staying in this hotel, and they're both American. Well, shall we go to them now, Allerdyke, or shall we sit down here and wait a bit for Van Koon?"

"We'll wait," replied Allerdyke. He dropped into a chair and drew out his cigarette-case. "Have a drink while we're waiting?" he suggested, beckoning a waiter who was passing. "What's it to be?"

"Oh—something small, then," said Fullaway. "Dry sherry. Better bring three—Van Koon won't be long."

But the minutes passed and Van Koon was still absent. Ten minutes more went, and still he did not come. And Fullaway pulled out his watch with an air of annoyance.

"Too bad of Van Koon," he said. "Time's going, and I know Delkin lunches at two o'clock. Come on, Allerdyke," he continued, rising, "we'll go over to Delkin. If Van Koon comes, he'll find us. He's probably gone off with that other man, though—he's an absent-minded chap in some things, and too much given to the affair of the moment. Come on—I'll introduce you."

The Chicago millionaire, once put in possession of Allerdyke's name, looked at him with manifest curiosity, and motioned him and Fullaway to take seats with himself and his two companions.

"We were just talking of your case, Mr. Allerdyke," he said quietly. "The Princess, of course, has told me about you. Fullaway, I don't know if you know this gentleman—his name's well enough known, anyway. This gentleman is Mr. Chilverton, the famous New York detective. Chilverton—Mr. Fullaway, Mr. Allerdyke."

Fullaway and Allerdyke both looked at the man in the Homburg hat with great interest as they shook hands with him. Fullaway at any rate knew of his world-wide reputation; Allerdyke faintly remembered that he had heard of him in connection with some great criminal affair.

"Been telling Mr. Chilverton about our business, Mr. Delkin?" asked Fullaway pleasantly. "Asking his expert advice?"

"I've told him no more than what he could read for himself in the newspapers," answered Delkin. "He's got stuff of his own to attend to, here in London. About our affair now, as you call it, Fullaway. It's not my affair, or I guess I'd have been more into it by this time. The Princess here thinks things are going real slow, and so do I. What do you think, Mr. Allerdyke!"

"It's a case in which things go slow of sheer necessity," replied Allerdyke. "It's a case of widespread ramifications—to use a long word. But—we keep having developments, Mr. Delkin. There's been one this morning. We came to see you about it—and perhaps you'll let Fullaway tell!—he'll put things into fewer words than I should."

"Sure!" answered the millionaire. "Go ahead, Fullaway—we're all interested."

Fullaway briefly told the story of the discovery at the hotel in the Docks that morning, and explained the deductions which had been made from it. He detailed the connection of Ebers, alias Federman or Herman, with himself, and reported the conversation which had just taken place at his own rooms. And then he turned to Allerdyke, with an expressive gesture.

"I'll let Allerdyke say why we came here," he said. "It was his idea and Van Koon's—not mine. Your turn, Allerdyke."

"I shan't be slow to take it," responded Allerdyke, stirring himself. "I'm one business man—Mr. Delkin's another. I only want to ask you, Mr. Delkin, if you ever talked of this jewel transaction to anybody beyond your own secretary? It's a plain question, and you'll understand why I ask it."

"Of course," replied Delkin genially. "Quite right to ask. I can answer it in one word. No! As to telling my secretary, Merrifield, who's been with me twelve years, and is a thoroughly trustworthy man, I merely told him sufficient for him to write and send that formal letter—he knew, and knows (at least, not from me) no details. No, sir!—never a word from me got about—not even to my own daughter. Of course, the Princess here and myself have discussed matters—since she came. And now that you're here, Fullaway, I'll tell you what I think—straight out. I think this affair has all been planned from your own office!"

Fullaway flushed and sat up in an attitude of sudden indignation.

"Oh, come, Mr. Delkin!" he exclaimed. "I—"

"Go softly, young man." said Delkin. "I mean no harm to you, and no reflections on you. But you know, I've been in your office a few times, and I have eyes in my head. What do you know about that fascinating young woman you have there? I'm a pretty good judge of human nature and character, and I should say that young lady is as clever and deep as they make 'em. Who is she? There's one thing sure from what you've just told us, Fullaway—you let her know all your business secrets."

Fullaway made no attempt to conceal his chagrin and vexation.

"I've had Mrs. Marlow in my employ for three years," he answered. "She came to me with excellent testimonials and references. I've just as much reason to trust her as you have to trust Merrifield. If she'd been untrustworthy, she could have robbed or defrauded me many a time over; she—"

"Did she ever have the chance of getting hold of a quarter of a million's worth of jewels before?" asked Delkin with a shrewd glance at Allerdyke. "Come, now! Even the most trusted people fall before a very big temptation. All business folk know that. What's Mr. Allerdyke think?"

Allerdyke was not going to say what he thought. He was wondering if Fullaway knew what he knew—that Mrs. Marlow was also Miss Slade, that she had some relations with a man who also bore two different names, that her actions were somewhat suspicious. But that was not the time to say all this—he said something non-committal instead.

"There seems to be no doubt that the knowledge that my cousin was carrying the jewels leaked out here—and from Fullaway's office," he answered.

"Through this fellow Ebers!" broke in Fullaway excitedly. "It's all rot to think that Mrs. Marlow had anything to do with it! Great Scott!—do any of you mean to suggest that she engineered several murders, and—"

Delkin laughed—a soft, cynical laugh.

"You're lumping a lot of big stuff altogether, Fullaway," he remarked drily. "Do you know what I think of all this business? I think that everybody's jumping at conclusions. There are lots of questions, problems, difficulties that want solving and answering before I come to any conclusion. I'll tell you what they are," he went on bending forward in his lounge chair and looking from one to the other of the faces around him and beginning to tick off his points on the tips of his fingers. "Listen! One—Was James Allerdyke really murdered, or did he die a natural death? Two—Had James Allerdyke those jewels in his possession when he entered that S—— Hotel at Hull! Three—Has the robbery, or disappearance, of the Princess Nastirsevitch's jewels anything whatever to do with the theft of Mademoiselle de Longarde's property? Four—Was that man Lydenberg shot in Hull as a result of some connection with either, or both, of these affairs, or was he murdered for private or political reasons? Let me get a clear understanding of everything that's behind all these problems," he concluded, with a knowing smile, "and I'll tell you something!"

"You think it possible that the Nastirsevitch affair is the work of one lot, and the Lennard affair the work of another?" asked Allerdyke, thoughtfully. "In that case, I'll ask you a question, Mr. Delkin. How do you account for the fact that my cousin James, the Frenchwoman, Lisette Beaurepaire, and his valet, Ebers, or Federman, or Herman, were all found dead under similar circumstances? Come, now!"

"Aye, but were they?" demanded Delkin, clapping his hands together with a smile of triumphantly suggestive doubt. "Were they? You don't know—and the expert analysts don't know yet, and perhaps never will. I'll grant you that there's a strong probability that Ebers and the French maid were victims of the same murderer; but that doesn't prove that your cousin was. No, sir!—my impression is that everybody is taking too much for granted. And whether it offends you or not, Fullaway—and my intention's good—you ought to make drastic researches into your office procedure—you know what I mean. The leakage of the secret, sir, came from—there!"

Fullaway rose.

"Well, I shan't do any good by sitting here," he said, a little huffily. "If I'm going to begin those drastic researches I'd better begin. Coming, Allerdyke?"

The two men walked away together after taking leave of the millionaire and the Princess. But before they were clear of the courtyard, Chilverton caught them and tapped Fullaway on the elbow.

"Say!" he said confidentially. "You won't mind my asking you—who's this Van Koon that you mentioned?"

"Man from our side who's been here in London all this spring," answered Fullaway promptly. "He was coming with Allerdyke and me just now, but he turned back—just when you and Delkin drove in here."

Chilverton gave Fullaway a quick look.

"Did he see me?" he asked.

"Sure!" replied Fullaway. "Asked who you were—or I did."

"You did," remarked Allerdyke. "Then he went off."

"Describe him," said Chilverton. He listened attentively while Fullaway gave him a sketch of Van Koon's appearance. "Um!" he continued. "Do you mind my walking to your hotel with you? I believe I know that man, and I'd like to see him."

A hall-porter was standing at the door of the Waldorf who had been there when the three men went out together at one o'clock. Fullaway beckoned him.

"Seen anything of Mr. Van Koon?" he asked.

"Mr. Van Koon?—yes, sir. He came back a few minutes after you and Mr. Allerdyke and he had gone out, got a suit-case from upstairs, left word that he'd be away for the night, and went off in a taxi, sir," answered the man. "Seemed to be in a great hurry, sir!"

Before Fullaway could speak, Chilverton seized the hall-porter's arm. "Did you hear him give the cab-driver any direction?"

"Yes, sir," replied the man promptly. "St. Pancras Station, sir."

Without a word, Chilverton turned, hurried out to the pavement, and leapt into a taxi-cab that was standing there unengaged. In another instant the taxi-cab was off, and Allerdyke and Fullaway turned to each other. Then Allerdyke laughed.

"That's why Van Koon turned back, Fullaway," he said in a low voice. "He recognized Chilverton. Now, then—why did that recognition make him run? And—who is he?"



CHAPTER XXVIII

THE FIRST PURSUIT

For a moment Fullaway stood in the doorway of the hotel, staring towards the mouth of Kingsway, around the corner of which Chilverton's cab had already disappeared. Then he turned, gave Allerdyke a look of absolute non-comprehension, and with a sudden gesture, as of surrender to circumstances, walked into the hotel and made for the stairs.

"That licks everything!" he muttered, as he and Allerdyke went up to the first floor. "Tell you what it is, Allerdyke—my poor brain is getting into a whirl! We've had quite enough excitement this morning in all conscience, and now this comes on top of it. Now, how in creation do you explain this last occurrence?"

Allerdyke laughed cynically.

"I don't know so much of the world as you do, Fullaway," he said, "but I don't think this needs much explanation. When a man makes himself suddenly scarce at sight of a well-known detective, I should say that man knows the detective wants him—badly! My impression is that at this moment your friend Van Koon is running away from Chilverton, and Chilverton's going hot-foot after him. And—"

They were at that moment passing the room which Van Koon had occupied, and Allerdyke suddenly remembered the occasion on which he had seen Mrs. Marlow steal out of it, suspiciously and furtively, and when its proper tenant was away. He had carefully abstained from telling Fullaway about that little incident, preferring to wait until events had further developed. Should he tell him now—now that there seemed to be evidence that Van Koon himself was a doubtful character? He hesitated—and while he hesitated Fullaway strode on, flung open his office door, turned to the letter-box at the back, and took out some letters and a telegram. He tore the telegram open, and the next instant flung it on the table with a fierce exclamation.

"Damn it all, Allerdyke!" he said, waving an indignant hand at the bit of pink paper. "What in the name of all that's wicked is the meaning of that? Read it—read!"

Allerdyke picked the telegram up and read it aloud.

"Regret shall be unable to return to office for day or two; called away on extremely urgent private business.—MARLOW."

He laughed again as he put the telegram back and turned to Fullaway, who, hands plunged deep in pockets and black of countenance, was stamping up and down the room.

"Um!" said Allerdyke. "Um! Now, in my humble opinion, Fullaway, that's a good deal queerer than the Van Koon incident. For look you here—your secretary was talking to us in your room there at less than five minutes to one, and we left her here when we went out on the stroke of one. And yet—look at the wire!—she handed that in at the East Strand post office within ten minutes after we'd left her! What do you make of that?"