"Take care of yourself, Hague," he said with anxiety. "First thing in the morning I should put the parcel in safe deposit till it's wanted."

The Baron assured him that he should follow his advice.

Outside, in Park Lane, a taxi-cab was waiting, and Adeler held the door open. Baron Hague made no acknowledgment of the attention, ignoring the secretary as completely as he would have ignored a loafer who had opened the door for him.

Adeler seemed to expect no thanks, but turned and walked up the steps to the house again.

"Good-bye, Hague!" called Rohscheimer. "Don't forget what I told you about the one with the brown stain!"

The cab drove off.

A cloud of apprehension had settled upon the house, it seemed. Several others of the party determined, upon one pretence or another, to return home earlier than they had anticipated doing. From this Julius Rohscheimer did nothing to discourage them.

A family party was the next to leave, then, consisting of Lord and Lady Vignoles, Mr. J. J. Oppner and Zoe. Mrs. Hohsmann and the Misses Hohsmann followed very shortly. Mrs. Wellington Lacey, with Lady Mary Evershed, departed next, Sir Richard Haredale escorting them.

"Half a minute, though, Haredale!" called the host.

Haredale, in the hall-way, turned.

"I suppose," continued Rohscheimer, half closing his eyes from the bottom upward—"you haven't got any sort of idea how the card trick was done, Haredale? Do you think I ought to let the police know?"

"I haven't the slightest idea," was the reply. "In regard to the police, I should most certainly ring them up at once. Good night."

Haredale escaped, well aware that Rohscheimer was seeking some excuse to detain him. Even at the risk of offending that weighty financier he was not going to be deprived of the drive, short though it was, with Mary Evershed, with the possibility of a delightful little intimate chat at the end of it.

"I endorse what Haredale says," came Sheard's voice.

Rohscheimer turned. A footman was assisting the popular Fleet Street man into his overcoat. Mr. Antony Elschild, already equipped, was lighting a cigarette and evidently waiting for Sheard.

"What's the name of the man who has the Severac Bablon case in hand?" asked the host.

"Chief Inspector Sheffield."

"Right-oh!" said Rohscheimer. "I'll give him a ring."

Upstairs Sir Leopold Jesson was waiting for a quiet talk with Rohscheimer.

"Come into the library," said the latter. "Adeler's finished, so there's no one to interrupt us."

The pair entered the luxuriously appointed library, with its rows of morocco-bound, unopened works. Jesson stood before the fire looking down at Rohscheimer, who had spread himself inelegantly in a deep arm-chair, and lay back puffing at the stump of a cigar.

"I distrust Sheard!" snapped Jesson suddenly.

"Eh," grunted the other. "Pull yourself together! It ain't likely that a man who gets his livin', you might say, by keepin' in with the right people" (he glanced down at his diamond studs) "is goin' to be mixed up with a brigand like Bablon!"

"I'm not so sure!" persisted Jesson. "My position is a peculiar one; but I'll go so far as to say that I don't trust him, and I won't go a step farther. I don't expect you," he added, "to quote my opinion to anybody."

"I shan't," said Rohscheimer. "It's too damn silly! What would he have to gain? He ain't one of us."

"I'll say no more!" declared Jesson. "But keep your eyes open!"

"I'll do that!" Rohscheimer assured him. "I suppose you haven't any idea who worked the card trick?"

"As to that—yes! I have an idea—but I can only repeat that I'll say no more."

"I hope Hague is all right," growled Rohscheimer. "He's got some good rough stuff on him to-night. Brought it over to show me. I didn't like that red line under his name. Looked as if he was sort of number one on the list!"

"That's how it struck me. By the way, what became of the card?"

"Don't know," was the reply. "Push that bell. I want a whisky and soda."

Jesson pressed the bell, and Rohscheimer, tossing the stump into the grate, dipped two fat fingers into his waistcoat pocket in quest of a new cigar. It was his custom to carry two or three stuck therein.

"Hallo!"

Jesson turned to him—and saw that he held a card in his hand.

"Have you got the card?"

"Yes," said Rohscheimer, and turned it over.

Whereupon his face changed colour, and became an unclean grey.

"What's the matter?" cried Jesson.

His hand shaking slightly, Rohscheimer passed him the card. Jesson peered at it anxiously.

The message which it bore was the same as that borne by the mysterious card which had caused such a panic at the dinner table, but, upon the other side, only one name appeared.

It was that of Julius Rohscheimer, and it was heavily underlined in red!



CHAPTER VII

THE RING

As the cab containing Baron Hague drove off along Park Lane, the Baron heaved a sigh of relief. This incomprehensible Severac Bablon who had descended like a simoon upon London was a perturbing presence—a breath of hot fear that parched the mind! And the house in Park Lane, too, recently had been made the scene of a unique outrage by this most singular robber to afford any sense of security.

The Baron was glad to be away from that house, and, as the cab turned the corner by the Park, was glad to be away from Park Lane. A man with several thousand pounds' worth of diamonds upon him may be excused a certain nervousness.

Baron Hague was not intimately acquainted with London; but it seemed to him, now, that the taxi-driver was pursuing an unfamiliar route. Had he made some error? Perhaps that fool Adeler had directed him wrongly.

The Baron took up the speaking-tube.

"Hi!" he called. "Hi, you! Is it the Hotel Astoria you take me?"

No notice did the man vouchsafe; looking neither to right nor to left, but driving straight ahead. Baron Hague snorted with anger. Again he raised the tube.

A cloud of something seemed to strike him in the face.

He dropped the tube, and reached out towards a window. Vaguely he wondered to find it immovable. The lights of the thoroughfare—the sound of the traffic, were fading away, farther, farther, to a remote distance. He clutched at the cushions—slipping—slipping——

His next impression was of a cell-like room, the floor composed of blocks of red granite, the walls smoothly plastered. An unglazed window made a black patch in one wall; and upon a big table covered with books and papers stood a queer-looking lamp. It was apparently silver, and in the form of a clutching hand. Within the hand rested a globe of light, above which was attached a coloured shade. The table was black with great age, and a carven chair, equally antique, stood by it upon a coarse fibre mat. The place was the abode of an anchorite, save for a rich Damascene curtain draped before a recess at one end.

The Baron found himself to be in a heavily cushioned chair, gazing across at this table—whereat was seated a very dark and singularly handsome man who wore a garment like an Arab's robe.

This stranger had his large, luminous eyes set fixedly upon the Baron's face.

"I am dreaming!"

Baron Hague stood up, unsteadily, raising his hand to his head.

There was a faint perfume in the air of the room; and now Hague saw that the man who sat so attentively watching him was smoking a yellow-wrapped cigarette. His brain grew clearer. Memory began to return; and he knew that he was not dreaming. Frantically he thrust his hand into the inside breast pocket.

"Do not trouble yourself, Baron," the speaker's voice was low and musical; "the packet of diamonds lies here!"

And as he spoke the man at the table held up the missing packet.

Hague started forward, fists clenched.

"You have robbed me! Gott! you shall be sorry for this! Who the devil are you, eh?"

"Sit down, Baron," was the reply. "I am Severac Bablon!"

Baron Hague paused, in the centre of the room, staring, with a sort of madness, at this notorious free-booter—this suave, devilishly handsome enemy of Capital.

Then he turned and leapt to the door. It was locked. He faced about. Severac Bablon smoked.

"Sit down, Baron," he reiterated.

The head of the great Berlin banking house looked about for a weapon. None offered. The big, carven, chair was too heavy to wield. With his fingers twitching, he approached again, closer to the table.

Severac Bablon stood up, keeping his magnetic gaze upon the Baron—seeming to pierce to his brain.

"For the last time—sit down, Baron!"

The words were spoken quietly enough, and yet they seemed to clamour upon the hearer's brain—to strike upon his consciousness as though it were a gong. Again Hague paused, pulled up short by the force of those strange eyes. He weighed his chances.

From all that he had heard and read of Severac Bablon, his accomplices were innumerable. Where this cell might be situate he could form no idea, nor by whom or what surrounded. Severac Bablon apparently was unarmed (save that his glance was a sword to stay almost any man); therefore he had others near to guard him. Baron Hague decided that to resort to personal violence at that juncture would be the height of unwisdom.

He sat down.

"Now," said Severac Bablon, in turn resuming his seat, "let us consider this matter of the million pounds!"

"I will not——" began Hague.

Severac Bablon checked him, with a gesture.

"You will not contribute to a fund designed to aid in the defence of England? That is unjust. You reap large profits from England, Baron. To mention but one instance—you must draw quite twenty thousand pounds per annum from the firm of Romilis and Imer, Hatton Garden!"

Baron Hague stared in angry bewilderment.

"I have nothing to do with Romilis and Imer!"

"No? Then you can have no objection to my placing in the proper hands particulars—which, you will find, have been abstracted from your notebook—of the manner in which this parcel of diamonds reached Hatton Garden! I have the letter from your agent in Cape Town, addressed to the firm, and I have one signed 'Geo. Imer,' addressed to you! Finally, I am a telephone subscriber, and De Beers' number is Bank 5740! Shall I ring up the London office in the morning and draw their attention to this parcel, and to the interesting correspondence bearing upon it?"

Baron Hague's large features grew suddenly pinched in appearance. He leant forward, his hands resting upon his knees. Roles were reversed. The great banker found himself seeking for a defence—one that might satisfy the rogue for whom the police of Europe were seeking!

"Why do you make a victim of me?" he gasped. "Antony Elschild is——"

"Mr. Antony Elschild is a member of one of the greatest Jewish families in Europe, you would say? And his interests are wholly British? He has recognised that, Baron. I have his cheque for fifty thousand pounds!"

"For how much?"

"For fifty thousand pounds! Should you care to see it? I am forwarding it immediately to the Gleaner. Mr. Elschild is my friend. He it was who proposed that this fund be started by the great capitalists so as to stimulate smaller subscribers. His name is never absent from such lists, Baron."

The Baron gulped.

"In Berlin—they would say I was mad!"

"And what will they say in Berlin if I call up De Beers in the morning? Which reputation is preferable, Baron?"

Hague sat staring, fascinated, at the man in the long robe, who smoked yellow cigarettes and filled the air with their peculiar fumes. It seemed to him, suddenly, that he had taken leave of his senses, and that this cell—this pungent perfume—this man with the soul-searching eyes, the incisive voice—all were tricks of his senses.

What had he preserved the secret of his connection with the Hatton Garden firm for all these long years—each year determining to quit whilst safe, but each year lured on by the prospect of vaster gain—only to lay it at the feet of this Severac Bablon, who would ruin him?

Faintly, sounds of occasional traffic penetrated. From a place of half-shadows beyond the table, Severac Bablon's luminous eyes watched. Save for those distant sounds which told of a thoroughfare near by, silence lay like a fog upon the place, and upon the mind of Baron Hague.

It grew intolerable, this stillness; it bred fear. Who was Severac Bablon? What was the secret of his power?

Hague looked up.

"Gott im Himmel!" he said hoarsely. "Who are you? Why do you persecute those who are Jewish?"

Severac Bablon stretched his hand over the great carved table, holding it, motionless, beneath the lamp. From the bezel of the solitary ring which he wore gleamed iridescent lights, venomous as those within the eye of a serpent.

A device, which seemed to be formed of lines of fire within the stone, glowed, redly, through the greenness. The ring was old—incalculably old—as anyone could see at a glance. And, in some occult fashion, it spoke to Baron Hague; spoke to that which was within him—stirred up the Jewish blood and set it leaping madly through his veins.

Back to his mind came certain words of a rabbi, long since gone to his fathers; before his eyes glittered words which he had had impressed upon his mind more recently than in those half-forgotten childish days.

And now, he feared. Slowly, he rose from the big cushioned chair. He feared the man whom all the world knew as Severac Bablon, and his fear, for once, was something that did not arise from his purse. It was something which arose from the green stone—and from the one who possessed it—who dared to wear it. Hague backed yet farther from the table, squarely, whereupon, beneath the globular lamp, lay the long white hand.

"Gott!" he muttered. "I am going mad! You cannot be—you——"

"I am he!"

Baron Hague's knees began to tremble.

"It is impossible!"

"Israel Hagar," continued the other sternly. "Those before you changed your ancient name to Hague; but to me you are Israel Hagar! You doubt, because you dare not believe. But there is that within your soul—that which you inherit from forefathers who obeyed the great King, from forefathers who toiled for Pharaoh—there is that within your soul which tells you who I am!"

The Baron could scarcely stand.

"Ach, no!" he groaned. "What do you want? I will do anything—anything; but let me go!"

"I want you," continued Severac Bablon, "since you deny the ring, to draw aside yonder curtain and look upon what it conceals!"

But Hague drew back yet further.

"Ach, no!" he said, huskily. "I deny nothing! I dare not!"

"By which I know that you have recognised in whose presence you stand, Israel Hagar! Knowing yourself at heart to be a robber, a liar, a hypocrite, you dare not, being also a Jew, raise that veil!"

Baron Hague offered no defence; made no reply.

"You are found guilty, Israel Hagar," resumed the merciless voice, "of dragging through the mire of greed—through the sloughs of lust of gold—a name once honoured among nations. It is such as you that have earned for the Jewish people a repute it ill deserves. Save for such as Mr. Antony Elschild, you and your like must have blotted out for ever all that is glorious in the Jewish name. Despite all, you have succeeded in staining it—and darkly. I have a mission. It is to erase that stain. Therefore, when the list appears of those who wish to preserve intact the British Empire, your name shall figure amongst the rest!"

Hague groaned.

"It will be explained, for the benefit of the curious, and to the glory of the Jews, that in some measure of recognition of those vast profits reaped from British ventures, you are desirous of showing your interest in British welfare!"

"It will be my ruin in Berlin!"

"I should regret to think so. Had you, in the whole of your career, during the entire period that you have been swelling your money-bags with British money, devoted one guinea—one paltry guinea—to any charitable purpose here, I had spared you the risk. As matters stand, I shall require your cheque for an amount equal to that subscribed by Mr. Elschild."

"Fifty thousand pounds!" gasped Hague.

"Exactly! Pen and ink are on the table. Your cheque book I have left in your pocket!"

"I won't——"

Hague met the eyes of the incomprehensible man who watched him from beyond the table; he saw the gleam of the ring, as Severac Bablon placed a pen within reach.

"You—must be—mad!"

"You will decidedly be mad, Baron, if you refuse, for I assure you, upon my word of honour, I shall lay those papers before those whom they will interest in the morning!"

"And—if—I give you such a——"

"Immediately your cheque is cleared I will return the papers."

"And—the diamonds?"

"I shall consider my course in regard to the diamonds."

"This—is robbery!"

"And your mode of obtaining the diamonds, Baron—what should you term that?"

"You mean to ruin me!"

"Be good enough either to draw the cheque, payable to the editor of the Gleaner—who will act in this matter, since I cannot appear—or to decline definitely to do so."

"It will ruin me."

"To decline? I admit that!"

Very shakily, having taken his cheque book from his pocket, Baron Hague drew and signed a cheque for the fabulous, the atrocious sum of L50,000.

A heavy smell—overpowering—crept to his nostrils as he bent forward over the table. He mentally ascribed it to the yellow cigarettes.

He laid down the pen with trembling fingers. That same sense of increasing distances which had heralded the stupor in the cab was coming upon him again. The cell-like room seemed to be receding. Severac Bablon's voice reached him from a remote distance:

"In future, Israel Hagar, seek to make—better use of your—opportunities."

* * * * *

"Wake up, sir! Hadn't you better be getting home?"

Baron Hague strove to stand. What had happened? Where was he?

"Hold up, sir! Here's a cab waiting! What address, sir?"

The Baron rubbed his eyes and looked dazedly about him. He was half supported by a police constable.

"Officer! Where am I, eh?"

"I found you sitting on the step of the Burlington Arcade, sir! Where you'd been before that isn't for me to say! Come on, jump in!"

Hague found himself bundled into the cab.

"Hotel—Astoria!" he mumbled, and his head fell forward on his breast again.



CHAPTER VIII

IN THE DRESSING-ROOM

The house was very quiet.

Julius Rohscheimer stood quite motionless in his dressing-room listening for a sound which he expected to hear, but which he also feared to hear. The household in Park Lane slept now. Park Lane is never quite still at any hour of the night, and now as Rohscheimer listened, all but holding his breath, a hundred sounds conflicted in the highway below. But none of these interested him.

He had been in his room for more than half an hour; had long since dismissed his man; and had sat down, arrayed in brilliant pyjamas (quite a new line from Paris, recommended by Haredale, a sartorial expert with a keen sense of humour), for a cigarette and a mental review of the situation.

Having shown himself active in other directions, Severac Bablon had evidently turned his eyes once more toward Park Lane. Julius Rohscheimer mentally likened himself and his set to those early martyrs who, defenceless, were subjected to the attacks of armed gladiators. No precautions, it seemed, prevailed against this enemy of Capital. Police protection was utterly useless. Thus far, not a solitary arrest had been made. So, now, in his own palatial house, but with a strip of cardboard lying before him bearing his name, underlined in red, Rohscheimer anticipated mysterious outrage at any moment—and knew, instinctively, that he would be unable to defend himself against it.

Again came that vague stirring; and it seemed to come, not from beyond the walls, but from somewhere close at hand—from——

Rohscheimer turned, stealthily, in his chair. The cigarette dropped from between his nerveless fingers, and lay smouldering upon the Persian carpet.

His bulging eyes grew more and more prominent, and his adipose jaw dropped. And he sat, quivering fatly, his gaze upon the doors of the big wardrobe which occupied the space between the windows. Distinctly he remembered that these doors had been closed. But now they were open.

Palsied with fear of what might be within, he sat, watched, and grew pale.

The doors were opening slowly!

No move he made toward defence. He was a man inert from panic.

Something gleamed out of the dark gap—a revolver barrel. Two fingers pushed a card into view. Upon it, in red letters, were the words:

"Do not move!"

The warning was, at once, needless and disregarded. Rohscheimer shook the chair with his tremblings.

A smaller card was tossed across on to the table.

The fat hand which the financier extended toward the card shook grotesquely; the diamonds which adorned it sparkled and twinkled starrily. Before his eyes a red mist seemed to dance; but, through it, Rohscheimer made out the following:

"There is a cheque-book in your coat pocket, and your coat hangs beside me in the wardrobe. I will throw the book across to you. You will make out a cheque for L100,000, payable to the editor of the Gleaner, and also write a note explaining that this is your contribution towards the fund for the founding, by patriotic Britons, of a suitable air fleet."

Rohscheimer, out of the corner of his eye, was watching the gleaming barrel, which pointed straightly at his head. From the dark gap between the wardrobe doors sped a second projectile, and fell before him on the table.

It was his cheque-book. Mechanically he opened it. Within was stuck another card. Upon it, in the same evidently disguised handwriting, appeared:

"A fountain pen lies on the table before you. Do not hesitate to follow instructions—or I shall shoot you. All arrangements are made for my escape. Throw the cheque and the note behind you and do not dare to look around again until you have my permission. If you do so once, I may only warn you; if you do so twice, I shall kill you."

Perfect silence ruled. Even the traffic in Park Lane outside seemed momentarily to have ceased. From the wardrobe behind Julius Rohscheimer came no sound. He took up the pen; made out and signed the preposterous cheque.

To the ruling but silent intelligence concealed behind those double doors he had no thought of appeal. He dared not even address himself to that invisible being. Such idea was as far from his mind as it must have been of old from the mind of him who listened to a Sybilline oracle delivered from the mystic tripod.

Sufficiently he controlled his twitching fingers to write a note, as follows—(what awful irony!):

"To the Editor of the Gleaner,

"SIR,—I enclose a cheque for L100,000" (as he wrote these dreadful words, Rohscheimer almost contemplated rebellion; but the silence—the fearful silence—and the thought of the one who watched him proved too potent for his elusive courage. He wrote on). "I desire you to place it at the disposal of the Government for purposes of ariel" (Rohscheimer was no scholar) "defence. I hope others will follow suit." (He did. It was horrible to be immolated thus, a solitary but giant sacrifice, upon the altar of this priest of iconoclasm)—"I am, sir, yours, etc.

"JULIUS ROHSCHEIMER."

Cheque and note he folded together, and stretching his hand behind him, threw them in the direction of the haunted wardrobe. His fear that, even now, he might be assassinated, grew to such dimensions that he came near to swooning. But upon no rearward glance did he venture.

Several heavy vehicles passed along the Lane. Rohscheimer listened intently, but gathered no sound from amid those others that gave clue to the enemy's movements.

Clutching at the table-edge he sat, and tasted of violent death, by anticipation.

The traffic sounds subsided again. A new stillness was born. Within the great house nothing moved. But still Julius Rohscheimer shook and quivered. Only his mind was clearing; and already he was at work upon a scheme to save his money.

One hundred thousand pounds. Heavens above! It was ruination!

A faint creak.

"Do not dare to look around again until you have my permission," read the card before his eyes. "If you do so once I may only warn you; if you do so twice, I shall kill you."

One hundred thousand pounds! He could have cried. But, after all, he was a rich man—a very rich man; not so rich as Oppner, nor even so rich as Hague; but a comfortably wealthy man. Life was very good in his eyes. There were those little convivial evenings—those week-end motoring trips. He would take no chances. Life was worth more than one hundred thousand pounds.

He did not glance around.

So, the minutes passed. They passed, for the most part, in ghostly silence, sometimes broken by the hum of the traffic below, by the horn of a cab or car. Nothing from within the house broke that nerve-racking stillness.

If only there had been a mirror, so placed that by moving his eyes only he could have obtained a glimpse of the wardrobe. But there was no mirror so placed.

Faintly to his ears came the striking of a clock. He listened intently, but could not determine if it struck the quarter, half, three-quarters, or hour. Certainly, from the decrease of traffic in Park Lane, it must be getting very late, he knew.

His limbs began to ache. Cautiously he changed the position of his slippered feet. The clock in the hall began to strike. And Rohscheimer's heart seemed to stand still.

It struck the half-hour. So it was half-past one! He had been sitting there for an hour—an agonised hour!

What could the Unseen be waiting for?

Gradually his heart-beats grew normal again, and his keen mind got to work once more upon the scheme for frustrating the audacious plan of this robber who robbed from incredible motives.

An air fleet! What rot! What did he care about air fleets? One hundred thousand pounds! But if he presented himself at the Gleaner office as soon as it opened that morning, and explained, before the editor (curse him!) had had time to deal with his correspondence, that by an oversight (late night; the editor, as a man of the world, would understand) he had been thinking of a hundred and had written a hundred thousand, and also had written too many noughts after the amount of his subscription to the Gleaner fund, what then? The editor could not possibly object to returning him his cheque and accepting one for a thousand. A thousand was bad enough; but a hundred thousand!

He was growing stiff again.

Two o'clock!

Beneath his eyes lay the card which read:

"If you do so once, I may only warn you——"

A sudden burst of courage came to Julius Rohscheimer. Anything, he now determined, was preferable to this suspense.

He began to turn his head.

It was a ruse, he saw it all; a ruse to keep him there, silent, prisoned, whilst his cheque, his precious cheque, was placed in the hands of the Gleaner people.

Around he turned—and around. The corner of the wardrobe came within his field of vision. Still farther he moved. The doors, now, were visible.

And the gleaming barrel pointed truly at his head!

"No; no!" he whispered tremulously, huskily. "Ah, God! no! Spare me! I swear—I swear—I will not look again. I won't move. I'll make no sound."

He dropped his head into his hands—quaking; the lamp, the table, were swimming about him; he had never passed through ten such seconds of dread as those which followed his spell of temerity.

Yet he lived—and knew himself spared. Not for five hundred thousand pounds would he have looked again.

The minutes wore on—became hours. It seemed to Julius Rohscheimer that all London slept now; all London save one unhappy man in Park Lane.

Three o'clock, four o'clock, five o'clock struck. His head fell forward. He aroused himself with a jerk. Again his head fell forward. And this time he did not arouse himself; he slept.

* * * * *

"Mr. Rohscheimer! Mr. Rohscheimer!"

There were voices about him. He could distinguish that of his wife. Adeler was shaking him. Was that Haredale at the door?

Shakily, he got upon his feet.

"Why, Mr. Rohscheimer!" exclaimed Adeler, in blank wonderment, "have you not been to bed?"

"What time?" muttered Rohscheimer, "what time——"

Sir Richard Haredale, who evidently thought that the financier had had one of his "heavy nights," smiled discreetly.

"Pull yourself together, Rohscheimer!" he said. "Just put your head under the tap and jump into a dressing-gown. The green one with golden dragons is the most unique. You'll have to hold an informal reception here in your dressing-room. We can't keep the Marquess waiting."

"The Marquess?" groaned Rohscheimer, clutching at his head. "The Marquess?"

It had been his social dream for years to behold a real live Marquess beneath that roof. He had gone so far as to offer Haredale five hundred pounds down if he could bring one to dinner. But Haredale's best achievement to date had been Lord Vignoles.

Rohscheimer's mind was a furious chaos. Had the horrors of the night been no more than a dream, after all?

Sheard, of the Gleaner, pressed forward and grasped both his hands. Rohscheimer became ghastly pale.

"Mr. Rohscheimer," said the pressman, "England is proud of you! On such occasions as this, all formality—all formality—is swept away. A great man is great anywhere—at any time, any place, in any garb! I have Mrs. Rohscheimer's permission, and therefore am honoured to introduce to this apartment the Premier, the Most Honourable the Marquess of Evershed!"

Trembling wildly, fighting down a desire to laugh, to scream, Rohscheimer stood and looked toward the door.

The Marquess entered.

He wore the familiar grey frock-coat, with the red rose in his buttonhole, as made famous by Punch. His massive head he carried very high, looking downward through the pebbles of the gold-rimmed pince-nez.

"No apologies, Mr. Rohscheimer!" he began, hand raised forensically. "Positively I will listen to no apologies! This entire absence of formality—showing that you had not anticipated my visit—delights me, confirms me in my estimation of your character. For it reveals you as a man actuated by the purest motive which can stir the human heart. I refer to love of country—patriotism."

He paused, characteristically thrusting two fingers into his watch-pocket. Sheard wrote furiously. Julius Rohscheimer fought for air.

"The implied compliment, Mr. Rohscheimer," continued the Premier, "to myself, is deeply appreciated. I am, of course, aware that the idea of this fund was suggested to its promoters by my speech at Portsmouth regarding England's danger. The promptitude of the Gleaner newspaper in opening a subscription list is only less admirable than your own in making so munificent a donation.

"My policy during my present term of office, as you are aware, Mr. Rohscheimer, has been different, wholly different, from that of my immediate predecessor. I have placed the necessity of Britain's ruling, not only the seas, but the air, in the forefront of my programme——"

"Hear, hear!" murmured Sheard.

"And this substantial support from such men as yourself is very gratifying to me. I cannot recall any incident in recent years which has afforded me such keen pleasure. It is such confirmation of one's hopes that he acts for the welfare of his fellow-countrymen which purifies and exalts political life. And in another particular where my policy has differed from that of my friends opposite—I refer to my encouragement of foreign immigration—I have been nobly confirmed.

"Baron Hague, in recognition of the commercial support and protection which our British hospitality has accorded to him, contributes fifty thousand pounds to the further safeguarding of our national, though most catholic, interests. At an early hour this morning, Mr. Rohscheimer, I was aroused by a special messenger from the Gleaner newspaper, who brought me this glorious news of your noble, your magnificent, response to my—to our—appeal. Casting ceremony to the winds, I hastened hither. Mr. Rohscheimer—your hand!"

At that, Rohscheimer was surrounded.

"Socially," Haredale murmured in his ear, "you are made!"

"Financially," groaned Rohscheimer, "I'm broke!"

Mrs. Rohscheimer, in elegant decolletee, appeared among the excited throng. She was anxious for a sight of her husband, whom she was convinced had gone mad. Sheard thrust his way to the financier's side.

"Is there anything you would care to say for our next edition?" he enquired, a notebook in his hand. "We're having a full-page photograph, and——"

Crash! Crackle! Crackle! Crackle! A blinding light leapt up.

"My God! What's that?"

"All right," said Sheard. "Only our photographer doing a flash. If there's anything you'd like to say, hurry up, because I'm off to interview Baron Hague."

"Say that I believe I've gone mad!" groaned the financier, clutching his hair, "and that I'm damn sure Hague has!"

Sheard laughed, treating the words as a witticism, and hurried away. Mrs. Rohscheimer approached and bent over her husband.

"Have you pains in your head, dear?" she inquired anxiously.

"No!" snapped Rohscheimer. "I've got a pain in my pocket! I'm a ruined man! I'll be the laughing-stock of the whole money market!"

Adeler reappeared.

"Adeler," said Rohscheimer, "get the rest of the people out of the house! And, Adeler"—he glanced about him—"what did you do with those cards that were on the table, here?"

Adeler stared.

"Cards, Mr. Rohscheimer? I saw none."

"Who came in here first this morning? Who woke me up?"

"I."

Rohscheimer studied the pale, intellectual face of his secretary with uneasy curiosity.

"And there were no cards on the table—no cheque-book?"

"No."

"Sure you were first in?"

"I am not sure, but I think so. I found you fast asleep, at any rate."

"Why do you ask, dear?" said Mrs. Rohscheimer in growing anxiety.

"Just for a lark!" snapped her husband sourly. "I want to make Adeler laugh!"

Haredale, who, failing Rohscheimer or Mrs. Rohscheimer, did the honours of the house in Park Lane, returned from having conducted the Marquess to his car. He carried a first edition copy of the Gleaner.

"They've managed to get it in, even in this one," he said. "When did you send the cheque—early last evening?"

"Don't talk about it!" implored Rohscheimer.

"Why?" inquired Haredale curiously. "You must have seen your way to something big before you spent so much money. It was a great idea! You're certain of a knighthood, if not something bigger. But I wonder you kept it dark from me."

"Ah!" said Rohscheimer. "Do you?"

"Very much. It's a situation that calls for very delicate handling. Hitherto, because of certain mortgages, the Marquess has not prohibited his daughter visiting here, with the Oppners or Vignoles; but you've forced him, now, to recognise you in propria persona. He cannot very well withhold a title; but you'll have to release the mortgage gracefully."

"I'll do it gracefully," was the reply. "I'm gettin' plenty of practice at chuckin' fortunes away, and smilin'!"

His attitude puzzled Haredale, who glanced interrogatively at Mrs. Rohscheimer. She shook her head in worried perplexity.

"Go and get dressed, dear," said Rohscheimer, with much irritation. "I'm not ill; I've only turned patriotic."

Mrs. Rohscheimer departing, Haredale lingered.

"Leave me alone a bit, Haredale," begged the financier. "I want to get used to bein' a bloomin' hero! Send Lawson up in half an hour—and you come too, if you wouldn't mind."

Haredale left the room.

As the door closed, Rohscheimer turned and looked fully at the wardrobe.

From the gap pointed a gleaming tube!

"Ah!"

He dropped back in his chair. Nothing moved. The activity of the household stirred reassuringly about him. He stood up, crossed to the wardrobe, and threw wide its doors.

In the pocket of a hanging coat was thrust a nickelled rod from a patent trousers-stretcher, so that it pointed out into the room.

Rohscheimer stared—and stared—and stared.

"My God!" he whispered. "He slipped out directly he got the cheque, and I sat here all night——"



CHAPTER IX

ES-SINDIBAD OF CADOGAN GARDENS

Upon the night following the ill-omened banquet in Park Lane was held a second dinner party, in Cadogan Gardens. Like veritable gourmets, we must be present.

It is close upon the dining hour.

"Zoe is late!" said Lady Vignoles.

"I think not, dear," her husband corrected her, consulting his celebrated chronometer. "They have one minute in which to demonstrate the efficiency of American methods!"

"Thank you—Greenwich!" smiled her vivacious ladyship, whose husband's love of punctuality was the only trace of character which six months of marital intimacy had enabled her to discover in him.

"You know," said Lord Vignoles to Zimmermann, the famous litterateur of the Ghetto, "she is proud of Yankee smartness. Only natural." And his light blue eyes followed his wife's pretty figure as she flitted hospitably amongst her guests. Admiration beamed through his monocle.

"Lady Vignoles is a staunch American," agreed the novelist. "I gather that your opinion of that nation differs from hers?"

"Well, you know," explained his host, "I don't seriously contend—that is, when Sheila is about—I don't contend that their methods aren't smart. But it seems to me that their smartness is all—just—well, d'you see what I mean? Look at these Pinkerton fellows!"

"Those who you were telling me called upon you this morning?"

"Yes. They came over with Oppner to look for this Severac Bablon."

"What is your contention?"

"Well," said Vignoles, rather flustered at being thus pinned to the point, "I mean to say—they haven't caught him!"

"Neither has Scotland Yard!"

"No, by Jove, you're right! Scotland Yard hasn't!"

"Do you think it likely that Scotland Yard will?" asked the other.

But Lord Vignoles, having caught his wife's eye, was performing a humorous grimace, and, watch in hand, delivering a pantomimic indictment of American unpunctuality. At which moment Miss Oppner was announced, and Lady Vignoles made a pretty moue of triumph.

Zoe Oppner entered the room, regally carrying her small head crowned with the slightly frizzy mop of chestnut hair, conscious of her fine eyes, her perfect features, and her pretty shoulders, happy in her slim young beauty, and withal wholly unaffected. Therein lay her greatest charm. A beautiful woman, fully aware of her loveliness, she was too sensible to be vain of a gift of the gods—to pride herself upon a heavenly accident.

"Why, Zoe!" said Lady Vignoles, "what's become of uncle?"

"Pa couldn't get," announced Zoe composedly; "so I came along without him. Told me to apologise, but didn't explain. I've promised to rejoin him early, so I shall have to quit directly after dinner. The car is coming for me."

Lord Vignoles looked amused.

"Les affaires!" he said resignedly. "These Americans!"

Dinner was announced.

The usual air of slightly annoyed surprise crept over the faces of the company at the announcement, so that to the uninitiate it would have seemed that no one was hungry. However, they accepted the inevitable.

Then Vignoles made a discovery.

"I say, Sheila," he exclaimed, "where is your American efficiency? We're thirteen!"

His wife made a rapid mental calculation and flushed slightly.

"Anybody might do it!" she pouted; "and it's uncle's fault, anyway!"

"Why!" exclaimed Zoe Oppner, "you're surely not going to make a fuss over a silly thing like that!"

"A lot of people don't like it," declared Lady Vignoles hurriedly. "I shouldn't mind, of course, if it happened at somebody else's house."

Zimmermann strolled up to the group.

"I gather that we number thirteen?" he said.

"That is so," replied Vignoles; "but," dropping his voice, "I don't think anyone else has noticed it yet."

"A romantic idea occurs to me!" smiled the novelist. "I submit it in all deference——"

"Oh, go on, Mr. Zimmermann!" cried Zoe, with sparkling eyes.

"Why not, upon the precedent of our ancient Arabian friend, Es-Sindibad of the Sea, summon to the feast some chance wayfarer?"

"Oh, I say!" protested the host mildly. "Do you mean to go outside in Cadogan Gardens and stop anybody that comes along?"

"Well," said Zimmermann, "it should, strictly, be some pious person who tarries there to extol Allah! But if we waited for such a traveller I fear the soup would be spoiled! You are a gentleman short, I think? So make it, simply, the first gentleman."

"But he might be a tramp or a taxi-driver, or worse!" protested Vignoles.

"That is true," agreed the other. "So let us determine upon a criterion of respectability. Shall we say the first man, provided he be agreeable, who wears a dress-suit?"

"That's just grand!" cried Zoe Oppner enthusiastically. "It's too cute for anything! Oh, Jerry, let's! Make him do it, Sheila!"

Jerry, otherwise Lord Vignoles, clearly regarded the projected Oriental experiment with no friendly eye.

"I mean to say——"

"That's settled, Zoe!" said the pretty hostess calmly. "Never mind him! Alexander!"

The footman addressed came forward.

"You will step out on the front porch, Alexander, and say to the first gentleman who passes, if he's in evening dress: 'Lady Vignoles requests the pleasure of your company at dinner.' If he says he doesn't know me, reply that I am quite aware of that! Do you understand?"

Alexander was shocked.

"I mean to say, Sheila——" began his lordship.

"Did you hear me, Alexander?"

"I've got to stand out in Cadogan Gardens, my lady——"

"Shall I repeat it again, slowly?"

"I heard you, my lady."

"Very well. Show the gentleman into the library. You have only five minutes."

With an appealing look towards Lord Vignoles, who, having ostentatiously removed and burnished his eyeglass, seemed to experience some difficulty in replacing it, Alexander departed.

"I claim him!" cried Zoe, as the footman disappeared. "Whoever he is or whatever he's like, he shall take me in to dinner!"

"What I mean to say is," blurted Vignoles, "that it would be all right at a country-house party at Christmas, say——"

"It's going to be all right here, dear!" interrupted his wife, affectionately squeezing his arm. "Why, think of the possibilities! New York would just go crazy on the idea!"

A silence fell between them as, with Zoe Oppner and the Zimmermanns, they made their way to the library. Only a few minutes elapsed, to their surprise, ere Alexander reappeared. Martyr-like, he had performed his painful duty, and a beatific consciousness of his martyrdom was writ large upon him. In an absolutely toneless voice he announced:

"Detective-Inspector Pepys!"

"Here! I mean to say—we can't have a policeman——" began Vignoles, but his wife's little hand was laid upon his lips.

Zoe Oppner, with brimming eyes, made a brave attempt, and then fled to a distant settee, striving with her handkerchief to stifle her laughter.

The guest entered.

From her remote corner Zoe Oppner peeped at him, and her laughter ceased. Lady Vignoles looked pleased; her husband seemed surprised. Zimmermann watched the stranger with a curious expression in his eyes.

Detective-Inspector Pepys was a tall man of military bearing, bronzed, and wearing a slight beard, trimmed to a point. He was perfectly composed, and came forward with an easy smile upon his handsome face. His clothes fitted him faultlessly. Even Lord Vignoles (a sartorial connoisseur) had to concede that his dress-suit was a success. He looked a wealthy Colonial gentleman.

"This pleasure is the greater in being unexpected, Lady Vignoles!" he said. "I gather I am thus favoured that I may take the place of an absentee. Shall I hazard a guess? Your party numbered thirteen?"

His infectious smile, easy acceptance of a bizarre situation, and evident good breeding, bridged a rather difficult interval. Lord Vignoles had had an idea that detective-inspectors were just ordinary plain-clothes policemen, and had determined, a second before, to assert himself, give the man half-a-sovereign, and put an end to this ridiculous extravaganza. Now he changed his mind. Detective-Inspector Pepys was a revelation.

Vignoles (to his own surprise) offered his hand.

"It is very good of you," he said, rather awkwardly. "You are sure you have no other dinner engagement, Inspector?"

"None," replied the latter. "I am, strictly speaking, engaged upon official duty; but bodily nutriment is allowed—even by Scotland Yard!"

"You don't mind my presenting you to—the other guests—in your—ah—unofficial capacity—as plain Mr. Pepys? They might—think there was something wrong!"

He felt vaguely confused, as though he were insulting the visitor by his request, and with the detective's disconcerting eyes fixed upon his face was more than half ashamed of himself.

"Not in the least, Lord Vignoles. I should have suggested it had you not done so."

The host was resentfully conscious of a subtle sense of inward gratitude for this concession. Of the easy assumption of equality by the detective he experienced no resentment whatever. The circumstances possibly warranted it, and, in any event, it was assumed so quietly and naturally that he accepted it as a matter of course.

Since Lord Vignoles' marriage with an American heiress the atmosphere of his establishments had grown very transatlantic; so much so, indeed, that someone had dubbed the house in Cadogan Gardens "The Millionaires' Meeting House," and another wit (unknown) had referred to his place in Norfolk as "The Week-end Synagogue." Furthermore, Lady Vignoles had a weakness for "odd people," for which reason the presence of a guest hitherto socially unknown occasioned no comment.

Mr. Pepys having brought in Zoe Oppner, everyone assumed the late arrival to be one of Lady Vignoles' odd people, and everyone was pleasantly surprised to find him such a charming companion.

Zoe Oppner, for her part, became so utterly absorbed in his conversation that her cousin grew seriously alarmed. Zoe was notoriously eccentric, and, her cousin did not doubt, even capable of forming an attachment for a policeman.

In fact, Lady Vignoles, who was wearing the historic Lyrpa Diamond—her father's wedding-present—was so concerned that she had entirely lost track of the general conversation, which, from the great gem, had drifted automatically into criminology.

Zimmermann was citing the famous case of the Kimberley mail robbery in '83.

"That was a big haul," he said. "Twelve thousand pounds' worth of rough diamonds!"

"Fifteen!" corrected Bernard Megger, director of a world-famed mining syndicate.

"Oh, was it fifteen?" continued Zimmermann. "No doubt you are correct. Were you in Africa in '83?"

"No," replied Megger; "I was in 'Frisco till the autumn of '85, but I remember the affair. Three men were captured—one dead. The fourth—Isaac Jacobsen—got away, and with the booty!"

"Never traced, I believe!" asked the novelist.

"Never," confirmed Megger; "neither the man nor the diamonds."

"It was a big thing, certainly," came Vignoles' voice; "but this Severac Bablon has beaten all records in that line!"

The remark afforded his wife an opportunity, for which she had sought, to break off the too confidential tete-a-tete between Zoe and the detective.

"Zoe," she said, "surely Mr. Pepys can tell us something about this mysterious Severac Bablon?"

"Oh, yes!" replied Zoe. "He has been telling me! He knows quite a lot about him!"

Now, the dinner-table topic all over London was the mystery of Severac Bablon, and Lady Vignoles' party was not exceptional in this respect. It had already been several times referred to, and at Miss Oppner's words all eyes were directed towards the handsome stranger, who bore this scrutiny with such smiling composure.

"I cannot go into particulars, Lady Vignoles," he said; "but, as you are aware, I have a kind of official connection with the matter!"

This was beautifully mysterious, and everyone became intensely interested.

"Of such facts as have come to light you all know as much as I, but there is a certain theory which seems to have occurred to no one." He paused impressively, throwing a glance around the table. "What is the notable point in regard to the victims of Severac Bablon?"

"They are Jews—or of Jewish extraction," said Zoe Oppner promptly. "Pa has noticed that! He's taken considerable interest since his mills were burned in Ontario!"

"And what is the conclusion?"

"That he hates Jews!" snapped Bernard Megger hotly. "That he has a deadly hatred of all the race!"

"You think so?" said Pepys softly, and turned his eyes upon the gross, empurpled face of the speaker. "It has not occurred to you that he might himself be a Jew?"

That theory was so new to them that it was received in silent astonishment. Lady Vignoles, though her mother was Irish, had a marked leaning towards her father's people, and, as was usually the case, that ancient race was fairly represented at her dinner-table. Lord Vignoles, on the contrary, was not fond of his wife's Semitic friends—in fact, was ashamed of them; and he accordingly felt the present conversation to be drifting in an unpleasant direction.

"Consider," resumed Pepys, before the host could think of any suitable remark, "that this man wields an enormous and far-reaching influence. No door is locked to him! From out of nowhere he can summon up numbers of willing servants, who obey him blindly, and return—whence they came!

"He would seem, then, to be served by high and low, and—a notable point—no one of his servants has yet betrayed him! His wealth clearly is enormous. He invites the rich to give—as he gives—and if they decline he takes! For what purpose? That he may relieve the poor! No friend of the needy yet has suffered at the hands of Severac Bablon."

"I believe that's a fact!" agreed Zoe Oppner. "He's my own parent, but Pa's real mean, I'll allow!"

Her words were greeted with laughter; but everyone was anxious to hear more from this man who spoke so confidently upon the topic of the hour.

"You may say," he continued, "that he is no more than a glorified Claude Duval, but might he not be one who sought to purge the Jewish name of the taint of greed—who forced those responsible for fostering that taint to disburse—who hated those mean of soul and loved those worthy of their ancient line? It is thus he would war! And the price of defeat would be—a felon's cell! Whom would he be—this man at enmity with all who have brought shame upon the Jewish race? Whom could he be, save a monarch with eight millions of subjects—a royal Jew? I say that such a man exists, and that Severac Bablon, if not that man himself, is his chosen emissary!"

More and more rapidly he had spoken, in tones growing momentarily louder and more masterful. He burned with the enthusiasm of the specialist. Now, as he ceased, a long sigh arose from his listeners, who had hung breathless upon his words, and one lady whispered to her neighbour, "Is he something to do with the Secret Service?"

"Mr. Bernard Megger is wanted on the telephone!"

"How annoying!" ejaculated Lady Vignoles at this sudden interruption.

"Oh, I have said my say," laughed Pepys. "It is a pet theory of mine, that's all! I am alone in my belief, however, save for a writer in the Gleaner, who seems to share it."



CHAPTER X

KIMBERLEY

Dessert was being placed upon the table when Bernard Megger went out to the telephone, and a fairly general conversation upon the all-absorbing topic had sprung up when he returned—pale, flabby—a stricken man!

"Vignoles!" he said hoarsely. "A word with you."

The host, who did not care for the society of Mr. Megger, rose in some surprise and stepped aside with his wife's guest.

"I am a ruined man!" said Megger. "My chambers have been entered and my safe rifled!"

"But——" began Vignoles, in bewilderment.

"You do not understand!" snapped the other, "and I cannot explain. It is Severac Bablon who has robbed me!"

"Severac Bablon?"

"Yes! I must be off at once and learn exactly what has happened. I shall call at Scotland Yard——"

"Ssh!" whispered Vignoles. "There is no need for that! The man speaking to Miss Oppner there is Detective-Inspector Pepys!"

"Detective-Inspector Pepys! But what——"

"Never mind now, Megger; he is—that's the point. I'll bring him into the billiard-room. No doubt he can arrange to accompany you."

Too perturbed in mind to wonder greatly at the presence of a police officer at Lord Vignoles' dinner-table, Bernard Megger strode hurriedly into the billiard-room, his obese body quivering with his suppressed emotions, and was almost immediately joined by his host, accompanied by Pepys. The latter began at once:

"I understand that your chambers have been burgled by Severac Bablon? By a curious instance of what literary critics term the long arm of coincidence I am in charge of the Severac Bablon case—I and Inspector Sheffield."

"Before we go any further," said Megger rudely, "I don't share your tomfool ideas about the rogue!"

"No?" replied Pepys blandly. "Well, never mind. You must not suppose that, because of them, I am any less anxious to apprehend my man. Tell me, when was the burglary committed?"

"While Simons, my servant, was out on an errand. He returned to find the safe open—and empty. He immediately rang me up here."

"I believe you have already communicated with Scotland Yard in regard to Severac Bablon?"

"Yes, I have. He has threatened me."

"In what form?"

"He endeavoured to extort money."

"By what means?"

Bernard Megger frowned, angrily. His flabby cheeks were twitching significantly.

"The point is," he said sharply, "that he has rifled my safe."

"Did it contain valuables?"

"Certainly."

"Diamonds?"

"It contained valuable papers."

"Where is the safe situated?"

"It is concealed, I thought securely, at the back of a bookcase. No one else holds a key. No one—not even my man—knows of its location. Curse Severac Bablon! How, in Heaven's name, has he discovered it? I thought it secure from the fiend himself!"

Detective-Inspector Pepys scratched his chin thoughtfully, and Bernard Megger seemed to experience some difficulty in meeting the disconcerting gaze of his eyes.

"Possibly," said the inspector slowly, "an examination of your chambers may afford a clue. With your permission, Lord Vignoles, we will start at once."

"Certainly," said Vignoles. "I fear I have no car in readiness, so someone shall call a cab."

He moved to the bell.

"What's that, Jerry?" came a musical American voice. "Someone want a lift?"

The three men looked towards the door and saw there Zoe Oppner, a bewitching picture in her motor-furs.

"I was coming to say good-night," she explained. "I'm off to pick up Pa. But I've got time to run as far as Brighton and back, say. Nearly half an hour anyway!"

"You will not be called upon to create that amazing record, Zoe," responded Lord Vignoles. "Inspector Pepys and Mr. Megger are merely proceeding to Victoria Street."

"Is it something exciting?" asked Zoe, her bright eyes glancing from one to another of the three.

"Very!" replied the inspector. "A robbery at Mr. Megger's chambers!"

"Come right along!" said Zoe. "I'm glad I didn't miss this!" And the odd trio departed forthwith.

"Can I come in?" she asked, with characteristic disregard of the conventional, as her luxuriously appointed car pulled up in Victoria Street.

"I should greatly prefer that you did not, Miss Oppner!" said Pepys quietly.

"That's unkind! Why mayn't I?"

"I have a reason, believe me. If you will carry out your original plan and go on to join Mr. Oppner, it will be better."

She met the gaze of his earnest eyes frankly.

"All right!" she agreed. "But will you come to the hotel to-morrow, Inspector, and tell me all about it?"

"If you will inform no one of the appointment and arrange to be alone—yes, at eleven o'clock!"

Zoe's big eyes opened widely.

"You are mysterious!" she said; "but I shall expect you at eleven o'clock!"

"I shall be punctual!"

With that he turned and passed quickly through the door behind Bernard Megger. Up the stairs he ran and reached the first floor in time to see the other entering his chambers.

"Simons!" cried Megger, loudly.

But there was no reply.

"He must have gone at once to Scotland Yard," said Pepys. "Where is the safe?"

Megger switched on the light and unlocked a door on his immediate left. It gave access to a study. In the dim glow of the green shaded lamps the place looked quiet and reposeful. Everything was neatly arranged, as befits the sanctum of a business man. Nothing seemed out of place.

"There are no signs of burglars here!" said Pepys, in a surprised manner.

"Simons may have reclosed the safe door," replied Megger.

His voice trembled slightly.

Wheeling a chair across the thick carpet, he placed it by a tall, unglazed bookcase and mounted upon the seat.

"The safe is not open," he muttered excitedly.

And the man watching him saw that his puffy hand shook like a leaf in the breeze.

Removing a small oil-painting from the wall adjoining, he tore at his collar and produced a key attached to a thin chain about his neck. This he inserted in the cunning lock which the picture served to conceal. The next moment a hoarse cry escaped him.

"It hasn't been opened at all!" he shouted.

Snatching at the cord of a hanging lamp, he wildly hurled books about the floor and directed the light into a cavity that now had revealed itself. The other observed him keenly.

"Are you certain nothing is gone?" he asked.

Megger plunged his hand inside and threw out several boxes and some bundles of legal-looking documents. Leaning yet farther forward, he touched a hidden spring that operated with a sharp click.

"That hasn't gone, Inspector!" he cried triumphantly, and held out a large envelope, sealed in several places.

His eyes were feverish. His features worked.

"You are wrong, Isaac Jacobsen!" rapped Pepys, and snatched the packet in a flash. "It has!"

The man on the chair lurched. Every speck of colour fled from his naturally florid face, leaving it a dull, neutral grey. He threw out one hand to steady himself, and with the other plunged to his hip.

"Both up!" ordered Pepys crisply.

And Mr. Bernard Megger found himself looking down a revolver barrel that pointed accurately between his twitching eyebrows, nor wavered one hair's breadth!

Unsteadily he raised his arms—staring, with dilated pupils, at this master of consummate craft.

"It is by such acts of fatuity as your careful preservation of these proofs of identity," came in ironic tones, "that all rogues are bowled out, Jacobsen! I will admit that you had them well hidden. It was good of you to find them. I had despaired of doing so myself!" With that the speaker backed towards the open door.

"Inspector Pepys!" gasped Bernard Megger, swallowing between the words, "I shall remember you!"

"You will be wasting grey matter!" replied the man addressed, and was gone.

Megger, dropping heavily into the chair, saw that the departing visitor had thrown a slip of pasteboard upon the carpet.

As the key turned in the lock, and the dim footsteps sounded upon the stair, he lurched unsteadily to his feet, and, stooping, picked up the card.

Simons, his man, returned half an hour later, having been detained in his favourite saloon by a chance acquaintance who had conceived a delirious passion for his society. He found his master locked in the study—with the key on the wrong side—and, furthermore, in the grip of apoplexy, with a crumpled visiting-card crushed in his clenched right hand.



CHAPTER XI

MR. SANRACK VISITS THE HOTEL ASTORIA

Mr. J. J. Oppner and his daughter sat at breakfast the next morning at the Astoria. Oppner was deeply interested in the Gleaner.

"Zoe," he said suddenly. "This is junk—joss—ponk!"

His voice had a tone quality which suggested that it had passed through hot sand.

Zoe looked up. Zoe Oppner was said to be the prettiest girl in the United States. Allowing that discount necessary in the case of John Jacob Oppner's daughter, Zoe still was undeniably very pretty indeed. She looked charming this morning in a loose wrap from Paris, which had cost rather more than an ordinary, fairly well-to-do young lady, residing, say, at Hampstead, expends upon her entire toilette in twelve months.

"What's that, Pa?" she inquired.

"What but this Severac Bablon business!"

Assisted by her father, she had diligently searched that morning through stacks of daily papers for news of the robbery in Victoria Street. But in vain.

"Guess it's a false alarm, Zoe!" Mr. Oppner had drawled, in his dusty fashion. "Some humorist got a big hustle on him last night. Like enough Mr. Megger was guyed by the same comic that sent me on a pie-chase!"

Zoe thought otherwise, preferring to believe that Inspector Pepys had suppressed the news; now she wondered if, after all, they had overlooked it.

"Is there something about Severac Bablon in the paper?" she asked interestedly. "I can't find anything."

"Nope?" drawled Oppner. "Nope? H'm! Then what about all this front page, with Julius Rohscheimer sitting in his pie-jams and the Marquess of Evershed talking at him? Ain't that Severac Bablon? Sure! Did you think that Julius found it good for his health to part up a cool hundred thou.? And look at Hague up in the corner—and Elschild in the other corner! There's only one way to open the cheque-books of either of them guys; with a gun!"

"Oh!" cried Zoe—"how exciting!"

"I'm with you," drawled her father. "It's as thrilling as having all your front teeth out."

"Do you mean, Pa, that this is something to do with the card——"

"There's me and Jesson to shell out yet. That's what I mean! He's raised two hundred thousand. I'm richer'n any of 'em and he'll mulct me on my Canadian investments for the balance of half a million! Or maybe he'll split it between me and Jesson and Hohsmann!"

"Oh!" said Zoe, "what a pity! And I was going to ask you to buy me two new hats!"

Her father looked at her long and earnestly.

"You haven't got any proper kind of balance where money is concerned, Zoe," he drawled. "Your brain pod ain't burstin' with financial genius. You don't seem to care worth a baked bean that I'm bein' fleeced of thousands! That hog Bablon cleaned me out a level million dollars when he burned the Runek Mills, and now I know, plain as if I saw him, he's got me booked for another pile! Where d'you suppose money comes from? D'you think I can grab out like a coin manipulator, and my hand comes back full of dollars?"

Zoe made no reply. She was staring, absently, over her father's head, into a dream-world. Had Mr. Oppner been endowed with the power to read from another's eyes, he would have found a startling story written in the beautiful book fringed by Zoe's dark lashes. She was thinking of Severac Bablon; thinking of him, not as a felon, but as he had been depicted to her by the strange man whom she had met at Lord Vignoles'—the man who pursued him, yet condoned his sins.

Her father's sandy voice broke in upon her reverie:

"Where I'm tied up—same with Rohscheimer and the rest—I don't know this thief Bablon when I see him."

"No," said Zoe. "Of course."

Mr. Oppner stared. His daughter's attitude was oddly unemotional, wholly detached and impersonal.

"H'm!" he grunted dryly. "I've got to see Alden, the Agency boy, upstairs. I'll be pushing off."

He "pushed off."

Almost immediately afterwards, Zoe's maid entered. There was a gentleman to see her. He would not give his card.

"Show him into the next room," said Zoe, full of excitement, "and if Mr. Oppner comes back, tell him I am engaged."

She entered the cosy reception-room, feeling that she was about to be admitted behind the scenes, and, woman-like, delightfully curious. A moment later, her visitor arrived.

"I have kept my promise, Miss Oppner!"

She turned, to greet him—and a little, quick cry escaped her.

For this was not Detective-Inspector Pepys who stood, smiling, in the doorway!

It was a man who was, or who seemed to be, taller than he; a slim man, having but one thing in common with the detective: his black morning-coat fitted him as perfectly as the dress-coat had fitted the inspector. An irreproachably attired man is a greater rarity than most people realise; and Zoe Oppner wondered why, even in that moment of amazement, she noted this fact.

Her visitor was singularly handsome. She knew, instantly, that she had never seen one so handsome before. He was of a puzzling type, wholly unlike any European she had met, though no darker of complexion than many Americans. With his waving black hair, extraordinarily perfect features, and the light of conscious power in his large eyes, he awoke something within her that was half memory—yet not wholly so.

She was vaguely afraid, but strongly attracted towards this mysterious stranger.

"But," she said, staring the while as one fascinated, "you—are not Inspector Pepys!"

"True!" he answered smilingly. "I am not Inspector Pepys; nor is there any such person!"

The voice was different, yet somehow reminiscent. Only now, a faint, indefinable accent had crept into it.

"What do you mean?"

Zoe, at the idea that she had been imposed upon, grew regally indignant. She was a lovely woman, and accustomed to the homage which mankind pays to beauty. Her naturally frank, laughter-loving nature made her a charming companion; but she could be distant, scornful—could crush the most presumptuous with a glance of her eyes.

Now she looked at her strange visitor with frigid dignity, and he merely smiled amusedly, as one smiles at a pretty child.

"Be good enough to explain yourself. If you dared to impose upon Lady Vignoles last night—if you are not really a detective—what are you?"

"That question would take too long to answer, Miss Oppner!"

"I demand an answer! Who are you?"

"That is another question," replied the stranger, in his soft, musical voice, "and I will try to answer it. At dinner last night I told you of a man whose fathers saw the Great Pyramid built, whose race was old when that pyramid was new. I told you of an unbroken line of kings—of kings who wore no crowns, whose throne was lost in the long ago."

She closed and re-opened her right hand nervously, and a new light came into her eyes. His words had touched again, as the night before, the hidden deeps of her nature, quickening into life the mysticism that lay there. She would have spoken, but he quietly motioned her to silence—and she was silent.

"I said that the time approached when that ancient line again should claim place among the monarchies of the world. I said that millions of men and women, in every habitable quarter of the globe, owed allegiance to that man who was, by divine right, their king!"

His face lighted up with a wild enthusiasm. To the beautiful girl who listened, spell-bound, he seemed as one inspired.

"Upon his people lay a cloud—a tainting shadow grown black through the centuries. He must disperse it, proclaiming to the world that his was a noble people, a nation with a mighty soul! The evil came not from without but from within. The worst enemies of the Jews are the Jews. In attacking those enemies of his people, inevitably he would come into collision with many governments. But he would do them no wrong, save in showing them powerless to protect the traitors from his righteous wrath!"

For a long moment she watched him, and no words came to her. That this splendid man was mad flashed through her mind as a possible thing; but that thought she dismissed, and remained bewildered.

"Is it true?" she asked, in a pleading voice; "or are you jesting with me?"

He smiled, having resumed his habitual calm.

"It is true!" he answered. "Upon the word of a rogue—a thief—upon the honour of Severac Bablon!"

Zoe started, yet she was not afraid; for something had told her almost from his entrance that this was he—the man whose name at that very hour glared from countless placards, upon a great part of the civilised world; whose deeds at that moment were being babbled of in every tongue from Chinese to Italian.

"But, if you are that man, and——" She hesitated. "You are wrong, I am sure! Oh! indeed, truly, I think you are wrong! Not in your aims, but in making so many new enemies! You have placed yourself outside all laws! You may be arrested at any hour!"

"That phase of my campaign will pass. I shall meet the Ministers of all the Powers upon equality—as the plenipotentiary of eight million people! All that I have done will be forgotten in the light of what I shall do!"

"I cannot understand about last night. Your presence was an accident——"

He laughed softly.

"I knew that Lady Vignoles' party numbered fourteen. I caused your father to be detained. One of my friends—I will not name him—suggested a novel mode of seeking a guest: I caused Megger's man to be absent whilst another of my friends, imitating his speech, sent the telephone message! Is that accident?"

"It is——"

"Unworthy, you would say? The work of a common cracksman? But, by those lowly means I secured proof that Bernard Megger, director of the Uitland Rands Consolidated Mines Syndicate, and Isaac Jacobsen, the Kimberley mail robber, were one and the same! He has escaped the laws of England, but he cannot escape me!"

She shrank involuntarily, her now frightened eyes fixed upon the face of this man, whose patriotism, whose zeal, whose incredibly lofty purpose she did not, could not, doubt, but whose methods she could, not condone—by whose will her own father had suffered. Then, in a quickly imperious yet kindly manner, he placed both his hands upon her shoulders, looking, with earnest, searching eyes, deep into her own.

"What would you desire me to do that half a million pounds can compass?" he asked.

"Return it to those it belongs to, if you can, and, with any that you cannot return, endow homes by the shore for sick slum children!"

He moved his left hand, and she saw dully gleaming upon his finger, a great green stone, bearing a strange device. In some weird fashion it seemed to convey a message to her—intimate, convincing. Within those green depths there dwelt a mystery. She felt that the ring was incalculably old, and that its wearer must wield almost limitless power. It was an uncanny idea, but she lived to know that her instincts had not wholly misled her.

"It shall be done!" said Severac Bablon. "And you will be my friend?"

"I will try!" whispered Zoe, "if you wish. But, oh, believe me! You are wrong! You are wrong! There is, there must be some better way!"

As he removed his hands from her shoulders she turned aside and glanced through the open window, seeing nothing of the panorama of London below, but seeing only a great throne, and upon it a regal figure, his head crowned with the ancient crown of the Jewish kings. When she turned again her father stood behind her. But Severac Bablon was gone!

"Thought you had a visitor, Zoe?" said Mr. Oppner. "There's a gentleman here would like to have a look at him!"

He turned to a big, burly man, dressed in neat serge, who bowed awkwardly and immediately took a sharp look around the room. Mr. Oppner eyed his daughter with grim suspicion.

"Inspector Sheffield would like to ask you something!"

"Sorry to trouble you, miss," said the inspector, misinterpreting the sudden, strained look that had come into her eyes, and smiling in kindly fashion. "But I've been following a man all the morning, and I rather think he came into this hotel! Also—please excuse me if I'm wrong—I rather fancy he came up here!"

"What is he like—this—man?" she asked mechanically, looking away from the detective.

"This morning he was like the handsomest gentleman in Europe, miss! But he may have altered since I saw him last! He's the latest thing in quick-change artists I've met to date!"

"What do you want him for?"

Sheffield raised his eyebrows.

"He's Severac Bablon!" he said simply. "Does your late visitor answer to the description?"

"My visitor was a gentleman who wanted funds for building a home for invalid children!"

"You're sure it wasn't our man, miss?"

("And you will be my friend" he had asked. "I will try," had been her promise.)

"I am quite sure my visitor was not a criminal of any kind!" she answered. "You have made a strange mistake!"

The inspector bowed and quitted the room immediately. Mr. Oppner stood for some moments watching his daughter—and then followed the officer. Zoe went to her room, and allowed her maid to dress her, without proposing a solitary alteration in the scheme. She was very preoccupied. In the lounge she found her father deep in conversation with a clean-shaven man who had the features and complexion of a Sioux, and wore a tweed suit which to British eyes must have appeared several sizes too large for him. His Stetson was tilted well to the rear of his skull, and he lay back smoking a black cheroot. This was Aloys X. Alden of Pinkerton's. Zoe hesitated. The conversation clearly was a business one.

And, at that moment, a tall figure appeared beside her.

Zoe drew a sharp breath—almost a breath of pain. She glanced toward the group of two in the distant corner. They were discussing, as she knew quite well, various plans for the apprehension of the man who had become a nightmare to certain capitalists. They were devising, or seeking to devise, schemes for penetrating the secret of his real identity—for peering beneath the mask of the real man.

And here, by her side, stood Severac Bablon!

"Pray, pray go!" she whispered tremulously. "I thought you had left the hotel. For your own sake, if not for mine, you should have done so."

"But if it happens that I am staying here?"

"Please go! There—with my father—is a detective——"

"I know him well!" was the reply. Severac Bablon's melodious voice was calm. He smiled serenely. "But, fortunately, he does not know me! My name, then, for the present, is Mr. Sanrack; and I have taken this risk—though believe me it is not so great as you deem it—because I have something more to say. I was interrupted by the arrival of Inspector Sheffield."

"He may come in at any moment!"

"Then, I shall go out! But first I wish to tell you that I consider it my duty to force your father's hand in regard to a large sum of money!"

Zoe's little foot tapped the floor nervously.

"How do you dare?" she said. "How do you dare to tell me such a thing?"

"I dare, because what I do is right and just," he resumed; "and because, although I know that its justice will be apparent to you, I am anxious to have your personal assurance upon that point."

"My assurance that I think you are right in robbing my father!"

"I could scarcely expect that; I certainly should not ask for it. But you know that despite enormous benefactions, the Jews as a race bear the stigma of cupidity and meanness. It is wholly undeserved. The sums annually devoted to charitable purposes, by such a family as the Elschilds—my very good friends—are truly stupendous. But the Elschilds do not seek the limelight. Mr. Rohscheimer, Baron Hague, Sir Leopold Jesson, Mr. Hohsmann—and your father, are celebrated only for their unscrupulous commercial methods in the formation of combines. They do not distribute their wealth. Is it not true?"

Zoe nodded. Vaguely, she felt indignant, but Severac Bablon was entirely unanswerable. Then:

"Heavens!" she whispered—"here comes my father!"

It was true. Mr. Oppner and the detective were approaching.

"I wish to meet your father," whispered Severac Bablon. "Remember, I am Mr. Sanrack!"

As he spoke, he watched her keenly. It was a crucial test, and both knew it. Zoe was slightly pale. She fully realised that to conform now to Severac Bablon's wishes was tantamount to becoming a member of his organisation (which operated against her father!)—was to take a possibly irrevocable step in the dark.

Whilst in many respects she disagreed with Severac Bablon's wildly unlawful methods, yet, knowing something of his exalted aims she could not—despite all—withhold her sympathy. In some strange fashion, the wishes of this fugitive from the law partook of the nature of commands. But she could have wished to be spared this trial.

Oppner came up.

"Oh, father," began Zoe, striving to veil her confusion, "I don't think you have met Mr. Sanrack before? This is my father, Mr. Sanrack—Mr. Alden."

The millionaire stared, ere nodding shortly. The detective showed no emotion whatever.

"There is something which I am particularly anxious to explain to you, Mr. Oppner," began Sanrack, having acknowledged the introductions with easy courtesy. "It has reference to Severac Bablon!"

Zoe held her breath. Alden moved his cheroot from the left corner of his mouth to the right. Mr. Oppner wrinkled up his eyes and scrutinised the speaker with a blank astonishment.

"I hold no brief for Severac Bablon," continued the fascinating voice.

"Nope?" drawled Oppner.

"His deeds must speak for themselves. But on behalf of an important financial group I have a proposition to make."

Mr. Oppner took a step forward.

"What group's that?"

"Shall I say, simply, the most influential in Europe?"

"The Elschilds?"

"If you consider them to be so, you may construe my words in that way."

"Mr. Antony Elschild has been pulling my leg with some fool proposition about whitewashing the millionaire, or something to that effect. It's always seemed to me he's got more money than sense. He's passed out a cheque to this Gleaner fund big enough to build a soap factory!"

"So has Mr. Rohscheimer, and so has Baron Hague!"

"I'm not laughin'! They were held up! Why they don't say so, straight out, is their business. Jesson and Hohsmann will part out next, I suppose, if it ain't me. But if I subscribe it will be because I had a gun screwed in my ear while I wrote the cheque!"

"That is what my friends so deeply lament!"

"It is, eh? Yep? They'd like to see me paperin' all the workhouses with ten-dollar bills, I reckon? Mr. Ransack, I've got better uses for my money. It ain't my line of business buyin' caviare for loafers, and I don't consider it's up to me to buy airships for Great Britain! When you see me start in buyin' airships it's time to smother me! It means I'm too old and silly to be trusted with money!"

"My friends and myself—for I take a keen interest in everything appertaining to the Jewish nation—are anxious to save you from the ignominy of being compelled to subscribe!"

"That's thoughtful! Can your friends and yourself find any reason why a United States citizen should buy airships for England? If I got a rush of dollars to the head and was anxious to be bled of half a million, I might as well buy submarines for China, for all the good it'd do me!"

"On the contrary! So far as my knowledge goes you derive no part of your income from China, whereas your interests throughout Greater Britain are extensive. Thus, by becoming a subscriber, you would be indirectly protecting yourself, in addition to establishing a reputation which, speaking sordidly, would be of inestimable value to you throughout the British dominions."

Mr. Oppner nodded.

"It's good of you to drop in and deputise for my Dutch uncle!" he said. "Though no more than I might expect from a friend of my daughter's. But your arguments strike me as the foolishest I ever heard out of any man's mouth. As an old advertiser, I reckon your proposition ain't worth a rat's whiskers!"

Mr. Sanrack smiled. Alden was closely observing him.

"You are quite entitled to your opinion. My friends are anxious to learn if there be any purely philanthropic cause you would prefer to support. The mere interest on your capital, Mr. Oppner, is more than you can ever hope to spend, however lavish your mode of living."

"Thanks," drawled Oppner. "For a brand-new acquaintance you're nice and chatty and confidential. Your friends are such experts at spending their own money that it's not surprisin' they'd like to teach me a thing or two. But during the last forty years I haven't found any cause better worthy of support than my own. Give my love to Mr. Elschild. Good morning!"

He moved off, with the stoical Alden.

"You see," said Severac Bablon to Zoe, who lingered, "your father is impervious to the demands of Charity!"

"Is that why you did this? Were you anxious to bring out Pa's meanness as a sort of excuse for what you contemplate?"

"Partly, that was my motive. A demand upon an American citizen to found a British air fleet is extravagant—in a sense, absurd. But I was anxious to offer Mr. Oppner one more opportunity of distributing some of the vast sum which he has locked up for his own amusement—financial chess."

"You have placed me in an impossible situation."

"Why? If you consider me to be what I have been accused of being—a thief—an incendiary—an iconoclast—denounce me—to whom you will! At any time I will see you, and any friend you may care to bring, be it Inspector Sheffield of New Scotland Yard, at Laurel Cottage, Dulwich Village. I impose no yoke upon you that you cannot shake off!"

But as Zoe Oppner looked into the great luminous eyes she knew that he had imposed upon her the yoke of a mysterious sovereignty.

From the foyer came a sound, unfamiliar enough in the Astoria—the sound of someone whistling. Even as Zoe started, wondering if she could trust her ears, Severac Bablon took both her hands, in the impulsive and strangely imperious way she knew.

"Good-bye," he said. "Perhaps I am wrong and you are right. Time will reveal that. If you ever wish to see me, you know where I may be found. Good-bye!"

He turned abruptly and ascended the stairs. He had but just disappeared when Inspector Sheffield entered!

Zoe felt that her face turned pale; but she bravely smiled as the Scotland Yard man approached her.

"You see, I am back again, Miss Oppner! Do you know if Mr. Oppner has gone out?"

"I am not sure. But I think he went out with Mr. Alden."

Sheffield's face clouded. This employment of a private detective was a sore point with the Inspector. It seemed strangely like a slight upon the official service. Not that Sheffield was on bad terms with Alden. He was too keen a diplomat for that. But he went in hourly dread that the Pinkerton man would forestall Scotland Yard.

To Sheffield it appeared impossible that Severac Bablon could much longer evade arrest. In fact, it was incomprehensible to him how this elusive character had thus far remained at large. Slowly, and by painful degrees, Sheffield was learning that Severac Bablon's organisation was more elaborate and far-reaching, and embraced more highly placed persons, than at one time he could have credited.

It would appear that there were Government officials in the group which surrounded this man, pointing to ramifications which sometimes the detective despaired of following. News from Paris, received only that morning, would seem to indicate that a similar state of affairs prevailed in the French capital. With whom, Sheffield asked himself, had he to deal? Who was Severac Bablon? That he was in some way associated with Jewish people and Jewish interests the Yard man was convinced. But he could not determine, to his own satisfaction, if Severac Bablon's activities were inimical to Juda or otherwise. It was a bewildering case.

"I hope Mr. Oppner hasn't gone out," he said, after a pause. "I particularly wanted to see him again."

"Is there some new clue?" asked Zoe eagerly.

Inspector Sheffield was nonplussed. Here was the daughter of J. J. Oppner, the last girl in the world whom any sane man would suspect of complicity in the Severac Bablon outrages; yet, for reasons of his own, Sheffield wondered if she were as wholly ignorant of Bablon's identity as the rest of the world. He distrusted everyone. He had said to Detective-Sergeant Harborne, who was associated with him in the case, "Where Severac Bablon is concerned, I wouldn't trust the Lord Mayor of London—no, nor the Archbishop of Canterbury."

Accordingly, he replied, "I think not, Miss Oppner. I'll just run upstairs and see if there's anybody about."



CHAPTER XII

LOVE, LUCRE AND MR. ALDEN

Zoe was waiting for Lady Mary Evershed. Lady Mary was late—an unremarkable circumstance, since Lady Mary was a woman, and less remarkable than ordinarily for the reason that Lady Mary had met Sir Richard Haredale on the way. At the time she should have been at the Astoria she was pacing slowly through St. James's Park, beside Haredale.

"My position is becoming impossible, Mary," he said, with painful distinctness. "Every day seems to see the time more distant, instead of nearer, when I can say good-bye to Mr. Julius Rohscheimer. My situation is little better than that of his secretary. By hard work, and it is hard work to act as Rohscheimer's social Virgil!—and by harder self-repression, I have struggled to earn enough to enable me to cry quits with the other rogues who preyed upon me, when—before I knew you. I've scarcely a shred of self-respect left, Mary!"

She looked down at the gravelled path and made no answer to his self-accusation.

"It is only my sense of humour that has saved me. But one day I shall break out! It is inevitable. I cannot pander for ever to Rohscheimer's social ambitions. Yet, if I show fight, he will break me! Saving the prospect—with a hale and hearty uncle intervening, and one of the best; may he live to be a hundred!—of the title, and all that goes with it, what have I to offer you, Mary? I am a man sailing under false colours. Practically, I am a salaried servant of Rohscheimer's. I don't actually draw my salary; but in recognition of my services in popularising his wife's entertainments, he keeps the vultures at bay! Bah! I despise myself!"

Mary looked up to him, tenderly reproachful.

"You silly boy!" she said. "There is nothing dishonourable in what you do!"

"Possibly not. But how would your father like to know of my position."

She lowered her eyes again.

"Is my father indebted to Julius Rohscheimer in any way, Dick?" she asked suddenly.

Haredale laughed nervously.

"Rohscheimer does not honour me with the whole of his confidence in financial matters," he replied. "It is a question Adeler would be better able to answer."