"Mr. Adeler, yes. What a singular man! Do you know, Dick, in spite of father's ideas respecting our old English aristocracy, I have sometimes felt, in Mr. Adeler's presence, that he, though a Jew, was a thousand times more of an aristocrat than I?"

Haredale glanced at her oddly.

"I have at times been conscious of a similar feeling!" he said. "No doubt one's instincts are true enough. Adeler's pedigree conceivably may go back to Jewish nobles who entertained monarchs in their marble palaces when the Eversheds and Haredales considered several streaks of red ochre an adequate costume for the most important functions."

He laughed boyishly at his own words.

"Oh, Dick!" said Mary. "How absurd of you. It is impossible to imagine an Evershed in such a condition. But yet, you are right. How singular that most people should overlook so obvious a fact; that there is a Jewish aristocracy, possibly one of the most ancient in the world."

"The Jews are an Eastern people," replied Haredale. "That is the fact which is generally overlooked. They are, excepting one, the most remarkable people in the modern world."

"Do you know," said the girl, unconsciously lowering her voice, "I have sometimes thought that Severac Bablon was in some way connected——"

"Yes?"

"With the ancient history of the Jews!"

"What do you mean exactly?"

"I can hardly explain. But at the Rohscheimers, on the night of the ball, Severac Bablon was masked, of course; yet it seemed to me——"

"Mary," interrupted Haredale, "don't tell me that you believe the romantic stories circulating about the man!"

"What stories, Dick?"

"Why, about his holding the Seal of Suleyman, whatever that may be——"

"But Mrs. Elschild says he does!"

Haredale started.

"How can she possibly know?"

A flush tinged Lady Mary's clear complexion for a moment, and left it paler than it was wont to be. She despised a woman who could not preserve a secret (and therefore must have had a poor opinion of her sex), yet she had nearly allowed her own tongue to betray her. Whatever Mrs. Elschild had told her had been told in confidence, and under the seal of friendship.

"Perhaps she does not know. Someone may have told her."

"It's all over London," said Haredale; "in the clubs, everywhere! I wonder you have not heard it before. There seems to be an organised attempt to glorify this man, who, after all, is no more than an up-to-date highwayman. Someone has spread the absurd story that he is of Jewish royal blood; whereas the royal line of the Jews must have been extinct for untold generations!"

"Why must it? You have just said that the Jews are an Eastern people. And all Eastern peoples are subtle and secretive. I invariably lose half of my self-importance in Egypt, for instance. There is something in the eye of the meanest fellah which is painfully like patronage!"

Haredale shrugged his shoulders.

"What a thing it is," he said humorously, "to be born with black hair, flashing eyes and an olive skin! One can then be any kind of mountebank or robber, and yet rest assured of the ladies' homage."

They walked on in silence for awhile. Then—

"Heaven knows what happened to Rohscheimer," said Haredale abruptly, "to have frightened him into writing such a stupendous cheque! I may hear, later, but thus far he is too sore to touch upon the matter!"

"My father has visited him."

"At last—yes! Do you remember when Rohscheimer offered me five hundred pounds if I could induce the Marquess to come to dinner? Gad! He came perilously near to a just retribution that day! I think if I had been in uniform I should have run him through!"

"These extraordinary donations of course are the sequel to the mysterious business of the card and the unseen hand?"

"Certainly. Severac Bablon is at the bottom of the whole business. I described the device, introducing two triangles, do you remember, which appeared on the cards, to a chap at the club who is rather a learned Orientalist, and he assured me that, so far as he could judge from my description, it corresponded with that of the supposed seal of Solomon. I was unable to remember part of the design, of course. But, at any rate, this merely goes to prove that Bablon is an accomplished showman."

"I am afraid I must be going, Dick. I have to meet Zoe Oppner."

"Let's go and find a cab, then. But it was so delightful to have you all to myself, Mary, if only for a very little while."

The boyishness had gone out of his voice again, and Lady Mary knew all too well of what he was thinking. She took his arm and pressed it hard.

"I don't think anyone was ever in such a dreadful position in the world before, Dick!" she declared. "To tolerate it seems impossible, seems wrong. But to defy Rohscheimer, with your affairs as they are, means—what does it mean, Dick?"

"I dare not think what it means, Mary," he replied. "Not when you are with me. But one day—soon, I am afraid—it will all be taken out of my hands. I shall tell Mr. Julius Rohscheimer exactly what I think of him, and there will be an end of the whole arrangement."

They said no more until the girl was entering the cab. Then:

"I understand, Dick," she whispered, "and nobody else knows, so try to be diplomatic for a little longer."

Holding her hand, he looked into her eyes. Then, without another word between them, the cab moved off, and Haredale stood looking after it until it was lost amid the traffic. He started to walk across to Park Lane.

At the Astoria Zoe was waiting patiently. But when, at last, Mary found herself in her friend's room, the gloomy companionship of the thoughts with which she had been alone since leaving Haredale, proved too grievous to be borne alone. She threw herself on to a cushioned settee, and her troubles found vent in tears.

"Mary, dear!" cried Zoe, all that was maternal protective in her nature, asserting itself. "Tell me all about it."

The unruly mop of her brown hair mingled with the gold of her friend's, and presently, between sobs, the story was told—an old, old story enough.

"He will have to resign his commission," she sobbed. "And then he will have to go abroad! Oh, Zoe! I know it must come soon. Even I cannot expect him, nor wish him to dance attendance on that odious Julius Rohscheimer for ever! And he makes so little headway."

Zoe's little foot beat a soft tatoo upon the carpet.

"I wonder—will there always be a Julius Rohscheimer for him to dance attendance upon!" she said softly.

Mary raised her tearful eyes.

"What do you mean, Zoe?"

"Has it never occurred to you that—Severac Bablon will ultimately make a poor man of Rohscheimer?"

"Oh! I should not like to think that, because——"

"If he went that far, he might do the same for Pa. I can't believe that, Mary. Pa's awful mean, but after all his money is cleaner than Rohscheimer's."

Mary dried her eyes.

"I hardly know whether to regard that strange man, Severac Bablon, as a friend or a foe," she said. "He certainly seems to confine his outrages to those who have plenty but object to spending it."

"Except on themselves! He's a friend right enough, Mary. I believe he is anxious to reveal all these rich people in a new light, to whitewash them. If only they would change their ideas and do some good with their money, I don't think they would be troubled any more by Severac Bablon. You never hear of Mr. Elschild being robbed by him—nor any of the family suffering in any way."

"Mr. Elschild received one of the mysterious cards, and he has sent a big cheque to the Gleaner fund."

"He has to keep up appearances, Mary, don't you see? But it is certain that he sent the money quite voluntarily. He did not wait to be squeezed. I wish Pa would come to his senses. If, instead of spending a small fortune on private detectives, he would start to use his money for good, he would have no further need for the Pinkerton men. Certainly he would not be made to buy airships for England!"

A smile dawned upon Lady Mary's face.

"Isn't it preposterous!" she said. "The idea of raising money for such a purpose from people like Baron Hague!"

"Baron Hague left for Berlin this morning. We shall probably never know under what circumstances he issued his cheque for fifty thousand pounds! Doesn't it seem just awful, with all this money floating about, that poor Sir Richard is nearly stranded for quite a trifle!"

"Oh, it is dreadful! And I can see no way out."

"No," murmured Zoe. "Yet there must be a way."

She walked to the window, and stood looking out thoughtfully upon the Embankment far below.

What a strange, complex drama moved about her! It was impossible even to determine for what parts some of the players were cast. Where, she wondered, was Inspector Sheffield now? And where was Severac Bablon? So far as she was aware, both were actually in the Astoria. There was something almost uncanny in the elusiveness of Severac Bablon. His disdain of all attempts to compass his downfall betokened something more than bravado. He must know himself immune.

Why?

If what he had rather hinted than declared were true—and never for a moment did she doubt his sincerity—then his accomplices, his friends, his subjects (she knew not how to name them), must be numberless. Was she, herself, not of their ranks?

Of the thousands who moved beneath her, upon trams, in cabs, in cars, on foot, how many were servants of that mysterious master? It was fascinating, yet terrifying, this inside knowledge of a giant conspiracy, of which, at that moment, the civilised world was talking. Mary Evershed's voice broke in upon her musing:

"Come along, Zoe. We shall never be back in time for lunch if we don't hurry."

They descended in the lift and walked out to where Mr. Oppner's big car awaited them. A moment later, as the man turned out into the Strand, Sheard passed close by upon the pavement. He raised his hat to the two pretty travellers. Clearly, he was bound for the Astoria.

And a few yards further on, unobtrusively walking behind a very large German tourist, appeared the person of Mr. A. X. Alden.

"Why!" whispered Zoe. "I believe he is following Mr. Sheard."

Her surmise was correct. The astute Mr. Alden had found himself at a loss to account for some of the exclusive items respecting the doings of Severac Bablon which latterly had been appearing in the Gleaner. By dint of judiciously oiling the tongue of a chatty compositor, he had learned that the unique copy was contributed by Mr. H. T. Sheard. Mr. Oppner had advised him to keep a close watch upon the movements of Mr. Antony Elschild. Although Alden found it hard to credit the idea that the great Elschild family should be in any way associated with the campaign of brigandage, Mr. Oppner was more open-minded.

Now Alden, too, was beginning to wonder. There seemed to be a friendship between Elschild and the pressman; and Sheard, from some source evidently unopen to his fellow copy-hunters, obtained much curious information anent Severac Bablon. One of Alden's American colleagues accordingly was devoting some unobtrusive attention to whomsoever came and went at the Elschild establishment in Lombard Street, whilst Alden addressed himself to the task of shadowing Sheard.

When the latter walked into the lobby of the Astoria, Mr. Alden was not far away.

"Has Mr. Gale of New York arrived yet?" was the pressman's inquiry.

Yes. Mr. Gale of New York had arrived.

Upon learning which, Sheard seemed to hesitate, glancing about him as if suspicious of espionage. Mr. Alden, deeply engaged, or so it appeared, in selecting a cigar at the stall, was all ears—and through a mirror before which he had intentionally placed himself, he could watch Sheard's movements whilst standing with his back towards him.

At last Sheard took out his notebook and hastily scribbled something therein. Tearing out the leaf, he asked for an envelope, which the boy procured for him. With the closed book as a writing-pad, he addressed the envelope. Then, enclosing the note, carefully sealed up the message, and handed it to the boy, glancing about him the while with a palpable apprehension.

Finally, lighting a cigarette with an air of nonchalance but ill assumed, Sheard strolled out of the hotel.

He had not passed the door ere Alden was clamouring for an hotel envelope. The boy was just about to enter a lift as the detective darted across the lobby and entered with him. Short as the time at his disposal had been, Mr. Alden had scrawled some illegible initial followed by "Gale, Esq.," upon the envelope, and had stuck down the flap.

The boy quitted the lift on the fourth floor. So did Alden. One or two passengers joined at that landing, but the unsuspecting boy went on his way along the corridor, turned to the right and rapped on a door numbered 63.

"Come in," he was instructed.

He entered, tray in hand. A tanned and bearded gentleman who was busily engaged unpacking a large steamer trunk, looked up inquiringly.

"Gentleman couldn't wait, sir," said the boy, and proffered the message.

The bearded man took the envelope, drew his brows together in an endeavour to recognise the scrawly handwriting; failed, and tore the envelope open.

It was empty!

"See here, boy! What's the game?"

He threw the envelope on the floor beside him and stared hard at the page.

"Excuse me, sir"—the boy was frightened—"excuse me, sir; but I saw the gentleman put a note in!"

"Did you!" laughed the American, readily perceiving that whoever the joker might be the boy was innocent of complicity. "You mean, you thought you did! See here, what was he like?"

The boy described Sheard, and described him so aptly that he was recognised.

"That's Sheard," muttered the recipient of the empty envelope. "It's Sheard, sure! Right oh! I'll ring him up at the office in a minute and see what sort of game he's playing. Here boy, stick that in your pocket; you might make a descriptive writer, but you'll never shine at sleight of hand! You didn't watch that envelope half close enough!"

Thus, the man to whom the note was addressed. Let us glance at Mr. Alden again.

Having effected the substitution with the ease of a David Devant, he hastened to a quiet corner to inspect his haul. He was not unduly elated. He had been prompt and clever, but in justice to him, it must be admitted that he was a clever man. Therefore he regarded the incident merely as part of the day's work. His success wrought no quickening of the pulse.

In a little palmy balcony which overlooked the lobby he took the envelope from his pocket. It bore the inscription:

RADLEY GALE, ESQ.

Quietly, his cheroot stuck in a corner of his mouth, he opened it—tearing the end off as all Americans do. He pulled out the scribbled note, and read as follows:

"MY DEAR GALE,—Don't forget that we're expecting your wife and yourself along about 7. I will say no more as I rather think an impudent American detective (?) is going to purloin this note.

"SHEARD."

Mr. Alden carefully replaced the torn leaf in the envelope, and the envelope in his case. He rolled his smoke from the left corner of his mouth to the right, and, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, walked slowly downstairs. He was not offended. Mr. Aloys. X. Alden was a Stoic who had known for many years that he was not the only clever man in the world.



CHAPTER XIII

THE LISTENER

Sheard sat with both elbows resting upon his writing-table. A suburban quietude reigned about him, for the hour was long past midnight. Before him was spread out the final edition of the Gleaner and prominent upon the front page appeared:—

SIR LEOPOLD JESSON AND MR. HOHSMANN FALL INTO LINE

With a tact which was inspired by private information from a certain source, the Gleaner had pooh-poohed the story of the mysterious cards received by the guests at Julius Rohscheimer's. The story had leaked out, of course, but Sheard was in no way responsible for the leakage.

Frantically, representatives of the Gleaner's rivals had sought for confirmation from the lips of the victims; but, as had been foreseen by the astute Sheard, no confirmation was forthcoming. There had been an informal council held at the urgent request of Rohscheimer, whereat it had been decided that for the latter to appear, now, in the light of a victim of Severac Bablon, would be for him to throw away such advantages as might accrue—to throw a potential peerage after his lost L100,000!

Baron Hague had been coerced into silence, and had left for Berlin without seeing a single newspaper man. Mr. Elschild had persisted that his donation was entirely a voluntary one. Jesson had been most urgent for placing the true facts before Scotland Yard, but had finally fallen in with Rohscheimer's wishes.

"You see, Jesson," the latter had argued, "I'll never get my money back. It's gone as completely as if I'd burnt it! All I've got to hope for is a peerage; and I'd lose that if I started crying."

"I agree," Antony Elschild had contributed, "Rohscheimer had suddenly become a popular hero! So that a title is all the return he is ever likely to get for his money. It is popularly expected that Hohsmann and yourself will also subscribe. You must remember that owing to the attitude of a section of the Press it is not generally believed that Severac Bablon has anything to do with this burst of generosity!"

Jesson had muttered something about "the Gleaner," and a decision had been arrived at to organise a private campaign against Severac Bablon whilst professing, publicly, that he was in no way concerned in the swelling of the Gleaner fund.

Now, Jesson and Hohsmann had both sent huge cheques to the paper, and interviews with the philanthropic and patriotic capitalists appeared upon the front page. Sheard had not done either interview.

Encouraged by their amazing donations, the general public was responding in an unheard-of manner to the Gleaner's appeal. The Marquess of Evershed had contributed a long personal letter, which was reproduced in the centre of the first page of every issue. The Imperialistic spirit ran rampant throughout Great Britain.

Meanwhile, Mr. Oppner's detectives were everywhere. Inspector Sheffield, C.I.D., was not idle. And Sheard found his position at times a dangerous one.

He stood up, walked to the grate, and knocked out his pipe. Having refilled and lighted it, he tiptoed upstairs, and from a convenient window surveyed the empty road. So far as he could judge, its emptiness was real enough. Yet on looking out a quarter of an hour earlier, he had detected, or thought he had detected, a lurking form under the trees some hundred yards beyond his gate.

His visit to the Astoria, the morning before, had been in response to an invitation from Severac Bablon, but divining that he was closely watched, he had sent the message to Gale—an American friend whom he knew to have just arrived—which had fallen into the hands of Mr. Aloys. X. Alden. Sheard had actually had an appointment with Gale, and had rung him up later in the morning—gaining confirmation of his suspicions, in the form of Gale's story of the empty envelope.

Then, at night, his American friend had been followed to the house and followed back again to the hotel. This had been merely humorous; but to-night there existed more real cause of apprehension. Sheard had received a plain correspondence card, bearing the following, in a small neat hand:

"Do not bolt your front door. Expect me at about one o'clock A.M."

For a time it had been exciting, absorbingly interesting, to know himself behind the scenes of this mystery play which had all the world for an audience. But it was a situation of quite unique danger. Severac Bablon was opposed to tremendous interests. Apart from the activity of the ordinary authorities, there were those in the field against this man of mystery to whom money, in furtherance of their end, was no object.

Sheard realised, at times—and these were uncomfortable times—that his strange acquaintance with Severac Bablon quite conceivably might end in Brixton Prison.

Yet there are some respects wherein the copy-hunter and the scalp-hunter tally. The thrill of the New Journalism has enlisted in the ranks of the Fleet Street army some who, in a former age, must have sought their fortune with the less mighty weapon. A love of adventure was some part of the complement of Sheard; and now, suspecting that a Pinkerton man lurked in the neighbourhood, and uncertain if his wife slept, he awaited his visitor, with nerves tensely strung. But there was an exquisite delight tingling through his veins—an appreciation of his peril wholly pleasurable.

Faintly, he heard a key grate in the lock of the front door. The door was opened, and gently closed.

Sheard stood up.

Into the study walked Severac Bablon.

He was perfectly attired, as usual; wore evening-dress, and a heavy fur-lined coat. His silk hat he held in his hand. As he stood within the doorway, where the rays from the shaded lamp failed to touch his features, he seemed, in the semi-light, a man more than humanly handsome.

"The house is watched," began Sheard—and broke off.

A shadow had showed, momentarily, upon the cream of the drawn casement-curtains. Someone was crouching on the lawn, under the study window.

"Did you see that?" jerked the pressman. "Somebody looked in! The curtain isn't quite drawn to at that corner."

"My dear Sheard"—Severac Bablon's musical voice was untroubled by any trace of apprehension—"there is no occasion to worry! Mr. Aloys. X. Alden looked in!"

"But——"

"Had it been Inspector Sheffield there had been some cause for excitement. Inspector Sheffield, if I am rightly informed, holds a warrant for my arrest. Mr. Alden is an unofficial investigator."

"But he can call a constable!"

"Reflect, Sheard. If he calls a constable, what happens?"

"You are arrested!"

"Not so; but I will grant you that much for the sake of argument. To whom would the credit fall?"

"Patently, Mr. Alden."

"Wrong! You know that it is wrong! The official service would reap every gain! Believe me, Sheard, Mr. Alden will not reveal my presence here to a living soul! He may try to trap me when I leave, but there will be no clamouring on the door by members of the Metropolitan Police force, as you seemingly apprehend!"

Severac Bablon threw himself into the big arm-chair, and lighted a cigarette—a yellow cigarette.

"The trick you played upon Alden yesterday was such as no man with a sense of humour could well have resisted," he said. "But it was indiscreet."

"I know."

"Suspicion pointed to you as the perpetrator of the card trick at Rohscheimer's. You must not run unnecessary risks."

"It was a thrilling moment for me, when I leant over to Miss Hohsmann, my right hand extended for the salt or something of the kind, and my left stretched behind her chair!"

"Jesson, of course, was looking in the opposite direction?"

"I selected a moment when he was talking to Lady Vignoles, and those shaded table lights helped me very much. I could just reach the table, and I intentionally touched Salome's hand with mine, in laying down the card."

"She actually saw your hand!"

"I fancy not. She felt my fingers touch hers, I think. She turned so quickly that Jesson turned, too, and just as she was taking the card up."

"Critical moment."

"Not in the least. My object would have been as well served if the card had gone no further. But my infernal sense of humour prompted me to make a bid for complicating the mystery. I dropped my arm, of course, as Jesson turned to her, and it never occurred to Salome that the hand which had placed the card beside her was any other than that of her neighbour on the left, Jesson. Before she could address him, or he address her, I inquired if I might examine the card. Jesson continued his conversation with Lady Vignoles, and the 'second notice' passed all around the table."

"Excellent! Do you know, Sheard, these childish little conjuring tricks help me immensely! Can you picture Julius Rohscheimer cowering throughout a whole night before the rod of a trousers-stretcher projecting from a wardrobe door!"

"Was that the solution of the 'patriotic' mystery?"

"Certainly. Adeler, who was concealed in the wardrobe, armed with the necessary written threats, made his escape directly Rohscheimer's cheque was in his hand—leaving the rod to mount guard whilst you got the announcement into print and induced the Marquess to pay an early morning visit."

Severac Bablon's handsome face looked almost boyish as he related how the financier had been forced to play the part of a patriot. Sheard, watching him, found new matter for wonderment.

This was the man who claimed to command the destinies of eight million people—the man who claimed to wield the power of a Solomon. This was Severac Bablon, the most inscrutably mysterious being who had ever sown wonderment throughout the continents, the man who juggled with vast fortunes as Cinquevalli juggles with billiard-balls! This was the man whose great velvety eyes could gleam with uncanny force, whose will could enthrall hypnotically, for whom the police of the world searched, for whose apprehension huge rewards were offered, whose abode was unknown, whose accomplices were unnumbered, to whom no door was locked, from whose all-seeing gaze no secret was secret!

It was difficult, all but impossible, to realise.

"Yet I am he," said the melodious voice.

Sheard started as though a viper had touched him. He stared at his visitor in wide-eyed amazement.

"Heavens! Was I thinking aloud?"

"Practically. Your mind was so intensely concentrated upon certain incidents in my career—see, your pipe is out—that, in a broad sense, I could hear you thinking!"

Sheard laughed dryly, and relighted his pipe. Severac Bablon's trick of replying to unspoken questions was too singular to be forgotten lightly.

"Mr. Hohsmann is now of my friends," continued the strange visitor. "You received the paragraph? Ah! I see it appears in your later edition."

"But Jesson?"

"Sir Leopold can never be my friend, nor do I desire it. There is an incident in his career——You understand? I do not reproach him with it. It should never have been recalled to him had he held his purse-strings less tightly. But it served as a lever. It was a poor one, for, though he does not know it, I would cast stones at no man. But it served. He has made his contribution. I begin to achieve something, Sheard. The Times has a leader in the press showing how the Jews are the backbone of British prosperity, and truer patriots than any whose fathers crossed with Norman William."

He ceased speaking, abruptly, and with his eyes, drew Sheard's attention again to the window. Since Severac Bablon's arrival, indeed, the journalist had glanced thither often enough. But, now, he perceived something which made him wonder.

There was a street lamp at the corner of the road, and, his own table-lamp leaving the further window in shade, it was possible to detect the presence of anything immediately outside by its faint shadow.

Something round was pressed upon a corner of the lower pane.

Severac Bablon stepped to the table and scribbled upon a sheet of paper:—

"He has some kind of portable telephonic arrangement designed for the purpose, attached to the glass. No doubt he can follow our conversation. He may attempt to hold me up as I leave the house. He cannot enter, of course, or we could arrest him on a charge of housebreaking! You have a back gate. If you will permit me to pass through your domestic offices and your garden, I will leave by that exit. Continue to talk for some minutes after I am gone. Do not fear that there is any evidence of my having been here. Alden can prove nothing."

Replacing the pencil on the tray:

"I want you to join me at a little supper on Wednesday evening," said Severac Bablon. "Practically all our influential friends will be present——"

He ignored Sheard's head-shakes and expressive nods directed towards the window.

"There is an old house which I have rented for a time at Richmond. It is known as 'The Cedars,' and overlooks the Thames. The grounds are fairly extensive, and bordered by two very quiet roads. In fact, it is an ideal spot for my purpose. I will send you further particulars"—he glanced towards the window—"in writing. We meet there on Wednesday at nine-thirty. Can I rely upon you?"

"Yes," said Sheard, wondering at the other's indiscretion, "unless I wire you to the contrary. I might be unable to turn up at the last moment, of course."

"You are nervous!" Severac Bablon smiled, and slipped from the room.

"On the contrary," said Sheard, addressing the window. "There is nothing I enjoy better than an evening in a haunted house!"

(Perhaps, he argued, Alden was not absolutely certain of his visitor's identity. He did not know at what point in the conversation the telephone device had come into action. It was a pity to waste words; he might as well endeavour to throw the eavesdropper off the scent, in addition to covering Severac Bablon's retreat.)

"Let us hope, Professor," he resumed, with this laudable intention, "that the Society for Psychical Research will be the richer in knowledge for our experiment on Wednesday evening!"

Mr. Aloys. X. Alden, with his ear to the ingenious little "electric eavesdropper," experienced an unpleasant chill upon hearing the visitor within addressed as "Professor."

He had conceived the idea that Sheard—whom he strongly suspected, might hold interviews with the mysterious and elusive Severac Bablon in the small hours of the morning, at his own house, when the rest of the household were retired.

Mr. Alden had watched for five nights when he knew the pressman to be at home. On four of them Sheard's light had been extinguished before midnight. To-night, the fifth, it had remained burning, and long vigilance had been rewarded.

A car had drawn up at some distance from the house, and its occupant had proceeded forward on foot. He had been admitted so rapidly that Alden had been unable to ascertain by whom. The car, too, had been driven off immediately. He had had no chance of taking the number; but was astute enough to know that in any event it would have availed him little, since, if the car were Bablon's the number would almost certainly be a false one.

For once in a way, Mr. Alden became excited. Whom could so late a visitor be, save one who wished to keep secret his visit? In attaching his eavesdropper he had clumsily raised his head above the level of the window-ledge, but he had hoped that this gross error of strategy had passed unnoticed. For a time he had failed to pick up the conversation until his ear became attuned to the subdued tone in which it was conducted. Thus, he had lost the key to its purport and had had to improvise one.

But, even so, words had passed which had amply confirmed his suspicions; so much so that, whilst he listened, all but breathlessly, he was devising a scheme for capturing Sheard's visitor, single-handed, as he left the house. Furthermore, he was devising a way out of the difficulty in the event of the captive proving to be another than Severac Bablon.

The latter part of the duologue had puzzled him badly. The visitor seemed to have ceased talking altogether, and Sheard's remarks had in some inexplicable way drifted into quite a different channel. They appeared to appertain to what had preceded them but remotely. The relation seemed forced.

Still the visitor said nothing. Sheard continued to talk, and in upon the mind of the detective shone a light of inspiration.

He detached the cunning little instrument, crawled across the lawn and slunk out at the gate. Then he ran around to the rear of the house. A narrow lane there was, and into its black mouth he plunged without hesitation.

The gate of the tradesmen's entrance was unbolted.

Alden was perfectly familiar with the nightly customs of the Sheard establishment, and knew this to be irregular. He tilted his hat back and scratched his head reflectively.

Then, from somewhere down the road, on the other side of the house, came the sound of a curious whistle, an eerie minor whistle.

Like an Indian, Alden set off running. He rounded the corner as a car whirled into view five hundred yards further along, and from the next turning on the right. It stopped. One of its doors slammed.

It was off again. It had vanished.

Mr. Alden carefully extracted a cheroot from his case and lighted it with loving care.



CHAPTER XIV

ZOE DREAMS

If you know the Astoria, you will remember that all around the north-west side of the arcade-like structure, which opens on the Old Supper Room, the Rajah Suite, the Louis Ballroom, the Edwardian Banqueting Hall, and the Persian Lounge, are tiny cosy-corners. In one of these you may smoke your secluded cigar, cigarette or pipe, wholly aloof from the bustle, with its marked New Yorkist note, which characterises the more public apartments of the giant caravanserai.

There is a nicely shaded light, if you wish to read, or to write, at night. But you control this by a switch, conveniently placed, so that the darkness which aids reflection is also at your command. Then there is the window, opening right down to the floor, from which, if it please you, you may study the activity of the roofless ant-hill beneath, the restless febrility of West End London.

To such a nook Zoe Oppner retired, after a dinner but little enjoyed in solitary splendour amid the gaiety of one of the public dining-rooms. Her father had been called away by some mysterious business, too late in the evening for her to make other arrangements. So she had descended and dined, a charming, but lonely figure, at the little corner table.

In some strange way, she had more than half anticipated that Severac Bablon would be there. But, although there were a number of people present whom she knew, the audacious Mr. Sanrack was not one of them.

Zoe had nodded to a number of acquaintances, but had not encouraged any of them to disturb her solitude. The long and tiresome meal dealt with, she had fled to the nook I have mentioned, and, with an Egyptian cigarette between her lips, lay back watching, from the perfumed darkness, the lights of London below.

The idea of calling upon Mary Evershed had occurred to her. Then she had remembered that Mary was at some semi-official function of her uncle's, Mr. Belford's. Sheila Vignoles would be at home, but Zoe began to feel too deliciously lazy to think seriously of driving even so short a distance.

In a big, cane lounge-chair packed with cushions she curled up luxuriously and began to reflect.

Her reflections, it is needless to say, centred around Severac Bablon. Why, she asked herself, despite his deeds, did she admire and respect him? Her mind refused to face the problem, but she felt a hot blush rise to her cheeks. She was a traitor to her father; she could not deny it. But at any rate she was a frank traitor, if such a state be possible. Only that morning she had explained her position to him.

"Severac Bablon," she had maintained, "only makes you rich men do what you ought to do with some of your money! Even if the object weren't a good one, even were it a ridiculous one, like making Dutchmen and Americans buy British airships, it does make you spend something. And that's a change!"

Mr. Oppner was used to these outspoken critcisms from his daughter. He had smiled grimly, wryly.

"I guess," had been his comment, "you'd stand up for the Bablon man, then, if he ever came your way?"

"Sure!" Zoe had cried. "You spend too much on me, and on Pinkertons, and not enough on people who really want it."

"You ought to join the staff of the Gleaner, Zoe! They specialise in that brand of junk, and they're in the popular market at the moment, too. They'll win the next election hands down, I'm told."

"Why don't you start a fund for Canadian emigrants?" Zoe had proceeded. "You've made a heap of money out of Canada. Then you wouldn't have to buy any airships, maybe!"

"I don't have to! No Roman Emperor was watched closer'n me! If that guy gets me held up he's earnin' his money! Zoe, you're a durned unnatural daughter!"

The thought of that conversation made her smile. To her it seemed so ridiculous that her father should guard his expenditure like one who has but a few dollars between himself and starvation. The gold fever was an incomprehensible disease to the daughter of the man who was more savagely bitten with it than almost any other living plutocrat.

Musing upon these matters, Zoe slept, and dreamed.

She dreamed that she stood in the gateway of an ancient city, amid a throng of people attired in the picturesque garb of the East. About her, the city was en fete. Before her stretched the desert, an undulating ocean of greyness, a dry ocean parched by a merciless sun.

Barbaric music sounded; the clashing of cymbals and quiver of strange instruments rendering it unlike any music she had ever heard. A procession was issuing from the gateway with much pomp. There were venerable, white-bearded priests, and there were girls, too, arrayed in festive garb, their hair bedecked with flowers. Their gay ranks, amid which the slow-pacing patriarchs struck a sombre note, passed out across the sands.

They were met by what seemed to be the advance guard of a great army. A man whose golden armour glittered hotly in the blazing sun descended from a chariot to receive them.

Then, amid music and shouting and the beating of drums, the procession returned, surrounding the chariot in which the golden one rode. It was filled to the brim with flowers.

As it passed in at the gate, the occupant stooped, took up a huge lily and threw it to Zoe. His eyes met hers. And, amid that panoply of long-ago, she recognised Severac Bablon.

She dreamed on.

She lay in a huge temple, prone upon its marble floor, in the shadow of a pillar curiously carven. The lily lay beside her. Two men stood upon the other side of the pillar. She was invisible from where they were, and in low voices they spoke together, and Zoe listened.

"It overlooks the river," said one. "Two sides of the garden are on streets as lonely as the middle of the Atlantic. A narrow lane joins and runs right down the back. We want six or eight men, as well as you and I."

"What," inquired the other (his voice seemed strangely familiar), "is the matter with Scotland Yard?"

A moment's silence followed. Then:

"I didn't want to call them in. Largely, I'm out for reputation."

"Mostly," came a drawling reply, "I'm out for business!"

A veil seemed to have taken the place of the carven pillar, a thin, dream-veil. Although, in her curious mental state, Zoe could not know it, this was the veil which separated dreamland from reality.

"Martin can come with us. The other two boys will have to hang on to the tails of Mr. Elschild and Sheard. We mustn't neglect the rest of the programme because this item looks like a top-liner. I asked Sullivan if he could draft me half-a-dozen smart boys for Wednesday evening, and he said yep."

"More expense! What do you want to go and get men from a private detective agency for, when there's official police whose business it is to do it for nothing?"

"I thought there'd be people there, maybe, with big names. If we're in charge we can hush up what we like. If Scotland Yard had the job in hand there'd be a big scandal."

"You weren't thinkin' of that so much as huggin' all the credit! This blame man'll ruin me anyway. I can see it. What have you found out about this house?"

"It's called 'The Cedars' and it fronts on J—— Road. It's just been leased to a Dr. Ignatius Phillips, who's supposed to be a brain specialist. I've weighed up every inch of ground and my plan's this: Two boys come along directly after dusk, and take up their posts behind the hedge of the back lane; ten minutes after, two more make themselves scarce on the west side and two more on the towing-path. There's a thick clump of trees with some railings around, right opposite the door. You and I will hide there with Martin. We'll see who goes in. There's just a short, crescent-shaped drive, and only a low hedge. When everybody has arrived, we march up to the front door. As soon as it's opened, in we go, a whole crush of us! The house will be surrounded——"

"It sounds a bit on the dangerous side!"

"There'll be plenty of us—four or five."

"Make it six. He's got such a crowd of accomplices!"

"Six of us, then——"

"I wish you'd let Scotland Yard take it in hand."

"As you please. It's for you to say. But they have made so many blunders——"

"You're right! Hang the expense! I'll see to this business myself!"

"Then we shall want rather more men than I'd arranged for. Suppose we go and ring up Sullivan's?"

Zoe was wide awake now. A door shut. She sat up with a start. The darkness was redolent of strong tobacco-smoke, the smoke of a cheroot. She realised, instantly, what had happened—

Her father and Alden had entered the little room for an undisturbed chat and had not troubled to switch the light on. Many people like to talk in the dark; J.J. Oppner was one of them. Hidden amid the cushions of the big chair, she had not been seen. Since they had found the room in darkness, her presence had not been suspected. And what had she thus overheard?

A plot to capture Severac Bablon!

Now, indeed, she was face to face with the hard facts of her situation. What should she do? What could she do?

He must be warned. It was impossible to think of seeing him a prisoner—seeing him in the dock like a common felon. It was impossible to think of meeting his eyes, his grave, luminous eyes, and reading reproach there!

But how should she act? This was Tuesday, and they had spoken of Wednesday as the day when the attempt was to be made. If only she had a confidant! It was so hard to come, unaided, to a decision respecting the right course to follow.

Laurel Cottage, Dulwich Village, that was the address which he had confided to her. But how should she get there? To go in the car was tantamount to taking the chauffeur into her confidence. She must go, then, in a cab.

Zoe was a member of that branch of American society which laughs at the theory of chaperons. There was nothing to prevent her going where she pleased, when she pleased, and how she pleased. Her mind, then, was made up very quickly.

She ran to her room, and without troubling her maid, quickly changed into a dark tweed costume and put on one of those simple, apparently untrimmed hats which the masculine mind values at about three-and-nine, but which actually cost as much as a masculine dress suit.

Fearful of meeting her father in the lifts, she went down by the stair, and slipped out of the hotel unnoticed.

"A cab, madam?"

She nodded. Then, just as the man raised his whistle, she shook her head.

"No thanks," she said. "I think I'll walk."

She passed out across the courtyard and mingled with the stream of pedestrians. Right at the beginning of her adventure she had nearly blundered. She laughed, with a certain glee. It was novel and exhilarating, this conspiracy against the powers that be. There was something that appealed to the adventurous within her in thus being under the necessity of covering her tracks.

Certainly, she was a novice. It would never have done to lay a trail right from the hotel door to Laurel Cottage.

She walked into Charing Cross Station and approached the driver of the first vacant taxi that offered.

"I want to go to Dulwich Village."

The man pulled a wry face. If he undertook that journey it would mean that he would in all probability have to run back empty, and then he would miss the theatre people.

"Sorry, miss. But I don't think I've got enough petrol!"

"Oh, how tiresome."

The American accent, now suddenly pronounced, induced him to change his mind.

"Should you want me to bring you back, miss?"

"Sure! I don't want to be left there!"

"All right, miss. Jump in."

"But I thought you hadn't enough petrol?"

The man grinned.

"I didn't want to be stranded right out there with no chance of a fare, miss!" he confessed.

Zoe laughed, good-naturedly, and entered the cab.

The man set off, and soon Zoe found herself upon unfamiliar ground. Through slummish localities they passed, and through popular suburbs, where all the activity of the West End prevailed without its fascinating, cosmopolitan glitter.

Dulwich Village was reached at last, and the cab was drawn up on a corner bearing a signpost.

"Which house did you want, miss?"

"I want Laurel Cottage."

The taxi-man scratched his head.

"You see, some of the houses in the village aren't numbered," he said; "and I don't know this part very well. I never heard of Laurel Cottage. Any idea which way it lies?"

"Not the slightest. Do you think you could find out for me?"

A policeman was standing on the opposite corner, and, crossing, the taxi-man held some conversation with him. He returned very shortly.

"It's round at the back of the College buildings, miss," he reported.

Again the cab proceeded onward. This was a curiously lonely spot, more lonely than Zoe could have believed to exist within so short a distance from the ever-throbbing heart of London. She began to wish that she had shared her secret with another; that she had a companion. After all, how little, how very little, she knew of Severac Bablon. With all her romantic and mystic qualities Zoe was at heart a shrewd American girl, and not one to be readily beguiled by any man, however fascinating. She was not afraid, but she admitted to herself that the expedition was compromising, if not dangerous. If she ever had occasion to come again, she would confide in Mary and come in her company.

"This road isn't paved, miss. I don't think I can get any further."

The cab, after jolting horribly, had come to a stand-still. Zoe got out.

"Is Laurel Cottage much farther on?"

"It stands all alone, on the left, about a hundred yards along."

"Thank you. Please wait here."

Zoe walked ahead. It was a very lonely spot. The cab had stopped before some partially-constructed houses. Beyond that lay vacant lots, on either side. In front, showed a clump of trees, and, at the back of them on a slight acclivity, a big house.

The night was fine but moonless. Save for the taxi-man and herself, it would seem that nothing moved anywhere about. She came up level with the trees. There was a kind of very small lodge among them, closely invested with ragged shrubs and overshadowed by heavier foliage.

Beyond, farther along the road, showed nothing but uninviting darkness, solitude and vacancy. This then must be the place.

Zoe peered between the bars of the gate. No light was anywhere to be seen. The house appeared to be deserted. Could the cabman have made a mistake or have been misinformed?

Zoe carried a little case, containing, amongst a number of other things, a tiny matchbox. She extracted and lighted a match. There was no breeze, or she must certainly have failed to accomplish the operation.

Shading the light with her gloved hands, she bent and examined some half-defaced white characters which adorned the top bar of the gate; by which means she made out the words:—

LAUREL COTTAGE

There had been no mistake, then. She opened the gate, and by a narrow, moss-grown path through the bushes, came to the door. All was still. It was impossible to suppose the place inhabited.

No bell was to be found, but an iron knocker hung upon the low door.

Zoe knocked.

The way in which the sound echoed through the little cottage almost frightened her. It seemed to point to emptiness. Surely Laurel Cottage must be unfurnished.

There was no reply, no sign of life.

She knocked again. She knocked a third time.

Then the stillness of the place, and the darkness of the long avenue away up where the trees met in a verdant arch, became intolerable. She turned and walked quickly out on to the road again.



CHAPTER XV

AT "THE CEDARS"

Zoe was nonplussed. She was unable to believe that this deserted place was the spot referred to by Severac Bablon. She still clung to the idea that there must be some mistake, though she had the evidence of her own eyes that the cottage was called Laurel Cottage.

The notion of writing a note and slipping it through the letter-box came to her. But she remembered that there was no letter-box. Then, such a course might be dangerous.

She looked gratefully towards the beam of light from the cab lamps. The solitude was getting on her nerves. Yes, she determined, she would write a note, and put it under the door. She need not sign it.

With that determination, she returned to where the taxi-man waited.

"Find it all right, miss?"

"Yes, but there's no one at home. I want to write a note and I should like you to go and slip it under the door for me. It is so lonely there, it has made me feel quite nervous. I can mind the cab!"

The man smiled and touched his cap. Taxi-men are possessed of intuitions; and this one knew perfectly well that he had a good fare and one that would pay him well enough for his trouble.

"Certainly, miss, with pleasure."

"Have you a piece of paper and a pencil?"

The man tore a leaf from a notebook and handed Zoe a pencil. Using the book as a pad, she, by the light of the near-side lamp, wrote:

"Your meeting at The Cedars known to Mr. Alden. Don't go."

"It is such a tiny piece of paper," she said. "He—they may not see it."

"I believe I've got an envelope somewhere, miss. It's got the company's name and address printed on it, and it won't be extra clean, but——"

"Oh, thank you! If you could find it——"

It was found, and proved to be even more dirty than the man's words had indicated. Zoe enclosed the note, wetted a finger of her glove, and stuck down the lapel.

"Will you please put it under the door?"

"Yes, miss. Shan't be a minute."

He was absent but a few moments.

"Back to Charing Cross Station," directed Zoe, and got into the cab again.

She had done her best. But, throughout the whole of the journey to the Strand, her mind was occupied with dire possibilities. It almost alarmed her, this too keen interest which she found herself taking in the fortunes of Severac Bablon.

At Charing Cross the taxi-man received a sovereign. It was more than double his fare. He knew, then, that his professional instincts had not misled him, but that he had been driving an American millionairess.

In the foyer of the Astoria, Mary Evershed was waiting, with Mrs. Wellington Lacey in stately attendance. Mary was simply radiant. She sprang forward to meet Zoe, both hands outsretched.

"Wherever have you been?" she cried.

"Picture show!" said Zoe, with composed mendacity, glancing at the aristocratic chaperon.

"I could not possibly wait until the morning," Mary ran on, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "I had to run along here straight from horrid, stuffy Downing Street to tell you. Dick has inherited a fortune."

"What!" said Zoe, and grasped both her friend's hands. "Inherited a fortune!"

"Well—not quite a fortune, perhaps—five thousand pounds."

And John Jacob Oppner's daughter, a real chum to the core, never even smiled. For she knew what five thousand pounds meant to these two, knew that it meant more than five hundred thousands meant to her; since it meant the difference between union and parting, between love and loss, meant that Sir Richard Haredale could now shake off the fetters that bound him, and look the world in the face.

"Oh, Mary," she said, and her pretty eyes were quite tearful. "How very, very glad I am! Isn't it just great! It sounds almost too good to be true! Come right upstairs and tell me all about it!"

In Zoe's cosy room the story was told, not a romantic one in its essentials, but romantic enough in its potential sequel. A remote aunt was the benefactress; and her death, news of which had been communicated to Sir Richard that evening, had enriched him by five thousand pounds and served to acquaint him, at its termination, with the existence of a relation whom he had never met and rarely heard of.

Mr. Oppner came in towards the close of the story, and offered dry congratulations in that singular voice which seemed to have been preserved, for generations, in sand.

"He ought to invest it," he said. "Runeks are a good thing."

"You see," explained Mary. "He hasn't actually got it yet, only the solicitor's letter. And he says he will be unable to believe in his good luck until the money is actually in the bank!"

"Never let money lie idle," preached Oppner. "Banks fatten on such foolishness. Look at Hague. Ain't he fat?"

Though it must have been imperceptible to another, Zoe detected, in her father's manner, a suppressed excitement; and augured from it a belief that the capture of Severac Bablon was imminent.

However, when Mary was gone, Mr. Oppner said nothing of the matter which, doubtless, occupied his mind, and Zoe felt too guilty to broach the subject. They retired at last, without having mentioned the name of Severac Bablon.

Zoe found sleep to be impossible, and lay reading until long past one o'clock. But when the book dropped from her hands, she slept soundly and dreamlessly.

In the morning she scanned her mail anxiously. But there was nothing to show that her warning had been received. Could it be that Severac Bablon had suddenly deserted the cottage for some reason, and that he would to-night walk, blindly, into the trap prepared for him?

She was anxious to see her father. And his manner, at breakfast, but dimly veiled an evident exultation. He ate very little, leaving her at the table, with one of his dry though not unkindly apologies, to go off with the stoical Mr. Alden.

If only she had a friend in whom she might confide, whose advice she might seek. Zoe laughed a little to think how excited she was on behalf of Severac Bablon and how placidly she surveyed the possibility of her father's being relieved of a huge sum of money.

"That's the worst of knowing Pa's so rich!" she mused philosophically.

The morning dragged wearily on. Noon came. Nothing and nobody interested Zoe. She went to be measured for a gown and could not support the tedium of the operation.

"Send someone to the Astoria to-morrow," she said. "I just can't stand here any longer."

In the afternoon she called upon Sheila Vignoles, but everyone, from Lord Vignoles to the butler, irritated her. She came away with a headache. With the falling of dusk, her condition grew all but insupportable. Her father had been absent all day. She had met no one who would be likely to know anything about the night's expedition.

She sat looking out from her window at the Embankment, where lights were now glowing, point after point, through the deepening gloom.

It was as she stood there, vainly wondering what was going forward, that her father, his spare figure enveloped in a big motor coat, his cap pulled down upon his brow, walked along Richmond High Street beside Mr. Alden.

"By the time we get there," said the latter, rolling the inevitable cheroot from one corner of his mouth to the other, "it will be dark enough for our purpose. It's a warm night, and dry, which is fortunate, and I've marked a place right opposite the gate where we can lie all snug until we're wanted."

"Can you rely on Sullivan's men?"

"He's sending eight of the best. At his office, this afternoon I went over a plan of the place with them. It's impossible to march a troop up to the house to reconnoitre. They know exactly what they've got to do. It will be covered all around. A cat won't be able to come out of The Cedars, sir, without being noted!"

"Yep. And when we march up to the door?"

"Directly it's opened," explained Alden patiently, "I'll hold it open! Then, in go five Sullivan men, Martin and you. But there'll still be a man covering every egress from the house. If anybody tries to get out there'll be someone to hold him up and to whistle for more help if it's needed."

"Seems all right," said Oppner; "if we don't get loaded up with lead. Is this place much further? We seem to have been walkin' up this blame hill for hours."

"See that white milestone? Well, the first gate is fifty yards beyond, on the right."

"Have the crowd arrived yet?"

"Some of them. They're drafting up singly and in couples. There ought to be four on the river side of the place by now, and Martin waiting somewhere around the front."

"Four to come, yet?"

"Yep. Two for the other gate of the drive, and two for the lane that leads down to the river."

They plodded on in silence. Abreast of the milestone, but without stopping, Alden whistled softly.

He was answered from somewhere among the trees bordering the left of the road.

"That's Martin!" he said. "Come on, Mr. Oppner, through this gap in the fence."

Mr. Oppner crawled, in undignified silence, through the gap indicated.

"You see," explained Alden's voice out of the gloom, "farther along are open rails and dense bushes. That's where we're going to watch from. We'll see every soul that comes up."

"You're stone sure it's to-night they arranged?"

Patiently, Alden replied: "Stone sure."

"Because," drawled Oppner, stumbling along in the darkness, "this is not in my line."

"Sss!" came from close at hand.

Mr. Oppner started.

"That you, Martin?" from Alden.

"Yes; no one has gone in yet. But a ground floor room is lighted up, and also the conservatory."

"Right."

There was a momentary faint gleam of light. Mr. Alden was consulting his electrically-lighted watch.

"Time they were all posted," he said. "Martin, do the rounds. Hustle!"

Martin was heard slipping away through the bushes. Then came silence. Oppner and Alden were now at a point directly opposite a gate, and in full view of the house. Many of the windows were illuminated.

"Does the lawn slope down to the towpath?" came Oppner's voice.

"Sure. There are men on the towpath."

Silence fell once more. From somewhere down the road, in the direction of Richmond, was wafted a faint tinkling sound. Oppner heard Alden moving.

"I'll have to leave you for a minute," said the detective. "Don't be scared if Martin comes back."

Without waiting for a reply, Alden departed. Mr. Oppner heard him brushing against the bushes in passing. Crouching there uncomfortably, and looking out across the road to the gateway of The Cedars, Oppner saw a singular thing, a thing that made him wonder.

He saw Alden run swiftly across from the gap in the fence by which they had entered their hiding-place, to the gate opposite. He saw him run in. Then he disappeared. Whilst Oppner was thrashing his brains for a solution to this man[oe]uvre, a faint rattling sound drew his gaze down the hill.

Someone was approaching on a bicycle!

Almost holding his breath, he watched. Nearer came the rider, and nearer. Immediately before the gate of The Cedars he dismounted. He was a telegraph messenger.

At that moment Alden came strolling out, smoking his cigar and pulling on a pair of gloves.

"Hullo, boy!" he said; his voice was clearly audible to the listening Oppner. "Got a wire for me? I've been expecting it all the evening."

The boy opened his wallet, but with some hesitation.

"Dr. Phillips," continued Alden, "that right?"

The boy hesitated no longer.

"Phillips, yes, sir," he said, and handed the telegram to Alden.

With a nonchalant air which excited Mr. Oppner's admiration, Alden walked to a lamp some little distance away, tore open the yellow envelope, and read the message.

"All right, boy," he said. "No reply. Here, catch!"

He tossed the boy a coin, and with a touch of genius which showed him to be a really great detective, halted a moment, scratched his chin, and as the boy again mounted his bicycle, re-entered the gate of The Cedars.

"That's real cute!" murmured Oppner.

The boy having ridden off, Alden slipped warily out on to the road, ran across, and was lost to view. Presently a rustling in the bushes told of his return to Oppner's side.

"It's from Sheard," whispered the detective. "Our man must have written him further particulars, same as he said he'd do. It just reads: 'Detained. S.' But it was handed in at Fleet Street, and I haven't any doubt who sent it."

"He's smart, is Sheard," said Mr. Oppner. "He smelled trouble, or maybe he got wise to us——"

"Sss!"

"That you, Martin?"—from Alden.

"All right. Everybody seems to be posted. They're all finely out of sight, too."

"Good. The newspaper man isn't coming. See me get the wire?"

"Yes. I wonder if the rest will come."

"Hope so. I don't want to have to open the ball, because until some visitors have gone in we haven't got any real evidence that Severac Bablon is there himself."

"Quiet," said Martin.

A measured tread proclaimed itself, drew nearer, and a policeman passed their hiding-place. When the regular footsteps had died away again:

"If he knew who's leased The Cedars," murmured Alden, "he'd be a sergeant sooner than he expects."

Which remark was the last contributed by any of the party for some considerable time. Alden's description of the road before The Cedars as a lonely one was fully justified. From the time of Martin's return until that when the big car drove up and turned into the drive, not a solitary pedestrian passed their hiding-place.

A laggard moon sailed out from a cloud-bank and painted the road white as far as the eye could follow it. Then came a breeze from the river, to sing drearily through the trees. In the intervals, when the breeze was still, its absence seemed in some way, to stimulate the watchers' power of hearing, so that they could detect vague sounds which proceeded from the river. The creak of oars told of a late rower on the stream—a voice was wafted up to them, to be drowned in the sighing of the leaves set swaying by the new breeze.

Then came the car.

The whirr of the motor announced its coming from afar off; but, so swiftly did it travel, that it was upon them a moment later. As it swung around and on to the drive of The Cedars its number showed clearly.

"3509," said Martin. "That's Mr. Antony Elschild!"

"Gee!" said Oppner, and his sandy voice shook somewhat, perhaps owing to the chill of the breeze. "This is getting real exciting!"

The car was delayed some little time before the door of the house, then driven around, and out at the further gate of the drive. It returned by the way it had come, racing down the hill at something considerably exceeding the legal speed. The thud-thud-thud of the motor died away, and became inaudible.

"I'm glad the police aren't with us, and yet sorry," said Oppner. "This is a whole-hog conspiracy properly. No wonder he was so hard to catch; look at the class of people he's got in with him! Think of Elschild! Gee! There's goin' to be a scene in a minute."

"For the present," said Alden, "we'll make no move; we'll just sit tight. There's maybe a lot to arrive yet."

Just before the breeze came creeping up from the river again, thud-thud-thud was borne to their ears. Another car was approaching.



CHAPTER XVI

THE LAMP AND THE MASK

"10761," said Alden. "I wonder whose car that is."

None of the watchful trio had any idea. But whomever was within it, the second car performed exactly the same man[oe]uvres as the first, and, a few moments after its appearance, was lost to sight and hearing once more.

But a matter of seconds later, came the familiar thud-thud-thud; and a third car plunged up the hill and went swinging around the drive. Again, no one of the three was able to recognise the number. Out by the further gate of the drive it passed, turned, and flashed by them in the darkness, to go leaping down the slope.

"Three," said Alden. "I wonder if there's any more."

His tone was thoughtful.

"Say," began Mr. Oppner, "we'd better get on with it now, because——"

"I know," Alden interrupted, "there may be only one more to come? You're thinking that, after all those expected have arrived, there'll be trouble in getting the door to open?"

"I was thinking that, too," said Martin. "Maybe they're all arrived as it is; but we stand a still worse chance if we wait."

"Come on," said Mr. Oppner, with a rising excitement evident in his voice. "We know there's one big fish in the net, anyway!"

Thud-thud-thud!

"There's another car coming," cried Alden. "Hurry up, Mr. Oppner! This way. Mind your head through this broken part. We'll be on the steps as the car comes around the drive!"

They crept through the gap below and ran across the road, Oppner as actively as either of his companions. Already, the white beam of the headlight was cutting-the gloom, below, where the road was heavily bordered with trees.

"Just in time!"

Past the gate they ran, and pattered on to the drive. Behind them, a big car was just spinning past the gate. As it came leaping along the drive Alden ran up the four stone steps to the door and jammed his thumb hard against the bell button.

At the same moment, Martin whistled shrilly, three times.

Whereupon affairs began to move in meteoric fashion.

Several people came bundling out of the car. From the gloom all about it there sounded the scamper of hurrying feet.

The door was thrown open, and a blaze of light swept the steps.

Alden leapt over the threshold, pistol in hand, yelling at the same time:

"Follow me, boys!"

Like the swoop of heated play to a goal burst a human wave upon the steps. Oppner and Martin were swept irresistibly upward and inward. They were surrounded, penned in. Then:

"Break away, you goldarned idiot!" rose Alden's angry voice ahead.

The lights went out. The door slammed.

"Alden!" cried Mr. Oppner. "Alden!"

Someone pinioned him from behind.

"There's a mistake, you blamed ass!" he screamed. "I ain't one of 'em! Alden! Martin!"

A hand was pressed firmly over his mouth, and with veins swelling up and eyes starting from his head in impotent fury, Mr. Oppner was hustled forward through the darkness.

Around him a number of people seemed to be moving, and when he found his feet upon stairs, several unseen hands were outstretched to thrust him upward. The darkness was impenetrable.

Apparently the stair was uncarpeted, as likewise was the corridor along which he presently found himself proceeding. The echo of many footsteps rang through the house. It sounded shell-like, empty. Then it seemed to him that not so many were about him. He felt his revolver slide from his hip-pocket. He was pushed gently forward, and a door closed behind him. The sound of footsteps died away with that of whispering voices.

Came a sudden angry roar, muffled, distant, he thought in the voice of Alden. It was stifled, cut off ere it had come to full crescendo, in a very significant manner. Silence, then, fell about him, the chill silence of an empty house.

Cautiously he turned and felt for the door, which he knew to be close behind him. He was obsessed by a childish, though not unnatural, fear of falling through some trap.

He touched the door-knob, turned it. As he had anticipated, the door was locked. He wondered if there were any windows to this strangely dark apartment. With his fingers touching the wall, he crept slowly forward, halting at every other step to listen; but the night gave up no sound.

The tenth pace brought him to a corner. He turned off at right angles, still pursuing the wall, and came upon shutters, closely barred. He pressed on, came to another corner; proceeded, another; and finally touched the door-knob again.

This was a square room, apparently, and unfurnished. But what might not yawn for him in the middle of the floor? He remembered that the river ran at the end of the garden.

Pressing his ear to the door, he listened intently.

Without, absolutely nothing stirred. He drew a quick, sibilant breath, and turned, planting his back against the door and clenching his fists.

Suddenly it had been borne in upon his mind that something, someone, was in the room with him!

Vainly he sought to peer through the darkness. His throat was parched.

A dim glow was born in the heart of the gloom. Scarce able to draw breath, fearing what he might see, yet more greatly fearing to look away, even for an instant, Mr. Oppner stared and stared. His eyes ached.

Brighter became the glow, and proclaimed itself a ball of light. It illuminated the face that was but a few inches removed from it. In the midst of that absolute darkness the effect was indescribably weird. Nothing for some moments was visible but just that ball of light and the dark face with the piercing eyes gleaming out from slits in a silk mask.

Then the ball became fully illuminated, and Oppner saw that it was some unfamiliar kind of lamp, and that it rested in a sort of metal tripod upon a plain deal table, otherwise absolutely bare.

Save for this table, the lamp, and a chair, the room was entirely innocent of furniture. Upon the chair, with his elbows resting on the table, sat a man in evening dress. He was very dark, very well groomed, and seemingly very handsome; but the black silk half-mask effectually disguised him. His eyes were arresting. Mr. Oppner did not move, and he could not look away.

For he knew that he stood in the presence of Severac Bablon.

The latter pushed something across the table in Oppner's direction.

"Your cheque-book," he said, "and a fountain pen."

Mr. Oppner gulped; did not stir, did not speak. Severac Bablon's voice was vaguely familiar to him.

"You are the second richest man in the United States," he continued, "and the first in parsimony. I shall mulct you in one hundred thousand pounds!"

"You'll never get it!" rasped Oppner.

"No? Well let us weigh the possibilities, one against the other. There have been protests, from rival journals, against the Gleaner's acceptance of foreign money for British national purposes. This I had anticipated, but such donations have had the effect of stimulating the British public. If the cheques already received, and your own, which you are about to draw, are not directly devoted to the purpose for which they are intended, I can guarantee that you shall not be humiliated by their return!"

"Ah!" sighed Oppner.

"The Gleaner newspaper has made all arrangements with an important English firm to construct several air vessels. The materials and the workmanship will be British throughout, and the vessels will be placed at the disposal of the authorities. The source of the Gleaner's fund thus becomes immaterial. But, in recognition of the subscribers, the vessels will be named 'Oppner I.,' 'Oppner II.,' 'Hague I.,' etc."

"Yep?"

"At some future time we may understand one another better, Mr. Oppner. For the present I shall make no overtures. I have no desire unduly to mystify you, however. The men whom Mr. Martin of Pinkerton's, found surrounding this house were not the men from Sullivan's Agency, but friends of my own. Sullivans were informed at the last moment that the raid had been abandoned. The car, again, which you observed, is my own. I caused it to be driven to and fro between here and Richmond Bridge for your especial amusement, altering the number on each occasion. Finally, any outcry you may care to raise will pass unnoticed, as The Cedars has been leased for the purpose of a private establishment for the care of mental cases."

"You're holding me to ransom?"

"In a sense. But you would not remain here. I should remove you to a safer place. My car is waiting."

"You can't hold me for ever." Mr. Oppner was gathering courage. This interview was so very businesslike, so dissimilar from the methods of American brigandage, that his keen, commercial instincts were coming to the surface. "Any time I get out I can tell the truth and demand my money back."

"It is so. But on the day that you act in that manner, within an hour from the time, your New York mansion will be burned to a shell, without loss of life, but with destruction of property considerably exceeding in value the amount of your donation to the Gleaner fund. I may add that I shall continue to force your expenditures in this way, Mr. Oppner, until such time as I bring you to see the falsity of your views. On that day we shall become friends."

"Ah!"

"You may wonder why I have gone to the trouble to make a captive of you, here, when by means of such a menace alone I might have achieved my object; I reply that you possess that stubborn type of disposition which only succumbs to force majeure. Your letter to the Gleaner explaining your views respecting the Dominion, and proposing that an air-vessel be christened 'The Canada,' is here, typed; you have only to sign it. The future, immediate, and distant is entirely in your own hands, Mr. Oppner. You will remain my guest until I have your cheque and your signature to this letter. You will always be open to sudden demands upon your capital, from me, so long as you continue, by your wrongful employment of the power of wealth, to blacken the Jewish name. For it is because you are a Jew that I require these things of you."



CHAPTER XVII

THE DAMASCUS CURTAIN

The British public poured contributions into the air-fleet fund with a lavishness that has never been equalled in history. For, after the stupendous sums, each one a big fortune in itself, which the Jewish financiers had subscribed, every man who called himself a Britisher (and who thought that Britain really needed airships) came forward with his dole.

There was a special service held at the Great Synagogue in Aldgate, and Juda was exalted in public estimation to a dizzy pinnacle.

One morning, whilst the enthusiasm was at its height, Mr. Oppner rose from the breakfast table upon hearing the 'phone bell ring.

"Zoe," he said, "if that's a reporter, tell him I'm ill in bed."

He shuffled from the room. Since the night of the abortive raid upon The Cedars he had showed a marked aversion from the society of newspaper men. Regarding the facts of his donation to the fund he had vouchsafed no word to Zoe. Closely had the story of his doings at Richmond been hushed up; as closely as a bottomless purse can achieve such silencing, but, nevertheless, Zoe knew the truth.

Sheard was shown in.

"Excuse me," he said hastily, "but I wanted to ask Mr. Oppner if there is anything in this article"—he held out a proof slip—"that he would like altered. It's for the Magazine of Empire. They're having full-page photographs of all the Aero Millionaires, that's what they call them now!"

"Can you leave it?" asked Zoe. "He is dressing—and not in a very good temper."

"Right!" said Sheard promptly, and laid the slip on the table. "'Phone me if there is anything to come out. Good-bye."

Zoe was reading the proof when her father came in again.

"Newspaper men been here?" he drawled. "Thought so. What a poor old addle-pated martyr I am."

"Listen," began Zoe, "this is an article all about you! It quotes Dr. Herman Hertz, that is to say, it represents you as quoting him! It says:—

"'The true Jew is an integral part of the life and spiritual endeavour of every nation where Providence has allotted his home. And as for the Jews of this Empire, which is earth's nearest realisation hitherto of justice coupled with humanity, finely has a noble Anglo-Jewish soldier, Colonel Goldschmidt, expressed it: "Loyalty to the flag for which the sun once stood still can only deepen our devotion to the flag on which the sun never sets."' Is that all right?"

"H'm!" said Oppner. "Have Rohscheimer and Jesson seen this article?"

"Don't know!" answered Zoe.

"Because," explained Oppner, "they've showed their blame devotion to the flag on which the sun don't set, same as me, and if they can stand it, my hide's as tough as theirs, I reckon."

It was whilst Mr. Oppner was thus expressing himself that Sheard, who, having left the proof at the Astoria, had raced back to the club to keep an appointment, quitted the club again (his man had disappointed him), and walked down the court to Fleet Street.

Mr. Aloys. X. Alden, arrayed in his capacious tweed suit, a Stetson felt hat, and a pair of brogues with eloquent Broadway welts, liquidated the business that had detained him in the "Cheshire Cheese" and drifted idly in the same direction.

A taxi-driver questioned Sheard with his eyebrows, but the pressman, after a moment's hesitancy, shook his head, and, suddenly running out into the stream of traffic, swung himself on a westward bound bus. Pausing in the act of lighting a Havana cigarette, Alden hailed the disappointed taxi-driver and gave him rapid instructions. The broad-brimmed Stetson disappeared within the cab, and the cab darted off in the wake of the westward bound bus.

Such was the price that Mr. Thomas Sheard must pay for the reputation won by his inspired articles upon Severac Bablon. For what he had learnt of him during their brief association had enabled that clever journalist to invest his copy with an atmosphere of "exclusiveness" which had attracted universal attention.

As a less pleasant result, the staff of the Gleaner—and Sheard in particular—were being kept under strict surveillance.

Sheard occupied an outside seat, and as the bus travelled rapidly westward, Fleet Street and the Strand offered to his gratified gaze one long vista of placards:

"M. DUQUESNE IN LONDON."

That item was exclusive to the Gleaner, and had been communicated to Sheard upon a plain correspondence card, such as he had learnt to associate with Severac Bablon. The Gleaner, amongst all London's news-sheets, alone could inform a public, strung to a tense pitch of excitement, that M. Duquesne, of the Paris police, was staying at the Hotel Astoria, in connection with the Severac Bablon case.

As the bus stopped outside Charing Cross Station, Sheard took a quick and anxious look back down the Strand. A taxi standing near the gates attracted his attention, for, although he could not see the Stetson inside, he noted that the cab was engaged, and, therefore, possibly occupied. It was sufficient, in these days of constant surveillance, to arouse his suspicion; it was more than sufficient to-day to set his brain working upon a plan to elude the hypothetical pursuer. He had become, latterly, an expert in detecting detectives, and now his wits must be taxed to the utmost.

For he had a correspondence card in his pocket which differed from those he was used to, in that it bore the address, 70A Finchley Road, and invited him to lunch with Severac Bablon that day!

With the detectives of New York and London busy, and, now, with the famous Duquesne in town, Sheard well might survey the Strand behind, carefully, anxiously, distrustfully.

Severac Bablon, so far as he was aware, no longer had any actual hold upon him. There was no substantial reason why he should not hand the invitation—bearing that address which one man, alone, in London at that hour cheerfully would have given a thousand pounds to know—to the proper authorities. But Severac Bablon had appealed strongly, irresistibly, to something within Sheard that had responded with warmth and friendship. Despite his reckless, lawless deeds, the pressman no more would have thought of betraying him than of betraying the most sacred charge. In fact, as has appeared, he did not hesitate to aid and abet him in his most outrageous projects. But yet he wondered at the great, the incredible audacity of this super-audacious man who now had entrusted to him the secret of his residence.

Hastily descending from the bus, he walked quickly forward to the nearest tobacconist's and turned in the entrance to note if the man who might be in the taxi would betray his presence.

He did.

The Stetson appeared from the window, and a pair of keen grey eyes fixed themselves upon the door wherein Sheard was lurking.

A rapid calculation showed the pressman where lay his best chance. Darting across the road, he dived, rabbit-like, into the burrow of the Tube, got his ticket smartly, and ran to the stairway. With his head on a level with the floor of the booking-offices he paused.

An instant later the canoe-shaped brogues came clattering down from above. The American took in the people in the hall with one comprehensive glance, got a ticket without a moment's delay, and jumped into a lift that was about to descend.

Two minutes afterwards Sheard was in a cab bound for the house of Severac Bablon. The New Journalism is an exciting vocation.

He discharged the cabman at the corner of Finchley Road, and walked along to No. 70A.

Opening the monastic looking gate, he passed around a trim lawn and stood in the porch of one of those small and picturesque houses which survive in some parts of red-brick London.

A man who wore conventional black, but who looked like an Ababdeh Arab, opened the door before he had time to ring. He confirmed Sheard's guess at his Eastern nationality by the manner of his silent salutation. Without a word of inquiry he conducted the visitor to a small room on the left of the hall and retired in the same noiseless fashion.

The journalist had anticipated a curious taste in decoration, and he was not disappointed. For this apartment could not well be termed a room; it was a mere cell.

The floor was composed of blocks—or perhaps only faced with layers of red granite; the walls showed a surface of smooth plaster. An unglazed window which opened on a garden afforded ample light, and, presumably for illumination at night, an odd-looking antique lamp stood in a niche. A littered table, black with great age and heavily carved, and a chair to match, stood upon a rough fibre mat. There was no fireplace. The only luxurious touch in the strange place was afforded by a richly Damascened curtain, draped before a recess at the farther end.

From the table arose Severac Bablon, wearing a novel garment strangely like a bernouse.

"My dear Sheard," he said warmly and familiarly, "I am really delighted to see you again."

Sheard shook his hand heartily. Severac Bablon was as irresistible as ever.

"Take the arm-chair," he continued, "and try to overlook the peculiarities of my study. Believe me, they are not intended for mere effect. Every item of my arrangements has its peculiar note of inspiration, I assure you."

Sheard turned, and found that a deep-seated, heavily-cushioned chair, also antique, and which he had overlooked, stood close behind him. An odd perfume hung in the air.

"Ah," said Severac Bablon, in his softly musical voice, "you have detected my vice."

He passed an ebony box to his visitor, containing cigarettes of a dark yellow colour. Sheard lighted one, and discovered it possessed a peculiar aromatic flavour, which he found very fascinating. Severac Bablon watched him with a quizzical smile upon his wonderfully handsome face.

"I am afraid there is opium in them," he said.

Sheard started.

"Do not fear," laughed the other. "You cannot develop the vice, for these cigarettes are unobtainable in London. Their history serves to disprove the popular theory that the use of tobacco was introduced from Mexico in the sixteenth century. These were known in the East generations earlier."

And so, with the mere melody of his voice, he re-established his sovereignty over Sheard's mind. His extraordinary knowledge of extraordinary matters occasioned the pressman's constant amazement. From the preparations made for the reception of the Queen of Sheba at Solomon's court in 980 B.C. he passed to the internal organisation of the Criminal Investigation Department.

"I should mention," said Sheard at this point, "that an attempt was made to follow me here."

Severac Bablon waved a long white hand carelessly.

"Never mind," he replied soothingly. "It is annoying for you, but I give you my word that you shall not be compromised by me—come, luncheon is waiting. I will show you the only three men in Europe and America who might associate the bandit, the incendiary, with him who calls himself Severac Bablon."

He stood up and gazed abstractedly in the direction of the garden. In silence he stood looking, not at the garden, but beyond it, into some vaster garden of his fancy. Sheard studied him with earnest curiosity.

"Will you never tell me," he began abruptly, "who you are really, what is the source of your influence, and what is your aim in all this wild business?"

Severac Bablon turned and regarded him fixedly.

"I will," he said, "when the day comes—if ever it does come." A shadow crept over his mobile features.

"I am a dreamer, Sheard," he continued, "and perhaps a trifle mad. I am trying to wield a weapon that my fathers were content to let rust in its scabbard. For the source of the influence you speak of—its emblem lies there."

He pointed a long, thin finger to the recess veiled with its heavy Damascus curtain.

"May I see it?"

The quizzical smile returned to the fine face.

"Oh, thou of the copy-hunting soul," exclaimed Severac Bablon. "A day may come. But it is not to-day."

He seized Sheard by the arm and led him out into the hall.

"Look at these three portraits," he directed. "The three great practical investigators of the world. Mr. Brinsley Monro, of Dearborn Street, Chicago; Mr. Paul Harley, of Chancery Lane; and last, but greatest, M. Victor Lemage, of Paris."

"Is Duquesne acting under his instructions?"

"M. Lemage took charge of the case this morning."

Sheard looked hard at Severac Bablon. Victor Lemage, inventor of the anthroposcopic system of identification, the greatest living authority upon criminology, was a man to be feared.

Severac Bablon smiled, clapped both hands upon his shoulders, and looked into his eyes.

"It is the lighter side of my strange warfare," he said. "I revel in it, Sheard. It refreshes me for more serious things. This evening you must arrange to meet me for a few moments. I shall have a 'scoop' to offer you for the Gleaner. Do not fail me. It will leave you ample time to get on to Downing Street afterwards. You see, I knew you were going to Downing Street to-night! Am I not a magician? I shall wire you. If, when you ring at the door of the house to which you will be directed, no one replies, go away at once. I will then communicate the news later. And now—lunch."



CHAPTER XVIII

A WHITE ORCHID

Whoever could have taken a peep into a certain bare-looking room at Scotland Yard some three hours after Sheard had left Finchley Road must have been drawn to the conclusion that the net was closing more tightly about Severac Bablon than he supposed.

Behind a large, bare table, upon which were some sheets of foolscap, a metal inkpot, and pens, sat Chief Inspector Sheffield. On three uncomfortable-looking chairs were disposed Detective Sergeant Harborne, he of the Stetson and brogues, and M. Duquesne, of Paris. Stetson and brogues, as became a non-official, observed much outward deference towards the Chief Inspector in whose room he found himself.

"We may take it, then," said Sheffield, with a keen glance of his shrewd, kindly eyes towards the American and the celebrated little Frenchman, "that Bablon, when he isn't made up, is a man so extremely handsome and of such marked personality that he'd be spotted anywhere. We have some reason to believe that he's a Jew. The head of the greatest Jewish house in Europe has declined to deny, according to M. Duquesne, that he knows who he is, and"—consulting a sheet of foolscap—"Mr. Alden, here, from New York, volunteers the information that H. T. Sheard, of the Gleaner, went to see Bablon this morning. We are aware, from information by Sir Leopold Jesson, that this newspaper man is acquainted with B. But we can't act on it. We understand that Bablon has a house in or near to London. None of us"—looking hard at Alden—"have any idea of the locality. There are two rewards privately offered, totalling L3,000—which is of more interest to Mr. Alden than to the rest of us—and M. Duquesne is advised this morning that his Chief is coming over at once. Now, we're all as wise as one another"—with a second hard look at his French confrere and Alden—"so we can all set about the job again in our own ways."

After this interesting conference, whereof each member had but sought to pump the others, M. Duquesne, entering Whitehall, almost ran into a tall man, wearing a most unusual and conspicuous caped overcoat, silk lined; whose haughty, downward glance revealed his possession of very large, dark eyes; whose face was so handsome that the little Frenchman caught his breath; whose carriage was that of a monarch or of one of the musketeers of Louis XIII.

With the ease of long practice, M. Duquesne formed an unseen escort for this distinguished stranger.

Arriving at Charing Cross, the latter, without hesitation, entered the telegraph office. M. Duquesne also recollected an important matter that called for a telegram. In quest of a better pen he leaned over to the compartment occupied by the handsome man, but was unable to get so much as a glimpse of what he was writing. Having handed in his message in such a manner that the ingenious Frenchman was foiled again, he strode out, the observed of everyone in the place, but particularly of M. Duquesne.

To the latter's unbounded astonishment, at the door he turned and raised his hat to him ironically.

Familiar with the characteristic bravado of French criminals, that decided the detective's next move. He stepped quickly back to the counter as the polite stranger disappeared.

"I am Duquesne of Paris," he said in his fluent English to the clerk who had taken the message, and showed his card. "On official business I wish to inspect the last telegram which you received."

The clerk shook his head.

"Can't be done. Only for Scotland Yard."

Duquesne was a man of action. He wasted not a precious moment in feckless argument. It was hard that he should have to share this treasure with another. But in seven minutes he was at New Scotland Yard, and in fifteen he was back again to his great good fortune, with Inspector Sheffield.

The matter was adjusted. In the notebooks of Messrs Duquesne and Sheffield the following was written:

"Sheard, Gleaner, Tudor Street. Laurel Cottage, Dulwich Village, eight to-night."

Returning to the Astoria to make arrangements for the evening's expedition, Duquesne upon entering his room, found there a large-boned man, with a great, sparsely-covered skull, and a thin, untidy beard. He sat writing by the window, and, at the other's entrance, cast a slow glance from heavy-lidded eyes across his shoulder.

M. Duquesne bowed profoundly, hat in hand.

It was the great Lemage.

There were overwhelming forces about to take the field. France, England and the United States were combining against Severac Bablon. It seemed that at Laurel Cottage he was like to meet his Waterloo.

At twenty-five minutes to seven that evening a smart plain-clothes constable reported in Chief Inspector Sheffield's room.

"Well, Dawson?" said the inspector, looking up from his writing.

"Laurel Cottage, Dulwich, was let by the Old College authorities, sir, to a Mr. Sanrack a month ago."

"What is he like, this Mr. Sanrack?"

"A tall, dark gentleman. Very handsome. Looks like an actor."

"Sanrack—Severac," mused Sheffield. "Daring! All right, Dawson, you can go. You know where to wait."

Fifteen minutes later arrived M. Duquesne. He had been carpeted by his chief for invoking the aid of the London police in the matter of the telegram.

"Five methods occur to me instantly, stupid pig," the great Lemage had said, "whereby you might have learnt its contents alone!"

Heavy with a sense of his own dull powers of invention—for he found himself unable to conceive one, much less five such schemes—M. Duquesne came into the inspector's room.

"Does your chief join us to-night?" inquired Sheffield, on learning that the famous investigator was in London.

"He may do so, m'sieur; but his plans are uncertain."

Almost immediately afterwards they were joined by Harborne, and all three, entering one of the taxi-cabs that always are in waiting in the Yard, set out for Dulwich Village.

The night was very dark, with ample promise of early rain, and as the cab ran past Westminster Abbey a car ahead swung sharply around Sanctuary Corner. Harborne, whose business it was to know all about smart society, reported: