"Old Oppner's big Panhard in front. Going our way—Embankment is 'up.' I wonder what his Agency men are driving at? Alden's got something up his sleeve, I'll swear."

"I'd like a peep inside that car," said Sheffield.

Harborne took up the speaking-tube as the cab, in turn, rounded into Great Smith Street.

"Switch off this inside light," he called to the driver, "and get up as close alongside that Panhard ahead as you dare. She's not moving fast. Stick there till I tell you to drop back."

The man nodded, and immediately the gear snatched the cab ahead with a violent jerk. At a high speed they leapt forward upon the narrow road, swung out to the off-side to avoid a bus, and closed up to the brilliantly-lighted car.

It was occupied by two women in picturesque evening toilettes. One of them was a frizzy haired soubrette and the other a blonde. Both were conspicuously pretty. The fair girl wore a snow white orchid, splashed with deepest crimson, pinned at her breast. Her companion, who lounged in the near corner, her cloak negligently cast about her and one rounded shoulder against the window, was reading a letter; and Harborne, who found himself not a foot removed from her, was trying vainly to focus his gaze upon the writing when the fair girl looked up and started to find the cab so close. The light of a sudden suspicion leapt into her eyes as, obedient to the detective's order, the taxi-driver slowed down and permitted the car to pass. Almost immediately the big Panhard leapt to renewed speed, and quickly disappeared ahead.

Harborne turned to Inspector Sheffield.

"That was Miss Zoe Oppner, the old man's daughter."

"I know," said Sheffield sharply. "Read any of the letter?"

"No," admitted Harborne; "we were bumping too much. But there's a political affair on to-night in Downing Street. I should guess she's going to be there."

"Why? Who was the fair girl?"

"Lady Mary Evershed," answered Harborne. "It's her father's 'do' to-night. We want to keep an eye on Miss Oppner, after the Astoria Hotel business. Wish we had a list of guests."

"If Severac Bablon is down," replied Sheffield; grimly, "I don't think she'll have the pleasure of seeing him this evening. But where on earth is she off to now?"

"Give it up," said Harborne, philosophically.

"Oh, she of the golden hair and the white odontoglossum," sighed the little Frenchman, rolling up his eyes. "What a perfection!"

They became silent as the cab rapidly bore them across Vauxhall Bridge and through south-west to south-east London, finally to Dulwich Village, that tiny and dwindling oasis in the stucco desert of Suburbia.

Talking to an officer on point duty at a corner, distinguished by the presence of a pillar-box, was P.C. Dawson in mufti. He and the other constable saluted as the three detectives left the cab and joined them.

"Been here long, Dawson?" asked Sheffield.

"No, sir. Just arrived."

"You and I will walk along on the far side from this Laurel Cottage," arranged the inspector, "and M. Duquesne might like a glass of wine, Harborne, until I've looked over the ground. Then we can distribute ourselves. We've got a full quarter of an hour."

It was arranged so, and Sheffield, guided by Dawson, proceeded to the end of the Village, turned to the left, past the College buildings, and found himself in a long, newly-cut road, with only a few unfinished houses. Towards the farther end a gloomy little cottage frowned upon the road. It looked deserted and lonely in its isolation amid marshy fields. In the background, upon a slight acclivity, a larger building might dimly be discerned. A clump of dismal poplars overhung the cottage on the west.

"It's been a gate lodge at some time, sir," explained Dawson. "You can see the old carriage sweep on the right. But the big house is to be pulled down, and they've let the lodge, temporarily, as a separate residence. There's no upstairs, only one door and very few windows. We can absolutely surround it!"

"H'm! Unpleasant looking place," muttered Sheffield, as the two walked by on the opposite side. "No lights. When we've passed this next tree, slip along and tuck yourself away under that fence on the left. Don't attempt any arrest until our man's well inside. Then, when you hear the whistle, close in on the door. I'll get back now."

Ten minutes later, though Laurel Cottage presented its usual sad and lonely aspect, it was efficiently surrounded by three detectives and a constable.

Sheffield's scientific dispositions were but just completed when a cursing taxi-man deposited Sheard half way up the road, having declined resolutely to bump over the ruts any further. Dismissing the man, the keenest copy-hunter in Fleet Street walked alone to the Cottage, all unaware that he did so under the scrutiny of four pairs of eyes. Finding a rusty bell-pull he rang three times. But none answered.

It was at the moment when he turned away that Mr. Alden and an Agency colleague, who—on this occasion successfully—had tracked him since he left the Gleaner office, turned the corner by the Village. Seeing him retracing his steps, they both darted up a plank into an unfinished house with the agility of true ferrets, and let him pass. As he re-entered the Village street one was at his heels. Mr. Alden strolled along to Laurel Cottage.

With but a moment's consideration, he, taking a rapid glance up and down the road, vaulted the low fence and disposed himself amongst the unkempt laurel bushes flanking the cottage on the west. The investing forces thus acquired a fifth member.

Then came the threatened rain.

Falling in a steady downpour, it sang its mournful song through poplar and shrub. Soon the grey tiled roof of the cottage poured its libation into spouting gutters, and every rut of the road became a miniature ditch. But, with dogged persistency, the five watchers stuck to their posts.

When Sheard had gone away again, Inspector Sheffield had found himself, temporarily, in a dilemma. It was something he had not foreseen. But, weighing the chances, he had come to the conclusion to give the others no signal, but to wait.

At seven minutes past eight, by Mr. Alden's electrically lighted timepiece, a car or a cab—it was impossible, at that distance, to determine which—dropped a passenger at the Village end of the road. A tall figure, completely enveloped in a huge, caped coat, and wearing a dripping silk hat, walked with a swinging stride towards the ambush—and entered the gate of the cottage.

M. Duquesne, who, from his damp post in a clump of rhododendrons on the left of the door had watched him approach, rubbed his wet hands delightedly. Without the peculiar coat that majestic walk was sufficient.

"It is he!" he muttered. "The Severac!"

With a key which he must have held ready in his hand, the new-comer opened the door and entered the cottage. Acting upon a pre-arranged plan, the watchers closed in upon the four sides of the building, and Sheffield told himself triumphantly that he had shown sound generalship. With a grim nod of recognition to Alden, who appeared from the laurel thicket, he walked up to the door and rang smartly.

This had one notable result. A door banged inside.

Again he rang—and again.

Nothing stirred within. Only the steady drone of the falling rain broke the chilling silence.

Sheffield whistled shrilly.

At that signal M. Duquesne immediately broke the window which he was guarding, and stripping off his coat, he laid it over the jagged points of glass along the sashes and through the thickness of the cloth forced back the catch. Throwing up the glassless frame, he stepped into the dark room beyond.

To the crash which he had made, an answering crash had told him that Detective-sergeant Harborne had effected an entrance by the east window.

Cautiously he stepped forward in the darkness, a revolver in one hand; with the other he fumbled for the electric lamp in his breast pocket.

As his fingers closed upon it a slight noise behind him brought him right-about in a flash.

The figure of a man who was climbing in over the low ledge was silhouetted vaguely in the frame of the broken window.

"Ah!" hissed Duquesne. "Quick! speak! Who is that?"

"Ssh! my Duquesne!" came a thick voice. "Do you think, then, I can leave so beautiful a case to anyone?"

Duquesne turned the beam of the lantern on the speaker.

It was Victor Lemage.

Duquesne bowed, lantern in hand.

"Waste no moment," snapped Lemage. "Try that door!" pointing to the only one in the room.

As the other stepped forward to obey, the famous investigator made a comprehensive survey of the little kitchen, for such it was. Save for its few and simple appointments, it was quite empty.

"The door is locked."

"Ah, yes. I thought so."

"Hullo!" came Sheffield's voice through the window, "who's there, Duquesne?"

"It is M. Lemage. M'sieur, allow me to make known the great Scotland Yard Inspector Sheffield."

With a queer parody of politeness, Duquesne turned the light of his lantern alternately upon the face of each, as he mentioned his name.

Sheffield bowed awkwardly. For he knew that he stood in the presence of the undisputed head of his profession—the first detective in Europe.

"You have not left the front door unguarded, M'sieur the Inspector?" inquired Lemage sharply.

"No, Mr. Lemage," snapped Sheffield, "I have not. My man Dawson is there, with an Agency man, too."

"Then we surround completely the room in which he is," declared Lemage.

Such was the case, as a glance at the following plan will show.



"There are, then, three ways," said Lemage. "We may break into the front room from here, or from the room where is m'sieur your colleague. There is, no doubt, a door corresponding to this one. The other way is to go in by the window of that front room, for I have made the observation that its other window, that opens on the old drive to the east, is barred most heavily. Do I accord with the views of m'sieur?"

"Quite," said Sheffield crisply. "We'll work through the front window. Hullo, Harborne!"

"Hullo!" came the latter's voice from the next room.

"Nobody in there?"

"No. Empty room. Door's locked. What's up on your side?"

"Nothing. Mr. Lemage has joined us. Stand by for squalls. I'm going round to get in at the front-room window."

He paused and listened. They all listened.

The rain droned monotonously on the roof, but there was no other sound.

Sheffield climbed out and passed around by the poplars and through the laurel bushes to the front. Dawson and Alden stood by the door. With a pair of handcuffs the inspector broke the glass, and, adopting the same method as the Frenchman, used his coat to protect his hands from the splintered pieces in forcing the catch. The rain came down in torrents. He was drenched to the skin.

Seizing the yellow blind, he tore it from the roller, and also pulled down the curtains. By the light of the bull's-eye lantern which Dawson carried he surveyed the little sitting-room. Next, with a muttered exclamation, he leapt through and searched the one hiding-place—beneath a large sofa—which the room afforded.

On the common oval walnut table lay a caped overcoat and a rain-soaked silk hat.

The two doors—other than that guarded by Dawson and Alden—gave (1) on the room occupied by Harborne; (2) on the room occupied by Duquesne and Lemage. The keys were missing. The one window, other than that by which he had entered, was heavily barred, and in any case, visible from the front door of the cottage.

All five had seen their man enter; all had heard the banging door when Sheffield knocked. No possible exit had been unwatched for a single instant.

But the place was empty.

When the others, having searched painfully every inch of ground, joined the inspector in the front room, Harborne, taking up the silk-lined caped overcoat, observed something lying on the polished walnut beneath.

He uttered a hasty exclamation.

"Damn!" cried Duquesne at his elbow, characteristically saying the right thing at the wrong time. "A white odontoglossum crispum, with crimson spots!"

Across the table all exchanged glances.

"He is very handsome," sighed the little Frenchman.

"That is an extreme privilege," said his chief, shrugging composedly and lighting a cigarette. "It is so interesting to the women, and they are so useful. It was the women who restored your English Charles II.—but they were his ruin in the end. It is a clue, this white orchid, that inspires in me two solutions immediately."

M. Duquesne suffered, temporarily, from a slight catarrh, occasioned, no doubt, by his wetting. But he lacked the courage to meet the drooping eye of his chief.

They were some distance from Laurel Cottage when Harborne, who carried the caped coat on his arm, exclaimed:

"By the way, who has the orchid?"

No one had it.

"M. Duquesne," said Lemage calmly, "of all the stupid pigs you are the more complete."

Sheffield ran back. Dawson had been left on duty outside the cottage. The inspector passed him and climbed back through the broken window. He looked on the table and searched, on hands and knees, about the floor.

"Dawson!"

"Sir?"

"You have heard or seen nothing suspicious since we left?"

Dawson, through the window, stared uncomprehendingly.

"Nothing, sir."

The white orchid was missing.



CHAPTER XIX

THREE LETTERS

Sheard did not remain many minutes in Downing Street that night. The rooms were uncomfortably crowded and insupportably stuffy. A vague idea which his common sense was impotent to combat successfully, that he would see or hear from Severac Bablon amidst that political crush proved to be fallacious—as common sense had argued. He wondered why his extraordinary friend—for as a friend he had come to regard him—had been unable to keep his appointment. He wondered when the promised news would be communicated.

That one of the Americans, or two, to whose presence he was becoming painfully familiar, had followed him since he had left the office he was well aware. But, as he had thrown off the man who had tried to follow him to Finchley Road, he was untroubled now. They had probably secured the Dulwich address; but that was due to no fault of his own, and, in any case, Bablon seemed to regard all their efforts with complete indifference. So, presumably, it did not matter.

On his way out he met two hot and burly gentlemen, rather ill-dressed, who were hastening in. Instinctively he knew them for detective officers. Hailing a cab at the corner, he sank restfully into the seat and felt in his pocket for his cigarette-case. There was a letter there also, which he did not recollect to have been there before he entered Downing Street.

In some excitement he took it out and opened the plain envelope.

It contained a correspondence-card and a letter. Both of these, and a third letter which reached its destination on the following morning, whilst all England and all France were discussing the amazing circumstances set forth in No. 2, are appended in full.

* * * * *

No. 1

"MY DEAR SHEARD,—I enclose the promised 'exclusive to the Gleaner.' It will appear in no other paper of London, but in two of Paris, to-morrow. Forgive me for sending you to Dulwich. I did so for a private purpose of my own, and rely upon your generous friendship to excuse the liberty. I write this prior to visiting Downing Street, where it will be quite impossible, amongst so many people, to speak to you. Do not fear that there exists any evidence of complicity between us. I assure you that you are safe."

* * * * *

No. 2

"To the Editor of the Gleaner.

"SIR,—I desire to show myself, as always, a man of honour, and presume to request the freedom of your most valuable columns for that purpose. I address myself to the British public through the medium of the Gleaner as the most liberal journal in London, and that most opposed to government by plutocracy.

As the inventor of the digital system of identification, of the anthroposcopic method, and of the Code which bears my name, I am known to your readers, as well as for my years of labour against criminals of all classes and of all nations. I have been called the head of my profession, and shall I be accused of vanity if, with my hand upon my heart, I acknowledge that tribute and say, 'It is well deserved'?

"Under date as above, I am resigning my office as Chief of that department which I have so long directed, being no more in a position to perform my duties as a man of honour, since I have been instructed to take charge of what is called 'the Severac Bablon case.'

"It is the first time that my duty to France has run contrary to my duty to the great, the marvellous man whom you know by that name, and to whom I owe all that I have, all that I am; whose orders I may not and would not disregard.

"By his instructions I performed to-day a little deception upon the representatives of English law and upon one of my esteemed colleagues—a most capable and honourable man, for whom I cherish extreme regard, and whom I would wish to see in the office I now resign. He is not one of Us, and in every respect is a suitable candidate for that high post.

"I was honoured, then, by instructions to impersonate my Leader. No reference here to my powers of disguise is necessary. I took the place of him you call Severac Bablon at a certain Laurel Cottage in Dulwich. I entered with the key he had entrusted to me, too quickly to be arrested, if any had tried, and none made the attempt, which was an error of strategy (see Code, pp. 336-43). All in the dark I placed his coat and hat upon the table. I overlooked something in the gloom, but no matter. I correct my errors; it is the Secret. I was not otherwise disguised. It was not necessary. I waited until one of those watching broke into the little room at the back. I stood beside the window. Noiseless as the leopard I stepped behind him as he entered. I could have slain him with ease. I did not do so. I proclaimed myself. I was entering, too!

"Why should I name the man to whom I thus offered the one great chance of a lifetime? No, I am so old at this game. He overlooked no more than another must have done—any more than I.

"But, although outside it poured with rain, my clothes were scarce wet. How had I watched and kept dry?

"He did not ask himself. No matter. I gave him his chance. We French, to-day, are sportsmen!

"I understand that my Leader brought about this contretemps with deliberation, in order to terminate my false position, and make prominent this statement, and I am instructed to remind my authorities that State secrets of international importance are in my possession and thus in his. But, lastly, I would assure France and the world that no blot of dishonour is upon my name because I have served two masters. My great Leader never did and never will employ this knowledge to any improper end. But he would have my Government know something—so very little—of his influence and of his power. He would have them recall those warrants for his apprehension that place him on a level with the Apache, the ruffian; that are an insult to a man who has never done wrong to a living soul, but who only has exercised the fundamental, the Divine, the Mosaic Law of Justice.

"I loved my work and I love France. But I grieve not. Other work will be given to me. I make my bow; I disappear. Adieu!

"I am, sir,

"Your obedient servant, "VICTOR LEMAGE "(late Service de Surete)."

* * * * *

No. 3

(Received by Lady Mary Evershed)

"When, in your brave generosity, you accompanied your friend and mine on her perilous journey to warn me that Mr. Oppner's detectives had a plan for my capture, I knew, on the instant when you stepped into Laurel Cottage, that Miss Oppner had made a wise selection in the companion who should share her secret. I did not regret having confided that address to her discretion. The warning was unnecessary, but I valued it none the less. By an oversight, for which I reproach myself, a clue to your presence was left behind, when, but a few minutes before the police arrived, we left the cottage—which had served its purpose. But another of my good friends secured it, and I have it now. It is a white orchid. I have ventured to keep it, that it may remind me of the gratitude I owe to you both."



CHAPTER XX

CLOSED DOORS

"Why can't they open the doors? I can see there are people inside!"

A muffled roar, like that of a nearing storm at sea, drowned the querulous voice.

"Move along here, please! Move on! Move on!"

The monotonous orders of the police rose above the loud drone of the angry crowd.

Motor-buses made perilous navigation through the narrow street. The hooting of horns on taxi-cabs played a brisk accompaniment to the mournful chant. Almost from the Courts to the trebly guarded entrance of the Chancery Legal Incorporated Credit Society Bank stretched that deep rank of victims. For, at the corner of Chancery Lane, the contents-bill of a daily paper thus displayed, in suitable order of precedence, the vital topics of the moment:

MISS PAULETTE DELOTUS NOT MARRIED

Australians' Plucky Fight

IS SEVERAC BABLON IN VIENNA?

BIG CITY BANK SMASH

SLUMP IN NICARAGUAN RAILS

To some, those closed doors meant the sacrifice of jewellery, of some part of the luxury of life; to others, they meant—the drop-curtain that blacked out the future, the end of the act, the end of the play.

"Move along here, please! Move on! Move on!"

"All right, constable," said Sir Richard Haredale, smiling unmirthfully; "I'll move on—and move out!"

He extricated himself from the swaying, groaning, cursing multitude, and stepped across to the opposite side of the street. Lost in unpleasant meditation, he stood, a spruce, military figure, bearing upon his exterior nothing indicative of the ruined man. He was quite unaware of the approach of a graceful, fair girl, whose fresh English beauty already had enslaved the imaginations of some fifty lawyers' clerks returning from lunch. As ignorant of her train of conquests as Haredale was ignorant of her presence, she came up to him—and tears gleamed upon her lashes. She stood beside him, and he did not see her.

"Dick!"

The voice aroused him, and a flush came upon his tanned, healthy-looking face. A beam of gladness and admiration lost itself in a cloud, as mechanically he raised his hat, and, holding the girl's hand, glanced uneasily aside, fearing to meet the anxious tenderness in the blue eyes which, now, were deepened to something nearer violet.

"It is true, then?" she asked softly.

He nodded, his lips grimly compressed.

"Who told you," he questioned in turn, "that I had my poor scrapings in it?"

"Oh, I don't know," she said wearily. "And it doesn't matter much, does it?"

"Come away somewhere," Haredale suggested. "We can't stand here."

In silence they walked away from the clamouring crowd of depositors.

"Move along here, please! Move on! Move on!"

"Where can we go?" asked the girl.

"Anywhere," said Haredale, "where we can sit down. This will do."

They turned into a cheap cafe, and, finding a secluded table, took their seats there, Haredale drearily ordering tea, without asking his companion whether she wanted it or not. It was improbable that Lady Mary Evershed had patronised such a tea-shop before, but the novelty of the thing did not interest her in the least. It was only her pride, the priceless legacy of British womanhood, which enabled her to preserve her composure—which checked the hot tears that burned in her eyes. For the mute misery in Haredale's face was more than he could hide. With all his sang-froid, and all his training to back it, he was hard put to it to keep up even an appearance of unconcern.

Presently she managed to speak again, biting her lips between every few words.

"Had you—everything—there, Dick?"

He nodded.

"I was a fool, of course," he said. "I never did have the faintest idea of business. There are dozens of sound investments—but what's the good of whining? I have acted as unofficial secretary to Mr. Julius Rohscheimer for two years, and eaten my pride at every meal. But—I cannot begin all over again, Mary. I shall have to let him break me—and clear out."

He dropped his clenched fists upon his knees, and under the little table a hand crept to his. He grasped it hard and released it.

Mary, with a strained look in her eyes, was drumming gloved fingers on the table.

"I detest Julius Rohscheimer!" she flashed. "He is a perfect octopus. Even father fears him—I don't know why."

Haredale smiled grimly.

"But there is someone who could prevent him from ruining your life, Dick," she continued, glancing down at the table.

She did not look up for a few moments. Then, as Haredale kept silent, she was forced to do so. His grey eyes were fixed upon her face.

"Severac Bablon? What do you know of him, Mary?"

She grew suddenly pale.

"I only know"—hesitating—"that is, I think, he is a man who, however misguided, has a love of justice."

Haredale watched her.

"He is an up-to-date Claude Duval," he said harshly. "It hurts me, rather, Mary, to hear you approve of him. Why do you do so? I have noticed something of this before. Do you forget that this man, for all the romance and mystery that surround him, still is no more than a common thief—a criminal?"

Mary's lips tightened.

"He is not," she said, meeting his eyes bravely. "That is a very narrow view, Dick-"

Then, seeing the pain in the grey eyes, and remembering that this man with whom she disputed had just lost his hopes in life—his hopes of her—she reached out impulsively and grasped his arm.

"Oh, Dick!" she said; "forgive me! But I am so utterly miserable, dear, that any poor little straw seems worth grasping at."

So we must leave them; it was a situation full of poor human pathos. The emotions surging within these two hearts would have afforded an interesting study for the magical pen of Charles Dickens.

But we cannot pause to essay it; the tide of our narrative bears us elsewhere.

Mr. J. J. Oppner, the pride of Wall Street, when, his fascinating daughter, Zoe, beside him, he rose to address his guests at the Hotel Astoria that evening, would have provided a study equally interesting to Charles Dickens or to the late Professor Darwin. It would have puzzled even the distinguished biologist to reconcile the two species, represented by Mr. Oppner and Zoe, with any common origin. The millionaire's seamed and yellow face looked like nothing so much as a magnified section of a walnut. Whilst the girl, with her cloud of copper-dusted brown hair trapped within an Oriental head-dress, her piquant beauty enhanced, if that were possible, by the softly shaded lights, and the bewitching curves revealed by her evening gown borrowing a more subtle witchery from their sombre environment of black-coated plutocrats, justified the most inspired panegyric that ever had poured from the fountain-pen of a New York reporter. Mr. Oppner said:

"Gentlemen,—We have met this evening for a special purpose. With everyone's permission, we will adjourn to another room and see how we can fix things up for Mr. Severac Bablon."

He led the way without loss of time, his small, dried figure lost between that of John Macready ("the King of Coolgardie"), a stalwart, iron-grey Irishman, and the unshapely bulk of Baron Hague, once more perilously adventured upon English soil.

Sir Leopold Jesson, trim, perfectly groomed, his high, bald cranium gleaming like the dome of Solomon's temple, followed, deep in conversation with a red, raw-boned Scotsman, whose features seemed badly out of drawing, and whose eyebrows suggested shrimps. This was Hector Murray, the millionaire who had built and endowed more public baths and institutions than any man since the Emperor Vespasian. Last of all, went Julius Rohscheimer, that gross figurehead of British finance, saying, with a satirish smile, to Haredale, who had made an eighth at dinner:

"You won't mind amusing Miss Oppner, Haredale, till we're through with this little job? It's out of your line; you'll be more at home here, I'm sure."

The room chosen for this important conference was a small one, having but a single door, which opened on a tiny antechamber; this, in turn, gave upon the corridor. When the six millionaires had entered, and Mr. Oppner had satisfied himself that suitable refreshments were placed in readiness, he returned to the corridor. Immediately outside the door stood Mr. Aloys. X. Alden.

"You'll sit right there," instructed Oppner. "The man's bringing a chair and smokes and liquor, and you'll let nobody in—nobody. We can't be heard out here, with the anteroom between and both doors shut; there's only one window, and this is the sixth storey. So I guess our Bablon palaver will be private, some."

Alden nodded, bit off the end of a cheroot, and settled himself against the wall. Mr. Oppner returned to his guests. In another room Zoe and Sir Richard Haredale struggled with a conversation upon sundry matters wherein neither was interested in the least. Suddenly Zoe said, in her impulsive, earnest way:

"Sir Richard, I know you won't be angry, but Mary is my very dearest friend; we were at school together, too; and—she told me all about it this afternoon. I understand what this loss means to you, and that it's quite impossible for you to remain with Mr. Rohscheimer any longer; that you mean to resign your commission and go abroad. It isn't necessary for me to say I am sorry."

He thanked her mutely, but it was with a certain expectancy that he awaited her next words. Rumour had linked Zoe Oppner's name with that of Severac Bablon, extravagantly, as it seemed to Haredale; but everything connected with that extraordinary man was extravagant. He recalled how Mary, on more than one occasion, had exhibited traces of embarrassment when the topic was mooted, and how she had hinted that Severac Bablon might be induced to interest himself in his, Haredale's, financial loss. Could it be that Mary—perhaps through her notoriously eccentric American friend—had met the elusive wonder-worker? Haredale, be it remembered, was hard hit, and completely down. This insane suspicion had found no harbourage in his mind at any other time; but now, he hugged it dejectedly, watching Zoe Oppner's pretty, expressive face for confirmatory evidence.

"Of course, the bank has failed for more than three millions," said the girl earnestly; "but, in your own case, can nothing be done?"

Haredale lighted a cigarette, slightly shaking his head.

"I shall have to clear out. That's all"

"Oh!—but—it's real hard to say what I want to say. But—my father has business relations with Mr. Rohscheimer. May I try to do something?"

Haredale's true, generous instincts got the upper hand at that. He told himself that he was behaving, mentally, like a cad.

"Miss Oppner," he said warmly, "you are all that Mary has assured me. You are a real chum. I can say no more. But it is quite impossible, believe me."

There was such finality in the words that she was silenced. Haredale abruptly changed the subject.

An hour passed.

Two hours passed.

Zoe began to grow concerned on her father's behalf. He was in poor health, and his physician's orders were imperative upon the point of avoiding business.

Half-way through the third hour she made up her mind.

"He has wasted his time long enough," she pronounced firmly—and the expression struck Haredale as oddly chosen. "I am going to inform him that his 'conference' is closed."

She passed out into the corridor to where Mr. Alden, his chair tilted at a comfortable angle, and his brogue-shod feet upon a coffee-table which bore also a decanter, a siphon, and a box of cigars, contentedly was pursuing his instructions. He stood up as she appeared.

"Mr. Alden," she said, "I wish to speak to Mr. Oppner."

The detective spread his hands significantly.

"I respect your scruples, Mr. Alden," Zoe continued, "but my father's orders did not apply to me. Will you please go in and request him to see me for a moment?"

Perceiving no alternative, Alden opened the door, crossed the little anteroom, and knocked softly at the inner door.

He received no reply to his knocking, and knocked again. He knocked a third, a fourth time. With a puzzled glance at Miss Oppner he opened the door and entered.

An unemotional man, he usually was guilty of nothing demonstrative. But the appearance of the room wrenched a hoarse exclamation from his stoic lips.

In the first place, it was in darkness; in the second, when, with the aid of the electric lantern which he was never without, he had dispersed this darkness—he saw that it was empty!

The scene of confusion that ensued upon this incredible discovery defies description.

All the telephones in the Astoria could not accommodate the frantic people who sought them. Messenger boys in troops appeared. Hundreds of guests ran upstairs and hundreds of guests ran downstairs. Every groaning lift, ere long, was bearing its freight of police and pressmen to the scene of the most astounding mystery that ever had set London agape.

Soon it was ascertained that the current had been disconnected in some way from the room where the six magnates had met. But how, otherwise than through the door, they had been spirited away from a sixth floor apartment, was a problem that no one appeared competent to tackle; that they had not made their exit via the door was sufficiently proven by the expression of stark perplexity which dwelt upon the face of Mr. Aloys. X. Alden.

Whilst others came and went, scribbling hasty notes in dog-eared notebooks, he, a human statue of Amaze, gazed at the open window, continuously and vacantly. Jostled by the crowds of curious and interested visitors, he stood, the most surprised man in the two hemispheres.

Short of an airship, he could conceive no device whereby the missing six could have made their silent departure. He was shaken out of his stupor by Haredale.

"Pull yourself together, Mr. Alden," cried the latter. "Can't we do something? Here's half Scotland Yard in the place and nobody with an intelligent proposal to offer."

Mr. Alden shook himself, like a heavy sleeper awakened.

"Where's Miss Oppner?" he jerked.

Haredale started.

"I don't know," was his reply; "but I can go and see."

He forced his way past the knot of people at the door, ignoring Inspector Sheffield, who sought to detain him. Rapidly he ran through the rooms composing the suite. In one he met Zoe's maid, wringing her hands with extravagant emotion.

"Where is your mistress?"

"She has gone out, m'sieur. I cannot tell where. I do not know."

Haredale's heart gave a leap—and seemed to pause.

He ran to the stairs, not waiting for the overworked lift, and down into the hall.

"Has Miss Oppner gone out?" he demanded of the porter.

"Two minutes ago, sir."

"In her car?"

"No, sir. It was not ready. In a cab."

"Did you hear her directions?"

"No, sir. But the boy will know."

The boy was found.

"Where was Miss Oppner going, boy?" rapped Haredale.

"Eccleston Square, sir," was the prompt reply.

The Marquess of Evershed's. Then his suspicions had not been unfounded. He saw, in a flash of inspiration, the truth. Zoe Oppner had seen in this disappearance the hand of Severac Bablon—if, indeed, if she did not know it for his work. She was anxious about her father. She wished to appeal to Severac Bablon upon his behalf. And she had gone—not direct to the man—but to Eccleston Square. Why? Clearly because it was Lady Mary, and not herself, who had influence with him.

Hatless, Haredale ran out into the courtyard. Rohscheimer's car was waiting, and he leapt in, his grey eyes feverish. "Lord Evershed's," he called to the man; "Eccleston Square."



CHAPTER XXI

A CORNER IN MILLIONAIRES

At the moment that Julius Rohscheimer's car turned into the Square, a girl, enveloped in a dark opera wrap, but whose fair hair gleamed as she passed the open door, came alone, out of Lord Evershed's house, and entering a waiting taxi-cab, was driven away.

"Stop!" ordered Haredale hoarsely through the tube.

The big car pulled up as the cab passed around on the other side.

"Follow that cab."

With which the pursuit commenced. And Haredale found himself trembling, so violent was the war of emotions that waged within him. His deductions were proving painfully correct. Through Mayfair and St. John's Wood the cab led the way; finally into Finchley Road. Fifty yards behind, Haredale stopped the car as the cab drew up before a gate set in a high wall.

Lady Mary stepped out, opened the gate, and disappeared within. Heedless of the taxi-driver's curious stare, Haredale, a conspicuous figure in evening dress, with no overcoat and no hat, entered almost immediately afterwards.

Striding up to the porch, he was searching for bell or knocker when the door opened silently, and an Arab in spotless white robes saluted him with dignified courtesy.

"Take my card to your master," snapped Haredale, striving to exhibit no surprise, and stepped inside rapidly.

The Arab waved him to a small reception room, furnished with a wealth of curios for which the visitor had no eyes, and retired. As the man withdrew Haredale moved to the door and listened. He admitted to himself that this was the part of a common spy; but his consuming jealousy would brook no restraint.

From somewhere farther along the hall he heard, though indistinctly, a familiar voice.

Without stopping to reflect he made for a draped door, knocked peremptorily, and entered.

He found himself in a small apartment, whose form and appointments, even to his perturbed mind, conveyed a vague surprise. It was, to all intents and purposes, a cell, with stone-paved floor and plaster walls. An antique lamp, wherein rested what appeared to be a small ball of light, unlike any illuminant he had seen, stood upon a massive table, which was littered with papers. Excepting a chair of peculiar design and a magnificently worked Oriental curtain which veiled either a second door or a recess in the wall, the place otherwise was unfurnished.

Before this curtain, and facing him, pale but composed, stood Lady Mary Evershed, a sweet picture in a bizarre setting.

"Has your friend run away, then?" said Haredale roughly.

The girl did not reply, but looked fully at him with something of scorn and much of reproach in her eyes.

"I know whose house this is," continued Haredale violently, "and why you have come. What is he to you? Why do you know him—visit him—shield him? Oh! my God! it only wanted this to complete my misery. I have, now, not one single happy memory to take away with me."

His voice shook upon those last words.

"Mary," he said sadly, and all his rage was turned to pleading—"what does it mean? Tell me. I know there is some simple explanation——"

"You shall hear it, Sir Richard," interrupted a softly musical voice.

He turned as though an adder had bitten him; the blase composure which is the pride of every British officer had melted in the rays of those blue eyes that for years had been the stars of his worship. It was a very human young man, badly shaken and badly conscious of his display of weakness, who faced the tall figure in the tightly buttoned frock-coat that now stood in the open doorway.

The man who had interrupted him was one to arrest attention anywhere and in any company. With figure and face cast in a severely classic mould, his intense, concentrated gaze conveyed to Haredale a throbbing sense of force, in an uncanny degree.

"Severac Bablon!" flashed through his mind.

"Himself, Sir Richard."

Haredale, who had not spoken, met the weird, fixed look, but with a consciousness of physical loss—an indefinable sensation, probably mental, of being drawn out of himself. No words came to help him.

"You have acted to-night," continued Severac Bablon, and Haredale, knowing himself in the presence of the most notorious criminal in Europe, yet listened passively, as a schoolboy to the admonition of his Head, "you have acted to-night unworthily. I had noted you, Sir Richard, as a man whose friendship I had hoped to gain. Knowing your trials, and"—glancing at the girl's pale face—"with what object you suffered them, I had respected you, whilst desiring an opportunity to point out to you the falsity of your position. I had thought that a man who could win such a prize as has fallen to your lot must, essentially, be above all that was petty—all that was mean."

Haredale clenched his hands angrily. Never since his Eton days had such words been addressed to him. He glared at the over-presumptuous mountebank—for so he appraised him; he told himself that, save for a woman's presence, he would have knocked him down. He met the calm but imperious gaze—and did nothing, said nothing.

"A woman may be judged," continued the fascinating voice, "not by her capacity for love, but by her capacity for that rarer thing, friendship. A woman who, at her great personal peril, can befriend another woman is a pearl beyond price. Knowing me, you have ceased to fear me as a rival, Sir Richard." (To his mental amazement something that was not of his mind, it seemed, told Haredale that this was so.) "It remains only for you to hear that simple explanation. Here it is."

He handed a note to him. It was as follows:

"You have confided to me the secret of your residence, where I might see or communicate with you, and I was coming to see you to-night, but I have met with a slight accident—enough to prevent me. Lady Mary has volunteered to go alone. I will not betray your confidence, but our friendly acquaintance cannot continue unless you instantly release my father—for I know that you have done this outrageous thing. He is ill and it is very, very cruel. I beg of you to let him return at once. If you admire true friendship and unselfishness, as you profess, do this to repay Mary Evershed, who risks irretrievably compromising herself to take this note—

"ZOE OPPNER."

"Miss Oppner, descending the stairs at Lord Evershed's in too great haste," explained Severac Bablon, and a new note, faint but perceptible, had crept into his voice, "had the misfortune to sustain a slight accident—I am happy to know, no more than slight. Lady Mary brought me her message. I commit no breach of trust in showing it to you. There is a telephone in the room at Lord Evershed's in which Miss Oppner remains at present, and, as you entered, I obtained her spoken consent to do what I have done."

"Mary," Haredale burst out, "I know it is taking a mean advantage to plead that if I had not been so unutterably wretched and depressed I never could have doubted, but—will you forgive me?"

Whatever its ethical merits or demerits, it was the right, the one appeal. And it served.

Severac Bablon watched the reconciliation with a smile upon his handsome face. Though clearly but a young man, he could at will invest himself with the aloof but benevolent dignity of a father-confessor.

"The cloud has passed," he said. "I have a word for you, Sir Richard. You have learnt to-night some of my secrets—my appearance, my residence, and the identities of two of my friends. I do not regret this, although I am a 'wanted man.' Only to-night I have committed a gross outrage which, with the circulation of to-morrow's papers, will cry out for redress to the civilised world. You are at liberty to act as you see fit. I would wish, as a favour, that you grant me thirty-six hours' grace—as Miss Oppner already has done. On my word—if you care to accept it—I shall not run away. At the end of that time I will again offer you the choice of detaining me or of condoning what I have done and shall do. Which is it to be?"

Haredale did not feel sure of himself. In fact, the episodes of that night seemed, now, like happenings in a dream—a dream from which he yet was not fully awakened. He glanced from Mary to the incomprehensible man who was so completely different from anything he had pictured, from anything he ever had known. He looked about the bare, cell-like apartment, illuminated by the soft light of the globe upon the massive table. He thought of the Arab who had admitted him—of the entire absence of subterfuge where subterfuge was to be expected.

"I will wait," he said.

But in less than thirty-six hours the world had news of Severac Bablon.

At a time roughly corresponding with that when Mr. Aloys. X. Alden was standing, temporarily petrified with astonishment, in a certain room of the Hotel Astoria, two gentlemen in evening attire burst into a Wandsworth police station. One was a very angry Irishman, the other a profane Scot, whose language, which struck respectful awe to the hearts of two constables, a sergeant, and an inspector—would have done credit to the most eloquent mate in the mercantile marine.

He fired off a volley of redundant but gorgeously florid adjectives, what time he peeled factitious whiskers from his face and shook their stickiness from his fingers. His Irish friend, with brilliant but less elaborate comments, struggled to depilate a Kaiser-like moustache from his upper lip.

"What are ye sittin' still for-r?" shouted the Scotsman, and banged a card on the desk. "I'm Hector Murray, and this is John Macready of Melbourne. We've been held up by the highwaym'n Bablon. Turrn out the forrce. Turrn out the dom'd diveesion. Get a move on ye, mon!"

The accumulated power of the three names—Hector Murray, John Macready, and Severac Bablon—galvanised the station into sudden activity, and an extraordinary story, a fabulous story, was gleaned from the excited gentlemen. It appeared in every paper on the following morning, so it cannot better be presented here than in the comparatively simple form wherein it met the eyes of readers of the Gleaner's next issue. Cuts have been made where the reporter's account overlaps the preceding, or where he has become purely rhetorical.

SIX FAMOUS CAPITALISTS KIDNAPPED

SEVERAC BABLON ACTIVE AGAIN

AMAZING OUTRAGE AT THE ASTORIA

Under these heads appeared a full and finely descriptive account of the happenings already noticed.

DRAMATIC ESCAPE OF MR. MACREADY AND MR. HECTOR MURRAY

SPECIAL INTERVIEW WITH MR. MURRAY

WHERE ARE THE MISSING MAGNATES?

IS SCOTLAND YARD EFFETE?

From Mr. Hector Murray ... our special representative obtained a full account of the outrage, which threw much light upon a mystery that otherwise appeared insoluble. After ... they entered the room at the Astoria, where they had agreed to discuss a plan of mutual action against the common enemy of Capital, Mr. Murray informed our representative that nothing unusual took place for some twenty minutes or half an hour. Baron Hague had just risen to make a proposal, when the lights were extinguished.

As it was a very black night, the room was plunged into complete darkness. Before anyone had time to ascertain the meaning of the occurrence, a voice, which our representative was informed seemed to proceed from the floor, uttered the following words:

"Let no one speak or move. Mr. Macready place your revolver upon the table." (Mr. Macready was the only member of the company who was armed, and, curiously enough, as the voice commenced he had drawn his revolver.) "Otherwise, your son's yacht, the Savannah, will be posted missing. Hear me out, every one of you, lest great misfortune befall those dear to you. Mr. Murray, your sister and niece will disappear from the Villa Marina, Monte Carlo, within four hours of any movement made by you without my express permission. Mr. Oppner, you have a daughter. Believe me, she and you are quite safe—at present. Baron Hague, Sir Leopold Jesson, and Mr. Rohscheimer, my agents have orders, which only I can recall to bring you to Carey Street. I threaten no more than I can carry out. Give the alarm if it please you ... but I have warned."

During this most extraordinary speech shadowy shapes seemed to be flitting about the room. The nature of the threats uttered had, for the time, quite unmanned the six gentlemen, which is no matter for surprise. Then, at a muttered command in what Mr. Murray informed our representative to have been Arabic, four lamps—or, rather, balls of fire—appeared at the four corners of the apartment. This bizarre scene, suggestive of nothing so much as an Eastern romance, was due to the presence of several Arabs in heavy robes, who had in some way entered in the darkness, and who now stood around the walls, four of their number holding in their brown hands these peculiar globular lights, which were of a kind quite new to those present. (An article by Mr. Pearce Baldry, of Messrs. Armiston, Baldry & Co., dealing with the possible construction of these lamps, appears on page 6.)

Immediately inside the open window stood a tall man in a closely buttoned frock-coat. He carried no arms, but wore a black silk half-mask. Mr. Rohscheimer at this juncture rendered the episode even more dramatic by exclaiming:

"Good heavens! It's Severac Bablon!"

"It is, indeed, Mr. Rohscheimer," said that menace to civilised society; "so that no doubt you will respect my orders. Mr. Macready, I do not see your revolver upon the table. I have warned you twice."

Mr. Macready, who is not easily intimidated, evidently concluding that no good could come of resistance at that time, threw the revolver on to the table and folded his arms.

"I give you my word," concluded Severac Bablon, "that no bodily harm shall come to any one of you so long as you attempt no resistance. What will now be done is done only by way of precaution. Any sound would be fatal."

At a signal to the Arabs the four lights were hidden, and each of the six gentlemen were seized in the darkness in such a manner that resistance was impossible. Each had a hand clapped over his mouth, whilst he was securely gagged and bound by men who evidently had the arts of the Thug at their fingers' ends. Mr. Murray informed our representative that so certain were they of Severac Bablon's power to perform all that he had threatened that, in his opinion, no one struggled, with the exception of Mr. Macready, who, however, was promptly overpowered.

It was then that they learnt how the Arabs and their master had entered. For each of the distinguished company, commencing with Baron Hague, was lowered by a rope to a window on the fifth floor and drawn in by men who waited there.

There is no doubt that access had been gained by means of a short ladder from this lower window; indeed, Mr. Murray saw such a ladder in use when, all having descended through the darkness, the last to leave—an Arab—returned by that means. Such was the dispatch and perfect efficiency of this audacious man's Eastern gang, that Mr. Murray and his friends were all removed from the upper apartment to the lower in less than seven minutes. It will be remembered that the south wing of the Astoria has lately been faced with dark grey granite, that it was a moonless night, and that the daring operation could only have been visible, if visible at all, from the distant Embankment. No hitch occurred whatever; Severac Bablon's Arabs exhibited all the agility and quickness of monkeys. It is illustrative of his brazen methods that he then removed the gags, and invited his victims to partake of some refreshments, "as they had a long drive before them."

Needless to say, they were all severely shaken by their perilous adventure; and this led to an angry outburst from Mr. Macready, who demanded a full explanation of the outrage.

"Sir," was the reply, "it is not for you to ask. As a final warning to you and to your friends—for the provisions I have made in your case are no more complete than those which I have made in the others—permit me to tell you that eight of the twelve men manning your son's boat including two officers—are under my orders. If any obstacle be placed in my way by you a wireless message will carry instructions, though I myself lie in detention, or dead, that the Savannah be laid upon a certain course. That course, Mr. Macready, will not bring her into any port known to the Board of Trade. Shall I nominate the crew? Or are your doubts dispersed?"

The insight thus afforded them to the far-reaching influence, the all-pervading power, of this arch-brigand whose presence in our midst is a disgrace to the police of the world, was sufficient to determine them upon a passive attitude. A gentleman who seemed very nervous then appeared, and skilfully disguised all six. Mr. Rohscheimer mentioned later to Mr. Murray that in this man he had recognised, beyond any shadow of doubt, a perruquier whose name is a household word. But this doubtless was but another clever trick of the master trickster.

In three parties of two, each accompanied by an Arab dressed in European clothes, but wearing a tarboosh, they left the hotel. Disguised beyond recognition, they were conducted to a roomy car of the "family" pattern, which was in waiting; the blinds were drawn down, and they were driven away.

At the end of a rapid drive of about an hour's duration, Messrs. Murray and Macready were requested by one of the three accompanying Arabs to alight, and were informed that Severac Bablon desired to tender his sincere apologies for the inconvenience to which, unavoidably, he had put them, and for the evils with which—though only in the "most sacred interests"—he had been compelled to threaten them. They were absolved from all obligations and at liberty now to take what steps they thought fit. With which they were set down in a lonely spot, and the car was driven away. As our readers are already well aware, this lonely spot was upon Wandsworth Common.

It is almost impossible to credit the fact that six influential men of world-wide reputation could thus, publicly, be kidnapped from a London hotel. But in this connection two things must be remembered. Firstly, for reasons readily to be understood and appreciated, they offered no resistance; secondly, the presence of so many Orientals in the hotel occasioned no surprise. A Prince Said Abu-el-Ahzab had been residing for some time in the apartments below those occupied by Mr. J. J. Oppner, and the members of his numerous suite are familiar to all residents. He and his following have disappeared, but a cash payment of all outstanding accounts has been left behind. It has been discovered that the light was cut off from one of the rooms occupied by the ci-devant prince, and the police are at work upon several other important clues which point beyond doubt to the fact that "Prince Said Abu-el-Ahzab" was none other than Severac Bablon.

During the next twenty-four hours the entire habitable world touched by cable service literally gasped at this latest stroke of the notorious Severac Bablon. Despite the frantic and unflagging labours of every man that Scotland Yard could spare to the case nothing was accomplished. The wife or nearest kin of each of the missing men had received a typed card:

"Fear nothing. No harm shall befall a guest of Severac Bablon."

These cards, which could be traced to no maker or stationer, all had been posted at Charing Cross.

Then, in the stop press of the Gleaner's final edition, appeared the following:

"Baron Hague, Sir L. Jesson, Messrs. Rohscheimer and Oppner have returned to their homes."

It is improbable that in the history of the newspaper business, even during war-time, there has ever been such a rush made for the papers as that which worked the trade to the point of general exhaustion on the following morning.

Without pausing here to consider the morning's news, let us return to the Chancery Legal Incorporated Credit Society Bank.

"Move along here, please. Move on. Move on."

Again the street is packed with emotional humanity. But what a different scene is this, although in its essentials so similar. For every face is flushed with excitement—joyful excitement. As once before, they press eagerly on toward the bank entrance; but this morning the doors are open. Almost every member of that crushed and crushing assembly holds a copy of the morning paper. Every man and every woman in the crowd knows that the missing financiers have declined, firmly, to afford any information whatever respecting their strange adventure—that they have refused, all four of them, point blank either to substantiate or to deny the sensational story of Messrs. Macready and Murray. "The incident is closed," Baron Hague is reported as declaring. But what care the depositors of the Chancery Legal Incorporated? For is it not announced, also, that this quartet of public benefactors, with a fifth philanthropist (who modestly remains anonymous) have put up between them no less a sum than three and a half million pounds to salve the wrecked bank?

"By your leave. Make way here. Stand back, if you please."

Someone starts a cheer, and it is feverishly taken up by the highly wrought throng, as an escorted van pulls slowly through the crowd. It is bullion from the Bank of England. Good red gold and crisp notes. It is dead hopes raised from the dust; happiness reborn, like a ph[oe]nix from the ashes of misery.

"Hip, hip, hip, hooray!"

Again and again, and yet again that joyous cheer awakes the echoes of the ancient Inns.

It was as a final cheer died away that Haredale, on the rim of the throng, felt himself tapped upon the shoulder.

He turned a flushed face and saw a tall man, irreproachably attired, standing smiling at his elbow. The large eyes, with their compelling light of command, held nothing now but a command to friendship.

"Severac Bablon!"

"Well, Haredale!" The musical voice made itself audible above all the din. "These good people would rejoice to know the name of that anonymous friend who, with four other disinterested philanthropists, has sought to bring a little gladness into a grey world. Here am I. And there, on the bank steps, are police. Make your decision. Either give me in charge or give me your hand."

Haredale could not speak; but he took the outstretched hand of the most surprising bandit the world ever has known, and wrung it hard.



CHAPTER XXII

THE TURKISH YATAGHAN

It was about a fortnight later that a City medical man, Dr. Simons, in the dusk of a spring evening, might have been seen pressing his way through the crowd of excited people who thronged the hall of Moorgate Place, Moorgate Street.

Addressing himself to a portly, florid gentleman who exhibited signs of having suffered a recent nervous shock, he said crisply.

"My name, sir, is Simons. You 'phoned me?"

The florid gentleman, mopping his forehead with a Cambridge-blue silk handkerchief, replied rather pompously, if thickly:

"I'm Julius Rohscheimer. You'll have heard of me."

Everyone had heard of that financial magnate, and Dr. Simons bowed slightly.

The two, followed by a murmuring chorus, ascended the stairs.

"Stand back, please," rapped the physician tartly, turning upon their following. "Will someone send for the police and ring up Scotland Yard? This is not a peep-show."

Abashed, the curious ones fell back, and Simons and Rohscheimer went upstairs alone. Most of the people employed in those offices left sharp at six, but a little group of belated workers from an upper floor were nervously peeping in at an open door bearing the words:

DOUGLAS GRAHAM

They stood aside for the doctor, who entered briskly, Rohscheimer at his heels, and closed the door behind him. A chilly and indefinable something pervaded the atmosphere of Moorgate Place a something that floats, like a marsh mist, about the scene of a foul deed.

The outer office was in darkness, as was that opening off it on the left; but out from the inner sanctum poured a flood of light.

Douglas Graham's private office was similar to the private offices of a million other business men, but on this occasion it differed in one dread particular.

Stretched upon the fur rug before the American desk lay a heavily built figure, face downward. It was that of a fashionably dressed man, one who had been portly, no longer young, but who had received a murderous thrust behind the left shoulder-blade, and whose life had ebbed in the grim red stream that stained the fur beneath him.

With a sharp glance about him, the doctor bent, turned the body and made a rapid examination. He stood up almost immediately, shrugging slightly.

"Dead!"

Julius Rohscheimer wiped his forehead with the Cambridge silk.

"Poor Graham! How long?" he said huskily.

"Roughly, half an hour."

"Look! look! On the desk!"

The doctor turned sharply from the body and looked as directed.

Stuck upright amid the litter of papers was a long, curved dagger, with a richly ornamented hilt. Several documents were impaled by its crimson point, and upon the topmost the following had roughly and shakily been printed:

"VENGENCE IS MINE! "SEVERAC BABLON."

Dr. Simons started perceptibly, and looked about the place with a sudden apprehension. It seemed to Julius Rohscheimer that his face grew pale.

In the eerie silence of the dead man's room they faced one another.

The doctor, his straight brows drawn together, looked, again and again, from the ominous writing to the poor, lifeless thing on the rug.

"Then, indeed, his sins were great," he whispered.

Rohscheimer, with his eyes fixed on the dagger, shuddered violently.

"Let's get out, doctor," he quavered thickly. "My—my nerve's goin'."

Dr. Simons, though visibly shaken by this later discovery, raised his hand in protest. He was looking, for the twentieth time, at the words printed upon the bloodstained paper.

"One moment," he said, and opened his bag. "Here"—pouring out a draught into a little glass—"drink this. And favour me with two minutes' conversation before the police arrive."

Rohscheimer drank it off and followed the movements of the doctor, who stepped to the telephone and called up a Gerrard number.

"Doctor John Simons speaking," he said presently. "Come at once to Moorgate Place, Moorgate Street. Murder been committed by—Severac Bablon. Most peculiar weapon used. The police, no doubt, would value an expert opinion. You must be here within ten minutes."

The arrival of a couple of constables frustrated whatever object Dr. Simons had had in detaining Mr. Rohscheimer, but the doctor lingered on, evidently awaiting whoever he had spoken to on the telephone. The police ascertained from Rohscheimer that he had held an interest in the "Douglas Graham" business, that this business was of an usurious character, that the dead man's real name was Paul Gottschalk, and that he, Rohscheimer, found the outer door fastened when he arrived at about seven o'clock, opened it with a key which he held, and saw Gottschalk as they saw him now. The office was in darkness. Apparently, valuables had been taken from the safe—which was open. The staff usually left at six.

This was the point reached when Detective Harborne put in an appearance and, with professional nonchalance, took over the investigation. Dr. Simons glanced at his watch and impatiently strode up and down the outside office.

A few minutes later came a loud knocking on the door. Simons opened it quickly, admitting a most strange old gentleman—tall and ramshackle—who was buttoned up in a chess-board inverness; whose trousers frayed out over his lustreless boots like much-defiled lace; whose coat-sleeves, protruding from the cape of his inverness, sought to make amends for the dullness of his footwear. He wore a turned-down collar and a large, black French knot. His hirsute face was tanned to the uniform hue of a coffee berry; his unkempt grey hair escaped in tufts from beneath a huge slouched hat; and his keen old eyes peered into the room through thickly pebbled spectacles.

"Dr. Lepardo!" cried Simons. "I am glad to see you, sir."

"Eh? Who's that?" said Harborne, looking out from the inner office, notebook in hand. "You should not have let anybody in, doctor."

"Excuse me, Mr. Harborne," replied Simons civilly, "but I have taken the liberty of asking Doctor Emmanuel Lepardo, whom I chanced to know was in London, to give an opinion upon the rather odd weapon with which this crime was perpetrated. He is one of the first authorities in Europe, and I thought you might welcome his assistance at this early stage of your inquiry."

"Oh," said the detective thoughtfully, "that's different. Thank you, sir," nodding to the new-comer. "I'm afraid your name isn't known to me, but if you can give us a tip or two I shall be grateful. I wish Inspector Sheffield were here. These cases are fair nightmares to me. And now it's got to murder, life won't be worth living at the Yard if we don't make an arrest."

"Yes, yes," said Dr. Lepardo, peering about him, speaking in a most peculiar, rumbling tone, and with a strong accent. "I would not have missed such a chance. Where is this dagger? I have just returned from the Izamal temples of Yucatan. I have brought some fine specimens to Europe. Obsidian knives. Sacrificial. Beautiful."

He shuffled jerkily into the private office, seemed to grasp its every detail in one comprehensive, peering glance, and pounced upon the dagger with a hoarse exclamation. The Scotland Yard man watched him with curiosity, and Julius Rohscheimer, in the open door, followed his movements with a newly awakened interest.

"True Damascus!" he muttered, running a long finger up the blade. "Hilt, Persian—not Kultwork—Persian. Yes. Can I pull it out? Yes? Damascened to within three inches. Very early."

He turned to the detective, dagger in hand.

"This is a Turkish yataghan."

No one appeared to be greatly enlightened.

"When I say a Turkish yataghan I mean that from a broken Damascus sword-blade and a Persian dagger handle, a yataghan of the Turkish pattern has been made. There are stones incrusted in the hilt but the blade is worth more. Very rare. This was made in Persia for the Turkish market."

"One of Severac Bablon's Arabs," burst in Rohscheimer hoarsely, "has done this."

"Ah, yes. So? I read of him in Paris. He is in league with the chief of the Paris detective. Him? So. I meet him once."

"Eh?" cried Harborne, "Severac Bablon?"

Julius Rohscheimer's eyes grew more prominent than usual.

"No, no. The great Lemage. Lemage of Paris—his accomplice. This dagger is worth two thousand francs. Let me see if a Turk has been in these rooms. I meet Victor Lemage on such another occasion with this. He say to me, 'Dr. Lepardo, come to the Rue So-and-such. A young person is stabbed with a new kind of knife.' I tell him, 'It is Afghan, M. Lemage.' He find one who had been in that country, arrest—and it is the assassin. There is no smell of a Turk here. Ah, yes. The Turk, he have a smell of his own, as have the negro, the Chinese, the Malay."

Pulling a magnifying-glass from one bulging pocket of his inverness, Dr. Lepardo went peering over the writing desk, passing with a grunt from the bloodstained paper bearing the name of Severac Bablon to the other documents and books lying there; to the pigeon-holes; to the chair; to the rug; to the body. Crawling on all fours he went peering about the floor, scratching at the carpet with his long nails like some monstrous, restless cat.

Harborne glanced at Dr. Simons and tapped his forehead significantly.

"Humour my friend," whispered the physician. "He may appear mad, but he is a man of most curious information. Believe me, if any Oriental has been in these rooms within the last hour he will tell you so."

Dr. Lepardo from beneath a table rumbled hoarsely:

"There is a back stair. He went out that way as someone came in."

Julius Rohscheimer started violently.

"Good God! Then he was here when I came in!" he exclaimed.

"Who speaks?" rumbled Lepardo, crawling away into the outside office, and apparently following a trail visible only to himself.

"It is Mr. Julius Rohscheimer," explained Simons. "He was a partner, I understand, of the late Mr. Graham's. He entered with a key about seven o'clock and discovered the murder."

"As he came in our friend the assassin go out," cried Lepardo.

Harborne gave rapid orders to the two constables, both of whom immediately departed.

"Are you sure of that, sir?" he called.

Against the promptings of his common sense, the eccentric methods of the peculiar old traveller were beginning to impress him.

"Certainly. But look!"

Dr. Lepardo re-entered the inner office, carrying several files.

"See! He begins to destroy these letters. He has certainly taken many away. If you look you see that he has torn pages from the private accounts on the desk. He is disturbed by Mr. Someheimer. Can you know the address of his lady secretary-typist?"

Harborne's eyes sparkled appreciatively.

"You're pretty wide at this business, doctor," he confessed. "I'm looking after her myself. But Mr. Rohscheimer doesn't know, and all the staff have gone long ago."

"Ah!" rumbled Dr. Lepardo, dropping his glass into the sack-like pocket. "No Arab or such person has done this. He was one who wore gloves. So I no longer am interested. Here"—placing a small object on the desk beside the yataghan—"is new evidence I find for you. It is a boot-button—foreign. Ah! if the great Lemage could be here. It is his imagination that makes him supreme. In his imagination he would murder again the poor Graham with the yataghan. He would lose his boot-button. He would run away—as Mr. Heimar comes in—to some hiding-place, taking with him the bills and the letters he had stolen, and the notes from the safe. Once in his secret retreat, he would arrest himself—and behold, in an hour—in ten minutes—his hand would be upon the shoulder of the other assassin. Ah! such a case would be joy to him. He would revel. He would gloat."

Harborne nodded.

"If Mr. Lemage would come and revel with me for half an hour I wouldn't say no to learning from him," he said. "But it isn't likely—particularly considering that this is a Severac Bablon case."

"Ah!" rumbled Dr. Lepardo, "you should travel, my friend. You would learn much of the imagination in the desert of Sahara, in the forests of Yucatan."

"You know," continued Harborne, turning to Simons, "these Severac Bablon cases—I don't mind admitting it—are over my weight. They bristle with clues. We get to know of addresses he uses—people he's acquainted with—and what good does it do us? Not a ha'p'orth. Of course, it's a fact that he's had influential friends up to now, but this job, unless I'm mistaken, will alter the complexion of things. What d'you think Victor Lemage will say to this, Dr. Lepardo?"

But there was no one to answer, for the man from the forests of Yucatan had vanished.

The charwoman of Moorgate Place was the next person to encounter Dr. Lepardo, and his kindly manner completely won her heart. She had seen Miss Maitland—the dead man's secretary—regularly go to lunch and sometimes to tea with a young lady from Messrs. Bowden and Ralph's. The staff at this firm of stockbrokers was working late, and it was unlikely that the young lady had left, even yet. Dr. Lepardo expressed his anxiety to make her acquaintance, and was conducted by the garrulous old charwoman to an office in Copthall Avenue. The required young lady was found.

"My dear," said Dr. Lepardo, paternally, "I have a private matter of utmost importance to tell to Miss Maitland—to-night. Where shall I find her?"

She lived, he was informed, at No. —— Stockwell Road, S.W. He took his departure, leaving an excellent impression behind him and half a sovereign in the hand of the charwoman. A torpedo-like racing car was waiting near Lothbury corner, and therein, Dr. Lepardo very shortly was whirling southward. The chauffeur negotiated London Bridge in a manner that filled the hearts of a score of taxi drivers with awe and wonderment. Stockwell Road was reached in twelve and a half minutes.

A dingy maid informed Dr. Lepardo that Miss Maitland had just finished her dinner. Would he walk up?

Dr. Lepardo walked up and made himself known to the pretty brown-haired girl who rose to greet him. Miss Maitland clearly was surprised—and a little frightened—by this unexpected visit. Her glance strayed from the visitor to a silver-framed photograph on the mantelpiece and back again to Dr. Lepardo in a curiously wistful way.

"My dear," he said, and his kindly, paternal manner seemed to reassure her somewhat, "I have come to ask your help in a——"

He suddenly stepped to the mantelpiece and peered at the photograph. It was that of a rather odd-looking young man, and bore the inscription: "To Iris. Lawrence."

"Why, yes," he burst out; "surely this is my old friend! Can it be my old friend—Gardener—Gaston—ah! I have no memory for his name. The good boy, Lawrence Greely?"

The girl's eyes opened wildly.

"Guthrie!" she said, blushing. "You mean Guthrie?"

"Ah! Guthrie," cried the doctor, triumphantly. "You know my old friend, Lawrence Guthrie? He is in England?"

"He has never left it, to my knowledge," said the girl with sudden doubt.

"Foolish me," exclaimed Lepardo. "It was his father that lives abroad, in the East—Bagdad—Cairo."

"Constantinople," corrected Miss Maitland.

"Still the old foolish," rumbled her odd visitor. "Always the old fool. To be certain, it was Constantinople."

A curious gleam had crept into the keen eyes that twinkled behind the pebbles.

"He used to say to me, the Guthrie pere, 'I send that boy Turkish pipes and ornaments and curiosities for his room. I wonder if that bad fellow'"—Dr. Lepardo poked a jesting finger at the girl—"'I wonder if he sell them.'"

"I'm sure he wouldn't," flashed Miss Maitland. Then came a sudden cloud upon the young face. "That is—I don't think he would—if he could help it."

"Ah, those money troubles," sighed the old doctor. "But I quite forgot my business, thinking of Lawrence. There has been an—accident at your office, my child. He is quite well. Do not be afraid. Tell me—when did you leave to-night?"

Iris Maitland retreated from him step by step, her eyes fixed affrightedly upon his face. She sank into an arm-chair. The pretty blush had fled now, and she was very pale.

"Why," she said tensely, "why have you asked me those questions? You do not know Lawrence. What has happened? Oh, what has happened?"

She was trembling now.

"Oh," she said, "I am afraid of you, Dr. Lepardo. I don't know what you want. Who are you? But I see now that you have made me tell you all about him. I will tell you no more."

"My dear," said Dr. Lepardo, and the rumbling of his voice was kindly, "a woman has that great gift, intuition. It is true. It is my rule, my dear, never to neglect opportunity, however slight. When I arrive, unexpected, you glance at his photograph. You associate him, then, with the unexpected. I experiment. Forgive me. It is by such leaps in the dark that great things are won. It is where a little intuition is worth much wisdom. You are a brave girl, and so I tell you—it is for you to save Lawrence. If the Scotland Yard Mr. Harborne knew so much as I, nothing, I fear, could save him. I can do it—I. You shall help me. I work, my child, as no man has worked before. For great things I work. I work against time—against the police. I aspire to do the all but impossible—the wonderful. Only what you call luck and what I call intuition can make me win. A bargain—you answer me my questions and I answer you yours?"

The girl nodded. Her fingers were clutching and releasing the arms of the chair. Through the odd mask of peering benevolence worn by the brown old traveller another, inspired, being momentarily had peeped forth.

"What time did you leave to-night?"

"A quarter past six."

"How many appointments had Mr. Graham afterwards? One with Lawrence. What other?"

"With Mr. Rohscheimer."

"No other?"

"No."

"What time Lawrence?"

"Directly I left."

"Mr. Graham did not know you two are acquainted, eh?"

"He did not."

"Had you access to his private accounts that he keep in his safe?"

"No."

"You keep the files?"

"Yes."

"Who is the most important creditor filed under G? Lawrence?"

The girl shook her head emphatically.

"Why, he only owed about fifty pounds," she said. "There were none of importance under G, except Garraway, the Hon. Claude Garraway and Count de Guise."

"Ah! Count de Guise. So quaint a name. He is rich, yes?"

"Awfully rich. He is selling all the things in his flat and going abroad for good. There is an advertisement in to-day's paper. His pictures and things are valued at no less than thirty thousand pounds. I don't know how his business stood with Mr. Graham; latterly, it had not passed through my hands at all."

"And his address?"

"59b Bedford Court Mansions."

"And I must see Lawrence too. Where shall I find him?"

"At Bart's—St. Bartholomew's Hospital. He is studying there. You are sure to find him there to-night. He is engaged there, I know, up to ten o'clock."

Dr. Lepardo took the girl's hand and pressed it soothingly.

"Do not faint; be a brave girl," he said. "Your employer was killed shortly after you left."

Deathly pale, she sat watching him.

"By—whom?"

"By Severac Bablon, so it is written on his desk. It is unfortunate that Lawrence was there to-night; but I—I am your friend, my child. Are you going to faint—no?"

"No," said the girl, smiling bravely.

"Then good-night."

He pressed her hand again—and was gone.



CHAPTER XXIII

M. LEVI

The art of detection, in common with every other art, produces from time to time a genius; and a genius, whatever else he may be, emphatically is not a person having "an infinite capacity for taking pains." Such masters of criminology as Alphonse Bertillon or his famous compatriot, Victor Lemage, whose resignation so recently had stirred the wide world to wonder—achieve their results by painstaking labours, yes, but all those labours would be more or less futile without that elusive element of inspiration, intuition, luck—call it what you will—which constitutes genius, which alone distinguishes such men from the other capable plodders about them. A brief retrospective survey of the surprising results achieved by Dr. Lepardo within the space of an hour will show these to have been due to brilliant imagination, deep knowledge of human nature, foresight, unusual mental activity, and—that other capacity so hard to define.

Dr. Lepardo was studying the following paragraph marked by Miss Maitland:

FOR SALE.—Entire furniture, antique, of large flat, comprising pieces by Sheraton, Chippendale, Boule, etc. Paintings by Greuze, Murillo, Van Dyck, also modern masters. Pottery, Chinese, Sevres, old English, etc. A collection of 500 pieces of early pewter, etc., etc., etc. The whole valued at over L30,000.

The torpedo-like car had dropped him at Bedford Court Mansions, and, shuffling up the steps into the hall, he addressed himself to the porter.

"Ah, my friend, has the Count de Guise gone out again?"

"I have not seen him go out, sir."

"Not since you saw him come in?"

"Not since then, sir—no."

"About half-past seven he came in, I think? Yes, about half-past."

"Quite right, sir."

Again the odd gleam came into the doctor's eyes, as it had come when, by one of his amazing leading questions he had learnt that Lawrence Guthrie's father resided in Constantinople. The doctor mounted to the first floor. He was about to ring the bell of No. 59b, when another idea struck him. He descended and again addressed the porter.

"The Count must be resting. He does not reply. He has, of course, discharged his servants?"

"Yes, sir. He leaves England next week."

"Ah, he is alone."

Upstairs once more.

He rang three times before the door was opened to him by a tall, slight man, arrayed in a blue silk dressing-gown. He had a most pleasant face, and wore his moustache and beard according to the latest Parisian mode. He looked about thirty years of age, was fair, blue-eyed, and handsome.

"I am sorry to trouble you so late, Count," said the old doctor, in perfect French; "but I think I can make you an offer for some, if not all, of your collection."

He hunted, peering through a case which apparently contained some dozens of cards, finally handing the Count the following:

ISIDOR LEVI Fine Art Expert London and Paris.

Count de Guise hesitated, glanced at his caller, glanced at his watch, cleared his throat—and still hesitated.

"If I approve," continued 'Isidor Levi,' "I will hand you a cheque on the Credit Lyonnais."

The Count bowed.

"Enter, M. Levi. Your name, of course, is known to me."

Indeed it was a name familiar enough in art circles.

Dr. Lepardo entered.

The room into which the Count ushered him was most magnificently appointed. The visitor's feet sank into the carpet as into banked moss. Beautiful furniture stood about. Pictures by eminent artists graced the walls. Statuettes, vases, busts, choice antiques, were everywhere. It was the room of a wealthy connoisseur, of an aesthete whose delicacy of taste bordered upon the effeminate. The doctor stared hard at the Count without permitting the latter to observe that he did so. With his hands thrust deep in the sack-like pockets of his inverness he drifted from treasure to treasure—uninvited, from room to room—like some rudderless craft. The Count followed. In his handsome face it might be read that he resented the attitude of M. Levi, who behaved as though he found himself in the gallery of a dealer. Suddenly, before a Van Dyck portrait, the visitor cried:

"Ah, a forgery, m'sieur! Spurious."

Count de Guise leapt round upon him with perfect fury blazing in his blue eyes. The veins had sprung into prominence upon his forehead, and one throbbed—a virile blue cord—upon his left temple.

"M'sieur!"

He seemed to choke. His sudden passion was volcanic—terrible.

Dr. Lepardo, still peering, seemed not to heed him; then quickly:

"Ah, I apologise, I most sincerely apologise. I was misled by the unusual tone of the brown. But—no, it is undoubted. None other than Van Dyck painted that ruff."

The Count glared and quivered, his fine nostrils distended, a while longer, but swallowed his rage and bowed in acknowledgment of the apology. Dr. Lepardo was off again upon his voyage of discovery, drifting from picture to vase, from statuette to buhl cabinet.

"M'sieur," he rumbled, peering around at de Guise, who now stood by the fireplace of the room to which the visitor's driftings had led him, his hands locked behind him. "I think I can propose you for the entire collection. Is it agreeable?"

The Count bowed.

"Ah!"

M. Levi seated himself at the writing-table—for the room was a beautifully appointed study—and produced a cheque-book.

"Twenty thousand pounds, English?"

The Count laughed contemptuously.

"Twenty-two?"

"Do not jest, m'sieur. Nothing but thirty."

"Twenty-eight is final. It is the price I had determined upon."

De Guise considered, bit his lip, glanced at the open cheque-book—always a potent argument—and bowed in his grand fashion. Lepardo changed his spectacles for a larger pair, reached for a pen, peering, and overturned a massive inkstand. The ink poured in an oily black stream across the leathern top of the table.

"Ah, clumsy!" he cried. "Blotting-paper, quick."

The other took some from a drawer and sopped up the ink. Lepardo rumbled apologies, and, when the ink had been dried up, made out a cheque for L28,000, payable to "The Count de Guise, in settlement for the entire effects contained in his flat, No. 59b Bedford Court Mansions," signed it "I. Levi," and handed it to de Guise, who was surveying his inky hands, usually so spotless, with frowning disfavour.

The Count took the cheque, and Lepardo stood up.

"One moment, m'sieur."

Lepardo sat down again.

"You have dated this cheque 1928."

"Ah," cried the other, "always so absent. I had in mind the price, m'sieur. Believe me, I shall lose on this deal, but no matter. Give it back to me; I will write out another."

The second cheque made out, correctly, Lepardo shuffled to the door, refusing de Guise's offer of refreshments. He was about to pass out on to the landing when:

"Heavens! I am truly an absent fool. I wear my writing glasses and have left my street glasses on your table. One moment. No, I would not trouble you."

He shuffled quickly back to the study, to return almost immediately, glasses in hand.

"Will seven-thirty in the morning be too early for my men to commence an inventory?"

"Not at all."

"Good night, m'sieur le Comte."

"Good night, M. Levi."

So concluded an act in this strange comedy.

Let us glance for a moment at Thomas Sheard, of the Gleaner, who sat in his study, his head resting upon his clenched hand, his pipe cold.

Twelve o'clock, and the household sleeping. He had spent the early part of the night at Moorgate Place, had written his account of the murder, seen it consigned to the machines, and returned wearily home. Now, in the stillness, he was listening; every belated cab whose passing broke the silence of the night set his heart beating, for he was listening—listening for Severac Bablon.

His faith was shaken.

He had been content to know himself the confidant of the man who had taken from Park Lane to give to the Embankment; of the man who had kidnapped four great millionaires and compelled them each to bear an equal share with himself, towards salving a wrecked bank; of the man, who assisted by M. Lemage, the first detective in Europe, had hoodwinked Scotland Yard. But the thought that he had called "friend" the man who had murdered, or caused to be murdered, Douglas Graham—whatever had been the dead man's character—was dreadful—terrifying.

It meant? It meant that if Severac Bablon did not come, and come that night, to clear himself, then he, Sheard, must confess to his knowledge of him—must, at whatever personal cost, give every assistance in his power to those who sought to apprehend the murderer.

A key turned in the lock of the front door.

Sheard started to his feet. A soft step in the hall—and Severac Bablon entered.

The journalist could find no words to greet him; but he stood watching the fine masterful face. There was a new, eager look in the long, dark eyes.

Severac Bablon extended his hand. Sheard shook his head and resting his elbow on the mantelpiece, looked down into the dying embers of the fire.

"You, too, my friend?"

Sheard turned impulsively.

"Tell me you are in no way implicated in that ghastly crime!" he burst out. "Only tell me, and I shall be satisfied."

Severac Bablon stepped quickly forward, grasped him by both shoulders and looked hard into his eyes with that strange, penetrating gaze that seemed to pierce through all pretence into the mind beyond.

"Sheard, in the pursuit of what I—and my poor wisdom may be no better than a wiser man's folly—of what I consider to be Nature's one law—Justice, I have braved the laws of man, risked my honour and my liberty. I have dared to hold the scales, to weigh in the balance some of the affairs of men. But life, be it that of the lowliest insect, of the vilest sinner against every code of mankind, is sacred. I—with all my egotism, with all my poor human vanity—would not dare to rob a fellow creature of that gift which only God can give, which only God may take back."

"Then——"

"You, who knew me, doubted?"

Sheard grasped the proffered hand.

"Forgive my fears," he said warmly; "I should have known. But this horrible thing has shaken me. I cannot survey murdered corpses with the calmly professional eye of the Sheffields and Harbornes."

"It was the work of an enemy, Sheard. There are men labouring, even now, piecing a false chain together, link by link; searching, spying, toiling in the dark to prove that the robber, the incendiary, the iconoclast, is also a murderer. I have need of all my friends to-night."

With a weary gesture, almost pathetic, he ran his fingers through his black hair. The shaded light struck greenly venomous sparks from his ring.

"This is such a coward's blow as I never had foreseen," he continued; "but, as I believe, my resources are equal even to this."

"What! You know the murderer?"

"If the wrong man is not arrested by some one of the agents of Scotland Yard, of Mr. Oppner, of Julius Rohscheimer, of Heaven alone knows how many others that seek, I have hopes that within a few hours, at most, of the world's learning I am an assassin, the world will learn that I am not. Can you be ready to accompany me at any hour after 5 A.M. that I may come for you?"

Sheard stared.

"Certainly."

"Then—to bed, oh, doughty copy-hunter. You still are my friend. That is all I wished to know. For that alone I came like a thief in the night. Until I return, au revoir."



CHAPTER XXIV

"V-E-N-G-E-N-C-E"

At half-past seven on the morning following M. Levi's visit the Count de Guise opened the door of 59b Bedford Court Mansions to that eccentric old art expert. M. Levi was accompanied by his partner, a tall, heavily bearded man, who looked like a Russian, and by two other strangers, one an alert-eyed, clean-shaven person in a tweed suit, the other a younger man, evidently Scotch, who carried a little brown bag. These two would commence an inventory, m'sieur being agreeable.

Entering the dining-room, with its massive old oak furniture, de Guise, who found something uncomfortably fascinating in the eye of the partner, lighted a cigarette and took up a position on the rug before the fire, hands characteristically locked behind him.

"This is the Greuze," said Dr. Lepardo, pointing.

The Count, with the others, turned to look at the picture.

Click! Click!

He was securely handcuffed.

With an animal scream of rage the Count turned upon Lepardo, the vein throbbing on his temple, his eyes glaring in maniacal fury. He sought to speak, but only a slight froth rose to his lips; no word could he utter.

"Sit down in that chair," said Dr Lepardo.

With a gurgling scream de Guise's fury found utterance.

"Release me immediately. What——"

"Sit down!"

De Guise ground his white teeth together. The pulsing vein on his brow seemed like to burst. He dropped into a chair, trembling and quivering with passionate anger.

"You—shall—pay for—this!"

"My friend," said Lepardo, turning to the man who had carried the bag, "this gentleman"—nodding at his companion in the tweed suit—"would like to hear who you are, and for what you visited Moorgate Place last evening."

"I am Lawrence Guthrie," explained the young man, "and yesterday, much against my inclinations, but to prevent Graham's exposing the state of my affairs to my father, I was forced to leave with him, as security for fifty pounds, a Turkish yataghan worth considerably more."

"Stop! When I came to your Bart's last night, what did I tell you?"

"That Graham had been murdered with my yataghan."

"Well?"

"You said that the crime looked like the work of an old hand, for the murderer had worn gloves. You told me that you had recognised, in one of the victim's most important creditors, a notorious French criminal, Andre Legun——"

The Count, deathly pale, his throbbing forehead wet as if douched, drew a long, hissing breath. His eyes stared glassily at Dr. Lepardo.

"By what means?"

"By certain facial peculiarities."

"Rule 85."

"And particularly by a vein in his left temple, only visible when he was roused. You had secured, by a trick——"

"Article Six."

"An imprint of his thumb upon a cheque. This you had compared with certain in your possession—and forwarded to Paris."

"Unnecessary, but a usual form."

"You had secured from the grate in his study a pocketful of ash, some scraps of torn leather—bloodstained—and some few other fragments. These you and I spent the night examining and arranging. Amongst the ashes was a patent glove button, also bloodstained."

"What have I yet to find?"

"A pair of boots."

"I depart to find them."

Dr. Lepardo quitted the room. Count de Guise followed him with his eyes until he had disappeared. No one spoke nor stirred until the brown old doctor returned, carrying a pair of glace kid boots.

He placed them on the table beside the bag and pointed a long finger at a gap in one row of buttons.

"Scotland Yard can complete the set, Andre," he said with grim humour. "In this bag are the results of our examination. In your grate are more ashes and fragments for the English Home Office to check us by. In this bag is a complete account of how you came to Moorgate Place, knocked at Gottschalk's door and were admitted. I do not know how you had meant to kill him, but the yataghan, left on his table by Mr. Guthrie, was tempting, eh? You then commenced to collect certain letters and papers, Andre. You tore from his private book the page containing your little account. Then you tore out others, to blind us all. You had begun upon the letter files when you were interrupted by one entering with a key. That was fortunate. It was file G you had commenced upon, Andre. And one of the torn pages was G. So I knew that you were a G, too, my friend. With what you took from the safe and with the letters and other papers, you slipped down the back stair you knew of into Copthall Avenue. By my great good luck, and not by my skill, I get upon your trail. But by my skill I trap you."

The prisoner, whose handsome face now had assumed a leaden hue, whose eyes were set in a fixed stare of horror and hatred, spoke slowly, clearly.

"You talk nonsense. You taunt me, to drive me mad. I ask you—who are you? You are not Levi, you are some spy."

Dr. Lepardo, or M. Isidor Levi, removed a grey wig and a pair of spectacles and seemed by some relaxation of the facial muscles, to melt out of existence, leaving in his place a heavy-eyed man, with stained skin and thin, straggling hair.

De Guise, as though an unseen hand pushed him, stepped back—and back—and back—until a heavy oak chair prevented further retreat. There—like a mined fortress, hitherto staunch, defiant—he seemed to crumble up.

"The good God!" he whispered. "It is Victor Lemage!"

"Andre Legun—Chevalier d'Oysan—Comte de Guise," said the famous criminologist, "Paris wants you, but London now has a better claim. So, when I have stolen back my cheque from your pocket-book, I hand you over to London."