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The Sins of Séverac Bablon

by Sax Rohmer · English · Gutenberg #21879 · 455,282 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Sins of Séverac Bablon

Author: Sax Rohmer


        
Release date: June 20, 2007 [eBook #21879]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/21879

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SINS OF SÉVERAC BABLON ***




Produced by David Clarke, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net









                       THE SINS OF SÉVERAC BABLON

                            By Sax Rohmer




    CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD
    London, New York, Toronto & Melbourne

    First published _January 1914_.
    Popular Edition _February 1919_.




CONTENTS


1. TO INTRODUCE MR. JULIUS ROHSCHEIMER

2. "THIRTY MEN WHO WERE ALL ALIKE"

3. MIDNIGHT--AND THE MAN

4. THE HEAD OF CÆSAR

5. A MYSTIC HAND

6. THE SHADOW OF SÉVERAC BABLON

7. THE RING

8. IN THE DRESSING-ROOM

9. ES-SINDIBAD OF CADOGAN GARDENS

10. KIMBERLEY

11. MR. SANRACK VISITS THE HOTEL ASTORIA

12. LOVE, LUCRE AND MR. ALDEN

13. THE LISTENER

14. ZOE DREAMS

15. AT "THE CEDARS"

16. THE LAMP AND THE MASK

17. THE DAMASCUS CURTAIN

18. A WHITE ORCHID

19. THREE LETTERS

20. CLOSED DOORS

21. A CORNER IN MILLIONAIRES

22. THE TURKISH YATAGHAN

23. M. LEVI

24. "V-E-N-G-E-N-C-E"

25. AN OFFICIAL CALL

26. GRIMSDYKE

27. YELLOW CIGARETTES

28. AT THE PALACE--AND LATER




CHAPTER I

TO INTRODUCE MR. JULIUS ROHSCHEIMER


"There's half a score of your ancestral halls," said Julius Rohscheimer,
"that I could sell up to-morrow morning!"

Of the quartet that heard his words no two members seemed quite
similarly impressed.

The pale face of Adeler, the great financier's confidential secretary,
expressed no emotion whatever. Sir Richard Haredale flashed contempt
from his grey eyes--only to veil his scorn of the man's vulgarity
beneath a cloud of tobacco smoke. Tom Sheard, of the _Gleaner_, drew
down a corner of his mouth and felt ashamed of the acquaintance. Denby,
the music-hall comedian, softly whistled those bars of a popular ballad
set to the words, "I stood in old Jerusalem."

"Come along to Park Lane with me," continued Rohscheimer, fixing his
dull, prominent eyes upon Sheard, "and you'll see more English nobility
than you'd find inside the House of Lords!"

"What's made him break out?" the comedian whispered, aside, to Adeler.
For it was an open secret that this man, whose financial operations
shook the thrones of monarchy, whose social fêtes were attended by the
smartest people, was subject to outbursts of the kind which now saw him
seated before a rapidly emptying magnum in a corner of the great
restaurant. At such times he would frequent the promenades of
music-halls, consorting with whom he found there, and would display the
gross vulgarity of a Whitechapel pawnbroker or tenth-rate variety agent.

"'S-sh!" replied the secretary. "A big coup! It is always so with him.
Mr. Rohscheimer is overwrought. I shall induce him to take a holiday."

"Trip up the Jordan?" suggested Denby, with cheery rudeness.

The secretary's drooping eyelids flickered significantly, but no other
indication of resentment displayed itself upon that impassive face.

"A good Jew is proud of his race--and with reason!" he said quietly.
"There are Jews and Jews."

He turned, deferentially, to his employer--that great man having
solicited his attention with the words, "Hark to him, Adeler!"

"I did not quite catch Mr. Sheard's remark," said Adeler.

"I merely invited Mr. Rohscheimer to observe the scene upon his right,"
explained Sheard.

The others turned their eyes in that direction. Through a screen of palm
leaves the rose-shaded table lights, sparkling silver, and snowy covers
of the supper room were visible. Here a high-light gleamed upon a bare
shoulder; there, a stalwart male back showed, blocked out in bold black
upon the bright canvas. Waiters flitted noiselessly about. The drone of
that vocal orchestra filled the place: the masculine conversation, the
brass and wood-wind--the sweeter tones of women, the violins; their
laughter, tremolo passages.

"I'm observing it," growled Rohscheimer. "Nobody in particular there."

"There is comfort, luxury, there," said Sheard.

The financier stared, uncomprehensively.

"Now look out yonder," continued the other.

It was a different prospect whereto he directed their eyes.

The diminuendo of the Embankment lamps, the steely glitter of the waters
beyond, the looming bulk of the bridge, the silhouette shape of the On
monolith; these things lay below them, dimly to be seen from the
brilliant room. Within was warmth, light, and gladness; without, a cold
place of shadows, limned in the grey of discontent and the black of want
and desolation.

"Every seat there," continued Sheard, as the company gazed vaguely from
the window, "has its burden of hopelessness and misery. Ranks of
homeless wretches form up in the arch yonder, awaiting the arrival of
the Salvation Army officials. Where, in the whole world, can misery in
bulk be found thus side by side with all that wealth can procure?"

There was a brief silence. Sheard was on his hobbyhorse, and there were
few there disposed to follow him. The views of the _Gleaner_ are not
everybody's money.

"What sort of gas are you handing us out?" asked Rohscheimer. "Those
lazy scamps don't deserve any comfort; they never worked to get it! The
people here are moneyed people."

"Just so!" interrupted Sheard, taking up the challenge with true
_Gleaner_ ardour. "Moneyed people! That's the whole distinction in two
words!"

"Well, then--what about it?"

"This--that if every guest now in the hotel would write a cheque for an
amount representing 1 per cent. of his weekly income, every man, woman,
and child under the arch yonder would be provided with board and lodging
for the next six months!"

"Why do it?" demanded Rohscheimer, not unreasonably. "Why feed 'em up on
idleness?"

"Their idleness may be compulsory," replied Sheard. "Few would employ a
starving man while a well-nourished one was available."

"Cut the Socialist twaddle!" directed the other coarsely. "It gets on my
nerves! You and your cheques! Who'd you make 'em payable to? Editor of
the _Gleaner_."

"I would suggest," said Sir Richard Haredale, smiling, "to Séverac
Bablon."

"To who?" inquired Rohscheimer, with greater interest than grammar.

"Séverac Bablon," said Sheard, informatively, "the man who gave a
hundred dollars to each of the hands discharged from the Runek Mill,
somewhere in Ontario. That's whom you mean, isn't it, Haredale?"

"Yes," assented the latter. "I was reading about it to-day."

"We had it in this morning," continued Sheard. "Two thousand men."

"Eh?" grunted Rohscheimer hoarsely.

"Two thousand men," repeated Sheard. "Each of them received notes to the
value of a hundred dollars on the morning after the mill closed down,
and a card, 'With the compliments of Séverac Bablon.'"

"Forty thousand pounds!" shouted the millionaire. "I don't believe it!"

"It's confirmed by Reuter to-night."

"Then the man's a madman!" pronounced Rohscheimer conclusively.

"Pity he doesn't have a cut at London!" came Denby's voice.

"Is it?" growled the previous speaker. "Don't you believe it! A maniac
like that would mean ruination for business if he was allowed to get
away with it!"

"Ah, well!" yawned Sheard, standing up and glancing at his watch, "you
may be right. Anyway, I've got a report to put in. I'm off!"

"Me, too!" said the financier thickly. "Come on, Haredale. We're overdue
at Park Lane! It's time we were on view in Park Lane, Adeler!"

The tide of our narrative setting in that direction, it will be well if
we, too, look in at the Rohscheimer establishment. We shall find
ourselves in brilliant company.

Julius's harshest critics were forced to concede that the house in Park
Lane was a focus of all smart society. Yet smart society felt oddly ill
at ease in the salon of Mrs. Julius Rohscheimer. Nobody knew whether the
man to whom he might be talking at the moment were endeavouring to
arrange a mortgage with Rohscheimer; whether the man's wife had fallen
in arrears with her interest--to the imminent peril of the family
necklace; or whether the man had simply dropped in because others of his
set did so, and because, being invited, he chanced to have nothing
better to do.

These things did not add to the gaiety of the entertainments, but of
their brilliancy there could be no possible doubt.

Jewish society was well represented, and neither at Streeter's nor
elsewhere could a finer display of diamonds be viewed than upon one of
Mrs. Rohscheimer's nights. The lady had enjoyed some reputation as a
hostess before the demise of her first husband had led her to seek
consolation in the arms (and in the cheque-book) of the financier. So
the house in Park Lane was visited by the smartest people--to the mutual
satisfaction of host and hostess.

"Where's the Dook?" inquired the former, peering over a gilded
balustrade at the throng below. They had entered, unseen, by a private
stair.

"I understand," replied Haredale, "that the Duke is unfortunately
indisposed."

"Never turns up!" growled Rohscheimer.

"Never likely to!" was Haredale's mental comment; but, his situation
being a delicate one, he diplomatically replied, "We have certainly been
unfortunate in that respect."

Haredale--one of the best-known men in town--worked as few men work to
bring the right people to the house in Park Lane (and to save his
commission). This arrangement led Mr. Rohscheimer to rejoice exceedingly
over his growing social circle, and made Haredale so ashamed of himself
that, so he declared to an intimate friend, he had not looked in a
mirror for nine months, but relied implicitly upon the good taste of his
man.

"Come up and give me your opinion of the new waistcoats," said
Rohscheimer. "I don't fancy my luck in 'em, personally."

Following the financier to his dressing-room, Haredale, as a smart maid
stood aside to let them pass, felt the girl's hand slip a note into his
own. Glancing at it, behind Rohscheimer's back, he read: "Keep him away
as much as ever you can."

"She has spotted him!" he muttered; and, in his sympathy with the
difficulties of poor Mrs. Rohscheimer's position, he forgot,
temporarily, the difficulties of his own.

"By the way," said Rohscheimer, "did you bring along that late edition
with the details of the Runek Mill business?"

"Yes," said Haredale, producing it from his overcoat pocket.

"Just read it out, will you?" continued the other, "while I have a rub
down."

Haredale nodded, and, lighting a cigarette, sank into a deep arm-chair
and read the following paragraph:

     "A FAIRY GODMOTHER IN ONTARIO

     "(_From our Toronto Correspondent_)

     "The identity of the philanthropist who indemnified the
     ex-employees of the Runek Mill still remains a mystery. Beyond the
     fact that his name, real or assumed, is Séverac Bablon, nothing
     whatever is known regarding him. The business was recently acquired
     by J. J. Oppner, who will be remembered for his late gigantic
     operation on Wall Street, and the whole of the working staff
     received immediate notice to quit. No reason is assigned for this
     wholesale dismissal. But each of the 2,000 men thus suddenly thrown
     out of employment received at his home, in a plain envelope,
     stamped with the Three Rivers postmark, the sum of one hundred
     dollars, and a typed slip bearing the name, 'Séverac Bablon.' Mr.
     Oppner had been approached, but is very reticent upon the subject.
     There is a rumour circulating here to the effect that he himself is
     the donor. But I have been unable to obtain confirmation of this."

"It wouldn't be Oppner," spluttered Rohscheimer, appearing, towel in
hand. "He's not such a fool! Sounds like one of these 'Yellow' fables to
me."

Haredale shrugged his shoulders, dropping the paper on the rug.

"A man at once wealthy and generous is an improbable, but not an
impossible, being," he said.

Rohscheimer stared, dully. There were times when he suspected Haredale
of being studiously rude to him. He preserved a gloomy silence
throughout the rest of the period occupied by his toilet, and in silence
descended to the ballroom.

The throng was considerable, and the warmth oppressive at what time Mrs.
Rohscheimer's ball was in full swing. Scarcely anyone was dancing, but
the walls were well lined, and the crush about the doors suggestive of a
cup tie.

"Who's that tall chap with the white hair?" inquired Rohscheimer from
the palmy corner to which Haredale discreetly had conveyed him.

"That is the Comte de Noeue," replied his informant; "a distinguished
member of the French diplomatic corps."

"We're getting on!" chuckled the millionaire. "He's a good man to have,
isn't he Haredale?"

"Highly respectable!" said the latter dryly.

"We don't seem to get the dooks, and so on?"

"The older nobility is highly conservative!" explained Haredale
evasively. "But Mrs. Rohscheimer is a recognised leader of the smart
set."

Rohscheimer swayed his massive head in bear-like discontent.

"I don't get the hang of this smart set business," he complained.
"Aren't the dooks and earls and so on in the smart set?"

"Not strictly so!" answered Haredale, helping himself to
brandy-and-soda.

This social conundrum was too much for the millionaire, and he lapsed
into heavy silence, to be presently broken with the remark:

"All the Johnnies holding the wall up are alike, Haredale! It's funny I
don't know any of 'em! You see them in the sixpenny monthlies, with the
girl they're going to marry in the opposite column. Give me their names,
will you--starting with the one this end?"

Haredale, intending, good-humouredly, to comply, glanced around the
spacious room--only to realise that he, too, was unacquainted with the
possibly distinguished company of muralites.

"I rather fancy," he said, "a lot of the people you mean are
Discoveries--of Mrs. Rohscheimer's, you know--writers and painters and
so forth."

"No, no!" complained the host. "I know all that lot--and they all know
me! I mean the nice-looking fellows round the wall! I haven't been
introduced, Haredale. They've come in since this waltz started."

Haredale looked again, and his slightly bored expression gave place to
one of curiosity.




CHAPTER II

"THIRTY MEN WHO WERE ALL ALIKE"


The room was so inconveniently crowded that dancing was a mere farce,
only kept up by the loyal support of Mrs. Rohscheimer's compatriots. The
bulk of the company crowded around in intermingling groups, to the
accompaniment of ceaseless shuffling and murmuring which all but drowned
the strains of the celebrated orchestra. But lining the wall around was
a rank of immaculately groomed gentlemen who seemed to assume a closer
formation as Haredale, from behind the palms, observed them.

In two particulars this rank excited his curiosity.

The individuals comprising it were, as Rohscheimer had pointed out,
remarkably alike, being all of a conventional Army type; and they were
unobtrusively entering, one behind the other, and methodically taking up
their places around the room!

Even as he watched, the last man entered, and the big double doors were
closed behind him!

"What's this, Haredale?" came a hoarse whisper from Rohscheimer. "Where
are these Johnnies comin' from? Does Mrs. R. know they're here?"

"Couldn't say," was the reply. "But it would be a simple matter for a
number of impostors to gain access to the house whilst dancing was in
progress, provided they came in small parties and looked the part."

"Impostors!" growled Rohscheimer uneasily. "Don't you think they've been
invited, then?"

"Well, who shut those doors?" muttered Haredale, leaning across the
little table the better to observe what was going forward.

"You don't mean----" began Rohscheimer, and broke off, as the orchestra
dashed through the coda of the waltz and ceased.

For stark amazement froze the words upon his tongue.

Coincident with the last pair of dancers performing their final gyration
and the hum of voices assuming a louder tone, each of the men standing
around the walls produced a brace of revolvers and covered the
particular group nearest to him!

The conversational hum rose to a momentary roar, and ceased abruptly.
The horns of taxi-cabs passing below could be plainly heard, and the
drone and rattle of motor-buses. Men who had done good work in other
emergencies looked down the gleaming barrels, back to the crowds of
women--and had no inspiration, but merely wondered. Nobody moved. Nobody
fainted.

"Held up!" came, in pronounced Kansas, from somewhere amongst the crush.

"Quick!" whispered Haredale. "We're overlooked! Through the
conservatory, and----"

"Pardon me!"

Rohscheimer and Haredale turned, together, and each found himself
looking directly into the little ring of a revolver's muzzle. A tall,
slim figure in faultless evening dress stood behind them, half in the
shadows. This mysterious stranger had jet black hair, and wore a black
silk half-mask.

The melodramatic absurdity of the thing came home strongly to Haredale.
But its harsh reality was equally obvious.

"Perhaps," continued the masked speaker, in a low, refined voice, and
with a faint, elusive accent, "you will oblige me, Mr. Rohscheimer, by
stepping forward so that your guests can see you? Sir Richard
Haredale--may I trouble you?"

Rohscheimer, his heavy features slightly pale, rose unsteadily.
Haredale, after a rapid glance about him, rose also, with tightened
lips; and the trio moved forward into full view of the assembled
company.

"The gentlemen surrounding you," said the man in the mask, slightly
raising his voice, "are all sworn to the Cause which I represent. You
would, perhaps, term them anarchists!"

An audible shudder passed through the assemblage.

"They are desperate men," he continued, "indifferent to death, and
would, without compunction, shoot down everyone present--if I merely
raised my hand! Each of them is a social pariah, with a price upon his
head. Let no man think this is a jest! Any movement made without my
permission will be instantly fatal."

_Dzing!_ went the bell of a bus below. _Grr-r-r!_ went the motor in
re-starting. _OO-oo! OO-oo!_ came from the horn of a taxi-cab. And
around the wall stood the silent rank with the raised revolvers.

"I shall call upon those gentlemen whom I consider most philanthropic,"
resumed the musical voice, "to subscribe to my Cause! Mr. Rohscheimer,
your host, will head the list with a diamond stud, valued at one
thousand guineas, and two rings, representing, together, three thousand
pounds! Place them on that pedestal, Mr. Rohscheimer!"

"I won't do it!" cried the financier, in rising cadence. "I defy you!
I----"

"Cut it!" snapped Haredale roughly. "Don't be such a cad as to expose
women----" He had caught sight of a pretty, pale face in the throng,
that made the idea of these mysterious robbers opening fire doubly,
trebly horrible. "It goes against the grain, but hand them over. We can
do nothing--yet!"

"Thank you, Sir Richard!" said the masked spokesman, and waved aside the
hand with which Haredale proffered his own signet ring. "I have not
called upon you, sir! Mr. Hohsmann, your daughters would feel affronted
did you not give them an opportunity of appearing upon the subscription
list! The necklace and the aigrette will do! I shall post, of course, a
formal receipt to Hamilton Place!"

And so the incredible comedy proceeded--until thousands of pounds' worth
of jewellery lay upon the pedestal at the foot of a bronze statuette of
Pandora!

"The list is closed!" called the spokesman. "Doors!"

Open came the doors at his command, and revealed to those who could see
outside, a double rank of evening-dress bandits.

"The company," he resumed, "will pass out in single file to the white
drawing-room. Mr. Rohscheimer--will you lead the way?"

In sullen submission out went Rohscheimer, and after him his guests--or,
rather, his wife's guests--until that whole brilliant company was packed
into the small white room. Someone had thoughtfully closed the shutters
of the windows giving on Park Lane, and securely screwed them; so that,
when the last straggler had entered, and the door was shut, they were in
a trap!

"Listen, everybody!" came Haredale's voice. "Keep cool! You fellows by
the door--get your shoulders to it!"

At his words, the men standing nearest to the door turned to execute
these instructions, and were confronted by the following type-written
notice pinned upon the white panels:--

     "A detailed subscription list will appear in the leading papers
     to-morrow, and it will doubtless relieve and gratify subscribers to
     learn that _the revolvers were not loaded_!"

There was little delay after that. Within sixty seconds the door was
open; within three minutes the wires were humming with the astounding
news.

Tom Sheard, his work completed, was about to leave the _Gleaner_ office,
when--

"Sheard!" shouted the news editor from an upper landing. "Amazing
business at Rohscheimer's in Park Lane! Robbery! Brigands! Terrific! Off
you go! Taxi!"

And off went Sheard without delay.

He entered Park Lane, to find that part of the thoroughfare adjacent to
the financier's house packed with vehicles of all sorts and sizes. Women
in full dress, pressmen, policemen, loafers, were pouring out and
rushing in to Mr. Rohscheimer's residence! Never before was such a scene
witnessed at that hour of the night in Park Lane.

As he passed under the awning, pressing his way towards the steps, he
encountered an excited young gentleman who wore a closed opera hat, but
was evidently ignorant of his interesting appearance. This young
gentleman he chanced to know, and having rectified the irregularity in
his toilet, from him he secured some splendid copy.

"You see, I just dropped in to take a look round, and as I strolled up a
mob of jokers jumped out of a cab just in front of me, and we all
crawled in together, sort of thing. I happened to notice a footman going
upstairs and two of the jokers I spoke about behind him. They were
laughing, and so forth, and he was just on the first landing, when they
nabbed him from behind--positive fact!--and threw the chap down on his
face! I'm thinking it's a poor kind of joke when the other two fellows
jolly well nobble _me_! Before I know what's up, I'm pushed into an
anteroom or somewhere, and I hear these chaps banging the front door and
running upstairs! I should have sung out like steam, only they'd
handcuffed me wrong way round and tied a beastly cork arrangement in my
mouth!

"Just before I burst a blood-vessel it occurred to me that I might as
well keep quiet; so I sat on the floor listening; but I didn't hear
anything for what seemed like an hour! Then there was a mob of fellows
came downstairs--and the door opened. They seemed to slip out in twos
and threes from what I could gather, and by the time they'd nearly all
gone a perfect pandemonium broke out, upstairs and down!

"The servants--who'd all been locked in the cellar--got out first. Then
Haredale came bounding downstairs, and, luckily for me, heard me kicking
at the door. Then everybody was rushing about! Rohscheimer was bawling
in the telephone! Some other chap was rushing for a doctor--for Adeler,
who got knocked on the head in the library. Now here's the wretched
police arresting everybody who looks as though he'd been in the Army!
That's all the beastly description anyone can give! They suspected Dick
Langley the minute they saw him, because he's got a military appearance!
And I shouldn't be surprised to hear that they'd arrested every fellow
in the Guards' Club!

"Here's the thing, though: they've all got clean away! With about forty
thousand pounds' worth of jewellery! It's a preposterous sort of thing,
isn't it?"

Sheard agreed that it was the most preposterous sort of thing
imaginable; and, leaving his excited acquaintance, he set out to seek
further particulars. But very few were forthcoming.

As to the manner in which the clique had obtained admission, that called
for little explanation. They had simply presented themselves, armed with
invitations, singly and in small parties, whilst dancing was in
progress, and in a house open to such mixed society had been admitted
without arousing suspicion. There was little that was obscure or
inexplicable in the coup; it was an amazing display of _force majeure_,
an act of stark audacity. It pointed to the existence in London of a
hitherto unsuspected genius. Such was Sheard's opinion.

From an American guest, who had kept perfectly cool during the
"hold-up," and had quietly taken stock of the robbers, he learnt that,
exclusive of the spokesman, they numbered exactly thirty; were much of a
similar build, being well-set-up men of military bearing; and, most
extraordinary circumstance, were facially all alike!

"Gee! but it's a fact!" declared his informant. "They all had moderate
fair hair, worn short and parted left-centre, neat blonde moustaches,
and fresh complexions, and the whole thirty were like as beans!"

Two other interesting facts Sheard elicited from Adeler, who wore a
white bandage about his damaged skull. The whole of the guests
victimised were compatriots of their host.

"It is from those who are of my nation that they have taken all their
booty," he said, smiling. "This daring robber has evidently strong
racial prejudices! Then, each of the victims had received, during the
past month threatening letters demanding money for various charities.
These letters did not emanate from the institutions named, but were
anonymous appeals. The point seems worth notice."

And so, armed with the usual police assurance that several sensational
arrests might be expected in the morning, Sheard departed with this
enthralling copy hot for the machines that had been stopped to take it.

When, thoroughly tired, he again quitted the _Gleaner_ office, it was to
direct his weary footsteps towards the Embankment and the all-night car
that should bear him home.

Crossing Tallis Street, he became aware of a confused murmur proceeding
from somewhere ahead, and as he approached nearer to the river this took
definite form and proclaimed itself a chaotic chorus of human voices.

As he came out on to the Embankment an extraordinary scene presented
itself.

Directly in his path stood a ragged object--a piece of social flotsam--a
unit of London's misery. This poor filthy fellow was singing at the top
of his voice, a music-hall song upon that fertile topic, "the girls,"
was dancing wildly around a dilapidated hat which stood upon the
pavement at his feet, and was throwing sovereigns into this same hat
from an apparently inexhaustible store in his coat pocket!

Seeing Sheard standing watching him, he changed his tune and burst into
an extempore lyric, "_The quids! The quids! The golden quids--the
quids!_" and so on, until, filled with a sudden hot suspicion, he
snatched up his hat, with its jingling contents, hugged it to his
breast, and ran like the wind!

Following him with his eyes as he made off towards Waterloo Bridge, the
bewildered pressman all but came to the conclusion that he was the
victim of a weird hallucination.

For the night was filled with the songs, the shouts, the curses, the
screams, of a ragged army of wretches who threw up gold in the air--who
juggled with gold--who played pitch-and-toss with gold--who ran with
great handfuls of gold clutched to their bosoms--who pursued one another
for gold--who fought to defend the gold they had gained--who wept for
the gold they had lost.

One poor old woman knelt at the kerb, counting bright sovereigns into
neat little piles, and perfectly indifferent to the advice of a kindly
policeman, who, though evidently half dazed with the wonders of the
night, urged her to get along to a safer place.

Two dilapidated tramps, one of whom wore a battered straw hat, whilst
his friend held an ancient green parasol over his bare head, appeared
arm-in-arm, displaying much elegance of deportment, and, hailing a
passing cab, gave the address, "Savoy," with great aplomb.

Fights were plentiful, and the available police were kept busy arresting
the combatants. Two officers passed Sheard, escorting a lean, ragged
individual whose pockets jingled as he walked, and who spoke of the
displeasure with which this unseemly arrest would fill "his people."

Presently a bewildered Salvation Army official appeared. Sheard promptly
buttonholed him.

"Don't ask me, sir!" he said, in response to the obvious question.
"Heaven only knows what it _is_ about! But I can tell you this much: no
less than forty thousand pounds has been given away on the Embankment
to-night! And in gold! Such an incredible example of ill-considered
generosity I've never heard of! More harm has been done to our work
to-night than we can hope to rectify in a twelvemonth!

"Of course, it will do good in a few, a very few, cases. But, on the
whole, it will do, I may say, incalculable harm. How was it distributed?
In little paper bags, like those used by the banks. It sent half the
poor fellows crazy! Just imagine--a broken-down wretch who'd lived on
the verge of starvation for, maybe, years, suddenly has a bag of
sovereigns put into his hand! Good heavens! what madness!"

"Who did the distributing?"

"That's the curious part of it! The bags were distributed by a number of
men wearing the dark overcoats and uniform caps of the Salvation Army!
That's how they managed to get through with the business without
arousing the curiosity of the police. I don't know how many of them
there were, but I should imagine twenty or thirty. They were through
with it and gone before we woke up to what they had done!"

Sheard thanked him for his information, stood a moment, irresolute; and
turned back once more to the _Gleaner_ office.

       *       *       *       *       *

Thus, then, did a strange personality announce his coming and flood the
British press with adjectives.

The sensation created, on the following day, by the news of the Park
Lane robbery was no greater than that occasioned by the news of the
extraordinary Embankment affair.

"What do we deduce," demanded a talkative and obtrusively clever person
in a late City train, "from the circumstance that all thirty of the Park
Lane brigands were alike?"

"Obviously," replied a quiet voice, "that it was a 'make-up.' Thirty
identical wigs, thirty identical moustaches, and the same grease-paint!"

A singularly handsome man was the speaker. He was dark, masterful, and
had notably piercing eyes. The clever person became silent.

"Being all made up as a very common type of man-about-town," continued
this striking-looking stranger, "they would pass unnoticed anywhere. If
the police are looking for thirty blonde men of similar appearance they
are childishly wasting their time. They are wasting their time in any
event--as the future will show."

Everyone in the carriage was listening now, and a man in a corner asked:
"Do you think there is any connection between the Park Lane and
Embankment affairs, sir?"

"Think!" smiled the other, rising as the train slowed into Ludgate Hill.
"You evidently have not seen this."

He handed his questioner an early edition of an evening paper, and with
a terse "Good morning," left the carriage.

Glaringly displayed on the front page was the following:

     WHO IS HE?

     "We received early this morning the following advertisement,
     prepaid in cash, and insert it here by reason of the great interest
     which we feel sure it will possess for our readers:

     "'On Behalf of the Poor Ones of the Embankment, I thank the
     following philanthropists for their generous donations:"

     _(Here followed a list of those guests of Mrs. Rohscheimer's who
     had been victimised upon the previous night, headed with the name
     of Julius Rohscheimer himself; and beside each name appeared an
     amount representing the value of the article, or articles,
     appropriated.)_

     "'They may rest assured that not one halfpenny has been deducted
     for working expenses. In fact, when the donations come to be
     realised the Operative may be the loser. But no matter. "Expend
     your money in pious uses, either voluntarily or by constraint."

     "'(Signed) Séverac Bablon.'"

The paper was passed around in silence.

"That fellow seemed to know a lot about it!" said someone.

None of the men replied; but each looked at the other strangely--and
wondered.




CHAPTER III

MIDNIGHT--AND THE MAN


The next two days were busy ones for Sheard, who, from a variety of
causes--the chief being his intimacy with the little circle which,
whether it would or not, gathered around Mr. Julius Rohscheimer--found
himself involved in the mystery of Séverac Bablon. He had interviewed
this man and that, endeavouring to obtain some coherent story of the
great "hold up," but with little success. Everything was a mysterious
maze, and Scotland Yard was without any clue that might lead to the
solution. All the Fleet Street crime specialists had advanced theories,
and now, on the night of the third day after the audacious robbery,
Sheard was contributing his theory to the Sunday newspaper for which he
worked.

The subject of his article was the identity of Séverac Bablon, whom
Sheard was endeavouring to prove to be not an individual, but a society;
a society, so he argued, formed for the immolation of Capital upon the
altars of Demos.

The course of reasoning that he had taken up proved more elusive than he
had anticipated.

His bundle of notes lay before him on the table. The news of the latest
outrage, the burning of the great Runek Mills in Ontario, had served to
convince him that his solution was the right one; yet he could make no
headway, and the labours of the last day or so had left him tired and
drowsy.

He left his table and sank into an arm-chair by the study fire, knocking
out his briar on a coal and carefully refilling and lighting that
invaluable collaborator. With his data presently arranged in better
mental order, he returned to the table and covered page after page with
facile reasoning. Then the drowsiness which he could not altogether
shake off crept upon him again, and staring at the words "Such societies
have existed in fiction, now we have one existing in fact," he dropped
into a doze--as the clock in the hall struck one.

When he awoke, with his chin on his breast, it was to observe, firstly,
that the MS. no longer lay on the pad, and, secondly, on looking up,
that a stranger sat in the arm-chair, opposite, reading it!

"Who----" began Sheard, starting to his feet.

Whereupon the stranger raised a white, protesting hand.

"Give me but one moment's grace, Mr. Sheard," he said quietly, "and I
will at once apologise and explain!"

"What do you mean?" rapped the journalist. "How dare you enter my house
in this way, and----" He broke off from sheer lack of words, for this
calm, scrupulously dressed intruder was something outside the zone of
things comprehensible.

In person he was slender, but of his height it was impossible to judge
accurately whilst he remained seated. He was perfectly attired in
evening-dress, and wore a heavy, fur-lined coat. A silk hat, by an
eminent hatter, stood upon Sheard's writing-table, a pair of gloves
beside it. A gold-mounted ebony walking-stick was propped against the
fireplace. But the notable and unusual characteristic of the man was his
face. Its beauty was literally amazing. Sheard, who had studied
black-and-white, told himself that here was an ideal head--that of
Apollo himself.

And this extraordinary man, with his absolutely flawless features
composed, and his large, luminous eyes half closed, lounged in Sheard's
study at half-past one in the early morning and toyed with an unfinished
manuscript--like some old and privileged friend who had dropped in for a
chat.

"Look here!" said the outraged pressman, stepping around the table as
the calm effrontery of the thing burst fully upon him. "Get out! _Now!_"

"Mr. Sheard," said the other, "if I apologise frankly and fully for my
intrusion, will you permit me to give my reasons for it?"

Sheard again found himself inarticulate. He was angrily conscious of a
vague disquiet. The visitor's suave courtesy under circumstances so
utterly unusual disarmed him, as it must have disarmed any average man
similarly situated. For a moment his left fist clenched, his mind swung
in the balance, irresolute. The other turned back a loose page and
quietly resumed his perusal of the manuscript.

That decided Sheard's attitude, and he laughed.

Whereat the stranger again raised the protestant hand.

"We shall awake Mrs. Sheard!" he said solicitously. "And now, as I see
you have decided to give me a hearing, let me begin by offering you my
sincere apology for entering your house uninvited."

Sheard, his mind filled with a sense of phantasy, dropped into a chair
opposite the visitor, reached into the cabinet at his elbow, and
proffered a box of Turkish cigarettes.

"Your methods place you beyond the reach of ordinary castigation," he
said. "I don't know your name and I don't know your business; but I
honestly admire your stark impudence!"

"Very well," replied the other in his quiet, melodious voice, with its
faint, elusive accent. "A compliment is intended, and I thank you! And
now, I see you are wondering how I obtained admittance. Yet it is so
simple. Your front door is not bolted, and Mrs. Sheard, but a few days
since, had the misfortune to lose a key. You recollect? I found that
key! Is it enough?"

"Quite enough!" said Sheard grimly. "But why go to the trouble? What do
you want?"

"I want to insure that one, at least, of the influential dailies shall
not persistently misrepresent my actions!"

"Then who----" began Sheard, and got no farther; for the stranger handed
him a card--

     SÉVERAC BABLON

"You see," continued the man already notorious in two continents, "your
paper, here, is inaccurate in several important particulars! Your
premises are incorrect, and your inferences consequently wrong!"

Sheard stared at him, silent, astounded.

"I have been described in the Press of England and America as an
incendiary, because I burned the Runek Mills; as a maniac, because I
compensated men cruelly thrown out of employment; as a thief, because I
took from the rich in Park Lane and gave to the poor on the Embankment.
I say that this is unjust!"

His eyes gleamed into a sudden blaze. The delicate, white hand that held
Sheard's manuscript gripped it so harshly that the paper was crushed
into a ball. That Séverac Bablon was mad seemed an unavoidable
conclusion; that he was forceful, dominant, a power to be counted with,
was a truth legible in every line of his fine features, in every vibrant
tone of his voice, in the fire of his eyes. The air of the study seemed
charged with his electric passion.

Then, in an instant, he regained his former calm. Rising to his feet, he
threw off the heavy coat he wore and stood, a tall, handsome figure,
with his hands spread out, interrogatively.

"Do I look such a man?" he demanded.

Despite the theatrical savour of the thing, Sheard could not but feel
the real sincerity of his appeal; and, as he stared, wondering, at the
fine brow, the widely-opened eyes, the keen nostrils and delicate yet
indomitable mouth and chin, he was forced to admit that here was no mere
up-to-date cracksman, but something else, something more. "Is he mad?"
flashed again through his mind.

"No!" smiled Séverac Bablon, dropping back into the chair; "I am as sane
as you yourself!"

"Have I questioned it?"

"With your eyes and the left corner of your mouth, yes!" Sheard was
silent.

"I shall not weary you with a detailed exculpation of my acts,"
continued his visitor; "but you have a list on your table, no doubt, of
the people whom I forced to assist the Embankment poor?"

Sheard nodded.

"Mention but one whose name has ever before been associated with
charity; I mean the charity that has no relation to advertisement! You
are silent! You say"--glancing over the unfinished article--"that 'this
was a capricious burlesque of true philanthropy.' I reply that it served
its purpose--of proclaiming my arrival in London and of clearly
demonstrating the purpose of my coming! You ask who are my accomplices!
I answer--they are as the sands of the desert! You seek to learn who I
am. Seek, rather, to learn _what_ I am!"

"Why have you selected me for this--honour?"

"I overheard some remarks of yours, contrasting a restaurant supper-room
with the Embankment which appealed to me! But, to come to the point, do
you believe me to be a rogue?"

Sheard smiled a trifle uneasily.

"You are doubtful," the other continued. "It has entered your mind that
a proper course would be to ring up Scotland Yard! Instead, come with
me! I will show you how little you know of me and of what I can do. I
will show you that no door is closed to me! Why do you hesitate? You
shall be home again, safe, within two hours. I pledge my word!"

Possessing the true journalistic soul, Sheard was sorely tempted; for to
the passion of the copy-hunter such an invitation could not fail in its
appeal. With only a momentary hesitation, he stood up.

"I'll come!" he said.

A smart landaulette stood waiting outside the house; and, without a word
to the chauffeur, Séverac Bablon opened the door and entered after
Sheard. The motor immediately started, and the car moved off silently.
The blinds were drawn.

"You will have to trust yourself implicitly in my hands," said Sheard's
extraordinary companion. "In a moment I shall ask you to fasten your
handkerchief about your eyes and to give me your word that you are
securely blindfolded!"

"Is it necessary?"

"Quite! Are you nervous?"

"No!"--shortly.

There was a brief interval of silence, during which the car, as well as
it was possible to judge, whirled through the deserted streets at a
furious speed.

"Will you oblige me?" came the musical voice.

The journalist took out his pocket-handkerchief, and making it into a
bandage, tied it firmly about his head.

"Are you ready?" asked Séverac Bablon.

"Yes."

A click told of a raised blind.

"Can you see?"

"Not a thing!"

"Then take my hand and follow quickly. Do not speak; do not stumble!"

Cautiously feeling his way, Sheard, one hand clasping that of his guide,
stepped out into the keen night air, and was assisted by some third
person--probably the chauffeur--on to the roof of the car!

"Be silent!" from Séverac Bablon. "Fear nothing! Step forward as your
feet will be directed and trust implicitly to me!"

As a man in a dream Sheard stood there--on the roof of a motor-car, in a
London street--and waited. There came dimly to his ears, and from no
great distance, the sound of late traffic along what he judged to be a
main road. But immediately about him quiet reigned. They were evidently
in some deserted back-water of a great thoroughfare. A faint scuffling
sound arose, followed by that of someone lightly dropping upon a stone
pavement.

Then an arm was slipped about him and he was directed, in a whisper, to
step forward. He found his foot upon what he thought to be a flat
railing. His ankle was grasped from below and the voice of Séverac
Bablon came, "On to my shoulders--so!"

Still with the supporting arm about him, he stepped gingerly
forward--and stood upon the shoulders of the man below.

"Stand quite rigidly!" said Séverac Bablon.

He obeyed; and was lifted, lightly as a feather, and deposited upon the
ground! It was such a feat as he had seen professional athletes perform,
and he marvelled at the physical strength of his companion.

A keen zest for this extravagant adventure seized him. He thought that
it must be good to be a burglar. Then, as he heard the motor re-started
and the car move off, a sudden qualm of disquiet came; for it was
tantamount to burning one's boats.

"Take my hand!" he heard; and was led to the head of a flight of steps.
Cautiously he felt his way down, in the wake of his guide.

A key was turned in a well-oiled lock, and he was guided inside a
building. There was a faint, crypt-like smell--vaguely familiar.

"Quick!" said the soft voice--"remove your boots and leave them here!"

Sheard obeyed, and holding the guiding hand tightly in his own,
traversed a stone-paved corridor. Doors were unlocked and re-locked. A
flight of steps was negotiated in phantom silence; for his companion's
footsteps, like his own, were noiseless. Another door was unlocked.

"Now!" came the whispered words: "Remove the handkerchief!"

Rapidly enough, Sheard obeyed, and, burning with curiosity, looked about
him.

"Good heavens!" he muttered.

A supernatural fear of his mysterious cicerone momentarily possessed
him. For he thought that he stood in a lofty pagan temple!

High above his head a watery moonbeam filtered through a window, and
spilled its light about the base of a gigantic stone pillar. Towering
shapes, as of statues of gods, loomed, awesomely, in the gloom. Behind
the pillar dimly he could discern a painted procession of deities upon
the wall. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the tall figure of
Séverac Bablon was at his elbow.

"Where do you stand?" questioned his low voice.

And, like an inspiration, the truth burst in upon Sheard's mind.

"The British Museum!" he whispered hoarsely.

"Correct!" was the answer; "the treasure-house of your modern Babylon!
Wait, now, until I return; and, if you have no relish for arrest as a
burglar, do not move--do not breathe!"

With that, he was gone, into the dense shadows about; and Henry Thomas
Sheard, of the _Gleaner_, found himself, at, approximately, a
quarter-past two in the morning, standing in an apartment of the British
Museum, with no better explanation to offer, in the event of detection,
than that he had come there in the company of Séverac Bablon.

He thought of the many printing-presses busy, even then, with the
deductions of Fleet Street theorists, regarding this man of mystery. All
of their conclusions must necessarily be wrong, since their premises
were certainly so. For which of them who had assured his readers that
Séverac Bablon was a common cracksman (on a large scale) would not have
reconsidered his opinion had he learned that the common cracksman held
private keys of the national treasure-house?

His eyes growing more accustomed to the darkness, Sheard began to see
more clearly the objects about him. A seated figure of the Pharaoh Seti
I. surveyed him with a scorn but thinly veiled; beyond, two towering
Assyrian bulls showed gigantic in the semi-light. He could discern, now,
the whole length of the lofty hall--a carven avenue; and, as his gaze
wandered along that dim vista, he detected a black shape emerging from
the blacker shadows beyond the bulls.

It was Séverac Bablon. In an instant he stood beside him, and Sheard saw
that he carried a bag.

"Follow me--quickly!" he said. "Not a second to spare!"

But too fully alive to their peril, Sheard slipped away in the wake of
this greatly daring man. The horror of his position was strong upon him
now.

"This way!"

Blindly he stumbled forward, upstairs, around a sharp corner, and then a
door was unlocked and re-locked behind them. "Egyptian Room!" came a
quick whisper. "In here!"

A white beam cut the blackness, temporarily dazzling him, and Sheard saw
that his companion was directing the light of an electric torch into a
wall-cabinet--which he held open. It contained mummy cases, and, without
quite knowing how he got there, Sheard found himself crouching behind
one. Séverac Bablon vanished.

Darkness followed, and to his ears stole the sound of distant voices.

The voices grew louder.

Behind him, upon the back of the cabinet, danced a sudden disc of light,
and, within it, a moving shadow! Someone was searching the room!

Muffled and indistinct the voices sounded through the glass and the
mummy-case; but that the searchers were standing within a foot of his
hiding-place Sheard was painfully certain. He shrank behind the
sarcophagus lid like a tortoise within its shell, fearful lest a hand,
an arm, a patch of clothing should protrude.




CHAPTER IV

THE HEAD OF CÆSAR


The voices died away. A door banged somewhere.

Then Sheard all but cried out; for a hand was laid upon his arm.

"_Ssh!_" came Séverac Bablon's voice from the next mummy-case; and a
creak told of the cabinet door swinging open. "This way!"

Sheard followed immediately, and was guided along the whole length of
the room. A door was unlocked and re-locked behind them. Downstairs they
passed, and along a narrow corridor lined with cases, as he could dimly
see. Through another door they went, and came upon stone steps.

"Your boots!" said his companion, and put them into his hands.

Rapidly enough he fastened them. A faint creak was followed by a draught
of cool air; and, being gently pushed forward, Sheard found himself
outside the Museum and somewhere in the rear of the building. The place
lay in deep shadow.

"_Sss! Sss!_" came in his ear. "Quiet!"

Whilst he all but held his breath, a policeman tramped past slowly
outside the railings. As the sound of his solid tread died away, Séverac
Bablon raised something to his lips and blew a long-sustained, minor
note--shrill, eerie.

A motor-car appeared, as if by magic, stopped before them, and was
backed right on to the pavement. The chauffeur, mounting on the roof,
threw a short rope ladder across the railings.

"Up!" Sheard was directed, and, nothing loath, climbed over.

He was joined immediately by his companion in this night's bizarre
adventures; and, almost before he realised that they were safe, he found
himself seated once more in the swiftly moving car.

"What's the meaning of it?" he demanded rapidly.

"Fear nothing!" was the reply. "You have my word!"

"But to what are you committing me?"

"To nothing that shall lie very heavily upon your conscience! You have
seen, to-night, something of my opportunities. With the treasures of the
nation thus at my mercy, am I a common cracksman? If I were, should I
not ere this have removed the portable gems of the collection? I say to
you again, that no door is closed to me; yet never have I sought to
enrich myself. But why should these things lie idle, when they are such
all-powerful instruments?"

"I don't follow you."

"To-morrow all will be clear!"

"Why did you blindfold me?"

"Should you have followed had you seen where I led? I wish to number you
among my friends. You are not of my people, and I can claim no fealty of
you; but I desire your friendship. Can I count upon it?"

The light of a street-lamp flashed momentarily into the car, striking a
dull, venomous green spark from a curious ring which Séverac Bablon
wore. In some strange fashion it startled Sheard, but, in the ensuing
darkness, he sought out the handsome face of his companion and found the
big, luminous eyes fixed upon him. Something about the man--his daring,
perhaps, his enthusiasm, his utterly mysterious purpose--appealed,
suddenly, all but irresistibly.

Sheard held out his hand. And withdrew it again.

"To-morrow----" he began.

"To-morrow you will have no choice!"

"How so? You have placed yourself in my hands. I can now, if I desire,
publish your description!--report all that you have told me--all that I
have seen!"

"You will not do so! You will be my friend, my defender in the Press. Of
what you have seen to-night you will say nothing!"

"Why?"

"No matter! It will be so!"

A silence fell between them that endured until the car pulled up before
Sheard's gate.

With ironic courtesy, he invited Séverac Bablon to enter and partake of
some refreshment after the night's excitement. With a grace that made
the journalist slightly ashamed of his irony, that incomprehensible man
accepted.

Leaving him in the same arm-chair which he had occupied when first he
set eyes upon him, Sheard went to the dining-room and returned with a
siphon, a decanter, and glasses. He found Séverac Bablon glancing
through an edition of Brugsch's "Egypt Under the Pharaohs." He replaced
the book on the shelf as Sheard entered.

"These Egyptologists," he said, "they amuse me! Dissolve them all in a
giant test-tube, and the keenest analysis must fail to detect one single
grain of imagination!"

His words aroused Sheard's curiosity, but the lateness of the hour
precluded the possibility of any discussion upon the subject.

When, shortly, Séverac Bablon made his departure, he paused at the gate
and proffered his hand, which Sheard took without hesitation.

"Good-night--or, rather, good-morning!" he said smilingly. "We shall
meet again very soon!"

The other, too tired to wonder what his words might portend, returned to
the house, and, lingering only to scrawl a note that he was not to be
awakened at the usual time, hastened to bed. As he laid his weary head
upon the pillow the cold grey of dawn was stealing in at the windows and
brushing out the depths of night's blacker shadows.

It was noon when Sheard awoke--to find his wife gently shaking him.

He sat up with a start.

"What is it, dear?"

"A messenger boy. Will you sign for the letter?"

But half awake, he took the pencil and signed. Then, sleepily, he tore
open the envelope and read as follows.

     "DEAR MR. SHEARD,--

     "You were tired last night, so I did not further weary you with a
     discourse upon Egyptology; moreover, I had a matter of urgency to
     attend to; but you may remember I hinted that the initiated look
     beyond Brugsch.

     "I should be indebted if you could possibly arrange to call upon
     Sir Leopold Jesson in Hamilton Place at half-past four. You will
     find him at home. It is important that you take a friend with you.
     In your Press capacity, desire him to show you his celebrated
     collection of pottery. Seize the opportunity to ask him for a
     subscription (not less than £10,000) towards the re-opening of the
     closed ward of Sladen Hospital. He will decline. Offer to accept,
     instead, the mahogany case which he has in his smaller Etruscan
     urn. When you have secured this, decide to accept a cheque also.
     Arrange to be alone in your study at 12.40 to-night.

     "By the way, although Brugsch's book is elementary, there is
     something more behind it. Look into the matter.--S.B."

This singular communication served fully to arouse Sheard, and,
refreshed by his bath, he sat down to a late breakfast. Propping the
letter against the coffee-pot, he read and re-read every line of the
small, neat, and oddly square writing.

The more he reflected upon it the more puzzled he grew. It was a link
with the fantastic happenings of the night, and, as such, not wholly
welcome.

Why Séverac Bablon desired him to inspect the famous Jesson collection
he could not imagine; and that part of his instructions: "Decide to
accept a cheque," seemed to presume somewhat generously upon Sheard's
persuasive eloquence. The re-opening of the closed ward was a good and
worthy object, and the sum of ten, or even twenty thousand pounds, one
which Sir Leopold Jesson well could afford. But he did not remember to
have heard that the salving of derelict hospitals was one of Sir
Leopold's hobbies.

Moreover, he considered the whole thing a piece of presumption upon the
part of his extraordinary acquaintance. Why should he run about London
at the behest of Séverac Bablon?

"Eleven-thirty results!" came the sing-song of a newsboy. And Sheard
slipped his hand in his pocket for a coin. As he did so, the boy paused
directly outside the house.

"Robbery at the British Museum! Eleven-thirty!"

His heart gave a sudden leap, and he cast a covert glance towards his
wife. She was deep in a new novel.

Without a word, Sheard went to the door, and walking down to the gate,
bought a paper. The late news was very brief.

     BRITISH MUSEUM MYSTERY

     "An incredibly mysterious burglary was carried out last night at
     the British Museum. By some means at present unexplained the Head
     of Cæsar has been removed from its pedestal and stolen, and the
     world-famous Hamilton Vase (valued at £30,000) is also missing. The
     burglar has left no trace behind him, but as we go to press the
     police report an important clue."

Sheard returned to the house.

Seated in his study with the newspaper and Séverac Bablon's letter
before him, he strove to arrange his ideas in order, to settle upon a
plan of action--to understand.

That the "important clue" would lead to the apprehension of the real
culprit he did not believe for a moment. Séverac Bablon, unless Sheard
were greatly mistaken, stood beyond the reach of the police measures.
But what was the meaning of this crass misuse of his mysterious power?
How could it be reconciled with his assurances of the previous night?
Finally, what was the meaning of his letter?

He wished him to interview Sir Leopold Jesson, for some obscure reason.
So much was evident. But by what right did he impose that task upon him?
Sheard was nonplussed, and had all but decided not to go, when the
closing lines of the letter again caught his eye. "Although Brugsch's
book is elementary, there is something more behind it----"

A sudden idea came into his head, an unpleasant idea, and with it, a
memory.

His visitor of the night before had brought a mysterious bag (which
Sheard first had observed in his hand as they fled from the Museum) into
the house with him. It was evidently heavy; but to questions regarding
it he had shaken his head, smilingly replying that he would know in good
time why it called for such special attention. He remembered, too, that
the midnight caller carried it when he departed, for he had rested it
upon the gravel path whilst bidding him good-night.

Frowning uneasily, he stepped to the bookcase.

It was a very deep one, occupying a recess. With nervous haste he
removed "Egypt Under the Pharaohs," and his painful suspicion became a
certainty.

Why, he had asked himself, should he run about London at the behest of
Séverac Bablon? And here was the answer.

Placed between the books and the wall at the back, and seeming to frown
upon him through the gap, was the stolen Head of Cæsar!

Sheard hastily replaced the volume, and with fingers that were none too
steady filled and lighted his pipe.

His reflections brought him little solace. He was in the toils. The
intervening hours with their divers happenings passed all but unnoticed.
That day had space for but one event, and its coming overshadowed all
others. The hour came, then, all too soon, and punctually at four-thirty
Sheard presented himself in Hamilton Place.

Sir Leopold Jesson's collection of china and pottery is one of the three
finest in Europe, and Sheard, under happier auspices, would have enjoyed
examining it. Ralph Crofter, the popular black-and-white artist who
accompanied him, was lost in admiration of the pure lines and exquisite
colouring of the old Chinese ware in particular.

"This piece would be hard to replace, Sir Leopold?" he said, resting his
hand upon a magnificent jar of delicate rose tint, that seemed to blush
in the soft light.

The owner nodded complacently. He was a small man, sparely built, and
had contracted, during forty years' labour in the money market, a
pronounced stoop. His neat moustache was wonderfully black, blacker than
Nature had designed it, and the entire absence of hair upon his high,
gleaming crown enabled the craniologist to detect, without difficulty,
Sir Leopold's abnormal aptitude for finance.

"Two thousand would not buy it, sir!" he answered.

Crofton whistled softly and then passed along the room.

"This is very beautiful!" he said suddenly, and bent over a small vase
with figures in relief. "The design and sculpture are amazingly fine!"

"That piece," replied Sir Leopold, clearing his throat, "is almost
unique. There is only one other example known--the Hamilton Vase!"

"The stolen one?"

"Yes. They are of the same period, and both from the Barberini Palace."

"Of course you have read the latest particulars of that extraordinary
affair? What do you make of it?"

Jesson shrugged his shoulders.

"The vase is known to every connoisseur in Europe," he said. "No one
dare buy it--though," he added smiling, "many would like to!"

Sheard coughed uneasily. He had a task to perform.

"Your collection represents a huge fortune, Sir Leopold," he said.

"Say four hundred thousand pounds!" answered the collector comfortably.

"A large sum. Think of the thousands whom that amount would make happy!"

Having broken the ice, Sheard found his enforced task not altogether
distasteful. It seemed wrong to him, unjust, and in strict disaccordance
with the views of the _Gleaner_, that these thousands should be locked
up for one man's pleasure, while starvation levied its toll upon the
many. Moreover, he nurtured a temperamental distaste for the whole
Semitic race--a Western resentment of that insidious Eastern power.

Crofter looked surprised, and clearly thought his friend's remark in
rather bad taste. Sir Leopold faced round abruptly, and a hard look
crept into his small bright eyes.

"Mr. Sheard," he said harshly. "I began life as a pauper. What I have, I
have worked for."

"You have enjoyed excellent health."

"I admit it."

"Had you, in those days of early poverty, been smitten down with
sickness, of what use to you would your admittedly fine commercial
capacity have been? You would then, only too gladly, have availed
yourself of such an institution as the Sladen Hospital, for instance."

Sir Leopold started.

"What have you to do with the Sladen Hospital?"

"Nothing. It has accomplished great work in the past."

"Do you know anything of _this_?"

Jesson's manner became truculent. He pulled some papers from his pocket,
and selecting a plain correspondence card, handed it to Sheard.

The card bore no address, being headed simply: "Final appeal." It read:

     "Your cheque toward the re-opening of the Out-Patient's Wing of
     Sladen Hospital has not been forwarded."

Sheard failed to recognise the writing, and handed the card back,
shaking his head.

"Oh!" said Jesson suspiciously; "because I've had three of these
anonymous applications--and they don't come from the hospital
authorities."

"Why not comply?" asked Sheard. "Let me announce in the _Gleaner_ that
you have generously subscribed ten thousand pounds."

"_What!_" rapped Sir Leopold. "Do you take me for a fool?" He glared
angrily. "Before we go any farther, sir--is this touting business the
real object of your visit?"

The pressman flushed. His conduct, he knew well, was irreconcilable with
good form; but Jesson's tone had become grossly offensive. Something
about the man repelled Sheard's naturally generous instincts, and no
shade of compunction remained. A score of times, during the past quarter
of an hour, he had all but determined to throw up this unsavoury affair
and to let Séverac Bablon do with him as he would. Now, he stifled all
scruples and was glad that the task had been required of him. He would
shirk no more, but would go through with the part allotted him in this
strange comedy, lead him where it might.

"Yes, and no!" he answered evasively. "Really I have come to ask you for
something--the mahogany case which is in your smaller Etruscan urn!"

Jesson stared; first at Sheard, and then, significantly, at Crofter.

"I begin to suspect that you have lunched unwisely!" he sneered.

Sheard repressed a hot retort, and Crofter, to cover the embarrassment
which he felt at this seeming contretemps, hummed softly and instituted
a painstaking search for the vessel referred to. He experienced little
difficulty in finding it, for it was one of two huge urns standing upon
ebony pedestals.

"The smaller, you say?" he called with affected cheeriness.

Sheard nodded. It was a crucial moment. Did the pot contain anything? If
not, he had made a fool of himself. And if it did, in what way could its
contents assist him in his campaign of extortion?

The artist, standing on tiptoe, reached into the urn--and produced a
mahogany case, such as is used for packing silver ware.

"What's that?" rapped Jesson excitedly. "I know nothing of it!"

"You might open it, Crofter!" directed Sheard with enforced calm.

Crofter did so--and revealed, in a nest of black velvet, a small piece
of exquisite pottery.

A passage hitherto obscure in Séverac Bablon's letter instantly
explained itself in Sheard's mind. "I did not further weary you with a
discourse upon Egyptology; moreover, _I had a matter of urgency to
attend to_!"

Sir Leopold Jesson took one step forward, and then, with staring eyes,
and face unusually pale, turned on the journalist.

"The Hamilton Vase! You villain!"

"Sir Leopold!" cried Sheard with sudden asperity, "be good enough to
moderate your language! If you can offer any explanation of how this
vase, stolen only last night from the national collection, comes to be
concealed in your house, I shall be interested to hear it!"

Jesson looked at Crofter, who still held the case in his hands; the
artist's face expressed nothing but blank amazement. He looked at
Sheard, who met his eyes calmly.

"There is roguery here!" he said. "I don't know if there are two of
you----"

"Sir Leopold Jesson!" cried Crofter angrily, "you have said more than
enough! Your hobby has become a mania, sir! How you obtained possession
of the vase I do not know, nor do I know how my friend has traced the
theft to you; least of all how this scandal is to be hushed up. But have
the decency to admit facts! There is no defence, absolutely!"

"What do you want?" said Jesson tersely. "This is a cunning trap--and
I've fallen right into it!"

"You have!" said Crofter grimly. "I must congratulate my friend on a
very smart piece of detective work!"

"What do you want?" repeated Jesson, moistening his dry lips.

His quick mind had been at work since the stolen vase was discovered in
his possession, and although he knew himself the victim of an amazing
plot, he also recognised that rebellion was out of the question. As
Crofter had said, there was no defence.

"Suppose," suggested Sheard, "you authorise the announcement in the
_Gleaner_ to which I have already referred? I, for my part, will
undertake to return the vase to the proper authorities and to keep your
name out of the matter entirely. Would you agree to keep silent,
Crofter?"

"Can you manage what you propose?"

"I can!" answered Sheard, confidently.

"All right!" said Crofter slowly. "It's connivance, but in a good
cause!"

"I shall make the cheque payable to the hospital!" said Jesson,
significantly.

Sheard stared for a moment, then, as the insinuation came home to his
mind: "How dare you!" he cried hotly. "Do you take us for thieves?"

"I hardly know what to take you for," replied the other. "Your
proceedings are unique."




CHAPTER V

A MYSTIC HAND


"It amounts," said J. J. Oppner, the lord of Wall Street, "to a panic.
No man of money is safe. I ain't boilin' over with confidence in
Scotland Yard, and I've got some Agency boys here in London with me."

"A panic, eh?" grunted Baron Hague, Teutonically. "So you vear this
Bablon, eh?"

"A bit we do," drawled Oppner, "and then some. After that a whole lot,
and we're well scared. He held me up at my Canadian mills for a pile;
but I've got wise to him, and if he crowds me again he's a full-blown
genius."

Mrs. Rohscheimer's dinner party murmured sympathetically.

"Of course you have heard, Baron," said the hostess, "that in his
outrage here--here, in Park Lane!--he was assisted by no fewer than
thirty accomplices?"

"Dirty aggomblices, eh? Dirty?"

"Dirty's the word!" growled Mr. Oppner.

"The wonder is," said Sir Richard Haredale, "that a rogue with so many
assistants has not been betrayed."

To those present at the Rohscheimer board this subject, indeed, was one
of quite extraordinary interest, in view of the fact that it was only a
few days since the affair of the dramatic ball. Sixteen diners there
were, and in order to appreciate the electric atmosphere which prevailed
in the airy salon, let us survey the board. Reading from left to right,
as in the case of society wedding groups, the diners were:

    Mrs. Julius Rohscheimer.[1]
    Baron Hague.[1]
    Miss Zoe Oppner.[1]
    Sir Richard Haredale.
    Mrs. Maurice Hohsmann.[1]
    Mr. J. J. Oppner.[1]
    Mrs. Wellington Lacey.
    Mr. Sheard (Press).
    Miss Salome Hohsmann.[1]
    Sir Leopold Jesson.[1]
    Lady Vignoles.[1]
    Mr. Julius Rohscheimer.[1]
    Lady Mary Evershed.
    Lord Vignoles.
    Miss Charlotte Hohsmann.[1]
    Mr. Antony Elschild.[1]

[Footnote 1: Representatives of capital.]

"I understand that the man holds private keys to the British Museum!"
cried Mrs. Hohsmann.

"Nobody would be surprised to hear," came the thick voice of Julius
Rohscheimer, "that he'd got a private subway between his bedroom and the
Bank of England!"

Extravagant though this may appear, it would not indeed, at this time,
have surprised the world at large to learn _anything_--however amazing
in an ordinary man--respecting Séverac Bablon. The real facts of his
most recent exploit were known only to a select few; but it was
universal property how, at about half-past eleven one morning shortly
after the theft from the British Museum, and whilst all London, together
with a great part of the Empire, was discussing the incredibly
mysterious robbery, a cab drove up to the main entrance of that
institution, containing a District Messenger and a large box.

The box was consigned to the trustees of the Museum, and the boy, being
questioned, described the consigner as "a very old gentleman, with long,
white hair."

It contained, carefully and scientifically packed, the Hamilton Vase and
the Head of Cæsar!

Furthermore, it contained the following note:

     "GENTLEMEN,--

     "I beg to return, per messenger, the Head of Cæsar and the Hamilton
     Vase. My reason for taking the liberty of borrowing them was that I
     desired to convince a wealthy friend that a rare curio is a
     powerful instrument for good, and that to allow of great wealth
     lying idle when thousands sicken and die in poverty is a misuse of
     a power conferred by Heaven.

     "I trust that you will forgive my having unavoidably occasioned you
     so much anxiety.

     "SÉVERAC BABLON."

The contents of the note were made public with the appearance of the
3.30 editions; nor was there a news-sheet of them all that failed to
reprint, from the _Gleaner_, a paragraph announcing that Sir Leopold
Jesson had made the magnificent donation of £10,000 to the Sladen
Hospital. But the link that bound these items together was invisible to
the eyes of the world. Two persons at Rohscheimer's table, however, were
aware of all the facts; and although Sheard often glanced at Jesson, he
studiously avoided meeting his eyes.

Séverac Bablon's activities had not failed to react upon the temperature
of the Stock Exchange. Loudly it was whispered that influential and
highly-placed persons were concerned with him. No capitalist felt safe.
No man trusted his staff, his solicitor, his broker. It was felt that
minions of Séverac Bablon were everywhere; that Séverac Bablon was
omnipresent.

"You've gone pretty deep into the case, Sheard," said Rohscheimer. "What
do you know about these cards he sends to people he's goin' to rob?"

Sheard cleared his throat somewhat nervously. All eyes sought him.

"The authorities have established the fact," he replied, "that all those
whom Séverac Bablon has victimised have received--due warning."

Sir Leopold Jesson was watching him covertly.

"What do you mean by 'due warning'?" he snapped.

"They have been requested, anonymously," Sheard explained, "to subscribe
to some worthy object. When they have failed voluntarily to comply they
have been _compelled_, forcibly, to do so!"

Julius Rohscheimer began to turn purple. He spluttered furiously, ere
gaining command of speech.

"Is this a free country?" came in a hoarse roar. "If a man ain't out
buildin' hospitals for beggars does he have to be held up----"

He caught Mrs. Rohscheimer's glance, laden with entreaty.

"Good Lord!" he concluded, weakly. "Isn't it funny!"

Baron Hague was understood to growl that he should no longer feel safe
until back to Berlin he had gone.

"I am told," said Mr. Antony Elschild, "that a new Séverac Bablon
outrage is anticipated by the authorities."

That loosed the flood-gates. A dozen voices were asking at once: "Have
_you_ received a card?"

It seemed that this was a matter which had lain at the back of each
mind; that each had feared to broach; that each, now, was glad to
discuss. An extraordinary and ominous circumstance, then, was now
brought to light.

A note had been received by each of the capitalists present, stating
that £1,000,000 was urgently needed by the British Government for the
establishment of an aerial fleet. That was all. But the notes all bore a
certain seal.

"How many of us"--Julius Rohscheimer's coarse voice rose above them
all--"have got these notes?"

A moment's silence, wherein it became evident that five of the gentlemen
present had received such communications. Mrs. Hohsmann stated that her
husband had been the recipient of a note also.

"With Hohsmann," resumed Rohscheimer, "six of us."

"It appears to me," the soft voice was Antony Elschild's, "that no time
should be lost in ascertaining how many of these notes have been
sent----"

"Why?" asked Rohscheimer.

"Because, from what we know of Séverac Bablon, it is evident that he
intends to raise this sum, or a great part of it, for this highly
patriotic purpose, amongst our particular set. One is naturally anxious
to learn the amount of one's share in the responsibility!"

Baron Hague inquired, in stentorian but complicated English, whether
_he_ was to be expected to contribute towards the establishment of a
British aerial fleet.

"You have British interests, Baron!" said Sheard, smiling.

"What about me?" said Mr. Oppner.

Replied his beautiful daughter, laughing:

"You've got Canadian interests, Pa!"

So the impending outrage--for all present felt that these notes presaged
an outrage--was treated lightly enough, and the question, serious though
it was felt to be, might well have given place to topics less exciting,
when a buzz of conversation arose at the lower end of the table.

"Exactly the same," came Miss Salome Hohsmann's voice, "as the one
father received!"

She was observed to be passing something to her neighbour--Mr. Sheard.
He examined it curiously, and passed it on to Mrs. Lacey. Thus, from
hand to hand it performed a circuit of the table and came to Julius
Rohscheimer.

"That's one of 'em!" He threw it down upon the cloth--a small, square
correspondence card. It bore the words:

     "£1,000,000 is required by His Majesty's Government, immediately,
     in order to found an aerial service commensurate with Great
     Britain's urgent requirements. A fund for the purpose (under the
     patronage of the Marquess of Evershed and the Lord Mayor) has been
     opened by the _Gleaner_."

At the foot was a seal, designed in the form of two triangles crossed.

"Whose is this?" continued Rohscheimer, and turned the card over.

He read what was neatly type-written upon the other side, and his gross,
empurpled face was seen to change, to assume a patchy greyness.

The superscription was:

     "To Baron Hague, Sir Leopold Jesson, Messrs. Julius Rohscheimer,
     John Jacob Oppner, and Antony Elschild.

     _"Second Notice"_

He clutched the arms of his chair, and stood up. A dead silence had
fallen.

"Where"--Rohscheimer moistened his lips--"did this come from?"

A moment more of silence, then:

"Sir Leopold passed it to me," came Salome Hohsmann's frightened voice.

Rohscheimer stared at Jesson. Jesson turned and stared at Miss Hohsmann.

"You are mistaken," he replied slowly. "I have not had the card in my
hand!"

Miss Hohsmann's fine, dark eyes grew round in wonder.

"But, Sir Leopold!" she cried. "I _took_ it from your hand!"

Jesson's face was a study in perplexity.

"I can only say," contributed Sheard, who sat upon the other side of the
girl, "that I saw Miss Hohsmann looking at the card and I asked to be
allowed to examine it. I then passed it on to Mrs. Lacey. I may
add"--smiling--"that it does not emanate from the _Gleaner_ office, and
is in no way official!"

"Mrs. Lacey passed it along to me," came Oppner's parched voice.

"But," Sir Leopold's incisive tones cut in upon the bewildering
conversation, "Miss Hohsmann is in error in supposing that she received
the card from me. I have not handled it--neither, I believe, has Lady
Vignoles?" He turned to the latter.

She shook her head.

"No, sir," she said transatlantically, "I saw Mr. Rohscheimer take it
from Mary" (Lady Mary Evershed).

"I mean to say, Sheila"--Lord Vignoles leant forward in his chair and
looked along to his wife--"I mean to say, _I_ had it from Miss Charlotte
Hohsmann, on my left."

Rohscheimer's protruding eyes looked from face to face. Wonder was
written upon every one.

"Where the----" Mrs. Rohscheimer coughed.

The great financier sat down. Let us conclude his sentence for him:

_Where had the ominous "second notice" come from?_

Amid a thrilling silence, the guests sought, each in his or her own
fashion, for the solution to this truly amazing conundrum. The order may
be seen from a glance at the foregoing list of guests. It has only to be
remembered that they were seated around a large oval table and their
relative positions become apparent.

"It appears to me," said Sir Leopold Jesson, "that the mystery has its
root here. Miss Hohsmann is under the impression that I handed the card
to her. I did not do so. Miss Hohsmann, as well as myself, has been
victimised by this common enemy, so that"--he smiled dryly--"we cannot
suspect her, and you cannot suspect me, of complicity. Was there any
servant in the room at the time?"

A brief inquiry served to show that there had been no servant on that
side of the room at the time.

"Did you pick it up from the table, dear," cried Mrs. Hohsmann, "or
actually take it from--someone's hand?"

Amid a tense silence the girl replied:

"From--someone's hand!"




CHAPTER VI

THE SHADOW OF SÉVERAC BABLON


The mystery of personality is one which eludes research along the most
scientific lines. It is a species of animal magnetism as yet
unclassified. Personality is not confined to the individual: it clings
to his picture, his garments, his writing; it has the persistency of a
civet perfume.

From this slip of cardboard lying upon Rohscheimer's famous oval table
emanated rays--unseen, but cogent. The magnetic words "Séverac Bablon"
seemed to glow upon the walls, as of old those other words had glowed
upon a Babylonian wall.

There were those present to whom the line "Who steals my purse steals
trash" appealed, as the silliest ever written. And it was at the purses
of these that the blow would be struck--_id est_, at the most vital and
fonder part of their beings.

"That card"--Julius Rohscheimer moistened his lips--"can't have dropped
from the ceiling!"

But he looked upward as he spoke; and it was evident that he credited
Séverac Bablon with the powers of an Indian fakir.

"It would appear," said Antony Elschild, "that a phantom hand appeared
in our midst!"

The incident was eerie; a thousand times more so in that it was
associated with Séverac Bablon. Rohscheimer gave orders that the outer
door was on no account to be opened, until the house had been thoroughly
searched. He himself headed the search party--whilst Mrs. Rohscheimer
remained with the guests.

All search proving futile, Rohscheimer returned and learnt that a new
discovery had been made. He was met outside the dining-room door by
Baron Hague.

"Rohscheimer!" cried the latter, "my name on that card, it is underlined
in red ink!"

Rohscheimer's rejoinder was dramatic.

"The diamonds!" he whispered.

Indeed, this latest discovery was significant. Baron Hague had brought
with him, for Rohscheimer's examination, a packet of rough diamonds.
Rohscheimer had established his fortunes in South Africa; and, be it
whispered, there were points of contact between his own early history
and the history of the packet of diamonds which Hague carried to-night.
In both records there were I.D.B. chapters.

The two men stared at each other--and sometimes glanced into the shadows
of the corridor.

"He must be in league with the devil," continued Rohscheimer, "if he has
got to know about those stones! But it certainly looks as though----"

"Where can I hide them from _him_--from this man who I hear cannot be
kept out of anywhere?"

"Hague," said Rohscheimer, shakily, "you'd be safer at your hotel than
here. He's held people up in my house once before!"

As may be divined, Rohscheimer's chiefest fear was that _his_ name,
_his_ house, should be associated with another mysterious outrage. He
knew Baron Hague to have about his person stones worth a small fortune,
and he was all anxiety--first, to save them from Séverac Bablon, the
common enemy; second, if Baron Hague _must_ be robbed, to arrange that
he be robbed somewhere else!

"I have not ordered my gar until twelve o'clock," said the Baron.

"Mine can be got ready in----"

"I won't wait! Gall me a gab!"

That proposal fell into line with Rohscheimer's personal views, and he
wasted not a moment in making the necessary arrangements.

The library door opening, and Adeler, his private secretary, appearing,
with a book under his arm, Mr. Rohscheimer called to him:

"Adeler!"

Adeler approached, deferentially. His pale, intellectual face was quite
expressionless.

"If you're goin' downstairs, Adeler, tell someone to call a cab for the
Baron: Heard nothing suspicious while you've been in the library, have
you?"

"Nothing," said Adeler--bowed, and departed.

The two plutocrats rejoined the guests. Sir Leopold Jesson was standing
in a corner engaged in an evidently interesting conversation with Salome
Hohsmann.

"You positively saw the hand?"

"Positively!" the girl assured him. "It just slipped the card into mine
as Mr. Sheard leaned over and asked me if my diamond aigrette had been
traced--the one that was stolen from me here, in this house, by Séverac
Bablon."

Sheard was standing near.

"I saw you take the card, Miss Hohsmann!" he said; "though I was unable
to see from whose hand you took it. Sir Leopold sat on your left,
however, and there was no one else near at the time."

Sir Leopold Jesson stared hard at Sheard. Sheard stared back
aggressively. There was that between them that cried out for open
conflict. Yet open conflict was impossible!

"Now then, you two!" Rohscheimer's coarse voice broke in, "what's the
good o' fightin' about it?"

But the atmosphere of uneasiness prevailed throughout the gilded salon.
Mrs. Rohscheimer, clever hostess though admittedly she was, found
herself hard put to it to keep up the spirits of her guests--or those of
her guests whose names had appeared upon the mysterious "second notice."

Lady Mary Evershed and Sir Richard Haredale sat under a drooping palm
behind a charming statuette representing Pandora in the familiar
attitude with the casket.

"It was through that door, yonder," said Haredale, pointing, "that the
masked man came."

"Yes," assented the girl. "I was over there--by the double doors."

"You were," replied Haredale; "I saw you first of all, when I looked
up!"

A short silence fell, then:

"Do you know," said Lady Mary, "I cannot sympathise with any of the
people who lost their property. They were all of them people who never
gave a penny away in their lives! In fact, Mr. Rohscheimer's particular
set are all dreadfully mean! When you come to think of it, isn't it
funny how everybody visits here?"

When he came to think of it, Haredale did not find it amusing in the
slightest degree. Julius Rohscheimer was an octopus whose tentacles were
fastened upon the heart of society. Haredale was so closely in the coils
that, short of handing in his papers, he had no alternative but to
appear as Rohscheimer's social _alter ego_. Lord and Lady Vignoles were
regular visitors to the house in Park Lane; and although the Marquess of
Evershed did not actually visit there, he countenanced the appearance of
his daughter, chaperoned by Mrs. Wellington Lacey, at the millionaire's
palace. Moreover, Haredale knew why!

What a wondrous power is gold!

Haredale was watching the fleeting expressions which crossed Lady Mary's
beautiful face as, with a little puzzled frown, she glanced about the
room.

Baron Hague came to make his _adieux_. He was a man badly frightened.
When finally he departed, Julius Rohscheimer conducted him downstairs.

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

The Baron assured him that he should follow his advice.

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

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

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

The cab drove off.

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

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

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

Haredale, in the hall-way, turned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Chief Inspector Sheffield."

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

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

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

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

"I distrust Sheard!" snapped Jesson suddenly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hallo!"

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

"Have you got the card?"

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

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

"What's the matter?" cried Jesson.

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

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

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




CHAPTER VII

THE RING


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

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

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

The Baron took up the speaking-tube.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am dreaming!"

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

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

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

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

Hague started forward, fists clenched.

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

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

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

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

"Sit down, Baron," he reiterated.

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

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

"For the last time--sit down, Baron!"

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

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

He sat down.

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

"I will not----" began Hague.

Séverac Bablon checked him, with a gesture.

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

Baron Hague stared in angry bewilderment.

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

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

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

"Why do you make a victim of _me_?" he gasped. "Antony Elschild is----"

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

"For _how much_?"

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

The Baron gulped.

"In Berlin--they would say I was mad!"

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

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

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

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

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

Hague looked up.

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

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

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

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

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

"_Gott!_" he muttered. "I am going mad! You cannot be--you----"

"I am _he_!"

Baron Hague's knees began to tremble.

"It is impossible!"

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

The Baron could scarcely stand.

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

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

But Hague drew back yet further.

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

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

Baron Hague offered no defence; made no reply.

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

Hague groaned.

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

"It will be my ruin in Berlin!"

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

"_Fifty thousand pounds!_" gasped Hague.

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

"I won't----"

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

"You--must be--mad!"

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

"And--if--I give you such a----"

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

"And--the diamonds?"

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

"This--is robbery!"

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

"You mean to ruin me!"

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

"It will ruin me."

"To decline? I admit that!"

Very shakily, having taken his cheque book from his pocket, Baron Hague
drew and signed a cheque for the fabulous, the atrocious sum of £50,000.

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

"Officer! Where am I, eh?"

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

Hague found himself bundled into the cab.

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




CHAPTER VIII

IN THE DRESSING-ROOM


The house was very quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The doors were opening slowly!

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

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

_"Do not move!"_

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

A smaller card was tossed across on to the table.

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

"There is a cheque-book in your coat pocket, and your coat hangs beside
me in the wardrobe. I will throw the book across to you. You will make
out a cheque for £100,000, payable to the editor of the _Gleaner_, and
also write a note explaining that this is your contribution towards the
fund for the founding, by patriotic Britons, of a suitable air fleet."

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

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

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

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

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

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


     "To the Editor of the _Gleaner_,

     "SIR,--I enclose a cheque for £100,000" (as he wrote these dreadful
     words, Rohscheimer almost contemplated rebellion; but the
     silence--the fearful silence--and the thought of the one who
     watched him proved too potent for his elusive courage. He wrote
     on). "I desire you to place it at the disposal of the Government
     for purposes of ariel" (Rohscheimer was no scholar) "defence. I
     hope others will follow suit." (He _did_. It was horrible to be
     immolated thus, a solitary but giant sacrifice, upon the altar of
     this priest of iconoclasm)--"I am, sir, yours, etc.

     "JULIUS ROHSCHEIMER."

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

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

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

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

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

A faint creak.

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

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

He did not glance around.

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

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

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

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

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

What could the Unseen be waiting for?

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

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

He was growing stiff again.

Two o'clock!

Beneath his eyes lay the card which read:

"If you do so once, I _may_ only warn you----"

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

He began to turn his head.

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

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

And the gleaming barrel pointed truly at his head!

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

"Mr. Rohscheimer! Mr. Rohscheimer!"

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

Shakily, he got upon his feet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Marquess entered.

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

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

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

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

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

"Hear, hear!" murmured Sheard.

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

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

At that, Rohscheimer was surrounded.

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

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

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

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

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

"My God! What's that?"

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

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

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

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

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

Adeler reappeared.

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

Adeler stared.

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

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

"I."

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

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

"No."

"Sure you were first in?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs. Rohscheimer departing, Haredale lingered.

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

Haredale left the room.

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

From the gap pointed a gleaming tube!

_"Ah!"_

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

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

Rohscheimer stared--and stared--and stared.

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




CHAPTER IX

ES-SINDIBAD OF CADOGAN GARDENS


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

It is close upon the dining hour.

"Zoe is late!" said Lady Vignoles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is your contention?"

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

"Neither has Scotland Yard!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lord Vignoles looked amused.

"_Les affaires!_" he said resignedly. "These Americans!"

Dinner was announced.

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

Then Vignoles made a discovery.

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

His wife made a rapid mental calculation and flushed slightly.

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

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

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

Zimmermann strolled up to the group.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I mean to say----"

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

The footman addressed came forward.

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

Alexander was shocked.

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

"Did you hear me, Alexander?"

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

"Shall I repeat it again, slowly?"

"I heard you, my lady."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Detective-Inspector Pepys!"

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

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

The guest entered.

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

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

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

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

Vignoles (to his own surprise) offered his hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was beautifully mysterious, and everyone became intensely
interested.

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

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

"And what is the conclusion?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER X

KIMBERLEY


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

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

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

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

"But----" began Vignoles, in bewilderment.

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

"Séverac Bablon?"

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

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

"Detective-Inspector Pepys! But what----"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"In what form?"

"He endeavoured to extort money."

"By what means?"

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

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

"Did it contain valuables?"

"Certainly."

"Diamonds?"

"It contained valuable papers."

"Where is the safe situated?"

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

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

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

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

He moved to the bell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She met the gaze of his earnest eyes frankly.

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

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

Zoe's big eyes opened widely.

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

"I shall be punctual!"

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

"Simons!" cried Megger, loudly.

But there was no reply.

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

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

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

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

His voice trembled slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you certain _nothing_ is gone?" he asked.

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

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

His eyes were feverish. His features worked.

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

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

"Both up!" ordered Pepys crisply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XI

MR. SANRACK VISITS THE HOTEL ASTORIA


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

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

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

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

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

"What but this Séverac Bablon business!"

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh!" cried Zoe--"how exciting!"

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

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

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

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

Her father looked at her long and earnestly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He "pushed off."

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

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

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

"I have kept my promise, Miss Oppner!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

"I demand an answer! Who are you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiled, having resumed his habitual calm.

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

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

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

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

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

He laughed softly.

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

"It is----"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Inspector Sheffield would like to ask you something!"

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

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

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

"What do you want him for?"

Sheffield raised his eyebrows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And here, by her side, stood Séverac Bablon!

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

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

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

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

"He may come in at any moment!"

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

Zoe's little foot tapped the floor nervously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oppner came up.

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

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

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

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

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

"Nope?" drawled Oppner.

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

Mr. Oppner took a step forward.

"What group's that?"

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

"The Elschilds?"

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

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

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

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

"That is what my friends so deeply lament!"

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

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

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

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

Mr. Oppner nodded.

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

Mr. Sanrack smiled. Alden was closely observing him.

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

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

He moved off, with the stoical Alden.

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

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

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

"You have placed me in an impossible situation."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XII

LOVE, LUCRE AND MR. ALDEN


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

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

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

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

Mary looked up to him, tenderly reproachful.

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

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

She lowered her eyes again.

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

Haredale laughed nervously.

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

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

Haredale glanced at her oddly.

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

He laughed boyishly at his own words.

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

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

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

"Yes?"

"With the ancient history of the Jews!"

"What do you mean exactly?"

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

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

"What stories, Dick?"

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

"But Mrs. Elschild says he _does_!"

Haredale started.

"How can she possibly know?"

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

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

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

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

Haredale shrugged his shoulders.

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

They walked on in silence for awhile. Then--

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

"My father has visited him."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mary raised her tearful eyes.

"What do you mean, Zoe?"

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

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

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

Mary dried her eyes.

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

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

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

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

A smile dawned upon Lady Mary's face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes. Mr. Gale of New York had arrived.

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

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

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

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

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

"Come in," he was instructed.

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

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

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

It was empty!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     RADLEY GALE, ESQ.

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

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

     "SHEARD."

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




CHAPTER XIII

THE LISTENER


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

    SIR LEOPOLD JESSON AND
         MR. HOHSMANN
        FALL INTO LINE

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

Frantically, representatives of the _Gleaner's_ rivals had sought for
confirmation from the lips of the victims; but, as had been foreseen by
the astute Sheard, no confirmation was forthcoming. There had been an
informal council held at the urgent request of Rohscheimer, whereat it
had been decided that for the latter to appear, now, in the light of a
victim of Séverac Bablon, would be for him to throw away such advantages
as might accrue--to throw a potential peerage after his lost £100,000!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sheard stood up.

Into the study walked Séverac Bablon.

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

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

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

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

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

"But----"

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

"But he can call a constable!"

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

"You are arrested!"

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

"Patently, Mr. Alden."

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

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

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

"I know."

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

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

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

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

"She actually saw your hand!"

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

"Critical moment."

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was difficult, all but impossible, to realise.

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

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

"Heavens! Was I thinking aloud?"

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

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

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

"But Jesson?"

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

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

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

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

Séverac Bablon stepped to the table and scribbled upon a sheet of
paper:--

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

Replacing the pencil on the tray:

"I want you to j

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