Kate plus 10

By Edgar Wallace

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Title: Kate plus 10

Author: Edgar Wallace

Illustrator: Charles H. Towne

Release date: June 2, 2025 [eBook #76212]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston: Small, Maynard & Company, 1917

Credits: an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KATE PLUS 10 ***





 KATE PLUS 10

 BY
 EDGAR WALLACE
 _Author of
 “The Clue of the Twisted Candle,” etc._

 WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY
 Charles H. Towne




 BOSTON
 SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY
 PUBLISHERS




 image: img_fp.jpg
 caption:
 “Why, Kate!” he murmured. “I’m always meeting you.”




 [COPYRIGHT]

 Copyright, 1917
 By SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY
 (INCORPORATED)




 CONTENTS

 I. Eighty-three pearls on a string
 II. Mike said nothing--there was nothing to say
 III. Other eyes watched Michael
 IV. “The ideal Criminal is a strategist”
 V. A Chorus Girl at Sebo’s
 VI. Kate came to the flat
 VII. The Princess Bacheffski--beautifully dressed
 VIII. An artist makes an exhibition of himself
 IX. The shareholders and an interruption
 X. Sir Ralph lost a princess and found a policeman
 XI. Lady Moya was curiously unlike herself
 XII. A motor car was met by a special train
 XIII. The chronology of a great theft
 XIV. The remarkable train that did strange tricks
 XV. As Sir Ralph said, “Business is Business”
 XVI. On the unmorality of professional thieves
 XVII. The independent strategy of Señor Gregori
 XVIII. The colonel was a gentlemen at the last
 XIX. Michael developed a fondness for the criminal classes




 KATE PLUS 10

 CHAPTER I.
 EIGHTY-THREE PEARLS ON A STRING

The Earl of Flanborough pressed a bell push by the side of his study
table and, after an interval of exactly three seconds, pressed it
again, though the footman’s lobby could not have been far short of
fifty yards from the library and the serving man was never born who
could sprint that distance in three seconds.

Yet, in such awe was his lordship held that morning by his
man-servants, his maid-servants and everything within his gates, that
Sibble, the first footman, made the distance in five.

“Why the dickens don’t you answer my bell when I ring?” snapped the
Earl and glared at his red-faced servant.

Sibble did not reply, knowing by experience that, even as silence was
insolence, speech could be nothing less than impertinence.

Lord Flanborough was slightly over middle age, thin, bald and
dyspeptic. His face was mean and insignificant and if you looked for
any resemblance to the somewhat pleasant faces of the Feltons and
Flanboroughs of past generations which stared mildly or fiercely, or
(as in the case of the first Baron Felton and Flanborough, a poet and
contemporary of Lovelace) with gentle melancholy from their massive
frames in the long hall, you looked in vain. For George Percy
Allington Felton, Earl of Flanborough, Baron Felton and Baron Sedgely
of Waybrook, was only remotely related to the illustrious line of
Feltons and had inherited the title and the heavily mortgaged estates
of his great-uncle by sheer bad luck. This was the uncharitable view
of truer Feltons who stood, however, more remotely in the line of
succession.

Lord Flanborough had been Mr. George Felton of Felton, Heinrich and
Somes, a firm which controlled extensive mining properties in various
parts of the world, and the one bright spot in his succession to the
peerage lay in the fact that he brought some two millions sterling to
the task of freeing the estates of their encumbrances.

He was a shrewd man and an unpleasant man, but he had never been so
objectionably unpleasant until he assumed the style and title of
Flanborough and never so completely and impossibly unpleasant in the
period of his lordship as he had been that morning.

“Now, what did I want you for?” asked Lord Flanborough in vexation. “I
rang for something--if you had only answered at once instead of
dawdling about, I should--ah, yes--tell Lady Moya that I wish to see
her.”

Sibble made his escape thankfully.

Lord Flanborough pulled at his weedy moustache and looked at the
virgin sheet of paper before him. Then he took up his pen and wrote:


 “Lost or Stolen: Valuable pearl chain consisting of eighty-three
 graduated pearls. Any person giving information which will lead to
 their recovery will receive a reward of two hundred pounds.”


He paused; scratched out “two hundred pounds” and substituted “one
hundred pounds.” This did not satisfy him and he altered the sum to
“fifty pounds.” He sat considering even this modest figure and
eventually struck out that amount and wrote, “will be suitably
rewarded.”

He heard the door click and looked up.

“Ah--Moya. I am just tinkering away at an advertisement,” he said with
a smile.

The Lady Moya Felton was twenty-two and pretty. She re-collected in
her admirable person many of the traditional family graces which had
so malignantly avoided her parent. Well-shaped and of a gracious
carriage, though no more than medium in height, the face with its
delicacy of moulding was wholly Felton. If the stubborn chin, the firm
mouth and the china-blue eyes had come from the dead and gone
Sedgelys, the hair of bronze gold was peculiarly Feltonesque.

When she spoke, however, the carping critic might complain that her
voice lacked the rich quality upon which the family prided itself, for
the Feltons were orators in those days when a parliamentary speech
read like something out of a book. Moya’s voice was a trifle hard and
without body; it was also just a little unsympathetic. Lord
Flanborough boasted with good cause that his daughter was a “practical
little woman” and at least one man beside her father could testify to
this quality.

“Dear, don’t you think it is a little absurd--advertising?” asked the
girl.

She seated herself at the other side of the desk and, reaching out her
hand, opened a silver box and helped herself to one of her father’s
cigarettes.

“Why absurd, darling?” asked Lord Flanborough testily; “lost property
has been found before now, by means of advertising. I remember years
ago when I was in the city, there was a fellow named Goldberg--”

“Please forget all about the city for a moment,” she smiled, lighting
her cigarette, “and review all the circumstances. Firstly, I had the
pearls when I was at Lady Machinstones’ house. I danced with quiet,
respectable people--Sir Ralph Sapson, Sir George Felixburn, Lord
Fethington, Major Aitkens, and that awfully nice boy of Machinstones.
_They_ didn’t steal them. I had the pearls when I left, because I saw
them as I was fastening my fur cloak. I had them in the car because I
touched them just before we reached the house. I don’t remember taking
them off--but then I was dead tired and hardly remember going to bed.
Obviously, Martin is the thief. She is the only person who has access
to my room; she helped me undress; it is as plain as a pikestaff.”

Lord Flanborough tapped his large teeth with his penholder, a practice
of his which annoyed his daughter beyond words, though at the moment
she deemed it expedient to overlook the fault. The loss had frightened
her, for the pearls were worth three thousand pounds and she was one
of those people whose standard of values had a currency basis.

“I have asked Scotland Yard to send their very best man,” said Lord
Flanborough importantly. “Where is Martin?”

“Locked in her room--I have told Fellows to sit outside her door,”
said the girl, and then, interestedly, “When will the detective
arrive?”

Lord Flanborough picked up an open telegraph form from the table.

“‘Sending Inspector Pretherston’--by Jove!”

He blinked across the desk at his daughter.

“Pretherston,” she repeated thoughtfully; “isn’t it strange?”

“Pretherston--hum,” said her father and looked at her again.

If he expected to see any confusion, any heightening of color, even so
much as a faltering of glance, he was relieved, for she met his gaze
steadfastly, save that there was a far-away look in her eyes and a
certain speculative narrowing of lids.

The romance was five years old, and if she cherished the memory of it,
it was the charity which she might show to a favored piece in her
china cupboard; it was something to be taken out and dusted at
intervals. Michael Pretherston was a bad match from every point of
view, though his invalid cousin was a peer of the realm and Michael
would one day be Pretherston of Pretherston. He was hideously poor, he
was casual, he had no respect for wealth, he held the most outrageous
views on the church, society and the state; he was, in fact, something
as nearly approaching an anarchist as Lord Flanborough ever expected
or feared to meet.

His wooing had been brief but tempestuous. The girl had been
overwhelmed and had given her promise. Recovering her reason in the
morning and realizing (as she said) that love was not “everything,”
she had written him a letter of fourteen pages in which she had
categorically set forth the essential conditions to their union. These
called for the abandonment of all his principles, the re-establishment
of all his shattered beliefs and an estimate of the cost of placing
Pretherston Court in a state of repair suitable for the reception of
the Lady Moya Pretherston (_née_ Felton).

To her fourteen pages, he had returned a thirty-two page letter which
was at once an affront and a justification for anarchy. It was not a
love-letter; rather was it something between a pamphlet by Henry
George and a treatise by Jean Jacques Rousseau, interspersed with
passionate appeals to her womanhood and offensive references to her
“huckster-souled” father.

“He was always a wild sort of chap,” said Lord Flanborough, shaking
his head darkly. “I understood that he had gone abroad.”

“I suppose there are other Pretherstons,” said the girl; “still it
_is_ strange, isn’t it?”

“Do you ever feel…?” began her father awkwardly.

She smiled and laid down her cigarette on the crystal ash-tray.

“He was wholly impossible,” she agreed.

There came a gentle tap at the door and a girl entered.

She was dressed neatly in black, and her prettiness was of a different
type to that of her employer (for Lady Moya indulged in the luxury of
a secretary). It was a beautiful face with a hint of tragedy in the
down-turned lips and, it seemed, a history of wild sorrow in her big
grey eyes. Yet of sorrow she knew nothing, and such tragedy as she had
met had left her unmoved. Her abundant hair was of a rich brown; the
hand that clasped a note-book to her bosom was small and artistic. She
was an inch taller than Lady Moya, but because she did not show the
same erectness of carriage she seemed shorter.

“Father, you asked me to let you have Miss Tenby this morning,” said
Lady Moya with a nod for the girl. “I don’t know whether you will
still want her?”

“I am _so_ sorry this dreadful thing has happened, Lord Flanborough,”
said the girl in a low voice; “it must be terrible to feel that there
is a thief in the house.”

Lord Flanborough smiled good-humoredly.

“We shall recover the pearls, I am certain,” he said; “don’t let it
worry you, Miss Tenby--I hope you are comfortable?”

“Very, Lord Flanborough,” said the girl gratefully.

“And the work is not too hard, eh?”

The girl smiled slightly.

“It is nothing--I feel awfully ashamed of myself sometimes. I have
been with you a month and have hardly earned my salt.”

“That’s all right,” replied his lordship with great condescension;
“you have already been of the greatest assistance to me and we shall
find you plenty of other work. I was glad to see you in church on
Sunday. The vicar tells me that you are a regular attendant.”

The girl inclined her head, but said nothing. For a while she waited
and then at a word of polite dismissal, she left the library.

“Deuced nice girl, that,” said his lordship approvingly.

“She works well and quickly, and she can read French beautifully--I
was very fortunate,” said Moya carelessly. “What were we talking about
when she came in? Oh, yes--Michael Pretherston. I wonder now--”

The door opened and a footman announced,

“Inspector Pretherston, m’lord.”

“Inspector Michael Pretherston, you silly ass,” corrected the annoyed
young man in the doorway.

It was Michael, then!

A little older, a little better-looking, a little more decisive--but
Michael, as impetuous and irresponsible as ever.

“He spoilt my entrance, Moya,” he laughed, as he came with rapid
strides toward the girl; “how are you after all these years--as pretty
as ever, confound you. Ah, Lord Flanborough, you’re wearing well--I
read your speech in the House of Lords on the Shipping Bill--a fine
speech; did you make it up yourself?”

Moya laughed softly and saved what might have been a most embarrassing
situation--for his lordship was framing a dignified protest against
the suggestion that he had shared the honours of authorship.

“You are not changed, Michael,” she said, looking at him with
undisguised, but none the less, detached admiration; “but what on
earth are you doing in the police force?”

“Extraordinary,” murmured Lord Flanborough, and added humorously, “and
an anarchist, too.”

“It is a long story,” said Michael. “I really received my promotion in
the Special Branch--the Foreign Office Branch--and was transferred to
the C.I.D. after we caught the Callam crowd, the Continental
confidence tricksters. It is disgraceful that I should be an
inspector, isn’t it? But merit tells!” He chuckled again, then of a
sudden grew serious. “I’m forgetting I’ve a job to do--what’s the
trouble?”

Lord Flanborough explained the object of his urgent call, and a look
of disappointment appeared upon Michael Pretherston’s face.

“A miserable little larceny,” he said reproachfully. “I thought at
least Moya had been kidnapped. Now, tell me all that happened on the
night you lost the pearls.”

Step by step the girl related her movements and the periods at which
she had evidence that the pearls were still with her.

“And then you reached your bedroom,” said Michael, “and what happened
there? First of all, you took your fur wrap off.”

“Yes,” nodded the girl.

“Were you in a cheerful frame of mind or were you rather cross?”

“Does that matter?” she asked in surprise.

“Everything matters to the patient and systematic officer of the law.
Temperamental clues are as interesting and material as any other.”

“Well, if the truth were told,” she confessed, “I was rather cross and
very tired.”

“Did you take your cloak off, or did your woman?”

“I took it off myself,” she said after a pause, “and hung it up.”

He asked her a few more questions.

“Now, we will see the sorrowful Martin,” he said, “and let me tell you
this, Moya, that if this girl is innocent she has grounds for action
against you for false imprisonment.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Lord Flanborough with asperity. “I have a
perfect right to detain anybody I think is guilty of theft.”

“You have no more right to lock a woman in a room,” said the other
calmly, “than I have to stand you on your head. But that is beside the
point. Lead me to the prisoner.”

The prisoner was very pale and very tearful; a middle-aged woman who
felt her position acutely and between sobs and wails made an
incoherent protest of her innocence.

“I suppose you have searched everywhere?” asked Michael, turning to
the girl.

“Everywhere,” she replied emphatically. “I have had every box and
every corner of the room examined.”

“Suppose the string of the pearls broke, would they all fall off?”

“No, they would still remain on, because each pearl was secured.
Father gave them to me as a birthday present and he was very
particular on that point.”

“I would like to bet,” said Michael suddenly, “that those pearls are
not out of this room. Show me your wardrobe.”

The girl’s wardrobe occupied the whole of one wall of her
dressing-room, and the tearful Martin opened the rosewood doors for
his inspection.

“This is your fur cloak, I presume? Did you examine this after the
loss?”

“Examine the cloak,” said Lady Moya in surprise, “of course not. What
has the cloak to do with the loss? There are no pockets in it.”

“But if I know anything about the fur cloaks that are fashionable this
season,” said Michael, wisely, “I should say that there is a
possibility that this luxurious garment had a great deal to do with
the loss. In fact, my dear Moya,” he said, “your mysterious loss has
been duplicated and triplicated this year. In two cases the police
were called in, and in the other case the owner had the intelligence
to find her lost trinket without assistance.”

He lifted the cloak down very carefully and opened it to show the silk
lining and there, caught in one of the long flat hooks, dangled the
pearls. The girl uttered an exclamation of delight and slipped them
from its fastening.

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” said Michael dryly. “That is what has happened,
not three times but half-a-dozen times since these flat hooks have
been introduced. You take the cloak off in a bad temper, the hook
catches the chain, breaks it, you bundle the cloak in your wardrobe
and there you have the beginning of a great jewel mystery.”

“I can’t tell you how delighted I am,” said the girl. “Michael, you’re
wonderful!”

Michael did not reply. He turned to the frightened waiting-woman with
a kindly smile.

“I am so sorry you have been worried about this, Mrs. Martin,” he
said, “but when people lose very valuable property they are also
inclined to lose their very valuable heads. I am sure Lady Moya is
sorry and will make you due compensation for any inconvenience you
have been put to.”

The girl stared at him resentfully.

“Of course, I am awfully sorry, Martin,” she said, coldly.

“Oh, my lady,” said the woman eagerly, “I am only too pleased that you
have recovered your chain. The worry of it has made me quite ill.”

“You can have a week’s holiday,” said Lord Flanborough, magnificently.
“I will get you a free railway ticket to Seahampton,” he added.

“So you see, Mrs. Martin,” said Michael with that bland air of his
which scarcely veiled the sarcasm so irritating to his lordship, “your
generous employers will leave no stone unturned to minister to your
comfort, regardless of expense. And when you are at Seahampton, Mrs.
Martin, (I trust you will not lose the return half of your free
ticket) you will be allowed to walk up and down the promenade on equal
terms with the aristocracy and breathe the ozone which, ordinarily, is
created for your betters. You may sit on the free seats and watch the
pageant of life step past you and, reflecting upon the generosity of
your betters, you may appreciate the good fortune which brought you
into hourly contact with the aristocracy of England. And on Sundays,
Mrs. Martin, you may go to church where quite a number of the seats
are also free and may even share a hymn-book with a Gracious Person
who is so vastly above you in social standing that he will never
recognize you again, and there, I trust, you will pray with a new
fervence that the deliberations of the House of Lords may receive
divine inspiration.”

“Oh, indeed I will, sir,” said Mrs. Martin almost stunned by his
eloquence.

He left the woman, overwhelmed, and returned with a very ruffled Lord
Flanborough and an indignant Moya to the library.

“What utter nonsense you talk, Michael,” said the girl angrily. “I
don’t think it was kind of you to attempt to set my servants against
me.”

“Beastly bad taste,” said Lord Flanborough, “and really, Pretherston,
you came here as an officer of the law and not as an old acquaintance
and I think that you exceed your duties, if you don’t mind my saying
so.”

“Old acquaintances,” said Michael, picking up his hat and his coat
from a chair where he had put them before the interview, “are
especially made to be forgotten, a peculiarity of which one is
reminded in that Bacchanalian anthem which is sung at all public
dinners where sobriety is bad form. I was merely endeavouring to
inculcate into the mind of your slave a few moral principles,
beneficial to you, and to society.”

“Don’t tell me that,” growled Lord Flanborough, “as though I didn’t
recognize your sarcasm.”

“Children and the lower orders never recognize sarcasm,” said Michael
with a broad smile.

He held out his hand and somewhat reluctantly his lordship extended
his own flabby paw.

“Before I go,” he said, “I suppose I had better take a full account of
this case. You haven’t a secretary or anybody to whom you can dictate
the circumstances? You see I have to make a report to my cold-blooded
superiors.”

Moya had reached the stage where whatever remains there was in her
friendship with Michael Pretherston had not only died but had been
cremated in the fires of her smothered anger and she was as anxious to
see the end of this interview as was her father.

“Perhaps you will ring for Miss Tenby,” she said after a pause.

Her father pressed the bell and the waiting Sibble answered it.

“Send Miss Tenby,” said his lordship.

“And I do hope, Michael,” said the girl severely, “that when Miss
Tenby is here you will not make such extravagant comments as you did
before Martin.”

“Miss Tenby,” interposed Lord Flanborough, “will not welcome such
talk. She is a young girl with--er--”

“I know, I know,” said Michael solemnly, “she is genteel. She does
forty words a minute on the typewriter and goes to church, filling in
her odd moments with needlework and accompanying you on the piano.”

“It must be a wonderful thing to be a detective,” said Moya,
sarcastically; “as a matter of fact Miss Tenby is one of the fastest
typists in the world.”

Michael swung round on her with an odd look on his face.

“Fastest typists in the world,” he repeated with all the humor gone
out of his tone; “does she sing?”

It was the girl’s turn to be astonished.

“Yes, she does, and very beautifully.”

“Does she prefer Italian opera?” he asked.

At this, the girl laughed aloud.

“Somebody has been telling you all about her and you are trying to be
mysterious,” she accused.

Further conversation was cut short by the arrival of the girl, who
walked in, closed the door and came straight to the desk. She stopped
dead at sight of Michael. Moya saw the meeting, saw the girl stiffen
and her sorrowful eyes fixed upon the detective’s face.

“Why, Kate!” said Michael Pretherston softly. “Well, well, well! and
to think that we meet again under such noble auspices.”

Miss Tenby said nothing.

“And what is the great game?” asked Michael, banteringly. “What
beautiful impulse brought you to this sheltered home and how is the
Colonel and friend Gregori and all those dear boys? By-the-way, the
Colonel must be out by now, Kate. What did he get, three years?”

Still Miss Tenby made no reply.

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Lord Flanborough, feeling that
the moment had arrived to assert himself. “Do you know this lady?”

“Do I _know_ her,” said Michael, ecstatically; “why, I am one of her
greatest admirers, aren’t I, Kate?”

The girl’s sad face softened to a smile which showed the regular lines
of her white teeth. She spoke and her voice was gentle and appealing.

“It is perfectly true, Lord Flanborough,” she said quietly, “Mr.
Pretherston knows me. He also knows that my uncle, Colonel Westhanger,
has been mixed up in a very serious scandal which brought him within
the reach of the law. It is perfectly true that when I was a little
girl I was known as Kate. It is just as true that I am trying now to
live down my association with law-breakers and am trying to
rehabilitate myself in the world.”

“H’m,” murmured Lord Flanborough, a little taken back, “very
creditable.”

Moya turned to Michael indignantly.

“I suppose that you think you are rendering a great service to the
world in trying to drag this poor girl down to the gutter, in exposing
her to her employers and in obtaining her dismissal from honest
employment.”

“I do,” said Michael shamelessly.

“I think it is a barbarous thing to do!” said Moya angrily.

She had not yet decided in her own mind as to what steps she would
take in face of this revelation. In view of her own character, it is
possible that “Miss Tenby” would have a very short shift at her hands.
But for the moment the opportunity for the display of benevolence and
Christian charity was not to be passed over. She saw the girl’s
appealing eyes and clasped hands and, for a moment, she felt a sincere
thrill of pity for a brave sister struggling to escape the octopus
tentacles of law and crime; for a moment she felt a genuinely
unselfish desire to help another.

If she expected Inspector the Hon. Michael Pretherston--for such was
his incongruous title--to wilt under her reproaches, she was
disappointed. Michael had not taken his eyes from the secretary, nor
had the twinkle in those eyes abated. He nodded to “Miss Tenby.”

“Kate,” he said, “you are really a wonder, and to think that you have
never yet come into the clutches of the law until now.”

“Until now,” said the girl quickly, raising her voice.

He nodded.

“The Prevention of Crimes Act,” murmured Michael. “I _can_ take
you,”--he emphasized the “can”--“on a charge of obtaining employment
with forged letters of recommendation, also with being a Suspected
Person.”

The girl dropped her attitude of humility, threw back her head and
laughed, showing her even white teeth.

“Oh, you Mike!” she railed him. “Oh, you busy fellow!”

Her amusement did not last long for instantly her face was set again
and the grey eyes blazed with rage.

“One of these days you will be too clever,” she said bitterly. “I have
seen better men than you and cleverer men than you go out, Michael
Pretherston. You and your Prevention of Crimes Act! You can’t put that
bluff over me. The Act does not come into operation until you have a
conviction against my name, and that you will never get, you brute!”

“Kate, Kate!” murmured Michael. “There’s a lady present.”

She nodded.

“I guess I’ll get my kit together,” she said; “it hasn’t been exactly
a holiday trip.”

“My sympathies are entirely with you,” said Michael; “it must have
been awfully dull after the gay orgies of Crime Street.”

“There is one thing I have always wanted to know,” said the girl,
pinching her lip thoughtfully.

She walked to the desk, and Lord Flanborough was too much taken back
to arrest her progress. Without a word she opened the silver box on
the table and took out a cigarette.

“I have always wanted to know what kind of dope this dear old
gentleman smoked.”

She looked at the cigarette critically and with an exclamation of
disgust threw it back on the desk.

“Gold Flavours!” she said scornfully; “can you beat it, Mike? And he
has a hundred thousand a year!”

“You must make allowances for the decadence of the governing classes,”
said the soothing Michael.

He turned and nodded farewell to the girl and with Miss Tenby’s arm in
his he passed out of the room, and Lord Flanborough and his daughter
looked at one another in speechless amazement.




 CHAPTER II.
 MIKE SAID NOTHING--THERE WAS NOTHING
 TO SAY

“You might do worse than lunch with me,” said Michael Pretherston.

He stood outside Felton House with the girl whose belongings in one
small Gladstone bag had been deposited on the curb, pending the
arrival of a taxi-cab.

“Why should I lunch with you?” she asked insolently. “I thought you
were going to pinch me.”

“Your vulgarity is appalling!” said Michael, shaking his head in
reproof. “I cannot pinch you in the vulgar sense. I have no desire to
perform that operation in the corporeal sense. You had better
compromise and lunch with me.”

The girl hesitated.

“Think of my reputation,” she said.

“Thoughts of your reputation keep me awake at night,” answered Michael
lightly and called a taxi.

They found a little restaurant in Soho and in an underground cellar
where the bad ventilation was compensated for by a blaze of light,
they ate their simple meal.

“Now, Kate, I want to ask you what your little game is,” said Michael;
“and I need the information because I know it isn’t a little game.”

“I was scared sick over those pearls,” said the girl, ignoring the
question. “It would have been horrible bad luck to have been taken for
a job I had nothing to do with and such a paltry job, too!”

“You owe me something,” said Michael.

“I owe you more than I can ever repay you,” said the girl
significantly.

“I suppose one of these days,” suggested the detective after an
interval of thought, “you will instruct some of your hired pals,
Gregori or the Colonel or little Stockmar, to inflict on me a painful
injury.”

“You!” said the girl scornfully. “If there were not men like you in
the police we should have been destroyed years ago! You are a sort of
an insurance scheme and it pays us to keep you alive and well. Why,
Crime Street would go into mourning the day you were buried.”

“You are not trying to be rude to me, are you?” he asked.

She looked at him slyly from under her long lashes and her eyes were
dancing with fun.

“Why do you think I went to Lord Flanborough?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“I’m blessed if I know,” he confessed. “Of course, I knew it was you
the moment I heard of the rapid typewriting and the Italian songs. Now
listen: I am not trying to speak to you for your good.…”

“Don’t!” she said laconically.

“But I have often wondered why a well-educated girl and a nice girl,
as far as I know to the contrary, should prefer the life of a crook
to.…”

“To earning £2 or £3 a week and working all day to earn it,” she
finished for him; “to living my life in one little room on a top floor
in Bloomsbury, waiting my turn every morning for my bath. To being
made love to by the assistant manager and sacrificing my immortal soul
for a half-a-crown dinner and a bottle of red wine! It is funny, isn’t
it! I have had the experience for professional purposes and I don’t
like it a bit, Mike.”

She looked at him straight in the eyes. She had dropped her air of
flippancy, her slang; the voice that spoke was not to be distinguished
from that of any other gentlewoman.

“You see, a woman is differently circumstanced to a man. She wants
nice things and her attitude toward life, and indeed the whole of her
conduct, depends entirely upon the degree of niceness she requires.
Men don’t do things for women for nothing. They lend to their men
friends all the money in the world and are grateful if they get it
back. They expect nothing more than their money and are surprised when
they get it. But if I were a typist in a city office and I borrowed
£2 from the assistant manager or from the chief bookkeeper or a fiver
from one of the partners, why, Mike, I should be booked for supper on
Wednesday. Men want more from women than a _quid pro quo_; they want
two _quid pro quo_. In return for the £2 I borrowed, I should pay
interest well outside the range of the multiplication table. Suppose a
man lent you £2 and asked you in exchange, not only to repay the
money, but to renounce all your dearest principles for the sake of the
loan; if he asked you to betray your friends, where you had been loyal
to them, and lie, where you had been truthful; break your word where
you had been faithful, be a thief where you had been honest? Would you
surrender every reticence, every honourable instinct, every precious
faith?”

Mike said nothing. For there was nothing to say. He paid the bill and
escorted the girl to a cab.

“I am not going to be sorry for you,” he said; “you are having The
Life. One of these days I shall come along and take you; but I shall
hate it. Hop in, Kate!”

Kate literally hopped into the waiting taxi, waved her hand in
farewell and was gone.

Michael Pretherston stood for fully five minutes on the edge of the
pavement, meditating upon what the girl had said. She had struck a
responsive note in his soul, for she spoke no more than was the truth,
as he knew.

He went, a little sadly, back to headquarters, remembering en route
that he had forgotten to write the report. Should he go back to the
Yard and compose it from memory or should he return to the
unsympathetic atmosphere of Felton House? He decided upon the latter
and surprised Lord Flanborough in the act of taking an afternoon nap.
Michael was full of apologies and was so unusually respectful that his
lordship forgot to be annoyed.

“Moya’s out,” he explained.

“I will endeavour to bear up,” replied Michael, seating himself at his
lordship’s desk and preparing to take a note of the circumstances
which had led to his lordship’s call for assistance. He finished the
report, blotted and folded it and placed the document in his pocket.

“I only want to ask you one or two questions and they concern Kate--or
Miss Tenby, as you call her. I’m afraid I gave you a shock this
morning.”

“It was certainly a surprise,” admitted Lord Flanborough cautiously;
“who is this Kate? We have made a very careful search of the house but
nothing is missing so far as we can tell.”

Michael laughed.

“You needn’t worry about that. Kate is not a pilferer. Her real name
is Katharine Westhanger; they call her Kate and she is the Colonel’s
niece. Her age is eighteen or nineteen, and from a child she has been
brought up to regard the world as her oyster. Her mother was a
wholesome parson’s daughter, her father was a rascal who was kicked
out of the army in ’89 for an offence against the Law of Property. Her
maternal grandfather was General Sir Shaun Masserfield, the greatest
strategist the British army has ever held--Kate inherits his genius
but has not learnt his code. Her father died when she was a child and
her uncle, who is a greater scoundrel than her father was--the family
on the Westhanger side has a criminal history which goes back at
intervals for two hundred years--completed her education. Kate has
been brought up to be a thief, but a big thief. She is, I believe, the
brains of the biggest criminal organisation in the world. Every member
of the gang has been taken, but no evidence has ever been offered
against Kate. She plans the big swindles and each one is bigger than
the last--but never once have we traced the offence to her door.”

“Why is it that the police--?” began Lord Flanborough.

“The police, my dear Flanborough,” said Michael wearily, “are human
beings who have to deal with human beings. They are not angels, nor
thought readers, nor are they clairvoyant. The laws of this country
are so framed that the criminal has six chances to every one possessed
by his enemy. We know Kate was concerned in that big bank smashing
exploit which took two million crowns from the treasury of the Bank of
Holland. It was Kate who organised the raid upon the London jewellers
in June of last year. Kate is the mother of Crime Street. You don’t
know that thoroughfare, but one of these days I’ll introduce you to
it, if you are curious--but I warn you that if you expect to steep
your soul in sordidness, you will be disappointed--it is the most
respectable street in London. Her ingenuity is remarkable, her
patience beyond praise, and that is partly why I have come back: I
want to know why she was here and what she was doing?”

“As I say…” began Lord Flanborough again.

“For Heaven’s sake,” interrupted Michael, “don’t tell me that you
haven’t missed things! I tell you Kate would not touch a pin in your
house. In the first place she is a well-off woman. Why in Heaven’s
name should she bother her head about your belongings? I don’t
suppose, if she had the full run of your house, she could find £100
worth of realisable property! No, that is not why Kate came to you.
How long has she been here?”

“Nearly a month,” said Lord Flanborough, a little annoyed that the
result of his own private investigations had so utterly failed to
impress a representative of Scotland Yard.

“What work has she been doing?”

“Ordinary secretarial work for Moya. She came with excellent letters
of recommendation.”

“You can forget those,” interrupted Michael testily; “the gentleman
who wrote them lives at No. 9, Crime Street and his name is Millet.”

“She was a wonderful typist,” began his lordship, who was seeking
about in his own mind for some excuse which would explain why he had
been deceived.

“That I also know. She is, as you say, one of the fastest typists in
the world. In fact, no aspect of her education has been neglected. She
speaks five languages and read French fluently when she was nine. What
work has she done for you?”

Lord Flanborough considered for a while.

“She has copied a few letters and reports.”

“What kind of reports?”

“Reports from our South African companies. You see, Michael, I still
retain the direction of most of my old interests.”

“Were they very important--the reports, I mean?”

“Yes and no,” replied Lord Flanborough slowly; “they were merely
records of output, cost of production and projected shipments.”

“On what other work was she employed?”

“Let me think,” said Lord Flanborough.

“I _am_ letting you!” replied Michael tartly. “You used to have a very
private code-book if I remember rightly.”

“That is true,” said Lord Flanborough, “but of course, she did not see
that.”

“Where did you keep it?”

“In my desk,” said Lord Flanborough.

“Is it possible that she could have seen it?”

“It is possible, but wholly impossible that she could have copied it.”

“For how long a time together was she left alone?”

“Five minutes was the longest period she was left in the library
alone,” said his lordship after consideration.

Michael fingered his chin.

“Did you ever come into the library and find her in a semi-fainting
condition?” he asked.

Lord Flanborough looked at him with open-mouthed amazement.

“Did she tell you?”

Michael shook his head.

“No, she has told me nothing. I gather from your question that there
was such an occurrence?”

“It is remarkable that you should ask the question,” said his
lordship. “I _did_ come in one morning to find the poor girl--er, the
wretched girl, in a semi-fainting condition.”

“And you went out and got her a glass of water and sent for your
housekeeper, I suppose,” said Michael, his lip curling.

“Yes, I did,” admitted his lordship.

“Which means, in plain language,” smiled Michael, “that you surprised
her in the act of examining some of your private documents and that
whilst you were getting the water and calling assistance, she was
replacing whatever she was looking at where she had found it. Did she
on any other occasion draw your attention, on your entering the room,
to some peculiar circumstance, such as one of the pictures not hanging
straight or a broken vase?”

Again Lord Flanborough looked astounded.

“Yes, once she pointed to the china cupboard and asked me who cracked
the glass. As a matter of fact, the glass was not cracked at all,” he
explained.

“But you went over and examined it?”

“Naturally,” said his lordship.

“That was exactly the same trick,” said Michael; “whilst you were
making your inspection she was able to replace any documents she had
been examining and close the drawer--if they were in a drawer. Now, I
wonder what her game is?”

“You don’t suggest,” began his lordship in alarm, “that she is
scheming to rob me?”

“I hope not,” said Michael gravely; “from the idea of your being
robbed, the imagination reels.”

“I wish you wouldn’t be so sarcastic. I am afraid you have never quite
forgiven Moya--”

“I bless Moya every time I think of her,” said Michael quickly; “she
rendered me the greatest service that one human being can render to
another, when she refused me. I hope to do better than Moya. As Moya’s
father, you utter a pained protest. I know, I know,” said Michael, and
he waved his hand cheerfully from the door.




 CHAPTER III.
 OTHER EYES WATCHED MICHAEL

Michael Pretherston was back at the Yard in time to catch his chief
before he departed for the day.

Commissioner T.B. Smith, to whose recommendation this young scion of
the aristocracy owed his promotion, was not helpful.

“If we took Kate on any charge it would not prevent the swindle going
forward,” he said; “you may be sure she has mobilized all her
resources and her little army is ready to the last button of the last
gaiter. There is supposed to be a fellow watching her all the time,
but he seems to have missed her rather cleverly. Anyway, I don’t think
there is much to be gained from shadowing her, because she knows she
is under observation and acts accordingly. But I have a word of advice
to you, my young Hibernian friend, and that is to keep a sharp eye on
your own precious life. Kate is afraid of you.”

“She didn’t give me that impression this afternoon,” said Michael
sadly.

“Kate is a bluff; you mustn’t take any notice of what she says. You
accept a friend’s advice and go very carefully to work. I am not so
sure that you didn’t behave indiscreetly this afternoon.”

“That is impossible!” said Michael stoutly, and T.B. Smith laughed.

“The thing to have done was not to have recognized her and to have
kept her under observation, pursuing your enquiries in the usual way.”

“If you can suggest any method by which I could have prevented her
from recognizing me and recognizing the fact that I recognized her I
will admit that I was wrong,” and T.B. Smith agreed.

“You may be right,” he said; “anyway, look after yourself.”

Michael promptly forgot his chief’s advice and spent his evening
making a solitary reconnaissance of Crime Street. Crime Street does
not appear upon any plan of London, but if you will look at any large
survey of the Hampstead district, you will find in a somewhat
irregular tangle of buildings within a stone’s throw of the Heath, a
curious oval which is conspicuous on the plan, not only by its own
symmetry but by the graceful lines of the thoroughfares which radiate
therefrom.

This is Amberscombe Gardens. The centre of the oval is occupied by
four houses, Numbers Two, Four, Six and Eight; the northern side of
the gardens by five houses, Numbers One, Three, Five, Seven and Nine.

Into Amberscombe Gardens from the north run three roads, the first of
which (opening into the oval between Numbers One and Three) being
called The Approach; the second, dividing Numbers Five and Seven,
called Bethburn Avenue; the third between Numbers Seven and Nine,
Coleburn Avenue. On the south side of the oval the arrangement of the
streets is very similar. Originally, the central space had been
occupied by nine houses but these had been pulled down by the
proprietors of the remaining four and a private garden, common to all
four houses, had been laid out by the owners of these properties. So
that on the southern side of the central oval, there were no
buildings, but a wall bisected at regular intervals by plain garden
doors which form such a common feature of London suburban residences.

In reality, the roadway to the north and south of the plot is all
Amberscombe Gardens, but the oval which curves round to the north was,
at the period this story covers, known to the police as “Crime
Street,” and in this description the nine houses on both sides of the
northern curve were involved.

Number One, the most modest of all the buildings, was in the
occupation of Dr. Philip Garon, an American practitioner who made
frequent visits across the Atlantic and invariably returned to deposit
a very handsome surplus in the local branch of the London and Western
Counties Bank. Dr. Garon was successful as a result of the sublime
assurance of all ocean-going passengers, that the notice,
conspicuously displayed in the smoking-room warning passengers not to
play cards with strangers, did not apply to them.

Number Three, a pretty house smothered in clematis in the proper
season of the year, with its white window sashes and its sober red
front, was the town house of Mr. Cunningham, who, apparently, had no
initial and no Christian name. He was known to his intimate friends as
Mush, the derivation of which is a little obscure. Mr. Cunningham
described himself as independent, which meant no more than that he was
independent of the ordinary necessities of making an honest living. In
a sense, he was by far the best known of the Colony, for Mush had
served two terms of penal servitude, one in an English and one in a
French prison. He had the reputation of being able to cut holes in
steel safes with a greater rapidity than any other gentleman in his
profession, and it is said, probably with truth, that he had improved
upon the oxy-hydrogen jet and had introduced a new element which
shortened the work by half.

The tenant of Number Five was a gentleman, benign of countenance and
very good to the poor. He was called the Bishop by friends and foes
alike. His real name was Brown and he had been concerned in more bank
swindles than any of the other colonists, though he had only one
conviction to his discredit and that a comparative flea-bite of nine
months’ hard labour.

The owner of Number Seven was described as “Mr. Colling Jacques, Civil
Engineer,” in the local directories. The official police “Who’s Who”
noted that he was a wonderful pistol shot, and recorded, in
parenthesis, that on the occasion of his arrest in connection with the
smashing of the Bank of Holland, no weapon was found upon him. It was
also added that there was no conviction against him in England, though
he, too, had seen the inside of a French prison.

Number Nine was pointed out to sightseers, with a certain amount of
local pride by the guide, as the home of Millet the forger, who had
received on one occasion a fifteen years’ sentence, but had been
released after serving two years, an act of grace on the part of the
authorities which earned for him a certain unpopularity with his peers
and was held to be not unconnected with the subsequent arrest of a few
of his former associates, the suggestion being that Mr. Millet had
turned King’s evidence.

At Number Two, on the “oval” side of the street, lived H. Mulberry, a
respectable and methodical man, who went to his little office in
Chancery Lane every morning of his life by the 9:15 and returned to
his home at exactly 5:30 P.M. year in and year out. Mulberry was a
begging letter writer on a magnificent scale. He had a wonderful
literary style which seldom failed to extract the necessary emolument
which he sought.

Number Four, a much larger house, indeed the second largest in Crime
Street, was the habitat of “Señor Gregori, a teacher of languages.”
Unfortunately for him, he had in the course of his thrilling career
taught other things than the liquid tongue of Spain. For example, he
had taught the Bank of Chili that their “unforgeable” notes which, it
was boasted, defied photographic reproduction could be turned out by
the tens of thousands and that the six tints in which a gold bond was
printed offered no insuperable difficulty to a clever craftsman with
an artist’s eye and a sense of colour.

In Number Eight lived the two brothers Thomas and Francis Stockmar of
Austrian extraction, who were described as political refugees but were
undoubtedly criminals of a peculiarly dangerous type. The Stockmars
were dour, white-faced men with short bristling hair and were
certainly the least presentable of all the colonists.

Number Six has been left to the last, for this was the most important
house in Crime Street. It was a story higher than any other, built
squarely, with no attempt at beauty. It is said that the third floor
consisted of one room and that from its many windows it was possible
to command, not only all the approaches to the northern side of the
gardens, but those to the south; it has even been suggested that it
was so planned, that, in case of necessity, the house could be
converted into a fortress, from the third floor of which a last
desperate stand might be made. This then was Number Six, the abiding
place of Colonel Westhanger and his brilliant niece.

Michael Pretherston was no stranger to Crime Street. He had made many
visits to this locality, and it had been at his initiative that the
roadway of Amberscombe Gardens had been dug up one fine morning by a
gang of road-breakers and there had been revealed that remarkable
subterranean passage which connected the one side of the street with
the other. The passageway led from the summer house in the gardens of
the oval to a stable in Number Three.

The Colonists, however, swore stoutly that they knew nothing whatever
of the existence of this passage and that it must have existed years
before they came to the street. The civil engineer, Colling Jacques,
pointed out to the district surveyor that the very character of the
passage suggested that this was some storm water drain which had been
laid down and forgotten by the contractor. Or else it had been laid
down in error and the contractor had been either too lazy or too
rushed to break it up. There were many other explanations, none of
which was wholly acceptable.

Michael, swinging his stick, passed that portion of the road in which
the passage had run and wondered with a reminiscent smile where the
new tunnel was, for that there was a new one, he did not doubt.

Night was falling, and Dr. Philip Garon’s dining-room windows blazed
with light. Mr. Mulberry’s, on the right, was more modestly
illuminated. Mr. Cunningham’s house was in darkness, as also was “The
Bishop’s.” There were lights in the bedroom at Number Seven but Number
Six was black as also was Number Eight.

He saw Millet standing at his garden gate, smoking, and crossed the
road toward him, realizing that the keen-eyed gentleman had already
observed his presence. Millet, a florid man with a genial, almost
fulsome, manner met him with a friendly nod.

“Good evening, Mr. Pretherston,” he said. “I hope you are not looking
for trouble.”

Michael leant on the top bar of the gate and shook his head.

“I shouldn’t come here for trouble,” he said; “this is the most
law-abiding spot in London.”

Mr. Millet sighed and murmured something about misfortunes which
overtake mankind and added a pious expression of his desire to forget
the past and to end his days in that security and peace which sin
denies its votaries.

“Very pretty,” said Michael blandly, “and how are all our good
neighbours? I was thinking of taking a house here myself. By-the-way,”
he added innocently, “I suppose you don’t know any that are to be
let?”

Mr. Millet shook his head.

“I am all alone here,” he said, “if you were really serious about
wishing to live in this neighbourhood, I should be honoured to act as
your host, Mr. Pretherston.”

“And how is Kate?” demanded Michael, ignoring the invitation.

“Kate?” asked the puzzled Mr. Millet; “oh, you mean, Miss Westhanger.
I haven’t seen her for several days--I think it was last Tuesday
afternoon I saw her last.”

“Yes, at 2:30 in the afternoon,” mocked Michael, “she was wearing a
blue dress with white spots and a green hat with an ostrich feather.
You remember her distinctly because she dropped her bag and you
crossed to pick it up. You needn’t start the alibi factory working,
Millet; I have nothing against Kate for the moment.”

Mr. Millet laughed softly.

“You will have your joke,” he said.

“I will,” said Michael with grim emphasis, “but it is going to be a
long time developing. I haven’t seen the Stockmars lately either.”

“I never see them at all,” Mr. Millet hastened to state. “I have very
little in common with foreigners. Whatever there is against me, Mr.
Pretherston, I am a patriot through and through. I am proud to be
English and I don’t take kindly to foreign gentlemen and never will.”

“Your patriotism does you credit, Millet,” said the detective dryly as
he prepared to move on. “I wish you would be patriotic enough to give
me a tip as to what game is on,” he lowered his voice. “You know all
that is happening here and you might do yourself a little bit of
good.”

“If I knew anything,” said the other earnestly, “I would tell you in a
moment, Mr. Pretherston, but here I am, out of the world, so to speak.
Nobody ever consults me and I am glad they don’t. I want to be left
alone to forget the past--”

“Cut all that Little Eva stuff out, Uncle Tom,” said Michael coarsely.

Other eyes had watched Michael, from behind blinds, through
unsuspected peep-holes, a dozen pairs of eyes had followed him as he
took his slow promenade along Crime Street.

Colonel Westhanger, a tall, grey man, stood in that big room on the
third floor of his house, his hands folded behind him, his chin upon
his breast, following every movement of the detective. Gregori,
handsome and lithe, stood at his elbow, shading the glow of his
cigarette in the palm of his hand.

“Colonel _mio_,” he said softly, “I would give much for an opportunity
of meeting that gentleman in a nice dark passage, in one of those old
Harrison Ainsworth houses which were providentially built over a
river.”

“You will have your wish one of these days,” said the Colonel gruffly;
“I don’t like that fellow. He is not one of the ordinary run of
policemen. They are bad enough, but this fellow knows too much.”

He nibbled his white moustache, shook his head and turned away from
the window as Michael took his farewell of the forger.

“Watch him on the other side,” he said, “and send one of the boys out
to follow him.”

He descended the thickly carpeted stairs to the first floor, which was
the living suite. The drawing-room in which he turned was a
beautifully furnished apartment, and the girl who had been sitting at
the piano, her nimble hands running over the keys, looked up as he
entered.




 CHAPTER IV.
 “THE IDEAL CRIMINAL IS A STRATEGIST”

“Where did he go?” she asked.

“He went to Millet,” said the Colonel, throwing himself down to a
divan and biting off the end of a fresh cigar. “I wonder what the
dickens he wants?” he mused.

Kate Westhanger made a little grimace.

“You can never tell whether a policeman finds his duty a pleasure or
his pleasure a duty,” she said. “I suppose he is just renewing
acquaintance with Crime Street.”

“Don’t use that phrase,” snapped her uncle.

“I shall use whatever phrase I wish,” she said calmly. “You are
getting nervous. Why?”

“I’m not nervous,” he protested loudly; “I am getting old I suppose,
and the job is such a big one. It is almost too big for me and if I
occupied the position I had a few years ago, Kate, I would drop it.
After all, we have made a good deal of money and we might as well all
of us live to enjoy it.”

She was back at the piano again and was playing with the soft pedal
down.

“Can’t you find anything more cheerful than the ‘Death of Asa’?”
growled her relative.

“It is nerves, of course; I am awfully sorry.”

She got up and closed the piano with a bang which made him jump.

“I don’t know what to do about Mike,” she mused.

“Gregori has a solution,” said the Colonel.

“To cut his throat, I suppose,” said the girl coolly. “Gregori is so
elemental and so horrific! I can’t imagine that he ever has cut a
throat in his life, but I suppose he feels that it is in keeping with
his sunny southern nature to talk like that. No, Colonel _mio_,” she
mimicked, “we have stopped short of murder so far and I think we will
remain on the safe side. My theory coincides with Mike’s. I was
reading an article of his in a Socialistic paper the other day and it
was all about the Right to Live. I don’t believe in killing people. I
believe in bleeding those who have grown apoplectic with their money
and I don’t even know whether I believe in that.”

“What do you mean?” the Colonel looked up at her under his shaggy
brows.

She shrugged her shoulders.

“I mean,” she said slowly, “I never know whether my views are my own
views or whether they are just your views which I reflect like a
mirror. You see, dear,” she said, “I am very young but I have a
logical mind and my logical mind tells me that no girl can have any
very definite views at nineteen, not of her own, I mean. Perhaps when
I am twenty-five I shall look upon you as a terrible person, and all
this,” she spread her hands out, “as something to think of with a
shudder.”

“In the meantime,” said her uncle practically, “you are Miss Ali Baba,
chief strategist of our little army and a very exigent young
lady--by-the-way, Gregori is kicking.”

She looked at him with a contemptuous little twist of her lips.

“There is a great centre forward lost in Gregori,” she said. “What has
moved that dago’s feet?”

“Hush, hush, my child,” cautioned her uncle, “our admirable friend is
upstairs and, anyway, it doesn’t do to speak disrespectfully of one’s
criminal associates. There is a certain punctilio in our profession
which you may have noticed.”

“How queer it sounds!” she said, leaning forward and clasping her
knee. “Do you know, uncle, I cannot think straight. Ever since I was
so high,” she stretched her hand out before her, “I have never known a
desire to secure anything I wanted, save by taking it from somebody
else. At the school in Lausanne I seemed to be amongst the queerest
people and, honestly, although you had warned me, I thought they were
all mad. All their fathers made money in business, which seems to be a
slow method of stealing which is allowed by the law. Think of the
horrible monotony of working steadily day after day without any
holidays, with no excitement, no adventures, save the artificial
thrill of a theatre and the adventures that meet you on your way
home.”

“I didn’t even know there were those kind of adventures,” said the
Colonel, fingering his trim moustache and enjoying with closed eyes
the fragrance of his cigar.

“Oh, yes,” nodded the girl, “you meet all sorts of men who raise their
hats and say, ‘Good-evening, Miss,’ or ‘Haven’t we met before?’ I
don’t think they have ever said anything else,” she reflected
thoughtfully,--“they all belong to the ‘Good-evening’ or the ‘Met you
before’ school, and they all want to know if you are ‘going their
way.’”

“What happens then?” asked the amused Colonel, carefully removing his
cigar in order that he might laugh without detriment to the
accumulating ash.

“I have only had one experience,” said Kate. “It was with a young man
with a horribly weak chin. He had studied in both schools, for his
‘Good-evening’ was followed by a request for information upon my
immediate plans and I let him walk with me. I expected something very
dreadful but he talked mostly about his mother and the difficulties he
had about getting a latch-key. He wanted to take my arm but I told him
it wasn’t done and then he suggested that I should meet him on Sunday.
By this time I had learnt all about his family, his mother and the
girl he was prepared to sacrifice to retain a continuation of our
intimacy. I also discovered his name was Ernest and that he was the
cleverest man in his office.”

“He wanted to kiss you, I’ll be bound,” said the Colonel.

“I think he did,” admitted the girl, “but he didn’t say so. All he
said was that he hoped it didn’t rain and asked if he might write to
me. I told him he might, but, unfortunately, he forgot to ask me my
address--” she broke off suddenly, “what is Gregori kicking about?”

“That Madrid affair didn’t go off as well as it might,” said the
Colonel, avoiding her eye.

She nodded.

“I know; and Gregori blames me, I presume.”

“Gregori never blames you,” said the Colonel, “I think Gregori would
knife anybody who said a word against you.”

“No,” she said, nodding her head, her eyes fixed on the opposite wall,
“the Madrid affair went badly, in spite of the fact that there were
forty-two sheets of manuscript in Spanish and English giving the most
elaborate directions. It was a month’s work for me and it was all
wasted and the greater part of a hundred thousand pesetas because
Gregori’s trusted Señor Rahboulla thought he could improve upon my
instructions and joined the train at Cordova in a light grey suit when
I told him to wear the conventional black of the _madrilleno_ and when
I insisted upon his making his entrance to Madrid from Toledo. I knew
that Cordova was watched by the French and Spanish police and I knew
too that they would be looking for a stranger. Rahboulla advertised
himself, was arrested and the chain, which I had carefully pieced
together, was broken. By the time he had shaken off the police and
arrived in Madrid the closing hour of the Prado had been advanced from
six to five and the consequence is, that the Velasquez is still in the
picture gallery and we are a hundred thousand pesetas the poorer.”

The Colonel shook his head.

“You are a wonderful girl and I will admit you are right. Heavens! the
patience required to work out these details!”

“The ideal criminal is a strategist,” said the girl. “He foresees
every move of the enemy and forestalls him. He makes a diversion at
one point and his real attack at another. He prepares the way for
retreat at the same time as he is preparing his advance. It took me
six months to obtain all the information I wanted and it took six
minutes for Rahboulla to upset our plans.”

She laughed.

“If things go wrong, you blame the general,” she said. “Three years
ago, Gregori the Kicker introduced an Italian into one of our
schemes--the business of the Nottingham Post Office. That went wrong,
too.”

“There I admit you were right,” the Colonel hurried to say; “Tolmini
made a mess of it.”[1]

“And tried to drag us all into it when he was caught,” said the girl;
“he went to prison under the impression that I had led him into a
trap--though the fool was told the mail bags were not to be touched
until the night shift came on duty.”

“Why do you mention him now with such emphasis?” asked the Colonel
curiously.

“Because he’s out of prison--and he’ll be kicking, too,” she replied,
“just as Gregori kicks!”

“‘Let the dead past bury the dead,’” quoted the Colonel. “And how is
the new scheme?”

“Much farther advanced than you think. There are still one or two
roads to be made smooth, one or two outposts to be rushed, some barbed
wire to be cut.”

“By Gad!” cried the Colonel admiringly. “You ought to have been a
soldier, Kate.”

She leant back in the chair with her hands clasped behind her head and
looked at him searchingly.

“You were once a gentleman, uncle,” she said in that direct way of
hers and Colonel Westhanger flushed and frowned.

“Well, my dear uncle,” she expostulated, “you are not a gentleman by
the ordinary code now are you?”

“I have certain instincts,” protested the Colonel gruffly; “hang it
all, Kate, you don’t let a fellow down very lightly.”

“I suppose you are still something of a gentleman,” said the girl
reflectively; “the mere fact that you are annoyed at the suggestion
that you are not proves that. But what I mean to say is this: there
was a time when you obeyed another code, when you thought stealing was
a disgraceful thing and robbery under arms a crime. You must have
associated with men on whose word you could rely and who would never
commit a dishonest or a mean action--men who were prepared in battle
to give their lives for you. And you must have commanded men who had
the same views and have punished soldiers who stepped aside from the
straight path and committed little crimes which, compared with yours,
were as pin-heads to the dome of St. Paul’s.”

“I can’t see why you want to talk about the past,” said the Colonel
irritably. He was still a fine figure of a man, grey-moustached, broad
of shoulder, tall and straight of back and had about him that
indefinable something which men who have commanded men never entirely
lose.

“I am merely comparing you with me,” she said; “you have the advantage
of having seen both sides. Tell me, which is the better?”

“Which do you think?” he demanded suspiciously.

She tossed her cigarette into the grate.

“I think this is the better,” she said frankly; “it is very pleasant
and very exciting. And all the good people I have met have been very
dull. I think that is because all good people are dull.”

“There are some good people,” said the Colonel virtuously, “who are
very interesting.”

“Not because of their goodness,” rejoined the girl quickly; “if you
meet a very popular good man it is because there is something about
him which is not absolutely good. If you hear a man speak of a parson
as a good fellow you will generally discover that he goes to the
National Sporting Club and sees boxing or rides to hounds or does
something which is quite unassociated with his professional duties or
the exercise of his innocent qualities. But you have not answered me.
Which is better?”

“If I had my life to live over again--” began the Colonel with a wry
face.

“That’s silly,” said the girl calmly. “You won’t have your life to
live over again, so why speculate upon the possibility? Anyway, if you
could live your life over again, you could not possibly benefit by
your present experience, because you would not remember it. You have
lived two lives, which is the better?”

“You are in a queer mood, to-night,” said Colonel Westhanger, rising
and stalking past her to the fire-place. “Have you got religion, or
something?”

“Which is the better?” she asked again. “To be a free thief or to be
in the dull bondage of honesty?”

“For your peace of mind the honest life is the better,” said the
Colonel. “You have no sleepless nights, no agony of mind which you
have to conceal with whatever skill you possess at every knock at the
door, no fear of the police, no wondering what the next day is going
to bring forth.”

“Really!” she looked up at him quizzically. “Do honest men never have
any of those experiences? Do honest men get into debt, for example,
and dread the coming of the collector? Does an honest man who is
getting grey feel a little sickening sensation in his heart every time
his employer looks at him thoughtfully?”

The Colonel turned round and snarled over his shoulder.

“As you seem to have all your answers ready-made, I don’t know why you
trouble to ask me,” he snapped; “there are advantages and
disadvantages on both sides of the picture.”

The girl was in a restless mood and presently she sprang up, walked to
the window, opened the little square of shutter and looked out into
the darkening street. Then she crossed to her little desk at one side
of the fireplace. She sat down and wrote for a while, then, as
suddenly, she dropped her pen and got up again.

“You are going to ask another question,” warned the Colonel.

“Only one,” she pleaded.

“Well, fire away,” he grumbled ungraciously.

“What would induce you to forsake your career and apply your undoubted
talents, as the assize judge said to poor dear Mr. Mulberry, to better
purpose?”

“Wealth,” said the Colonel promptly,--“enough stuff put aside to bring
me in a nice little income. And here again, let me say, Kate, that you
and I could well afford to knock off--”

She interrupted him.

“That is a purely material inducement,” she said. “What
other--spiritual or ethical?”

“Oh, rot!” he snapped. “Why do you ask these fool questions?”

“Because I am wondering,” she said, “what influence could be brought
to bear upon me. The opinion of my fellow creatures? No, I don’t care
what they think. I know they are mostly fools and so why should they
influence me? Wealth? No, if I were rich as Crœsus I should go on,
for the sport of it. Punishment? No, I should use my spare time in
correcting the faults in me which had resulted in my detection. I am
afraid I am incorrigible, uncle, for there is something about this
life which appeals to me no end--and now I am going to dress,” she
said, making for the door.

“Going out?” asked the Colonel in surprise.

She nodded.

“But Gregori--”

“Gregori can wait,” said Kate, “and Gregori bores me. He is always
trying to make love.”

“Is that remarkable?” suggested the Colonel archly.

“It is remarkably annoying,” said the girl. She flung open the door
and stepped back. Gregori, politest of cavaliers, stood deferentially
in the entrance and she surveyed him coolly.

“Were you listening?” she asked.

“Señorita!” he said, shocked.

She laughed and passed out. Gregori watched her as she mounted the
stairs till she turned out of sight, then he closed the door and came
across to the Colonel.

“Our little friend is hard on me,” he said with no hint of malice in
his voice.

“She is a queer girl, Gregori,” replied the Colonel, shaking his head.

“She is a queer girl,” repeated Gregori; “queer indeed, yes.”

He stroked his little black moustache.

“She doesn’t like me.”

“Who does she like?” snapped the older man.

“You, I trust,” smiled the Spaniard.

The Colonel tossed his head despairingly.

“I hardly know,” he said. “What a reversal of positions!”

The Spaniard took the seat the girl had vacated.

“I know what you are thinking about,” he nodded; “a few years ago she
was the obedient child absorbing our code--to-day she is the
tyrannical mistress of the situation.”

He deftly unrolled and rolled a Spanish cigarette, licked its edges
and fumbled for a match in his waistcoat pocket.

“She is all brain, our Kate,” he said admiringly, “but her
heart--pouf!” he puffed out a cloud of smoke to emphasize the word.

“There is no end to her energy,” he went on; “sometimes I think she is
dangerous and then when I come to consider all things it is impossible
to say that she can be. After all, hers is only the plan. The
responsibility for the bungling is with us--the plan is so perfect
that you can hardly pick a hole in it. She works out to the last
minute detail the chronology of a coup, she dresses it, rehearses it.
She never fails. Yes, it was Rahboulla,” he agreed, “and I was wrong
to kick. What was it she called me, a ‘centre forward’ and a ‘dago’,”
he laughed softly.

“She is very young,” said the Colonel apologetically, “and a little
impetuous of speech--she talks too much, I think.”

“A pretty woman can never talk too much,” said the gallant Gregori;
“she can think too much and talk too little. A person who talks is
like a lighted house with all the blinds up and the doors open, you
know where you are. Now, Colonel _mio_, how far have we got with this
new scheme?”

The Colonel brought a chair in one hand and a light table in the other
to where the Spaniard sat, produced from his inside-pocket a bunch of
memoranda and in a few minutes the men were deep in the discussion of
the most remarkable, the most startling and the most daring enterprise
that Crime Street had ever undertaken.




 CHAPTER V.
 A CHORUS GIRL AT SEBO’S

Sebo’s Club was crowded, for it was the dinner hour and Sebo’s is
the most extensively patronized of the dining clubs. Here, all that
was beautiful, all that was smart, all that was famous and brilliant
in the world of society, letters and the drama met on common
ground--the inherent and universal desire which humanity has for
careless comfort. A Cabinet Minister and his party sat at the next
table to that presided over by a great revue actress; the owner of a
Derby winner sat back to back against a famous Radical satirist. The
editor of a great London daily could look across his table and without
shifting his eyes could count in his field of vision the pretty dancer
from the Empiredrome, a royal physician, a peer of the realm and a
ragtime singer.

The big dining hall blazed with lights, the little tables were crowded
together so as to leave scarcely room for the waiters who, by some
mysterious dispensation of Providence, seemed able to thread their
ways through impossible spaces. The noisy coon band kept up its
rhythmic pandemonium in one corner of the room, but did not drown the
rippling laughter and the buzz of light-hearted talk.

In the little vestibule a young man, very tall and very thin, paced
the tesselated floor with that evidence of resignation which tells so
eloquently the story of the Unpunctual Guest. He was very fair and
very pink. His countenance was vacant and the vacancy was by no means
relieved when he screwed a gold-rimmed monocle into his right eye.

Presently the glass doors swung and a girl came hurriedly toward him,
holding out her gloved hand.

“I am awfully sorry I am late, Reggie,” she said with easy
familiarity.

“If you were an hour late or five hours late or a day late,” said the
young man with gentle ecstasy, “I should be content to wait, Miss
Flemming.”

She flashed a dazzling smile at him.

“I shouldn’t be horribly shocked if you called me Vera,” she said.

The young man went pinker than ever, coughed, stuttered, ran his
gloved finger inside the high upstanding collar about his thin throat,
dropped his eye-glass, retrieved it and did all this in the space of
four seconds, thereby betraying his perturbation and his gratitude.

“You have a table, I suppose?” said the girl when she had returned
from depositing her coat.

“Rather!” said the young man, and added after a second’s thought,
“Rather!”

He fussily shepherded her through the mass of tables where his own
attenuation enabled him to emulate the deeds of the agile serving man
and brought her to a corner table which was smothered with rare
flowers. Heads were turned, sharp eyes focussed the couple, some
smiled, though for the girl the glances held nothing but admiration or
cold-blooded appraisement, according to the sex of the observer.

“Reggie Boltover!” said one young man.

“Who is Reggie Boltover?” asked his companion.

“A human being loosely attached to a million,” was the laconic
description.

The girl was radiant, the smile hardly left her face and the eyes
which glanced shyly up to her tall companion were full of wonder and
delight.

“So this is Sebo’s,” she said. “Isn’t it a dreadfully wicked place?”

Reggie Boltover’s face creased alarmingly--he, too, was smiling.

“My dear Miss--my dear Vera,” he said boldly, “should I bring you to a
wicked place, now I ask you; should I bring you to a wicked place,
should I?”

His conversational powers were not brilliant but his heart was pure.
He was not really a wicked young man about town and his chief
wickedness lay in his implicit belief that he was. He had met the girl
one night by accident. A more daring friend of his, and nearer
approaching Reggie’s own ideal of doggishness, had induced him (he
protesting feebly) to call at a stage-door where he was meeting a
charming friend to take her to supper. The charming friend in the
generous large-hearted way of chorus girls had introduced _her_
friend, Vera Flemming, a new-comer to the ranks of the chorus, and
they had all supped together and Vera had been very charming to Mr.
Reggie Boltover and he had asked her to go with him up the river and
had serious thoughts, because of her evident refinement, of
introducing her to his mother, which shows that Reggie had reached the
most dangerous stage of infatuation. There was really nothing wrong
about Reggie Boltover and nothing remarkably terrible about this
strangely initiated friendship.

Chorus girls are merely shop-girls with a taste for caviare and
peaches. They are no more sinful than their sisters in the same social
strata and the only difference between them is that, whilst they are
exposed to similar temptations, the chorus girl has a larger field to
pick from and the candidates are much more presentable. A shop-girl
accepts the hospitality of a tea-shop, the chorus-girl goes to the
Ritz. Both have one consuming passion, a desire for good food, for
which they do not have to pay.

Reggie Boltover, who, to do him justice, knew everybody, entertained
the girl for half-an-hour by pointing out the various celebrities in
the room and Vera Flemming was interested without being
enthusiastically so.

“I would rather you talked about yourself,” she said, “you are ever so
much more interesting than these people.”

“Oh, no,” said Reggie, with a little giggle; “oh, no!”

“You are, indeed, you are,” she said earnestly.

“Oh, come,” said Reggie; “oh, come! no! I am not interesting; oh, dear
no!”

His life he admitted frankly was very ordinary. All that he did was to
sign a few cheques, liquidate a few debts, see a few “fellows” about
“things” and “there you are,” said Reggie.

“It must be wonderful to be in a position of power,” said the girl
musingly. “Of course, I come from a very poor family. We only think in
shillings where you think in thousands of pounds. And it is awfully
hard to realize what it feels like to order people to do things
instead of being ordered.”

Reggie Boltover, who had never ordered anybody to do anything in his
life and would not have dared to dispute the judgment of the
innumerable managers and directors whom his sainted father had
appointed in his life-time, wondered himself what it felt like. He had
often meditated, with a shudder, upon the necessity which might one
day arise, for his taking the initiative in the conduct of his
business. He dimly realized that, in time, all his managers and
directors would die and he had dimly speculated upon the question as
to who would replace them. He had a feeling that perhaps one might go
to Whiteleys and order some new ones, but it had never occurred to him
that at his autocratic word managers and people of that description
could be made out of mud, or that an order affecting the business
which he was supposed to control would be acted upon if he were to
give that order.

“Well, you know,” he said, “I never really tell people to do anything.
You see, I never see them except very occasionally. Of course, they
make reports and all that sort of thing and I have a man who reads
them so everything is all right and I just sign cheques and see a few
fellows and there you are.”

Under the genial influence of her sympathetic interest he expanded a
little and proved that he was not as wholly incompetent as he
pretended to be. For instance, he knew that the iron works and
ship-building yard which still bore his father’s name, and
incidentally his own, made “a deuced lot of money” every year and that
certain other properties made no money.

There was one property of which he spoke with great bitterness but
only because his father, in his life-time, had also spoken of that
matter with similar violence and asperity. Apparently, the one
redeeming feature about Boltover’s Cement Works lay in the fact that
it had no manager and therefore produced no reports. It was in fact a
deserted shell of a building so infamously unprofitable that Boltover
senior (now in Heaven) had directed almost with his last breath, if
you believed Reggie, that his name should be erased from the official
designation of the company.

“You see it was bad cement; you know how cement is made, don’t you?”

“I should love to,” said the girl, her eyes shining, “I have often
wondered.”

“Well,” said Reggie looking round the table for something to
illustrate the object lesson, “you dig in the river and you take out a
lot of stuff and you chuck it in a cart and then you chuck it into a
fire and you pull it out and do something to it and there you are!
That’s cement. Only our cement wasn’t cement, if you understand. That
is what made the beastly thing so awkward.”

“How wonderful!” said the girl. “I shall always remember that.”

“Of course, we’ve got our eyes open,” said Reggie now fairly launched
upon the story of his life, “and one of these days we shall catch a
mug.”

“Catch a--?” asked the girl, puzzled.

Reggie went very pink, but he was excited and grateful at this
demonstration of the girl’s refinement.

“Forgive the vulgarity, Miss--Vera; I mean we shall find a purchaser.
I once nearly sold the beastly thing for £10,000 and the day the deed
was to be signed, they took the poor chap away to a lunatic asylum,
poor old bird, not right in his head, you know. That is why he wanted
to buy our cement works. Comic, isn’t it?

“D’you know,” said Mr. Boltover, suddenly, “when I came round to the
stage door that night I never expected to meet you?”

She looked at him in innocent surprise.

“Didn’t you really?” she said incredulously as though the idea had
occurred to her for the first time, and then, thoughtfully, “I suppose
you didn’t.”

“I didn’t expect to meet you,” repeated Mr. Boltover, who, when he had
got hold of one complete sentence, held tight to it until his groping
mentality had reached out and securely grasped another. “No, I didn’t
expect to meet you, but I’m awfully glad. I feel I owe that young lady
more than I can ever repay.”

He said this with an unusual display of sentimentality.

“That young lady” was his companion’s chorus girl friend, who at that
moment was retailing to her youthful companion at the far side of the
room such details of Vera’s life as she had been able to secure in a
seven-day acquaintance.

“Vera’s not in our show now, of course,” she said; “I don’t think she
had ever been on the stage before. She’s an awfully fresh kid. Came
late to rehearsals and all that sort of thing, but I like her
immensely.”

She smiled and bowed to Vera who, at that moment, had caught her eye.

“She’s very pretty,” said her companion.

“Yes; isn’t she?” agreed the girl, her interest in her friend suddenly
evaporating.

But there was one in that crowded dining-room whose every disengaged
moment was employed in watching the girl and her companion. It
involved his getting into the way of other waiters and called down
upon his head execrations in Neapolitan, Sicilian and the choicest
slang of the Montmartre. He was a man who had prayed for two years for
such a moment as this, and his soul rejoiced in savage exaltation that
so Heaven-sent an opportunity had come.

As the night wore on his plan took a definite shape. For the
consequence he cared nothing. Here was his opportunity, here was his
enemy. He seized a moment, slipped through the service door and passed
down a flight of stone steps to the crowded kitchen filled at that
moment with a babble of sound as the orders were repeated across the
steaming brass pots and the blistering hot plates. He passed through
the kitchen to the larder department, and found what he sought in the
big cool vault where the butchers worked. It was a long thin knife. He
waited until the butcher’s back was turned and slipped it up his
sleeve, passed rapidly through the kitchen, ignoring the chef’s demand
as to his business, and reached the warm, bright restaurant again.

He had no time to waste.

The butcher might at any moment detect the theft and the thief hauled
into the service room to explain his conduct. He made his way across
the room to where Mr. Reginald Boltover and his fair companion sat.

Reggie thought the man had a message, but Vera, looking up, saw the
man’s evil face--and knew. She half twisted, half flung herself
against Reginald Boltover as the waiter’s hand came up to strike. She
saw the knife glitter for a space of a second and closed her eyes,
then there was the sound of a struggle and she opened them in time to
see the vengeful man flung backward to the floor and an immaculate
Michael Pretherston standing over him examining the knife with some
interest.

She met the inspector’s eye and smiled, though the smile was forced,
for even as he bowed, she heard the mockery of his surprise.

“Why, Kate!” he murmured. “I’m always meeting you.”




 CHAPTER VI.
 KATE CAME TO THE FLAT

 “At 9:40 on the night of the 15th instant I was present at Sebo’s
 Club. The room was full of diners and amongst them was Mr. Reginald
 Boltover and a girl giving the name of Miss Vera Flemming, who was in
 reality Kate Westhanger. At 9:52 an Italian named Emil Tolmini,
 employed as a waiter at Sebo’s Club, attempted to stab Kate Westhanger
 but was prevented and taken into custody. In the course of the
 struggle in which he was disarmed he sustained a slight scalp wound
 and permission was given for him to be taken to the kitchen to have
 the wound dressed. I regret to state that he succeeded in making his
 escape. He is a convict on license (record No. P.C.A./C.C.C. 85943).
 He is an old associate of the Crime Street gang and was obviously
 attempting to avenge himself upon the girl for some injury, real or
 imaginary, which he had suffered.

 “I made no attempt to warn Mr. Boltover as to the character of his
 companion, but subsequently calling at his flat in Piccadilly on the
 pretence that I wished to get information about the attempted murder,
 I discovered that he had been introduced to the girl at a theatre
 where she was posing as a chorus girl. She had evidently laid a deep
 plan to meet him, for what reason it is not clear. He is a very
 wealthy man and it may be necessary at a later stage to warn him, but
 at present I have taken upon myself the responsibility of refraining
 from that act.”


Michael Pretherston ended off the report with his neat signature,
folded it and inserted it into an official envelope which he addressed
to his chief. By good fortune he met that brilliant man coming into
Scotland House as Michael was going out.

“I think you did right,” said T.B., after he had heard the story; “I
wonder what her game is? I have a good mind to detail a man to take
the whole case up.”

“Let me do it,” said Michael, eagerly.

T.B. Smith pursed his lips.

“You are rather a big man for a job like that, Michael,” he said, “it
may turn out to be nothing more than a common or garden chorus girl’s
romance.”

“Kate isn’t the chorus girl type,” said Michael, “if it is big enough
for her to be in it, it is quite big enough for me.”

The chief thought for a moment.

“Very well then,” he said at length, “you can take on the job. Do it
by yourself if you possibly can, I haven’t any men to spare. But keep
in touch with me. Blowing a whistle won’t be of any service to you if
these people mean business and get after you.”

He hesitated again.

“Confound Kate!” he said. “I suppose you have circulated a description
of the ice-cream merchant?”

All Latin criminals came under this generic description with T.B.

Michael nodded.

“Well, good luck,” said the chief, “but be careful!”

When the young man had gone T.B. beckoned to an officer who was
passing.

“You’re the very man, Barr,” he said; “pick up Mr. Pretherston and
don’t lose him--you may choose your own opposite number.”

The sergeant saluted and hurried out after his charge.

Michael went back to his rooms with a light heart. It was the kind of
job that he liked better than any other. He had not told the chief all
his suspicions. Kate’s game was a big one. High-flyer as she was, she
was out for a height record--that he realised. There was some
association between her month with Lord Flanborough and the careful
cultivation of Reggie Boltover’s acquaintance. When he came to think
of it she must have met Boltover while she was still with Flanborough.
He had taken it for granted that the girl was a resident secretary but
possibly he had arrived at this conclusion in error. So it proved next
morning when he called Lord Flanborough’s house on the telephone and
had a private conversation with the butler. The young lady, during the
time she had been at Felton House, had left every afternoon at four
o’clock.

A little talk with the stage manager at the theatre showed that the
girl had never attended any of the morning rehearsals and had missed
one of the matinées. Michael saw this part of the scheme plainly
enough. Kate, through her spies, had discovered that Boltover had an
acquaintance who had a friend at the theatre. She had come to the
stage with no other object than making a friend of the girl who all
unwittingly was the instrument by which she was to meet Reggie.

The detective knew that this was no chance acquaintance. He followed
the manœuvres of Kate through all their devious paths. He took the
opportunity in the afternoon to call upon Reggie at his office which
was something between a board room and a boudoir.

Reggie’s theoretical interests were multifarious. He was the nominal
head of a dozen different corporations which his industrious father
had created for his profit. In practice he knew very little about any
of them and nothing about some.

“I hope your lady was not alarmed,” said Michael, with spurious
anxiety.

“Oh, no, the lady was not alarmed; oh, no,” said Reggie, shaking his
head violently. “Oh, dear no. She was not alarmed. Of course, it would
have been different if she had been alone, but being with me,
naturally she--er she--er was not alone.”

“Naturally,” agreed Michael.

“No, she was not alarmed,” said Mr. Boltover, “in fact, she was very
cool, remarkably cool. I have never seen anybody so cool.”

“I hope when you see her again,” said Michael, “you will tell her I
asked.”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Boltover heartily; “certainly I shall tell her
you asked.” And he added after a moment, “When I meet her again.”

“She seemed, if you will forgive the impertinence, so interested in
everything,” encouraged Michael.

“You are quite right,” said Reggie eagerly, “you are perfectly right.
That just describes her. She is interested in everything.”

“It is nice to meet people who are interested in one’s business,”
Michael went on artlessly. “I never mind people being interested in my
business, do you?”

“Oh, dear no,” replied Mr. Boltover in alarm, as though the very
thought that anybody should be discouraged from an interest in his
affairs, caused him acute mental unhappiness; “oh, dear no. Certainly
not. Not at all.”

“Of course,” smiled Michael, “she could not very well understand all
the complexities of your business, Mr. Boltover--it is such an
enormous one.”

“Well,” hesitated the other, “I don’t know. I am not so sure. She is a
very intelligent young lady. I was talking to her about my business
when this dreadful affair happened and she was so calm that she just
went on talking about it, don’t you know. My business, I mean. I
thought it was a most remarkable instance of coolness. I was telling
one of our directors to-day about it, and he thought it was a
remarkable instance of coolness. Yes, even when I was taking her home
she told me a lot about herself and--things. Her grandfather is a very
wealthy man, a financier. I didn’t know that.”

Michael might have said that he too was unaware of the fact, but he
knew just the moment when a tactless interpolation might dry up the
fount of Mr. Boltover’s eloquence.

“Very intelligent lady indeed,” wandered Mr. Boltover, “oh, yes, I was
talking about her grandfather--he is a very rich man. She thought that
he might be able to take one of our properties off our hands. I was
awfully surprised. Naturally, I did not think she had any money being
in the chorus and all that--I hope I haven’t been indiscreet?” he
asked anxiously. “You possibly did not know that she was on the
stage.”

“Oh, yes, I did,” said Michael with a smile; “you have betrayed
nothing, Mr. Boltover.”

“I am awfully glad,” replied the other, relieved; “what was I saying,
about her grandfather, yes. I think I might sell him that property. I
hate parting with properties--we have refused quite a number of good
offers--sheer sentiment, don’t you know?”

“But perhaps this is not a paying property.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” said Mr. Boltover; “by no manner of means
whatever. Still we don’t like parting with them. Of course, I talk a
lot of rot about people wanting to buy the works and I always tell
that great joke about a lunatic--ha, ha--but really it isn’t true. No,
not really true, oh, no.”

Michael had never heard the great joke about the lunatic. What he was
anxious to hear were details of Kate’s projected purchase but in this
he was foiled. There was precious little of the business man about Mr.
Reggie Boltover but one lesson he had learnt, and learnt thoroughly,
and that was the art of silence. His revered father was wont to say,
“If you never open your mouth, Reggie, nobody will know what an ass
you are,” and in business, at any rate, Reggie most religiously lived
up to this injunction.

What was the girl’s object?

Michael was puzzled. Strangely enough the obvious never occurred to
him, or if it did he dismissed it without a second consideration. He
did not look upon Kate as the type that would find any amusement,
whatever the profit might be, in the inveigling of a young fool to the
altar. Kate wanted the excitement, not the money. That was her
history. He had first met her when he was in the Special Department
and it had been over a little matter of a King’s messenger’s despatch
bag which on a cross-channel journey had mysteriously disappeared,
though it was practically handcuffed to the owner’s wrist, that he had
first become acquainted with the girl. He was interested in her, but
only mildly so, because, at the time, he arrived at a somewhat hasty
judgment. It was later, when the strong-room of the “Muranic” was
forced and twenty-five packets of diamonds vanished in mid-ocean and
when he had been in charge of the investigations which had resulted in
the imprisonment of Colonel Westhanger, that he had first formed a
true estimate of the girl’s character--an estimate which he had had
cause to modify, but never to change.

Michael lived in a big block of flats near Baker Street, where he
maintained a somewhat elaborate establishment for an inspector of
police. He had, however, a private income of his own which he had
inherited from his maternal grandmother and as he was a man of simple
tastes and very few extravagant needs, he was able to live very
comfortably indeed. He reached his home a little before 8 o’clock and
was astonished as he came through the lobby of the flat to meet
Beston, his man-servant, clad in fine raiment and going forth.

“Hello, Beston, where are you off to?” he asked in surprise.

The man touched his hat cheerfully.

“I am going to the theatre, sir, and thank you very much for the
tickets,” he said. “Cook went ten minutes ago and I stayed behind to
tidy things up.”

“Oh, cook went ten minutes ago, did she?” said Michael. “That’s good.
When did the tickets arrive?”

“About an hour ago, sir, by a district messenger. It was very kind of
you to wire to us that you were sending them.”

Michael laughed softly.

“Your surprise at my consideration hurts me, Beston,” he said. “I
always do things like that. By the way, did they spell your name
correctly in the telegram?”

“I think so, sir,” said the man in surprise, fumbled in his pocket and
produced the orange slip.


 “I am sending you two tickets for the theatre to-night. May not be
 home until to-morrow. Pretherston.”


Thus read the wire, which had been handed in at the Strand Office.

Beston sensed some difficulty.

“I hope it’s all right, sir,” he asked anxiously.

“Quite all right,” replied Michael with a cheerful nod. “Don’t wait
for me now, I shall not be in very long.”

He mounted the carpeted stairs, opened the door of his flat and closed
it carefully behind him. He went straight to his study, pulled down
the blinds and drew the thick curtains across the windows, then he
turned on the light, took up the telephone and gave a Treasury number.

“Is that Sergeant Pears?” he asked. “Is there a telegram waiting at
the Yard for me?”

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant’s voice.

Michael winked at the wall.

“Do you mind opening and reading it?”

There was a little pause and then the sergeant repeated into the
receiver:


 “To Inspector Michael Pretherston, Scotland House. Come up by the
 earliest train. Am staying at Adelphi. T.B.”


“Handed in at Manchester, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant, “at three-fifteen.”

“Is the chief in Manchester?”

“Yes, sir; he went by the morning train.”

“Excellent,” said Michael, “thank you very much, sergeant.”

He hung up the receiver.

This was Kate’s work--the beautiful detail of it, the knowledge she
possessed of T.B. Smith’s movement. She had probably sent a man up on
the same train with the chief and had given him the telegram in
advance, with exact instructions as to the minute it was to be handed
in. Yes, it was Kate. Yet (he became uncomfortable at the thought) it
was not like her to leave things to chance. How came she to miss him
at the Yard? He returned to the telephone and again called up his
assistant.

“What time did the telegram arrive?” he asked.

The sergeant’s voice was apologetic.

“I am very sorry, sir, I am afraid it arrived while you were here,
this afternoon. It was given to a messenger to take in to you and in
some extraordinary way the constable forgot it. I have reprimanded
him.”

“That’s all right,” said Michael, relieved.

His relief, curiously founded, he might have found it difficult to
explain. It was the relief which the matador feels when he sees the
bull, which steps so proudly into the ring, will put up a good fight.
It was the relief of the huntsman when a strong fox breaks from
covert. He wanted Kate and that extraordinary organization, which he
had set himself to conquer, to be at its best that his victory might
be the more satisfactory.

He looked at his watch. It was five minutes past eight. He knew that
his visitor would give the servants an hour and he must employ that
hour profitably. He began to write rapidly on a pad of scribbling
paper, tearing off the sheets as fast as he had filled them. He had
been working for an hour when he heard a bell tinkle. Some one was at
the front door. He switched out the light, walked into the passage (he
had already removed his shoes) and listened. Whoever was coming had
sent an agent in advance to discover whether the flat was empty. Again
the bell rang. Michael made no sign. It rang a third and last time.
The detective made his way stealthily to the window and slipped behind
the curtains. He had left his study door open, so that he could hear
every sound. He had ten minutes to wait before the faint click of the
lock told him that the door had been opened. He knew that the visitor
would come to the study last, and he proved to be right. Three minutes
passed--as near as he could judge--before he caught the flash of a
lamp which was directed cautiously to the curtained window. The light
passed slowly along the floor until it reached the skirting, travelled
round until it found the lower edge of the drawn curtain. Through the
slit he had cut in the heavy velvet hangings Michael witnessed the
search. Presently the light went out after focussing itself upon the
electric switch. There was a click and the room was illuminated.

The girl who stood by the desk was soberly dressed and was apparently
in no hurry. She pulled her gloves off slowly, whilst she allowed her
eyes to rove over the littered table. Half a dozen sheets of writing
attracted her attention and when her gloves were removed she picked
the papers up, pulled the big writing chair to the table and sat down
to read. She read the notes through carefully and once she smiled.
When she had finished she put them down, leaned back in the chair and
looked around the room, then,

“Come out, Mike,” she said.

Michael stepped forth without embarrassment.

“I was nearly deceived,” she said, “with your precious account of the
happening at Sebo’s and then I realized that this could not have been
written more than five minutes before. You forgot to blot the last
sheet and the ink is still damp.”

She rubbed her fingers over to prove the fact.

“Why aren’t you in Manchester?” she asked.

The staggering question nearly took his breath away.

“Well, if you aren’t the real Kate!” he said admiringly.

“I’m in your chair I’m afraid,” she said.

“Not a bit.”

He dropped into a deep settee.

“Now tell me all the news. But before we go any farther,” he said with
mock concern, “wouldn’t you like a chaperone?”

“Don’t worry,” she replied, “I have a chaperone.”

“Not in my flat I hope,” he said in a tone of alarm. “You, I can
trust, Kate, but the idea of your low thieving friends being up
against all my movable goods gives me a little pain.”

She fished in her bag and produced a little gold case. She opened it
and took out a cigarette.

“You won’t have one, of course?”

“Not one of yours, Kate,” he said reproachfully. “No, I’ll have one of
my own if you don’t mind.”

“I think you are very rude,” she said with a lift of her brows.

“It’s better to be rudely awake than politely asleep,” he said
meaningly. “When one has to deal with clever criminals one has to take
all sorts of precautions.”

She laughed and looked at him curiously.

“I wonder what made you a policeman?”

“Nature,” he said promptly.

She was puzzled.

“I don’t quite get your humor,” she said.

“Nature provides all things with some form of protection. It gives the
oyster its shell and the tiger its stripes. It gives the squid his
ink-sack and the shark his teeth. Nature always produces antidotes.
When criminals are stupid they have stupid policemen to deal with
them. When criminals are extraordinarily clever, Nature provides the
police force with an officer of unusual intelligence. I came to the
police in blind obedience to the laws of Nature.”

She laughed softly in his face.

“It’s so nice to be able to discuss things with a man of sensibility,”
she said. “Of course, some of my friends are awfully clever and uncle
is very philosophical, but then they all take a very one-sided view of
things, and I think it’s so much better to hear the other side of
every question. You can get two views on all subjects except crime,”
she went on. “If you believe in Darwin’s theory you can meet hosts of
clever people who bitterly oppose it. If you are a Christian Scientist
you can meet hosts of Theosophists. Even if you are a firm believer in
monogamy you can generally hire a Mormon to argue on the other side.
It is only when we come down to crime that you meet the truly insular
view, held by people who know nothing whatever about its finesse, or
the genius necessary to break the laws without leaving a big hole to
show where you went in and another to show where you came out. That is
why I like you, Mike,” she said frankly.

“Any appreciation is very gratifying to me,” said Michael, “but that
which is so enthusiastic that it leads my admirer to break into my
flat to ravish my secret thoughts, is a little overwhelming.”

“I wanted to know what you were saying about me,” she said, “though I
ought to have known that you would not leave things about for me to
read--still,” she justified herself, “to do myself justice, I did not
expect to find your confidential reports on your desk.”

There was a big safe in one corner of the room.

“I was going to open that.”

She nodded toward the strong-box.

“You saw me the other night,” she turned the conversation suddenly.

“At Sebo’s--yes,” he said, “I saw you.”

“What did you think?” she asked quietly.

“I thought you were with the loquacious Mr. Boltover for a special
reason of your own,” he said slowly.

“He _is_ an orator,--isn’t he?” she agreed,--“but he’s quite a nice
boy, really. God didn’t give him brains and it’s not fair to make fun
of a man’s deficiencies.”

“What did you want of Reggie?” asked Michael.

“I just wanted to know all about him,” she said, “that kind of people
are always interesting to me.”

“What did you want of Reggie?” he asked again.

“How insistent you are!” she laughed.

She got up and began strolling about the room, taking down books from
the big bookshelf and examining their titles.

“What catholic tastes you have, Mike--and Tennyson, too. How
depraved!”

“You will find a Browning somewhere,” he said carelessly.

“That’s more encouraging,” she smiled. “It’s an awfully comfortable
room. Quite like the room I thought you would have.”

She looked at a book plate on the cover of one volume.

“You were at Winchester, I see. So was uncle.”

“The poison and the antidote!”

“You are not fair with uncle. He’s a mental degenerate, too. Crime is
a disease with him.”

“And with you?” said Michael quickly.

“It’s a hobby. It’s a tremendous excitement.”

She put the book down and turned to him.

“You don’t know what it’s like. To work things out and make them
happen, to cover a couple of sheets of paper with writing and then see
all sorts of things move in obedience to those instructions, to see
thousands and tens of thousands of pounds change hands, to know that
men are going long journeys, that special trains are being run, that
telegraph wires are humming all over the Continent, that a dozen
brilliant thief-catchers are working and worrying in a vain attempt to
undo all that twenty or thirty lines of writing have done.”

“This will be used in evidence against you,” warned Michael
flippantly.

The girl was not posing. Of that he was convinced. Her big grey eyes
were brighter, her whole face was alight with the excitement of the
thought, her voice had a new thrill. She was exalted, transfigured at
the thought of the power which her shrewd brain gave to her.

“What did you want of Reggie?” he asked again.

The light faded out of her eyes and she was her normal self again.

“Oh, I wanted to pick his pocket,” she said mockingly; “or, no, I know
something better--I wanted to marry him. He’s worth two millions.”

“I don’t think you will ever marry for money,” said Michael.

“What makes you say that?” she asked quickly.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“That is the estimate I have formed of you. I may be wrong.”

“I shall never marry,” she said with decision. “I’m not of the
marrying kind. I hate men in some ways. I hate them so much, that it
gives me a real joy to take away the one thing in the world that they
really love. You know the Claude Duval tradition--I mean the idealized
Claude Duval of tradition, not the sneak-thief valet of actuality--of
robbing the rich and never robbing the poor--well, I rob men, and I
never rob women.”

“In fact you rob the people who have the money,” said Michael. “That
isn’t clever.”

“No, but it sounds awfully good. I’m thinking of including it in the
great speech I shall deliver one of these days at the Old Bailey.”

“What did you want from Reggie?” he asked.

“You are almost monotonous,” she laughed. “Well, I wanted
information.”

She turned and again he saw that bright light in her eye and that
eager look in her face.

“I will tell you, Michael Pretherston,” she said, pointing a white
finger toward him. “We will play fair. I am going to do a big thing. I
am going to make the most wonderful steal that the world has ever
known. That is why I found Reggie. That is why I made a martyr of
myself and endured the boredom of Lord Flanborough’s society.”

She clapped her hands like a child.

“It’s a big thing, Michael, but it’s full of complications,
wonderfully full of strategy, and I am going to do it all with your
assistance.”

He jumped up and flung out his hand.

“Put it there, Kate,” he said.

“This is going to be the big thing for both of us and I am going to be
the victor. If you win you have whatever you’re after. If I win, you
have me,” she said with a little laugh.

He looked at her in silence.

“I can almost see you gripping my arm and pushing me into the steel
pen,” she said. “I can see you sitting in court in a brown--no, a
blue--overcoat, with your hat nicely balanced on your knees, looking
up at me in the dock and wondering how I am going to take it.”

A cloud passed over his face.

“You’re a pessimistic little devil,” he growled. “No, I wasn’t
thinking about that.”

“What were you thinking about?” she asked, her eyes wide open in
surprise.

“I was thinking I’d marry you,” he said.

She looked at him in amusement.

“You’re mad, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he said; “didn’t you know?”

“Marry you!” she said scornfully. “Great Heavens!”

“You might do worse,” he said with his cheerful smile.

“Can you name anything I could do that would be more hopelessly
degrading than marry a policeman?”

“Yes,” he said, “you might be an old maid and keep cats. You take it
for granted, of course,” he went on, “that I am letting you go now.”

“Naturally,” she replied, “I have given you something to live for.”

“You may be right,” he said quietly and opened the door for her.

They walked down the felt covered passage to the front door.

“I owe you something,” she said as they stood in the doorway. “The
young man from the South nearly put an end to my promising career.”

“A little thing like that is hardly worth mentioning. Good night,
Kate, are you sure it is safe for you to be out alone so late?”

She made a little face at him and went tripping down the stairs. She
turned into the street, but had not gone two paces when a hand caught
her arm.

“Excuse me,” said a voice.

By the light of a street lamp she recognized her captor as a detective
sergeant from Scotland Yard.

Before she could protest a voice spoke from the darkness of the
balcony above and it was the voice of Michael.

“All right, sergeant,” he said.

She shook herself free of the man and looked wrathfully up at the dim
figure.

“I forgot you’d have your nurse handy, Michael,” she jeered.

“Good night, dear,” said the voice from the balcony and to her intense
annoyance she felt an extraordinary sensation wholly new to her, but
which with her quick woman’s wit she correctly diagnosed, as she
hurried angrily along the street.

For Kate Westhanger had blushed for the first time in her life.




 CHAPTER VII.
 THE PRINCESS BACHEFFSKI--BEAUTIFULLY
 DRESSED

Lord Flanborough gave a dinner party. He was a methodical man and
invariably made his arrangements a long time in advance, and he was
not unnaturally annoyed, when, at the eleventh hour, his daughter
suggested a change in the plans.

“My dear Moya,” he said testily, “don’t be absurd. Surely after what
has passed--after his extraordinary attitude--”

“Oh, daddy, what nonsense!” said the girl. “Michael is really a good
sort and he will be amusing. I really cannot sit out a dinner with all
those boring people, and if you don’t invite him, I shall have a
headache.”

“But, my dear,” protested her father, “Sir Ralph will be quite
entertainment enough, surely?”

“Sir Ralph is the biggest bore of all,” she said calmly. “Please let
me have my way.”

So to his surprise and amusement Michael received an invitation to
dinner, couched in such gracious terms that he formed the wholly
incorrect impression that some other guest had failed Moya and that he
was being called in to relieve her of the responsibility for thirteen
people sitting at table.

It was even a more dreary dinner-party than Moya had imagined.

Sir Ralph Sapson was amusing in his own way, but his own way was not
Moya’s way. He was a stout, handsome, young man on the right side of
thirty, immensely wealthy and, according to her father, immensely
capable. Though there had been no definite arrangement it was
understood, mainly by Lord Flanborough, that Sir Ralph desired a
closer association with the Flanborough family than his directorships
gave him.

The remainder of the guests were even less entertaining than Sir
Ralph. There were three other members of the peerage. Old Lord
Katstock who was a political lord who had once occupied a position as
under-secretary in some forgotten administration, the Marquis of
Cheddar who was a sporting lord and had theories on the Bruce Low
system of breeding, Lord Dumburton who was a soldier lord, very poor
and very wicked, unless rumour lied, and an assortment of directors
which included Mr. Reginald Boltover who recognized Michael with a
guilty start and took no interest whatever in his dinner but waited
with bated breath for Michael to reveal his guilty secret. There were
two or three ladies who gave Michael the impression that they had been
dipped in diamonds by their herculean maids, there was a thin, dowdily
dressed lady with a hooked nose.

(“Has the Duchess borrowed anything, Moya?” said Michael under his
breath.

“Not from me,” said the girl significantly, “but father is rather
susceptible. She’s an awfully good sort really, but I do wish she
wouldn’t take snuff.”)

Michael knew, or was known to, them all.

“It’s a rum idea of yours, going into the police, Pretherston,” said
Sir Ralph with that air of patronage which he reserved for people
poorer than himself.

“It’s just as rum an idea as your going into trade and keeping shops,”
said Michael.

Sir Ralph smiled indulgently.

“We have to do something to make an honest living,” he said. “I
suppose the reference to the shops is my association with the Colonial
Retail Stores. That makes a hundred thousand a year, Pretherston.”

“Then you have a hundred thousand reasons for selling bad jam,” said
Michael; “I’ve given up buying things at your shops.”

“That is a tragedy,” said Sir Ralph with heavy humor. “Try us again
and we will endeavour to merit your patronage.”

“I have another bone to pick with you,” said Michael.

He did not like Sir Ralph Sapson.

“I came up the other day from Seahampton, the railway carriage was
beastly, hadn’t been cleaned for a month, and the train was fifty
minutes late. The London and Seahampton is another of your profitable
ventures isn’t it?”

“I am told that I have an interest in it,” said Sir Ralph, with a
smile at the girl, “but, really, my dear Pretherston, when you find a
railway so badly conducted you ought to complain to the police.”

This amused him so much that he laughed without restraint and was, as
a result, compelled to explain his joke to fourteen people who were
anxious to share it.

Michael had to leave early.

“I should dearly love to stay and play bridge with you,” he said.

“Michael, you are a little horrid, aren’t you?” asked the girl.

“Horrid?” he asked, puzzled.

“You are so practical, you weren’t always like that.”

“And you weren’t always unpractical,” he laughed.

She had hoped--she did not know exactly what she had hoped, but the
new Michael was so unlike the old that she could almost have cried
with vexation. Gone was the old recklessness, the old extravagance
(save in directions annoying to her guests) and the old adoration
which shone in his eyes. There was an unpleasant feeling that he was
laughing at her all the time and that did not add to her happiness.

“I don’t think you’re nice, anyway,” she said; “won’t you come more
often to see us?”

“When you lose a pearl necklace, or find the hired lady
surreptitiously carrying off your provisions, drop a line to Inspector
Michael Pretherston, Room 26, Scotland House and I will be with you in
a jiffy.”

“By which I understand you don’t want to see us at all,” she said
petulantly; “I am sorry I asked you to-night.”

“I, for my part, am very glad,” he said.

Later, when Michael had left, Sir Ralph was to find her a very
unamusing companion, though why she should be annoyed with her
sometime suitor only a woman can understand. She did not love him. In
some ways she rather disliked him, and possibly the underlying reason
for her inviting him at all, was in order to confirm and seal her
indifference. If Michael had been in the least way attentive, had
shown the slightest desire to recover the lost ground and to resume
the old romance, she would have found an intense satisfaction in
checking him and would have gone to bed that night happy in the
knowledge that she had permanently attached to her one for whom she
had not the slightest tenderness.

This is the way of women who, when offered a dish, a dress, a colour,
a material or a man, invariably say, “I would like to see something
else.”

Her abstraction was so marked that Sir Ralph thought she was ill,
which instantly produced that headache which it is every woman’s
privilege to adopt at a moment’s notice.

“You ought to take care of Moya, Flanborough,” he said to his host at
parting, “she’s not at all well.”

“I have noticed it,” said the dutiful parent who had noticed nothing
of the kind and had inwardly remarked that Moya was sulking about
something. “You have an extraordinary eye for things of that kind, Sir
Ralph.”

“I understand human beings,” admitted Sir Ralph, “it has been my one
engrossing study in life. It is almost a vice with me. When a man
comes into my office I can generally sum up his character, his
business and his capabilities before he has opened his mouth.”

“It’s a great gift,” said Lord Flanborough solemnly.

Sir Ralph Sapson was in a particularly cheerful mood that night. In
the brief interview which he had had with his future father-in-law he
had not only secured a tacit agreement of his right to be admitted to
the family and an expression of Lord Flanborough’s approval, but he
had clinched a very excellent business arrangement which had been
hanging fire for twelve months--an arrangement which may be briefly
summarized:

Lord Flanborough was the chairman of the Austral-African Steamship
Company which carried merchandise and passengers between Cape Town and
Plymouth. Sir Ralph was the chairman of the London and Seahampton
Railway and was also chairman and a large shareholder in the
Seahampton Dock Improvement Company. The docks had improved much more
rapidly than had the trade which could justify their existence and the
deal which was really a side-line to the more romantic business of a
matrimonial alliance, was that the ships of the A-A line should
shamelessly abandon Plymouth and Liverpool and should have their
headquarters at Seahampton, an arrangement which offered advantages on
both sides, since Lord Flanborough was not without interest in the
Seahampton docks.

The night was chilly, a full moon rode serenely in the skies; there
was a touch of frost in the air and more than a suspicion of frost on
the sidewalk. Sir Ralph Sapson’s car was waiting, but he ordered the
chauffeur to drive home, saying that he would prefer to walk. Sir
Ralph lived in Park Lane so that he had nearly a mile to cover, but he
was in that mood which made light of so unusual an exercise. He
reached the door of his imposing residence and his hand was on the
bell when he heard his name called. He had noticed as he walked up to
his door that a little distance along the road was a big motor car,
its head lamps gleaming and a chauffeur busy tinkering with the
engine.

“I am afraid you don’t know me,” said a sweet voice.

Sir Ralph raised his hat.

The girl who stood on the sidewalk was obviously a lady. She was as
obviously beautifully dressed, and Sir Ralph who had an appraising eye
valued the ermine cloak she wore at something not far short of a
thousand pounds. A single broad collar of diamonds about her slender
throat was all the jewellery she wore.

“I am afraid I don’t,” he said.

“I only met you once,” said the girl timidly, “in Paris. You were
introduced to me in the foyer of--”

“Oh, yes, at the Opera, of course,” said Sir Ralph who, amongst other
things, was a patron of the Arts.

She nodded and seemed pleased that he had remembered her, a compliment
which Sir Ralph did not fail to observe.

“My car has broken down,” she said, “and I was wondering if I could
beg your hospitality. It is so horribly shivery here.”

She drew her cloak tighter around her.

“With all the pleasure in life,” said Sir Ralph heartily, “but I have
only a bachelor’s establishment, you know,” he laughed.

He rang the bell and the door was opened instantly.

“Put some lights in the drawing room,” he said to the servant. “Is
there a fire there?”

“Yes, Sir Ralph,” said the man.

“Can I get you some coffee or a little wine?”

She had pulled a big chair up before the blaze and was resting her
little white slippers upon the silver fender. Her shapely hands were
outspread to the fire and Sir Ralph noted that on her fingers there
was no sign of the plain gold circle of bondage.

“You will think it awfully rude in me, but I cannot recall your name,”
he said, when the servant had gone.

“I don’t suppose you do, my name is rather a barbarous one,” she
laughed. “I am the Princess Bacheffski.”

“Why, of course!” said Sir Ralph heartily, “I remember distinctly
now.”

To do him justice, Russian princesses are not unusual phenomena in
Paris and he had a very bad memory for foreign names.

“I suppose I am being very unconventional,” she said with a little
grimace, and for the first time he noticed that she spoke with the
slightest accent, “but needs must when the devil drives, and I had
either to sit in that cold car or grasp the good fortune which fate
threw in my way. And you, Sir Ralph, are looking just the same as when
I saw you last. You are one of the big business men in London, aren’t
you?”

“I have a few interests,” admitted Sir Ralph modestly.

They talked of Paris which Sir Ralph knew, and of Russia through which
he had travelled on one occasion, and of London, and then the coffee
came and a few minutes later, her chauffeur, to tell her that the
repairs had been effected.

“Before I go I want to ask you one favour, Sir Ralph,” she said.

She was a little embarrassed and nervously twisted a ring on her
finger. Sir Ralph saw this and wondered.

“You have only to ask anything, Princess, and it is granted,” he said
gallantly.

She hesitated a moment and bit her lip in thought.

“I am going to take you into my confidence, and I know as a man of
honour” (Sir Ralph bowed) “you will not betray me. I am in London, but
I am not supposed to be in London.”

She looked at him anxiously as she made this confession.

“I understand,” said Sir Ralph, which was not true.

“You have probably noticed--you were so quick at seeing those
things--that I am not wearing my wedding ring. Well,” she hesitated,
“Dimitri and I have quarrelled, and I do not want him to find me. I
haven’t been to the Embassy or to call on any of my old friends.”

“You may be sure,” said Sir Ralph, “that your secret is safe. I may
say,” he added, “that this is not the first time I have been entrusted
with a confidence as delicate.”

“I know I can trust you,” she said, warmly gripping his hand.
“I am staying in a little furnished flat which I have taken in
Half Moon Street. I have a duenna with me for the sake of the
proprieties--Dimitri is so funny about those things--so if a busy man
can spare the time, I am always in between four and five--”

“It will give me the greatest happiness to renew the acquaintance,”
said Sir Ralph and raised her hand to his lips.

Sir Ralph retired to rest that night more pleased with himself than
ever.




 CHAPTER VIII.
 AN ARTIST MAKES AN EXHIBITION
 OF HIMSELF

No man has ever understood a woman, for the simple reason that woman
is unintelligible even to her own kind. If she were not, and if she
were susceptible to explanation by her own sisters, be sure that her
own sisters would lose no time in telling the first man she met all
about her.

Lady Moya Felton possessed that rare combination of talents, beauty
and acumen. She dressed well, she spoke well, and she looked well. She
was a product of Newnham, an institution which, more often than not,
gives the world a being which is something less than a woman and
something more than a babu. This being is crammed with erudition and
for many years fights life with a textbook. Sometimes she continues to
the end, very self-assured, very confident of the facts she has culled
from the printed page and very determined that she will never
surrender her mechanical facts or her machine-made values. Sometimes,
she succumbs to the humanising influences which daily contact with the
verities of life bring to her and develops into a useful and charming
member of society.

Moya had absorbed just as much of life as she thought was necessary to
her comfort. She stopped short of the supreme lesson which finds
expression in cheerful sacrifice but she was an eminently pleasing
person and never discussed biological justice or gave forth as her own
the shoddy philosophies she had acquired in hall. Therefore, she was
bearable. Moreover, by realising--here her instinct served her--that
Newnham had turned her out fit for nothing better than a church-going
school ma’am, she conveyed an impression of her education rather than
declaimed the fact.

Practical as she was, she had a guilty secret, not only a very dear
one, to be hugged tight to her heart, but one which evoked the unusual
emotion of profound disapproval in the more ordered compartments of
her mind. Moya was a dreamer, a cold-blooded romanticist who had
wonderful adventures with wonderful people whenever she walked or rode
abroad. In the privacy of her big limousine, she would be absorbed in
events of her own creation, wholly monopolised by men and women who
bore no likeness to and had no relation with any person in her
somewhat extensive list of acquaintances. She would often find herself
in situations so absurdly impossible that even the penny novelette
reader would have rejected them with the scorn which their crudity
deserved. She did not dream of living people, the mere mental
suggestion--for the roving mind has a trick of taking charge at
times--that any of her visionary heroes had his prototype in flesh and
blood ensured the ejection of the offending dream-man and the
substitution of another, more wildly improbable but at the same time
more unlikely to challenge relationship with anybody in the material
world.

She could dream and yet accept the cold practicality of a Ralph Sapson
and calmly consider a marriage so hopelessly prosaic.

That was inexplicable.

For an engaged lover Ralph had been singularly remiss. He had called
once since his unemotional declaration of love. To do him justice he
had skipped the tender demonstrations which usually accompany even the
most formal engagements and had got down to the question of settlement
in the shortest space of time. This was as Moya could wish, for she
also was embarrassed at the thought that a human being might possibly
approach--suffering in comparison--the extravagance, wordless and
intangible as it was, of her shadowy friends.

It is a remarkable circumstance that romance in concrete form did not
come to Moya, until the very week she engaged herself to marry Sir
Ralph Sapson. It came in a curious way. She had driven to Leicester
Square to see an exhibition of pictures. It was one of those
collections which dawn upon London, bringing in its wake a name which
has never been heard before, save in a very select circle and is never
heard again outside of that circle; an orbit which swings beyond the
ken of ordinary mortals.

She went into the gallery and found it a veritable desert. Save for a
young man and a small, pinched and preoccupied girl, wearing a large
pendant in which was inserted the photograph of her uninteresting
fiancé, the place was empty. The girl with the pendant carried her
excuse in her hand, in the shape of a bunch of catalogues. There was
less excuse for the young man for he was healthy in appearance and it
was not raining.

Moya began a conscientious inspection of the pictures, chiefly
remarkable for their colouring and for the atmosphere which the artist
had managed to secure. Indeed, the pictures were all atmosphere. The
girl made a slow progress along the wall, comparing each framed
atrocity with her catalogue and striving to sense, dimly, something of
the artist’s honourable intentions.

She looked around once to discover what effect the pictures had upon
her fellow sightseer. He was standing before a long panel
representing, if the catalogue had been rightly compiled, “A Blue Wind
on a Green Hill.” His face bore an expression of the deepest gloom,
his hat was tilted to the back of his head and his hands were thrust
deeply into his trousers pockets. The longer he looked at the “Blue
Wind on the Green Hill” the more morose and unhappy did he appear.

This then was the attitude which the new colourist school demanded,
one of fierce but approving antagonism if the paradox be permitted.

She moved up till she was almost by his side, never thinking that in
the presence of the girl with the programmes and the photographic
miniature, he would dare address her. Yet he did.

“What do you think of that one?” he asked without turning his head.

She was taken aback and was prepared to be chilly and non-committal.
She looked at his face and the nearer view was a pleasing one. He was
very fair, very good-looking and had the bluest eyes she had ever seen
in a man. He was also unshaven and his collar was not clean, but he
was well dressed enough and his tone was wholly Oxford--and Balliol at
that.

“I think it is rather weird,” she said.

“So do I,” he nodded vigorously. “I think it is--‘weird’ is the word.
As a work of art how does it strike you?”

She hesitated. She had a full range of studio jargon which she had
acquired in the course of her after-education and could speak glibly
on atmosphere, tone and light. She knew that it was possible to refer
to a still-life study of a bunch of bananas as being “full of
movement” without being guilty of an absurdity. In fact, she knew
enough about art to have occupied a position on any average newspaper
as a critic.

“As a work of art,” she said, “it is original and a little eccentric.”

“Frankly?” he demanded fiercely.

All the time he spoke he was glaring at the picture and had not turned
his head toward her.

“Frankly,” she replied, “I think these are monstrosities.”

He nodded again.

“I agree with you,” he said, “and I know better than anybody else how
monstrous they are--I painted ’em!”

Moya gasped.

“I am awfully sorry,” she began.

“I am sorry, too--that I painted them,” he replied. “I am not sorry
that I exhibited them, because all my friends told me that they were
wonderful and naturally I get some satisfaction from proving that my
friends are mentally deficient.”

He turned round and looked at her and was in turn surprised.

“Hello,” he said, staring at her with his blue eyes wide open, “I
thought you were much older.”

She laughed.

“The fact is I didn’t look at you,” he confessed; “how can anybody
look at anything with these beastly things staring one in the
face--Hi! Emma!”

Fortunately the programme girl was looking his way and realised that
he was speaking to her.

“Your name is Emma, I suppose.”

“No, sir,” said the girl impressively, “my name is Evangeline.”

He turned to the girl.

“Here is an Evangeline whom I thought was an Emma; and here are my
Emmas that I thought were Evangelines,” he said despairingly. “What
made you come to this exhibition?”

“I saw a criticism of the pictures in yesterday’s papers.”

“In the _Megaphone_,” he said accusingly.

“Yes--it was a very flattering criticism, I thought,” said the girl.

He nodded.

“I wrote it myself,” he said without shame.

He turned to the programme girl.

“Tell your master to shut up the gallery, have the pictures packed
away and sent home.”

“But,” said Moya in alarm, “I hope my stupid views won’t influence
you.”

“It isn’t your stupid view,” he said, “it is my original stupid view.
You see, I can’t paint really. I know not the slightest thing about
art, I have never had an artistic education or served under any
master. I am a genius. These works are works of a genius. The frames
cost a lot of money and the amount of paint I have used is prodigious.
There is everything there,” he waved his hand to the covered walls,
“except the know-how.”

She murmured a conventional expression of sympathy, but he did not
invite sympathy, he invited condemnation and seemed to find a comfort
in his own misfortune and was obviously all the happier, that he had
reached a decision on his own merits.

They walked out of the gallery together and Moya wondered at herself.
That she had in so brief a space of time entered into the aspirations
and disappointments of a perfect stranger so that she felt something
of his chagrin was truly amazing.

“I know you,” he said, breaking off in the midst of a sardonic
dissertation on art, “you are Lady Moya Melton or Pelton.”

“Felton,” she suggested, amused.

“Oh, yes, Felton,” he nodded. “I saw your portrait in the academy, a
very bad portrait too.”

“People thought it was rather good,” she demurred.

“Idealised, but Lord, what do I know about art? This char-a-banc de
luxe is yours, I presume,” he pointed to the big limousine.

“It does happen to be mine,” she said; “my father gave it to me on my
twenty-first birthday.”

He inspected it critically.

“I wonder if I know as much about motor-cars as I know about
painting,” he said. “I used to think I knew something about both, but
here, at any rate, is something real, it is a very nice car.”

He opened the door for her and she offered her hand.

“I am so sorry about the pictures,” she said.

“Don’t worry,” he replied cheerfully.

She thought for a moment.

“Can I drop you anywhere?”

He fingered his unshaven chin.

“If you know of a nice deep pond where a man may drown himself without
interference I should be obliged,” he said gravely, then, seeing the
look of alarm in her eyes he laughed. “You probably don’t know my
name,” he said.

As a matter of fact she did not and had been trying throughout the
interview to take a surreptitious look at the catalogue. She knew it
was something like Brixel.

“Fonso Blaxton--” he said shortly. “Fonso stands for Alphonso, a
perfectly rotten name, isn’t it? It would be quite all right for an
artist. If there’s any need to send flowers, my address is Oxford
Chambers.”

He shook hands abruptly, handed her into the car and closed the door.
He waited only the briefest spell and had lifted his hat and vanished
before the car had started.

Moya drove back with so much to occupy her thoughts that she forgot to
dream. So preoccupied was she, that she passed Sir Ralph Sapson and
his chic companion turning into the park before she was aware that he
was bowing to her or had time to note anything more about the lady
than that she was very beautifully gowned and that her sunshade was
tilted at such an angle that it was impossible to see her face.

“Who is your friend?”

Sir Ralph turned with a smirk.

“That, Princess,” he said, “is Lady Moya Felton.”

“Oh, your fiancée,” said the girl, “isn’t it a bore being in London
incognito; I should so much like to have met her.”

“Perhaps some day,” said Ralph.

“I should dearly love to,” murmured the girl; “but please go on, you
interest me so much. I am beginning to realise why you English are so
successful. You seem to know every detail of your business.”

“Oh, dear no,” protested Sir Ralph good-humoredly. “I am rather a
dunce if the truth be told, but one must know something of the
details.”

“Something!” said the girl, raising her eye-brows. “I think you are
very modest. Why, you seem to know the workings of your railway system
from beginning to end.”

Sir Ralph stroked his moustache thoughtfully.

“One has to go into things,” he said vaguely, “and of course one takes
a lot of credit for things which one is not entitled to take credit
for. But the gold train was my idea altogether.”

“I never thought there was so much romance in business,” said the
Princess, then suddenly, “do you mind telling the driver to turn
about, I am tired of the park now.”

He leaned forward and instructed the chauffeur and the big car circled
round.

“I am glad you suggested that,” he said.

“Why?” she asked.

“Did you notice a man in a grey felt hat talking to a lady in a
victoria?”

She shook her head.

“He’s a weird bird,” said Sir Ralph; “he is a policeman, Michael
Pretherston, Lord Pretherston’s brother. I don’t want to meet him,
apart from the fact that he might recognize you, even through that
veil of yours which would deny him so much happiness,” he added
gallantly.

“Tell me some more about the gold train,” she said.

Nothing loath Sir Ralph explained. He told the story of the Seahampton
Docks and the big liners which would be coming in and the new services
he had inaugurated to meet the increased traffic.

“We shall carry practically the whole of the gold which comes from the
Rand mines,” he said impressively. “Naturally we have to be very
careful although there is not much danger in England. The gold train
is really two big safes on wheels. To outward appearance, they are
just like ordinary closed railway trucks. In reality they are steel
boxes, burglar proof and fire proof. Of course, nothing can go wrong
and even if we had a smash the cars would be uninjured. But I have the
best men on the system to run the train.”

“How very fascinating,” she said intensely interested. “I suppose you
have a most elaborate time-table?”

“I have worked out every detail myself,” he said.

He took a note-book from his pocket.

“I will show you, Princess,” he said impressively.

He turned the gilt-edged leaves until he came to two pages covered
with his fine writing.

“You will get some idea of the work involved in the running of a
special train,” he said; “here are the times. There is the driver’s
name, the fireman’s name, the assistant fireman’s name, the names of
the two guards.”

She looked at the book.

“I cannot read your writing very well,” she laughed; “you must not
forget that my family was very old fashioned and my dear father never
allowed us to learn the Roman alphabet until we were quite grown up.
But I can see what a very difficult business it is.”

She handed the book back to him with a little sigh.

“I am afraid I am very stupid,” she said; “figures always bother me
and I can see that you revel in them. I hate writing, but by the way
your book is filled, it seems that you revel in it! I cannot
understand people who like to write. It is always an agony for me to
compose an ordinary letter. My thoughts come so much faster than my
poor hand can move.”

She took a pad and pencil from the silver mounted stationery case in
front of her.

“I will show you something,” she said.

She wrote rapidly, resting the pad on her knee and he watched her in
astonishment as she proceeded to fill the sheet.

“There,” she said triumphantly, “that is what I can do best.”

“It looks like shorthand,” he said.

“It is something like Russian shorthand,” said the girl, “and I am
such a lazy person that I always use it whenever I want to write a
note. My secretary, who is the only person in the world who
understands it, transcribes it. I do it because I hate writing.”

“So you are clever, after all, Princess.”

She reached out her little hand and patted his arm.

“You don’t know how clever I am,” she said and they both laughed
together.




 CHAPTER IX.
 THE SHAREHOLDERS AND AN INTERRUPTION

Colonel Westhanger looked at his watch.

“She’s twenty minutes late already,” he said.

Gregori rolled another cigarette and looked enquiringly at Dr. Philip
Garon who was fingering his trim beard and talking with some animation
to the middle-aged pallid man, who was known to the world as Mr.
Cunningham and to the police as an expert safe breaker.

All Crime Street, with the exception of the admirable Mr. Millet, was
present. The Bishop with his large placid face was playing bezique
with Francis Stockmar. Colling Jacques, who had the appearance of a
prosperous butler who had settled down to the management of his own
private hotel, was reading the newspaper. Mr. Mulberry, that
respectable man with his grey side-whiskers and his sad dog-like eyes,
was discussing Renaissance architecture with the other Stockmar and
the Colonel, pacing the room impatiently, stopped now and again to
fling a word to one or the other.

Presently there was a slight sound in the hall below and the Colonel
went to the door of the room.

“She is here,” he said and passed out to the landing to meet Kate.

She was wearing a dark coat-dress and a big black fox wrap which she
loosened and flung off as she came into the room. It was notable that
the Colonel, who had every right to complain of her unpunctuality, did
not attempt to criticize her for her late arrival, other than to make
mild reference to the fact that he had expected her earlier.

She looked around the room.

“Where is Millet?” she asked.

“Millet is working on the telegrams,” he said and she nodded,
satisfied.

“Everything is ready now,” she said. “Did you see Boltover, Mr.
Mulberry?”

He rose and came toward her with that noiseless step of his.

“A most amiable young man,” he said in his unctuous sing-song voice,
“such a pleasant young man! We had a very long talk together.”

“And?”

“We arranged everything.”

He took a long envelope from his pocket, pulled out a stiff parchment
and handed it to her with the gravity and deference of an ambassador
delivering a treaty to his sovereign lady. She ran her eyes quickly
over the document, turned its crinkling page and read rapidly to the
last flourishing signatures.

“That’s all right,” she said and returned the document.

The long table had been placed in the middle of the room and to this,
without instructions, the whole of the company had drawn. Colonel
Westhanger sat at one end and Kate at the other. From her bag she took
a thick roll of manuscript, cut the strings that fastened it and
smoothed the sheets out before her. One by one she called their names
at the same time handing them, in some cases one, in other cases two
or three sheets covered with writing.

“You have a week to master all this,” she said, “and in a week’s time
we will meet again and I will see that everybody understands.”

She caught Jacques’ eye.

“About men?” she said. “How many have you arranged for?”

“Sixty,” he said; “I have been bringing them into England for the past
month.”

“Will sixty be enough?” she asked dubiously. “How many did we use for
the Bank of Edinburgh?”

“That was a different job,” said Jacques; “we had to cut through
thirty feet of concrete. I used two hundred and twenty in relays of
thirty.”

“Sixty will be quite enough,” she said after a moment’s thought. “You
will see that I have allowed only for fifty, but if they are the right
kind of people--”

“They are all good men, most of them from Italy, a few of them from
France and one Portuguese. They are the pick of my men and represent
years of organisation.”

“You have full details there, Cunningham,” she said, turning to that
dour man. “I took a shorthand note about the gold train, the driver
and the officials who will be on the train and I have all their
addresses except one. You will find a cross against that; I think the
address is Berne Street, Seahampton, but I had no time to verify it.”

“This will be easy,” said Cunningham, reading his instructions; “these
times won’t be altered, I suppose?”

“If they are, I shall know all about it,” said the girl. “Everyone
must make a note of those instructions in your own code and you must
do it pretty quickly.”

“What’s the hurry?” asked Westhanger, who, alone of the men about the
table, had received no paper.

“I want to see every sheet burnt before we leave the room,” she said.

The Colonel frowned.

“But--” he began.

“I want all the papers burnt before we leave the room,” she said again
emphatically.

Her uncle growled but the others knew her well enough to realize that
she had an excellent reason. Each man in his own way, some in
note-books, some on the back of loose sheets of paper faithfully
transcribed the instructions, using their own pet abbreviations, their
own particular symbols and one by one, as fast as they completed their
copies, the girl collected the papers, heard the instructions read
over, corrected one, amended another and finally gathering all the
sheets in her hand, she walked to the fireplace, deposited them in the
grate and set a lighted match to them.

She watched them burn until they were black ash and put her foot upon
them crushing the embers to dust.

“Are you nervous?” asked the Colonel sarcastically.

“Are you?” she asked coolly.

“Well it does seem a little--”

From the corner of the room came a soft but insistent purr.

The men jumped to their feet.

“Put away the tables quickly,” said the girl under her breath.

They separated the table into three parts. With an agility remarkable
in one of his years the Colonel flung a cloth over each, lifted a pot
of flowers on to one, arranged a photograph on another and left the
third to the bezique players. The girl seated herself at the piano,
opened it and began a soft movement from “Rigoletto.”

“Sing,” she said under her breath.

The obedient Mr. Mulberry shuffled up to her side. He had a pleasing
voice and the girl picked up the strain.…

“I am sorry to disturb the harmony,” said Michael Pretherston from the
doorway.

“May I ask what is the meaning of this intrusion?” demanded Colonel
Westhanger haughtily as half-a-dozen Scotland Yard men crowded into
the room behind their chief.

“It is what is vulgarly known as a raid,” said Michael. “Everybody
will remain where he is while I run a foot rule over him. Parsons, you
will take these gentlemen one by one into an adjoining room and search
him most thoroughly. Mrs. Gray,” he called to the door and a stout
middle-aged woman with a pleasant face appeared, “you will perform the
same kind office for Miss Westhanger.”

“Why not ‘Kate’?” asked the girl scornfully. “You are getting polite
in your old age, Mike.”

“Miss Westhanger,” he repeated suavely.

“Suppose I refuse to be searched?”

“Then I shall convey you to a vulgar police station,” said Michael,
“and the process of search will be carried out in uncongenial
surroundings.”

“I take it that you have a warrant?” demanded Colonel Westhanger.

“My dear Colonel!” said Michael. “Do you imagine I should come without
having gone through that little formality?”

He produced the document.

“Signed by two stipendary magistrates to be absolutely sure,” he said
flippantly; “impound all documents you find, Parsons.”

“Yes, sir,” said the man and led away the first of his victims which
happened to be the docile Mr. Mulberry.

“It is an unpleasant business,” sighed Michael as he watched the girl
pass from the room followed by her searcher, “but then, you will
understand, Colonel, that our profession is full of heartrending
moments. You are still on ticket of leave, I understand?”

“Expired,” growled Colonel Westhanger.

“Pardon me,” said Michael. “I have been misinformed. I would like a
word with you.”

He led the other to the corner of the room out of earshot and the good
humor died out of his voice as he confronted the older man.

“Westhanger,” he said, “who was the tutor of this girl?”

“I don’t quite get you?” said the other insolently.

“Who taught Kate to be a thief--is that plain enough for you?”

“If she is a thief it is a matter of aptitude. I deny that she is a
thief or that she is a party to any illegal act of which my
unfortunate friends may have been guilty--nobody taught her.”

“You are a queer fellow,” said Michael. “I suppose you are just
unmoral.”

“My personal character--” began the other.

“By unmoral, I mean you have no sense of _meum_ and _teum_. In other
words, you are a born thief. You forgive me, but subtlety seems to be
wasted on you. I ask you again, who educated Kate?”

The Colonel smiled.

“Kate has much to thank me for,” he said smugly. “I have been a father
and more than a father to that child and I assure you, Mr.
Pretherston, that you are altogether wrong when you think that she is
a thief. Why do you ask?” he demanded, suddenly breaking off.

“Because,” said Michael looking him steadily in the eye, “I believe
that you have deliberately set yourself to exploit the genius of a
clever child for your own profit. I believe that you, and you only,
have so distorted her viewpoint that you have destroyed her soul. I am
not sure yet,” he admitted, “but when I am--”

“When you are,” sneered the Colonel.

“On one charge or another, I shall put you into prison,” said Michael
simply, “and I shall keep you in prison until you are dead. I will set
myself the agreeable task of ensuring your end in a prison
infirmary--which, I understand, is not a very cheerful place.”

The Colonel shuddered. There was something fateful, there was
something malignant, a scarcely suppressed expression of hate in the
police officer’s tone. For a second the older man wilted and shrunk
back beneath the fierce intensity in Michael’s voice and then, like
the weakling that he was, he burst into a torrent of abuse which was
founded in fear and energised by rage.

“Damn you,” he hissed; “threaten me!… I will have your coat off your
back, you damned policeman!… You sneaking slop!… Kate’s what she is.
She will beat you and all your flat-footed pals! If she’s bad, you
can’t make her anything else. I made her, yes, I made her! She is
going to beat you, do you hear, and you will never catch her or me. I
made her! You can’t scare me…!”

His shrill voice trembled with anger, he was shaking from head to foot
and the bony fist which shivered in Michael’s face was so tightly
clenched that the knuckles stood out whitely.

“She is not the kind you can cure with psalms, Mr. Policeman! You
can’t pray over her because she has nothing to pray to, do you hear
that? You caught me. You sent me to that hell at Wandsworth and I am
going to get back on you, you and all people like you. Kate’s the
biggest thing you have handled and she is going to break you, break
you!”

“Uncle!”

He turned round to meet the white face of the girl.

“Are you mad?” she asked quietly.

He dropped his eyes before hers.

“He got me rattled,” he muttered.

Michael looked at the searcher and the woman shook her head.

With a nod he dismissed her.

“Not guilty!” he said flippantly.

He looked at the trembling man in front of him with a calm intensity.

“I shall remember a lot of what you said, Westhanger, and you will
hear from me one of these days.”

He walked over to the fireplace, for out of the tail of his eye he had
seen the burnt paper. He thrust a finger gently through the ash.

“Still warm,” he said. “I gather we were a little late.”

He scooped out a handful of the ash and carried it to the light. A
word or two of the burnt instructions was still faintly visible but
there was nothing to assist him. Nevertheless he had the whole of the
ashes carefully deposited in a box and carried away--he himself being
the last of the police to leave.

He stood in the centre of the room carefully smoothing the nap of his
felt hat and Crime Street waited for the inevitable warning. In this
they were disappointed, for Michael addressed himself solely to Kate.

“I will give you a chance, Miss Westhanger,” he said and they wondered
why he did not employ the more familiar style of address. “You are
about to commit a crime which will render every one of you liable to
long terms of penal servitude. What that crime is, I don’t know, but I
am certain it is what Stockmar would call ‘kolossal.’ It would not
matter to me if everyone of you rotted in prison for the rest of your
lives.”

“Tank you,” said Mr. Stockmar, “dat is fery goot of you!”

“When I say everyone of you,” said Michael, “I exclude Kate. She is a
young girl and if there is one of you who has any pretensions to
manhood, you will get her out of this gang before you go any farther.
If there is one of you who has a mother or a sister or any woman in
the world for whom he has the slightest respect, he will try to save
that child from herself. That is all.”

The meek Mr. Mulberry stood by the piano, his plump fingers ranged
across the keys producing a melancholy symphony.

“We will now sing Hymn 847,” he said, in his melancholy oily voice and
it was in the burst of laughter that this sally provoked, that Michael
Pretherston took his leave, followed at a respectful distance down the
stairs by Colonel Westhanger, who did not breathe freely until the
front door had clanged behind his unwelcome visitor and until the
oiled bolts shot home in their sockets.

“Where’s Kate?” he asked on his return.

“Such nonsense,” growled the elder Stockmar, “she has to the high-room
gone to make scare mit Predderston.”

Michael, at the far end of Crime Street, was taking leave of his
assistants when there cut into the quiet night a sound almost
terrifying in its unexpectedness.

It could only be described as a hollow shriek which rose and fell from
a wailing scream to a throaty sob. It lasted no more than ten seconds
and stopped as unexpectedly as it began.

“What’s that?” asked the startled sergeant.

Michael scratched his chin.

“The Colonel in hysterics,” he suggested callously. Nevertheless, the
noise puzzled him.




 CHAPTER X.
 SIR RALPH LOST A PRINCESS AND FOUND A
 POLICEMAN

Michael took the card from the uniformed constable and raised his
eye-brows in surprise.

“Sir Ralph Sapson,” he said, “what the dickens does he want?”

The constable made no reply, for he was neither thought-reader nor
inquisitive.

“Show him in,” said Michael.

Sir Ralph Sapson had never before called at Scotland House or showed
the slightest desire to improve his acquaintance with Michael and the
visit was therefore a little puzzling. Ralph bustled in, less
important than usual and probably somewhat overawed by the difficulty
he had experienced in reaching his objective.

“I daresay you wonder why I have called,” he said.

“As long as it isn’t to take me out to lunch, I don’t care,” said
Michael with a laugh. “Sit down, Ralph, and tell me all your troubles.
By the way,” he said as the thought occurred to him, “I suppose you
are not in any kind of trouble, are you?”

“That’s just it, Michael,” said the other depositing his silk hat
carefully on the ground; “I am really worried over two matters and
knowing what a good chap you are and how very nice you have been to
me--”

“Don’t be silly,” said Michael kindly, “I have not been nice to you
and I am not a good chap. Have you lost something?”

“I want to see you on two matters,” said Sir Ralph, who was given to
preambles; “they are altogether different and one, of course, is not a
police matter at all--I merely want your advice as a friend. Do you
know the Princess Bacheffski?”

“I don’t know Her Royal Highness, Her Serene Highness, or Her Nibs as
the case may be.”

“She is neither,” said the other, “she is the wife of Prince Dimitri
Bacheffski, who is a large land-owner in Poland.”

Michael shook his head.

“The world is filled with the wives of princes who are large
land-owners in Poland,” he said.

“I met her in Paris,” explained Sir Ralph.

“When I said the world,” said Michael, “I meant Paris. What has she
done, stolen your watch?”

“Please don’t be an ass,” said the other testily; “I tell you she is a
princess and enormously wealthy. She had a row with her husband and
came to London and I have seen a great deal of her. Yesterday, when I
called to take her driving, I found that she had gone away, left
without a word, paid her bill at the furnished flat she had taken and
vanished--”

“Gone back to her husband, I suppose,” said Michael; “I have heard of
such things happening. You will not hear from her until a suit is
filed for divorce and then the newspapers will be filled with grisly
details, about your directorships, your early life and your hobbies;
also the Sunday papers will publish your portrait.”

Sir Ralph wagged his head in despair.

“If I thought you would have taken this kind of view I would not have
come,” he said severely; “there is nothing of that kind in this
business. She is just a lady whom I had helped very slightly and who
had been kind enough to give me her confidence.”

“Do you want me to find her?” said the other in surprise.

“No, that isn’t it,” said Sir Ralph. “The story has a curious sequel.
This morning I was in the city and I met a friend who asked me to
lunch with him. I had a lot of business to get through and it was not
until ten to one that I was able to get away. My car was not in the
city but I thought I should have no difficulty in getting a taxi. When
I got into the street, however, it was pouring with rain and not a
taxi could be had for love or money. It was only a few steps to the
Bank station and I decided to go by tube.”

“Sensation!” said the admiring Michael.

“Well, to cut a long story short,” said Sir Ralph, “I travelled to
Oxford Circus and changed into a train which took me to the Thames
Embankment. Here comes the extraordinary part of the story,” he said
impressively; “as I came up the escalator on the one side, the
Princess passed down on the other.”

“Yes?” said Michael unimpressed.

“She was plainly, even poorly dressed,” said Ralph. “I raised my hat
to her but she stared at me as though she had never seen me before in
her life.”

“You made a mistake probably,” said the other.

“I will swear it was she,” said Sir Ralph emphatically. “There was no
mistaking her. She has a very tiny mole just below the right ear,
which I had seen--”

“Eh?”

Michael was all attention now.

“A tiny mole beneath the right ear,” he repeated, and went on, “dark
grey eyes, large, well marked eye-brows, very delicate mouth and
rounded chin?”

“That is she. Good Lord!” cried Sir Ralph in amazement. “Do you know
her?”

“Oh, yes, I know her,” said Michael grimly; “now let me hear the story
of this Princess all over again. How did you come to meet her?”

“I met her in Paris. She was introduced to me after the opera,” said
Sir Ralph patiently; “as a matter of fact, I forgot all about it until
she reminded me of the fact.”

“Ah, this is where the story begins,” said Michael; “when did she
remind you of the fact?”

Sir Ralph detailed briefly the unconventional character of the
meeting.

“I see,” said Michael, “her car had broken down providentially just
outside your house. Beautiful and most gorgeously arrayed, how could
you resist her pathetic appeal? And so that is how you met her, is it?
Oh, Kate, Kate!” he shook his head.

“Kate!” asked the bewildered magnate. “What on earth are you talking
about?”

Michael took no notice of the question.

“I must ask you to give me a more detailed account of your meetings.
Of course, you met her afterwards.”

“Yes, I met her. And she was very charming,” said Sir Ralph.

“And particularly interested in business?” asked Michael.

“No, she did not know much about business. There you are wrong. You
are trying to prove that she is an adventuress. She knew nothing
whatever about business,” said Sir Ralph triumphantly; “in fact, I had
to explain things over and over again.”

Michael leant over and patted his arm as he might have done to a
distraught child.

“What things did you explain, little man?” he asked.

Here, however, he lost the trail for, either because he could not or
would not remember, Sir Ralph was very vague at this point. Michael
sat at his desk, his head between his hands thinking rapidly.

First Flanborough, then Boltover, and now Ralph Sapson,--what was the
association?

“Have you any business dealings with Flanborough?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” asked Ralph cautiously.

“Is there any connection between your companies?”

“My dear chap, what a question to ask,” said Sir Ralph. “You know, as
well as I, that all business people, who operate on a big scale, are
associated in some way or other. I run railways and quarries and
things, and Flanborough runs ships and gold mines. I am interested in
his things and he has shares in mine.”

Being a business man he did not tell Michael of the arrangement which
he had entered into for the benefit of the unthriving port of
Seahampton, because it is the way of business men to be mysterious and
uninforming about the commonplaces of commercial intercourse.

“Well, that’s that,” said Ralph after waiting in vain for some
illuminating observation from his friend.

“And what is the other matter?”

Here Sir Ralph found it more difficult to make a beginning.

“It is rather a delicate subject, Michael,” he said, “for it touches
my personal honour.”

“Dear, dear,” said Michael sympathetically, and, if the truth be told,
a little mechanically, because his mind was occupied elsewhere with a
greater and more important problem, than with the personal honour of
the Sapsons.

“And not only that, but the honour of somebody we both admire,” said
Sir Ralph awkwardly. “The fact is, Michael, I am engaged to Moya. It
isn’t generally known, but it is so and naturally I haven’t seen as
much of her as I could have wished in this past week. Also I have been
a very busy man.”

“Naturally,” said Michael sympathetically. “You have already told me
about the Princess, you remember.”

“Well, you are a man of the world,” said Sir Ralph, going very red,
“and you will understand. Anyway, I haven’t seen as much of Moya as I
could have wished. The fact is,” he blurted out, “Moya is carrying
on!”

“Carrying on,” said the puzzled Michael, “carrying on what, or whom?”

“She meets him every day in the park and they go sketching together in
the country,” said Sir Ralph rapidly. “I haven’t spoken to Flanborough
about it, but it is all rather rotten.”

“If by ‘carrying on’ you mean that Moya is indulging in a flirtation,
it is not only very rotten, but it must have been very awkward for
you,” said Michael, “unless you could be perfectly certain of your
fiancée’s movements, you and your Princess were liable at any moment
to run against her. It was very inconsiderate of Moya. Who is her
friend?”

“A beastly artist,” said Ralph savagely, “a man who had an exhibition
of simply rotten pictures. I don’t think he has a bob in the world,
and he’s a most untidy looking person. I have seen them together with
my own eyes and he treats Moya outrageously. And Moya seems to like
it.”

“Does he beat her or anything?” asked Michael wearily.

He was growing tired of the interview and wanted to be alone to work
out the new combination which had been presented to him.

“He compromises her,” said Ralph with vehemence; “holds her hand and
calls her ‘child’ in public. It is simply disgraceful!”

“You can trust Moya,” said Michael, “she will do nothing which
jeopardises her prospects.”

“She has plenty of money of her own,” interrupted Ralph.

“It is curious how your mind runs to money. I wasn’t thinking of that.
I was thinking of her social prospects. She is a very shrewd girl. A
little romance will do her no harm, Ralph.”

“But, hang it, she’s got me!” said Ralph wrathfully.

“I said ‘romance,’” said Michael with offensive emphasis; “you’re not
‘romance,’ you’re ‘business.’”

But Sir Ralph was not satisfied.

“Perhaps if you saw her and had a few words with her,” he suggested,
“she might take a little notice.”

“I should leave her presence a mental and physical wreck,” said
Michael decidedly. “No, Ralph, you must manage your own love making
without calling in the--er, police.” (Sir Ralph winced.) “I don’t know
Moya well enough to give her advice on so delicate a matter--I only
proposed to her once and that has given me no right to urge your suit.
One question I should like to ask you before you go,” he said as Sir
Ralph gathered up his hat and gloves. “Did the Princess question you
about any bank with which you are associated?”

“I can answer you definitely, that she did not,” replied Sir Ralph.
“You have an altogether wrong impression of that lady--in my
judgment.”

“_Your_ judgment!” said Michael scornfully, as he ushered him out of
the room.




 CHAPTER XI.
 LADY MOYA WAS CURIOUSLY UNLIKE
 HERSELF

There was a greater reason for Sir Ralph’s perturbation than either
he knew or Michael guessed. Both might have been enlightened, had they
stood on Cannon Street Station one Sunday morning and seen the
distress of Mr. Alphonso Blaxton as the big minute hand of the station
clock grew nearer to nine. The guard was closing the doors of the
carriages and the collector was preparing to shut the gate, when Moya
came flying breathlessly through the barrier.

“Oh, I _am_ so sorry!” she gasped; “my watch stopped.”

Mr. Alphonso Blaxton bundled her into an empty first-class carriage
and jumped in himself as the train moved.

“There’s not another train for three hours,” he said severely.

“We could have gone to church.”

“What a mind!” said the young man in admiration. “I never thought of
church!”

“Anyway, I didn’t lose the train,” she said tartly. “Have you brought
everything?”

She looked round for the collapsible easel, the paint boxes and the
paraphernalia which usually accompanied their sketching tours.

“I have brought nothing,” he said frankly.

“But how can you sketch?”

“I am not going to sketch,” he said. “I decided that it was too nice a
day to waste.”

She looked up at him and laughed.

“You will never be an artist,” she said, suddenly severe. “To what
part of the country are we going?”

“I thought we would go to Maidstone. There are some lovely drives from
there. I’ve hired a motor car to meet us at the station and I thought
we would go through Sussex and lunch at Seahampton.”

“Not Seahampton,” she said quickly; “my father is at Seahampton
to-day.”

She might have added that Sir Ralph was also at Seahampton, but, for
reasons of her own, she kept that information to herself because Sir
Ralph was not a subject which she had found it necessary to discuss.
She looked at her companion approvingly.

“You are ever so much more presentable than I have ever seen you,
before,” she said, “and you have actually shaved! You are getting less
and less like an artist every day.”

He had a peculiarly sweet smile and a laugh which was all bubbling
youth and happiness. He laughed like a girl, indeed it nearly
approached a giggle. He laughed now as the train sped through the
suburban stations, stretched out his feet on the cushions opposite and
searched for a cigarette. She watched him with glee as he produced,
not the ornate case in which the men of her acquaintance carried the
expensive products of Egypt and Syria, but a gaudy yellow carton
containing fifty of the cheapest cigarettes that ever brought
discredit to the fair State of Virginia.

“Do you like those things?” she asked.

“These ‘yellow perils’? Rather!”

“Your taste is awfully uncultivated, isn’t it?” she bantered; “why
don’t you--” she abruptly attempted to change the subject by an
incoherent reference to a cow which was gazing in a field by the side
of the line.

“Why don’t I smoke gold-laced Machinopolos through an amber and
diamond cigarette holder?” he suggested. “Because, little Moya, I am a
poor hard-working artist who has been saving up all the week for this
bust.”

“I am so sorry,” she said; “I am awfully thoughtless. Won’t you
forgive me?”

“I won’t forgive you,” he said, “unless you keep in your mind the big
fact that I am as immensely poor, as you are immensely rich.”

“Why should I keep that in my mind?” she asked.

“Because,” he said slowly, “until you are immensely poor or I am
immensely rich we shall meet very occasionally and indulge in very
infrequent busts.”

“But what difference does money make?” she faltered.

She found it difficult to speak plainly or even clearly. There was a
lump in her throat which made her voice sound unnaturally hoarse. She
had a strange sinking feeling within her and to her amazement she
found the hand that she put up to brush back a stray curl trembling.
She had never experienced any such sensation before. Her heart was
thumping quickly; she was breathless, hot and cold by turns.

He did not answer. She was seated by his side and she could only see
his face out of the corner of her eyes, then she felt his arm slipping
about her and before she knew what had happened, his lips were pressed
to hers.

This happened in a first-class railway carriage on a non-stop train.
It had happened before to quite common people (as Moya had heard), but
she never thought it would possibly happen to her, or that so vulgar a
proceeding could be so wonderfully sweet.


Sir Ralph and Lord Flanborough had met the local authorities. There
had been a lunch and speeches in which Sir Ralph had distinguished
himself by likening the forthcoming arrival of the Austral-African
mail ship to the return of Ulysses and the landing of the Pilgrim
Fathers. A wireless message from the ship stated that she did not
expect to make harbour until nine o’clock in the evening, and this
explained the earlier festivities. That they were of a sober and
restricted nature, was explained by the fact that the day was Sunday.
Later, it was intended that the sailings of the Austral-African line
from Cape Town should be timed to bring the ships to port on the
Saturday, but there had been no time to alter the arrangements for the
_Charter Queen_ had sailed before Lord Flanborough and Sir Ralph had
definitely decided the date on which the new service should be
inaugurated.

A few press-men who had come down from London for the purpose, with
certain directors and their wives, were shown over the docks; the new
trains were admired and particularly two brand new trucks, the
peculiar character of which was exhibited by Sir Ralph to a select few
of his fellow directors. A safe on wheels was an excellent description
for one of these. Specially strengthened under-carriages, each truck
supported by two bogies, they were designed to carry a tremendous
weight.

“I am sure Lord Flanborough doesn’t mind my telling you,” said Sir
Ralph to the little party, “that this will carry twenty tons of bar
gold to-night.”

“What will be the value of that?” asked one of the interested
audience.

“£2,867,200,” said Sir Ralph impressively; “representing six months’
output of the whole of Lord Flanborough’s gold properties.”

The directors made appropriate noises to signify their astonishment.

There were visitors to Seahampton interested in this great
transportation, who were not invited to participate in the function.
One of these, a dark foreign looking man, went no nearer to the docks
than a little public house in the ancient High Street. He was visited
by a man who was pallid of face and laconic of speech.

“It’s all up!” he said under his breath.

“What is wrong?” said the other in the same tone.

“It is quite impossible to get the driver or the fireman. They are two
old servants of the company, both have money saved and would no more
think of accepting a bribe than Flanborough himself.”

“You didn’t press the matter, I hope?” asked the other quickly.

The pallid man shook his head.

“I went as far as I dared with the driver,” he said. “I found out he
had a son in the army in India and I told him that I had met the boy
and got quite friendly with the old chap--but he is a sea-green
incorruptible, Gregori.”

“I will get on the ’phone to Kate,” said the other. “I suppose we
shall have to hold up the train somewhere--I don’t want to do any
shooting if it can be avoided. Are the drivers armed?”

“It is funny you should ask that,” said the pallid man, sipping his
beer. “The old man is armed for the first time in his life. He was
full of it and quite proud of his ability to loose off a gun.”

Gregori looked very serious.

“Kate must be prepared with the alternative scheme,” he said. “Anyway,
you will join me here with Cunningham at eight o’clock. I am perfectly
prepared for almost all contingencies. Millet has given me a dozen
authorities to meet almost any developments. Did you see the train?”

“I couldn’t get near it,” said the other. “I left just before Sapson
brought his party to make their inspection.”

Sir Ralph had carried his guests from the siding to the engine shed
and shown them the brand new Atlantic locomotive which was to draw the
train to London.

“They don’t seem to have finished it yet,” said one of the guests, and
pointed to a workman busily drilling a hole in the front plate.

Ralph laughed.

“They omitted to put a bracket for the lamp. You see, I wanted three
green lights in a line for the Gold Train--it is very necessary that
it should be very accurately and easily distinguished and signalled.
By some chance only two of the brackets were in place when the engine
came from the works. It is all the more annoying, because I had
already given definite instructions upon that point, but we shall not
go wrong for a lamp,” he said humorously.

It is agreed that the three hours between two and five on a Sunday
afternoon are the three dullest in the hundred and sixty-eight which
constitute a week. After the guests had left for London Sir Ralph and
Lord Flanborough remained at the little station hotel--Ralph had
already projected a more palatial establishment to meet the increased
traffic--for it had been arranged that they should greet the _Charter
Queen_ on her arrival.

At three o’clock that afternoon Ralph burst unceremoniously into Lord
Flanborough’s private sitting room where his lordship sat dozing.

“Have you had a wire?” he said.

He held a pink form in his own hand.

“A wire! What about?” asked Lord Flanborough startled.

“Read this.”

The telegram was signed “Michael,” and read:


 “Simultaneous attempt made to burgle your strong room at
 Austral-African office and Flanborough’s safe at headquarters of
 mining corporation. Both unsuccessful. Both doors blown out by
 nitro-gelatine. Will confirm by ’phone.”


Lord Flanborough looked at the other open-mouthed.

“This is very serious,” he said.

“I have ordered a special to take us to town. We will wait till we get
the ’phone message through.”

Ten minutes after they were in communication with Michael.

“Both doors have been blown out,” he repeated, “and there are one or
two very puzzling features about the burglaries. Nobody could have
been present in either office when the explosions occurred. There was
no fire and, so far as I can see, nothing has been taken away. You had
better come up and examine things for yourself.”

“It is rather awkward,” said Sir Ralph thoughtfully as he hung up the
receiver; “my ‘special’ driver is also the driver of the gold
special.”

“It doesn’t require any great genius to drive a gold special,” snapped
Flanborough; “put another man on to work to-night’s train and let us
get up to town as soon as we can.”

The special was waiting in the station by the time they had reached
the platform. Sir Ralph stayed long enough to give a few instructions
to the superintendent and then boarded the train and was soon flying
northward.

That Sunday morning had been an interesting one for Michael. He had
been aroused by telephone at five o’clock only to learn from an
apologetic operator that the wrong number had been called. Although it
was two hours before he usually rose, he had his bath and dressed and
not waking his servants made himself some coffee.

It was a bright morning, such as so often precedes a day of rain, when
he turned into the deserted street. He had no particular aim or
destination but he was in that mood which invites exercise. He walked
down the Marylebone Road and through Portland Place without meeting
anybody save an occasional policeman and so came to Piccadilly Circus
where he bought a Sunday newspaper from an early vendor and passed
down through Waterloo Place to the Park.

The gates had only just been opened and beyond the park-keepers and a
slouching tramp he met nobody. He sat on one of the garden seats by
the side of the lake, pulled his overcoat about his legs for the
morning was chilly and began to scan the headlines in the newspaper.
There was nothing startling here, but he read the columns
conscientiously.

There was nothing in life which did not interest Michael Pretherston.
He might have taken for his motto _homo sum_; _humani nihil a me
alienum puto_. It was a saying of T.B. Smith’s that Michael could even
write a readable volume on the psychology of dog-fights. Every little
larceny, however sordid, every tiny embezzlement however paltry, every
swindle whether it was carried out by the great confidence men who
“worked London” or by the smaller fry in the half-crown line of
business gave him food for reflection and some little scrap of
information which he stored away for future use.

He was in the midst of a long account of an East End arson charge when
he heard his name called softly and looked up. He jumped to his feet.

“Why, Kate,” he said, “haven’t you got any home?”

The girl was standing a few feet from him with an odd look on her
face.

“I think it must be fate that brought me out this morning,” she said;
“sit down, Mike, and tell me all the news.”

She showed no sign of resentment of his uncavalier treatment.

“Did you follow me here, or did I follow you?”

“I tell you it was fate,” she said. “I could not sleep and I drove my
Mercedes down.”

“And how is the Princess Bacheffski?” he asked as she seated herself
by his side.

“The Princess--?”

“Bacheffski--poor old Ralph! What a thing to put over him!”

She leant forward, her chin on her palm, her elbow on her crossed
knee.

“You frighten me sometimes,” she said. “I have not been able to make
up my mind whether you are clever or whether you are lucky.”

“I am both lucky and clever,” he said. “Tell me something about your
property in the Ural Mountains,” he said.

“In Poland,” she corrected him.

“Mines, I suppose?”

“There are no mines on my property,” she said calmly; “would you be
greatly surprised if I told you I had an estate in Poland?”

“Nothing you said would surprise me, unless you told me you were going
to be a good girl and respect the law relating to property.”

He folded his paper and dropped it into a wire receptacle provided for
that purpose and she followed the operations with amusement.

“What a tidy soul you are,” she said; “fancy doing things you are told
and obeying even by-laws.”

“We all obey by-laws. You are not so original as you think. For
instance, I observe that you are wearing a little toque--is that the
word?”

“That is the word,” she agreed.

“Toques are fashionable at this present moment. You are obeying the
by-laws. You haven’t the courage to come out in a sky-blue
tam-o’shanter with an ostrich feather because it is against the
by-laws. Also I remark that your dress is very short and very full.
You are not wearing a Roman toga or a Grecian gown, or even a hobble
skirt. Why? Because it is against the by-laws. It is absurd to disobey
one set and slavishly obey another.”

“You are quaint!” was the only answer she gave.

“Will you tell me, Princess?”

“Don’t call me ‘Princess’ if you please,” she said quietly.

“Well, will you tell me, my land-owner, what was the game with Ralph?
He described you with the greatest enthusiasm by-the-way. The night
you met him you were all dolled up to kill. Did you bring down your
birds?”

“I got him,” she admitted.

She was not as bright as usual.

“You are over-doing it,” said Michael; “you are trying to do too much.
Your doctor would probably tell you that you ought not to commit more
than one burglary a month.”

She laughed softly.

“You are very quaint,” she said again.

“You don’t feel like making a full and frank confession, I suppose,”
he suggested; “you would not like to burst into tears and sob out your
young heart on my shoulder?”

“That sob stuff never did agree with me.”

He raised a disapproving hand.

“Kate,” he said, “I have noticed a disposition in you to adopt the
slang which is employed exclusively by American newspaper reporters,
vaudeville artistes and other members of the criminal classes.”

“I will tell you this,” she said sitting upright and looking him fully
in the face, “we are going to do a big thing. The most colossal, the
most daring that has ever been done and we are going to do it to-day.
You want to know why I went to Flanborough’s, why I made up to that
unspeakable person, Ralph Sapson? Those are my two victims. I will
tell you more than this,” she said after a moment’s thought, “in order
to ensure the success of my scheme I have arranged for those two
gentlemen to be out of London on this bright Sabbath day. I can’t tell
you any more, Mike.”

“You are like a serial story, you finish off at the most interesting
place,” he grumbled.

His keen grey eyes searched hers and she met them fairly.

“I wish you weren’t,” he said.

“Weren’t what?” she asked.

“In this business,” he nodded. “I wish you weren’t.”

“Perhaps I will be good one of these days,” she said, “and then you
can recommend me for a job at two-ten-per. I’d make an ideal secretary
for you, Mike. I know all the underworld by name. You could cut out
your finger print department and leave it to Kate. What would happen,
do you think,” she went on, “if I went to a Salvation Army officer and
said, ‘I have been very wicked but now I am going to be good. Will you
please assist me. I have no money but I’ve a good heart--’ Mike, he
would put me to chopping wood for a week and then he would find me a
place as under-secretary to a housemaid in a strictly religious family
which gave me two evenings and one Sunday a month. You see, Mike, even
at goodliness one has to start at the bottom of the ladder; you can’t
break in on the roof. I hate good people.”

Michael nodded.

“I hate good people, too,” he said, “if they advertise their goodness,
but goodness is not hardness or sourness, it is just--goodness. For
example,” he went on, “I am good.”

“And I am wicked,” she said and appealed with outstretched hands to a
startled duck who had waddled to the railings, “choose between us!”

He laughed but was instantly serious again.

“Your confession puts me in a dilemma. As you are a lady I cannot
believe you are lying, as you are a criminal I dare not take your
word. I am sufficiently acquainted with your methods to know that your
presence is not essential to the committal of a crime, so I can gain
nothing by pulling you in.”

“Poor Mike,” she said mockingly.

“Poor Kate,” he said and the girl detected the note of sincerity in
his voice.

“Kate, you can’t get away with it,” he said; “you have got to fall
sooner or later. Think what it means. Think of that horrible drab life
in Aylesbury, where every minute is an hour and every hour an
eternity; think of the menial things they will set you to do,
scrubbing floors, washing shirts and sewing sacks. Think, how you will
be marshalled to church every Sunday and think how you will be stared
at and jeered at by friends of the Home Secretary who come to visit
the jail.”

“When that happens I shall be dead,” she said. “I believe you mean
kindly, Michael Pretherston, and I will tell you this, that you nor
any other human being can make me think or feel any different to what
I think and feel. There is no power on earth that can tear out the
foundations on which my life is built. I have read everything, all the
philosophies, Christian and pagan, and all the arguments from the
feeble evangelism of the tract writer, to the blatant nonsense of the
professional atheist, and I am just where I began. You can’t touch me
by reason or by devotion, by faith or by prayers. I am all
stone--here,” she laid her white hand upon her bosom and he saw the
mocking laughter in her eyes. “Poor Michael!” she said. “Why, if
devotion could change me, think of the chances I have had! I could
have taken Ralph Sapson and made of him a snake ring for my little
finger. I nearly had Flanborough on the point of proposing to me. He
is rather sentimental, did you know that?”

“All people with indigestion are sentimental between paroxysms,” said
Michael sagely.

He gave his hand to the girl though it was unnecessary and helped her
to her feet and they walked out of the park together. Her little
Mercedes was unattended and he cranked it up for her.

“Good-bye, Michael,” she said.

“Au revoir,” said Michael, “we shall meet at the sessions.”


At two o’clock that afternoon a constable on duty in Moorgate Street
heard the first of the two explosions which agitated police circles
that day. Michael was on the spot half-an-hour later and his brief
examination led to the view which he afterwards communicated to Ralph.
It was then he discovered that what the girl had told him was true and
that both Lord Flanborough and Sir Ralph Sapson were out of town.
Curiously enough, though he had been impressed at the time, he had
dismissed the girl’s statement as a piece of bravado on a par with the
badinage in which she usually indulged. He had cursed his folly in
ignoring the warning, all the way from Baker Street to the city and it
was a great relief to discover what was evident, that no attempt had
been made to rifle either the safe in Bartholomew Close or the strong
room in Moorgate Street. The outrages were similar in character; in
both cases the steel doors had been burst open by the application of
an infernal machine. In neither case had the thieves benefited by
their crime. The constable who heard the first explosion said he had
been admitted by the caretaker of the building within three minutes
but in that time had managed to send another policeman, who came up,
to guard the back of the premises. Nobody had either entered or left
in that period.

The explosion in Bartholomew Close had blown a sky-light into the
street. The safe was in a concrete cellar in which a light had been
burning day and night and although this had been extinguished by the
force of the explosion, it was possible for the constable who was
outside to see the safe and obtain a fairly comprehensive view of the
chamber. He, too, had asserted that nobody had entered the room or
left the building after the explosion.

“It is very curious,” said Michael.

T.B. Smith had come at his urgent request and the chief was as puzzled
as his subordinate.

“Did Flanborough say he would come up?”

“He is on his way now,” replied Michael.

“Do you know what I think?” said T.B. after a moment’s thought. “I
think that this is a blind. That there was never any intention of
rifling either the strong room or the safe. There is a big move on
somewhere, Mike, call in all the reserves.”

This was an order which Michael heard with pleasure, for he had
already anticipated these instructions, and detectives were at that
moment flocking to Scotland Yard from every point of the compass.




 CHAPTER XII.
 A MOTOR CAR WAS MET BY A SPECIAL
 TRAIN

Whatever distress animated the bosoms of humanity on that fateful
Sunday afternoon and evening there were two people riotously and
supremely happy, though the car which Alphonso Blaxton drove was an
old one and badly sprung and though every hill it met reduced the two
young adventurers to breathless apprehension for the car had a trick
of stopping with its goal in sight and refusing to budge any farther.

They were happy though no word of love had been spoken between them
from the moment she had drawn from his arms. And their happiness was
such that even a faulty cylinder and a choked carburettor were matters
of little moment.

They had eaten a very bad luncheon in Maidstone without noticing the
fact. They had encountered perils innumerable (the steering gear had
gone wrong and temporary repairs had to be effected without the aid of
a tool chest) and were yet cheerful. They had been bumped and shaken
and jarred but they had had compensation. They had seen the uprising
ridges of the Kentish Rag green and white and starred with flowers.
They had looked through a golden haze across mysterious valleys. They
had heard the songs of birds and had tasted the joys which come only
to those who love youth and young things.

If the clouds were banking up in the west and an occasional puff of
cold wind came to remind them of May’s treachery they, for their part,
saw no cloud in their sky, felt no chill winds in their rosy world.

They reached the top of a particularly trying hill and Alphonso
stopped the car and got down. Before them the road dipped straightly
down to a level crossing. A mile beyond the railway there was a little
hill which promised no distress of mind.

“Wouldn’t this be a lovely place to paint!” said the girl.

“Don’t let’s talk about art,” he begged with a wry face, “let us talk
of beautiful things--such as tea and shrimps.”

She shrieked with merriment at his feeble jest.

“I wonder what is going to happen,” said the girl becoming grave.

“Happen, how, where?” he asked in surprise.

“About us,” she said.

He took her two hands in his.

“I am going to be tremendously rich.”

“Did I tell you I was engaged?” she asked timidly after a long
silence.

It was nothing less than an act of heroism for her to ask this
question.

“I have a dim idea you said something about it a long time ago,” he
said.

“Did I really?” she asked relieved. “I had a feeling--”

“If you didn’t tell me I saw your ring,” he said and she went red
because she had removed that ring after their second meeting and had
never worn it again.

“I think I have told you that I had £300 a year,” he went on; “now
that we are confessing our handicaps I might as well own up to mine.”

“You told me you were absolutely penniless,” she said severely. “£300
a year is a fortune.”

“£300 a year is only a fortune to the immensely rich, to the poor it
is worse than poverty.”

“You can do a lot with £300 a year,” she said thoughtfully, “and what
shall I do with my money? I can’t throw it away.”

“You will do nothing with it,” he said firmly; “when my £300 a year
has become £10,000 a year we can do things.”

She laughed happily, twisting his watch guard round her finger.

“I cannot understand myself,” she said. “I have been such a selfish
mercenary pig. I didn’t know there was any happiness in the world.”

For the second time that day he slipped his arm around her, raised her
face to his and kissed her.

“Tea,” he said practically, started the engine and climbed into the
driver’s seat, stretching out his hand to assist her to his side.

The car started with a jerk but ran smoothly down the hill.

“It is rather lucky that gate is open,” he said as the machine
gathered speed. “It would be rather comic if we couldn’t stop the
car.”

A piercing shriek of an engine brought his head round.

“That must be another line,” he said uneasily and put his hand on the
brake; “anyway, the gate is open,” he said relieved.

Again came the frenzied scream of the engine and he heard the thunder
of its wheels. He was fifty yards from the crossing when he saw the
gates begin to move. He pressed on the foot brake without producing
any diminution of speed, gripped the hand brake, pulled it back until
he felt the snap of the rotten handle as it broke. There was nothing
for it but to take a risk. He pushed over the accelerator and the car
leaped forward.…

Car and gate and train seemed to reach the spot simultaneously.

The girl found herself flung headlong into a ditch, fortunately
landing in the soft mud at the bottom. Alphonso’s fall was broken by
the quick-set hedge which ripped his clothes to ribbons and scarred
his face and hands. He picked himself up and went in search of the
girl and found her as she was climbing unsteadily on to the permanent
way.

The train had pulled up with a jerk amidst a chaos of smashed gate and
mangled motor-car. Fortunately, it was slowing at the closed gate at
the time the collision occurred, otherwise these two young people
presenting a fantastic appearance might have ended their promising
careers.

“Are you hurt?” were the first words she asked.

His face was scratched and his clothes were torn but though he had by
far the worse experience his was not the woe-begone appearance which
the girl presented. She was caked with mud, a dab of mud was on her
cheek, her hat was gone and her long brown hair was flying in all
directions.

The passengers of the “special” were perhaps more perturbed than its
victims.

“It is an accident. We have run into a motor-car,” reported the
conductor.

“Is anybody killed?” asked Sir Ralph in alarm.

“No, sir, a young man and a young woman who are more frightened than
hurt.”

“Let us go and look at them,” said Lord Flanborough and stepped down
to the permanent way.

It is a truism that there is no such thing as a paternal instinct and
he would have indeed been a wise father who recognized his child in
such disarray.

He was speechless for a moment.

“Moya,” he gasped hollowly. “Moya! Great Heavens! What were you doing
here?”

He stared round at the scarecrow by her side and at sight of the young
man, Sir Ralph, who had been struck dumb by the apparition, found his
voice.

“I see, I see,” he said bitterly.

“You have the advantage of me,” said the young man, “for I have got a
little piece of Hampshire in my eye.”

The girl swung round to him fumbling for her handkerchief.

“It is nothing, dear,” said the young man, blissfully unconscious of
the identity of the well-fed gentleman who was regarding him so
sternly.

“But, darling, you might be blinded,” pleaded the girl; “please let
me.”

“Moya,” said Lord Flanborough in a pained tone, “may I ask what is the
meaning of this?”

“Oh, I want you to meet Mr. Blaxton,” said the girl going red and
white. “Fonso, this is papa.”

“I should be glad to see you,” said Fonso, groping wildly on the blind
side of him.

“‘Fonso’?” repeated the enraged Flanborough, “and who, may I ask, is
Fonso?”

She fastened back her unruly hair and rubbed her mud-stained cheek
with her handkerchief before she replied.

“I suppose it will come as a shock to you and a greater shock to Sir
Ralph, but Fonso and I are going to be married,” she said.

Alphonso Blaxton blinked at her.

“I haven’t asked you yet,” he said.

“That doesn’t matter,” she replied calmly, “you do want me, don’t
you?” And before her horrified father and her promised husband,
Alphonso took her in his arms and hugged her.

It was an awkward journey back to town. Sir Ralph sat by himself and
rejected all Lord Flanborough’s attempts to discuss the matter. He was
hurt in his pride and, if the truth be told, hurt in his pocket
because an alliance with the family meant a considerable addition to
his fortune.

It is a mistake to believe that rich people do not care for money or
that a man with two millions is wholly indifferent as to whether he
has two or three. Indeed, the reverse is the case. The man who thinks
in thousands is indifferent to a figure or two, the man who counts his
fortune in shillings seldom knows the number of shillings he has. Only
your two-millionaire realizes the full value of money. The thrift of
the millionaire might well serve as an example to the improvident
poor.

“I shall speak to Moya when we get home,” said Lord Flanborough. “I
have never been so distressed at anything so much in my life. It is
disgraceful, Ralph.”

But Ralph did not encourage sympathy.

As a matter of fact, his lordship spoke to the girl before the special
ran into London Street Station. It required some courage on his part,
for it meant intruding upon the couple in the little stateroom which
ordinarily served as a sleeping apartment when Sir Ralph’s private
coach carried him on night journeys.

He found them a picture of decorum sitting rigidly bolt upright, one
on either side of the carriage, looking out of the window with fine
unconcern; but this attitude was probably due to the fact that the
door of the compartment made a very loud rattling noise when the
handle was turned.

“I want to speak to you alone, Moya.”

“Run away, Fonso,” said the girl with a gaiety out of harmony with her
rigidity of attitude.

Alphonso stepped out of the saloon and closed the sliding door behind
him.

“Now, Moya,” said his lordship with a badly simulated air of
friendliness, “perhaps you will explain?”

“Why I am going to marry Fonso?” she asked, “because I love him. Why
do you think that I should be marrying him?”

“This sounds very much like Michael. It is the way he would talk,”
said Lord Flanborough bitterly. “This shows the danger of letting your
children associate with irregular people. You know very well that you
are engaged to Sir Ralph.”

“I know he gave me a ring and we agreed to get married,” she said,
“but I have changed my mind.”

“But you _can’t_ change your mind,” stormed her father; “it is
impossible that my daughter should marry a wretched artist.”

“He’s not wretched and he is not an artist,” said the girl; “we have
both agreed that he is not an artist and he is going to find something
useful to do.”

“If you marry this man,” he pointed a trembling finger at her, “I will
not receive you as my daughter.”

“I don’t want to be received at all. You married whom you wanted to
marry, didn’t you?”

“I married,” said Lord Flanborough virtuously, “in accordance with the
wishes of my parents.”

“Do you mean to say,” said the girl incredulously, “that you had no
voice in it? I cannot imagine it. My dear daddy, it is preposterous to
suggest that a person of your strong character accepted the wife that
somebody else found for him!”

“Well, I admit,” said her father somewhat mollified, “that I had a say
in the matter but I had the sense to choose the right person.”

“That is just what I am doing,” she cried in triumph, “choosing the
right person! And, Daddy, if you are rude to Fonso, I shall be very
rude to Ralph.”

“The man of course is a fortune hunter,” said Lord Flanborough
savagely. “He knows that you have money in your own right and that I
cannot save you from the consequences of your folly.”

“What is Ralph?” she asked tartly.

“Sir Ralph is a very rich man,” said her father with emphasis.

“What does he get with me?” she asked again.

This was the question which Lord Flanborough did not find it
convenient to answer. He knew that marriage with his daughter would
bring to Sir Ralph a much greater fortune than she possessed in her
own right.

“Go and ask your disinterested friend if he will take me without a
_dot_, and if I were to give my own income to found a hospital for
women.”

“I am sure Sir Ralph would answer in the affirmative,” replied Lord
Flanborough.

“Ask him,” she challenged.

He passed out of the compartment scowling at the offending Fonso and
made his way to Sir Ralph. He had not intended putting the question,
but some chance remark of the baronet’s just before the train reached
London gave him an opportunity of introducing the subject.

“Would you care to marry Moya without the settlement we agreed,
Ralph?”

“What on earth do you mean?” asked Sir Ralph, astonished out of his
sulks. Money was a subject which invariably aroused him from the
deepest lethargy.

“I mean,” said his future father-in-law, “suppose I say ‘You love Moya
and all that sort of thing. You are a very rich man, you can afford to
keep her, take her without a settlement,’ what would you answer?”

“Certainly not!” said Sir Ralph furiously, “certainly not! I don’t
understand this business at all, Flanborough, I really don’t
understand it. We made an arrangement and now, it seems, you want to
back out of it. What is the objection to the settlement?”

“I have no objection at all,” admitted Lord Flanborough uncomfortably,
“but Moya thinks that money is a big factor in your choice of her.”

“Of course it is,” said Sir Ralph with brutal directness. “I was very
fond of Moya, but the settlement was a big consideration.”

“I see,” said Lord Flanborough incoherently, “Moya’s idea of course.…”

Michael met them at the station and noticed the constraint of the
party. He understood the reason when a bedraggled Moya and a young
man, whose face was criss-crossed with scratches and whose clothes
were in threads, made their appearance. There was no explanation
possible and Michael wisely asked for none. He handed over Lord
Flanborough and his friend to the care of the city detective officer
in charge of the case and when they had gone he turned to Moya.

“Have you two people been fighting?” he asked.

“Father’s horribly angry with me,” she said, “because I am going to
marry Fonso.”

He stared at her in amazement.

“Do you mean to tell me that you are not going to marry Ralph?”

“I am not,” she said resolutely.

“And this is Fonso?”

The girl nodded.

Michael threw back his head and filled the station with laughter.

“You don’t know Fonso, do you?” she said. “He’s horribly poor. Aren’t
you, dear?”

“Horribly,” admitted the young man but did not seem unhappy.

“And you are going to marry him?” said Michael.

“Of course I am going to marry him,” said the girl wrathfully. “I
didn’t expect that you would disapprove.”

“Disapprove?” he chuckled and catching her up in his strong arms he
kissed her.

“We will all go along and have some grub,” he said; “dash home and
make yourself respectable, Moya. I see your father has left his car
for you. Meet me at Sebo’s in an hour’s time.”




 CHAPTER XIII.
 THE CHRONOLOGY OF A GREAT THEFT

It is necessary to tell the story of what was undoubtedly one of the
strangest and most audacious crimes recorded in the annals of crime
with greater detail and at greater length than is ordinarily
necessary. Le Flavier of the French police, who is surely the greatest
living authority on the subject of modern crime, has likened Kate
Westhanger’s masterpiece (he does not refer to her, by the way) to the
first of the Napoleonic campaigns against Italy and has published an
elaborate treatise showing the points of resemblance which are not so
far fetched as some of the critics, in their hasty review of this
work, are justified in saying.

Kirschner, a little quoted authority, but nevertheless a brilliant and
talented philocriminologist, has said that it would be humanly
possible to reduplicate such a crime and that at any rate it would be
wholly impossible to excel the ingenuity which planned the strategics
of the issue.

At 8:30 on the night of May 14th the _Charter Queen_, eight thousand
tons, commander T. Brown, came to her moorings in E-basin, No. 3 Quay
of the Seahampton Docks. She carried a hundred-and-twenty third class
passengers, seventy-four second class and fifty-nine first class
passengers, a general cargo and in her strong-room forty-four
thousand, eight hundred pounds of bar gold. They were made up of
four-hundred and forty-eight hundred-pound ingots, bearing the stamp
of the Central Rand Gold Extraction Company.

The passengers were landed and despatched by special trains to London,
preceded by another train carrying the mails. The mail train left at
9:27, the passenger at 9:42. By 10:17 the gold ingots had been landed,
checked and conveyed to a waiting train where they were checked again
under the superintendence of Inspector K. Morris of the Dock police.
At 10:22 the engine backed into the train and was coupled up and the
superintendent of the line being unavoidably absent (he was discovered
locked in an empty house the next morning), the driver received his
“right away” from Assistant-Inspector Thomas Massey, who had arrived
that day from London and who spoke to the driver and fireman before
the train pulled out.

“You know this road, I suppose?” he said.

“Yes, sir,” replied the driver. “I have been down here several times.”

The inspector was not wholly satisfied. In the first place, he
resented seeing “foreign drivers” on his road, but the two men had
arrived from London bearing a letter from Sir Ralph to the
superintendent of the road, a letter which afterwards proved to be a
forgery. The letter instructed the superintendent to give the men
charge of the engine, offering, as a reason, their reliability and the
fact that they were two of the best drivers at the North Central,
which railway was under the control of Sir Ralph Sapson.

The train pulled out and from this onward its adventures began.

From the moment it left Seahampton Town station, the train was never
out of sight for longer than ten minutes. Every signal box along the
line had received special instructions to particularly note its
passing and in addition to the conventional record which is kept of
every train, to notify specially not only to the next box, but to
London the hour of its dispatch. The road may be briefly described.

From Seahampton it ran straight to the market town of Sevilley and
then over the S-shape road across to Tolbridge. It may be remarked in
passing that between Sevilley and the Tolbridge was the level crossing
at which Moya had met with her accident. Between Tolbridge and Pinham
the road pushed straight through uneven ground passing successively
under Tolbridge Hill, Beckham Beacon and Pinham Heights, under each of
which it passed through tunnels, the tunnels being connected nearly
all the way by deep cuttings.

It was a rainy night for the drizzle, which set in at six in the
evening, had continued until there was a veritable deluge. Sevilley
(East) signalbox reported the gold train as having passed at 11:07,
and this fact was supported by the times given by six signalmen
between Tolbridge and Sevilley. The train slowed at Tolbridge and
entered Tolbridge tunnel. Between Beckham tunnel and Tolbridge tunnel
is a signalbox which reported the Special at 11:32. The signalbox was
situated close to the line and rather near the ground and the
signalman states that he not only saw the train pass him in the
pelting rain, but that he saw the tail lights disappear into Beckham
tunnel which is built on a curve.

The times are interesting. At 11:32 the train entered Beckham tunnel.
At 11:42 the signalman on the northern side of Pinham tunnel reported
the train as having passed. It was raining but owing to the unusual
character of this new service and his natural curiosity to see a
£3,000,000 “special” he had his window open and saw the three green
lights flash past and the red tail lights disappearing in the
distance. Between Beckham signalbox and Pinham signalbox the distance
is five miles, but the theory is that at this point the train slowed
to thirty miles an hour, which accounted for the unusual length of
time it took to traverse this short distance.

At Maidmore, Stanborn, Quexley Paddocks and Catford Bridge, on the
outskirts of London, the train was reported and timed. The next
station to Catford Bridge is Balham Hill and the signalman at Balham
Hill stated at the subsequent enquiry that he was given and accepted
the gold special at 11:53 and lowered the “distant off” and the “home”
signals, at the same time warning the next northern station, which was
Kennington Junction that he had accepted the “:46 up” which was the
official designation of the special.

He waited for ten minutes and saw no sign of the train, whereupon he
called Quexley Paddocks and asked if there had not been a mistake
since the run was not more than seven minutes. Quexley Paddocks
replied that the train had passed through, going at fifty miles an
hour at the moment she had been signalled.

No further news was received and the Catford Bridge signalman,
becoming alarmed, reported to the station-master on duty, who sent two
plate-layers along the line. They walked as far as Quexley Paddocks
but saw no sign of a train. The gold special had disappeared as though
the earth had opened and received it.

All these times had been verified. Every signalman and station-master
was interrogated without in any way shaking the veracity of the
witnesses. When the plate-layers reached Quexley Paddocks and reported
the disappearance of the train, London was informed. Between Quexley
Paddocks and Catford Bridge the line runs through market gardens and
what is very unusual so close to London, it passes over a level
crossing, the gates of which are electrically controlled from Quexley
Paddocks signalbox.

And here is the most remarkable of the statements that were made. The
signalman, Henry George Wallis, states that after the gold special had
passed and he had brought his signals back to danger, he had noticed a
strange disturbance on the dial of the electrical apparatus by which
the gates were opened or closed and it was discovered the next morning
when he endeavoured to open the gates to allow an army traction engine
to pass that the gates refused to work. That happening, however, was
very thoroughly investigated on the following day.

Michael had dined and supped with Moya and Fonso Blaxton and they had
had a riotous and wholly joyous evening. He had returned to his flat
at half past eleven, calling en route at the Yard, for he was still
very uneasy about Kate’s threat and he was anxious also to find out if
there had been any discovery made in connection with the outrage of
the morning. The case was not in his hands since the crime had been
committed within the jurisdiction of the city police and the city
Criminal Investigation Department had control of the investigations.

T.B. was at the office and had no news to give. Michael went home and
to bed. He was aroused at half past twelve by telephone. It was the
voice of T.B. Smith.

“They’ve done it, Mike. Come down at once.”

“What have they done?” asked Michael with a sinking heart.

“They’ve pinched the blooming train!” said T.B. vulgarly.

A special train had been made up for the police and Michael was on the
platform of Catford Bridge station by half past one, and was reading
the reports which had been transmitted by the various signalmen. To
add to the mystery, a mineral train from Seahampton which had followed
the gold special at half an hour’s interval, but at a slower pace, had
come straight through without noticing anything unusual. It had
crossed the down empty at Tolbridge and that was the only other train
that was met until it reached the suburbs of London where the night
traffic was more general. Sir Ralph was one of the party that went
down to Catford Bridge and a very distressed and worried man he was.

“I asked that fellow Flanborough to come,” he wailed, “and what do you
think the selfish beast said? He said it was my responsibility. Can
you imagine anything more brutal?”

“Is the gold insured?”

Sir Ralph shook his head.

“Not wholly. It was fully insured as far as Seahampton,” he said
grimly. “After that the responsibility is partly mine and partly
Flanborough’s and partly the underwriters’. Isn’t it too awful for
words?”

T.B. came into the waiting room at that moment, clad in oilskins and
sou’wester.

“You had better take complete charge of this case, Mike,” he said.
“Sir Ralph will give you any assistance, I’m sure.”

“Can I have a break-down train?”

“I can bring one down here in twenty minutes,” said Sir Ralph.

“Is it equipped with searchlights?”

Sir Ralph consulted an official.

“We’ve naphtha flares. Will they do?”

“They will do,” said Michael; “put a truck in front of the engine and
arrange the flares so that they light up the line.”

He spent the night in an open truck, slowly passing down the line
searching for some clue which would afford a solution to the mystery.
Particularly thorough was his search of the three tunnels, but they
yielded nothing, and he reached Seahampton as the dawn was breaking
without having made any discovery which would help him.

He went back to town by the break-down train, sleeping in the guard’s
caboose, and reached Quexley in time to receive from the retiring
signalman the story of his eccentric gates.

Michael was interested and with the man for a guide he followed the
course of the controlling wire which passed through a length of iron
piping from the signal box to the gate.

“The electrician tells me that the wire has been cut somewhere,” said
the man. “He has tried his instrument on it.”

“The wire cannot be cut if it is inside the iron casing,” said
Michael.

“It is either cut or fused,” said the man.

The detective walked very slowly, pausing now and again to examine the
black painted pipe. Presently he stopped. He had detected something
and stooped to examine the pipe more closely. It was clear that it had
been freshly painted. He passed his hand round it slowly and suddenly
he felt an unexpected softness.

“This isn’t iron,” he said.

He took out his pocket-knife and scraped. A little hole had been burnt
into the steel by a portable blow-pipe and the wires inside had been
fused together by the heat.

“That explains it,” said Michael. “What effect would this have on the
gates?” he asked.

“Well, you couldn’t open them from the box,” said the man.

“Could you open them by hand?”

“Yes, sir. We’ve got a chap on duty now who does nothing but open and
shut them,” said the man. “While the current is on, they are locked.
They work like ordinary gates, except you have to be very careful when
you lock them.”

Michael waited until a train had passed and then experimented.

The gates opened and closed easily enough.

“What do you mean when you tell me that you have to be careful with
the catch?”

“Well, ordinarily, when you use it without the current,” said the man,
“the catch falls and cannot be lifted except by electric control.”

Michael made an inspection of the “catch.” It was a steel block
working on a pivot and obviously operated magnetically.

“It doesn’t go up or down, now,” said Michael after testing it.

“It looks to me,” said the man, “as though it has been forced up.”

There was no doubt that what he said was true for the detective saw
the unmistakable mark of a jemmy on the wooden casing about the lock.

But why on earth did they want to open the gate? If the train had been
rifled on this stretch of line the need for an open gate would have
been easy to explain. The train would have been stopped here and,
supposing they could force the locks of the safe, the thieves could
have loaded their gold and got away--but no train had been found.

Michael passed through the turnstile and examined the road for
something to guide him to a solution.

It had been raining throughout the night and more than one traction
engine had passed, as was evident from the wheel marks. He explored
the road for a hundred yards and found nothing. Then he tried the
other gate and found that there the catch had also been forced. The
first twenty yards of the road was soft and the wheel tracks were
indistinguishable. At the end of this patch, however, the going was
harder, the crown of the road had drained off the rain and even the
traction engine had left no great impression.

Michael walked a pace or two, then stopped and whistled, and well
might he whistle, for there plain to be seen and not to be confused
with any other track was the deep and narrow furrow and the broad
impression which could have only been made by railway wheels!

He followed the track for another hundred yards where it struck the
main road and a tram line and from there every trace disappeared.

Very weary and dishevelled he presented himself to T.B. Smith and made
his report.

“You don’t seriously suggest that they took a railway train off the
line and put it on the road, do you?” asked T.B. in wonder. “It’s
impossible!”

“Of course it’s impossible,” said Michael irritably; “the whole thing
is impossible. You can’t steal a railway train--but they’ve done it!”

He found with the assistant commissioner Sir Ralph whose agitation was
pathetic.

“It’s pretty rough on me, old man,” said the baronet with that
friendliness which the superior person invariably adopts in a moment
of his misfortune. “I have lost a wife and a railway train in
twenty-four hours. What the dickens are you laughing at?”

“Nothing,” said Michael recovering his gravity. “It was almost worth
everything to see your face!”




 CHAPTER XIV.
 THE REMARKABLE TRAIN THAT DID
 STRANGE TRICKS

By six o’clock that evening Michael Pretherston was back again at
his work, passing down from station to station on a pilot engine,
questioning and cross-examining the officials concerned. T.B. Smith
picked him up at Maidmore going down by the ordinary train.

“Have you found anything?”

“I have a theory,” said Michael. “I’d like you to listen to what the
station-master here has to say.”

“Have you questioned him?”

“Not yet,” said Michael, “but I have an idea he will say exactly what
the man at Stanborn said.”

The inspector who had been on night duty at the time the train passed
proved to be a very intelligent and observant man. He told the same
story, that the rain was falling very heavily and that he had seen the
distant lights of the gold special which had flown through the dark
station at incredible pace.

“Is it not a fact,” said Michael, “that it passed you before you
realized it was gone?”

The man was surprised.

“That is so, sir. It seemed as though I had hardly seen the headlights
come into the station before I saw the tail-lights going out.”

“Did it whistle as it passed through?”

“Yes, sir,” said the man, “a deafening whistle. I remarked to my
porter at the time that it must be trying a new kind of siren. It made
the most fiendish row and you could hear nothing else.”

“It whistled through all the stations where there was somebody on
duty,” said Michael turning to T.B. Smith. “It is a curious fact that
at Stanborn Halt and Merchley which are closed for the night they made
no noise at all. Was the station in darkness?” he said, turning to the
inspector.

“Practically so, sir,” said the man; “there was one light on the down
platform where I was standing, but it was a very dark night and it was
impossible to distinguish anything on the other platform. All that we
saw was the flash of lights and the train had passed before one had
realized that it had gone.”

The inspector at Pinham Heights station had a similar story to tell.

But the Tolbridge junction signalman and the Tolbridge assistant
station-master did not report any whistle or any unusual happening.

T.B. and Michael spent the night at Tolbridge and resumed their
journey at daybreak. It was a slow and laborious business. Once
between Pinham and Beckham Beacon, Michael had stopped the train and
switched it on to a sidetrack.

“Why is there a sidetrack here?” he asked.

The railway official who accompanied him and who by this time was very
weary of the whole business, explained vaguely that it was partly to
provide a very necessary relief for any congestion on this section,
and partly to connect up a “chalk pit or something” which now,
however, was no longer used.

Michael walked along the rusted rails for a quarter of a mile. They
led toward a low line of hills about three miles away. Rank vegetation
grew between the sleepers, for it had been many years since its
private owners had taken the trouble to put this little branch line in
working order.

The road ended abruptly with a big buffer made of sleepers and behind
this the rail drooped limply over a great hole as though there had
been a subsidence of the earth.

Michael turned back and joined T.B.

“It could not have passed over here. The rail is rusty and runs into a
large-sized hole at the other end,” said Michael in despair. “Well, go
on, driver.”

It was a day of enquiries which led nowhere and Michael returned that
night to town, weary and sick at heart. Nevertheless, he had the dim
beginnings of a theory which, however, he refused to communicate to
his chief.

“It is rather fantastic,” he excused himself, “but then, the whole
thing is fantastic. It is obviously impossible to steal a railway
train and carry it through the streets of London without somebody
being attracted by the novelty of the spectacle.”

“Will you see Sir Ralph?” asked T.B. “He has been waiting here for an
hour to meet you.”

“Hasn’t he got a home?” asked Michael irritably.

He saw the distracted baronet but could offer him little hope.

“It is impossible they can get away with it,” said Sir Ralph; “my
expert tells me that it will take them two days to break through the
steel walls whatever they use.”

A thought struck Michael.

“Have you a large scale map of your southern railway system?” he
asked.

“I will have it sent round to you to-night,” said the baronet. “What
chance do you think there is?” he asked anxiously.

“I think a very poor chance,” said Michael frankly; “you see, Kate
doesn’t take any risk.”

“Kate?” said the baronet.

“You call her the ‘Princess Bacheffski.’ Flanborough calls her ‘Miss
Tenby.’ As ‘Miss Tenby’ she secured Flanborough’s code and through
some of her agents in the telegraph office learned about the shipment.
As ‘Princess Bacheffski’ she wheedled the whole of your wonderful
scheme for bringing gold from Seahampton and probably discovered the
nature of the steel you use.”

“Good heavens!”

Sir Ralph sank into a chair and turned pale.

“You don’t mean to tell me--?”

“That is what I mean to tell you. Didn’t you realize that the whole
thing was a put up job? Why should the car of the Princess break down
at your front door?”

“But she was so beautifully dressed.”

“Why shouldn’t she be beautifully dressed?” asked Michael mercilessly;
“she probably carried twenty thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds.
Wasn’t it worth it? Didn’t you give her information which she could
not have bought for the money?”

“Then you mean to say that she is a common swindler?”

“She is a very _un_common swindler,” said Michael. “There’s only one
thing that puzzles me,” he said, half to himself; “what did she want
of Reggie?”

Mr. Reginald Boltover was interrupted in the delicate business of
dressing for dinner by a peremptory demand that an officer of Scotland
Yard should be admitted. He was relieved to discover that it was
nothing more formidable than Michael.

“I have come to ask you about your friend Vera.”

Mr. Boltover winced.

“My dear fellow,” he said, “don’t mention that lady’s name. It is a
sore subject. Don’t mention her, dear old fellow, don’t.”

“Don’t be an ass,” said Michael good-humouredly; “you must give me an
idea of the questions which she asked you. What did she talk about?”

But Mr. Boltover’s mind was a blank.

It was his boast that he did not know there was such a thing as
yesterday.

“Did she ask you to give her any information about things you are
interested in?”

“My dear fellow,” said Reggie Boltover, shaking his head, “if she did
I have forgotten it. All I know is that she very seriously compromised
me. I have not been to Sebo’s since.”

“As you are such a perfectly hopeless person,” said Michael, “will you
give me a note to your secretary or your factotum or whatever human
substitute for mentality you possess, instructing him to give me a
full list of your properties?”

“With the greatest pleasure in life, with every happiness,” said
Reggie earnestly, “with the greatest alacrity!”

Armed with this, Michael called the next morning at the office of one
who was frequently referred to by journalists as a “merchant prince,”
and when he came out into Threadneedle Street his step was lighter and
his eye was brighter than it had been for weeks.

“Now, Kate,” he said between his teeth, “this is where you finish!”

He could have had all the men he wanted but he preferred making his
investigation without assistance. He went home and changed into a
knickerbocker suit, took his oldest overcoat, a walking stick and a
Browning pistol with two spare magazines. He did not ask for a special
engine, but travelled to Pinham Heights station by ordinary train. He
showed his authority to the station-master who, however, recognized
him.

“I don’t want anybody to know that I am down here,” he said, “and I
must rely upon your discretion to see that my wishes in this respect
are carried out. Am I likely to meet any plate-layers or people on the
line between here and Tolbridge?”

“You will meet nobody until you come to Tolbridge box, but be very
careful,” warned the station-master, “the down express goes through
the tunnel in ten minutes. I should advise you not to leave until that
has passed.”

This advice Michael thought it expedient to accept and not until the
rocking train had shrieked through the station and the receding red
lamps were disappearing in the darkness of the tunnel did he walk down
the sloping platform into the six-foot way and pass into the smoking
tunnel.

He could have reached his destination by the high road which runs from
Pinham round the foot of the Beacon, but for reasons of his own, he
preferred to accept the discomforts of the darker way and the uneven
going. He passed through the tunnel after a seemingly interminable
walk and came to the switch line where his engine had been
sidetracked. He followed this until he came to the buffer and the deep
hole beyond.

He examined the buffer very carefully, retraced his footsteps and
examined the rail. It was, as he had seen before, red with rust.
Nevertheless, he went on his knees and examined the rail through a
magnifying glass. Then he wetted his finger and drew it along the red
surface. He looked at his finger. It was red. But it was not the red
of rust.

He walked back, carefully examining every inch of the rail until he
found what he sought. At one place by the side of the actual rail was
a little red spot. It was no larger than a three-penny piece and it
was, to all appearance, rust. But rust does not develop on a wooden
sleeper and he found the counterpart of this spot, a trifle larger on
the wood. Again he wetted his finger and was satisfied.

For this was not rust, but a very common form of distemper employed by
builders.

He went back to the buffer and the sagging rail and climbed down the
hole which was about six feet deep. He had noticed that a quantity of
green stagnant water at the bottom of the hole advertised its age.
Again he drew his hand along the water and examined his palm. It was
green, but his strongest magnifying glass (and he had one of
peculiarly high power) failed to reveal any sign of that florescence
which forms on the surface of water and gives it its peculiar vivid
green. Instead, he saw a number of irregular specks, which were
undoubtedly crystals.

“Which means,” said Michael to himself, “that Kate is an artist even
if Fonso isn’t.”

The green scum which had deceived him at first had been artificially
created. Some chemical had been dissolved and had re-crystallised on
the surface. He dug into the soft earth on the other side without
securing any data as to when the hole had been made, but nearer the
surface and on the rim, he saw the white tendrils of growing
coltsfoot, which were still humid. One tentacle had been shaved away,
but the plant had not yet begun to die, nor the exposed root to
blacken.

“This hole was dug on the night of the robbery,” said Michael, “and
the earth was artistically removed. Kate would depend upon the railway
officials not having bothered to inspect this bit of line.”

As matter of fact, this was so. It was on private property, and after
it left the edge of the railway land it ceased to be their
responsibility. The buffer was also newly erected. He found this when
he had dug down to its foundation. The wood was still dry and there
were blades of grass and tiny fragments of plant in the earth beneath.
He walked round the little pit and reached the rails on the opposite
side. They were rusted as artistically as their fellows. The line
twisted and curved across level country for a mile before it turned
the shoulder of a hill and disappeared into a gorge, evidently
excavated in the course of the working.

Behind this was another chalk hole, and he gathered from an
examination of the map, that along this further ridge ran a road. The
abandoned cement works had been so built that they were not in view
from the railway itself. Possibly the philanthropic purchaser had
pulled down the one remaining smokestack on his occupation and the
whitened buildings did not stand out against the chalky soil behind
them. He had all the evidence he wanted before he had traversed
one-half of the two miles which separated him from the chalk pits.

The mark of the heavy wheels was visible now. In places the weeds
which grew thickly between the sleepers had been crushed by their
passage. He now left the rail and began moving round in a wide
semi-circle that would bring him to a low neck in the hill. His plan
was to climb the hill from here and work his way back along its crest
until he overlooked the works. He was now in the danger zone.

He shifted his stick to his left hand and slipped out his pistol and
pulled back the cover. It took him an hour to gain the crest of the
neck. He found it more difficult to climb than he had thought.
Evidently chalk had been quarried here and, save in one or two places,
he was faced by a sheer unscalable wall. It was hard climbing all the
way and he was hot and thirsty by the time he reached the top.

From the neck he could only secure a partial view of the works. He had
taken the precaution to bring a pair of prismatic glasses and with
these he surveyed the ground. There was no sign of the train and for a
moment his heart sank. Then he picked up the rail and followed it yard
by yard and he could scarcely restrain himself from a yell of joy when
he saw the rail led to a big shed, the gates of which were closed.

Originally, this may have been the mill house, but the new tenants had
relaid the line so that it passed into the building. He replaced his
glasses and continued his climb. He was half-way between the neck and
the point which would directly overlook the works when he heard the
hum of a motor car and dropped flat. He was within fifty yards of the
road which was slightly above him, and looking up very cautiously he
saw a car dash past and disappear over the rise.

There was no mistaking its occupant. It was the Spaniard, Gregori.

He rose cautiously and continued his progress, keeping a sharp
look-out for the sentries which he knew would be posted on the road.
The path he followed was a beaten track. He realized this before he
had gone much farther and sought to find a way either to the left or
the right, but without success.

He halted and debated with himself the question as to whether he
should go back. It was madness to attempt to make the capture alone.
Even now, he might have been detected, but if this was the case by the
time he went back and procured assistance the whole gang would have
gone and probably the gold with them. Of the two risks he decided to
take the first.

Little time was given to him to regret this decision. He had taken
three paces when he heard the unmistakable whirr of a lariat. He
turned to face the danger, pistol in hand, but too late. The rope
settled about his neck, he felt a sharp nerve-racking jar and fell
heavily to the ground.




 CHAPTER XV.
 AS SIR RALPH SAID, “BUSINESS IS BUSINESS”

T.B. Smith walked into his outer office.

“Any news of Mr. Pretherston?” he asked.

“No, sir,” was the reply.

“Any news of Barr?”

“No, sir.”

T.B. clicked his lips impatiently.

“Who’s looking after them?”

“Detective-sergeant Grey, sir,” was the reply. “You know we traced him
as far as Pinham Heights. After that he seems to have been lost sight
of.”

“Have you notified the chief constables of Hampshire, Sussex and
Surrey?” asked T.B.

“That has been done, sir,” said the officer. “The local constabulary
are making a search.”

T.B. bit his lips.

“I can understand Mr. Pretherston going,” he said, “but what has
happened to Barr?”

His subordinate very wisely offered no solution.

There were other anxious enquirers. Moya Felton had called that
morning. Sir Ralph had made two visits to headquarters though it was
doubtful whether his anxiety was in any way associated with the well
being of Michael Pretherston.

“I think Michael will find the gang,” said T.B., “though he may be too
late to get the gold.”

“What do I want the gang for?” demanded Sir Ralph wrathfully. “Will
the government give me £2,800,000 for them? The gang can go to the
devil so far as I am concerned. I want the gold.”

“You may get neither,” said T.B.; “at any rate, it ought to be very
pleasing to you, Sir Ralph, that Michael Pretherston is risking his
life to recover your property.”

“Isn’t he paid to do it?” demanded Sir Ralph. “Isn’t that the job of a
policeman? By Gad! Commissioner, one would imagine that Pretherston
was doing something out of the common! I take risks every day of my
life.”

“If you could see my mind,” said T.B. Smith suavely, “you would
realize that you are taking the biggest risk you have taken to-day. I
advise you to go home and get into a calmer frame of mind.”

“When shall I hear anything?” asked the truculent baronet.

“Whenever you are within earshot,” snapped the Commissioner. “Show Sir
Ralph out, constable.”

Lord Flanborough did not obtrude his enquiries. He was so far
reconciled to Moya that he could discuss the matter dispassionately,
without reference to the _mésalliance_ which threatened his family.

“I think on the whole, Moya,” he said, “I had better not see Ralph.
After all, business is business and friends are friends; but I
disclaim all responsibility for that gold after it left the ship. It
is Ralph’s business entirely and I simply won’t accept his suggestion
that I share his responsibility to the slightest degree.”

“Will he have to bear the loss?”

“Well, partially bear the loss. A portion will be borne by the
underwriters. Ralph, I am afraid, is a very mean man. I hate saying
anything about my friends but Ralph is really economical to a point of
meanness. I advised him to insure the gold and, to save a beggarly
premium, he only insured half of it. I am very sorry for him,” he
shook his head mournfully as a symbol of his sympathy. “I am very,
very sorry for him, but I think it is better that we do not meet until
this business matter is completely settled. On the whole,” he added
thoughtfully, “perhaps it is better that your engagement with Ralph is
broken off. He has said some very unkind things about you, Moya, which
aroused my anger. I do not think you have been wise but I cannot allow
any person to discuss you uncharitably.”

If the truth be told, Sir Ralph had said very little about the girl
and very much about his lordship, whom he had accused of deliberately
evading his responsibilities. This was at the one interview which they
had had. It pleased Lord Flanborough to pose as a devoted father, but
he did not deceive anybody but himself, for Moya had had a first hand
account of the interview from Ralph who had asked her to use her
influence to bring about a change in Lord Flanborough’s attitude.

It was the day after the disappearance of Michael Pretherston and Sir
Ralph’s nerves were a little shaky. It was unfortunate in the
circumstances that he had decided that afternoon to make a call upon
the man who, a week before, he had fondly believed was to be his
father-in-law. Lord Flanborough had not taken the precaution of
warning his servants that he was not at home to Sir Ralph, so he had
nobody to blame but himself when the door of his study was flung
violently open that afternoon and Ralph Sapson stalked in.

“My dear Sapson,” stammered his lordship, flabbergasted by the
unexpectedness of the visit. “Pray, do sit down.”

“I am not going to sit down. I tell you I am not going to sit down,”
roared, rather than said, Ralph.

“Let me close the door,” said his lordship in alarm. “My dear man,
please remember--”

“I remember nothing except that I am on the brink of ruin. That is
what it means. I am on the brink of ruin,” said Ralph, violently
thumping the desk. “It is going to cost me a million and a half, and
you must bear your share, Flanborough! You are responsible. If it had
not been for your infernal daughter this would not have occurred.”

“My daughter,” said Lord Flanborough and feeling himself on perfectly
safe ground he could speak with hauteur, “is not a matter for
discussion and if you cannot speak respectfully of her, I beg you to
leave this room.”

“If it had not been for your daughter we should have remembered to
send Griggs back.”

“I am not in charge of the railway,” said his lordship with mock
humility. “I cannot order engine-drivers to return to Seahampton. Be
reasonable, Sapson!”

“You have got to bear your share,” said the other doggedly, “you are
morally responsible. I wish I had never thought of bringing your
infernal ships to Seahampton.”

He was haggard and drawn of face. In two days he seemed to have shrunk
so that his usually well-fitting clothes hung on him loosely.

“Everything can be discussed in a quiet business-like way,” said Lord
Flanborough. “I am very sorry that you have this loss. It is by no
means certain that it is a loss, but business is business--you cannot
expect me to shoulder your responsibilities, my dear friend.”

“It is your responsibility as well as mine,” stormed Ralph, jumping up
from his chair and advancing upon the little man who stepped
cautiously backward, “and I insist upon your accepting your share.”

“Which would amount to?” suggested his lordship.

“About seven hundred thousand pounds,” growled the other.

“Seven hundred thousand pounds! Impossible!” said Lord Flanborough
emphatically.

Ralph turned livid.

“If you don’t,” he hissed, thumping his palm with his fist, “if you
don’t--”

At that moment help came in the shape of Moya. She nodded coolly to
Sir Ralph and crossed the room to her father.

“There is no news of Michael,” she said.

“Dear me,” sighed his lordship.

“Michael!” sneered Ralph. “There is no news of the money! That’s the
important thing, Moya!”

“We are not on the ‘Moya’ terms any more, Sir Ralph,” she said
quietly.

“Rub it in,” groaned the man.

“I don’t want to rub it in. We all have our troubles, but some of us
bear them less courageously than others. It won’t ruin you if you do
lose all this money. You know you are enormously rich.”

“I am not going to lose,” said Sir Ralph doggedly; “your father has to
bear his share.”

“If father is responsible he will bear his share,” said the girl, “but
it is not by any means certain that he is responsible, is it, papa?”

“Certainly not,” said Lord Flanborough, placing a table between
himself and his infuriated partner.

There was a tap at the door and Sibble came in, somewhat furtively.

He looked mysteriously at Moya and she went to him.

“What is it, Sibble?” she asked.

“There’s a man to see you, miss,” he said. “I think it is something
very special.”

“To see me? Who is he?”

“I don’t know who he is, miss, but he has a very special message for
you.”

She went out into the hall. A respectable looking man stood hat in
hand. By his thick coat she thought at first he was an omnibus driver.
In a sense, she was right.

“Are you Lady Moya Felton, madame?”

“Yes,” said the girl.

He handed her a card. She took it. It was a business card announcing
that Messrs. Acton and Arkwright, contractors, were prepared to remove
anything from machinery to furniture and that they had a “larger
number of motor lorries than any other firm doing business in the
south of England.”

“I am afraid there is a mistake,” she said. “I didn’t send for you.”

“No, miss, we’ve brought the goods.”

“The goods?” she said puzzled.

He led the way to the door.

Lining one side of the street and stretching from the house to the
corner of Gaspard Place were ten motor lorries.

“Here’s the name.”

He turned the card over.

“Lord Flanborough, Felton House, Grosvenor Avenue,” said the man
reading it over her shoulder.

“Have you any letter?”

“No, miss, these are all the instructions I had. I was told to bring
the chemicals to his lordship and ask for you.”

“Chemicals?” she said.

Her father had followed her to the door.

“What is it?” he asked.

“This man has brought some chemicals for you.”

“Oh, nonsense, there is some mistake,” said Lord Flanborough. “I am
not a chemist.”

He went down the steps with the girl to the first lorry. She looked
inside and apparently it was empty.

“What is it you have brought?” she asked in surprise.

“There they are, miss, on the floor.”

And then she saw a number of packages wrapped in sacking.

“They’re pretty heavy,” said the man, “considering their size.”

She reached out her hand and tried to draw one toward her. It defied
her efforts. Lord Flanborough tried and succeeded in moving it.
Something in its shape startled him.

“Have you a knife?” he asked the man.

The contractor produced a big clasp knife and opened it.

“Be careful, my lord,” he warned, “they’re dangerous--”

But Lord Flanborough had ripped the canvas package and exposed a dull
yellow ingot. He dropped the knife and stepped back.

“How many wagons are there?” he asked huskily.

“Ten, sir. They’ve all got the same number of packages--and are we to
take them to the Docks?”

Lord Flanborough made a rapid calculation.

“Take them into the basement and put them into the coal cellar,” he
said and went up the steps two at a time and back into his study.

Sir Ralph was still waiting. The rudeness of his host neither
increased nor decreased his irritation.

Lord Flanborough stepped up to him briskly.

“Look here, Sapson,” he said. “What responsibility do you want me to
bear in the matter of this gold?”

“I want you to bear half.”

“I will do more than that,” said his lordship. “I will assume the
whole responsibility for two hundred thousand pounds.”

Ralph swung round.

“You will?” he said incredulously.

“I will.”

“Done,” said Sir Ralph and pulled out his cheque book.

He wrote quickly and nervously but quite legibly enough and handed the
slip to Lord Flanborough, what time his lordship was writing with more
leisure but no less excitement on the other side of the table.

“There’s your cheque,” said Sir Ralph.

“And there’s my note freeing you from responsibility,” said his
lordship.

“I am sorry I have been so unpleasant,” said the baronet wiping his
steaming brow, “but you will understand.”

“I quite understand,” said Lord Flanborough.

“Business is business,” said Ralph.

“Business is business,” repeated his lordship and folding the cheque
slipped it into his pocket.




 CHAPTER XVI.
 ON THE UNMORALITY OF PROFESSIONAL
 THIEVES

The main building of what had once been Boltover’s Cement Works
consisted of four high walls and a slate roof. Here had stood the wash
mills and the revolving knives which had reduced the clay and mud from
the nearby river into slurry. Leading therefrom was the heating
chamber and the kiln house. There was no trace of mill, though the
kilns still stood.

All the machinery had been removed, the concrete floor strengthened
and the only engine visible was a great Atlantic locomotive which had
stood with steam up day and night before the wreckage of two trucks.
In each of these was a rough circular hole and the blistered paint and
the drops of metal which hung upon the edge or had trickled down its
blackened side, told of the terrific heat which had been employed to
break through the steel walls.

Near one wall were a number of small packages neatly stitched in
canvas and ready for removal, and on these sat Mr. Mulberry, the
benignity of whose countenance was somewhat discounted by the fact
that a loaded rifle lay across his knees. Leading from the main
building was a small office approached through a steel door and in
this were seated the seven guiding spirits of the great raid, Francis
Stockmar, Gregori, Colonel Westhanger, Colling Jacques, Thomas
Stockmar, Mr. Cunningham and Kate.

Gregori was talking. He leant across the table, his hands lightly
clasped, his head on one side turned to the girl who sat opposite to
him and a little to his right.

“I think, Kate, we finish here,” he was saying. “Crime Street is
getting a little too warm.”

“I didn’t expect you to lose your nerve,” she said.

“I’m not losing my nerve,” he said with a scowl. “I am afraid of
losing my life, if you want to know the truth. We are watched all the
time. They know you are out of town and are searching for you.”

“They found me,” said the girl coolly. “I am staying at Brighton.”

“We have made a big haul and it will take us a year to get rid of it,”
Gregori went on, “but when we _have_ got rid of it, we shall have
enough to settle down.”

“But why do you want to settle down?” she asked.

“My dear Kate,” said her uncle querulously, “don’t ask absurd
questions. You know there is no reason in the world why we should not
settle down. We have enough money.”

“Exactly what do you mean by settling down?” she insisted. “I am not
being sarcastic. I merely want information. You have taught me that it
is the game and not the prize that is worth while. That has been my
life’s teaching. Why, you told me if you were a millionaire,” she
looked at her uncle under her bent brows, “nothing would induce you to
be ‘dull and honest.’ Those were your words.”

“My dear child,” said Colonel Westhanger, “I have told you lots of
things which have to be interpreted in a liberal spirit. We have had
all the fun we want and now we will--”

He was at a loss in his desire to avoid a tautological repetition of a
certain phrase.

“Settle down,” she suggested; “be dull and honest?”

“But, surely, Kate,” said Gregori impatiently, “you don’t want to be a
hunted beast all your life?”

“Why not?” she asked in astonishment. “It is just as much fun being
hunted as hunting. You have said that a score of times. Does Michael
Pretherston--”

“Oh, hang Michael Pretherston,” said Gregori.

“Does Michael Pretherston,” she went on, “get as much fun out of
chasing me, as I get out of escaping him? Does Michael Pretherston
find the same exhilaration of mind in following on my tracks as I find
in keeping ahead of him?”

“Anyway,” said Gregori. “I have had enough of it and I want to go out
of the business and I advise you to do the same. And there is another
thing, Kate--”

He looked at the Colonel for support, but Colonel Westhanger found it
convenient at that moment to be staring at the skylight.

“What is the other thing?” she asked.

“Well, you know I am fond of you,” he said, “and I want to--” he
floundered.

“Settle down,” she suggested innocently; “what is all this ‘settling
down’ that everybody loves so much? Does it mean we shall never plan
another great coup?” She leant her elbows on the table. “Honestly, I
am not being wilfully dense. I know money is useful, because it helps
one to prepare the way for making more money, but I have not been in
this,” she waved her hand, “in all these things for money. I told
Michael Pretherston so and he believed me.”

“What have you been telling Michael Pretherston?” asked Gregori
suspiciously.

“I told him that,” she said simply.

“But, my dear girl,” said her uncle, “fun and excitement and all that
sort of thing are well enough in their way, but you don’t mean to tell
me, at this hour, that you have not been working for the ‘stuff’?”

“I will tell you as much at this or any other hour,” she answered
immediately.

“I see,” said Gregori with a faint smile, “then really you are what I
would call a criminal artist--art for art’s sake, eh?”

“I mean that,” she said again. “One must not judge one’s successes by
the amount of money one has made.”

“That is how I joodge it,” said the thick voice of Francis Stockmar;
“so much mooney, so much sugsess, isn’t it?”

“I tell you frankly,” said Gregori. “I am in this for the money and so
is your uncle. We have taken many risks, some of us have been caught
and some of us,” he said significantly, “have been lucky. I’ve got
thirty years in front of me, with any luck, and so I am going to--”

“Settle down,” suggested Kate ironically.

“I am going to quit.”

“Come, come, be sensible, Kate,” said the Colonel, patting her on the
shoulder. “You have been a very good girl and we owe you almost
everything we have. I am sure everyone agrees that you have been the
brains of our--er--association. The only time when any of us have been
caught is when we have gone out on a side line of our own. Now leave
well alone.”

“When hunters have caught the fox,” she said, “do they leave well
alone and never hunt again? In war, when a soldier comes through a
battle safely, does he leave well alone and never go into action
again? Does the huntsman who is nearly caught by a lion leave well,
and lions, alone?”

“This is different,” said her uncle doggedly.

“But I don’t understand it. If what you say is right, then I am wrong
and have been wrong all my life. I am wrong and the police are right.”

“Of course, they’re right,” said Gregori; “what rubbish you are
talking.”

“The police are right?” she asked in open-eyed astonishment.

“Of course they are right. They must protect society. In five years’
time, when I am settled on my little estate in Spain and my house is
burgled do you imagine I shall not call in the police?”

“I know they are right in their way,” she said, as if she were
speaking her thoughts aloud, “but we are right, too.”

“We cannot both be right,” said Colonel Westhanger.

“I asked you some time ago,” she said, turning to him, “which was the
better life--the dull life or ours. They cannot both be better. The
elementary conditions cannot change. That life must be the best, or
ours.”

“That life is best,” said the Colonel decisively.

She looked at him steadily.

“Then why have you let me live this?” she asked. “You cannot change
me. I cannot change. I cannot!” she said with vehemence and the men
noted with amazement the emotion she displayed. “Nothing can change
me!”

Gregori reached out and took her hand, but she snatched it away.

“I will tell you what can change you, little girl,” he said undeterred
by the rebuff, “love can change you. Give me a chance.”

She looked at him and laughed in his face.

“Will you be good or bad, honest or dishonest? You will only be a half
man, living two lives. Marry you! And am I to go into witness boxes to
testify against your burglar? And prosecute your poachers? I am living
now, what I believe to be the truth. I believe I have the right to
match my wits against the world and take, by my intelligence, what the
old robber barons took by brutal strength. If I pass to the other side
I should be a liar, living a life in which I did not believe. I am
going on.”

“Then you will go on by yourself.”

“Will I?” she asked softly.

“Go out and find somebody who thinks as you think if you can,” sneered
Gregori; “you will be obliged to live a lie, anyway. You will never
meet a man who believes in stealing, who believes in fraud and who
will go on so believing, until he is an old man. You will never meet a
man on the other side of life who would trust you if he knew you, and
he _would_ know you unless you--went on lying.”

He laughed.

“You are in a cleft stick, my little friend, and if you take my tip
you will stick to the friends who know you.”

He laughed again.

“Suppose I come down into Spain and burgle your house--” her eyes lit
up--“and I would do it! Or, suppose, when you have--settled down--and
when you have all deposited your symbols of success in your banks, I
planned a little coup and smashed your banks? I could do it easily and
I would do it,” she said. “What would you do?”

Their faces were a study. The Colonel was stroking his white
moustache. Francis Stockmar was scowling horribly. Mr. Cunningham was
staring blankly at the opposite wall.

“Naturally you would not play such a low-down trick upon your old
friends,” said the Colonel soothingly; “nobody believes you would,
Kate. I mean, it would be tragic for some of us, after spending years
of our lives accumulating a little nest egg to find we had become
beggars in a night. Of course, speaking personally, I should consider
myself exonerated from any responsibility I had in regard to our
relationship and I should have to tell the police--”

“You would call the police, too, would you? Would you, Stockmar?”

“Yas,” said the stolid Austrian, “of goorse. The mooney to recover,
ain’t it?”

“And you?”

“I don’t think you would do anything so treacherous,” said Mr.
Cunningham; “naturally, we would not take that sort of thing lying
down.”

“Naturally,” said Colling Jacques, “the whole matter is this, when we
go back to the respectable world and obey the laws, we, as citizens,
are entitled to the protection which the laws give us.”

“I see. You are, so to speak, touching wood. The wood is the law.”

“That is it,” he said.

Kate got up and walked to the one window of the room and looked out
upon the dreary yard with its tangle of twisted machinery, its rusted
boilers, its chaos of rotting cement bags.

“Well, you can all do as you like,” she turned on them, “but I tell
you this, that if you think you are going to--settle down--at my
expense, and if you think I have been planning and scheming and
play-acting and lying in order that you might all become respected
parish councillors, you have made a mistake. You talk about my
friends, if you are my friends, God help me! There is one man in the
world who is worth the whole crowd of you.”

She was interrupted by a crash as though a heavy body had been thrown
against a door. Somebody fumbled with the lock and Gregori jumped up
and threw it open. They half carried, half pushed a gagged and bound
man through the doorway. Behind him peered the saturnine, malignant
face of his captor, Doctor Garon.

“Got him,” he said triumphantly.

“Who is it?” asked Gregori, staring at the half conscious man.

The girl did not ask. She went suddenly cold, for she knew it was
Michael Pretherston.




 CHAPTER XVII.
 THE INDEPENDENT STRATEGY OF SEÑOR
 GREGORI

It is a fact worth remarking upon, that in all her career, though
she had been associated with the most desperate of criminals, and
though she had been surrounded on all sides by men who would stop at
nothing to gain their ends, Kate had never witnessed an act of
violence. Such arrests of members of the confederation as she had seen
had been very humdrum affairs. The arrival of two strangers, a
consultation carried on in a low tone by a pleasant detective officer,
an urgent call to somebody to “get my hat” and the disappearance, very
often for a long time, of the member affected. She had never seen a
fellow creature man-handled nor did she believe that there was in her
confederates the tigerish malignity which was now displayed. She
looked from face to face in amazement and horror as they crowded round
the handcuffed figure and flung him into a chair.

Michael had been choked to insensibility at the first attack. With the
loosening of the rope, he had recovered consciousness and put up a
fight, and had been hammered back to insensibility by the three men
who had watched him from the moment he had crossed the open ground to
the east of the railway, and had lain in wait for him. They had
manacled him with his own handcuffs. This he realized, as he came back
to consciousness, with his head throbbing and every bone in his body
aching.

He leant his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands,
striving to collect his thoughts. It was the cold steel of the
handcuff against his nose which was the starting point from whence he
unravelled the situation. The blow which had felled him had
fortunately been broken by his soft felt hat and he raised his hand
and gingerly felt the bump which Dr. Garon’s loaded cane had raised.

“Now then, wake up,” said Gregori’s voice roughly, “let’s have a look
at you.”

Michael raised his head and looked at the speaker.

“Hello, Gregori,” he said dully. He looked round the room and caught
the girl’s eyes and for a moment held them.

“You seem to have tumbled into it, my young friend,” said Colonel
Westhanger.

Michael slowly shifted his eyes to the speaker and smiled.

“We all seem to have tumbled into it, you worse than anybody. This
means a life sentence for you, Colonel.”

The old man’s face went white.

“It is only bluff,” said Garon; “he is here by himself. I have been
watching him for an hour. You tried to pull off the job on your
lonely!”

“Alone,” said the Colonel and the girl watching him saw his face go
hard. “Alone! Are you sure?”

“Absolutely sure,” said the doctor.

He sat straddle-legged on a chair leaning on the back and puffing the
cigar he had just lighted.

“It would be rather a serious business if you had made a mistake,
wouldn’t it?” drawled Michael. He was recovering his scattered senses
and something of his good spirits. “You fellows had better make the
best of a bad job.”

“What is your idea of the best of a bad job,” sneered Gregori,--“to
take the handcuffs off you and put them on me and the Colonel? If it
means a ‘lifer’ for the Colonel! what does it mean for me? You don’t
suppose I am going back to Dartmoor to build walls for the moor
farmers, do you?”

“What is the alternative?” asked Michael.

“I’ll tell you what is the alternative,” hissed the other thrusting
his face into the detective’s, “it is the only alternative that will
give me any satisfaction--and it is to put you out.”

“Dot is id,” nodded Stockmar.

The girl’s heart almost stopped beating and for a moment she closed
her eyes and gripped tight to the edge of the table. She felt
physically sick and her knees were trembling under her. Fortunately
their attention was fully occupied with Michael and nobody noticed
that she had grown of a sudden peaked and grey. She bit her lips and
by sheer effort of will regained control of herself. She looked at
Michael: that little smile of his still played about the corners of
his mouth and the eyes that were lifted to Colling Jacques were full
of good humor.

“It is you or us, Pretherston,” the engineer was saying; “you don’t
suppose we have been working for this stuff and taken all the risk,
only to see ourselves standing in the dock of the Old Bailey?”

“Winchester,” corrected the detective, “it is a very pretty assize
court--the vaulted ceiling will appeal to you, Jacques. It is in the
Gothic style.”

“One moment,” said the Colonel suddenly.

With a nod he called the men to a corner of the room and for five
minutes there was a whispered consultation. The girl and Michael were
left alone and obeying some impulse which she could not define, she
suddenly turned her back upon him and walked to the window, a
proceeding which Gregori noticed out of the corner of his eye.
Presently the little conference broke up and the Colonel came back
with the others.

“Look here, Pretherston, I am going to make a proposition to you. You
are not a rich man, I take it.”

“My private affairs don’t concern you,” said Michael calmly, “and I
certainly am not prepared to discuss them with you.”

“This job is worth two and a half millions and there are ten of us in
it. Help us to make a getaway and there is not far short of a quarter
of a million for you.”

The girl swung round and looked at Michael. How would he take this
offer? She knew how great was the appeal which money made to men,
especially money easily earnt. She waited in breathless, almost
painful, suspense.

“Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds,” said Michael--“that is a lot
of money. But, why do you put such a proposition to me?”

“It is a lot of money,” repeated the Colonel significantly.

Michael laughed.

“I suppose there was a time in your life,” he drawled, “when if
somebody had offered you money to do a dishonest act, you would have
knocked him down? But perhaps there never was such a time,” he said,
searching the other’s face.

“I no more want to discuss my affairs, than you want to discuss
yours,” said the Colonel gruffly; “here is the proposition,” he
thumped the table, “do you take it?”

Michael shook his head.

“I won’t be rude to you,” he said, “because you are an older man and
because you are going to end your life rather miserably in a very
short time.”

He saw the man wince.

“I am not saying that with the object of offending you,” Michael
continued. “I am just telling you what is the truth. Suppose you get
away from here, how are you going to make your escape from England? By
this time every port is closed to you.”

“I will tell you how we are going to get out of England,” said
Gregori, “we are going to leave by the only route possible, by ship
from London.”

“By ship from London?” it was the surprised voice of the girl.

“We have done a little planning on our own, Kate,” said Gregori with a
grin; “this is our last job. We didn’t tell you because we didn’t
think it was worth while upsetting you. Everything was arranged last
week.”

“Without my knowledge,” she said.

He nodded.

“What do you say, Pretherston? It is your last chance.”

“It isn’t my last chance,” said the other cheerfully.

“What do you mean?”

“That you will find out,” said Michael with a sudden sternness. “I
warn you that your time is very short.”

“Your time will be shorter,” said Gregori with a sinister smile.

“We will give him half-an-hour to think over it,” suggested Jacques;
“put him in the engine room.”

The engine room was the uncomfortable little shed which had been built
on to the mixing shop to accommodate a dynamo. It was now empty save
for a truckle bed on which one of the gang had slept. Padlocked iron
doors led to the mixing room and to the outer world, but to make
doubly sure, Garon volunteered to stand outside the building and keep
guard. Michael was thrust into the little room and the door slammed
upon him.

“Now,” said Gregori when they were back again in the office, “we have
to decide and decide quickly. If we can be sure that this fellow is
alone he has got to be killed.”

“Killed?” said Kate. “Oh, no, no!”

He turned on her with a snarl.

“This is our job. You keep out of this, Kate,” he said. “I tell you it
must be done, for all our sakes.”

“The first thing,” said the Colonel, “is to get the gold away.”

“It will be loaded on to the trucks to-morrow morning,” said Gregori,
“and we had better keep this fellow alive until it is gone.”

“Are we using our own trucks?”

Gregori shook his head.

“Oh, no,” he said, “that would be too dangerous. I have hired ten,
from a man in Eastbourne who is used to handling machinery. He has no
idea what sort of factory this is and I have told him it is a
preparation of lead we are shipping to the docks. Young Stockmar will
meet the convoy in London. Our own men are on board the ship and will
load the stuff.”

“It is a bit risky,” said Colling Jacques shaking his head, “sending
all that money through London without a guard.”

“It would be more risky to guard it,” said the other calmly, “our only
chance lies in not rousing the suspicion of the contractor who has
promised to come down himself to superintend the carriage to the
docks. His people won’t be allowed to handle any of it and I have told
him especially that it is dangerous to touch the packages--now, Kate,
you must be sensible about this business of Pretherston.”

She shrugged her shoulders and leant back against the window-sill, her
hands behind her.

“I suppose it is necessary,” she said in her cool even tone and the
Colonel heaved a sigh of relief.

“Gad, that’s the way to look at it, my girl,” he said admiringly. “I
knew you wouldn’t fail us.”

She said nothing.

“You said there were ten shares,” she asked presently, “do you count
me--as one who is sharing?”

“You stand in with me, my dear,” said the Colonel, patting her on the
shoulder, “don’t you be afraid. I have never denied you anything, have
I?”

She shook her head.

“I have never been aware that you denied me anything,” she said
absently.

“When is this--” she could not find words to complete the sentence.

“Pretherston,” said Gregori,--“oh, we can’t do anything yet. I think
you will agree, Colonel. We must make absolutely sure that he is not
being followed and that he has not half the Metropolitan police force
within call. I shall do nothing at all till to-morrow night.”

She inclined her head.

“I see,” she said simply and then, “I think I will go to my room.”

They had made her comfortable quarters in what had been once the
foreman’s office. She passed through the great sheds slowly and
stopped for a moment to look at the powerful engine which stood near
the closed doors, a tiny feather of steam at its safety valve, then
she went into her room.




 CHAPTER XVIII.
 THE COLONEL WAS A GENTLEMAN AT
 THE LAST

It was ten o’clock the following morning before any of the gang saw
the girl. She had spent a sleepless night revising her philosophies
and arranging the future as she saw it.

Mulberry who had put away his rifle and was appearing in the capacity
of an urbane general-manager greeted Kate with a nod.

He was superintending the transference of the ingots to the waiting
trolleys which stood on the road at the top of the chalk pit and were
approached by a zig-zag path which had been cut in the face of the
bluff by the original owner of the property.

Later Mr. Mulberry climbed up the path to interview the stout
contractor.

“I will pay you in advance,” said Mr. Mulberry beaming benevolently
and producing a wad of notes from his pocket book. “You have full
instructions as to where these packages are to go?”

“Yes, sir,” said the man. “To the Thames Docks and I am to hand them
over to the gentleman who engaged me the day before yesterday.”

“Mr. Stockmar,” said Mulberry.

“That is the name, sir. Are these things valuable?”

Mulberry shook his head.

“Scientifically they are of the greatest value, commercially they are
of no value. You have probably heard of dioxide of lead, the heaviest
metal that the earth holds?”

“I can’t say that I have, sir,” said the contractor frankly. “I am not
much of a scientist.”

“It is a very useful element,” lied Mr. Mulberry glibly, “in the
creation of paper. It is highly inflammable but not explosive so long
as it is handled by experts like my men here,” he waved his hand to
the procession of swarthy labourers who were coming up the hill, each
bearing a package on his shoulder.

“They are Italians, aren’t they, sir?”

Mr. Mulberry nodded.

“They are the only people who can handle this chemical,” he explained.

“I see, sir,” said the master carman wisely, “some of these foreigners
are wonderful chaps with chemicals.”

He looked down into the hollow.

“Mighty nice young lady that, sir,” he said respectfully, not knowing
whether Kate, who had just emerged from the building and was wandering
aimlessly across the yard, was an employee or a friend.

“Oh, yes, that is my confidential secretary,” said Mr. Mulberry.

“Mighty nice, if I may be allowed to say so, very lady-like.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Mulberry.

He lingered long enough to see the last packages laid on the floor of
the last truck, shook hands with the contractor with great affability
and strode nonchalantly down the slope and none to see him would have
imagined that he had just entrusted nearly three million pounds’ worth
of gold, to the tender mercies of a chance carman.

He was half way down the first of the slopes when he met Kate coming
up.

“Kate,” he said in a low voice, “if you are going up to the top and
that fellow asks you who you are, you must tell him you are my
confidential secretary. I hope you don’t mind, I had to explain you.”

She nodded and continued her slow walk until she came to the road. The
cars were now buzzing preparatory to making a start. The contractor,
whom she had met before, gave her a cheery nod.

“Have you a piece of paper?” she asked.

“I’ve a card, miss,” he said.

“That will do,” she said; “lend me your pencil.”

She wrote a few lines and handed them to the man.

“I am the managing director’s confidential secretary,” she said.

“I know, miss,” replied the man.

He looked at the card with a frown.

“You are to take the trucks first of all to this address and see the
gentleman whose name I have written.”

“But I was told to go straight to the docks.”

She smiled and nodded.

“I know,” she said, “but my chief thinks you had better go here. His
lordship will either accompany you to their destination or he may
store your chemicals for the night.”

He looked at the address.

“The Earl of Flanborough,” he read; “suppose he isn’t there, miss?”

This was a contingency which she had overlooked.

“Ask for Lady Moya Felton--that is his daughter,” she said; “you had
best see her first in any circumstances.”

“I see, miss,” said the man a little impressed. “I know his lordship.
I have often seen him at Seahampton.”

“Now I think you had better go,” said Kate, “before you receive any
fresh instructions.”

The man chuckled, swung himself into the seat of the second car beside
the driver and first one and then the other of the great lorries,
moved slowly down the white road. She watched them until the last one
had passed the crest of the hill, then she slowly descended the
zig-zag path.

She met Gregori in the doorway.

“Where have you been, Kate?” he demanded.

“I have been to see the loot off,” she said flippantly.

“The less you are seen, the better,” he grumbled. “I told that ass,
Mulberry, not to let the man catch a glimpse of you. Don’t go in, I
want to talk to you.”

He was ill at ease and evidently found it difficult to make a
beginning.

“You know, Kate, I am very fond of you,” he said.

“You have every reason to be.”

“I still have,” he said.

“I am not so sure of that,” she interrupted, “but go on.”

“What do you mean by that?” he asked suspiciously.

“Go on,” she demanded; “where does your fondness lead?”

“It leads to your marrying me,” he said; “your uncle does not object
and we will be married as soon as we reach South America.”

“South America!” she stared at him. “So that is our destination, is
it?” she said slowly. “And I am to marry you when we arrive, by
arrangement with my uncle?”

“That’s about the size of it,” replied Gregori.

“And suppose I make other arrangements?”

“There are no other arrangements you can make,” he said with easy
confidence; “the fact is, Kate, that you have to drop these high and
mighty manners of yours. We stood them very well because it paid us to
stand them, I suppose. But we are all in the same boat--and shall be
literally.” He laughed aloud at the sally. “You hold some queer views,
you know, and we can’t afford to let you run loose.”

She jerked up her head and turned abruptly away and would have left
him but he caught her by the arm and pulled her back.

“When I say you must marry me,” he said, “I mean just what I say.”

“Have I a voice in this arrangement?” she asked, slowly disengaging
her arm.

“You have a voice in it if you agree. You have no voice if you cut up
rough.”

“I see,” she said. “I will think about it. This is not a decision
which I can arrive at in a minute.”

She went to her room and locked the door.

At five o’clock that evening her uncle came for her.

“Have you been to sleep?” he asked.

It was curious, she thought, how the manner and even the tone of these
men had changed in the past few hours. She was so used to an attitude
of deference, almost sycophantic, which they ordinarily displayed,
that the change had come in the nature of a shock. And there was a
change. Even her uncle had dropped his mask of good-nature and now
treated her as a child, and a child that needed to be disciplined.

“I have been thinking,” she said.

He grunted something and walked back with her to the office.

“This fellow, Michael Pretherston, has to be settled with. Do you
understand that?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“The cars will be on the road in half an hour and you and I will be
the first to leave.”

“Do you think so?”

“What do you mean?” he asked sharply. “I warn you, Kate, that I am not
going to stand any monkey tricks from you.”

To this she made no answer but pushed at the iron door that led to the
meeting place and entered. To her surprise, Michael was present. In
addition to his handcuffs his arms had been drawn back by the
insertion of a short stick and secured with ropes. Gregori was sitting
on the table and made no attempt to stand up, which was another piece
of evidence that the hold she thought she had over these men had gone,
if it had ever existed.

“Kate, you can use your persuasion on this fellow,” said Gregori
wearily; “it is his last chance. He has had a night to think it over
and he’s still obstinate.”

The girl walked up to the detective.

“Michael,” she said softly, “would nothing induce you to become--one
of us?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“Nothing that we could give you--that I could give you?”

He looked at her steadily.

“Nothing that I would take from you at that price,” he said quietly.

“Don’t you love your life?”

“‘As dearly as any alive,’” quoted Michael.

“Don’t you love anything in the world? Isn’t there a girl?” she asked
with a little break in her voice.

He nodded.

“There is a girl,” he said and looked past her.

It seemed as though an icy hand had gripped her heart and for a while
she could not frame the next question.

“Isn’t she worth it?” she said, recovering her balance at last.

“She is worth many things,” said Michael, “but not that.”

She looked down at the floor.

“Poor girl,” she said.

“Having tried sentiment,” sneered Gregori, “we will now try a little
practical argument--Pretherston you have got about an hour to live.”

“I shall die in very bad company,” said Michael with a wry face. “I
had hoped at the least that I might die at the hands of a lawful
hangman, as you will die. To be butchered by a cheap cutthroat
half-breed is not a pleasant prospect.”

“Damn you,” said Gregori with passion and struck him in the face.

He would have repeated the blow but the girl slipped between them.

“Michael, you shall die in good company,” she said in so matter of
fact a tone that none of them realized immediately what she was
saying; “that is, if you think I am good company.”

“What do you mean?” gasped the Colonel.

“Why, I think you will kill me, too,” she said with a serenity which
to Michael was wonderful, “because I have betrayed you all.”

Garon came flinging through the door.

“They haven’t turned up,” he screamed, “the wagons have gone.”

“Gone,” said Gregori huskily, “gone where?”

“I have just been on the ’phone,” gasped the doctor; “they went to
Lord Flanborough’s. He has got the stuff.”

There was a dead silence broken by the girl.

“They went to Lord Flanborough’s,” she repeated nodding her head. “I
know that. I sent them there.”

The tension was dreadful, no man spoke, then suddenly Gregori swung
round on the girl and his face was the face of a devil.

“You!” he grated and leaped at her throat.

In that one moment all the scattered atoms of race, of pride, of
kinship united in the distorted brain of Colonel Westhanger. His lean
arms shot out and Gregori fell headlong to the floor.

“Back, you dog!” roared the old man.

It was the last word he uttered. There was a stinging report from the
floor and Colonel Westhanger fell limply across the table with a
bullet through his heart.

The girl who was half fainting with terror shrank back against the
wall as Gregori rose, his still smoking pistol in his hand.

“You are a prophet,” he said harshly; “you said you would die with
Michael Pretherston and by God! you spoke the truth. Put them
together,” he said, “I want to think things out.”




 CHAPTER XIX.
 MICHAEL DEVELOPED A FONDNESS FOR THE
 CRIMINAL CLASSES

The girl rose up from the chair where she had been sitting and
crossed to where Michael lay on the floor where they had thrown him.

He looked up and smiled.

“Why, Kate,” he said faintly, “always… meeting… you.”

She sat down at his side and lifting his head laid it upon her lap.

“That’s nice,” he murmured.

“Why is it nice?” she asked curiously, “because I make a softer pillow
than the stone?”

“That and something more,” he answered.

“What more?” she insisted.

“Oh--because it is you, I suppose,” he said vaguely.

Her lips twitched in amusement.

“But it would be just the same if it were any other person,” she said,
“wouldn’t it, Mike?”

He looked up at her.

“Put your hand on my forehead,” he said.

“Like this?”

She laid her soft palm against his throbbing head.

“What does that do?” she asked after a long interval of silence.

“It just makes my head better--don’t ask a lot of questions.”

Her fingers stole down his face and she gently pinched his nose.

“Oh, Kate,” he murmured sleepily, “I was just going to sleep.”

“Then don’t,” she said, “what is the use of dozing--you’ll be dead
soon and so will I.”

She said this very calmly, in the same matter-of-fact tone in which
she might have announced that there would be a roast chicken for
dinner.

“I hope they kill you first,” she said thoughtfully.

“You’re a bloodthirsty little beggar,” said Michael indignantly; “why
do you wish that?”

She shrugged her shoulders and went on pressing back the hair from his
forehead, never taking her eyes from his face.

“I don’t know,” she said at last, “only I want to make sure that
you’re gone and nobody else can have you--and then I shan’t care.”

He did not move; for a second she saw his eyelids quiver, but he lay
still staring past her to the dingy roof of the engine house.

“Say that again,” he whispered.

“Say what again? That I want you to be killed first?” she asked
innocently.

“Mike,” she said suddenly, “who was the girl?”

“Which girl?”

“You know,” she said, “the girl you--care about.”

“Why, you of course,” he said in surprise.

Her hands slipped down from his forehead covering his eyes.

“Say that again,” she mimicked.

“You,” he repeated. “You see I am more obliging than you were.”

“And you would not come in with us, not even for me?”

“Not even for you.”

She did not speak for some time.

“How did you know we were here?” she asked.

“I knew you could be nowhere else,” he said.

“You are an awfully arrogant young man, aren’t you? Do you know how it
was all done?”

He nodded.

“The train ran into the tunnel where you had a long motor-car mounted
with flanged wheels and having three green lamps on the front and two
red tail lamps behind. That was the ‘train’ which the signalman saw
dashing through the rain and you had a horrible siren.”

She laughed softly.

“It was terrible, wasn’t it?” she admitted. “Do you remember that day
you were in Crime Street? You heard it.”

He recalled the uncanny sound which had then excited his curiosity.

“When you got to the level crossing gates, the car was lifted off the
rail and went on to the road. It followed the tram lines for some
distance where it turned into a convenient garage, which I suppose you
had already arranged for?”

“That’s right,” she nodded.

“The train went no farther than the tunnel. It then backed on to a
side track. Gregori had his Italian workmen ready and fixed up the
buffer which had been dropped--you know the rest. The hole behind the
buffer and the green scum--that was your idea, I suppose.”

“It was cunning, wasn’t it, and did you see the rust I made?”

“It is a fortunate thing you are dying young, Kate,” he said; “you
have a criminal mind.”

“But I haven’t a criminal mind,” she protested; “it is a game, a sort
of highly complicated jigsaw puzzle. Do you ever read detective
stories?”

“Very seldom.”

“But you have read them?” she persisted.

“I have read one or two,” he confessed.

“Did the men who wrote those have criminal minds? It was a game to
them. It was a game to me. I know it is all wrong, horribly wrong, but
I never thought I should realize that much. I thought nothing would
turn me.”

“And what has turned you?” he asked.

She hesitated.

“I don’t know what it is,” she said shaking her head. “It is a curious
feeling that I get when I meet one man in the world. A feeling that
makes my heart turn to ice and makes me tremble. That is all it is,
Mike--how do you think they are going to do it?”

Her thoughts had gone back to the approaching end.

“Heaven knows,” said Michael. “I haven’t any time to think of it. I am
thinking of something else. Why do they keep the steam up in that
engine?” he asked.

“It was Gregori’s idea,” she said; “he had the hole filled in to-day
and the buffer taken down. He thought it might be useful to let the
engine run on to the main line and block it. That is, if we had word
that they were sending a lot of police down to search this part of the
country.”

“Here they are,” said Michael; “help me to sit up.”

She raised him to a sitting position as the door opened and a dim
figure appeared silhouetted against the dusk. It struck a match and
lit a candle and Dr. Garon was revealed. He placed the candle
carefully upon the floor just behind the half-closed door and passed
slowly over to where Michael lay.

“Well, my young sleuth,” he said pleasantly, “the best of friends must
part.”

“Fortunately,” said Michael, “I do not fall into the category of your
friends.”

The doctor hummed a little tune as he took a small leather case from
his pocket.

“You have seen a hypodermic syringe before, I suppose?” he held up the
tiny instrument. “I am going to give you a slight dope, which won’t
hurt you.”

“One moment,” said Michael, “do I understand that this dope
is--final?”

The doctor bowed. From his heightened colour and his unsteady hand
Michael guessed he had been drinking, either to give himself nerve for
his task or to drown the memory of his misfortune.

“Very good,” said Michael. He looked up at the girl and raised his
face and Kate stooped and kissed him on the lips.

“That is it, is it?” said the doctor unpleasantly. “Gregori will be
pleased.”

He caught the manacled wrists of the prisoner and pulled back his
sleeve and the girl’s heart almost ceased to beat.

It was at that moment that the light went out.

“Who is there?” said the doctor releasing his grip on Michael’s arm
and turning quickly.

He took a groping step forward through the darkness.

“Who’s there?” he said again and they heard a soft thud followed by
the sound that a body might make, when it struck the ground.

Michael caught his breath. Suddenly a beam of light danced in the room
and focused upon the prostrate figure of Dr. Garon.

“Got him,” said a well-satisfied voice.

“Barr,” whispered Michael, “where did you spring from?”

“I came through the door,” said the voice. “Did you see it open? That
is what knocked the candle over.”

He flashed the light on his superior.

“They have got the bracelets on you, sir,” he chuckled softly, took a
key from his pocket and with a few deft turns released the other. His
pocket knife finished the work.

Michael stretched his cramped limbs.

“I tried to get in last night but they had too many sentries--I
couldn’t come here or get back to a telephone. I have been lying on
that hillside all last night and all to-day,” said Detective-Sergeant
Barr. “I dared not move until it was dark. I tell you, sir, I had a
bit of a fright. I thought they would get away.”

“Have you a revolver?” asked his chief.

The man slipped a weapon into his hand. They made their way softly
back through the room where the engine was still smoking, through the
little steel door of the office. It was empty save for a shrouded
figure which lay beneath the table. There was a second door in the
room. Michael tried this. It was locked. He heard voices and tapped at
the door.

“Who is there?” said Gregori.

“Open the door,” said Michael.

“Who is there?” demanded Gregori again.

“Open, in the name of the law,” said Michael.

He heard a shuffle of feet and an oath and stood waiting, his pistol
extended but the door did not open. A sudden silence came.

“Is there any way out of here?”

“There is a door leading into the shed where the engine is,” said the
girl. She was white and trembling… that shrouded figure under the
table had been the last straw.

Michael dashed out into the shed but it was too late.

As his feet crossed the foothold a bullet struck the steel door and
ricochetted to the roof. In the dim light offered by an oil flare he
saw Mulberry and Stockmar hoisting the inanimate figure of Dr. Garon
to the cab of the engine. He fired twice and Cunningham stumbled but
was dragged into the cab. Then with a mighty “schuff!” which
reverberated through the building the engine began to move toward the
closed door. It gathered speed in the dozen yards or so it had to
traverse and then with a crash it struck the gate, splintering and
sending it flying.

Michael flew the length of the shed and arrived at the outer gates in
time to see the engine disappearing round the edge of the bluff. Barr
was at his side and the two men stood helpless, as their enemies
gradually receded into the grey dusk.

“There is a telephone here,” said Michael quickly, “but it is probably
laid for their own purpose.”

“I left my motor-bike on the top of the hill somewhere, sir,” said
Barr.

“Get on to it,” said Michael.

He stood listening to the sound of the locomotive going faster and
faster. A hand touched his timidly.

“Did they get away?”

He slipped his arm round the girl.

“I am afraid they have,” he said.

He was turning back to the shed when the roar of an explosion set the
building trembling.

“What was that?” whispered the girl.

They walked back to the end of the bluff. There was no need for him to
speculate as to the direction from whence the explosion had come, for
a bright red glow two miles away illuminated the whole countryside.

“Something has happened to the engine,” he said.

He did not know till an hour later that running at full speed the
Atlantic had dashed into a down goods train and that the blaze he
witnessed was the blaze of a burning petroleum tank which the wrecked
Atlantic had crushed in its death flurry.


“We have not been able to recognize any of them,” said T.B. “Do you
think Kate Westhanger was with them?”

“Kate Westhanger is no more,” said Michael gravely, and he spoke the
truth for Kate Pretherston was at that moment on her way to France,
where her husband intended joining her just as soon as his resignation
was accepted.

“But why give up the work, Michael?” said T.B.

“I found, sir,” said Michael, “that it was sapping my moral
qualities.”

“Your moral qualities?” said his puzzled chief. “I didn’t know that
you had any. What particular form did the sapping take?”

“I found, sir,” said Michael, “that I was developing a fondness for
the criminal classes.”

 THE END




 ENDNOTES

 [1]
 _Tolmini made a mess of it_] See Rex _v._ Tolmini (Notts. Assizes).
 This was evidently the big mail robbery which failed, owing to the
 precipitancy of one of the criminals.--Editor.


 TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. drawing-room/drawing room,
fireplace/fire-place, motor-car/motor car, etc.) have been preserved.

Alterations to the text:

Convert footnote to endnote.

Standardize the time formatting to use the colon. (The source text
used both periods and colons.)

[Chapter II]

Change “Her mother was a wholesome parson’s _wife_, her father was a
rascal who was kicked out of the army” to _daughter_.

[Chapter IV]

“But what I mean to say is this; there was a time when you” change
the semicolon to a colon.

[Chapter V]

“across the _streaming_ brass pots and the blistering hot plates” to
_steaming_.

[Chapter VI]

(“I am sending you two tickets for the theatre _tonight_.) to
_to-night_.

[Chapter VIII]

(“That, Princess.” he said, “is Lady Moya Felton.”) change the first
period to a comma.

[Chapter XII]

“pulled it back until he felt the snap of the rotten _hand_ as it
broke” to _handle_.

“And Daddy, if you are rude to Fonso, I shall be very rude to Ralph.”
add comma after _And_.

[Chapter XIII]

(“Well, you couldn’t open them from the box,” said the man) add a
period to this sentence.

[Chapter XIX]

(“Did you see it open. That is what knocked the candle over.”) Change
the first period to a question mark.

 [End of text]








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